The Treasure of Lei Fong Wu

Chapter Thirty One

“Why is there a warship in my sky?” Mal demanded Wash as he entered the bridge. He sounded like it was a personal affront. “If we aren’t careful, we might just find out first hand,” the pilot responded, not taking his eyes off of his console. “It’s not running a transponder or pulse beacon, but I cross-checked the telemetry with Janes Index. If I had to guess I’d say it was an old Prowler-class frigate.” “A frigate?” Mal asked, a little shocked. “A patrol boat I could see – but a frigate?” “It’s probably not an Alliance ship, Cap’n. They haven’t used the Prowler-class in twenty years – since long before the War. Probably picked it up surplus.” “Is she armed?” Mal asked as Master Lei glided onto the deck. “Permission to enter the bridge?” he asked politely. “Come on in, Heavenly Master,” Wash called out. “Mal, you don’t buy a frigate because the chicks dig it,” he explained patiently. “Of course she’s armed. I’d guess lasers, long-range ship-to-ship full yield EM loads. Probably a hefty amount of high-explosives, too. Might even have a fighter or two, and I’d say some drones would be likely.” “That isn’t good,” mumbled Mal, watching the little red dot on the monitor. “You think she’s related to that crowd that just shot us up?” “I’m thinkin’ it’s possible,” agreed Wash. “Either that or my student loan people finally caught up to me. I’ve gotta make a choice, soon, and your guidance would be appreciated: if I climb out of atmo and make a break for it, she’s likely to catch us in orbit – she’s just got more legs. If I can lure her down into atmo, though, she’s got all kinds of drag. We might be able to out-fly her. Or something.” “It’ll buy us some time,” Mal said after a few moments consideration. “Do it. I’ll rustle up the General, see if he has any ideas.” “Well, I’ll do my part,” Wash assured. “I’ll fly around and look tempting. It’s up to them to actually chase us,” he reminded Mal’s back. When the Captain was gone, Master Lei stood behind Wash, seemingly undisturbed by the turbulent atmo Serenity was climbing through. Wash looked up at him briefly before returning his attention to his board. “I hope you are praying, Master, ‘cause we’re gonna need all the help we can get!” “The Way does not answer prayers,” he said solemnly. “It grants opportunity. And you will do fine, son, as long as you find the Way in flight.” “Yeah, well, which button does that?” he asked, nodding to his busy bank of controls. The old monk chuckled. “You will find it,” he assured. “I wish I shared your confidence,” Wash said, doubtfully. “They will come after us. And while they are fast, they are not as nimble as we. Lead them on a chase, emulate the hare.” “If they keep on their present course,” Wash noted, “they’re gonna be within visual range in about five minutes.” “Head for the mountains,” suggested the old man. “Run them around the peaks.” “Not a bad idea,” Wash admitted, changing course. “Maybe I can convince them to hit one of the mountains. Or find a convenient outcrop to hide under.” “Worth a try,” agreed Lei. “Otherwise, you’re humped.” “We’re humped,” corrected Wash. “That’s what I meant.” Serenity banked gently and headed for the low mountains to the north of Lincoln. The frigate matched its trajectory, and began its descent.

*

The General was seeing to the eleven men who had made it through to Serenity – four more lay dead on the landing apron, others had stayed behind to look after his operations on Salisbury. They were finding areas of the deck to secure themselves upon, places to grab hold to. Zoe and Johnny were working on securing the bodies and other loose debris that could become a hazardous projectile in rough flight through atmo – and there seemed to be no shortage of that. “General, a word, if you please?” asked Mal as he pounded down the stairs. “Yes, Captain?” he answered, leaving Colonel Campell to see to the rest. “We seem to have acquired a frigate. I don’t remember ordering one. Wouldn’t be one o’ yours, mayhap?” Lei shook his head. “No, the Emperor’s Revenge is a barge. Or used to be. She’d classify as a warship, now, but she’s hidden nearby. We never land her at Lincoln. Too many questions. We park her elsewhere and then use the shuttles.” He thought for a moment. “Apart from a few left-over blockade runners, shuttles, and a pair of commerce raiders – none of which are in the neighborhood – that’s all my ‘fleet’.” He considered. “I’ve always wanted a frigate, though.” “Well, then there’s a big damn warship of unknown origin bearing down on us. My pilot is going to try to get away, but things may be shaky down here while he does it.” “Thanks for the warning, Captain,” Lei acknowledged. “We’re about set, here. None of these men will panic. They’re all veterans. They’ve been through worse.” “Good to know,” Mal nodded. “I’m gonna see to the rest of the lock-down. You gents get comfy.” He stopped briefly by Zoe, who was duct-taping corpses together and policing up weapons. “Good job, Zoe,” he murmured. “Ain’t the first pile o’ cadavers I been responsible for,” she said, with a sigh. “In both senses of the word.” “That ain’t what I meant. I mean the defense. You held. You waited for me, and you held. And no one got hurt.” “Well, Jayne caught a sniper bullet in the arm,” corrected the first officer as she wiped her sweaty face with her sleeve. “Doc’s takin’ a look at it now. I just pulled a back muscle moving these stiffs to the rear, but I’m okay. An’ Johnny there got a graze. But I honestly think he’s more riled about that pretty club o’ his.” “Still, you done good. I’d give you a medal if I could.” “It wasn’t that much,” she said, nodding towards the thick slab of wood in the middle of the hold. Johnny was lashing it to the deck with nylon rope – Mal could just imagine what kind of hazard it would be in a tumble. “Almost didn’t make it. You didn’t show up when you did, might be a different ending.” “Might have been,” Mal agreed, hesitantly. “But I have faith in your abilities.” “Let’s say we got lucky . . . again,” she conceded. “What’s this about a warship?” “Wash says it’s a frigate. General says it ain’t one o’ his. I think that black ops gang back there has back-up.” “That ain’t a pleasant thought, Captain,” Zoe said frowning. “But I know how we can be sure.” “How?” “Ask the prisoner.” Mal’s eyebrows went up. “We got a prisoner? How come no one told me?” “I guess it just slipped our minds in the seven minutes you’ve been aboard. Book caught him slippin’ in through the topside lock. Said the poor man slipped on the ladder. He’s bound, disarmed, and sitting in a storage locker now, I believe, until we can get around to an interrogation.” “I think I just freed up some time,” Mal nodded. “You keep with this. I’ll take care of him, see what we got to worry about. Maybe get some leverage. Or at least find out who these yahoos are, an’ who they work for.” Mal left her just as the ride started getting bumpy, and he caught himself from falling twice before he staggered into the lounge area. A quick glance into the infirmary showed an irate Jayne having his arm stitched up by Simon, whose patience at the turbulence was visibly wearing thin. Mal stuck his head in. “Ah, Captain,” the doctor said, not sparing him more than a glance. “Could you convince Wash to shake us up a bit more? I’m trying to see just how many suture holes I can put in his arm.” “Ow! Gorram it!” Jayne swore. He knew better than to accuse Simon of causing him pain intentionally – especially while still under his care. Simon would never intentionally cause pain to any patient, Mal knew. No matter how tempting. And to blame him for that would be like . . . accusing Jayne of hitting like a girl. You could say what you would about either of them, but neither one was unprofessional in how they performed their primary duties. “I’ll see what I can do. Zoe said somethin’ ‘bout a prisoner?” Jayne thumbed back toward the passenger dorms. “That way. Shepherd stuck ‘im in the aft parts locker. Tied him up right – Gorram it! – right nice, too. Guess they teach bondage at them preacher schools.” “Doc, when you’re done patchin’ him up, I want Jayne to come back and help me interrogate him.” “I’ll give him a local to kill the pain,” Simon nodded. “And try not to do more damage than I can easily repair, will you? None at all would be ideal.” “I’ll use a foam rubber whip,” Mal nodded and continued, running into Book, himself, coming the other way. “Captain! Welcome back.” “Shepherd, word is you caught a prowler. Like to speak with him, if I might.” “Now?” Book asked, eyebrows raised. “Especially now. We got a frigate chasing us from orbit. I want to know who he is and who he’s working for.” “He’s a former Alliance commando, probably the 35th Special Operations Group or the 11th Reconnaissance Brigade,” Book filled in. “I figured somethin’ like that,” Mal agreed. “Those joes weren’t your average run-o’-the-jail rent-a-thug. Pros.” “Indeed,” agreed the Shepherd. “Which means he’s also been trained to resist torture, threats, intimidation. You can sit him in an airlock with your thumb on the button and he wouldn’t tell you what his favorite color is.” “That’s a damn shame,” Mal sighed. “’Cause I need answers, and I need ‘em quick. I may have to let Jayne open up on him.” Book made a face. “I’d rather you didn’t,” he said, mildly. “I know, Shepherd. Ain’t my first choice. But if he’s gonna be reluctant in this matter, don’t see how I got much choice.” “There’s always a choice, Mal,” Book said kindly. “Well, let’s just say I ain’t happy with my options, and knowin’ who’s doggin’ me would go a long way to definin’ what they are.” “Agreed. You have to do what you have to do to save the ship. Talk to him. Maybe he’ll see your point. But I’d take it personal if there was torture involved.” “I can be pretty persuasive, I put my mind to it,” Mal said with a trace of arrogance and a smirk. The man was still in his black-out fatigues, though his pockets were all inside-out, and his hands were fastened securely behind him. He blinked a few times when the light splashed into the dimly-lit locker, and despite his recent unconsciousness he was lucid enough to give Mal an evil stare. “Hi, my name is Captain Reynolds,” Mal said, conversationally. “What’s yours?” “Ha wo deh bang!” spat the prisoner. “You think you can keep me here?” “Well, in point o’ fact, I do,” admitted Mal. “In fact, under the law, you are technically a stowaway, at best. Which means I’m well within my rights to send you out to the Black if I feel like it.” “You’re nothing but a criminal,” the man sneered. “Strong words from a man who broke into my boat. With guns. A lesser man might not be havin’ this friendly a conversation with you.” “I have a warrant!” “Let’s see it.” “I . . . I don’t have it on me.” “Then you don’t have a warrant.” “My . . .” “’Superiors’? Is that the word you’re looking for?” “Sod off!” “Look,” Mal said, tiredly, “either you don’t have superiors and were working alone – and the evidence don’t support that particular contention – or your group is currently chasing us with a big damn warship. If she catches us and hits us with an EM bomb, we’re gonna hit this pretty rock somethin’ hard. Force equals mass times acceleration, or so I’m told. None of us is like to survive. So you can start singin’ now, or we’ll take it up again afore the Pearlies.” “Don’t waste your breath,” the man sneered. “You can start torturing me, for all I care.” Mal fixed him with a long, hard stare. Then he sighed. “You had a chance. You remember that. If we’re alive to remember, that is.” He closed the door. He didn’t want to do it this way, but he didn’t have much choice. Torture was not reliable – and in this case, it would likely not be quick, either. He needed some intel, though, and he needed it now. Would those guys go away? How had they tracked them to Salisbury? And who were they with? What kind of weapons was that frigate toting? Could they be bought, or must they be broken? Just as he was heading back to get Jayne, River wandered by, looking at nothing in particular. An idea occurred to Mal. Maybe torture wasn’t the best way to get this man to open up after all. “River,” Mal called. “I need to know somethin’ . . .”

* Wash flew Serenity over the ground at just above three-times tree-top height, hugging the ground of the Heights as low as he dared to try to confuse the frigate’s radar. If he stayed close in enough then he would get caught up in the image clutter and maybe, just maybe find a quiet spot to settle in until the malevolent ship had passed. That was his plan. Of course it wasn’t working. The frigate was hot on his tail, having punched decisively through the atmo like a heavy stone in a puddle. It was still fifty miles behind him, and it had slowed somewhat since drag had become an issue, but it would still be on them in minutes. Up ahead the low, jagged peaks of the mountains were beckoning him, their soothing white caps offering the hope of refuge from the angry mechanical pterodactyl that followed. Or, he reasoned, they promised a grisly death in a horrific mountainside explosion of twisted metal and radioactive fire. It could go either way. Wash strapped himself into the pilot’s chair the moment he had a spare hand to do so. Both thrusters were cooking, giving him plenty of lift and all the forward speed they could – he was going flat-out. Well, on the port side. The starboard thruster was overperforming just a hair, and if he didn’t keep a careful eye on it, it would throw him off course. The Interthruster Power Differential was supposed to handle that, and usually it did, but something was amiss. It wasn’t a serious issue – he could have felt that through the controls – but for some reason the two weren’t working harmoniously anymore. A minor inconvenience. He could correct by feel, but it had deeper implications: it meant that maybe all that gunfire back at the docking slip had hit something. Kaylee would be able to figure it out, he reasoned, when she had time. That reminded him to check with his Rear Half. “Kaylee, honey, talk to me: how’s the power? She’s pullin’ a little starboard,” he said through the intercom mike. It took a moment for her to answer. “Can’t tell for sure, but I reckon the IPD is out. Could be a control box, could be serious. But my problem is these capacitors! Hot to th’ touch! They’re chou ba guai! Gorammit Wash, I just put these caps in! You put that much through the power train, you’re just askin’ for ‘em to pop!” “Big damn bird behind us, sweetie; sorry for the inconvenience.” “I . . . all right . . .” He could see her biting her bottom lip in his mind. She only did that when she was conflicted or horny or both. “You just keep us away from ‘em, I’ll keep her toasty!” she declared. Wash’s heart felt a little better. In the few years that he had worked with Kaylee, it was rare when she didn’t follow through on such a promise. “All right, tiger, you keep ‘em purrin’, I’ll make ‘em growl!” he said, resolutely. After a pause she came back on the intercom. “Wash? You sure that’s a good metaphor? I mean, I like to think that I make ‘em growl an’ you make ‘em purr.” “Well . . . I guess it’s a matter of perspective,” he conceded. “I mean, as pilot I like to think I have control over the difference between growling and purring, while as an engineer I think your responsibility is more along the line of ensuring that there is growling and purring available, as needed.” “Okay, but I see it more of my job to keep them growlin’, y’know, workin’ at peak efficiency, an’ your job to . . . wag the tail? Wiggle th’ whiskers? Hell, I dunno. Somethin’ like that. I just see growlin’ as my responsibility most ways, not yours.” Wash sighed. “All right, all right, I get it. Keep me posted of any significant details of the growling and purring variety.” Kaylee was the best mechanic he had ever worked with. But God she was weird, sometimes. He felt eyes on him, and turned to see Master Lei shaking his head and chuckling. “All right, two minutes to the peaks, and we can probably just make it if tubby up there,” he announced, nodding toward the monitor where the visual and telemetry of the frigate was coming in, “gets cautious and slows down. Otherwise, he’s gonna catch us just in time to shoot us down before he slams face first into the dirt.” “Small consolation,” Lei sighed. “Yeah, I was thinkin’ that. Thirty miles and closing.”

*

Mal stood outside of the storage locker, while River slumped just outside, her harmonica held slackly to her mouth. She was fiddling around with a tune he almost recognized, something mournful and dire and dirgey. “Okay, we’re gonna try this again,” Mal said with great deliberation. He stepped in just long enough to fit an ordinary biotelemetry transceiver to the forehead of the prisoner. He hoped he had done it quickly enough to keep him from knowing what it was. He then made a great show of plugging in his earpiece. “This is a little piece o’ technology we used in the War,” Mal grinned. “At least, the Intelligence boys did. Kinda like a portable brain scanner, only tuned to read specific signals from the brainpan. Aw, I ain’t really got an idea how it works, but I do know if it ain’t used proper you can burn out a body’s brain. But I figger we’re all gonna die in a bit anyhow, so why not? I ain’t got anythin’ to lose.” “Hey! That’s against the Conventions!” “Uh, the Conventions only cover war. An’ soldiers. You ain’t showed me one bit o’ insignia, given me your name or nothin’. Under the law, you are a criminal. Under the law, as long as the ship is underway, I’m the master, with the power of life and death over everyone aboard to protect my crew. My crew’s in danger. If it means fryin’ your frontal lobes, don’t make no never-mind to me. Your body still will work, an’ that’s all the labor corps care about. Matter o’ fact, they like you all th’ better, on account as you won’t complain none when they cut your rations or you get . . . improperly handled by th’ other fellas in your work crew.” Mal made a show of flipping it on. “Now let’s begin. Your name?” “Go to hell!” Mal touched the earpiece, while River mouthed, out of sight of the prisoner, the name that popped into his head. “Randy. Randall William Lockwood. From . . . Corinth. Corinth? That crappy little moon? Huh,” Mal grunted. “How did you know that?” the man asked nervously, trying to get a look at the machine taped to his head. “Just a lucky guess,” Mal assured. “Who do you work for?” “Hump right on off!” Randy snarled. “I ain’t tell you—” “The Hammer Group,” River whispered dreamily. “Julian Martel and August Sinclair. Bountyhunters.” “The Hammer Group,” Mal pronounced. “Martel and Sinclair. Y’all are bounty hunters, ain’t you?” Mal grinned. “See? Ain’t popped more’n a couple o’ hundred neurons yet. Hope for your sake one o’ the ones that runs your pecker don’t go. What’s the name of that big damn ship comin’ after us?” “Piss off!” insisted Randy desperately. Sweat was starting to bead on his forehead under the biotelemetry unit. “The . . . Relentless,” Mal said. “Prowler class frigate. Ain’t that just a mite dramatic? Armed with . . . goodness, that’s a lot of missiles. EM, HE, AP, trackers – and three 10 megawatt lasers. Sinclair usually runs her – he’s the junior partner – Julian commands the field agents.” “How . . . how are you doing this?” Randy sputtered. “Don’t talk, it increases the rate of neural decay, or somethin’ like that. Oh, hell, go ahead an’ talk – not like you’re gonna be needin’ all them braincells, we don’t escape.” “You can’t do this!” he insisted. “Looks like I’m doin’ it. Wanna check? What’s the name of the first girl you ever been with . . . ?” “Lisa Hsaio,” supplied River in a whisper, a wicked grin on her face. “At his grandmother’s house . . . in the shed . . . she said he was too small . . .” “Hmm. Lisa. Lisa . . . Hsiao? Hsiao. In granny’s shed, no less. And it looks like you weren’t ‘zactly enough man for her.” “Gorram it! How do you know these things?” he shouted. “No one knows about that!” “I do,” Mal said, evenly. “Now, we can continue this little mind-probe, and I can pull this go se outa your brainpan one humpin’ neuron-wreckin’ bit at a time, or you can let me know the quickest way to get the Relentless to leave us alone!” His eyes bored into Randy’s fiercely. “Okay, okay,” the prisoner said, in tears. “She’s gonna come in hard and take out your engines with full EM loads – they got orders to take you alive, if they can. They know about the General, and they know you kidnapped that monk, and they know an awful lot about your gorram evil plan to destroy the Alliance! They won’t let you get away with it! Sinclair will shoot you down and damn the reward if it means keeping your gorram super-weapons out of the hands of madmen like the Imperials!” “My . . . evil plan? Super-weapons?” Mal asked, surprised. River gave him a look. “Oh, yeah. The . . . super-weapons. Which one? We got a lot, y’know. Stuff t’make a whole planet come down with th’ screamin’ shits, blow up whole moons, turn off the gravity, turn folk invisible, you name it. But how do we get that gorram ship to stop followin’ us?” As if to punctuate his request, the deck shook with the force of a nearby explosion. “Maybe we make Corinth our demonstration target,” he added loftily. “Gorram it! Christ, you people . . . They aren’t going to stop. You don’t understand. Big client. One of our biggest. Any reward you ever saw, it’s at least tripled for us. Hell, the personal bonus you get for making the capture on this one is close to half a million!” “That doesn’t bode well for you,” Mal said menacingly. “You give me somethin’ . . . or I’m gonna turn this thing up an’ let you sit ‘till we remember you’re here – and you forget your own name.” “Hey! I . . . you can’t make ‘em quit chasing you – but they got orders. You should really give yourselves up now. Hammer Group is the best of the best.” “Not interested in a sales presentation,” Mal said evenly, the barrel of his pistol not moving a millimeter. “You got proper intel, now’s the time to speak.” “The Tams we take alive. At all costs. We get double, we take ‘em alive! They have to find out their plans, see, they have to stop them. So they won’t use heat, not on this one. It says ‘dead or alive’, but there’ll be hell to pay if we bring in corpses!” “So they ain’t gonna chance heavy ordinance, huh?” Mal asked as River nodded. “That’s somethin’,” he admitted. “Might give us a bit o’ edginess.” “I told you what you wanna know!” Randy continued. “So you spare Corinth! I don’t care if I am a vegetable, you leave my gorram homeworld alone!” “Might could,” Mal agreed, as River nodded. He returned his gun to his holster. Reaching over he ripped the tape savagely from Randy’s forehead before closing the door. “Evil plan?” he said to himself as he headed for the Bridge. “Oh, don’t get me started,” River said, caressing her harmonica. “That boy thinks I’m some sort of mad, demented, dangerous super-genius,” she said derisively. When she caught Mal staring at her, she amended, “but in a bad way!”

*

Wash was flying rings – literal rings – around the tall, jagged peaks of the Heights. He was using every iota of maneuverability that Serenity had at his disposal, coming in tight, threading needles through overhangs, blasting the snowbanks on the mountaintops with his sonic boom in an effort to start a convenient avalanche. Nothing seemed to be working. The frigate was still pursuing doggedly. It had slowed considerably, but then it didn’t seem to need to get that close. When it was within a half-mile it started lobbing EM missiles at them. And telling them to surrender. Wash ignored the radio, concentrating instead on out-flying the heat seekers that sought them out. The EM loads would do little direct damage, of course – the explosives involved were no more powerful than a big grenade. But the should the electromagnetic pulse they generated come too close to their power train . . . Wash wasn’t going to let that happen. He dodged. He ducked. He slowed and speeded his trajectory and took steep banking turns that would have shaken apart a lesser craft. But Fireflys were built tough, and Serenity seemed to respond to his slightest whim with deft grace. “That’s it,” he said to himself, with utter calm. “That’s my girl. Thinks he can come at me like that, does he? Thinks he can just toss a couple o’ spitballs and expect me to roll over? Not today, boys, not Hoban Washburne!” He kept up the monologue for several minutes as he coaxed Serenity into steep climbs and sudden reversals. Another missile launched, the telemetry monitor complaining bitterly about it. And it was close. Wash eased back on the power and sent the ship into a barrel roll that forced the missile into the side of a mountain, where its EM load detonated harmlessly. “Yeah, take that!” he said triumphantly, as he readjusted himself. He felt, rather than heard, the disapproval from Master Lei. “What, am I doing it wrong?” he asked. “You fly too much with your brain,” the old monk explained. “You see each move before you make it. You plan it out. You need to relax more.” “When there’s a murderous bad guy on my ass?” “Especially then,” assured the monk. “You must discover the Way in flight.” “And how do I do that?” demanded Wash. “Y’know, while I’m trying to keep us all alive?” “You must,” insisted Lei sternly. “The pilot of the frigate – he is good. You are better. But that will not matter if you don’t find the Way. You must relax . . .” he said, hauntingly. “The wheel is not a wheel – it is your arm. The thrusters are not the thrusters . . . they are your feet. The sensors are your eyes.” “And this chair is my ass,” concluded Wash, “all of which are in deep go se at the moment. I’m finding it a little hard to relax!” “Try,” the monk insisted. “Don’t forget to breathe. It all begins with the breath.” Wash sighed, a little annoyed. But he knew that Lei had been a great pilot – a great combat pilot – and knew what he was talking about in most things. Wash was a freighter pilot in combat (if getting shot at was combat, he reasoned) and apart from gaming sims he didn’t have that kind of experience. He closed his eyes for a moment, once he was certain of his course, and took a deep breath. “When you open your eyes, see the Way stretch out in front of you,” Lei said softly into his ear. Wash opened his eyes slowly. He didn’t really see anything different, but he did feel a little calmer. “Now what?” he asked, trying to ignore the ship that was approaching another firing solution. “See the Way ahead of you . . . like a stream that is the flow of your desire through the waking world,” Lei said. Wash tried to picture that. Knowing what he knew about Serenity’s flight capabilities and the frigate’s, he could almost see a course through the mountains ahead of him. One that gave Serenity every advantage, and played against the strengths of the frigate. “Just . . . relax. Let your hand be guided to the Way,” intoned Lei. “I . . . think . . . I’m . . . getting it!” Wash breathed, making a smooth motion with his hands that translated to a sudden jag port. Another motion led to an equally jagged translation starboard and up. “That’s it,” agreed the monk gently. “Become as a gull on the breeze . . . become as a feather in the air . . . a leaf on the wind . . . wu-wei, action from inaction, the power of simply . . . being . . . the pilot.” “I . . . am a gull . . . on the breeze,” chanted Wash, softly. “I . . . am a . . . leaf . . . on the wind,” he murmured, as his course became clear. It was as if time was just another control, and one he had scaled back. He could so clearly picture the topography, the enemy, and Serenity in his mind that he could almost feel the presence of the other ship on the back of his neck. His flightpath was crystal clear: there was one best way, one natural way through the course of mountaintops, and he could have steered through it with his eyes closed. It was the easiest – and yet the most difficult – bit of flying he had ever done. He was the gull. He was the feather. He was the leaf. Another EM missiles passed by them, sparkling with blue lightning. Wash side-stepped it with the smallest motion of his fingers, allowing it to pass harmlessly by. “They’ve dropped back,” he pointed out, quietly, after a few minutes of some of the best flying he had ever done. He nodded to the monitor. “Probably not a briar patch they want to mess with. Which gives us just enough room,” he said, preparing the main drive, “to pull out of the world if we can get just a little more distance on ‘em. Ship that big, that much surface area, like to have a much harder time getting free than we will.” “Especially if we leave something behind that they want,” Mal said as he entered. He nodded once to the monk and put his hand on Wash’s chair. “I want you to find a pool, a pond, a puddle of significant size.” “Are you . . . looking to take a bath?” Wash asked. “Not that I’m trying to dissuade you, mind, but it’s really not a convenient time.” Lei snorted. “I’ve had Jayne bring the prisoner up,” Mal explained. “He’s in the hold. I want you to get far enough ahead where we have about two minutes to dump him out the ventral hatch.” “You’re gonna drown him?” Wash asked, surprised. Mal wasn’t known for his enduring compassion, but that seemed a little dark even for him. “No, he’ll be untied. Hands free. And he can swim, if what River told me is truthful. He won’t drown. But he will freeze to death . . . if they don’t stop and pick him up.” Wash grimaced. “How much time will that really buy us?” Mal shrugged. “Hard to say. But probably enough to make orbit. Best shot we got.” “But I was going to outfly them!” Wash whined. “I was a freakin’ gull in the breeze!” “We ain’t got time for that,” Mal said, shaking his head. “We need to put our fanny in their face and get to gettin’. These guys won’t shoot us down – they want the Tams alive. But they ain’t gonna stop without a damn good reason. They won’t leave a man behind to die . . . not one who has valuable intel on our new mind-reading machine and our infamous plan to take over the ‘verse.” Wash sighed. “All right,” he conceded. “I passed a mountain lake a minute ago. Not iced over, but chilly. I can loop around this peak and be back there, give you two or three minutes for the ceremony. But I’m tellin’ you, I was a feather. I could outfly them!” “Another time, then,” Mal said, as he turned to go. “Give us a holler when you’re ready.” “I was a leaf,” Wash muttered to himself. “A freakin’ leaf!”