The Treasure of Lei Fong Wu

Chapter Sixteen

“You smell like an unwashed mammoth, Sir,” Zoe said respectfully as Mal climbed down the rope-ladder from their transport’s gondola. “That’s ‘you smell like an unwashed mammoth, DEAR,’” he reminded in a low tone as a young Tibetan family with at least five kids – maybe six, he hadn’t been able to keep track because they moved around so much – came down behind them. “We’re on our honeymoon, remember?” “Oh, the glamour of it all. This will be a memory I cherish forever,” she said, dryly, as she brushed the dust off her coat. “Nothin’ says lovin’ like a six hour mastodon tour of mile after mile of lonely steppe.” “Oh, c’mon, it was romantic,” Mal insisted. “We saw some wildlife. Fresh air.” “We saw a gorram herd o’ the same kind o’ beast we smell like. It was majestic . . . for about a minute and a half. And that ‘fresh air’ is like to give me pneumonia.” “Better than the ‘honeymoon’ you and Wash took, you first got hitched.” “Three days in a shuttle with a case o’ champagne an’ zero-gravity sex?” she said, skeptically. “You’re right. Freezin’ my ass off on a smelly elephant is just piles better.” “Somethin’ to tell your grandkids about,” he agreed smugly. “You know somethin’ I don’t? ‘Cause last time I looked, Wash wasn’t exactly eager for fatherhood.” “You that eager for motherhood?” he asked, eyebrows raised. Zoe was a warrior born, a soldier without peer. He had seen her do things in battle that men twenty years her senior, with at least that much experience, couldn’t do. Anything he ordered her to do, he knew it would be done – no matter how impossible. But Zoe as a mother? The subject had come up a few times, of course – part of that second ‘X’ chromosome, he figured. But it was a fancy. Had to be. Like that time she tried to learn the guitar, or that creative writing course on the cortex or . . . like her relationship with Wash. He never saw that coming. Never expected it to last. Figured he was out a pilot, minimum, and maybe a cracker-jack first officer and the best damn soldier in the ‘verse. He was more surprised than he could have conjured, way back, when their tumultuous love affair had begun, that they were still a couple. But this was different, somehow. A husband – sure, it was a stretch of the imagination, but it was possible. But Zoë couldn’t be a mommy. Zoë was . . . Zoë. “I been having thoughts in that direction,” she admitted, quietly. “More an’ more, to be truthful. Never thought I’d be considerin’ it serious. But I see kids – like that litter we rode with – I see that little girl that fell asleep on my lap and somethin’ inside me just . . .” she looked wistful. Then she caught herself. “Don’t mean I’ve gone all invertebrated. But . . . I think I could love a child.” There was a catch in her voice, beyond her casual manner. “Somethin’ to ponder,” Mal said cautiously, starting towards the monestary-turned-museum-and-giftshop-with-a-charming-hostel-behind-it-at-reasonable-rates-for-honeymooners. It was all very lovely, lots of ancient-looking Chinese architecture and tasteful moss gardens – or was it lichens? Hard to say. It was very picturesque. Only one tiny problem with it. Someone had the poor grace to construct it half-way up the mountain, with a long stone stairway that led from the base (where a tiny village had grown, mostly just a paddock for mastodons and a small travelers shed) up to the palace/temple/museum/whatever. That was a fair number of steps. Mal wasn’t overfond of steps. “Uh, dear? You forgettin’ somethin’?” she asked pointedly. He looked back over his shoulder. “What?” “My bags.” “What about them?” “This is our fictitious honeymoon? Remember? You gonna make me carry my own bags up to the fictitious bridal suite?” He looked down at them. He had never carried Zoe’s bags in his life, unless she had a bullet in her somewhere. He looked back up to her. “What if I fictitiously don’t do it?” “Then you won’t be getting any fictitious sex on the fictitious honeymoon. And it’ll might lead the casual observer to ponder the strength of our commitment.” He groaned, and looked up at the long, long stairway. Little stone dragons and mammoths and temple dogs, lanterns in their eyes against the encroaching dusk, stared back at him mockingly from the sides where they counted every third step. “Y’know? I’m having fictitious second thoughts.” “Gonna be a rocky marriage,” she agreed warningly. “I foresee a lot of counseling in our future,” he agreed. “I shoulda listened to Mother,” she groaned. “Maybe we were just too young?” Mal offered. “What if you can’t afford me?” she countered. “What if you cheat on me?” “What if you can’t satisfy my . . . needs?” she asked, breathlessly. He stared at her a moment, a hurt look in his eyes. “Okay, let’s not get—” “Get the bags . . . dear,” she said coolly, her eyes narrowed. He looked at her. There was the steely resolve in her eyes that meant she had set her mind to something. Once there, no power in the Black or the World could move her. He didn’t know how Wash did it. “Yes, dear,” he mumbled, stooping to pick up the bags. They got settled in after their invigorating walk up the steps, which was historically narrated in Chinese and English by various talking statuary. Mal found their robotic chatter informative but annoying. They found the museum to be already closed for the day, but their lodgings were ready for them. Once again Mal had to be prompted by Zoe to order in for dinner, rather than track down the tiny restaurant (he smelled beef, and it had been a mighty tall staircase).. He hadn’t wanted to pay the additional room-service fees, but then she reminded him that this was their honeymoon night. He flagged down one of the stewards and had something cheap but interesting sent to the room, and as an afterthought had them include a bottle of sweet plum wine. Might as well keep it traditional. Zoe, of course, had headed for the shower the moment her bags hit the floor in the tiny cabin. Despite the soapy quality the extra-soft water had, she needed to be clean – side effect of a career as an infantry corporal overlong in the field. Not that he rightly minded. She smelled of mastodon just as much as he did, after all. He passed the time until it was his turn to bathe by tracking down the local news on the cortex terminal (2 extra credits a night for news he could get for free on Serenity – but he felt like splurging. It was his fictitious honeymoon, after all.). The local news was depressing. The Alliance-appointed administrator had overseen the lackluster local elections for dozens of civil-service posts for Wuhan, and solemnly affirmed that the local elections had been free and fair, (despite the low voter turnout) a credit to the Alliance citizens who just happened to live on Wuhan. Mal hated that sort of talk. The Alliance saw you as citizens of the Alliance, first, without regard to your history or your world’s history or pretty much any other mortal identifier. While technically a democracy (most places), byzantine political laws made it very difficult for anyone who wasn’t staunchly pro-Alliance to gain any kind of power locally. That was the sort of paternalistic nonsensical push for homogeneity that had sparked violent rebellion and eternal resentment out on the Rim. Even here, in this frigid little corner of the Core, Mal could tell the people themselves would be just as happy if the Alliance were to jump in a convenient lake and never be heard from again. The only real difference was that they were more used to it here. But fifteen minutes of watching gloomy story after carefully vetted and censored gloomy story, he could see that the Wuhanese also resented the interference – with over 5000 years of solid history to fall back on, centuries of culturally relevant institutions already in place, why did they need the Alliance telling them how to do everything? That was the subtext. We know you’re here. We know we can’t do a gorram thing about it. So we’re just gonna be unhappy. In a fit of disgust he turned the station to something innocuous. A preloaded program gave a basic overview of the history of the museum, and he found it mildly amusing to see the sanitized Alliance-approved version of its transformation from Imperial Palace to hotbed of spiritual rebellion to headquarters of the Imperial Faction to dusty, neglected, and remote museum with really soft water and ridiculously slow room service. They wouldn’t put up with that sort of thing on Epiphany, he mused, when Zoe came out of the shower naked, her hair wrapped in a towel. “You turn,” she said in a much more cheerful voice. Mal didn’t even blink. He’d seen Zoe naked before. Hard not to, fighting and living side by side for so long. She was a handsome woman – no doubt at all – but Mal couldn’t have conjured an improper thought about her at this point in their relationship if you held him at gunpoint. “Hope there’s enough hot water,” he grumbled, pulling off his clothes. “Oh, it’s hot enough,” she agreed. “Just kinda slides off. I feel clean . . . but slimy.” “As long as it’s hot and wet,” he said, stumbling into the bathroom. It was . . . quaint. And could rightly bear no further useful description. Ten minutes later he came back out, his own skin feeling clean but slimy. And the hotel soap . . . well, it was soap. Its slightly medicinal smell was quickly driven away by a more enticing aroma. “What the hell is that?” he asked, intrigued. A large tray full of covered dishes was spread out on the bed. A bottle – a large bottle – of plumb wine sat on the end table. Zoe sat on one side of the bed, a towel preserving her modesty. “Didn’t you order it?” “I ordered two specials,” he admitted, wrapping the towel around his loins. “Had no idea they’d actually be . . . tasty.” “Well, it’s gorram shiny!” she said approvingly, plucking another piece of something from the bowl with her chopsticks. “It bears a fair resemblance to Mongolian beef, but there’s something amiss with the meat. . .” “Mongolian mastodon?” he offered, peering into her bowl. “Y’know,” she said, eyebrows raised. “I think it might be!” “Never et an elephant before,” Mal said enthusiastically, taking a bowl for himself and spooning rice into it. “One bite at a time,” Zoe smiled, recalling the old saw about just how one would go about such a thing. “You answer the door like that?” he asked. “No, I was wearing that space suit I brought.” “Musta given the delivery boy a thrill.” “She was the soul of decorum.” They sat and ate while they discussed the next day’s plans. As there was precious little that they could do before a thorough recon (Mal had squashed Zoe’s idea for a ‘moonlit stroll’ as cover for a nocturnal peek at the museum partially on a lack of intimate knowledge of the security set-up, and partly because they were on a moon already, so it would be a ‘planetlit stroll’ and that just didn’t have the poetic dimension necessary for such a romantically clandestine act) they quickly moved on to other topics. When they had exchanged detailed opinions about their young new employer, Jayne’s proclivities, the Tam situation, Book’s background, the novelty of coin in their pockets and the prospect of more, Zoe opened the wine and the serious conversation began. “So what’s all this about young ‘uns?” Mal asked lightly, as Zoe filled his cup. She looked up at him. Those eyes. “Been considerin’ is all.” “You aim to start a family?” “I got a family. Just ain’t sure it’s the right size yet.” “But kids . . . that’s . . .” “Pretty damn big,” she supplied, offering her glass in a wordless toast. They used to toast the Independents – until Serenity Valley. Now they toasted just being alive, and didn’t need to mention it. “What’s Wash think?” “What every man usually thinks. He’s scared. He’s worried. He has concerns. I could go on. Short story: man’s afraid to grow up.” “That ain’t fair,” Mal defended, shaking his head. “Wash is as grown as he’s gonna get, an’ you know it.” “That’s what I’m afeared. He’s a kid! He still plays with toys!” Mal eyed the 9mm on the nightstand. He had left his beloved pistol on Serenity – folk in the Core, even in a miserable place like this, didn’t go publicly armed without cause. In the port, he could get away with it, even. But on a fictitious honeymoon it would have seemed odd. But he and Zoë had both brought back-up guns, smaller, easier to conceal than their normal side arms. “What about those? Ain’t they toys?” “That’s different. Tools o’ the trade. My point was that he ain’t the most responsible man in the ‘verse.” “Well, on the one horn he ain’t had cause to be. He sleeps where he works, he’s got security, such as it is. He ain’t rich – but there are few that are, and I’m working on rectifyin’ that. On the other horn, I’d say he’s pretty gorram responsible for our lives every time we hit sky.” “That’s . . . that’s his passion, though. Flight and sex, and those toys. That’s Wash.” “That ain’t Wash,” Mal disagreed, draining his cup. “This stuff is all right,” he commented, looking into his cup and holding it out for a refill. “Nah, Wash is more than a pair o’ balls with a flight school certificate an’ a pocket full o’ plastic pals. He’s a gorram professional, an’ you know it. Remember all those other captains who wanted him? Remember that United Commercial boat made him that offer last year? That would have been good, steady money. Lotsa shiny bennies. Retirement plan, even. You coulda signed on as security, easy, coulda had a nice, stable life.” “And be bored as hell,” she snorted as she refilled his glass and topped off her own. “And be beholden to a gorram Corporate entity for my bread, not to mention some meiyou langun supervisor.” “Exactly. He likes this life for the same reason you do: it’s professionally challenging. He took that United job, he’d be flying – technically – but he’d never get to pull some o’ the stunts he does with my boat.” He took another swallow. “Not and keep his job.” “But . . . fatherhood? That ain’t flyin’ a decrepit deathtrap through an atmo storm when the Feds are chasin’ you – fatherhood, that’s real responsibility!” “And I can think o’ many who would be worse than Wash for it. Hell, he didn’t think he was a criminal ‘till he met us. He can learn.” Zoe eyed him thoughtfully. “You sayin’ you’re in favor o’ this?” Mal considered. “Wouldn’t say that. Just meant that if you were basin’ your decision on Wash, then you should give the man some credit.” “I do!” she defended. “I married him, didn’t I?” Mal groaned. “Don’t I know it!” “It’s just . . . how can I trust I’m gonna be a good mommy when I can’t be certain he’ll be a good daddy?” “You married him for some reason, didn’t you? Wasn’t his money. Or his—” “Huge dinosaurs? Yeah, I love him. Love him more’n I ever loved anyone.” “Never could figger that ‘un out,” muttered Mal. “He’s kind. He’s compassionate. He’s gentle, when so much o’ my life ain’t seen an overabundance of any o’ those qualities. He respects me – really respects me, not just fears me. He knows my strength and respects it, without getting’ resentful. He ain’t afraid to mix it up, now an’ again, should occasion call. He ain’t afraid to be who he is, an’ doesn’t try to compete with me the way a . . .” “. . .man with a real ‘Y’ chromosome would?” offered Mal. Zoe rolled her eyes. “More t’bein’ a man than chest-thumpin’ and gruntin’. He’s smart. He’s . . . reasonably good lookin’, if the light ain’t too bright. He’s good at what he does, an’ doesn’t try to be good at everything. And . . . he’s funny. Really funny, more’n y’all know. Without tellin’ tales, let’s just say that he saves his best stuff for me.” “All that, and you got reservations about his fatherhood?” Zoe thought about that for a while. Mal didn’t rush her. Finally, she looked up at him. “That mean you think we should breed, then?” “Oh, hell no, worse gorram mistake you could make. Foolishness and vanity. Worse mistake you could make,” Mal repeated. Zoe rolled her eyes again and prepared to bed down. “O’course,” Mal added as he turned off the light, “If you were gonna make that kinda stupid mistake, can’t think of a better man t’do it with than Hoban Washburne.”

*

*

* “Go back,” Wash said between mouthfuls of gingered yak and tsamba. “That’s it – there he is! The one in the hat.” “I see him,” Book agreed, working the controls with deft skill. The image in the viewer froze, then leapt forward into view. An Anglic man with a broad-brimmed hat – very different from the furry brimless hats the locals wore. It looked like something someone would wear out on a warm and sunny Rim world. He had come back today, after slipping off before Book could approach him yesterday. But he had been back early this morning, and Book hadn’t hesitated to try again. “Ugly customer,” Wash said, nodding his head. “See how he’s just standing there, not even looking at the man’s rugs? Disgraceful! What kind of hell-spawn— hey, is that a radio?” “Yes, it is. Looks like our man has a social life.” “I think he’s Alliance,” Wash opined enthusiastically. “Some Alliance spy who thinks we’ve got . . . well, the Tams, for a start. Maybe we should invite them aboard for an inspection while they aren’t here. Clear the air a little.” “If they thought the Tams were here,” Book said, shaking his head, “we’d be ass deep in uniforms and waving our solicitors. That is, if they allowed us such a luxury.” Book scrutinized the image more closely. “I don’t recognize him. But he’s clearly looking at Serenity. Watch,” the Shepherd said, advancing the picture a bit. Book’s own image floated across the screen, where it was doing a damn sight better at appearing casually inconspicuous than the other man. Book had taken a circuitous route, going down the street a ways, then coming back the other direction. If the spy recognized him, he didn’t give any indication. “Notice how I brush past him and he follows me for a might – then he hears a noise from across the street . . . and he ignores me altogether to see what’s happening.” “That’s when Jayne emptied the trash, right?” Wash asked, chewing. “Exactly when. He and Johnny come out here . . . and he turns . . . here . . . and I come up behind him here . . . and make a brush pass . . . here . . . and walk away to talk to a man about a rug.” “Yeah, I didn’t see the point of that,” Wash said, shaking his head. “I liked the rug.” “No, no, I mean getting so close to him without . . . I don’t know, doing one of those nifty military things Zoe and Mal are always doing.” “Confronting him?” “Yeah! Something like that.” “Firstly, I’m a Shepherd, and my confrontations tend to be of the ‘confess your sins’ end of things. Second, had I attacked or even confronted him verbally, two things would have happened: I would have tipped him off that we knew he was there. And I wouldn’t have found this,” he said, holding up a wallet. “Jing-tsai!” he exclaimed, spraying bits of barley meal all over his console. “Saw the poor fellow dropped it. Thought it might be a handy thing to have.” “It is! Let’s take a look!” Wash said enthusiastically. “Just remember, I found it. We’ll return it to the man – eventually. I don’t hold with thieving.” Book chuckled and flipped the wide leather wallet over without opening it. “Before we start looking for loose change, let’s think about this. What can we tell about the man from his wallet?” “He . . . he’s got money?” “He has . . . identity. Much different. Any thug can have cash – look at Jayne. A man carries a wallet when he has an ident card, badge, other papers.” “So he has an identity. I’ve been looking for one of those. You get it with a wallet?” “You get the wallet to carry your identity,” Book explained. “And this one . . . see how worn it is? Man keeps a wallet as long as this one, it was a gift. It’s unadorned, but clearly hand made – probably homemade – by someone with some skill at the trade.” “So . . . he has . . . a boy in summer camp?” “Possibly. But I think it more likely he has a sweetheart. Or did at one time. Perhaps a mother or father gave it to him.” “He had parents. Maybe a girlfriend. That narrows it down.” “Look what’s on the wallet: some grease, a little dirt. And some . . . abrasions, fresh ones.” “The suspense is killin’ me,” Wash said, taking another bite. “Well . . . if I had to say . . . this dirt ain’t likely to be local. There ain’t enough of it. Dirt here is kind of sticky, I noted. Chalky. But this here, this is more . . . sandy. That would explain the abrasions, too. Sand scratches. Chalk, not so much.” “Now . . . ain’t that interesting,” Wash said, beginning to see where the Shepherd was leading. “Notice anything else about it?” “Uh . . . it’s leather? And full of identification and cash?” “It’s not cow-leather. It’s probably a small mammal.” “And . . .” Wash said, dramatically, grabbing the wallet and holding it to his forehead, “it’s a young mammal . . . about sixteen . . . female . . . and she was ovulating . . .” he said after smelling it. “Gimme that,” Book said, chuckling again. “That brings me to another point. The grease. It ain’t your standard engine grease. That’s Callahan Gun Oil.” “Another class at seminary, preacher?” Wash asked slyly. “I merely noticed it because I’ve smelled it on Jayne. It’s what he uses to clean his guns with.” “So our spy is packing heat. Still not unusual for a spy. I suppose,” he admitted, “I haven’t really met any spies.” He eyed Book significantly. “That I know of.” “Gun oil, sandy soil, homemade leather wallet. Any guesses?” “No, go ahead, I’m entertained.” “I’d say this man is from the Rim, or a recently settled world of some sort. Kinda folksy, maybe. And he has a gun. Which doesn’t make him particularly different from half the crew. And that’s what is disturbing me.” “What?” “I’ll get back to it later. Now let’s open it.” Inside they found a dozen or so identity cards. They seemed to come in three sets. The first all had the name Benjamin Banes, and listed the homeworld as Angel and the profession as an agent for an import/export company. The second was in the name of Kenwood Fisher, listed the address as an apartment complex on Persephone, and his occupation as security expert. The third was Mario Vonarum, of Lincoln City, Salisbury, out on the edge of the Rim. It listed his profession as a industrial transnuclear materials salesman. “He’s good,” Book said. “Which one is he?” Wash asked, curiously peering over his shoulder. “His mama didn’t give him a one of these names on his birth day,” Book said, shaking his head. “And he’ll answer to any one you call him. But the cards are telling: three different professions, one allowing him to carry a gun. One that lets him into more refined circles of society. One out in the middle of the Black, a world most ain’t ever heard of, selling something most folk have no idea about nor interest in.” “What’s the big deal? Transnuclear materials is just dark matter derivatives. Every engine core in the sky uses it. You need it for terraforming.” “You’re a pilot, of course you know about it. Most people not only don’t know that, they are bored to tears if you start talking about it. But he’s a legitimate businessman from out of town – way out of town. Helps avoid unpleasant conversations.” “Shiny. What else?” “Three credit code cards, one in each name. A deputization card from the Persephone Security College, and a card that named him a detective of the reserve constabulary of Persephone, authorized to carry a weapon, and a atmo flight license for Mr. Fisher. All fake, of course. But plausible. A Frequent Traveler Rewards card and hotel reservation card for Mr. Vonarum. And a high end club membership card . . . Mr. Banes has an Associate Membership to the Seraphim City Wine Club. Upscale – and also a forgery. And last, an Alliance Universal Export permit . . . which could be forged, but might not be. Wouldn’t be as useful if it was a dummy. And what does that mean?” “Our spy has multiple personality syndrome?” “Our spy has multiple complementary identities. Cop stops him, sees the gun, he has it covered and can talk about some fictitious investigation. Needs to get in to see important men, he uses the Banes identity and fakes a hushed business deal. Someone asks him about what he does, and poof! He becomes Marco the dullest salesman in the ‘verse who has happened to sit right next to you.” “Spooky. I wonder how many spies I’ve sat next to on long transport runs. So, who is he and where did he come from?” “He’s military intelligence. But most likely not the Alliance – they don’t need to fake IDs, they just print up a fake one for their spies, make it real in the machines.” Book considered, looking down at the contents of the wallet like he was reading tarot cards. “As far as where he comes from, I think I know where he was last in the world. Guess?” “The Planet of the Sneaky Bad Guys?” “I’m gonna say . . . Epiphany.” “E-what?” Wash choked. “Epiphany.” “Why would you say that, aside from the obvious thrill of getting me to spit gingered yak all over the place?” “Because . . . this soil on the outside. Sandy. And if you smelled the wallet – and I know you have – you can smell the sea smells on it. Faint, but there.” “There is no way—” Wash began. “It’s what fits the facts,” insisted Book. “Probably came into the world there as Banes.” “But how did he know we’d come here? I mean, I didn’t know we were coming here, and I’m the gorram pilot!” “That’s the mystery,” agreed Book. “That can’t be right,” Wash said, shaking his head. “We’ll know when we ask him,” Book said, putting the cards back into the wallet. As he did so a slip of paper fell out. Book picked it up gingerly and peered at it. Then he started smiling, and held it up for Wash’s inspection. It was a theater ticket for a musical comedy in Apex, Epiphany. Dated a week earlier. “Now ain’t that interesting?” Book asked rhetorically. “How . . . how did you do that?” “Oh, The Lord works in mysterious ways.” “The Lord doesn’t know what gun oil smells like,” Wash countered. “With God, all things are possible.” “Cute. Snappy patter from a preacher. I’m never gonna get a straight answer out of you, am I?” “Ain’t looking likely.” Wash was about to return the banter when Kaylee came in, clutching her stomach and looking ill. “What’s wrong?” Wash asked, concerned. “I’m feelin’ poorly,” she groaned. “I tried some local food – I always like to do that, y’know, makes me feel I been somewheres – so I got somethin’ from a vendor.” “Looks like food poisoning,” Book commented, looking at her face. “Nah, not food . . . tea. They put gorram butter an’ salt in their tea! Ugh! It’s got my tummy all humped up now! They should really warn a body. Who ever heard o’ salt an’ butter in tea? It ain’t corn!” Before Wash could come up with a witty reply, Jayne came in behind her, took a glance at Kaylee, and then spoke to Book and Wash. “I think we got us a situation,” he said. “I took a walk around the market, an’ got up by the city gate – west gate, I think – an’ I saw about six Alliance armored land rollers an’ about a hundred cops in tactical gear pilin’ in. Got a flyer up front, too. Headed out west.” “Ai ya! That’s towards the museum,” Wash noted, hurriedly dropping his food and turning to his console. “Let me see if I can pull up a local traffic image,” he said, his fingers flying across the board. In seconds a bright red diagram floated up on the dirty monitor. “That must be it,” Book said, stabbing a finger at a yellow dot. “And it’s headed out towards the museum.” “Well, them rollers were hot on its heels,” Jayne said, ominously. “Two platoons and a special weapons section. They ain’t goin’ to serve no summons,” he noted. “I’ll try to raise the Captain,” Book said, picking up the radio and tuning it in to the pre-arranged frequency. “I’m going to tap into the navsat control satellite and see if I can’t get a closer look,” Wash said, all trace of levity gone from his voice. “Why would they go after the captain?” Kaylee asked. “He ain’t stole that thing yet,” she said, glancing at the clock. The first team was supposed to be looking around today, saving the actual thieving for tonight. “I can’t reach him,” Book said, worried, as he put down the mike. “Getting an image,” Wash said. “Look, the rollers are just headed out now. It’s gonna take ‘em a while to get there. “At least three or four hours.” “That ain’t that long,” Jayne said. “Well, what are we going to do?” “What do you mean?” Jayne asked, mystified. “Zoe and Cap’n ain’t here, you’re in charge, moron,” Kaylee said. “That’s ‘Cap’n Moron, Kaylee,” Wash pointed out. “I stand corrected.” “Bee jway! Y’all just shut up a moment. Lemme think!” Jayne warned, obviously rattled. “Great,” Kaylee said, sullenly. “I feel better already.” “Gorram it!” Jayne swore, then stared off into space. After a moment he glanced back at them. “Y’all wouldn’t be partial to kwai chur hun-rien duh di fahng, would you?” Kaylee stared at him in uninhibited disgust. “That’s the Captain an’ Zoe!” she protested. “That’s my wife,” Wash said, matter-of-factly, “and I can garuntee that whatever promises Mal made to you about the gorram chain of humpin’ command, this boat don’t lift if Zoe ain’t on it,” he warned. “Even if I’m dead, it won’t.” “Not thinkin’ that,” Jayne protested. Book looked at him wryly. “I’m not!” “Well, what are you going to do, ‘commander’?” Kaylee asked scornfully. “We don’t know if they’re even in trouble,” Jayne pointed out. “Maybe them cops, they’re practicin’.” “Don’t strike me as likely,” Book said, shaking his head. “Something happened out there to command a hundred armed men in personnel carriers to take a drive across the steppes. Now, it’s either the Captain, or it ain’t. But the fact we can’t raise him has me concerned. What’s your plan supposed to be?” “Thought you didn’t want to be involved, Shepherd,” Jayne said, heatedly. “In thieving, no. But this is starting to smell more like a rescue op.” “Well . . . we head out there afore it’s time, we get nabbed. That’s stupid. We stay here, they snag Mal an’ Zoe, they track ‘em back here and we get nabbed. And that’s stupid too.” He looked around in vain for assistance. “Well, ain’t a smart plan in sight! I’m sittin’ on a big pile o’ stupid!” Wash looked skyward. “You know that’s just too easy,” he said to God or the Fates or whomever was listening. “What the hell should I do?” Jayne demanded. “Stop shouting would be a plain start,” Kaylee said sharply. “Son,” Book said quietly. “If you can’t figure out the smart thing to do, then try doing the right thing and see what happens.” “The right thing,” Jayne said, chewing on that. “And the right thing here would be . . .” “How about not letting my wife and our fearless leader get nabbed by the Feds?” Wash demanded. “Sounds right to me,” Kaylee added, nervously. Jayne looked at the three faces in front of him. “Fine. Gorrammit, fine. Wash, you get the shuttle prepped. Kaylee, heat up the engine – we come in hot, we gonna want to hit sky lickety, dong ma?” “I’m on it – though I might throw up first.” “You do that,” Jayne said absently. “I’m gonna get Johnny and about a million guns. We can get there afore everythin’ but that gorram flyer, and I s’pect we can handle one little flyer, me an’ him.” Wash looked at him, incredulously. “That ain’t a bad plan, Jayne,” he said, encouragingly. Jayne looked surprised. “You think?” Wash nodded. “I do.” “Good, ‘cause my ‘plan B’ is to get the hell of o’ this lousy chalk-ball and head back to the frontier.” With that he turned and started back towards his quarters, shouting for Johnny. “Let’s stick to plan A, then,” Kaylee said, hopefully. "'Cause I ain't gonna be over fond of the new management."