Kaylee’s Lament

Part Nineteen

“How long we been in here?” Zoe asked, ugly hat slumped down over her temporarily horribly scarred face. “Don’t know,” Mal said, his head pillowed by his arms. He had managed a few ten-minute catnaps, switching off with Zoe, but he had a hard time sleeping on the stainless steel bench. Cold, hard, frozen ground, covered with rubble and blood and mud and rain and eight other kinds of nastiness – that, he could sleep on. A stainless steel bench that seemed to be just an inch short of wide enough, no matter how he turned, that he had trouble with. “They took my watch.” “Can’t be more’n two hours,” she said. “They should be about to try something heroically stupid.” “That’s what I’d be doing,” Mal agreed. “Let’s see, which they get first: us or Serenity?” “Toughie,” Zoe admitted. “I’d go for us. We’re better assets in the short term.” “I think it’ll be the ship. Don’t forget, Jayne’s in charge. He’ll want to nail that ship down before he does anything stupid.” “I think Inara’s gonna have a say,” Zoe insisted. “And if Wash is involved, he’s definitely gonna have a say. And Kaylee.” “Nah, I still say the ship. We’re kind of expendable.” “You think my man is going to ever find him something this good again?” she gave a harsh laugh. “No, they’re gonna get us out, first.” Mal lifted his head and looked at her. “How much?” “Fifty? Same as those per diems – which should still work, I’d wager.” “You just did.” They shook on it. They shook on all their private bets, from how many rollers were going to roll on over them in the War to how many times Jayne and Simon would get into it any particular evening. “There is the third possibility,” she said, after a while. “That they ain’t comin’ for us?” “Crossed my mind.” “Nah. Never happen. Only been a couple o’ hours. They’re probably still in the planning stages. They won’t want to rush anything, do anything stupid. Especially your man.” “Ha! My hubby? Likely hiding in a trash chute somewhere, blubberin’ for his mama,” Zoe said laughing. “Now Zoe, you know as well as I do that he’s not that bad. I’m sure he’s doing something constructive, but not dangerous, until help shows up. It ain’t like he’s stupid enough to walk up to the bad guys without even a ruttin’ nail file, or somethin’ crazy.” Zoe thought about it. She was still thinking about it – and how unlikely it was – when Mal cleared his throat. “Is he?”

*

*

*

Wash was walking up to one of the proud new owners of a vintage Firefly, a young thug about ten years younger than he, without any hint of anything that could even be considered a plan. He didn’t look like Wash, but then he didn’t look like Spike, either. He had subtly altered his appearance from both for this. He had ditched the Arachne’s Revenge jacket – he wasn’t thrilled with the new management. Instead he had surreptitiously lifted a light but scruffy spacers jacket from the tea shop’s coat stand, slicked his hair back with water, and used some of the booze he bought to give his whole ensemble it’s own unique aroma. And then he was ready to go. He needed something. He had a means to get it. And all that stood in his way was about a dozen bad guys with guns. “Hey, mister, you Shane?” he asked, grasping at straws. “Uh, no,” the man said. “Who’re you?” “I’m the guy Shane hired,” he said nonchalantly. “You know where Shane is?” “Uh, no.” “He said he would meet me here. Somethin’ about a new crew?” “Could be. This new guy here, Rim worlder, I think, he’s been hiring. His name might be Shane. Shane got one eye?” “Nah, two, last time I saw’m.” Wash checked his watch. “But they might be workin’ together. Mind if I wait a few?” “No, go ahead. Been here for an hour, myself, with no one to talk to.” “You’re name?” “Benjamin.” “Hey, Benjamin, name’s . . . Turk. Heard o’ me?” “No,” Benjamin said. “Can’t say I have.” “Huh,” Wash said, appearing mystified. Then he shrugged. “Guess it don’t matter. What d’you do when you’re not doin’ what you’re doin’ now?” “Oh, steward’s mate on a liner outa Horus. Good work. But I tied one on, missed the ship. Gotta stay here, make ends meet ‘till she comes back. In eight more weeks.” “Ai ya,” Wash said as he took a key out of his pocket. “You from Horus?” “No, born on Osiris. Moved to Horus with my girlfriend. We broke up,” he said. “Sorry to hear it,” Wash said, reaching over and unlocking the gun cabinet. “Good break up, or bad break up?” “Oh, not bad – no such thing as a good one, I suppose. You gotta lady?” “Oh, old married man,” he said, puffing out his chest in an attempt to look mature. “Couple o’ years now,” he said, philosophically. “How is it?” “Marriage?” Wash shrugged, and opened the cabinet. “Not bad. Pretty good, mostly. Except when it’s not, and then it can be hellish. But more good than bad.” “Heh. That’s great. I wanna get married someday. Settle down, get into some other business, have a couple of kids.” He looked wistful. Wash took his gun out of the cabinet, checked the chamber, checked the safety. “My wife’s been talkin’ kids a lot, lately,” he said, sitting down. “I mean, guys like us, we travel a lot. I’m on a ship like all the time. Lot’s of excitement, occasional danger, that’s a hard environment to bring a kid into, y’know?” “Oh, yeah,” agreed Benjamin, nodding enthusiastically. “You don’t want to bring ‘em into the world just so they can grow up, y’know, an orphan.” “Or just not have the time you need to devote to them,” Wash said, tucking the pistol into his waistband under his coat. “You make a kid, you should try and do right by ‘em. Too many kids, they don’t have a good, strong relationship with their parents.” “I know,” Benjamin said. “Me and my dad? Hardly spoke after I turned twelve. It’s like he just got interested in other stuff, kind of forgot about me.” “Damn shame,” agreed Wash, “and that’s just the kind of thing I’m talkin’ about. The kind of thing you want to avoid. A kid is a big commitment, and you don’t wanna just do it, have a cute baby, and next thing you know, you got this kid you screwed up ‘cause you weren’t payin’ attention. One o’ my biggest fears about havin’ kids. To realize someday you didn’t do a decent job ‘cause you were too busy livin’ your own life when he came along.” “I can see that,” Benjamin agreed. “I guess that’s why you should try to live a fulfilling life while you’re young, get all that stuff over with before you settle down.” “Y’know Benjamin, that sounds like a good idea, but you’re forgetting something.” “What’s that?” “We never stop thinking that we’re unfulfilled when we’re young. Always tryin’ to grab more and more, more glory, more money, more sex, more . . . I don’t know, just more.” He considered. “It’s like if you settle down, you’re thinking that it means the end of youth, the end of hopeful dreams, the end of success. When what you’re really doin’ is redefinin’ success. I guess that’s where I am right now.” “Shiny,” Benjamin said. “I think you’re right. And maybe we’re afraid that if we take that step, which is into a kind of inevitable maturity that should be respected – if we make that commitment then we’re also acknowledging that we’ll eventually come to the later stages in life. With death out there somewhere, just waiting to grab us.” “ ‘Specially in our profession. But ain’t that an argument for havin’ kids?” asked Wash. “Not only continuity of the species, but continuity of our individual identities? Continuin’ the genetic line, celebratin’ your success as a human being by the only real measure Nature allows. Ain’t it ultimately a greater testament to our individual triumphs and achievements than material wealth or social position, despite the advantages that those can bring to your kids?” “Which makes raising kids into healthy, well-adjusted adults a worthier and more ennobling ideal than the individual success we strive for when we’re young!” Benjamin finished. The two men stared at each other, lost in thought. “You go to college?” “Two semesters. You?” “A little bit.” Wash continued to think, eyes staring toward the floor. “That’s a lot to think about,” Benjamin said, after a pause. “Yeah,” said Wash. “I think it really is. I think I gotta talk to my wife.” He looked up ant Benjamin. “Hey, if Shane shows up, tell ‘em I was here when he said to be. He knows where he can call me if he really needs me.” “Not a problem. Hey, great talkin’ to you.” “You too,” agreed Wash. “Good luck with that. And, kid?” “Yeah?” “Find a better job than this. Really. What would your kids say?” “Yeah. That’s a point.” Wash walked away, slowly but with purpose. He turned the corner and headed down the corridor towards the lift, the cold steel of the pistol pressed up against the small of his back. He got what he came for. It was time for a relationship discussion.

*

*

*

“Sealed,” Jayne called at from the hatchway as the light turned green and the airlock hissed. “Well, thanks for the ride. See ya in ‘bout fifteen minutes, everythin’ go to plan.” “Zhu tamin ya min zhu yi,” Inara called out from the cockpit. “And River, you be very careful. I don’t care to explain to your brother how I got you hurt or killed. You just take it easy, use your wiles, and get out and back to the rendezvous on time, got it?” River nodded slowly. “Is she gonna really be able to do this?” Jayne asked skeptically. “Give her a chance, Jayne,” Inara insisted. “She’ll do fine. She’s a seventeen year-old girl. What man could resist that?” “Well, I guess if you didn’t know she was a psychopathic shiong-muh duh duang-ren you could pop a boner over’er.” “God, you’re romantic,” River said blankly. “Just go! I sit here any longer and Traffic Control is going to be all over us!” “Just waitin’ for the foreplay to be over with,” Jayne said. “C’mon, girl, let’s go rescue some folks.” “Right behind you,” River said as the airlock opened. “And don’t think I ain’t a little nervous about that.” They stepped through, and River, still in her pretty red geisha kimono, makeup and wig, dogged the hatch behind her. It hissed, and there was a bump as Inara’s shuttle departed. “Follow me,” Jayne said, completely unnecessarily. He cut a fine figure in his well-tailored suit, sunglasses, and assault gear. He led her up the darkened corridor to an intersection. “Here’s where we part company,” he said. He took a radio off his belt and handed it to her. “Leave it off until you’re clear, but let me know the moment I should move in.” “Shiny,” she breathed. She tucked the radio in her obi and adjusted the chopsticks in her hair. “Down that stairwell, up the corridor about twenty meters, door onna right. Got it?” She nodded. Jayne spared another moment to study her painted face. “You gonna be alright with this?” “Yes.” “You wanna gun? I brought ‘nuff to share.” “No. Won’t need it. Don’t like them much.” “Don’t be scared, just focus on th’job.” “Shr ah, monkey man, I got daydreams five times scarier than this,” she hissed. “You go get my people. I’ll take care of the obstacles. And the sandwiches.” And with that she was gone. “Girl ain’t right,” Jayne muttered to himself as he hunkered down in the shadows, checking his weaponry and waiting for his moment to spring into action. “Just ain’t right.”

*

*

*

Just like they trained her. River didn’t remember much, consciously, of what had happened at the Academy. Shards of memory cut through the cloudy electric haze of her psyche like broken pieces of mirror, showing her specific instances of what they did, what they taught her when they weren’t strapping her to a chair and cutting deeply into her brainpan. Individual episodes, mere moments in time captured like a bug in amber would float through the searchlight of her wakened mind. But her brain, damaged so intentionally, would not mend the shards together enough for her to see. She hated that. As she approached the doorway to the security station, she tried really hard to gather a few of the glittering pieces together, because sometimes they could be useful. It was frustrating, because no matter how hard she concentrated, she was always distracted by . . . everything. Every little thought, every tiny morsel of fear and doubt and hate, all acted like important issues that required her attention while she need that attention to be elsewhere. No matter how she tried to reassemble the random fragments, they proved maddeningly elusive. Oh, well. When she needed them, they were there without asking. It was just frustrating she couldn’t control it. She opened the door and backed into the room, closing the door behind her. She didn’t even need to turn around to know that there were five men in the room. Not the eight they planned on, not the twelve they feared, but five security guards watching monitors and answering calls from all over the station. Three of them looked up immediately as she entered, curious but not wary. As she turned their minds looked towards her, and one by one she drank them in unbidden, learning truths about them that they dared not reveal even to themselves. “Can I help you, Miss?” the closest and youngest one asked. He had only been doing security work for a few months and was still idealistic enough to think that he was helping protect and serve the public for his meager salary. But there was a deeper desire in his mind. He was proud to carry a gun. It made him feel dangerous, like a Rim-world outlaw. He was eager to use it in service, eager to kill someone without recrimination. He thought she was strangely pretty. And he was confounded by her presence. River shuffled up to him as well as she could in the blocky little wooden sandals that were a size to small – she had always had big feet – and she gave a slow bow. “I seem to be . . . lost . . .” she said, batting her eyelashes. “Well, where are you supposed to be?” he asked, smiling what he thought was a warm and flirtatious smile. She couldn’t believe he was falling for this. The man behind him had been doing security for three years now. He was from Agni and planned on returning in six month’s time, his pocket full of the accumulated bribes he had taken for looking the other way. He had aspirations of opening a restaurant. He thought he’d like that. But he wanted another six months of bribes to make sure he had enough to make a go of it. It doesn’t pay, he knew, to open up a place undercapitalized. He turned, too, and came over. He was less interested in her, being a little older, but still thought she was cute and alluring. “I . . . I thought the lift would bring me to the passenger shuttle dock,” she said, sounding innocent and confused. “Did . . . did I get off on the wrong level?” The second man put down the paperwork he had been going through and approached her as well. “You’re a little off target, miss,” he said. The man to her left had been doing security for four years. He liked it because it intimidated people to show up with a gun and a club and a badge. He liked intimidating people, always had. It gave him a thrill, a heady surge of power and testosterone, to see their eyes open wider, to watch them get nervous when he approached. It irritated him when they were not properly intimidated. In fact, he found it hard to perform sexually with his girlfriend when someone had failed to be intimidated by him, and he had occasionally vented his frustration on her. “You aren’t supposed to be down here,” he said flatly. He gave her an intimidating look. River reacted instinctively, shrinking back from it. She saw and felt the surge of pleasure he felt when she did that. She averted her eyes, and caught another one, this one overtly sexual. The fourth man was behind a console on the upper level of the vaguely circular office. He glanced up, gave her an appraising look, and went back to his business, reviewing reports. He had been at this job for six years, and hated it. All he seemed to do was file reports and break up fights between drunken spacers. Every detail about the job disgusted him. He thought his co-workers were sloppy and stupid, and he wished them all painful deaths. But he never said anything of the sort. In fact, he was known as an easy-going, all around nice guy in the department, a man you could always count on to cover a spare shift or lie on a report. In truth, he despised every person he came in contact with and despised himself every time he plastered a fake smile on his face or laughed at someone else’s stupid jokes. But he had found a way to counter the triteness of his job. Every now and then, he’d wait to be out patrolling the corridors alone and come across one of the spacer-bums that seemed to congregate here, sleeping it off in an unused alcove. Then when he was sure he was outside of view of the cameras – and he knew where each and every one was positioned – he’d take out his billy club, beat the man unconscious, and stick him in an airlock. He’d wait for the man to wake up, then listen to him beg piteously for his life, promise to do anything, offer everything he had and all he could borrow, and then he’d activate the airlock and watch his face as the blood boiled out of his ears and nose and mouth, watch his eyeballs swell and explode in their sockets, watch their white-knuckled hands gripping the safety rail until they couldn’t hang on any more, and then he watched them get sucked into the Black, the clean, pristine Black, swallower of the ills of the ‘verse. Then he’d go back to patrol, cheerful and fulfilled for a few days. Those moments were why he did this job. “I—I’m very sorry,” she said, backing out towards the door a little. I didn’t mean to intrude. I was just lost,” she said as she hobbled. “Marsh, back off, we’re here to help people, remember?” he said to the man who enjoyed intimidation. He came down the step towards her. “The passenger shuttles are just off of the Orange section, that’s nine decks up. You were way off, sweetheart,” he said, adopting a fatherly tone. The man was a ten-year veteran of security here, assistant head of security, second shift. He had been a cop on Varuna, in an industrial suburb of Indra City, for years, and had left to take this job because it was less dangerous and had better benefits, even though it was less money. He had a wife and two small children, and he saw what he did as contributing to their safety, and the safety of other innocents. He saw what he did as an important job . . . with a few unusual perks. Like shaking down the small business owners on the station for free merchandise and services in return for a positive business environment. Like using his position and presence to frighten three waitresses and a secretary on the station who had criminal pasts to regularly bend over or kneel down to take the fruit of his petty frustrations. Like occasionally finding runaways from Agni or Varuna, taking them to an unused storage room in Brown section, and brutally raping them before securing them there, where they wouldn’t be disturbed – he had plenty of contacts with professional slavers, and they paid a healthy bounty on younger workers for the terraforming projects on the Rim. They would never be missed, after all, and too many runaways on the station meant trouble for his department. “Nine . . . decks?” she asked, confusedly. “Nine decks?” She shook her head slightly, careful not to upset the wig. “I’m so stupid,” she said, looking down and giggling, one hand on her mouth. Just for effect, she tried wiggling her butt. Even with the obi and kimono covering her, the men all stared. Sexual thoughts flowed freely through their heads. It was kind of pathetic, she realized, and now knew a little better what Inara had said. Men are like puppy-dogs when it comes to young girls. Pick up a ball, wiggle it like you’re going to throw it, and you have their undivided attention. Idiots. “You work around here?” the fatherly supervisor asked as he came closer, wondering if she would be missed, wondering if she would scream. The other men moved out of the way in deference to the alpha male. “I . . . excuse me, I have a new job at a club in Agni,” she said. “I’m supposed to start later today, and I didn’t want to miss my shuttle.” She withdrew her fan from her obi and opened it, covering half of her face with coquettish demure. They were circling her like wolves on a rabbit. “Could you help me get back to where I’m supposed to be? I don’t want to keep my employer waiting.” Feminine wiles. Perhaps she did have them. But this was taking too long. “I guess I can escort you,” the supervisor said, helpfully. “I’m almost off shift, and helping people is really why I joined the force.” Force. A shard of memory floated through her mind’s searchlight. The sight of a fist hitting a sawdust target over, and over, and over, and over, and over, and over, and over . . . Equals. Another shard, which allowed her to remember and endless, eternal moment on a balance beam, on her toes, balancing every microgram in her body in perfect harmony about her center of mass. And doing it for hours. Mass. Another shard, where she was hefting a number of tools, everyday items that could be used to cause bodily harm when used as improvised weapons. Look for a good mass, a voice said behind her, or something sharp enough to cut skin. A point with mass behind it is the basis of most hand-to-hand weapons. Times Acceleration. A fourth shard connected with the other three, and she was watching a razor-tipped arrow speed by her cheek. Her hands came together in perfect focus, and the arrow stopped its trajectory in flight and her palms stung a little bit. Again, a voice urged her. Do it again. Force Equals Mass Times Acceleration. F=ma. The most beautiful equation in the ‘verse. The signature of God on the cosmos. The closest she had seen to the evidence of any kind of divinity – not in a book or scroll or statue or fervent profession of faith. That physics equation could be applied in almost every case of every body in motion everywhere in the ‘verse. And it was always true, always right, always perfectly correct and perfectly balanced. It made her heart ache with its beauty. She looked up demurely over the purple fan and the five men, who all were thinking about putting their hands on her. Feminine wiles were taking too long. She closed her eyes. Suddenly, her right hand shot up, obscuring the vision of the guard on the right hand side of her, the one who wanted to shoot someone, with the bright purple fan. She didn’t even look. She could feel his instant surprise. Her left elbow shot out and caught the intimidator in the nose with tremendous Force, utterly shattering his face bones. Some of which doubtlessly punctured his brainpan like the shards of an eggshell invading the yolk, allowing some of his precious cerebral fluid to seep into the rest of his dying body. She could feel his brain lapse into shock before it even comprehended what was happening to it. River reversed the direction of her left hand, driving two extended fingers through the fragile paper of the fan and into the eye sockets of the man who wanted to shoot someone. She could feel her fingers sink in up to the second knuckle. She didn’t quite destroy the optic nerve, but that bright purple fan would be the last thing the man ever saw in this life. As her fingers penetrated, she let go of the fan with her right hand and reached up for the painted chopsticks in her wig. They did not have much mass. They did have a point. She tugged her left arm out of the youngest man’s face, using the momentum of the tug to add to the force with which she threw the chopsticks across the room. They were light. They had little mass. But they had a kind of a point. Thrown with sufficient Acceleration they sailed passed the ear of the supervisor and embedded themselves in the throat of the man whom everyone liked. He fell to the deck, where he would spend the next seven minutes suffocating on his own blood, dying slowly the way he had killed thirteen people quickly in the past two years. He didn’t even have an opportunity to beg for his life. Pity about that. Instead of checking her momentum, she used it, turning her throw into a spin as she pivoted on her left foot, twisting her thighs and back to add more force to the spin. She also lifted up her right foot, and used the solid wooden clog to connect very slightly with the point of his chin. The bribe-taker spun, the shock of the blow knocking him unconscious instantly. As she brought her foot down, she looked into the eyes of the fatherly rapist. They were wide with shock, horror, wonderment. She took a smooth step forward, placed her hands gently on his chin and the back of his neck, and gave it a sharp twist, about 110 degrees, counter clockwise. That effectively exceeded the maximum tolerable movement it was designed for. It rotated his cervical vertebrae out of position, grinding them against each other, snapping them into fragments that functionally severed his spinal cord, leaving him to fall to the deck, limp as a rag doll, and perfectly aware of his complete paralysis and impending death. Force equals mass times acceleration. River looked around at the security room. Stepping over twitching bodies and ignoring the sobbing cries for help the newly blind man was making, she walked over to the airlock killer and stared in his eyes. “Sorry,” she said, reaching down to grasp the chopsticks in his throat. “I need these back. They aren’t mine.” She pulled them out, allowing a geyser of arterial blood to splatter across the console. It made a pretty pattern. She had an idea. She took the two bloody chopsticks, and using the airlock killer’s blood she sketched a credible rendering of the spider from the Arachne’s Revenge logo on a bare spot on the wall, in full view of the security camera above. Then she wrote a few insulting Chinese characters across it, added the letters ARSE in a careless scrawl, and then, in smaller letters below it, wrote out I CAN SEE YOU in blood. She ran out of hemoglobin ink twice, and had to refresh her supply from the choking man. He didn’t seem to mind. Then she cleaned the chopsticks and her left hand on the killer’s clothing and replaced them in the wig, which she took a moment to straighten. Before she dug her radio out of her obi. She halted before she activated it. She quickly found the master security camera console and shut down the entire system. She also erased the last week’s worth of recordings. Then she picked up the radio. “All clear,” she said into it. “You sure? They good and distracted?” She looked around at the carnage that she had wrought. “Oh, yeah, they won’t notice a thing. But there are only five. Not eight. That leaves at least three more, by my figuring.” “Just makes the party more interestin’. You lock down that lift?” “Oh, almost forgot,” she said. She found the control and tagged it. “Done.” “Focus, girl! You gonna get someone seriously killed! We ain’t playin’ jacks here, this is a heroic rescue and people’s lives are at stake. And don’t forget to dog the stairwell hatch from the inside when you come up. Don’t need no surprises in m’backside.” “Yes, you don’t like that, do you?” “Just leave my backside outa it! Girl, just shake your boyfriends and get up to the rendezvous point – did you know that’s French? – while I transact some business,” he said, defensively. “Ain’t got time t’look after no helpless females.” “I’m on top of it,” River said, clicking off the radio. She removed her clogs as she left the security center. They were clumsy to walk in, and they hurt her feet a little. They were a size too small.

*

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*

Jayne clicked off his radio. “Only four minutes,” he mused to himself. “That was quick. Wonder if she hiked a skirt to ‘em? Nah, that ain’t quite ‘nuff time fer that.” He checked his watch, then keyed his radio again. “Wash, you there?” “Yeah,” came the curt reply. “You say you got a gun?” “Yeah,” came another curt reply. “How’d you get a gun?” “Traded some mature wisdom for it. Look, just tell me the plan. I’ve got some stuff on my mind, OK? I could use a distraction.” “How about you get to the far end of the corridor and wait up. When you hear some shots, you pop up and come at the detention center from the other side. You got it?” “Yeah, sure, right, whatever,” the pilot said. “Did River distract them at the security center like you said?” “Sure did. Girl discovered some feminine wiles tucked away under that loony bonnet o’hers.” “Who would have thought? Little River, all grown up and helping her friends and family commit multiple felonies, just like a big girl.” Wash sounded thoughtful. “Can it, flyboy! We got some work t’do. Like I said, as soon as you hear shots, you come a’runnin’!” “I’ll be there.” “Give ‘em hell, guys!” “Kaylee, you stay offa this channel ‘less you need help! Dong ma?” “I will. You guys be careful.” “Ain’t me ya gotta be worried for,” Jayne said, clicking off the radio. He straightened, holding Vera cradled in his left arm while he straightened his tie. He felt better, despite wearing the suit. Least if he got ended, he’d already be dressed for his funeralization. He didn’t mind that. He was just glad he was able to do something constructive on this job. “Finally!” he breathed, securing his sunglasses on his nose. “Time for some fearless acts o’ derrin’-do!”