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The thing about fuel is that it’s expensive. The thing about the crew of the Bebop is that they’re broke. To save a little money, Jet’s decided to take a slow route to Mars, relying on momentum as much as fuel. That little trick means food on the table and enough woolongs to pay for that tea shop Faye and Spike busted up on their last bounty hunt.
Jet thinks it’s pretty clever, but of course that kind of pragmatic thinking is wasted on the rest of them, who have spent most of the journey bitching about the pace. Jet tolerates it as good naturedly as he can, laughing off their complaints. When it gets too irritating, he gets his own revenge, flushing the toilet while Faye is in the shower or stealing some of Spike’s dwindling supply of cigarettes. It’s petty but harmless, and it helps him keep his temper in check when they’re being difficult.
Usually he doesn’t mess with Vicious, because he doesn’t want to get skewered and because Vicious doesn’t whine as much. But this trip is getting to him too, and he expresses his displeasure not with words like a healthy adult, but with a lot of pacing, scowling, and staring aggressively into the darkness outside the Bebop’s windows.
It’s just as annoying as Spike’s whining. Which is why Jet is here in the hangar where Vicious’ ship casts a sinister, sharp edged shadow against the wall. He sets a plate of tuna fish on the floor near the ship and backs a few steps away.
“Okay Vraska,” he says, though he feels a little silly talking to a bird. “It’s all yours. If you want.”
The purpose of this mission is two-fold. One, to mess with Vicious, who seems like he would be very possessive of his bird, and; two, to make friends with Vraska. After all, she’s as much a passenger of the Bebop as any of the others.
She flies down from her perch atop Vicious’ ship, cawing as she lands in front of the tuna fish. She looks from it to Jet with an uncanny gleam of intelligence in her eyes.
“It’s for you,” Jet says uncomfortably. His bonsai trees are a lot less judgemental . “Go on, eat.”
She caws again, bending her head towards the plate, but doesn’t take a morsel.
“Don’t you like tuna fish?” Jet asks. “I know Vicious gives it to you all the time.”
“Vraska.” Vicious’ gravelly voice comes from behind Jet. “Eat.”
The bird doesn’t waste a second, lowering her head to devour the food.
Jet turns to face Vicious, who looks less annoyed than he expected. In fact, beneath that fall of gray hair is a slight curve of his mouth that could possibly be a smile.
“In the Red Dragon, I had many enemies,” Vicious says. “They were not above poisoning or drugging her to get at me. She won’t take food from strangers.”
“Sounds stressful,” Jet says. Now he understands a little better why Vicious is so closed off, so paranoid.
Vicious chuckles. “I liked it. Those people made sense to me. You do not.”
“I’m an open book,” Jet says, spreading his arms. “Nothing mysterious about me.”
“You fed my bird.” It’s not phrased like a question, but Vicious is obviously asking for an explanation.
“Just trying to get to know my crew,” Jet says. He’s about to add something else, but a slight click comes from the intercom, and then a song starts playing, a slow, melancholy tune.
The song is lovely, captivating, and he and Vicious stand for a few moments, looking up at the speaker built into the far wall, as the music fills the cavernous hangar.
“Beautiful,” Vicious says, tilting his head so his hair hides his face.
Jet knows exactly what he means. The song is too sweet, too sad, and he feels it tug at something deep within him. “Makes you think of some kind of lost love,” he says.
“Not likely.” Vicious’ eyes cut away in a gesture that speaks more truthfully than his words.
Jet chuckles, elbowing Vicious in the ribs. “I know how it goes. You think you’re moving on. But then that old love song comes on the radio and suddenly you’re watching her walk away all over again.”
“There has never been a her ,” Vicious mutters, holding out his arm for Vraska to land on. He and his bird stalk out of the room as the music dips and stirs and dances around them.
—
Love Lesson #1: It’s not over til it’s over.
—
The song comes on as Faye is painting her toenails, stretched out over the entire couch so that Spike has nowhere to sit. He’s leaning on the back, pouting at her, but he should know she’s a woman who never gives an inch without the right kind of compensation.
She’s just about to say something snarky when the music sweeps the words right out of her mouth. It’s bold and beautiful, the kind of melody that gets under your skin and makes your bones resonate.
“Huh.” Spike cranes his neck back to look up at the speaker. “That’s pretty.”
“Yeah.” She leans back, setting the nail polish down, and lets the sound drift over her. It’s very soothing, until it’s broken by the sound of Edward’s bare feet pattering on the metal floor of the hallway, Ein’s nails clicking right alongside her.
“Do you like the song, Faye-Faye?”
She opens her eyes and Edward is right there, staring down at her. “Oh, sure,” she says breezily, trying to hide the way it makes her heart ache.
“I found it in outer space,” Edward announces proudly.
“You found it?” Spike asks.
“Yes. It was just being transmitted out into the void. Over and over and over and over and over.” Edward picks up Ein and hugs him to her chest. “Don’t you think it’s nice?”
“I wonder where it’s coming from.” Jet appears from around the corner, an empty plate in his hand. “Edward, can you trace it?”
“Can Edward trace it?” Edward trills, swiveling her head around like she’s searching for it in this very room. “No. Edward cannot trace it, because Edward has already traced it! See?”
“Sure,” Jet says mildly. He’s good with the kid, and Faye hates to admit it, but she likes that about him. She’s not fond of kids, but that doesn’t mean she likes to see them hurt. “Where is it?”
Edward gives them the coordinates, which lead to a nearby asteroid that all the charts say is deserted. There should be enough room for the Bebop to dock there, and Edward’s scan of the surface shows some kind of small settlement.
“What do you think it’s about?” Jet asks, after Spike and Vicious have gone off to grab their weapons, and Ed and Ein have bounced down the hallway to retrieve Ed’s computer. He scoots a little closer to Faye and she rolls her eyes. He thinks he’s being subtle, but he’s not.
“What?” she asks.
“The song.” He glances at the speaker, which has been playing variations of the tune nonstop across the entire ship for the past half hour.
Faye shrugs, but she doesn’t move away. “It doesn’t have any words, so how am I supposed to know?”
“Well, I think it’s a love song,” Jet says, putting his hand on her hip and drawing her a little closer. Reluctantly, she lets herself be drawn. “The kind you dance to.”
“You’re ridiculous.” She snorts, placing a hand on his chest. She’s not pushing him away yet, but warning him that she’s on the verge.
“Maybe so.” He doesn’t seem bothered, taking her hand in his and swaying a little like they’re on a dance floor. “I’m not saying I’m in love. But whoever wrote this song sure was.”
“If that’s the case then they’re probably dead,” Faye says. “Love is like a target on your chest. You put that on and you’re just asking to be stabbed in the heart.”
“I guess you’re probably right,” Jet says, with the same mildly fond tone he used on Edward. “Hey, the song’s starting over again. How about just one dance?”
Faye sighs grudgingly, but when he begins to gently move them around the floor, she doesn’t resist.
—
Love Lesson #2: Don’t fall.
—
Ed likes the Song. The Song makes Edward think of the places she’s been before, of the orphanage and the kind face peeking out of the black and white of the nun’s habit. Of Earth’s endless sky and craggy landscape, and the wide smile that could split Father-person’s face.
“Song-Song-Sing-Along,” she trills, as she leads the others—all of them came on this mission, intrigued by the mystery—into the strange structure on the asteroid that is supposed to be deserted but is somehow sending out a strange and beautiful song to anyone who comes by.
The crew of the Bebop never tell Ed to shut up, they never complain that Edward makes no sense or ask Edward to act more like a normal girl. Sometimes they ask Edward to help them, to hack into mainframes or disable security systems. If Edward says no, they whine and cajole and bargain, but they never force Edward to do anything.
Bebop is good people, Edward has decided.
Above the structure is the best thing ever—a humongous telescope. It juts forth from the white domed building, reaching out into the sky. Ed scrambles eagerly to unlock the door beneath. The code is simple—the first five notes of the song.
“Well done, Ed,” Jet-person says, briefly putting a hand on her shoulder before they press onward.
If there were a Father-person on the Bebop it would be Jet-person, with the gruff facade that just barely hides his caring interior. Edward wonders if the crew of the Bebop are like his bonsai trees—difficult to care for and requiring his painstaking attention. But Jet-person likes the burden. Edward is sure of that, or she wouldn’t be one. If he didn’t want to take care of her, she would know, and she would slip away so silently he wouldn’t notice until she was long gone.
Spike-person is like an Annoying-brother-person who she sometimes has food fights with and steals things from. It’s okay, because he steals them back. It’s like a game, and the winner is determined by who has the most cigarettes and bullets stashed away—things Edward doesn’t use but are small and easy to snatch.
Faye-Faye is a Fairy-person, and Edward likes to look at her because she’s so pretty it makes Ed a little dizzy. Edward likes to make her even prettier by painting her toenails or doing her hair and makeup, which Faye-Faye will only allow if they’re not leaving the Bebop for a while. Her hair is like silk and smells like lilacs, which makes sense because it’s purple. Edward likes when things make sense, when unrelated puzzle pieces fit together as they should.
Mr. Crow took the longest to figure out. Edward made friends with Vraksa-bird right away, and heard secrets straight from her beak. She also hacked the computer he brought on board and found out all sorts of things about the Red Dragon syndicate and how to smuggle and sell drugs.
But the biggest secret about Mr. Crow is that he’s a shadow. And not just any shadow—he is Spike-person’s shadow. He wants to follow Spike-person around all the time, and Edward watches him stop himself a dozen times a day. Mr. Crow is not here because he needs Jet to nurture him like a bonsai tree or because Faye is a dizzy-pretty-goddess. He is here because Spike-person is here. Edward feels bad for him, because Spike-person is so mad at him and will not say why.
They all follow her into the building, the strange crew of sharp angles and dramatic gestures, wondering what they will find, what kind of brilliant musician could have created such a Song.
Inside, the generator is still running, the lights on and the artificial gravity pinning them to the floor.
They’re in an observatory. All one huge room, with the telescope on a raised platform in the center, and laboratory equipment all around it. In one corner are a bed and kitchenette, but the rest is devoted to astronomy.
Edward loves it.
“Can Edward live here?” she asks Jet-person, hopping up and down. “Edward likes stars.”
“You might get lonely,” Jet-person says. “I don’t think there’s anyone out here for a very long way.”
“Hmm.” Edward pouts. Jet-person is probably right.
“There is a body here,” Mr. Crow says, in his dry, uninterested way.
“Edward wants to see!” Edward scrambles towards the platform by the telescope where Mr. Crow is standing, easily evading Jet’s grasp.
“That’s not—Edward!” Jet calls after her, dismayed.
Mr. Crow is kneeling to examine the body slumped against the base of the telescope. It’s just a skeleton, no blood or guts or anything.
“A year and a half, maybe two years,” he says, looking curiously into the empty eye sockets. “What do you think, Spike?”
“Two, probably,” Spike-person says.
Edward understands, from the glance that flickers between Spike-person and Mr. Crow, that they are more familiar with death than most. For the two of them, death is like a friend, or maybe a cousin. After all, they’ve both sent plenty of people to Death-cousin-friend, for the Red Dragon and for various other reasons too. Edward knows this because she listens to them talk and because the whispers on the net tell her so.
Mr. Crow leans forward and reaches for something beside the skeleton’s dusty hand. “A journal,” he says, flipping through the pages.
“Read it,” Edward demands. “Edward wants to hear!”
“Hmm.” Mr. Crow opens to the middle section and begins to read.
“May 17: I have discovered a pulsar star within Andromeda that has not yet been mapped. What a fascinating electromagnetic signal. It fits my research perfectly, as though it were made for me.”
“June 8: I have thought of a name for her. It took me quite a while, as I have no experience with such things, and she is the most beautiful star in all the heavens. Finally, I have decided to call her Seraphim.”
“June 23: They have refused to publish my article yet again. This rejection came with a personal note from the editor, begging me to seek treatment for my condition. But I will not. I will not subject others to the unpleasantness that awaits me before I pass away. My death is inevitable, and not far off. There is no reason to seek medical care when there is nothing they can do for me.
“July 12: I caught sight of her again today, that flirt, winking at me from Andromeda. I have seen many a pulsar star, but this one has intervals that are precisely four seconds, no more, no less. I find myself holding my breath between them, waiting for her light to shine back on me.”
“August 1: It is becoming harder to get out of bed in the mornings, harder to hold a pencil. But my work is not yet done. The song I wrote for Seraphim...I must transmit it to Andromeda. I must find a way for my love to reach her.”
“August 9: Her signal pulses every four seconds. In between I hold my breath. Seraphim, your light has made the last days of a sad old man’s life worth the trouble. If only I could...send…your song...across that distance...”
No one says a word when Vicious lowers the journal, closing it carefully and setting it on a side table.
Finally, Spike-person breaks the silence, looking up at the telescope with his hands shoved in his pockets. “Guess he was in love with a star.”
Edward thinks this is a brilliant idea. “Why not love a star? Even better, you should love all the stars. That way they don’t get jealous.”
—
Love Lesson #3: Love all stars equally.
—
Spike watches through the Bebop’s large window as they pull away from the asteroid. With Jet and Edward’s skills, the telescope that juts from the top of the structure has been hastily transformed into a kind of transmitter, sending pulses of light directly to the beloved star. Using some kind of method and rhythm she couldn’t explain, Edward translated the song into measures of light varied in length and intensity, which are now being sent out, over and over, into the cold distance between galaxies.
Vicious is with him, staring silently into the darkness. Everyone else is asleep, but Spike tends to stay up late, and Vicious has never slept much.
“Vish.” Spike surprises himself by using that old nickname, and it surprises Vicious too, his eyes darting quickly to Spike’s face. “Do you remember when Annie got married?”
The slightest hint of a smile is visible under the fall of Vicious’ hair. “I remember you were her maid of honor.”
“I was her man of honor,” Spike says, pretending to be affronted, but it’s hard to avoid some fondness when he has so many memories of Vicious giving him grief about this very thing, the fact that Annie wanted him to stand up with her when she got married.
“Love makes us all into fools,” Vicious says, his eyes on the telescope, his smile faded entirely. “A fool for a star, a fool for a devil named Julia, what does it matter? Why do we bother?”
Spike scowls, a little offended on Julia’s behalf. “Julia is an angel.”
Vicious gives him a skeptical glance.
“She is,” Spike insists. “She was like a part of me I thought I’d forgotten. That I’d lost somewhere along the way.”
“She was no such thing,” Vicious says, in his dry, matter-of-fact way. “All you saw in Julia was your own goodness, reflected.”
Spike takes a step back, clenching his fists. “That’s bullshit.” But somehow it has a ring of truth he’s having trouble ignoring. Vicious always does this—he has the uncanny and unique ability to get under Spike’s skin.
“Like I said. We are all idiots when it comes to love,” Vicious says.
“All except you?” Spike taunts, his body feeling loose and elastic like it does just before a fight. “You’re so much smarter than everyone else, not giving a fuck about anyone.”
“I understand what it is to love someone,” Vicious says.
“You do?” Spike raises an eyebrow, feeling something cold and mocking inside himself uncurl. “I always thought the thing with Julia was more about ownership than love.”
Vicious scowls, turning away. “It was neither. You don’t own a woman like Julia and you’re a fool if you fall in love with her.”
“Hey. I didn’t mean it like that.” Spike feels a little guilty for his thoughtless words, even though he’s talking to Vicious, who doesn’t even have emotions. “It’s just. It doesn’t seem very like you to be in love.”
“You’re thinking about it the wrong way,” Vicious says. “There’s nothing noble or pretty about love. A twisted person will have a twisted love, and sometimes that looks more like hate.”
—
Love Lesson #4: Love and hate are not so different after all.
—
They watch in silence for a long time as the Bebop drifts further and further from the asteroid.
“You know,” Vicious says, “It takes two and a half million years for light to reach Andromeda.”
“Yeah. Well.” Spike shoves his hands in his pockets, feeling an odd and uneasy restlessness. “She’ll be waiting.”
“Perhaps. Still, it seems futile, doesn’t it? To love someone so far away?”
Spike shrugs, turned towards the window, not Vicious. “Actually I think that astronomer was pretty smart. Sure, maybe he couldn’t touch the one he loved. But all that distance meant that he could be in control of what happened to his heart. It was safer that way.”
Sometimes Spike wonders if that’s why he fell for Julia in the first place. Back then she was with Vicious, and so it was safe to love her, because Spike thought he could never have her. And it’s still safe to love her, because he’ll probably never find her again.
—
Love Lesson #5: Love is easier from a distance.
—
As the song comes over the radio again, sweet and melancholy and beautiful, Spike wonders what it would be like to love someone who was right next to him. Someone who understood him, all the way down to his bones; who shared the same history, who had the same kind of violence nestled close to his heart.
Even when Vicious was the person Spike trusted above all others, in a fight and anywhere else, he’d never thought of Vicious that way. What they had was good, back then. Why ruin it by wanting more? No one in love was ever happy—Spike knew that for a fact.
But now, as Vicious scowls out at the flashes of light being transmitted all the way to Andromeda and a lilting love song plays over the Bebop’s speakers, Spike wonders what it would be like to let Vicious get that close.
And then he turns away, cursing himself for being ridiculous. It’s loneliness talking, that’s all. There is nothing between them, not anymore. Vicious killed it when he sent those assassins to the graveyard, and Spike knows in his gut that Vicious is the reason Julia never joined him there.
And the jolt he gets when their eyes meet is hate, and the weight of their past, and nothing more.
…...WISH UPON A STAR