Mal hadn’t planned on being stuck as River’s “babysitter”, but that’s the way it worked out. As his crew went about their assigned tasks on Onyx, they trickled out of Serenity until it was only him and the 17 year-old left aboard. River had been a little more cogent lately – he wasn’t sure if the Doctor’s meds were working, or if it was just her brain healing itself – but outbursts had been more rare, and sometimes he could even fool himself into believing that he was speaking to a normal, regular 17 year-old super genius. He had revised his opinion of River since the enigmatic bounty hunter, Jubal Early, broke into Serenity in mid-flight and single-handedly overpowered the crew – except for River. Had it not been for her eerie and absolutely convincing performance, her quick wittedness, and her sheer audacity, no doubt he and his crew would all be dead and River would be back at the Academy (wherever that was) by now. Mal may not have liked the unstable nature of the teen’s behavior, but he knew when he owed someone his life. Perhaps, he decided, she could be more use than danger in the future. When Kaylee and Wash had taken the mule out to the scrapyard it was just the two of them staring at each other across the cargo hold. River stood stock-still, statue-like, and stared at him with a bemused smile and slightly crazy eyes. It wasn’t her fault – without a functioning migdula, it was difficult for her to conceal her moment-to-moment emotions like everyone else in the ‘verse did. He stared back for a few moments, then shrugged and went back up to the kitchen. River followed him. As he put the coffee pot on, River sat down at the table, still staring. He tried to ignore it. He turned his back and pretended that she wasn’t there. It didn’t work. The longer he went without acknowledging the girl, the more the tension in the room grew as she fixed her eyes steadily on him. Mal smiled nervously, tried to hum, gave it up, watched the coffee pot as it heated up, fiddled with the sugar bowl, got out a tea spoon, examined the counter closely for imaginary specks, and finally washed his cup for the second time. When he could find no other way to stall, he finally spoke to her. “So, River, how have you been faring?” “Six minutes, twenty seconds.” “Beg pardon?” the Captain asked, confused. “It took you six minutes and twenty seconds to acknowledge my presence.” “I’m, uh, a man of few words.” “No you’re not. You’re scared of me.” “Well, it, River, who wouldn’t be?” he said. “I know it’s not entirely your fault, but you have this way of unnerving a body somethin’ powerful!” “I know.” She didn’t vary her gaze, and seemed to be boring deeper and deeper into Mal’s mind. “River, can you read my mind?” “Why?” “Just makin’ conversation.” “You’re scared of me.” “You said that.” “But that’s not all. You’re scared of me, but you really kind of like me. You like me better than you want anyone to know.” “How you figure that?” Mal rubbed the back of his neck, where the little hairs were standing on end. “I know these things. You are a kind man, Malcolm Reynolds.” “Don’t be talkin’ such nonsense. I’m a bloodthirsty, violence prone criminal. Just ask anyone.” “I do know what you’re thinking.” “Good, ‘cause I don’t have much notion, myself.” “You’re thinking that your recent string of luck can’t possibly hold up. You’re thinking that this is the job that gets you caught or killed. You are thinking—” “Yes? What is it?” “You’re thinking that after your coffee, you want to take a walk down to the bazaar and look at some very inconsequential things. Maybe do a little shopping.” “Well, what if I am?” “Let me get my shoes on and we can go.” “Whoa, River! Just ‘cause I may – or may not – have a notion in my head don’t mean that you’re invited to ride along.” She finally broke her stare, then looked back up at him, less intently but more plaintively. “You really want to leave me on board Serenity alone?” Malcolm considered. “No, I don’t. But that don’t mean I’m gonna head out.” “But you are. Right after your coffee. And you’re going to take me with you. Because you don’t trust me alone on your ship. And you have money burning a hole in your pocket. And this is the first decent place in a while where you might be able to spend it.” “That’s a powerful many suppositions, River.” “Not really. What’s the worst that could happen?” “River, how can I say this? You’re crazy and an Alliance fugitive, and that’s brought one very expensive bounty-hunter to my door-step already.” “Killed him.” “But he was just one! Onyx is an illegal city! It’s a pirate’s port. There are mercenaries and bounty hunters and slavers and every other kind of human scum but lawyers in this town. Last time I was here, there were three killings in four hours. Anyone gets wind that you're wanted, and they won’t take the chance to see if they're wrong. I’m not real comfortable that everyone else is out there, walkin’ around and getting’ into mischief. Lettin’ you go out is like spittin’ hard liquor at a fire!” There was a long pause. River never took her eyes from him. She wasn’t challenging him, she was just . . . looking. Mal let her look. He’d been stared down by some of the best – Independent officers, Alliance officers, thugs, criminals, business executives, lords, pirates – no one had been able to make him turn his head before. He made his coffee, letting her stare. He added NDC and sugar to it, stirred and drank a cup. Raising his eyebrows towards River, she gave a single nod, so he poured her a cup. For another full five minutes they said nothing, just stared and drank coffee. He wasn’t going to let her break him. He wasn’t. There was just no way that she could convince him to take her out, not in this wild, lawless port. Not when every two-bit hired gun in town would slit his throat without a second thought for just a tithe of the reward the Alliance was offering for her. He wasn’t going to budge. No power in the Black could move him. None. “So,” River finally said, as she finished her coffee. “I was noticing your thoughts the other day when Inara came aboard—” “I’ll get my coat, let’s go.” “God, you are so easy.” “Keep your mind out of my thoughts, River. I don’t know if you really can read minds or not, but if you can, I want you to refrain from doing it to me. Or, barring that, keep your mouth shut about my thoughts. ‘Specially ‘bout that subject. I do like you. Hate to kill you. It’d be hard to explain.” “Like it would have been about killing Jayne after Ariel? I know what you did.” “Then you know why I did it, too. But me and Inara—” “It’s OK. I understand. I’d never say anything to anyone else about them.” “I don’t even want you talkin’ about it to me. Dong fa?” “Don’t worry, Captain. I won’t say anything. I know that things are complicated right now, with her leaving and you not wanting her to.” “What? She told you that?” Mal was shocked. “Didn’t need to. After the whorehouse, when her friend got killed, I knew.” “You just keep—” “She won’t leave.” “What? River, you’re talkin’ nonsense. She—” “Is deeply in love with you, can’t rectify her feelings with the situation, and sees flight as the only appropriate response. But her heart won’t let her leave. I—” “You wanna go shoppin’ or not?” Mal insisted, his face turning redder and redder. “I’ll get my coat.” Ten minutes later they were walking down a central corridor away from the spaceport, Mal taking giant, heavy strides, River following like a spastic butterfly. Despite the underground nature of the city, including a massive geothermal central heating system, the intense cold of the atmo leaked in incessantly, causing draughts and sudden bursts of cold air. That made heavy outerwear as good an idea inside Onyx as it was on the surface of Set. Mal tried to see everything in front of him as a potential threat, keeping his pistol safely outside his suede duster, just waiting for someone to make a wrong move. That’s how you stayed alive in places like this. While he was, in a way, relieved at being in an illegal port, there were dangers here in Onyx that he wouldn’t have to think about on most other worlds. The shops and stands that lined the central corridors of the city made the lower level – on which the spaceport docks were located – one long bazaar or struggling merchant after struggling merchant. Ramshackle stands hawking everything from heavy narcotics to rebuilt power converters to “gently owned” clothing competed for attention from the few passers-by. Thick mustachioed vendors offered River free samples of perfume (which she refused indignantly – “I don’t stink!”) and seedy-looking prostitutes thrust themselves at Mal, hips and breasts first, in an effort to entice him into the make-shift tents or plastic containers converted into temporary bordellos. Mostly they were content to be gently waved off – but one, a little hungrier or more enterprising than her collegues, wrapped her arms around Mal’s thick bicep and offered to do something rather whore-worthy to him for half the going price. Before Mal could gently pry her hands off of his shootin’ arm, River surprised him by whipping the raven-haired doxy around and screaming: “You get your filthy whore hands off my master, you thieving, diseased slut!” She followed that with a string of Mandarin profanity as vile as had ever been heard in Onyx. Mal stumbled away, red-faced, with River holding his arm protectively, still spewing derogatory remarks to the whore who was responding half-heartedly in kind. “Thank you,” Mal said after a moment, “I think. Tryin’ to keep a low profile, remember?” “Not really out of place here, was it? Human male can contract a viral or bacterial venereal disease within six minutes of initiating coitus with an infected partner.” “That whore wasn’t offerin’ ‘coitus’,” pointed out Mal. “But thanks all the same for defendin’ my honor.” “That’s what us shipboard slave girls do,” River said, matter-of-factly. “So that’s what you are?” “Today. Inara and Kaylee would never forgive me if I let Captain Tushie stray from his harem.” “I wasn’t going to—they don’t really call me ‘Captain Tushie’ do they?” “Only since Bellarophon.” “If I ever see Saffron again, I’m gonna shoot her dead.” “It’s only fair. You got to see her naked . . .” “River, she tried to kill us all!” “And arranged for your biggest heist yet.” “Which is beside the point.” “I guess I’ve seen you naked, too. That means—” “That we’re even, crazy girl. I saw you naked first time I laid eyes on you.” “I had forgotten. Were you impressed? Did you get aroused? Did you have an erection? Do you fantasize sexually about me?” “What the—?” Mal’s red face was starting to get redder. “Curious. Inara told me that it is difficult for adult males not to sexually fantasize about the women in their lives, even if there is no chance of future physical contact or such contact is taboo. She said occasionally the man in question forms these obsessive associations even about women he actively dislikes.” “Remind me to thank Inara for her candor,” Mal said through gritted teeth. They were passing another doxy’s stall, and the rough-looking whore in front of it was treated to a vicious stare by River as they passed by. “It is perfectly normal for you to think about me sexually. I am not unattractive.” “Nor shy, it seems.” “That would be pointless.” “Suppose it would. You like caramel?” “Oooh, yeah!” They came to a small stand selling miniature caramel apples – three to a stick, and rolled in pecans. Mal bought one for her, hoping it would keep her quiet and with a certain smug knowledge that River the Galactic Fugitive Supergenius Mind-Reader could still be bribed by candy. In truth, Mal did have an errand – not a terribly important one, but one he wanted to get done just to cross it off his list. He needed to tell Markham about Tracey. After the war the surviving Browncoats had scattered, the weight of their defeat so heavy that their home soils could not bear it. The outer Rim-worlds, raw, fresh, and untainted by failure, drew many who hoped for a better future than the one they had ended up fighting for. For those who could never overcome the stain of laying down arms, for whom the War would always be the context in which they lived their lives, they sought the sanctuary of the dark corners of the ‘verse. Places with little chance of exposure to the Alliance, or family, or dead, empty lands where their people once lived. Places without hope. Places like Onyx. One of the Browncoats who lived here, in this crack in the rock of an aborted world, was a one-legged fellow named Gideon Markham. Gideon had served with Tracey, had been his tent-mate and his squad leader for two years. Right up to the point where Markham stepped on an Alliance Shredder anti-personnel mine – a particularly vicious – but non-lethal – device of war. Predicated on the belief that a wounded soldier is more of a drag on an enemy’s resources than a dead soldier, the Alliance developed an advance form of pungi-stick: a mine the size of a battery, that when activated by proximity would spin out a monomolecular carbon nanofibers at 300 revolutions per second. The result was a gravely wounded soldier whose field-amputated leg could be reattached – if gotten to an advanced surgical team in time. On a muddy wilderness of a battlefield, the nearest aid station twenty miles away by horse, it was almost impossible to escape uncrippled. That didn’t stop Tracey from trying. He killed two horses doing it, but he made it to the station and saw Markham to the ambulance skiff that took him to the surgical unit at Khartoum – six hours too late to save his foot, but in plenty of time to save the leg and the man. Markham had been evacuated from the theater in one of the last ships back to the Rim before the Big Push that cut off the Independents from their supply lines. He had been at home on Beaumont when the war ended. But Markham hadn’t surrendered. He slit the throat of an Alliance Colonel in charge of the occupation at Beaumont, then hopped a transport away. When Mal had found him here, it had been a shock. He had a small gunsmithy shop on the far end of this level. He looked older, grizzled, and generally pissed-off at the ‘verse. And he still wore his Browncoat, a fine brown Beaumont wool (now patched and worn), the yellow, black, and green Independent patch still prominent on his arm. He needed to know about Tracey. In person. That wasn’t something you put in a wave when you could do it in person. But he wasn’t in a hurry to do such a painful thing, so he let River drag him along to the next booth, then he dragged her along to the one thereafter. He caught two sloppy amateurs trying to pick his pocket, and River insisted on touching every belt in a leather booth, smelling the fresh leather, and mooing. It was almost fun. Then they took a left off of the central corridor, into the not-so-nice section of the port level called Ryan’s Rectum (or just the Rectum, for short), after the Alliance officer who led the Occupation during the war. It was a dark, crowded, and nasty area, where trade was plied that the rulers of Onyx didn’t allow in the more “respectable” part of town. The age of the whores got younger or older, the drugs sold in whispers were harder and more dangerous, the goods were stolen or illicit or both – and the hardest thugs and mercenaries looked for work or (failing that) plied their trade on hapless Travelers who wandered through the Rectum by mistake. Mal wasn’t too concerned. He had been in rough places before, some much rougher than the Rectum. He was armed, he was wary, and he had counted on River’s preternatural senses to help him scout for danger. He had counted on the possibility of attack, but reasoned that as intimidating as he was, he had little to fear of footpads. He hadn’t counted on what actually happened. “I have to pee,” River said, suddenly. “You’re just gonna have to hold it, young lady,” Mal said quietly. “Can’t,” she replied, matter-of-factly. “I order you to hold it,” Mal said, a little more insistently. “Can’t!” River insisted in turn. “Not much of a slave girl, can’t follow a simple order,” Mal grumbled. “Just hold it ‘till we get to Markham’s – he’ll have a privy you can use.” “Not . . . going . . . to . . . make . . . it!” River said, desperation rising in her voice. “Public urination is frequently a cause of profound social humiliation, particularly in females,” she said by rote. “On rare occasions the embarrassment is sufficiently intense to inspire outbursts of panic and hostility oh Mal I have to go bad!” “Twenty more paces, and we’re there!” promised Mal. “Nine paces and I’m—” River said, as she cut off to the right and into a dingy, smoky tavern called Fortune’s Fool. Mal cursed harshly in Mandarin and followed her in. She made it to the women’s privy in time – he hoped. The interior of the Fortune’s Fool was enshrouded in stale smoke and hopeless ennui. The few mismatched and heavily patched stools, chairs, and benches were sporadically filled by the thug/mercenary element, lightly sprinkled with destitute whores cadging drinks, with a few nightmarish souls who drank here obviously because it was the only place left in the ‘verse that would tolerate them wasting space and air and liquor. Mal tried to ignore the filth and desperation he felt around him, and headed for the bar, where he could watch the bathroom door. “Drink?” the bartender asked, a slovenly bare-chested man whose tattoos were interrupted by savage scarring. “Gimme a shot o’ that,” Mal said, pointing to a dusty bottle of hard liquor behind the counter, the one attractive grace it had was its unbroken seal. The bartended grunted, raised his eyebrows, and then poured a generous shot into a glass and put it in front of Mal. “Ten,” he grunted, clearly unwilling to turn loose of the drink without money in hand. Mal couldn’t blame him, in this neighborhood. He pulled a faded bill out of his coat and dropped it on the bar. That was no excuse for the price of the drink, though. Especially in this neighborhood. Mal didn’t even sip the drink for a few moments, as he surveyed the room. He did notice three nasty-looking individuals of the thug variety, all wearing red headbands. That was rarely a good sign. But they seemed to be minding their own business, drinking the cheap stuff and filling up on the free bar food. They lounged like they owned the place. Perhaps they did. Satisfied that danger wasn’t eminent, Mal knocked back the shot without thinking. And immediately regretted it. He swallowed on reflex, then coughed hard, pounding his chest as his throat burned with a strange and caustic flavor. “What in the Black was that? My engineer’s homemade protein hooch is better than that! That ain’t no whiskey I ever tried! Nor rice wine!” “It’s absinthe,” the bartender said, shrugging his shoulders. “What you asked for.” “What the hell is absinthe?” “An ancient liquor made from the wormwood tree. It’s been known to cause hallucinations, euphoria, addiction, and death – in extreme cases.” “And people pay for this?” “Not many. I’ve had that bottle here for two years. Traded a .32 pistol for it off a merc. Ain’t no son of a bitch been brave enough to try it, ‘till you come along.” “Hallucinations? Great. Markham’s gonna love that,” he muttered. “Gid Markham?” the bartender asked, suddenly. “Yeah. Old army buddy,” Mal said, cautiously. “You just missed him,” the man said sadly. “He didn’t – chew on a gun, did he?” Mal asked, not really wanting to know the answer. “Nah, nothin’ like that. Met a girl, Yuanese whore with one eye. Bought out her contract, got her pregnant, married her, packed up shop and moved to Eureka six months gone. Rectum ain’t been the same since he left. Brought a bit o’ respectability to the place, he did.” “That so?” Mal said, elated at his friend’s good fortune and good sense, even more pleased that he wouldn’t have to tell Markham in person – yet – but also irritated that he had wasted a trip down here with River. The whole endeavor had been ill-conceived, he knew now, and he suddenly itched to get back to Serenity. He was just relieved that there hadn’t been an . . . incident. “Who are they?” he asked, nodding subtly towards the red-headbanned trio. “Oh, bad news, Army Buddy. Red Rock Tong, junior varsity. One o’ three or four gangs here in Onyx. They do a lot of slaving. Their seniors even do piracy – they got a few ships, the Vengeful Spirit among them. They’ll take out a transport in flight, sell off the passengers, gut the ship. Real mean bastards. These guys—” he nodded, scowling, “they take up room, scare off customers, lose me money. I pay protection, and this is what they send me? Animals,” he spat. Before Mal could make any more inquiries, a much more relieved-looking River came out of the privy. She saw Mal and was making her way over, big smile on her face – when the largest of the Red Rock boys grabbed her around the shoulders and swung her into his lap. “Go se!” Mal whispered to himself. He ambled a little closer, wary of the other two – but their attention was on the squirming girl in their leader’s lap, not him. River was not screaming, but she was struggling enough to keep the man’s hands busy. The other two – they were just laughing. “Birdie come sit on my lap, make Lee feel like a man!” Lee, the leader of the thugs, said as he struggled. Apart from his red headband, he was wearing some old and tattered uniform shirt with the buttons ripped off, worn canvas dungarees, and spacer boots. There was a knife in the top of the boot, Mal noticed, and a .45 Conciliateur revolver on his hip. He didn’t seem to be reaching for either one. His face looked like it had been used as a practice dummy a few too many times, and had less teeth and more hair than it was probably entitled to. His arms were covered with tattoos: gang symbols, Chinese characters, even corporate logos (no doubt from places he had robbed). His hair looked like a filthy air system filter, and one half of one ear was missing. “No, unadvisable,” River was saying, more calmly than Mal anticipated. “Not recommended. Abort,” she said, never quite looking at the man – but never quite with the fear and stress in her voice that one would think a woman who was in the midst of an attack would muster. That seemed to confound the thug. He looked to his cronies for support, and they were laughing, so he continued his roaming hands and salacious patter. “Come on, give ol’ Lee some lovin’ sweet bird,” he cooed. When River didn’t look like she was cooperating, he stood, shoved her up against the bar, and approached her from the rear. Her head was pressed down, her face near a big glass jar of baby pickled onions. Mal saw her eyes go wide, and he knew, even as he reached for his pistol, that things were about to get ugly. Because he could see what she was looking at: the reflection of one of Lee’s tattoos in the glass jar. A corporate logo with a stylized blue sun. River’s eyes went wide, then narrow, and then suddenly Lee was screaming, staggering back, and wondering how a sharpened wooden stick that had originally been used to spear caramel apples got so impressively wedged into the muscles of his right bicep. Swearing in a mixture of Mandarin and English, he reached around with his left hand to get at the .45 . . . And took two of Mal’s bullets in his upper chest. Mal didn’t even realize he had drawn and shot until after the fact. He hated that part – the reflexes that had been honed by war, a life of crime, and a natural inclination to mix it up often acted to protect him and his in crisis situations. But it was gorram disconcerting to realize that some part of your brain had taken over for the rest of you, even for a moment, without at least consulting the ass that would have to cash the check. In seconds the tavern was a deafening ballet of gunfire and screams. Mal grabbed River and threw her behind him, where she wisely pulled over a thick-topped table to act as a shield. Sparing but one moment to fire again at Lee, he dived over it and rolled into a crouch. The other thugs had retreated a ways, abandoning their leader, but not willing to quit for anything, now. One had a small automatic that he was enthusiastically pumping rounds out of, without any real attempt to aim them, and the other had a large 9mm Black Knight, a favorite of Rim-world urban security personnel. Mal crouched behind a thick tabletop, pistol drawn, carefully taking aim at the next thug who dared to pop his head out. On the floor at the other end of the room a man called Lee lay with three of his bullets in him, breathing what was, no doubt, his last breath. Gunsmoke and cries of pain and rage filled the air. The bartender had bolted the moment the gunfire had begun. Broken glass littered the floor, and the occasional stray bullet only added to the mess. Crouched down behind the all-too-small table with him was River, who was curled up in a sitting fetal position, rocking back and forth, chanting “the onions, the onions, little babies in jars. The onions . . .” Mal shot three times, then ejected the empty cartridge and slammed another in with the heel of his hand. As he returned to his crouching position, he spared a moment to look at River. “Next time,” he hissed at the girl, “you go before we leave the ship!” “Onions, babies, onions, babies, onions. . .” she chanted, not hearing him. “Gorram it!” he shouted, “Time to end this quick!” He waited for a lull in the shooting, until he could hear both men reloading from their places of concealment. Throwing caution out the airlock, he stood, strode three paces forward, and then put a bullet through the thigh of the one with the Black Knight. The other tried to catch him from behind while he did it, but he was expecting that. He whirled, his pistol clubbed, and caught the unlovely man across the mouth. Teeth and blood went flying, but the man stayed up, his automatic discarded. Both hands were raised for a strike, but Mal’s defensive positioning kept him from attacking. “You wanna concede?” Mal asked, breathing heavily. “Ain’t no shame in layin’ down arms, time like this.” “Yeah, Browncoat, you’d know all ‘bout that, wouldn’tcha?” the thug sneered. “We Red Rock Tong don’t run from a fight that easy!” Irritated that the thug would turn a perfectly normal barroom shooting into something personal, Mal growled, took a half-step forward, and pinned the other man’s boot to the floor with his own. There was a look of surprise on the man’s face – not pain, as the pressure Mal exerted hadn’t been intended on causing pain. It had been intended to immobilize that lead foot. The thug took a half a step back in surprise, trying to pry his foot from under Mal’s boot. He also dropped his guard by about six inches, which was more than sufficient room to permit Mal to pummel his face with the heavy butt of his pistol. The man went down. “Had to do it the hard way,” he said to the unconscious man, breathing hard. “Yep,” he heard from behind him – along with the unmistakable sound of a submachine gun bolt being drawn, “them fellers were always pigheaded tha’ way. Now you just turn around real slow, Mr. Browncoat.” “Go se,” whispered Mal again, turning, his pistol still reversed in his bloody hand. He kept both hands in plain sight. “Howdy,” said a gruff voice that came from a short, balding man wearing a dirty sleeveless t-shirt and a battered top-hat that Badger would envy. He wasn’t the one with the gun – though a shiny revolver was stuck through his belt, just under his prominent gut. The submachine gun was handled by a large black fellow with impressive dreadlocks, dressed in a plain service uniform, the English word LAW and the Chinese character for the same stenciled neatly on the breast. Another man dressed similarly was in the rear of the bar, another submachine gun held alertly but casually in his hand. “My name is Royland Kim, but folks around here call me Roy when they ain’t seein’ me in no ‘official’ capacity.” “And what do they call you when they do see you in that capacity?” Mal asked. “’Judge Roy Kim. I’m the Law in Onyx. And this here’s got all the makin’s of a first rate murder trial.” “Shiny,” Mal said, sarcastically. “Yep, clear these tables away, Chango, and set up a chair behind the bar,” he said directing his triggermen. “Floyd, you get them there witnesses, or defendents, or victims, or whatever in hell they are over there,” he said, pointing to one side of the bar. “You, Mr. Browncoat, you go over there. And there was a woman involved, you say?” The bartender re-appeared, nodding. “Which side were she on?” “Don’t rightly know,” admitted the man. “She just come out and—” “All right, all right, save the testimony. Get her here in th’ middle.” River walked calmly and serenely into the middle, her hysterics banished. Mal had no idea how she did that – went from batshit crazy to right composed, all in the space of seconds. Women. Mal realized that there was no one training a gun on him, which was pleasantly surprising. Not knowing what else to do with it, he reholstered the weapon and stood where he was directed. The three thugs were spilled into chairs, the one with a chest wound slipping deeper in shock. The three rounds likely missed his vitals, if Mal was any judge, but he’d bleed out if he didn’t receive medical attention soon. “Now, y’all got an advocate?” Judge Kim asked as he took his seat behind the bar. He also took a bottle of liquor, and began pouring it into a convenient glass. “Nosir,” the thug with the broken nose admitted. “Can’t really afford none.” “’Sokay, you boys can defend yerselves. You – hey, what is your name, anyways?” “Captain Malcolm Reynolds,” Mal said in a clear and confident voice. “You got an advocate?” “Do I need one?” “Well, son, you are on trial for murder,” the judge said. “Might be wise.” “But your Honor,” Mal said, looking around. “I ain’t seein’ no dead people.” “Oh, Lee over there, he’s gonna die afore long,” the Judge assured. “best we do this while he can still testify.” Lee whimpered at the pronouncement. “Well, guess I should get me an advocate, then,” muttered Mal. “I’ll do it,” said one of the bystanders, a drunk old woman about fifty, who looked about twenty years older. “I passed the bar,” she said to Mal, matter-of-factly. “Libby Tyler, you ain’t passed a bar yet in all your days you ain’t gone in,” admonished Judge Roy. “But you do know the procedure. Been in front o’ this Bench often enough. Settle yer fee with your client, we’ll get on with this so Lee can go ahead an’ make his arrangements.” “You got twelve bits?” whispered Libby harshly. “Yes ma’am,” Mal said, confounded by the proceedings. “Good, I’ll take half. I take it all if’n I get you off,” she said, slyly. Mal nodded. He didn’t know what else to do. The absinthe was kicking in, and the whole proceeding began to take on a strange and somehow exciting air. “We’s ready, Your Honor,” Libby said, standing next to Mal. She looked up at him with a twinkle in her eye. “Okay, Chango, start the proceedings, please,” the Judge said, finishing his first drink and pouring another. “Hear ye, hear ye, this Court is now in session, the Honorable Royland Ssu-Chi Kim, presiding!” Boomed the big black man in a deep baritone. Mal thought idly that he should have taken to the stage. “Come all ye who have business! May God preserve and Buddha give refuge to this Honorable Court!” “That was very good,” complimented Judge Roy to his erstwhile bailiff. “Thank you, Judge,” Chango said modestly. “All right, let’s get t’business. Bartender, you saw what happened: tell the court, if you please.” “All right, Judge. And just let me say what an honor and privilege it is to have your jurisprudence reign once again in my humble bar. Always a pleasure, sir.” “I’m bleeding to death,” moaned Lee miserably. “Mighty good whiskey, too,” Roy said appraisingly. “Thank you, Judge. Okay, here’s what happened: The three o’ them were in here, drinkin’ mindin’ they own business, when this here girl,” he said, indicating River, “skipped in, asked where the powder room was, and went back, presumably to relieve herself.” “Pretty simple, so far,” commented Roy. “Yessir. Then this big Browncoat came in, order up a drink, and sat down. Then girly come outa the back and Lee starts getting all grabby. Pulls her down into his lap – all in fun, y’know how they is. But when she don’t start hollarin’ like no respectable woman, just starts off w’some gibberish, he gets skeared and pushes her up against my bar.” “I see, I see,” Roy said. “I weren’t skeared!” Lee said weakly. “She jes’ startled me!” “Shuttup!” Roy said out of the side of his mouth. “Go on, Witness.” “Wellsir, when he push her ‘gainst the bar, it was, in my professional opinion, in preparation to do her some injury, namely by pushing that sad li’l thing he calls a pecker somewhere into her person.” “That true?” Judge Roy asked to no one in particular. There were nods and murmurs of assent all around the room. “And that’s when Captain Browncoat here got all violent, defendin’ her honor?” “Nosir,” the bartender said. “She done that her own self. Put a chopstick through Lee’s arm, nice’n hard. Made him jump, she did.” “That a fact?” Roy asked in wonder. “She stabbed you with a chopstick?” he asked, incredulously. Lee nodded weakly. One of his comrades – the one with the thigh wound – reached over and pulled it out of the Blue Sun logo, then tossed the bloody thing onto the bar. “People’s exhibit A,” Chango sang out. “The Court notes that it is not, in fact, a chopstick, but a wooden skewer such as they sell within various sweetmeats along the Main Concourse.” “So noted!” Roy said, examining the stick for himself. “So she stabs him, then . . .” “Wellsir, then he got – startled, I suppose – and stepped back, and was tryin’ to loose his piece—” “That one there?” Roy asked, nodding to the Conciliateur, still on Lee’s belt. “Yessir.” “Chango, lemme see that piece,” Roy directed. The big man reached over and plucked it out of the moaning man’s holster and handed it to the judge, who looked it over appreciatively. “Nice weapon, Lee. Not warm, so I know you didn’t fire it – not that you could hit the floor with it if you used both hands. Chango, note this is People’s Exhibit B, if you would.” “People’s Exhibit B,” Chango boomed. Roy nodded, then put the pistol behind his own belt. “Tha’s evidence. Continue, Witness!” “That’s about when the big fella come up with that big damn gun and blowed two holes in Lee.” “I note that Lee got three holes in ‘em,” Roy said, sagely. “You certain as to the veracity of your testimony, Witness? You know the penalty fer perjury?” “Oh, I’m gettin’ to the matter o’ the third hole, your Honor.” “Pray proceed, then,” Roy said curtly. “Okay. Captain, here, he pulls the girly behind him, she gets under cover like a smart girl, he starts bangin’ away with that powerful iron o’ his. That’s when Lee get’s that third hole.” “Oh, I see,” Roy concedes. “Well shot, by the by, Captain.” “Uh, thank you?” Mal said, confounded. He could feel the absinthe working on him. It gave him a giddy feeling. “Probably in th’War. Okay, so we has us a gunfight! You two lunkheads probably started shootin, too, didn’t they?” “Yessir,” acknowleged the bartender, who was clearly enjoying his role. “They started shootin’ all o’er the place, with reckless endangerment, mind, and no concern for innocent bystanders.” “How ‘bout the big man?” “Oh, he shot real good. Even after he got hisself shot.” “He got shot?” asked Roy. “I got shot?” asked Mal, who didn’t remember getting shot. “Well, that ain’t ho hsien sauce a’commin’ outa yer sleeve, I betcha!” the bartender declared. Mal looked down and noticed a small rip in his coat sleeve, the edges of which were stained with blood he knew to be his own. He didn’t know how he knew, but it stood to reason. “Damn!” he swore. “You gorram bastards shot my coat!” “Was an accident!” said the man with the thigh-wound. “I were shootin’ fer yer head!” “Try practicin’ next time!” Mal said disgustedly. “This here is real Shadow-made suede! I had this since the War, and now you’re messin’ with it?” “Sorry,” the man said, miserably. “You need medical attention fer that wound?” asked Roy. Mal examined it under his coat. It wasn’t deep, a graze at best. “No, your Honor. I get worse when I cut myself shaving.” “Could we please speed this up?” Lee said, his face ashen. “O’course,” Roy said, bringing his attention back to the case at hand. “So the Captain got shot – didn’t notice it – and didn’t hit no bystanders.” “That’s right, your Honor,” the bartender continued. “When those two fools stop to reload – at the same time, mind you, the idjits – he jus’ gets up, walks over, shoots him in th’ leg, swats the gun outa the other one’s hand, then pops him right in the schnoz! He goes down, an’ that’s when your Honor walked in.” “Hmm. Thank you, Witness, you are dismissed.” “No, thank you, your Honor.” “Okay, we got one body – or soon to be a body, leastways – and three shooters and one stabber. Libby, you wanna prepare your defense?” Libby walked over to the injured Red Rock men and gave them a long and close inspection. Then she looked River up and down – and River returned the favor, a bemused expression on her face. Then she returned to Mal, where she gave him a long glance, then turned to face the Judge. She cleared her throat and began Mal’s defense. “Yer Honor, my client pleads ‘not guilty’!” “On what grounds, Libby?” “On account of that rat-humpin’ bastard was in need of shootin’!” she declared, pointing at Lee, who was whimpering quietly for his mother. Judge Roy considered. “All right. Verdict for the defendant, who is free to go. Stabber girl, she free to go too, on account o’ she jest had to take a whiz, and she shouldn’t oughta been manhandled like that. You three,” he said, pointing at the Red Rock boys, “You pay damages: Ten credits to the Fortune’s Fool for damages to property. Ten credits to the Captain fer messin’ with his coat – lovely coat, by the by, a crime to crease it so – I tell you I favored the Independents in th’ War? And you pay the Captain’s legal fee, twelve bits to Libby. Then y’all get the hell outa my Rectum and back to yer own sty, y’hear? I don’ like it none when you pirates come in and bust up the places o’ business o’ honest folk. So take yer soon-to-be-dead friend there, pay the Bailiff, and getcher asses out!” He turned back towards Mal, a hungry look in his eye. “An’ you, Captain Reynolds, in consideration of your newfound wealth, it would please this Honorable Court if you’d do us a kindness and buy the next round.” “Of course, your Honor," Mal offered cautiously. “Justice was served.” River grinned happily. Libby squealed, no doubt at the thought of free drinks. Mal swayed under the strange influence of absinthe. Roy smiled himself and banged the butt of his pistol on the bar. “Court is now adjourned!”