SESSION 8

"Hey Spike, wake up. Sorry it took a while."

Jarred from a deep sleep, Spike awoke with a jerk. He quickly regretted it as he twisted toward the voice in a failed attempt of a defense posture. Everything had stiffened while he slept, seizing like an un-oiled machine. But his ravenous hunger rapidly overcame the ache. A heaping plate hovered over him. Dragging himself upright he took it from Jet and dug the chop sticks into something that looked like a stir fry. It didn't make a difference to him what was in it. Food at this point was food. Anything would do, even those cheap styrofoam cups with the plastic noodles inside. And this was infinitely better.

Jet chuckled, sitting down to dig into his own plate. "Slow down, you'll choke."

The only answer was the slurp of a noodle that had tried to escape. He barely stopped to savor the flavor. Before he knew it he belched, staring at the empty plate. He set it on the table and flexed his hands listening to the joints crackling complaint.

"How far out are we?"

Jet swallowed a mouthful before replying, "About an hour to Tharsis. Why?"

Spike levered himself up and shuffled across the floor. It was as much as his bruised muscles would permit at the moment.

"Hey, where you going?"

"To warm up for this shitstorm you insist on stirring into a frenzy." He dragged his jacket and his thin black tie off the back of the chair and limped through the door. He didn't want anyone to witness this. These first few minutes were probably going to be embarrassing. Well, not probably. They would be. There was nothing fluid about limbs stiff as a board. And everyone knew how boards shattered when struck. Shattering hurt. Something to be avoided.

He found the darkened bridge to his liking. With the ship on autopilot there was no need for anyone in the seat. There was plenty of room here. And there were convenient horizon plain circles on the windowpanes offering him a visual target. Spike shuffled to the center of the empty space rubbing his shoulder.

"Push through this. You know how. It hurts, but there is no time to heal."

He commenced a series of slow stretches just starting to wake stiffened muscles with a gentle flow. Limbs responded with mechanical jerks. Not at all what he wanted. Spike concentrated on his breathing. In and out, moving his hands in time with each aspiration.

Center. Find the center.

… The vision of a barrage of gunfire flared in his mind. He heard the reports of their shots. The men shouting. Felt the impact as a few bullets found home in his flesh ...

His center wobbled in mid-balance. His knee buckled sending him hard to the floor. He shut his eyes tight, panting against the memories. A clear mind. He needed a goddamn clear mind or this was never going to work.

Rising to his feet, he once more attempted a balance stretch. This had to come first before the limbs could move, supple and fluid. Clear … crystal … nothing before him. Painstakingly slow, he worked through the postures feeling the heat rise in his limbs. The stiffness of the bruising faded as he broke through the wall of pain. The damage was still there. The amount he let it limit him receded.

He dared to throw a series of punches gaining momentum and force. His body complained. He ignored the protest. Laid out on the floor like an invalid was no way to be.

… bandages. Stitches where shards of metal had been removed from lacerated flesh. The snickering of his subordinates every time they visited asking when he wouldn't be a mummy any more! …

Far from the wall of windows, Spike kicked toward a point in the center of a pane, fighting to match his foot to the angle of the horizon plain marker. Each time he compensated a fraction, edging closer to the goal. Beads of sweat flew into the air with every tightening motion. His wild strikes grew more controlled. Building into a fluid routine of fury laden blows at unseen targets.

Unseen to all … but Spike. He gritted his teeth and drove the palm of his hand in a straight swift strike.

… a woman's laughter drifting down from the floor above. Her cruel eyes gleaming in the darkness. Baring down on him. Laughing and closing the distance. …

He spun and lashed out at the shadow. Taunted by her mockery.

… "Foolish Dragon! Fell right into the Tiger's trap. Come now, let's play!" A blinding blow to the side of his head …

Spike reeled backward from the memory. His balance thrown off, he pinwheeled to find it again, wobbling like a poorly carved spinning top. His breathing came in harsh gasps. Not again. He wouldn't let that bitch hand him his ass again.

… Topaz! …

Shutting his eyes he concentrated on what he felt. He launched into a crazed series of kicks and flips feeling his body release the tension. Limber and supple he sprung into a hard lunge leading with his fist. He opened his eyes. Jet stood a fraction of an inch in front of him, his hands and eyes wide.

Spike panted for a few breaths before dropping his guard. He mopped the sweat from his brow and wandered to the window. Reaching into his jacket he pulled out a crumpled cigarette and lit it without looking. The damp tobacco smoldered terribly. His eyes stared at the distant, vapor wrapped crater growing before them like a cancer on the surface of Mars.

Tharsis.

He leaned against the window and stared broodingly into the distance waiting to glimpse the grim structures he knew to be there. Places he wasn't ready to see again.

Jet came up beside him. "Some serious shit you got there. Remind me never to piss you off. Where did you learn that?"

Spike retained the stony silence.

After a long pause, Jet shifted forward, staring hard at his face. So hard that even Spike's dark mood failed to evade the pull. The moment he looked up, Jet remarked, "Is it just the light, or are your eyes two different shades of brown?"

Spike glowered. "It's rude to stare."

"Hey, I just noticed."

He reached out and flicked a fingernail against Jet's mechanical arm. It plinked. "Hey, your arms don't match. What's with that?"

Jet backed up and rubbed where he nail had struck him. "There was no call for that."

He threw him a surly glare. "None of your damn business. Just like that isn't mine. So stay out of it!"

Huffing a breath, Jet waved toward the growing crater. "Fine, let's get back to what is our business then. What is your plan for when we get there?"

Spike stood in sullen silence before he blinked. Tension drained from his frame. He lifted one shoulder dismissively.

"Hey, you said you were calling the shots, buddy. I need to know where we land. So, how about sharing a little information with me since you know so much."

There was no guesswork on where she would be. Drawing in a breath, he plucked the cigarette from his lips and let out the coil of smoke. "North end of the city. She'll be in an abandoned steel warehouse by the water tower. An old overseer's office on the fourth floor. She'll have company on the ground level. Rear guard. But no escort."

Jet blinked. "That's specific. You sure about that?"

"Yup." He replaced the crumpled cigarette and massaged his hand left. "Whatever you do, don't touch the door handle."

See you, Space Cowboy!