Kaylee’s Lament Part I

Sophia was just another pissant backwater world on the Rim whose only distinction from the four other pissant terraformed moons around it was that it was about two light years closer to anyplace even remotely civilized than its neighbors. By default, that made it a transit crossroads and distribution point for goods coming in from the Core and a few meager commodities that the colonies might export. But it was still a pissant world, the capital of which was known as Wisdom City (Population 7,521) which boasted three bars, all of which were clustered around the sorry excuse for a “starport”. It was saying something that Serenity was the third largest ship to come through in a year. But the beer was good, plentiful, and affordable, and it beat the “reactor squeezins” Kaylee made for the crew. Kaylee thought so herself, and was already on her third beer. Jayne and Shepherd Book were also at the table, Jayne foregoing good beer for decent whiskey, and Book still nursing his first brew. “How long we got to wait here? I was considering finding me a whore.” Kaylee didn’t even bother to blush around Jayne’s frankly crude manner anymore. Book likewise didn’t even blink. He knew Jayne was a walking phallus. “They said it would be a while,” Book commented. “Well, how long is that?” Jayne asked, mystified. “A while.” “That ain’t much help.” “Noticed that?” “How long is a while? Long enough for me to dip my wick?” “Long enough for you to catch somethin’ nasty.” “Not enough life on this rock for there to be anything nasty around. ‘Sides, any bug what ever bit me, died.” “Well, then, by all means. Considering how long I hear you take to . . . well, we probably got that long. Go ahead.” Book looked more than half amused. “Really?” “Yes, you idjit, go get laid! If you don’t, I won’t be able to stand you for the next few weeks!” Kaylee surprised her own self with the outburst. But she swore to the Black that Jayne was about the slowest man alive when it came to plain sense. “Well, now, if little miss cowbweb crotch here says I need it, I guess I’m overdue for an oil change. If you ladies will excuse me, I thought I saw a house just ‘cross the street.” “Give ‘er and inch fer me,” slurred Kaylee, as she finished her beer. Book gave her a look of concern after Jayne grinned and headed for the door. “You all right, Kaylee?” “Ruttin’ preachy, peacher.” “You don’t sound peachy.” “’m just drinkin’ a little, ‘sall. Li’l celebration never hurt no one.” “What are you celebrating?” he asked cautiously. “’Sbenn five ruttin’ months since I got a piece, is what. Five. Whole. Months. Doctor-boy’s too damn noble, and River ‘s always ‘round. Hard to find—” she looked around exaggeratedly, then whispered so loudly that no one in the sparsely populated bar could fail to hear her, “private time, even if I could convince him I’m worth messin’ with.” “Now, Kaylee, I’m sure—” Book started. “I’m not sure, not sure at all. Wha’s his ruttin’ problems wi’ me anyways?” “I’m sure—” “Do I smell bad?” She sniffed exaggeratedly under each armpit. “A little like lubricants – but there are boys who like that sort of thing.” “You smell fine, Kaylee, better’n most girls. I’m sure that—” “Then it’s ‘cause I’m not pretty enough. Do you think I’m pretty enough, Book?” The Shepherd stumbled as he searched for words appropriate to the occasion. “Do you? Huh? Oh, I know tha’ Shepherdsh aren’t supposed to, y’know, notice that sorta thing,” she said, accidentally knocking over her empty cup. She didn’t seem to notice. “But I know you gotta – unless, unless yer, y’know, sly?” Her eyes got big at the thought. “Don’ bother me none, y’know, if’n you were sly – I had a friend back home who liked boys – but you should still be able to tell if I’m pretty!” She threw her hair back in a drunken parody of sexiness that Book found almost funny – but he was still trying to cope with this flood of supposition. When she blinked her eyes rapidly in an exaggerated ‘come hither’ look, he couldn’t take it any more. “Kaylee, calm down. Calm down and listen to me. First, I’m not . . . sly. Just to put that idea to rest, I’m attracted to women. When I’m not directing my energies elsewhere, that is. Regardless, I think you are very pretty, and any non-sly single man in his right mind would be proud to take you to bed, you have my word.” “Yer jest sayin’ that ‘cause yer a Shepherd an’ you gotta try to make me feel better,” the drunken engineer accused half-heartedly. “If I’m so ruttin’ pretty, then, how come Doctor-boy ain’t bedded me? I done everythin’ cept strip nekked and rub ‘em in his ruttin’ face!” “Kaylee,” Book said, gently, “I think that your attempts to have a relationship with Simon are admirable. It’s clear that he’s attracted to you – who wouldn’t be? But try to see it from his point of view. He had a rather sheltered upbringing on Osiris, the best schools, a top professional career, real Core-world high society. All of a sudden he throws all of that away, his fortune, his class, his family, his elite social standing, for the sake of a sister who’s not all home on the best of days. He’s out on the Rim, hiding from the law in a tramp freighter, never knowing if this day is going to be his last. And there you are—” “Here I am!” Kaylee agreed, waving defiantly. “More beer, pleash?” “There you are, warm, sweet, pretty, friendly, and smart – but totally unlike any girl he has ever had experience with. Back in the Core, in his circles, women don’t usually become starship engineers. They become socialite wives of important men, or professionals in their own right. So he’s still trying to figure you out. On top of that, you are the only woman on board that he may legitimately consider uh, coupling with, and that is making him hesitant – not because he isn’t attracted to you, but because he doesn’t want to make you think that he’s taking advantage of you in any way. Don’t forget he still thinks of himself as a sophisticated city boy from the Core, and he still sort of sees you as a, uh, naïve Rim world girl.” “I think I get whatchyer sayin’, Shepherd,” Kaylee said deliberately when he finished his speech. “You do?” asked Book, surprised that Kaylee could understand anything right now. “Yeah. ‘S clear as th’Black t’me, now that you put it so, um, clear.” “So you do understand,” Book said, relieved. “Sure do. Doctor Boy is a big-time doctor, an’ . . .” “And . . . ?” “An’ he doesn’ like me ‘cause I’m fat!” “What? Kaylee, no, no, that’s not what I said! I was trying to—” “’Sokay, ‘sokay, I understan’. Spend too much time workin’ on the engines, workin’ on the systems, workin’ in th’ kitchen, ain’t got a lot o’ time t’ exershize. So li’l Kaylee’s put on a few kilosh. I ken work w’that. I’ll jus’ work out hard fer a few, uh, weeks, ‘n’ he won’ be able to resist . . .” the bartender interrupted with another mug of the local brew, an amused smile on his face. Book looked discouraged. “my femininine sharms!” “I really don’t think—” “’Sokay, like I said. I’ll get ‘Nara to help me out, she ken show me some super-secret Companion secret ‘love exershizes’, an’ then Simon won’ be able to reshist! He’ll do me so ruttin’ hard tha’—” “Check, please,” Book called out. He was clearly over his head. “—tha’ I won’ be able t’walk fer a solid week!” When Wash came into the bar a fifteen minutes later Kaylee was completely reclined in the booth and singing quietly – and not too well – while Book sat watch over her, looking resigned. Wash smirked – he was good at that – and slid into the booth next to the Shepherd. There had to be a story here. “How’s it going kids?” he asked jovially. “Everyone having a good time?” “Oh, everything is going fine, isn’t it Kaylee?” “Ruttin’ peachy!” came the voice from under the table. “See?” Book said with a fake smile. “Couldn’t be better.” “So I see. What’s the issue?” “Kaylee is feeling a little—” “I’m HOR-ny!” she sang, still under the table. “—frustrated by a lack of attention. So she has elected to try beer therapy. I suggested prayer and Bible verses, but that seemed . . . ineffective under the circumstances.” “Kaylee, have you even read the Bible?” asked Wash, continuing his smirk. “Jes’ th’ dirty parts,” admitted the disembodied voice. “Wash, as much as I cherish my time as a spiritual counselor to the crew, helping them through their inner journey and guiding them to areas of real growth, in this case I feel I’m a might, um, out of my depth. Perhaps—?” “Perhaps an old married man can help? I don’t know, Shepherd; this seems like a real spiritual issue to me. I don’t think I could take her off your hands. . . for anything less than the next three turns at dishes—” “Done. Fine. She’s yours. I’m going to have a look around town. Then head back to the ship. Where I will pray for her. A lot. Alone. In my bunk. Let me know how it turns out.” Book rose and grabbed his coat, digging out a few bills to leave on the table. “I honestly expected you to haggle,” grumbled Wash. “I should have started at four.” “Cheap at twice the price – but that was your deal. You’re in charge of Miss Libido now.” “Fine, fine, I know what to do. You just go and pray and, and . . . do whatever you preachers do when you’re uncomfortable.” When Book left, a relieved smile on his face, Wash leaned over the table to see a thoroughly plastered Kaylee staring blankly up at him. “You okay?” “’M shiny. And horny. I’m Shorny!” “Kaylee, Kaylee, not again. Why do you let the man do this to you?” “He’s not doin’ anythin’ to me! Tha’s th’ problem!” “Fine, fine, you got some urges what need attending to. Well, I’d be willing to help, but I’m married to a highly jealous psychopathic killing machine. Have you considered having recourse to a mechanical method of libido fulfillment?” “I done wore tha’ poor li’l machine out months ago!” “Oo-kay. Well. Where’s a Companion when you need one?” he asked rhetorically. “’Nara’s on Commonwealth, dummy. ‘Sides, she won’ do crew. I asked already.” “Okay, I – you what?” “I was just bein’, y’know, curious, after that one time we saw her. But she said tha’ although I’m a ‘dear friend’ she couldn’t very well make an exception for me.” “Damn. Ain’t ppor Zoe gonna get some tonight.” “So wha’ am I gonna do, Wash, about . . . my li’l problem?” “Kaylee, Kaylee, Kaylee. This is a dilemma. I don’t think the house across the street is really set up for girls. To service them, I mean. And I don’t feel right just offering you to any passing stranger.” “Why not? It’s ‘cause I’m fat, ain’t it?” “No, it’s ‘cause you smell like engine grease. But some boys like that.” “Tha’s what I said!” “On second thought, let’s go see the madam of the establishment – maybe she can help somehow. A new . . . machine, maybe. You’re pretty good with machines.” “You betcha!”

* * *

Mal and Zoe looked over the merchandise in the warehouse, the dealer at their side sucking on a foul-smelling cigar – the local tobacco was pungent. The little fat man was a slob, one Horace J. Fearington by name, and his off, off, off-white shirt was speckled with the remnants of the day’s work and the day’s food. He owned several business around the starport, and despite his slovenly habits, he was the kind of man Mal preferred to do business with: thoroughly dishonest, but somewhat trustworthy. “Don’t get many free-traders through Sophia, you know,” he said amiably. “Only five or six a year. So I always have a goodly stock of really first rate merchandise for you to pick from. And at great prices, too! You remember that, and spread the word!” “We’ll see,” Zoe said, casually. She did most of the small talk, something she really didn’t like to do, but it was a system that she and Mal had worked out when dealing with someone who didn’t know them. She would chit-chat, float trial balloons, make outrageous and unreasonable claims, and then Mal would come in as the heavy when the client was wavering. It worked pretty well, and Mal switched jobs with her often enough to keep it interesting, but she still wasn’t thrilled by it. “So, just what are you folks interested in?” “None of the go-se you have here!” Mal said, sullenly. “Have anything, um, interesting? Something unusual, perhaps, that we won’t find at every other little backwater on the Rim? We’ve hauled about enough grain, jerky, and rusty farm equipment. We need something that’s worth the trouble of hauling.” “Hmmm.” The question seemed to tax the limits of Fearington’s mind. “Let’s see, interesting, interesting . . .” “Don’t strain yourself,” Mal growled. “You got stuff for trade or not?” “Sure, got plenty. A gracious plenty. But you want interesting . . .” The little man in the crumpled hat shot his eyes sideways, as if he had suddenly come to a conclusion. “Okay, I guess I can trust you people. You got a solid rep for being sporting about your work – heard about that train robbery—” “We don’t know anything about no train,” Zoe said blankly. “Eh? ‘Course you don’t. Still, nice piece o’ work, there, real nice. And nice what you done – or didn’t do – after, too. Like I said, y’all got a good rep.” “And this helps us how?” “Well, I got another room, one I don’t show to just everyone. Only discriminating clientele, don’t you know. Folks what has a proper appreciation for certain classes of goods.” “Lead on,” Zoe said, smiling warmly. She knew he had to have such a room. All men like Fearington had such rooms. “Better be all shiny,” Mal said darkly. He liked playing the heavy. “Oh, ‘tis, ‘tis. Thisaway.” He led them back to a dusty corner, behind a large crate marked CATTLE DRAUGHT, and pulled open a door that didn’t seem to be there. He lit an oil lamp just inside the door, and revealed his true trove – the stuff that would actually make money, not the saddles and decorative textiles that the locals produced for export. This is where his smuggled and fenced goods were stashed. “Here we go,” he said soothingly, walking through the room and casually arranging items for display. “Here’s the good stuff. Let’s start with this: an Alliance counter-sniper laser rifle, a K660 Eliminator, 2200 pure megawatts of power. Left over from the war. Boy I know brought it back after the war was over. Traded it for a stake. Had a coat a lot like yours.” “No doubt.” Sophia hadn’t been one of the Independent worlds, but it had contributed several hundred volunteers to the cause. It was rare that you heard any Alliance propaganda around, one reason why Serenity had come in the first place. “Problem is, who would I sell it to? Hunters? Only place what needs a weapon like this are places in the Core – and I don’t have to tell you how ruttin’ illegal it would be to get caught with it.” “I don’t know, sir, Jayne would like it.” Zoe caressed the sleek lines. She’d been on the wrong side of one of these nasty little things during the war, and she had a healthy respect for its capabilities. “Unless we want to get into the hired assassin business, ain’t no reason to pack it. ‘Sides, you can’t get power packs for it this side of Persephone.” “Yeah, yeah, I know. I know. I’ve carried it for five long years, now. Ain’t no one about to use something like this unless there’s a war on. Okay, let’s move along to this: an Alliance Exploration surplus field assayers kit. You want to do a little panning, maybe gold or silver or platinum, this little baby will tell you how rich your strike it. A bargain, too. Won it in a mah-jong game from a little expedition returning from past the Rim. Headed in, see. Didn’t need it no more. Actually, got a lot of good stuff off of them.” “It’s a possibility,” conceded Mal. “I heard tell of some optimists on Odin who thought there might be some silver around. Or was it gold?” “How much?” asked Zoe. “Well, let’s table that until y’all are done shoppin’. Then we can negotiate fer the whole lot. Reasonable?” “Agreed. Next?” “Next I got here a wonderful little device, also late of the Alliance Exploratory Corps, a fifty-gallon water purifying system. Will do fifty an hour, any kind of crud you can imagine. Self cleaning, no need for additional filters or additives. A might dented, of course – seen some use, it has. Interested?” “If the price is right. Know some settlers on Ramjin who would love to see the sight of it. Water’s brackish.” “Good, good. Here we have a crate of those cute little plastic bobble-headed geishas, kiddies love those things—” “Never again,” said Mal, his face getting red. “Fair enough. How ‘bout this little dandy?” He pulled back a faded canvas tarpaulin to reveal a sleek-looking hoverbike, a sporty Xiangsu model from someplace in the Core. In red and silver, it looked like the kind of ride only the rich and frivolous could afford. Despite himself, Mal whistled appreciatively. He wasn’t overly fond of flying jewelry, but this powerful machine had a charisma that invited gawking. “Pretty,” he said, caressing the handlebar control. “Very pretty. But I’d have an easier time unloading the laser. Don’t even tell me the price – I can’t afford it. Wish I could get it for myself. And I don’t even want to know how you acquired it.” “Actually, this came from a piece of more-or-less legitimate business. Got a fella name of Herk who flies a tiny little Mosquito-class scout ship. Twenty years older’n dirt, she is, but he keeps her flyin’. Makes his livin’ finding stuff no one else would want – and every now and again he gets a strike. This little lady,” he said, patting the control panel like it was a favored pet, “was in the cargo hold of some Core lord’s private yacht, the remnants of which Herk found in deep space somewheres. Hit by Reavers. Not much left of the ship – and nothin’ but bones of the passengers and crew – but Herk got this and about a solid ton of other rare and precious salvage. I bought it all, every ounce. Paid him a good price for it, too, all things considered. Still, if I can sell this bike for one quarter its list price, I’ll make five times what I paid for the lot.” “If you can find a buyer,” corrected Zoe. “Yep. Been sittin’ here for near two years, now. Power pack is still charged. Manual says it’ll go to 150 kph in less than a minute.” “And I doubt there’s a licensed Xiangsu mechanic this side of Bellarophon,” Zoe smirked. “Hate to void the warranty.” “Exactly. Still, you hear tell of someone with more coin than brains, lemme know.” “I surely will. Next?” “Next we have,” Fearington said as he re-covered the bike, “a factory-sealed container of precision machine lubricant, suitable for a number of different applications, with a high viscosity, low-heat synthetic composition ideal for spacecraft, landcraft, skycraft, medical equipment, highly technical weaponry, or any other use involving moving parts.” “Sold!” Mal said, before Zoe could begin sweet-talking a deal. She rolled her eyes sky-ward. So much for the plan. “I knew you’d appreciate that. Any place civilized’d charge you six credits a bottle. Go to Whitehall, nearest place they sell it to here, and you’ll pay twice that. I give you ten bottles for a hundred twenty, on account of your fine appreciation of precision machinery.” “And ‘cause this crate’s got two centimeters o’ dust on it,” said Zoe, dryly. Fearington spread his arms in a gallic shrug. “No foolin’ the lady. Ain’t but a few places on this whole world that need this stuff – Doctor over’n Fallway, Mickey the Mechanic out at the ‘port, and Marshal Chou bought some, too. But gorram stuff is so good, I only sold those three bottles out o’ th first case, and that was over a year ago. It’s valuable stuff, but I need to move some gorram inventory!” “I reckon,” Zoe said, mollified somewhat by Fearington’s reasonable price. Serenity could use that oil in a hundred little places – Kaylee had been forced to use sesame oil in a few spots when they ran short of more traditional lubricants. “Anything else?” “Well, little lady, I have this here,” he said, moving over to a metal cabinet that looked like it had been used as a blast shelter at some point. “Been savin’ it for a special occasion, y’see, but none come up.” He took a key from somewhere about his person and opened the cabinet, then withdrew a wooden box, which he set down on the oil crate. He pried the lid off the box which revealed five stainless-steel cylinders that nearly screamed “Core World!” “Those are bio-containers,” Mal whispered. “Saw a few in the war. What the (hell) you got, Fearington?” “Nah, calm yerself, friend. Ain’t no germs. I thought so too, but I had ‘em tested. They’re what they say they are.” “And that would be . . .?” “Seeds.” “Seeds?” “Yep. Rare seeds. Made up seeds. Bioengineered by Vitacorp on Ariel.” “And just what are these seeds supposed to do? Magic beanstalk? ‘Cause I was just saying the other day that it’d be a lot easier on the fuel tank if I could just dock with a magic beanstalk, and save all the wear and tear a re-entry does to boot.” Mal had his hands crossed over his chest. Fearington stared at him a long moment. “Anyone ever tell you you was a funny fella?” “Once or twice.” “They was doin’ you a kindness. Now, back to business. These seeds were developed, I hear tell, to produce a number of plants that had highly specialized properties, stuff you can’t get on the Rim. Stuff what has to be imported, see, at great expense. ‘Course, if you make your coin in trade for these things, lettin’ ‘em loose out in the Rim where you can’t control ‘em – or sell ‘em at high price – ain’t such a wise idea. So some big evil corp bought up Vitacorp and shut’em down. Least, that’s what this here says.” He slipped a datasheet out of the top of the crate and waved it. “’Parently, this little box got misplaced somehow when they shut down. Didn’t make it to the burn barrel. Did make it to the hold o’ that yacht I was tellin’ you about.” “What kind of stuff does it do?” asked Mal, interested. “Do I look like a doctor?” “No particularly. But if I can borrow that data for a few hours, I might just give you my trade.” “Take it,” he said, grinning at Zoe, whose attention had been captured by another package. “You interested in sellin’ that?” she asked, not taking her eyes off it. “Little lady, I ain’t whatcha call emotionally attached to anything in this room. What is it?” “This,” she said, pulling a slim, flat case out from under a pile of other junk. “Oh, that. Well, hell, you buy this other stuff, I give that to you for ten thin credits.” “Done. I’ll pay now, before you change your mind.” She slipped a bill out of her jacket and passed it to him. “And I’ll take it now.” “Pleasure doin’ business, and all that,” Fearington grinned. As they were walking back towards the ‘spaceport’, Mal kept looking at Zoe’s serene smile and trying to figure out what it was under her arm. She was adept at evasion, however, and he still hadn’t gotten a glance. After hinting unsuccessfully five or six times, he finally came right out and asked what was in the case. “The most powerful weapon ever made,” she said, grinning wickedly. Mal didn’t speak the rest of the walk. He was a might worried.

Back at the ship, Book and Simon were sitting at the kitchen table, drinking coffee (or what passed for it out on the Rim) when Mal came in and tossed the data sheet at the doctor. “Any idea what those are for?” he asked without preamble. Simon, who after months of exposure was now getting used to the Captain’s taciturn ways, picked up the sheet and scanned it. Then he went back and read every line carefully. “He’s got this?” “Five tubes of it. Good price, too. Now what is it?” “Biotechnology, frontier style,” Simon said, eyebrows raised. “Scientists have played around with this sort of thing for centuries, of course. Getting an otherwise innocuous plant to produce advanced chemical compounds. The problem is, of course, that before the plants have a chance to become commercially viable, a mechanical method of manufacturing is developed that is usually orders of magnitude more efficient and less expensive to produce. So such things are filed away as scientific curiosities.” “But not these?” “Oh, I’m curious, scientifically speaking. These seeds are a fortune – actually, they are priceless. Take this one: a citrus tree that produces a powerful anti-coagulant. And this is an apple tree that creates a multipurpose antibiotic. This begonia is a painkiller, this watermelon is an autoimmune booster, and this radish – that’s quite a radish – makes an anti-nausea drug that costs over fifteen hundred credits a dose on the Rim.” Mal whistled, long and low. “Yes, indeed. Whoever grew this would have a pharmacy in their crops. And a certain fortune.” “A lot of folks on this end of the ‘verse could sure stand to get those things,” Book said, cautiously. “No doubt. And not pay a life savings to do it, too. So I should get this?” “You don’t, I will,” said Simon fervently. “If this had been used on the Rim a few years ago, then our whole Ariel heist would have been redundant.” “Okay, medic-boy, where we gonna fence it?” “Any smart farmer on any decently warm moon should be able to bring this crop in. Extraction of the drugs might be difficult in some places, but nothing that can’t be worked out.” “And any farmer that’s caught with it is going to get the full attention of the Alliance.” “True,” admitted Book. All three men were silent for a while, lost in thought. River wandered in, petted the counter-top lovingly, opened a storage locker and removed a protein bar. “I know the answer,” she said, after taking a bite. “What answer?” asked Mal. “The answer to your problem. Your dilemma. It’s easy, and between the three of you, you should have figured it out already.” “Well, spit it out, girl!” said Book. “What’s in it for me?” she asked slyly. “What do you mean?” asked Mal, mystified. “I mean, what do I get out of the deal for telling you the way for all of you to get what you want?” “You’ll have to pardon my sister,” Simon said gently. “She’s been hanging out with a bad crowd lately. Thieves. Liars. Fugitives from justice. Mercenaries. She’s picked up bad habits.” “It’s okay, I speak enlightened self-interest fluently. Okay, crazy girl, here’s the deal: you tell us how to make this work and I’ll . . . well, what is it that you want?” “Three days.” “Pardon?” “I want three whole, uninterrupted days of outside. Under the sky. Under the stars, not in them. Fresh air. Give me three days of that, I’ll tell you how to proceed.” Mal considered. It was unlikely that River would have a workable solution, but it might be worth the wager. “You give me a plan that works, you get your three days.” “Deal?” “Deal.” “Pinkie swear?” Mal thought a moment. “Pinkie swear.” “Okay, here it is. Simon take notes. The essential problem is that you have a finite amount of seeds which would provide a virtually unlimited supply of medicine, should they be allowed to come to harvest – but the Alliance and a number of Core-world industries have a vested interest in seeing those seeds destroyed. No farmer in his right mind would want to risk that kind of attention. Plus, few farmers have experience in the pharmeceuitical industry and could not properly market the product, much less process it. So, to recap, you need a farmer willing to take the risk, you need a farm, you need a clean processing facility, and you need a distribution network that spans several Rim worlds and would sell the medicine at low prices. With me so far?” There was a chorus of uncomfortable grunts. River rarely spoke this much or this coherently. “Shiny. Since most Rim farmers are more interested in getting a fair price for their crop and are likewise undereducated, a traditional agricultural base is not likely to produce beneficial results. However, not all produce is grown by dirt farmers. Is it Book?” It took a few moments for the Shepherd to follow the girl’s break-neck speed reasoning. “The abbey. Of course.” “Abbies, actually. And missions, monasteries, churches, meditation centers, and church-sponsored hospitals and orphanages. They have the land, the expertise, and the interest in seeing these drugs produced and distributed. They are not generally on good terms with the Alliance authorities and would be reluctant to inform on themselves. They have a fair amount of technical expertise, an in-place distribution network, and a working knowledge of local community needs. As most of the plants in question have short fruiting times, it should only take a year or so, under the proper conditions, to see beneficial results. If the secret can be held that long, additional stocks of seeds could be secretly taken to other worlds, where the experiment could be repeated. Past a certain point, they will be too widespread to suppress. Another advantage of dealing exclusively with religious organizations is their natural inclination towards confidentiality.” There was a long moment of silence as they stared at River. She continued to eat her protein bar. “Where’s the part where we make some coin?” asked Mal, finally. “It depends on how long-sighted you are. I’m sure some abbeies would be willing to buy it outright, but not at the price you will want. I propose that you enter into a profit-sharing deal with them. A small nominal fee, then regular payments as the drugs go to market. Plus the undying gratitude of millions of Rim settlers. Win, win, win.” “And the eventual capture of Saint Malcolm the Drug Dealer by the Alliance when they figure out where it came from.” “You’re a criminal. Figure it out. Can’t do all your thinkin’ for you. Me and the voices in my head have a lot to do, y’know.” With that she walked up to Mal, well within his personal sphere of comfortability, and looked him dead in the eyes. “Three days. You pinkie swore.” “That I did,” admitted Mal. “But we’ll see if we can work out the details.” “I think we can make it work,” said Simon, after some thought. Book was running figures in his head, but looked up as well. “Yes, yes, I think we could at that. Good work, River!” “My pleasure . . .” and she giggled. Simon looked at her oddly. “What’s so funny?” “Kaylee. She bumped her head.” “Huh?” “Just another random thought from your crazy sister. I’m going to draw, now.” And with that she floated off, as casually as she had entered. All eyes followed her, until she was comfortably out of ear-shot. “Is it my imagination,” said Mal slowly, “Or did we just all decide that a crazy 17 year old girl with scars in her brain pan had a brilliant plan to make us wealthy, save a thousand lives, stick it to the Alliance, and subvert the corporate power of the Core?” “I wonder what she bumped her head on,” Simon said, philosophically.