Cowboy Bebop Fan Fiction ❯ Song of the Swimming Bird ❯ Saturn Salsa ( Chapter 1 )

Voices and Visions

The night side of Saturn hummed. If you were completely still, you could almost feel the soft drone, even when in space. People who lived there didn't notice, or else they were just used to it. That might have been the reason for Saturn's enormous criminal population. After all, the noise was highly irritating.

Spike Spiegel stood alone, bare save for his boxers, and watched the space traffic from the front viewport of the Bebop. He put a hand on the wide chilly window that separated him from the great untamed void and the gas giant. The ship was still asleep otherwise, except (probably) their most recent bounty head who was locked deep in the cargo hold. This one was strange, Spike reflected. The man, David King, had come quietly, without resistance, even though he was wanted on charges of grand theft. What he had stolen and from whom was not mentioned in the warrant, and the renegade hadn't said a word about it. And since Spike wasn't one to pry, he didn't provoke the fellow. Where he was going, it was unlikely Mr. King would get privacy ever again.

Spike scratched his five o'clock shadow. Well, five a.m. shadow. His mind was too occupied to be concerned with shaving. He'd just cut himself. He looked at his hand as he brought it down and remembered David King as he had held out his wrists and murmured, You got me, cowboy. Cowboy, that was him! Bounty hunters didn't give a shit who the target was or what his or her motives were. Spike had played his part. He cuffed the man and said, Thanks, with a smile. With time, Spike's smile had turned into a scowl and a twitch in his right cheek. David King's capture was too peculiar. And though his hunter instincts told him that it didn't matter, that a job was a job and nothing more, a voice deep within him would not let him sleep. You never stop running, do you? You're afraid to. You say you value honesty, but you're just like them. You're worse. You're dishonest to yourself.

"Heh," Spike released a laugh into the dark abyss of the room, and suddenly silence reigned again. I want to know the facts, and that's all, he added wordlessly for good measure. That voice had been so urgent, immediate, invigorating. Present. It was the part of him that was still alive. That same voice had urged him to help the dead Roco's sister as she had recovered from Venus sickness. And when he had felt the desire to kill Dr. Rashid, creator of a deadly nanomachine "virus", the voice had moved Spike to let him go. And now it stirred in him to contemplate the fate of David King.

Sliding his hand into his pocket, he brought out a cigarette and a lighter. Smoking helped him think, clear his mind. It was doubtful that his habit would kill him; Spike was expecting death from the kiss of a katana blade. Besides, these things had a juicy aftertaste. He lit one up, and Ein the dog rolled over, whining. "Don't complain," Spike mumbled, "You caught plenty of fresh air on Mars." He tapped the cigarette butt on the rail of the Bebop main computer, and ashes fell into the dog's bowl. Ein padded off, clearly annoyed. Spike later thanked himself for putting his clothes high enough to avoid the data dog's finely tuned excrement retaliation powers.

He heard light footsteps down the hallway, and his mouth loosened in a half-smile. He stuck his head into the kitchen, and sure enough, he found Faye Valentine rummaging through the cabinets for either a very late dinner or an early breakfast. He watched her in amusement as she hit her head in the dark and cursed, searching in vain.

Faye had that same detached look on her beautiful face, like she was the Queen Bitch of the Galaxy. Except Spike saw something else there, as he always did. He often distrusted people and their motivations, and he had his reasons to treat Faye differently than he treated other women. She was a bounty hunter like himself, and so Spike considered her a bit of a tomboy. Not quite a woman, really. They had gotten along about as well as could be expected from their initial meeting, which had ended with Faye getting what she wanted and Spike and his partner, Jet Black, eating her spacedust. Faye had joined the Bebop crew soon after, describing herself as a "gypsy."

Spike had always doubted this, and he supposed that Faye had things in the past that she was keeping from them. He had heard the story of time capsules and a mystery man who had helped her but ultimately betrayed her. But Spike was a realistic, intuitive fellow. If it quacks like a duck. . . it's a duck. Faye had lied before and the woman would do so again in a pinch. That was how it was and always would be. Spike had seen it and was convinced of it. This was the cause for his mild frustrations and knack for ragging her, he informed himself. But Faye Valentine was skilled in her own way, and was good to have as an occasional teammate. Spike saw no immediate reason to rid themselves of her presence, besides the huge bounty on her head that they hadn't cashed in on yet. Spike ran his tongue along his upper teeth and tried to remember the reason that they had kept her around this long. . .

Sifting through her shiny black hair with one hand and shoving pots and pans out of her way with the other, the woman hunted relentlessly. Finally, Spike walked up behind her. "If you're looking for food, you're wasting your time." The woman whirled around in surprise just as the taller bounty hunter blew a smoke ring in her general direction, "Ed ate the last can of tuna."

Spike noticed that her delicate features were masked in green facial cream, and she wore an orange robe. His face fell as his stomach growled. "Oh." Faye frowned at him, "What's wrong?" The tall bounty hunter averted his eyes from her shapely figure, "You . . . you look like a carrot." With that, Faye collapsed on the floor and moaned, "I'm going to starve to death!" Spike said nothing and she continued, "I just might! And just think: what would you all do without me? Tell me it's not much longer `til we drop this guy off and collect."

Her companion shrugged. "Probably two hours. Maybe more. Until then, a cigarette might hold you over . . ." He scuffled through his pocket again. Faye's expression brightened as she reached for one. "Ah, aaaah!" Spike pulled his cig pack away from her grasping hands, "I'll take a wulong per stick." Faye's face scrunched up, "Now come on! You can't be that stingy, now?" Spike sniffed and looked back to the fridge with indifference. "Oh, my God . . . You opportunistic, money-grubbing . . ." She pressed her hands together murderously and her eyebrows formed a deep valley of rage. It's not my problem. This isn't a soup kitchen, he reminded himself.

Spike tried to be helpful: "You can always cook the dog." Spike half hoped that she would do it. Faye stared at him contemptuously.

"It's possible 'Ed' is short for 'edible.'" Faye bit her lower lip and tightened her hands into fists. Now Spike was curious as to how much taunting she was willing to take.

"Jet just watered his bonsai last night; I bet they're delici - " Faye Valentine kicked Spike in the left shin and stormed out of the room. The cowboy's face scrunched up and he fell on his back.

"Ooooh - Faye-faye kick hard!" Edward laughed as she jumped over Spike's body half an hour later. Spike hadn't gotten up from the spot because he found that it was as good as any other position and he had chosen not to exert any further efforts until his partner woke up. Still in her nightgown, the 13-year old redhead girl, Ed, leaped through all the rooms and "brightened" every nook and cranny of the ship. This was her routine every morning. It was as if she had to wake up every fusion coil and metal wrench, every piece of furniture, before she could sit down in front of her computer. Spike likened the strange being to a fly, an exceptionally large fly that had devoured the last can of tuna. Ed was an outstanding hacker and in the past had cracked many mysteries surrounding bounties. That did not, in Spike's opinion, give her the authorization to "frolic" all over the place. Jet should make a rule against it, he decided. He was too lethargic to do so himself.

His partner Jet Black, owner of the Beebop, extended a hand and helped his comrade onto his feet. His bearded face was grumpier than usual. "Spike, where the hell are my bonsai?" The poofy-haired cowboy limped over to the yellow couch in the living room and groaned, "If we're lucky, they're stuck somewhere in that woman's digestive system." Spike stretched his feet out and put his arms behind his head, grinning up at his friend. Yes, his old friend. Spike had never said as much, but he knew that Jet knew. It just wasn't something Spike would say out loud. That was how it was and always would be. Jet was one of his few friends, and the most trustworthy of that small number.

Mr. Black wore a cherry colored robe that had a black velvet sash that he was very proud of. Not that Jet was a dandy - far from it! He simply subscribed to the notion that one should be presentable in mixed company, unlike his uncouth companion. Jet's receding hairline was covered by a sleeping cap that made him look rather wise and scholarly. You knew that Jet Black had been around just by looking at him. Cybernetic modifications to his left arm and his right eye verified his experiences. Jet was a former ISSP cop who had become disgruntled by the corruption and greed innate to the system. He had taken up bounty hunting, and they called him the Black Dog because he never let go once he sank his teeth into a fugitive from justice. He complained as much as Spike did about the lawlessness aboard his own ship, but did nothing to help that situation.

Jet's nostrils flared. "What!? Oh - never mind. Why haven't you responded to any hailings? We're supposed to reply to ISSP so we can be cleared to hand this guy over to them. They still haven't identified us yet. . ." Spike sat up and pushed a button on the coffee table computer. "I wanted you to see something. Before we picked up the reward."

Ed cartwheeled over and scooted next to Spike, who grimaced. Her friendly, high pitched voice rang out, "Ed saw that last night. Why not ask Ed to help, Spike person?" Spike Spiegel's eyes narrowed and he ground his teeth together, "Because only ten people know how to get into this network . . . and five of them are dead." Both Ed and Jet looked at him in surprise. Jet spoke for both of them, "If Ed can't do it, there's no one who can. Least of all you, Spike." The lanky cowboy sighed. "Look, it's a hard-code Syndicate network. You have to know exactly what sequence to enter. You don't get another chance."

Jet's frown intensified, "How would you know a Syndicate code? You left the Syndicate years ago, I bet they've changed it a thousand times since!" Spike was silent for a moment and then said in a voice above a whisper, "It has changed. But I still have one friend in the Syndicate. You remember Shin." A man some years younger than Spike, Shin had been a new member when Spike had left the Syndicate. At that moment, Spike's vision swirled into a scene of black and white, and he remembered the last conversation they had had, at a train station heading away from Alpha City. Shin had begged Spike, Don't do this thing. They'll kill you in the end, Spike; it'll take a miracle to escape. But if you do it, I'll help you if I can. I'll be another set of eyes . . . I'll protect you. After that, Spike had faked his own death.

Was it fake?

"Okay, wait a minute!" Jet knocked Spike out of his memories. Or, Spike wondered, was Jet the illusion, and his vision the only real truth he had? He watched as Jet held up one hand and scratched his neck with the other, "What does all this have to do with ignoring the ISSP?" Spike kicked Ed off the couch and she bounced off the floor and onto the sofa on the opposite side of the room. There she crouched like a tiger, and growled with a grin on her face. Spike glared back at her as he pointed to the screen. A picture with a supporting file popped up among various wulong exchanges and the symbol of a golden dragon. There was no denying that the short, handsome young man in the portrait was their bounty. "So . . . our man Dave has Syndicate ties," Jet confirmed.

Spike shook his head, "But he's not just any Syndicate punk, he's a high ranking member of the Red Dragon clan . . ." Spike leaned back on the sofa, "King went with us without so much as waving a pistol. That's not the way someone on their payroll works. . . I should know." Spike thought back to his days in the crime-ridden Syndicate. They were long gone, and until recently he had been counted as deceased. Whatever lay ahead, he doubted he could ever escape that dark period of his life. He shuddered internally as the dead feeling mounted the peak of his mind once again.

Jet shrugged, "Maybe he was tired of running. Or maybe he wanted out. Just . . . just what are you suggesting?" Spike looked up at his partner and grinned, "David King wanted to be caught."

* * * *

From a young age, he had been told the same thing. Over and over, his father had reminded him of the importance of every decision he made. Virile smiled at the memories of his meticulous, controlling parent who had taught him everything. "We are wind," he had whispered one cheerless night on fading Earth to his son, "Wind that can shift the universe, or choke it, and then disappear. We have but one opening for this, and each passing second is a door closing." Father had been right in one point of interest, thought he. Most people would be a wind. He, on the other hand, would be a cyclone.

Virile closed his single eye and hardly noticed the sound of a person entering his gloomy office. Adorned with the crowns of dead kings and the memoirs of deceased tyrants, his headquarters was a museum to the one thing he respected: power. Might had made right for centuries, and there was no exception to this rule. Honor was a myth for the nostalgic elder; morality a crutch for the timid youth. All men were equal until their birth, and then. . . then the struggle began. Virile's mouth nearly salivated at the thoughts of the eternal contest. Then he touched the mysterious, twisted green symbol on his desk. He had kept his guest waiting long enough.

A harsh crimson light grew from the floor panels, and the man known as Virile arose from his black leather armchair and looked up. A pale light reflected off the white of his one eye, and the iris glittered green. The other had been taken from him in a sad incident - needless to say he had slaughtered the ones responsible down to the last man. His skin was a soft whitish color, healthy and youthful, contrasting with his piratical appearance. Off his shoulders hung black hair that shimmered and flowed with every move he made. Virile was a young man: strong, neither bulky of arm nor thin and lanky. He had worked to circumvent the mastery of any certain skill in order to arrive at the point of perfect balance. Father would have been proud, had he seen that his assiduous son had taken his place. . . and was poised to restore his slumbering dynasty.

Virile sneered inwardly at having been disturbed from his musings, but he nodded and commanded, "Enter the light." The beams crept up from the floor to the robe of a man, and gradually uncovered his full figure. He was tan of skin and wore dark sunglasses. The robe that fell from his waist was decorated with many symbols from an earlier age of the planet Earth, and his fingers possessed many rings. Around his head was wrapped a short turban. The man's perpetual smile did not waver in the awesome presence of Virile, but his goatee prickled a bit when the younger man ordered, "True Dragons, leave us." The guards presence had scarcely been known such were the depths of the room's shadows. When they had finished marching out of the room, it seemed as if the universe had turned its face from all else but the proceedings in the office of Virile, son of the first and only Supreme Overlord of the Red Dragon Syndicate.

"Have a seat, Dr. Mendelo," the younger man gestured and the offer was accepted quickly. Virile's voice was profound and almost musical, especially for a person only in his later teens, "I'm assuming you're now willing to assist me?" Virile's green eye danced in the crimson light as he looked casually at the scientist.

"Undoubtedly so," Dr. Mendelo responded quickly, "A man can only sustain so much before he breaks before another man's cruel devices."

"The torture was unpleasant?"

"Undoubtedly so," the other man repeated, still smiling.

"Then let us drop the preliminary banter," Virile got up, and walking in front of his desk he bent down until he was face to face with the other man. Dr. Mendelo looked away from the young man's frightening stare and saw that he wore a gray material that he had seen before on men who practiced fencing. "You and your nephew were my guests on Mars, yet you abandoned me. Apparently you believed the Van elders accommodations better suited for a work environment. Now I can forgive many things, Dr. Mendelo, but treason is not among them."

"You, young man, attempted to usurp the entire Red Dragon Syndicate. . ." the scientist shook his head slowly and his eyebrows reflected his bewilderment, "Only brave fools remain on a failing ship. You were mad to attempt such a stunt. The Syndicate has never been a monarchy; it is not ruled by bloodline. It is ruled by the strong and always has been."

"You forget that strength is inbred. And you neglect your history," Virile shot back.

The robed man shrugged and gestured to the walls around him, "You are here - on Saturn - at the edge of space. You have bribed the bureaucrats to turn their eyes away. But that will last only as long as your wulongs come in. You will forgive me for laughing but what were you thinking?" And Dr. Mendelo let out a high pitched hoot that surprised Virile, who recoiled.

"I don't need wulongs; I need only the thing your nephew stole from me!" Virile nearly screamed, and shook the scientist until his sunglasses fell onto his lap. With a snarl, Virile stood up to his full height and walked away, mumbling something under his breath.

The captive's face paled, but just for a moment. He picked up his sunglasses and placed them neatly back in their former position, "Bah! He doesn't have it."

Virile pointed a finger at the older man's chest and he yelled, "We'll see about that! We'll see. I don't know if he would risk so much for such a modest item," His clear, firm face gave off a strange scarlet light that made him look altogether abnormal and alien. "Now then, when I first captured you, I asked you a question. Tell me now: what is this thing you crafted? I know that you helped your nephew create it."

"The danger it posed was the reason it was taken from you. I have created a devil before. . . I did not want to see the transformation happen again - not in front of my eyes - not when I could prevent it!" The veins on Dr. Mendelo's temples pulsated as he held out his hands helplessly, but his toothy smile remained unbroken.

"The question was asked. You have one more chance to answer it," Virile put a hand on the intercom device that would bring the guards back in.

"No wait - I will tell! I told them I would tell. . ." Dr. Mendelo's smile fell apart and his open hands shook relentlessly, "Don't send me back to them; I will tell."

"Proceed then."

"It is a cure. For the bloody eye. It reverses the drug's effects on the body and brings it. . . brings it back to homeostasis. . . This thing you speak of is a container for the serum that is used to formulate it." Bloody eye was a powerful drug being trafficked by the Red Dragon Syndicate. As addictive as it was illegal, it focused the senses and allowed the user amazing speed and accuracy, but at great cost. The drug was merciless in its grip.

"That's it? I don't believe you," Virile sniffed and turned to the intercom again.

"It is true, I tell you! You know of my germ experiments in the past. You know the tragedies that my research has produced. I did everything to avoid such mistakes again. I had hoped this serum could redeem me. The ISSP would have forgiven me for my past transgressions," Dr. Mendelo's smile returned, faintly, "They would have treated me as a god!"

It was Virile's turn to shrug, "You were using Syndicate funds to make an antidote for their own narcotics. Ha! You're lucky that I caught you before they did. Ah, but there is more here that you're reluctant to tell me," his roving eye bore into Dr. Mendelo, whose face fell swiftly. "You may go, for now. But know that I was not restored to this galaxy only to become a fugitive from my own kingdom. I will take back what is mine." With that Virile turned to his desk with a wisp of his dark hair and did not look back.

Guards streamed back into the room and two of them flanked the captive as he walked to the exit. "You know," Dr. Mendelo's grin expanded as he stepped toward the threshold, "Your father made the same blunder, I'm told. His ravenous ambition was his downfall." The dark rims of his sunglasses seem to deepen in the approaching darkness of the hallway.

Virile crossed his arms and looked down at his desk in thought. When his head rose up again, everyone had gone. It was true that his father had taken a similar path, and that it had ended badly for him, as well as his heirs. But Virile felt something new in the air, and was revitalized by it. He closed his eyes and saw the Red Dragon Headquarters in Alpha City. The sun was setting and it washed the entire scene in the deepest shade of red. All those in the room watched a figure with black hair that was turned to an open window, towards the horizon. The silhouette wore the black cloak of the Supreme Overlord, and all the various minions stood at attention. Yes, the place of his father would be his, after so long . . . time was on his side now. The vision was clear.

All that was necessary was action.


* * * *