"You're comin' in way too fast."

"Lemme alone. I can handle this," Spike said, his hands drifting over the controls.

"OK, you're the boss, but you're gonna crash."

"Am not." He knew he could do it. All he had to do was keep the nose level. Then it was a simple matter of cutting in the after-jets at the right moment, and he'd be on the deck, smoother than a baby's bottom, and shave a good two seconds off his best time.

Garcia's lazy voice came in again. "You take too many chances, kid."

"Shut up! You're distracting me!"

"All sorts of distractions in space," Garcia drawled back.

Spike felt the sudden vibration of impact, too soon. Far too soon. "SHIT!" The panel and shield in front of his face abruptly turned into a ball of white and orange flame, and frags came flying at him. He threw his arms in front of his face instinctively.

"You are a crispy blot in the fabric of space," Garcia said, a grin in his voice. "In fact, at that speed, you probably wiped out your mothership, too."

Dropping his arms, Spike thunked the link with a fist. "That was your fault."

"Uh huh. And when you're doing it for real and someone signals you and asks what the fuck you're doing, then whose fault will it be, huh?"

After a moment, Spike admitted grudgingly, "Mine." Quoting Garcia, he added, "I screw up, I clean up."

"Yeah, except after a screw-up like that, there's not much to clean up. Kid, you've got the best eyes and hands I've ever seen in this sim, honest to God, but you take too many chances. Why the hell do you do that?"

Spike leaned back and said lazily, "Somebody once told me, if you don't push yourself, you don't find out what you're made of."

"Quit quoting me."

"I ought to. You say some pretty dumb things. But if I suck up to you, you might let me go again."

"You're up for another round?"

Spike straightened. "You bet!"

"OK, let me... No, wait. Shut up. Oh, shit. Get out of there, kid. Now."

Spike monkeyed out of the sim fast. He knew when to smart off and when to obey, and when Garcia spoke in that tone, he wasn't kidding. He slid down the metal ladder and saw Garcia at the vidlink, grimacing at him. As soon as Spike's feet touched the ground, Garcia thumbed the link on, and Mr. Thermopolis' face appeared. Which explained everything to Spike. At 12, he was too young to be legally using the sim, and if Mr. T knew about these sessions, Garcia could be fired or worse.

Garcia said to the image, "Sorry, sir. Just a little trouble with the unit."

"No problem. Where's Spike?"

"Cleaning up around here somewhere."

Spike immediately grabbed the rag tucked into his belt and began scrubbing at the nearest flat surface, just in case Mr. T did a pan.

But luckily for him and Garcia - because Mr. T was sharp - their boss was too busy to pay much attention to them. "Well, send him down to help Doohan out, will you?" he said impatiently. "I don't have anyone else free. And tell him to watch his mouth."

"Yessir." Grinning, Garcia closed the link. "Hear that, kid? Get the soap and wash your tonsils."

"Go to hell. Sir. Who's Doohan?"

"Special friend of Mr. T's. Flew in from Earth last night in that antique in Hangar 3."

Spike straightened so fast he almost banged his head on the sim's ladder. "The Bell?"

"Leave it to you to know what that old piece of space junk is. Yeah, the Bell. But that ain't what you'll be working on."

"Oh." Spike shoved his hands in his pockets and kicked the sim idly. "What does he need me for, then?"

"Just get over there, and you'll find out. Don't goof off, and behave yourself. Doohan's no softie like I am."

"Softie?" Spike repeated, and cracked up.

"See? That's just what I mean. Go on, git. And as soon as you're done with Doohan, you get your skinny butt back here and finish what you were supposed to be doing before I let you sidetrack me."

Spike sauntered out of the hangar, but as soon as he was out of Garcia's sight, he started to jog. He couldn't wait to see the Bell up close. That series of interplanetary ships had been phased out of production so long ago, even his father had never seen one. His luck was really in. A week earlier, he wouldn't have been on summer vacation, and school would have kept him from staying the extra hours. Telling his mother that he wanted to cut classes because he had a slim chance to work on a Bell IPS would be about as useless as trying to fuel a zip craft with spit.

He saw the Bell long before he got to the hanger. Her nose bulged out of the building, gracefully curved, painted blue and white. She was the biggest atmosphere rider ever built that wasn't a freighter, and he grinned when he saw her. Surely if he did everything else right, this Doohan guy would let him work on her. A ship that old took a lot of maintenance. Grinning at the thought, he ducked under the nose of the Bell, stroking her as he passed, and headed for the rear of the hangar, where he could hear someone talking.

As he got close enough to make out the words, he stopped. Maybe Garcia hadn't exaggerated. The man was saying in a gravelly, irritable voice, "Where did you get your brain, a cryo pool? I said an 1124. If I wanted a 686, I would have asked for a 686. Look, you pansy, quit whining and put your boss on the link. ... Kurt? Goddammit, don't let that puling little weasel answer the link the next time I call. Right. All I asked for was a Boedecker 1124 regulator. Is that going to be impossible for you? Yeah, I'm an old-fashioned guy, but this baby needs the 1124. Can you get me one? Good. Thanks. Yeah, I know it'll cost me, you bloodsucker. When can I get it? I know they're hard to find! That's why I called you! Go ahead and be flattered all you want, but get it here by tomorrow. Yeah, yeah. Thanks, Kurt. I knew I could count on you."

By this time, Spike had turned the corner and could see the man. He was an old guy, even older than Mr. T, his darkly tanned skin a startling contrast to pale eyes and to white hair that stuck up in untidy tufts. He wore a battered olive-green shirt with the sleeves torn off to reveal muscular brown arms, the tails hanging out over khakis that were tucked into beat-up, scarred hiking boots. His square jaw was unshaven, he was vaguely slovenly, and in general he had the look of someone who didn't give a damn about his appearance. But the Bell was clean and sparkling, and the toolbox he dragged toward himself was well-stocked. Spike liked him at once. "Hey. Mr. Doohan?"

The pale eyes nailed him. "What the hell do you want, kid?"

"Mr. Thermopolis sent me."

"He sent me a kid?"

"He sent you the best," Spike lied. He always figured if you were going to lie, make it a good one.

Doohan scowled. "A goddamned cocky kid, too. You got a name?"

"Spiegel. Spike Spiegel."

"Hmph. Any relation to Ben Spiegel?"

That startled Spike. He'd gone a long time without hearing his father's name. "He was my dad. Did you know him?"

"Nope. But I heard of him. Good racer before he retired. He had great reflexes. Did you get that from him?"

"Yes, sir."

Doohan reached into the toolbox, pulled out a #4 sonic wrench, and flipped it casually toward Spike. Spike deftly plucked the small tool from the air, whirled it between his fingers, tossed it high, and caught it behind his back.

"Show-off kid, too," Doohan growled, but like Garcia's scowl, Spike sensed it wasn't for real. Not this time, anyway. "I got something in the Bell your daddy probably would've liked. That's what I'm going to want your help with. And by the way, it's not sir and it's not Mr. Doohan. Just Doohan."

"Sure. Doo-han," Spike drawled. He followed the old man up into the Bell, whistling cheerfully.

"Knock that off."

"Shi... sure." He didn't want to blow this. If Doohan wanted silence, he'd get silence.

The GRB they were crossing, unmoving now that they didn't need artificial gravity, was as clean as the outside of the ship, and he bet it worked beautifully. He ran an appreciative hand along a therasteel rib, caught Doohan's eye, and dropped his hand at once. Doohan said, "That's OK, she likes being stroked once in a while. Maybe Leo knew what he was doing when he sent you. We'll see." He turned and palmed the door. "Cargo bay," he said, leading the way.

Normally Spike would have taken time to admire the clean, roomy bay with its vast ceiling. But the moment he followed Doohan inside and saw what was berthed there, he forgot about everything else, even the Bell.

A ship took up nearly all the floor space of the bay, pinned carefully not only with cable but with grav units. Doohan obviously thought a lot of her, and Spike didn't wonder why. She was a monoracer, sleek, pinioned like a bird of prey, and painted aggressively red. She looked fast and mean and like no mono he'd ever seen before, and she was beautiful. He stood gaping until Doohan, chuckling, gave him a shove. "I take it you like her, huh?"

Spike would have cut his tongue out before admitting to being impressed, never mind thunderstruck. "She's not bad," he conceded. "Custom job?"

"Built her myself. I call her the Swordfish. She's fast and she's agile. Your dad would have liked her, don't you think?"

His dad would have loved her. "Yeah. He might have. So," he slouched, shoving his hands into his hip pockets, "this what I'll be helping you with?" Say yes, please say yes.

"If you're any good. She's sensitive and temperamental. Not everyone can get along with her. But we'll see how you do. I'm fitting her with cannon mounts."

All that, and weapons, too? Spike began to think that his bad luck was finally turning. "Where do we start?"

The sun was setting before Spike left the spaceport. He'd stayed much longer than he normally did, and the time had flown. But he'd called his mom, and she didn't mind. He hadn't given her a specific time when he'd get home. He never did. That way he could carve a few hours a week to do what she wouldn't allow. Like meet Vicious to tell him this news.

Now they sat side by side on the edge of a water dike, passing a cigarette back and forth. Still excited, even after an afternoon of hard work, he told Vicious all about the Swordfish. At one point he realized he was babbling and stopped abruptly. "You don't get any of this, do you?"

Vicious' mouth curved. "You left me behind somewhere around torque ratio. Do you really understand that shit?"

"Enough to get by. Not like Doohan. But then I don't want to work the shop all my life. I want to fly. Like my dad."

"So you want to be like your dad."

"No, I just want to fly. Fast birds, like that Swordfish. I bet she can kick ass." He glanced at Vicious' profile, which was all he usually saw of the older boy's face. Vicious didn't often meet anyone's eyes, not even his. "Do you want to be like your dad was?" Spike asked, then realized, even as he said it, that he knew almost nothing about Vicious' life before they'd met. He knew Vicious had no parents, and that was about all. And Vicious probably wanted it that way, so he might be treading on dangerous ground.

But Vicious answered mildly enough. "I never met my father. I'd like to be something like him. But smarter, so I don't end up dead." There was no emotion in his voice at all.

"Sounds good to me," Spike said agreeably, glad that he hadn't given offense. He took a long drag on the cigarette, handed it over, then took it back when Vicious waved it away. Letting it dangle from his lips, he tried to sense if Vicious wanted to talk any more or not. Vicious' shoulders were relaxed, to he figured it was safe. "What did he do, your dad?"

"A lot of things. Bossed people around, mostly."

"Definitely sounds good." And he let it drop there. If Vicious wanted him to know more, he'd have gone on talking, and if he didn't, pushing him would just piss him off.

Vicious said, "So this guy Doohan is letting you work the controls while he does the hard stuff, huh? And they're paying you for this?"

Spike grinned. "Yeah. Good deal, ain't it?"

"Well, you hang around long enough in one place, someone's going to give you a break." He was silent a moment, and Spike's smile faded. He'd been hanging around with Vicious for more than a year, and he knew his friend's ways and moods. Something was coming. Vicious glanced over at him. "I'm not going to be around as much after today."

Spike had a flash of unreasonable panic. "Why? For how long?"

"I don't know how long. As long as it takes. I'm going to get a job."

Was that all? "Tired of stealing your food and cigs, huh?"

"I steal the cigs for you, you jackass." They both grinned. Vicious said, "No, it's not that. I just need to learn some things, is all. And the best way to do it is to get the job."

"What kind of job?" Spike wondered.

"Anyone ever tell you that you ask too many questions?"

Again, Spike knew the nuances of Vicious' tone of voice. He dropped the questions, but he could still joke around. "You're gonna end up in jail someday, you know that?"

"I hope not. I wouldn't like that much."

For some reason, the soft way he said it made Spike's skin shiver. "If you don't want to, you won't. I don't think anyone's ever made you do what you don't want to do."

"Yeah, well, it helps not to have a mother hanging all over me," Vicious agreed. He rose, hands in the pockets of his duster. Then he glared at Spike. "I don't mind you practicing your pocket-picking, you jerk, but give me back my wallet."

Spike produced it, grinning. "Just keeping my hand in. Never know when I might need it."

"Just don't pick old Doohan's pocket and get the key to that Swordfish. I'll be around, even if not as much, and I don't want to have to bail you out or scrape you up to talk to you. See ya."

Finishing the cigarette absently, Spike watched him walk away, a slightly stoop-shouldered figure with a cat's step and an elegance that the shabby duster didn't conceal.

He'd never seen anyone who looked more alone.

Forgetting about the thought almost as soon as Vicious turned the corner and disappeared, Spike slid off the dike and headed for the neighborhood. Unlike Vicious, he had friends - Roach, Sammy, Tiger - and they were going to die of envy when they heard about the Swordfish.

Vicious had created a lair for himself in a deserted building less than half a mile from Girard Street. He'd done some rough carpentry to make it dry and safe, then reinforced the casual boarding-up of the windows on the ground floor, not just on his own room, but all of the floors, so no one would see a difference and wonder. The room got no light except what he brought in himself, but he didn't care. He preferred the night anyway.

The outside of the building was dilapidated, dirty, and ugly, but his room was a unique mixture of Spartan simplicity and sybaritic luxury. He had almost no furniture, but what he had was classy and sumptuous. All stolen, of course, and brought in with a lot of difficulty, especially the only large piece of furniture, the bed. The room suited him entirely. But then, he had no one else to bother about.

A short time after leaving Spike, he sprawled on the bed, stripped so he could enjoy feel of the silk coverlet, and pondered his decision. He couldn't see another direction to go, however, that worked better. He was going to have to hope that all the time and hard work he'd put into befriending Spike would pay off with his brother's loyalty. That was a lot to ask of such a young kid, but Spike wasn't an ordinary kid. Vicious believed he'd stick.

He could almost hear Rafe. Nobody sticks. Not for good, not on their own. The only person you can count on is you. But, boy, you push the right buttons, you can make anyone do what you want them to. Even stick. Question you have to ask yourself is, does that person mean enough to you for you to bother finding those buttons and to go on pushing them? He grinned humorlessly. He's my brother, Rafe. He's worth it. I'll find a way. He'd already gone to a lot of trouble to lay the groundwork. He still wasn't sure why he was bothering, even now. There was no logic in it. He needed no one. But it felt right, and that was good enough.

Continue with Part Nine

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