My Own Kind of Freedom [Firefly] by Steven Brust (2007)

Posted on February 15th, 2008

My Own Kind of Freedom

 

A Firefly Novel by Steven Brust, PJF

 

My Own Kind of Freedom

Copyright © 2007 Steven Brust.

Some Rights Reserved.

This novel is released under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 License. This means you are free to share (copy, distribute, display, and perform) this book as long as you leave the attribution (author credit) intact, make no modifications, and do not profit from its distribution. For complete license information visit http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/3.0/us/

If you find a typographical error or have other corrections or feedback, please contact kit@dreamcafe.com.

Firefly and the Firefly universe are the property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, Inc. and 20th Century Fox. They are lovingly used without permission.

To Caliann

For many reasons

Acknowledgments

Christopher Kindred twisted my arm into writing this one; blame him. Anne Zanoni, my personal assistant, created the conditions where-by it was possible to write it, and Anne Murphy and Joel Rosenberg kept the machine working so I had something to write it on. Dr. Flash Gordon was kind enough to consult with me on wounds. Thanks to Will, Emma, and Pamela for long-distance Scriblification. The Chinese translations were by Trent Goulding. Thanks also to everyone in the Browncoats chat who put up with my irritating questions on the Firefly universe.

In this, my first effort at a media tie-in novel (yes, my soul is lost), it seems tacky to thank the creator, cast, and crew of Firefly; but it feels wrong not to, so call this a half-assed nod in that direction.

For people who care about such things, the book was written in emacs on a box running Mandrake Linux, then I used OpenOffice to format it for printing. The final layout for online publication was created with Microsoft Word and Adobe Acrobat. People who care about such things need to get a life.

1. Prologue

Those who appreciate ginseng—either for its supposed medicinal qualities, or for its distinctive flavor—are willing to pay inordinately high prices for it.

In the Southern Hemisphere of Paquin, about eighty kilometers east of the Scar (in the high foothills of the Napala chain) is a long, meandering forest called Runaround, full of oaks and sugar maples. It is the best place in the ‘verse to find—or grow—the herb called panax, red berry, tartar root, and ginseng. It’s a plant that is absurdly easy to grow, given the right climate and soil: you cut a furrow in the autumn, drop in the seeds, pack them down, and spend the next five years tapping maple trees and shooting at poachers.

In addition to being the economic base of the region, Ginseng is the name of the biggest town, with a population of almost nine thousand, if you include the nearby rooters. The town has an effective sewage system, clean water, several paved roads, dozens of permanent buildings, and, temporarily, just past the smokehouse, it had a Firefly-class transport, hunkered down in a clear field like something that pounces waiting to pounce.

Inside the vessel, even as her landing gear settled onto the rich dirt and plumes of smoke were blown away from the side-thrusters on the outside, a voice came over the intercom: "We’re down. We have landed safely. Yes, through a hailstorm of fire, once more, we have achieved landfall in spite of all the obstacles of the heavens. We are delivered. We must kiss the ground. Yes, I say, the ground, the holy ground we must, uh, kiss."

On the outside, the cargo door swung down. On the inside, a large, square-jawed man wearing loose pants and a green tee-shirt said, "Need to break that intercom.” He put a finger into his ear and shook it as the pressure finished equalizing.

Near him, also looking out on Paquin, was a brown-haired woman wearing greasy gray cover-alls. "This world smells like candy," she said.

"Smells like money to me," said the man.

Two others walked up next to them. Like the large man, they both wore sidearms: his was standard military-issue Shacorp IX semi-auto, hers was a lever-action sawed-off carbine. He was clean-cut, and of average build; she was dark and athletic-looking.

She said, "All right, let’s make this quick and clean. We make the exchange, and then we’re out."

The man glanced at her. She glanced back at him. "Just trying to save you the trouble, sir. You must be tired of giving that speech."

"I’m appreciative, Zoë. Most like it’ll do as much good as when I say it."

The big man snickered, but didn’t say anything.

"Jayne, stay here and see to the loading. Zoë and I will go see about payment."

"I thought we were being paid on the other side."

The one who’d been addressed as sir (a title he accepted as if used to it) tilted his head and peered up at the larger man. "Yes, Jayne. We are. And they are being paid at this end. I think they call that commerce."

"Wait, Mal. We’re paying them? I’m not real keen on giving money to a bunch of–"

"Is it all right with you if we pay them with the money Sakarya gave us for that purpose?"

"Uh . . . yeah."

"Glad to hear it. Then you don’t mind if we go ahead and do this deal? I mean, I wouldn’t want to take a step without your ta ma de yunxu."

"Suibian ni," said Jayne as Mal and Zoë set foot onto Paquin.

"I still don’t get it," he continued after they were gone.

The woman in cover-alls said, "Cap’n and Zoë going to drop the money off, then they load the cargo, then we drop off the cargo on Hera, then we get paid, then we buy Serenity a new induction—."

"What I don’t see is why we ain’t just keeping the money and saving ourselves a lot of flying around."

She sighed. "Oh, Jayne," she said, and wandered back into the ship. She climbed the metal stairway up from the massive cargo hold that was the reason for the ship’s existence and followed a long corridor back to the med bay. A young man—he looked like he barely needed to shave—stood looking down at the occupied exam table. He glanced up as the woman approached and said, “Hello Kaylee.”

“Hey, Simon. How’s River?”

“Sleeping,” he said, glancing once more at the small figure on the table. “I’m trying a new treatment. She’ll be out for an hour or two.”

“Was she having more dreams?”

He looked at Kaylee and nodded, and there was a certain communication that passed between them, as if a conversation many times repeated didn’t need yet another iteration. Instead, Kaylee said, “Checkers?”

“Why not?”

Five and a half hours later, the hold was loaded with four tons of pre-cut maple.

Mal punched the door closed and said, "Wash, take us out of the world."

"That part went pretty smooth, sir," said Zoë.

"Yep. From now on, you’re giving the speech."

Outside, the sound muffled by the boat’s skin, the side-thrusters fired, and the ship lifted.

Chapter 1

My Own Kind of Lie

Serenity: Bridge

He always smiled when Serenity first kissed atmo.

That was the moment that separated pilots; a sloppy entry cost fuel, a perfect entry saved fuel, and the difference could be the difference between a healthy profit and a disastrous loss. When you kissed atmo, it was all touch; suddenly the number of variables increased by an order of magnitude: the shape of the ship, the tilt of her nose, the attitude adjusters, speed, direction, the density and exact composition of the upper atmosphere—all of it.

Mal never noticed, of course; none of them noticed. They’d only notice if he did it badly; then he would, no doubt, get all sorts of looks and remarks. And it would cut into his profits as it would the rest of the crew’s.

But none of that was why he made his entries as close to perfect as humanly possible: he did it because it was what he loved doing. The challenges to a pilot in the black were rare, and usually involved some form of terror. But the first touch of atmo on a new planet, setting up the slide, the deceleration, balancing skin heat with fuel cost, inert-damp with gravity—feeling part of the boat in a way even Kaylee, bless her heart, could never know—those were the moments of living. That was the best.

He was aware of the first hint of rudder to port, and nose up, and then the thrust control was under his right hand; and after that for a while he could no longer follow the details, because he was no longer using controls—it wasn’t cause and effect, it was just one long effect as distinctions blurred. Pilot to control, control to boat, boat to atmo, atmo to gravity, gravity to pilot: they were all the same thing as Serenity sang the song only Wash could hear. After an interminable twenty seconds that was over so quickly it may never have existed, the decisions were made, the hard part past, and everything was, alas, easy again. It was morning on this part of Hera.

From the co-pilot’s chair, Mal said, "How’s the entry?"

"It’s an entry. They’re all the same."

"How long are we looking at?"

"Twenty minutes, give or take. Unless I accidentally flip us over and lose control and send us smashing into the ground to a fiery demise. That would be quicker."

"Okay. Well, don’t do that."

"All right."

Wash smiled as Serenity slid fully into atmo.

Serenity: Bridge

He saw his pilot smiling at his own joke, was tempted to make a remark, but just looked away instead. What’s wrong with me?

In his mind, he played back the last several days of the trip. He’d been short with Kaylee, patient with Jayne, all but ignored Zoë, and, just now, he had asked his pilot a meaningless question, just to break the silence—a silence that he normally didn’t mind; a silence he normally liked.

It had to be the job. That was the only explanation. There had to be something about the job that was bothering him.

He reviewed all the pieces, starting with the initial contact with the client (seemed all right; a public posting, nothing to make it appear aimed at his crew), the contact with the client’s rep (over a vid; should he have insisted on meeting in person?), the plan for the dropoff (good flat area; easy to spot a potential ambush), and the guarantee for the payment (Flush said he’d known the client, Sakarya, for years; he’d never heard of him twisting on a deal).

So, what was his gorram problem?

If he was getting to the point where he was smelling trouble just because everything was going right, he’d have to give it up and hao xianshi de gongzuo ba.

When he felt the slight, brief weight fluctuation and heard the de-press cycle kick in, he got up, left the bridge, and made his way to the cargo bay. He threaded his way past the stacks of lumber.

Predictably, Jayne was there ahead of him. "Are they going to have people to do the unloading? I’m not that keen on carrying—"

"They’ll have people," he said.

The big man glanced him. "You all right?"

"Why wouldn’t I be?"

“You been acting funny.”

Mal shrugged. “Nope. Everything’s shiny,” he said. "Not a care in the world.”

His weight increased a little as Serenity made her way toward the ground.

Serenity: Engine room

She pouted and loosened the starboard eq valve half a degree. She swapped the wrench for the I-tester, applied it, and looked. Then she turned to Zoë, who was leaning against a bulkhead next to the hammock.

"That might do it."

"Do what?"

"You didn’t feel that lurch when the a-grav cycled?"

"I didn’t notice."

Kaylee frowned. "Well, okay. Hey, Zoë?"

"Mmmm?"

"Has the Cap’n been acting funny?"

"You mean, more than he has since Inara left?"

"Oh."

"Hmmm?"

"That’s what it is. Inara left."

"Honey," said Zoë, "I love you, but sometimes you’re a bit slow."

"Well why didn’t he . . . ." her voice trailed off.

"You know the Captain." said Zoë.

"No, I don’t."

"Well, neither do I, for that matter."

Kaylee put the I-tester back in its case and the case into the cabinet. "We’re almost down. Should we go explore?"

"I’ve been here before," said Zoë.

Zoë got up and made her way toward the cargo bay. Kaylee followed, just for the company. "I love new worlds," she said. "They’re so full of possib—"

"So you’ve said."

Kaylee looked at her sharply.

"I’m sorry," said Zoë.

"Is this the first time you’ve been back to Hera, since then?"

"The second."

They didn’t talk any more as they made their way down the passageway, until they reached the stair to the cargo bay, when Zoë said, "It must be hard on you, staying cheerful all the time in a boat full of us morose types."

"Not a bit," said Kaylee. "It just comes natural. Ain’t nothing ever gets me down."

Mal and Jayne were already there, and the cargo door was just opening.

Serenity: Med bay

He had learned that there were times not to argue with his sister, so when she said, "There are ghosts here, Simon," he just said, "We’ll be staying on Serenity."

"They’re already here."

"Ghosts can’t hurt us, River."

"They’re hurting Zoë."

"Zoë can take care of herself."

"Sometimes they ask questions I can’t answer. Sometimes they ask questions I don’t want to answer. They want to know if they were right, Simon. How can I know if they were right?"

Simon wrapped his arms around his sister.

"They’re going out now," she said. "And they’re going to leave footprints where they walk. Tell them he isn’t who they think he used to be."

"Who isn’t, River?"

"The ghost. The one who’s still alive."

Simon, from long experience, didn’t try to work out how a ghost could be alive; there were too many things his sister said that didn’t make sense. The trouble was, there were far, far too many things that did.

"You know what I think?" said River.

"What do you think?"

"I think you should kiss Kaylee."

He stared at her. "Why should . . . why . . . what are you talking about?"

"Well? Haven’t you thought about it?"

"Of course not."

River frowned, thinking deeply for a moment. "Well,” she said, “I’m not going to do it for you."

Hera: Yuva Road

Hera crunched beneath his boots.

Jayne’s boots were much like what the mudders of Canton wore: coming to mid-calf, held on by three buckled straps; but they also had steel toes for protection from anything dropped on them and for additional emphasis in any argument that involved kicking.

"Mal, we going to have any time here?"

"Time for what, Jayne?"

"For getting a drink, and maybe getting sexed. It’s been so long–"

"Depends how smooth things go. If everything is right, we can take a day or so."

Zoë said, "And things always go smooth for us, don’t they, sir?"

Jayne patted his sidearm, a Greer Model B with extended magazine, and said, "I got a smoother with me."

"Oh, good," said Mal. "That makes me feel all kinds of reassured."

"Well, let’s just reassure this ruttin’ job and—"

"Jayne, that’s enough."

"Jayne," said Zoë, "What’s with the sudden urgency for a bar, anyway?"

"It’s nothing. Just the same faces every day for months gets sorta old."

"Mmmm," said Zoë.

Hera: Yuva Road

Zoë glanced at the Captain, but he appeared to be lost in thought. Still, the operative word there was "appeared;" she’d known the Captain more than once to have picked up a subtlety that she’d thought he’d missed. And certainly he picked up on things that she had missed, and then put them together correctly. Much as he prided himself on his ability to form a good plan, it was this other skill, his way of seeing an odd little thing and knowing what it meant and reacting to it correctly, that had gotten them out of so many situations that they ought never to have escaped.

It was on this yongyuan bei ding wei laipigou de wanju world called Hera that he had noticed an overturned supply truck on a deserted road, and moved his command half a klick to the west and so outflanked what would have been an ugly, ugly ambush. And again and again, the same thing had happened. So she ought to trust him to pick up on Jayne’s oddity, and, not just pick up on it, but figure out what it meant. Which was more than she could do.

Except that the Captain just wasn’t himself these days, and that was cause for worry.

The "town" of Yuva began abruptly as the road split into two main streets, which ran parallel for about a mile before the southernmost (“South Street,” said a sign) left you at the top of a hill leading down to where the miners lived in what was effectively a different, larger, and much filthier town. North Street was half a mile longer, ending in the company security office. On South Street, a bright, clean-looking store stood on the right beneath a sign saying, "Company Store," opposite a small park-like area, with a pond and a few scrubby trees.

Sakarya’s mansion (white, square, and imposing) was perched on a sort of hillock (artificial, and artificially green) just south of the store.

Zoë continued chewing over the problem, though she still scanned the empty street in a habit so deeply ingrained she could never shake it. Could she talk to her Wash about what was going on with the Captain? It got into tricky areas between them.

They continued up the street, past the long, walled and gated driveway leading up the hill. The effect was more absurd than imposing—why set the mansion back from a two-street little town?

To the north was a small, square brick building, that said in Chinese characters, "office."

"I’d imagine," said the Captain, "that this is it."

"Good," said Jayne. "Let’s get our ruttin’ money."

"You may as well relax," said the Captain. "We’re probably going to be stuck waiting for unloading instructions, and waiting longer to get paid."

"Wo taoyan dengyideng . For how long?"

"A few hours, most like. Maybe a day. Rich guys take time before they’re willing to part with money. You good with that, Zoë?”

“Of course, sir. Let’s go in.”

The Captain led the way.

Serenity: Med bay

She hated it that Kaylee was afraid of her, and so she didn’t go near the engine room any more than she had to. She understood why Kaylee feared her: it was because Kaylee, as much as she knew about engines, didn’t really see how anyone could be comfortable with fractal geometry. It had all been that one incident, the time months ago when Kaylee had seen her factor so many variables at one time, in the skyplex with all the shooting going on. Too many variables, and the equation solved too quickly, and Kaylee couldn’t comprehend it, and so she was afraid.

Once River had tried to explain that problems in fractal geometry were easier if you solved them from the inside, but the explanation had come out muddled.

Communication was so difficult, because you needed to access so many different parts of your brain to form a sentence and they all worked at different speeds, and the part that told the sentence to vocalize worked at yet a different speed; and then there were the ants inside your brain interfering with everything.

She had tried to explain that to Simon once, but had gotten that look that said he was being Patient and Concerned. She hated that look.

He had that look now, as he sat next to her bed in the infirmary and studied her insides on his charts that didn’t show the ants.

"I wish you could remember more," he said. "I mean, about what they did to you. Did they ever explain what they were trying to make you into?"

"Yes," she said. "They told me they weren’t really ants."

"Ants?"

"Yes. In my brain. They aren’t really ants, I know that. I just call them ants because that’s what it feels like when they go walking around everywhere making it hard to see where everything is that I’m trying to get. I call them ants, but they aren’t."

"All right."

"They’re really termites."

She sneaked a peek at him. He had the Look again.

"River—"

"If I were deeper than the bay, I’d be a tidal estuary. But that assumes I’m going somewhere. Only I’m staying here. And I think I’m going backward."

"You aren’t going backward. I’m going to find out what they did to you, and undo it."

"Not before he comes back."

"Who, River?"

"Who?"

"Who is coming back?"

"Oh. No one. Anyone who’s gone that far away can never really come back. But the Captain doesn’t know that."

"River, I don’t understand what you’re telling me."

Of course he didn’t understand. How could he understand when he thought lines of probability only existed metaphorically? When all he had to understand with was himself? When he kept everything out? When he couldn’t see that the ghosts who had never died were the ones who could hurt you never had the ghost of a chances were that the right answers were always to the wrong question everything and be sure of nothing ever changes in a stasis—

"River?"

"I was thinking."

"What about?"

"Nothing. Are you hungry? I can cook something."

"When did you learn to cook?"

She stuck her tongue out at him.

Simon smiled affectionately. "I’d like a snack. Should we ask Kaylee if she wants to join us?"

"No. She doesn’t like me."

"Of course she does."

"No, she doesn’t. She’s been afraid of me ever since I solved that problem in fractal geometry."

"Why would she be afraid of you for solving a geometry problem?"

"Some people are just afraid of numbers."

1. Chapter 2

2. My Own Kind of Sickness

Yuva: Company office

Three hours later they left the office.

"Well," said Mal, "that was the most fun I’ve ever had."

"Yes, sir," said Zoë. "I especially enjoyed where they didn’t have any chairs to sit in while we were waiting."

“I liked the way they ignored us.”

"I still say it would have sped things up if you’d let me shoot one or two of the clerks," said Jayne.

"I’m sure something would have happened fast," said Mal. "Anyway, we have a few hours before they show up to unload us. Go get a drink if you want, Jayne."

Jayne grunted, but continued walking with them. Mal felt Zoë looking at him.

What the hell was going on with his gorram crew? Kaylee was acting like every time she spoke to him she was afraid of what he’d say, Zoë and Wash were having whispered conversations and exchanging looks, and Jayne . . . .

They went up the ramp into Serenity’s bowels. Kaylee was leaning on the rail above, with a "tell me how it went" look. Next to her was an empty space.

"Zoë, let me know when they get here."

"Yes, sir."

Jayne headed up the stairs toward his quarters. Mal followed him, then continued up toward the bridge.

"Hey, Mal,” said Wash. “How did it go?"

"Long and boring. Anything here?"

"An invasion by seven-foot tall clones with americium in their veins, but I fought them off with the laser cannon. We going to unload?"

"No, the client is sending his people."

"You going to supervise?"

"I expect I will."

"Good. During the loading, I just ended up standing there looking like an idiot."

Mal stared at him. "You supervised the loading?"

"Yeah."

"I thought Jayne was going to do it."

"He asked me to. Said he wanted to run an errand."

An errand? What sort of errand could you run on Paquin? All they have there is . . . .

Without another word he stood up and left the bridge, heading toward Jayne’s quarters. Halfway there, he started running. By the time he reached it, he was cursing as well.

He pushed open the door and climbed down the ladder. The big man was looking over his shoulder at the door, facing his cupboard, and holding a canvas sack.

"Yeah, Mal?"

"What’s in the sack, Jayne?"

"Huh? Nothing. Just some stuff."

"Let’s see what stuff."

"Mal, there’s no need—"

He crossed the three steps and grabbed the sack. Jayne didn’t let go of it, but there was no need to; it was open.

"Well now," said Mal. "Those’ll bring a good price."

"Just a little private enterprise oper—"

"Just a little matter of stealing from a client."

"Hell, Mal. We steal all the time. What’s the mei you shenma liaobuqi?"

"And what’s going to happen next time we want a job there?"

"One gorram spot on one gorram moon—"

"That we’ll be going back to after this job to return the ginseng."

"I’ll return the stuff when houzi cong wo gangmen feichulai."

"We’re returning it as soon as we’ve finished our business here."

"There’s no ruttin’ way I’m giving this stuff up."

"Why are we still talking about this—"

Jayne pushed past him, climbed the ladder, and started down the hall, still holding his sack.

Mal climbed after him. "Jayne!"

There were times when he could deal with Jayne, and just accept it as part of the job. And then there were other times.

Jayne stopped and faced Mal. Mal kept his voice even. "You leave this boat with those goods, you won’t be coming back on."

Jayne stared at him, jaw clenched. Mal met his eyes and waited.

Serenity: Catwalk

"Captain, do you have a minute?"

"Until they show up for the cargo, I have nothing but time."

Simon nodded, opened his mouth, closed it again. "I—"

"Spit it out, doctor. What’s on your mind?"

It was so difficult talking to the Captain; one never knew how he’d react. In a way, his worldview was as skewed as River’s, which made it as big a challenge to find the right words as when speaking with Kaylee.

He said, "I don’t know if this is any of my business, but I—"

"Just say it, doctor."

Simon took a breath. "I saw Jayne walking out, looking like . . . well, carrying a couple of duffel bags. Big, full bags, like, maybe, everything he—"

"Jayne has left the crew."

"Oh," said Simon.

"Anything else?"

"I . . . yes. I’m wondering if his leaving will . . . that is, I’m afraid—"

"You think he might sell you out to the Alliance?"

"Well, we’ve never been exactly best friends. And his ideas of loyalty are, let’s say, idiosyncratic. So, yes, I’m worried he might inform the Alliance about us."

"So am I. In fact, I think it’s pretty near a sure thing."

"Oh. Well, then."

"Anything else on your mind?"

"Uh, no, that about covers it."

"Good, then."

Simon hesitated for a moment, then went back to check on his sister.

Yuva

After stowing his gear at the local depot, he spent an hour wandering around Yuva. In that time, while he failed to spot a police station, he did find a small shack that said, "Security” at the west end of North Street. Well, that was going to be easier than walking into an actual police station, anyway.

He made sure his pistol was concealed by his shirt, took a deep breath, and went in.

Two bored-looking security guards sat behind two tiny desks, one over-crowded with smart paper, the other with comm gear. They both looked up at him as he entered; neither seemed especially interested.

I could take them both, he thought.

One of them, wearing a hat and a pot-belly, said, "Yeah?"

"I need to use your comm to reach a fed."

They stared at him for a moment. "This a joke?"

"Do I look like I’m joking?"

"Who are you, anyway?"

"I’m the guy looking to reach the feds. You the guys gonna tell them why you wouldn’t let me?"

He saw that shot hit. They looked at each other. "What’s your name?"

"None of your ruttin’ business. Are you going to hook me up with the feds, or not?"

They looked at each other again, then pot-belly nodded at the other, who played with the comm setup for a minute, put on the headphones, then spoke into the mic. "This is Station HE nine three six six one, requesting code seven authorization . . . no, a civilian . . . He won’t give it. . . I don’t know . . .all right."

He held out the mic and the headphones to Jayne. "Okay, it’s all yours."

He put the headset on and spoke into the mic. "You there?" He waited. "Hello?"

The man behind the console cleared his throat. "You have to push that button down to talk."

"Yeah," said Jayne. Then, "Anyone there?"

A voice crackled from the headset. "Identify yourself."

"No ruttin’ way. I got the location of a fugitive you want bad. Her name is River Tam. Now, if you don’t want her, just say so, and I’ll be about my business."

The pause was very satisfying; it lasted most of a minute. Then there was a new voice. "Where is River Tam?"

"Where is my money?"

"Tell us where she is, and you’ll get your money."

"You guys tried that with me once before. I got humped, and you still don’t have the girl. I see the money before you get wo zuo gaowan de suozai."

There was another pause, then: "All right, what do you propose?"

"You know what town I’m in; how soon can you get someone here?"

"Wait a moment."

"Take your time. I have all day."

This time, the pause was a good five minutes, which Jayne spent leaning on the desk and giving the two security guards the eye. Then, "All right, we have someone there."

"Already?"

"He can meet you at the canteen in an hour. If you prefer some other place, we’ll accommodate you."

"No, that’s fine."

"You’ll negotiate a price with him, and the payment arrangements."

"Someone you trust, eh? All right, be there in an hour.”

Jayne took off the headphones and the mic, and tossed them back to the security guard. The one in the hat said, "What, the Alliance has an agent here? Is that what they said?"

"Guess so," said Jayne. "Burn on you guys, eh?"

He chuckled and headed out the door and toward the canteen.

Serenity: Catwalk

"What a perfect, magnificent ass."

Zoë looked around and spoke over her shoulder. "I hope you’re talking about me, and not one of them."

Wash came up next to her and looked down at the cargo area. "I don’t know. That one by the ramp is kinda cute, in a big, hairy, bearded guy sort of way."

"I was just thinking that."

"Can I borrow that big, hairy, ugly gun of yours for just a minute? I’ll give it right back."

"Now dear, you know we’re not supposed to murder the help."

"Speaking of murder, what’s up with Jayne?"

She shrugged. "I asked the Captain. He grunted. But it looks like Jayne’s gone."

"Gone. What kind of gone?"

"Gone gone."

"Oh."

She looked at her man. "You seem disappointed. I didn’t think you were that fond of him."

"Sweetie, I’m fond of people who help keep you alive and with all of your moving parts intact. Not to mention the motionless parts, which have their own charm. Any idea what happened?"

"No. I imagine we’ll hear about it eventually."

"It’ll make great dinner conversation. Sweetie—”

“Hmm?”

“What’s wrong with Mal?”

“That is the question, isn’t it?”

“No, honey. The question is, why won’t you talk to me about it.”

Zoë reached over and squeezed his arm, then stepped to the intercom. "Sir, they’re here to unload the ship.”

"I’ll be right down."

Wash said, “Honey—”

She just shook her head, and he fell silent.

Company Headquarters

He was both at “work” and at work when his belt buckle started vibrating. He liked it when he could do both at once; it made him feel that the ‘verse was behaving the way it was supposed to.

The “work” part he could do with only a portion of his brain: download tonnage of dirt moved, download percentage of pay dirt, download content of pay dirt, download produce futures, download bauxite futures, run the projections, break them down, generate the report. Tedious, but, once you’ve learned the system (and Kit learned systems quickly and easily), there was nothing to it.

The work part was more entertaining, more important, and just the least little bit scary: monitor everyone else in the office without ever being caught doing so, wait for someone to be sloppy with a keycode, sniff around in places he wasn’t supposed to have access to, look for the fact, the hard number, that would add another layer of sealant to the case he was building. And, if he were very lucky, maybe he’d be able to get to Miss Wuhan’s system, and then he could just walk out the door and be done with it.

What he did not want was anything to break him away from both activities at once, and that’s just what it meant when his belt buckle started vibrating.

Gorram them anyway; this better be important.

He got up from his desk, stretched, put on his jacket, and made his leisurely way to the men’s room. That was just the sort of thing he would notice if someone else did it: Why is that man putting on his coat to use the men’s room? But it wasn’t likely any of his co-workers would twig to it; they didn’t have his training.

He closed the stall door, and removed his C-box from the coat pocket. He fired it up, selected a reasonable mask, and made the connection.

After his identity was established and confirmed, they didn’t waste any time.

New instructions. Top priority, abort current operation if necessary. There is a man you have to meet . . . .

Five minutes later, he was out the door, leaving everything undone behind him and trying not to think about the feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Serenity: Cargo bay

Only the smell of fresh-cut wood was left in the empty hold.

"Still going smooth, sir," said Zoë.

"We haven’t been paid yet."

"I noticed that."

"So let’s go do it now." He looked up. Wash was there, leaning on the rail. "You’re in charge," he called up. "Supervise."

Wash nodded, but didn’t make any remarks.

Kaylee’s voice came through the intercom. "Can I go out, Cap’n? I want to see if there’s a junkyard here with a monolock for the gravboot."

"Okay. Don’t take too long. If we manage to get paid, I want to be off the world in a couple of hours."

Zoë fell into step beside him as they made their way out of the boat and onto the road into Yuva.

"Sir, any idea just what he wants all the wood for?"

"Couldn’t say. There’s enough for a good-sized house, but not for a whole new mansion."

They made it to the office, and looked at the sign on the door.

He clicked on his comm link. "Wash, can you find out what local time is?"

The voice came back in his ear, "Just a second, Mal . . . it’s about thirteen hundred."

"Okay, Zoë. We have an hour to kill."

"I could stand a beer, sir. There’s a place on North street, just a step from their office."

"Good plan."

It was a low building, made out of the same sort of crumbling brick as most everything else in Yuva, and distinguished only by a neatly stenciled sign that said, "Canteen."

It was dark inside, surprisingly clean, and mostly empty.

Mostly.

Mal looked at Jayne, sitting in the back corner, then looked away. He led Zoë to a table on the far side.

The bartender called, "If you want something, you’ll have to get it from me. No table service ’till evening."

"I’ll get it," said Mal.

"Thank you, sir."

As he approached, the bartender said, “Welcome to Yuva. You with chatty over there?”

“No,” said Mal, not turning around. "What sort of beer do you drink, when you drink beer?"

“My own. I make it in back. We have a winter ale that came out pretty good.”

“Two.”

The bartender was of medium height, had a shaved head, and seemed to be about Simon’s age. Young. Too young to have fought in the war. Mal still pegged people that way: could they have fought? And if the answer was yes, which side? "Two it is.”

Mal took the bottles. "They’re cold. I’m impressed."

The bartender smiled. "We serve the staff here, so nothing but the best."

"Staff?"

"Office workers, and such."

“That all that comes here?”

“Both offices, and the security people.”

“Both offices?”

“General office, and the ones who work in Mister Sakarya’s house. The important ones work there. They sit on that side of the room.”

“There are rules for what side of the room you sit on?”

“No rules. It just works itself out that way.”

"What does everyone else do?"

“Everyone else?”

“In town. The ones who aren’t security, or one office or t’other.”

"I work in a bar. This bar, in fact. See, this is me, working. In the bar."

"Good job. Own it, too?"

The other laughed a little. "In effect. Not technically. Only one man owns things. I’m just grateful not to be digging bauxite."

"One man. That would be Sakarya."

He nodded. "Mister Sakarya owns pretty much everything on the subcontinent, and quite a bit on the rest of the world."

"I’m sure he finds that very fulfilling."

"Uh huh."

"And not so good for the rest of you?"

The bartender made a non-committal grunt. “I do okay. Call me Mark, by the way.”

“Mal. That’s Zoë.”

“Pleasure.”

Mal nodded, paid, and brought the beers back to the table.

"What was that about, sir?"

"Beer, and the after-affects of being on the losing side."

"Oh?"

"I sort of asked him what things were like here."

"And?"

"He gave me the kind of answer you give when you don’t want to give an answer.”

"It’d be a familiar story, sir."

"Seems I might’ve heard it once or twice before."

She cleared her throat. "I see that Jayne—"

"Let’s not talk about it."

"Yes, sir. What do you think of those two?"

Other than Jayne, the only other customers were two large, rather shabbily dressed men at a table against the wall.

"The thugs? The red haired one has a piece strapped to his right ankle."

"And something behind his back; look how he’s sitting."

"I’m guessing a knife. The other one—"

"With the pistol under his right arm."

"—Yes. He’s trying not to look like he’s waiting for someone."

"Good catch, sir; I hadn’t noticed.

"I was the first one in the door. He twitched, then relaxed when he saw it wasn’t whoever he was waiting for."

“Nice they aren’t waiting for us, anyway.”

“I’m inclined to agree.”

"The curly-haired one is more experienced; he isn’t nervous. He’s done this before."

"So has Red, but not as often. He’s either scared, or having a few qualms of conscience."

Zoë nodded. "Well, if they aren’t waiting for us, then it isn’t any of our business."

"That’s my conclusion."

"So, when some poor slob comes in here to be robbed, or beaten up, or murdered—"

"Murdered, I think, looking at those two. They’ll probably pick a fight with him."

"Yes. So, when that happens, we just ignore it."

"Right."

"Not our problem."

"Exactly. We keep right on drinking."

"In fact, sir, I think that when he comes in, we should leave."

"Good then. That’s what we’ll do."

"Yes, sir."

"You take the redhead."

"Right. Tell me again why we’re doing this, sir?"

"We like being heroes."

"What if we’re about to save the bad guy, sir?"

"Look at those two and tell me they’re the good guys."

"Yes, sir."

Jayne went to the bar and got another drink, carefully not looking at them.

About five minutes later the door opened.

"That’s him."

"Yes, sir. He certainly looks harmless.”

He was of average height, with something of a belly, and appeared fairly young in spite of streaks of gray running through his hair and his beard.

"Now,” said Mal, “is when Red gets up and walks to the bar, accidentally bumping into him."

"Uh huh."

Red stood up and did a credible imitation of a drunk by swaying a bit and using the chair to steady himself. It would have been more believable if there had been a few empties on his table. He bumped into the newcomer on his way to the bar, and proceeded to start cussing him out.

Mal and Zoë stood up at the same time.

Mal gave the curly-haired one at the table a big smile, walked over, and sat down. "Can I buy you a drink?"

"Who the hell are you?"

"Just a friendly stranger with a gun in your ribs."

The other stared at him. There was a voice raised with insults, most of them in Chinese, but that was Zoë’s end of things, so Mal continued watching Curly, who said, "You have no idea what you’re getting involved in."

"I generally don’t. But here we are, so let’s just stay friendly."

Mal didn’t turn his head when he heard the thump; the other did, then turned back to Mal. "You’re an idiot."

"Probably true."

Zoë called, "Secured, sir,” which meant that Mark wasn’t doing anything either.

Mal stood up, and permitted himself a quick glance. Zoë’s weapon was out, and Red was prone on the floor. The well-dressed stranger was looking back at Mal. Mark was standing very still, both of his hands on the bar. There was a comm unit on the wall next to the cash box, and the bartender was staying well away from it. The stranger hadn’t moved.

"Escort him out, Zoë."

"Yes, sir."

When he heard the door, he nodded once to Curly, gave him a friendly smile, and backed away from the table. He felt the door behind him, opened it, and stepped through, holstering his sidearm.

"Well," he said. "That was almost too easy to be any fun."

"I was just thinking the same thing, sir."

They started walking back to the boat, the stranger between them, Zoë mostly walking backwards, keeping an eye on the canteen.

"Who sent you?" asked the stranger.

"No one sent us," said Mal. "We just happened to be in there having a drink."

"Uh huh." He smiled as if sharing a joke with them. "Pretty remarkable timing, then."

"Timing is one of our specialties. I’m Malcolm Reynolds, and this is Zoë Washburne."

"A pleasure. And of course, you know my name."

"Uh, not so much."

"We’re clear, sir," said Zoë. "No one following us."

"Good to hear."

"You don’t know my name? What did they tell you?"

"Who?"

He stopped. Mal and Zoë continued a couple of steps, then they stopped too, and turned to look at him.

"Uh, I thank you both for your help, but I need to get back to work."

"Right. What was your name again?"

"Kit. Kit Merlyn."

Mal nodded. "Well, see you around, then."

"Probably," said Kit.

He turned and started walking back to town.

"Well," said Zoë. "For the victim of a murder attempt, he took it awfully calm."

"I was thinking the same thing my own self."

"On the other hand, he wasn’t armed."

"No."

"Think we’ll find out what his story is?"

"I’m afraid we might."

"Yes, sir."

"Let’s get back to the boat. We’ll see about getting paid in a couple of hours."

"Yes, sir."

Serenity: Common room

Kaylee was drinking tea when Mal and Zoë came in.

Mal punched the intercom button. "Wash?"

"Yes, Mal?" came the crackly voice.

"Keep an ear on the emergency channels for a while."

"What am I listening for?"

"Alliance."

"How long a while?"

"Till we leave." He released the button. He looked tired.

"How did it go?" asked Kaylee.

"Hard to say."

"Did we get paid?"

"Not yet."

"Oh."

Mal frowned at her. "What’s wrong?"

"I just want to get off this world. I don’t like it."

"That’s three of us," said Zoë, taking a chair opposite her. The Captain went into the kitchen and started poking around. "What’s your problem with it?" he asked. "No junkyard?"

"The whole place is a junkyard."

"Hmmm. Looked clean enough to me."

"That’s the area for the office workers. The miners live on the other side of the hill."

"Oh. Ugly?"

Kaylee nodded.

"It’s an ugly ‘verse," said Mal. "Especially on Independent worlds. You’ve seen it before."

"Not like this."

"We’ll be gone soon," said Zoë. "We just need to get paid—"

"And they’re all afraid of him. That’s what really got to me."

"Afraid of who?" said Mal.

"Sakarya. He has everyone afraid. They were afraid to talk to me. There was one little girl, she looked right at me and . . . " She shook her head. “It was creepy,” she finished.

"I expect it was," said Mal. "So, you didn’t get that part?"

"No."

"Is that a problem?"

"No, it just means we’ll twitch a little and our ears will pop when the gravity normalizes."

"All right, we can live with that. Kaylee . . . ."

"Yes, Cap’n?"

"We’ll be out of here soon. Don’t let it prey on you."

She nodded, stood up, and took her tea back to the engine room, where everything was simpler.

Serenity: Bridge

Wonderful. "Until we leave," he’d said. Like he had nothing to do except sit here and listen to a dead comm channel in case something came on.

Well, in fact, he didn’t have anything else to do. He could always do shadow puppets, but it wasn’t as much fun without Zoë to entertain.

"Until we leave."

Why weren’t we leaving? What was there to stay here for? Obviously, they hadn’t managed to get the money yet. Probably gotten into trouble, gone off and rescued someone the Alliance wanted, and now they were all going to be humped. And he was stuck sitting here listening to a dead channel like a quanmian ta ma de baichi.

There came the sound of his favorite combat boots.

"Hi, honey,” she said. “How’s it going?"

"Well, other than being stuck here listening to a dead channel in case something happens, I’m just fine. What did you do down there?"

"Nothing. Well, something. But I think he wants you to listen because of Jayne. I can take it for a while, if you want."

"Sweetie, having you here instead of me sort of defeats the purpose of—wait. What did Jayne do?"

"Nothing as far as I know. But I think the Captain is afraid Jayne is going to tell the feds about Simon and River."

"Oh. I see. So, if we’re lucky, we’ll hear about it soon enough to get off this planet without getting paid."

Zoë exhaled. "Wash, what do you want?"

"Well, a vacation would be nice."

"Wash . . . ."

“And it would be even nicer not to have this feeling that everything is about to fall apart on us.”

“Wash.”

He sighed. "All right."

"Want something to eat?"

"That would be—Hey!"

"What?"

As the chatter came from his headphones, he adjusted the gain and dropped the filtering. With his other hand he slapped the "record" button, then switched on the intercom. "Mal, I’m getting something."

1. Chapter 3

2. My Own Kind of Past

Nine years previous

Bursa leaned forward. "You’d keep your present rank," he said.

"That’s not that big an inducement," said Mal.

"Ah. Then I suppose it wouldn’t help that you’d be in line for promotion."

"No."

"Even if you get a nice fancy office like this?"

Mal looked around at the paper-thin walls of the cubby-hole. "Huh," he said.

The Colonel’s face was long, bony, and pale. His nose had been broken at least once, and there was a long white scar running from his right ear to just below his chin. He wore brown, with the Independents’ lieutenant colonel insignia on his shoulders–wide shoulders for his frame, giving him a sort of scarecrow appearance. His feet stuck out from under the little desk.

Mal felt himself being studied. "Okay," said the Colonel. "Well, the point remains. The nature of the war has changed. Units like yours were useful when they were all we had. The war was sprung on us like, um, like something that springs on you. Little detachments kept them slowed down until we could—"

"I know the—"

"Don’t interrupt, Sergeant."

Mal’s jaw clenched.

Bursa continued, "Until we could organize, recruit, and prepare. Now, every time one of your little bands is rampaging through an area the army is in, it interferes with the operations of the army. You’re doing more harm than good now, Sergeant."

"So you say."

"So I say." The Colonel frowned. "What’s the problem, anyway?"

Mal stared at a spot over the Colonel’s shoulder. "If I had wanted to take orders from everyone who likes giving orders, I wouldn’t be fighting the Alliance in the first place, would I?"

Bursa let out a breath. "Okay. I can see that. I can even respect it. But the fight is on. You want to win?"

"I’d been planning on it."

"Me, too. We want to defeat the Alliance. We need regular, organized forces. Bands like yours are harming us. Those who won’t join us will have to be suppressed."

"Suppressed."

"Would you prefer I used a more graphic term? You know what I mean."

“I surely do."

"So, tomorrow morning, you and yours swear in to the regular army."

"What if we move to a different sector, where you people haven’t gotten to yet? We can still—"

"No, Sergeant. I’m sorry."

Mal clenched his teeth.

"Sergeant, I think you can give good service. We can use you. Whatever you might think about the regular army, we are organized now, and we’re fighting your fight."

"I’ll have trouble bringing some of the boys around."

"Trouble makers?"

"A few. But mostly they’re like me. They signed up to fight against what I’m asking them to do."

"Good to know you’ve identified the problem."

"Yeah, well—"

"Sergeant, they’ll do it if they want to win, because that’s the only way we can win. If they don’t want the Alliance sticking their noses up the ass of anyone who wants to carve out a place for himself, then they’re going to have to come around."

"It’s just that some of them can tear me apart."

"I don’t doubt it."

"And they aren’t easily controlled."

"I imagine."

"So what do you do?"

"You mean, how do you face down someone who’s bigger and meaner than you and doesn’t want to do what you’re telling him to?"

"Yeah. Up till now, it’s been about convincing them."

"Well, I’d like to say something glib like, don’t let them know they’re bigger and meaner than you, but, really it isn’t that simple. There isn’t any simple answer to that. You can’t back down, but you know that."

"I surely do."

"How you handle it depends on the individual, and the situation. But, Sergeant—"

"Yes, Colonel?"

"That’s not one of the things I’m worried about. You’ll find a way."

"And those who won’t be convinced?"

"They can give up their weapons and go their way."

"All right."

"And if they act as unauthorized guerillas, they’ll be treated as common brigands, and we’ll shoot them."

"Colonel—"

"We can’t have it, Sergeant."

Mal sighed. "Can they at least keep their sidearms?"

"No."

"Most of those are their own personal weapons."

"Why are we still arguing about what’s been decided? Is there anything else?"

After a moment, Mal said, "All right . . . sir. I’ll have my people here in the morning."

Bursa nodded. "And by the afternoon, you’ll be in Lieutenant Siro’s platoon, at point on the road north of Yeranton."

"Trying to get us killed right away, sir?"

"Nope. I don’t need you killed, I need to keep the Alliance out of Yeranton, so they don’t swallow up the one munitions plant we can count on in this gorram world. I need them kept out of there, Sergeant."

"All right. We’ll do our part."

"I know. Pick up a coat and a rifle on your way out."

"I have a rifle."

"Pick up a new one."

"Yes, sir."

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