Kaylee’s Lament

Part Twenty-Eight

*

On the small, green globe called Trinity, on the second largest continent, just south of the Bellona Range of mountains, there sits on a large promontory a monastery of Thomasite monks. Six miles east of that is the tiny village of Concord, a farming community of ninety souls who dearly appreciate their close proximity to the monastery for the healthcare, education, secure location and spiritual sustenance it provides their community. The nearest real town is eight hundred miles to the south as the maglev flies, and the nearest city large enough to have any kind of Fed presence was Ascension City on the largest continent, on the other side of the planet. Between the monastery and the village was a largish farmstead run by the Carter family, a prosperous clan who had taken advantage of the near constant north winds by investing heavily in electricity-producing windmills, power from which they sold to their neighbors. The constant EM currents generated by the windmills, plus the metal in their construction, made this an ideal place for a ship or three to land and remain reasonably undetectable from orbit. The convenience to the nearby to the Trinity Monastery also made Wind Heaven Farm a great place for a peddler, a smuggler, and a perfectly legitimate Church-owned freighter to land – with permission – and do some trade. Which is exactly what was happening. The Sky Hawk had sustained moderate damage during its long flight from danger, places where near-misses from missiles and attempts on their engines from lasers had disrupted mostly minor systems. Nothing that was hit was irreparable, though, and with the assistance of Kaylee they were able to get patched up in short order. Serenity was now empty, the bulk of her cargo having been transferred to the old surplus Workhorse-class Alliance transport, renamed The Holy Rood, for disposition elsewhere. The Thomasites had been generous in their dealings. The remaining pieces of the TR-10 were the valuable ones, of course. In terms of usefulness the masticator would have sped things up considerably. As it was, all medicines produced by the pharma crops would have to be prepared by hand – a very labor-intensive process. Luckily, there was plenty of cheap labor available on the Rim. The crops themselves had been started in the monastery’s greenhouses weeks before, and preliminary sampling concluded that they were, indeed, as potent as advertised. And it was widely agreed that the begonias in particular were beautiful. Brother Theodore was generous, after the tale of the battle was told to him by Book. While cautious with the monastery’s funds, he also recognized the courage necessary to pull off a job like Serenity’s crew did. After examining the remaining medicines, equipment, and the TR-10, he paid out 340,000 credits to Mal – in cash. Mal looked at the stack of bills on the monk’s administrative desk. It was just about the most cash he had ever seen in one place all at one time. “That’s a mighty big stack of foldin’ money,” he said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “A curious man might wonder how a bunch o’ monks who swore a vow of poverty could come up with such a large amount, and so quick.” “A curious man might remember that mine is an old and distinguished order – more than four hundred years old. And we have houses and chapels on dozens of worlds. Add proceeds of the sale of our crops and crafts to the . . . generous donations by our patrons, and we have a lot of institutional resources.” “Surely you do,” Mal agreed, his eyes not wandering far from the money. “You are to be commended, Captain. What you have done is nothing short of a miracle. This kind of equipment doesn’t make it to the Rim often – most of the worlds out here won’t see its like for another century, easy. We’ll be able to do some noble work with it, I’m certain.” “See that you do,” agreed Mal. “But weren’t no miracle. Just luck.” “Well, good luck has often been mistaken for a miracle – I’m sure the reverse is likewise true.” Mal didn’t mention that it wasn’t good luck that was entirely responsible. It wouldn’t have been polite. “Curious to see a church with a spaceship, too,” Mal ventured. “Well, when you have dozens of chapters spread out so far, it’s a might difficult to always secure reliable transport between them. We have about four ships, each costing far more than this pile. The Holy Rood is the smallest, but the newest. In fact,” he said, rubbing his own chin, “you might be interested to know where we plan on stashin’ that machine away from the prying eyes of the Alliance.” “I was wonderin’ about that, to be truthful. But that’s y’all’s business.” “Well, it is supposed to be a secret, but somehow I can’t imagine you going out and informing the Feds on us. So I will tell you. It’s going to another ship we own. One that never lands. It use to be a bulk freighter, once upon a time, then it was a commerce raider and troop transport for the Independent Faction. It sits – well, no need to tell you that. But it’s in orbit somewhere, somewhere the Alliance won’t even think of looking. The crew, well, some are monks, some are Browncoats who never bothered to lay down arms, and use us as a resource. “We discussed it, and decided that any single installation would invite inspection from the Alliance at some point, and that could prove disastrous. So the machine is going into the Black, where we will ship the crops to it. No one inspects crops, Captain. With so much agro traffic between worlds, who would bother? We’ll be sending some of the seeds off to our other chapter houses, so that we can make certain no catastrophe will doom our efforts. We’ll make certain it’s put to good use, that I can promise you. You can expect your future payments to be quite regular, if small in comparison to this one. It will take a while for most of the crops to reach maturity, much less in sufficient amounts to begin drug manufacture.” “I got no doubts. You gonna join us for a little shindig tonight? Sky Hawk’s patched up, planning on leaving the world tomorrow. Gonna have a feed, some tunes, might even be some liquor about, if you know who t’ask.” “Well, Captain, I’ll have you know my Order frowns on drunkenness – it might lead to dancin’, and we couldn’t have that. But I expect that several of the brothers may elect to join you. And if someone tipples a might, well, God forgives pretty much anything.” “I’ll be lookin’ for you. Pleasure doin’ business, Brother Theo.” He scooped up the money without counting it, put it in his coat, and left. He didn’t rightly feel comfortable there.

*

*

*

Back in the kitchen of Serenity, Mal sat down at the kitchen table. The main hatch was shut for privacy, for it was time for the split, and that was a sacred, honor bound ritual among professional thieves. Mal made little piles of cash in front of him, several of them, and looked around the room to address the crew. “Folks, we done the nigh impossible. And we got away with it without a single gorram person getting’ shot, which has to be a record for this crew. Seems like every time we turn around someone’s done got perforated. “But not this time. This time, we made a haul. And though it ain’t as much as we hoped for, ain’t one of you as can say it ain’t a gracious plenty. Nor is there anyone of y’all who didn’t risk life and limb to get it. So I’m makin’ the cut, and if anyone has a problem with the way I cut it, well, you come see me and we’ll discuss it. But in private. I got my gorram own reasons for doin’ it this way, and if you take issue then we need to talk ‘bout it one on one so no one’s feelin’s get mussed. Dong ma?” There were nods of assent around the room. No one would argue – the sight of the money made them all nearly mute. “Firstly, to Jayne. As per our original agreement, you get ten percent cut. But,” he said as the mercenary stepped forward, “that ten-percent is after expenses are paid. For the purposes of this here split I’m gonna take two thousand out for operatin’ expenses, mostly for the stuff we got on Set. Plus, we as a gang will pay the MacKlintocks a fee for helpin’ us out, and gettin’ shot at on our account. That fee will be twenty thousand, which may seem overly generous, considerin’ we probably shot two hundred thousand out the airlock defendin’ them, but I ain’t gonna argue the point none. We pay them as help us out, ‘cause if we’re gonna be thieves we’re gonna be honest thieves. I ain’t takin’ nothin’ out for fuel ‘cause the Alliance picked up that check. So that leaves three hunnert, eighteen thousand credits. Ten percent o’ that is thirty one thousand, eight hunnert. Here you go. Good gorram work at the station, you earned every gorram dime.” Jayne stepped forward and collected his cut. While it wasn’t the most money he’d ever seen from a haul, it was the most he’d ever made – the Canton job not exactly going to plan. He accepted the money, looked Mal seriously in the eye, and nodded almost imperceptibly. He put the money in his pocket without counting in and returned to his seat, grinning fiercely. “Next, Zoe and Wash, y’all each get the same cut. I’m payin’ you out equal, ‘cause even though y’all are married I ain’t gonna count that against you. Thirty one eight apiece.” They both came forward and accepted their stacks. Zoe hugged Mal affctionately, and Wash shook his hand heartily – then pulled him into an intimate embrace and kissed him on the cheek. “Next, there’s Kaylee. Now, while she ain’t never gotten a full tithe of loot, on account that she’s not a shootin’ sort of woman, in this case I’m gonna make an exception, ‘cause I feel that she should be compensated for gettin’ all abducted. That, and her findin’ the other transponder was a key piece o’ business, not to mention getting’ us away from the Tong and, well, come get your fair share, sweetness, you earned it.” Kaylee came forward and accepted the bills with reverence. She kissed Mal warmly and almost immediately put her nose into the money and inhaled deeply. “I never smelt so much cash in my whole life,” she murmured as she returned to her seat. “Now, as far as Inara an’ the Shepherd go, while y’all didn’t do no shootin’ or nothin’, and technically are passengers and not members of our little criminal family here, still y’all did right much to make certain this caper got pulled off. So I’m cuttin’ you in for five percent each, that’s fifteen thousand nine hunnert credits apiece. Come’n get it.” “I really can’t accept it,” Inara said, sighing. “All I did was pilot a shuttle and help out with some fashions.” “And I don’t feel right accepting the proceeds from thievery, no matter how involved I was or how good the cause,” Book said, with just a trace of reluctance to his voice. “Y’all come get your gorram shares!” insisted Mal. “Otherwise you’re gonna hump up my math. I don’t care what you do with it – give it to charity, light it on fire, wipe your ass with it – but y’all earned it, y’all take it!” “If they don’t want it—” began Jayne, sitting up. “We’ll take it,” both Shepherd and Companion said in unison. They collected their money and sat back down. “Now, as to River. While she ain’t technically in the gang either, and she’s all crazy and all, she still saved our collective asses on a couple of occasions. ‘Course she also got me in a bar fight that led to a murder trial and the undying enmity of a ruthless gang of cutthroat pirates, but, hey, we all have those off days. You get a fair share as well. But I’m givin’ it in trust to your brother, ‘cause you’re still a minor in most jurisdictions of the Rim and still crazy in pretty much all o’ them. So you don’t like how he spends it, you talk to him.” “Don’t think I won’t!” “Lastly, there’s Simon. He gets a cut up front for his fine rescue of Kaylee, even though she probably coulda handled things on her own. An even though he annoyed the piss outa most of us at various points, he was the criminal mastermind what planned all this runaround to begin with. An’ since he’s the one most likely to get blamed if this whole caper went into the crapper, well, I say he deserves a cut and a half. And,” he continued with a grin, “as a bonus, I’m throwin’ in my black mustache. So you got somethin’ to twirl while you’re thinkin’ up the next caper.” He pushed a large stack of bills at the doctor, who looked speechless and horrified, then thoughtful. He rose and took the stack, then counted out fifteen thousand of it and laid it back on Mal’s stack. “What’s that for?” he asked, suspiciously. “I have a confession to make,” he began. There were nervous starts as everyone gave him their attention. Jayne groaned loudly. “I planned this whole thing not as a way to make some cash – or even as a way to get the TR-10. I planned it so that I could get some more specialized equipment for my sister. Things that I didn’t have a prayer of finding short of the Core. When I saw those bio-cylinders and realized what they meant, I confess that I put this whole scheme together simply as a means of acquiring that equipment, and those drugs. So I’m buying it from the gang,” he said, making ‘gang’ sound a little funny coming out of his mouth, “at the current criminal going-rate.” “I can live with that,” Jayne said. “That mean I get another ten percent? That’s, let’s see, fifteen thousand divided by ten . . . waitaminute . . . take off the zero . . . tha’s fifteen hunnert divided by one – what the—” “Don’t hurt yourself, boy, I’m throwin’ this back at the MacKlintocks. They got another young’un comin’, and I’m sure they could use all the scratch they can get.” “Damn! I was almost finished!” Jayne moaned. “Well, that’s it – the rest is mine. Now, it’s bonus time.” Everybody looked up, startled. There was rarely a bonus involved in criminal acivities. Mal didn’t move. “See, y’all never got paid for the Bellarophon job, and considerin’ we spent some coin on that and all we got to show for it is an old busted laser gun we can’t seem to sell for the fortune it’s worth, I thought I’d throw around a few bonuses to say ‘thanks’ for all the hard work. ‘Sides, it makes me feel better as a captain when my crew knows how much I ‘preciate them. And no captain never had a better crew than I got right now – no matter how annoyin’ some people who shall remain nameless can be to everyone else.” “Yeah, Simon!” Jayne said, mockingly. Eyes were rolled. No one hit him. Book looked awful tempted, though. “We all worked hard. But some deserve special recognition, and I can’t rightly say if there’s a better way to say ‘thank you’ than a big wad o’ cash. “Doc, you made that jump through the Black when I know full well you were probably wantin’ to wet your britches. But you done it anyway. And then you were ready to attack the thugs and protect Kaylee’s virtue. So here’s a thousand credit bonus. And no take-backs this time. You earned it.” Simon took it, with humble thanks. “Wash, you fought hard against the thugs, and you ain’t no soldier. You coulda stuck back, let me an’ Zoe handle it, but you stepped up and took your place like a man. Plus, you wrangled us away from the Tong through that debris, and that was as pretty a bit o’ flight as I ever seen. You get a thousand, too.” For once Wash had nothing to say, though he teared up a might. “Zoe, you played the Captain and played it so well you had my own self convinced. And you did it even though you didn’t want to, and you didn’t think you could. That’s worth a grand, easy.” Zoe took her extra money with a smile. “Book, you set up this deal with Brother Theo, without which we’d be lookin’ pretty gorram foolish about now. You came through, a lot of people benefited. You do what you wish with the cash, but you’re takin’ some. Another thousand.” Jayne looked ready to jump up and pounce. Mal ignored him. “Inara, I know full well you pulled out of three weeks worth o’ workin’ for this when you didn’t have to at all. You came through for us, when it wasn’t your place to. I appreciate it. We all do. So here’s a bonus, a thousand, for helpin’ out. Now don’t do it again, hear? This might be the last honest money you make in a while, but it weren’t the safest way to make it either.” “So,” Inara said carefully as she came forward, “money I make from . . . whoring isn’t honest, but money made from grand theft is somehow?” “Hey, we worked for that. And before you go off and rip me a new rectum, I wanna let you know that after we finish up here, we’re headed to Epiphany. It’s a small moon, about a week away, and it don’t have much else but sun, sand, beach, and rich folk. Try to work that into your itinerary, if you can.” That brought Inara up short. “I believe I can,” she said, gently, an odd look in her eye. She took her bonus and sat down. “Kaylee, you get two thousand, both ‘cause you saved us with your magic book and ‘cause you worked so gorram hard getting’ this ship lookin’ like a jien hwo. I know it’ll take quite a bit o’ work to restore her back, so I think a little extra is proper.” Kaylee came up and collected her reward, then kissed Mal on both cheeks, smiling so warmly it filled the room. People clapped and cheered a bit. “River,” he said, when order was restored, “You get a bonus, too, and this you get to hang onto. Spend it with the MacKlintocks, save it for a . . . whatever in hell you might want. Maybe some new clothes. I don’t know. But here, you get three thousand.” “Whatinhell?” Jayne protested. “And you know why.” He peeled the bills off and laid them upon the table one by one, chanting as he did. “Force . . . equals mass . . . times acceleration.” She got up and grabbed her money, stopping just briefly enough to kiss Ma – something that made him just a bit uncomfortable, remembering Jayne’s chest and a butcher knife. Her normally blank stare was replaced by a huge, beeming smile. “This is the first money I’ve ever earned,” she said, her eyes wide. Then she immediately handed one of the bills to a startled Inara. “I chipped one of your pretty chopsticks,” she explained, then returned to her seat. “What about my gorram shirt?” Jayne asked, irate. “You ain’t never bought me a new shirt!” “Well, that’s about it. I think it’s—” “A-hem!” Jayne said, clearing his throat. “—about time we got to the shindig, ‘cause—” “A-Hem!” “—‘cause that pig is ready, I swear I can smell it through the—” “A-HEM!” “—airlock. So I want all o’ you to secure your new valuables—” “A-gorram-hem!” “—and then get prettied up, ‘cause there might be dancin’ what with the village what is it Jayne? You in need of a hanky?” “What about my bonus?” he demanded. “What bonus?” Mal asked, appearing mystified. “Everyone else got money – hell, crazy-girl got money and she’s . . . well, she’s crazy!” “What, you ain’t get paid enough for what you done?” “Ain’t the point!” Jayne insisted. “I just want a little fairness in the ‘verse, is all. I—” “Jayne, I ain’t gonna pay you no bonus, on account o’ you pulled one little jailbreak, made one little one-man assault, you enjoyed the hell out of it and you whined like a woman every step of the way no offense ladies—” “None taken,” Inara, Kaylee, and Zoe said at once. River was still looking at her money. “—so in my opinion you don’t deserve no bonus but,” he said, holding up his hand to ward of the storm of protest he knew was about to erupt, “but, I will pay you one thousand credits to shut the hell up for the next twenty-four hours!” “Done and done,” the mercenary said with a grin, pulling the bill from Mal’s fingers. “Best money I every spent,” muttered Mal, darkly. “No y’all get ready! Party clothes, if you got ‘em. And no one gets naked outside ‘till the monks go home, dong ma?” “Yes, captain,” many of the group said. As they got up to go to their rooms, Mal noticed Zoe and Wash weren’t moving. Instead they seemed to be having a wordless conversation with their eyes. Mal studied it until they realized he was watching. “Uh, Sir, the pilot and me, we might be a tad late for the festivities. Hope you understand.” “Uh, why?” She gave him a deadpan if-it’s-been-that-long-for-you-you-don’t-want-to-know look. Mal understood. “Uh, fine, fine. Can’t promise there’ll be any pig left. Fly, enjoy yourselves. We’ll most likely be dead in a few weeks anyway, might as well have some fun.” Zoe rose, and with a devilish, lip-biting expression pulled Wash after her like a rag-doll. “Oh, good Lord, she’s gonna kill me,” he whimpered. As they filed out to their bunk, only Inara was left. Mal was about to remind her to change into her party clothes, only to realize that what Inara wore everyday would pass for party clothes most worlds. “Mal?” “Yeah?” He rubbed his eyes. He was tired. Almost too tired to join the party. Almost. “Why did you do that?” He considered. “I’m a good fighter, have been since the War. Was a decent sergeant, so they say. Try to be a good captain. But when it comes down to brass tacks and green tea, I ain’t got much more than that. I got this boat. That makes me captain, according to the book. But that don’t mean squat ‘less I got a good crew behind me. And this is a good crew. They put up with the bad times, and only grumble a little. But they never think about jumpin’ ship, no matter how bad things get. When times are good, it only makes sense to reward ‘em, give ‘em a little pat on the head, let ‘em know how much I appreciate ‘em. It’s just good leadership skills, is all.” He rose and turned toward his own bunk. “Mal?” Inara called again. “Yeah?” He asked, a little more emphatically than normal. “I can count. You have a quite respectable wad in your pocket yourself. What are you planning on doing with all that money?” she asked, a sparkle in her eye. “Well,” Mal said, rubbing his chin again. “I been thinkin’ bout that. We’re goin’ to Epiphany, right?” “Yes,” she said, expectantly, “that’s what you said.” “Well,” he said, approaching her slowly, “there’s been somethin’ I been thinkin’ ‘bout doin’ for a long time. Since you came aboard, actually. There’s been somethin’ that’s been botherin’ me, somethin’ I shoulda done . . . oh, long time ago.” “Yes?” There was a certain note of anticipation in her voice. He came just a little closer. “I mean, you just shouldn’t neglect something that important. Not when it concerns someone who you care about, like I do. Not when it’s a matter of your life, you’re talkin’ about. You just shouldn’t let your life creep by when somethin’ like that is hoverin’ in the background, just . . . waitin’ and waitin’, and waitin.” “And?” she said, a little excitement slipping through her serene veneer. “So I’m gonna do it,” he said, so close he could smell her perfume, feel the heat of her body through her dress, feel the whisper of her breath on his face. “You are?” she asked breathlessly. “I am. ‘Bout time, don’tcha think?” “I think it might be. Time, that is,” she murmured. “That’s what I was thinkin’, too. I just needed the money, do it right.” “You didn’t need money, Mal,” she said, staring deep into his eyes. “I didn’t? You know someone who’ll do a full core rebuild on Serenity for free? ‘Cause those things cost like the dickens, got to have all sorts of specialized equipment. Containment vessels and protective suits an’ such. Kaylee said the shipyard at Trimaris Station above Epiphany does a lot of yachts, she heard, and could handle somethin’ as small as a Firefly hey Inara, where you goin’? He chuckled wickedly all the way to the party.

*

*

WE INTERRUPT THIS NOVEL FOR AN IMPORTANT MESSAGE FROM THE AUTHOR

Author’s Backward:

Usually, a writer will put a Forward in a book to introduce him/herself, give some background, thanks a bunch of people, and generally exercise his/her ego. Don’t laugh at that last part: an author’s ego, along with his/her command of the language and storytelling ability is the only things we have. So I’d appreciate y’all’s indulgence a moment, before we finish up this story, so I can get that ego-exercising out of the way, and maybe ask you for some help. And since I’m shamelessly putting this in the midst of the final chapter, it can’t properly be called a Foreword, so it’s a Backward, ‘cause I’m witty like that. But I didn’t know when I started the little story called KAYLEE’S LAMENT a month ago that it would be a book. I certainly didn’t know that a month later I would have piled up around 150,000 words. KL is the longest thing I’ve ever written. It is also the fastest thing I’ve ever written. But it ain’t the first thing I’ve ever written. Back in 1989 or so – whenever it came out – I saw the pilot for the spankin’ new series, Star Trek: The Next Generation. It was rough, the storylines a little contrived, and the characters had not yet taken full form. But it was Star Trek, and to me, a 21 year old college student geeky nerd boy, it was manna. I was starting to figure out that I wanted to be a writer, and so, as an exercise, I figured out a couple of plots. One intrigued me enough to write down. Being 21 means you have no idea that you can’t do something that older and wiser heads know is impossible. ST:NG wasn’t even a bona fide series then, I believe, just a pilot. I was so enthusiastic enough, however, that I took my little ten page treatment and sent it to Paramount studios on a whim. They rejected it, of course, unsolicited and unread. Company policy. But they suggested that I send it to Pocket Books, who had the franchise rights, because the series had been OK’d and there were going to be books. Goodbye screenwriter, hello novelist. I sent it in two weeks after the pilot aired. For the first month or so, it was the only thing sitting on the ST editor’s desk. He liked it. He bought it. I wrote it. The result (after five re-writes – writing novelizations for a TV show in production sucks because just as you finish a draft the new season comes of and kills off characters. Hence the five re-writes.) was the 20th novel of the ST:NG series, Spartacus. By the time it came out, Gene Roddenberry had died. He died the same week my book was in Hollywood for approval by Paramount. I have fond fantasies of my book being the last Star Trek novel he ever read. I have horrible nightmares that my book was so bad that it killed him. Regardless, Spartacus came out in 1992 and promptly hit the New York Times Best Sellers list at #13, where it lived for five weeks. Whoa. Still in college with a New York Times best seller. First thing you ever wrote and submitted. Talk about an ego trip. Of course I wanted to do another one, but by that time, things got complicated. My old editor departed, and he was replaced by his assistant, who had his own authors he was cultivating. Perfectly understandable, but he didn’t like my stuff as much, so my Star Trek career ended pretty much after that one book. It sold really well, about 300,000 copies all told, and it was hailed by some as the most subversive ST book ever. Heh. It also had a half-naked gladiator on the cover. How cool is that? (Note: Spartacus is out of print, but you can usually find a copy or three in used bookstores. Also, it’s available via electronic copy from Pocket. Check it out if you feel like it. It ain’t as good as KL from a technical perspective, but it’s all right.) Once you have “New York Times Best Selling Author” on your resume it’s pretty easy to get a job, and after school I continued writing other stuff while I submitted more novel proposals to agents and publishers. I hired an agent, who did absolutely nothing, and wrote non-fiction stuff for trade magazines and websites (which were gee-whiz cool in the early 90s) and did a little technical writing. And started piling up rejection slips. Part of it was me. Despite my early success, there was still plenty I didn’t know about writing, and writing novels in particular. After (no lie) my twentieth rejection slip I went to talk to a few of the more experienced authors in my area, namely Allen Wold and Orson Scott Card, and they both suggested I work on my craft before I submit anything else. I tracked down Larry Niven at a con and cornered him, bribed him with pizza and beer, and picked his brain. He suggested I drink more Scotch and work on my craft. Part of it was the market. With electronic publishing beginning to worry the publishing industry, and with the explosion of websites, the death of the mid-list author was just around the corner. They might take a flyer on a promising newcomer, on the chance he’d come out of the gate with a hit, but if there was no hit they weren’t interested in a second attempt. I fired my agent (who never did anything) and tried to work on my craft writing everything from menus to advertising to technical documents. Meanwhile, the economy spiraled up, then crashed, I met a beautiful woman who was near-sighted or drunk enough to not realize what I looked like and we got married, did real life stuff, and had three kids (Love ya, baby!). Before I knew it, I looked up and it had been ten years since Spartacus came out. I worked diligently on a fantasy novel I had obsessed over, promising myself that I would never write anything over 30 pages and not get paid for it ever again. Heh. My novel was rejected again and again and again, mostly for technical or economic reasons. I kept reading other stuff in the market, much of it bad. Worse than my stuff, in my opinion, but who the hell was I? I still believed in the novel, but after a few years my enthusiasm waned. Having three kids will wane your dang enthusiasm for pretty much anything. I took a job on a whim at one of the premier specialty coffee roasters on the East Coast, and for almost five years I lived out another passion of mine, pushing the idea of being a novelist to the back of my head, saying later, later. Then the IRS closed us down (bad owner) and I took a job as a copywriter for a mail-order consumer products firm. Don’t laugh. Writing ad copy is an art form unto itself, and it’s actually quite useful for learning how to use the language. Three months ago I thought a firefly was a bug. I had heard of it, I suppose; I was a casual Buffy/Angel fan, mostly because my wife had a thing for Spike and liked the writing (she’s that most frightening of creatures, a Latin nerd with a taste for horror). I liked the writing too. I was never much of a horror fan, but I love good dialog, and Joss is Boss when it comes to dialog. Irony and sarcasm, two great tastes that taste great together. I should have been all over Firefly like a Reaver on a puppy dog when it premiered, but I was busy with the birth of my little girl and I blinked and missed it. Pity. Then three months ago I came across a browncoat reference, got curious, did some research, and tracked down a copy of the DVDs. To say I was hooked is like saying Inara is kind of cute. So I sat down at work one day, having ordered my own browncoat (a Marlborough cigarette premium duster that reverses into a raincoat) and waited patiently for the movie. OK, maybe not so patiently. I was hooked. I had it bad. I waited as long as I could (about 30 minutes) for more Firefly, any Firefly, and when none magically appeared I decided I’d try my own hand at the characters. A little note here about why I, and so many other authors, like doing franchise work like ST, SW and Buffy: half the work is done for you already. One of the hardest things about doing original stuff that is all your own is introducing the characters and universe to your reader. That means exposition, and although I love exposition it slows things down. When you write for a pre-established series all of that is taken care of for you, so you can focus on plot and action and dialog secure in the knowledge that your reader knows all the backstory well enough to follow along. Sure, it’s lazy, but if I were hard working and industrious I wouldn’t have become a writer in the first place. And now why I like Firefly: the characters and the language. The characters, of course, rock out loud, as every good browncoat knows. Tormented psyches, secret-laden pasts, all set in a universe that is intriguing and compelling and consistent. Juicy stuff.

(Side note: one thing that kinda bothers the sci-fi geek in me about Firefly is the vague premise that when Earth That Was got used up, humanity discovered ‘a new solar system’. I know Joss ain’t a sci-fi guy, but I’m going to assume that he meant that all poetical like. If a race has the technology to terraform – a titanic undertaking in anyone’s book – then star travel should not be a problem. I do like how he tells the story without recourse to a warp drive/slipstream/FTL issue being prominent. It would detract from the story in most cases, and it’s been done to death. I’m assuming that the whole issue is so moot to the characters that they don’t even think about it. The alternative is to find a solar system with over 70 worldlets suitable for terraforming, which would be HIGHLY unlikely, even considering trinary star systems and globular clusters. So I’m thinking standard space opera galaxy-wide expansion, not sublight interplanetary shlepping about because otherwise the whole premise is ruined for me. But I digress. OK, geekboy, back to the story.) Then there is the language . . . When I was ‘working on my craft’ all those years, I was also reading everything I could. And I read just a little faster than I write. Firefly brought home to me one of the cool, shiny, important things about it. Nineteenth century English, the language of Mark Twain and Walt Whitman and so many other seminal figures is colorful, dramatic, and stylish. That was before broadcast media sapped the strength from it and people stopped reading. The 19th century was really the formative one for modern civilization, not the 20th. In the 19th we had the death of Empire and colonialism, the inauguration of modern bureaucracy and social systems, and the calcification of many of our widely-held It is a perfect mixture of Shakespeare, the King James Bible, and well-translated classical works. To our modern ear, it sometimes sounds untrained and hickish, primarily because it survived longer in the rural regions than in the urban centers. It is preserved somewhat in the accents of the West and the South, and the derivations therefrom. It is mighty poetical, which you can’t even say in modern English. It is a joy to write in. It is full of wry humor and novel constructions. And it proves Joss’s contention, “The English language is my bitch!” Then there is the other side, the Mandarin and other Chinese influences. Firefly was the first sci-fi I’ve seen in a long time that acknowledges that if and when humanity does leap away from our big blue marble into the Black, we wont all be English-speaking white guys with one or two blacks and Asians – much less Arabs or Indians – to boss around. I love ST as much as anyone, but it makes some awful big assumptions about the future of space travel – though I can forgive to a certain extent based on the state of China back in the 1960s when Roddenberry came up with the concept. The future will be different, though. As one SF writer said (I think it was AC Clarke, but I very well could be mistaken) “In the future, we will all be Chinese”. To see that reflected adequately in the show made it compelling for me – it retains the ‘alien’ flavor of sci-fi without recourse to prosthetics and such. Plus, it was easier for me to write. You see, back in college when I was writing ST plots instead of studying Spanish or Math or whatever, I became a Religious Studies major because I had been told repeatedly by professional writers that I should avoid “creative writing” courses like the plague. So I took RS instead, because it was easy and fun and the simplest way to get a degree that wasn’t going to get me a job, anyway. But I did get an education, particularly in East Asian religion, specifically Chinese and Tibetan Buddhism and Taoism. Hence the ‘taking refuge’ sayings. Christians are “saved”. Buddhists “take refuge”. And the Red Rock Tong, a combination of the typical Western outlaw gang and the idea of the Chinese organized crime syndicate. In the future, the Mafia will all be Chinese. There are a lot of other subtle things that I added – congee for breakfast was one – but I tried to incorporate East Asian stuff into the story wherever I could. I’d like to thank all the authors I stole from, either blatantly (“The Big Room” is, as one astute reader pointed out, from a Heinlein novel – “The Rolling Stones” to be exact; and the phrase “Weight is what you lift, Mass is what hurts when it hits you” is from H. Beam Piper’s Junkyard Planet/The Cosmic Computer novel.) and more subtly, such as the Judge Roy Bean: The Law West of the Pecos homage I did with Judge Roy Kim. Fun scene, that. For those of you worried about plagiarism, we Pro Writers © have a rule: if you steal from more than three sources it’s research, not plagiarism. I’d also like to thank my wife for her infinite patience. When you come home from a hard day at work and find the kids running amok and your husband on the computer banging out copy, some weak souls would phone an attorney. My wife was understandably upset, until I told her it was Firefly and explained the importance this thing had for me. After a couple of heated relationship discussions (some of them naked) she let me have a free reign to bang these things out as fast as I did. BTW, the talk that Wash has with Kaylee about his and Zoe’s relationship “rules of engagement” are taken from my own relationship. We came up with them after we first met, just before Spartacus came out. I swear by ‘em. Lastly, I want to thank the fans, including but by no means limited to: RelFexive, AMDOBELL, reallykaylee, Canton, CallMeSerenity, Jacqui, BlueBomber, kenan82, bellona, missjasadin, and everyone else who ever commented on my prose. It kept me going, gave me a valuable ego boost, and encouraged me to figure out what happened next. And it is to those fans I want to ask a favor. I didn’t get paid for this – it was a labor of love. I can’t get paid for it without Joss’ seal of approval and about eight million pages of contract. But this is by no means the only Firefly story I have in my head – or even the best one. Currently I have plots outlined in my head for the following FF novels: The Rainmaker, Schoolmarm, The Treasure of Lei Fong Wu, The Lawman, Insurrection, Shall Rise Again, Castaway, Invasion of Piracy, and Grounded. Some of them are merely half-formed ideas with just enough meat to them to justify calling them plots. Some have been developed to the point where I’m considering starting some sketches. If you liked KAYLEE’S LAMENT, liked my style of writing, and want to see more of it in print, then I ask you to take the time to recommend me. You see, when Joss got his pet project cancelled he could have slunk off into the shadows and lived the rest of his life on Buffy residuals and con appearances. He didn’t; instead he circled the wagons and fought for what he wanted with the passion and diligence we have all come to admire. I’d like to borrow a page from his book, then, and enlist anyone who has made it this far into my book, and feels so inclined, to sit down for an hour or so and write a few handwritten two-page letters to Mutant Enemy, Pocket Books (attn: Jennifer Heddle), and/or Fox Productions telling them about how much you liked my story and why you want them to hire me to write a few of the above titles for them. I’d take it as a kindness. (Why a hand-written, two page letter? Because it shows that you care deeply enough to take the time to do it – and it gets more attention than a hundred Internet petitions. If email is all you can do, I’d appreciate that, too. But a hand-written two-pager gets noticed, opened, and read by SOMEONE. You can’t say that about email. I’m not going to say to phone and fax those guys, too, but if you did I can’t help it none . . . ) Because that’s what I want to do when I grow up. I have always wanted to be your basic sci-fi novelist, but because of my early success, lack of an agent, and the evolution of the industry, I haven’t pursued it as diligently as I should. You might say, “hey, if you wanted it that bad, you would have put everything else aside to do it!” and you might be right. But I wouldn’t have a wife and three kids right now if I had, and I really like my wife and three kids. And I love Firefly/Serenity. It was the spaceship I always wanted as a kid – not the shiny new one with all the talking computers, but the funky, crappy, falling apart one like the Millennium Falcon and the Eureka Maru. But Serenity has both of those beat cold. She is the starship of my imagination, and I knew her long before I met her. So I want to write more. I want to get paid for it. And I want you to help me. My email is tmancour@gmail.com. Tell ‘em to write me and talk. Feel free to email me yourself with your comments (good and bad). Also feel free to tell other browncoats about the book. Be a shame to let all this classy prose go to waste. My name is Terry L. Mancour, and I’m a browncoat.

WE NOW RETURN YOU TO YOUR NOVEL, ALREADY IN PROGRESS *

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Wash heaved a huge sigh, tried to catch his breath, gulped, sighed again, coughed, then rolled over on his back. He had a five hundred credit note stuck to his forehead. Zoe was likewise panting with exertion. Her hair was spread out magnificently on the pillow, which was covered with money. In fact the whole bed was covered with money. A little over sixty thousand credits worth. “That,” Wash said, when words returned to his addled senses, “was about the best screw I think it’s possible to have.” “You don’t think a hundred thousand would be better?” she asked mischievously. “Nah. You get into denominations that high, it starts bein’ all about the money.” “Wouldn’t want that to happen.” “Oh, no. Need to maintain our principals, and all.” “You ever do it on a big pile of money?” “I masturbated with a twenty in my back pocket once. That count?” “Somehow I don’t think it’s quite equitable to the experience we just had.” “No, not really. It was a very crisp twenty, though.” “I’m sure. This is nice. I didn’t think it would have this effect on me, but having my naked ass layin’ on enough money to . . .” she turned on her side to face him. “This is dah bien-hwa. What are we gonna do with all this money?” “We should invest it,” Wash said. “I’ve got a great tip on a polystyrene stegosaurus factory on Greenleaf. . .” “Oh, don’t make me hurt you so soon after you done transported me. Serious, what could we buy?” “Well,” he said, hesitantly, “This much money would buy a nice little used scout boat, maybe a P-88 or a Gryphon. Could do a little smuggling, some choice charters, maybe do some prospecting.” “And leave Serenity?” “Sorry, dumb question. Well, we could buy a few hundred acres on one of these go tsao de Rim worlds. Build a nice ranch house, hire some hands, raise sheep or beagles or buffalo. I hear emus are pretty lucrative. Geese, maybe.” “And leave Serenity?” “I’m starting to detect a pattern here. Let’s table the issue for a while. Personally, I think this money makes a lovely duvet.” “You ain’t said nothin’ ‘bout children.” “Why would you want to buy a kid?” “Idiot!” “Seriously, Zoe, I’m in a real good mood, having just had an ecstatic experience with a beautiful woman and a pile of money, two things I never thought I’d ever have. I told you I was thinkin’ about kids. That’s it, I’m thinkin’. Don’t push me too hard. Not now. I still can’t help but think that we could all be dead Real Soon Now, and that makes me a might . . . hesitant. So let’s just table the issue until we get bored.” She studied him a long time, then returned to lying on her back. “We should get a new bed.” “That I think we can invest in.” “And then we have to have children. So they can have children. So we can tell our grandkids someday about the time Granny and Pappy did it three times in one night on a big pile of money.” Wash’s eyes opened wide. “Three times?” “You gonna disappoint the grandkids? What kind o’ Pappy are you?” “Things I gotta do for posterity,” he grumbled, rolling over. As delightful as the work was, part of his mind was not in that bed, on top of that woman, on top of that particular pile of money. It was on a shelf above the bunk, where his toys lived, in the stomach of his larges apatosaur. Because inside a slit in the plastic there hid six platinum coins that no one knew about. It was his hidden grubstake, he told himself. His secret warchest. A little something tucked away for a rainy day. Or, the most secret, hidden part of himself admitted, should he reconsider, it was his baby fund.

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“That was real nice,” Kaylee said with a sigh as they walked back from the Sky Hawk. It was starting to get dark, and already the bonfire the Carters had contributed was casting shadows in the dusk. She was enjoying a treat – with all that money, she splurged on one of her favorites from the MacKlintock’s store: mint candies. “I’m so glad she’s going to be okay.” “I don’t really think that the battle hurt her much,” Simon agreed. “But further prenatal visits should really be encouraged. I’m no obstetrician, of course, but she seems fine.” Kaylee stopped, a piece of mint sugar candy halfway to her mouth. “I was talkin’ ‘bout the Sky Hawk!” “Oh, yes, of course,” Simon said solemnly. “As long as she gets plenty of bed-rest and keeps her fluid intake high . . .” “You’re makin’ fun o’ me!” she accused with a laugh. “Spaceships are shiny,” River said from just behind them. “I think so, too!” Kaylee said. “And they don’t have diapers and spit up.” “They just break down unexpectedly and kill everyone aboard,” Simon pointed out. Kaylee punched him good-naturedly in the arm. “Besides, I thought you wanted five kids?” “I might be reconsiderin’,” she admitted, shyly. “They do take an awful lot of lookin’ after. Hard to keep ‘em out o’ the engine room.” “You could childproof,” River pointed out. “Yes, there is that,” Simon said, smiling. “I’m just happy everything turned out okay. No emergency surgeries, no gunshot wounds. In fact, your bump on the head is the worst injury I had to treat. I count that as a definite plus.” “And now, we’re rich!” Kaylee said, whirling in a circle and squealing, sending a few stray mints flying across the prairie. River joined in her laughter, while Simon just smiled. “I’d hardly call it ‘rich’,” he said. “I mean, it’s not bad, considering. But I made about that much in two months back on Osiris.” Kaylee stopped and stared at him for a moment. “You have got to be jokin’,” she said, seriously. “No, no, absolutely the truth. Trauma surgeons make a lot of money. Plus we get a bonus if we’re willing to work nights and weekends.” “Y’all don’t have to work on the weekends if you don’t wanna?” Kaylee was aghast. “Uh, let’s change the subject before I start to get really embarrassed.” “It’s all right, silly,” Kaylee said, mussing his hair. “You can’t help where you came from or how you was raised up. We all got problems need to be overcome. Heck, it’s been said that I’m a bit of a flirt, sometimes. It’s taken years to overcome. Been thinkin’ ‘bout getting’ some therapy,” she said, her face held close to Simon’s. “That smells good,” River said, inhaling. “Fresh grass, cow dung, fresh baked bread, fresh air with a high negative ion content, well roasted pork products, spices, and . . . oh, hello, Jayne.” “Hey, you guys see what I got?” he said, excitedly. “I saw it when we was on the Sky Hawk last time, but I couldn’t afford it. Now I can!” he pulled out a massive silver pistol. “Take a look at this beautiful hand cannon! Fifty caliber Thunderbolt Express, chrome plating, armor piercing bullets, she’s so gorram big I ain’t got a holster big enough to fit her!” He held it out briefly for everyone to admire, then cradled it again in his arms. “Lord, she’s a beauty!” “We hope you and your disturbing firearm will be very happy together,” River said flatly with just a dash of punishing sarcasm. It completely avoided Jayne’s notice. “Oh, we will, we will,” he said. “Just like getting’ a new piece o’ trim for the first time! I swear, weapons is just my for-tay!” He turned to look at River. “That’s French, y’know.” “No, Inara was wrong, it’s Italian. And it doesn’t mean the dangerous part of the blade of the sword. It means the . . . thick part. She was just being nice.” “Italian?” he asked, confused. “You gonna name ‘er?” Kaylee asked. Jayne named all his guns. “Already got one picked out for her,” he said, nearly cooing. “I think I’m gonna call her . . . Jacqui, after that whore I bagged last. She was a purty one, real shiny like. I bet it impresses that little Carter girl – she was given me the eye, earlier. Look, y’all catch up, I’m gonna show Cap!” He rushed off towards the imposing silhouette of Mal, who was standing very close to the silhouette of Inara, while the silhouette of Book spoke to them both under a massive silhouette of a windmill. “That is so predictably juvenile,” Simon said, shaking his head. “Who in the ‘verse names their tools?” “It ain’t so dumb. We named Serenity, after all.” “Well that’s a spaceship. Plenty of precedent there,” Simon insisted. “But a gun? Honestly, I wouldn’t name a scalpel. Or a stethoscope. You don’t name your tools, do you?” “Well . . .” “Just one,” supplied River as she pushed past them toward the fire. Someone had pulled out a fiddle and started playing a lively tune, and River could no more help dancing when she heard music than Wash could avoid a toy store. “It's her ten millimeter adjustable wrench. She calls it Buck. After that farmboy she bagged on Sophia, when she got into the drunken fight in the brothel with that thug who kidnapped her. She used that wrench to break his teeth. Buck was eleven inches,” she finished helpfully, then ran off. Someone started banging a drum. Simon stopped, and turned, and Kaylee was suddenly very glad it was dark. Still, he could probably see the glow of her blush. “Uh . . . Kaylee?” “Um . . .” “What was that . . . ?” She stared at him, there in the dark, silently lamenting that men were so dim and that Simon hadn’t drowned his sister at birth. “Eleven inches?” he asked, confounded. “Mint?” Kaylee asked, offering the bag.