Kaylee’s Lament

Part Twelve

Kaylee hummed as she disassembled the port condenser. The way it had been abused, it would have to be completely reset before they could push Serenity to full power again. The same was true of the starboard condenser, but she took them down in series to keep at least a little power trickling through the systems. She was sitting cross-legged on the deck, the Engineering Manual open to the proper page, and she consulted with it every now and then. She wasn’t following procedure exactly, but it was interesting to note how it was supposed to be done, as opposed to how she did it. “At it already?” Mal asked, poking his head through the hatch. “You want me to take a nap, instead?” asked Kaylee. “I’d love me a nap.” “Nah, you take care of the ship, first. Then I don’t care what you do.” “Okay, Cap,” she agreed. She looked up. “Did I do good?” “You done real good, Kaylee. You done perfect. Saved us all, again. You’re brilliant.” “Thanks, Captain!” she said, smiling proudly. “Now fix my boat. We got us a schedule to keep.” “Yes sir!” “You need any help?” he asked. “Not much good with tools, myself, but . . .” “No, I need someone with small, nimble hands,” she said. “River or Inara maybe.” “I’ll ask around.” He disappeared. Ten minutes later she was down to the condensers’ core, a conical shaped bit with heavy ridges extending back along the length of the unit. Every one of those ridges needed to be re-adjusted, now, one at a time. And then the core needed to be re-lubricated, just to make sure it didn’t jam up. That would come later, though. Right now, she worked the first ridge – the book called it a “condensing point regulator” – out of it’s place and began scraping the carbon off. Burning out the condensers was always messy. Almost always reparable, but always messy. She was surprised as anyone when Simon poked his head in. “Captain says you might need a hand,” he said. “Uh, yeah, I do. But I said River or Inara would do.” “What, I won’t do?” “You’re a doctor. This is complicated.” “You’ve obviously never taken organic chemistry. Still, I’m not a total idiot. Tell me what to do. I tried to work on my part of the plan, but after the lights dimmed and I realize that we were fleeing for our lives – again – I decided to take a break. And since my part won’t matter a bit unless we get there, I’d be happy to help out.” “In those clothes? This gets messy,” she cautioned. He looked down. He was wearing a casually dressy sweater and gray slacks. “These old rags? Worst things I own.” Knowing what he did have in his closet, Kaylee didn’t doubt it. “Then have a seat, Doctor,” she said, smiling and patting the deck in front of her. Simon did, watching her face. As she worked another regulator free and handed it to him with a spare wire brush. After showing him how to remove the carbon, she went back and started on the next one. “Captain says you worked a miracle back there,” Simon said as he peeled carbon. “Captain embellishes,” Kayless dismissed. “It was just a nifty trick.” “You seem to be full of nifty tricks.” “No more than you. How did you get into my bunk to put the strawberries in? I locked it before I left.” Simon grinned wryly. “I can’t take credit for that. I had River do it. She never seems to have trouble with that sort of thing. I gave up asking her how she does the impossible when she was about seven. I just tell her what to do, and she goes out and does it. Except when she doesn’t.” “Well it was very sweet, and I appreciate it.” “Well, I thought you had been avoiding me lately, and I wanted to apologize for whatever it was I did to make you mad.” Kaylee looked pained. “Oh, no! You didn’t rile me none. Well, not more than usual. I was just . . . I was workin’ through some stuff is all. Then we got to Onyx, and we were busy. I didn’t mean—” “It’s OK, this is a small ship. I’m sure I might occasionally get on a few people’s nerves. No, I’m sure I get on a lot of people’s nerves. I don’t blame people for wanting a break.” “Simon, you—” She was about to tell him that he didn’t really get on people’s nerves, but she realized how untruthful that would be. “You’re right, small boat.” “It’s strange,” he continued, looking far away. “When I was back in hospital, working the ER, I never worried about that sort of thing. I had my work, where I was respected; then I had my family – I suppose they have to put up with you, or at least pretend to. A few colleagues I saw for lunch every few weeks, the club – I never had to worry about how other people thought about me – in that way – for a long time.” “More scrubby, less philosophizin’” she said sternly. “Yes, yes,” he said, getting back to work. “So now I’m stuck in this impossible situation, and I find that I lack certain . . . interpersonal skills.” “You mean bein’ all stuffy and uptight?” Simon looked at her a long time. “That isn’t exactly how I would have phrased it,” he said slowly. “Well, Simon, it ain’t a big deal. You think all o’ us got good skills? Jayne? Wash? Only Book and Inara don’t get folk all riled on a regular basis.” “You don’t.” She looked up at him, a question in her eyes. “You don’t,” he insisted. “Really! Everyone loves Kaylee!” “Don’t ‘zackly seem like it,” she mumbled. “I’m done with this one,” he said, handing it back to her. She handed him another one without comment. “Well, it’s true. You can do no wrong. That seems to be a rare commodity.” “I can do wrong,” she said guiltily. “Well, don’t spoil my pristine image, then.” “Y’know, I guess bein’ a mechanic is a lot like bein’ a doctor,” she said, desperately trying to change the subject. Last thing she needed was him asking too many questions about her past sins. “How do you mean?” Simon asked warily. “I mean, we both take care of folk,” she said. “I just got a little more complicated job of it, is all.” Simon looked at her, mouth agape. “You what?” “Bein’ a mechanic is harder than bein’ a doctor,” she said, still scrubbing. “I mean, y’all only got the two models t’learn, and they don’t ‘zackly change from year to year, do they?” “Well . . . no . . . but I—” Simon stammered. “Me, I got to have the knowledge of all sorts of stuff. I gotta know that this condenser is one of four made for this model year. I gotta know which of those four we can use – the A, B, C, or E model. ‘Cause only two of ‘em will work, and if you don’t know, ship don’t go.” Simon laughed ruefully. “I can’t believe you’re trying to compare simple mechanics to . . . molecular biology? Anatomy? Physiology?” Kaylee looked up. “How many kindsa spleen are there?” “Uh, one,” he admitted. “Well, this condenser, it comes in four kinds. Type A was used on this model year, and on the one after, but only on models that specially ordered it. Type B was standard for this year, but they had a slow draw in the early ignition process and were usually replaced a decade or so into the life o’ the ship. Type C – which looks just like Type A and B except it has a spark override control on the side, it was used in Envoy-class planetary transport shuttles and one or two types of orbital tugs. And class E was used on Alliance light military transports and gunboats. But Type E looks like a B, without the shroud, because the military class ships use a reaction gate that has a built-in shroud – and if you try to work around it, the pieces don’t fit.” “What happened to Type D? What were they used in?” “Type Ds were used in civilian bulk transports. They blew up a lot, killed a lot of people. They discontinued them. But you can still find a few out there, and they look EXACTLY like a Type A, except the serial number on the case ends in a D, and it has a double contact at the top, not a single.” “That is pretty impressive,” he said, after some consideration. “And that is one part. This boat has well over ten thousand parts. If one breaks, I gotta have knowledge of all the details like that. ‘Cause in the Black, one part,” she said, handing him another piece, “can kill you.” “It does seem rather involved,” he said, taking it. “How did you pick it up?” “I just sorta know,” she said, simply. “Oh, I read everythin’ I could get my hands on. Read every spec I could on the details of the mechanics. I hung out at the miserable excuse for a spaceport they got back home. But I never went to school or nothin’ like that.” “So . . . you don’t have any kind of . . . certification, or anything, do you?” he asked, cautiously. “Captain bought me some papers that say I’m an able bodied spaceman, so the Alliance don’t hand out more flack’n they need to,” she said. “But I ain’t got a diploma, or nothin’. That’s why these books are so handy.” “Yes. Which means you’ve been flying without any proper documentation on the parts you repair, no real idea . . .” “Oh, I got a real good idea. Like I said, it just comes to me. I understand the way all of it works. Fireflys are easy. That new Alliance stuff – wow, that’s hard.” “And you’ve kept her flying all this time? With no real . . . assistance?” “Uh huh. Oh, Wash will help sometime – him bein’ a pilot with some formal training, that’s been real helpful in spots. Even Cap has shown me a thing or two. But apart from that, there’s just me. Little ol’ Kaylee. And this one is done!” She smiled happily, snapping the last of the ridges back into place. “And I used to think we got thrown into residency without a paddle,” he mused. “Well, you’ve seen for yourself. Either I can do the job, or I can’t.” “I guess, then, that you can do the job,” admitted Simon, with more than a hint of reluctance in his voice. “Actually, you do a very good job. The buzz in the kitchen is you just saved us all again. I daresay that a by-the-book trained mechanic couldn’t do as good a job.” “ ‘Till now, ain’t had a book,” she said, slapping the condenser back into place. “We’ll see what happens now I got one.” “And you just . . . know. How things work.” “I reckon it’s like you and medicine, or Wash and flyin’, or like Inara and sex, or like Jayne and . . . well, killin’ people and generally bein’ an ass.” She turned and activated it, crossing her fingers a moment until she heard the whine that told her it was functioning properly. “And crossing the fingers,” Simon said, dryly. “That a technical thing?” “Always done it,” she said, nonplussed. “If it works, you use it.” “I guess that’s the difference between science and engineering, then,” Simon said philosophically. “Science, you want to know the ‘why’ of a thing as much as the ‘how’.” “That could be, Mr. Fancy Pants.” She was starting to warm back up to Simon. She popped the panel off of the starboard side and started stripping out the condenser. If she was showing a little more backside to Simon than was absolutely necessary neither of them mentioned it. “But you’re as much a technician as a scientist. After all, you got a lot o’ science you need to fix people, but in the end the important part of what you do is technical, not theoretical.” “Yes, true, I suppose. Every surgeon needs to be a scientist, but not every scientist has the fine motor skills – or, let’s face it, the intuitive talent and discipline – to become a surgeon.” “And not every backwoods blacksmith could learn the theory behind a star drive, either,” she pointed out. “So I guess I’m kind of exceptional.” “There is no doubt about that,” Simon agreed, bemused, watching her work. “So, can we agree that being a doctor and being an engineer are both noble and distinguished professions, no matter how much schooling it took to actually get there?” “Yeah, I think we can,” Kaylee said, laughing. “Good,” Simon said, joining her laugh. “Because for what it’s worth, I really hate it when you’re mad at me, Kaylee, and when you avoid me it makes me . . . irritable. I’ve actually enjoyed getting carbon all over a fifty credit sweater, and debating science and engineering with you.” “I’ve enjoyed it too,” she admitted, popping the first wedge off. She smiled sweetly at him, showing off her cheeks rather fetchingly. A little flirting felt good. “So, I hope you will indulge me on something,” he said, putting one finger to his lip. “Let me do it, and not get mad at me,” “What’s that?” she asked, hesitantly. Was there . . . a kiss in her future? She suddenly felt horribly filthy and underdressed, entirely unprepared for a kiss of any significance. “I want to leave before I say something truly stupid, for a change. Just once. If I don’t leave, I know I will say something stupid, because I apparently lack the essential interpersonal skills even a shop clerk manages to develop. I’ve had a really good time, because I enjoy your company, and I want to walk away for once feeling like I’ve made you a little happy. Dong fa? “You want to make me happy?” she said, her breath catching. “I really like you, Kaylee. And I – I’m going to go before I can screw that up. I’ll see you at dinner. And, maybe, some dominos, later? If you aren’t too tired?” He looked a little desperate, as if making this admission was physically painful. “Dominos would be nice,” she said, simply. “Good. I’ll see you then.” He left before she could think of something stupid to say – maybe involving space bugs. She’d have to thank him for that later.

*

*

*

Out in the vast, vast void between stars, spinning in the light of ten thousand suns, was a forty meter long construction of plastic, metal, ceramic, and electronics. A satellite whose sole purpose was to link the far-flung newly minted worlds of the Rim to the industrialized, heavily populated Core. The link was called the cortex, and it meant access to the sum total of all human knowledge. All history, all literature, all science, every abstract thought, concrete observation, noble ideal and fanciful flight of whimsy that had been recorded since the nascent mind of man had the foresight to do so, all was so preserved. There was no aspect of the highest level of human culture that was not available for the knowledge hungry mind. “Oh, Jesus, I hate it when I fart in a spacesuit!” howled Jayne. “Whose idea was the bean curd last night? Wheeew! Je shr shuh muh lan dong shi! Jesus, Buddha and Mohammed riden’ a speckled mule, that stinks!” The mercenary was indeed in a pressure suit, and he was doing his level best to insinuate a slender black nanofiber past a very sensitive security system. He hadn’t been very successful, thus far. The fart jokes weren’t helping. “Focus, Jayne, focus,” reminded Simon his voice strained with patience. He and Wash were overseeing the mission from the bridge, and were subject to Jayne’s monologs concerning his bodily functions. “You ever try to focus with a suit full o’ evil?” demanded the man. “Ai ya, there’s another one!” “Perhaps you should take off your helmet,” suggested Wash. “Let it air out a bit.” “Perhaps you should just get the gorram thing done!” Simon said, intently. “You know, interference with an official Alliance communications node is punishable by a year in a Federal penal terraforming project?” “Ain’t no Feds for a cubic light year, Doc,” reminded Jayne. “Ain’t that why we picked this one?” “You’re missing the point. Let me see if I can put it in language you can understand. If we get gigged on this phase, we have to abort the whole gorram plan, and that puts us out over two thousand in seed money. Dong fa?” “Well, why didn’t you just say that?” “I just did.” “I’m here. It’s just like the plans said. One big ugly box.” The specifications that they had purchased from the hack on Onyx were flawless. The security system that protected the main input/output board made opening the access panel in any way a cause to trigger eight kinds of alarms. If it was punctured, banged up, shot, jimmied, or subject to explosion it would scream to its rescuers instantly. And while it would be four days before anyone showed up, best estimate, the evidence of their tampering would be all over. But they had to get to that board. And the only way to get access to that board was through that door. It didn’t look possible. Until Kaylee pointed out that some heavy solvent paste beaded around the access door frame would allow the door to be removed, undisturbed, and then welded back when the splice was complete. The sensors didn’t extend beyond that. Jayne got out the gun and began the work. “It’d be easier too if you’d sent me a real gorram helper, too, ‘stead of a jin tzahng mei yong-duh kid t’ babysit!” he said with a note of disgust. River was out with him, because Mal didn’t like anyone to EVA without a buddy, and no one else really wanted to hang around in a spacesuit for a few hours doing nothing but River. River loved space. She loved the vastness of the Black. When possible, she would float outside and just stare into the deep dark forever and drink in its secrets. She never had the acute agoraphobia her brother did – quite the contrary. She floated in the middle of the Big Room, God’s Parlor, Buddha’s Big Black Bathtub, and was at one with the ‘verse. It wasn’t quite meditation, because River never closed her eyes or even let them linger overlong at any particular spot. They darted all over, as if she was watching some frenetic movement that only she could see. And she would grin, a self-indulgent grin of pure untainted joy, like a five year old with a puppy at Christmas, until it was time to go back inside. Here, her senses could unfold into the Black. She could unfurl her mental tendrils, her gossamers of consciousness out into the void. Here, she could be River, and never have a single doubt as to who that was. She would go out as often as Mal would let her. She would sit on the roof of the kitchen, facing back towards the glow of the engine, and let the spinning of the main wheel lull her when she was agitated. She would stare into the maw of eternity, back to the ship, just her alone in the cosmos if she was feeling cramped inside. River loved EVAs, and would stay out until her suit alarms started ringing that she had depleted her atmo. The Black was her playground, Serenity her swing set. At the moment she was exploring the forty meters of relay satellite like a balance beam. And giggling incessantly. “If you can get her to stop that,” Jayne growled, “this’d go a might faster.” Simon sighed heavily into the mike before he told her. “River, either stop giggling or turn off your wireless.” “Why?” “Because you are disturbing Jayne.” “I disturb Jayne all the time,” she countered. “Yes, but usually he isn’t monkeying illegally with an interstellar cortex relay beacon.” “Fine!” River said, and then shut off. “Ahh. Was that silence I hear?” Jayne said a moment later. “Just get on with it,” Simon moaned. “Keep yer panties on, pretty boy!” he said. “The magic goo just broke her loose.” The case floated off, and with gentle precision Jayne moved the whole piece off of the board and set it aside. Inserting the cable was a matter of finding the correct input slot – one of thousands – and making the connection. The other end of the cable was inserted into a port on a black box (in actuality, a blue box) device provided by the hack. “We’re hot,” announced Jayne. “Shiny,” said Wash. “Testing . . . and . . . she’s good!” “Aren’t we supposed to yell ‘we’re in!’ and clap our hands together or something?” “You been watchin’ too many bad crime shows,” Jayne replied. “Just want to make certain all the forms are observed.” “Start that upload any time,” Jayne said. “My farts ain’t getting’ any purtier.” “Starting upload, and initiating nauseated pilot sequence,” Wash called. The data flowed like a trickle into the torrent of the cortex. Just a few drops here and there, adding files that detailed thirty solid months of space construction and upfit to the appropriate agencies. Heracles Station was born in glittering intangible bits – but no less real, bureaucratically speaking, than any of the hundreds of similar projects throughout the Alliance. Book had paid for thoroughness. The hack they hired was intrigued enough at the prospect to waive a portion of his fee for the chance to pull this off. He invented Heracles Station from first temporary construction module to the final fittings that made it habitable. Personnel rosters, tables of organization, supplies requisitioned, contractors and subcontractors retained – the hack was an artist, and he packed the data cell with details that made it completely convincing. It took only seventy five seconds, and Heracles Station, for all practical purposes, existed. “How long we gotta wait to pull this plug back outa here?” “Enough for the Doc to say his piece and you to succumb to your own foul stench,” Wash said gamely. “Well tell ‘em to hurry up,” came the gruff reply. “I gotta do a number two, I think, and I’m not one to use a suit diaper.” “How would you notice? Really?” Wash said. “C’mon, Doc! Hurry up, ‘cause the only ones I got to talk to out here are your crazy sister and that niao se dub doo gway in the cockpit. So get back to the ‘firmary and get on your duds. It’s showtime!”

*

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*

At an Alliance supply depot at the edge of the Core, orbiting a Jovian planet with two terraformed and highly industrialized moons, there worked a supply clerk named Wendell. A civilian contractor for the military and exploration services, he was the most junior of junior clerks. Which meant, therefore, that he was the one who did most of the work, got the least of the credit, was verbally abused by his superiors with depressing regularity, and for whom promotion was a distant and unobtainable dream. He was too good at his job. If he had been a screw up, he would have been promoted years ago, but he happened to be very good at his job which made him vital. Wendell was a very efficient, very unhappy little man. His office was a tidy little cubical just off one of the main storage bays, where there were files, a cortex connection, a coffee pot, and a really, really nice chair that was adjustable in every way possible – Wendell was unhappy, but he was a really good, unhappy supply clerk, and he wasn’t above a little manipulation to further his own personal comfort. Wendell had just gotten back from lunch when the call came through, an unfamiliar code signature leading. “Ni how,” he said automatically as the wave came through. “Sector supply, shipping and receiving, Wendell speaking,” he said automatically. “Lo hin how,” a flat, well-educated voice said to him as the picture came into focus. It had that pinched quality that you often saw with older model transmitters, and the slightly pixilated picture that indicated a very, very long distance wave. It was a young, imperious looking man in a pristine white medical coat. He was clearly in a medical facility, a clinic or lab, and not a very good one. “About time I got an answer. Wendell, is it? Where the hell is my gorram equipment?” “And what equipment would that be, sir?” Wendell said submissively, while he checked the identity of the man on his other screen. Dr. Randolf Worthington, Chief of Medical Service at the Heracles Station. Wendell had never heard of Heracles Station. That didn’t surprise him – there were so many insignificant flyspecks out on the Rim that the Alliance had established a presence on since that damned war that every few weeks he’d come across another one. “That would be the equipment I ordered six months ago, three days after my appointment, that was promised to be here before I arrived. I arrived a month and a half ago, Wendell.” “I haven’t seen anything—” “I am certain you haven’t,” the doctor said, sneeringly. “No one seems to have seen anything. Yet I have filled out every gorram form you people have asked me to, jumped through every gorram regulatory hoop you people have put in front of me, and all I get is ‘I haven’t seen anything!’” The level of frustration in his voice was at the level that Wendell privately classified as Level six. He had three more levels to go before the frustration with the bureaucratic labyrinth caused him to have a stroke or a coronary. “I am terribly sorry, Doctor, if—” “If I had known, when General Edmonton invited me to head this miserable excuse for a ‘facility’ out here at the ass-end of the galaxy, that I would have to run a hospital on scrounged equipment and half-trained country bumpkins for personnel, I might have thought twice about leaving a respected and lucrative practice – where I could do research, dong fa? Research!” Dr. Worthington paused for half a second to heave a breath, his patrician chin quivering mightily. “But NO! Instead of bringing enlightened, professional medicine to the frontier, I end up having to use century-old instruments and teach every incompetent boob with a border-world secondary education how to do their own gorram jobs! I swear to you, Wendell, by all that is holy, if I do not get what I requested from you, I will call General Edmonton myself and ask why he bothered to invest such a considerable sum in my retention and transport to this glorified first-aid station when I can’t do the gorram job because I’m using catgut and leeches to heal!” Level seven, Wendell revised. “Just calm down, Doctor, I’m sure we can take care of what you need without recourse to bothering the General.” “Let us both hope you are correct,” the doctor said, icily. “Look at this place. Just look at it! Look at this!” he said, holding up a battered piece of medical equipment that Wendell would only have recognized by its control number. “They expect me to run a hospital with this go se?” He looked deeply offended. Truth to tell, the infirmary did look pretty shabby. “I’m sure we can do something,” Wendell said, soothingly. “If you could, allow me to review your request and see what the hold up is.” “Thank you, Wendorf, that would be shiny.” Wendell detected clenched teeth. He didn’t bother to correct the doctor – if things went poorly, then he didn’t mind that his name was not connected with it in the man’s memory. Plausible deniability was the cornerstone of the professional bureaucrat. He turned to his other screen and scanned the attach request. It was, indeed, over six months old, and had been shuffled back and forth between depots for a number of reasons: stock levels, authorizations required, availability of shipping, improper funding codes, hazards certificates, medical office authorizations – it looked to his experienced eye that every gorram foul-up that could happen to a shipment, had. He bent to untangle it. In seconds he figured it out. “Uh, Doctor, it seems that it has been held up because the Transport Service has declined to ship it based on the fact that it had no record of Heracles Station. It says it doesn’t exist. Until they guarantee transport, I can’t even requisition the items. Oh, and it says the main item you requested, the TR-10, is out of stock new. But I think I can pull one from surplus, if you don’t mind a piece with some mileage on it.” He had no idea what a TR-10 was, but he saw there were three in the Alliance Surplus database. “As long as it works – and it had better – I don’t care if you knit one from your back hairs. I assure you, Wendorf, that I am standing on a very real space station in a very real sector with very real patients and a very real hideous excuse for a cafeteria. If all of my documentation doesn’t convince you, how about this?” he asked incredulously, presenting the embroidered patch on his chest that had the medical caduceus surrounded by HERACLES STATION PRE-POSS. HOSPITAL. “Ah, yes, looks very authentic, doctor.” Wendell checked his other screen. “Regardless, however, the Transport Service can’t deliver to a location that isn’t in their database. However,” he said quickly, before the doctor could abuse him further, “we can always arrange to expedite the shipment through chartered transport. It will cost a little more, but your credit code has plenty of room left on it.” “I don’t care if it costs a gorram year’s worth of your salary and you send it by carrier pigeon, Wendorf, just get it moving! If there’s an emergency any time soon, I’m going to be up to my gorram ass in injured with nothing but a goddam antiquated first aid kit! People will die! How long am I going to be waiting?” “It will take three weeks to assemble your shipment here at the dock. I’ll have to check for freelance shippers – plenty of those around, one bound to have Heracles Station on their itinerary. Don’t worry, Doctor, I’ll have it to you before a month is out. Wave enough money under the nose of one of these tramp freighter captains, and they’ll move heaven and earth.” “Just get it done, Wendorf. I’ll wave back for a progress report in two weeks. In the meantime,” he said, evilly, pointing his finger, “I’m going to go sit in the coffin they call a stateroom and wait and contemplate the misery of my existence. And if a fire breaks out, or a shuttle explodes, or anyone even shows up with a nasty-looking hangnail I’m going to have them fill out five thousand forms in triplicate and flood your supervisor’s office with them before I dispense a single band-aid. Dong fa?” “I understand completely, Doctor. I’ll take care of it.” “See that you do!” Worthington said, slapping the disconnect rudely. Wendell sighed – he hated conflict. He figured he could have the requisition processed for fulfillment fairly quickly, which would get it out of his face – and that’s all he really wanted. To be left alone to his tolerably miserable existence. Wendell went to work.

*

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“That was right brilliant,” Mal said, applauding with the rest of the crew, who had assembled outside the infirmary to witness the performance. “And to think I suspected that playing an arrogant, cocky young doctor would be a stretch for you, Simon. Who knew the talent you had?” “You were really very convincing,” Inara assured. “If that poor man isn’t doing everything in his power to make it happen, I’d be very surprised.” “I like the way you made your veins stand out,” Kaylee said, grinning. “That was kind of cute. You looked so intense.” “Thank you, thank you very much,” Simon said, sighing heavily in relief. “Are you sure it wasn’t just a bit over the top? I was worried there, toward the end.” “Flawless,” insisted Inara. “You would think you’ve been brow-beating petty functionaries all of your life.” Simon stopped and considered. “Actually, I suppose I have.” “Well now’s your chance to use your powers for good,” Mal said, and then picked up the mike. “Jayne. Find wherever River floated off to and get back in here. Show’s over, it’s time for intermission.” He thought a moment, and then called again. “And Jayne? Don’t take off your spacesuit until you’re sealed into your bunk.” “Aw, Captain, it ain’t that bad!” he complained. “For the safety and welfare of my crew, I insist. Consider it a quarantine order.” He clicked off and looked around. “All right people, thirty minute break and then we set stage for Act Two. You’ll find lunch waiting in the Green Room – and it’s Zoe’s turn to cook, so you can bet on lumpy gray protein and plenty of it – no seconds until your plate is clean.” He offered Inara his arm with a sarcastic flourish. She took it gingerly. “How long you reckon it’ll take poor Wendorf to do it?” Kaylee asked, grabbing Simon’s arm. “I’d say he’ll send a wave within the next two hours, if he’s as good as he’s supposed to be,” Simon figured. “Not less than an hour, though. It will take him at least that long to order the supplies.” “Good. ‘Cause it was kind of cute to watch you be all intense and demanding and stuff. I wanna buy you lunch.” “And here I thought you liked me,” Simon said sadly. “Zoe’s cooking is about the only thing that makes me think fondly of the noodle shops on Onyx.”