VT jerked awake. She flung her hands forward, grasping at imaginary controls only to have her knuckles rap against the flimsy plastic dash. She looked around, and quickly recalled where she was. She hadn't fallen asleep at the controls of the Heavy Metal Queen, as her instincts had screamed at first, but was instead folded in the cramped passenger seat of a crummy little rental car with Coffee sitting at the wheel to her left, streetlights washing across the windshield with sleep-inducing monotony.
"Hey there, sleeping beauty," said Coffee. Her tone was as close to cheerful as VT had heard since their first meeting. Something about being at the wheel of a car agreed with the bounty hunter, despite the modest nature of the vehicle.
VT looked out the window as the car, its motor thrumming like an oil drum full of bees, weaved amid the late evening traffic. She couldn't have been asleep for more than half an hour, but the brief rest felt as though it had done her the world of good. Years of long hauls across the solar system had made her adept at power napping in a confined space.
"We almost there?" VT asked through a yawn.
"Almost," said Coffee. She flung the little vehicle into a left turn, causing it to rock alarmingly on its suspension.
"Easy, Speed Racer," said VT. "We gotta get this old thing back to Steve in one piece, remember?" They'd hired the car from an acquaintance of VT's, who had claimed he was giving her a preferential rate - a claim undermined by the rattling trim and the glove box that VT had to wedge shut with her knees.
Coffee ignored VT's comment, flexing her fingers on the comically small steering wheel. "Damn, it's good to be behind the wheel again," she said, expansively.
VT glanced sideways at her companion. She had considered reopening the discussion regarding Coffee's reluctance to share what she'd known about the enigmatic Tiamat, but now found she hadn't the heart to spoil her new partner's good mood. Instead, she asked, "Petrol head, huh?"
"Mm hmm. Used to drive everywhere, back on Io," Coffee replied. Her expression became wistful. "She was a convertible. Chestnut brown, '55 Ganimede Industries Roadster. Beautiful…"
"Sounds it," said VT politely; she had no real appreciation for terrestrial vehicles. "So, what? You couldn't bring her to Mars with you?"
Coffee's expression darkened. "I… don't want to talk about it."
VT looked back out the windshield. "Fair enough."
Coffee stopped the car at a set of lights, and then took a right as the signal changed in her favour. This took the tiny rental away from the busy, four-lane main street and onto a small, poorly lit side road. The vehicle traced a rattling zigzag between gaping potholes for a minute or so before Coffee said, "This is it." The bounty hunter pulled the car over to an unlit length of curb and shut off the engine. "The bar's in an alley a little way up the street."
VT leaned forward and peered along the darkened street. A long rank of shuttered stores, their awnings rolled up and locked away, overlooked a cracked, weed-haunted sidewalk. The build-up of litter and graffiti suggested most of these businesses hadn't been open in some weeks, maybe even months. A single parked car, its windows black and its lights dark, lay silent beneath one of only a handful of functioning streetlights, like a corpse beneath a pathologist's lamp.
"Looks like the recession hit here pretty hard," she said.
"Yeah," Coffee concurred, scanning the street through narrowed eyes. "This neighbourhood's like a rotting corpse. Perfect for a maggot like Kolarov to feed off of."
VT looked at bounty hunter. "And this is a guy you trust to give you information?"
"Hey," said Coffee, pulling a pair of large-lensed sunglasses from her pocket and sliding them over her eyes. "You wanna make the big scores, sometimes you gotta hold your nose and dive into the sewage."
VT winced and shook her head. "Ugh. Cowboys."
"Wait here," said Coffee. "It's better if I go in alone. Don't wanna make anyone nervous."
"Can do," said VT, deferring ostentatiously to the bounty hunter's authority. In reality VT was quite familiar with how these things worked, but she didn't want to give Coffee the impression she'd done this before. And in any case, it was better that she stayed away from Kolarov. VT had changed a lot in twenty years, and had only met Kolarov a handful of times, but still she didn't want to run the risk of being recognised.
"Sweet," said Coffee. "I'll call if I need back up."
Coffee climbed out of the car and shut the door. She rounded the vehicle, mounted the pavement and strode off up the street, visible only by the play of the faint light along the lines of her glossy outfit. She passed into a puddle of street lighting, her stride languid and her chin raised, as if it was she who owned this decaying neighbourhood and not the jumped-up thug she was going to visit. There she stopped, raised her shades to look around, and then vanish into an alley between two dilapidated buildings.
It was as well that VT was watching, for almost as soon as Coffee was gone, two large men in long, dark jackets materialised from the shadows of an alley across the street. They made their leisurely way across the road and, with their own cursory glance around, disappeared down the alley after Coffee.
"That can't be good," VT breathed.
The trucker clenched her teeth. She knew she couldn't call Coffee to warn her without tipping off the pursuers. And while she was sure the bounty hunter could take care of herself, she suspected Coffee was the type to take on more than she could handle rather than simply turn and walk away. Suddenly, the idea that Coffee might try, or even have the opportunity, to call for backup seemed absurd.
There was only one thing for it.
"Ah crap," VT growled into the stuffy silence of the car. She popped the door open and stepped out, closing it gently behind her so as not to alert anyone else who might be nearby. She was pretty sure the thugs that had followed Coffee had not seen her watching from the car, too concerned with their quarry to bother checking the area thoroughly for threats or witnesses. These weren't the smart, seasoned pros favoured by upper echelons of the syndicates, but rather the dumb muscle with which the small-timers liked to surround themselves. Still, VT had long since learned not to underestimate dumb muscle. Guys like that might possess all the intellectual might of a cheese wheel, but that didn't make them any less dangerous in a fight; a lack of imagination could be a pretty good substitute for courage in pinch. Also, they were cheap and made their boss feel like a genius.
VT stuffed her hands in her pockets. She walked slowly to the alley where Kolarov's bar was located and headed straight down, not bothering to look around. It was a risk - there could always be more heavies lurking - but at least it would look less suspicious. Naturally, the alley stank. Rusting fire escapes crawled up mouldering walls that glinted wetly in the wan light, their old iron rungs and rails dripping discoloured water onto overflowing dumpsters whose rancid contents choked the still air. The floor was damp, even though it hadn't rained in Alva for days. Probably the water was coming from a leaking pipe or clogged gutter somewhere above.
VT walked on, her boots splashing through fetid puddles. Mercifully, she didn't have far to go. The entrance to the bar was less than twenty meters along the alley, sunken below ground level so that the door lintel was at the same level as the soles of VT's boots. A sign dangled above the concrete stairwell, wrought from flickering, blue neon tubes. It read simply:
BAR
"Imaginative," VT muttered, and plodded down the stairs. She made no effort to hide her footfalls; the last thing she wanted to do was surprise a room full of armed thugs. And she was in no doubt that that was what she would find on the other side of the black-painted, steel door with its dirty, circular window. A sign marked Closed was barely visible through the filth-rimed glass.
"How can a girl refuse an invitation like that?" VT pulled her hat down low on her forehead in a feeble effort to mask her identity, then grasped the door handle and shouldered the door aside. "Man, my dogs are killin' me," she stated loudly as she stepped inside.
There was a brief moment in which VT was able to take in her surroundings. Dirty light from the alley mingled with the cold illumination from a series of overhead bar lamps, revealing a small barroom dotted with circular, steel-topped tables and a scatter of mismatched wooden stools. A few of those stools were occupied by men in similar dress to the thugs VT had seen earlier, both of whom were now standing just beyond the door, motionless like a pair of guardian statues. Another detail that the trucker couldn't help but notice, was just how many hands were lingering near lapels.
"'Scuse me fellas," she said, nudging between the stone-faced heavies. She approached the bar on the right of the room where Coffee was sitting on a tall, metal stool. The bounty hunter watched her approach. To her credit she betrayed no sign of recognition
Standing at Coffee's side - a little closer than was necessary - was a tall, slim man with a receding hairline and a sweaty pate that glistened in the harsh light. Sunken, suspicious eyes watched as VT approached. A long, pointed jaw worked nervously.
"Hey, barkeep," VT said to the tall man. There was no bartender present, and no one had a drink. "Could I get a scotch. No ice. Warmer the better."
The tall man's eyes narrowed. "Getting started a little early, aren't we?" he growled. The man's voice was deep and harsh, like bricks scraping together.
"Just got in from Earth," said VT. "Can't blame me if my body clock's a little off."
The tall man, whom VT recognised as Constantin Kolarov, grunted. "We're closed," he said belligerently. The syndicate informant had never been a looker, but the years had not been kind. Nor had the months spent hiding in fear from his old comrades, if the dark bags beneath his eyes were anything to go by. Fortunately, there was nothing in those eyes to suggest he had any idea who VT was.
VT turned around and leaned back with her elbows on the bar. "You sure?" she said, feigning confusion. "Looks pretty busy in here to me." She counted six thugs - four seated and the two near the door. Kolarov made seven. There might be more out back, but VT suspected neither Kolarov nor his retainers would be smart enough to keep anything in reserve.
"I think you had better leave," Kolarov said flatly. He glanced at Coffee. "We are… conducting a business meeting. It would be best for all concerned if it was conducted… in private."
The informant couldn't have made his intentions any clearer had he been holding a cocked revolver to the bounty hunter's head. VT met his gaze, and then let her eyes drop casually to Coffee's. Coffee's expression was relaxed, almost bored. But as they made eye contact, VT spotted a flash of something else, something she'd seen dozens of times before. It wasn't fear or anger, but embarrassment. The embarrassment of a dumbass cowboy who had waltzed into a situation that had immediately spiralled out of her control. It would have been easy for VT to scorn Coffee's carelessness, but the fact was VT hadn't exactly gone out of her way to counsel her, so wrapped up was she in keeping her past life hidden. She couldn't help but feel responsible, at least in part, for the bounty hunter's predicament.
Well, there was only one thing for it. She may not have been solely responsible for getting Coffee into this mess, but it seemed VT was the only one who could get her out of it. She glanced at Coffee one more time, hoping that she would take it for the signal it was and that Kolarov wouldn't be smart enough to realise. It struck VT then just how much faith she was putting in the man's stupidity. She sighed loudly. "I guess I'll have to get my drink someplace else." She pushed away from the bar and ambled towards the door.
She yawned extravagantly as she crossed the room, stretching her arms out to either side, her fists balled. She drew them in towards her face and then, just as she was passing between the two thugs at the door, thrust them out as hard as she could.
VT had always had a knack for breaking a man's nose. It was oddly nostalgic to feel skin and cartilage pop and crumple beneath her knuckles. But there was no time to dwell. Instead, VT used that moment of confusion to dive to her right and tackle one of the steel tables to the ground. Even as she moved, she could hear the click and rattle of drawn weapons. She had just rolled the table so that its flat surface was between her and the bulk of the room when the air erupted with gunfire.
VT could feel the thump of hasty shots as they struck the table, the smell of gun smoke coming quickly to her nose. She hunkered down, concealing as much of her body as she could behind the thick steel plate by which the table's one central leg was attached. A couple of bullets struck near dead centre and were stopped by the mass of metal. Another punched through the outer edge of the table, leaving behind it a hot, metallic stink.
VT chanced a glance to her right. Both of the men she'd struck were now lying motionless in an expanding puddle of blood. It seemed Coffee had used VT's diversion to her advantage.
As if in response to that thought, the trucker caught a glimpse of the bounty hunter popping up from behind the bar to let loose a couple of shots of her own from a small handgun. The volleys that had been pummelling the table stopped suddenly, punctuated by a bark of pain.
The lull didn't last long and the remaining thugs began unloading rounds into the flimsy wooden bar. Debris flew in all directions, the scent of burning chipboard added to the sickly cocktail of powder smoke, stale liquor and warm blood. The spray of gun fire worked its way along the bar towards the door, reducing Coffee's hiding place to splinters. Just as it seemed certain that she must be hit, Coffee vaulted from behind the counter, her little pistol spitting fire as she did. She slid across the end of the bar, dropped down behind and then dived into the open just as the last of her cover exploded into sawdust. She scooted across the floor, the crumpled corpses of the doorway thugs taking a couple of rounds on her behalf, before shoving her way into cover alongside VT.
"Hey, get your own damn table!" VT called over the bark of a heavy's gun.
Coffee leaned out briefly, fired off a couple of rounds, then pulled back just before the linoleum was shredded just beyond where her head had been. "Why aren't you firing back?" she said.
"'Cause I ain't got a gun, that's why!"
"Well why the-" Coffee instinctively drew herself in as another hole materialised loudly in the table, "-hell haven't you got a gun?"
"I told you I didn't want to get involved in this stuff!"
"Well, that's too bad," said Coffee. She hooked her gun over the table rim, firing a couple of shots blind. "'cause like or not, you're involved now!"
The remaining thugs - three, maybe four assuming Coffee had taken care of Kolarov early - began raining concerted fire on the huddled women. VT felt a bullet pluck at her jacket as it emerged from the tabletop at an oblique angle. Coffee smelled alarmingly of burned hair.
"To hell with this," roared VT. "We've gotta get out of here! Help me shift the table. If we can get it in front of the door we can-"
"Hell, no!" Coffee snapped back, baring her teeth. "I came here for information, and I am not leaving without it!" She fired off another desultory round, then reached into her pocket - perhaps for another clip - but was forced to shrink down again by yet another torrent of fire from across the room. "Oh, I am so done with this shit," she growled. She pulled the empty hand from her pocket and, with VT looking on dubiously, thrust it into her cleavage instead. This time her hand emerged clasped around a small object that VT couldn't quite identify.
"I'm gonna-" Coffee began, but the rest of what she said was lost amid the roar of yet another barrage.
"What?" VT asked, but by this time Coffee was already tossing the object over the top of the table.
The bounty hunter curled up, thrust her fists against her ears, closed her eyes and opened her mouth in what looked like a silent scream. It took VT a second to catch on to what had just happened and, more importantly, what was about to happen. She squeezed her eyes shut, opened her mouth and pressed her hands to her ears so hard that it hurt.
A flash of light, so brilliant it shone pink through VT's eyelids, accompanied by a wave of pressure that pushed through the trucker's body as if it were a solid thing. There followed a curious feeling of dissociation, a sense of being outside events that had only moments before been hideously immediate. Random thoughts surfaced and sank, memories rose to and fell from prominence. Old faces peered out of the depths.
A voice, maybe VT's own: "Ural?"
Pink became black.
ooo
VT wondered who the hell was whistling. And if they insisted on whistling, then why the hell couldn't they whistle a tune, rather than that infuriating monotone? And why was it so dark? What kind of weirdo would sit in the dark, whistling? She groaned and opened her eyes but rather than providing any useful information, they instead presented her with a swimming, spotty blur.
"Oh, God," she said, teeth gritted. "What the hell have I been drinking?" She levered herself into a seated position. "Hey, Zeros. Did you let me bring liquor into the cab again? You know I-" Her vision began to clear, revealing a tract of dirty linoleum and a pair of crooked corpses. "Oh, yeah," she groaned.
VT groped for the lip of the upturned table and used it to help her regain her feet. She found it difficult to keep her balance at first, the room seeming to tilt unnaturally, pitching stubbornly in whichever direction VT tried to shift her weight. Eventually she managed to steady herself. She looked around, moving her head gingerly so not to aggravate the nausea that was creeping into her belly.
Several of the bar's tables were toppled, another completely upended. A pair of legs protruded from behind one tabletop. They were motionless. Two of the surviving heavies sat back-to-back on the floor near the far wall, their arms behind their backs. They looked as though they might be bound, but VT's blurred vision made it difficult to tell. A third man was sitting with his back against the wall. Unrestrained, his attention was focused entirely on pressing a dirty cloth to his shoulder where a dark stain was spreading across his ill-fitting suit.
Coffee was sitting at what remained of the bar, in the exact spot she had been when VT had entered, with a collection of confiscated weapons arrayed neatly before her on the splintered countertop. She appeared to be contemplating a garbage bag that rested against the ruined veneer of the bar. As VT approached, the garbage bag slowly resolved itself into an unconscious Kolarov.
"A flashbang," VT groaned, coming to an unsteady halt just behind Coffee. "A goddamn flashbang. Seriously?"
Coffee made no response.
"Hey," VT said, irritably. "Are you listening to me?" She stepped around the bounty hunter to try and catch her eye. As she did, she spotted something small and yellow protruding from Coffee's ear. "Son of a bitch," she muttered.
Coffee, noticing the presence of her comrade in arms, nonchalantly removed her earplugs; VT guessed she must have stuffed them in while covering her ears. "Hey there, sleepy head," the bounty hunter drawled.
The trucker could only just pick out the words over that damn whistling. "Don't give me that," she growled. "What the hell were you thinking?"
Coffee raised her eyebrows as if genuinely surprised by the reprimand. "I was thinking about saving our lives."
"Yeah, well leaving would have been just as effective. And I wouldn't be about to puke my guts out!"
Coffee shrugged. "You're alive, aren't you?"
VT wanted to lay into the arrogant cowboy, but her churning stomach was making it difficult to maintain her ire. She let out long breath. "Heads up might have been nice," she said. "Or at least a pair o' those." She nodded at the earplugs that Coffee had discarded on the counter alongside the weapons and an open bottle of beer.
"I'll remember to pack two pairs next time," said Coffee.
VT looked about. Her vision was clearing, and she could see now that the back-to-back thugs were restrained by cable ties around their ankles, probably their wrists as well. Each a had a fresh welt on the side of his head; Coffee must have worked fast during the confusion caused by flashbang. Kolarov also showed signs of a sharp blow, likely dealt as VT had been delivering her own surprise attack right at the start of this sorry episode. He might even have come round not long after being struck, only to be rendered insensible once more by the grenade.
Coffee took a draft from her beer bottle, then offered it to VT who made a nauseated sound and waved it away.
"So, what do we do with this guy?" VT asked, looking down at the stricken Kolavrov. The jumped-up informant groaned quietly, his head lolling.
"I told you I wasn't leaving here without information," said Coffee. She slid from her stool and stepped up to VT's side so that both women were standing over Kolarov. "Wakey wakey, scumbag," she said, and upended her beer bottle over the man's head.
The liquid pattered on Kolarov's bare scalp, sparking in the dead light and soaking the fringe of hair that VT could now see was tied into a greying, midlife-crisis ponytail. His groans became more urgent, and he scrunched his eyes closed like a teenager refusing to get up for school. The beer ran out after a few seconds and Kolarov returned to his former indolence.
"I think you broke him," VT observed.
"With that little firecracker?" said Coffee. "That was just a baby. Our boy here's just playing possum."
"You sure? He seems pretty out of it."
Coffee clasped the neck of the bottle between her index finger and thumb and suspended it above Kolarov. Her voice hardened. "I said, wakey wakey." With that she dropped the bottle.
Kolarov didn't flinch as the bottle skimmed passed the tip of his nose. He flinched a lot when it struck him squarely in the crotch. He doubled over, letting out a long wheeze before toppling onto his elbow and vomiting onto the floor at his side. The sight, sound and smell of it almost had VT following suit.
"Atta boy," purred Coffee. "Let it all out."
When he was finally done voiding his stomach, Kolarov rocked back into a seated position and let his head drop against the ruined bar with a thump. He coughed, drew a sleeve across his sick-spotted beard, and said, "Bitch."
Coffee gave a feline smile, and then kicked the empty bottle, which had come to rest at her feet, sending it careening into the informant's crotch for a second time. "That is no way to address a lady," she said, evenly.
Kolarov coughed, wrapped one forearm around his midsection and held up a hand in submission.
"Apology accepted," said the bounty hunter. "Perhaps now we can have a civilised conversation."
"I don't-" Kolarov coughed again, "-know anything. I'm not-"
"-not in the information business anymore?" Coffee finished his sentence for him. "I didn't believe you the first time, Kolarov, and I don't believe you now."
"Well, that's too bad," Kolarov said, some of the strength coming back to his voice, "because that's the way it is. I don't know anything about any syndicates. I don't know anything about criminal activities. I don't know anything about anything." A self-satisfied smirk had found its way onto his vomit-crusted lips. "So, maybe you should stop wasting all of our time and leave so I can… clean up."
Coffee's expression darkened. She reached out a toe and nudged the bottle that was once more at her feet. Kolarov watched with poorly concealed anxiety as it spun in place between his ankles. After a long moment, the glass container came to rest, its neck pointing straight at the informant.
"Well, what do you know," said Coffee, her voice flat. She pulled that little pistol from her pocket and let it hang ominously at her side. "What's it gonna be, Kolarov: truth or dare?"
Kolarov set his jaw. "Fuck you," he hissed.
"Charming," said VT. She grasped her right fist in her left hand and cracked the knuckles loudly. "Oh well, I've always been more a 'Seven Minutes in Heaven' kind of girl anyway."
Kolarov's gaze darted between the gun, Coffee, the bottle, and VT. His eyes were wide with a resurgent fear, and yet there was also a hint of appraisal in his gaze, like a gambler trying to decide how to bet his last chip. Finally, his shoulders sagged, his eyes locking on a patch of linoleum between the bounty hunter and the trucker. "What do you want to know?" he said quietly.
Coffee stepped forward so that she towered above the prostrate informant. "Tell us everything you know about Tiamat."
Kolarov's expression changed from one of abject submission to one of bewilderment. "What?" he said, squinting in the harsh light as he looked up at his interrogator.
"I said, tell me what you know about Tiamat. And don't you dare skimp on me, asshole. I want names, dates, god damned zip codes. Whatever you got."
Kolarov just stared at the bounty hunter incredulously. "You mean, you're not working for them?"
It was Coffee's turn to look puzzled. "Them?"
"Them. Her. It. Whatever." The informant looked around at the chaos that had been wrought on his little domain. He began to chuckle to himself. "Unbelievable."
"Quit your babbling, Kolarov," said Coffee. She was becoming agitated. VT anticipated having to restrain her if Kolarov didn't start being a little less enigmatic and a little more cooperative.
"Three of my best guys," Kolarov chortled, "over nothing."
Coffee kicked at the sole of Kolarov's shoe with an angry grunt.
"Alright, fine," said the informant. He threw up his hands in a gesture of resignation and let them slap against the linoleum. "After all this noise, probably I'm dead now anyway. What do you want to know?"
"I already asked," said Coffee. "Tell me what you got on Tiamat?"
Kolarov shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine," he said. Coffee kicked him again, this time digging a sharp toe into his calf. "Agh! I'm telling the truth, damn it! I don't know anything about her. Nobody does. All I have are rumours. Tiamat is a woman. Tiamat is a man. Tiamat is three people, a god, a monster, the Van reborn. The infosphere is just a white noise of pseudo-spiritual bullshit these days. All I know is, six months ago the Red Dragon syndicate was dead and buried. Now the old monster's corpse is twitching again, and this Tiamat is supposedly behind it. More than that, I cannot say." Coffee raised a foot. "I can't say because I don't know!" Kolarov added hastily. "Knowing more would be very dangerous to my health. And as you can see-" he swept his arms around in a gesture that encompassed his ruined surroundings "-my life is of very great value to me."
"What do you mean 'twitching'?" asked Coffee.
Kolarov sighed. Evidently Coffee had stumbled onto another seam of knowledge that the informant had hoped would remain hidden. "Shipments, information trafficking, secret meetings. You know, organised crime stuff. I don't know the details."
"Names, then," said Coffee.
Kolarov frowned, staring into the space between the two women. VT felt sure he knew plenty of names but was simply trying to pick the ones that would be least dangerous to his parasitic existence. At length he reached for his inside pocket. In an instant Coffee's pistol was trained on the informant's head. Kolarov raised his hands to indicate there was no threat and then, more slowly this time, reached into his jacket. His hand emerged holding a small notepad, complete with a short pencil attached by an elastic loop. He flipped open the pad and began to write.
VT cocked an eyebrow. As if sensing the change of expression, Kolarov glanced up. "I am a businessman," he said. "Businessmen need to take notes, dah?"
Kolarov finished his scribbling and tore the sheet of paper from the book. He held it up for Coffee to take, but the bounty hunter just stared intensely at it, her finger rubbing at her gun's trigger guard.
VT rolled her eyes. "Here," she said, and reached down to grab the paper. She turned it over and drew breath to read the name.
"No!" Kolarov blurted out. "Don't read it out loud."
"Right," VT sighed, remembering Tatopolous's warning about Kolarov's paranoia. "The walls have ears, and all that."
Coffee reached over and snatched the paper from VT's hand. "What the hell kind of a name is that?" She said, turning the paper this way and that.
"I don't know," said Kolarov, conversationally. "It's Dutch, or something, I think."
"Lovely," said VT. She turned and surveyed the carnage properly for the first time since coming around. "Christ. How did this happen?" she said, shaking her head. "All we wanted was a damned bounty head." No sooner had the words passed her lips was she hit by a dizzying sense of deja vu.
"Bounty head?" said Kolarov, snapping VT back to her immediate reality. "You mean you two are cowboys?" At this realisation Kolarov descended into all out laughter, complete with thy slapping. "Oh, the man upstairs is having fun with me today!"
"Yeah, it's a real laugh riot," VT sighed.
Kolarov's laughter trailed off. "Sorry," he said with a shrug. "But I'm afraid that if you want to know about bounty heads, you'll have to speak to the DA."
Coffee made a disgusted sound. VT shaded her eyes with her hand. "Well, I'll be damned if this isn't the joke that just keeps on giving," said the trucker.
"What?" said Kolarov. "You come here and shoot up my place looking for information, and now my advice isn't good enough for you?"
"C'mon, let's get out of here," said Coffee. She gave Kolarov one last desultory dig with her toe, eliciting a bark of protest, before heading for the door.
VT watched Coffee cross the wrecked barroom, then looked down at Kolarov. "Your boy over there's starting to look a little pale," she said, hooking a thumb at the bleeding retainer leaning against the back wall. "You might want to call an ambulance or a vet or something."
Kolarov waved her away. "Whatever."
VT shook her head and followed her partner towards the exit.
"Hey!" Kolarov called. VT paused in the doorway, and looked back to see the informant leering at her from his seat on the barroom floor, his face bleached and ill-looking in the hard light. "If you do see Kathy Tatopoulos, tell her I said hi. She always-" VT let the door swing shut on his words.
ooo
VT walked up to the car, propped an elbow on the roof and leaned down to the window. Coffee was already in the driver's seat, hands on the wheel.
"You know you almost got us both killed, right?" VT asked, loud enough to be heard through the glass.
"Get in," Coffee said, her voice barely audible.
VT gave an exasperated sigh and climbed into the car.
"So," said VT as she shut the door, "care to tell me what the hell is going on with you? Not that I haven't met my share of suicidal cowboys, but none of them owed me money."
"We have to get moving," said Coffee.
VT threw up her hands as far as the confines of the car would allow. "Then by all means, drive."
Coffee started the car and pulled out into the empty street. Hollow buildings passed by outside, looming black against the hazy glow of the city beyond. One turn, and then another, and the little car was back amid the shifting tide of Alva City traffic.
VT noticed something flapping in the weak breeze from the AC vent at the back of the dash. It was the piece of paper on which Kolarov had scrawled the name of a potential lead. She reached over and picked it up. Kolarov's spidery, slightly concussed handwriting was barely legible, the tongue-twisting name it spelled out the sole prize of the pair's near-death experience.
Only it hadn't just been near death, had it?
"A name," she muttered to herself. "One lousy fucking name." VT pinched the bridge of her nose and sank into her seat. "Oh God," she said. "All that, back in bar…" The adrenaline surge of battle had long since waned, and the gravity of the waste was now dawning on the trucker. "Christ."
"It was worth it," Coffee said, quietly. "We got a lead."
"Gun fights. Syndicates," said VT, ignoring Coffee's observation as the weight of the last few days bore down ever more. "What are we getting into here? We were supposed to be after a bounty. Nice 'n' simple."
"I don't recall ever saying it'd be simple. You knew anything about bounty hunting, you'd know that nothing is ever nice 'n' simple."
VT screwed her eyes shut and let her head drop against the headrest. She wanted to scream. She wanted to shout. She wanted to drive her fist straight through the bounty hunter's thick head. And some small, forgotten part of her wanted to curl up in a ball and cry.
She did none of those things, and the rest of the journey took place in silence.
ooo
VT lay on the cot with her eyes closed and listened to the music. The thunder of percussion and lightening of strings churned the air, crashing from the walls of the room and shaking the trucker down to the bone. Great waves of sound rolled over her mind, washing away care and worry, leaving only the music in its place.
Being here in Jet's old room (she assumed it had belonged to Jet, since it was the only bedroom that looked remotely lived in when she'd first explored the ship) kind of reminded her of being back on the Heavy Metal Queen. The confined space. The clutter of personal effects. The harsh, artificial light. Granted, the smell of moist potting soil was a change from that of stale chips and cat litter, but the little room was nostalgic in all the ways that mattered.
VT and Coffee had parted company as soon as they'd returned to the Bebop, VT claiming fatigue and Coffee the need to clean and oil her gun. The latter had headed off to a little work room in the bowels of the ship, while the former had headed straight to the one unclaimed bedroom.
The sound of clattering porcelain mingled with screaming vocals as a particularly bass-heavy riff shook the bonsai trees in their planters. It reminded VT of something she'd once heard about plants growing better when music was played to them. She wondered idly if bonsais liked heavy metal, then dismissed the thought. If they didn't like it, then they could change the station.
"God, I love this song," VT said to herself, her voice, lost in the music, registering as a light buzz in her skull.
A pounding drum solo filled the room, before giving way to the screaming vocals of the lead singer. VT's brow furrowed above her closed eyes; the drum solo seemed to be going on longer than she remembered. It took a few seconds for her to realise that someone was pounding on the door. VT did her best to ignore it, but whoever it was they were persistent. In the end she groaned loudly and rolled from the cot. Squinting in the light, she ambled over to the door while trying to decide whose face she wanted to see the least. If she was lucky, Zeros had learned how to make a fist.
VT opened the door. No such luck.
"Hey VT," shouted Lo, grimacing as the music spilled into the hall. "I think there's something wrong with the ship. There's this terrible noise coming from the-" He stopped, realisation dawning on his face.
VT rolled her eyes. She reached back to the shelf behind her and switched off the radio. Silence fell, save for that warm buzz that a good heavy metal session always left in one's ear canals, and the faint, residual whistle of Coffee's flashbang. "You were saying?" she said.
"Um, er," Lo twiddled his fingers. "Just, uh, just wanted to let you know the, uh, repairs are going well." He gave a gap-toothed grin and rubbed at the back of his head.
"That right?"
"Yeah, yeah. Well, no. Actually, we're missing some parts."
VT folded her arms and glared down at the little man. "Missing?" she said.
"Hey, it's not my fault," Lo said, raising his hands defensively. "I think some of them might have rolled away when we took off the other day."
"Well, find them," said VT unsympathetically.
"I've tried. This ship is like a sieve. There are gaps everywhere. We'll probably never find some of the smaller parts. And that's before you even consider the broken-" he cut himself off again.
VT unfolded her arms and placed her fists on her hips. "Broken?"
Lo let his hands fall at his side in a gesture of helplessness. "Well, what did you expect? It's not as if you gave me time to secure everything before we took off. Some of that stuff was delicate."
VT let out a long breath. It was irritating as hell, but Lo was right. It wasn't his fault, which was a shame because it would have been nice to have someone to blame right about now. "Let me guess. I'll have to pay for replacements, right?"
Lo, responding to the softening of the trucker's mood, braved a shrug. "'fraid so."
VT shook her head. "God damn it." She glanced longingly over her shoulder at the cot that still bore the impression of her body. She wanted nothing more than to return to its embrace, and that of her favourite music station, but once again the spectre of her financial straits kept her from enjoying what was supposed to be a relaxing vacation. Like it or not, she would have to get back to the distasteful business of bounty hunting.
"Where's Coffee?" She asked. She half hoped that the bounty hunter had left to chase up her lead solo but suspected that Coffee was experienced enough to know better, especially after the debacle at Kolarov's bar.
"She's in the lounge," said Lo, confirming VT's suspicions. "Doing research on the net, I think."
VT stepped out into the hallway proper and shut the door behind her. She sidled past Lo and headed for the lounge without further comment, though she thought she might have heard Lo mutter something about rudeness and ingratitude, and a few other things he probably thought she couldn't hear, before the man's voice was snatched away by a bend in the corridor.
VT found Coffee in the lounge as Lo had said, sitting on the couch and hunched over the screen of the small holographic display on the table. The text on screen was too small for VT to read.
The trucker hovered in the doorway, trying to decide how to proceed. The nature of her last meaningful exchange with Coffee was making it awkward for VT to segue into conversation. She waited to see if Coffee would notice her arrival, but the bounty hunter gave no sign that she had. In the end, VT just went with a straightforward question. "What are you reading?"
"News sites," said Coffee, without looking up. "Trying to learn a little more about our lead."
Coffee's tone was hardly conciliatory, but at least she hadn't tried to chase VT off. The trucker chose to take that as an invitation and moved around behind the couch to get a better view of the screen.
"Anything interesting?" she asked, peering over Coffee's shoulder.
Coffee chuckled. "Yeah, if you're into flying saucers and tin foil hats."
VT rounded the couch and dumped herself down beside Coffee, then leaned in to read the headline:
Take Me to Your Leader: Martian Mogul Seeks Little Green Men
The story, accompanied by a headshot of a handsome, middle-age man with a strong jaw and serious expression, told of the recent exploits of Kolarov's lead. The patriarch of an old ranching family, he had spent the last decade expanding the clan's business interests into the media sector and was now the head of several news and entertainment outlets. None of this was of very much interest. Much more intriguing was the man's latest hobby, the search for extra-terrestrial intelligence. This new obsession had led him to purchase the disused Pangbosch telescope - a gigantic radio telescope built into an impact crater on the slopes of Olympus Mons - which would be converted into a huge transceiver capable of sending and receiving messages across deep space. The faintly mocking tone of the piece, along with the scornful quotes from a handful of Martian academics, suggested that this was not one of the outlets owned by the subject of the story.
"So, what do you think?" Coffee asked.
VT leaned back and scratched under the rim of her cap. "I think Mr. Whose-its here has more money than sense," she said.
"Yeah, I can see that," said Coffee, impatiently. "I mean, what do we do next?"
"Beats me," VT shut her eyes. Suddenly it was all getting a little too complicated. "I don't know, Coffee. This all seems a bit screwy to me. You think Kolarov might be yanking our chain?"
Coffee seemed to consider this. "Could be," she said. "But I think if there's any possibility of a link between this guy and Tiamat, then we have to follow it up."
"Or, we could just call it in to Kathy," said VT. "Collect our money and let it be." Even as she spoke, the idea of washing her hands of the whole thing filled her with a near euphoric sense relief.
Coffee snorted derisively. "You think this little tidbit is gonna make us the money we need?" she said, gesturing at Kolarov's note that now lay wedged beneath the corner of the TV set. "I bet Kathy already has an idea this guy is involved."
"You think so?" said VT, deflated.
"Mmm hmm. She already knows these new Reds have a lot of big wigs in their pocket. She said as much herself. Best case scenario, we roll up carrying nothing but a scrap o' paper and a smile, Kathy sends us home empty handed, and we spend the summer shaking payphones for pocket change."
"Well, what if the DA investigates this guy and turns something up? Maybe she'd feel she owed us something then?" VT had to fight the urge to grimace as she said this; even she thought it was a feeble argument.
"Fat chance," said Coffee. "If Kathy thought she could get away with looking into Mr. Spaceman's extra-curriculars she'd have done it already. No, she hasn't got the leverage she needs. Not yet anyway." Coffee's eyes narrowed. A dangerous little smile played across her lips. "You know, I just bet that's the whole reason the DA brought us on board in the first place. Maybe she can't start digging through the trash of Mars's rich and famous, but a couple of-"
"Nice, unaligned bounty-hunters, yadda yadda." VT rubbed at both sides of her head. "'Cause that worked out real well last time."
Much as VT hated to admit it, and hated even more to face the implications of it, Coffee was right. One name on a scrap of paper was unlikely to make them the money they needed for ship repairs, or even to cover the expenses they'd already racked up over the course of a day's failed bounty hunting. They would need more to show for their efforts if they were going to persuade a cash-strapped City Hall to pony up.
VT was roused from her morose introspection by the sound of the door rolling aside. Andy stepped across the threshold, his odd footwear clanking obnoxiously at the head of the stairs.
The faux samurai yawned massively. "Ladies," he said in pompous greeting.
"Jackass," Coffee replied with equal pomposity.
"Where the hell have you been?" VT asked. She knew the answer, but she felt the urge to step in before the bounty hunters could start bickering again.
"I have been deep in meditation," he said, as if he hadn't in fact been fast asleep in the cargo hold, swinging gently in a hammock he'd improvised from a cargo net.
"That right?" said VT.
"Indeed," said Andy, resting a casual hand on the hilt of his sword. "A warrior must tend the garden of his mind as he might prune the branches of the noble bonsai."
"Deep," said Coffee with a derisive chuckle. "But I think maybe you cut off a few too many branches, Kurasawa."
Andy opened his mouth to respond but VT beat him to it. "Alright, you two. Knock it off." Andy muttered something about Coffee starting it but said no more. With that settled, VT returned reluctantly to the matter at hand. "So, what do you suggest? We do a bit more digging into this Mr… this guy?" She asked and Andy stumped noisily down the stairs.
"Yeah, I think so," said Coffee, once again scanning through the news story she'd found. "He's certainly been a busy bee." She glanced at Kolarov's note, which she'd wedged under the corner of the TV set. "Might be worth finding out what this Mr. Von De Oniyate is really up to."
Silence filled the room, profound and unexpected. VT looked up, puzzled as to why she could no longer hear Andy's footfalls, and found the bounty hunter standing dead still at the foot of the stairs as if frozen mid-step. His hand slid from the pommel of his sword.
"Hey Andy," said VT, frowning. "You okay?
"Did you say… Von De Oniyate?" he asked softly. His eyes seemed fixed on some distant horror only he could see.
"Yeah," said Coffee.
"Andrew Von De Oniyate?"
Coffee frowned and glanced at the note again. "Uh, yeah."
"Wait," said VT. "You mean you know this Von De-, Von De Onny-"
"Von De Oniyate," said Coffee.
VT grunted irritably.
"Yes," said Andy. He looked down at himself, as if suddenly conscious of his absurd appearance. "He's my father."
The silence was renewed, only to be shattered two seconds later by a rattle and a crash from across the room. Everyone looked around to where Lo was standing, his jaw hanging open and an upturned box of electronic parts scattered around his feet. "Your dad is… Andrew Von De Oniyate?" he said in an awed whisper.
"Yes," said Andy with a rueful smile. "Although, these days he might say different."
VT looked at Lo. "You mean, you know this Von De Moriarty guy too?"
"Of course I do," Lo replied. "He's only, like, the fourth richest guy on Mars."
"Third," Andy corrected him. His flat intonation suggested little pride in the fact.
"Is that right," said Coffee, sceptically. "Well, if Daddy's so rich, then what was Yojimbo here doing sleeping in the hallway of a space station?"
Andy approached his three shipmates. "Father and I…" he trailed off as he looked for the right words. "My father and I haven't been on the best of terms recently." For the first time since VT had met him, the bounty hunter's manner was sober, even contrite. It made his eccentric appearance seem all the more ridiculous.
"Family trouble, huh?" said VT, trying to convey a sympathy she didn't much feel.
"It's complicated," said Andy.
"Let me guess," said Coffee, displaying no pretence of commiseration. "You spent all of Pop's money on sandals and sword wax, so he cut you off. That about right?"
Andy's shoulders tensed as if he would retaliate, but then he visibly deflated, and shrugged instead. If VT was surprised by Andy's passivity, then Coffee looked almost disappointed.
"What's all this about, anyway?" Andy asked dully.
"Well," said VT, "Your dad's name came up in conversation with our informant. I guess there's no easy way to ask this but, uh, did your dad ever have anything to do with the syndicates?"
"Not that I know of," said Andy, apparently not at all troubled by the inference. "I guess it wouldn't surprise me, though. My father was never all that fussy about who he did business with."
"That a fact?" said Coffee.
"So, you think my father may be involved in syndicate activity?" Andy asked. He seemed more interested than disturbed.
"Maybe," said Coffee, defensively. "All we got is a name. Our boy didn't give us any more than that."
Andy rubbed at his chin thoughtfully, the trace of a smile touching his lips. "I think maybe I could help you out," he said.
Coffee's eyes narrowed, but to VT's alarm she was clearly interested. "What do you have in mind?"
Andy's smile broadened. "I think maybe it's time the exiled warrior returned to his ancestral home."
Coffee cracked a smile of her own. "Break into the old man's place? Do a little digging?"
"Indeed. Normally I wouldn't resort to the underhanded ways of the ninja, but seeing as how my family's honour may be at stake-"
"Bad idea," said VT, eager to shut this madness down. "We already made one house call so far and that didn't exactly go according to plan."
Andy looked puzzled. "But you did get my dad's name, though. Right?"
"Yeah," said VT. "And what we also got was a gun fight and a stack of corpses."
Andy just stared at her, looking confused that VT should consider those things a problem.
VT growled in annoyance. "Listen, it's one thing shaking down some washed-up thug for information, it's entirely another to break into the house of one of the richest guys in the system, and one who might be in cahoots with the mob to boot. We don't need that kind of trouble."
"But there won't be any trouble," Andy said with a smile that was about as reassuring as an air raid siren. "All I'd be doing is a little quiet reconnaissance. My dad will never even know I was there."
Andy's eyes strayed from VT to the middle distance, and VT feared he had already begun to devise some lunatic scheme to infiltrate his father's home. Coffee was no help - not that VT had expected much succour from that quarter. The bounty hunter was watching the proceedings from the couch, with one leg crossed over the other and an expression of wry amusement. This was bad. VT could feel the situation getting away from her. Again. "But you're disowned, remember?", she said, groping for anything she could use to talk Andy down. "What makes you think you'll get anywhere near your dad's place?"
Andy frowned, and lifted a thumb and forefinger to his chin. "Hmm, you do have a point," he said, staring pensively at VT's boots. "My status within the family could complicate matters." For a moment VT dared to hope that she might have averted a disaster. But then: "If I'm going to get access to my father's records, then I'm going to need a proxy. Someone to do the dirty work while I supervise from a secret location." He looked around as if searching for a suitable candidate. "TV Guy," he said as his gaze fell across Lo for the third time. "How do you feel about helping me restore my family's honour?"
"What?" squeaked Lo. "No, no I don't want to get involved in this. I'm just here to fix the ship's comm system." He frowned, and added angrily, "And my name is not TV Guy! It's Lo!"
"Come on," said Andy, smiling his most winning smile. "It'll be fun. We'll be like Lone Wolf and Cub. Only I won't be pushing you around in a stroller, obviously." Andy walked over to Lo and placed a comradely hand on his shoulder. "What say you, friend? Do you want to become a samurai apprentice?"
Lo looked up at the bounty hunter dubiously, though a slight softening of his expression suggested he might be warming to the idea. "Apprentice, huh?" he said, then sighed. "Alright, fine. But I'm not doing anything dangerous. Or illegal. And I get a cut of any bounty money you guys make."
"What?!" VT and Coffee barked in unison.
"Done!" said Andy, clapping Lo on the shoulder so hard he almost flattened the smaller man. "You won't regret it."
"That makes one of us," VT said ruefully.
"And why, exactly, should we share anything with you two chuckle heads?" said Coffee.
"Because I'm the only one with inside knowledge of the Von De Oniyate compound, and my father's business records."
VT shook her head. If she couldn't beat 'em…
"He's right Coffee," she said, defeated. "If we're going to go any further with this, then we're gonna need his help."
"Our help," Lo corrected her, his enthusiasm clearly growing.
"Fine," VT growled. "Just get the hell out of here before I change my mind."
"Excellent," said Andy. "TV Guy, I suggest you get some rest. I'll meet you on the quayside at 0600. And bring your toolkit. And also a vid phone. "
"Why do I need my toolkit?" asked Lo.
Andy smiled enigmatically. "I'll explain on the way." He turned to VT. "I'll need to take the car."
The trucker yanked the keys out of her pocket and tossed them at Andy a little harder than she needed to. "Bring it back in one piece," she said, "or don't come back at all."
"Understood," said Andy. He turned and clanked off in the direction of the hangars. Lo headed for the bridge.
"I hope you know what you're doing," said Coffee once the two men were gone. Her tone was jocular, as if she hadn't encouraged this lunacy in the first place.
"Making a big-ass mistake is what I'm doing," VT replied. She leaned back in her chair and let her head drop against the top of the backrest. "I shoulda stayed in bed."