My Own Kind of Freedom [Firefly] by Steven Brust (2007)
Posted on February 15th, 2008
Yuva: Warehouse
The conversation with the captain and his first mate ought to have given him a lot more information than it did. He stared at the comm gear.
What was it about that ship that had gotten Asher House so excited? There were no active warrants on the captain, just a string of dropped charges; so what else did they have? Or who else?
Could it be a who? There had been the instructions to meet with someone and negotiate a price for information. The captain didn’t have the information, so someone else on the ship did. Someone who would what, sell out that captain? But the same problem kept returning, in new forms: what could the House want so badly that they’d blow an eight-month operation for it, just at the point it was about to pay off? And how could he have never heard a whisper of something that big?
He turned back to his gear and pondered.
Serenity: Bridge
One eye on the beacon, one eye on the glide plane, he slid through the increasingly thick atmo. It was just as well that this sort of flying required almost no thought, because his mind was on everything else.
What was going on with Zoë?
He knew that tone Mal had used—that too-too-calm sign-off. There was something going on.
His hand twitched toward the comm, then back.
Gorram it, he would not break into whatever they were in the middle of, just because he was worried. He would not. It wasn’t as if they hadn’t been in tight scrapes before. And it wasn’t as if there were anything he could do that he wasn’t doing—that is, getting back there as fast as he could.
As fast as he could would be a good ten minutes. A lot could happen in ten minutes.
What was going on with Zoë?
He heard a footstep behind him, and almost lost his groove. He spared a glance over his shoulder.
"River! Uh, hello there."
"You should."
He looked at the yoke, the I-set, the gravlock, the attitude controls, and realized suddenly how little pressure it would take on any one of how many things to send them crashing onto the world. "Maybe this isn’t the place you should be right now."
"You should call," said River.
He spared her another look. Her eyes were slightly wide, her hands were in fists at her sides, and she wasn’t moving at all.
"I should . . . you mean, I should get hold of Zoë and Mal? I’m still ten minutes away, there’s nothing I can do yet. And if I interrupt them in the middle of something—"
"You don’t fix faith; it fixes you," she said, and turned around and left the bridge.
He let out his breath, not having been aware of holding it, and checked his glide path again. All was well.
You don’t fix faith . . . .
Now what did that mean?
Chapter 6
My Own Kind of Flying
Outside Yuva
The comm crackled. "Mal? What’s going on down there?"
"Hi hun," said Zoë. "Nothing much. We’re being shot at."
"Oh, is that all?"
"Pretty much."
"Are you shooting back?"
"Haven’t quite figured out how to do that, yet."
"Then why you aren’t out of there?"
"Can’t. The g-line got shot out."
"Bei yachi yange de shuiniu de zinü. Can you get out of the shuttle?"
"Not just at the moment. There are at least six of them, I think, and they’re sort of shooting at the door."
"You could turn the shuttle around."
"Without the grav-boot?"
"Yes."
She could almost see the Captain’s ears perk up, and he silently mouthed, "You can?"
"Wash, tell me how."
"Over-ride the wing controls so they don’t extend. You know how to do that?"
Zoë looked over the controls. "I don’t—"
"Left side, under the console. It’s a small silver switch labeled S.E. Over."
"Got it."
"Okay. Nose all the way down. All the way, like you’re doing a full power dive. Then you give it some juice. Just a little; too much and you’ll flip her."
"Okay."
"Then both bow attitude jets on full, then yank the yoke hard around in whichever direction you want to turn. You’ll have to cut the attitude jets fast when you get about forty percent of the way to where you want to be."
“Forty percent? How—”
“Guess.”
"Okay, Wash. I’ve got it."
She began setting it up, going over the controls carefully.
"Hey, Wash," said the Captain.
"Yes, Mal?"
"What did you call about?"
"I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“It was something the Shepherd said, about believing River."
"You’re going to have to explain that to me later."
"I’ll try."
"Ready, sir," said Zoë.
"Talk to you later, Wash," said the Captain. Then, "Zoë, let’s get some outside light. I want to see if we can find some cover on the starboard side. If this works, we’re going to have to make a fast break for it."
She flipped on the externals while he stared out. Several more bullets thwanged into the shuttle. "Hundan are trying to kill an innocent shuttle," he said. "Okay. See that rock, the big one?"
"I see it."
"Lot of trees around it. That’s what we make for."
"Yes, sir."
He nodded and positioned himself by the door once more.
She ran her hands over the controls she’d need, in order, twice.
"I’m ready," she said.
"Me, too."
"You’d better hold on to something, sir."
"I’m holding. Let’s do this thing."
"Yes, sir."
She pushed the yoke forward. No response, of course, beyond a little pressure. She took a deep breath, and, as she let it out, and gave it some throttle, then a little more, then—.
The vessel shuddered, and the tail rose; she was looking hard at the ground. Behind her she heard the Captain catch his footing.
She fired up both attitude thrusters and spun hard, and there was a lurch that couldn’t possibly have been right. She felt panic for the first time in ten years, killed the attitude jets and straightened the yoke. As she was catching her breath, she heard the door open.
"Move!" said the Captain.
She wanted to explain that, in fact, it hadn’t worked; that she’d panicked, they were still facing the same way, and he was about to charge out into more massed firepower than they seen since the war. There were only two problems with doing so: one problem was that the Captain was out the door already, and the other problem was that so was she.
Outside Yuva
He spotted the rock, right where it should be, and made for it. He took the last few feet in the air, rolled, and came up to one knee. An instant later, Zoë was next to him, also on a knee, weapon out.
"Good job, Zoë; that was the perfect spot."
"Thank you, sir."
"Any idea what direction the other shuttle is from here?"
"Yes, sir. Past this one, and past all of them."
"I see. Long way around then."
"Yes, sir."
"Okay. Time to run."
They did.
Lights occasionally flickered near them, and from time to time there were reports of shots. It reminded her too much of the aftermath of Belerophon, when defeat had first kicked her in the teeth, when she’d really learned what it was like to be on the losing side.
She shook her memories aside, and concentrated on running; that was hard enough. A little light from a pale, thin half-moon and even less from the sliver of another gave just enough light to avoid the trees, if she was careful; her eyes told her enough to stay with the captain.
The terrain cleared a little. "I don’t suppose that you have any idea if we’re near the other shuttle?"
"No, sir. I landed a quarter of a mile east of you, but I’m afraid I don’t know how far we’ve gone."
"Okay, then . . . what’s that sound?"
They both stopped to listen for a moment, then, "Horses," said the Captain.
"They’ll catch us easy in the open."
"Yes, they will. I wonder if we can make it back to the trees."
Serenity: Bridge
"Zoë? Did you try that?"
He boosted the engine a bit to slow his decent. The altimeter, calibrated for this place, said he was only about nine hundred meters from the deck.
"Zoë? Mal? Are you there?"
Nothing . . . .
He gave it more power and came to a stop, hovering just over the tree line. He turned on the floods and checked the view below. The shuttle was there, its door open. No sign of any activity. An infrared scan picked up the slowly cooling engine, the rapidly cooling electronics, and nothing else.
Well, if they’d pulled it off, they wouldn’t be in the shuttle, would they? They’d be heading to the other shuttle, which was . . . looked like a quarter of a mile east.
"Zoë? Mal?"
Nothing. Well, in any case, they weren’t there yet.
He killed the light but kept on the infrared, and headed east, slowly.
He found them almost at once—they had to be the two bright spots, persued by . . . .
Yes. They were on horseback, and those little flashes had to be gunfire.
He hit the lights and dropped lower, then lower still.
They scattered nicely.
He rose, made a sharp one-eighty, and came back again. There was a group of three. He dropped toward them, and three horses were running wildly, and without their riders. The shooting had stopped.
He went back for another pass. "Swoop," he said to himself. "Swoop, swoop. It’s like waltzing."
He realized that he was smiling.
Yuva: Canteen
There weren’t any gorram answers.
That’s what it came to: no gorram answers at all.
He finished his beer, and yelled for another one. The bartender didn’t hear him, or chose to ignore him, so he pushed past the good citizens of Yuva up to the bar. He started to order another beer, then changed his mind and made it whiskey. He started to bring it back to his table, then shrugged and downed it. It was surprisingly smooth, burning just a little on his tongue, the back of his throat. He ordered another and looked around the room.
Upright citizens, one and all. All of them polite, and none of them looking like they could be pushed into a ruckus. Sad. He’d really have enjoyed a chance to get some of his frustration out.
He finished the whiskey, blinked, and noticed that the room was getting a little fuzzy around the edges.
Good.
He ordered another, drained it, wiped his lips with the back of his hand.
There were a lot of people here; there must be someone in the room who’d be willing to tussle, if pushed right. He turned back to the bar, and stumbled against it. He ordered another.
The bartender said, "Maybe it’d be better if you slowed down a bit."
Jayne grinned slowly.
Yuva: Warehouse
His brain tapped the keys while his hands absorbed the information.
Bring it up, send it off, knock it down, check the signal for listeners or intruders, move on to the next: order and process, logic and vision, waiting for the slap of epiphany if it chose to come, but keep poking and prying and figuring until then.
This was what he did; this was what he was good at. Collect the pieces, make sense of them, look for the fact that didn’t fit in, then follow it wherever it led. That his target was now his own people was no longer even a consideration; the work was everything, it had become its own goal.
Names and figures and data-points of history flashed before him, the search becoming wider and wider, then sometimes narrowing into a tight beam until possibility became negative, and the search widened again.
The goal had vanished long ago; the process was now all there was, and he reveled in it.
Serenity: Cargo bay
Kaylee was waiting when they came in, both of them out of breath.
"Cap’n! You’re bleeding!"
"Not too bad," he said. "We need some work on shuttle two."
"Okay. But you’re dripping on the floor."
The Captain glanced down at his upper thigh and shifted his weight. He squished audibly. "First we have to get it back aboard. And I’d like to recover the other shuttle first."
"I can do that, sir," said Zoë. "Go get fixed up."
Wash came rattling down the stairs and wrapped his arms around Zoë.
"Good job, Wash," said the Captain.
Simon appeared next, looked them over, and said, "All right, Captain, let’s get you to the infirmary."
"I don’t think we . . . . " he paused in mid-sentence, wavered on his feet, and said, "All right." Simon put an arm under the Captain’s shoulder and led him off.
"I’ll be right back," said Zoë.
"You’ll be what?" said Wash.
"I need to get the shuttle."
"Honey-pooch, you just got back in, and there are people out there who want to shoot at you. Why don’t I bring Serenity to the shuttles?"
"The fuel cost."
"Gan zhe xie ranliao fei."
"The Captain said—"
"Ba yi ge ranliao dianchi lai cao chuanzhang . We can just—"
"Okay, compromise. Give me an exact location on the one we’re almost on top of, I’ll go get it, and meet you next to the other one."
Wash exhaled slowly. "All right," he said.
Kaylee tried not to smile. Wash was so adorable when he was being protective. "I’ll get my tools," she said.
Twenty minutes later, she entered shuttle two, nodding to Zoë.
"Did they shoot at you any more?"
"No sign of them."
"Good."
"Ohhhh."
"What is it?"
"One of the bullets knocked a piece of the bulkhead through the hydraulics. We’ve got fluid all over the place. How did you get the grav-boot to work?"
"We didn’t."
"Oh. Okay. It’ll need to be welded. And I hope we have more fluid somewhere."
"Need any help?"
"No, thanks." She grinned. "Unless you want to help with the cleanup."
"I’ll pass, thanks."
She pulled out the welder and goggles, setting them next to the bullet hole. Almost without thinking about it, she moved back to the engine to close the valve, then up to the controls to make sure that everything was powered off.
The drill was in her hand, bolt puller inserted, and then the panel was off, exposing the damaged line, fluid still dripping from it. She sighed and rubbed her hand along the bulkhead. "Poor li’l guy," she said.
Serenity: Med bay
"You’ve been wounded here before," he said, his probe hovering over the injury.
"Shrapnel," said the Captain. "Dhu-Kang. Is it the same spot?"
"Near enough."
"That a problem?"
"I don’t know, yet. Can you not—?"
"Sorry."
The Captain visibly relaxed against the exam table and stared up at the ceiling.
Simon opened the wound and studied it. "Interesting," he said.
He felt the Captain looking at him.
"Oh, sorry. Clean entry and exit, but, it’s odd."
"Doctor, there are certain sorts of pain your anesthetic isn’t dealing with."
"Yes. Your previous injury, or, rather, the scar from your previous injury, pushed your artery a quarter of an inch to the left. Otherwise you might have bled to death before you got here."
"So then, that means I’m not going to bleed to death, right? I just ask on account of I’m interested."
"You’ll be fine. I’m going to clean it out, sew you up, and you’ll be ready to have more holes put in you."
"Good. I’m looking forward to that."
"Please try not to move your leg. It didn’t miss the artery by all that much."
"Son, do you enjoy this?"
"Patching up bullet holes?"
"Well not that as much as, well, yes."
"Do you enjoy getting them put in you?"
"Not so much."
"There’s a satisfaction when someone comes in—"
"I don’t mean the afterward. I mean while you’re doing it."
"Oh. Um, ask me another time. I’m sort of busy right now."
"That’s what I thought."
Chapter 7
My Own Kind of Love
Serenity: Bridge
She took herself up to the bridge, sat herself in the co-pilot’s chair, and waited. She knew what was coming, and trying to avoid it would just make it worse. Her husband stared through the front window. Serenity was doing what Wash called "sleeping"—as close to a full shutdown as she could get without requiring hours to warm up. The comm was still up, though the keyboards and setting were locked, and if you concentrated, you could just feel the gentlest of vibrations. Everything was very quiet; the co-pilot’s chair gave a squeak as she leaned back.
Eventually, he said, "I know you have to take risks."
"I hear a ‘but’ coming."
"But can’t Mal manage to keep the risks down to what’s necessary, instead of—"
"That’s just what he does. I’ve never known the Captain to take an unnecessary risk."
"Now that’s just not true."
"Well, okay. I’ve never known him to take risks he didn’t think were justified."
"Like sending you out to get that shuttle when the woods were full of—"
"They were disorganized and confused, thanks to you. The best time to retrieve the shuttles was right then, before the enemy could regroup."
"Regroup. That’s one of those army words, isn’t it?"
"Sweetie, sarcasm is not one of your more endearing traits."
Wash muttered under his breath. Then he said, "Look, I think I’ve been very patient—"
"With what? With me being what I was when we met?"
He stared out at the trees and the sky for the space of several breaths. "You’re right," he said.
She nodded.
"But I don’t like it."
She nodded again.
"Is there ever going to be a time when we stop?"
"And do what?" she said. "Think you could be happy if you weren’t flying?"
"No."
"Neither could I."
"Think you could be happy if you weren’t almost getting killed quite so often?"
"How do you plan to arrange that? We work the border worlds, because that’s where we can get jobs, and stay off the Alliance’s radar. And that’s how things are out here. We work for people looking for an edge, and that means sometimes they try to kill us for it."
"I know."
"I hate it when you look so glum."
"We’ve been paid, haven’t we?"
She nodded.
"How long until we leave this rock?"
"That’s up to the Captain."
"Any idea what the delay is?"
"I think he has to make a decision."
"What decision?"
"I’m not exactly sure." She wondered how much to say, then decided that the truth was probably the safest. "Something’s bothering him, and I can’t begin to figure out what it is."
He nodded.
She stood up from the co-pilot’s chair, leaned over and kissed the back of his neck. He looked at her and his eyes were smiling. It did something to her when his eyes smiled like that.
"Want to head to the dining room?" he asked.
"Hungry?"
"I was thinking we could stop at the kitchen, pick up a snack, circle the dining room table to pick up some speed, then slant back to our bunk."
Her pulse quickened just a little. "My man, the navigator."
Serenity: Dining room
Simon nodded to Wash and Zoë as they entered the dining room and rummaged around briefly in the kitchen. They each gave him a quick smile, and maybe a bigger one to his sister, then they were gone, Wash walking around the table once, very somberly. From Zoë’s expression and the wink she gave River, it was some sort of private joke between them.
With the exception of Jayne, who, it seemed, was no longer part of the crew, no one appeared to resent River. Everyone liked her. Sometimes, it seemed even the Captain liked her; at least, as much as he could like anyone.
At the moment, she was staring down at a plate of protein and soy and artificial pork flavoring, making designs in it with her chopsticks. Just like a four-year-old child, except that the designs were anything but random doodling: the movement of the chopsticks was deft, precise, and deliberate, using both of them like an artist using two brushes at once.
"What is that?" he asked her.
She stopped what she was doing and stared at it for a moment, frowning. She tilted her head, and the frown deepened. Then she picked up the plate and hurled it at the wall.
She stared at the place on the table where the plate had been.
"The distinction between abstract and representational art is arbitrary to the point of meaningless. Only then why was the distinction ever made?"
Simon went into the kitchen and got a bucket and a sponge. He picked up the plate and started cleaning the wall, glad no one else had heard the noise and come to investigate. He felt his sister’s eyes on his back.
"I’m sorry, Simon," she said.
He dropped the sponge in the bucket, sat down next to her, and put his arm around her. "It’s all right, mei-mei." She leaned into his shoulder.
He said softly, "Can you tell me what it was you were drawing?"
"A map," she said.
"A map of what?"
She spoke into his chest. "How you get from a Colonel to a monster and back. But what good is a map when you aren’t going anywhere?"
"We’ll be leaving here soon, River."
"No, we won’t."
"River—"
"But it’s all right. You’ll protect me. You always protect me."
There was a lump in Simon’s throat.
He got up, went back to the bucket, and continued cleaning the wall. River found another sponge and knelt down to help him.
"Art," she said as they wiped it away.
Simon looked at her.
"It’s the second person present singular form of the verb ‘to be,’" she said.
“I knew that,” he told her.
Serenity: Catwalk
The Captain was standing above the cargo bay, staring at nothing. "Hey, Cap’n," she said. "The shuttle is fixed, but I used the last of the fluid to refill her lines. We’re going to have to get more."
He nodded, his eyes still fixed off in the distance.
She almost asked him what was wrong, but didn’t. She continued back to the engine room, and, just because it made her nervous to be low on fluid, she checked all the hydraulics.
"Well, if that isn’t . . . ."
She shook her head in disgust. All that checking on the a-grav, and it was nothing more than low fluid in the control line. You’d think Wash would have noticed the control was sluggish. No, that wasn’t fair; it was her job to keep up on these things.
And now they were out of fluid.
She rubbed the bulkhead. "I’m sorry, honey," she whispered. "Sometimes I’m just stupid."
She tossed her hair back over her shoulder. She could apologize to Serenity later; now she had to come up with a solution.
Solution.
Yes.
Just what exactly was the solution for hydraulic fluid, and how much tolerance was there? And could she rig up a filter for what she’d cleaned up from the spill? Well, sure; a filter would be easy enough: just take a spare intake filter and reverse spin on the wet-pull she’d used for the clean-up. The hose itself would work to channel it. And she only needed a little—just a bit more than a liter, most like.
She patted the bulkhead.
"Don’t worry, hun. We’ll have you fixed up right in no time."
Serenity’s low, clear purr seemed to say that it was all right, that Serenity trusted her.
If anyone had asked, she’d have said that she knew very well that such feelings were all in her imagination. But she was glad no one was around to ask the question, because she hated lying.
Serenity: Shuttle two
As Kaylee headed back toward the Engine room, he made his way into the shuttle. He knew he didn’t need to inspect her work, but he also knew she’d appreciate it if he did.
He saw the unrepaired, harmless indentations from the bullets, but saw no sign of Kaylee’s repair work. She really was very good. He was gorram lucky to have her.
He left the shuttle, and crossed over into the other one, telling himself he ought to give it a once-over, just to make sure it was ready to go.
It was bare, empty, and functional, just like shuttle two, only more-so, because shuttle two had no memories of ever having been anything else.
Am I really still smelling incense in here, or is it my imagination? It has to be my imagination.
He sat down in the pilot’s chair, and touched the controls.
He stood up again, balling up his fists and relaxing them again, shaking his head.
If Inara were here, she’d be calling him six kinds of an idiot for even thinking about doing anything but taking the money and blasting. And she’d be right.
And he’d make some remark about how much experience she had in this sort of thing, and then she’d give him that look . . . .
He swallowed and looked down at his hands.
Stupid.
He was being stupid. Why waste time thinking about Inara, when he had decisions to make, decisions affecting his crew, his boat, his future.
And, put that way, the decision was easy. Zoë wouldn’t hesitate: get out of the world. Wash and Kaylee wouldn’t understand why he even had to think about it. The doctor might have an idea, if he thought about it, but he wouldn’t think about it. And River, well, who knew how her mind worked anyway?
It ought to be an easy decision.
Except that for all Inara would tell him he was a fool to be thinking about it, she was the one he’d have trouble looking in the eye if he just let it alone.
What would he have told her, if she were here? Nothing. He would have done everything he could to avoid the conversation. "Well, you see, Inara, it turns out this guy who hired us is a real, first-class bastard. In his own way, worse than Niska. Forced indenture. You know what that means? That’s slavery under another name, Inara. He’s running his mines on slave labor. Sure, all we did is bring him wood, but then we saved the life of a fed who was trying to shut him down. And now I have to decide if that means we’re involved in this. And if we are involved, how?"
What would she say? Nothing, because he wouldn’t have had that conversation with her. He’d have said, "I’m just pondering some things."
And she’d have put most of it together, gorram her anyway. And she’d have said something snide, and he’d have gotten mad, but part of him would have listened, and—
And when had he assigned the role of conscience to a—
The word refused to quite form in his mind. He almost laughed, realizing it. He’d called her that to her face often enough, but now when she wasn’t even on the boat, he couldn’t.
Shipboard romances complicate things.
But they ought to stop complicating things when they were over.
He wondered what she was doing right now. Then he guessed, and started to smash his fist into the bulkhead. He stopped as he imagined trying to explain the injury to the doctor, and the damage to the bulkhead to Kaylee.
He turned abruptly and left the shuttle, making his way to the Engine room, where Kaylee was doing something incomprehensible involving the wetpull.
"The shuttle looks good, Kaylee," he said.
"Thanks, Cap’n. If you can give me a couple of hours, I should have the I-grav smoothed out. Though it isn’t really important. I can always—"
"A couple of hours? We can do that."
A couple of hours more to make up his mind; that was good. He could use the time to wrestle with his conscience. He chuckled.
"What did you say, Cap’n?"
"Hmmm? Oh, nothing, I was just muttering to myself."
A whore for a conscience indeed!
He took himself to the bridge long enough to make sure the boat was securely buttoned up, then went back to his bunk to lie down, close his eyes, and try to think.
Chapter 8
My Own Kind of Lie
Serenity: Wash and Zoë’s quarters
He gave Zoë a kiss on the cheek, got up, and dressed. She rolled over and sighed. He smiled, made his way to the bridge, and leaned back in the pilot’s chair. He partially woke up Serenity and did some checks: nothing on the perimeter, no transmissions had come in. Good.
He tapped the intercom. "How we doing, Kaylee?"
After about ten seconds, her voice came back. "Just about there. She should be smoother into and out of real grav now. If you can give me another ten minutes, she’ll be ready to fly."
"Okay. So far as I know, we aren’t going anywhere right away."
"Why? What’s going on?"
"I wish I knew."
He sat facing the front window.
There had been times he had wanted to smack Mal hard. There had been times he would probably have done so, if he hadn’t known that Mal could and would have pummeled him into the deck without breaking a sweat. But this was different; there was something wrong with Mal, and whatever it was, it was working its way through every aspect of life on Serenity. It was like trying to fly with controls that might do what you expected, or might do something entirely different. No one could fly like that.
He’d been scared before. Many times. He’d been scared the first time he’d soloed, on his first (and only) combat mission, and more times than he could count since joining this crew. But this was different; this was intangible, and therefore much worse; this was a fear he couldn’t look at it. Something was wrong, and therefore something bad was liable to happen, and there was no telling what.
He stared out through the window, wishing he had some sort of idea, until one of the small red lights below the nav started flashing.
Serenity: Mal’s quarters
The intercom crackled and Wash’s voice emerged from it. "Mal, we have a visitor."
His eyes still closed, he found the button, pushed it. "I’ll be right up."
He opened his eyes, heaved himself up and made his way to the bridge. Wash was staring at the console, fine tuning.
"Some sort of armored vehicle," he said. "About half a click away, coming on slow. Should I deploy the guns?"
"We don’t have any guns."
"Oh, right. I keep forgetting that. Why don’t we have any guns?"
"How long to warm up and go?"
"Uh . . . two minutes, if Kaylee is ready."
If Kaylee is ready, thought Mal. Well, she’d said a couple of hours, and that usually meant ninety minutes. He checked the clock, then hit the intercom.
"Kaylee, we ready?"
"Any time, Cap’n."
"Take us up as soon as you can, Wash?"
"Out of the world?" he asked, even as he was running through the warm up.
"No, we’re just going to scoot a bit."
Wash didn’t answer. It looked like something was bothering him, but there was no time to worry about it now.
"Wash, give me sound."
It took Mal a moment to identify the sound of trees rustling in the wind, followed by a low motorized hum.
"Is it in sight yet, Wash?"
"Uh . . . no. But it has to be close. I’m trying to bring it . . . there it is."
"Yeah, all right. Armored car, single-mount squatter on it. Could be worse."
"How?"
"Well, the squat could be pointed at us."
"Isn’t it . . . ?
"Yeah, it’s turning. Are we warm?"
"We’re warm."
"Go."
Wash pushed the throttle and a roar filled the bridge.
"Mafan ni ba waitou de shengyin guandiao, Mal?" said Wash.
Mal reached forward clicked off the external, and the sound abruptly died.
"Thank you," said Wash.
"Bring us up to five clicks."
Zoë came in to the bridge. "So, we’re leaving?"
"We’re avoiding a squatter," said Mal.
"A squatter, sir?" Zoë frowned, and Mal saw her mind working
"Mounted on what looked like a frog, unmodified."
Mal watched her mind work, reconstructing the frog, and when they’d last faced one, and putting things together, and then deciding not to ask any questions.
"Bring us to the other side of town, then set us down."
"Mal, you think it was Sakarya?"
Count on Wash to ask the question Zoë chose not to.
"If it isn’t, I’m curious about who else has access to old military gear. If it is, I’m curious about why he bothered paying us first."
"Oh. Good then," said Wash. "And just why are we setting down again, seeing as how we’re paid and all?"
Count on Wash to ask the question Zoë had been choosing not to ask all day.
"The client," he said at last. "Sakarya. There are things about him, what he’s doing. I want to find out a little more before we leave."
"Oh, you mean, he might not be a real nice guy, like most of the people we work for?"
Mal glanced at him, but didn’t answer.
"Mal, when did this become our business?"
"When—"
He broke off. "Just set us down, Wash."
"Yes, sir, Captain, sir."
Mal clamped his mouth shut. He felt Zoë not looking at him. Serenity began her descent.
"Huh," said Wash. "I don’t know what Kaylee did, but this is smoother. I hadn’t even noticed the jerkiness until it was gone."
Serenity touched the ground with barely a nudge, then settled like a cat.
"Want her to sleep, Mal?"
"Same as before. Save some fuel. I don’t expect to be off world for a while, yet."
"Then you’ve decided, sir?" said Zoë.
"I’ve decided I at least want to know more. We’ll stay here and get some sleep until morning, and see if they come back. If they do, take us up again."
"Mal, why don’t we do some checking on this guy? I can at least see what’s public on the Cortex."
"No, there’s no point . . . yes there is. Good idea. Do that."
What am I afraid I’ll find out? he wondered.
Serenity: Dining room
The next morning, when Simon thought he was the only one awake, Zoë came walking through the dining room, a distracted look on her face.
He said, "Are we taking off soon?" Zoë stopped and looked at him. He continued, "We seem to have gone up, then back down. I’m wondering—"
"I don’t know. We learned something, but I don’t know what effect it will have on the Captain’s decision."
"Learned something? You mean, in the last few minutes?"
"Last night. Wash did some checking on the Cortex."
"Oh. What did we learn?"
“We learned that Sakarya is a right bastard."
"Sakarya?"
"The guy we delivered the lumber for."
"Oh. What difference does that make? I mean, we’ve worked for plenty of right bastards before."
"Not on this level. He owns everything on this side of the mountain, and runs it like a slave camp. They dig the bauxite, send it away for processing, and move the topsoil to his farms. He’s making money hand over fist from the mines here, and slave-labor on the farms. Most of the kids work on the farms."
"Kids?"
"Ages eight and up. Sometimes younger, if they’re big."
"Aren’t there laws against that?"
"Supposedly. Anyway, it isn’t pretty. In Yuva, where he lives, we don’t see the worst of it. I don’t think we want to."
"I still don’t see—"
"Neither do I. There’s something more, and I haven’t figured out what it is."
"Something more?"
"The Captain is, well, it’s like something’s bitten him. It isn’t just being here, there’s something else. Something he saw on the Cortex."
“Didn’t you—?”
“He quashed it after he looked at it.”
“You could—”
“Yes, but I won’t.”
"What did you mean about being here?”
“This world. Hera.”
“What is it . . . Oh. Yes. This is where it is, isn’t it?"
"Beg pardon?"
"Serenity Valley. It’s here, isn’t it?"
"Other side of the world."
He nodded. "Is that affecting the Captain? I mean, being here again?"
"This is the second time we’ve been here since the war. It didn’t seem to bother him much the first time."
"That’s something I’m never going to understand. I mean, what it must have been like."
"No, you never will."
"What about you? I mean, does it affect you to be back here?"
"Are you a trauma specialist, or a psychiatrist, doctor?"
"Just curious."
"Can you be curious about something else?"
"Yes. Are we going to be out of here before the feds show up looking for River?"
"Has the Captain ever failed to see that River was safe since you signed on?"
"No. But the Captain hasn’t been himself lately."
"As long as he hasn’t become Jayne, I don’t think you have anything to worry about."
"It’s hard not to worry."
"How has she been?"
They always asked that, and he never knew how to answer. How has she been? Compared with what? Ten years ago? Ten minutes ago? Did they want to know if she was recovering, or just if she were about to do something crazy?
"There haven’t been any, uh, incidents. But she says things that I can’t follow, but that I’m sure make a sort of sense to her. It’s like trying to crack a code."
"That’s been going on for a while."
"More since we landed here. She talks about ghosts, and maps."
Zoë nodded. "If she’s looking for ghosts, she came to the right world."
"I imagine. But when she talks about ghosts, I don’t know, it doesn’t make sense."
"No, ghosts don’t make sense. What’s your point?"
"Shepherd Book told me about a time she tore his Bible apart. Literally. Ripped pages out of it, because it didn’t make sense."
"And?"
"And how do you rip apart the Bible because it doesn’t make sense, but still believe in ghosts?"
Zoë leaned against the table, folded her arms, and studied him. "Doctor, aren’t you asking too much, when you expect her to be consistent?"
He sighed. How to explain? He’d been more and more getting the feeling that, in her own way, she was consistent. But Zoë wasn’t someone who responded well to people having feelings about things.
"I think she’s using ‘ghost’ as a metaphor," he said at last.
"A metaphor for what?"
"I don’t know. Maybe something she’s afraid of."
"So, what is she afraid of?"
"Being caught and sent back."
Zoë nodded.
"And," said Simon, "I think she’s afraid I’ll resent her."
"Do you?"
"Are you a soldier, or a psychiatrist?"
"Just curious. Do you resent her?"
"No . . . ."
"I heard a ‘but’ there."
"I’m afraid someday I might."
"Let someday take care of itself, doctor. We have to worry about today."
"I know," he said. "I know."
Serenity: Engine room
"Well nuts," she said to the empty engine room. "We never cleared atmo; how am I supposed to know if this works?"
Serenity was back on the ground, and seemed as disappointed about it as Kaylee. Serenity wanted to fly; she enjoyed flying. Sitting on the ground was something she had to do once in a while to get the wherewithal she needed to swim through the black.
Kaylee sighed.
She re-checked her work on the I-grav, and it seemed fine. What kept going through her mind was what would happen if she’d made some silly mistake: the first sign would be a shimmy, and then Wash would notice that he was having trouble getting lift, and then the grav-boot would just quit, and then . . . .
Wash was a good enough pilot to give them a good landing on jets alone; she was sure of it.
But it wasn’t about crashing and dying; Serenity would never do that. It was about all the little things that, if she got them wrong, might leave Serenity where she was now, on the ground; might leave her consigned to the scrap heap, and all of them without a home. The Captain took care of the crew, but without the ship, there was no crew to take care of; and that meant, suddenly, she was no more. They were all nowhere.
She hated these times when they were just sitting, giving her too much time to think.
She re-checked her work on the I-grav one more time.
Serenity: River’s room
Sometimes she dreamed that they were staring at her, from the inside. Sometimes she dreamed that they were walking around inside of her, poking her with needles. Sometimes she dreamed that Serenity was inside of her mind, which was inside of the Academy, which was inside of her mind. When that happened, she became confused.
Then she’d wake up, and she’d feel the drugs running through her, and she’d wonder what they were doing. She’d become lucid, for a while, and remind herself that she had to trust her brother, but then he would change into hands with tubes and needles, and she’d see things with her ears, or know things without knowing how; there would be voices that the drugs couldn’t keep quiet.
Sometimes the voices just spoke; sometimes they whispered, and sometimes they sang. When they spoke, it was to ask her questions she didn’t understand. When they whispered, it was secrets she didn’t want to know. When they sang, it was all numbers, and she heard the truth of the numbers but didn’t dare believe them.
And then the voices would be quiet again, leaving her with the drugs and the memories of white tile and steel and long tubes and sensations that wouldn’t go into any categories, leaving her inside of herself like a cat in a rain-soaked cardboard box.
Then the effects of the drugs would fade, leaving her with only her memories.
Then she would huddle on her bed and shiver.
Serenity: Cargo bay
She stood there and waited; he appeared in about three minutes. "I’m ready, sir," she said.
"So I see. What are you ready for?"
"To go look around, see if we can find out what’s going on."
"I do believe I’m becoming predictable."
"Yes, sir."
"Let’s go, then."
The doors slid open, and for the hundredth time, she noticed how slowly the ramp seemed to descend at times like this. For the hundredth time, she wondered how it was that she was still alive, not to mention having the use of both eyes, both ears, and all four limbs. Hell, she wasn’t even all that scarred up.
And her man liked the scars she had.
Focus, Zoë!
"Town is that way."
Zoë nodded, turned to match the Captain’s stride, then stopped. The Captain went on a pace, then stopped himself. "What is it, Zoë?"
"Sir, did you leave instructions?"
"Instructions for—?"
"For when that big moving cannon shows up here and starts shooting at Serenity while we’re in town."
The Captain blinked. "Right. Those instructions." He picked up his portable comm unit. "Wash?"
It crackled. "Yes, Mal?"
"Keep the boat warm. If there’s trouble, get up and out and keep the ship safe."
"All right."
"Wash?"
"Yes?"
"That’s an order."
"Okay."
"That means that, if you decide to ignore it again, and put my boat at risk, I will come back and break both of your arms."
"Mal, I can’t fly with broken arms."
"Make it legs, then."
"Okay, legs I can deal with."
"Wash, do it."
"All right. Understood."
"Say it back."
"If there’s trouble here, I’ll get Serenity up and safe."
"Out." He clicked off the comm. "Think he’ll do it, Zoë?"
"Fifty-fifty, sir."
"Gaisi fanshang de wangba . . . All right."
They continued walking toward Yuva. The weight of the weapon at her hip comforted her.
"Sir, mind if I ask what we’re going to do?"
"Don’t mind at all."
After another half a dozen steps she said, "I take it that you don’t have a plan."
"Don’t I always have a plan?"
"No, sir. You usually make it up as you go."
"That’s not true. I’ve had a lot of plans."
"Yes, sir."
"It’s just that they don’t always work out exactly."
"Yes, sir."
"My plan, such as it is, is to poke around and see if something comes up. In particular, I’d like to have a talk with Jayne."
"With Jayne, sir?"
"Do you know how much of this he set off?"
"No . . . ."
"Neither do I. And I’d like to."
"What do you think he might have done?"
"What were we all thinking he’d do?"
"Call in the feds on River and the doctor. But how could that have had anything to do with this?"
"I have no idea. And I’m a bit curious too. Aren’t you?"
"Now that you mention it, yes I am."
They continued walking.
How often had she wondered what would happen if and when she and Jayne had to face off? Well, now it might happen. She discovered that she was mildly curious, but not especially nervous about the idea.
"Any worries, Zoë?"
"Worries, sir?"
"About Jayne."
How did he keep doing that?
"No, sir."
No, a fight with Jayne wasn’t what she was worried about; that would go as it went. But, as she walked, she did what she had done a hundred times before: she prayed to a God in whom she just barely believed that she wouldn’t let the Captain down.
Chapter 9
My Own Kind of Choices
Yuva: Canteen
The door to the canteen swung open at noon, and he and Zoë were waiting. The bartender, keys still in his hand, glanced over his shoulder as they entered. "Well," he said, "off to an early—oh."
"I see you remember us, Mark."
He stopped a few feet from the bar, his eyes went to the comm unit next to the cash box, then he turned back. "Mal, and Zoë."
"You have a good memory for names."
"I’m not looking for trouble."
"Shiny," said Mal. "We didn’t bring any.”
"All right. I’m going back behind the bar now."
"No one is stopping you. I would take it as a kindness if you didn’t make any calls, though."
The bartender nodded, went behind the bar, and closed the flap that completed it. He dropped the keys next to the register, and turned around, moving slowly as if he had weapons trained on him. Mal and Zoë had kept their weapons holstered, but Mark clearly hadn’t forgotten.
"Okay," he said. "What’s your pleasure?"
"Just a question or two."
His eyes narrowed. "All right, ask."
"There was a fellow in here last night. Big, heavy drinker, stranger. You asked if we were with him—"
"I know who you mean."
"We’re looking for him."
"He should be easy to find."
Mal felt Zoë looking at him. Although she probably didn’t realize it, that look meant the bartender was safe; she’d never have taken her eyes off him otherwise. "Care to explain what you mean?"
"He’s either at the aid station or the lockdown. I think the lockdown; he didn’t seem to be hurt too bad."
"What happened?"
The other shrugged. "He got drunk, took a swing at me, started beating on customers. I had to call the Locals. If he was a friend of yours, I’m sorry. I didn’t have any choice. He should have had his drink down the hill, with the miners, if he wanted to cut loose. He was busting up—"
"No," said Mal. "He’s no friend. But I would like to talk to him. Any idea what the charges will be?"
"Drunk and disorderly, I suppose."
"Okay. I should see about the fine."
The bartender shifted on his feet, and looked down at the bar. "Uh, Mal . . . ."
"Mmm?"
"That isn’t how things work here."
Mal studied him, then looked at Zoë, and then back. "Okay. Maybe you’d best go ahead and explain how things do work here."
Yuva: Town jail
He managed to reach the aluminum toilet before his stomach emptied himself. He straightened up, reached the aluminum sink, and rinsed out his mouth. The taste of the water made it only barely an improvement. He made it back to the aluminum bench and stretched.
He closed his eyes, opened them, and cursed long and creatively. He took an inventory of his pains, and nothing hurt too much; the worst were the knuckles of his right hand, where he’d clocked that fat lüzi de jiba.
There was a rattle, a pause, and the door swung out. They were good—they looked before opening the door—but they unlocked it first, so they weren’t all that good.
But he wasn’t about to try anything now; he wasn’t in shape for it, and didn’t know enough.
When the door opened, there was an unarmed guard there. He swung to his feet, and saw an armed guard a few paces behind him. Okay, so they knew their business.
"Jayne Cobb?" said the guard.
Jayne waited.
"Is your name Jayne Cobb?"
He continued waiting. The guard shrugged. "You’re charged with two counts of battery and one charge of public drunkenness. Anything to say? If you aren’t Jayne Cobb, now’s the time to say so, except I was on duty last night when you were hauled in, so it doesn’t much matter."
"Anything to say? What, you’re my judge?"
The guard nodded. "We handle minor administrative matters at this level. If you’d killed someone, we’d have to—"
"Do I get a—"
"No."
Jayne glared at him. "Well, you just do what you do."
The guard nodded, and read from a clipboard. "Jayne Cobb, you are hereby sentenced to five weeks of indenture to Heracorp—"
"Indenture?" Jayne rose to his feet. The second guard took a step forward and swung his shotgun so it was a bit closer to pointing toward Jayne.
He estimated his chances. He didn’t like them. He shrugged. Five weeks in the mines wouldn’t be any fun, but he’d lived through worse. "All right," he said. "Maybe we’ll have a talk when I get out."
The guard smirked.
Jayne wasn’t always the best at reading people, but he knew what a smirk meant. He glared at the guard.
"All right, how does it work?"
"How does what wo—"
"Hump that fayu. How do they do it?"
Yuva: Canteen
"It varies," said Mark, "but there’s always something. Maybe you show up five minutes late for work, that’s another six months. Maybe you leave for lunch a minute early, that’s another six. Pushing another worker, two months; pushing at a guard, another year. Obscenity—"
"Okay," said Mal. "How do they get away with that?"
"Who’s going to stop him?"
"What, does he have an army backing him?"
“Call it a large security force.”
"Huh."
The bartender reached under the counter, but emerged with nothing more than a damp cloth, with which he absently attacked some of the splotches on the stainless steel counter in front of him. "What about you?" he said.
"Hmmm?"
"What are you doing here?"
"Delivering cut maple."
"Ahh." The bartender smiled.
"You know what it’s for?"
"It’s for me. I’ve been wanting a new place, and he’s been promising me one for most of a year now. A real saloon, made of good wood. Know what I mean? And I want swinging doors, holo windows, a dart board, a flyball booth, maybe a couple of pool tables. So, what was that ruckus about last night? Those two guys you picked on were on Mister Sakarya’s private security staff."
Mal felt a quick glance from Zoë, and checked his tongue, then said, "A personal matter."
"For your sake, I hope it stays personal."
"I’m like to feel the same way. Where is the lockdown?"
"Back of the security office, just down the street."
"The security office for the company?"
"That’s right."
"They house the lockdown for the Locals?"
The bartender nodded.
"Well. You have to like it that they make no effort to hide it."
Mark stared down at the rag in his hand.
Mal shrugged, nodded to Zoë, and they made their way out the door.
"Sir—"
"I need to talk to Jayne."
"Sir, tell me you aren’t thinking about breaking Jayne out of a lockdown."
"I just need to talk to him."
"And when they don’t let us see him, which they won’t?"
"We’ll think of something."
"Think of something, sir?"
"Yep."
"Okay. Well. Smear me with engine grease and call me Kaylee. I’m just full of optimism."
"There it is; that’s the security office. Are we supposed to knock?"
"Couldn’t say, sir."
They went in. Two men sat behind desks, facing each other. Both looked up as they entered.
"Good afternoon," said Mal. "Can you tell me where to find the lockdown?"
The bigger of the two said, "You want to be put in jail?"
"Not exactly," said Mal. "There’s someone you have here. How do I arrange to visit him?"
The two security officers looked at each other.
Two minutes later, they walked out again.
"Don’t say it, Zoë."
"I have to, sir."
Mal sighed. "All right. Say it."
"Now is when you need to think of something."
"Feel better?"
"Yes, thank you, sir."
He stopped when they got back to the street, not sure which way to turn.
"He has an army, sir."
"A small one, sure."
"To pull a jailbreak would be suicide."
"Did you see that place? You and I could walk in there and walk out with him."
"Then what? They have an army, sir."
"Well, I suppose they do, kind of."
"You don’t owe Jayne anything."
"It isn’t about owing Jayne, it’s about needing to ask him some questions."
"Sir, what makes you think he’ll answer?"
"If we break him out of jail, he’ll answer."
"Would you mind telling me what you want to ask him?"
"I’d like to find out what he might have done that set all this off."
"I think it’s safe to say he tried to call in the Alliance to get the reward on River and Simon."
"I’m sure he did, Zoë. Then what happened?"
"You think he’d know?"
"All right, Zoë. How would you suggest we find out?"
"I’d suggest, sir, that we don’t. That we get back to Serenity and get off this gorram world."
"Can’t do that, Zoë."
"Anzhao yi tou bei yange de liniu de shuzui xiwang why not?"
He closed his eyes. "Let’s go back to the canteen and have a beer while I think about this."
"Yes, sir. I’m good with two out of three."
Yuva
She matched paces with the Captain as they headed the short block toward the canteen. Her eyes never stopped moving, and her mind never stopped working.
She was, by now, very much aware that there was more than one thing going on. Yes, the Captain had been behaving oddly ever since Inara had left; but that wasn’t all of it. There was something else, and it was something that could get the Captain killed—not to mention Wash, herself, and the rest of the crew.
She was also very much aware that she was closer to the Captain than anyone else: she knew him better, and he’d accept things from her that he wouldn’t from anyone else. But there were lines that she’d never crossed, and he had put those lines there for a reason. She knew why the walls were there; she had her own walls that permitted her to live in Serenity Valley. It had taken a long series of accidents and tremendous effort to let Wash inside as far as he was. And Wash understood enough of those barriers and lines to respect them, and to love her anyway; that was how they survived.
The Captain didn’t have anyone; had consistently pushed away Inara when she’d come to close to them.
And now, it seemed, she was going to have to break those lines, or jump right over them, or none of them would get out of this.
She wasn’t sure she could do it.
The Captain opened the door, and they entered the Canteen.
Yuva: Town jail
The cell door shut with a clang. They’d be back in a while, after "processing" him, and then it was off to the mines. Was he going to have better chances of making a break here, or from the mine itself? Well, making the attempt here didn’t mean he couldn’t try later. And getting off the world, or at least off the continent, was going to be a problem in any case.
If he had the chance, he should stop by the public lockers and pick up his bags; he wanted his guns, and the cash from selling that ginseng might make the difference. Good thing he’d nabbed it.
Out of habit, he looked around the cell for anything that might become a weapon. The chair, the bed, the toilet, and the sink were all one piece and built in. The drain in the floor was welded.
He was wearing a one-piece, light blue cover-all that closed with Velcro.
On the positive side, he knew the procedure they used when opening his cell. He had a pretty good chance of taking them both out, if he was fast. Then he’d be armed. After that . . . .
How many were there? And what gorram direction did he need to go? Maybe, from the hall, he could see. The building wasn’t all that big; how hard could it be?
He closed his eyes, leaned his head back, and tried to think.
This sort of thing just never was his strength; that’s why he’d always hooked up with someone else to do the planning, to do the figuring. That’s why it had worked so well with this last crew, up until Mal had decided to be a ru aixiao de zacao de chui xia yinjing about the gorram ginseng.
No point in thinking about that now. No point in thinking about what he wasn’t good at, he had to concentrate on what he was going to do.
The door rattled, clunked, and opened.
His idea of a sudden lunge at the door vanished at once; there was a whole crowd back there.
"Here he is," said one of them.
A fat man stepped forward and said, "Ah. You."
It took Jayne a moment, but he recognized one of the two security officers from when he made the call to the Feds. "What the gorram hell do you want?"
"You’re a popular man, Mister Cobb."
"Yeah. They put up a statue of me on—"
"Pay attention. You might be able to get out of this."
Jayne glared. "All right, I’m listening."
"It’ll take some talking. Stand up and hold out your hands."
He hesitated, looked at the odds again, and cooperated. They manacled his wrists, then attached those to fetters, and locked both to his belt, permitting him to take small steps, and hardly to move. They led him out of the cell, three in front of him, two behind. The two behind him held shotguns, and he could tell by their footsteps that he wouldn’t have had much of a chance to get to them even if he hadn’t been hobbled.
He kept close track of where they’d gone anyway, just in case.
They reached a small office. The fat one gestured Jayne inside, then said, "Wait here," to the others, and shut the door.
"Go ahead, Mister Cobb. Sit down. Let’s see if we can do some business."
"You got the guns. I’m listening."
"Did you know you’re wanted for questioning in the murder of an Alliance officer, and aiding the escape of two fugitives?"
"What? I never killed no—"
"Maybe not, but one was found dead in a hospital on Ariel, with skin under his fingernails that matches your DNA."
Jayne felt a scowl growing on his face, and tried his best to suppress it.
"Fortunately," the officer continued, "we’re not Alliance. We don’t much care what you did on Ariel. We have you good for what you did right here."
"What, getting drunk?"
"Didn’t they tell you the charges?"
"They told me."
"So you understand your situation."
"What’s the gorram offer?"
"Yesterday, you came into my office and demanded contact with the Alliance, and then we find you have a record of having murdered a Federal officer."
The office had a glass window, and didn’t look like it was intended to be secure. But there were those restraints. This guy had the key. He measured the distance across the desk.
"So what’s going on with you and the Alliance?"
"What, I tell you that, and you let me go?"
"Let’s just say it’s a start."
"What’s the rest?"
The officer shook his head. "No. Tell us what you know, then we’ll talk."
Jayne considered his options. There appeared to be exactly two: he could tell them what he knew, and hope they kept up their end of the bargain, or he could lunge across the desk at this guy, hoping to take him down in spite of the restraints, and get a weapon from him, and get himself unlocked before reinforcements showed up, and then fight his way out.
Either way, he didn’t like it much.
Yuva: Warehouse
He leaned back in his chair, staring at pictures of Simon and River Tam, along with pertinent facts. On another screen was the translated readout of a secure and heavily coded file detailing certain relationships between Parliament and the Blue Sun Corporation.
Special Deputies dispatched to Yuva, on Hera.
Yeah, okay, great.
Now what?
He deleted all references to his research, and certainly the results, from his machine, and then went over it again to remove the electronic traces that he’d even been looking for them. He was thorough; it took a good two hours to do, but this was something he was good at. When he was finished, all the information he’d gathered was gone.
Except that he still remembered it.
Now what?
Serenity: River’s room
Two by two, hands of blue.
They were coming. And if they reached her, they would take her back, and she’d never get out again.
She didn’t want to go back. More than anything, she didn’t want to go back.
But there were the ghosts, too.
She had told them about the ghosts, but they hadn’t listened. They couldn’t listen, because they didn’t have the math to understand, and she recognized that the one skill she didn’t have was that of a teacher. The Shepherd had been able to teach, but his path of probability had led to different intersections, so now there was no one to teach, and they had to learn if they were to deal with the ghosts.
She couldn’t deal with the ghosts, because they weren’t her ghosts. She could maybe help them deal with the ghosts, but if she did . . . .
Two by two, hands of blue.
She didn’t hear him come in, but when she looked up, he was there, his face, as always, smiling, and worried.
"Mei-mei, are you all right?"
He asked it as if it were a question that could be answered, as if an infinity of variables could be encompassed in a single constant. She struggled to translate, to simplify, to determine essence, and to rephrase the question into terms that could become a single, determinate answer that he would understand, and that would be as little a lie as she could manage.
"I’m torn between probability vectors with mutually exclusive benefits and the likely destruction of different targets and I can’t find a trajectory that avoids all of the negative outcomes without a radical shift in the entire matrix, which we haven’t the capability to carry out anyway, and I have a headache."
Simon hesitated. "I’ll get you something for the headache," he said.
Yuva: Canteen
Mark gave them their beers and then acted as if they’d never met. Mal led Zoë to a corner table and sat down.
"It’s a bad idea, sir," she said.
"Most like it is."
"Okay. How are we going to do it?"
"I guess we should see if Wash can find us a layout of the local lockdown."
He felt Zoë studying him. "You don’t like this either, do you sir?"
"Not all that much."
"Is it really necessary?"
"Your beer’s getting warm."
"Thank you, sir. I wouldn’t want to get killed with the taste of warm beer in my mouth."
"Zoë—"
"Maybe I should order a raw egg."
"Zoë–"
"Think they have raw eggs here? I mean, real ones?"
"Zoë—"
"A fake egg in my beer before dying wouldn’t be at all the same thing. Don’t you agree, sir?"
"Zoë, what the gorram hell are you doing?"
"Trying to figure out what the gorram hell you are doing, sir. I can’t back your play if I can’t see it."
"Zoë, I can’t—"
"You need to let me in, sir. I can’t help from the outside. Not this time."
Mal leaned back in his chair and stared at his beer, trying to keep all expression off his face, so Zoë wouldn’t see that he was feeling the walls closing in. She waited, silent, with all the patience she’d learned in the war, waiting for attacks that they knew were coming, but never knew when or what form they’d take.
Patience was a powerful force. They drank their beers and waited for each other.
Eventually, Mal started speaking.
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