The Treasure of Lei Fong Wu

Chapter Sixty-Two

DELTA TEAM LEADER -30:15

The engines screamed a belligerent tone from behind the cockpit of the fighter-jock, encapsulating him in a persistent mechanical war-cry that connected him to his machine like some ancient warrior was connected to his steed as he altered course to intercept the first of his deadly foes. The great pale globe of the gas giant that hung to his starboard side was a single baleful eye that would bear witness to the carnage and destruction wrought by his deft flight skills and expert attack. Already the whine of the laser capacitors was oscillating towards a supersonic epiphany, promising to be ready with twin hot lances of coherent photonic death when called upon. The missile racks on either wing were full to capacity with self-guided minions of destruction, eager to leap to his command and convert his mindless, deadly enemy into a cloud of scintillating particles and energetic plasma. The cockpit chair seemed to grow out of his back, making the entire ship an extension of his central nervous system, a part of his body, inseparable in the cold, empty reaches of the Black from his essential being. He and the Marauder were one, beating heart and pulsing reactor united in a death-pact of destruction and utter obliteration. Only one burning question remained . . . “Wash, where did you put the toilet paper?” crackled Kaylee’s voice over the radio. “What?” he asked incredulously. “The toilet paper! You stowed it when it came aboard.” “Isn’t it in the cleaning supplies locker?” “We went through that case already! There were three cases. Where are the other two?” “Did you check bulk storage in the cargo bay?” “First thing. Nothin’.” “Well, we’ve got a lot of people on board. Stuff gets moved around.” “Well, most of ‘em are out there in the ship somewheres or dead. Hate to disturb ‘em over somethin’ like this.” “But asking me while I’m on a desperate quest to save us all is OK?” “But you’re Wash! The front end! Besides, you’d have the best chance of knowin’.” Wash sighed. He couldn’t argue with that. “Let me think . . . um, did Zoe and Jayne shift the extra ammo cases over to the dry goods storage cage?” “Uh . . . yeah. No protein base here, just bullets.” “Thought so,” Wash affirmed. “Then it’s likely that the toilet paper ended up in the rear cargo locker in Shuttle One.” “Huh? How you figure?” “I know my wife. Ammo goes into the dry goods cage, dry goods go into the aft starboard supply locker – the one with the broken door – whatever parts were there went into bulk storage, and anything in bulk storage went into the rear cargo locker on the shuttle.” “I was wonderin’ why there was fifty feet o’ #10 electric cable in bulk storage! That’s amazing!” “I just know how she thinks,” admitted Wash. “Which is a very scary commentary on both her and me.” “Full well it is. How’s the vicious attack run?” “Oh, haven’t quite got there yet. About six minutes. I’m gonna cut the radio out shortly though, keep ‘em from homing in on my signal. Radio silence until I’m done.” “All righty. Good luck!” “You’re supposed to say ‘good hunting’,” Wash insisted. “They always say ‘good hunting!’” “Who does?” “They do! Y’know, the jolly flight deck mechanic, and the incredibly anal retentive new lieutenant, the sexy female fighter pilot that’s really better than all the guys but secretly harbors a crush on the hero, and the salty old captain on a last, desperate mission . . . those guys. When the fighter pilots head out on a mission, they always say, respectfully, ‘good hunting’. It’s traditional.” “Ai ya. You watched waaay too much CV as a kid.” “Had to do somethin’ when the arcade was closed. Mom worked second shift. I’ve seen every bad old vid about every war they’ve ever produced. Didn’t you?” “Hell, Wash, we didn’t get a basic cortex link until I had boobs! Remember where I grew up? Only thing to do there was fight, fornicate, and throw rocks.” “And all the girls practiced saying sweetly, ‘number two!’ I know, I know, I’ve heard the joke.” “I ain’t jokin’. ‘Twas really like that!” “Don’t doubt it, Hiney. Aren’t you glad you left all that for a life of adventure and crime and quests to find missing toilet paper?” “Uh . . . yeah. Yeah, I am.” “Me, too. OK, I’m getting’ close now. I’ll see you on the flipside.” “Good hunting, Wash!” “Thanks, Delta Control. Wildfire out!” He turned the channel to the regular flight control band, the one that Master Lei was monitoring. “Flight Control, this is Delta Leader, call sign Wildfire, requesting updated approach vector for Bandit One. Do you read?” “I’m right here, Wash. Having fun?” “The most I’ve ever had with my clothes on. Can we go over this one last time?” “It’s real easy. There are twelve drones. In order for Serenity to have a wide enough window for escape, at least eight of them need to be eliminated. You have eight missiles. Don’t be stupid and try to engage these things close-up with guns, they’ll eat your lunch. Stay a few thousand clicks away and throw rockets at them.” “Where’s the fun in that?” “Which music would you like played at your memorial service?” “C’mon! I can take ‘em!” “Don’t be stupid, boy. These are high-end Alliance military drones. They have their own lasers, guns, micro missiles, EMP cables, interdiction fields, ECM pods, you name it. And they don’t black out when they make an eight G turn. They are on an ansibled distributed network and can be remotely controlled, work in formation with each other, and witty banter is lost on them. Your best and only real hope is to close in to maximum missile range and hit them before they notice you’re there. Anything less than that and your just another piece of orbital debris for us to toast – that is, if we find our way off of this flying deathtrap before we are captured by either the relentless bounty hunters or the most maniacal torturer in human history.” “Now that’s a happy thought.” “Isn’t it though. So quit feeling cocky and remember that you’re there to do a job, not get a metal. Hit them with missiles and be sneaky about it. Then get back here as quickly as possible. You only need eight hits to give us a clear run. Five would give us a shot. Any more than eight and you’re asking for trouble. Don’t do anything stupid.” “Me? Never! I just wanted to get your perspective.” “That’s a powerful machine, boy. But it isn’t invulnerable. You’re an outstanding pilot. That doesn’t mean you can out-fly military hardware that’s smarter than you. Do you r job, get back to the barn. Flight control out.” Wash sat in silence for a few moments, watching the telemetry monitor and the engine performance screen as the kilometers between him and the first drone melted away. He knew Master Lei was right. And in truth, he didn’t want to do anything stupid, anything that would leave Zoe a widow. He looked forward to many, many happy years ahead. He anticipated growing old with her and . . . He stopped himself. That was dangerous territory. Then the irony hit: here he was, a rookie fighter pilot going into a desperate situation, where one wrong move could end him quick, and he was fretting about his reproductive future. What did it matter to him that he didn’t have children when he could be dead in the next fifteen minutes? The very real possibility swam in front of him. Was that a sense of . . . regret? Of longing? Or was he merely disappointed in himself that he had yet to give Zoe the one thing that she wanted more than anything else? Something that it was in his power to give. Was it totally unfair of him to deny this boon to her, when he had pledged his eternal love? The thought made him uncomfortable. The prospect of imminent death did, indeed, sharpen one’s biological perspective. He had discussed the subject with Zoe, since her profession had a higher mortality rate than his own. He had even blamed her desire for a child on that, insisting that it stemmed largely from her almost daily brushes with her own mortality. Here in this cockpit, far from the security of Serenity, alone with the stars and the Black, he suddenly had insight into what Zoe had been feeling. It wasn’t like he danced with death all that often – his few company-related firefights had largely found him in purely defensive positions screaming like a school girl. OK, the attack on Niska’s Skyplex had been an uncharacteristic show of bravery, but the aberration was no doubt due to his tortured mind. And the jailbreak from that space station a few months ago, and subsequent shoot-out . . . well, he had been compelled to do that to save Zoe – although it turned out she didn’t need saving all that much. But here in the cockpit he was in his element. He knew what he was capable of, as surely as Zoe did when she drew that damn sexy dogleg shotgun and pointed it at some offending target. Here in the cockpit, he knew with utter clarity that he could die. And that stirred something deep within him. He decided that, assuming he lived through the next hour, he would revisit the idea of children. His earlier misgivings somehow seemed unimportant, now. Sure, bringing kids into the world was a risk. It was an uncertain ‘verse – the gray graveyard world of Hecate, a few thousand clicks below him, demonstrated that better than anything. To die and not leave behind a legacy, that left him feeling hollow inside. Likely once he crawled out of this cockpit he’d never be in real combat again, not like this. He seriously doubted that his cowardly nature would lead him to any death other than a peaceful one, in bed, at the end of a long and prosperous life. Why did he suddenly feel like it was a mistake not to be surrounded by his fictional prodigy on that deathbed? The proximity alarm beeped enthusiastically and broke his deep thoughts. Bandit One was only five thousand clicks away. Time to get ready. In, shoot, out, on to the next one. Textbook. He could do this. Patting the control yoke affectionately he altered his approach slightly and thumbed the safety on the fire control stick. As the missiles heated up he took a deep breath and focused his attention on the tiny sparkle ahead of him that the sensors said was the drone. It was time to go to work.

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RECONSTITUTED GAMMA TEAM –30:25

Mal stared down the sight of the assault rifle and took careful bead on the figure at the far end of the bay: an excitable-looking fellow who’s eyes were wide with panic as his position was assaulted. He was waving his own rifle around brazenly, occasionally firing off shots into the darkness, and shouting orders or requests for assistance – hard to say at this range. But he was clearly spooked. Every few minutes another one of Johnny’s flash-bang pop-flies would fall into the midst of the bounty hunters and explode with a blinding flash and a deafening bang. After the tenth shot, the bounty hunters had realized that there was little to fear from the barrage unless it landed right in front of you, and that they could almost ignore the grenades while they were dodging the sniper fire that erupted out of the darkness. There was the fellow’s head . . . a little lower down put the scope square on his torso . . . and Mal adjusted his elbow minutely and found his target. He squeezed the trigger gently and sent a round down-range. Suddenly the excitable fellow had his big ass assault rifle shot out of his hands. He hit the deck and scrambled to draw his pistol, instead. Mal grinned – this was fun. They had been doing this for about five minutes, now. Only two or three bounty hunters were down with anything like serious wounds, and they only from being in the spot where Jayne’s motorcycle had crashed. The rest were being harassed to the point of madness. Twice now someone had had enough of the constant fire and had returned a full magazine on full auto into the darkness, where it hit nothing in particular. As he scanned for other interesting targets he heard a whisper over his intercom – Colonel Campbell. “Captain, a large contingent has withdrawn from the engine room, presumably headed for your location. We will commence insertion now and go to radio silence. Copy?” “Copy,” agreed Mal, touching his headset. “Good luck. Sorry you have to miss all the fun.” There was a pause. “Don’t worry on our account. We’ve had our fair share. Campbell out.” Mal grunted in satisfaction. For once things looked like they were going well. He fired off a quick burst just over their heads in celebration. “Get ready for the second act,” he said into the channel that connected with his men. “Expect some more concerted defensive fire. Suggest you alter your location after every second shot – otherwise they’ll track you by muzzle-flash.” They knew that, of course – even Johnny, who had little experience with firefights. Mal took his own advice by scurrying over to another position, behind the tread of a huge roller with what looked like an anti-aircraft battery on it. “Cap,” the call came from one of the commandos as he slid into position and took aim once more, “looks like they’ve arrived.” Sure enough, another dozen or so bounty-hunters poured out of the doorway and took up position as smoothly as they could under the circumstances. Someone other than the thug who had been in charge was giving the orders now, it became apparent, when one of the newcomers aimed a grenade launcher into the darkness and fired into the air . . . and suddenly the entire chamber was lit by an arc-flare. “Took ‘em long enough,” Mal muttered to himself as he stood stock still. That was the only thing you could do under a flare like that – movement could be easily detected in the five seconds you were revealed, whereas standing stock still could fool a sniper’s eye. He was gratified that he didn’t see any of his men moving, either. The moment that the flare died, he opened up with his rifle and emptied the clip at the guy with the grenade launcher on the theory that such temerity should not go unpunished. As he was changing position again he noted that the new commander was setting up two light-infantry support pieces, looked like .50 machine guns, at either side of the entrance. It was a good move – not that it would help much. The way Johnny was belting grenades downfield it was as if they had their own mortar. Sure enough, the new machine-gun emplacements drew Johnny’s eye and they had to replace one of the operators when he was knocked insensible by a well-placed shot. Mal moved slightly forward and found a good prone position, then started picking away at the remaining calm the bounty hunters were able to muster. He focused on boots. Of all the issues likely to hold up a party in combat, foot-wounds were the worst. A sucking chest wound could be ignored on the theory that the man would likely expire before he received adequate attention. But a man with a shot foot, well, you couldn’t ignore that. You had to help him out of the line of fire and deal with it, else he was liable to get cranky and compel assistance from his mates at gunpoint. So Mal started shooting at boots. “Mommy, see the funny men dance!” he cackled to himself as he put one into the heel of a fuzzy mercenary. Jayne apparently had had a similar idea, because he suddenly emerged into the aisle with a brace of machine pistols and sprayed the foes at knee-level before he rolled back under cover. “Almost out of grenades, Captain,” Johnny called through the radio. “Save a couple for your ownself, then fall back to support Hwang,” Mal ordered. “Gotcha, Cap!” the boy said enthusiastically. Mal watched as he put three more grenades into the air and then vanished from his spot before the last one exploded. A moment later he was only ten feet from Mal, heading towards their rear, a silly grin on his face. The grin went slack when a stray shot from the opposition hit him squarely between the shoulderblades. His armor stopped penetration, of course, but the shock of impact was enough to knock the boy clean out. Cursing Mal rolled over to where his unconscious body had fallen, checked his pulse, then pulled him back towards the rear of the bay. He’d be fine, he reasoned, if he stayed out of sight. Mal stuffed him under a light attack vehicle where he’d be protected, then turned back towards the bounty hunters to shoot. In a few minutes the kid would be back, shaking off the intrusion, and Mal wouldn’t have to explain to Nyan Nyan how her new boyfriend had gotten himself killed for the glory of the Empire. He might have an interesting bruise pattern to show off, though. Keep shooting, keep moving, keep ‘em busy: that was the plan. It was simple and uncomplicated. Just the way Mal liked it. Things should be smooth sailing from here on out.

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RECONSTITUTED GAMMA TEAM FRAGMENT –30:18

Campbell took out two sentries just inside the Engine Room without a sound, then waved River forward. He gave her a quizzical look, and thought, rather than spoke, a question at her: How many more ahead of us? She considered, flashing him a quick grin, then held up four fingers. A few more gestures and he knew approximately where they were. He nodded and mouthed a thanks, then began his crouched approach. Three of the men were all clustered together around one bank of consoles that they had ripped open. Wires and circuit boards littered the area like the guts of some mechanical creature. Two of the men were arguing with the third, who seemed insistant that they accomplish something that they clearly thought was out of the realm of possibility. Campbell didn’t waste time with further examination. He shot two of the men carefully in the leg from his concealed position, then pointed his pistol at the third man’s head. “Don’t move a muscle,” he said in a firm, low voice, “or I will liberate you from this painful existence. By the authority of His Imperial Majesty, you are my prisoner.” “Whatthefu—” the leader – his shoulder strap made him a captain – started to say. “Language!” Campbell warned. “There are ladies present!” As if on cue, River emerged, barefoot and tiny, looking for all the world like an innocent vagabond on her way to a concert in the woods. “You!” the captain bellowed over the moans of his wounded men. “You’re her!” “I’m who?” River asked confused. “Identity? An illusion of consciousness designed to facilitate the polite fiction of individual experience.” “You’re River Tam!” the man repeated excitedly. “This is great! I’m gonna get rich off your skinny ass!” Campbell frowned and gestured minutely with the pistol. “Perhaps you have forgotten the particulars of your situation, sir,” he said. “Nah. Y’all don’t scare me. You might have the drop on me at the moment, but that’s a temporary condition. Y’see,” he said, grinning evilly, “y’all got my boys here ‘cause you surprised us, like. And you are pointing a pistol at my head – that fact ain’t escaped me. But in a minute y’all will have to make a choice whether you wanna shoot me or my friends. ‘Cause they gonna come runnin’ in just a sec.” “Mayhap I’ll render the point moot by blowing your silly head off,” Campbell said dangerously. “Nah, don’t think so. You gotta deal with him,” he said, gesturing behind him. A large figure arose from behind a console, a very big man with a very big gun. “Take her alive, Boris!” the captain shouted. “She ain’t worth six bits spoilt!” “Yuh-huh,” grunted the big bounty hunter, who slung his weapon and started towards River. “River . . .” Campbell warned. “Maintain,” the girl said calmly, though a trace of excitement could be detected. “This one is clumsy. He moves like an out-of-control freighter.” “See, now you gotta decide: who you gonna shoot? Me? Then Boris will hammer you into dust and take the girl. Boris? Then I’m gonna shoot you dead. Stalemate!” “Not,” Campbell said steadily, “if I turn a pawn into a queen. Can you do it River?” “Do I have to kill him?” “I’d prefer if you didn’t, actually,” conceded Campbell. “All right, then,” she sighed, as if he had asked if she would please take out the garbage. While he watched out of the corner of his eye, she took out her harmonica. “What are you gonna do with that?” Boris asked arrogantly. “Play me to sleep with a little tune?” River answered by bringing the instrument to her lips and starting to play a lively river-bargeman’s song Campbell knew was based on an ancient folksong. It had a steady beat. So did River, who gently proceeded to beat the crap out of Boris. There was only one of him, so she took her time. She moved with fluid grace and instant reaction. She landed a half-dozen blows on his legs, arms, and neck that would have knocked a smaller man unconscious. She evaded the big man’s grasp with ridiculous ease and broke his left arm. Then she lashed out with her feet and broke his instep, his knee, and used her elbow to shatter his collarbone through his armor. All the while she played the lively little tune. The captain looked on in horror as his biggest man went sprawling, face contorted in a rictus of agony. It was almost a relief when she used a well-placed kick to his jaw to render him unconscious. The last note of her music sounded as he closed his eyes and passed out. Campbell studied the captain. “What an amazing come-back,” he said drolly. “Now, perhaps you can explain to me what you have done to the computer station here.” “She just . . . Boris is . . . I can’t . . . wait . . .” He got ahold of himself and swallowed, eyeing the teenager nervously. “They ain’t asked enough for you, girl.” “Enough admiration,” Campbell insisted. “What have you done here?” “Tried to get into the computer, is all. Wouldn’t take no commands. Joey,” he said, nodding to the man with the hole in his knee, “he thought it were a hardware issue, what with this crate bein’ on cold storage awhile. So he tears off the access plate and starts monkeyin’. Maybe we can find a workaround for the glitch.” “Idiot,” Campbell pronounced. “The program works as designed. You must have the proper code – no amount of mucking the circuits will help with that.” “Well where were you two hours ago, Mr. Smarty Pants?” demanded the captain. “If you got the code, might could be helpful if you told us!” “Sorry, we were held up,” apologized Campbell sarcastically. “You need to put it back together,” he insisted. “Yeah, right!” “I’m being very serious. Because if you do not, then in a little over a day this whole ship will plunge back into the planet’s core. Taking all of us with it, I might add.” “You’re . . . that ain’t true! Is it?” he asked, confused. “How I wish it wasn’t,” agreed Campbell. "But unless I can access the verbal inputs to the Engine Room computer, these reactors will not come on-line and the ship is programmed to self-destruct. So I would appreciate it if your men would consent to undo their damage. If they did, I would be so appreciative as to give them medical attention without which, in my expert opinion, both will bleed out and die within the next few hours.” “I ain’t inclined to deal with criminals,” the captain said, stubbornly. “Was a law man for ten years. Three in Federal service. I know the criminal class. Y’all are likely to cut our throats the moment you have no further need of us. I ain’t inclined to cooperate with that.” “Ten years, did you say?” Campbell asked, conversationally. “Yeah. Made Lieutenant in the Constabulary on Ita, then did three years as a patrolman on Muir, ferretin’ out rebels and Greenies.” “You have a wife? Kids?” “Nah. Always wanted them. Figgerd I’d take my bounty from her an’ her kin and go settle somewhere. Have a mess o’ kids,” the captain said encouragingly. Hostage takers who formed a close personal relationship with their hostages were less likely to kill them. That was standard police doctrine for centuries – get them involved in your lives, humanize yourself. Of course, Campbell was well aware of the doctrine as well. His training went far beyond mere policework and included hostage negotiations, among a vast array of other info useful to a comprehensive spy. He lowered his pistol, and noticed the man’s visable signs of relief . . . . . . until he pointed the pistol at his nether regions. “That’s unfortunate, because if I don’t see some action on this instantly, we will ensure that any progeny you have will be adopted . . . and I know you don’t want to go through all the hassles of adoption paperwork,” he said with menace, his meaning clear. “I know you’re groin is armored. At this close range, how many shots do you think it would take to overcome the facility of the armor?” “Marsh! Get that thing back in service!” the captain commanded. “Jesus Christ, boss, I’m bleeding!” the technician moaned. “Don’t get any on the machine,” Campbell said. “It might make it hard to re-start.” “I can’t work with a gorram hole in my humpin’ knee!” the man protested. “If you would prefer, we can see how well you work with two gorram holes in your humpin’ knees,” Campbell warned. “Dong ma?” “OK! OK! I’ll try!” “He has a gun in his tool kit,” River pointed out. “He does?” Campbell asked. “I do?” the technician asked. “Nine millimeter semi-automatic eighteen shot Manchester Arms Equalizer Plus, with laser sight and muzzle flare adapter. You won it in a dominoes game on the Relentless from someone named ‘Stinky’. Stinky’s dead now. Poor Stinky,” she cooed. “How the hell does she know all that?” the captain asked, incredulous. “She’s a really good guesser,” Campbell said, moving to the toolbox and removing the gun, tucking it into his belt with one hand while he held steady aim on the captain’s crotch with the other. “There, now get to work. The faster you go, the sooner you get a bandage.” “I should be able to—” The technician’s answer was cut short as River’s eyes went wide and she started screaming hysterically. The captain saw the distraction as an opportunity to turn the tables on his captors, which Campbell had anticipated – expecting an ex-cop to not try something heroic was like asking a Shepherd not to preach in public. He ended the matter by the expedient of shooting the man twice in his armored chest, which put him on the ground, unconscious, next to Boris. “What is it, River?” Campbell asked, gently. “They’re coming!” she whispered harshly, looking around at things that were not there. “A lot of them! They’re coming this way!” “Who’s coming?” he asked insistently. “From where?” “They are! And he’s with them! They’re trapped, they’re gonna get caught between them! No escape! No hope, no escape!” she moaned, slumping towards the deck in a heap. Campbell barely caught her in time. “Who are they, River?” he continued to ask in soothing tones. “They’re coming!” she repeated. “And . . . he’s with them!” “Who?” demanded Campbell. “Shan Yu,” she whispered, then fainted.

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RETURNING RESCUE PARTY -30:11

“At last,” Inara said with relief as they finally entered the hanger bay. “I think I’m going to sleep for a week!” “You . . . you came in that?” Nyan Nyan asked incredulously as Serenity came into view. The wounded commandos pushed politely passed her in a rush to get aboard. “She don’t look like much,” Zoe offered. “Firefly class transport ain’t ‘zactly a Cosmoliner, but she’s spaceworthy an’ she got the best pilot in the ‘verse,” she added with a warm smile. “She also has a complete sick bay,” Simon said with relief. “Much more advanced than when I found her. Thanks to some inspired improvisation and my growing talent for larceny, that is.” “Food ain’t fancy, but it’s edible,” Zoe continued. “She’s clean . . . mostly . . . and she’s warm. Serenity’s got a good heart. And that grease-covered girl on the ramp is Kaylee, her mechanic. She’s the one what keeps her in the air.” “Hey, y’all!” Kaylee said brightly, running up and hugging Simon, Zoe, and Inara . . . and Simon again. “I’m so glad you’re back!” “Me too,” Inara said warmly. “Remind me of how tired I am the next time I’m tempted to join the Captain for one of his little adventures.” “Cap okay?” Kaylee asked, troubled. “Right as rain last time we saw him,” Zoe affirmed. “Where’s Wash? Thought he’d be all over me like ugly on a Reaver by now.” “Uh . . . oh,” Kaylee said, guiltily. “He kinda had to . . . step out.” “What do you mean, ‘out’?” Zoe asked coolly. She knew something was amiss. “Uh . . . there was this thing, this problem, some drones that are keepin’ us bottled up, an’ so me an’ Wash an’ Master Lei put our brainpans together an’ figured out a way to get rid o’ them.” “And that way involved my husband . . . how, exactly?” “Well, we tried to get one of the lasers workin’, but no go, so we had to figure out another way, an’ we did, ‘cept Master Lei’s kinda occupied on the Bridge with a bunch of Bounty Hunters that are keeping him at bay, so there wasn’t no other pilot, and Wash volunteered to handle it, once we got a ship going and got some missiles checked out, an’ so he kinda . . . went after them. In a Marauder. A real pretty one, too.” “He . . . what?” Zoe asked, menacingly. “I got some captures!” Kaylee said defensively, holding up the capture like a shield. “Look, here’s Wash in his flightsuit – don’t he look handsome? An’ here’s the ship, which we named after you ‘cause you’re so pretty an’ sweet an’ understanding . . . and here’s one o’ him coming across the deck in his flightsuit . . . here, watch it in slow motion, it’s really shiny . . .” “As entertaining as this is,” Simon said, yawning, “I’d appreciate a little help getting Book into the infirmary. His meds should be wearing off again, and I’d like to get him more comfortable before I give him any more.” He started unfastening the catch to the shrouded stretcher. “You mean to tell me that my idiot husband has climbed his ass into a hundred-year old fighter – a ship, mind, that he has never flown before – and gone after a dozen homicidal drones and an entire gorram frigate? And he didn’t ask his wife, first?” “Y’know, when you say it like that, it don’t sound near as excitin’ as it did when we was plannin’ it all,” conceded Kaylee. “Kaylee! I can’t believe you! Do you know how dangerous –” “But Zoe! You done said your ownself a hundred times how Wash could fly a moonbeam if it had thrusters! I thought you said he was the best!” “He is! He’s damn good! He’s also married! And married to as pissed-off a woman as ever was born at the moment!” “This is going to get ugly,” Simon murmured to Nyan Nyan and Inara as Kaylee and Zoe started arguing. He snapped open the last catch. “You’ll find that the interpersonal dynamic within Serenity’s crew is a complex and complicated interplay of . . . hey!” he said, stopping suddenly. He stared down into the stretcher, shocked. It was empty. “Y’know,” the doctor said, mildly, “I could have sworn we put a preacher in here.”