Spike felt the eyes on him long before he gave any sign that he knew the other kid was lurking in the shadows. Hanging out in the District had given him a sixth sense about danger, and he didn't feel the guy posed any threat to him, so he pretended not to notice and kept on with his round of handball. His concentration was intense – the wall he was using was pocked and uneven, which made the sport more interesting because he could never be sure which way the ball would go when he hit it. Back here, behind the buildings, the traffic noise was mere background buzz, and the whap-phap of the ball and his own breathing were the loudest sounds. It was a hot, sunny day for a change, he was outdoors and chore-free, and his senses and reflexes were so sharp that he was keeping the ball in play for as long as he ever had before. He was perfectly happy. He had no premonition that the boy watching him was going to affect his life in many ways; he just figured it was some neighborhood kid he hadn't met yet. They'd only been on Girard Street a few months, so he met new kids all the time. At least this one was polite and didn't interrupt his game.

He finally lost the ball when it hit an uneven spot in the asphalt and went caroming over the chain-link fence. Panting, he scrambled over the fence to get it back, then climbed back over again, to collapse in a heap, exhausted and grinning. He wished he'd timed himself, because he didn't think he'd ever done so well before. Then the other boy finally stepped out of the shadows, and Spike forgot all about his game.

His first thought was, No way that guy's from around here! His second thought was, That is the coolest guy I've ever seen.

The difference between boys of age 10 and age 14 is greater than just four years, and Spike perceived the stranger as much older than he. Some of that perception, however, was an aura of confidence about the other boy that set him apart from his peers. He moved as if he owned the neighborhood and was so sure about it, he didn't even have to strut. Instead, he glided, loose-jointed and coordinated, like a large cat. He was tall and thin, and the black duster that hung loosely on his relaxed shoulders and away from his hands, jammed into his pockets, made him seem even moreso. He had shoulder-length, badly-cut hair so pale it was almost white, a color Spike had only seen before on his mother, and long, narrow, shrewd eyes. He was looking at Spike with almost as much interest as Spike was looking at him.

"Hey," Spike said. In tone and expression, the single word was boys' shorthand, giving permission to invade his territory and be friendly.

"Hey," the older boy said, properly, shorthand again for accepting the invitation with thanks, and hunkered down on the asphalt next to him. "You're good at that game." He had a soft, quiet voice, but with a gravelly edge to it, as if he didn't use it much.

Going on instinct, Spike held out the ball. "I've been doing it a while. You want to try?"

"Sure." The stranger rolled to his feet and stripped out of the duster. Had anything further been needed to impress Spike, what he did next would have accomplished it. The stranger reached behind his back, took an automatic pistol from his belt, laid it on the coat, then threw a flap of the coat over it to hide it. "Watch that for me," he said, apparently not noticing Spike's dropped jaw. He rolled up his shirt sleeves, took the ball from Spike, and positioned himself in the center of the makeshift court, balanced and poised. He bounced the ball once in his hand, then threw it hard at the wall. Naturally, it bounded back, hit the ground, and sailed over the fence before he could even blink.

Spike fell over laughing. The stranger stared at the ball's path and said, "Son of a bitch." Then he vaulted lightly over the fence, fetched the ball, vaulted back over, and said, "It's not as easy as it looks."

"Throw it slow. It picks up speed as you go along."

The next time was better. The pale boy got the knack quickly and actually managed three bounces before he lost it again. Spike applauded. "Keep it up, and maybe the next time you come around here, you and me can have a contest."

He was being sarcastic, but the stranger took him seriously. He tossed the ball a couple of times in his palm and grinned. "Maybe we will." Then he went back to practicing. He was concentrated enough, and athletic enough, that Spike began to think he really did mean to come back and challenge him.

When he'd finally had enough and sat back down beside Spike, sweating and panting, Spike said magnanimously, "You can keep that ball, if you want. I have another one."

"Thanks." He stuffed it into one of the pockets of the duster, flipping a corner back over the gun afterward.

Spike couldn't help it, he was too curious not to ask. "Where did you get that?"

"From a friend."

"You must have interesting friends."

"Not any more." The boy shrugged.

Spike was curious, but he didn't want to chance being too nosy about something that might be sensitive. He stayed on neutral ground and asked, "You from the District?"

"Not quite. You?"

"I used to live there. I live right up there now," with a jerk of his thumb to the apartment building on their right.

"What's your name?"

"Spiegel. Spike Spiegel."

"Spike," the other boy repeated. "Funny name."

"My dad's idea. He gave it to me when I was a baby, and it sorta stuck. What's yours?"

"Vicious."

Spike tried not to laugh. This guy didn't look as if he had much of a sense of humor. But a snort came out anyway, and the next thing he knew, he was cracking up.

"What's so funny?" The tone was not amused.

"Sorry," Spike said, holding his sides, "but you think Spike is a funny name?"

For a moment, their budding friendship hung in the balance, and although he could see it, Spike still couldn't stop laughing. Then Vicious' mouth curved in a lazy smile, which widened, and he began to chuckle. "I haven't thought about it in a while. I guess it is a funny name."

"Your parents must be even sillier than mine."

"My parents didn't give it to me. I gave it to myself."

Spike was sobering up, although he couldn't quite get the grin off his face yet. "Trying to scare people?"

"Something like that."

"Does it work?"

"No," Vicious admitted, and Spike went off into laughter again.

They sat, shoulder to shoulder, leaning with their backs against the chain-link fence, long legs stretched out, sharing the tacit, comfortable bond that can only be forged, even if tentatively, between children. After assuring himself none of the nosy neighbors were at their windows, Spike offered Vicious a cigarette, a vice he'd picked up at the spaceport. Vicious turned it down but raised no objection to Spike lighting up.

Spike dropped the lighter back in his pocket in a way he hoped looked casual and cool. Not that cigarettes had anything on a gun, but he had to try. "So, where do you live?" he asked.

"Anywhere I want to."

"The Tharsis Ritz-Hilton?"

Vicious grinned. "Not there, no."

"What about your parents?"

"Don't have any."

"What about school?"

"I'm done with that."

"You're just all on your own?"

"Yes."

"Shit."

"You sound... envious."

"Well, my mom's OK most of the time, but every once in a while..." He stopped and just shrugged. "And I'd give anything not to have to go to school any more."

"Aren't you supposed to be in school now?"

"Yeah, but my mom's not home, so I cut. Good thing, too, or I never would have met you. That's one reason I hate school. You miss all kinds of good things while you're stuck there."

Vicious grunted agreement. "So, is that where you'd live, if you were on your own, the Ritz-Hilton?"

"No way. I'd live at the spaceport."

"Doesn't sound very comfortable."

"It's not, but it's exciting. I work there on weekends," he added with some pride.

"You like that, working there?"

"Yeah. When I get old enough, I want to race zips. That's what my dad used to do, a long time ago. Before I was born. Mr. T, that's my boss, says when I get old enough, he'll let the guys give me lessons and help me get my license. But, shit, that's years away yet," he griped. "So, where do you work?"

"I don't."

"How do you eat?"

"I manage."

"You steal it?"

"Sometimes. If I have to."

Spike realized his original assessment was right. This guy was definitely cool.

~ : ~ : ~ : ~ : ~ : ~ : ~ : ~

For the next few weeks, Vicious never strayed far from Girard Street, although he rarely showed himself. He kept a close eye on his brother, saw his mother, and learned their routines. She didn't actually have a routine, but Spike did. At least he did when he wasn't cutting school.

He wasn't sure how he felt about having a brother. The concept was simply too alien. Nor was he entirely sure how he felt about Spike as a person, because the brother thing kept confusing him with a peculiar possessiveness, as if Spike belonged to him in some way. Which was, of course, ridiculous. The only way he could think about it clearly was to imagine Spike at the orphanage. Had he met Spike there, he would have liked him, he knew. Spike was young and just as naive as any other kid, but he was also intelligent, courageous and adventurous, and he was willing to bend or even break rules. He also challenged himself, physically and mentally, a quality Vicious valued in himself and others. (Rafe: Life never hands you a damned thing, boy. You've got to go out and take what you want. And unless you've got small ambitions, you can't do that without being at the top of your style.) Spike instinctively understood that.

Showing Spike the Colt had been a test. Before he even approached him, Vicious knew his brother wasn't exactly a Sunday-school kid, but he wasn't sure how far that went. There was a huge difference between mere rebellion and making your own rules. Spike, he felt (especially after showing him the gun), would do the latter, and that was good.

All in all, he was pleased with his new brother. What he was going to do about that, he hadn't the faintest idea. But at least he didn't have to forget he had relatives. Spike was not an embarrassment. In fact, despite his youth, he was fun to be around.

His feelings about his mother were more simple – he had none. He'd expected to have some, having been told so often that was normal, but he was indifferent to her. He hadn't been so indifferent to Spike, not from the first moment he'd identified his brother, finally hearing the name "Spiegel" from amongst the crowd of local kids and pinning the identification down to the tall skinny kid with the mop of black hair. He'd felt a pull then, a peculiar attraction, which he now believed was simply a recognition of the qualities he and Spike had in common. When he'd first seen his mother, his only reaction had been to think how weird it was that she looked so much like him.

Through the weeks after he introduced himself to Spike, he watched and waited and judged. He got closer to his brother, although always careful to approach him only when Spike was alone. He also watched his mother, trying to understand what kind of person she was. Despite her current domesticity, he could see she was still a predator, alone on this crowded street except for her son, and preferring it that way. He saw no sign of the crippling injury the priest had mentioned, but he assumed it existed, since he could imagine no other reason why she would remain on Girard Street, with its poverty and grime. She was proud; that much was obvious. She was also very alert. It was much more difficult for him to watch her without being seen than it was to watch Spike.

Spike would surprise him sometimes by changing his pattern, usually in response to a suggestion from his friends or an impulse to cut school on a fine day, but the one thing he never altered was going to work at the spaceport on Saturdays and for a half-day on Sundays. Even tempting him by offering to let him do a little target practice with the Colt didn't succeed in diverting him from the job. Vicious didn't understand the draw of a bunch of spaceships, but his understanding wasn't necessary. He could always be sure that, if his mother were home on a Saturday, Spike wouldn't be with her. That was when he would see her, when there would be no interruptions and no witnesses.

Continue the story in Part Seven

Return to Fanfic Main Page

Return to Wild Horses