The Treasure of Lei Fong Wu

Chapter Twenty One

Rowan skidded to a halt just outside the office door to the whitewashed clapboard building that housed Milsa’s Manufactory, her pistol in her fist, safety off. It was a .45 Holt Defender revolver, a big gun for a sixteen-year old, but then Rowan McKlintock was no ordinary girl. Neither was River Tam. River arrived seconds behind Rowan, her hair flying in a chaotic halo around her head, her eyes bright with excitement and concern. Tinker was still in trouble, but unhurt, she knew. She could feel his anxiety like a beacon, and the three other men in the building were likewise anxious. Two of them had guns, she knew, and while they didn’t particularly want to use them, they weren’t adverse to the prospect. “Don’t know how you know all this,” Rowan whispered, “but if you’re wrong, I’m gonna be lookin’ pretty stupid.” “I ain’t wrong,” River said, slipping into the Rim-world vernacular. “Two men, two guns. And they ain’t here for tea.” “Figgered. Probably a hold-up. St. Albans got all kinda hill bandits, mostly escaped bondsmen and such. Come down and strong-arm the townsfolk, take food and money, mostly. Figgers that Tink’d choose Hold Up Day to install that piece on.” “Heart racing,” River said, “adrenaline pumping. Fight or flight reflexes engaged, screaming to run to hit to run.” “That’s me in a nutshell,” Rowan agreed. “I was talkin’ bout Tinker,” River explained. “He’s . . . hidin’. Under somethin’, like a table. They don’t know he’s there.” “Well,” said Rowan, pushing a shock of her red hair out of her eyes, “they’re about to get about as much McKlintock as anyone can stand! Hump this sneaky-stuff – I’m goin’ in!” “Can I help?” River asked, nervously counting her fingers with her thumb. “’Less you got a shotgun under that skirt, I’d say the smart thing is to stay put,” Rowan said breathlessly. “Yeah, it would be,” conceded River. “Good thing I’m crazy, then,” she added. Rowan shrugged. “Your funeral,” she said, then shouldered the door and went within, leading with her pistol. River followed like she was being pulled. The manufactory was crammed with all manner of machine and contraption. Part factory, part workshop, a skilled artisan could take a block of steel, a piece of wood, or a chunk of clay and fashion nearly anything they could set their mind to. That made Milsa’s an important part of the Greenwood economy. Half-finished goods hung on the walls, awaiting completion or just pick-up, and the whole place smelled of oil, sawdust, burned metal, and the clay-like smell of ceramic. Rowan was as quiet as she could manage in her excitement, and was about to rush forward when River put a restraining hand on her arm. “Let me go first,” she insisted. “What, are you cra— oh, yeah, I forgot. No, you ain’t got a piece.” “Don’t matter,” River insisted quietly. “I’ll distract ‘em, you come up from behind.” “You sure?” “Trust me. I can be pretty distracting.” “That’s what my brother thinks!” River stood straight and walked calmly inside, as if she was a regular customer. It wasn’t a bad idea, actually, she thought, and instantly assembled a plausible persona. “Mr. Milsa! Mr. Milsa!” she called loudly as she entered the main fabrication area. One or two machines were humming, which gave enough background noise to cover Rowan’s maneuverings, and River knew exactly where everyone else was. “Mr. Milsa! Pa says he wants that cultivator arm today, or he’s not gonna pay—” She stopped short when she came across what, even to a layman’s eye, was obviously an armed robbery in progress. Serge Milsa, an older, sandy-haired man with a huge soup-strainer mustache, was standing with his back to a ceramic kiln, hands in the air, a troubled expression on his face. Facing him were the two bandits – hill people, just like Rowan had said. With a minimum of fuss she plucked their names out of their heads: Anton Gustav Maelstrom – “A.G.”, he was called, and Robert E. Lee Fexive, known as Rel to kin and the local constabulary. Both men wore long, stained coats of home-tanned leather, wide-brimmed hats, and homespun shirts. Neither one had a regular appointment with a barber, and both needed a shave something fierce. If there ever was a picture of two disreputable hill bandits pulling a heist, these two were it. A.G. held a long-barreled revolver in one hand and Milsa’s wallet with the other. He was upset that this affluent and upstanding member of the community did not, as he had imagined, have stacks of coin lying around for the taking. Rel had a shotgun cut down to the size of a carbine, and River knew he had a revolver in his belt and a two-shot .22 in his boot. Both men carried broad-bladed hunting knives that were, she discovered, ironically made in this very shop. “What’s all this?” River said in a high, quavering voice. “What’s goin’ on here?” Milsa looked at her, genuinely afraid. “Nothing, missy. Best you run along.” “Don’t look like nothin’,” River said, sassily. “And I don’t care to go back to Pa without that cultivator arm you promised him would be ready by yesterday – not today, but yesterday! He needs it now, an’ it’d better be done or he’s like to come to town his own self, an’ he ain’t as cute as me!” “You sure got that right!” gloated A.G. “Look at you, now! Purty li’l lowland lady! You’re a sweet one, an’ got some spirit, too. How come I ain’t seen you afore?” “I don’t know you,” River said, disgustingly, “But I’d thank you to keep your gorram opinions to your own self, and not disturb decent folk with ‘em!” “She sure is purty,” Rel agreed. “Been thinkin’ ‘bout takin’ a wife.” “You should stop,” River said. “Thinkin’ clearly ain’t your strong suit.” “Hey, now,” warned A.G., “My friend here is just feelin’ inquisitory. No call to be insultin’. He needs a wife. You wed?” “Now why would I wanna do a fool thing like that?” she asked, feigning astonishment. “I ain’t, but I ain’t gonna hitch my wagon to a sorry pair o’ stars like y’all!” The men looked a little offended. A.G. lowered his gun just a hair. “Why? What’s wrong with us?” “Armed robbery ain’t exactly a secure profession, is it?” she pointed out, laughing. “Look at the two o’ you!” she said, walking closer to them. “Two out-o’-work hill monkeys who can’t manage t’find a razor, an’ you want me to consider matin’ up?” “We shave,” Rel said, defensively. “My ma, she don’t hold wi’ whiskers. Says they make a man look . . . shifty.” “Oh, well, wouldn’t wanna appear disreputable, now, do you?” River said, voice dripping with sarcasm. “All th’other bandits might not invite you to the next harvest ball! You want a woman? You’d best shave, first. Or at least bathe. I bet you stink o’ horse an’ worse!” “Do not!” Rel said heatedly. “I just bathed last week!” “Rel,” A.G. said, warningly, “let’s just keep our mind on our business, here, then we can sport with her all you want.” “Oh, much better,” River taunted. “Last week. Here, lemme give you a smell. If you don’t smell half like sweaty livestock, I might be of a mind to reconsider my opinion!” “Leetle girl!” Milsa pleaded, “Go away from here! These are bad, dangerous men! They rob me, but I can stand the robbing. You, they might—” “Rel, leave her be!” A.G. insisted. But Rel was already motioning her over. River knew the big man was as dumb as a stump, and offended that she might not consider him a potential mate. But she made a good show of reluctantly walking towards him, wrinkling her nose. A.G. aimed his pistol at her, then back at Milsa, then split the difference. “Rel!” he warned again. River walked up to the big man, ignoring the shotgun, leaned forward and sniffed daintily a few times. Then she stood back a foot or so and shook her head. “Pa smells better after a month without soap as you do,” she said. “I can’t abide a man don’t wash.” “I wash!” Rel insisted. “The hell you say,” River contradicted. “Try below the neck, sometimes. Ain’t fit to be in public.” “I am too!” “An’ he ain’t no better,” she said, pointing over her shoulder with her thumb at A.G. “I can smell him from here. Y’all ain’t heard o’ soap up in th’hills?” “We heard of it!” Rel said, his feelings hurt. “Yeah, well, maybe in stories,” continued River. “But I got my standards. Won’t court no stinkin’ robber. Specially not one not smart enough to rob a man right.” “Now, you just hold on a minute, missy!” A.G. declared, frustrated. “We might be a touch whiffy – we done rode six hours t’get here, ‘course we stink a might. But don’t be trashin’ our professional competence. That ain’t to be borne!” “Competence?” she asked, mockingly. “Professionals? How can y’all claim to be professionals when you let a li’l ninety pound whisp o’ fluff like me do—” River stepped in, nudging Rel’s left hand from the barrel of his scattergun, then looping her arm around his right hand. Employing an Aikido wrist hold, she forced the shotgun up and wide, turning Rel’s wrist painfully until he yelped. When she had completed the move, she was standing behind the big bandit, and the shotgun was pointed directly at A.G.’s head. “—this?” she finished. A.G.’s eyes grew wide at the sight of the gun barrel pointed at his face, and he wasted no time in shifting his aim to cover the girl – and his partner in crime. “Why—?” he stammered. “How’d you— What—?” “Eloquent, ain’t you?” River asked, conversationally. “You just put that down, girly –” “I ain’t holdin’ it,” River declared. “Rel has that honor. I’m just holdin’ Rel.” “Then . . . then you put him down!” A.G. demanded. “Right now! You turn loose o’ him or . . .” “You’ll shoot me? Or him?” “Well . . . you, o’ course!” She whispered to Rel, “He a good shot?” “He’s . . . he ain’t real bad,” the man admitted through pain-clenched teeth. “Good ‘nuff to hit me an’ not you?” “A.G., maybe you should reconsider—” “I’ll do nothin’ o’ the sort!” the bandit leader said, unsure of just when he had lost control of the situation, but knowing full well he had. “I swear I’ll shoot you if you try to—” “To what? Way I see it, you shoot me, I twist poor Rel’s wrist just a little more, an’ that finger will pull that trigger. Won’t matter none you hit me or him, A.G., ‘cause you’re gonna catch a facefull o’ buckshot either way.” “Let’s not be hasty!” Rel insisted. “I ain’t gonna cozen to threats, girly!” A.G. snarled. “Don’t know what kinda whore’s trick you just played, but ol’ A.G. ain’t gonna fall for it!” “You done fell, already,” River sneered. “An’ you just proved my point about your competence. Only thing worse’n lettin’ a little girl get your number is to have a couple o’ her friends sneak up behind you while you’re distracted!” “Hell, I ain’t falled for that one—” A.G. began. He stopped his train of thought when two revolvers touched each temple. “Real slow, dead man,” Rowan growled in his ear. “You turn loose o’ that pistol real slow, you might see tomorrow. Makes no difference t’me. I got a schedule to keep, an’ time is money!” Mr. Milsa came over and plucked the gun from A.G.’s hand, which he raised as soon as it was empty. He took Rel’s guns as well – including the two-shot River told him was hiding in his boot. Rowan and Tinker backed up enough to keep the bandits from trying anything heroic, their pistols trained on them. Milsa quickly secured their hands with some wire (and wasn’t real gentle about it) and then thanked the kids profusely. “Idiots!” he spat. “They thought I had lots of cash, because I get my pension money this time every month. They didn’t realize that the money is credited to my bank. So they started to want to take the new part your brother so kindly was installing for me. What for could they use such a thing?” he asked, rolling his eyes. “Only man on St. Albans who can use it is Milsa, and Milsa already has it! So they try to take my wallet. I’m having twelve bits in there. Idiots!” “That was amazing, River!” Tinker said as he put his gun away. “I never saw no one move so fast! Where’d you learn how to do that?” “Ballet class,” River said, with disinterest. She was looking around the shop, staring at interesting pieces of machinery. “Mr. Milsa, Sir, about our money,” Rowan said, cautiously. If the man had just complained of poverty, was he going to be able to pay for the part? “Oh, I have that, I do,” he assured. “In envelope in your file in office. Idiots never thought to look in paperwork. Can’t read,” he explained. “A.G. can read!” Rel said, pouting. “He can read real good! I saw him write once, too!” “Shut up, idiots!” Milsa said with disgust. “I pay these wonderful kids, then I calling Constable Umbek. She’ll put you up for the night. Tomorrow you go to Trentown, see judge. Judge looking for you for many weeks, since the Valley robberies, yes?” “Hey, li’l lady!” Rel called out. “When I get outa prison, you look me up, hear? I’ll take a bath and everything!” A.G. groaned. Rowan collected their fee, plus a little for Tinker for installation, plus a token bonus for the timely rescue. Milsa wanted to pay much more, and pointed out that there was a reward due for the capture of these two sad examples of criminal behavior, but Rowan wouldn’t hear of it. He offered anything in the shop, but the McKlintocks politely declined. River, on the other hand, saw something she wanted. “Can I have this?” she asked, eagerly holding her prize. “That? You have choice, anything at all, and you’re wanting that?” “Yes, please. Shiny!” With a magnanimous wave he gave it to her. “Yours, with Milsa’s compliments. I make them sometimes when the work is slow. You enjoy.” Later, as they were back in the air in the PeeWee, only five minutes behind schedule (which Rowan vowed to make up in speed) River insisted that the McKlintocks not mention the incident to her brother – who was, she knew, already beside himself with worry. It was one thing, she explained, to let your brain-damaged, clinically insane sister wander off in the company of friends. It was another to allow her to get involved with a foiled armed robbery attempt. Simon just didn’t understand that sort of thing. “If you say so,” Rowan said, doubtfully. “I think it’s shiny incarnate, the way you goosed that ‘idiot’.” “Weren’t no big thing,” River dismissed. “Just a little excitement, pass the time. Besides, it got me this thing, didn’t it? Day wasn’t a total waste.” “You think your brother will be happy with that?” Tinker asked, slyly. “I don’t know,” River admitted. She stared down at her new toy. “But I never had a harmonica before. I’m sure he’ll love it!”

*

*

*

Simon was finishing the second prenatal exam he had conducted on Winnie McKlintock since they came aboard. It wasn’t as if things had changed radically in a week – she was still perfectly healthy – but Simon was bored and Winnie wanted to take advantage of a real doctor while she had the chance. She had lured him to the Sky Hawk’s infirmary – easily twice as big as Serenity’s – the first convenient moment after they lifted from St. Albans. He pulled the gloves off his hands and nodded to her. “You can get cleaned up. Don’t be alarmed if you have a little spotting. Your cervix is developing a lot of vasculature to support growth, and those capillaries can burst. It’s perfectly normal. Your cervix is doing nicely.” “You’d think it’d be falling off after the brood I’ve had,” she said wryly. “The cervix is a remarkably resilient organ,” Simon agreed, turning to the sink and washing his hands. “Something the size of a coin opening up to the size of a coffee can—” “Enough of the poetical descriptions, Doc,” Winnie said, disparagingly. “I been there before. Ain’t as romantic as you make it sound.” “How are you feeling in general?” he asked. “A little sick?” “Nah, never had the morning sickness,” she admitted. “Not with a one of them. But I will say my hormones been ringing me like a bell! I get the vapors something awful!” “‘Vapors’ are just a nice way of saying that your body is getting used to converting to reproduction mode.” “‘Reproduction mode’ – you make me sound like a fabricator!” “That’s not far from the truth,” Simon admitted. “You’re just fabricating a human being, is all.” “Don’t I know it!” she groaned, as she stood up and pulled her underwear back on. “Just what are those hormones doing in my brain, anyway? The action’s all happening down in the other end.” “Your brain needs to be told what’s going on. Pregnancy isn’t entirely an endocrine/reproductive event, you know. Your whole body is changed. I’m not an OB, of course, but the sex hormones have to have an impact . . .” he trailed off. “Doc? You okay?” Winnie asked, a little worried. “Doc?” “That’s . . . sex hormones would naturally have an impact on your cognition and higher brain functions,” he stated, staring off into space. “You think?” Winnie asked, sarcastically. “Winnie, you were a schoolteacher, were you not?” “Yeah, ‘till that dumb ape seduced me,” she grumbled. “Now I’m just a brood mare who cooks and does the books.” “You remember biology?” “The birds and the bees type, yeah.” “Would you say that a normal female cycle has an impact on your brain chemistry? Enough to affect your emotional state, your cognition, all of it?” “You got all the way through Med School and missed that?” “No, no, just not my specialty, ordinarily. But something is drifting back . . .” “About . . . your sister?” “Yes. Yes, something I should have realized . . . a connection I should have made. I don’t think I told you the details, but among the other nasty things the government did to her was strip her amygdala.” “Isn’t that . . . pretty important?” “Yes, quite a bit. Among all the lovely cognitive things it does for your brain, acting as a sensory filter, so to speak, it also has some regulating effects on the endocrine system. Particularly the female reproductive system. I hadn’t thought about it, really, because I was focused on the cognitive end of things, but . . . considering the amount of damage they did to it, and the sadistic ‘modifications’ they made, they would have had to take those other functions into account, if they had planned on . . . using her the way they did. It just hadn’t occurred to me because . . .” “. . . because that’s a subject area most brothers try to avoid with their sisters?” Winnie supplied. Simon colored. “Well . . . that probably has something to do with it, yes. Cultural programming, backed up by an obsessive mother who condemned any kind of closeness between her children which might be seen as ‘unseemly’ by her society friends.” “So, just what does the amygdala have to do with the female endocrine system?” “Quite a lot, actually,” Simon said, trying to put the uncomfortable subject back into easy-to-handle academic terms. “If I recall correctly, ovulation is controlled by luteinizing hormone and follicle-stimulating hormone, which are regulated by luteinizing hormone-releasing hormone secreted by hypothalamic LHRH-containing neurons. The LHRH neurons release LHRH into the portal hypophyseal circulation, which carries it to the anterior pituitary. There, LHRH stimulates the release of luteinizing hormone or follicle-stimulating hormone, or both, into systemic circulation.” “You just blew right past my ‘birds and bees’,” complained Winnie. “What does all that mean?” “Well, there are direct anatomic and physiologic connections between the amygdala and the preoptic area and the mediobasal hypothalamus,” he explained, “the sites of the LHRH-containing neurons.” “Pre-optic?” “Which would account for some of her hallucinations, maybe? Hard to say,” he admitted. “Not without a full neuro lab. But the important question here is how is her reproductive cycle functioning without a fully-working amygdala, if it’s responsible for activating the LHRH neural architecture?” “Just what I was thinking,” Winnie said, sarcastically. “Yes,” Simon said, missing her manner. “I guess the only real way to find out . . .” he said, walking out of the room while he was still muttering. “Thanks, Doc!” Winnie called after him. If he heard her, he didn’t answer. She put her hands on her abdomen, which was starting to get bigger now. “Li’l Bit, I used to wish at least one of my kids would grow up to be a great doctor,” she said to her fetus. “Now, I ain’t so sure that’s a good thing,” she said sadly.

*

*

* River sat in the observation lounge on a beat-up leather couch that had been patched and repatched over the years to the point of shapeless comfortability. In front of her was a huge viewport that currently showed the glowing yellow-and-green ball of gas that was the Jovian primary of St. Albans. Beside her sat a very nervous Tinker. “I was real impressed with what you did in the . . . in the shop,” he said, swallowing half-way through. “I thought I was gonna be worm-food for certain, and then comes River waltzin’ in like she’s pickin’ up a loaf o’ bread. Then I thought you were gonna be worm-food.” “I wasn’t going to let anything happen to you,” she said serenely. “Bad men like that . . . are little more than strutting roosters.” “An’ chickens ain’t nothin’ but animate plants, accordin’ to Ma,” he said, smiling. “Still, thanks the same. ‘My heroine’.” River looked at him and grinned back for a moment. She knew he wanted to kiss her – had wanted to kiss her since a brief EVA they had taken over a month earlier. She wasn’t the first girl he had that reaction to, either – not that she minded. Sex and sexuality, for her, was an abstract concept or a technical subject. Her adolescence had been too busy with brain experimentation and physical and mental conditioning to leave time for the simple experiments that other teenagers in more normal surroundings were undertaking. Her ‘romantic’ feelings had been sliced and diced along with her fear response, her language abilities, and her ability to separate reality from . . . not. She had once harbored the faintest stirrings of romantic feelings for a classmate. The doctors at the Academy cut that short. But now was her time to play catch-up. Tinker was the first boy near her own age she had been exposed to since her escape, and he was likeable, healthy, and objectively attractive. Considering how much societal emphasis there was on the sexual response, River felt she owed it to herself – purely as a part of her education, she justified – to discover experientially what the fuss was all about. And while she understood sex in the technical sense, she also was well-aware that the subject held more than mechanics or reproductive biology. There was an emotional component that she was missing as a data point. And while she was not yet willing or ready to engage in the ultimate consummation of sexual response, she did feel that some limited field research would be of benefit. So River wanted to kiss Tinker, in an objective, clinical sort of way. There was also a part of her that wanted to do it in a very subjective, non-clinical sort of way, with lots of lips and tongue and saliva. She wasn’t certain how to rectify the two competing ideals, but decided that the experiential mode may give her the insights needed to determine further experimental models. And while she was reasonably certain that if she just grabbed his head and forced him into it that he would cooperate, she knew that she would be missing some of the subtle nuances of response that were apparently prized in such conditions. Not to mention scaring him off. Tinker was a little skittish around her, she knew, which was frustrating. Why couldn’t he just accept the fact that she was a cognitively challenged supergenius trained to be a mind-reading assassin by a secret government organization and relax a little? “I’ve got to go soon,” she said, flatly. “We meet with Serenity day after tomorrow.” “I know,” Tinker said, a little sadly. “Can’t say that I ain’t got some mixed emotions about that. I know she’s your ship, an’ all, but . . .” “I know,” River said. “I have enjoyed my time here, as well. It is interesting seeing this side of the Black. Where you are not on the run from the Alliance every day, or planning your next big felony.” “Yeah, Dad’s pretty near content with pilin’ up misdemeanors,” he agreed. “Hey, there’s a moot comin’ up soon – in another month or so – I’ll wave you the coordinates! Maybe we can meet up then!” “I’ll have to ask the Captain,” demurred River. “But I’d like that.” “You are ‘bout the most interestin’ girl I ever met,” Tinker whispered. “I keep wonderin’ just what’s goin’ on in there,” he said, tapping her temple lightly. He then used his fingers to brush her unruly hair out of her eyes. It was, she noted from his mind, his best “move”, a method of establishing physical intimacy with the intention of overt sexual action based upon an innocent pretext. Despite this knowledge, she found it working. She wanted him to touch her more. “Data collection and analysis,” she supplied, in what she hoped was a sexy voice, “synthesis of ideas from disparate sources, advanced cognition . . . the usual.” “River Tam,” Tinker said, his voice low, “I can’t rightly say that any other girl could lay claim to that as ‘the usual’.” “You . . . you think I’m interesting?” “Yep,” he said, leaning in just a little. Objective data indicated that this was a display of his desire for kissing. “Do you . . . think I’m . . . pretty?” She knew the answer, already, of course, but it never hurt to hear it. “Oh, prettiest girl in th’Black,” he assured her. And he meant it, too. “You don’t mind how my nose looks?” she asked. “I like your nose fine,” he admitted. “Kinda keeps your eyes an’ your mouth from collidin’ in an unseemly manner.” “My . . . my eyes?” “You got the most interestin’, prettiest eyes,” he affirmed. “Nice long eyelashes. . . You mind if I get a closer look?” he asked, innocently. “N-no, not at all,” she whispered, knowing the ruse for what it was and not caring one bit. She leaned in a little closer . . . she could feel the heat of his face on hers . . . their lips were only millimeters apart . . . “River!” came the insistent voice of her brother, who appeared an instant later in front of them both. Tinker’s head reversed course in the presence of close kin. He wasn’t stupid. Rarely was it wise to mess with someone’s sister in their presence – even though Simon barely registered that he was there. “What?!” River said, her face turning bright red as her eyes locked on Simon’s. “What is it?” She was too wound up to read his thoughts clearly – just as she had been too preoccupied to sense his approach. “River, it’s important. I need to know something: are you menstruating?” he asked, as if he was inquiring about her appetite. That was too much for Tinker, who stood and excused himself as quickly as possible. He had sisters aplenty and two healthy moms, but this was definitely covered under family business, and marked private in his mind. “You,” River started in a low voice as Tinker’s footsteps receded, “you are . . . are . . .” “What?” Simon asked, perplexed. “What did I do?” “You . . . you are the biggest . . . ass in the whole history of mankind,” she hissed, standing up and fixing him with a determined stare. If he wasn’t her brother . . . “It’s just that the amygdala figures prominently in the regulation of ovulation,” he explained, sure that she would see the value of his breakthrough. “And I—” He was cut off by a long shriek of anguish and frustration. One of the side effects of having a striped amygdala was the inability to conceal powerful emotions. And Simon had unleashed a bucketful. River stomped her feet and stalked off towards the room she shared with Rowan, leaving Simon staring openmouthed at her back. “We’ll . . . I guess we can talk about it later,” he conceded. “Plenty of time.”