The Treasure of Lei Fong Wu

Chapter Eighty-Seven

“No one’s chasing us, no one’s shooting at us, and we’re all present and accounted for. Course set for Wendover Station, Cap’n,” Wash said with a great deal of relief and a flamboyant flourish, as he locked the stick into place and consigned their fates to the automatic pilot. “It should take us at least two weeks to get there. Two long, boring, nobody’s-shooting-at-us-for-a-change weeks.” He looked up with a tired but eternally goofy grin. “Not that I’m, y’know, complaining. It was fun, in a pee-your-pants sorta way. But I’m looking forward to nothing more exciting than Zoe’s interpretation of Irish stew for a fortnight, truth be told.” Mal slapped him good-naturedly on his shoulder. “I’da thunk you’d be sufferin’ buyer’s remorse. With Zoe outa the picture, you’d stand to inherit her share.” “I’d just blow it all on toys and trinkets,” he dismissed. “Hell, I’d spent the vast bulk of it on booze an’ grief therapy, so she’s actually saved me money in the long run.” He shook his head. “No regrets. I got her back, and by all rights I shouldn’t have. All it took was a suicidal flight plan, the most brilliant piloting of my life, a king’s ransom . . . and a Captain crazy enough to play ‘chicken’ with a tactical nuclear weapon.” He rubbed his eyes tiredly. “Jesus, this one’s gonna be worth a whole binge full o’ drinks when we get back to not-quite-civilization.” “If anyone believes you,” reminded Mal. “Yeah,” agreed the pilot. “They still don’t believe me about the whole geese juggling thing. Gorram it Mal, I saw it! They were juggled!” Wash considered. “But they’ll believe it when a couple of Alliance cruisers show up and pound the Sun Tzu to dust. Battle like that, they won’t be able to sweep under the rug.” “Which reminds me,” Mal said, gently grabbing Wash’s arm and encouraging him to get up out of the pilot’s chair. “I believe you have some catchin’ up to do with the missus. I’ll take the watch – I want to let our boy Johnny to know about the heat comin’ his way.” “Yeah, I got that, y’know, thing I gotta do,” Wash stammered as he climbed up and headed for his bunk. “Be gentle,” Mal called out as he took the chair. “I hear prison changes a woman.” Mal waited until he heard the door to their bunk close before he punched up the wave code he’d been given for the Sun Tzu. They were safely away from the distortion effect caused by Hecate’s primary, and the monster warship had ample power to boost their own signal. It would be another week before they were in comfortable range of the cortex, proper, but they could manage a link. In moments the kindly face of Heavenly Master Lei swam before him in the monitor, a number of yellowcoated Guardsmen working behind him like so many giant, deadly bublebees. The old man looked tired. “Captain Reynolds!” the old monk grinned. “I can only hope this means that you were successful?” “Just like we planned. Made it through the planet, went toe-to-toe with the Relentless, and ransomed our people back. Thanks for the nuke, by the way.” “We had a few to spare,” dismissed the monk. “I am gratified to hear about your escape and glad we could help. The Empire owes you and yours a debt of gratitude – one that cannot be paid out in platinum.” “It was a fair deal all around,” Mal said, shrugging. “I didn’t loose by it. Came out ahead with enough coin to keep us going for a couple months with no worries. Will have to buy another mule, o’course . . . but that weren’t why I called. While we were chattin’ with the Hammer Group, they let slip that you’re attracting attention of the purple variety. Best guess, at least a brace o’ cruisers within three days. Maybe four, with luck.” “We suspected as much,” agreed the monk, nodding. “We are moving as fast as we can on restoring main power and getting the engines on-line. We will be in an even better position, once the Revenge arrives, which should be in a day or so. With luck and the Way,” he added. “Well, good luck with that,” nodded Mal. “And thanks for a wonderful time. Have fun building an Empire.” “To be honest, the whole enterprise sounds completely tiring,” admitted the Heavenly Master. “I’m glad that my young nephew has such . . . energy.” “Speaking of whom, is he about? Like to fill him in, personally.” “Um, he’s off being . . . energetic with his new bride. And while I’m sure he’d come, I’d be hesitant to interrupt the new Emperor on his honeymoon.” “No, no, you’re exactly right. Kid deserves five minutes of wedded bliss. Still, you wish him an’ his bride the best, let him know we all made out OK.” “Take care. Captain. Walk in the Way.” “You do the same,” Mal said as he ended the transmission. After the image faded from the monitor, he leaned back in the chair and stared out at the Black through the screen. His board was green, all the way across. The recent strain on the grav drive hadn’t apparently had any lasting effect on the ship’s systems – these Firefly’s were tough. The hum of the reactor, the shiver of the main drive, the understated hiss of the ventilation, the random-seeming beep of the instruments – it was music to his ears. “Good to be home again,” he sighed with satisfaction as he dozed off, his feet on the board.

*

*

*

“You learned . . . some things . . . in prison . . . I see,” Wash panted heavily as he fell back on his pillow. “Otherwise . . . you’ve been . . . holdin’ out . . . on me,” he finished, wiping the thick sheen of sweat from his brow. “Me?” Zoe asked, her eyes widening. “Me? When you . . . did that thing . . . with your . . . my God, Husband!” she said. “That was . . .” “I know, I know, I was saving it for our fifth anniversary, but I figured the occasion merited a little somethin’ extra.” “We’re gonna have to do that one again,” vowed Zoe. “A couple o’ times! I gotta take some notes!” “Plenty of time for applause after my heart comes back to normal.” “What got into you?” Zoe asked, softly. “One little fighter plane, and suddenly you’re Hoban the Barbarian?” “What can I say?” he admitted with a small grin. “You aren’t the only one who appreciates a classy piece of hardware.” “If you’re referring to my artificial husbands in the nightstand, I—” “Your guns, Zoe,” Wash corrected. “Me an the battery-operated fellas have a truce. But every time you come back from a job, you ‘bout cripple me with your . . . passion. I think it’s your guns. Read up on some psychology . . . plenty of precedent for it. I’m the same way, I guess, only about antique fighters. It was dangerous, I was dashing, and it really put the whole biological urge thing into overdrive. Sorry if I bruised you.” “If that’s overdrive, let’s keep it up ‘till the gears melt!” “Peace, Wife!” insisted Wash, holding up a hand in mock horror. “I gotta catch my breath and inspect for chafing!” “You’ll heal. This is nice. This is good. I like this,” she said, snuggling back into the sheets with a contented sigh. There was several moments of comfortable silence, during which Zoe thought she might have heard a muted snore. She smiled smugly and rose, not bothering to cover herself as she went to the locker and retrieved a bottle of brandy. She looked back fondly at her husband, who was starting to drool a little. “My poor, tired baby,” she said, gently smiling. She had kept her voice low, but apparently not low enough to escape his attention in the twilight of sleep. “Baby? Sure, we can have a baby,” he muttered. “What?” Zoe said, freezing with the flask halfway to her mouth. “What?” Wash asked, confused, his eyes open. “A baby?” “What baby?” he asked, the confusion turning to panic. “You said, ‘sure, we can have a baby,’ clear as day!” she accused. “I what?” “Baby.” “What baby?” “That’s what I want to know. Your subconscious apparently wants to have a baby.” “My subconscious smokes hemp! Ai ya, Wife, it just told you what you wanted to hear. You can’t hold that against me!” “The hell I can’t! ‘What I wanted to hear?’” Zoe asked, repeating the sentence with obvious scorn. “So this whole time, you’ve just been telling me what I wanted to hear?” “No! Yes! No!” Wash declared, fervently. The fear in his voice and terror in his eyes grew greater with every word, as he realized, too late, what a hopeless situation he was in. “My subconscious did,” he explained carefully. “Not me. It.” “I hear you two are close,” she spat, her eyes narrowed. “Not nearly as much as I should be – baby!” he pleaded. “Yes, that was the issue, wasn’t it. A baby. A baby you said you were considering. That your subconscious obviously has an opinion about. But a baby which your very own mouth just admitted you were talking about because ‘that’s what I want to hear.’ You son of a bitch,” she said, coolly. “Now, honey, we just had really, really great sex after both nearly dying – doesn’t that count for something?” he whined. “Apparently that’s all you need my vagina for,” she said with menace. She looked around at their cramped quarters and sighed in frustration. “All this time . . . when I was thinking you were actually considering it . . .” “I am! I was! I – ” he rolled his eyes and flopped back on the pillow. “For this, I jump in a fighter plane, fly through a planet, and give up a fortune?” “You aren’t going to wiggle out of this by being heroic, asshole,” she warned. “When I think about how much powder I’ve burned in my heart over this . . .” She spied Wash’s dinosaur collection on the shelf, neatly separated out, carnivores and herbivores, and then neatly sorted by era. It was about the only aspect of Hoban Washburn’s life that showed any measure of organization. “While you sat there, playing with toys, I thought maybe that you were thinking about a child to play with,” she said, approaching the plastic saurians. “No, sweetness, don’t do anything—” he said, alarmed. “But no, you were too busy being a child yourself to think beyond that,” she said, hefting a brachiosaur in her hand. “Too busy playing with toys and being selfish to think about me, or our marriage, or our kids that you don’t want to have,” she said, her eyes slits. “Well I just came through fire and blood, Husband, and I don’t want to leave this ‘verse without leaving a little bit of me behind. And I resent—” she said, raising her voice and tossing the toy inartfully at Wash’s head, where it narrowly missed. She grabbed another almost instantly. “I resent the time you have wasted--!” she said, and hurled another, and reloaded with a handful of small carnivores from the Jurassic. “I resent the anguish and doubt you have raised in me--!” she said, and flung them at his head, where not a few connected. She grabbed the T.Rex, a magnificent specimen of the blown-mold plastic arts, and waved it threateningly. “All this time, I thought you thought maybe I was unworthy, that I wouldn’t make a good mother--!” “That’s, that’s crazy talk, woman!” Wash protested holding up his hands to protect his eyes. “Let’s talk about this! I never said—” But Zoe wasn’t in a mood for a frank and earnest discussion. Hearing his sleepy admission – and then his instant retraction – had enflamed her, and she smacked him in the chest with the Tyrannosaur. “You selfish bastard!” she declared. “I should shoot you – in the leg – for putting me through that!” “And that’s your solution to everything, isn’t it?” he tossed back with a snarl. “Because that works so well in child-rearing. All the experts say so,” he taunted. He had clearly had enough – when his biggest meat eater had been used against him, it had quit being about abject supplication. “Maybe if you’d given me half a chance, you’d find out what kind of mother I’d be!” she screeched. “Instead of whining about ‘it’s too dangerous!’ and ‘space is no place to raise a child!’ That’s feh hua, mister, and you know it!” “I said I had my reasons, and you riding roughshod over me every time I try to talk about them ain’t helpin’ my disposition!” he shot back. “Good God, we had to be in the middle of a firefight to even discuss my issues! Does that sound like good parenting to you, babe? ‘Cause I’m leaning towards the ‘dysfunctional’ side of the bell curve, if you ask me!” “Did you ever give it a serious though?” she demanded. “Did you? Or did you just decide to keep recycling the same lame-ass excuses to string me along, play me out for more sex and attention?” “That’s a gorram lie,” he growled. “You say that to steamroll me! Make me cower in the corner while you get your way! Not on this one, wifey! This is a kid, we’re talking about, another human being! One I get fifty percent responsibility for! And it doesn’t make sense to rush into a decision like that without figuring some crap out first! Jesus, will you listen to yourself?” “Don’t tell me to--!” she said, flipping an ankylosaur and an ichthyosaur at him in rapid succession. The wide shell of the smaller dino smacked him in the nose. “Gorram! That hurt!” he protested. “I’m sick of it, Hoban!” she shrieked. “Sick of it! You can’t string me along like this! I won’t,” she said zinging an iguanodon at him, “let life,” she continued, flinging a montanoceratops he had picked up on Persephone at his chest, “pass us,” she stated as his prized stegosaurus followed, “by!” she finished, grabbing the largest of the herbivores, the giant plastic apatosaurus. Even as she threw it, square at his head, she realized something was wrong. It wasn’t light, like the smaller toys. It was heavy – a lot heavier than she had thought. Her arm had adjusted automatically, and the extra emotion she had been feeling had made it a particularly heartfelt throw. The big toy flew like a hammer and struck Wask just above his right temple, where it exploded a shower of blood. Wash gave a single moan and fell back, senseless. “Oh my God, baby!” she cried, hand to her mouth. She was at his side in an instant, pressing the edge of the sheet against his wounded head. “Baby! I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean—” “I’ll –- uh! – I’ll be Okay – easy there!” he protested as she sopped up the blood. “Direct pressure,” she said apologetically. “Scalp wounds always bleed a hell of a lot,” she explained. “Good to know,” Wash said, his eyes rolling back in his head a bit. “Ow!” he complained, as if suddenly realizing something. “You hit me!” “I know, and I’m sorry, so sorry baby!” she pleaded. “I didn’t mean to!” “Yes, you did!” Wash countered, taking over the blood mopping duties. “Are you all right? How many fingers am I holding up?” “I’m – ouch! – I’m fine. I’ll live, I think. Though some ice might be appropriate, don’t you think? And a bandage that isn’t a bedsheet?” he complained. “Right, oh, baby, I’m sorry!” she repeated, getting up and heading for the tiny fridge. “What I can’t understand is why—” she stopped on the way, and knelt by the broken dinosaur. It had split in half, and the reason for its unexpected mass was revealed. A large roll of coins – platinum specie, she noted absently – was within, wrapped in a piece of plain paper (the emergency supply and systems report form that everyone was supposed to fill out but no one ever did). She reached for the paper, while mentally counting the coins in the pile that had not been flung around the room. At least three dozen, she estimated. “What . . . the hell?” she muttered to herself as she unfolded it. “Wasn’t there going to be ice in my immediate future?” Wash wined. “My God, I’ve been wounded by an . . . apatosaur say Zoe, did the little guy make it?” he asked nervously. “They’re hard to come by . . .” The paper was divided into two sides, left and right. On the left were a number of names, all male. On the right there were girls’ names. She noticed that Jayne had been on the left, and then circled and moved right by means of an arrow and a little ‘ha!’ drawn over it. Baby names. “Oh,” Wash said, his voice subdued. “Oh. You found that.” “What the hell?” she asked. “Honey, I didn’t mean . . . the money, I know, I kinda took a little out of our stock when you weren’t looking . . .” “What the hell?” she repeated, mystified. “. . . it was, it was just a little at a time, and I know that’s against our rules, but I didn’t want us to get to a place . . .” “What the hell?” “ . . . you know, where we might be thinking about it, and say, ‘gee, if we only had saved a little money from our daring lives of crime’ and regretted it . . .” “What the hell?” she asked, shocked, and a little more forcefully. “ . . . so I figured, y’know, when the time came, I could come out with a big plastic toy full of platinum as kind of a surprise, you see . . .” “What the hell!” “. . . and I would say, all heroic and forethoughtful and the like, I’d say, ‘see, I saved a little, enough for a little house or apartment, maybe,’ and you would be surprised, and . . .” “What the hell are you . . . ?” “ ‘Surprise . . . ?’” he offered, lamely. Zoe looked down at the list. “All this time . . .” she murmured. Then she looked up sharply. “You are not naming my baby ‘Oswald!’” she insisted. “Zoe, put that stuff down,” Wash insisted. “You’ve been . . . planning – Hoban Washburn, you don’t plan a gorram thing that ain’t ship related . . . !” “I know, I was just, y’know, fantasizing, or something,” he mumbled. “And here you go and have . . . looks like enough for . . . well, it’s a lot, for us . . . you were planning, and making lists of baby names, and all this time I thought you were just playing on my emotions . . .” “I told you I was considering it,” he said, miserably. “I was. I am. I just . . .” “You really were,” she conceded. “Baby, I’m sorry I doubted you,” she finished, and came back to the bed. “Ice?” he chirped as her lips met his. The kiss was long and slow and full of feeling. The passion that they felt for each other, wrapped in an excitement and an expectation of something new, something that was of each of them, yet greater than them both. It enrapt them as they kissed, and it was only when Zoe’s hand crept up to caress her husband’s head and inadvertently touched his wound, making him break the kiss with a wince. “Ow,” he said, looking at her. “Ice,” she repeated. “No,” Wash said, setting his hand on her arm as she started to get up. His face looked thoughtful, as if he had come to some decision. “No. Screw the ice. Come with me,” he said, rising unsteadily. “What --?” she asked, confused. “Just come with me,” he said, taking her hand and pulling her up. “Wash, you feelin’ all right?” she asked suspiciously. “Woman, just follow, all right?” he said, forcefully, as he pulled her towards the ladder. “Wait! Where are we going?” she asked, inadvertently laughing at his seriousness. “The infirmary,” he said, firmly. “Come on.” “You need the Doc to check it out? Does it hurt that bad?” “Zoe. Come now.” “All right, baby. Don’t you want to put on some shorts or something? We’re both naked,” she reminded. “I don’t care. Let’s go. Let’s do this.” “All right, here, let me help you up the ladder,” she said, realizing that her husband may have, indeed, gotten a concussion. Forty-odd ounces of platinum massed a fair amount. Wash went up steady as a rock, though she wasn’t used to seeing his bare, hairy ass from this angle, she noted. Still, she prepared for him to faint at any moment, and breathed a little sigh of relief when they both were up the ladder. “We’re still naked,” she reminded him. “No talk now,” he said with a grunt, taking her hand and leading her back to the infirmiry. “Honey, people will talk,” she murmured as they passed by Kaylee, who was headed towards the bridge. She smiled, giggled, and waved. “Let them.” Zoe blushed. They arrived at the infirmary without further incident, where Simon was sorting out the random mess of medical equipment they had salvaged from the Sun Tzu. He looked up as they entered, and froze, staring, unable to look away. “Can I help you?” he asked, then saw the blood on Wash’s face. “Oh, for the love of – can’t you two keep it gentle once in a while?” he complained, grabbing a gauze packet and peeling it off. “I know you’re happy to see each other and all . . .” “Doc, thanks, Doc, no, Doc,” Wash said, patiently, as Simon padded his tender wound with the antiseptic bandage. “Doc! We’re not here for me,” he explained. Simon looked at him, then slowly looked at Zoe’s naked, lush flesh. “I . . . see. I don’t see any blood . . . just where did you . . .?” he said carefully, after swallowing nervously. “Doc, no, it’s not like that,” Wash continued to explain. “No, she’s not hurt. I’m not hurt much. But that’s not why we’re here. I want you to take it out. Now.” “What?” Simon asked, still unable to take his eyes off of Zoe. “Take it out. It’s in her left ass cheek. About five inches down, and three away from—” “Yes, yes, I’m sure I’ll find it. What am I finding?” “Her birth control device.” “What?” Simon asked. “What?” Zoe repeated. “You heard me. Her birth control device. I know it’s there. I’ve felt it sometimes. And she’s got this tiny scar . . .” “Right,” agreed Simon. “You want me to take out my . . .” “Yep. Yank it out.” “Why?” Zoe asked, mystified. “Because,” explained Wash, who seemed totally unconcerned about his nudity, “I’m tired of having this same luh suh argument over and over again. I realized out on the Marauder, when I thought I was going to die, that life is too short for wasting time on crap like that. We argue about it, but we both know nothing is going to happen if we wait to agree on it. So I say screw it: take the damn thing out. Leave it to Fate, or Mother Nature, or God, or Kuan Yin, or whomever. But leaving it in, that just means we keep arguing, keep covering the same ground over again. No future in it.” “So you’re going to try to have a child to avoid an argument?” Simon asked, confused. “I’m kind of passive aggressive like that,” Wash admitted. “Baby, are you sure?” she asked, her voice wavering. “Yep. Damn sure. I might be wrong, but I’m not unsure. Take it out.” “But . . . I’ll have monthlies again,” she warned. “I can take it,” Wash insisted. “I can get pretty . . . intense,” she said, doubtfully. “Don’t care,” Wash dismissed. “Take it out.” “But . . . are you sure?” she repeated, her lip quivering. “Gorram it, Wife, we almost died out there this time. I had some time to think it over. I made some decisions. Here we stand, on the edge of a metaphorical cliff, and it’s time for you to make a few. Put up or shut up. Either you crawl up on that table and let the Doc take it out –” Something suddenly occurred to him. “You can take it out, can’t you? You studied . . . women parts?” “Yes, I took Women Parts 101. It seemed a good choice at the time,” Simon said, a little snidely. “You know, about half of the human race are women? Interesting fact.” “Great. Anyway, either you crawl up on that table and let the Doc take it out, or we never have this discussion again. Do it now. Or never. But let’s quit agonizing over it and live our lives.” “Um . . . I . . . if . . . I . . . okay,” Zoe said, meekly. “I’ll do it.” Simon raised his eyebrows and adjusted the chair, then patted it. “Might be a little cold,” he warned. “What kind of device is it?” “Oviban,” Zoe said quietly as she stretched out on the chair. “Standard military issue.” “Not the best,” admitted Simon as he pulled on a pair of gloves. “In some women they cause hair growth and breast tenderness.” “Never had a problem,” she declared. Simon bent and stared at her broad brown backside. He stared with the eye of a clinician, though, not with lust in mind. He scanned the area until he found the scar, then rubbed it with betadine. “I’ll give you a local,” he decided. “It feels like it’s just subcutaneous, not too deep in the muscle tissue.” “Hold my hand, baby?” Zoe asked. She was suddenly scared. “Sure thing,” Wash agreed, and took her hand in his. “A little pinch . . . there. It should numb up in a moment.” “You didn’t even wince,” Wash said, admirably. “Believe it or not, it wasn’t as bad as having a bullet removed.” “I’d believe it.” “Big step, Husband.” “Overdue step, Wife. You deserve this. I owe you this, and if it’s the one thing I can give you, I should.” “Ouch! A little warning would be nice!” she said, sharply, looking back over her shoulder. “Sorry,” Simon said. “Just prepping the area.” “Be careful with that!” Wash said with mock seriousness. “I might need it later!” “You people are weird,” pronounced the doctor as he chose a scalpel from the tray. “I’m going to cut now. Prepare yourself. Bite any convenient bullet.” “He’s a funny guy,” Wash remarked solemnly. “I find that an important quality in my physician,” agreed Zoe nervously. “Yes . . .” Simon said, as he pulled the magnifier in front of the wound site. “I’m a laugh riot. Stay utterly still for a moment, now, or things might get real . . . painful . . .” “I . . . you know what this means to me,” Zoe said, quietly. “No,” Wash said, shaking his head. “But I know what it means to us.” “Big step. Da bien wah.” “”Da bien wah,” agreed her husband. “And that,” Simon said, pulling a small plastic oval less than three centimeters wide from the wound, “is that. A few stitches and an adhesive bandage and you’ll be on your way.” “That was quick,” Wash said. “Are you sure that’s all of it?” “It’s all one piece,” Simon explained. “Restoration of fertility might take a few weeks, or it might take months. And I warn you, the chances of a blighted ovum, resulting in miscarriage, are pretty high for the first few months. I’ll do some research when we get into cortex range again and let you know what else to expect. There, you’re done. Pay the nurse on the way out.” “I’m done?” Zoe asked. “She’s done?” Wash asked. “She’s well on her way to being a baby making machine,” observed Simon. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to figure out where to put three hundred knee braces in here. So get out. Go have sex or something. You’ve got maybe an hour before the anesthesia wears off, and after that you’re going to be tender there for a few days. So go enjoy it while you can.” “So I can have babies now?” Zoe asked as she got up. “Not this very minute, no. But I restored your fertility.” “Hear that, baby?” she said, sweetly. “I can have babies now. Regret it, yet?” Wash looked her up and down. “No, ma’am. You’re gonna make the prettiest babies in the ‘verse, just wait. And lots of them.” “But none named ‘Oswald’,” she reminded him. ”But that’s a great name!” Wash protested, as he leaned down for a long, wet kiss.. “I had an uncle Oswald.” “C’mon, get out!” Simon urged. “I’ve got to inventory this stuff, figure out what’s even going to be effective after a hundred and twenty years, and then see the preacher for a check up in an hour. Go procreate somewhere else!” “You heard the man,” Zoe said, softly, as she broke the kiss. “Let’s go make some babies!” “That’s what I want to spend the rest of my life doing,” agreed Wash. “Ain’t no man happier in the ‘verse, either. “If you two don’t leave, I’m calling Jayne in to watch,” the doctor pronounced. The threat was effective. The Washburns giggled and scampered back towards their bunks, looking to Simon like a middle-aged nymph and a saggy satyr frolicking through a dark and seedy freighter. “You people are weird,” he repeated to himself as he watched them go. “How much longer will it take out here until I’m like one of you, I wonder?”