The Treasure of Lei Fong Wu

Chapter Twenty-Three

. . “So what is it you have for us, my friends?” asked Jorge Sanchez, amiably. He patted his pudgy stomach appreciatively – his wife and sister-in-law were outstanding cooks, and had gone to great lengths to welcome their guests in style – and walked up the ramp into Serenity, followed by Mal, Duncan, Winnie, Master Lei, and Kaylee. The others were still downstairs in the residential section of the Sanchez Brothers’ expansive compound, enjoying desserts and liquors while the children played in the garden. The sun was setting, and the noxious swirl of Diablo was just rising on the eastern horizon. “We got somethin’ you just don’t see everyday,” Kaylee assured him, enthusiastically. “Somethin’ there’s a real market for, at a high value an’ a low weight.” “You selling vibrators, Kaylee?” Sanchez grinned crookedly. “Maybe I sell them off-world – the Bishop, he does not approve of such things. But always a market for the miners, we have!” “No,” Kaylee said, grinning and blushing at the same time, “but somethin’ in that general area.” She led them all over to the storage locker on the port side, opened it, and started hauling large plastic-wrapped bundles over her shoulder out to the trestle table. Sanchez leaned down to examine the label on the first one. In both English and Chinese it read: MING’S GENUINE YAK JERKY – PRODUCT OF WUHAN with a long advertising spiel about the virtues of high-protein yak meat. He stood up and shook his head sadly. “I can move some, a little, maybe. There is always novelty value in such things, but . . .” “Hold on there, Don Jorge,” Mal said, smiling, his best bargaining face on. “That wrapper’s just to skate us past potential inspectors. We got four o’ these packs, and some little ones, too. The wrappers are deceivin’,” he insisted, opening the end of one. They were about six feet long, and the size of a man’s leg. “If not yak meat,” the mechanic said, doubtfully, “what is it?” “Mastodon penises,” Mal said, proudly. “What?” Winnie, Duncan, and Sanchez all asked at the same time. “Mastodon wieners!” Kaylee said, happily. “Dehydrated! Big ‘uns, too!” “What . . . in the Black . . . would I use such a thing for?” Sanchez asked, his face a contortion of mystified and horrified. “Medicine,” supplied the wizened old monk. “Chinese herbalism. Mastodon penis is a very potent aphrodisiac. Full of Yang. Better than bear, tiger, or elephant. Highly sought after, wherever herbalists practice. Increases libido tremendously.” Winnie looked her husband dead in the eye. “Duncan, you so much as touch that thing, I’ll kill you dead. I swear it. You don’t need no aphrodisiacs. I ain’t havin’ no babies after this one. Allie’s with me on this one.” Master Lei chuckled good-naturedly. “No, really, it is very valuable. Forbidden by Alliance shipping regulations – to protect Wuhan’s ivory trade. Ships used to come in, buy up all penises, ship out and leave ivory in warehouses. After the Empire fell, ivory merchants got the Alliance to outlaw it. Which drove the prices up. Dried mastodon penis sells for . . . about twenty credits an ounce, most places. Sometimes much more, if the quality is high. These, all finest kind, perfectly dried. I know the butcher,” he added. “How much does one of these weigh?” Duncan asked, curious. “’Bout sixty pounds. We got some other parts, too, nearly as valuable. Testicles, gall bladder, eyeballs – you did remember the eyeballs, didn’t you Kaylee?” “Right here, Cap’n!” she said, tossing a cloth bag on the table, where it landed with a thump. “Plus some teeth, a little ivory, three tails, and some parts I ain’t real sure what they are, but the Heavenly Master, here, knows all about.” “I ain’t afeard to take it,” Duncan said, trying to hide his enthusiasm for the sake of bargaining. “I know plenty who’ll jump on this. Sold a load o’ bear gall bladders an’ moose antlers on Xinghua, while back. Made a pretty penny.” “How much?” Sanchez asked, suddenly interested. “Well, now,” Mal said, scratching his chin, “I can let ‘em go at five an ounce. That’ll give us a decent profit and allow you to boost your end, too. Throw in the other viscera at that same price, too.” “Five?” asked Sanchez, suspiciously. “Why not four?” “On account o’ I gave you my best price up front, Jorge,” Mal countered in a friendly manner. “I always do. I don’t haggle over repairs with you, I don’t haggle over merchandise. I give you my best, an’ you know that,” he assured. “Five it is, for you an’ Duncan both. Y’all have always been kind to us, played fair. We got a little score, don’t mind sharin’ the wealth a bit.” Duncan nodded. “You’ve always been fair, no doubt,” he said, glancing at Winnie, who was nodding just a bit. He always looked to her for advice on cargo. “I’ll take . . . two, I guess, and half o’ the other giblets. We head to Persephone next, an’ I know a dozen places I can get thrice what I pay you, an’ will be joyed to get it.” Sanchez likewise nodded. “I’ll take the rest,” he said, sighing. “Maria will never believe me . . . but in three weeks a transport from Sihnon will bring three thousand Chinese miners here. I can move the stuff. If you will vouch for its authenticity,” he added, speaking to Master Lei. “I’ve already prepared the documents,” Lei said, taking a handful of rice paper scrolls out of his sleeve. “My name is well known. There should be no problems,” he assured. The rest of the meeting was filled with a more detailed inspection of the cargo, weighing it out and dividing it up between the two merchants, with plenty of off-color jokes and idle gossip. Jorge and Duncan sent for their oldest boys to fetch the stuff away while Winnie tallied the costs. By the time the table was clear, a significant amount of money had changed hands. All parties left the table satisfied. “Good job, Cap’n!” Kaylee said, hugging Mal affectionately. “We paid how much for those harnesses from Duncan?” “Oh, about four thousand, all together,” he admitted. “And we just got handed close to twenty,” she said, nodding with satisfaction. “Makes you think.” “About what?” he asked. “Maybe we been concentratin’ a little too much on theivin’, and ignored the benefits of honest merchantin’,” she suggested. “I mean, ‘cept for the fact that them penises are technically illegal, we turned four thousand into twenty, an’ only spent three thousand in fuel costs – maybe a grand in overhead – to do it. We more’n doubled our money.” “Kaylee!” Mal said, with mock accusation in his voice. “You ain’t goin’ straight on me, are you?” “Me, Cap? Oh, I’d never do that. Cold hearted blackguard, am I. Nothin’ gets my juices flowin’ like a good, seedy, felonious caper and a mound o’ ill-gotten gain. Hell, just the sight of a well-turned heist gets my nipples hard.” “Ai ya, Kaylee! You really didn’t have to tell me that!” Mal looked horrified. Kaylee was like . . . like a little sister. He didn’t need the thought of her hard nipples to haunt him when he tried to sleep tonight. “I’m just sayin’. But a body’s got to consider her retirement – assumin’, o’course, that she don’t come to a bad end. And maybe there’s more to this honest merchant feh hua than we been thinkin’.” “Maybe,” admitted Mal. “’Course, plenty o’ honest merchants starve t’death.” “Surely do,” agreed the engineer. “’Occurs t’me that there were five o’ them monsters in the hold,” he mentioned, casually. Kaylee looked guilty. “Yeah, but I invested in that last one m’self. The General advised me on the quiet to hang on to one. Said I’d get an even better price further on down the line. So I invested my own money, got me one. ‘Sides, always wanted to have one o’ my very own,” she said, giggling. “Makes that boy on Sophia look powerful puny, it does.” “Well, now you do. And we lift in the morning for Salisbury, so you can reap your fortune soon enough. We’ll meet up with the General’s barge, then back to his ‘secret hide-out’. Then maybe – just maybe – we can put this gorram map together and get to that gorram treasure. Mastodon penises are nice, an’ all, but not only do they give a fella an inferiority complex, they also detract from the big score we got promised. Just as happy t’see ‘em go, for truth.” “I know for a fact that someone else’s gonna be happier’n you ‘bout sellin’ those mammoth wangs,” she pointed out. “Hmm? Who?” “Jayne,” she explained with another giggle. “Now he can go back t’bein’ the biggest da diao on Serenity!”

*

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*

Wash reclined in a conveniently-placed lounge chair at the edge of the beautiful patio, a paper lantern above his head spilling down a warm, rich glow, which competed with the bluish light from Diablo, just now rising overhead. A mess of kids, some MacKlintocks, some Sanchezes, were taking turns whacking at a piñata shaped like a Chinese dragon, while Jayne and Ramon played guitar, and River split her time between joining the music with her new harmonica and joining the assembled teens, who had staked out their own table so they would have a place they could be cool in. The three generations of Leis sat listening to them, along with the general’s men, Kaylee, and Simon. The Sanchez wives were clearing away the pitiful remains of the monstrous feed they had prepared, the aroma of which still clung to the air. Two clay patio stoves added sweet woodsmoke to the atmosphere. The night was warm. He had a full belly, four good shots of brandy in his veins, and a warm, soft, sweet-smelling wife in his arms. “Y’know,” he said, idly, “I could just sit here, like this, and not move for the next decade. I am completely and utterly content with the ‘verse at the moment. I can’t think of a single thing that would make me get out of this chair.” Zoe looked up at him and smiled wickedly. “So,” she asked sweetly, “you wanna go have sex?” “Let’s go!” he said, sitting up abruptly. Zoe laughed, and pushed him back down in his chair. “Later. I’m enjoying the moment, too. Just sitting here, under the stars, listening to the guitars, watching the kids. Might be nice to have one, someday.” “Well honey,” Wash said, seriously, “why didn’t you say so? We’ll get you one.” “What?” Zoe asked, shocked. “I’m sure they sell guitars here. Can’t be that expen—hey!” “Chun zi!” she said, laughing, having elbowed him in the ribs hard enough to show her appreciation for the joke. And leave a bruise. “I’m serious. I know it’s probably just my ovaries itchin’, but we gotta figure out where we stand on this.” “Well, while I ain’t looking for a drawn out, serious discussion about it, four drinks drunk with a belly full of paella ‘n’ pan is not the worst time to bring it up,” he admitted. “We still got that whole ‘lifestyle’ issue to resolve.” “Ain’t my issue,” she assured. “It’s yours. I think we could do just fine, bringin’ a little one up on Serenity. Look at the MacKlintocks.” “See, that’s where you lose me, right there at the beginning part. I love the ship too, I really do, but it’s too small. The Sky Hawk’s pretty roomy. We barely have room in our bunk now. And a kid takes up space. I’ve seen them.” “That can be overcome, a little planning and improvisation,” she pointed out. “Babies don’t take up that much room . . .” “But they do take up your time. Lots of time. And we both have pretty demanding jobs,” he countered. “Besides, they do grow up. Give ‘em all the coffee and cigarettes you want, you still won’t stunt their growth much. And then they get messy, and loud, and obnoxious. And then,” he said, nodding towards the round table where Rowan, Tinker, River, and Emilio and Rosa Sanchez were skulking about in the shadows, “they become . . . teenagers,” he said, with a note of horror in his voice. “Stop it,” Zoe warned playfully. “Husband, there is truth in all that you say, I don’t deny. But there is also truth in what I say: we owe it to the ‘verse to reproduce.” “Why do we owe it to the ‘verse? What’s the ‘verse got against us?” “We owe it to the ‘verse ‘cause there’s just too gorram many stupid people out there, squeezin’ out kids at an alarmin’ rate,” she explained. “I’m very intelligent, and apart from consenting to marry you I am possessed of uncommon good judgment, not to mention superior survival skills. You . . . well . . . you got good reflexes,” she admitted. “What a compelling case you make,” Wash said sarcastically. “But that doesn’t counter my bold and irrefutable contention that kids are a lot of work.” “You afraid of hard work?” “Yes! Constantly! Why do you think I became a pilot?” “Video games,” she pointed out. “Well, why do you think I played video games? I’m too lazy to work a real job. I couldn’t even hold down a fast-food position! If I can’t handle sweet-and-sour-pork and eggrolls, what makes you think I can handle the constant demands of an infant?” “Because you ain’t sixteen anymore,” she countered. “Not by a long shot.” “Ow!” he said, smarting from the comment. “Easy! I may have aged, it’s true, but have I really matured?” “Wash, you take our lives into your hands every time we leave the world. You demonstrate great skill and care with them. I recently became utterly convinced that you would do the same with a kid. More so, even.” “And just who convinced you of this?” he asked, condescendingly. The answer he got was unexpected. “Mal did. He thinks it would be a terrible mistake for us to have a kid. But he did admit that you’d be a good, responsible father that I would only have to beat sporadically. He has a point.” “Great,” Wash said, discouragingly. “I knew I should have crashed us a few times, just to show him what a screw-up I am,” he said, sullenly. “Baby, don’t minimize this. I respect his opinion more than anyone’s but yours. The fact is, you ain’t nearly as much of a screw-up as you say you are. Compared to some,” she said, nodding towards Jayne, “you’re the gorram poster-boy for mature wisdom an’ thoughtful consideration.” “Then what a sorry ‘verse we live in,” mourned Wash. “Stop it. I’m serious. I love you, Hoban Washburne, and I want your child.” Wash looked at his wife, her soulful eyes beaming pure, untainted love back into his own. How could he resist? He sighed. That was the problem. Zoe had a secret weapon – he couldn’t deny her. Not really. He would do the impossible to suit her whim – and a baby was far from impossible. It was easy – at least the first part. No matter what objections he might raise, she always had the trump. But he knew he had to stand firm. A spaceship wasn’t the best place to raise a kid, and Serenity, for all of her comfortable charm, was not set up for children. They owed it to any child they had to give it the best possible life they could. If he gave in without a fight and let her have her way, they would be in for all sorts of problems, problems that lacked easy solutions. Income being a prime one. There were plenty of times when they had to go without anything better than protein to eat. Plenty of times when Inara’s rent was the only thing keeping them in the sky. Could they inflict that kind of life on a child in good conscience? Sure, there were lots of children born to worse circumstances. But they weren’t his kids. His kids would have it better, he swore that to himself years ago. He looked into Zoe’s eyes and smiled, sadly. “Darlin’, I got good reasons. Strong reasons. Reasons that ain’t entirely based on nameless male fear of children, believe it or not. But I recognize that you got good reasons too, and reasons that ain’t entirely based on a blind hormonally-inspired desire to procreate. “I’ll give you this much: we can keep talking about it. I’m not going to say, ‘Woman, I have spoken!’ just yet. We can figure out a common ground, I think. I’m open to reason. And I’ll let you try to convince me with your raw sexual power,” he said, as if he was granting her every wish. “It’ll be hard – no promises – but if you keep up your persuading, it’s bound to have an effect at some point.” “So,” she said, her eyes twinkling, “you’re willing to discuss the matter if we have a lot of sex,” she summarized. “Yes, I think that would only be fair. But it has to be good sex, none of this ‘just do me and wake me up when your done’ stuff. You got to mean it.” “But you ain’t plannin’ on given in too easy,” she said. “Probably not,” he admitted. “I can be pretty stubborn, when I set my mind to something.” “So I’m gonna have to . . . wear you out?” “Seems likely,” he agreed, sadly. “Well,” she sighed with exaggeration. “Best get started then,” she said, rising and grabbing her husband’s hand. “Let’s go have some really, really good sex.” “Uh, okay,” Wash said agreeably. He let her lead him back to the ship, saying goodnight to the Sanchezes along the way. They stopped a few times up the stone staircase that led to the landing stage to engage in some foreplay before they got to the ship. Zoe eventually had to push him down the stairwell and into their room. “You sure about this, now? More sex equals more baby talk?” she asked as she unbuttoned her shirt. “Well, hell, worth a shot, ain’t it?” Zoe shook her head and sighed. “Work, work, work,” she said, pulling of her clothes. “Slower!” demanded Wash, already naked and in bed. “If you’re going to convince me, you gotta be sincere!”

*

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*

After leave-taking the next morning, Serenity left the world, docked briefly with the fuel station in orbit, and set course for Salisbury. The eight-day journey would skirt the edges of inhabited space and stay reasonably out of the path of Alliance patrols. Shipboard life was crowded, there was no denying that. That first day out, Captain Reynolds ordered a full stem-to-stern cleaning of the ship, and ran through some elementary drills. While Zoe introduced their guests to Serenity’s routine, Mal had some other business to attend to. “Ambassador, spare a moment?” he asked as he brazenly entered into Inara’s shuttle. The Companion was at her monitor, reading something from the cortex. “When are you going to stop breaking into my private quarters?” she asked, wearily. “Door’s got a lock,” he pointed out, grinning. “Do I need to lock myself in, now?” she asked, eyebrows raised. “Are you that unable to control yourself?” “I’ve always been impetuous,” he admitted. “One time I even got impulsive.” “Yes, quite a departure from your usual methodical, systematic approach to life,” she said, coolly. “Just thought I’d check in on you. You ain’t said two words weren’t ‘please’ or ‘thank you’ at dinner last night. Then you scampered off as soon as desert was done.” “I’ve . . . I’ve had a lot on my mind, of late,” she admitted. “I’ve been doing some reading. Some research, actually,” she said, gesturing towards the screen and debating whether or not to share her findings with Mal. “Whore stuff?” he asked, nonchalantly. She chose not to rise to the bait. “No. Yes . . . well, it’s related tangentially,” she confessed. “I’ve been . . . bothered by some things, things I learned on Epiphany. I’ve been checking them out. Doing a little background research.” “You gonna settle there?” he asked. Though there was no overt change in his friendly tone, she could detect subtle hints of tension. Her leaving, an issue since the disastrous Heart of Gold incident, had troubled him as much as it disturbed her. He knew it. She knew it. But they couldn’t talk about it. They were in an impossible situation, and she could not allow herself the luxury of feelings that would destroy who she was. “I’ve considered it,” she conceded. “It will be a place custom-made for Companions some day. In fact, I could very easily see a training house and temple being established there, one day. But my interest is less personal than . . . well, professional. As much as the thought of a planet full of wealthy, handsome men might appeal to me, the very existence of Epiphany . . . well, you likely wouldn’t be interested.” “I might surprise you,” he said, taking a seat uninvited. “Behind my ruggedly handsome good looks, my criminal genius, and my quick wit, there’s quite a lot to discover. ‘I am vast. I contain multitudes.’” Inara stared, agape. “Did you just quote Whitman?” she asked in disbelief. “Saw it on a box o’ cereal or somethin’,” he dismissed. “So, what’s the pleasure planet got that’s got your panties in a twist?” Inara gave him a long stare, silently agreeing: Mal was vast. He really did contain multitudes. “Okay. Here’s the problem. Epiphany is being developed not only as a tax-haven for the mega-rich, but as a secret capital for the future rulers of the Alliance.” “Ain’t it a bit far from the Core to be doin’ that?” Mal asked skeptically. “At the moment,” she agreed. “But just a generation ago, Persephone, Bellarophon and Hera were all considered too far from the Core to be of any worth. Yet now they have grown to great economic and political importance, as the number of inhabited worlds grows outwards. As the Outer Rim develops, the Inner Rim worlds will become the industrial, commercial and cultural centers of humanity.” “So . . . just where does that leave the Core?” he asked, brow wrinkled. “Exactly! Right now a place like Beaumont gets it’s high-tech manufactured goods – electronics, heavy equipment, and the like – from Londinium and Rhinemark. But inside of a decade, thanks to the Rim World Development programs, they should be able to get that stuff from Persephone. It’s closer, which means lower shipping costs, and quicker delivery. So what do the factories on Londinium and Rhinemark do when the Beaumont market dries up?” “Sell to Haven? Or St. Albans? Or Greenleaf?” offered Mal. “Sure. Until they start ordering from Hera, or one of the other Inner Rim worlds. Or start producing for themselves. Either way, the market has a finite lifespan. Eventually all the Inner Core worlds will be able to do is export . . . culture.” “Poems and plays and such?” “Well, more than that. Styles. Fashions. Videos and Audios. A few luxury goods, perhaps. But you cannot run a planet of several billion people on the royalties from a play. Eventually, according to the projections I’ve read, the Inner Core worlds will face economic chaos, despotic government, and then collapse.” “Won’t happen,” Mal said, shaking his head. “Too many rich folk there.” “Exactly my point,” Inara said. “The Inner Core has the vast majority of the wealth and power in the Alliance. Now. In three decades . . . well, the Inner Core will be supplanted by the combined resources of the Outer Core. A few decades after that . . . Persephone and Hera may well be the richest planets. But the ‘rich folk’ in the Core are looking farther ahead than that. That’s why Epiphany has me so concerned. They’re planning a place to run and hide from the masses. They plan on abandoning the Inner Core and establish a power base where the locus of power will eventually relocate. And the central planets – like Sihnon, my home – will become chaotic slums.” Mal thought on this a while. “I can see where you might think that,” he conceded, “but I just can’t see the pristine paradises of the Core fallin’ like that. Wish they would, kinda, being as how they killed off the Independents to force their will on us. Serve ‘em right. But I just can’t see it. Alliance won’t allow it.” “Mal the Alliance is the Core, as you’ve pointed out to me! The Alliance was originally the framework of interworld cooperation, between Sihnon and Londinium, and their colonies. When some of them started to go their own way and fight against each other, like Xiao and Yuan or Rhinemark and Merovingia, the Alliance was there to negotiate an end to the violence. It could do so from a position of moral and military strength, not to mention the economic clout of the charter members. “But what happens when it’s Sihnon that’s in turmoil? Or Osiris? Do your really think that the former Independents worlds will give enough of a damn to intervene? No!” she said, answering her own question. “And the rich bastards who run the whole show, the owners of the big corporate structures, they want to pull out and hide until the dust settles. They’ve given it up as a part of inevitable evolution, of decay. They say so, right here,” she said, motioning towards the monitor. “Right here in plain language. This is an article stating the decay of the inner worlds as ‘an unavoidable and inescapable conclusion to an expansionist, post-industrial economic base that has lost its markets.’ ‘Unavoidable’, Mal. Which is feh hua, because it is avoidable. It’s just going to be costly and messy. It’s going to require expensive innovation and a dramatic re-structuring of society. And they don’t want to pay for it! They’d rather retreat to their fortresses and let the heart of the Alliance fall into ruin, than straighten out the messes they’ve made!” Mal waited for her to wind down a bit before he commented. “Well, Ambassador, I can see why you’d be worried. Truth is, I always suspected there was somethin’ intrinsically corrupt with the Alliance. You can talk about ‘Universal Sovereignty’ all you want, but Imperialism is Imperialism, don’t care how you pretty it up. Your homeworld may well go all wonky – I could see that.” “I can’t!” Inara said, close to tears. “Have you ever been to Sihnon? It’s beautiful! Every building is an elegant temple, every field is a serene garden. Universities and theaters and museums . . . and people. Millions of beautiful, peaceful people, people who love life and cherish every moment they have. I can’t ever see it being anything else! We have the technology – we should be able to sustain that life for everyone! That’s why I supported Unification, Mal, because I knew about the poverty on the Rim, and I wanted to make it go away. The technology and civilization of the Core was the only way to do that. And now I’m seeing that the civilization I love so much is maintained by people who don’t even believe in it enough to fight for it!” “Corporations, maybe, and the people who run them. They won’t fight ‘cept for gain. But the ordinary folk? People are people everywhere,” Mal pointed out, softly. “You take away their job, their freedom to feed their family, their dignity – they’re gonna fight. You can tell ‘em it’s all part of an intricate government plan, but they’ll realize, sooner or later. Fight, or starve. And you can’t fight if you ain’t got the sense to see who your enemy is. Independents went to war to have that choice for our ownselves, ‘stead of lettin’ the Alliance do all of our thinkin’ for us.” “I’m starting to think that that isn’t such a bad idea after all!” Inara declared. “Careful,” chuckled Mal. “I’ll have you singin’ ‘Rally ‘Round the Banner, the Banner Yellow, Black and Green’ if you ain’t careful!” Inara ignored him. “You know why? Because places like Epiphany are really the ‘Plan B’. Plan A is to control the population so utterly that they won’t mind living on government hand-outs of protein base and sending their kids to janitors’ school while they wait for a job to open up somewhere. The proposals I’ve seen, now – nothing that anyone is screaming about, but think-tank white papers and quiet government agency proposals – recommend all sorts of horrible ways to keep the populations from actually exercising the power to change their own lives. Everything from traditional police-state tactics, to ‘management’ of the masses through addictive drugs, to using advanced therapeutics to pacify the people to dull acquiescence!” “Sounds like Alliance, all right,” Mal agreed. “And do you know what they’re most afraid of? Property damage! Not the billions of people who will be killed, displaced, and impoverished – but the damage to existing government and commercial facilities. Current doctrine calls for security troops to secure the key properties at all costs, wait for the worst of the riots to pass, then declare martial law and administer the planets like rebellious provinces.” “Then that’s just what’s gonna happen,” agreed Mal. “You know why?” “Why?” Inara said, the thought of Chunzee Park outside the mother temple a battle zone – or a refugee camp – or a mass grave turning her stomach. “How many folks own guns on Sihnon? On average?” “Huh? None. Not regular people, anyway. The police, Alliance troops. Criminals, of course. But the people don’t have weapons. They don’t hunt, really – they’re Buddhists! They’re non-violent! Why would they need guns?” “Buddha’s just a statue in a temple, ‘Nara,” Mal said, then held up his hand to stave off the inevitable religious argument. “Don’t get your undies wadded up. That’s not what this is about. I mean to say, most folk on Sihnon can be Buddhist, as devout as a monk, but when the government decides who lives or dies, who gets that free protein and who don’t, an’ who gets heat in the winter, just how many of them are gonna be happy with goin’ on to the next incarnation? And how many are gonna be pissed enough at hearin’ their babies cry all night ‘cause they’re hungry an’ cold to do somethin’ ‘bout it? When a body gets to that place, ain’t no Buddhism. Ain’t no Christianity. Ain’t no Islam. There’s just . . . pissed off. “But if a man’s pissed enough, an’ he ain’t got a way to protect hisself and his, he’s gonna lay down an’ die – or find a way to hope. But without guns, he ain’t got a chance to hope. He’s a target for some Alliance riot-guard’s ‘crowd pacifier’ gun, or whatever they wanna call it, not a human bein’. Not a citizen. He’s a subject, an he’s on his knees. ‘Cause that’s what the Alliance wants him to be. Knock him out, shut him up, and never, ever take him serious. Why should they?” “But . . . you can’t arm that many people!” she declared, astonished. “That would lead to . . . anarchy!” Mal just looked at her a moment. “From where I’m sittin’,” he said, slowly, “anarchy looks a sight better than that particular brand o’ tyranny. With anarchy, ‘least you gotta choice. And maybe a chance to build somethin’ better after the dust settles. Tyranny . . . well, ain’t no choice, there. Tyranny just keeps goin’, and goin’, ‘till someone decides they had enough.” Inara stared back at Mal, and didn’t say a word. A ‘verse where Mal Reynolds was the Voice of Reason . . .