Unfinished Business

Chapter Twelve

Rachel Chambers walked up the ramp into Serenity’s cargo bay with just a hint of anxiety about doing it. It had been a long time, after all, and Mal Reynolds had changed. A lot. She hadn’t expected their reunion to be smooth – she was wiser than that. What both of them had been through had made them far, far different people than the kids who’d joined up together. They had seen too much death and destruction and stupidity and human misery to be anything close to those starry-eyed young ‘uns. Still, she had hoped that Reynolds’ roguish charm and Christian charity might go a ways to bridge the gap between who they were and who they once were. Instead she had found a gritty, hard-edged man who was bitter and resentful. Just how resentful she hadn’t guessed until she had spoken to him. Just how bitter she hadn’t guessed until she saw how he reacted to Duncan McKlintock. Most men could put the War behind them and at least try to move on with bearing the shame of defeat in civilian life. Some couldn’t, and ended their despair by chewing on a barrel, or emigrating to some godforsaken outpost and changing their names, or at least having the good grace to crawl into a bottle. Not Reynolds. He wore his defeat like a cloak of pride. He was angry at the Alliance for winning, and at the Independents for losing, and had no constructive way to express that anger. All of his once-profound belief in the Cause had faded, now, had been kicked out of him by Fate. But he had eschewed the bottle – so far as she’d heard – and wasn’t the barrel-sucking type – when Reynolds went down, he’d take a fair escort to hell with him. He was too arrogant for suicide, at least not the ordinary way. Like many of his peers he had bought a heap of scrap pretending to be a ship and had skulked off to the Black, playing at being pirates and rogues, while the relentless wheel of the Alliance ground every world in the ‘verse into the same course meal. She couldn’t well blame him, she knew. Had Rachel had the luxury of honest surrender, she may well have had done the same. It was a brutally harsh existence, but pure, after a fashion. But Rachel was wanted for war crimes, and not without justification. After the nuclear annihilation of her homeworld, she had gone out of her way to volunteer for the bloodiest, most desperate missions the Independent High Command Council had to offer. She had ten times a score more blood on her hands than Reynolds, and the relatively free life of a common thief was just too dangerous. She had escaped Hera shortly before Serenity Valley, getting out sensitive documents and essential personnel to fallback positions. It had been a fool’s errand, she knew it even as she was following her orders. But the plan had been to go underground, continue the struggle from secret locations, a classic celled insurgency to fight in the shadows until the cause of Independence could be pursued again. But, like most plans, it didn’t survive contact with the Enemy. Alliance counter-espionage units had moved in quickly and captured whole units, individual agents had gone missing, key datastores had been captured. Three months after the Armistice, Only the barest few of her service had escaped into the civilian population. Organization fell to pieces as key people turned their coats and informed on the other survivors. That first few years had been a thankless existence of one alias after another, hiding in every squalid flat and abandoned warehouse they could find. They had helped each other since then, when they could, but most relied on going deep into the demimonde, trusting no one, and hoping the ‘verse forgot you existed. One of the few who had made it had been the Brigadier. She had been thrilled when she discovered him. He had always been a quiet pillar of strength, one of the five commanders responsible for operations, and one of the few worth following. He had been in the early evac parties to prepare the remote locations. When he had surfaced a few years ago in the Gorgon system, she had been ecstatic. The Brigadier and his daughter were legendary for their service during the war, and it didn’t surprise her at all that the spymaster would survive the hunts and land on his feet. Tracking him down and joining him was difficult – and she would have been skeptical if it hadn’t been. The dashing Brigadier may have become a steely underworld figure, but he hadn’t lost a bit of his edge. He had accepted her service, found a place for her in the underworld, and kept her safe. The Alliance mostly worked through corporate proxies out here in the hinterlands, and company dicks weren’t nearly as relentless as real Feds – and far more corrupt. For nigh a year, now, he had kept her gainfully employed as a troubleshooter for his growing criminal enterprises. They had both resigned themselves to a life of squalid splendor and a bloody, hopeless end in a hail of gunfire, when two things happened in quick succession. One was Malcolm Reynolds kicking over the biggest gorram anthill in history. The revelation of the Pax, and Miranda, and the origins of the Reavers, had severely punished the previous administration, the political alliance that had led the Alliance to victory in the War. When the common man saw to what lengths the Unity parties would go to maintain control, there was no way they could govern without inciting open hostilities. They had, instead, handed over the reins of power to a caretaker government, and moved to limit the damage as new elections were called on a dozen worlds. The righteous indignation over Miranda, and the subsequent destruction of a third of the Alliance fleet, had given opportunistic bit players ample room to snipe at the establishment and settle old grudges. Economic war had been kindled between corporate factions. Instability was starting to set in, and with it the ancient power balance between a strong central authority and smaller regional power centers was upset. Already the strain was being felt, and in the coming months much could happen that could tear the Alliance apart. Civil disorders and military mutiny would increase, as likely as not. Chaos would reign. At the least, it would mean the heat would be off the Independent renegades. At the most, it would provide fertile ground to re-establish some remnant of the Independent dream. And you just didn’t get an opportunity like that very often. McBane had hoped her previous history with Reynolds would help bring him over to the seed of the new organization freely – he had a high standing and a stellar reputation among the criminals of the Rim, a very important constituency to cultivate. But that hadn’t gone very well. The other thing was finding that damn dead Browncoat in a spacesuit. That gave everybody purpose, a reason for cohering into a unit again. It was a spark in a gas-filled room. “Hello?” Rachel called out. The place seemed abandoned. “Back here!” called a young, friendly voice. Rachel followed it to the rear of the bay, where she saw a grubby young woman in a grubby coverall wearing Reunion beads pulling something mechanical out of an access bay with a tool she didn’t recognize. “Hey, I’m –” “Miss Rachel, Rachel Chambers. Cap’n said we’re gonna have company on this run. Welcome to Serenity, Miss Chambers. If you’ll hold on a sec while I get this gorram Westy back into place . . .” she said, with a concerted grunt that ended with a click. “Kaylee Frye,” the young woman said, holding out her hand after wiping it on the leg of her overalls. “Engineer. I keep stuff from falling off her. Mostly,” she added with a shy smile. “Follow me, an’ I show you to your bunk.” “You the bursar, too?” Rachel asked with a smile. “Bursar, barker, chambermaid, janitor – I’ve a multitude of responsibilities,” the girl said with a sense of satisfaction. “Everything from the cockpit, rear, is my sandbox. But ‘specially the engine room.” She considered a moment, shifting the AWOL bag gingerly from one shoulder to the other. “Uh, Miss Chambers? Do you know where we’re headed?” “Of course. But that’s Mal’s job to tell you. I’m just along for the ride and to . . . oversee things when we get there. Are you one of Mal’s gun hands?” she asked. “Me?” Kaylee said, her eyes wide. She chuckled uncomfortably. “God, let’s hope not! I’m powerful useless in a fight. I been in a few – a few too many – but I weren’t happy ‘bout it, none. Not like the others.” “They pretty good in a fight, then?” “Yes ma’am,” Kaylee said, almost reverently. “Zoe, she’s like an angel o’ death, an’ of course the Cap’n can chew his way outta any gorram scrap. And Jayne, he’s . . . well, he’s not far from the meanest man alive. Don’t mind killin’ a man, Jayne don’t.” “Yes, the impressive Mr. Cobb,” Rachel said, her eyes narrowing briefly as she followed Kaylee through a shabby-looking lounge. “I’ve read his file. Wouldn’t enlist, if I recall correctly.” “Yeah, Jayne don’t mind killin’ a man, but he’s gonna get his coin up front to do it. Says neither side paid good enough . . . to . . . fight.” Kaylee trailed off as they passed the infirmary, where a sad and disheveled man stood in the doorway, wrapped in a sheet. He looked not unlike a street-corner bum on a bender. “Kaylee,” the man pouted. “Can I have a drink o’ water? Please?” he asked in a nasally tone. “It’d be a powerful kindness.” “Uh . . . yeah, in a minute. Jayne, this is Rachel, Rachel Chambers. She’s gonna be travelin’ with us a while. Miss Chambers, this is . . .” “. . . ‘the meanest man alive’?” she asked, skeptically. “I did say ‘not far’,” Kaylee reminded her, sheepishly. “You kinda caught me . . . onna off day . . .” Cobb said, hazily. He stared at her – or more like through her – and his expression shifted. “Y’know, you’re a mighty fair ‘un, unner all them hideous scars,” he said, his eyes the size of dinner plates. His pupils were dilated. “He’s . . . recoverin’ from an overabundance of Reunionizin’,” Kaylee explained. “Everyone did. Doc’s got a hangover size o’ a Getullund 338, the cargo model. Zoe an’ Cap’n don’t look real healthy, neither. An’ Jayne, he got tangled up with one o’ them priestess whores . . . ain’t quite right, at the moment.” She studied his face a moment. “’Course, he ain’t quite right most moments.” “What about you?” Rachel asked. “You seem fresh as a . . . greasy daisy. No offense.” Kaylee laughed, charmingly. “Hell, I love bein’ greasy. No, I stayed away from the booze, but I smoked it up plenty. Never leaves me fuzzy, if I can catch a nap. C’mon, I’ll get you settled – be back anon, Jayne. Go lay down, be sleepy,” she suggested. “I tell you I love you yet today?” the big man asked, eyes all puppy-dogged. “Yep,” Kaylee acknowledged. “An’ it’s still just as creepifyin’ as it was the first time. Lay down,” she assured in a motherly tone. “I’ll be back anon.” Jayne nodded and stumbled back into the infirmary. “Probably the dope Doc gave him. Makes him thirsty,” she confided, continuing on through the decrepit old transport, past exposed conduit and battered bulkheads, until they arrived at the passenger dormitory. “Here you go, Miss Rachel. This was Shepherd Book’s old room.” Kaylee said, dropping the bag and opening the shoji screen to reveal her quarters. It was common enough room, nothing fancy. A bed, a head, some lockers, all crammed into not nearly enough space, just like a million others in commercial service. Not big enough to be called a stateroom, not small enough to be called a bunk, transport quarters always had the potential to be as hospitable as a men’s room in a football stadium after a tournament. She had expected as much – Reynolds had never been the neatest soldier in the outfit – but these quarters were surprisingly neat and tidy. The room was sparsely furnished, but the bed was neatly made, covered with a colorfully decorated thick handmade quilt from some frontier world or other. A small built-in table had a hand-turned terra cotta vase full of dried flowers and lavender, a scent that was only slightly effective at cutting the stale smell of recycled atmo that seemed to infest all spaceships. Book had been a Protestant Shepherd, she recalled from the dossier – the parts of it she had clearance to read. She could almost see a real man of God living here. A really humble man of God. “A Shepherd?” Rachel asked, an eyebrow raised. “Figures. Mal always was one for the preachy set. Boy had a personal relationship with God and wasn’t shy about tellin’ you. Mal had more faith than a bus o’ nuns. I swear, he made us pray before every raid. He was far better at sinning than praying, I suppose, but he was at service every Sabbath no matter how gorram drunk we got the night afore.” “Uh, well, he kinda let the Shepherd stay in spite o’ his profession, not ‘cause of it. He always said the Shepherd was welcome on Serenity any time, but God had to pay full fare. I think he meant it as a joke. I think.” “Then he really has changed,” Rachel observed. “Interesting. Too bad, I guess. He had the nicest voice when we sang. A little shy of professional standards, I reckon, but when he got that innocent expression and that . . . look in his eye, you could plain hear the Jesus pour outta his mouth.” Kaylee fidgeted a little and rolled her eyes. “It’s so weird to hear you talk about the Cap’n like that,” she finally got out. “All . . . young and churchy. And . . . singing! Mal don’t sing much . . . unless ‘Nara’s around and he can do it when he thinks she thinks that he ain’t doin’ it to impress her when it’s so pathetically obvious that . . . I should stop talking now,” she said, guiltily, her cheeks blushing. “That would be Inara Serra, I take it? A guild Companion, out of Sinhon, right? I’ve read her file. Good cover, that. We used it a lot in the War. Anyone else?” “No, no, Cap only sings for Inara ‘cause he might be . . . kinda . . . sweet—” “I meant, ‘is there anyone else flying with us?’” Rachel asked, patiently. She knew about Mal’s affection for the Companion. She had the briefing about the Miranda incident – and a man doesn’t walk so boldly into such an obvious trap as the Alliance had laid at the training house for a mere nodding acquaintance. “Nope,” Kaylee affirmed. “Just us seven. Now.” She turned away quickly. “Let me know if you need anything. Towels an’ linens is in the closet, head’s right over there, lights ‘n’ climate controls over here on this panel, but try not to keep them too high nor low ‘cause it plays merry havok with my systems, if you would. You need a sweater, I got extras. Trash is at the end of the hall. Everyone does their own laundry, o’ course. Anything in the kitchen what ain’t got someone’s name on it is fair game. Don’t know if you’ll be on the cookin’ schedule, that’s up to th’ Cap’n, but check the notes on the fridge to see. We should have cortex access ‘till we get out o’ range o’ the relays, but let the Cap’n know if you’re gonna send somethin’ out ‘cause he’s picky like that, us bein’ criminals an’ all. Apart from that . . . well, make yourself at home. Hope you like the quarters, ‘cause it’s all we got.” “It’s a fine room,” Rachel agreed, truthfully. She had enough experience to appreciate humble comfort. “Even homey.” “Well, we try,” Kaylee said, with bashful pride. “A Firefly weren’t never configured for comfort, but we gotta live in ‘er, might as well make it nice as possible. ‘Cross the hall there is Simon’s room – that’s the doctor. Next door to him is River’s room . . . and here’s River.” A pale, very young girl came bounding up the passageway, her hair flying wildly in all directions. She had an odd look to her eyes, Rachel saw. She knew it must be the mysterious sister of Dr. Simon Tam, the surgeon from Osiris on the run from the Alliance. River had been in one of the highest security Black facilities in the Core – Rachel still thought of it as “behind enemy lines” – and the doctor had managed to break her out. That was an impressive feat for an amateur. Rachel hadn’t been able to get the particulars on River, though, beyond her acknowledged status as a bona fide genius prodigy, before the Alliance had gotten a hold of her. That annoyed Rachel, who liked to know everything about everyone connected to a mission, but it couldn’t be helped. McBane’s organization was good at some things, but delicate intelligence work was not its strong point. One thing was clear, though: it was obvious that someone in the Alliance thought she was important enough to go after to waste a Parliamentary Operative and a third of the Rim fleet. She certainly didn’t look that impressive at the moment. River seemed a little unsteady on her feet – which were in surplus generic infantry combat boots a size too large, the laces undone – and while she was walking, it was without much in the way of grace. She looked in danger of tripping as she walked towards her room, but never quite managed to. “Hey, Riv,” Kaylee called casually, trying to hide her concern. “How was Downtown?” “Transcendent shininess. I danced,” River said, airily, her eyes swimming. “For hours and hours. With dozens of boys. On understanding feet, brightly, brightly and with beauty. My understanding feet hurt like a bitch, now. My head is throbbing. And I need to go potty.” “Ain’t nothin’ like a Reunion,” Kaylee agreed. “River, this here is—” “Rachel Anne Chambers, born on Shadow 2489 Standard, former Colonel in the Independent Armed Forces Intelligence Service, currently wanted by Interpol in connection with war crimes and espionage against the Alliance, reward is two hundred thousand credits alive, fifty thousand dead, only daughter of a single father, a beekeeper, killed in the riots before the war,” River supplied, as if she were reading it off of a card. “Um . . . yes,” agreed Rachel reluctantly, taken aback by the display. “How did you –?” “She’s . . . a really good guesser,” Kaylee explained, lamely. “So she is,” she said, looking at the girl with renewed interest. “She must have come across my wanted poster somewhere. Superior memory fits with her pre-Alliance profile. What’s her job on—” She was interrupted by River dramatically and prolifically vomiting all over the hallway. The girl seemed to take some perverse pleasure in it, Rachel noted as she dodged the sickly flume. And her nose told her that there was plenty of beer involved in the mess. Kaylee’s was wrinkled up, too, and she looked positively mortified. “She’s . . . our pilot,” the mechanic said, apologetically. “Let me just go get a mop. And get Jayne his water. Don’t want him throwin’ a hissy-fit. A . . . really manly hissy fit,” she corrected, realizing how diminishing of his reputation that comment was. “You OK, River?” “I’m fine,” River insisted, pulling her hair back ineffectively out of the way as she let loose one last torrent.. “Excess ethanol and excessive physical activity sponsored a corrective action resulting in a purgative projectile discharge to remove the offending material.” She said it as if was a keen observation. “Feeling much better now. Except for the taste of bile and the resulting effect on my teeth. That’s just plain nasty. Let me just get my vest and my goggles, pee and we can be in the sky within twenty-two minutes. Unless I have to vomit again.” “Oh, this just gets better and better,” Rachel moaned, rolling her eyes.

* * *

“We had a great time, Monty,” Mal said, sincerely, shaking his old friend’s hand on the ramp of Serenity. “Surely did. Just a shame it had to get humped up with all of this . . . what do we call it?” “McBane says we shouldn’t call it anything, and if we have to, to use the code name: Operation Coda Some fellas are callin’ it the Last Campaign of the War. Or the first of the new war,” Monty said, amused. “Ain’t that a hoot?” Mal winced. “Wished they wouldn’t,” he said, sighing and shaking his head. “That’s what scares me ‘bout this job. We ain’t strikin’ a ruttin’ blow for freedom. We’re haulin’ some poor guys’ sorry asses outta hell. This ain’t the Independents ‘risin’ again’. That ain’t a good mistake to make. Mistake like that gets a lotta damn fools killed. Ain’t worth it just to make up for losin’ the last War.” Monty looked a little hurt. “Aw, hell, Mal, can you really blame ‘em?” he asked. “I mean, bad as you an’ me got it, we got it pretty gorram good compared to some o’ these poor bastards. Some ain’t had a proper job since the War. Some lost limbs. Most lost kin, an’ all o’ them lost their gorram dignity. Ain’t been hopeful for years. All the juice squeezed outta them, nothin’ much left to live for. Everywhere they go, they gotta see that gorram flag, those ruttin’ purple uniforms, and know in their heart every time they hear about a ‘civil disturbance’ on the frontier what the Alliance put down that they got their asses kicked. And lost the gorram War.” “I’m acquainted with the feeling,” agreed Mal, sourly. “Why’n hell you think I stay in the Black most o’ the time? But you gotta get on with it, Monty. You gotta see that..” “Some can’t. How many of the guys you knew chew on a barrel? Or just walked off into the prairie an’ disappeared? Or end up in some crappy bar, drinkin’ rotgut ‘till they don’t wake up no more?” “Plenty,” admitted Mal. “Came close a time or two my ownself. Hard thing to bear, knowin’ you lost. But life moves on, an’ us with it, Monty. Can’t live in the past – not that past. No, you gotta push forward or die tryin’.” “So why’n hell did you join the mission, then?” Monty asked, curious. “Ain’t this a step back, from that perspective?” “I got my reasons,” Mal said, evenly. “Just ‘cause I lost don’t mean I turned in my sense of duty when I turned in my rifle. You don’t lose that, not if you’re livin’ right. Hell, it’s ‘bout all I got left. Those guys in the Suri Madron, they don’t even know the War’s over. Might be a mercy to let them think that ‘till the Trump blows. But they deserve a chance at a real life, after what they been through. Even if it’s just a crappy life in a bottle somewhere.” “I guess you’re right,” Monty admitted reluctantly. “Me, too, in my way. But I mostly want to feel like I’m doin’ somethin’ that means a damn to someone other than me. Tired of driftin’ in the Black with the stars lookin’ down their nose at me.” “You wax poetical, I might just have to kiss you,” warned Mal with a self-conscious grin. “An’ I ain’t partial to whiskers. Didn’t mean to get all warm an’ fuzzy. Hell, nothin’ else, it’s a job. Biggest jailbreak in a century. And right under the Alliance’s nose. Does my heart good to think about that. But this is just a job, not the War. Or the next one. Just a job.” “Yeah, you keep tellin’ yourself that, Sarge,” Monty laughed, wryly. “You keep sayin’ it, and mayhap one day you’ll believe it. But there’s change on the wind, and you started it with all that Miranda crap, and you can’t walk away from that. You got to own up to that. Don’t know if this is the last war or the next war myself, but it’s going to have consequences. Might help rip things apart. And then you might just see that risen’ again you don’t want to talk about.” “Let’s not sell the colt before the mare’s been brought to stud,” warned Mal. “Let’s just get through this with our skins whole, I’ll be happy. See you on Amphora,” Mal said, shaking Monty’s big hand again. “And stay away from redheads, OK? Nothin’ but trouble!” Monty roared at that, and walked away laughing. Mal was just about to close the hatch when a group of men walked up. More than half were locals, Radical Green Militia men with slung carbines and wary expressions. The rest were thuggish-looking, but didn’t have the lazy attitude one usually associated with criminals. They were alert and aware, uninterested in intimidation. Candy Cane McBane was in the middle of them. “Reynolds,” He called. “Mind if we chat?” “Time for my pep talk, General?” Mal asked, casually. “No need. I’ll get the job done.” “Just some last minute go se,” McBane admitted. “Wanted to let you know: this operation should be referred to as Coda, when it must be referred to. You ever hear someone mention ‘Coda Transport Carriers’, he’s one of ours. My people are to be referred to as ‘the client’, never plural. Individual teams should be referred to as ‘haulers’, and the objective will be called ‘that Big Job’. Not ‘THE Big Job’, but ‘THAT Big Job’.” “You spies are subtle folk,” Mal observed wryly. “Only the good ones,” McBane agreed. “Griped my ass in the war to have perfectly sane counterintelligence methods tossed out in favor of blood-and-guts thinking. Would have saved a lot of lives if there were more subtle folk in High Command.” “Don’t need to tell an infantry sergeant that,” agreed Mal. “Here,” McBane said, taking a small purse from one of his aids. “Walking-around money, for fuel and such. All in platinum, of course. For expenses, remember: I’m not hiring you, you’re volunteering.” “I get you, General,” agreed Mal, weighing the bag in his hand. “And I appreciate the advance.” “If you need more, or if you get in a jam and need help, wave Howard’s Funeral Home in Century City on Beaumonde – it’s in the directory – and tell them you want a quote on bulk rate coffins. I can’t promise we’ll be able to help out, but . . . “ “Kinda used to workin’ without a net,” Mal reminded him. “Besides, you stuck me with one of your best pains-in-the-ass, remember? If Rachel Chambers the Super Spy can’t handle the situation, then we might as well curl up an’ die.” “You two . . . got a history,” McBane said, thoughtfully. It was an observation, not a question. “Not the way you mean,” Mal said, shaking his head. “We were kids together back on Shadow. Ran into each other a couple o’ times in the War. Don’t mean we were intended, or nothin’. She was a nice girl. To say she ain’t a girl no more, that’d be charitable.” McBain grunted, his blue eyes narrowing. “There a problem?” Mal shrugged, shaking his head. “I can put up with just about anybody, General. She’s a shark, that one – guess it makes her a good spy. But she’s decent people. Just rubs me the wrong way, most times I seen her. But this is a big enough boat I can keep a healthy distance.” “She is the best person I have for this assignment,” McBane apologized. “Only my daughter would be better, and she’s on another assignment.” “If she can put up with me an’ mine, we’ll get along famously. No worries.” “Good. I also wanted to stop by and say thanks. Wish you hadn’t stormed out of the meeting last night, I wanted to talk with you, afterwards.” “Somethin’ on your mind?” Mal asked, curiously. “Actually, yes. You’re the reason that I’m alive, Reynolds,” McBane said, earnestly. “I owe you a debt of gratitude.” “Beg pardon?” “I was at High Command on Hera when that final axe fell,” he explained, his eyes never wavering from Mal’s. “Serenity Valley was the only thing between us and the advancing Alliance column, and it was scant protection – two roller units and four platoons of infantry, starting out. We never expected it to hold very long. “When it started looking like the Purplebelly reinforcements would make it to Hera before our own ships came in from Angel, well, we were a mite concerned. Most of us were political operatives, but we knew that there were some, myself included, that could look forward to a firing squad were we ever forced to lay down arms. “The combat commanders kept throwing our reserves into that valley, knowing that they were bound to get broke sooner or later. But they bought us time. Projections said that our boys and girls would be pushed back or shattered within days. But we got word that there was a stupid sonuvabitch that kept rallying and fighting and just mainly being uncooperative long after the projections expired. Every unit we sent in got scragged, but this one non-com kept rallying, improvising, and had the temerity to fight back when he should have had the sense to run. “If he hadn’t,” the Brigadier said, the faintest hint of a tear in his eye, “I would have been enjoying my last cigarette and blindfold within days. But he did, and because of that me and my staff were able to get aboard one of the last commerce raiders to get out through the blockade. If it weren’t for you and the rest of those brave browncoats, I’d be in Serenity Garden with the other ‘traitors’ instead of here today. We heard about you, Reynolds. Just wanted you to know. And know I was grateful.” “Hell, General,” muttered Mal self-consciously. “At first we were just doing our job, and then we were just fighting for our lives. That was our foremost concern, not the yahoos back at base. I mean, glad we could help out and all, but . . .” “Well,” McBane chuckled, “Can’t hardly argue that point. Not sure we were worth protecting anyway, the way we botched the last six months of the War. But I wanted to thank you, sincerely, for your efforts. And let you know that I put you up for a field promotion before I skulked away, not that it makes any difference. Thought you should at least have a lieutenant’s patch, since you were doing the job.” Mal raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Actually, General,” he said, thoughtfully, “in a matter o’ speakin’ it did make a bit o’ difference. When we were mustered out and paid off, the Independent Personnel officer put me down as a Captain, instead of a Sergeant. Got me about ten times what I would have got in my packet. Helped me buy Serenity, after the War,” he said, glancing around his ship. “She ain’t much to look at, but she’s home.” “Well, then, glad I could help.” He stuck out his hand. “Good hunting on Persephone, Reynolds. Needless to say, if we pull this off you can look forward to plenty of work from me. I’d say good luck, but I think you’re likely the kind of man who makes his own luck.” Mal laughed bitterly. “Hell, that’d explain a lot, wouldn’t it? Don’t you worry none, General, I got a great crew, a great team. A little rough around the edges, but they’re the best in th’ business. Real professionals—” He was interrupted by River, who slunk along the catwalk towards the bridge like a frightened cat. “You ready to lift, Albatross?” he called out. River considered. “Um . . . no . . .” she said, then fountained a rain of vomit over the side rail, thoughtfully aimed out of the regular area of traffic. “Chaos of gastric fluids gyring through space under the illusion of gravity,” she said under her breath between heaves. “What is the equation for falling vomit? Beautiful!” When she finally stopped heaving, she looked up, the leather cap on her head slightly askew. “Okay, I’m ready. I’ll go start preflight,” she said as she returned to staring intently at the puddle on the deck below. “Is that—?” McBane started to ask, eyebrows raised. Before Mal could answer him, a blood-curdling shriek filled the cargo bay, followed immediately thereafter with the sight of a tall, well-built but unshaven naked man with a tattoo of a tree on his butt running wild-eyed towards the hatch. “I’m free!” he yelled, gleefully. “I’m free! Everyone can be free!” he was shouting, as a well-dressed but disheveled young doctor came racing after him, bellowing for him to stop. Just as Jayne got to the hatch entrance, he stopped to do a little dance involving his genitalia and his wide, crazy eyes. “I’m free!” he insisted forcefully to everyone in sight. “I’m free!” It was about then that the doctor tackled him and started wrestling him ineffectively to the deck. The Greens guarding McBane all nervously trained their weapons on the tangle of hairy bare flesh and exquisitely-tailored silk, but they were too confounded to take action. Kaylee, in grease-stained coveralls, appeared right behind him, carrying a red plastic medical kit and a hyposyringe. Everyone looked on, speechless, as the doctor and the naked savage wrestled. The doctor was easily out-classed, and only Jayne’s obvious impairment gave him any chance to subdue him at all. Indeed, the naked man had nearly escaped Simon's grasp when, in a surge of inspiration, Simon started tickling the naked man’s ribs. The result was an instantaneous cessation of struggle and an immediate recourse to howls of laughter. “Kaylee, quick!” the doctor pleaded as he sat on the naked man’s back and tickled his ribs feverishly. The young woman tossed the hypo to the doctor, who quickly injected his patient in the neck with a strong sedative. When the naked mercenary had ceased his struggles – and his insistence that he was free – the mussed doctor looked up and glared at the Captain. “You . . . are not paying me . . . nearly enough,” he said, his voice seething. “Kaylee, everyone aboard who’s goin’?” Mal asked out of the side of his mouth. “Present and accounted for,” she assured. “Hey Jayne! That’s a pretty tree on your butt!” River called out, helpfully, and then vomited again. “Let’s be on our way, then, shall we?” Mal asked through gritted teeth. “Boys, help the doctor get that man inside,” McBane ordered his men. Then he turned towards Mal. “This is the ‘rough around the edges’ part, I take it?” he asked skeptically. Mal swallowed. “Best in the business,” he repeated. “My God, that’s a hairy ass!” McBane observed when Simon pulled Jayne’s unconscious body around with the help of the Green militiamen. “I’m literally going to be sick as my sister,” Simon grumbled as he rose. “God! I’m going to have nightmares for weeks. If there is any karma in the ‘verse, I hope that Sister Jasmine gets a perpetual yeast infection for this,” he said, darkly. River vomited a third time, though little enough was left inside her stomach. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, then started dry heaving as Jayne was dragged back towards the infirmary. “Real professionals,” nodded Mal thoughtfully as McBane looked on, mystified. “Nothin’ to worry about!” “God, I love a reunion!” Kaylee sighed, happily, as she stepped around River’s newest puddle of vomit to give Mal a supportive hug. “Can’t hardly wait for the next one!”