XXXIV. Time Out of Mind
Spike nodded to Annie and her customer as he came through the front door of the shop. She looked up at him expectantly, but he let himself through the storeroom door and went straight to his room, peeling off his coat and suit jacket. The trappings of his position chafed. He changed into jeans and the bomber, and then sat on the edge of his bed, staring down at his hands.
Vicious found the ticket. It was the only explanation; it had to be. The idea that she'd discarded it of her own volition was unthinkable, unspeakable. No matter. There were other ways, other routes. She might still come.
It took all of his willpower to leave his comm. off and not call her, but the chance that she was with Vicious, or that he was keeping track of her communications, was too great. And like any good Syndicate man, Spike had backup plans to coordinate, preparations to make, the hundreds of little menial tasks that led up to any significant operation. He blew out a long sigh and forced himself to stand, and then to open the door, and then to go as quietly as possible down the back stair to the service entrance. Annie shouted his name as he opened the door, but he gritted his teeth and went out, letting it close softly behind him, and headed for the Syndicate garage and hangar lot.
He was through the gate and onto the tarmac when he heard his name again. Vicious, this time. He ignored the twitch of fear in his stomach and halted.
"Leaving so soon?" Spike turned to look; Vicious stood outside the fence, impeccable in his long gray overcoat and white sash. His expression bordered on amusement.
"Selling the Swordfish. Have to get it ready," Spike replied, and walked a few paces toward him, digging out a cigarette.
"You will not go without her," Vicious said, low and ominous. "And she will not go with you."
Spike cocked his head to light the smoke and said nothing. They stood there in silence, Spike huffing a stream of blue off to the side, Vicious with his hands in his pockets, watching one another sidelong through the diamond pattern of the chain link. It seemed ridiculously symbolic, and Spike had to stifle a smirk. He'd gotten used to the lack of empathy, the lack of guilt. Even the amusement was just a gut reaction, a release of tension brought on by the incongruity.
"Are you coming tomorrow?" Vicious finally asked, neutral.
Spike raised an eyebrow as he took a drag. "Yes," he said shortly, through a cloud of smoke. "See you then." He turned his back on Vicious, apathetic even to his thinly veiled menace, and strode across the asphalt toward the Swordfish without a backward glance.
Vicious shook his head at Spike's retreating form and turned back toward the tower. He had been avoiding Mao all day, ever since the Van had informed him of his conscription into the Martian Army – it still did not seem real, and it seemed even less real that Mao would agree, though they claimed he had. But by now, the feeling of betrayal was so familiar as to be comforting. No one else had their eyes on the prize. He could rely on himself, on his own cunning, and most of all, on his own single-minded determination. Spike would die before he could betray again; Julia would face the full wrath of the Van for it. Her divided heart was foolish no matter which way she followed it, and she would face the consequences. And in the aftermath, there would be only the Red Dragon, to which he held the purest title, and no other distractions or betrayers in the way. Save for Mao. Mao would have to wait.
Spike pushed himself out from beneath the undercarriage of the Swordfish and swiped an arm across his eyes. He had no intention of selling the ship, but her absence would have to be explained somehow. The glib lie to Vicious felt natural, and seemed to play off that way. It would help cement Vicious' conviction that he planned to leave by transport. The discovery of the ticket made transport travel impossible. If Julia came – when she came, he thought vehemently to himself – he would be the only one who knew how and where they were headed. Distract with the off hand. Execute with the on hand. He twirled the wrench in his fingers and let it slip beneath the cuff of his sleeve, a wry smile on his lips.
With the monosystem replaced, the Swordfish would be anonymous, reporting as a small-class cargo vessel. The new computer had drained two hundred thousand from his net worth. It would not hold up to strong scrutiny – any police vessel that saw the ship and the signal at the same time would be suspicious – but there were only two gates between Mars and Earth, and Doohan would have a replacement for him there. It would be risky, using his cash card for the gate fees at both ends. Calculated risk. If he was dead and the Swordfish assumed sold, the head start would have to be enough.
He climbed into the cockpit and started up the electrical systems; everything seemed in order. He made a mental note to pick up a good bottle – no, a good case – of whiskey for Doohan, nowhere near sufficient thanks for the summer spent learning to work on anything that rolled or flew, but a gesture of goodwill, at least. She taxied out of the hangar smoothly and took off without a hitch, and he let himself drift in the aptly named autopilot of flight over familiar territory, watching the buildings and the streets below collapse into a low-resolution sketch of the city.
The Hotel St. Solomon squatted in the densely populated and constructed Financial District, close to White Tiger headquarters and on straight approach to the gate. East of it, a megacenter with a Cineplex and shopping towered over the old-fashioned hotel. He landed there and pulled into the roof parking, listening to the whir and click of the folding wings, making sure nothing seemed off after the tune-up and adjustments. He chose a parking space on the second level from the top, a dark corner easily accessible for the Swordfish's three-wheeled landing gear but difficult to negotiate for other vehicles. They'd have a hell of a time getting a tow attached to her, and they'd gladly take the double parking fare for leaving her overnight. After a final appraisal and double-check of the locks and alarm, he stretched and left on foot for home, one last time.
By the time he arrived, it was past nine. The door sign read CLOSED, and Annie was nowhere to be found. He breathed a low sigh of relief and locked himself in his room, peeling out of his greasy clothing and collapsing into bed. He thought briefly of a meal, but the thought of having to interact with other people seemed repulsive, and sleep stole over him even while his stomach grumbled.
When he woke on Saturday morning, the digital clock read ten, but the light outside looked like dawn had not yet come. His stomach had given up complaining. He rolled over in bed, looking around at his books and the little Oriental end table Julia had urged him to buy, searching for anything that seemed worth taking with him. He lay there for another hour drifting in and out of sleep, mentally preparing. There was comfort in the instinctive mindset of a day of action. The blue suit Julia still hadn't seen was packed carefully in a messenger bag, the cash in the concealed pockets on either side of it. At the chime of eleven, he rose and began the dojo of preparation, showering, shaving, smoothing his unruly hair, dressing in the same clothing he'd worn to the assignation. It made no sense to ruin another new suit. Lin might be able to wear the ones he left behind. If he'd want the trappings of a dead man. Lin was sentimental and superstitious, but he was a clotheshorse too. The thought made Spike smile, just a little.
He loaded up, filling his pants pockets with extra cartridges for the Jericho, securing throwing knives at his waist. When he ran out of weapons, he shouldered the bag, strap across his chest and the bulk settled flat against his back, and pulled his coat on over it. The man in the mirror was cold-hearted, a dispenser of death, an animal that knew only survival. He left the room unlocked and trudged down the stairs to see Annie, to make his farewell.
She slid a full cup of coffee across the counter to him when he sat down. He smiled, but didn't take it. "Nothing to wire my nerves this morning, Annie," he said gently. "Today will be a busy day."
"You don't seem too concerned," she replied, not looking at him.
"There's nothing to be concerned about."
That got her attention. "Don't get cocky today, of all days, Spike," she snapped, and leaned on her elbows, up in his face. "I expect you home by six."
"I won't promise what I can't guarantee," he whispered, and then cleared his throat to go on more steadily. "But I have no intention of dying." He bit back a longer explanation.
"I've heard what you haven't been saying these past few days," she murmured. "I don't suppose it would do any good to tell you that you should get over it and get on with your life. I don't suppose you'd listen."
He bowed his head and shook it. "Annie, you should know – I always hear you. I'm better for all the things you say to me, even when I can't do what you ask."
She sighed and looked at him sharply. "I want Spike back."
"Thank you for everything," he said, low. "I don't know how you stayed good, with everything gone rotten around you, but I love that you did." And he stood, putting a hand over one of hers briefly, before he turned to go and left her looking after him with the weight of his words unmistakable.
No one spoke to him when he passed through the Tower's sliding doors and crossed the lobby. He took the back elevator down to the basement, and raised an eyebrow in acknowledgement when the desk clerk let him through the security door. He was surprised to find Lin in the armory's storeroom.
"I wanted first dibs on the party favors. I see you had the same idea," Lin said in greeting.
Spike nodded, trying to think of something appropriate to say. He finally settled on "What's new in here?" This was Lin's territory and passion. He wouldn't change the subject if the subject were weaponry.
Lin unlocked a heavy steel drawer and pulled out a case bearing a red EXPLOSIVES stencil. "These are old school," he said with a wink, and handed Spike a plastique square the size of his palm, wrapped in wire and connected to a device that looked like a cross between a lighter and a grenade. "Semtex remotes. Made them at home. The receiver charges from the battery in the transmitter," he went on, holding up the lighter-looking object. "When you're ready to use it, disconnect the cable and stick the payload to whatever needs disintegrating. The receiver will hold a charge for about five minutes. Be careful, though. Keep track of which remote goes with which placement." He flicked the top of the remote open. "Button. Self-explanatory. No delay on the trigger. It won't fire if it's still connected."
"This will take out – what?" Spike asked, turning the bundle over to look at it more closely.
"Support beams. Load-bearing walls. Stone or concrete, probably not heavy steel. They're meant to do structural damage, but you don't want to be in the vicinity when they go off all the same. Don't play with them," he hissed as Spike fiddled with the connecting wire.
"Sorry," Spike said mildly. "How many do you have?"
"Half a dozen. I'll give you two. And make sure I see you plant them if you're going to use them," Lin ordered as he pulled another out of the metal case and handed it over.
Spike nodded. He settled one in each pocket of his trenchcoat.
"You're going to want something more than the Jericho," Lin prodded.
"Tommy," Spike replied. Before the word was all the way out, Lin was halfway down the next row, rattling around. He came back with a short- barrel Thompson and four drum magazines. Spike took off his coat to drape the strap over his head. The compact gun hung neatly over his shoulder, slung opposite the messenger bag. Lin raised an eyebrow.
"What's in the bag?" he asked.
"Change of clothes," Spike said, shrugging back into the trenchcoat. He distributed the magazines in the inside pockets, making sure the cloth hung evenly.
Lin let out a laugh. "Going somewhere after the hit?"
"Thought we might all have a round of drinks in the hotel bar." Spike smiled at him with as much warmth as he could muster. No other words came to him, so he embraced his lifelong friend and comrade, hiding the expression of resigned sorrow over his shoulder, and raised a hand in a half-wave. "See you in a few hours."
He hailed a cab outside the tower and rode to the megacenter, sitting diagonal and awkward in the corner of the back seat with his cargo behind him. The driver prattled on about some new film about farming colonies on Venus; Spike nodded whenever the stream of words stopped and concentrated on the few hours ahead. A generous tip earned him a smile despite his reticence during the drive.
None of the shoppers in the building looked twice at him. It was almost enough to make him laugh, walking among them dressed to the nines and armed to the teeth. The parking level bustled with activity, and it provided good cover for the drop-off of the messenger bag in the Swordfish. He scribbled "back before closing" on the overnight penalty ticket the attendant had left on the cockpit bubble and locked her up again. The digital readout at the pay kiosk read one o'clock.
He was close to Julia's, and despite knowing better, his feet took him through the bazaar that buffered the financial district from the warehouse district. A little girl barking for a flower stand caught his attention, and he ducked out of the steady rain to buy a dozen roses from her.
She beamed at him. "What a lucky girl will get such beautiful flowers from such a handsome man!" she exclaimed.
"You're good at your job," he replied, with a small smile, and turned away, on down the street where he knew he shouldn't be. He spotted the wing of Vicious' zipcraft over the edge of the roof of Julia's building and finally came to a halt, the rain pounding down on his hair and shoulders, dripping into his eyes.
"Now is no time to be a fool," he muttered to himself, and made his way to the busy corner where the main arterial met Julia's street. He leaned up against the brick wall under the eaves, the bouquet clutched in one hand, and lit a cigarette, watching for Vicious' ship and letting the time drain away. The ship did not move, and no one came out of the front stairwell of her building, through almost the entire pack. At the chime of two-thirty, he pushed off with a shoulder and went back toward the hotel, lost somewhere between a dream of the future and the knowledge of what had to be done this day, and did not notice the rose that fell from the paper wrapping behind him as he walked.