Unfinished Business

Chapter Four

River brought Serenity down on the wide plateau after darkness had already fallen on the remote location. Not that she had trouble finding the spot – there were already several ships parked around the edge of the plateau, and their running lights and incidental illumination – not to mention the bonfires – gave her plenty of notice where the Reunion was to be. She circled the plateau once and then settled in as gently as anyone could ask next to a lumpy looking Coventry Astrocruiser with garish teal stripes. “Welcome, Travelers, to the end of the line, scenic Bumfuck, Muir. Please have your travel documents prepared for the inspector, and declare all fruit and other agricultural products on Form ZZ-211 as you leave.” With a satisfied sigh she started post-flight procedures automatically while the others opened the hatch and started setting up. The Reunion, proper, was set up under a huge circus-type tent at the north end of the plateau. Smaller tents ringed it in an impromptu bazaar that was traditionally known as “downtown”. It was where the floodlights were set up and the main party happened. But that didn’t keep the south end of the plateau from being lively, as each ship opened up its cargo hatch and decorated its entrance as creatively as possible. Mal had put Kaylee and Inara in charge of Serenity’s ornaments, and River was glad to pitch in and add her own arcane touches. Kaylee had transplanted her paper lanterns and Christmas lights to the hatch, and added a hand-made poster declaring that Serenity was ‘the friendliest ship in the Black!’ River took a matching piece of poster board and fashioned a giant origami crane that they suspended from the middle of the hatchway, where it drifted lazily in the cool breeze. Kaylee also added a little shrine in memoriam to Wash and Book, and included a notebook where people could write their sympathies. While Book hadn’t been as well-known to the Rim folk, Wash had been a popular pilot, and many people stopped by to express their condolences to the crew. Because of that very fact Zoe remained in her quarters. She wasn’t ready to face such open sympathies just yet. While the girls took a hand at decorating, Simon, Jayne, and Mal wrestled a couple of crates to the front of the hold and set up a makeshift table, then brought most of the chairs out of the lounge to settle around it. The skies were clear, and the air was dry, so there was little danger of rain. But it gave them a nice place to sit and chat, and after Jayne built a fire in an old H3 fuel cell housing, it was almost cheery. Well-wishers and revelers started coming by almost immediately, starting with the big man named Stuart who was in charge. Of just what, he wasn’t sure, but he made a show of coming around, introducing himself, welcoming the crew to Muir, and pointing out where they could hook up to water and data and such, where the potties were, and where they could donate liquor for the open bar. He took down their names and handed out tickets with specific jobs for each of them to do – everything from Jaynes “trash removal at the main kitchen” to Simon’s “Second shift first aid tent” to River’s “Cover up drunks in the sun”. He also gave them a very short list of camp rules. “Not likely to be much fuss,” he added, confidentially, slurring his words just a bit – just because Stuart was in charge didn’t mean he wasn’t having fun. “Anyone gets outta line, we chuck ‘em over the side and hope they didn’t get the chance to breed.” “Evolution in action,” Mal agreed with a chuckle. “I like that.” “I just figger that there’s enough rough characters about to form a consensus about what is proper behavior and what is not. Can I get some of you folk to sign up to volunteer in the beer tent? They need some servers for Treesday afternoon.” Others came by, too, folks who had crossed paths with Serenity over the years, either as business partners or, occasionally, business competitors. No grudges were allowed to sully the sanctity of the Reunion, however: there was a general Reunion Truce that was observed. Indeed, Mal spent a good half-hour talking to Misha Varuna, a solo scavenger and occasional smuggler who he had shot the previous year over a dispute about an abandoned ore freighter. Misha wasn’t mad – the bullet had gone through the fleshy part of the arm, and he could use it fine. Mal had a couple of drinks with him, traded some gossip, and patted him on the shoulder as he stumbled off into the night. “Seems a little . . . low key,” Inara commented as he left. “Oh, it’s still early, yet,” Mal explained. “Only about half the ships have showed up. Plenty of rascals still on their way. By tomorrow there won’t be room to stand on this plateau, there’ll be so many drunks out there.” “Doesn’t that lead to brawling?” she asked, concerned. Mal shook his head. “Not here. You get rowdy, you get ejected, and two years from now someone forgets to let you know about the next one. Nah, folk are on their best behavior at the Reunion. For some o’ them it’s the only social event they get to without worryin’ ‘bout someone shootin’. See that fella there? Under ordinary circumstances, I’d shoot him. At least a little.” “Why? “That’s Mort Silovic, second-story man. Got the jump on Jerry Malone and stole half the take on a job they did on Athens. Put ol’ Jer in the hospital, damn near finished him. A man just don’t do that to a partner and keep his rep intact. But he gets a pass today – Hey, Mort!” he said, waving. The thin, reedy-looking man waved back and smiled, revealing only about half the teeth he had started with. “Why does everyone tolerate that sort of thing?” Inara asked. “It seems as if such behavior would be punished.” “Oh, but it is. Mort can’t work with no one decent no more. No one wants a man on his team so greedy he’ll turn on you – ‘less you’re plannin’ on turnin’ on him, first-ways.” “But . . . you were just friendly with him,” she pointed out, confused. “Well, of course!” Mal said, as if it made perfect sense. “It’s the Reunion!” “Oh,” Inara said. “So even though he’s walking scum—” “—this week he’s a member of the club, and no one will take a shine on him. Hell, I even think Jerry’s here. Bet they end up getting drunk together, you mark me.” “You people are strange,” Inara said, shaking her head. “Not all that different than the corporate circles you’re so familiar with,” Mal insisted. “Plenty of ‘just business’ fei hua at them company shindigs. This here is the same sort o’ thing – just more booze and less clothes,” he said, as a near-naked, but well-tattooed, young man stumbled by, his neck awash in brightly colored beads and a large plastic waterpipe in his hands. “Hey . . . that you, Bester?” “My God, is that Mal Reynolds?” the man asked through blurry eyes. He swayed uncontrollably, as if the breeze was strong enough to blow him right down. “It is! Serenity! That is so shiny!” he said with a drunken cackle. “Where you been workin’, son?” Mal asked, kindly. Bester had been his very first mechanic, the one that had helped put Serenity in the sky after sitting for almost two decades in a salvage yard. He had a good hand with a welder, and he knew the basics of spaceship mechanics, but he lacked the detailed knowledge of most of the other shipboard systems that needed tending on a ship. Luckily he was also lusty enough so that he had picked up a young spaceport floozie on a dusty little rock and took her back to the engine room for a shag – and that was how Mal met Kaylee. She had figured out the problem that had kept them grounded for a week in moments, and Mal had dropped Bester off at the next port. “Oh, I’m assistant engineer on the Takada Na Gai, that big freighter over there. Cap’n Tanaka—” “I know him well,” Mal nodded. “He treatin’ you right?” “So far so good! Y’know, I was kinda pissed off at you when you dumped me out on Beaumonde, but it was really best thing for me, y’know? Tanaka pulled in the day after you left a man short. I came in, and before you can say ‘upwardly mobile’ I was in the engine room, proving myself. I pretty much run the whole ship, now,” he bragged, drunkenly. “And I get paid regular, too. That’s nice,” he added, dreamily. Mal doubted he ran the whole ship – or even the engine room. Tanaka’s boat crewed thirty and even took straight commercial work, mostly supply runs to terraformation outposts, when smuggling wasn’t fruitful. The Takada Na Gai’s engineer was Hoji Moriyumi, as vicious an engineer as you could ask for. But if Bester was surviving with Tanaka, he’d probably improved his skills significantly since his tenure on Serenity. “Say,” Bester added, his eyes growing wide, “you guys are like, y’know, famous,” he said with emphasis. “Everyone’s talking about it! That little spook show you guys wavecast – creeped me out, like bad – anyway, everyone says you guys are responsible. Y’all are gorram heroes around here, just to warn you.” “Great,” Mal said, his heart sinking. He had hoped that they could put the Miranda Incident safely behind them. Apparently not. “All I know is that Cap’n Tanaka was ready to go after the firs Fed he saw, he was so mad. His sister and her family were killed by Reavers,” he said in a stage whisper. “Oh, an’ whatever happened to that bird I pulled that you replaced me with? Sweet piece of ass, that one. Wouldn’t mind getting—” “Bester, you say one more gorram word, I’ll kill you dead!” Kaylee’s cheerful voice said from behind him. Despite her harsh words she swept him up in a big hug, which Bester enthusiastically returned. “Kaylee! You keepin’ her in the air?” he asked, nodding towards Serenity. “Just barely,” she admitted. “Ain’t helpful what the Cap’n puts her through.” “That’s what you get when you got a hotshot like Wash at the stick. Where is the ol’ bastard, anyways?” he asked, looking around. The inevitable silence fell like a cloak over them. Kaylee finally spoke up. “Wash . . . he didn’t make it. Died last month. Took a Reaver lance through the chest. It was quick,” she added, mournfully. “Zoe’s pretty busted up about it.” “Why would Zoe be tore up?” Bester asked, curiously. “She an’ him never got along proper, like.” “They were married, you liu ko tsue duh biao-tze huh ho-tze duh bun ur-tze!” Kaylee said, irritated. “She made him shave his mustache, but . . . they fell in love,” she finished. “Zoe? Married?” Bester asked, as if that were the strangest idea in the ‘verse. “Yup,” Kaylee agreed. “And now she’s widowed. If I were you, I’d steer clear. She can be a mite . . . volatile.” “Good to know,” agreed Bester. He had always kept clear of Zoe, who had never shared Mal’s enthusiasm for his presence on Serenity. “Hey, you wanna . . .?” he asked, holding out the waterpipe. “Thought you’d never ask!” Kaylee said, eagerly, holding the mouthpiece to her lips while Bester lit the hempflower. While she was smoking, Bester started to whisper in her ear. “Maybe we can get away in a little while and . . .” He didn’t get to finish, as Simon came out of the hold just then. Kaylee exhaled prolifically, enveloping him in a cloud of cloyingly sweet smoke. He coughed, startled by the smoke and the half-naked man. “Bester, want you to meet my . . . boyfriend? Simon . . . Smith. Ship’s medic.” “Oh. Oh! Heya, Doc, pleasedtameetcha!” Bester said enthusiastically, but with a trace of disappointment. “You wanna toke?” he asked, holding out the waterpipe for him. It still held a trail of smoke, and looked for all the world like a recently-used high-caliber gun barrel. “No,” Simon said politely – but clearly irritated. “Thank you, though. I’ll be needing my brain cells before the night is through, I think. So, Kaylee, how do you and . . . Mr. Bester? How did you two meet?” Bester guffawed. “Funny story, actually. I was, like, skulking around for parts in this nasty old—uf!” His story ended abruptly when Kaylee’s elbow caught him in the solar plexus. “Kwan shi! Uh, we met at a church function,” he concluded simply. “Riiight,” Simon said, staring at him intently. “Um . . . well, with Wash gone, like, what are y’all doin’ for a pilot? You ain’t lettin’ Mal take the stick, are you?” “No, they ain’t that bad off,” Mal said, chuckling. Bester had been there for his first near-disastrous attempts at flying. “Though I’ve gotten better. We got us a pilot – here she comes, now.” He gestured at the hatch, where River was coming down the ramp. She was wearing a light sundress, with one of Kaylee’s too-large hand-me-down sweaters over it against the night’s chill, and was barefoot. She stopped short when she saw Bester, and he was forced to do a double-take. “Wa cao!” he exclaimed, reverently. “Damn, Mal! First Kaylee, and now her? You puttin’ together a harem, or what? Damn, she’s a fine one, wouldn’t mind getting a piece of—” “—my little sister?” Simon finished, his voice heavy with vitriol. “Oh,” Bester said, as his drug-soaked brain tried to process the information. “Se mi mi de ren shi bai chi!” Kaylee said through giggles. “Bester, this is my best friend – and Simon’s sister – River . . . Smith.” “River, River, oh, I like that name,” he sang, grinning widely. “Meant no disrespect, Doc, but damn! That’s one fine— Ain’t she a little young to be a pilot?” “Yes, she’s quite young,” Simon agreed, giving the engineer a steely stare. “Very, very young. And innocent. And prone to sudden fits of violence. As am I,” he added with as much menace as he could muster. “You’re Bester,” River said, a statement and not a question. “Name my momma gave me,” he agreed. River studied him as if he were a specimen on a slide. “You want to have sex with me,” she said, matter-of-factly. “No he doesn’t,” Simon said, evenly. “Is that an offer?” Bester asked, confused. River studied him intently. “Good muscle tone. Primitive body art designed to inflate your personal sense of worth. Unremarkable mechanical talent. Woefully inept social interaction. Over-inflated sense of ego.” She looked him up and down. “Let’s see how you dance, first.” She pushed past him and headed for the row of plastic potties nearby. “Dance?” Bester aked, even more confused. “Why do I gotta dance?” “Every girl has her standards, I reckon,” Kaylee supplied, when she could stop giggling. “River’s are . . . pretty uncommon.” “And her mean, psychopathic brother’s are even more exacting, I assure you,” Simon said darkly. “Well . . .” Bester said, resigned. “Looks like I gotta go dance. Tell Zoe I said ‘hey’, and I’ll see you around!” he said, totally ignoring Simon’s bluster. He wandered off in the direction of the stage, where the first musicians of the evening were beginning to play. “That was Bester,” Kaylee explained dully to Simon. “I gathered,” he replied, icily. “He’s . . . he’s pretty harmless, actually,” she said, apologetically. “I wouldn’t worry none about River, she’s—” “Socially underdeveloped, emotionally vulnerable, and, oh, yes, almost forgot permanently brain damaged?” he demanded. “The girl can handle her own business,” Mal said, evenly. “She killed how many Reavers by her lonesome?” “Yes, those were bloodthirsty rapacious cannibals,” Simon agreed. “They were obviously a threat. But this . . . Bester,” he hissed, “he’s . . . ‘pretty harmless’, I think was said,” he said, looking accusingly at Kaylee. “No doubt he’s a master at sweet talking every little Rim-world farmgirl out of her panties before her Pa finds out, but my sister is . . . susceptible, no doubt, to such talk. I won’t have her—” “Doc,” Mal said, gently, “I make it a practice not to interfere in your personal family life—” “Since when?” demanded Simon, hotly. “—but I’d advise you to calm down and take a step back a moment. Ain’t no way Bester’s gonna get your sister to do nought she ain’t comfortable with. With her bein’ a reader an’ all, she can see what he’s thinkin’ afore he thunk it. She ain’t gonna let him do anything she don’t want to do.” “That’s the problem!” Simon declared. “She wants to! I know that look in her eye – it was the same one she had when she told Mother she wanted to study physics and not dance. It’s her stubborn look! When she gets that way, no power in the ‘verse can keep her from doing what she damn well pleases!” “And . . . what’s wrong with that?” Kaylee asked, boldly. “I don’t want to see her . . . hurt!” the doctor insisted. “She’s still emotionally in middle-school. Puppy love and hand-holding and passing notes. I’m not going to let that . . . that . . .” “Lothario?” supplied Inara. “Yanse lang,” corrected Simon, “sully her innocence with his . . . filthy, drug-addled lice-infested carcass! I’m not!” “What, ain’t he good enough for her?” demanded Kaylee, her jaw canted to one side in a gesture as unmistakable as a rattlesnake’s rattle. “No! He ‘ain’t’! You know what kind of trash a spacer like him gets together with?” he asked, pointedly. “I think,” Kaylee said, icily, “I’m going to go get a drink. Alone.” She stomped off in a slightly different direction than Bester. “What?” Simon asked, mystified. “What did I say?” Mal couldn’t help but laugh. “Let me hand you a clue,” he said, kindly. “Let me tell you about how Miss Kaywinnet Lee Frye happened to come aboard Serenity . . .”

*

*

*

All night long more ships dropped out of the Black and settled on the plateau like flies on a carcass. The music went all night long, too – several popular professional musicians had been lined up for entertainment at the north end of the mesa, and the sheer amount of distilled spirits, beer and wine kept a lively crowd going in front of the stage until the set officially broke, at dawn. At the quieter southern end, however, the music was less boisterous and more melancholy as crews from individual ships built bonfires and began singing popular war-time tunes. Most, of course, were former Browncoats or members of other factions, and the songs reflected this. Mal skulked from one fire to the next, always stopping to chat, catch up with old comrades, trade gossip, have a nip, and continue on his way. He found that he was greeted nearly everywhere with a great deal of respect and even reverence – not just for Miranda, but for his incredible feats at Serenity Valley. He found himself being hugged by men he had never met who had lost comrades at that meat grinder, and he was hard pressed to offer any supporting words worth saying. His recent losses made it all the harder to face, but he persisted in making the rounds. One song, of course, had become a near-constant background noise on the mesa. The Rally Anthem of the Independents was sung – usually badly – at some point or another around every campfire. It was a poignant reminder of all that they had fought for, their glorious lost cause, and it was unspoken but nonetheless truth that the tune had a wistful air to it now that it did not suffer from during the war. Every man who sang it was asking ‘what if –?” The words and tune were easy, a mid-range marching song that any tone-deaf idiot could learn:

Rally ‘round the banner, The banner yellow, black and green The time has come for men to stand And fight for freedom’s dream We won’t be slaves to tyranny We’re counted men and not machines Under the yellow black and green!

Rally ‘round the banner, The banner yellow black and green! Oppression’s yoke shall not prevail Nor brutality demean The sweet, sweet taste of liberty Freedom’s virtue be redeemed Under the yellow black and green!

Rally ‘round the banner, The banner yellow black and green! From Core to Rim to utter Black And the spaces in between We rise up now as brothers in arms Riding history’s mighty stream Under the yellow black and green!

Rally ‘round the banner, The banner yellow black and green! We take our bread from no man’s hand We bow to no regime Our sovereignty is ours alone Our independence supreme Under the yellow black and green!

Rally ‘round the banner, The banner yellow black and green! We march to arms to defend our worlds With brotherhood our theme We warn you now, don’t tread on us Or your demise has been foreseen Under the yellow black and green!

Rally ‘round the banner, The banner yellow black and green! Our cause is just, beware our might Our consciences are clean We’ll stand and fight and die to a man Let the circle of heroes convene Under the yellow black and green!

Over and over and over until Mal was near sick of it. The Anthem had been a unifying factor for the Independents, one of the few. The movement had tried to build a real government, of sorts, out of a motley group of rugged individualists who prided themselves on being different – landholders from Persephone and factory workers from Boros, ranchers from Shadow and dirt-farmers on Hera, hundreds of thousands of volunteers from the half-finished or under-developed terraforming projects that dotted the Rim, even recruits from the Core who, for whatever reason, had come to fight under the Black Star banner. Trying to evoke nationalism among such a group was a dicey prospect, at best – either they were so involved in the local politics of their individual worlds, or they were loyal first and foremost to clan and tribe and nationalistic allegiances to ancestral nations that hadn’t really existed since the Great Exodus. But that song, and a few others, had helped unify the various sub-factions of the Independents and forge an army and the beginnings of a navy. It gave the men a voice, a cause, and a catchy marching song that reminded them why they were risking their lives against insurmountable odds so far from home. It was a patriotic load of crap, and Mal knew it. But it wasn’t the words or the music that made it compelling – it had been a song of a particular time, and a cause, and it evoked memories in a way that nothing else could. He still remembered the first time he had heard it . . .

*

“Good work tonight, kids,” Renshaw – “Captain” Renshaw, Mal mentally corrected – said as he wandered around the bonfire they were all warming their hands by. They had undertaken a raid – their third, so far this winter – on a water pumping station that delivered the precious liquid from the lands around Finley, where it was used by private ranchers to water stock, to a Company-owned slave farm fifteen miles away in Prospero. The twenty or so young turks that made up “The PeeDee Stalwarts” paramilitary group had crept up on the tiny concrete and steel station and efficiently taken out the cameras and other security measures, then blew the whole thing sky-high before riding back to their rendezvous point. No one had been injured – this time. Captain Lamont was still recovering from a wound he had suffered when both of the PeeDee groups had gone after a Company supply convoy – one that was supplying slaves to the public works projects in Half-Loaf Canyon. One of the private security guards had thought he was quicker on the draw, instead of being smart and laying down arms in the face of superior forces. That was why they wore masks, of course. The Feds and the Company and the planetary stooges that pretended to be the Government had rigorously investigated each incident, and, when possible, had prosecuted the miscreants with indenture and transport. Down in Raptor country they had even hung a few of the Browncoats – as they were beginning to be called in the newswaves – as an example. Mal didn’t have a real coat, himself, but he had a kind of burlap cape that he wore over his clothes. It kept the dust off and it concealed his identity somewhat, and that was sufficient. “We need to lay low awhile,” Renshaw told them. “After tonight, the provincial governor is like to call to Penumbra for reinforcements. That means real live honest-to-God Purplebellies, and that’s trouble we want to steer clear of,” he said. “We can take ‘em!” Royce declared, loudly. There was a chorus of agreement – and a voice that cracked at an embarrassing moment. Renshaw laughed good-naturedly. “I don’t doubt for a thin moment that y’all would try – and give good account of yourselves in the bargain,” he agreed. “But the Movement needs live Browncoats, not dead martyrs. Word from upstairs is that the PeeDee groups are to go quiet for at least two months. Then we’ll likely come back and hit at that station again, just after they rebuild it. In the meantime, ain’t gonna be no watermelons or bok choy at the market for a while, so y’all tell your mommas to stock up!” There was a general laugh at this. “Now, we got other news from upstairs. Events are movin’ apace in other parts. With the general election comin’, plenty o’ folk will be on edge. Boros has already returned the anti-hegemonists to power, against the objections of the Alliance ambassador. Hera’s election is today or tomorrow, I guess, and the pro-Independents there are ahead in the polls by a long sight. We go to vote in a month, so y’all keep your eye out for signs of interference by the locals who favor stickin’ at the Alliance teat. You hear anything – anything at all – what might be of interest to the organization, you pass it along to me in the usual way. Things are changin’, children, they surely are. “Before we go, I’ve been asked to let your communications director speak,” he said, without a trace of scorn in his voice. “Miss Rachel?” There were hoots and shouts of “Tagalong!”, as she had been dubbed. She was the youngest member of the group, and one of only three girls. But she was smart and courageous, and despite her youth she had seized on the opportunity to advance the Cause by becoming the de facto liaison to the global organization. She scanned the news religiously for items of interest to the Cause, and passed them along to the rest of the group at their meetings. She was passionate about it, and tore into each new tidbit like it was the answer to her prayers. While everyone (except the Captain) teased her about it, they all listened intently as she relayed news from other areas where the Independent’s cause was taking root. “Thank you, Captain Renshaw,” she said, sweetly. “Just wanted to pass along some stuff . . . looks like the wavecasts on Boros are sayin’ that their stalwarts have started referring to themselves as Browncoats, now, and they got the idea from us! They even had a public rally in support of the anti-hegemonists, and everyone showed up in a brown coat, lookin’ mighty pretty when they marched!” That brought a lot of hoots and hollers – the Browncoats on Shadow had been the most daring and audacious in their attacks on Company and Alliance property. To hear that their unofficial uniform had been adopted by the leaders of the Cause on Boros was a point of particular pride. “I also thought you’d like to know that the Organization has adopted a banner to symbolize the movement, selected by a committee from entries all over the Rim. The winner came from,” she checked the flexi she held, “Rona Verangelis, a thirteen year old GIRL on Persephone. She designed a flag with three colors: Yellow, for the wealth of the Rimworlds, Green, for our faith in God that we are in the right, and Black, for the void that binds our worlds together.” She turned the flexi over and showed Freedom’s Banner to the stalwarts for the first time. They all murmured their approval. They had a flag. They had ‘uniforms’. It was all very exciting. “Now, the folk on Boros like it so much they started using it in their demonstrations. And someone – don’t rightly know who – made up a song to go with it. With the Captain’s permission, I’d like to sing it to y’all and teach you the words. Here goes,” she said, and began the first stanza. It sent an electric chill up Mal’s spine. For the first time, he felt like he was really a part of something that made a difference. Something that could change the ‘verse into something more just and fair. He looked out over the fire, past Rachel’s face – which was, somehow, getting prettier by the day – and into the Black beyond. The planet had set already, and only one other moon lit the sky – the rest of it was filled with glorious stars. His soul seemed to rise right up to God as he sang that last verse, a little off key, but with enthusiasm:

“Our cause is JUST, beware our MIGHT Our consciences are CLEAN! We’ll stand and FIGHT and DIE TO A MAN! Let the circle of HEROES convene Under the yellow black and GREEN!”

*

Mal didn’t head back to Serenity until long after midnight, and only a long and intimate acquaintance with drink enabled him to do so with any grace whatsoever. He stumbled aboard the ramp and pulled himself unsteadily up the stairs, his lonely footsteps echoing in the large, darkened chamber. He paused at the top as the chorus of the Anthem could be heard – yet again – in the background. “Idiots,” he said with a melancholy sigh. “We were such idiots.”