BLUE SUN ROOM FAN FICTION - ADVENTURE

NAUTICALGAL

The Legacy of Uncle Jack, ch. 7
Sunday, November 19, 2006

In this installment, Mal meets Mrs. Jack Tallis -- and realizes that he has met her once before. One year earlier, Wash meets Zoe for the first time. Yep, that's right, this is the Boy Meets Girl chapter.


CATEGORY: FICTION    TIMES READ: 2407    RATING: 10    SERIES: FIREFLY

7.

A large framed portrait of Jack Tallis dominated the founder's hall to the south; to the north was a well-stocked bar and a buffet with hors d'oeuvres. In between were tables adorned simply with white linen cloths and red candles, and crowded with people. The crowd didn't bother Mal, but the heavy concentration of Alliance uniforms did.

He decided that staring into the crowd making a conscious effort to count Alliance uniforms was first of all fruitless, since they kept milling around and refusing to stay all in one spot in an obliging fashion, and second, that it was making him look conspicuous. He'd caught more than one of them staring back at him, hard. So he pulled himself away with an effort, drawing his attention back to the large portrait on the tripod in front of him. Pretty clear which side of the family Wash drew his blonde hair and blue eyes from.

Wash was telling Zoe some story of Tallis's youthful exploits. Zoe, far from looking sharp like Mal had ordered, looked completely absorbed and highly amused. Kaylee, standing next to Mal, looked the same. Wash finished his story, to the approbation of his pretty female audience, and Mal wondered irritably how the pilot managed that. First Zoe, now Kaylee. Maybe that was genetic, too. "He was married, right? Your Uncle, I mean."

"What? Oh, yeah. Couple of years ago," Wash said, shifting gears. "She ought to be here -- her name's Tawny Sommers."

"Tawny Sommers? What, your Uncle hit fifty and decided to go get him some hot little exotic dancer?"

"Actually, I'm not," said a husky voice at Mal's elbow. "But I could have been."

Mal turned to see a petite, well-built woman with a luxurious cascade of red hair who certainly could have been a dancer -- but who, he knew, was not. "Captain Sommers!" he said, taken by surprise.

"Captain Reynolds," she replied, inclining her head fractionally. "And you must be Wash," Captain Sommers -- Mrs. Jack Tallis -- added, clasping Wash's hand in both of hers. "And, of course, Zoe." She winked at Wash. "Jack wanted to let you know he approved." She produced a small package and handed it to Zoe, who accepted it with thanks. "Just a small token of congratulation."

"You two have met before," Zoe noted, her gaze taking in both captains.

"On Highgate," Mal confirmed. "Captain Sommers gave me the lead on our last job." He gave Zoe a hard and meaningful look: Tallis, the famed gunrunner of old, had somehow sent work their way right when they needed it -- but the fact that Tallis had a hand in their last job made Mal even more nervous than he had been already.

If Zoe took any note of Mal's warning glance, she gave no sign. She was, in fact, admiring a small filigree box that had been inside the package Captain Sommers had slipped her. If apparently contained some kind of expensive incense, which Zoe, Wash, and Kaylee were all oohing and aahing over. Like fools.

"Awful lot of Alliance uniforms here," Mal said, trying to get Zoe's attention without attracting the attention of any of the officers. "I thought Tallis was an independent shipping firm."

"Oh, it is," Captain Sommers assured him, hesitating just long enough that her next statement didn't seem directly connected to the one before it. "Jack always knew which wheels to grease."

"Ah." Well, maybe that changed things. Or, maybe it didn't. Maybe it explained how that original shipment of weapons had been lifted in the first place, and by whom.

"I used to hear stories, during the war," Captain Sommers said, smiling as though her words were of no greater import than the local weather, "of Independent agents, well-placed among the Alliance officer corps." Zoe, Mal noted with satisfaction, was listening intently now. "I don't think it would surprise me much to discover that some of them still like to poke their old enemies in the eye now and then."

"No, I don't guess that would surprise me either," Mal said, giving Zoe a hard look. She smiled benignly back at him, and Mal knew her well enough to understand that she had taken his point. Whoever had lifted those rifles was probably here, and that put Serenity's crew in a precarious position.

"Did you work for Uncle Jack, then?" Wash asked.

"'Captain' isn't just a courtesy title, if that's what you're asking," Captain Sommers replied. "I commanded ships for Jack for ten years -- until two years ago when he finally convinced me to give it up and join him here. If I had known how little time we'd have, I would have given in sooner," she added, her gaze straying to Jack's portrait on the tripod.

"I'm sorry," Wash said.

"Well, enough of that!" Captain Sommers declared, pressing her hands together. "Jack wouldn't have wanted us to be all solemn and sad, after all. There are hors d'ouerves and an open bar, and plenty of tables. Get yourselves some champagne; we'll toast your Uncle directly," she ordered, and left them to themselves again.

Mal watched her go, her fine figure and neat locks swaying as she walked away, and wondered if landing good-looking women was some sort of family trait Wash had inherited along with his looks.

** Eleven months earlier (2513)

The advantage of buying a ship in Chalmer Station, Mal Reynolds reflected, was that you paid a lot less than you’d pay in the Core. In part, that was because the ships were older, but Mal didn’t mind an old ship. The ships were in poor repair, comparatively, but again, Mal figured that machines could be fixed more cheaply than they could be bought shiny and new. All he wanted was something affordable, something that could carry cargo, be run with a small crew . . . something that approached freedom and self-government in the wake of the Independent surrender, and the subsequent Alliance clamp-down on their newly conquered worlds.

The disadvantage of buying a ship in Chalmer Station – a town known as a good place to buy a used space ship, with several dealers and some fine scrapyards where parts could be obtained – was that putting together a crew was near to impossible.

He’d lucked into a mechanic – Bester actually had a technical degree from a school in the Core. He’d been here working at the paper plant, but had decided to leave, so Mal had come along at just the right time. Mal’s trouble now was finding a pilot. Pilots in need of work just didn’t turn up in out-of-the-way towns like this one, despite the fact that the paper factory, the shipyards, and the scrapyards were its largest businesses. Pilots with actual credentials lived cushy lives in the Core -- 'less, that was, they had something wrong with them. Drinking problem, maybe; possibly a criminal record or a general inability to get along with other people. So Mal wasn't hoping for much; just somebody who knew enough to get his new ship off the ground – maybe he could snag a pilot bringing in a used ship to one of the yards, before he headed into town to get soaked -- and get Serenity to someplace where he could find someone who could actually fly the gorram ship long-term. Boros, maybe, or Beaumonde, he'd been thinking.

It was looking like that might be tough to do.

Chalmer Station’s largest bar was in a Quonset hut at the south end of town, near the used shipyards. Mal had been hanging out there, hoping to overhear something of use. He stopped at the bar and ordered a drink, which he carried slowly through the maze of tables and booths, ears tuned to pick up anything, any hint, any clue as to where he might find someone who could fly his newly-purchased ship. He’d been doing this for a week and a half, with no luck, and he was starting to worry. Not just that he wouldn’t find a pilot, but that Zoe – Corporal Alleyne, when she'd served under him in the war, who who had agreed to serve on Serenity as first mate -- would notice that things weren’t exactly going according to his plan. He wanted Zoe with him; he’d promised her the same things he’d promised himself, but he was afraid everything would fall completely to pieces for want of this missing nail called “pilot.” And then what would he do?

In a booth along the wall, Mal spotted Gabriel Tanaka – the captain with the sinister facial scar. Tanaka was what Mal hoped to become – a successful captain of a freelance cargo ship. The Jing Qi carried a crew of seven, and had a reputation for getting the job done, whatever the job happened to be. Word was, they’d had a job lined up shipping paper for the paper plant, so Mal was a little surprised to see Tanaka sitting in a booth with a couple of his crewmen, looking angry.

Well, now that there might be something of interest, even if it didn't lead to a pilot.

Mal slipped into a seat at a nearby table – one where he could sit with his own back to Tanaka’s back, but the acoustics of the high-walled booth Tanaka sat in sent the scarred captain’s voice clearly to Mal’s ears.

“He has to be here,” Tanaka growled. “Where would he go? No ships have left atmo in a month, and he couldn’t afford ground transport out of this place. He was busted when he left!"

Mal's spine tingled. Tanaka was missing a member of his crew, that was why he was still in Chalmer Station. And odds were, the only member of any crew who could keep a ship completely grounded by walking away was . . .

"--Gorram pilot!" Tanaka was saying. "You turn over every piece of pea-gravel in this mudhole, and you find him!"

Two of the men at the table with Tanaka left; Mal watched their reflection in the mirror behind the bar as they shuffled out the door. Gun hands from Tanaka's ship, he guessed. He couldn't see who had remained at the table, but there had been four men. Maybe the mate? Mal hunched over his drink, listening hard. The mate, if that's who he was, spoke more softly than Tanaka did; all Mal caught was a name:

"-- Wash Warren?"

"Maybe," Tanaka replied. "Check it out yourself." The mate left.

Mal finished his drink. If the scuttlebutt was true, Tanaka had a cargo. If he'd overheard correctly, Tanaka had no pilot.

Mal just happened to be on the lookout for both.

He left his glass and his coin on the table, and then he slipped out, too.

**

Wash peered at his reflection in the cracked mirror above the sink, and drew the dull blade slowly along his jaw, hissing when it bit. Blood welled up from the cut and dripped into the sink. Wash dropped the blade, pressed his palm to the cut, and cursed himself for a fool.

Just let the gorram beard grow, he scolded himself, but the stubbornness at his core refused. He’d had to give up on shaving the moustache; trying it with the castoff boxcutter he was using as a razor these days had shredded his upper lip something awful. But he hated wearing a beard; beards were itchy, and Wash was plenty itchy enough these days, what with sneaking around and sleeping in derelicts and wearing his clothes until they fell off him in threadbare scraps.

He managed to finish the job without slicing himself to ribbons, and made his way out of the derelict barge. Cautiously, he stuck his head out the airlock. All clear. Wouldn’t do for the owner of the scrapyard to find him sleeping in the derelict ship. He might want Wash to start paying rent, which would amount to Wash sleeping in the open somewhere. Somewhere Tanaka’s crew might find him.

Wash scaled the scrapyard fence and headed for the road to the port. Maybe there was a new ship in town; a new opportunity. And maybe he could make a living juggling baby geese, too. Wash sighed. He wouldn't be making a living doing much of anything until Tanaka found another pilot and got offworld. Or until Wash managed to. But Tanaka hadn't found another pilot, despite a couple of trips to larger cities, and he was still sending out his crew periodically to try to find Wash. And Wash's meager earnings from odd jobs and day labor weren't going as far as he'd hoped; what he'd been trying to do was squirrel away enough to buy a train ticket out of town. If he could get to an actual city, he was sure he could find work. But he couldn't seem to put together enough cash to get out of this miserable sinkhole. He was barely keeping himself fed.

At least avoiding Tanaka's gun hands was easy to do. Wash just went out in the mornings, during the hours when they habitually slept off their hunting excursion of the evening before. And rather than registering at a flophouse or hotel, he'd simply stayed in the derelict barge, where he came and went over the back fence, instead of through the gate. It lacked some amenities, true -- but it fit his budget, and there was no landlord to see a capture of him and say "Oh, yeah, that guy, he'll be back after lunch."

Couldn't last forever, of course. Wash needed a real job, and some coin, and some new clothes -- the clothes he'd walked away in, and the one change he'd picked up at a thrift store were quickly wearing to rags. Wash regretted not taking Renshaw's offer, weeks ago; he hadn't had another, and Renshaw hadn't returned, might never return. He was afraid he was about to reach his last resort -- call his Uncle.

And if he called his Uncle, his Uncle would probably call his mother. Who would then know that he was on-planet and hadn't even contacted her. Oh, wouldn't his family just love for him to come crawling home, flat broke, jobless, failed. He could just see that conversation -- the one where his father offered with gentle magnanimity to try to get him on at the plant. Or, worse, his sister's husband. Just imagining that was enough to give Wash the strength to struggle through another day.

There was a doughnut shop along this strip that threw out day-old doughnuts after the morning rush, and Wash was headed there now, to rifle their dumpster. It was still early --just mid-morning -- so he was a little surprised to see Tanaka's two gun hands coming down the street toward him. Tanaka must have rousted them out early again to hunt for him. He did that sometimes. Wash cast about for someplace to get out of sight.

He was walking past a pawn shop, one of many along this particular street, although he wasn't familiar with any of them, really. He had nothing to pawn, and no money to buy anything. But the pawn shop, right now, was the closest place to disappear into. Wash slipped inside, watching from behind a rack of clothing for his former crewmates to pass by.

They walked into view just outside the window, but they didn't walk on by. Instead, they were accosted by a man Wash didn't know, and stopped.

Great, Wash thought. Come on, move along. Don't stand around yakking right there! The whole grim scenario -- Wash's whole life seemed to be one continuous sequence of grim scenarios right now -- unfolded in his mind: the store clerk would accost him, accuse him of loitering, call the cops. The cops would come, Tanaka's gun hands would watch for the entertainment, bribe the cops, drag him back to the Jing Qi. Wash closed his eyes, willing the scenario away.

When he opened his eyes again, he saw something familiar.

Hanging on the rack in front of him was a black flight jacket, with patches on the arms. His flight jacket. The one Notch had stolen and pawned -- here, apparently. Wash shuffled through the rack; several items of his own clothing were here, or on the next rack over.

Anger set his hands to shaking.

He glanced out the front window: the gun hands still stood talking to the stranger, a lanky fellow in a long brown coat whom Wash didn't know. He knew Tanaka's creditors had been pestering him since he'd been grounded, and wondered if this was one, although he'd thought he knew pretty much all the people Tanaka dealt with regularly. Maybe the guy was a pilot, offering to fly Tanaka and his cargo offworld -- but Wash dismissed that possibility as too much to hope for. After all, it would free Wash up to look for a job without worrying about being hunted down.

Keeping one eye on the trio standing outside, and one on the clerk who sat along the far wall watching a vid of some kind, Wash slipped his flight jacket off the hanger. He shuffled through the racks to find his shirts -- it's not really theft, he consoled his tingling conscience -- it's recovery of stolen goods. They're my clothes!. He tucked the shirts inside the jacket, and moved to the next rack, where he found some of his flightsuits and pants, stuffing them all together into the bundle. There were actually new packages of socks and underwear along the wall, so Wash took a few of those, too. Who knew what Notch had done with his, after all? And Wash needed clothes.

The conversation outside broke up. The gun hands went one way, the brown-coated man went the other. Wash slipped forward and laid his bundle of clothing in the window, next to the door. Then he ambled to the back of the store, where some nice instruments were displayed in a glass case. As he walked, he glanced up. The store had security cameras, but they were all trained on the counter and on the more expensive merchandise at the back.

He stopped in front of the display cases and pretended to admire their contents. "Hey," he called to the clerk, "Could I look at one of these?"

The clerk bestirred himself. "Uh, sure." He fumbled under the counter for a ring of keys, and came back to the case where Wash was standing. "Which one you want?"

Wash pointed out an expensive guitar. "How about that one?"

The clerk opened the case and handed him the guitar. Wash scrutinized it, trying to look like he knew what he was doing, although he didn't dare give himself away by attempting to strum the thing. "Nice," he said.

"Huh," the clerk replied.

Wash checked the tag. "Not that nice, though. Would you take six hundred for it?"

"Have to ask the owner," the clerk said, shrugging. It was exactly what Wash had hoped he'd say.

"Is he here?"

"In the back. Wait here," the clerk said. "Oh, hey, I need to put that back first." He gave Wash a suspicious look, as though the fact that he'd almost forgotten to lock the guitar back up was somehow due to Wash's deviousness and not his own cluelessness. Wash handed over the guitar without argument, and the clerk locked it carefully back in the display case before disappearing into the back.

Wash walked quickly to the door and tucked his clothes under his arm. With a final glance over his shoulder to make sure the clerk hadn't returned, he pushed the door open and stepped into the street.

**

He hadn't even reached the corner, his bundle of clothing tucked tightly under one arm head down, hands jammed into his pockets, when the browncoated man melted out of the shadows of a nearby building and fell into step next to him.

“You Wash?" the man asked.

Wash's chest tightened. What was this guy? Bounty hunter, here to drag him forcibly back to Tanaka's employ? Lawman, looking to haul him in for, oh, stealing? Vagrancy? Trespassing?

“Maybe,” he said, hunching up even further, wishing he could disappear. “Who’s asking?”

“Name’s Mal Reynolds,” the stranger replied. “Ship captain. I need a pilot.”

“Of course you do,” Wash said. He didn't believe that for an instant. The man just looked and felt like trouble, was all; no way could he be here to offer Wash a way out of his present dilemma. Or maybe I've just been skulking too long, said the hopeful part of Wash's brain. "What ship?" he asked.

"Serenity," Reynolds said.

Wash had never heard of it, and he'd heard of most of the small-timers who did their business in this part of space. So maybe this guy was still trouble. But maybe not. Wash told himself he'd be a fool to hope. Still. "What's your offer?" he asked.

Reynolds shrugged. “What are you worth?”

Wash stopped, turned, faced this newcomer. Okay, let's see how serious you are. “Full share,” he said. “Private bunk.” No way did he mean to share a bunk again, not after what happened last time. But what he didn’t say was, respect. I want to fly on a ship where people respect what I do, much as they respect any gun hand. What he really wanted was too much to ask upfront.

“Sounds reasonable to me,” Reynolds said. “Ship without a pilot won’t have any shares to give out anyway.”

Wash stared at him. That was mighty easy. How hard up was this guy? “I never heard of you,” he said. “Why?”

“Just bought my ship,” Reynolds said. “Got a mechanic. Need a pilot.”

Wash weighed the unprecedented generosity of the offer against Reynolds’ lack of any track record at all. “I’d have to see the ship,” he said.

“It’s a Firefly, aught-three,” Reynolds said. “Port slip 1571. Come by anytime. First mate’s name is Zoe; if I’m not there, she will be.”

Wash nodded. “Her and who else?”

“Right now it’s just us and the mechanic,” Reynolds said.

Well, that explained how the man was able to offer him a private bunk without hesitation. Full share on a ship with just four people? But a ship with no record of actually being able to pay its crew – something a ship with no gun hands might have trouble doing. Still. It wasn’t Tanaka, who he’d never go back to working for, and it wasn’t Renshaw, who wanted to offer him half share in a take that would be divided ten ways. And a Firefly, aught-three. Nice ship to fly, if it was anything like well kept.

He’d have to see it. “I’ll come by,” he said.

***

He'd made it as far as the dusty road that led from the town to the shipyard when a groundcar passed him, and then stopped. A small, completely hairless man popped out of the driver’s seat.

Renshaw.

When it rains, it pours, Wash marveled.

“Wash! Let me buy you dinner!” Renshaw said. It was an offer Wash couldn’t afford to refuse, and he slipped into the groundcar’s passenger seat. He dropped his bundle on his feet in the floorboard, hoping Renshaw wouldn't ask any awkward questions about it, wondering whether he could use the Firefly captain's offer as a bargaining chip. Likely not, considering the fellow had no record.

Renshaw drove them to a saloon on the edge of town and parked the car. “You've had some time to consider my offer,” he ventured. "What do you think?"

"I think we should talk over lunch," Wash replied. He stepped out of the car, and walked into the saloon, taking a table near the door. Renshaw sat across from him. Wash ordered an appetizer, a meal and dessert all at once. Might be the only meal he’d get today, or tomorrow, or the next day, after all. Renshaw ordered a bottle of sparkling mineral water, earning himself an affronted look from the server, which he didn't seem to notice.

“You've had some time to consider my offer,” Wash countered, as he waited for his food. "What do you think?" Renshaw smiled, spreading his hands. "Well, as you're aware, a private bunk won't be any problem at all on Imogene."

"Glad to hear it," Wash said. "And I'm still offering half-share," Renshaw added, still smiling as though he were the most reasonable man in the world.

Wash didn’t smile. “No deal.”

“Washburne,” Renshaw said, exasperated, “I can’t offer you full share. Crew won’t stand for it. Not a pilot. You know that.”

Wash shrugged.

“Pilots don’t take the same risks as everybody else,” Renshaw said.

“Oh, that’s right,” Wash snapped. “Ship’s ever boarded, they won’t arrest the pilot, after all. I could always say I was flying the ship by accident.”

“Ships don’t get boarded every day –“

“Not if they've got a half decent pilot, they don't," Wash pointed out. "And of course, it never occurred to anybody that the fastest way to put a boat on the ground and keep it there is to take out the guy that can fly it,” Wash stood, and started unbuckling his belt. “You wanna see the scar I got where some gun hand decided to try and do just that?”

“No!" Renshaw waved his hands in alarm. "No, really, please, sit down!”

The server, who had just appeared with a huge tray of food, was staring at Wash in horror. Wash sat down, and smiled at the youth. “That goes here, thanks,” he said, indicating the empty spot on the table in front of him.

“The perception is that pilots don’t –“ Renshaw said.

“Well, maybe I’m looking for a ship where the perception is a little more in line with reality,” Wash said.

Renshaw sat back in his chair, looking vexed. Wash shoved his mouth full of food, eating quickly. Maybe he should throw Renshaw a bone, just to make sure he really did pay for the meal. “Maybe you could offer a bonush jusht for thish firsht job,” he said around a mouthful of food.

“You’re eating your gorram bonus,” Renshaw said through clenched teeth. Wash ate faster, barely chewing the food before he gulped it down.

“Tell you what,” he said, washing down the last of the chocolate brownie a la mode with a bottle of the local brew, “Let me think it over. I’ll give you an answer tomorrow.” That would give him a chance to look over Reynolds' ship before he decided.

“I’ve been waiting on your answer for a month."

“Then one more day won’t matter,” Wash said, stuffing a couple of rolls into his pockets. He stood to go, before the check could come and Renshaw could renege. “I know where to find you.”

Outside, Wash retrieved his clothing from Renshaw's groundcar and headed quickly in the direction of his derelict barge. He wondered whether he could maybe pawn the flight school jacket himself at one of the other pawn shops, and sighed. Even if they weren't on the watch for him now all around town, it wouldn't be worth much. Not near as much as half share aboard Renshaw’s ship, and quite possibly more than he'd ever see out of the newcomer Reynolds. I’m an idiot, he told himself, but he still believed that a full share of the ship’s take somehow might balance out to a full share of respect from the rest of the crew – or at least, that plus his flying might be a good start.

**

The more Wash thought about Reynolds’ offer, the better he liked it. A new ship, fresh track record; could be they didn’t have the entrenched disdain for pilots he’d found everywhere else. He decided he maybe wanted the job. Decided he maybe wanted it badly enough not to show up looking like a guy who’d been wearing the same clothes and sleeping in a scrapyard for over a month. So he showered, and put on the best-looking clothes he had, and wished for a proper razor. Oh, well.

At the port, he strolled slowly toward the Firefly at slip 1571. It looked like a ship that could use a little work. Okay, a lot of work. But Reynolds already had a mechanic, hadn’t he said so? And if he’d bought a ship, he had money somewhere. Wash walked all the way around the ship, thinking.

“You. Hold.” said a woman’s voice behind him. The first mate? Hadn’t Reynolds indicated that his first mate was a woman?

He put his hands in the air. “Name’s Wash,” he said. “Captain Reynolds wanted me to come by and take a look at the ship. I’m a pilot.”

She didn’t answer; instead, he felt himself grabbed by the back of his collar and hauled up against the ship’s hull, where the unseen first mate gave him a thorough frisking. "Hey, go easy," he said. "I'm just here to --" he risked turning his head to get a look at her, and stopped mid-protest. The first mate was a real stunner. Not what Wash would have expected at all. "To --" he had suddenly forgotten what he was just here to do.

Wash was glad he had cleaned up before coming over, and wished that he hadn’t told the woman he was a pilot. She was clearly a gun hand, from the way she moved – and the way she was armed to the teeth – and probably took an instant dislike to him based on his profession alone. Shame, really. He wondered if it might be possible to renegotiate with Reynolds so that he could share a bunk with the first mate. But, no; if she wasn’t sharing the captain’s bunk, the first mate would surely have her own. One that didn’t have space for a feckless gorram pilot who didn’t take the same risks she undoubtedly did. Ah well, a guy could dream, couldn’t he?

“Zoe! I see you met the pilot?” said Reynolds’ voice.

Zoe grabbed Wash by the shoulder and spun him around. She took a step backward as her dark gaze met his, looking him up and down as though she’d never seen anything quite so off-putting in her entire life as him. “That what he is, sir?” she said skeptically.

“That’s what he is,” Reynolds said, unperterbed, and held out a hand to Wash. “Glad you saw fit to come by. Come on, I’ll show you the ship.”

Wash shook the man’s hand and tried to ignore the dark stare the first mate was giving him. Her gaze unsettled him, but not in an entirely unfortunate way. He followed Reynolds through the ship, meeting the mechanic – a tattoed fellow named Bestor – and getting a look at the bunk that would be just his. He made note of the fact that it already had a lock. On the bridge, Wash took a close look at the wiring and navigation equipment, noticing that much of it was more recent than aught-three, and well chosen, too.

“What do you think?” Reynolds asked. Zoe had joined them, standing in the doorway with her arms folded, giving him the evil eye.

“Yeah,” Wash said, from under the pilot’s console. Evil eye notwithstanding, this was looking more and more like the opportunity he’d been waiting for. “This is all very doable.” He climbed out from under the console, trying – failing – to suppress his growing enthusiasm for the fact that he might not have to sleep in a scrapyard tonight. “Shouldn’t be a problem at all. Few modifications . . .you could get some real maneuverability out of this boat. You’d be surprised.”

“So you’ll take the job, then?” Reynolds said.

The first mate looked at the captain with distaste. Wash ignored her, settling himself into the pilot’s seat. Okay, so she hated pilots. Wash was used to being hated by at least one member of the crew; he could deal with that. At least she was easy on the eyes. “Might do, might do. Starting to get a feel here.”

“Good,” said Reynolds. His first mate turned in disgust and walked off the bridge. “Well, take your time, then, make yourself t’home. Just, uh, fiddle with the dials a bit; we’ll be close by.” He turned and hurried after his first mate.

Wash sat fiddling with the dials as they left, and wondering if he could maybe get an advance out of Reynolds. Small one.

Just enough for a razor.

**

When Zoe spun the pilot around and looked in his face, her first thought had been, This is the man I'm going to marry.

She'd stepped back, then -- thunderstruck. Horrified. Her second thought had been, Him? He didn't look like much, after all; bad haircut and a worse moustache, a dreadful print shirt hanging open over a worn flightsuit. He looked like . . . a vagrant, actually. Even worse than the swaggering chwen joo mechanic Mal had brought aboard. And now Mal wanted to hire him?

The thought was mortifying.

"He's great, ain't he?" Mal said. He seemed quite pleased with his new acquisition. And why not? It meant they would have a functional crew. They could take jobs. They could actually start to put together the life he had envisioned.

Except that Zoe wanted the pilot off the boat. If he weren't around, she wouldn't have to lose sleep over that bizarre moment when she had been absolutely certain she had just met her match. If the man were gone, it could be chalked up as a bad moment, an instinct gone awry, nothing, really. But if he stayed . . . what if it happened again?

"I don't like him," she said.

"What?" Mal seemed completely taken aback by her flat statement. Clearly, he had expected her to be on board with this. They did need a pilot, after all.

"Something about him bothers me," Zoe said.

"What?" Mal demanded. "What about him bothers you?

That I had a moment of absolute certainty when I saw him, Zoe thought. And that I have to be wrong. I can't be right. Not about that. Not about him. But she had lived by her instincts, made instantaneous life-and-death decisions based on them, for years, and she could not now deny those same instincts without acute discomfort. And she didn't dare breathe a word of any of it to Mal. "Not sure. Just... something," she said weakly.

"Well, your 'somethin' comes up against a list of recommendations long as my leg," Mal protested hotly. Zoe's instincts twitched again; a little too hotly, seemed to her. Maybe there was something to her misgivings. "Tanaka raved about the guy. Renshaw's been trying to get him on his crew for a month. And we need us a pilot."

"I understand, sir. He bothers me."

"Look, we finally got ourselves a genius mechanic, now it's about time we hired someone to fly the damn thing."

Zoe glanced back over her shoulder, toward the bridge. She could hear the pilot humming happily, perfect counterpoint to her own mood. Perfect counterpoint . . .

Zoe only vaguely registered Bester -- the mechanic, about whom they had also disagreed -- out of the corner of her eye as he entered the corridor.

"'Genius.' No one's ever called me that before. Shiny," he said, his eyes bright and vacuous.

She ignored the mechanic. She'd already lost that battle, and she feared she was about to lose another. "Just bothers me," she tried again, but she could tell by the expression on Mal's face that she had indeed lost this one, too.

But had she really tried to win?

"I'll be in my bunk," she said, and went off to be alone. -------------

chwen joo [retarded pig]

COMMENTS

Monday, November 20, 2006 7:33 AM

BLUEEYEDBRIGADIER


So Zoe knew from the get-go, huh? Now that's something I have wanted to see for ages! Zoe actually recognizing Wash's status as her future husband and actively trying to ignore it cuz it seemed to whacked for words:D

And I really like how you've spun Mal's comments - used here - about Wash's recommendations. Though I presume Tanaka's ravings were more out of anger than pride;)

BEB

Tuesday, June 12, 2007 9:38 AM

HERMITSREST


Love the weaving in with Out of Gas, extremely clever. V. well written.


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