The Treasure of Lei Fong Wu

Chapter Eighty-Eight

“Forty . . . four . . . million?!” Jayne asked, his eyes the size of saucers. “They traded . . .” Book nodded, chuckling to himself. As soon as they were safely underway, Jayne had insisted on a cup of coffee, and the Shepherd was happy to keep him company. “Truth. Want me to swear on a stack of Bibles? I can arrange it.” “We got paid . . . and they . . . what the hell were they thinking?” he asked, astonished. “I mean, I can see them comin’ in swingin’, guns blazin’, maybe get themselves all killed tryin’ to rescue . . . but to actually pay real coin . . .” “Don’t look to me for guidance. I knew it was the right thing to do . . . I just didn’t know if the Captain was the right man to do it. A lesser man would’ve headed for the horizon. You got a real friend, there,” Book nodded. “I can’t believe it! He had that kinda coin, and he blew it . . .” “On your sorry ass, yes,” Book finished. “I figure you’re about the most expensive two-bit gunman on the Rim, now. Make a good story beside the ‘Hero of Canton’ one. ‘The Forty Million Credit Ass Master,’ maybe they’ll call it.” “Ya think?” Jayne asked, dazed. “I can pretty much assure it. ‘Least, that’s how I’ll tell it. You were worth over four million there, for about half a day.” “I don’t feel no different,” Jayne observed dully. “Well, then it didn’t really matter, now did it?” “Jesu—,” Jayne began, then stopped when Book looked up at him sharply. “Goodness, Shepherd,” he corrected, a hint of deliberate sarcasm in his voice. “How can you possibly think that forty million Federal credits doesn’t matter, somehow?” “Boy, you never had it in your pocket. You’re a free man with your skin intact. Consider that you could have taken a stroll out an airlock, or been extradited to any one of the number of jurisdictions that would like a word for you. Is your life and your freedom worth forty four million?” “Well, Shepherd, when you put it like that . . .” Jayne said, his voice still doubtful. “Actually,” Mal said, as he wandered in from the Bridge, “Figurin’ that there were three of you, and bein’ charitable and considerin’ y’all of equal worth, it comes up to ‘bout fourteen million apiece, with enough change to buy an estate on Persephone,” he said as he wandered over to the coffeepot. “Your cut of the take was as close to four million as makes no nevermind, minus expenses and sundries. I’m assumin’ you didn’t mind us using your cut as part of the ransom, so let’s round down ‘cause I have such a generous nature and say that we, the gang, as an organization, loaned you ten million Federal for your ransom. You can pay us off in small monthly installments,” he finished with his I’m-jokin-but-not-really grin. “Ten million? I – what about Zoe?” he demanded. “An’ the Doc?” “Zoe an’ Wash together would’ve got about eight, nine million. So their debt is closer to five million. But we’ll work that out.” “Mal!” Jayne howled. “You can’t ‘spect me to come up with ten million! Hell, I had that kinda coin I wouldn’t be ridin’ through the Rim in a leaky boat with your sorry ass!” “Be that as it may,” Mal said, pouring himself a cup, “I wanted to put it in perspective for you. Me an’ mine sacrificed a whole helluva lot to redeem you, and I want you to be good an’ aware of that.” “So why do I gotta pay ‘cause ya’ll were stupid? What kinda fair is that?” “Preacher, it say anything in that book o’ yours about the ‘verse bein’ fair?” “Nary a word,” agreed Book, grinning at Jayne’s discomfort. “There you go,” Mal said. “Now, will that be a ten or fifteen year repayment plan? And I think we can settle on a reasonable interest rate, considerin’ we’re all friends and such.” “What the hell!?” Jayne protested, gape-mouthed. “Interest?” “You’re an investment, Jayne,” Mal said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Not a very good one, I admit, but then again I was never very good with my money.” “So all that shootin’ an’ feats of heroics and general ass-kickin’, an’ I came out in debt?” “Now, Jane, it weren’t a total bust. His Highness left you a li’l somethin’ on your bunk. Maybe you can use it to buy down your debt.” “Johnny left me a . . . ? Well what is it?” “Hell, I don’t know. I was a bit too busy plannin’ the most daring rescue in human history to give it a full inspection. Maybe cigars? Booze? Candy?” “I guess I’ll just go take a peek,” Jayne said eagerly. “Maybe he found another freeze-dried whore up in the ship . . .” he said as he shot up and left. “That boy . . .” Book said, shaking his head and laughing. “You going to hold him to account on that debt?” “Gonna make him think I am. Keep him in line a bit. As homicidal psychopaths go, he’s fair useful.” “So he is,” agreed Book. Mal peered over at the table where he sat, at the pile next to the preacher’s coffee. “You doin’ a little light readin’?” “A parting gift from Shan Yu,” Book explained. “His last two books. A literary legacy with which I find myself the uncomfortable bearer.” “Well ain’t that nice and . . . creepifying?” Mal said after a thoughtful pause. “Think if a man what tortured me offered me an autographed copy of his newest book, I might find it hard to remain an objective critic.” “There was a time in my life when I would have leapt upon these like a starving man would a fresh dumpling. Now, I find myself reluctant to even open them,” he admitted. “Hell, do yourself a favor and give ‘em to the Black,” suggested Mal. “ ‘Verse got along just fine without ‘em for a hundred and twenty years; occurs to me it could survive a mite longer without more of his poison.” “Now, in his defense,” Book insisted, “he does have a flair for the poetic, no matter how grisly his subject matter. Still, you might be right. I’ll make that decision after I’ve read them, though.” “You got guts, Shepherd,” agreed Mal. “I admit, I’m concerned about your well-being, after an ordeal like that.” “Aw, don’t let it concern you, son,” Book said, kindly. “He wasn’t near as rough on me as Niska was on you and Wash. I’ve had worse.” “Perhaps. When you were a younger man,” added Mal. “The Lord put me where I needed to be, and gave me the strength I needed to get through it,” Book said softly. “As a younger man, I couldn’t have said as much.” He looked up sharply. “I’m not the only one who went through an ordeal, however. Not everyday a man is handed a fortune and then faced with the temptation to keep it, when his friends are in peril. That was a fair noble piece of work back there, son.” Mal shrugged, uncomfortably. “It’s only money. We’ve gone long time without it. We’ll get by. As long as Kaylee can keep her in the sky, and we can keep victuals in the kitchen and fuel in the tank, we’ll be fine.” “Don’t play the casual vagabond with me, boy,” Book said, shaking his head. “I know full well what that much coin meant.” He gave Mal a long, searching look. “You can deny it, to me, to God, even yourself. Don’t stop it being the truth.” Mal’s ordinarily cocky, self-assured façade cracked, just the smallest amount. He looked away. “One could say,” he said, carefully and deliberately, “that a measure o’ wealth such as that may have been enough to purchase the fulfillment of a body’s dreams.” He cleared his throat poignantly. “A body has a dream, though, mayhap it’s best it stay a dream,” he concluded, the barest hint of sadness in his voice. “Mayhap a body don’t deserve no better.” “Bullshit,” Book said, hoarsely. “God don’t give a man a dream lest he also give him the power to make it come true.” “Like my dream of Independence?” Mal demanded. “Justice? Fairness?” “Didn’t say it was easy,” Book said. “But it’s still true. Might could be that God ain’t ready for you to . . . fulfill that particular dream just yet.” “Yeah, he’s got a way like that,” Mal said bitterly. “That’s why we ain’t on speakin’ terms.” “Well, you got close enough to smell it,” Book countered. “That should give you hope.” “Hope?” Mal asked, astonished. “Hope is for fools, Shepherd. So’s prayer. Noble, was it? Maybe. But if this is my reward for my ‘nobility’. . . But that reminds me of a thing I got that needs doin’.” He finished his coffee and stalked off. The Captain’s manner didn’t phase the preacher – he had seen men faced with such dashed hopes often enough to know how ephemeral the feelings of bitterness were. Soon enough they came back to their dreams to cling to. Mal would heal from this disappointment, he knew. Heal and come back even more determined. It wasn’t a secret from him how the man felt about Inara – and it didn’t take a genius to figure out what he had intended to do with his share of the loot. A lesser man would have given up on such a far-fetched dream. But then a lesser man wouldn’t have ransomed back his friends at that price – and never complained a word about it – either. Book was about to move his tired and still a bit drugged body back to his quarters, to rest up for the inevitable medical check-up Dr. Tam would insist upon, when River swept into the room, quiet as a ghost. She stopped at the bar and stared at him in that way of hers – she was concerned, he knew. “I know what happened to you,” she said, looking away guiltily. “Don’t worry none about it, child,” Book said kindly. “I escaped with my skin and my soul intact. My dignity can handle the abuse, I can assure you. It will take more than Shan Yu the Tyrant to get the best of me.” “No,” River said, eerily. “I didn’t mean that. I know what happened to you . . . before . . .” Book sat upright, his eyes wide. “Just what do you mean?” he asked, slowly. “I know. I know about it all. You tried to keep me out, and I tried to respect that, really I did! But when you were . . . being tortured, you let your guard down. I had to, y’know, while I was trying to find you. I didn’t mean to—it just kind of happened. But now I know. I know it all.” Her face was wracked with profound sadness. “I . . . I hope you will be considerate enough to keep it to yourself, then,” he said after consideration and a long, heavy sigh. “It’s my burden to bear – no one else’s.” “Does it help?” she asked, as she nibbled her fingernails. “Does what help?” “The book. Faith. God. Prayer. All that stuff you started to do . . . after . . .” “Some days it does, others, not so much,” admitted the preacher with weariness. “I’d like to say it worked all the time, that God has taken away the burden. But that wouldn’t be truthsome. But He does make it bearable, most days. He’s forgiven me, I think.” “I don’t know of God,” River said – an admission, not a declaration. “But I think . . . I think she would have forgiven you.” Book stifled the urge to deny it, to swear that the child was lying or fantasizing or indulging in a delusional episode, but he didn’t. He knew better, and to say such would be dishonest. What River spoke of, no living man knew – certainly no one who knew him by the name he wore now. He thought about it for a moment, and then shook his head. “I don’t know, River. Mayhap. I think she was that sort of person. That’s not the issue – I haven’t forgiven myself. Not yet. Not even after the penance of Shan Yu. That was a trial, and no mistake – but I don’t think I can quite forgive myself yet.” He gave her a searching look. “What a burden it must be, to hear all of that. To experience all those memories . . .” he shook his head sadly. “An angel you might be, but no less tortured than any mortal man. It’s like you have God’s omniscient eye in your pocket.” River nodded sagely. “You aren’t going to stay here any more, are you? You’re going to leave?” Book nodded. “I’m afraid so, child. I had no idea when I came to Serenity just why I came; at first I thought it was so that I could lead Captain Reynolds back to God – I got over that one pretty quick. Then I thought maybe I was to minister to you folk a while – and maybe I did. But it is clear to me now that I was brought here so that I could be there when Shan Yu awoke. God put me here so that I could be there, and say what I had to say. Now, I believe I’m done with Serenity. Oh, I’ll stay on ‘till the Lord provides me with the means and opportunity to go. But I’ll get that call, and when I do I’ll take my leave.” River looked troubled. “You won’t stay? We won’t see you again?” she asked, worried. “Now, I said I was done with Serenity,” Book said, smiling warmly. “I ain’t close to done with you folk, I fear. You will vex and challenge for a while, I bet. ‘Till the day I die. God is my Master, no doubt, but Serenity . . . well, not like you can leave her lightly.” River nodded. “Serenity’s like that,” she said, looking around the kitchen. “Once she loves you, she stays with you ‘till you die. Maybe after.” Book chuckled. “And she’ll probably be the death of me, then. But not now. Now, I want a nap, and then we’ll take another look at the ‘verse and see which way I’m called. But I’m tickled we got your brother and the others back. You two, you are important. Don’t know how, exactly, but God has been whispering tricks in my ears, of late, and that seems to be what He’s saying. That you’re going to save us all, just like you saved me.” To his surprise, he found River suddenly embracing him in a tight, desperate hug. “I don’t know,” admitted River, whimpering in his ear. “Even if you postulate an omniscient, omnipotent demiurge with a benign interest in us as individuals or as a species . . . I’m not sure God has anything to do with why I’m . . . important. Maybe . . . the Other One, but not God.”

*

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Jayne had found the small lacquered box in the middle of his mess of a bunk, a glossy, chocolate brown cube with a simple hinge and catch. Eagerly, he opened it, expecting – diamonds, maybe? Sapphires? He’d always been partial to sapphires. But when the box swung open, only a simple metal key fell into his hands. It had a black plastic head, and scratched into the plastic was a number: A17. That perplexed him mightily, until he had started to wander back to speak to Kaylee about it – she was the one likeliest to know – and the one most likely to tell him about it. He was crossing the cargo hold when he came across a very large gray metal crate that he didn’t recall loading – and it was large enough so that it would have made an impression. Along the side was the Imperial seal and a large A17. Eagerly, he took out the key and opened the seal. He didn’t know what exactly to expect, but considering the largesse shown by his old buddy Johnny – hadn’t they started a mastodon stampede together? – he was anticipating a significant present. “Oh, my,” he whispered as the door to the crate swung open. Inside were stacked several score of brand new guns. All manner of weaponry peered back at him from the dark recesses of that crate as the smell of cosmoline and gun oil enveloped him like a familiar lover. Stack upon gleaming stack of guns – carbines, pistols, one full rack of identical assault rifles, submachine guns, machine pistols, combat shotguns in several calibers, and a number of custom pieces – an arsenal large enough to arm a hundred men. And it was all his. He reverently poked around to get a feel for his new trove, taking inventory and exploring. He opened one of six drawers, revealing a foam rubber pad with cut-outs that contained stacks of small matte black spheres. “Grenades,” he smiled appreciatively. “He got me grenades!” Smokers, stunners, frags, incendiaries, gassers, flash-bangs – plus another whole drawer of lethal little explosives designed to be fired from a grenade launcher. “Santy Claus came!” he said, grinning like an idiot. Then he saw the flexi taped to the central support, one that had a small flashing icon. He shrugged and tagged it with his thumb while he examined a small, lethal little machine pistol of a design he’d never seen. The image of Johnny popped up. “Jayne, I thought about giving you a solid gold cuspidor or some other extravagant silliness, but it occurred to me that the best way to reward a true man-at-arms is with the tools of his trade. I found this in one of the holds. It’s an infantry support module, something the old Empire would drop as a resupply, or to arm insurgents behind enemy lines. There’s a complete inventory attached to this. I also threw in a bunch of custom jobs from the fancy armory in the loot vaults – there was crap in there I’d never even heard of before. “Anyway, you got about enough ordinance here to start a war – or at least a revolution. Don’t know what exactly you’ll do with it, but I’d bet it will be interesting. Really enjoyed meeting you and working with you – fighting with you – and I wanted to wish you well. Mal, if Jayne’s dead or imprisoned and you’re seeing this, do with it what you will. Either way, I know you folk will think of something to do with it. Your service to the Empire, to me, personally, have earned it over a dozen times, and I can’t thank you enough. Good luck, and keep flying.” “Thanks, kid,” Jayne said, a tear in his eye as the image faded to a glowing inventory sheet. This was, by any estimation, an impressive amount of hardware. More than any one man could use, most likely, Jayne knew. It was a generous gift. But there was a part of Jayne that felt the least bit guilty for owning that many guns. There were plenty of folk who needed recourse to firearms on the Rim – each one of those Dragons would be worth a hundred platinum, easily. And some of those custom jobs – like that gorgeous gold-plated revolver in a charming .45 caliber, wearing an antiqued ivory grip scrimshawed into a belligerent looking Chinese dragon – would get ten times that amount. The pile of platinum was gone, but a man could live a long while by selling just a tithe of this bounty. Of course, he couldn’t keep it here. Not permanently. It was just too gorram big an arsenal to conceal. Mal would fret, he knew, and the first time some nosy Alliance inspector saw it and started wondering why there was a an arsenal like that on a transport, well, it might prove embarrassing, in a felonious sort of way. Oh, he’d keep the prized pieces from the collection – like that shiny revolver! – but he’d have to find a home for the rest. He’d have to stash it, stash it someplace safe. Someplace that he knew would always be friendly territory. Unbidden, the image of Canton came to mind. That was stupid, he told himself at once. Guns were illegal on Higgins’ Moon, by magisterial decree. That decree was enforced by magisterial security forces, backed up by a company of Company “police” armed like Alliance light infantry, who frowned upon the odd shotgun or pistol popping up among the mudders and punished such offenses ruthlessly. Mudders with arms were like to express their displeasure in a belligerent manner, when it came to one of the periodic showdowns that occurred with management. And with almost half of them being in bondage, their Company indenture agreements clearing stating that they were not allowed to take arms except by direction of the Company, they were subject to having additional years added to their indentures and even stricter punishment, should they do so. Of course, the hell-raising portion of his brain mentioned, perhaps the mudders would get a fairer shake if they had access to a fine collection of guns like this. The thought stirred in his head like a lump of butter in a churn, flopping around crazily and growing in size. He felt bad about that whole “Hero of Canton” thing – especially when his pissant former partner had shot that kid – but he had spent enough time with the mudders of Canton to know all too well what a tough time of it they had. When the best they could muster against Company goons were axe handles and knives, the result of their labor negotiations was settled before they began, leaving them no outlet for their hopelessness other than “mudders milk”. And that wasn’t a good way to be. A man should be able to walk away from a job he’s tired of doing, Jayne thought. A man should be able to hope to send his kids into a better life than he’d had. What the hell am I thinking? One astonished part of his mind screamed. You aren’t a revolutionary! You’re a mercenary, a thug, a bad guy. You kill folk for money, and spend it on whores. You aren’t political! Still, the other part argued, he owed something to those folk, somehow. Maybe he could square this against his conscience, as he still saw the image of his misshapen statue in his dreams more regular than he’d prefer. Besides, he considered. There had to be a way to make some coin in the process. That many guns, there had to be a percentage in it, somewhere. Whistling and scheming, Jayne closed the container, hung the key through his St. Francis medal, and headed back to his bunk, the golden pistol tucked safely into his belt.

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*

“He’s not going to be happy,” Sinclair said, nervously. “Have you ever seen either of them . . .happy?” Julian shot back. “The next time I see them crack a smile will be the first. Relax – it’s not like he paid us up front. We don’t owe them anything.” “I’m trying to relax,” Sinclair shot back snippily. “They could cause problems for us, you know.” “Sinclair, we’ve just made forty million credits,” Julian said, shaking his head. “That kind of capital brings you a great deal of insulation from that kind of trouble.” The two men were sitting in the small but well-appointed room where they met their clients. It was easily the most comfortable room on the ship, tastefully decorated in dark wood paneling, elegant light fixtures, a massive mahogany desk, over-stuffed chairs, and simple but sublime calligraphy scrolls with quotations from the Art of War and the Analects of Confucius on the walls. Sinclair was still in his Captain’s uniform, while Julian wore the same sloppy blue business suit he often did. Sinclair stood, while Julian sat at the desk. “Captain, our client has arrived,” the intercom spoke. “Shall I send him up?” “Please,” agreed Sinclair, swallowing hard. He couldn’t help it. This particular client gave him the creeps for no reason he could identify. In this line of work there was no end of shady characters and non-descript professionals. But there was something about this client that bothered him. Perhaps it was the blue gloves. The door to the office opened, and Sinclair nearly snapped to attention. Julian rose and bowed respectfully. The man who entered was a cadaverous figure with thinning, close-cropped hair and somewhat beady eyes. His attention seemed to be keenly focused. He had a face you could pass a thousand times a day and not notice. He wore a suit that was just as non-descript, a blue wool business outfit that any bank manager would have felt comfortable in. He didn’t have a name, to Sinclair’s knowledge, and any one he would have given would undoubtedly be suspect, and just as un-noteworthy as the rest of him. Indeed, there was very little at all to call him out in any way – except those gloves. He stood perfectly still, and didn’t glance around as a normal visitor would. He spoke without preamble. “You have Tam?” His voice had just enough expression in it to keep from being called monotone. “No, actually,” Julian said, lightly. “What?” the man asked, his left eyebrow lifting almost imperceptivity. “I was led to believe that you had Simon Tam.” The eyebrow was the only overt signal that the client was perturbed. “You were, and we did. But we don’t now.” “Explain, please,” the man said, simply. His face was a blank mask – only his eyes betrayed any hint of his true feelings. “We had Tam. Now we don’t.” “As elegant a response as that is,” the man said evenly, “I confess that I don’t understand. You had Tam. And his accomplices.” “We did,” agreed Julian. “But now . . . you don’t.” “That’s correct.” “How did the one situation evolve into the other?” “It’s complicated.” Julian said, simply. “Care to elaborate?” “Not really.” “I’m afraid I must insist.” There was a certain growl in the man’s voice. His body had not moved, perceptively, since he had entered. If it was a pose designed to unnerve, it was successful. “I’m certain you’ve run into set-backs before. So do we.” “You seem unreasonably calm about so large a loss. Considering how robustly you bargained with us for so poor a prize, I’d think that you’d be less . . . restrained. Hardly in keeping with your reputation.” “I’m not Jubal Early,” Julian growled back. “I’m a businessman. I don’t lose my temper over such things. Neither am I unaffected by them. Believe me, this debacle cost me plenty. In men and funds.” “I noticed a bit of graffiti on the ship. Did that factor into your failure?” “I’d call it a temporary set-back. And yes, it did. You no doubt heard my report to the Alliance fleet?” “You assume we are privy to military communications,” the man said with the closest thing to a smile he’d shown since he entered. “We are mere corporate servants, I assure you.” “Don’t patronize me,” Julian snapped. “I know what you do.” “I really don’t think you do,” the man replied smoothly, the edge thick in his voice. “Let us hope you never find out. The result of that could be . . . unfortunate.” “Assuming you didn’t intercept it, then let me give you the short version. We tracked the fugitives in the company of a criminal Tong, comprised of former Yuanese Imperial factionists. It became clear that they were engaged in some large-scale criminal enterprise. With the security of the Alliance foremost on our mind, we pursued and discovered that they had succeeded in salvaging the Sun Tzu, the flying fortress created by Shan Yu. It was packed with nukes and has a laser weapon capable of destroying a planet. As diligently as we pursued our prey, it became clear that our primary concern involved preventing the old regimists from making the station operational and threatening the peace and stability of the Alliance.” “Did you,” the man said. “Indeed. So while we were able to temporarily retain custody of Tam and his confederates, when faced with the choice that would have imperiled the higher-priority mission, we elected to let him go so that we could alert the Alliance military. I’m sure you can understand our position. Had we done otherwise, we could have been responsible for the destruction of an entire world.” “You may have been responsible for the destruction of them all,” the man whispered, sinisterly. “Even now, there is an Alliance task force en route to Hecate, where, hopefully, it can eliminate the threat. If they are lucky, they might eliminate Tam, as well. Although after interrogation I can’t see what kind of threat to the Alliance he might be.” “We don’t . . . work for the Alliance,” the man with the blue hands said. “And I expressly forbade you from further interrogations.” “You also asked me to kill two people without due process,” Julian growled. “Tam told me some wild stories. I think the pressure may have driven him mad. He’s harmless,” he assured. “We’ll pick him up another time.” “You . . . heard his stories. And you didn’t believe them.” It was a statement, not a question. “I think that concludes our business, then.” He stood in silence until Julian took the cue and had Drake escort the nameless man back to his shuttle. “That went better than expected,” Sinclair said with a deep sigh. “I thought he’d be more upset than that.” “Not exactly an expressive man,” Julian observed. “But you’re right. That did go better than I’d expected. He didn’t even threaten to ruin us in the business. Maybe they aren’t as powerful as we think.” “Maybe,” Sinclair agreed, relieved. “Is it time for champagne yet?” “You know? I think it is! And get out the good stuff, too – we can afford it. So, where shall we spend this money?” The two laughed and drank and let their imaginations play about improbable investments and expensive toys they would buy with their fortunes. They were discussing the merits of an early retirement, perhaps dabble in security consulting, when the Bridge buzzed them. “Captain, thought you’d like to know. Our visitor’s shuttle launched about eight minutes ago.” “Outstanding, Mr. Cai. Set course—” “There’s more, Captain.” “What?” “One of the crew discovered the body of Mr. Drake in the shuttle hold. I don’t know what was done to him, but there was a lot of blood. He’s dead.” “Oh. Have him taken to the infirmary morgue with the others. And stand by for orders.” He disconnected. Sinclair slumped back in his seat, wide-eyed, and sighed. “I guess he was a little mad, after all.”