XXXI. Fair Trade
Spike waited for the tsunami of guilt, the nausea, the nervousness, but none came. Instead, he found himself calculating the situation, the sheets in the washer and run through the cycle during the time they were away, all his clothing and possessions on his body, Julia fresh-scrubbed and smiling. She impressed him even more than his own cold arithmetic: bounding up the stairs and throwing her arms around Vicious, letting him sweep her in a kiss that was more consuming than tender. Then the adrenaline crept in, but it was fury and confusion and hurt, not guilt. He hadn't thought it would be any other way, but even so he understood he'd hoped for a confrontation, an unequivocal clean break. It had been the first and the last time, he thought, and it took every ounce of mechanical conditioning to make himself climb the stairs and accept Vicious' embrace, the murmured "You look well, and I am glad to see it." He nodded and stepped back, and there it was: Vicious suspected. Didn't suspect what had really happened, but knew that something had changed and the balance of their three-variable equation was off. He would search for the remainder. Someday, it would be found.
And Spike knew it would not be sought out now. Vicious would let the pieces rattle around in his head until they fit together. Now, his mind was on business. "Spike," he was saying as he unlocked the door to the apartment, "I want to meet you at the tower in an hour or so. We should review the schedule and run a training session. Lin will want to see you."
Spike nodded dumbly, realizing he'd been dismissed. When he hesitated, Vicious looked between him and Julia. "Did you need something inside?" he asked, smooth and unconcerned.
"No," Spike said, shaking his head, "I just came by to have breakfast with Julia. Thank her for taking care of me." He turned to go.
Vicious chuckled behind him. "I think I will do the same. See you soon."
Spike trudged back down the stairs with a belly full of bullets, fumbling for a cigarette.
The Van's summons was unexpected, and Mao bustled around his office, putting his tie back on and locking up his papers. He navigated the hallway gamut at a brisk pace and nodded to the Vanguard who opened the door for him. The chamber was completely empty save for the Van.
"Yenrai-san, thank you for coming so quickly." Sou Long gestured to the seat, and Mao took it with a bow.
"I am always at your command, your Honors," Mao replied. "Preparations for the summit are going well. How may I assist you?"
"This matter is of the strictest confidence, Yenrai-san," Sou Long went on. "One of our ISSP contacts has informed me they are also aware of the summit's schedule, although not its location. We were warned in no uncertain terms that any activity on our part there would not go unnoticed or unpunished."
Mao crossed his legs. "The opportunity is too good to pass up. We must weigh the consequences of action against the consequences of inaction. My initial opinion is that the consequences of inaction would be far worse."
"We have done more than consider potential," Wang Long replied. "We have negotiated a punishment in advance. The ISSP approves of declawing the Tiger."
"Of course they do," Mao said warily. "It will leave them with a housecat and a dragon to manage. Far simpler than two wild beasts."
"We would not accept retribution that did not also benefit the Dragon. We have called you here to inform you of our intentions. This is a test of your loyalty, Yenrai-san. You are trusted beyond suspicion, but we will stretch that loyalty in the coming days. You have the opportunity to decline participation. Of course, the consequence of refusal will be final, but we respect your right to refuse all the same." Wang Long sat back again, and before Mao could reply, Sou Long continued.
"The behavior of Vicious and this most unfortunate situation with the Ganymede freight pilot have brought us to a precipice," he said. "His heart is too plainly at odds with us, even if it beats solely to serve the Dragon as he wishes it would be. This has not gone unnoticed by the ISSP, or by other members of the Dragon, both executive and mercenary. He is a liability with too little respect for authority. You have kept him tethered, and defended him admirably, so far. But we believe you will lose your hold over him as well, if not soon, certainly before he has learned what he needs to know to run the Syndicate."
Though he showed no outward response, Mao's head spun. He could see the pieces of the setup coming together: Vicious dispatched to Ganymede to murder a suspect and informant vital to an ISSP investigation. The summit, days away, and Vicious the most visible – and recognizable – participant in their attack. He cleared his throat and said evenly, "The execution of Vicious would send a wave through the Red Dragon that would dampen our victory over the Tiger. It would also have the potential to destroy the loyalty of Spike Spiegel, who I presume you do not hold in the same suspicious light, despite his recent absence."
Sou Long shook his head. "Of course, Yenrai-san, as in all things, you speak what we have thought already. We do not wish to eliminate Vicious. It is still our hope that one day, he will be able to rise to the position for which he has been groomed. It is our hope that he will do so with Spike Spiegel by his side. They are necessary to one another, but Spiegel needs an opportunity to develop the nature of his father. The nature that Vicious has always provided by his presence."
Mao sighed. "Permitting Vicious to be incarcerated, without using the normal avenues to have him released immediately, will have the same effect as executing him."
"This guessing game is pointless," Ping Long muttered. "Tell him what the ISSP suggested."
Mao raised his eyebrows and waited.
"Your point is well taken, Ping Long," Sou Long said. "The ISSP informed us that they would need to show power over the Dragon, if we were to attack the White Tiger in full force. They will announce citizen conscription at the beginning of next week. We will permit them to conscript Vicious, to send him to Titan to fight. They may choose to use his subterfuge skills for agent activity. If he serves his term, he will be allowed to return to Mars, and to the Red Dragon, with no further consequence."
Mao blinked. "Vicious will not accept," he said.
"He will," Sou Long said gravely, "if it guarantees his immunity both with the ISSP and with us when he comes home. And in the meantime, he will have the experience of military structure and discipline in a world where he has no compatriots or sponsors. He does not think he needs our protection. He would do well to learn how great that need really is."
"What if he does not survive the war?" Mao asked.
"It will be a great loss to the Red Dragon, the unfortunate consequence of politics," Ping Long replied. "One from which we will recover. A risk we are willing to take. One we have taken already, as we explained at the beginning of this meeting. You may not communicate this information to him; we will do so the day of the summit."
Sou Long sat forward, looking down at Mao with sharp eyes and a grave expression. "Of course, we cannot permit you time to consider, other than the time you have had while we spoke. Your agreement, or your refusal, Yenrai-san?"
He sat silent for a long minute, hands folded across his chest. He could not deny the graceful simplicity of the plan, nor its potential benefit to the Red Dragon, and to Vicious. He knew better than anyone – certainly better than the Van – how much Vicious needed to understand discipline and camaraderie. How much he needed to respect the way others depended on the order of their lives and the universe. He bit his lip before opening his mouth, but his voice was clear when he replied.
"I agree, your Excellencies."
Spike caught an electric tram back downtown, watching the city slide by in blocks of residual Earth-culture and stages of wealth. The International District was a flare of color after the warehouse rows; in the distance the glittering high-rises shimmered and loomed while the car rattled on, shuddering to stops and lurching forward with more passengers. He disembarked three blocks from Annie's and lit another cigarette, smoking and walking slowly to time it so he could crush the butt out just as he pulled open the front door. Annie jerked her head up at the bell and her mouth tightened to a thin line when she saw him.
"Yo," he tried, lightly. She did not reply.
He pulled up a stool. She stood with her arms folded behind the counter, glaring a hole through him. He couldn't maintain eye contact. He felt sixteen, the day he brought his school discharge papers home, labeling him an instigator of conflict, a bully – though he'd never done anything other than defend himself against them – and unfit for the society of an estimable private school such as Karjahl Academy. He had no more to say in his own defense now than he'd had then.
She made him wait, stewing, while she finished stocking the Marlboros and shuffled the full coffee carafe to the hot plate so she could start a second one brewing. When he squirmed, she finally dropped a mug and ashtray in front of him and filled his cup.
He smiled hesitantly and took a drink while he fished out his cigarettes. He dug a long finger around in the wrapper, but was out. She huffed an exhale through her nose and dropped a fresh pack on the counter. When he went to reach for it, she put a hand on it again and spoke. "May as well be the last cigarette of a man in front of a firing squad, you insouciant idiot."
He winced, squeezing his eyes closed, the corners of his mouth turning down as he bit back a reply. She let go and he opened the pack, handing her the cellophane to put in the trash.
"He came looking for you two hours ago," she prodded.
Spike sighed and lit his cigarette. "What did you tell him?" he asked through a cloud of smoke.
"That you weren't here. That you had been home. He didn't go to your room. So he probably doesn't know you haven't slept in your new bed yet." She helped herself to the pack and lit up, settling into her chair.
"I could have been anywhere, Annie. Why are you so wound up?" He tried to make a joke out of it.
She wasn't having any. "I know exactly where you were, Spike. I know exactly what you were doing. I've known you might do it for two years now. I knew it would happen after Julia found you. I thought it might have then, but the reports of your condition made that seem unlikely."
He shifted in his seat and shrugged. "Maybe nothing happened at all."
"Damn it, Spike. Damn you. Damn your insufferable reckless desperate to die heart." There were tears in her eyes.
"Hey," he said gently, putting a hand over hers – she jumped, but did not pull away. "It's not what you think. I saw him when Julia and I came back from breakfast. Everything is fine."
She sniffed and shook her head. "And he saw you. Did he see your face? The look in your eye?"
"I don't know what you mean."
"You look like you just won the Platinum." She yanked her hand out from beneath his and refilled her cup, the coffee splashing onto the counter. She blinked hard while she swiped at it with a towel.
"That's funny," he said, "because I feel like I just crashed my ship. Everything is different, but nothing has changed. Least of all, where I stand."
She drew in a deep, shuddering breath and turned away. "I don't know why I bother," she muttered. "He wanted you to meet him at the Tower at noon. You've got ten minutes. Try not to come back dead."
He sat, cigarette burning down to his knuckles, watching her jam coin rolls into the bank bag with her back to him, and finally gave up, going to change into his training clothes and meet his partner with the smell of Julia's soap and betrayal heavy in his sinuses.