Kaylee’s Lament

Chapter Twenty-One

Wendell hadn’t had this much excitement in . . . well, never. Nothing even came close. It was like some tawdry popular adventure show, gone horribly awry. First that disgusting-looking Captain Kuan, and her disreputable crew, showing up with their ancient, rusting hulk, and their big, nasty-looking guns. Then the even more disgusting one-eyed, toothless Milo Morgan shows up with four security officers and a copy of a dubious-looking complaint ordering the binding by law of the crew for larceny – hardly surprising, in his opinion. That was exciting enough (in a morbid kind of way). Morgan’s ID and papers did match the owner’s name on the ship’s manifest, and the crew seemed to know him. But to have your own brother bound by law? That didn’t seem right, even according to the chaotic standards of what must pass for morality on the Rim. What was worse, there was now some doubt about the disposition of the cargo. As the agreement had been originally been with the Pear Blossom division of the company, could he really count on Morgan fulfilling it? As owner of the company he was legally bound to honor the contract, but Wendell didn’t get the feeling that Morgan was too awfully concerned with legalities. Between the eyepatch and that horrible lisping, sucking mouth, he looked more than half pirate himself. And then he had brought all those men with him, allegedly his new “crew”. Wendell actually recognized a few of them as dockyard bums, and a few others he had seen on the station’s police blotter. Now they were walking around his dock with guns – lots of guns. They intimidated the stevedores into working faster – clearly a violation of their union contract, one that would certainly come up at the next management relations meeting. And they grinned a lot. Wendell hated those grins. They looked . . . feral. All things considered, he preferred Kuan. Sure, she had been crude, smelly, and hideous to look at, but she had been reasonably civil and more concerned with the contract than Morgan obviously was. Even Morgan’s dopey brother was an improvement over the company’s president, and that engineer lady might have been pleasant, should she take the time to bathe, change clothes, and be properly reeducated from childhood. At this point the cargo, at least, was all loaded. He had hid in his office until the stevedore team leader reported, with tremendous relief, that they were done and had gotten the job signed off. He was preparing the release order, the docking certification, the vermin inspection waiver, and all the other paperwork for the Pear Blossom’s departure – all of which was taking longer because he had to make memos-to-file and produce change-orders concerning the new crew and master of the ship. That was on top of the other paperwork, the account in particular. That included payment for the trip in cash, as per agreement, and that was a fairly substantial sum. It was in a thick, overstuffed envelope on the corner of his desk. He was nervous even having it in his office. Usually, freight payment was completely automated, but with these Rim people, well most didn’t even have real bank accounts . . . All in all, far too much excitement for his orderly little world. He was glad to be rid of them. A little more paperwork and this would all be behind him for good. “You there, Wilson?” “Wendell,” Wendell corrected, though he could really say why. “Whatever. Look, we may be a little longer. Old Man’s havin’ some difficulties of a technical nature.” “He what?” “We’re broke down,” the ugly little man said, spitting casually on the deck. “Ain’t gonna take much longer, though.” “Isn’t that nice,” Wendell said evenly, teeth clenched. “Well, tell your boss that I haven’t quite finished the paperwork, so he’s got about thirty minutes. After that, I call the Feds for their assistance.” He had already called the local security people, but there didn’t seem to be anyone at the desk. He kept getting an automated response. Probably a cat stuck in some lift was requiring all their attention. “We’ll do what we can,” the foul little man said, and trooped back out to the loading dock. Ten minutes later, someone else invaded his office. With a gun. And a hideous scar. Captain Kuan put her finger up to her lip in a gesture for silence, and Wendell couldn’t think of a single reason why he would ever disobey such an imposing woman with such an imposing weapon. She knelt down, out of sight of the window to the bay, and spoke to him in a voice just above a whisper. “Wanted t’warn you,” she said. “We’re about to take our ship back, and there might be a little more lead flyin’ ‘round than usual. So I thought you’d appreciate it if we told you that aforehands, so you could take ‘propriate measures. Like hidin’ under your desk. Should be safe there.” “You’re what?!?” he asked, horrified. “We’re gonna storm the ship and take out Milo Morgan. Armed assault. All very colorful.” “Wha—?” He choked off his shout when she moved the barrel of that rough looking gun two tiny millimeters – was it a pistol? Rifle? It certainly was intimidating. “Warren, I—” “Wendell!” he corrected. He was starting to get tired of people not remembering his name. “Wendell, sorry. Wendell, this li’l bit o’ unpleasantness shouldn’t take long, and it shouldn’t interrupt the flow of your operations much at all. This is just a li’l business discussion between spacers. I take it as a kindness if you could just stay in here and let us handle it – just a li’l business. Consider it hostile takeover – Rim style. Can you do that?” He nodded. Business. He was all about business. Business, he could understand. What did he care what two bandit factions did? Besides, he did prefer Kuan, slightly. And it would simplify paperwork immensely if he didn’t have to submit all of those change orders. “I’ll just stay under my desk until it’s over.” “I’m thinkin’ that might be best,” Kuan agreed. He did just that. He didn’t even take his paperwork with him. Honestly, he didn’t want to continue working on it until he knew just whom he was finishing it for.

*

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*

“Wendell buttoned down?” Mal asked. Zoe nodded. “He won’t give us any trouble. How we lookin’?” She put her side arm on the crate they were using as a staging area and began arming herself in ernest. Mal was sorting through the assortment of ordinance that they had retrieved from Jayne’s stash on Inara’s shuttle. So far he had found body armor, one of the old Independent submachine guns with ample ammunition, his lever action rifle, his favorite side arm at his hip, and another few pistols that he put here and there. Wash was likewise equipped, only instead of a lever-action, he had that pump-action pistol grip scattergun. He had also, at Mal’s advice, put his eyepatch back on, though he kept it flipped up. Everyone was wearing a few grenades here and there like it was the fashion statement of the season. “Looks pretty good. I saw four bad guys in the bay, two more in the hold. Figure at least another four or five in Serenity. Ain’t none of them look too alert, nor too professional. We do this right, we get everything wrapped up in about ten minutes.” “Think so?” “Don’t see why not. Unless he got himself a light infantry support weapon in there, and I can’t see him thinkin’ that far ahead. Even then, that’d likely add only five, six minutes.” “Fair enough. Ready Wash?” “ ‘ And lo, the heroes girded their loins with armors and took up in their arms weapons of thunder and might,’” he said, brandishing the shotgun like a sword. “ ‘And they went forth against impossible odds, yea, such incredibly impossible and highly dramatic odds, for they had no innate sense of self-preservation,’” he continued, turning to face them. “ ‘And though lo, it was clearly a psychotic and suicidal assault, still, they did not shirketh, for might and yea, even truth, were with them in their moment of need. Only the blind stupidity of their enemies was their ally, and—” “That’s Wash-speak for ‘Yeah, let’s go, I’m kinda excited by all this,’” Zoe translated. “Really?” Mal asked, pursing his lips. “Really.” “That’s pretty annoying.” “I think it’s cute.” “I just don’t understand y’all,” he said, shaking his head. Zoe just shrugged. “Everyone ready?” he asked into the radio. Inara and Kaylee both answered positively, though there was nothing Kaylee was really doing but listening in. “Then let’s go . . .” he struggled with the words. “Die gloriously?” provided Wash. “Be big damn heroes?” supplied Zoe. “The second one,” insisted Mal. “I really just don’t understand y’all.” “Big damn heroes?” Wash said. “All right. That’s my first pick, too.” “Give ‘em hell, Cap!” Kaylee called over the radio. *

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They crept into position in the far end of the bay and found cover as quietly as they could. It helped that Morgan likely figured all of his enemies on the station were either in jail or locked in his cabin, and so his men were not exactly their most alert. Zoe took up a position behind an empty crate on the right flank, while Mal crept along the stacks of cargo containers at the far end of the bay and Wash found a cozy nest where two large metal boxes came together in an angle. It was pretty decent cover, and they all had mutual line of sight with each other. At Mal’s signal, all three of them threw grenades – two flash-bangs and one smoke, and suddenly the bay was a whirling cloud of chaos and bullets. The plan was to let the bad guys shoot blindly for a while, which would burn up their ammo, add to their confusion, and give away their positions. Then they would start hammering away at them. That’s more or less what happened. Mal was enjoying this perhaps a little more than he should. If he had to fight – and he didn’t mind much when he did – then having something worth fighting for was kinda nice. And it was Serenity he was fighting for. There was no length he wouldn’t go to save her. He popped up, fired a few rounds, then ducked back down while the storm of submachine bullets flew all around the bay. Then he’d pop up again. Wash was adding to the confusion by giving a play-by-play, complete with voices and accents in a vaguely medieval epic style, between shots. Zoe, she was providing sniper fire from cover as Mal and Wash lured them out. It was a surprisingly effective tactic against untrained troops with little to inspire them but money, self-preservation, and sheer meanness. At least three were dropped in the first minute that way. Then they wised up and sought cover themselves, hunkered down, and started the painful process of picking apart the other side’s defenses. It might take a long time, but they were starting to realize they had the numerical advantage and higher ground. They could afford to wait it out. That was, more or less, exactly what Mal wanted them to do. As the smoke cleared a little, the ventilation moving it out slowly, Mal took a quick assessment the next time Wash popped out to cover him, and realized that there were five under cover in Serenity’s hold, and three bodies on the ramp. He nodded to himself and tossed another smoke grenade, just to keep things interesting, before rolling to a second covered position. When he righted himself there, he half crouched and pumped five consecutive shots at the hold from his new position. When he was done, he nodded to Wash. Wash nodded back and grabbed the radio. “We have their attention. Santa can come down the chimney, now!” Wash set the radio carefully behind the box where it was unlikely to get accidentally shot, then drew his newly-acquired crappy revolver and added three more shots to the cacophony before he ducked down. Then he motioned to Zoe, who moved her position closer while the two of them gave her some cover with the old submachine guns. She made it and managed to get off a few rounds of her own before she dove to ground. She came up a moment later, her pistol in hand and that damn fake scar looking pretty damn sinister. Mal grinned to himself and reloaded the lever-action. The party was just starting.

*

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“Wha’ th’ hell?” Morgan howled when he heard the first bombs go off. At first he thought it was a piece of machinery blowing out on the dock, but he didn’t feel the telltale sudden breeze that usually followed a compression puncture. His second guess was a piece of cargo falling off a crane, but then he heard shots fired. He knew what it was. “Gorram it! Ai ya women wanle!” He figured it was one of two things, both bad. Either the Alliance got wind of his swindle and had decided to take exception to it, or somehow those gun-hoe-tze-bee-dio-se had gotten out of jail and wanted their boat back. He hadn’t heard any shouts to lay down arms, though, so he doubted the Feds were the authors of the attack. With a toothless sneer he drew his pistol and ordered the rest of the men to take up supporting positions in the cargo hold. Luckily there was plenty of cover – all that cargo down there had plenty of good hiding places built into it. His hired hands didn’t look too enthusiastic, so he plodded down the catwalk himself, fire a few rounds into the bay without looking, and took up a position on the little yellow mule next to the stacked crates so he could inspire them. And shoot them, should they try to retreat. He swore when he saw that three of his men were already down. Amateurs. And one had turned in his gun and returned his coin just an hour ago, saying some nonsense about having kids. Losing these three meant he was down to – well, he was never no good with math. But then, he considered, that was three less he had to pay. Might be a good thing in the long run. Shake out the weak wood, as it were. He’d need a bigger crew, what with two ships to staff. He planned on keeping one or two of his original crew on each one, because he knew they was personally loyal to him. The others he’d rotate around until he discovered who could be trusted and who should take a short walk out an airlock. He was happy he got his wave off to his pals in the Red Rock Tong, at least. They would be pleased with such an easy haul, and it might go a long way to repair their recently strained relationship. While he wasn’t completely happy to be dealing with outright cutthroats – hard to trust a Tong, as they didn’t take kindly to legal summons should a deal go wrong – it had been a mutually profitable venture for the last few years. He’d get good targets for them on his journeys. Pick up a spaceport schedule, chat with a ground crew team, really figure out which ships were worth hitting and which were turkeys. He’d find out where they were headed and wave his Red Rock contact. After they would cull the slaves and the cream of the loot, then they’d let him know where to find the carcass for salvage. He bought a few choice items from them from time to time, too – stuff you couldn’t get rid of on the rat holes they hung out in. It wasn’t always an easy relationship. He remembered one sour point, not two years ago, when he led them to a rich Core lord’s yacht. By the time he got to the corpse, though, some other vulture had picked it clean. He didn’t have much but a few scraps, some engine parts and some lingerie to take back with him. Since then, their relationship had been lukewarm. But with a two-ship fleet he could get into a much higher class of thievery, and the Tong would be helpful with that. But that meant more crew. Which meant getting these new boys working out satisfactorily. He didn’t expect his new hires to hold out indefinitely – but then they didn’t have to. Those idiots out there couldn’t have that much ammo, and there couldn’t be more than one or two. Three at the outside. As soon as there was a lull in the fighting, he’d send a couple of his tougher scrappers down there to flush them out, finish the job – by knife and fist, if necessary. No less than those scum deserved. They shot first, after all. His poor boys were just defending themselves.

*

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Zoe was breathing heavily as she landed behind the crate. She was only a few meters away from Wash now, which made her feel better. She loved him, but he really didn’t know what he was doing, and this way she could keep an eye on him. She didn’t know how she could handle ever losing them, despite their frequent arguments. She drew her pistol and fired a couple of rounds before blowing him a kiss. “Hi, honey!” he said enthusiastically. “How’s your day goin’?” Zoe grinned. He always made her laugh. “I’ve had worse! Don’t forget to pick up a liter of milk on the way home!” “Zoe, I’ve been thinking,” Wash called out, reloading his shotgun while Zoe gave him some cover. “Don’t strain yourself, dear, you know how you get.” “Serious, hon. I’ve been thinkin’ about, y’know, babies and stuff?” “Yeah?” She swallowed. “And you think a firefight is an appropriate venue for this discussion?” She emptied her clip and ducked down. The automatic was hot to the touch. “Why not?” he shrugged. “And I guess that’s one of my points. We don’t really have the most healthy lifestyle in the ‘verse, y’know?” He popped up and fired the shotgun and then dropped down just in time to avoid a machine-gun burst. “Hard to imagine a couple o’ little tykes toddling through this mess.” “We can childproof,” she offered, reloading the auto. “Funny. But that’s not the argument I wanted to have right now,” he said. “I think I’ve figured out one reason why I’m a little hesitant about reproduction.” “Yeah, and that would be?” “I think I’m worried I won’t do a good job.” He slapped another magazine into the submachine gun and pulled back the bolt. “I mean, it’s more than the diapers and the runny noses and the college funds,” he continued. “What is it then?” She asked, leaning around the corner and firing the mini automag again. She was almost out of rounds for it, might as well use it up and forget about it. “It’s really being there, really teaching him – or her – just who he –or she – is! Y’know, really being there for him. Or her. Or them.” “Them?” “Multiple births run in my family. You didn’t know that?” “Word of advice? You shouldn’t tell your wife somthin’ like that when she has a smokin’ gun in her hand.” “Yeah, we run to big babies, too. I was nine pounds eleven ounces. Really big head, too, they took pictures. Anyway,” he said, spurting a few rounds from the submachine gun over the crate, “I guess I’m worried that I’ll positively suck as a father. I don’t have a single misgiving about you as a mommy – but I have a hard time thinkin’ of myself as an ideal dad.” “That’s fei hua, dear,” she said, as gently as she could in a firefight. “Don’t let your own bad parental experiences color your – careful there! – color your judgment. Just ‘cause you didn’t have ideal parents don’t mean you’re condemned to make the same mistakes.” She rolled out onto the floor and into a prone position. She fired two rounds, at one of the bad guys sitting on top of the cargo in Serenity’s hold. One took him in the forehead, the other in the throat. She rolled back into place before his body had slumped down. Wash looked appraisingly at her. “Hey, baby, anyone ever tell you that you’re really good at this?” She groaned and rolled her eyes. “I knew I shouldn’t have brought you to work with me. We were talking about your luh-suh parents and why you think you’re doomed to repeat their mistakes. I was sayin’ that was fei hua.” “It’s not just my childhood – OK, a lot of it is my childhood, but it’s more like I’m worried that I won’t devote enough time or attention, that I won’t make the kids a real priority, that I won’t be there for the—” he fired his crappy pistol three more times and tossed it. “—for the important stuff. The real character-building stuff. That I won’t make a good kid. Last thing I want is to raise up a kid just to see him get involved with the wrong element, make some bad choices.” She ignored the obvious irony. “Dear, you’re fong luh. I know one very good reason why you shouldn’t doubt your parentin’ skills. Time for a grenade?” “Just what I was thinking,” he said, pulling one out of his pocket. “And that would be?” “One – Two – three!” They both hurled flash-bangs at the same time, and they went sailing into Serenity’s hold. They heard screams of surprise and shock. “Because, you moronic flyboy, I chose you. That’s all that matters.” “You call that a good reason?” he asked, incredulously. “I’d say it’s the one big strike against you!” “You put an awful lot o’ stock in my opinion on everythin’ else. Why can’t you trust me about this?” She fired a round with her lever action, then put another round in the chamber. “All the men in the ‘verse, I choose you t’mate with. I’m the only one in the ‘verse who can make the decision about who’s to father my child, and I picked you.” She fired again, picking her target and getting a leg wound. “How come that don’t reckon into your figgerin’?” “It does, it does, look, and I respect your opinion, that ain’t what this is about, OK?” “Sounds like you ain’t respectin’ it much t’me!” She could feel her nostrils flare. Damn! Why did he always do that to her? But if she was frustrated, Wash was showing signs of strain, too. “Gun-hoe-tze-bee-dio-se! Why is this suddenly about your feelings? Why do you make this so hard? Ai ya! Women!” he shouted, popping over the crate screaming a wordless war-cry of rage and frustration and firing the submachine gun until the bolt clicked. He had a slightly maniacal grimace on his face. It was mostly gone when he ducked back down. “Better?” she asked. “A little,” he conceded. “I am simply trying to communicate my thoughts and feelings on the subject, not trying to cast aspersions on your judgment or opinion! Nah mei guan-shee!” She had to consider that. Wash was pretty communicative for a male, but even then she wished he would open up more sometimes. Too often he let his humor cover up what he was truly feeling. Be nice to see that from time to time. And she did have a tiny little tendency to take things personally, she had heard it said. “Is that true? You really are worried about what kind of daddy you’ll be? You ain’t just tryin’ to wiggle out?” “It’s not my only concern, but yes! That is a big deal for me! Don’t just dismiss it out of hand, OK? I think it’s legitimate!” “I can understand that,” she conceded, reloading her other automag. “I worry about parenting myself. I don’t know for sure I’ll be any good at it. That make you feel better?” “A little!” “And I think you’ll be a great dad, or I wouldn’t have married your scrawny insecure ass to begin with!” “I just want you to take my concerns seriously! It matters to me that you understand my fears are real, and I don’t think we should just jump into somethin’ this important without first carefully considering all the implications! Dong fa?” “Yes! And I do take your concerns seriously, but I don’t want you to use your fears to turn it into some fei-hua excuse and not take a gorram chance at a life! And I’m pretty gorram happy that you are taking the issue seriously! Dong fa?” “Yes! ” They looked at each other a little confused as they realized they had successfully concluded the argument before either was quite ready for it to end. Not knowing what else to do, she blew him a kiss, which he passionately returned, along with an alluringly new version of the smile she fell in love with. “Y’all done?” Mal called. They looked at each other, shrugged and nodded. “Good. I think we’ve made some excellent progress, today, but we need to pay heed to the future a might. ‘Cause I think we’re about t’be done here. Think I just heard Vera.”

*

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Morgan was busy yelling at some very reluctant mercenaries, trying to make himself heard above the hammer of guns and boom of grenades. He was so busy, and it was so loud, that he didn’t hear the metallic thud or hiss. He didn’t even see the door open. He only noticed when the man he was speaking to behind the mule suddenly had a sucking chest wound. Morgan didn’t bother to stay to see him hit the ground. He dove behind the mule. Above him on the catwalk another of those gorram flash-bangs went off, and once more smoke was pouring through the poorly ventilated air. And bullets, lots of bullets. As the smoke cleared just a touch, he could see the shape of a man coming through the shuttle lock – hey, there hadn’t been shuttles on board, he checked! – with a whole lot of guns, shooting his new crew in the rear and flanks, killing them one by one. He moved fast, and erratically, and was wearing . . . a tie? Morgan blinked. He expected Fed troopers, not a gorram lawyer! But on he came, a grim grin on his face, killing his men from behind like they were a bunch of dogs to be put down. He had one big ass gun under one arm, a submachine gun in the other hand, and he never . . . stopped . . . moving. Morgan shot his last two bullets at the new player – missed in the smoke, he figured – and then grabbed the submachine gun of the man who was bleeding all over the mule and trying to gasp for breath that was not there anymore. He tried to get a shot on the newcomer, but he found cover like he lived in this boat. And his men were going down by the second. Four, three two – it held at two for a while, and for one glorious moment he had a bead on the huh choo-shang tza-jiao duh tzang-huo man’s sinister-looking sunglasses. His finger had been on the gorram trigger! Then something rolled to his feet, distracting him, and the next thing he knew he was half-blown back against the mule, his eyes sparkling with more stars than the Black ever held, and all he could do was watch through lidded eyes as the man came down the stairs, killing the others, one . . . by . . . one. Morgan wasn’t serious hurt, but as he came to his senses, he voted it the better part of valor to keep his eyes closed, his hands still, and his breathing shallow. He might get out of this alive yet. *

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“Deck’s clear, Cap!” Jayne called out, popping another magazine into Vera, just because he was that kind of careful. He walked out of the smoke of the cargo hold unscathed and grinning. Wash and Zoe rose, their hands on their guns because they were pretty careful too. With all these careful people around, Mal felt safe enough to holster his own weapon. “That’s as good a gorram job as you could ask for,” he said, looking around at his people. “Jayne, you and Zoe sweep the ship for any more squatters, then go tell Inara and River they can come out if they wish. Y’all can haul all these bodies into Serenity’s airlock. We can dump ‘em before we get to Trinity and meet up with the Sky Hawk, keep things tidy. Wash, go undo your voodoo and get us ready to leave.” “What about Wendell?” Zoe asked. “I don’t know. You’re the Captain.” “Thanks,” she said with a grimace. “Stay in character. Wash, drop the eyepatch. Jayne, you’re our business manager. Nice suit, by the way, good look for you. Keep it colorful, Zoe, and maybe we can salvage this deal yet.” “And what kinda story am I tellin’ him?” Zoe asked, skeptically. “Well, Captain, it better be a good ‘un, cause here he comes.” He slapped her on the shoulder. “And try to get us paid, OK? No Alliance attention might be good, too.” “You think?” “I do think.” “So what are you gonna do while we’re doin’ all this?” “I’m gonna—” he stopped, as there was a rumble from behind them. Before they could even turn to face it, the mule swept by, zig-zagging crazily around the scattered crates and occasional bodies. Mal had his pistol out and was firing, and Vera barked insistently, but neither connected. The mule continued out to the entrance of the bay, into the cargo corridor that led to the labyrinthine maze of storage warehouses at the center of the station. Just as it disappeared, the driver looked up. All four of them saw the same greasy hair, the same crooked smile, and the same eyepatch. “I’m gonna go get Kaylee!” Mal shouted over his shoulder, already running.