The Treasure of Lei Fong Wu

Chapter Thirty

“Honey,” Wash called, looking through the viewport. “You better come up here.” It took several minutes for his heavily armed wife to get to the cockpit. When she did, Wash was staring thoughtfully outside. “Yes, Husband? You called . . . at a most inconvenient moment. What’s wrong?” “Just wanted to get your opinion,” he said, casually. “Just how many of those guys out there are bad guys?” “Counting the ones setting up the gun emplacements?” “Oh, yeah.” “And the ones in that flyer?” “Yeah, them too. Oh! And don’t leave out the snipers there . . . and there.” “Hmm. Professional opinion?” “That’s why I asked my wife the professional soldier. This looks kinda soldierish.” “All of them.” “That’s what I thought,” he sighed heavily. “And there aren’t so many of us.” “Not so much,” she agreed. “But I’m used to that. I like a challenge.” “I love that about you. You know what else I love?” “What would that be?” “Your uncommon good sense. The fact that when you look out at such a hopeless situation, your first thought is to get the hell out of here, as opposed to fighting and making a glorious last stand, as certain former infantry sergeants might do in a similar situation.” “Husband, I find myself in the unusual position of agreeing with you wholeheartedly.” “What? We can leave?” Wash asked, shocked. He didn’t really expect her to cave so easily. “I guess that’s the question: can we?” Still shocked, Wash checked the preflight status monitor. When queried, it indicated that a navlock had mysteriously descended, holding Serenity close to the soil. “Da-shiong bao-jah-shr duh la doo-tze!” Wash cursed. “We ain’t goin’ nowhere, sweetie tush,” he said, more than a hint of worry in his voice. “Yeah, I kinda figured. Let’s—” “Attention: Firefly!” an augmented voice boomed loud enough to be heard through the thick glass. “Everyone on board lay down your arms and prepared to be boarded! You are all bound by law!” “We’ll see about that,” Wash snarled, flicking on the exterior loudspeaker and grabbing the mike. “Oh yeah? Well . . . not by the hair of our chinny chin chins!” “Oh, that’s telling him,” Zoe said, rolling her eyes. “I’m a master at negotiation,” he said, almost seriously. “Do not make us use deadly force!” the voice boomed out. “You notice anything strange about all this?” Zoe asked, thoughtfully. “They have gun emplacements and air cover?” “No . . . they haven’t ID’d themselves. When was the last time a cop or even a Fed tried to arrest you without bragging about who he was? Or who he was with?” “Lamentably, not since my mis-spent youth. What’s you’re point?” “I guess we’ll see . . .” She handed Wash her rifle and picked up the mike. “This is the commander of the Firefly,” she began in an authoritative tone. “Identify yourself!” There was a pause. “We are peace officers! You are ordered to stand down!” Zoe shook her head. “What agency are you with?” “You are ordered to stand down and prepare to be boarded! We are authorized peace officers!” “Authorized by whom?” Zoe shot back. “We wanna see some badges!” “Badges?” came the booming reply. “We don’t need no—” there was a pause. In a moment another, more mature voice boomed out. “Firefly transport commander: we are seeking two and possibly more fugitives from Alliance custody. We are authorized to use deadly force. Stand down now, or we will open fire!” “You got a warrant?” Zoe asked, arrogantly. “’Cause unless you got a legal warrant, you can chi wo de shi!” There was another, longer pause. “Very well. Come outside, lay down arms, and you may inspect our warrants then.” “Like hell we will,” Zoe spat back. “You know our wave combination: you wave us the warrants, and we’ll have our legal team examine them and advise us before we take action, in accordance with Alliance law!” There was a longer pause, during which the flier made several passes by the cockpit window. The men manning the gun emplacements continued fortifying their positions. “Does he really have to do that? Let our solicitors look over them?” “Hell if I know,” admitted Zoe. “I saw it on CV once.” “Huh!” Wash said, thoughtfully. “Firefly Transport: this is your last warning!” the voice finally repeated. “You are illegally threatening my ship, if you don’t have a warrant!” Zoe shot back. “Present your credentials and your warrants, or you will be committing an illegal act!” she demanded. “God, I love it when you get all commandy!” Wash said in a low, husky tone. “Maybe they’ll share your opinion,” Zoe said hopefully. “I’m thinking not.” “Me, too. Won’t they be surprised when the cops show up?” “At what? How pretty our corpses are?” “Come on, it ain’t that bad. I’ve been in worse spots before. You gotta keep up your morale. Just because you’re outnumbered, outgunned, and out positioned doesn’t mean you’re going to lose.” “ ‘We few, we happy few, we band of brothers who’re about to get our asses kicked . . . ’” intoned Wash dramatically. “That’s the spirit, husband.” “ ‘Spirit Husband’ is what I’m trying to avoid, here!” Wash said, exasperated. “Where the hell is Mal? Our noble Captain? This is just the kind of jackass situation he excels at!” “He’s busy,” Zoe said. “Oh. Well, then.” “Look, the longer we keep them at arm’s length, gabbing like this, the more likely that the cops will show up and really screw up their plans. If they were any kind of legit, they’d have locals backin’ them up. As it is, we can be fairly certain that they’re operatin’ outside of their jurisdiction, or that they don’t want the locals involved. Probably don’t want to split the reward money.” “Greedy bastards!” Wash said, sagging into his chair. “How long do you think we can keep them with the talkie and not the shootie?” As if to answer, a spray of light caliber machine gun bullets rang out over the hull. Wash slid out of his seat in an effort to find cover, while Zoe ducked to the side. “Okay, time’s up,” Wash decided. “That was just a warning. Small arms, not the big guns. Even those won’t be really dangerous . . . ‘less they got AP rounds.” “Yeah, the AP,” Wash said, nodding sagely. “What’s AP?” “Armor piercing.” “Oh. What are the chances they have something like that?” “Only top-of-the-line military and clandestine units carry that kind of heat.” “So you’re fairly certain they have some AP.” “Oh, yeah.” “’Fraid of that.” Zoe picked up the mike again. “Cease fire immediately, or we will be forced to respond!” “Your vessel is unarmed,” the reply came, a slight sarcastic tone to it. “The hell we are,” she said to herself. She flicked a switch to turn on the interior intercom. “Jayne! You an’ Vera get up to the dorsal hatch and make that flyer and those snipers uncomfortable!” She thought a moment more, then switched it back on. “Kaylee, can you pump a little nastiness out of the reactor? Not enough to fry, just enough to lie?” There was a pause, then, “Aye aye, Zoe!” There was a pause, during which Wash kept looking back and forth from his wife to the bad guys outside. Kaylee’s voice came over the speaker a moment later, cheerful and confident. “Done! There’s a big ass cloud o’ crap comin’ from our hiney!” “Good girl!” Zoe said, then switched back to the exterior loudspeaker. “Attention bandit forces: if you persist in this attack, there is a very real possibility that we will have a catastrophic reactor failure, leading to the contamination of several square miles of high-end real estate, not to mention a mess o’ people. Stand down at once!” “Think they bought it?” Wash asked. Another salvo of machinegun fire rang the hull. “Nah, didn’t buy it,” Zoe sighed. “Good plan, though,” admitted Wash. “Not good enough.” She switched the intercom over again. “Jayne! Move your hairy ass!” *

*

*

Jayne ran through the corridor, Vera unstrapped and ready to fire. He skidded in the kitchen, where Book was still sitting and reading his Bible. “Everything all right out there?” “Just the damn New Reformed Jehovah’s Witnesses,” Jayne said, disgustedly. “Ouch. Nasty.” “Yeah—hey!” he said as he noticed a body sprawled out on the floor, its hands taped behind his back. “Where’d the dead guy come from?” he asked. “Up top,” Book said, pointing to the hatch. “But he isn’t dead. Poor man had the misfortune to slip on the ladder and fell.” Book looked angelic. “Such a tragic accident.” Jayne looked over to the table, where he had left the pistol. It was untouched. But there was another pistol and an assault carbine next to it. “Damn, preacher!” “Just be glad I’m not a New Reformed Jehovah’s Witness,” he said. Jayne shook his head in wonder and opened the hatch. It took him only moments to ascend the ladder, and when he reached the top he pulled back the bolt on his prized Callahan. “And you say I don’t take you out no more,” he mocked. He burst out of the hatch and quickly took aim. It took two shots to eliminate the right-hand sniper, and he was able to lob two more at the flier before the left hand sniper put a round within five feet. Jayne ducked back into the hatch, laughing and reloading. “Punk ass cho yade! Cao ni de xing!” he sneered. He waited a few more moments before he popped back up, got a bead on the flier, and put a big AP round in the starboard side. He was gratified to see a puff of smoke on the port side the craft, indicating a through-shot. “Heh! Got your ‘tension!” he hollered. He hollered much louder a half-second later when the second sniper put a bullet in his left arm, high on the shoulder. “Sonuvabitch!” Jayne shrieked. Instead of dropping for cover, he reacted by turning Vera on the snipers position, and firing one handed put seven rounds close enough to the man to keep him from firing again. When he was out of ammo, he drew a .38 from his waistband and emptied that clip as well. A hit at that range would be the dumbest of luck, but he didn’t care. Jayne was a great believer in firearm therapy as a means of stress relief. When the flier came back by, gun turret swinging around to train on his hatch, Jayne shot the last round from his pistol at them, dropped the gun, and pulled the hatch closed. “Ni ya lianzhang de gen lan bi shi de, you lousy festerin’ cankers on the asshole of humanity!” he cursed as he descended the ladder. Book was still there, reading his Bible. “Everything all right?” he repeated. “Yeah, just expressin’ my deeper feelin’s, is all,” Jayne said as he tried to reload Vera one-handed. “Here,” Book said, slapping a pre-prepared adhesive trauma bandage on his new wound. Jayne winced, but didn’t stop reloading. You know,” Book said thoughtfully, “if you just take their magazines and promise to pray, they go away after a while.”

*

“What the hell is going on?” Simon demanded through the intercom. “Should we escape?” “Not until I give the word,” insisted Zoe. “Just sit tight – if you tried to bolt right now, that flyer would take you out before you cleared the rooftops.” “So what are you doing about it?” the doctor asked. “I thought you people knew how to handle this sort of thing?” A burst of heavy machine gun fire interrupted, and a few bullets splashed across the viewport, causing Wash to launch into and angry barrage of profanity in Mandarin, English, Spanish, and some language he probably made up – her baby was just like that. “Look, Doc, I kinda got my hands full now,” Zoe insisted. “You wait for my signal.” “What if you’re dead?” “Then it’ll be a while,” she said, slamming the mike down. “That wasn’t very tactful of him,” her husband observed. Zoe took another glance out the window and assessed the situation. Jayne’s trip up top had reduced their adversaries by exactly one – while he had taken a hit, minor though it was, himself. Not a great trade. And the way the bad guys were lavishly spending ammo at the ship, they had a plentitude. “We gotta do somethin’, babe,” Wash said gently. “I’m not trying—” The ship shook, and suddenly everything leaned a little forward, and a little to starboard. “Those ji bai just shot up one of the landing struts!” he sputtered, outraged. “They can’t do that!” “Kaylee’s gonna be pissed,” agreed Zoe. “Hell with that – I’m pissed! I don’t mind a few extra holes in Jayne, but they ain’t gonna take my ship apart out from under me!” he said, rising. “And just what do you think you’re going to do?” Zoe asked as he pulled on safety glasses and picked up his pistol-grip shotgun. “I damn sure ain’t flyin’ us outa here right now, so I might as well discourage those assholes from shooting up my ride!” he said. “I’m gonna shoot ‘em back!” “That’s pretty brave for a man who’s only been in two firefights,” she said, picking up her own rifle. “Three,” he corrected, “you’re forgetting that time I broke you outa jail, remember?” “I stand corrected,” she said, grinning to herself. “Y’know, if we let’em think they could get inside . . .” “Yeah!” Wash said, then realized he hadn’t the slightest clue about her plan. He followed her downstairs into the bay, where Johnny was standing with a shiny new assault carbine, looking a little nervous. The kid had performed admirably, and she hoped he could do a little more. “We’re gonna open the door back up,” she explained. “Just enough to give ‘em hope, not enough to make it a tempting range target.” Johnny’s eyes widened a little, but he agreed. They moved the mule in front of the hatch for cover and took positions. “Ready?” Zoe called. When she saw the nods she activated the hatch. The heavy metal door swung open about a foot and a half before she stopped it. Then she took cover behind the mule and prepared to ventilate the first target she could see – she was getting a mite frustrated. Wash banged away enthusiastically, issuing a long running commentary about the fight as he fired, peppered with creative uses of profanity. It helped that the slightly opened door immediately attracted the attention of the invaders, who started moving around in an attempt to get a good angle. Zoe took advantage of their movement and pegged one in the leg, high in the calf, and hit another in his armored chest when he moved to retrieve his comrade. Heavy machinegun fire covered the area, sending ricochets off of the door. The heavy guns didn’t have the angle, though. They would have to move in order to put anything serious through the door. “You know what they’re gonna do next, don’t you?” Wash asked when he stopped to reload. “I’m thinkin’ it’s gonna be grenades.” “I’m thinkin’ you ain’t far wrong, honey,” Zoe said, never taking her eyes off of the targets. “An’ that means they’re gonna have to get a little closer, I think.” She waited until Wash could cover her and she grabbed the mike again. “Jayne, a repeat performance would be nice. Try not to get shot any more.” Johnny’s little carbine wasn’t much use at this distance, so he slid from behind the mule and hugged the bulkhead next to the door, waiting for someone to take a look. Wash’s prediction came true a moment later as the first grenades – flash-bangs and non-lethal concussion grenades, Zoe noted with a little relief – she had been concerned about the possibility of incendiaries – landed outside the door. The sound was loud enough to deafen them a little, and they filled the air with a much thicker smoke than the guns had produced. “They get one of those in here, I don’t foresee a happy time,” Wash yelled. Zoe could barely hear him. She was tempted to close the door against the prospect, but that would have defeated the purpose. When one landed at the foot of the doorway, making them duck into the blast shadow of the mule, she was forced to reconsider. As she moved to close it Johnny shook his head frantically. He was saying something, too, but she couldn’t rightly hear clearly. Her jaw dropped when instead he opened the door wide, exposing a much more tempting target. She started to scream at him that that would do no better than to attract a barrage of hand-grenades when she saw that Johnny understood exactly that. He let his carbine hang from its strap . . . and drew his bat. He stared intently at the group of commandos, which was inching ever closer from behind the cover of spaceport equipment in an effort to improve their aim. He was still – mostly – out of angle for the heavier guns, but the chance he was looking for came a moment later when another grenade made a low, lazy arc through the door – almost at an angle to clear the mule and land in their laps. She shrunk back as Wash did the same. Johnny, he . . . . . . stepped forward, brought the bat to his shoulder, and smacked the living hell out of the weapon. With a crack that she could hear over her deafness the grenade sailed back from whence it came, exploding just past the commandos. She and Wash both found themselves cheering, and Johnny grinned broadly but never took his eyes away from his foe. The next grenade turned into a grounder on it’s way back, rolling half way before exploding harmlessly. The one after that landed close enough to the bad guys to make some of them pull back. It was an innovative method, she had to admit. She’d never quite seen anything like it before – although there was that one private during the War, a football player who had once booted a grenade safely away. He’d gotten his foot taken off by a Slicer later that day, she remembered. But Johnny seemed to be able to put the offending explosives back into the enemy’s camp almost at will. It was really quite impressive. The commandos evidently thought so – they stopped their grenade barrage for a while and retreated just a hair. The Washburnes took advantage and put out enough harassing fire to make them uncomfortable while they did it. She was also gratified to see heavy puffs of dust off of the paving stones – a heavy bore weapon, she was thinking, which meant that Jayne had found his way back into the battle with Vera from the dorsal hatch. “Gan ni lao ma pi gu!” Wash swore. “Look at what the new kids are trying to do!” He was right to be concerned. A large spaceport mule, the kind that lugged heavy equipment from one slip to another, was being brought into play. Using it like a traditional roller, the bad guys were pushing it forward and hiding behind it as they went. Suppressing fire from both heavy emplacements, plus the added mayhem the flier rained down on the hatch made it difficult to concentrate on repelling them. More lead ricocheted into the hatch. The mule took the brunt of it, but she could see Johnny flinch from a graze across his leg, and Wash nearly get his hand clean shot off. Wash saw it too, and was going pale. “I’m gonna close the door a mite,” she shouted, moving to do so. Johnny took the opportunity to throw two grenades of his own at the approaching vehicle. Without recourse to a bat the commandos had to slow down. She brought it back to an eighteen inch gap and raised her rifle to her shoulder again. “Wash, get back upstairs!” she shouted. He shook his sandy head. “I’m not leaving you like this!” “Ni juede wo hen ben ma? I need you up in the cockpit in case we need to negotiate,” she said. “Or a miracle occurs and that lock goes away. Cap’n was workin’ on it, remember?” Given a good justification for leaving the line, he did so, stopping only to kiss Zoe on the cheek and squeeze her armored shoulder. It was stupid – he had exposed himself unnecessarily – but it was a sweet gesture from the idiot. When Wash left Johnny took his place behind the mule, setting down his bat and getting his carbine ready. “They gonna rush us?” he shouted. Her hearing was starting to clear a little. “Might could,” she agreed. “And I think I see what their plan might be,” she added, pointing out the approaching mule. It had a thick, squarish piece of wood, something that looked like a roof beam or a support pole or something – stuck on the front of the mule like a wooden lance. “At that angle they can push it forward and use that to wedge the door open. Too heavy to move without getting shot. Crude but effective. Then they can rush us.” “What can we do about it?” Johnny shouted back. “Not a gorram thing,” Zoe admitted. “We can take shots at it, but the wood don’t care!” “Great,” Johnny said, disgustingly. The mule accelerated a bit as it came closer, and Zoe got ready to abandon their position. That thing was at a level to come in just over the mule. She could close the door – and probably should – but that would again draw heavier fire at the actual ship. As uncomfortable as this was, she needed to keep that from happening. They could discourage an invasion – an artillery barrage in the form of missiles or other nastiness – well, Serenity wasn’t designed for that kind of thing. In moments the improvised siege engine slammed plank-first into the cargo hatch, and the big ass piece of wood crashed over the mule and into the hold. The door was wedged. It would only be a matter of time now. As if on cue, a commando stuck his head through with a carbine and sprayed blindly into the hold. Zoe cursed, drew her shotgun and eliminated his face. Johnny drew a pistol – which made sense in close quarters – and picked up his bat again. Zoe levered another round into the chamber and waited for the next man to stick up. Obligingly he did, and Johnny shot at him – missed – and then swung at him with the bat. It connected on his shoulder and knocked him back a bit, but someone on the other side of the mule was working the cargo door open more. That couldn’t be a good thing. Johnny plied his bat in the spaces trying to keep them at bay. He didn’t mind using his pistol, too, and for a few solid minutes no one gained entrance. The bat was a surprisingly good close-quarters weapon. Very versatile, she realized. But not against a concerted push, which happened a moment later. Three men tried to push their way in, and one was smart enough to bring a shotgun. She tried to raise her own to push them back when the bad guy fired at Johnny. Her presence was enough to spoil his aim. He missed Johnny’s head. He hit Johnny’s pretty blue bat, sending shards of wood everywhere. “You done pissed him off, now!” she shouted, laughing evilly, finally catching the operator of the scattergun in his unarmored shoulder. He fell back, only to be replaced by another one, who triumphantly raised a grenade in his hand, preparing for the short toss that would effectively end their defense. At that moment an explosion from behind distracted him, joggling him enough so that he fumbled it. The flash-bang dropped between his feet . . . and went off to painful effect. Before another man could take his place she felt the radio buzz. Zoe took careful aim, one handed, with her shotgun and grabbed it. She had to hold it directly to her ear to even begin to hear it – she figured it was Wash or Jayne. Or, damn him, the Doctor wondering if they could be troubled to bring him tea and fresh muffins, or something similarly inappropriate. “Zoe, hold on another moment!” the voice said. It took her a second to realize who it was. “I’m headed to your position – and I brought some friends!” came the voice of Mal Reynolds. She stared out through gaps between mules and planks and dead and dying bodies – one of whom was struggling to grab a pistol so she shot him dead – and she could see some commotion in the distance. There was smoke coming from the one gun emplacement she could see. There were men advancing and firing at the black-clad commandos, lots of men in civilian clothing. The flier overhead was doing its best to chew up the newcomers, and was doing a credible job, but that left Jayne at liberty to play sniper unhindered. But one of the figures looked familiar in the smoke-shrouded gloom. A silloutette of a big man in a long coat emerged from the fog of war, radio in one hand, long pistol in the other, striding purposefully, confidently, towards the ship. Zoe sagged a bit and heaved a great sigh of relief. The cavalry had arrived.

*

“Gorram it to hell!” Julian howled. “Where did those gorram reinforcements come from?” he asked incredulously. It was a rhetorical question. There were six of his men in this flier. One of them was suffering from a sucking chest wound from a large bore weapon, and probably wouldn’t make it. The pilot and the copilot were busy trying to dodge more of the same – whoever was on the other end of that thing knew how to shoot. The two gunners were doing their best to put a whole in the encroachers, and the medic was tending to the wounded man. There had been a seventh, but he was lying on the floor with half of his head blown off – he had been in the way of that gorram full-bore. He stared down as his men fought for their lives and largely lost. At least a dozen men were moving towards the ship, catching his people from behind and leaving them corpses. He felt a sense of despair – his operations weren’t supposed to go like this. Damn Jaeger for tipping their hand! They could have done this right, had they been able to keep the surprise factor going! “Libby!” he screamed into the mike, “pull back! Pull everyone back to the regroup point! We’ll lay down cover fire, you just pull back! Save your men! Abort the op!” He was broadcasting to everyone, but they were a little too busy to pay attention. He kept up a steady stream of profanity as the battle sorted itself out. He did see three of his men manage to break for cover and limp towards the plaza in front of the Portmaster’s office where they had arranged to regroup. He was about to order the flyer to join them there when a new voice boomed through the earphones: “Attention unidentified flyer! This is the Steward’s Security Service! We order you in the name of the Steward to stand down and lay down your arms! Cease action at once! Stand down and land! We have you targeted with EM ordinance and will not hesitate to shoot you down if you do not comply!” He glanced at the co-pilot, how nodded in confirmation. After working through another rich stream of profanity he nodded back once, curtly. This thing was armored against casual EM loads, but a direct hit would surely discomfit them. “Damn,” he whispered to himself. Then he switched frequencies. “Sinclair, come in. Sinclair! We’ve abandoned the op and are . . . interfacing with local law enforcement. I suspect that they will attempt to escape to orbit shortly. Move in and be prepared to intercept. Julian out,” he said, and threw down the radio in disgust. Damn Jaeger. If these madmen got away, there would be a whole ‘verse worth of trouble at hand – and it would all be his gorram fault. And his own.

* “This place is a mess!” Mal said, Dragon assault rifle slung over his shoulder. “Zoe, you go an’ throw a party without me?” “Surprise,” she said weakly. “Happy . . . Happy Independent’s Charter Day, or whatever.” “They shot up the mule,” he noted. “And there’s a big damn tree in my cargo hold. Zoe, why is there a big damn tree in my cargo hold?” “Maypole, sir. I think there’s a market for them on Muir.” “Good thinking,” he quipped. General Lei and Colonel Campbell came in behind him. Both looked satisfied at the rescue, but were also looking concerned. “Captain,” Campbell interrupted with a short bow, “I’ve just been informed that the local constabulary has taken an interest in tonight’s altercation. I suggest we evacuate at once.” “We can rendezvous with the Revenge in orbit,” Lei agreed. “Master Lei is on his way. I think we can squeeze most of my men in here for so short a ride.” “Is that navlock off?” Mal asked. Lei nodded. “Just got confirmation.” “Then if a few of your husky fellas will help me get this gorram tree trunk outa the way, we can close the door and be on our merry.” In moments it was done. It was actually easier to pull the improvised ram in than push it out, so the maneuvered the heavy chunk of oak just enough to seal the door, and as soon as Master Lei was on board with his sparse baggage, Mal was able to give Wash the command to lift. “Nice planet, Salisbury,” he said, as the ship took flight. “Good beer. Friendly natives.” The general nodded. “In many ways. Lots of potential. I’ve tried to build up quite the little underground criminal organization here. Yellow Sash controls most of the crime. And I get a piece of all of that. I might even retire here, one day – although the climate doesn’t agree with me, usually. Now Epiphany, there’s a planet with a good climate!” “Welcome back, Sir,” Zoe said. She suppressed the urge to salute. “To report, all personnel are present and accounted for. No fatalities on our side, and only minor injuries. Oh, and we have a prisoner, too. Book caught him.” “Book?” the General asked, surprised. “The Shepherd?” “He’s handy that way,” Zoe agreed. “Well, bind him and stash him in the storage locker. Have someone stand guard. We’ll sort him out later,” Mal decided. “Maybe find out who the hell is behind this mayhem.” “Aye, Sir. Wash says the forward starboard landing leg is damaged, but that shouldn’t impede flight at all. He adds that there might be other damage, but he won’t really know what’s broke until he tries it out.” “Noted,” Mal grunted. “The Ambassador’s on board?” “Affirmative,” Zoe nodded, staring Mal in the eye. It was so obvious. Pathetically so. “Great. Well, I guess that about wraps—” “Attention Travelers!” Wash’s voice barked out over the intercom. “Welcome aboard and grab something! I’ve got a bogey descending from orbit on an intercept! The transponder is coded, and the telemetry matches a warship, so I’d say we ain’t outa the proverbial woods, yet!” “Never mind,” Mal said, lightly.