Eidolon Postings
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Re: Eidolon Postings
Bytemite Thu Aug 02, 2012 9:25 am
Chapter 20
Jayne Cobb had a lot of grit behind him. He'd breathed it as a boy, bounty hunting for varmints around the spaceport where his folks lived, the soot from the old factories thick enough that it fell like snow – in inches. If you weren't strong and didn't watch yourself, or didn't have someone looking after you, way you ended up was shanked behind the speakeasy or conscripted for the ring fights. Kind of place where you grew up fast or died young.
Most people wouldn't think it to look at him, but he had his fetters same as everyone else. Had a kid brother to look after, sickly sort, born wrong on account of the air. His pa used to say both his sons been poisoned, but that made no sense to him.
Never really seen eye to eye, even when he'd caught up in height. The old man had a stubborn and old fashioned streak. Kept him in his nowhere job metalworking, off and on because of his bad arm always flaring up from that old lathe tweaked him the once. Man was well liked, friendly with just about everyone on the docks, but closed off too. Cared for the family in his own way, though they never had much, so Jayne was running with the gangs before he'd gone through the mill. Almost come to blows a few times over his peccancy and mama had to come between them.
Then there came a month they couldn't scrape together for Mattie's medicine. He'd messed up a job trying to earn some cash, and hidden out with some of his girls he'd befriended. Turned out they'd been playing him for a while, knocked him out and tied him up for the thugs to fetch back to the boss. Was his own pa pulled him out of the brothel, and went to settle up on his behalf. Told Jayne to get off world, so he took his money with him and went mercenary. No loyalty to anyone, except when there was.
He was about ready to shake the dust from Ezra off his boots too. Driving over miles of dunes under moonlight, blowing cigar smoke to the wind hadn't eased his temper any over them being stuck and being broke and all the dramatics. The longer they spent here, the worse his brother was getting. Only one of those he had any say in, and, as he flicked away the stub, he thought he was going to enjoy this.
- - - - -
An airy stream flowed like an arm reaching down her throat, filling and to clench, in pulses, renewed cardiac rhythm. She pulled back, back to Serenity with life gasping through her, the third eye shuttered tight and the other two opened wide. She'd gone too far, almost followed over into the silent place.
Her shadow stared back into her, standing on the opposite side, and she gave name to her fear. The vultures had taken her aspect, over and over, preyed with peering eyes to unweave the rainbow, until tender illusion melted and left only the other. The flavour of mortality in lies. Take care peeling back the folded layers of a person, lest what you learn comes back to haunt you.
Would she recognize herself now, years later, the girl who had gone willingly into promised greatness? They sliced out too much, made the sieve oversized. A golem made of sand, scattering to the wind. She expected that she would crumble away soon, not enough essence left over to substantiate, and her reflection would wander off without her.
She struck out at the phantom girl, stolen from her, palm and fingers spreading onto the hard barrier. Cool glass under her hand meant to withstand micrometeoroids cut at her, shards of a memory broken by screaming demons. Carefully, fascinated, she traced fracture lines like fate-spun silk thread, repaired like a spider's home. Grief, frosted over by necessity.
"That is my wife you're metaphorizin'." She turned and gazed out from the space, perched on the bridge of Serenity's nose with the transparent shield at her back. The pilot's chair was lounging behind the nav console, plastic dinosaurs like honour guards for the monument. "She does have some fantastic legs, but last I checked, only two of them."
Eyes squinted up at the contradiction. Some structures were stubborn, insisted on the same descriptions when namesakes were no longer applicable. The chair did not contain the pilot anymore. Somehow at the same time nothing was ever empty, not the expanse between worlds, not the quietus of crewmate. All of it, everything breath and movement and sentiment. A stream of consciousness, a river she couldn't tell where she began and it ended. "Arms count," she informed him, factoring in the tiny female growing in his darker half, "number of limbs are sufficient."
"I should hope so," he agreed, like a brush of sunlight and blue skies long gone, and winsome frowns for the missed and missing. "Mal's got Zoë in trouble again." Inevitable, the captain's one true talent. "This seein' all at the same time is a trip, and not the good kind."
Several pasts and futures wavered. "It gets very confusing," she answered. "Black is white and I can't tell where the colours bleed together." She didn't know who or what she was talking about anymore. Time to leave. "They'll be back soon," she told the figment, because it was polite, just in case he was real.
The pilot waved at her, or imagination did. She wasn't sure because she didn't look, because he needed to be here, because they were incomplete, and because the thoughts from the bridge were focused on reunion now and were sweaty.
Descent into chaos. The air circulating in Serenity's windpipe was choked with emotion. First were the undaunting opposites, the simple moods of the beast and the optimism of friends and lovers, but from there, complication. Promises like the tie of a leather cord, with racing heart beats and calming whispers from the too-large room on the left almost drowned out by disciplined endurance and fresh anguish. The negatives resonated with the storm from the bleakest quarters, weary determination with silver linings on the wane. She passed quickly through the exigent grey and other possibilities, drawn to the glow of the galley like Titania on her lunescent wings.
Smiles and idyllic recollections rushed in to fill the cold, and not just from honeyed walls with friendly touch in garden stencils. This was where they gathered, for cards and mahjong, for downtime in homely furnished alcove, for bonding over meals. There was warmth in each mismatched chair, ingrained in the wood, the table. The heart and the stomach were one and the same, the chef won over as easily as the diners.
The shepherd man made this his own, flock and field, more even than the old lion's den where the white mane ran feral. Home and family, the first ever in a long life of mistrust and violence. Where he was accepted secrets and all, more even than the abbey, and, he worried, was understood too well.
She joined the levity, aimless chatter and clatter of plates passed around and around. Climbed onto one of the eights pews arranged around the bookkeeper, hands clasped around knees. "In this world you will have tribulation," she intoned, peering through the veil.
The room calmed, settled, and turned attention to her. "You've been reading John," the preacher praised, but she waited and saw the revelation. "Ah. This is one of your riddles." No shrinking or dimming. He was genuine still, despite what he had been before. "But it is through tribulation that we enter the Kingdom of Heaven," he countered, quoting the acts of the horseman instead.
His troubles had brought him and four thousand others only fire. "That's what your book says," she challenged.
"That's because it's true." He spread his arms to embrace the present. "Took some getting used to, but after all I've been through, I never thought I'd end up in a place like this. There's good people here, even if some of them don't know it yet." He'd had to learn himself. Wasn't easy. Or painless. Like a knife, subtle edge cutting through the world.
"This isn't heaven," she told him sadly.
A glimpse of remorse and worry, there and covered. "I know. Ain't sure even how to get there," he admitted. There'd been no cherubim, no amber whirlwind splitting open the sky to light the path. "Or where I'm going from here."
Stuck in limbo, uncertain whether to inferno or to glory. Life indistinguishable from death or fiction, stretching out to anchors just as adrift. Blowing leaves, a gnarled weapon in deadly pale hands, destructive constructs grasping for solace, and never reached. The remnants of an impression scattered. "To gather," she answered, and hoped, because she didn't know either.
Some gratitude followed her, itched along the walls down to the engine room, buzzing with activity before, lonely now and missing mechanics and abandoned by brightness. Have to restore the connection, even if too late.
She turned away, comfort encased in ice, took the back way along the harsh-lit fears, tinted in cold blue. Sorting, always sorting, already chemical-smell and sterile, and the hands grabbed her and pulled back into the operating chair, needles everywhere and minds prodding and only Simon to rescue her. She did not linger in the waiting area, and forayed into the cavern.
Expansive like metal on the colour of stone, cleaned up and packed away the ruins of old lives. Here is where the beginnings were, and endings. Preserve the bodies long enough they could be buried. There was a portal here, between the black and the air that needed opening. The beating of hearts were pounding like drums on the steel wall of Jericho.
She found the gunman instead. "Hey looney," he accosted, insensate but for himself, foot falls ringing like alarm at the entry. "How's the attic?"
"Mothy," she replied. And froze, paralyzing condition as vague malice formed into scheme.
The forces marshaled around the concept of the group have declared a war of extermination on that preciousness. When they made their newest monster, it was of upmost importance that they were in control. Their obsession, their motivation. Even when it was spiraling out of their hands, gobbling them all up, the secret biting on their ankles, lizards and snakes harrying these thieves. They'd hooked her, points tearing into her as they strung her up and made her dance. And when they were afraid she might break free of their leash, they sent her back to nightmares with a thought and a sentence, no defense against either.
"Ain't that a gorramn sumbitch," he answered, and watched, then shrugged. Still wrong. "Worth a shot."
Her champion heard the chains unlock. Loyal Simon who hadn't forgotten her, refused to abandon her, gave up everything for her. The unheard command lingered, incomplete, and left her unable to intervene. Yet something was different. The truth would set her free. She was not the weapon. "River? Don't go outside, or let anyone – Jayne." Immediate suspicion. "Where is everyone else? Why are you back already?"
Anger slammed into jaw. Her brother stumbled, time solidifying around them like pitch to swallow dust and dirt laden rays from above. The hard shining lines of steel brace sharpened. Faster now, the pace picking up, blurring, and the future as ever seeable but not knowable. They go to die, or to live, and the house might collapse but for words. They will all go together.
Jayne Cobb had a lot of grit behind him. He'd breathed it as a boy, bounty hunting for varmints around the spaceport where his folks lived, the soot from the old factories thick enough that it fell like snow – in inches. If you weren't strong and didn't watch yourself, or didn't have someone looking after you, way you ended up was shanked behind the speakeasy or conscripted for the ring fights. Kind of place where you grew up fast or died young.
Most people wouldn't think it to look at him, but he had his fetters same as everyone else. Had a kid brother to look after, sickly sort, born wrong on account of the air. His pa used to say both his sons been poisoned, but that made no sense to him.
Never really seen eye to eye, even when he'd caught up in height. The old man had a stubborn and old fashioned streak. Kept him in his nowhere job metalworking, off and on because of his bad arm always flaring up from that old lathe tweaked him the once. Man was well liked, friendly with just about everyone on the docks, but closed off too. Cared for the family in his own way, though they never had much, so Jayne was running with the gangs before he'd gone through the mill. Almost come to blows a few times over his peccancy and mama had to come between them.
Then there came a month they couldn't scrape together for Mattie's medicine. He'd messed up a job trying to earn some cash, and hidden out with some of his girls he'd befriended. Turned out they'd been playing him for a while, knocked him out and tied him up for the thugs to fetch back to the boss. Was his own pa pulled him out of the brothel, and went to settle up on his behalf. Told Jayne to get off world, so he took his money with him and went mercenary. No loyalty to anyone, except when there was.
He was about ready to shake the dust from Ezra off his boots too. Driving over miles of dunes under moonlight, blowing cigar smoke to the wind hadn't eased his temper any over them being stuck and being broke and all the dramatics. The longer they spent here, the worse his brother was getting. Only one of those he had any say in, and, as he flicked away the stub, he thought he was going to enjoy this.
- - - - -
An airy stream flowed like an arm reaching down her throat, filling and to clench, in pulses, renewed cardiac rhythm. She pulled back, back to Serenity with life gasping through her, the third eye shuttered tight and the other two opened wide. She'd gone too far, almost followed over into the silent place.
Her shadow stared back into her, standing on the opposite side, and she gave name to her fear. The vultures had taken her aspect, over and over, preyed with peering eyes to unweave the rainbow, until tender illusion melted and left only the other. The flavour of mortality in lies. Take care peeling back the folded layers of a person, lest what you learn comes back to haunt you.
Would she recognize herself now, years later, the girl who had gone willingly into promised greatness? They sliced out too much, made the sieve oversized. A golem made of sand, scattering to the wind. She expected that she would crumble away soon, not enough essence left over to substantiate, and her reflection would wander off without her.
She struck out at the phantom girl, stolen from her, palm and fingers spreading onto the hard barrier. Cool glass under her hand meant to withstand micrometeoroids cut at her, shards of a memory broken by screaming demons. Carefully, fascinated, she traced fracture lines like fate-spun silk thread, repaired like a spider's home. Grief, frosted over by necessity.
"That is my wife you're metaphorizin'." She turned and gazed out from the space, perched on the bridge of Serenity's nose with the transparent shield at her back. The pilot's chair was lounging behind the nav console, plastic dinosaurs like honour guards for the monument. "She does have some fantastic legs, but last I checked, only two of them."
Eyes squinted up at the contradiction. Some structures were stubborn, insisted on the same descriptions when namesakes were no longer applicable. The chair did not contain the pilot anymore. Somehow at the same time nothing was ever empty, not the expanse between worlds, not the quietus of crewmate. All of it, everything breath and movement and sentiment. A stream of consciousness, a river she couldn't tell where she began and it ended. "Arms count," she informed him, factoring in the tiny female growing in his darker half, "number of limbs are sufficient."
"I should hope so," he agreed, like a brush of sunlight and blue skies long gone, and winsome frowns for the missed and missing. "Mal's got Zoë in trouble again." Inevitable, the captain's one true talent. "This seein' all at the same time is a trip, and not the good kind."
Several pasts and futures wavered. "It gets very confusing," she answered. "Black is white and I can't tell where the colours bleed together." She didn't know who or what she was talking about anymore. Time to leave. "They'll be back soon," she told the figment, because it was polite, just in case he was real.
The pilot waved at her, or imagination did. She wasn't sure because she didn't look, because he needed to be here, because they were incomplete, and because the thoughts from the bridge were focused on reunion now and were sweaty.
Descent into chaos. The air circulating in Serenity's windpipe was choked with emotion. First were the undaunting opposites, the simple moods of the beast and the optimism of friends and lovers, but from there, complication. Promises like the tie of a leather cord, with racing heart beats and calming whispers from the too-large room on the left almost drowned out by disciplined endurance and fresh anguish. The negatives resonated with the storm from the bleakest quarters, weary determination with silver linings on the wane. She passed quickly through the exigent grey and other possibilities, drawn to the glow of the galley like Titania on her lunescent wings.
Smiles and idyllic recollections rushed in to fill the cold, and not just from honeyed walls with friendly touch in garden stencils. This was where they gathered, for cards and mahjong, for downtime in homely furnished alcove, for bonding over meals. There was warmth in each mismatched chair, ingrained in the wood, the table. The heart and the stomach were one and the same, the chef won over as easily as the diners.
The shepherd man made this his own, flock and field, more even than the old lion's den where the white mane ran feral. Home and family, the first ever in a long life of mistrust and violence. Where he was accepted secrets and all, more even than the abbey, and, he worried, was understood too well.
She joined the levity, aimless chatter and clatter of plates passed around and around. Climbed onto one of the eights pews arranged around the bookkeeper, hands clasped around knees. "In this world you will have tribulation," she intoned, peering through the veil.
The room calmed, settled, and turned attention to her. "You've been reading John," the preacher praised, but she waited and saw the revelation. "Ah. This is one of your riddles." No shrinking or dimming. He was genuine still, despite what he had been before. "But it is through tribulation that we enter the Kingdom of Heaven," he countered, quoting the acts of the horseman instead.
His troubles had brought him and four thousand others only fire. "That's what your book says," she challenged.
"That's because it's true." He spread his arms to embrace the present. "Took some getting used to, but after all I've been through, I never thought I'd end up in a place like this. There's good people here, even if some of them don't know it yet." He'd had to learn himself. Wasn't easy. Or painless. Like a knife, subtle edge cutting through the world.
"This isn't heaven," she told him sadly.
A glimpse of remorse and worry, there and covered. "I know. Ain't sure even how to get there," he admitted. There'd been no cherubim, no amber whirlwind splitting open the sky to light the path. "Or where I'm going from here."
Stuck in limbo, uncertain whether to inferno or to glory. Life indistinguishable from death or fiction, stretching out to anchors just as adrift. Blowing leaves, a gnarled weapon in deadly pale hands, destructive constructs grasping for solace, and never reached. The remnants of an impression scattered. "To gather," she answered, and hoped, because she didn't know either.
Some gratitude followed her, itched along the walls down to the engine room, buzzing with activity before, lonely now and missing mechanics and abandoned by brightness. Have to restore the connection, even if too late.
She turned away, comfort encased in ice, took the back way along the harsh-lit fears, tinted in cold blue. Sorting, always sorting, already chemical-smell and sterile, and the hands grabbed her and pulled back into the operating chair, needles everywhere and minds prodding and only Simon to rescue her. She did not linger in the waiting area, and forayed into the cavern.
Expansive like metal on the colour of stone, cleaned up and packed away the ruins of old lives. Here is where the beginnings were, and endings. Preserve the bodies long enough they could be buried. There was a portal here, between the black and the air that needed opening. The beating of hearts were pounding like drums on the steel wall of Jericho.
She found the gunman instead. "Hey looney," he accosted, insensate but for himself, foot falls ringing like alarm at the entry. "How's the attic?"
"Mothy," she replied. And froze, paralyzing condition as vague malice formed into scheme.
The forces marshaled around the concept of the group have declared a war of extermination on that preciousness. When they made their newest monster, it was of upmost importance that they were in control. Their obsession, their motivation. Even when it was spiraling out of their hands, gobbling them all up, the secret biting on their ankles, lizards and snakes harrying these thieves. They'd hooked her, points tearing into her as they strung her up and made her dance. And when they were afraid she might break free of their leash, they sent her back to nightmares with a thought and a sentence, no defense against either.
"Ain't that a gorramn sumbitch," he answered, and watched, then shrugged. Still wrong. "Worth a shot."
Her champion heard the chains unlock. Loyal Simon who hadn't forgotten her, refused to abandon her, gave up everything for her. The unheard command lingered, incomplete, and left her unable to intervene. Yet something was different. The truth would set her free. She was not the weapon. "River? Don't go outside, or let anyone – Jayne." Immediate suspicion. "Where is everyone else? Why are you back already?"
Anger slammed into jaw. Her brother stumbled, time solidifying around them like pitch to swallow dust and dirt laden rays from above. The hard shining lines of steel brace sharpened. Faster now, the pace picking up, blurring, and the future as ever seeable but not knowable. They go to die, or to live, and the house might collapse but for words. They will all go together.
Bytemite- Posts : 680
Join date : 2012-06-25
Re: Eidolon Postings
Bytemite Thu Aug 02, 2012 9:26 am
Chapter 21
They ran like the demons and djinn were chasing them; stumbled, but didn't stop, even as an explosion rocked the shaken world of the elite and riches fell to ruin. His friend shouted, defiant, calling for the already lost and gone. Hoping against reason, and running towards gunfire.
None of Shoshenk's guards noticed the two teenagers, and why would they? They were too busy fleeing. The underworld was used to upheavals, even under Niska. Their boss presumed dead, the guards had little reason to linger. A couple of ragged yatim did not warrant much attention, not compared to a regiment of Alliance soldiers that would be looking for convenient scapegoats.
Behind them, party guests still out on the balcony were quickly becoming disorderly and agitated, demanding to know what was going on. They ignored the turmoil, passing suites, fallen masterpieces and shattered ceramics around overturned pedestals. The hallway looked like a war zone, for once resembling the city not three miles distant.
The door had been blown off it's hinges; blackened, pitted with shrapnel, still smoking, not much different from the state of the room it had come from. There actually wasn't much blood; usually, there never was. Burns, mostly, some shrapnel wounds. There was a swirl of it, splattered on the hardwood, that led them to the small huddled shape that was once their scout. The boy laid twisted, bones broken, ribs crushed, one of his arms ending in tattered shreds.
Roach. They thought that he'd live through anything, small enough and young enough that he could hide from this, escape when it was all over. That they could keep him from getting involved.
When they'd found him during their own escape, they released him from the cage where he'd been kept like a mad dog, and, weak from abuse, the boy had tried to attack them. Niska had trained him as a thief and an assassin; it was all he had known. Gavril, messenger of God. It had taken them months to get past the snarling wild child. For him to realize he had a new chance at life and innocence.
In return there was profound gratitude and loyalty for family and home, a fierce protectiveness. But what was done to the boy, the trauma and the violence, had stayed with him. There was no understanding that this life had any worth or meaning beyond the welfare of those around him, a sense that it would be taken away at any time. Terror, that he would lose them, that one day, what he was, what he couldn't change, would be released upon them, and all he could do to stop it was to keep finding other battles.
"Why did you do that?" the older brother asked, dejected. "Why didn't you wait for us?" They had always been closest, always been the most alike. They were both fighters.
The soldiers would come looking for them at any time. Unable to watch any longer, the other boy began searching the other bodies, and came upon Shoshenk. Never a more deserving bastard for the wrath of justice, the slaver boss had earned each of those wounds, and more. With some distaste, and trying to stay his hand from further revenge, he prepared to move on to the hired thugs, then spotted a glint of something in the inside pocket of the suit jacket.
A remote, for the slave microchips.
They told themselves that it wasn't for nothing, that the sacrifice had saved all of them. And as they gathered the body for a proper burial, wrapping it in one of the burnt bed sheets, they tried to find some elusive comfort in their belief, as fleeting as the life that had assured them.
- - - -
He was one acquainted with flame. Sure as fire born of starlight gave life, death was marked on and around him like a blazing omen in the sky. He'd seen angels aflame come to scorch and purify, and at some point he had offended God in a night sky over Hera and Shadow, with only the heat of his anger left over from the exchange. Known desire, sometimes all-consuming, elsewise blossoming fancy. Been leaning towards being eaten up by it of late, ashes to ashes and all. Dying in pieces. Or maybe it was hell just couldn't wait for him.
What she was, he didn't fully have words for; a woman who shared their meals, and a spirit who haunted his dreams. The first gleamed sight of her she'd appeared to him looking and smelling like something divine, seemingly just to torture him with some reachy hope and frustration, ifs and maybes wrapped up in silk. She was Keat's Psyche, meant for someone and something higher, the work of an artist. Charcoal outlining soft curves and softer curls, shining in her eyes, until the breath of some sweet wind stirred the embers of her soul and she'd stepped off the page.
"Don't be blown up," he thought, in a way he told himself was entirely unlike a prayer. Not that he had much say; by his rotten luck and cosmic irony she'd be part of that blast, and the woman never did respect his command. He swatted away a palm leaf, growing more irritated every step. Here he was dodging regimentals off the paths of some flowery false paradise, climbing the Hesperides. Even if she were okay, he doubted he'd find her on the empty balcony the near side of the manor, away from the larcenists and debauchers - not all of them being Alliance soldiers or aristocrats.
He stood below that still darkened east veranda, looking up, searching. Damn.
"Captain?"
His right hand's voice when he was considering his next move was almost expected it was so familiar, but not so much when she wasn't anywhere nearby. Eventually he remembered his radio and the shared frequency with Serenity and the shuttles. "Zoë," he responded. "They've grounded all craft out here. Have Kaylee check things over, so we can leave soon as we're able."
"No problems here, Cap'n," his mechanic reported, some manner of half-truth, her normal cheerfulness subdued.
Kaylee's trick with the power must have shut down the landlock. He leaned around the corner to confirm the position of the soldiers that had been seated around the makeshift stage. They were backlit only by the colorful stage spotlights from the acting troupe's transport, disorganized, still arguing about whether to evacuate the guests to their vessels or hole up inside. The players were looking apprehensive, probably not too different from the party guests. "Good, make sure it stays that way. We may have company soon."
"Inara?" Zoë sounded even grimmer than usual. On rare occasion he'd like if Zoë wasn't so full of insight, that she didn't know him so well. That he wasn't aware of her disapproval and her anger. They never had any need for minced words between them, and Mal felt a pang for her amid his own concerns, a memory from when he thought they were all heading off to their doom. He ain't coming.
"Don't know," he admitted. He heard and hated the way his throat caught on that, the way the words sank back down, into his chest, his stomach, heavy like leaden bullets.
"We'll be here, sir," was all she could offer, her own losses weighing on her. Then his first mate was gone, off his channel, the click of a gun safety taken off. Years side to side and back to back, the two of them dragging each other through the trenches. And sometimes there still was nothing they could do or say for each other. Things that just couldn't be made right, wouldn't ever be right.
The show had stopped right around the point where the penniless hero finds his lady admirer and helps her escape from her pursuers, hides her in his house. Here he was contemplating how to break in, like the evil duke to confront them. Maybe he could shoot out a window.
Maybe Inara was right about his gorramn plans. Sure hadn't done any of them any favours. Always seemed to end up getting them in deeper. Book hadn't even been with them and was punished anyway, and Wash shouldn't ever have been in that chair up against Reavers and Alliance. He'd taken Inara out of the training house to put her in a near last stand, gotten her shot not a month later, and now that she was back first thing he did was get her involved in whatever this was. Bunch of shēngchùfèn. Was all they could do to keep swimming.
And why did it smell like a barn out here, anyway? No wonder it was the Councilor had no visitors out on this side. Nearby was a wrought lattice outbuilding under the cypress canopy, full of a rainbow of critters could raise a ruckus, some camels, birds, monkeys. And next to the largest stall, there were three white andalusians with braided manes and crimped tails shining in the dark. They were a mite jittery from the noise of the explosion, he could tell. Pale blue eyes watched him warily before each of them, slowly and in order, swung their attention down to their provender with perked up ears at him.
He broke the lock on the gate and went for the tack hung up on the stable posts. An apple brought their heads back up, this time with hungry interest. He bribed the big mare into a halter bridle and led her outside, and swung himself up behind the withers. Stealth never had been his strong point anyway.
They ran like the demons and djinn were chasing them; stumbled, but didn't stop, even as an explosion rocked the shaken world of the elite and riches fell to ruin. His friend shouted, defiant, calling for the already lost and gone. Hoping against reason, and running towards gunfire.
None of Shoshenk's guards noticed the two teenagers, and why would they? They were too busy fleeing. The underworld was used to upheavals, even under Niska. Their boss presumed dead, the guards had little reason to linger. A couple of ragged yatim did not warrant much attention, not compared to a regiment of Alliance soldiers that would be looking for convenient scapegoats.
Behind them, party guests still out on the balcony were quickly becoming disorderly and agitated, demanding to know what was going on. They ignored the turmoil, passing suites, fallen masterpieces and shattered ceramics around overturned pedestals. The hallway looked like a war zone, for once resembling the city not three miles distant.
The door had been blown off it's hinges; blackened, pitted with shrapnel, still smoking, not much different from the state of the room it had come from. There actually wasn't much blood; usually, there never was. Burns, mostly, some shrapnel wounds. There was a swirl of it, splattered on the hardwood, that led them to the small huddled shape that was once their scout. The boy laid twisted, bones broken, ribs crushed, one of his arms ending in tattered shreds.
Roach. They thought that he'd live through anything, small enough and young enough that he could hide from this, escape when it was all over. That they could keep him from getting involved.
When they'd found him during their own escape, they released him from the cage where he'd been kept like a mad dog, and, weak from abuse, the boy had tried to attack them. Niska had trained him as a thief and an assassin; it was all he had known. Gavril, messenger of God. It had taken them months to get past the snarling wild child. For him to realize he had a new chance at life and innocence.
In return there was profound gratitude and loyalty for family and home, a fierce protectiveness. But what was done to the boy, the trauma and the violence, had stayed with him. There was no understanding that this life had any worth or meaning beyond the welfare of those around him, a sense that it would be taken away at any time. Terror, that he would lose them, that one day, what he was, what he couldn't change, would be released upon them, and all he could do to stop it was to keep finding other battles.
"Why did you do that?" the older brother asked, dejected. "Why didn't you wait for us?" They had always been closest, always been the most alike. They were both fighters.
The soldiers would come looking for them at any time. Unable to watch any longer, the other boy began searching the other bodies, and came upon Shoshenk. Never a more deserving bastard for the wrath of justice, the slaver boss had earned each of those wounds, and more. With some distaste, and trying to stay his hand from further revenge, he prepared to move on to the hired thugs, then spotted a glint of something in the inside pocket of the suit jacket.
A remote, for the slave microchips.
They told themselves that it wasn't for nothing, that the sacrifice had saved all of them. And as they gathered the body for a proper burial, wrapping it in one of the burnt bed sheets, they tried to find some elusive comfort in their belief, as fleeting as the life that had assured them.
- - - -
He was one acquainted with flame. Sure as fire born of starlight gave life, death was marked on and around him like a blazing omen in the sky. He'd seen angels aflame come to scorch and purify, and at some point he had offended God in a night sky over Hera and Shadow, with only the heat of his anger left over from the exchange. Known desire, sometimes all-consuming, elsewise blossoming fancy. Been leaning towards being eaten up by it of late, ashes to ashes and all. Dying in pieces. Or maybe it was hell just couldn't wait for him.
What she was, he didn't fully have words for; a woman who shared their meals, and a spirit who haunted his dreams. The first gleamed sight of her she'd appeared to him looking and smelling like something divine, seemingly just to torture him with some reachy hope and frustration, ifs and maybes wrapped up in silk. She was Keat's Psyche, meant for someone and something higher, the work of an artist. Charcoal outlining soft curves and softer curls, shining in her eyes, until the breath of some sweet wind stirred the embers of her soul and she'd stepped off the page.
"Don't be blown up," he thought, in a way he told himself was entirely unlike a prayer. Not that he had much say; by his rotten luck and cosmic irony she'd be part of that blast, and the woman never did respect his command. He swatted away a palm leaf, growing more irritated every step. Here he was dodging regimentals off the paths of some flowery false paradise, climbing the Hesperides. Even if she were okay, he doubted he'd find her on the empty balcony the near side of the manor, away from the larcenists and debauchers - not all of them being Alliance soldiers or aristocrats.
He stood below that still darkened east veranda, looking up, searching. Damn.
"Captain?"
His right hand's voice when he was considering his next move was almost expected it was so familiar, but not so much when she wasn't anywhere nearby. Eventually he remembered his radio and the shared frequency with Serenity and the shuttles. "Zoë," he responded. "They've grounded all craft out here. Have Kaylee check things over, so we can leave soon as we're able."
"No problems here, Cap'n," his mechanic reported, some manner of half-truth, her normal cheerfulness subdued.
Kaylee's trick with the power must have shut down the landlock. He leaned around the corner to confirm the position of the soldiers that had been seated around the makeshift stage. They were backlit only by the colorful stage spotlights from the acting troupe's transport, disorganized, still arguing about whether to evacuate the guests to their vessels or hole up inside. The players were looking apprehensive, probably not too different from the party guests. "Good, make sure it stays that way. We may have company soon."
"Inara?" Zoë sounded even grimmer than usual. On rare occasion he'd like if Zoë wasn't so full of insight, that she didn't know him so well. That he wasn't aware of her disapproval and her anger. They never had any need for minced words between them, and Mal felt a pang for her amid his own concerns, a memory from when he thought they were all heading off to their doom. He ain't coming.
"Don't know," he admitted. He heard and hated the way his throat caught on that, the way the words sank back down, into his chest, his stomach, heavy like leaden bullets.
"We'll be here, sir," was all she could offer, her own losses weighing on her. Then his first mate was gone, off his channel, the click of a gun safety taken off. Years side to side and back to back, the two of them dragging each other through the trenches. And sometimes there still was nothing they could do or say for each other. Things that just couldn't be made right, wouldn't ever be right.
The show had stopped right around the point where the penniless hero finds his lady admirer and helps her escape from her pursuers, hides her in his house. Here he was contemplating how to break in, like the evil duke to confront them. Maybe he could shoot out a window.
Maybe Inara was right about his gorramn plans. Sure hadn't done any of them any favours. Always seemed to end up getting them in deeper. Book hadn't even been with them and was punished anyway, and Wash shouldn't ever have been in that chair up against Reavers and Alliance. He'd taken Inara out of the training house to put her in a near last stand, gotten her shot not a month later, and now that she was back first thing he did was get her involved in whatever this was. Bunch of shēngchùfèn. Was all they could do to keep swimming.
And why did it smell like a barn out here, anyway? No wonder it was the Councilor had no visitors out on this side. Nearby was a wrought lattice outbuilding under the cypress canopy, full of a rainbow of critters could raise a ruckus, some camels, birds, monkeys. And next to the largest stall, there were three white andalusians with braided manes and crimped tails shining in the dark. They were a mite jittery from the noise of the explosion, he could tell. Pale blue eyes watched him warily before each of them, slowly and in order, swung their attention down to their provender with perked up ears at him.
He broke the lock on the gate and went for the tack hung up on the stable posts. An apple brought their heads back up, this time with hungry interest. He bribed the big mare into a halter bridle and led her outside, and swung himself up behind the withers. Stealth never had been his strong point anyway.
Bytemite- Posts : 680
Join date : 2012-06-25
Re: Eidolon Postings
Bytemite Thu Aug 02, 2012 9:28 am
Chapter 22
The first indication Inara had that she was still alive was the ringing in her ears, or rather, not just her ears. Jumping through a window with a passenger to evade a grenade, only to be thrown to the floor of an outdoor arcade around the second story, she had a new and interesting insight on how every particle of metal in a gong might feel. Her skin stung from the sandstone, her side was sore where she had cushioned their impact, her thoughts were dizzy and sluggish. As she stirred, shivering from the night chill, her eyes could barely focus and had to adjust to the diffuse and dancing moonlight.
Her pulse quickened; somehow they had survived. She hugged the tiny frame of the former slave girl closer in short lived relief.
As her mind caught up, she raised herself on one arm, alarmed, wincing at the pain. There was not a sound from the room they had escaped from, nothing of the boy who had saved them. She looked back into the room, then quickly looked away.
The girl, was she all right? Inara smoothed her hand over the child's forehead, who was fighting to stay conscious, beautiful black skin smeared with blood and smoke. On the surface, the companion was trying to remain calm and soothing. In her heart, a desperate instinct that sounded like her mother was trying not to panic. "You're safe now, sweetie, stay with me," she pleaded.
Inara set the girl down and began to tear strips of flimsy fabric from her skirts - gauze, she thought, slightly hysterical. She had seen entirely too much injury of late, back on Serenity nearly every week was another surgery or bullet removal, and she knew first aid so well that the motions were now almost automatic from repetition. It's not enough, she realized as her patient continued to wane, and gathered up the tiny limp form again, struggled to her feet, one hand buried in the short frizz at the back of the child's head. She needs a doctor.
She stumbled from column to column, passing through dark then silver until she couldn't tell anymore if she was still moving, or if her own awareness was merely drifting away from her and back. The ground swayed under her, the light and shadows shifting. She was waning, only determination keeping her upright, keeping one foot in front of the other as she focused on the end of the archway. She could hear voices, and she moved toward them.
There was some lapse in time before she recognized that she was out on the balcony with the party guests, and even then it was more of a vague sense than anything clear or substantial. There were people everywhere, jostling her, and it was so noisy, none of them interested in stopping for an injured child. They were herding everyone inside, and she knew on some level that wasn't where she wanted to go. She began fighting her away against the flow, drawn towards the balustrade, the gardens, the starry skies beyond. The captain was out there somewhere, searching for her. She needed to get back to Serenity.
"Inara." She turned before she could think it through. That wasn't what Mal sounded like, not from her communicator, which wasn't on anyway. The councilor was there, in black dress and pearls; Judith, frowning at her in disappointment. Her favourite client, because she hadn't known any better, about the councilor's family, about the slaves, about how she had only been a business transaction. "Here you are, covered in soot, and my guest room exploded," Judith sighed.
She clutched the girl closer. "I didn't..."
"I know," the councilor interrupted. "It's not your style. Either of you, despite what your captain did to my fence." Judith reached out pensively to the child, as though she had any right, considering what she had been part of, the suffering of the slaves. Inara recoiled with the child, just out of range of touch. The councilor's hand dropped, her face a mask, tinged with some regret. "You aren't terrorists, and Ezra will never be free from outsider control."
The crowd had thinned around them, but she was surrounded again, marines in black armor and helmets moving in from the sides. One pulled the little girl from her, another grabbed her arm as she surged after them, a futile attempt to protect the child.
"I'm sorry, Inara," Judith said, and then the councilor was flanked by two terrifying agents in black suits and blue gloves.
She wasn't sure what it was, but there was something familiar about this, a danger she had been warned about, a near escape that she couldn't recall for the roar of her headache. All she knew was that she wanted to get away from them as far and fast as she could. They were nightmares, haunting screams from the back hallway in a hospital, apparitions amid a broken battlefield of ghost ships. Inhuman. Unreal. Wrong. Dragging their victims down into the depths they emerged from, smothering any cries for help.
Inara barely heard the marshals as they informed her she was bound by law, but she heard the gunshot that followed. In the ensuing chaos, search, and raised weapons, she was released, and ran, scrambled for the balcony. The agents began to move after her, one of them withdrawing a curious silver wand from the inside of his jacket. Realizing their mistake, the soldiers called for her to stop or they'd fire. Moments later, they did, the lasers passing just over her head as she fell in a flutter of nebulous white trimming.
- - - - -
Mal caught her, somehow. The horse let out a startled squeal and chose that moment to rear up, like a still-smoking barrel pointed skyward. But he managed to juggle the reins around his gun hand, get his sidearm back holstered. Then some divine and frazzled-looking creature tumbled into his arms. "Take me home," she requested.
"Bossy woman," he complained, or tried to, though he supposed maybe the quick shǎ táo zuì smile he couldn't keep from his face might undermine the gruffness somewhat. At any rate he could almost forget she'd nearly injured him again, and was torn between forgiving her and admiring her. She was impossible. A tangle of normally immaculate styled midnight waves and scanty dress out of a costumer's trunk, had around her all the perfume of a bonfire, and none of that mattered because he was holding her. If he was squeezing harder than was strictly necessary, it was only to keep both their balance as he settled her side-saddle. He figured she would push him away any second, but he allowed himself that much.
Her own embrace tightened around him, her face pressed into the crook of his neck. And when he was no longer stupefied, some sense of reality and foreboding began to return to him.
She gave no other response, not even to quip that his domineering self was one to talk. Like months before, when her lack of fight was his best warning, he understood; things were gone wrong. Even if just having her near him had a warmth like relief swelling through him, they had a garrison of Alliance within waving distance of them and their guise was blown. They needed to hightail.
Their getaway had about the same idea. The hooves pawing at the air clattered to the ground, and the horse didn't need much encouragement beyond a snap of the reins to dart off down the cobbled path. The movement jerked him out of the moment. Time sped back up with them, glowing red bolts tracking them as they went, through dewy fans of leaves and blossoms that seemed to burst into mist as they passed.
He was not without plan, even if others were like to say different. His involved the elephantine and currently much irate beast lashed to the jambs under their sharpshooters heels, presumably left for the easy loading of party guests. All he had to do was goad some acts of wanton mayhem and convenient distraction. The regular tomfoolery, that never failed, but his karma took some issue with.
The Councilor's elephant went rogue at the metal gadfly nearly stung its ear. Trumpeted like the apocalypse come and took it's tether with it, bringing a good part of the balcony and the infantry crashing down.
Any other occasion he might've thought it was funny. There was something, an undercurrent of the night that had him uneasy, a notion that the situation was worse than he'd figured. Cautions unsaid were fine, but she hadn't even expressed alarm over his actions, and she never had a shortage of insults for him or his half-cocked stunts.
"'Nara," he muttered, and shifted her a little, trying to snap her out of it but carefully, so as not to unbalance them as they rode. He repeated himself, insistent. "'Nara. C'mon, darlin'. 'Nara."
This silence was something new. Maybe just exhaustion, or the adrenaline. And he didn't believe that for a second. He pressed his heels into the horse's side, urging more speed, curling himself around her to ride lower, faster. There was a chill working over his skin, into his veins, past worry and closing in on desperate. As the sounds and shouts over of several tons of fractious elephant grew more distant there was a quiet like muffled fog that fell over him. The evening in echoes, indistinct, except for the rolling thunder of their full gallop, drowned out only by the pounding in his ears. Rhythmic, rocking with each stride as he drove their steed onwards. Towards Serenity, freedom, safety.
Zoë's sawn-off barked out, shattering the spell-like focus as he was grazed in the shoulder, right where his coat was patched before. Ambush. Should've seen it coming.
He slowed the animal to a stop just short of the shuttle landing pad, hidden not very well in some of the meager garden cover, their shiny white horse like a beacon in the dark. He dismounted to a crouch, kept his head down. Had just enough time to slip the bridle and bit off, an old habit from earlier years, before he had to rush back to Inara as she slumped over and near slid bodily to the ground.
She was slack and pale, her head awkwardly thrown back over his arm where she'd collapsed, still breathing, the air passing between her parted lips. Like the spirit that carried her snuffed out, like the empty black bereft of stars, her lashes low and her gaze unseeing.
The sight seized him something awful; a scene out of nightmare recurring, final moments he'd witnessed throughout his life flashing by in rapid succession. His free hand moved to brush her cheek without permission, tilted her chin back towards him, then hovered, shaken, over her eyelids to close them. What she'd felt he couldn't tell, whether pain or sadness, accusation or acceptance, whether she was already lost to him. But he knew, with a bleak, hollow rage, that this was his fault again.
He'd told himself that he knew what was between her and his medic. Because that secret the doctor wouldn't tell him, confronted in a dirt tunnel like a sepulchre after waking, because that terrible hour she'd fainted and wouldn't revive until he'd carried her to her shuttle, there was a truth there that was better to deny. She'd had men, many of them, younger and more pleasing than him, and he'd clung to that like hope, because the alternative was she was here, her life fading as he watched, leaking out through whatever it was in her that had finally broken. He'd give his blood for her, without a second thought, but couldn't protect her from this. Not any more than from the sunburst mark just over her heart, left from the stray bullet that had him forcing her off his ship a month before.
Inara wanted to go back to Sihnon, then one way or another he'd get her there. He started to lift her, then spun and drew on a black-garbed soldier skulking towards them. He frowned. "You shot me," he accused, lowering his gun.
His second in command didn't seem nearly troubled enough by the fact, or how she was wearing the uniform off an Alliance guard. She shouldered her shotgun. "Plausible deniability," she shrugged. He tried to read from his first mate if her latest wardrobe was the result of already having a run-in with the patrols, though he really didn't have to ask. There wasn't any where else she could've gotten the armour. They could be surrounded, reinforcements arriving by the minute or plunging from the sky in Serenity and not a chance in di yu, and Zoë would still be the picture of calm.
"Denia - You shot me," he insisted, highly offended. He transferred his piece back to his side, gathered up Inara. Zoë looked aside at the fallen woman, and he shook his head; he didn't want to say, and couldn't have answered her anyhow. He could see searchlights like fireflies off in the bushes, getting closer. "Kaylee got us ready to go?"
At the affirmative, he ran for the shuttle hatch like his life depended on it while Zoë followed, laying down suppressive fire.
- - - - -
Zoë pulled off her helmet and tossed it aside, took a breath like fresh air. Damn things were uncomfortable, and there was an electrical hum running through them that could drive a person to distraction.
Some of her building aggression traded for urgency. She watched Mal settle with Inara against the slant of the hull, and felt as though she was witnessing the final moments between herself and Wash from the outside. Inara looked like a porcelain doll, more fragile even through the contrast of their lifestyles than the career soldier could imagine. The captain seemed at a loss of what to do, somewhere between wanting to try to shake the woman awake and hold onto her like a drowning man.
Kaylee hovered off to the side, caught off guard by their arrival, carrying some conflict in her still. Her hazel eyes were wide. "What's wrong with her?" she asked, sounding like she wasn't sure if she should be glad to see them, worried, or nursing her upset.
The captain didn't answer. "Zoë, take us out of here," he ordered instead, unable to look away or leave Inara. "Kaylee, need any tricks you've got to keep us hidden."
- - - -
The wooden timbers of the ruined deck seemed to groan in pain as Captain Baker leaned over the edge of the hole. He had pulled the rest back, in some cases not metaphorically, and mentally he was reviewing just how much paperwork this debacle was going to require. Perhaps he'd avoid mentioning that their target escaped on horseback like something out of one of those dreadful cortex dramas; he was having trouble believing it had just happened himself.
"Somebody shoot the bastard already," the soldier he was helping demanded, annoyed, and then managed to get off a couple charges as punctuation from her precarious position.
Quietly he agreed, but the Blue Sun agents weren't about to make things easy. They stood to the side, completely unaffected by the chaos and the cries for help from the destruction. "Captain, please remind your people that the target is to be captured alive."
He grunted and dragged the spitfire out of the breach the rest of the way, under no illusions that the two spooks would explain why they needed Malcolm Reynolds and associates beyond what they'd already given him. If an officer wanted more information than vague portents about company secrets and acquisition of stolen property, they should look elsewhere from Blue Sun. He retrieved his handset from his belt, keying the com-device as he pushed to his feet. "All units, we have a runner westbound for the catch." He found the agents watching him with twin, blandly cat-like smiles, and stared back. "Surround and apprehend, do not use lethal force."
"Hope they at least wound him," the extracted girl grumbled, joining the other troops standing at the doors they had ushered the party guests through and nursing her pride.
The company liaisons nodded to him, no longer challenging his command. He was glad to look away. "Lieutenant," he called, addressing the man climbing out on the other side of the gap. "Form up all ranks on the transports, and prepare for prisoner transport back to base." There was only a small window he would have a chance to ask his questions before the blue hands intervened, but he was intending to take full advantage.
"Yessir!" the marine shouted, saluted, then went to full on parade-ground bellow. "All right lipsticks and dipsticks, you heard the captain! Move!"
Maybe later he should pull the boy aside and clarify the difference between operational communication and drill instructor.
The Councilor seemed to be in some shock at the demolition of her spectacle and the sunken quarter of her obviously expensive veranda, but the unexpected order finally snapped her out of it. "That's it? You dropped all this on us, put our families in danger, and now you're leaving?" Her eyes were icy, but she looked somehow vulnerable, lost, as she crossed her arms over her dusky gown like a petulant child, golden strands straying as the elaborate style of her hair came undone. "Aren't you supposed to defend citizens of the Alliance from the bandits and whatever else is out there? You could at least stay and do your job."
"The intelligence you offered led us to an abandoned wreck. You could consider that this situation has the potential to get much worse," he informed her dourly, acutely aware still of the dangerous men-in-black hovering nearby, the dangerous quarry even now heading into their trap. His handset buzzed for attention. "Report."
Several different voices from their field team began to chime in. "We have visual." "We have contact." "Hold fire!" "Who the hell is that?" "Dammit, hold fire!" "Enemy down." Then, triumphantly, "We got them!" The distant sound of shuttle engines belied the claim. "We... don't got them."
Captain Baker sighed, buried his face in his hands, and changed radio frequency. "Control, have our ASREVS home in on the pulse beacon you've been tracking. They've taken flight."
"Sir? Our sensors indicate they're still on the ground."
The vessel receded until it looked like a distant point of light, indistinguishable from all the others, vanishing into the night skies over New Jerusalem. "If you're done," the councilor put in, her voice steeped in condescension, "I'm going inside to find my husband, son, and my guests and see that they remain safe. You're welcome to join me. Otherwise, get off my property."
The first indication Inara had that she was still alive was the ringing in her ears, or rather, not just her ears. Jumping through a window with a passenger to evade a grenade, only to be thrown to the floor of an outdoor arcade around the second story, she had a new and interesting insight on how every particle of metal in a gong might feel. Her skin stung from the sandstone, her side was sore where she had cushioned their impact, her thoughts were dizzy and sluggish. As she stirred, shivering from the night chill, her eyes could barely focus and had to adjust to the diffuse and dancing moonlight.
Her pulse quickened; somehow they had survived. She hugged the tiny frame of the former slave girl closer in short lived relief.
As her mind caught up, she raised herself on one arm, alarmed, wincing at the pain. There was not a sound from the room they had escaped from, nothing of the boy who had saved them. She looked back into the room, then quickly looked away.
The girl, was she all right? Inara smoothed her hand over the child's forehead, who was fighting to stay conscious, beautiful black skin smeared with blood and smoke. On the surface, the companion was trying to remain calm and soothing. In her heart, a desperate instinct that sounded like her mother was trying not to panic. "You're safe now, sweetie, stay with me," she pleaded.
Inara set the girl down and began to tear strips of flimsy fabric from her skirts - gauze, she thought, slightly hysterical. She had seen entirely too much injury of late, back on Serenity nearly every week was another surgery or bullet removal, and she knew first aid so well that the motions were now almost automatic from repetition. It's not enough, she realized as her patient continued to wane, and gathered up the tiny limp form again, struggled to her feet, one hand buried in the short frizz at the back of the child's head. She needs a doctor.
She stumbled from column to column, passing through dark then silver until she couldn't tell anymore if she was still moving, or if her own awareness was merely drifting away from her and back. The ground swayed under her, the light and shadows shifting. She was waning, only determination keeping her upright, keeping one foot in front of the other as she focused on the end of the archway. She could hear voices, and she moved toward them.
There was some lapse in time before she recognized that she was out on the balcony with the party guests, and even then it was more of a vague sense than anything clear or substantial. There were people everywhere, jostling her, and it was so noisy, none of them interested in stopping for an injured child. They were herding everyone inside, and she knew on some level that wasn't where she wanted to go. She began fighting her away against the flow, drawn towards the balustrade, the gardens, the starry skies beyond. The captain was out there somewhere, searching for her. She needed to get back to Serenity.
"Inara." She turned before she could think it through. That wasn't what Mal sounded like, not from her communicator, which wasn't on anyway. The councilor was there, in black dress and pearls; Judith, frowning at her in disappointment. Her favourite client, because she hadn't known any better, about the councilor's family, about the slaves, about how she had only been a business transaction. "Here you are, covered in soot, and my guest room exploded," Judith sighed.
She clutched the girl closer. "I didn't..."
"I know," the councilor interrupted. "It's not your style. Either of you, despite what your captain did to my fence." Judith reached out pensively to the child, as though she had any right, considering what she had been part of, the suffering of the slaves. Inara recoiled with the child, just out of range of touch. The councilor's hand dropped, her face a mask, tinged with some regret. "You aren't terrorists, and Ezra will never be free from outsider control."
The crowd had thinned around them, but she was surrounded again, marines in black armor and helmets moving in from the sides. One pulled the little girl from her, another grabbed her arm as she surged after them, a futile attempt to protect the child.
"I'm sorry, Inara," Judith said, and then the councilor was flanked by two terrifying agents in black suits and blue gloves.
She wasn't sure what it was, but there was something familiar about this, a danger she had been warned about, a near escape that she couldn't recall for the roar of her headache. All she knew was that she wanted to get away from them as far and fast as she could. They were nightmares, haunting screams from the back hallway in a hospital, apparitions amid a broken battlefield of ghost ships. Inhuman. Unreal. Wrong. Dragging their victims down into the depths they emerged from, smothering any cries for help.
Inara barely heard the marshals as they informed her she was bound by law, but she heard the gunshot that followed. In the ensuing chaos, search, and raised weapons, she was released, and ran, scrambled for the balcony. The agents began to move after her, one of them withdrawing a curious silver wand from the inside of his jacket. Realizing their mistake, the soldiers called for her to stop or they'd fire. Moments later, they did, the lasers passing just over her head as she fell in a flutter of nebulous white trimming.
- - - - -
Mal caught her, somehow. The horse let out a startled squeal and chose that moment to rear up, like a still-smoking barrel pointed skyward. But he managed to juggle the reins around his gun hand, get his sidearm back holstered. Then some divine and frazzled-looking creature tumbled into his arms. "Take me home," she requested.
"Bossy woman," he complained, or tried to, though he supposed maybe the quick shǎ táo zuì smile he couldn't keep from his face might undermine the gruffness somewhat. At any rate he could almost forget she'd nearly injured him again, and was torn between forgiving her and admiring her. She was impossible. A tangle of normally immaculate styled midnight waves and scanty dress out of a costumer's trunk, had around her all the perfume of a bonfire, and none of that mattered because he was holding her. If he was squeezing harder than was strictly necessary, it was only to keep both their balance as he settled her side-saddle. He figured she would push him away any second, but he allowed himself that much.
Her own embrace tightened around him, her face pressed into the crook of his neck. And when he was no longer stupefied, some sense of reality and foreboding began to return to him.
She gave no other response, not even to quip that his domineering self was one to talk. Like months before, when her lack of fight was his best warning, he understood; things were gone wrong. Even if just having her near him had a warmth like relief swelling through him, they had a garrison of Alliance within waving distance of them and their guise was blown. They needed to hightail.
Their getaway had about the same idea. The hooves pawing at the air clattered to the ground, and the horse didn't need much encouragement beyond a snap of the reins to dart off down the cobbled path. The movement jerked him out of the moment. Time sped back up with them, glowing red bolts tracking them as they went, through dewy fans of leaves and blossoms that seemed to burst into mist as they passed.
He was not without plan, even if others were like to say different. His involved the elephantine and currently much irate beast lashed to the jambs under their sharpshooters heels, presumably left for the easy loading of party guests. All he had to do was goad some acts of wanton mayhem and convenient distraction. The regular tomfoolery, that never failed, but his karma took some issue with.
The Councilor's elephant went rogue at the metal gadfly nearly stung its ear. Trumpeted like the apocalypse come and took it's tether with it, bringing a good part of the balcony and the infantry crashing down.
Any other occasion he might've thought it was funny. There was something, an undercurrent of the night that had him uneasy, a notion that the situation was worse than he'd figured. Cautions unsaid were fine, but she hadn't even expressed alarm over his actions, and she never had a shortage of insults for him or his half-cocked stunts.
"'Nara," he muttered, and shifted her a little, trying to snap her out of it but carefully, so as not to unbalance them as they rode. He repeated himself, insistent. "'Nara. C'mon, darlin'. 'Nara."
This silence was something new. Maybe just exhaustion, or the adrenaline. And he didn't believe that for a second. He pressed his heels into the horse's side, urging more speed, curling himself around her to ride lower, faster. There was a chill working over his skin, into his veins, past worry and closing in on desperate. As the sounds and shouts over of several tons of fractious elephant grew more distant there was a quiet like muffled fog that fell over him. The evening in echoes, indistinct, except for the rolling thunder of their full gallop, drowned out only by the pounding in his ears. Rhythmic, rocking with each stride as he drove their steed onwards. Towards Serenity, freedom, safety.
Zoë's sawn-off barked out, shattering the spell-like focus as he was grazed in the shoulder, right where his coat was patched before. Ambush. Should've seen it coming.
He slowed the animal to a stop just short of the shuttle landing pad, hidden not very well in some of the meager garden cover, their shiny white horse like a beacon in the dark. He dismounted to a crouch, kept his head down. Had just enough time to slip the bridle and bit off, an old habit from earlier years, before he had to rush back to Inara as she slumped over and near slid bodily to the ground.
She was slack and pale, her head awkwardly thrown back over his arm where she'd collapsed, still breathing, the air passing between her parted lips. Like the spirit that carried her snuffed out, like the empty black bereft of stars, her lashes low and her gaze unseeing.
The sight seized him something awful; a scene out of nightmare recurring, final moments he'd witnessed throughout his life flashing by in rapid succession. His free hand moved to brush her cheek without permission, tilted her chin back towards him, then hovered, shaken, over her eyelids to close them. What she'd felt he couldn't tell, whether pain or sadness, accusation or acceptance, whether she was already lost to him. But he knew, with a bleak, hollow rage, that this was his fault again.
He'd told himself that he knew what was between her and his medic. Because that secret the doctor wouldn't tell him, confronted in a dirt tunnel like a sepulchre after waking, because that terrible hour she'd fainted and wouldn't revive until he'd carried her to her shuttle, there was a truth there that was better to deny. She'd had men, many of them, younger and more pleasing than him, and he'd clung to that like hope, because the alternative was she was here, her life fading as he watched, leaking out through whatever it was in her that had finally broken. He'd give his blood for her, without a second thought, but couldn't protect her from this. Not any more than from the sunburst mark just over her heart, left from the stray bullet that had him forcing her off his ship a month before.
Inara wanted to go back to Sihnon, then one way or another he'd get her there. He started to lift her, then spun and drew on a black-garbed soldier skulking towards them. He frowned. "You shot me," he accused, lowering his gun.
His second in command didn't seem nearly troubled enough by the fact, or how she was wearing the uniform off an Alliance guard. She shouldered her shotgun. "Plausible deniability," she shrugged. He tried to read from his first mate if her latest wardrobe was the result of already having a run-in with the patrols, though he really didn't have to ask. There wasn't any where else she could've gotten the armour. They could be surrounded, reinforcements arriving by the minute or plunging from the sky in Serenity and not a chance in di yu, and Zoë would still be the picture of calm.
"Denia - You shot me," he insisted, highly offended. He transferred his piece back to his side, gathered up Inara. Zoë looked aside at the fallen woman, and he shook his head; he didn't want to say, and couldn't have answered her anyhow. He could see searchlights like fireflies off in the bushes, getting closer. "Kaylee got us ready to go?"
At the affirmative, he ran for the shuttle hatch like his life depended on it while Zoë followed, laying down suppressive fire.
- - - - -
Zoë pulled off her helmet and tossed it aside, took a breath like fresh air. Damn things were uncomfortable, and there was an electrical hum running through them that could drive a person to distraction.
Some of her building aggression traded for urgency. She watched Mal settle with Inara against the slant of the hull, and felt as though she was witnessing the final moments between herself and Wash from the outside. Inara looked like a porcelain doll, more fragile even through the contrast of their lifestyles than the career soldier could imagine. The captain seemed at a loss of what to do, somewhere between wanting to try to shake the woman awake and hold onto her like a drowning man.
Kaylee hovered off to the side, caught off guard by their arrival, carrying some conflict in her still. Her hazel eyes were wide. "What's wrong with her?" she asked, sounding like she wasn't sure if she should be glad to see them, worried, or nursing her upset.
The captain didn't answer. "Zoë, take us out of here," he ordered instead, unable to look away or leave Inara. "Kaylee, need any tricks you've got to keep us hidden."
- - - -
The wooden timbers of the ruined deck seemed to groan in pain as Captain Baker leaned over the edge of the hole. He had pulled the rest back, in some cases not metaphorically, and mentally he was reviewing just how much paperwork this debacle was going to require. Perhaps he'd avoid mentioning that their target escaped on horseback like something out of one of those dreadful cortex dramas; he was having trouble believing it had just happened himself.
"Somebody shoot the bastard already," the soldier he was helping demanded, annoyed, and then managed to get off a couple charges as punctuation from her precarious position.
Quietly he agreed, but the Blue Sun agents weren't about to make things easy. They stood to the side, completely unaffected by the chaos and the cries for help from the destruction. "Captain, please remind your people that the target is to be captured alive."
He grunted and dragged the spitfire out of the breach the rest of the way, under no illusions that the two spooks would explain why they needed Malcolm Reynolds and associates beyond what they'd already given him. If an officer wanted more information than vague portents about company secrets and acquisition of stolen property, they should look elsewhere from Blue Sun. He retrieved his handset from his belt, keying the com-device as he pushed to his feet. "All units, we have a runner westbound for the catch." He found the agents watching him with twin, blandly cat-like smiles, and stared back. "Surround and apprehend, do not use lethal force."
"Hope they at least wound him," the extracted girl grumbled, joining the other troops standing at the doors they had ushered the party guests through and nursing her pride.
The company liaisons nodded to him, no longer challenging his command. He was glad to look away. "Lieutenant," he called, addressing the man climbing out on the other side of the gap. "Form up all ranks on the transports, and prepare for prisoner transport back to base." There was only a small window he would have a chance to ask his questions before the blue hands intervened, but he was intending to take full advantage.
"Yessir!" the marine shouted, saluted, then went to full on parade-ground bellow. "All right lipsticks and dipsticks, you heard the captain! Move!"
Maybe later he should pull the boy aside and clarify the difference between operational communication and drill instructor.
The Councilor seemed to be in some shock at the demolition of her spectacle and the sunken quarter of her obviously expensive veranda, but the unexpected order finally snapped her out of it. "That's it? You dropped all this on us, put our families in danger, and now you're leaving?" Her eyes were icy, but she looked somehow vulnerable, lost, as she crossed her arms over her dusky gown like a petulant child, golden strands straying as the elaborate style of her hair came undone. "Aren't you supposed to defend citizens of the Alliance from the bandits and whatever else is out there? You could at least stay and do your job."
"The intelligence you offered led us to an abandoned wreck. You could consider that this situation has the potential to get much worse," he informed her dourly, acutely aware still of the dangerous men-in-black hovering nearby, the dangerous quarry even now heading into their trap. His handset buzzed for attention. "Report."
Several different voices from their field team began to chime in. "We have visual." "We have contact." "Hold fire!" "Who the hell is that?" "Dammit, hold fire!" "Enemy down." Then, triumphantly, "We got them!" The distant sound of shuttle engines belied the claim. "We... don't got them."
Captain Baker sighed, buried his face in his hands, and changed radio frequency. "Control, have our ASREVS home in on the pulse beacon you've been tracking. They've taken flight."
"Sir? Our sensors indicate they're still on the ground."
The vessel receded until it looked like a distant point of light, indistinguishable from all the others, vanishing into the night skies over New Jerusalem. "If you're done," the councilor put in, her voice steeped in condescension, "I'm going inside to find my husband, son, and my guests and see that they remain safe. You're welcome to join me. Otherwise, get off my property."
Bytemite- Posts : 680
Join date : 2012-06-25
Re: Eidolon Postings
Bytemite Tue Aug 07, 2012 11:32 am
Chapter 23
Perhaps he was picking up some of his sister's uncanny skill, because he felt as though someone was watching him. The injured surgeon opened one eye and, careful not to dislodge his ice pack, found River sprawled across the end table, her feet in the air, watching curiously as he reclined on a sofa in the dim lounge outside the infirmary. At eye contact she ducked her head and began writing in a frenzy in the journal he'd given her.
The approaching stomping on the metal stairs paused on the landing, and he glanced up in time to fumble with then secure a thrown flask of whiskey. Simon surveyed the projectile, then the barrel-chested animal in a lewd tee-shirt who had been aiming for his face. "Have we downgraded to barroom rules now?"
Jayne frowned, the expression exaggerated by his unkempt goatee, his thick eyebrows meeting in a furrow. The brute almost looked hurt, almost turquoise eyes squinted despite the dim light. "Drink some already," he insisted, in an impatient rustic grumble, "Gotta have words an' be easier if y'got a few shots in you." The less violent of the two men opted not to comment on the unfortunate turn of phrase. Simon unstoppered the bottle and felt his sinuses burn - the fumes alone might be deadly. "Best'n I got stowed," the philistine insisted, lumbering the rest of the way to loom over the couch, "least what didn't get all smashed when Mal belly-flopped us into the ground."
A professional killer really shouldn't have been able to guilt him, but he could recognize this was some bizarre attempt at male bonding. River narrowed her eyes at the distraction. "Inconclusive results. More study needed," she muttered, and went back to work.
"I shouldn't, I'm effectively on duty," the medic argued. "With the captain's propensity to find trouble, the odds are he'll be in bad shape when he gets back." After all, Mal had been out of sight for more than thirty seconds.
But the last time Jayne had shared a drink with him, two of their friends had died. Simon tasted the liquor and almost immediately choked it back up.
Jayne took the flagon from him and dropped down on the far cushion. "Then we tipsify Mal too," he countered, with an audible swig, apparently immune to the substance. He passed it over again, and at Simon's hesitation, he rolled his eyes in annoyance. "Just take your medicine like a man."
Which reminded him. "Didn't you hit me not too long ago?" Simon asked, once his next coughing fit subsided.
"Had'ta," Jayne shrugged, "it's a rule." Rarely if ever were their roles reversed, and the mercenary shifted uneasily at Simon's confusion. "Y'know, the rule," Jayne explained before the question was out. "Like if it was someone else and your lil' sis." His mouth twisted in distaste. "Not that I woulda. No offense or nothin' to the banshee girl, but if she got a knife fetish I got bits of me I've a fondness for. An' I don't part with them for nobody."
His sister was smiling at them now in a rather unsettling way, almost entirely shaded by the low lights, her teeth standing out like a cheshire cat grin. "Conducting important research. Curious behaviour of the Y chromosome."
Jayne recoiled, leaning as far away from her as he could. "You leave my chrome-zones alone!" he cried out, his voice taking on an uncharacteristically high pitch.
Simon looked between them, bemused. "On the bright side, I don't think you could be more emasculated than you are right now."
Even River seemed to take pity on the oaf's continued agitation, flipped the page over, and began drawing, as though the previous exchange hadn't happened. Perhaps to her perceptions it hadn't, and she thought she was caught in a dream, coping with what had happened to her by rejecting reality entirely. The thought hurt, as it always did; sadness, that she might not even know he was here, that she was safe and away from that awful place, but also pride, for her persistence and strength.
The other man also studied her contemplatively, though more warily, and only spoke again when he was satisfied that River was sufficiently distracted. "I see how it is. I ain't ignorant," the lummox asserted. "It took me some figgering though."
Simon schooled his expression into something innocent. Jayne was trying to be civil, aside from the pummeling; he could extend the same courtesy. "What do you mean?"
"This crew," the mercenary answered. "Made no kind of sense at first. But Mal's got some xī qí gǔ guài flight-of-fancy that folks ain't gotta be blood t'be kin." He was disdainful and cynical, but there was also a grudging acceptance in his words. "Like you two. Ain't about the bounties for him, s'about the amends."
Memories of the ill-fated Lilac heist and his departure on Beaumonde suggested otherwise. "Mal only allows us to stay because we're useful. Or, in my case, entertainment."
Jayne took another mouthful of whiskey. "Sure. He kept'cha on after crazy wrecked the Maidenhead bar because he wanted an Operative on his ass. Hell of a punchline." Not even unexpected insights from Jayne of all people could convince Simon to forgive Mal for endangering his sister. The other man shook his head, frustrated by his chronic alexithymia. "All for one and none for all. 'Cept me," he growled. Another drink.
Was that a complaint or remorse? Simon was quickly having to adjust his estimation of either the bigger man's tolerance downwards or the alcoholic content of the drink drastically upwards. Surely a sad and repentant Jayne was not a sober Jayne.
"Doc," the man hesitated, as though testing out the word, his fingers drumming out a rhythm on the metal flask. "You an' I ain't the friendliest, but we been through some ordeals, so maybe now I don't sell you out to Feds an' you don't announce to the girls whenever I got some unpleasantness at a brothel. An' you got that whole thing about healing and such."
Simon didn't need the reminder, and really hoped that Jayne hadn't contracted chlamydia again. He sighed, and braced himself for another journey into horrors best left unknown. "You'll have to be more specific, Jayne, if you're asking for my help."
"Not me," Jayne corrected. "My kid brother. Got some kind of superbug, his usual pills for his damp lung don't work no more." There was something very like a pout on his face, one Simon had also seen when the bodybuilder was sitting forlorn and alone at his workout bench. "No older than your sis," Jayne gestured at River, "and he's dyin'. I ain't spent most my life lookin' out for him and sendin' cash home for him to kick now." He studied Simon shrewdly. "I was thinkin', maybe you know some new-fangled core meds or somethin' might help."
It was a night for the unexpected, Simon supposed. He would never have thought that he would feel sympathy and understanding for any of Jayne's plights. "I'll look into it."
Jayne clapped him on the shoulder. "Then we're settled far as Kaylee's concerned, 'til the next gaffe. Don't much matter whatcha did." It was such a comfort, knowing that Jayne didn't even need a reason to justify attacking him. Still, that was surprisingly less selfish, depraved, and violent than usual. Then Jayne continued. "Vexin' Kaylee more'n the sexin', though. Oughta see to that."
Simon dearly wished he was not having this conversation, and especially not with Jayne. He glanced at River, who seemed unaffected. Perhaps she hadn't heard. "You knew about us?"
"Twenty-one minutes and nine point six seconds in the engine room," River supplied unhelpfully, still scribbling. "Not counting foreplay." Her brother decided that he was going to pretend he didn't hear that for the continuing sake of his sanity.
Jayne snorted. "'Course we knew. Maybe slobberin' over her face 'fore everyone by the mule's your kinda trickery, but ain't exactly a largish boat, you two goin' at it everywhere an' all hours for three months. Kaylee alone can pierce the bulkheads. Louder when she's with company." And apparently the discussion could get worse. "Only reason we weren't ridin' y'all 'bout it was 'cause Zoë's in mournin' and it's right comical when Mal messes with ya."
He felt his jaw drop from the outrage. All the interruptions every time they were having a moment, dumping chores on them to keep them busy for entire days, the seemingly innocent innuendo... The doctor found himself seriously considering that the next time that lǎo húli was in the infirmary for a headache, Simon would give Mal yin yang huo capsules instead of painkillers and convince him the hyperphilia was a side effect.
Simon almost didn't hear the distant clatter of the attaching shuttle, the crackle of the intercom. "We have injured," the first mate announced. Simon still had difficulty identifying Zoë's moods or the different tones of her voice, but thought he heard gravity instead of mere annoyance or amusement, and shelved his plans for revenge. "All personnel report to the infirmary."
His patient was there almost before she had finished her sentence; not the injury prone daredevil, but Inara. The doctor rose and any anger he might have felt was overridden by the sight of the captain carrying the companion, the pale and tense look Mal spared for the rest of the crew. Both curious, River moved to investigate and Jayne stood presumably to help, not that they were paid any notice. Without needing any direction, her bearer pushed open the doors of the infirmary and placed Inara onto the examination table like an acolyte before the altar.
Explosion, they said, perhaps she had been hit by some shrapnel or something. The soldier stripped off his brown coat and rolled up his sleeves in case his assistance was needed, but instead, Simon shooed out the gathering crowd so he had room to work. With no small effort, they eventually pulled Inara's would-be sentinel away from the observation window as well.
After he had determined what he already knew, he found them in the galley, gathered around the worn dinner table - normally a loud and social place, now subdued. Even the warm glow of the lamp and the whimsical decorative vines along the walls struggled against the melancholy, and were not enough. He was reminded of any number of grim watering holes he had seen on this journey, the patrons hunched over their tankards and drowning their sorrows. Or perhaps a bohemian bistro in an opera, and dead lilacs.
Kaylee had apparently thought to warm a spread of leftovers in a fit of nervous energy, with about as much of her normal cheer as a butterfly when the autumn frost first arrived. River simply smiled at her brother, and returned to her meal, and Jayne didn't even stop his usual vacuum-like eating, but the rest looked to him when he entered, not particularly hungry. The captain slowly dragged his thoughts away from some impressive brooding, his plate untouched, and waited.
Simon took a breath, cognizant of the three empty chairs. This would be difficult. "I owe you all an explanation, and an apology." He glanced at his tiánxīn, her hazel eyes wavering, her soft lips thinning at his disclosure, and quickly resettled his gaze on the others. "A few years ago, while I was looking for River, I stumbled across a cortex alert from Sihnon that caught my attention."
Mal interrupted, his eyes narrowed with impatience. "This resembling a point in the near future?"
"Yes," Simon frowned, with a flash of lingering irritation. "A companion was assaulted on the grounds of one of the guild houses, and several students were nearly abducted." Suddenly his story had become much more interesting. "The girls had been attending a preparatory academy on the side, to fulfill a general education requirement that was part of their training. I thought there might be a connection to the attack and River's disappearance, so I subscribed to a client list and arranged for an appointment to talk to one of the victims." He hesitated to tell them the rest, but they deserved to know the truth. "It wasn't an easy time for me, and she... comforted me."
A stony silence answered him, except for Kaylee, who looked crestfallen, and Jayne, who swallowed his food and gave a low whistle of admiration. "Companion, huh?" the lout asked, clearly still not aware who they were talking about. "She any good?" Despite a murderous look from the captain, he leered with unsavoury speculation, his fork tracing curves in the air for emphasis. "For that kinda coin, petals must smell like peach blossoms, snug as a holster, and nǎi zi like two..."
"Jayne," Zoë warned.
Kaylee crossed her arms in a sulk. "Was she comfortin' you at that resort on Pelorum?" she accused, and shook her head, her brown hair bouncing around her shoulders. "River and I went huntin' for you after you took off, but you were in 'Nara's shuttle all the while."
Simon wasn't sure how she knew about that, but the captain spoke before he could formulate an answer for her. "She was sick then, too, wasn't she?" His voice was low and tired, almost as though weighed down by his troubles.
"I've been running tests for her," the doctor confirmed. "When I had to change ships on Persephone, I tried to research what was available, and I found an advert over the cortex about her arrival. I thought she might be willing to protect my sister if anything happened to me. It didn't really work out that way, I didn't have a chance to tell her about River. But even after you found out about my stowaway, she convinced you all to give us a second chance." His thoughts grew pensive. Her harsh jibe at him to Mal early on, her disapproving stares whenever he upset Kaylee, dismissive comments about her job whenever he complimented her. "I think, even though she adored River, she felt betrayed by me. I didn't find out about her illness until later, when I accidentally found some of her medications, and then I saw helping her as a chance to atone for my presumptions."
Kaylee was still upset, and he could see that she didn't quite believe him, but he was relieved when she turned some of her anger towards another target. "You said they was havin' an affair," she rebuked, scowling at the other jilted admirer at the table.
The slow-witted mercenary blinked. "Doc? And 'Nara?" Another glare from Zoë shut him up.
Simon could see the regret in the slump of Mal's shoulders, and reminded himself not to take any of this personally. "I'm sorry," he said to the captain, and despite everything that the man had done to him, he meant it. "I think that the concussion from the blast she was caught in was enough to disturb the delicate balance of her system. Her condition has gotten worse."
Mal absorbed that for a few moments. "How bad is it?" he finally asked.
You saw how bad, she's completely unresponsive, Simon thought, but didn't say, because he could see Mal was grasping for any kind of hope that could be found. "She has spinocerebellar ataxia with extrapyramidal akinesia. It's rare," he answered, "and still poorly understood, because there are never many cases to study at any one time. Simply, her brain cells produce too much glutamine amino acid. Eventually it builds up, impairs function, and becomes toxic."
River finished her meal and neatly crossed her utensils over the plate. "Goodnight," she said, and even after she left, wandering down towards the stairs to the infirmary and the passenger dorms, Simon couldn't decide if she was commenting on Inara's ailment or not.
"That contagious?" Jayne asked worriedly.
Simon sighed. It was the stupid question portion of the evening. "Genetic. Her mother had a slower progressing variation of the disorder, which appears to have anticipated and aggregated in Inara." Jayne seemed satisfied with that answer, and got up to rummage in the kitchen for a second serving.
"Okay," said the captain, skimming past the medical jargon he didn't really understand and focusing on where his strengths were: decision, command, and action. "So how do we treat it?"
His throat tightened. Regardless of their history, Simon still considered Inara a friend. "I've given her an anti-inflammatory to reduce the swelling from her concussion and something to counteract her glutamate levels, but there's been no change to her condition." He tried for consoling. Whether for himself, for the captain, or for the rest of the crew, he wasn't sure. "She isn't going to wake up from this, Mal. All we can do now is keep her comfortable."
They all reacted with various degrees of shock. Kaylee gasped, her hands clapped over her mouth and forgetting for a moment their relationship tangle and the hurt, Jayne's head lifted as he looked over from the kitchen area behind the counter, and even Zoë's eyes widened. Mal looked as though every emotion had been stricken from his face, staring blankly as the other members of the crew slowly turned to watch his reaction. Then, impossibly, he managed to crack a disbelieving smile and barked a humourless laugh. "What? No. C'mon, no, really. There's gotta be... What about gene therapy?"
"Family history of bad reactions. Gene therapy is what originally hastened the onset of her mother's condition. It will only make her worse, if it doesn't kill her outright, and painfully," Simon replied, repeating what Inara had told him when he'd confronted her about his discovery.
"You're a genius, top three percent at MedAcad, you said so. She'll be fine, she..." He was rambling now, one last effort at denial, at convincing himself, then he saw Simon shaking his head, pitying, no. And Mal's temper audibly snapped, his chair knocked backwards like a gunshot as he surged to his feet and slammed his palms on the table, startling them. "You have to help her, you're a gorramn doctor! Fix her!" he snarled, every line of him bristling, looking like he was about to leap across the space between them after Simon, who raised his hands as though to ward off a wild and enraged animal. Mal simply growled. "Fine then. You won't do anything, I will." He pushed off the table almost like he was throwing it aside, storming off towards the stairs in the direction River had gone.
"Sir?" Zoë asked, alarmed, moving to follow him and keep him from injuring himself.
"We still have that cryochamber?" he asked, and didn't wait for her to answer. "Get poindexter to fire it up, or cool it down, whatever. We can store her in there 'til we get her to Sihnon and find a real doctor." He stopped long enough to stare Simon down, blazing with righteous anger and hatred, then continued, raising his voice for the rest of them, not that he needed to. "Anyone who doesn't wanna go there I'll drop off with fare to get them elsewhere, but there's folks on Ezra right now planning on taking the antlion out and we're gonna help. Longer we stay here, less chance she has and more chance we get caught by the Alliance." His voice dropped dangerously. "We're gettin' off this world."
"Finally," Jayne grouched, and was very lucky Mal didn't hear.
"Where are you going?" Simon asked, uncertain if he should join Zoë's efforts and at the same time not looking forward to another fist to the face.
The shadows of the back corridor fell over Mal as he almost vanished through the passage way, but he grabbed onto the frame with one hand and looked back over his shoulder. "Going to get her comfy like you said," he answered. "Prep the damn box."
Perhaps he was picking up some of his sister's uncanny skill, because he felt as though someone was watching him. The injured surgeon opened one eye and, careful not to dislodge his ice pack, found River sprawled across the end table, her feet in the air, watching curiously as he reclined on a sofa in the dim lounge outside the infirmary. At eye contact she ducked her head and began writing in a frenzy in the journal he'd given her.
The approaching stomping on the metal stairs paused on the landing, and he glanced up in time to fumble with then secure a thrown flask of whiskey. Simon surveyed the projectile, then the barrel-chested animal in a lewd tee-shirt who had been aiming for his face. "Have we downgraded to barroom rules now?"
Jayne frowned, the expression exaggerated by his unkempt goatee, his thick eyebrows meeting in a furrow. The brute almost looked hurt, almost turquoise eyes squinted despite the dim light. "Drink some already," he insisted, in an impatient rustic grumble, "Gotta have words an' be easier if y'got a few shots in you." The less violent of the two men opted not to comment on the unfortunate turn of phrase. Simon unstoppered the bottle and felt his sinuses burn - the fumes alone might be deadly. "Best'n I got stowed," the philistine insisted, lumbering the rest of the way to loom over the couch, "least what didn't get all smashed when Mal belly-flopped us into the ground."
A professional killer really shouldn't have been able to guilt him, but he could recognize this was some bizarre attempt at male bonding. River narrowed her eyes at the distraction. "Inconclusive results. More study needed," she muttered, and went back to work.
"I shouldn't, I'm effectively on duty," the medic argued. "With the captain's propensity to find trouble, the odds are he'll be in bad shape when he gets back." After all, Mal had been out of sight for more than thirty seconds.
But the last time Jayne had shared a drink with him, two of their friends had died. Simon tasted the liquor and almost immediately choked it back up.
Jayne took the flagon from him and dropped down on the far cushion. "Then we tipsify Mal too," he countered, with an audible swig, apparently immune to the substance. He passed it over again, and at Simon's hesitation, he rolled his eyes in annoyance. "Just take your medicine like a man."
Which reminded him. "Didn't you hit me not too long ago?" Simon asked, once his next coughing fit subsided.
"Had'ta," Jayne shrugged, "it's a rule." Rarely if ever were their roles reversed, and the mercenary shifted uneasily at Simon's confusion. "Y'know, the rule," Jayne explained before the question was out. "Like if it was someone else and your lil' sis." His mouth twisted in distaste. "Not that I woulda. No offense or nothin' to the banshee girl, but if she got a knife fetish I got bits of me I've a fondness for. An' I don't part with them for nobody."
His sister was smiling at them now in a rather unsettling way, almost entirely shaded by the low lights, her teeth standing out like a cheshire cat grin. "Conducting important research. Curious behaviour of the Y chromosome."
Jayne recoiled, leaning as far away from her as he could. "You leave my chrome-zones alone!" he cried out, his voice taking on an uncharacteristically high pitch.
Simon looked between them, bemused. "On the bright side, I don't think you could be more emasculated than you are right now."
Even River seemed to take pity on the oaf's continued agitation, flipped the page over, and began drawing, as though the previous exchange hadn't happened. Perhaps to her perceptions it hadn't, and she thought she was caught in a dream, coping with what had happened to her by rejecting reality entirely. The thought hurt, as it always did; sadness, that she might not even know he was here, that she was safe and away from that awful place, but also pride, for her persistence and strength.
The other man also studied her contemplatively, though more warily, and only spoke again when he was satisfied that River was sufficiently distracted. "I see how it is. I ain't ignorant," the lummox asserted. "It took me some figgering though."
Simon schooled his expression into something innocent. Jayne was trying to be civil, aside from the pummeling; he could extend the same courtesy. "What do you mean?"
"This crew," the mercenary answered. "Made no kind of sense at first. But Mal's got some xī qí gǔ guài flight-of-fancy that folks ain't gotta be blood t'be kin." He was disdainful and cynical, but there was also a grudging acceptance in his words. "Like you two. Ain't about the bounties for him, s'about the amends."
Memories of the ill-fated Lilac heist and his departure on Beaumonde suggested otherwise. "Mal only allows us to stay because we're useful. Or, in my case, entertainment."
Jayne took another mouthful of whiskey. "Sure. He kept'cha on after crazy wrecked the Maidenhead bar because he wanted an Operative on his ass. Hell of a punchline." Not even unexpected insights from Jayne of all people could convince Simon to forgive Mal for endangering his sister. The other man shook his head, frustrated by his chronic alexithymia. "All for one and none for all. 'Cept me," he growled. Another drink.
Was that a complaint or remorse? Simon was quickly having to adjust his estimation of either the bigger man's tolerance downwards or the alcoholic content of the drink drastically upwards. Surely a sad and repentant Jayne was not a sober Jayne.
"Doc," the man hesitated, as though testing out the word, his fingers drumming out a rhythm on the metal flask. "You an' I ain't the friendliest, but we been through some ordeals, so maybe now I don't sell you out to Feds an' you don't announce to the girls whenever I got some unpleasantness at a brothel. An' you got that whole thing about healing and such."
Simon didn't need the reminder, and really hoped that Jayne hadn't contracted chlamydia again. He sighed, and braced himself for another journey into horrors best left unknown. "You'll have to be more specific, Jayne, if you're asking for my help."
"Not me," Jayne corrected. "My kid brother. Got some kind of superbug, his usual pills for his damp lung don't work no more." There was something very like a pout on his face, one Simon had also seen when the bodybuilder was sitting forlorn and alone at his workout bench. "No older than your sis," Jayne gestured at River, "and he's dyin'. I ain't spent most my life lookin' out for him and sendin' cash home for him to kick now." He studied Simon shrewdly. "I was thinkin', maybe you know some new-fangled core meds or somethin' might help."
It was a night for the unexpected, Simon supposed. He would never have thought that he would feel sympathy and understanding for any of Jayne's plights. "I'll look into it."
Jayne clapped him on the shoulder. "Then we're settled far as Kaylee's concerned, 'til the next gaffe. Don't much matter whatcha did." It was such a comfort, knowing that Jayne didn't even need a reason to justify attacking him. Still, that was surprisingly less selfish, depraved, and violent than usual. Then Jayne continued. "Vexin' Kaylee more'n the sexin', though. Oughta see to that."
Simon dearly wished he was not having this conversation, and especially not with Jayne. He glanced at River, who seemed unaffected. Perhaps she hadn't heard. "You knew about us?"
"Twenty-one minutes and nine point six seconds in the engine room," River supplied unhelpfully, still scribbling. "Not counting foreplay." Her brother decided that he was going to pretend he didn't hear that for the continuing sake of his sanity.
Jayne snorted. "'Course we knew. Maybe slobberin' over her face 'fore everyone by the mule's your kinda trickery, but ain't exactly a largish boat, you two goin' at it everywhere an' all hours for three months. Kaylee alone can pierce the bulkheads. Louder when she's with company." And apparently the discussion could get worse. "Only reason we weren't ridin' y'all 'bout it was 'cause Zoë's in mournin' and it's right comical when Mal messes with ya."
He felt his jaw drop from the outrage. All the interruptions every time they were having a moment, dumping chores on them to keep them busy for entire days, the seemingly innocent innuendo... The doctor found himself seriously considering that the next time that lǎo húli was in the infirmary for a headache, Simon would give Mal yin yang huo capsules instead of painkillers and convince him the hyperphilia was a side effect.
Simon almost didn't hear the distant clatter of the attaching shuttle, the crackle of the intercom. "We have injured," the first mate announced. Simon still had difficulty identifying Zoë's moods or the different tones of her voice, but thought he heard gravity instead of mere annoyance or amusement, and shelved his plans for revenge. "All personnel report to the infirmary."
His patient was there almost before she had finished her sentence; not the injury prone daredevil, but Inara. The doctor rose and any anger he might have felt was overridden by the sight of the captain carrying the companion, the pale and tense look Mal spared for the rest of the crew. Both curious, River moved to investigate and Jayne stood presumably to help, not that they were paid any notice. Without needing any direction, her bearer pushed open the doors of the infirmary and placed Inara onto the examination table like an acolyte before the altar.
Explosion, they said, perhaps she had been hit by some shrapnel or something. The soldier stripped off his brown coat and rolled up his sleeves in case his assistance was needed, but instead, Simon shooed out the gathering crowd so he had room to work. With no small effort, they eventually pulled Inara's would-be sentinel away from the observation window as well.
After he had determined what he already knew, he found them in the galley, gathered around the worn dinner table - normally a loud and social place, now subdued. Even the warm glow of the lamp and the whimsical decorative vines along the walls struggled against the melancholy, and were not enough. He was reminded of any number of grim watering holes he had seen on this journey, the patrons hunched over their tankards and drowning their sorrows. Or perhaps a bohemian bistro in an opera, and dead lilacs.
Kaylee had apparently thought to warm a spread of leftovers in a fit of nervous energy, with about as much of her normal cheer as a butterfly when the autumn frost first arrived. River simply smiled at her brother, and returned to her meal, and Jayne didn't even stop his usual vacuum-like eating, but the rest looked to him when he entered, not particularly hungry. The captain slowly dragged his thoughts away from some impressive brooding, his plate untouched, and waited.
Simon took a breath, cognizant of the three empty chairs. This would be difficult. "I owe you all an explanation, and an apology." He glanced at his tiánxīn, her hazel eyes wavering, her soft lips thinning at his disclosure, and quickly resettled his gaze on the others. "A few years ago, while I was looking for River, I stumbled across a cortex alert from Sihnon that caught my attention."
Mal interrupted, his eyes narrowed with impatience. "This resembling a point in the near future?"
"Yes," Simon frowned, with a flash of lingering irritation. "A companion was assaulted on the grounds of one of the guild houses, and several students were nearly abducted." Suddenly his story had become much more interesting. "The girls had been attending a preparatory academy on the side, to fulfill a general education requirement that was part of their training. I thought there might be a connection to the attack and River's disappearance, so I subscribed to a client list and arranged for an appointment to talk to one of the victims." He hesitated to tell them the rest, but they deserved to know the truth. "It wasn't an easy time for me, and she... comforted me."
A stony silence answered him, except for Kaylee, who looked crestfallen, and Jayne, who swallowed his food and gave a low whistle of admiration. "Companion, huh?" the lout asked, clearly still not aware who they were talking about. "She any good?" Despite a murderous look from the captain, he leered with unsavoury speculation, his fork tracing curves in the air for emphasis. "For that kinda coin, petals must smell like peach blossoms, snug as a holster, and nǎi zi like two..."
"Jayne," Zoë warned.
Kaylee crossed her arms in a sulk. "Was she comfortin' you at that resort on Pelorum?" she accused, and shook her head, her brown hair bouncing around her shoulders. "River and I went huntin' for you after you took off, but you were in 'Nara's shuttle all the while."
Simon wasn't sure how she knew about that, but the captain spoke before he could formulate an answer for her. "She was sick then, too, wasn't she?" His voice was low and tired, almost as though weighed down by his troubles.
"I've been running tests for her," the doctor confirmed. "When I had to change ships on Persephone, I tried to research what was available, and I found an advert over the cortex about her arrival. I thought she might be willing to protect my sister if anything happened to me. It didn't really work out that way, I didn't have a chance to tell her about River. But even after you found out about my stowaway, she convinced you all to give us a second chance." His thoughts grew pensive. Her harsh jibe at him to Mal early on, her disapproving stares whenever he upset Kaylee, dismissive comments about her job whenever he complimented her. "I think, even though she adored River, she felt betrayed by me. I didn't find out about her illness until later, when I accidentally found some of her medications, and then I saw helping her as a chance to atone for my presumptions."
Kaylee was still upset, and he could see that she didn't quite believe him, but he was relieved when she turned some of her anger towards another target. "You said they was havin' an affair," she rebuked, scowling at the other jilted admirer at the table.
The slow-witted mercenary blinked. "Doc? And 'Nara?" Another glare from Zoë shut him up.
Simon could see the regret in the slump of Mal's shoulders, and reminded himself not to take any of this personally. "I'm sorry," he said to the captain, and despite everything that the man had done to him, he meant it. "I think that the concussion from the blast she was caught in was enough to disturb the delicate balance of her system. Her condition has gotten worse."
Mal absorbed that for a few moments. "How bad is it?" he finally asked.
You saw how bad, she's completely unresponsive, Simon thought, but didn't say, because he could see Mal was grasping for any kind of hope that could be found. "She has spinocerebellar ataxia with extrapyramidal akinesia. It's rare," he answered, "and still poorly understood, because there are never many cases to study at any one time. Simply, her brain cells produce too much glutamine amino acid. Eventually it builds up, impairs function, and becomes toxic."
River finished her meal and neatly crossed her utensils over the plate. "Goodnight," she said, and even after she left, wandering down towards the stairs to the infirmary and the passenger dorms, Simon couldn't decide if she was commenting on Inara's ailment or not.
"That contagious?" Jayne asked worriedly.
Simon sighed. It was the stupid question portion of the evening. "Genetic. Her mother had a slower progressing variation of the disorder, which appears to have anticipated and aggregated in Inara." Jayne seemed satisfied with that answer, and got up to rummage in the kitchen for a second serving.
"Okay," said the captain, skimming past the medical jargon he didn't really understand and focusing on where his strengths were: decision, command, and action. "So how do we treat it?"
His throat tightened. Regardless of their history, Simon still considered Inara a friend. "I've given her an anti-inflammatory to reduce the swelling from her concussion and something to counteract her glutamate levels, but there's been no change to her condition." He tried for consoling. Whether for himself, for the captain, or for the rest of the crew, he wasn't sure. "She isn't going to wake up from this, Mal. All we can do now is keep her comfortable."
They all reacted with various degrees of shock. Kaylee gasped, her hands clapped over her mouth and forgetting for a moment their relationship tangle and the hurt, Jayne's head lifted as he looked over from the kitchen area behind the counter, and even Zoë's eyes widened. Mal looked as though every emotion had been stricken from his face, staring blankly as the other members of the crew slowly turned to watch his reaction. Then, impossibly, he managed to crack a disbelieving smile and barked a humourless laugh. "What? No. C'mon, no, really. There's gotta be... What about gene therapy?"
"Family history of bad reactions. Gene therapy is what originally hastened the onset of her mother's condition. It will only make her worse, if it doesn't kill her outright, and painfully," Simon replied, repeating what Inara had told him when he'd confronted her about his discovery.
"You're a genius, top three percent at MedAcad, you said so. She'll be fine, she..." He was rambling now, one last effort at denial, at convincing himself, then he saw Simon shaking his head, pitying, no. And Mal's temper audibly snapped, his chair knocked backwards like a gunshot as he surged to his feet and slammed his palms on the table, startling them. "You have to help her, you're a gorramn doctor! Fix her!" he snarled, every line of him bristling, looking like he was about to leap across the space between them after Simon, who raised his hands as though to ward off a wild and enraged animal. Mal simply growled. "Fine then. You won't do anything, I will." He pushed off the table almost like he was throwing it aside, storming off towards the stairs in the direction River had gone.
"Sir?" Zoë asked, alarmed, moving to follow him and keep him from injuring himself.
"We still have that cryochamber?" he asked, and didn't wait for her to answer. "Get poindexter to fire it up, or cool it down, whatever. We can store her in there 'til we get her to Sihnon and find a real doctor." He stopped long enough to stare Simon down, blazing with righteous anger and hatred, then continued, raising his voice for the rest of them, not that he needed to. "Anyone who doesn't wanna go there I'll drop off with fare to get them elsewhere, but there's folks on Ezra right now planning on taking the antlion out and we're gonna help. Longer we stay here, less chance she has and more chance we get caught by the Alliance." His voice dropped dangerously. "We're gettin' off this world."
"Finally," Jayne grouched, and was very lucky Mal didn't hear.
"Where are you going?" Simon asked, uncertain if he should join Zoë's efforts and at the same time not looking forward to another fist to the face.
The shadows of the back corridor fell over Mal as he almost vanished through the passage way, but he grabbed onto the frame with one hand and looked back over his shoulder. "Going to get her comfy like you said," he answered. "Prep the damn box."
Bytemite- Posts : 680
Join date : 2012-06-25
Re: Eidolon Postings
Bytemite Wed Aug 08, 2012 12:01 pm
Chapter 24
Anger was easy to reach for, had been for a while, especially around her. The real trick was staying mad, one he was no good at with her. No matter how he tried to hold on to it, that's all it was really - a game, that only lasted until the next time he had the urge to go visit her, like a moth to flame. Like he had to make sure that she was still real, and not something he'd conjured up one night in a fit of loneliness. Because between the bickering she settled him, she and every space she inhabited to fill with her perfumed air, himself and ship alike.
So when he saw her again, saw River at her bedside, both of them looking otherworldly and half to líng jiè, hair like the wild evening and pale skin almost blue under the harsh infirmary lights, all his pointless fury turned to so much ashes. Because there was a moment between heartbeats that Inara lay motionless, when he just stopped, and she almost took him with her before she started breathing again. Steady, and stable, seeming asleep, but her essence had gone and left behind only her living shell.
The girl sat by Inara as she lay on the operation table as though in repose, had threaded the companion's hands through the sleeves of a gold satin robe he'd seen before, draped over her like a hospital gown, or maybe a funeral shroud. Wasn't right. She didn't belong here. Never did, not this cold place of grim reality where he dwelt. But somehow a world without her in it, without her smiles and grace or her flashing eyes when she was cross with him, somehow that was worse. Save her from this, Mal thought, not really sure who he was asking - he hadn't trusted that higher power for a long time. Spirit her somewhere so death don't find her. A shaded glen, somewhere always summer, with food and wine and that tea she likes.
God might not have been listening, but River Tam was. Made some arcane gesture, almost to touch one pretty black ringlet before hesitating. "Safe," River pronounced, then clarified: "Sanctuary." He couldn't disagree. Even fading and unconscious, Inara fostered peace and calm around her. Probably all that training or something. "No," the girl insisted, exasperated, then pitying. "Wasted on them. They never notice her."
Somehow that didn't surprise him. No doubt her clients never looked further than themselves. "Yeah, well, they don't appreciate her," he answered.
The mind reader looked over at him as though curious, uncanny as ever, then raised her hand to point at something reflected in the glass, over his shoulder.
His loyal crew had followed him, with more concern than he rightly warranted, clustered together by the stair scaffolding like they were uneasy about approaching him. Put him in mind of the shepherd and his flock, how he'd repaid the favour, what he'd done.
As a leader he'd failed them, both by tactics and attitude. Inara was dying, and all he'd managed was to hurl bluster at her doctor and hang his head low.
He let his gaze drop. "Don't have much call askin' much more than I already have," he admitted, some manner of apology to them even as his eyes were drawn to her again. Always back to Inara. "I mean to do right by her." Their images glanced at each other, questioning and then confirming, this was not what they were expecting. "Could be dangerous, could be we get nicked. We wait on the Alliance for the all clear, though, they'll catch us for sure. So we want out of this, we put whatever pique we got between us aside."
Kaylee was frowning and unsure, and his second in command was silent and watching, noncommittal in a way that said that she disapproved and they were going to have words later when the rest of the crew weren't in earshot. But the doctor slowly nodded, and Jayne shrugged, as close as the mercenary ever got to genuine sincerity. "Ain't doin' much else, anyhow."
A tug on his sleeve, and Mal startled, because there was River to his other side, silent as a cat's ghost and leaning in close. "Think no more of this night's accidents but as the fierce vexations of a dream." The fairy girl stared up at him as she clasped his hand around something, then vanished off into the dorms.
That was somewhat alarming. He studied the little vial like it was explosive. "It's a skin and hair wash," his girlish little tomboy mechanic offered like an olive branch. "'Nara left it for River. Don't think she's ever used it."
A flick of the lid, and suddenly he was surrounded by jasmine flowers, as though Inara had just brushed past him. He shook his head to clear it, no, she wasn't there, not really. "So why give it to me?" he asked.
He saw Simon about to give a smart ass comment about hygiene, cut short by sharp glare over his shoulder. The boy changed strategy, decided to finally obey orders, and slipped by into the infirmary to rummage around for whatever injections were needed. "She'll need to be cleansed and undressed for cryonic storage," Simon told him. "During the freezing process her cells will lose water, and if there's anything in contact with her skin, she might cool unevenly."
Nope. "Really was more just going to talk with her," Mal asserted quickly. Not that she could hear him, he added bitterly, but he would've anyway, if only because he needed to believe that on some level she was still there.
He was rattled enough by the suggestion that Jayne snorted at him, then turned a dubious eye on the windows. "We doin' this in here?" The captain's blood curdled a little. We? For once it seemed like Jayne wasn't after skirt chasing and meant some honest help, but that was more than Mal could handle for one evening. He gave them all a darting glance, and hurried to gather her up, to get her away from there."Wasn't gonna look," Jayne muttered, forlorn as if Inara had called him hero and taken a bullet for him, and took his leave.
Zoë fell into step behind him, eyes burning at the back of his head. "Dippin' into the rainy-day fund?" she challenged quietly. "Doctors and treatments ain't cheap, and we barely have enough some weeks for food, repairs, and fuel. Given any thought on the money at all? Sir?"
He halted. "There's some recourse," the captain answered, unconvincing, with a careful shrug. He stood very much aware of his boat around them, the silence of the usual operational hum, the damsel in his arms, vulnerable, her eyes closed. The sight pained him deep down, and all he could do was hold her tighter, protectively, as he continued on. "Need you with me on this, Zoë."
She wasn't, had hung back to appraise him and his response, and hadn't liked what she heard. "Might be that's part of the problem," she said, and abandoned him outside one of their empty rooms. Couldn't exactly chase after her, what he was carrying, and he cursed to himself. With Zoë in a snit, River off wandering, and Kaylee puppy-dogging after Simon again, he'd just run out of womenfolk to bathe her in his stead for propriety sake.
- - - - -
Even with only two people, the infirmary wasn't much bigger than a closet, had been converted from back storage for field medics even before captain ever bought her. Took some special effort then to avoid her, bustling around in the cabinets like Simon was. She didn't want to disturb him, but contrite wasn't working, and she also wanted to talk. "Why'd you never tell us?" she asked.
He finally turned to her, and he had his professional stuffy coreworld upper class mask on, with some hurt underneath she wanted to snuggle away. "We were concerned how some members of the crew might be affected by the news of our history together. I had River to think about, Mal is unreasonable at the best of times." Something bitter flashed through his pretty eyes, and she couldn't meet them anymore. "And neither of us wanted to upset you."
This was stickier than she'd hoped, like winding her way through an ungreased engine. "No, I mean, about her sickness." All this time, and Inara had confided in not a one of them. "Woulda explained lots, and we coulda been there for her, 'stead of her leaving." Kaylee had always admired the companion almost to the point of envy with all her glamour and her lifestyle, and now it more seemed just sad, like Inara had been trying to deny anything was wrong with her, and forget, distracting herself a while with luxury now and then. She never thought someone who had so many shuài boys after her could ever seem so isolated. "Can't even picture how hard that'd be, dealin' with all this on her own."
She heard Simon exhale, a little "oh," and she chanced a peek at him. His face softened, less angry and cornered. "She didn't want to worry anyone else," he defended, but relaxed enough to lean against the counter. "And as her doctor, I had to honour that." A frown, like he disagreed with that choice, then he shook his head and went back to his syringes and solutions. "As for why," he mused, filling a needle from a vial then carefully tapping to check for bubbles, "She devoted her life to helping others. She might just not be comfortable when the roles are reversed."
Kaylee didn't think she understood how a person could get like that, but that made a lot of sense to her anyway. Like how the captain looked after them, but never let anyone to see to him and told himself all sorts of stories to keep them away. And sometimes it was like Simon felt guilty for having his own needs separate from taking care of his sister. "That's kinda like you," Kaylee said. She smiled wanly. "Maybe ya'll just need to let other people in."
"Let people in how?" Simon asked, and she had plenty of ideas, but then she noticed the edge that crept into his voice. "Put a foot in it whenever we try to talk to anyone we care about? Or better yet, find out they don't trust us enough to even listen to the truth?"
- - - - -
No answers from over the ship intercom, so he really was on his own. Mal considered the door first, decided to trust his crew because engaging the lock would be unseemly, like he had something to hide. He turned his attention to the rest of the room. Beige panels and the bare mattress, the crumpled boxes stacked in the corner, and Inara, catatonic and settled cross-legged on the middle of the floor.
Mal scrubbed at his face, feeling the stubble he'd grown since the morning. He hadn't any notion what he was doing. He was no Jayne, he cleaned up well enough for a scruffy captain on a boat often weeks between worlds. But this was something outside the range of his meager experience.
There was a sink concealed in the wall panel, like in all the other living quarters, where they kept kits stowed for crew and passengers. He pulled out a sponge and two bowls, filled one with soapy-scented water, and tried not to spill as he sat himself and them down next to her. Then he just watched her a while, thinking about approaches to take, working up the nerve, until finally he reached out and tucked a curl behind her ear, struggling for words. "I know you'd hate this if you could say. But you heard the doc, and I guess I'm it," he told her.
She didn't even acknowledge his presence, and he could almost imagine she was just meditating, doing her best to ignore his annoying personage. Maybe she'd reached the nirvana all the Buddhists like her talked about, or the heaven he used to believe in. He stroked his thumb along her cheek.
He'd shamed her enough already with his unfair barbs and mistreatment. What right did he have? She might not have a choice, but he damn well could find some way to honour her still, her and the trust she had to place in him now. "Tell you what," he proposed, "I won't be disrespecting you in any way, and I'll leave you covered with this smock until we close up the cryobox. And all you got to do is come back." He patted her arm, not quite looking at her. "You can even hit me if you're like to."
Seemed a good deal to him. That's what he told himself as he turned her, hand at her waist, so as to start at her back, as he pushed her soft, tangled hair over her shoulders. But he still felt like a miserable sorry hump while he removed the brassiere-like scrap of white gossamer though the reversed opening of her robe.
He closed his eyes against the feeling, took a deep breath. Just keep talkin', Reynolds, he ordered himself. Lifted the bowl, the sponge. Have to get through this.
"Be on Sihnon in a few weeks, like you asked." Casual, as if this was every day. He traced moist circles into her skin, into the low curve along the line of her skirt. Maybe this would be mundane soon, them in some core hospital. "Take you to the guild first, see what kind of medical plan they can give you, find out the options." Mal nodded to himself. "I'll be there long as it takes, 'til you get tired of me." He smiled at the fantasy. "You'll be back to yelling at me again in no time," he promised. "And when you're walking again, I'll take you dancing, so you can make all the haughty ladies fuss over how they look."
His attempt at lighthearted failed as he remembered all of her high class peers that would be there. If she'd hooked up with a client long term, would she be in this state? He'd fought off a suitor at sword point when the possessive hún dàn veered towards abusive, but if it hadn't been for him stirring up jealousy, maybe she'd have been all right.
Who knows if the hidden price tag of her illness would've been too much for them. Not one of them ever had to worry about their own bills in their entire wealthy lives, no reason to think they would for anyone else. Himself, though... "Don't you worry about the money, I'll come up with somethin'," he said, resumed washing her. Squeezed out the ashen water, soaked up from the fresh water bowl, squeezed again. He thought about his first mate, now widowed, her complaints about the danger, how maybe she had a point about their costs of living and ship upkeep. "Hell, could always hawk Serenity to Zoë," the captain mused, rolling the idea around his tongue.
Wasn't the first time he'd thought about it. He was getting too old for this kind of life. His scars bothered him, new and old, even the one where he'd gotten hit by the shrapnel, that he shouldn't even be able to feel anymore. Every time he came back from a job, or another screw up, or playtime with some new sadistic yāoguài, he felt it, a creak in his joints and a growing slowness, like the onset of winter. There'd come a time soon when his quickdraw wouldn't be fast enough to counter that one bullet with his name on it. All he could do was try to dodge it before then.
"Wouldn't be so bad," he affirmed, trailed up her sides, over her ribs. And he really meant it. He'd been a dirt pounder before. Had another home once; foolishly given up, burned away, and gone, but his while it had lasted anyway. One where he was surrounded by life, instead of spent all his time taking it away. Filled with sunlight and the smell of cool sweet rain, the wind rushing over long grasses that bowed as it passed. He suddenly wished he could have shown her all of it, chased her across the fields. Hopped the rough cross-beams of the driftwood fences to lay out a blanket and picnic under that big maple tree at the bend in the creek, one of the days when the afternoon was clear. She'd tease him about the straw he'd found to chew on, like a hayseed had sprouted there in between his teeth. And as the sky turned golden, he'd have told her about all the friends and family he'd lost.
They'd have a porch, with a seat-swing hung to one side. They'd be laying on it half napping and half alert while the kids ran in and out of the house with with the white siding and blue shutters, and never closed the screen door. His arms wrapped around her, sliding under her silk clothing, hands passing over her belly.
Mal took Inara's silence as disbelief, not just that he could give up flying, but that his first mate would even want his job. "Hey, just 'cause she's in my employ taking wages don't mean she'd rather be elsewhere, and that she won't like to be in charge," he argued, moving slowly upwards along her spine and the smooth muscles of her back. "Got some miles left in this boat, been a good place for all of us. And for Zoë, there's a sentimental angle." He studied the curlicue strands at the scruff of her neck, the trickle of water from the sponge before it slipped under her loose collar to her shoulders. "There's market demand too. We had a bona fide companion rent the shuttle from us a while."
Hadn't exactly turned out, though. "Never thought we'd end up like this," he admitted. "Way you glided into the shuttle that day like you owned it, you had me sellin' you on its virtues, and I'd been against the idea." She'd even seen through his lie about her having competition. The way she handled herself, in grace and business, had caught him off guard, and he guessed he'd been distracted by her, not at his best. But then, he never was with her. You want me, she'd said, and she was right. That's what was strange about it. She provoked him from the start. Everything about her said privilege, courtesy of the same folks who liked to shoot at him and bomb civilians. Yet all of her wiles, all her knowing speculation about their respectability, and he'd trusted her anyway. Enough to let her on his ship and among his crew. "Made me want to change your mind 'bout me. To prove myself."
So he insulted her. Tried to get a rise out of her. "I ought not to have called you that," he repented, smoothing across her wishbone to her sternum and back. Never was all that good with the girls back home, shut up with chores on the ranch and only going into town for church. Then with the war, any tenderness he might've been able to give someone had been shot dead.
She'd gone off after that first meeting to see a client while he pretended to decide, wasn't supposed to be back until morning. He found himself looking out at the evening on Persephone from the airlock, propped up arms crossed against one of the struts. The fiery red in the sky had long since faded to violet, and he'd been thinking about her. When he felt someone staring at him, he found her there, waiting at the base of the ramp with her luggage around her. They'd regarded each other a long moment, and he thought he might never forget her expression. She'd looked broken somehow, standing defiant amid everything she owned, and she was asking him with her eyes for shelter.
Something had passed between them then, some sort of recognition. What are you running from? He thought then that he might know, because maybe she was like him. Maybe she was running from herself.
They hadn't needed to say anything more, and he'd hauled her things up to her shuttle while she observed. Then she'd joined them for a protein dinner around their wood table, opposite him, Kaylee bouncing in joy about her staying with them. Wherever she'd come from, she somehow fit in. She laughed at Wash's jokes, smiled adoringly at the younger girl, showed his second in command respect. He thought she looked like smoke and candlelight.
He never asked her why she'd come back early. He reckoned he wouldn't have liked the answer. Because he couldn't imagine why anyone would send her away, and the more he thought about it, the more troubled he was about what someone could have done to her to make her leave. And he knew he could be worse. He wondered if he would ruin her. Even so, it took him more than eight months to meet one of her clients and stop with the mudslinging. It wasn't until he heard Atherton Wing call her a whore that he realized how wrong he was. That he was hurting her.
He'd been too late, because six months later, she left.
As he reached the end of her arm, he entwined his fingers with hers, admiring how small and dainty she was in comparison, the way her hand fit in his palm. He repeated the action with her other side, then stood. "I know I ain't made much of myself," he said, crossing over to the sink again for a fresh supply. Then he returned to her side, poured the water over her head, catching the excess in the other bowl. "But I'm gonna try to make that up to you."
He ran his hands through her hair and over her scalp, working the soap into a fine lather. He'd keep his word, because he was tired of failing the people who depended on him, who he cared for. Who he needed, lest he spiral down that dark road and lose whatever soul he had left.
And he needed a miracle. She remained deaf to him. Motionless, sightless, voiceless, unaware of just essential she was, how he was willing her back to them. For her to turn, and see him, and say something. Anything.
She didn't respond to him, to any of it. His heart heavy, he rinsed everything away.
Anger was easy to reach for, had been for a while, especially around her. The real trick was staying mad, one he was no good at with her. No matter how he tried to hold on to it, that's all it was really - a game, that only lasted until the next time he had the urge to go visit her, like a moth to flame. Like he had to make sure that she was still real, and not something he'd conjured up one night in a fit of loneliness. Because between the bickering she settled him, she and every space she inhabited to fill with her perfumed air, himself and ship alike.
So when he saw her again, saw River at her bedside, both of them looking otherworldly and half to líng jiè, hair like the wild evening and pale skin almost blue under the harsh infirmary lights, all his pointless fury turned to so much ashes. Because there was a moment between heartbeats that Inara lay motionless, when he just stopped, and she almost took him with her before she started breathing again. Steady, and stable, seeming asleep, but her essence had gone and left behind only her living shell.
The girl sat by Inara as she lay on the operation table as though in repose, had threaded the companion's hands through the sleeves of a gold satin robe he'd seen before, draped over her like a hospital gown, or maybe a funeral shroud. Wasn't right. She didn't belong here. Never did, not this cold place of grim reality where he dwelt. But somehow a world without her in it, without her smiles and grace or her flashing eyes when she was cross with him, somehow that was worse. Save her from this, Mal thought, not really sure who he was asking - he hadn't trusted that higher power for a long time. Spirit her somewhere so death don't find her. A shaded glen, somewhere always summer, with food and wine and that tea she likes.
God might not have been listening, but River Tam was. Made some arcane gesture, almost to touch one pretty black ringlet before hesitating. "Safe," River pronounced, then clarified: "Sanctuary." He couldn't disagree. Even fading and unconscious, Inara fostered peace and calm around her. Probably all that training or something. "No," the girl insisted, exasperated, then pitying. "Wasted on them. They never notice her."
Somehow that didn't surprise him. No doubt her clients never looked further than themselves. "Yeah, well, they don't appreciate her," he answered.
The mind reader looked over at him as though curious, uncanny as ever, then raised her hand to point at something reflected in the glass, over his shoulder.
His loyal crew had followed him, with more concern than he rightly warranted, clustered together by the stair scaffolding like they were uneasy about approaching him. Put him in mind of the shepherd and his flock, how he'd repaid the favour, what he'd done.
As a leader he'd failed them, both by tactics and attitude. Inara was dying, and all he'd managed was to hurl bluster at her doctor and hang his head low.
He let his gaze drop. "Don't have much call askin' much more than I already have," he admitted, some manner of apology to them even as his eyes were drawn to her again. Always back to Inara. "I mean to do right by her." Their images glanced at each other, questioning and then confirming, this was not what they were expecting. "Could be dangerous, could be we get nicked. We wait on the Alliance for the all clear, though, they'll catch us for sure. So we want out of this, we put whatever pique we got between us aside."
Kaylee was frowning and unsure, and his second in command was silent and watching, noncommittal in a way that said that she disapproved and they were going to have words later when the rest of the crew weren't in earshot. But the doctor slowly nodded, and Jayne shrugged, as close as the mercenary ever got to genuine sincerity. "Ain't doin' much else, anyhow."
A tug on his sleeve, and Mal startled, because there was River to his other side, silent as a cat's ghost and leaning in close. "Think no more of this night's accidents but as the fierce vexations of a dream." The fairy girl stared up at him as she clasped his hand around something, then vanished off into the dorms.
That was somewhat alarming. He studied the little vial like it was explosive. "It's a skin and hair wash," his girlish little tomboy mechanic offered like an olive branch. "'Nara left it for River. Don't think she's ever used it."
A flick of the lid, and suddenly he was surrounded by jasmine flowers, as though Inara had just brushed past him. He shook his head to clear it, no, she wasn't there, not really. "So why give it to me?" he asked.
He saw Simon about to give a smart ass comment about hygiene, cut short by sharp glare over his shoulder. The boy changed strategy, decided to finally obey orders, and slipped by into the infirmary to rummage around for whatever injections were needed. "She'll need to be cleansed and undressed for cryonic storage," Simon told him. "During the freezing process her cells will lose water, and if there's anything in contact with her skin, she might cool unevenly."
Nope. "Really was more just going to talk with her," Mal asserted quickly. Not that she could hear him, he added bitterly, but he would've anyway, if only because he needed to believe that on some level she was still there.
He was rattled enough by the suggestion that Jayne snorted at him, then turned a dubious eye on the windows. "We doin' this in here?" The captain's blood curdled a little. We? For once it seemed like Jayne wasn't after skirt chasing and meant some honest help, but that was more than Mal could handle for one evening. He gave them all a darting glance, and hurried to gather her up, to get her away from there."Wasn't gonna look," Jayne muttered, forlorn as if Inara had called him hero and taken a bullet for him, and took his leave.
Zoë fell into step behind him, eyes burning at the back of his head. "Dippin' into the rainy-day fund?" she challenged quietly. "Doctors and treatments ain't cheap, and we barely have enough some weeks for food, repairs, and fuel. Given any thought on the money at all? Sir?"
He halted. "There's some recourse," the captain answered, unconvincing, with a careful shrug. He stood very much aware of his boat around them, the silence of the usual operational hum, the damsel in his arms, vulnerable, her eyes closed. The sight pained him deep down, and all he could do was hold her tighter, protectively, as he continued on. "Need you with me on this, Zoë."
She wasn't, had hung back to appraise him and his response, and hadn't liked what she heard. "Might be that's part of the problem," she said, and abandoned him outside one of their empty rooms. Couldn't exactly chase after her, what he was carrying, and he cursed to himself. With Zoë in a snit, River off wandering, and Kaylee puppy-dogging after Simon again, he'd just run out of womenfolk to bathe her in his stead for propriety sake.
- - - - -
Even with only two people, the infirmary wasn't much bigger than a closet, had been converted from back storage for field medics even before captain ever bought her. Took some special effort then to avoid her, bustling around in the cabinets like Simon was. She didn't want to disturb him, but contrite wasn't working, and she also wanted to talk. "Why'd you never tell us?" she asked.
He finally turned to her, and he had his professional stuffy coreworld upper class mask on, with some hurt underneath she wanted to snuggle away. "We were concerned how some members of the crew might be affected by the news of our history together. I had River to think about, Mal is unreasonable at the best of times." Something bitter flashed through his pretty eyes, and she couldn't meet them anymore. "And neither of us wanted to upset you."
This was stickier than she'd hoped, like winding her way through an ungreased engine. "No, I mean, about her sickness." All this time, and Inara had confided in not a one of them. "Woulda explained lots, and we coulda been there for her, 'stead of her leaving." Kaylee had always admired the companion almost to the point of envy with all her glamour and her lifestyle, and now it more seemed just sad, like Inara had been trying to deny anything was wrong with her, and forget, distracting herself a while with luxury now and then. She never thought someone who had so many shuài boys after her could ever seem so isolated. "Can't even picture how hard that'd be, dealin' with all this on her own."
She heard Simon exhale, a little "oh," and she chanced a peek at him. His face softened, less angry and cornered. "She didn't want to worry anyone else," he defended, but relaxed enough to lean against the counter. "And as her doctor, I had to honour that." A frown, like he disagreed with that choice, then he shook his head and went back to his syringes and solutions. "As for why," he mused, filling a needle from a vial then carefully tapping to check for bubbles, "She devoted her life to helping others. She might just not be comfortable when the roles are reversed."
Kaylee didn't think she understood how a person could get like that, but that made a lot of sense to her anyway. Like how the captain looked after them, but never let anyone to see to him and told himself all sorts of stories to keep them away. And sometimes it was like Simon felt guilty for having his own needs separate from taking care of his sister. "That's kinda like you," Kaylee said. She smiled wanly. "Maybe ya'll just need to let other people in."
"Let people in how?" Simon asked, and she had plenty of ideas, but then she noticed the edge that crept into his voice. "Put a foot in it whenever we try to talk to anyone we care about? Or better yet, find out they don't trust us enough to even listen to the truth?"
- - - - -
No answers from over the ship intercom, so he really was on his own. Mal considered the door first, decided to trust his crew because engaging the lock would be unseemly, like he had something to hide. He turned his attention to the rest of the room. Beige panels and the bare mattress, the crumpled boxes stacked in the corner, and Inara, catatonic and settled cross-legged on the middle of the floor.
Mal scrubbed at his face, feeling the stubble he'd grown since the morning. He hadn't any notion what he was doing. He was no Jayne, he cleaned up well enough for a scruffy captain on a boat often weeks between worlds. But this was something outside the range of his meager experience.
There was a sink concealed in the wall panel, like in all the other living quarters, where they kept kits stowed for crew and passengers. He pulled out a sponge and two bowls, filled one with soapy-scented water, and tried not to spill as he sat himself and them down next to her. Then he just watched her a while, thinking about approaches to take, working up the nerve, until finally he reached out and tucked a curl behind her ear, struggling for words. "I know you'd hate this if you could say. But you heard the doc, and I guess I'm it," he told her.
She didn't even acknowledge his presence, and he could almost imagine she was just meditating, doing her best to ignore his annoying personage. Maybe she'd reached the nirvana all the Buddhists like her talked about, or the heaven he used to believe in. He stroked his thumb along her cheek.
He'd shamed her enough already with his unfair barbs and mistreatment. What right did he have? She might not have a choice, but he damn well could find some way to honour her still, her and the trust she had to place in him now. "Tell you what," he proposed, "I won't be disrespecting you in any way, and I'll leave you covered with this smock until we close up the cryobox. And all you got to do is come back." He patted her arm, not quite looking at her. "You can even hit me if you're like to."
Seemed a good deal to him. That's what he told himself as he turned her, hand at her waist, so as to start at her back, as he pushed her soft, tangled hair over her shoulders. But he still felt like a miserable sorry hump while he removed the brassiere-like scrap of white gossamer though the reversed opening of her robe.
He closed his eyes against the feeling, took a deep breath. Just keep talkin', Reynolds, he ordered himself. Lifted the bowl, the sponge. Have to get through this.
"Be on Sihnon in a few weeks, like you asked." Casual, as if this was every day. He traced moist circles into her skin, into the low curve along the line of her skirt. Maybe this would be mundane soon, them in some core hospital. "Take you to the guild first, see what kind of medical plan they can give you, find out the options." Mal nodded to himself. "I'll be there long as it takes, 'til you get tired of me." He smiled at the fantasy. "You'll be back to yelling at me again in no time," he promised. "And when you're walking again, I'll take you dancing, so you can make all the haughty ladies fuss over how they look."
His attempt at lighthearted failed as he remembered all of her high class peers that would be there. If she'd hooked up with a client long term, would she be in this state? He'd fought off a suitor at sword point when the possessive hún dàn veered towards abusive, but if it hadn't been for him stirring up jealousy, maybe she'd have been all right.
Who knows if the hidden price tag of her illness would've been too much for them. Not one of them ever had to worry about their own bills in their entire wealthy lives, no reason to think they would for anyone else. Himself, though... "Don't you worry about the money, I'll come up with somethin'," he said, resumed washing her. Squeezed out the ashen water, soaked up from the fresh water bowl, squeezed again. He thought about his first mate, now widowed, her complaints about the danger, how maybe she had a point about their costs of living and ship upkeep. "Hell, could always hawk Serenity to Zoë," the captain mused, rolling the idea around his tongue.
Wasn't the first time he'd thought about it. He was getting too old for this kind of life. His scars bothered him, new and old, even the one where he'd gotten hit by the shrapnel, that he shouldn't even be able to feel anymore. Every time he came back from a job, or another screw up, or playtime with some new sadistic yāoguài, he felt it, a creak in his joints and a growing slowness, like the onset of winter. There'd come a time soon when his quickdraw wouldn't be fast enough to counter that one bullet with his name on it. All he could do was try to dodge it before then.
"Wouldn't be so bad," he affirmed, trailed up her sides, over her ribs. And he really meant it. He'd been a dirt pounder before. Had another home once; foolishly given up, burned away, and gone, but his while it had lasted anyway. One where he was surrounded by life, instead of spent all his time taking it away. Filled with sunlight and the smell of cool sweet rain, the wind rushing over long grasses that bowed as it passed. He suddenly wished he could have shown her all of it, chased her across the fields. Hopped the rough cross-beams of the driftwood fences to lay out a blanket and picnic under that big maple tree at the bend in the creek, one of the days when the afternoon was clear. She'd tease him about the straw he'd found to chew on, like a hayseed had sprouted there in between his teeth. And as the sky turned golden, he'd have told her about all the friends and family he'd lost.
They'd have a porch, with a seat-swing hung to one side. They'd be laying on it half napping and half alert while the kids ran in and out of the house with with the white siding and blue shutters, and never closed the screen door. His arms wrapped around her, sliding under her silk clothing, hands passing over her belly.
Mal took Inara's silence as disbelief, not just that he could give up flying, but that his first mate would even want his job. "Hey, just 'cause she's in my employ taking wages don't mean she'd rather be elsewhere, and that she won't like to be in charge," he argued, moving slowly upwards along her spine and the smooth muscles of her back. "Got some miles left in this boat, been a good place for all of us. And for Zoë, there's a sentimental angle." He studied the curlicue strands at the scruff of her neck, the trickle of water from the sponge before it slipped under her loose collar to her shoulders. "There's market demand too. We had a bona fide companion rent the shuttle from us a while."
Hadn't exactly turned out, though. "Never thought we'd end up like this," he admitted. "Way you glided into the shuttle that day like you owned it, you had me sellin' you on its virtues, and I'd been against the idea." She'd even seen through his lie about her having competition. The way she handled herself, in grace and business, had caught him off guard, and he guessed he'd been distracted by her, not at his best. But then, he never was with her. You want me, she'd said, and she was right. That's what was strange about it. She provoked him from the start. Everything about her said privilege, courtesy of the same folks who liked to shoot at him and bomb civilians. Yet all of her wiles, all her knowing speculation about their respectability, and he'd trusted her anyway. Enough to let her on his ship and among his crew. "Made me want to change your mind 'bout me. To prove myself."
So he insulted her. Tried to get a rise out of her. "I ought not to have called you that," he repented, smoothing across her wishbone to her sternum and back. Never was all that good with the girls back home, shut up with chores on the ranch and only going into town for church. Then with the war, any tenderness he might've been able to give someone had been shot dead.
She'd gone off after that first meeting to see a client while he pretended to decide, wasn't supposed to be back until morning. He found himself looking out at the evening on Persephone from the airlock, propped up arms crossed against one of the struts. The fiery red in the sky had long since faded to violet, and he'd been thinking about her. When he felt someone staring at him, he found her there, waiting at the base of the ramp with her luggage around her. They'd regarded each other a long moment, and he thought he might never forget her expression. She'd looked broken somehow, standing defiant amid everything she owned, and she was asking him with her eyes for shelter.
Something had passed between them then, some sort of recognition. What are you running from? He thought then that he might know, because maybe she was like him. Maybe she was running from herself.
They hadn't needed to say anything more, and he'd hauled her things up to her shuttle while she observed. Then she'd joined them for a protein dinner around their wood table, opposite him, Kaylee bouncing in joy about her staying with them. Wherever she'd come from, she somehow fit in. She laughed at Wash's jokes, smiled adoringly at the younger girl, showed his second in command respect. He thought she looked like smoke and candlelight.
He never asked her why she'd come back early. He reckoned he wouldn't have liked the answer. Because he couldn't imagine why anyone would send her away, and the more he thought about it, the more troubled he was about what someone could have done to her to make her leave. And he knew he could be worse. He wondered if he would ruin her. Even so, it took him more than eight months to meet one of her clients and stop with the mudslinging. It wasn't until he heard Atherton Wing call her a whore that he realized how wrong he was. That he was hurting her.
He'd been too late, because six months later, she left.
As he reached the end of her arm, he entwined his fingers with hers, admiring how small and dainty she was in comparison, the way her hand fit in his palm. He repeated the action with her other side, then stood. "I know I ain't made much of myself," he said, crossing over to the sink again for a fresh supply. Then he returned to her side, poured the water over her head, catching the excess in the other bowl. "But I'm gonna try to make that up to you."
He ran his hands through her hair and over her scalp, working the soap into a fine lather. He'd keep his word, because he was tired of failing the people who depended on him, who he cared for. Who he needed, lest he spiral down that dark road and lose whatever soul he had left.
And he needed a miracle. She remained deaf to him. Motionless, sightless, voiceless, unaware of just essential she was, how he was willing her back to them. For her to turn, and see him, and say something. Anything.
She didn't respond to him, to any of it. His heart heavy, he rinsed everything away.
Bytemite- Posts : 680
Join date : 2012-06-25
Re: Eidolon Postings
Bytemite Wed Aug 08, 2012 12:05 pm
Inara is technically catatonic, but Mal doesn't know the proper medical description. That's why she can hold poses she's put in, like when Mal sits her upright here.
This was my own take on gratuitous Mal/Inara bath scenes inspired by Mal4Prez and nataleemoon. I wanted to really bring out the angst here with the unfortunate implications.
This was my own take on gratuitous Mal/Inara bath scenes inspired by Mal4Prez and nataleemoon. I wanted to really bring out the angst here with the unfortunate implications.
Bytemite- Posts : 680
Join date : 2012-06-25
Re: Eidolon Postings
Bytemite Wed Aug 08, 2012 12:08 pm
Chapter 25
Simon had thought before that the name Serenity had a funereal sound to it, and events since then hadn't exactly convinced him otherwise. So in a way it was fitting, that the cargo bay seemed like the vault of an earthen mausoleum, metal framework and brown wall paneling climbing into the shadows above them.
They had removed the contents of the shipping crate from the back of the ground trailer, had gathered around in a semi-circle to pay their respects. The clamps echoed into the gloom as he sealed the cryochamber, a hard and unforgiving sound. The doctor hesitated, the last button unpressed, until he received a go ahead from the captain. The container flooded with a hiss of super cooled air. The freezing process took only seconds, for his patient's heart to stop, for her vital signs to cease.
He rested a hand on the lid, his own quiet farewell, and as he moved away, his sister stepped up to take his place. She leaned over to lay her ear on the shimmering grey surface as though to listen, her long dark strands arrayed around her head, her arms wrapped around the sides. Perhaps she was able to hear something, some song of cell or molecule or energy after clinical death that not even science could detect. Even so, her supplication was perhaps a little too much, and not entirely appropriate. He tapped at her shoulder and she allowed him to somberly lead her aside.
She had prompted the rest of them out of their own reluctance, and they each took a turn saying goodbye. Zoë stood tall next to the stasis cell, the salute of a bronze honour guard in a leather vest instead of a uniform, a moment of silence before she departed. Even a sorrowful Jayne shuffled awkwardly nearby before he blurted something out in a mumble and hurried away.
Kaylee was next, the sadness of her face in contrast with the cheery sweetheart patch on her overalls and the pink print of her shirt. Despite his own feelings of hurt over her lack of trust, he felt a sudden regret for his harsh words to her. But he wasn't about to interrupt her, and wasn't even sure what he could say to her, or even that there was anything he could say without looking even worse in her eyes. She seemed partially aware of his attention, and, glancing at him briefly, fled up the metal stairs, not wanting to spend any more time in his presence.
Only Mal remained. The lights shut off automatically as Simon helped River to her room, not wanting to intrude.
- - - - -
Morning. Even the hum of Serenity was softer than usual. Not that he felt any kind of promise for the day when he got up from his ratty bedsheets, or that it meant any more to him than the turn of one restless shift to another. But he pulled himself up, like always, and shrugged on some clothes, snapped his suspenders into place, tugged on his boots. As he ran his hand through his hair and groomed himself into some likeness of human, he didn't ever look in the mirror over the sink. No real urge to see the red in his eyes and all his failures glaring back. Mostly just made him want to put a fist through the glass, and he couldn't afford another replacement, and the doctor would get after him about how many weaves he kept using up.
Wasn't often that anyone was awake before the captain. He never rested well anymore even in the best of times, spent a lot of strange hours avoiding sleep or fighting off ghosts and memories by surveying all their nooks. So he knew most everything that happened around his boat, and too much about the tendencies and whereabouts of his crew.
Kaylee usually slept soundly. His hardworking mechanic wasn't much for troubled slumber even after the danger they'd seen, what with all the "playing doctor" going on. He'd hear the new couple carry on for a while, then bill and coo irksome at each other, then hush, and not stir again for the rest of the cycle. At least the boy didn't snore. Jayne, though, sounded like an artillery shell. That missed the trenches, and hit a munitions depot. The hulking mercenary did everything in excess from vice to eating. An armed intruder couldn't wake Jayne before breakfast.
If it wasn't for some recent nightmares Inara had, he might have thought her free from the same drawbacks of all the mere mortals like them, and that she stayed up practicing her arts instead. But when he'd finally got her to relax, he found she was as subtle in sleep as she was in everything else.
Mal would find River on his rounds, curled up napping wherever she'd dropped during some witching hour safari. He thought that she might end up hurting herself on accident, but they couldn't exactly lock her away, and they were nearby if she needed them, so no harm had yet come of it. Book would sometimes wake early, and cook an elaborate meal as if it made up for the transgressions of his God and humankind. Occasionally he'd cross ways with Wash, the pilot would get up to check the helm then stumble back to wife and bed. More lately it was Zoë, after one of her all-nighters sitting on the bridge, sneaking back into her bunk for a change of clothing. He pretended he didn't notice, since it was only fair for all the times she'd covered for him.
Couldn't hear anyone else awake, so he had Serenity to himself for a while. He climbed his ladder, popped the hatch, but stopped short of the galley, wondering why he had a largish and thin curved sword impaled halfway through his well-used and already battered dining table.
He crept closer. Seemed to glow golden, lit from the lamp underneath and the dawn shining in from above. For all he could tell the blade knew he was there and could lash out at him, not much else to account for where it had come from. "Erroneous," River appeared like a wisp, an oracle in a new moon shroud. He snatched his hand back. "Misplaced." Less than a breath. "Wrong."
As if to make an example of herself, she climbed up on the table with a composed dignity, using the chairs as a step stool. She closed her eyes, head tilted back, and threw her arms out, drew them back, arched one overhead. A high kick to the side, her foot pointed, then a twirl on tiptoes. Too early by far for this, he thought, and turned towards the counter to look for the instant-caf powder.
Mugs full were already there, steaming and waiting. Shepherd? He had to remind himself, no, the preacher wasn't with them anymore. But mysterious swords aside, he wasn't going to turn down a tin. He grabbed one and took a sip, leaning up against the counter. Zoë joined him from behind the cabinets. Maybe she'd always been there, like she was always at his side. Like she'd walked out of his own shadow one day when he needed another soldier, then never left. Or maybe she'd had another rough night, and brewed them up some sludge.
Not that there was any other option - fake coffee was bad all around, so better to make it thick. He nodded a greeting to her, and thanks, and said something else. "What's that about?" he asked, waving a hand at their unique teenager and their sharp looking new centerpiece.
Zoë appraised the scene, then gave him a bland look, like there was no other place for cutlery and a dance show. Even her kinked brown mane seemed flat and tired. "Think it's your problem, sir."
He watched then as the companion passed through, her hair styled high and austere in some shimmery gown, ignoring him. Something bitter twisted in his gut. Must have an appointment.
The corporal levered herself away from the ledge like it was all that had been holding her up. "Don't put her off," she told him, and headed for the bridge. He thought he saw a blond ghost with her, and that she might have laughed at some unheard joke.
A clank of metal in the crew corridor, and Kaylee passed the widow on the way in all but dragging Simon. They weren't fighting, must have made up. He frowned at the younger hands, the doc in particular, who'd started to try to lure River down. Much as Simon had lost, he had someone who doted on him, and much as the doctor tried to get back the River he knew, he almost seemed to forget his sister was still alive.
Jayne followed them in, much irate because he'd apparently had been woken up by the commotion. He stomped up and crowded in to secure his own cup of joe, and hunched over to guard it jealously, scowling over at their other crew mates. "Boy don't know how lucky he is," the big man opined, and swallowed some bitterness along with his drink. Mal supposed that if he was starting to agree with the misanthrope, then he should make himself scarce. Maybe he'd take Zoë's advice.
The mercenary stole his mug when he set it down like the man was collecting them, but otherwise he went unnoticed.
So there was no one to go after him when he stepped into the front hallway, and it wasn't the same one he'd come from. The walls were a brilliant pristine white, cold, impersonal, and judging, and he didn't have his trusty sidearm or browncoat with him. When he heard the sounds, scratchingclawingGNAWING, he ran. Don't look back, because they were right behind him, because they were gaining. Not like this. God, not like this. He turned, raised his arms to ward them off, and he was tackled, he was pinned. He struggled as they held him down.
"Mal!" Xiè tiān xiè dì. An angel. She kept on at calling his name, back to himself, almost like a chant. There was a glow around her, resplendent; she was a silhouette in maroon silk, vague and out of focus. Something was familiar about the way she hovered over him. Her fingers were smoothing over his brow, running through his hair. "Oh Mal," she said, and she sounded almost choked up, but that wasn't like her. "What did they do to you?"
She had him pushed back into the cushions of a narrow couch and was sliding his shirt off his shoulders to see for herself, the buttons undone. A huff of exasperation, and maybe a hint of sadness at the fresh bruises and the patchwork of scars, red and angry layered on pale. She skimmed her hands over him, tracing each mark - she hadn't learned anything from the last time she frisked him, though he didn't mind so much right now - then gave another sigh like relief. She whispered something, hands cradling his head, the veil of her hair tickling face, her breath soft against his face, and so close. And then
Light. An explosion behind his eyes, glory pounding through him in waves like the beat of his heart, from her lips, down his spine, to the soles of his feet. She tasted like a memory of cherries, lifetimes ago and half-remembered, dry and rougher than he expected. Inara, a name as important as his own, inseparable from who he was, filling in his breaks until he spilled over. If she had asked him then he would have offered her up his soul on his tongue. She seared away all the pain in him and replaced it with hope, tentative and growing, burned away the barriers between them until it was just him and her, joined.
When she broke off, somehow both quick and lingering, he wasn't going to let her get away with kissing him like that, not how much he needed her. He hooked her around the hips to pull her over on top of him, nestled into his side, long legs thrown over his. What's more, she let him, with only a half-hearted exclamation. She tilted her chin to turn her eyes to him, surprised then wondering.
He thrilled at the contact again, the way her curves fit against him. Wǒ kào she was soft. He gave an appreciative hum, tracing figures through the fabric of her robe into her back, inches above where the garment came to a tantalizing end. "Woulda been nice if they'd sent me somewhere like this after the war," he mumbled.
Inara shifted, and he saw her blink at him. "A guild house? With companions?" she questioned, doubtful, but her voice was warm, and he never could tell if she was teasing him or sincere. That explained the lavish luxury around them though; she might have his shuttle dressed up in columns, hazy curtains, and trinkets, but the open view down a grassy hill was new.
Mal snorted at her. "Y'mean instead of a pretty woman tending my hurts, I coulda had burly orderlies and been caged up?" He shook his head. "You do drive a hard bargain." Would have been loads better than what he'd been through. He could just imagine one of their temples given over to treating the wounded, taking in injured soldiers and prisoners of war, and Inara as the lady with the lamp among the ranks, far away from the horrors of the battle front. "I'm here now, though. Guess I got my wish after all."
An actual smile bloomed on her face. "And, in this fantasy of yours," she prompted, "who exactly is administering all of this tender loving care?"
"You are," he answered, and shrugged, because it was obvious. His grin was just this side of rakish. "Also, you make me dinner." Among other speculations. Like whether any of her lusts were the insatiable type, or what she might wear to bed when sleeping wasn't on her agenda.
Inara rolled her eyes at him. "That's quite a dream," she said, with a tone that there wasn't a chance in hell that he'd domesticate her, and that was good. He wanted her free-spirited, like when they'd had too much engine wine, or the rare times when she wasn't thinking about being a companion, and he wasn't thinking about being an overworked freighter captain. But she rested her head against his chest and made herself more cozy, so she was more amused than annoyed.
One of those moments fell over him, thunderstruck, the important ones that weren't for jokes. "Just 'cause something ain't real, don't mean it ain't true," he told her, testing out the words, and feeling the weight of them.
She fell quiet for a while, almost like she'd drifted off, when suddenly she rose up on her hands, looking out towards the field beyond their pavilion. "Let's go swimming. In the creek, like you promised."
Where'd that come from? He stared, flummoxed by the change in conversation. "What, you mean now?" he sputtered. There was an eagerness in her voice that was hard to defy, but staying on the little couch meant more time with her laying on top of him, and many, many other such benefits.
"When else?" she countered, and got to her feet, much to his disappointment. He made another grab for her, and she danced away, challenging him with a laugh. She squeaked when he almost caught her, and dashed down the hill side, him in close pursuit. Soft green grass knee high around them reassured him if they were to take a tumble; they hopped a fence into the next pasture, and he saw his favourite old tree. The realization almost tripped him. He was home.
Inara had only just barely stepped down the sandy bank into the creek when the sky turned dark, streaks of flame screaming down from above. The landscape withered around him in the heat; a dusty noxious fog rose, stinging his eyes while sparks drifted in the still air like fireflies, burning his skin. Plumes of smoke and fire jumped upwards, all the way to the endless horizon.
The ground rocked underneath him from a nearby impact and he landed face down in a trench and into some slick, sticky mud, more red than brown. The echoing whistle, boom, and crackle of the missiles had faded to a terrible silence, with not even the rush of a desolate wind over the barren and battle-scarred field. He started to pick himself up, and looked right into the half-ruined face of one of his soldiers who had died on Hera. The private's good eye was open, unblinking, and the boy seemed almost aware of him, but said nothing. He got up and away quickly, moved, kept moving, his hand on the sandbags piled high on his right to find his way. They'd stacked bodies too, some in pieces, but here they were mostly whole, and all of them had their heads turned towards him, some of them with their necks at impossible angles.
He passed Tracey, still chagrined in his last moments, and didn't look close at the glimpse of greying hair or hawaiian shirt he caught. Faster still past his medic and his mechanic, curled around each other in their last moments, then his mercenary, and then Zoë, still vigilant and on guard even with a hole where her heart should be.
The creek was just up ahead still, somehow still there, though now silty and befouled and about the colour of blood. Inara. She wasn't back here among the dead. He ran harder towards were she'd disappeared, shouting for her. Something wiry and frail climbed out onto the water, clothed in midnight rags with dark straight hair and too small to be full-grown, her face unnerving serious.
"They aren't blue," she muttered, in a core world accent. Her dark eyes looked back up at him, glowering as she scrutinized him. "I placed her in a glass casket, but she was lost when the water rose too high." Her glare softened, replaced by something more like fear, and she folded her arms around herself, shivering. "Now she's trapped, and it's dark, and she's cold." She looked back up at him through the straggly waterfall of her hair. "So cold."
He waded out into the stream and her hand shot out like a claw and clutched at his wrist. "But you'll protect her," she said, sinking, dragging him down under the surface, where it was icy freezing. "You'll protect her, like you protected me." The deep closed around him.
When he opened his eyes again, he was nearly blinded again by the brilliance of the white hallway. Inara was here? No, no. She couldn't be. Not here. Anywhere but here. The growls and shrieks of the others echoed, sometimes seeming from faraway, sometimes from right behind him as they hunted. Demons in classy suits and uniforms as much as disfigured and lesioned. Everyone would be rounded up and corralled, like cattle. They'd take her, pay her, then break her and he'd be made to stare.
Another shout, their bloodthirsty joy. No. "You have to protect her. Won't you?"
He reached the elevator, limping, rode it upwards to where he'd left them. The chokepoint was abandoned; bloodless, but that was no comfort.
The hunters had opened a hole in the far door and were starting to come through. And then he saw her, Inara, struggling to reach him as the host tried to pull her back, or pull her apart - he wasn't sure which. Her dress, gold like the dawn, was torn to shreds and so filthy he could barely see what colour it was supposed to be. He'd seen her like this only few times before, pale, her brown eyes wide, lips thinned from the effort of putting on a brave front. He held his arms out for her, but she was looking at something behind him. She was scared.
Mal saw only the reflection of metal and a browncoat, and leaped between her and her new attacker. Barely felt the impact of the blow, the sword twisting through him and out his back. Not the smartest thing he'd ever done, and now the last. Inara shouted something that he couldn't understand. He gritted his teeth against the black creeping in around the edge of his vision and surged forward, knocking them both off balance, and looked into a face like a mirror before he hit.
- - - - -
He was almost heaving when his eyes snapped open. His shoulder and cheek ached where the steel grating was pressed into his side and face, and his brain was muddled enough that he didn't know his own cargo bay right away. Then he remembered - the collapse, the decision he'd made, how he couldn't abandon his vigil. He'd spent the night out here, close to her, and so far.
That was one of the worst dreams he'd had in a while, and it wasn't fading in day light. Sore though he was, he laid very still a few moments longer, before he felt safe enough to move again. He braced himself, then he rolled over. The capsule was still there, sharp-lined, harsh, and real. He reached out to attempt some kind of connection, like he'd never managed while she was active and lively, but the outside was cool to the touch, the inside more so. Much as he wanted to promise again he'd save her, she couldn't hear him. He wasn't sure he believed they could anyway.
"Won't you?" River was draped over the top of the box, watching him.
Guǐ chě jiǎo. He stared up at her. There were sometimes that girl was just not right.
Simon had thought before that the name Serenity had a funereal sound to it, and events since then hadn't exactly convinced him otherwise. So in a way it was fitting, that the cargo bay seemed like the vault of an earthen mausoleum, metal framework and brown wall paneling climbing into the shadows above them.
They had removed the contents of the shipping crate from the back of the ground trailer, had gathered around in a semi-circle to pay their respects. The clamps echoed into the gloom as he sealed the cryochamber, a hard and unforgiving sound. The doctor hesitated, the last button unpressed, until he received a go ahead from the captain. The container flooded with a hiss of super cooled air. The freezing process took only seconds, for his patient's heart to stop, for her vital signs to cease.
He rested a hand on the lid, his own quiet farewell, and as he moved away, his sister stepped up to take his place. She leaned over to lay her ear on the shimmering grey surface as though to listen, her long dark strands arrayed around her head, her arms wrapped around the sides. Perhaps she was able to hear something, some song of cell or molecule or energy after clinical death that not even science could detect. Even so, her supplication was perhaps a little too much, and not entirely appropriate. He tapped at her shoulder and she allowed him to somberly lead her aside.
She had prompted the rest of them out of their own reluctance, and they each took a turn saying goodbye. Zoë stood tall next to the stasis cell, the salute of a bronze honour guard in a leather vest instead of a uniform, a moment of silence before she departed. Even a sorrowful Jayne shuffled awkwardly nearby before he blurted something out in a mumble and hurried away.
Kaylee was next, the sadness of her face in contrast with the cheery sweetheart patch on her overalls and the pink print of her shirt. Despite his own feelings of hurt over her lack of trust, he felt a sudden regret for his harsh words to her. But he wasn't about to interrupt her, and wasn't even sure what he could say to her, or even that there was anything he could say without looking even worse in her eyes. She seemed partially aware of his attention, and, glancing at him briefly, fled up the metal stairs, not wanting to spend any more time in his presence.
Only Mal remained. The lights shut off automatically as Simon helped River to her room, not wanting to intrude.
- - - - -
Morning. Even the hum of Serenity was softer than usual. Not that he felt any kind of promise for the day when he got up from his ratty bedsheets, or that it meant any more to him than the turn of one restless shift to another. But he pulled himself up, like always, and shrugged on some clothes, snapped his suspenders into place, tugged on his boots. As he ran his hand through his hair and groomed himself into some likeness of human, he didn't ever look in the mirror over the sink. No real urge to see the red in his eyes and all his failures glaring back. Mostly just made him want to put a fist through the glass, and he couldn't afford another replacement, and the doctor would get after him about how many weaves he kept using up.
Wasn't often that anyone was awake before the captain. He never rested well anymore even in the best of times, spent a lot of strange hours avoiding sleep or fighting off ghosts and memories by surveying all their nooks. So he knew most everything that happened around his boat, and too much about the tendencies and whereabouts of his crew.
Kaylee usually slept soundly. His hardworking mechanic wasn't much for troubled slumber even after the danger they'd seen, what with all the "playing doctor" going on. He'd hear the new couple carry on for a while, then bill and coo irksome at each other, then hush, and not stir again for the rest of the cycle. At least the boy didn't snore. Jayne, though, sounded like an artillery shell. That missed the trenches, and hit a munitions depot. The hulking mercenary did everything in excess from vice to eating. An armed intruder couldn't wake Jayne before breakfast.
If it wasn't for some recent nightmares Inara had, he might have thought her free from the same drawbacks of all the mere mortals like them, and that she stayed up practicing her arts instead. But when he'd finally got her to relax, he found she was as subtle in sleep as she was in everything else.
Mal would find River on his rounds, curled up napping wherever she'd dropped during some witching hour safari. He thought that she might end up hurting herself on accident, but they couldn't exactly lock her away, and they were nearby if she needed them, so no harm had yet come of it. Book would sometimes wake early, and cook an elaborate meal as if it made up for the transgressions of his God and humankind. Occasionally he'd cross ways with Wash, the pilot would get up to check the helm then stumble back to wife and bed. More lately it was Zoë, after one of her all-nighters sitting on the bridge, sneaking back into her bunk for a change of clothing. He pretended he didn't notice, since it was only fair for all the times she'd covered for him.
Couldn't hear anyone else awake, so he had Serenity to himself for a while. He climbed his ladder, popped the hatch, but stopped short of the galley, wondering why he had a largish and thin curved sword impaled halfway through his well-used and already battered dining table.
He crept closer. Seemed to glow golden, lit from the lamp underneath and the dawn shining in from above. For all he could tell the blade knew he was there and could lash out at him, not much else to account for where it had come from. "Erroneous," River appeared like a wisp, an oracle in a new moon shroud. He snatched his hand back. "Misplaced." Less than a breath. "Wrong."
As if to make an example of herself, she climbed up on the table with a composed dignity, using the chairs as a step stool. She closed her eyes, head tilted back, and threw her arms out, drew them back, arched one overhead. A high kick to the side, her foot pointed, then a twirl on tiptoes. Too early by far for this, he thought, and turned towards the counter to look for the instant-caf powder.
Mugs full were already there, steaming and waiting. Shepherd? He had to remind himself, no, the preacher wasn't with them anymore. But mysterious swords aside, he wasn't going to turn down a tin. He grabbed one and took a sip, leaning up against the counter. Zoë joined him from behind the cabinets. Maybe she'd always been there, like she was always at his side. Like she'd walked out of his own shadow one day when he needed another soldier, then never left. Or maybe she'd had another rough night, and brewed them up some sludge.
Not that there was any other option - fake coffee was bad all around, so better to make it thick. He nodded a greeting to her, and thanks, and said something else. "What's that about?" he asked, waving a hand at their unique teenager and their sharp looking new centerpiece.
Zoë appraised the scene, then gave him a bland look, like there was no other place for cutlery and a dance show. Even her kinked brown mane seemed flat and tired. "Think it's your problem, sir."
He watched then as the companion passed through, her hair styled high and austere in some shimmery gown, ignoring him. Something bitter twisted in his gut. Must have an appointment.
The corporal levered herself away from the ledge like it was all that had been holding her up. "Don't put her off," she told him, and headed for the bridge. He thought he saw a blond ghost with her, and that she might have laughed at some unheard joke.
A clank of metal in the crew corridor, and Kaylee passed the widow on the way in all but dragging Simon. They weren't fighting, must have made up. He frowned at the younger hands, the doc in particular, who'd started to try to lure River down. Much as Simon had lost, he had someone who doted on him, and much as the doctor tried to get back the River he knew, he almost seemed to forget his sister was still alive.
Jayne followed them in, much irate because he'd apparently had been woken up by the commotion. He stomped up and crowded in to secure his own cup of joe, and hunched over to guard it jealously, scowling over at their other crew mates. "Boy don't know how lucky he is," the big man opined, and swallowed some bitterness along with his drink. Mal supposed that if he was starting to agree with the misanthrope, then he should make himself scarce. Maybe he'd take Zoë's advice.
The mercenary stole his mug when he set it down like the man was collecting them, but otherwise he went unnoticed.
So there was no one to go after him when he stepped into the front hallway, and it wasn't the same one he'd come from. The walls were a brilliant pristine white, cold, impersonal, and judging, and he didn't have his trusty sidearm or browncoat with him. When he heard the sounds, scratchingclawingGNAWING, he ran. Don't look back, because they were right behind him, because they were gaining. Not like this. God, not like this. He turned, raised his arms to ward them off, and he was tackled, he was pinned. He struggled as they held him down.
"Mal!" Xiè tiān xiè dì. An angel. She kept on at calling his name, back to himself, almost like a chant. There was a glow around her, resplendent; she was a silhouette in maroon silk, vague and out of focus. Something was familiar about the way she hovered over him. Her fingers were smoothing over his brow, running through his hair. "Oh Mal," she said, and she sounded almost choked up, but that wasn't like her. "What did they do to you?"
She had him pushed back into the cushions of a narrow couch and was sliding his shirt off his shoulders to see for herself, the buttons undone. A huff of exasperation, and maybe a hint of sadness at the fresh bruises and the patchwork of scars, red and angry layered on pale. She skimmed her hands over him, tracing each mark - she hadn't learned anything from the last time she frisked him, though he didn't mind so much right now - then gave another sigh like relief. She whispered something, hands cradling his head, the veil of her hair tickling face, her breath soft against his face, and so close. And then
Light. An explosion behind his eyes, glory pounding through him in waves like the beat of his heart, from her lips, down his spine, to the soles of his feet. She tasted like a memory of cherries, lifetimes ago and half-remembered, dry and rougher than he expected. Inara, a name as important as his own, inseparable from who he was, filling in his breaks until he spilled over. If she had asked him then he would have offered her up his soul on his tongue. She seared away all the pain in him and replaced it with hope, tentative and growing, burned away the barriers between them until it was just him and her, joined.
When she broke off, somehow both quick and lingering, he wasn't going to let her get away with kissing him like that, not how much he needed her. He hooked her around the hips to pull her over on top of him, nestled into his side, long legs thrown over his. What's more, she let him, with only a half-hearted exclamation. She tilted her chin to turn her eyes to him, surprised then wondering.
He thrilled at the contact again, the way her curves fit against him. Wǒ kào she was soft. He gave an appreciative hum, tracing figures through the fabric of her robe into her back, inches above where the garment came to a tantalizing end. "Woulda been nice if they'd sent me somewhere like this after the war," he mumbled.
Inara shifted, and he saw her blink at him. "A guild house? With companions?" she questioned, doubtful, but her voice was warm, and he never could tell if she was teasing him or sincere. That explained the lavish luxury around them though; she might have his shuttle dressed up in columns, hazy curtains, and trinkets, but the open view down a grassy hill was new.
Mal snorted at her. "Y'mean instead of a pretty woman tending my hurts, I coulda had burly orderlies and been caged up?" He shook his head. "You do drive a hard bargain." Would have been loads better than what he'd been through. He could just imagine one of their temples given over to treating the wounded, taking in injured soldiers and prisoners of war, and Inara as the lady with the lamp among the ranks, far away from the horrors of the battle front. "I'm here now, though. Guess I got my wish after all."
An actual smile bloomed on her face. "And, in this fantasy of yours," she prompted, "who exactly is administering all of this tender loving care?"
"You are," he answered, and shrugged, because it was obvious. His grin was just this side of rakish. "Also, you make me dinner." Among other speculations. Like whether any of her lusts were the insatiable type, or what she might wear to bed when sleeping wasn't on her agenda.
Inara rolled her eyes at him. "That's quite a dream," she said, with a tone that there wasn't a chance in hell that he'd domesticate her, and that was good. He wanted her free-spirited, like when they'd had too much engine wine, or the rare times when she wasn't thinking about being a companion, and he wasn't thinking about being an overworked freighter captain. But she rested her head against his chest and made herself more cozy, so she was more amused than annoyed.
One of those moments fell over him, thunderstruck, the important ones that weren't for jokes. "Just 'cause something ain't real, don't mean it ain't true," he told her, testing out the words, and feeling the weight of them.
She fell quiet for a while, almost like she'd drifted off, when suddenly she rose up on her hands, looking out towards the field beyond their pavilion. "Let's go swimming. In the creek, like you promised."
Where'd that come from? He stared, flummoxed by the change in conversation. "What, you mean now?" he sputtered. There was an eagerness in her voice that was hard to defy, but staying on the little couch meant more time with her laying on top of him, and many, many other such benefits.
"When else?" she countered, and got to her feet, much to his disappointment. He made another grab for her, and she danced away, challenging him with a laugh. She squeaked when he almost caught her, and dashed down the hill side, him in close pursuit. Soft green grass knee high around them reassured him if they were to take a tumble; they hopped a fence into the next pasture, and he saw his favourite old tree. The realization almost tripped him. He was home.
Inara had only just barely stepped down the sandy bank into the creek when the sky turned dark, streaks of flame screaming down from above. The landscape withered around him in the heat; a dusty noxious fog rose, stinging his eyes while sparks drifted in the still air like fireflies, burning his skin. Plumes of smoke and fire jumped upwards, all the way to the endless horizon.
The ground rocked underneath him from a nearby impact and he landed face down in a trench and into some slick, sticky mud, more red than brown. The echoing whistle, boom, and crackle of the missiles had faded to a terrible silence, with not even the rush of a desolate wind over the barren and battle-scarred field. He started to pick himself up, and looked right into the half-ruined face of one of his soldiers who had died on Hera. The private's good eye was open, unblinking, and the boy seemed almost aware of him, but said nothing. He got up and away quickly, moved, kept moving, his hand on the sandbags piled high on his right to find his way. They'd stacked bodies too, some in pieces, but here they were mostly whole, and all of them had their heads turned towards him, some of them with their necks at impossible angles.
He passed Tracey, still chagrined in his last moments, and didn't look close at the glimpse of greying hair or hawaiian shirt he caught. Faster still past his medic and his mechanic, curled around each other in their last moments, then his mercenary, and then Zoë, still vigilant and on guard even with a hole where her heart should be.
The creek was just up ahead still, somehow still there, though now silty and befouled and about the colour of blood. Inara. She wasn't back here among the dead. He ran harder towards were she'd disappeared, shouting for her. Something wiry and frail climbed out onto the water, clothed in midnight rags with dark straight hair and too small to be full-grown, her face unnerving serious.
"They aren't blue," she muttered, in a core world accent. Her dark eyes looked back up at him, glowering as she scrutinized him. "I placed her in a glass casket, but she was lost when the water rose too high." Her glare softened, replaced by something more like fear, and she folded her arms around herself, shivering. "Now she's trapped, and it's dark, and she's cold." She looked back up at him through the straggly waterfall of her hair. "So cold."
He waded out into the stream and her hand shot out like a claw and clutched at his wrist. "But you'll protect her," she said, sinking, dragging him down under the surface, where it was icy freezing. "You'll protect her, like you protected me." The deep closed around him.
When he opened his eyes again, he was nearly blinded again by the brilliance of the white hallway. Inara was here? No, no. She couldn't be. Not here. Anywhere but here. The growls and shrieks of the others echoed, sometimes seeming from faraway, sometimes from right behind him as they hunted. Demons in classy suits and uniforms as much as disfigured and lesioned. Everyone would be rounded up and corralled, like cattle. They'd take her, pay her, then break her and he'd be made to stare.
Another shout, their bloodthirsty joy. No. "You have to protect her. Won't you?"
He reached the elevator, limping, rode it upwards to where he'd left them. The chokepoint was abandoned; bloodless, but that was no comfort.
The hunters had opened a hole in the far door and were starting to come through. And then he saw her, Inara, struggling to reach him as the host tried to pull her back, or pull her apart - he wasn't sure which. Her dress, gold like the dawn, was torn to shreds and so filthy he could barely see what colour it was supposed to be. He'd seen her like this only few times before, pale, her brown eyes wide, lips thinned from the effort of putting on a brave front. He held his arms out for her, but she was looking at something behind him. She was scared.
Mal saw only the reflection of metal and a browncoat, and leaped between her and her new attacker. Barely felt the impact of the blow, the sword twisting through him and out his back. Not the smartest thing he'd ever done, and now the last. Inara shouted something that he couldn't understand. He gritted his teeth against the black creeping in around the edge of his vision and surged forward, knocking them both off balance, and looked into a face like a mirror before he hit.
- - - - -
He was almost heaving when his eyes snapped open. His shoulder and cheek ached where the steel grating was pressed into his side and face, and his brain was muddled enough that he didn't know his own cargo bay right away. Then he remembered - the collapse, the decision he'd made, how he couldn't abandon his vigil. He'd spent the night out here, close to her, and so far.
That was one of the worst dreams he'd had in a while, and it wasn't fading in day light. Sore though he was, he laid very still a few moments longer, before he felt safe enough to move again. He braced himself, then he rolled over. The capsule was still there, sharp-lined, harsh, and real. He reached out to attempt some kind of connection, like he'd never managed while she was active and lively, but the outside was cool to the touch, the inside more so. Much as he wanted to promise again he'd save her, she couldn't hear him. He wasn't sure he believed they could anyway.
"Won't you?" River was draped over the top of the box, watching him.
Guǐ chě jiǎo. He stared up at her. There were sometimes that girl was just not right.
Last edited by Bytemite on Tue Aug 28, 2012 10:53 pm; edited 1 time in total
Bytemite- Posts : 680
Join date : 2012-06-25
Re: Eidolon Postings
wytchcroft Wed Aug 08, 2012 5:32 pm
aaiiiiiiiiiiiiieeeee!!! from catatonic inara through simon and sad kaylee to mal and swords and lions and tigers and bears and did i say aaiiiiiiiiiieee already!
edge of the seat stuff doesn't quite do justice but, hell, third time's the charm;
aaiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiieeeeeeeeee!
eb will provide rational feedback i'm sure.
bonus spook points for river drapage too.
edge of the seat stuff doesn't quite do justice but, hell, third time's the charm;
aaiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiieeeeeeeeee!
eb will provide rational feedback i'm sure.
bonus spook points for river drapage too.
wytchcroft- Posts : 377
Join date : 2012-06-25
Location : looking for noodles
Re: Eidolon Postings
Bytemite Wed Aug 08, 2012 5:47 pm
lions and tigers and bears
Aw SHOOT. I knew I forgot something.
Um, just pretend they were in the Councilor's menagerie.
Bytemite- Posts : 680
Join date : 2012-06-25
Re: Eidolon Postings
Bytemite Thu Aug 09, 2012 10:45 am
Chapter 26
The dream followed him on bare feet with a swirly dress. She was like a spirit of storm and wind. He surprised himself sometimes how he'd grown used to the girl's strange whimsy, but then she'd become something familiar too. In any case, wasn't much point yelling at her about what she had no control over, like little Kaylee when an engine or person broke and she took it too hard. He thought maybe they had some innocence left and he wasn't the monster who meant to take that away.
With some detached patience he climbed the stairs, her haunting him all the way like that last glimpse of flashing metal. He turned to her when he reached the top step, just in case their furniture wasn't intact and sword-free. "Go and get that lazy brother of yours up," he ordered. The Tam girl grinned at him, and off she went.
The galley was as it always was, an easy scene for taking their meals like around a campfire, rendered in wood panel and goldenrod with leafy vines stenciled along the walls. No weaponry or impalement waiting for him. He still wasn't sure if he was awake yet or not when Zoë appeared seeming out of nowhere and restless.
Reliable as ever, she took his state at a glance and left him the space to put a kettle of water on the stove. The ritual was almost routine; whenever he couldn't sleep for the gunfire in his mind or when he couldn't find calm in his bunk before he had to be up captaining, he'd wander the ship, then eventually end up in the galley and brew up some coffee. The task distracted him and put him more at ease.
Not to say the stove wasn't a damn aggravation. The burners were so uneven, an unwatched pot would tip over when it boiled, and they had to be constantly nudged upright. With just one threadbare oven mitt and a few ragged towels, there was always a ration of early cussing at breakfast. One time he'd joked that he didn't even need the coffee because he was already awake by the time he got it. Kaylee who loved a homecooked meal and felt responsible for Serenity's every hiccough had pouted at him, and even Wash, after a hard night navigating a rough patch at the helm hadn't any humour to contribute. But they never had money or parts leftover to fix or replace the stove, so in disrepair it remained.
This morning he could still hear Inara screaming for help, and devoted himself with single-minded intensity to the coffee. He couldn't let himself dwell on her, or he'd make himself useless. Wasn't easy to forget her, though, she had a tendency to waltz into his thoughts whenever she felt like it, and damned if sometimes she wasn't welcome. Once he had his hands around a hot mug he was feeling less shaken, and was able to sit by Zoë, dropped into his seat at the head of the table and exchanged a knowing look with her.
In that almost quiet tolerance, it was almost easy to forget their warforged friendship had been ripped apart when Wash's last breath had been ripped from his lungs. That is until he tried to offer her the coffee pot, and she waved him off. After that Zoë's silence kept getting louder, so he made a tactical retreat. He tossed back the rest of the drink, and clunked the tin down, and stood, pushing his chair back. "Better get everyone up 'fore they miss all the crime," he said, and went to the intercom to call the crew.
The Tams were making their way in, River leading her stumbling, half-dressed, and much harassed brother. He watched the young doctor's progress. There was a misery about the boy as he searched around for a couple of bites in the pantry, and Simon kept looking towards the crew corridor like he couldn't decide if he wanted to see Kaylee or to scamper. He looked like a rookie hunter on the trail of his first big game, half eager and half afraid of a mauling. The boy had the steadiest hands on a surgeon he'd ever seen but one sunshine ray of a girl could scatter his wits like so many nutrient bars across a tidy kitchen floor. Mal frowned, annoyed by the display. "Easy, son. She's not a bear."
That seemed to stir Zoë some out of her thoughts. "Hell hath no fury, sir," she quipped, amused.
The boy ducked down to pick up the mess he'd made, on hands and knees reaching around the counter, refusing to acknowledge their teasing. River crouched down nearby, studying his efforts, then snatched one away to her normal place setting.
As the captain, Mal supposed he had some responsibility for Simon and Kaylee beyond making sport of them, both as a couple and for the spat they were having now. Maybe this was something he could actually fix instead of making worse. "If you keep gettin' 'em confused, just remember, Kaylee's the more formidable hugger. Also, they both got a sweet tooth," he supplied.
Simon looked up at him, blue eyes dubious, arms full of wrapped oats, then caught the glance at the pile of strawberry flavoured granola he'd dropped on the counter. "Thanks?" The statement was more question than gratitude.
Mal nodded to the boy anyway, then impatiently hit the com. Hard. "Jayne!" he barked.
A reply was slow coming. "Yeah Mal?"
Another morning routine; getting Jayne up and moving generally required some vague and creative threats. Not even half-hearted meant, though the lummox never seemed to realize it, which Mal supposed was why they still worked as threats. "If you're not in the galley in sixty seconds, I'm sendin' River down after you."
A hesitation. Past events had taught Jayne some fear of the unpredictable and sometimes dangerous girl. "Ain't that a kinda excessive?" The man lowered his voice, though not enough he couldn't be overheard. "She don't fight fair. What if she's stab happy?"
"Then I'll give her the knife!" Mal retorted. The doctor winced, both at the idea of his sister armed and incited to violence, and at having to treat Jayne, who wasn't the best of patients when just getting innocked let alone injured. Mal ignored the objections. "Get up here already. You too Kaylee." She answered with a sleepy affirmative. He pointed at his medic, already set to leave before his not-quite-ex-sweetheart saw him. "And before you run off, I need a list of any meds you think the Alliance onworld might have that we could sell." The girl's hatch opened and Simon was gone. Already in the rhythm of giving orders, the captain didn't miss a beat as the mechanic entered. "What all do you need to get us ready to fly today?"
Kaylee had been only half aware and bed-headed, a rumpled pink shirt hastily thrown on and her cover-all straps handing at her waist, moving absently towards the treats Simon had left out. "Not much, just a few more parts I was thinkin' we could salvage." She picked up one of the snacks. "But we'll need some fuel too, and our powercells been runnin' low."
"You worry about those parts and cells, I'll get us the fuel," he assured her. Some of his new plan to frustrate the Alliance must have shown on his face, because except for River nibbling at an oatmeal biscuit they were all staring at him and a bit unnerved, Kaylee halfway through peeling the plastic off one of the bars, Zoë more than a little suspicious. Before they could ask, he heard the mercenary in the hall. "Jayne, you find any weak points in the blockade when you got back last night?"
Jayne leaned around the corner and squinted at him, then swung his head around to peer at the other crew, looking for help from them as to what was going on, then back when none was forthcoming. "No one stationed in the scrap yard," he answered, shrugging, "Ground's too rugged for a machine gun nest too."
Finally, something going his way. He pushed himself away from the wall where he'd been leaning. "We're heading out then. River, keep your brother out of trouble. Rest of you meet me in the cargo bay, about ten minutes."
- - - - -
The air was dry and already heading towards hot, sun glaring down on them, dust stirred up by the thermals and their passing. Even the capital of Ezra wasn't such a busy town, many of the ship berths were empty, the west end of the port all but abandoned and reclaimed by the dunes. All she could see for a while was the construction yellow of the hovermule and beige, Zoë steering them up, over, and between. The sand shifted around them, seeming almost to sparkle like diamonds. As they approached the scrap yard, there were bits of junk that stuck out, scattered over the field at first then becoming denser, until they were more on top rummage than they were ground.
For Kaylee, all the heaps of twisted metal they were rushing by were good as a playground. She'd get her chance on the way back later, but even the promise of new toys and parts wasn't enough to cheer her. She hadn't seen Simon all morning, and she was afraid what that meant.
Captain had traded usual places with Jayne to sit by her instead of up front with Zoë. She knew he was sorry and wanted to say so. But he was reminding her what she'd done and wished he'd say his piece already.
Once they were out of the secure zone and hadn't tripped any automated defense, Zoë turned them towards the distant spires overlooking the bazaar where they'd been before and Captain cleared his throat awkwardly. "Led you wrong about Simon," he admitted. Kaylee understood. And Inara, he meant, but didn't say, couldn't say without the name and the memory hurting him.
The tears sprung to her eyes, but she blinked them away and set her mouth. She wasn't going to cry, because she could see Zoë and Jayne half listening in, because everyone needed her to be strong. Especially him. "You couldn't help it," she told him, even though she was still mad at him. He couldn't deny the fact, but she continued on before he could think up a way. "Me neither. He couldn't even talk to me 'cuz how I'd react, I been so sure I wasn't good enough." She was more angry with herself. "And whad'ya know, thinkin' that way just made me right."
His mouth dropped with some outrage on her behalf. "Not good enough! What kind of... Kaywinnit Lee, I never seen a better mechanic or more cheerful soul in all the 'verse, even when you ain't doin' much of either." He spoke with an odd mix of stern affection and jest. "I don't know where you get these ideas, but I hear talk like that out of you again, you'll be wearing bows and ruffles for the foreseeable until your head gets full up."
He was trying, but he'd really only succeeded in upsetting her. How could he say that, when he thought he wasn't even worth the bullets shot at him? She looked away, watching houses with colourful hangings and curious locals streak past. "Maybe I should be talkin' to Simon."
He agreed. "Maybe so."
She chewed on her lip a little, and the worry she'd been trying not to give voice to slipped out. "What if he don't forgive me?" She almost said it in a whimper. Amazing what one boy could do to a girl. A real shuài boy, and nice, and polite, and smart, and so good, with those pretty eyes and smooth cheeks and those hands and his mouth and that body. He was perfect, she thought. Maybe a little shy, but then she could surprise him, and oh, he was a quick learner. There were so few boys she ever wanted more than having a little fun with, and she just couldn't stand it if he didn't like her anymore.
A snort, almost a laugh. "Wouldn't be Simon if he don't," he answered, matter of fact.
Kaylee wasn't sure if she believed him, but that made her feel better anyway. She smiled and Zoë drove on.
- - - - -
The two teenagers laid their brother to rest in the sandy churchyard, while the priests and the stark edifice of the temple behind them officiated, stone-faced and world-weary. They'd wrapped the boy in linen because they couldn't afford a coffin. There was only a small gathering - anything larger attracted the attention of Alliance patrols, and at the center, the open grave was given wide berth by the other onlookers except for the lonely and abandoned pair of kinfolk.
No pomp, no honours, one of millions that died in the verse, but Zoë saw how those gangly young pall-bearers carried themselves. She'd been born and raised military, couldn't be any other way. When the Alliance had gone after the traditional militias, joining up on the other side had been part professional necessity, part retaliation for the betrayal. But once the war ended she had nothing else to do, and she joined the Dust Devils to keep fighting.
So she knew what they were. These children, young as they were, they were soldiers. That boy, being put in the ground, that could very well be her own someday if nothing changed. She crossed her arms around herself, felt an anger like a sickness at whoever could use them like that.
The captain and the crew all remained seated to show their respect, but she couldn't watch anymore. She rose out of the driver seat and and swung herself over and onto the ground. Mal was wondering at her, but she didn't answer. He wanted to consort with the type made little kids fight their battles for them, she'd have no part of it.
She stared down a young priest trying to get her to put a scarf over her hair, and pushed by when he'd given up. Despite the tall facade out front, the chapel was rather humble on the inside, a one story collection of rooms made out of the sandstone and adobe the locals had available. In the main hall, instead of artifacts, there were refugees everywhere, laying on bedrolls and waiting for their second chance. Not unlike a number of other houses of worship they'd holed up in that had gotten desecrated by both Independent and Alliance shrapnel. Far as Zoë could tell, except for the end of the war, there'd been no karma or divine backlash. She figured if there were any gods up there between the stars that disapproved they'd be more direct.
Mal might think he was subject to some wrath still, but that wouldn't stop him, any more than all the other hardship and near death. Didn't much matter to him where he was smote. He strode into a church nowadays like it was a challenge to the almighty.
He found her easily. She hadn't gone far from the archway, spotting a group of foundlings dressed like Inara had been the night before, white scraps of barely there and no other clothing to their name. Former slaves.
The youngest of them had skin like coal, and the other girls said she'd been injured in the explosion. Zoë knelt by her and stroked a hand over the frizzy little head of hair, and the child slept on in some kind of exhaustion. She'd spent long nights in the med tent like this, but these kids hadn't chosen this, hadn't volunteered or gone through boot camp. This was the only life they'd known.
Mal was hovering nearby and hadn't said anything yet, just watching her. She tilted her head up at him and narrowed her eyes. "Captain," she prompted, ready for the next fight. The title slipped out of her mouth like a bad habit. At this rate it would be the first word her baby said.
Instead of impatience, like she'd been expecting, he looked stricken. "Zoë," he answered, and then his eyes flicked down to her hand, still on top of the little girl's head, and like always, she followed his lead. "Wash was a funny guy - in all sense and meaning - but he was there when it counted," Mal said, like he needed to tell her. "Good pilot, good man, I'm assuming good husband." The Reynolds brand of sympathy, annoying and ironical, but also sincere. "He'd have made a good father."
The man never made anything easy, even being angry with him. But she had to, else her child and Wash's would never have a chance. As his corporal for two years in the war and his second in command for almost a full decade after, she was the only one he allowed to question his orders, call him out on his shén jīng bìng plans, even insult him, but none of those confrontations had ever felt this final. She took a deep breath. No time like the present.
"I'm pregnant." She covered her belly; it was all she had left of him. A wistfulness came over her, some kind of grief, the first time she'd admitted the fact. But there was a joy at the realization too, unexpected but real. "Go into that base, take down the Alliance, save her if you can. But I'm stayin' behind when you do."
The dream followed him on bare feet with a swirly dress. She was like a spirit of storm and wind. He surprised himself sometimes how he'd grown used to the girl's strange whimsy, but then she'd become something familiar too. In any case, wasn't much point yelling at her about what she had no control over, like little Kaylee when an engine or person broke and she took it too hard. He thought maybe they had some innocence left and he wasn't the monster who meant to take that away.
With some detached patience he climbed the stairs, her haunting him all the way like that last glimpse of flashing metal. He turned to her when he reached the top step, just in case their furniture wasn't intact and sword-free. "Go and get that lazy brother of yours up," he ordered. The Tam girl grinned at him, and off she went.
The galley was as it always was, an easy scene for taking their meals like around a campfire, rendered in wood panel and goldenrod with leafy vines stenciled along the walls. No weaponry or impalement waiting for him. He still wasn't sure if he was awake yet or not when Zoë appeared seeming out of nowhere and restless.
Reliable as ever, she took his state at a glance and left him the space to put a kettle of water on the stove. The ritual was almost routine; whenever he couldn't sleep for the gunfire in his mind or when he couldn't find calm in his bunk before he had to be up captaining, he'd wander the ship, then eventually end up in the galley and brew up some coffee. The task distracted him and put him more at ease.
Not to say the stove wasn't a damn aggravation. The burners were so uneven, an unwatched pot would tip over when it boiled, and they had to be constantly nudged upright. With just one threadbare oven mitt and a few ragged towels, there was always a ration of early cussing at breakfast. One time he'd joked that he didn't even need the coffee because he was already awake by the time he got it. Kaylee who loved a homecooked meal and felt responsible for Serenity's every hiccough had pouted at him, and even Wash, after a hard night navigating a rough patch at the helm hadn't any humour to contribute. But they never had money or parts leftover to fix or replace the stove, so in disrepair it remained.
This morning he could still hear Inara screaming for help, and devoted himself with single-minded intensity to the coffee. He couldn't let himself dwell on her, or he'd make himself useless. Wasn't easy to forget her, though, she had a tendency to waltz into his thoughts whenever she felt like it, and damned if sometimes she wasn't welcome. Once he had his hands around a hot mug he was feeling less shaken, and was able to sit by Zoë, dropped into his seat at the head of the table and exchanged a knowing look with her.
In that almost quiet tolerance, it was almost easy to forget their warforged friendship had been ripped apart when Wash's last breath had been ripped from his lungs. That is until he tried to offer her the coffee pot, and she waved him off. After that Zoë's silence kept getting louder, so he made a tactical retreat. He tossed back the rest of the drink, and clunked the tin down, and stood, pushing his chair back. "Better get everyone up 'fore they miss all the crime," he said, and went to the intercom to call the crew.
The Tams were making their way in, River leading her stumbling, half-dressed, and much harassed brother. He watched the young doctor's progress. There was a misery about the boy as he searched around for a couple of bites in the pantry, and Simon kept looking towards the crew corridor like he couldn't decide if he wanted to see Kaylee or to scamper. He looked like a rookie hunter on the trail of his first big game, half eager and half afraid of a mauling. The boy had the steadiest hands on a surgeon he'd ever seen but one sunshine ray of a girl could scatter his wits like so many nutrient bars across a tidy kitchen floor. Mal frowned, annoyed by the display. "Easy, son. She's not a bear."
That seemed to stir Zoë some out of her thoughts. "Hell hath no fury, sir," she quipped, amused.
The boy ducked down to pick up the mess he'd made, on hands and knees reaching around the counter, refusing to acknowledge their teasing. River crouched down nearby, studying his efforts, then snatched one away to her normal place setting.
As the captain, Mal supposed he had some responsibility for Simon and Kaylee beyond making sport of them, both as a couple and for the spat they were having now. Maybe this was something he could actually fix instead of making worse. "If you keep gettin' 'em confused, just remember, Kaylee's the more formidable hugger. Also, they both got a sweet tooth," he supplied.
Simon looked up at him, blue eyes dubious, arms full of wrapped oats, then caught the glance at the pile of strawberry flavoured granola he'd dropped on the counter. "Thanks?" The statement was more question than gratitude.
Mal nodded to the boy anyway, then impatiently hit the com. Hard. "Jayne!" he barked.
A reply was slow coming. "Yeah Mal?"
Another morning routine; getting Jayne up and moving generally required some vague and creative threats. Not even half-hearted meant, though the lummox never seemed to realize it, which Mal supposed was why they still worked as threats. "If you're not in the galley in sixty seconds, I'm sendin' River down after you."
A hesitation. Past events had taught Jayne some fear of the unpredictable and sometimes dangerous girl. "Ain't that a kinda excessive?" The man lowered his voice, though not enough he couldn't be overheard. "She don't fight fair. What if she's stab happy?"
"Then I'll give her the knife!" Mal retorted. The doctor winced, both at the idea of his sister armed and incited to violence, and at having to treat Jayne, who wasn't the best of patients when just getting innocked let alone injured. Mal ignored the objections. "Get up here already. You too Kaylee." She answered with a sleepy affirmative. He pointed at his medic, already set to leave before his not-quite-ex-sweetheart saw him. "And before you run off, I need a list of any meds you think the Alliance onworld might have that we could sell." The girl's hatch opened and Simon was gone. Already in the rhythm of giving orders, the captain didn't miss a beat as the mechanic entered. "What all do you need to get us ready to fly today?"
Kaylee had been only half aware and bed-headed, a rumpled pink shirt hastily thrown on and her cover-all straps handing at her waist, moving absently towards the treats Simon had left out. "Not much, just a few more parts I was thinkin' we could salvage." She picked up one of the snacks. "But we'll need some fuel too, and our powercells been runnin' low."
"You worry about those parts and cells, I'll get us the fuel," he assured her. Some of his new plan to frustrate the Alliance must have shown on his face, because except for River nibbling at an oatmeal biscuit they were all staring at him and a bit unnerved, Kaylee halfway through peeling the plastic off one of the bars, Zoë more than a little suspicious. Before they could ask, he heard the mercenary in the hall. "Jayne, you find any weak points in the blockade when you got back last night?"
Jayne leaned around the corner and squinted at him, then swung his head around to peer at the other crew, looking for help from them as to what was going on, then back when none was forthcoming. "No one stationed in the scrap yard," he answered, shrugging, "Ground's too rugged for a machine gun nest too."
Finally, something going his way. He pushed himself away from the wall where he'd been leaning. "We're heading out then. River, keep your brother out of trouble. Rest of you meet me in the cargo bay, about ten minutes."
- - - - -
The air was dry and already heading towards hot, sun glaring down on them, dust stirred up by the thermals and their passing. Even the capital of Ezra wasn't such a busy town, many of the ship berths were empty, the west end of the port all but abandoned and reclaimed by the dunes. All she could see for a while was the construction yellow of the hovermule and beige, Zoë steering them up, over, and between. The sand shifted around them, seeming almost to sparkle like diamonds. As they approached the scrap yard, there were bits of junk that stuck out, scattered over the field at first then becoming denser, until they were more on top rummage than they were ground.
For Kaylee, all the heaps of twisted metal they were rushing by were good as a playground. She'd get her chance on the way back later, but even the promise of new toys and parts wasn't enough to cheer her. She hadn't seen Simon all morning, and she was afraid what that meant.
Captain had traded usual places with Jayne to sit by her instead of up front with Zoë. She knew he was sorry and wanted to say so. But he was reminding her what she'd done and wished he'd say his piece already.
Once they were out of the secure zone and hadn't tripped any automated defense, Zoë turned them towards the distant spires overlooking the bazaar where they'd been before and Captain cleared his throat awkwardly. "Led you wrong about Simon," he admitted. Kaylee understood. And Inara, he meant, but didn't say, couldn't say without the name and the memory hurting him.
The tears sprung to her eyes, but she blinked them away and set her mouth. She wasn't going to cry, because she could see Zoë and Jayne half listening in, because everyone needed her to be strong. Especially him. "You couldn't help it," she told him, even though she was still mad at him. He couldn't deny the fact, but she continued on before he could think up a way. "Me neither. He couldn't even talk to me 'cuz how I'd react, I been so sure I wasn't good enough." She was more angry with herself. "And whad'ya know, thinkin' that way just made me right."
His mouth dropped with some outrage on her behalf. "Not good enough! What kind of... Kaywinnit Lee, I never seen a better mechanic or more cheerful soul in all the 'verse, even when you ain't doin' much of either." He spoke with an odd mix of stern affection and jest. "I don't know where you get these ideas, but I hear talk like that out of you again, you'll be wearing bows and ruffles for the foreseeable until your head gets full up."
He was trying, but he'd really only succeeded in upsetting her. How could he say that, when he thought he wasn't even worth the bullets shot at him? She looked away, watching houses with colourful hangings and curious locals streak past. "Maybe I should be talkin' to Simon."
He agreed. "Maybe so."
She chewed on her lip a little, and the worry she'd been trying not to give voice to slipped out. "What if he don't forgive me?" She almost said it in a whimper. Amazing what one boy could do to a girl. A real shuài boy, and nice, and polite, and smart, and so good, with those pretty eyes and smooth cheeks and those hands and his mouth and that body. He was perfect, she thought. Maybe a little shy, but then she could surprise him, and oh, he was a quick learner. There were so few boys she ever wanted more than having a little fun with, and she just couldn't stand it if he didn't like her anymore.
A snort, almost a laugh. "Wouldn't be Simon if he don't," he answered, matter of fact.
Kaylee wasn't sure if she believed him, but that made her feel better anyway. She smiled and Zoë drove on.
- - - - -
The two teenagers laid their brother to rest in the sandy churchyard, while the priests and the stark edifice of the temple behind them officiated, stone-faced and world-weary. They'd wrapped the boy in linen because they couldn't afford a coffin. There was only a small gathering - anything larger attracted the attention of Alliance patrols, and at the center, the open grave was given wide berth by the other onlookers except for the lonely and abandoned pair of kinfolk.
No pomp, no honours, one of millions that died in the verse, but Zoë saw how those gangly young pall-bearers carried themselves. She'd been born and raised military, couldn't be any other way. When the Alliance had gone after the traditional militias, joining up on the other side had been part professional necessity, part retaliation for the betrayal. But once the war ended she had nothing else to do, and she joined the Dust Devils to keep fighting.
So she knew what they were. These children, young as they were, they were soldiers. That boy, being put in the ground, that could very well be her own someday if nothing changed. She crossed her arms around herself, felt an anger like a sickness at whoever could use them like that.
The captain and the crew all remained seated to show their respect, but she couldn't watch anymore. She rose out of the driver seat and and swung herself over and onto the ground. Mal was wondering at her, but she didn't answer. He wanted to consort with the type made little kids fight their battles for them, she'd have no part of it.
She stared down a young priest trying to get her to put a scarf over her hair, and pushed by when he'd given up. Despite the tall facade out front, the chapel was rather humble on the inside, a one story collection of rooms made out of the sandstone and adobe the locals had available. In the main hall, instead of artifacts, there were refugees everywhere, laying on bedrolls and waiting for their second chance. Not unlike a number of other houses of worship they'd holed up in that had gotten desecrated by both Independent and Alliance shrapnel. Far as Zoë could tell, except for the end of the war, there'd been no karma or divine backlash. She figured if there were any gods up there between the stars that disapproved they'd be more direct.
Mal might think he was subject to some wrath still, but that wouldn't stop him, any more than all the other hardship and near death. Didn't much matter to him where he was smote. He strode into a church nowadays like it was a challenge to the almighty.
He found her easily. She hadn't gone far from the archway, spotting a group of foundlings dressed like Inara had been the night before, white scraps of barely there and no other clothing to their name. Former slaves.
The youngest of them had skin like coal, and the other girls said she'd been injured in the explosion. Zoë knelt by her and stroked a hand over the frizzy little head of hair, and the child slept on in some kind of exhaustion. She'd spent long nights in the med tent like this, but these kids hadn't chosen this, hadn't volunteered or gone through boot camp. This was the only life they'd known.
Mal was hovering nearby and hadn't said anything yet, just watching her. She tilted her head up at him and narrowed her eyes. "Captain," she prompted, ready for the next fight. The title slipped out of her mouth like a bad habit. At this rate it would be the first word her baby said.
Instead of impatience, like she'd been expecting, he looked stricken. "Zoë," he answered, and then his eyes flicked down to her hand, still on top of the little girl's head, and like always, she followed his lead. "Wash was a funny guy - in all sense and meaning - but he was there when it counted," Mal said, like he needed to tell her. "Good pilot, good man, I'm assuming good husband." The Reynolds brand of sympathy, annoying and ironical, but also sincere. "He'd have made a good father."
The man never made anything easy, even being angry with him. But she had to, else her child and Wash's would never have a chance. As his corporal for two years in the war and his second in command for almost a full decade after, she was the only one he allowed to question his orders, call him out on his shén jīng bìng plans, even insult him, but none of those confrontations had ever felt this final. She took a deep breath. No time like the present.
"I'm pregnant." She covered her belly; it was all she had left of him. A wistfulness came over her, some kind of grief, the first time she'd admitted the fact. But there was a joy at the realization too, unexpected but real. "Go into that base, take down the Alliance, save her if you can. But I'm stayin' behind when you do."
Bytemite- Posts : 680
Join date : 2012-06-25
Re: Eidolon Postings
Bytemite Thu Aug 09, 2012 10:49 am
Chapter 27
As Zoë left him and went back out into the sunlight, he felt like he was watching himself from a distance, ringing numb and in a stupor. Dust motes drifted through rays of light from cuts in the sandy walls. Life went on around him. He glanced up towards the cross, illuminated high above the crowded chapel, one of the three schools of worship that used the room. Abandoned. Funny how that was. He could be in a crowd or surrounded by his crew, and still be set apart.
The sounds of the hall started to fade back in, and he dragged his eyes away, the room seeming darker than before. He made his way through. Nothing he wasn't used to.
People were still stuffing themselves in; all the settlements were gathering so as to wave the Alliance with their intention to lay down arms, soon as the Cortex link was back up. He wanted to be gone before too many refugees started to recognize him, or worse, concoct new tall tales to share. Just his luck, when he passed through the door he had to go by some of the villagers who'd taken them in after the crash. Their patriarch gave him a kind, almost pitying smile, that told him he'd let too much Malcolm Reynolds show and not enough Mal.
Wasn't God going to help them, his crew, nor Inara. Not the Alliance they were begging forgiveness, not even the hopes they had pinned on the shadow behind the stories they were telling about him. None of his efforts had been for them. He wasn't any kind of champion, least of all theirs. But he'd do what he had to.
He ignored their prayers and blessings, left the church for the hellish beige swelter of the plaza. There was Zoë, back at the wheel of the mule, as though she were about to drive off without him. Jayne and Kaylee were sill there, hanging around waiting with a few of the rebels he'd already met, his smiling mechanic trying and failing to make awkward small talk, and Jayne glowering, arms-crossed, and impatient whether it was desert midday or not.
Two willowy long faced blondes by the names of June and Lena Tol sized him up as he approached, distrustful. They looked out of place wearing local skirts in bright green and blue, holding a couple of heavy rifles, but they had hardness and competence enough to put off anyone with any Jayne-like ideas. But the mercenary was glaring at Iris Katsumi instead, tiny girl with short black hair and almond eyes who had taken them captive a few nights ago with a stun rifle. If she was intimidated at all by the bruiser she was hiding it under a good show of curiosity.
This world wanted a fable, the Illiad was as good as any. Give Omar something to talk about besides parables and belief. He stood before them and took them in, and supposed after Zoe took Kaylee back to repair Serenity this would be his team. "You still got that roller you stole before?" Mal asked, in lieu of greeting.
So that was how he ended up at the back of a murky pit of a saloon, waiting to take down a gorramn tank.
The bar happened to be handy alongside a patrol route and most of the patrons were spacer dregs. Like themselves, and already irritable, also like themselves. Behind the counter was a bald man, shirtless and pot-bellied, with a shotgun in the crook of his arm and as concerned about any imminent violence as the battered walls were. Good recipe for his purposes, thanks in no small part to the blockade, temperament, and the heat.
At this time of day there was no escape. Taking shelter just trapped all the sweat and misery indoors. He was nursing a warm beer tasted like it'd been squeezed out of the bartender's apron, looking for the right spark, when a conversation from across the room erupted. Two jackasses by the loophole bickering over their tab, slurring, red in the face, and with two days worth of stubble, discussing the finer points of whether somebody could owe some-other-body for not busting any of their teeth. The usual kind of exchange for an establishment of this high standing. Mal nodded to Jayne, then left some platinum. They'd do. He grabbed his coat from the booth.
The bar, half sensing some entertainment and half hungover yelling for the men to shut their yaps were already watching when the soldier and the mercenary approached the brewing fisticuffs. It took Mal catching an alcohol-slowed punch for the drunks to notice they had a crowd. "What's your problem?" snapped the brawler, fixing for another fight. Mal, for his part, guessed it was the other man's head-wear. Hat like that would make anybody ornery. Like a muskrat mated with roadkill skunk. He glanced at Jayne, who knew every type of offensive and was looking to enjoy the one they had in mind. Yep. Definitely the second worst looking hat he'd ever seen.
"Word of advice," Mal offered. "Don't forget to tip."
For a moment, they were confused, until his thug overturned their table and they both went heels up. Mal stepped over the nearer man despite all the cursing and a few kicks aimed at his ankles, righted a vacated chair while Jayne fixed the settings, then they took their places. The fallen two scrambled to their feet, enraged by the casual display, when one of them spotted his coat and it registered through the haze. "You're that Malcolm Reynolds," he realized.
Scattered laughter at the sudden upheaval went dead quiet. He rolled his eyes, shook his head at all these people. About time. "Yeah," Mal replied, feigning disbelief and mockery. He waved at the brute in the goatee. "And this here's the hero of Canton, the man they call Jayne."
The mercenary smirked. "It's funny 'cause it's true."
Their audience was muttering, pulling out handsets, the wanted posters, cortex links to check. Mal could say with relative certainty who he was, and by the sound of it, everyone else was figuring it out as well. He could hear their back and forth about whether to turn him in.
"There's a bounty on your head," the man continued, as if Mal didn't know. His friend joined in and pulled a pistol on them.
A dagger, out of nowhere and expertly thrown imbedded itself in the barrel of the revolver. He quickly found the culprit, a stern and very large man, darker even than Zoë, covered in metal studs and tattoos who nodded to him. Jayne was already moving, picking up the would-be gunman and tossing him outside. Mal wrapped a hand around the other man's head, knocked off his hat, then smashed his face into the ledge.
The whole room was quickly turning into fist-hammering, person throwing, glass shattering chaos; those fighting over collecting on him, and those joining in for the hell of it. A swordsman dressed fancier than the rest of the patrons in crimson robes ran at him hollering and waving around a fencing sword; he tripped an attacker charging from the other direction, who barreled into the man's legs and they both fell hard into a table. The bartender had raised his double-barrel and was yelling for everyone to get out, and Jayne grabbed a chair, slung the guy attached into a wall, and began to clear a path to the door without much trouble. Mal thought that was maybe a good idea, except most of them were gunning for him. And going for their sidearms.
He ended up ducking the other way as the first shot exploded a tankard by him, spraying the wall, and then he was hit, though not by a bullet. After he shrugged off whoever was hanging from around his shoulders - the sha gua was wearing that hat again? - he threw them towards a thick batch of rowdy. A waitress got the man across the face with a serving tray and a satisfying clang of metal.
"Hey Mal!" he heard Jayne calling from outside, "Still alive in there or 'm I gonna haul your carcass out?"
Almost in answer he found himself propelled through the hole in the wall, and it occurred to him that he had far too much experience with that kind of fun. He stood, brushing himself off, then almost immediately was back on the ground when the first casualty Jayne had taken out of the fight chose that moment to get back in. He looked up, happened to see the blade of the swordfighter stabbing down at him and rolled out of the way. The other scrapper spat out a blue streak and began trying to pull his sleeve free while the swashbuckler tried to recover his sabre.
The brawl inside the bar was starting to boil out into the street when the Alliance roller came crashing along the avenue. For a moment Mal blinked, and was back in Du Khang, drawing the enemy towards their choke point. Daring them at the top of his lungs to kill him like they had his friends and family.
An ultimatum came on over the loudspeaker, with a warning burst from the gat-laser. A radiant red wave swept the street, streaking over his head, and after that just about everyone but him and Jayne were scattering.
He laid there for a while, catching his breath and bruised. Someone had hit him with mug at some point, the alcohol stinging as it seeped into his new cuts. A pair of Alliance marines unloaded themselves from the AFV, hauled him up, one of them was reaching for the headset in his helmet to call in his capture when one of the blondes came up from behind the tank and tossed a flashbang down the top-hatch. The soldiers turned, and she lobbed another at them.
By the time the thunderous light faded, the three girls had the gunner and driver out and the entire firesquad all tied up. One of the blondes gave him an even less impressed look than she usually had, but then he was more dirt and blood at the moment than human. Probably Lena, though she was hard to tell apart from her twin. "Are all your plans this bad, or was that some kind of cry for help?" she asked. "I can't decide if you're stupid, insane, or if you just have the worst luck I've ever seen." Mal didn't think he could rightfully answer one way or another, let alone dignify that with a response. It was a fair question, though. First time he'd met these people, he's also been in a bad way, and not just because he had a whole bunch of slavers shooting at him. "Stupid it is," she concluded.
- - - - -
They rumbled into base when dusk was blazing rose and periwinkle, among hulking shadows of machinery and fire from the sunset spilling out on the ground. After the attack they were feeling tense, hadn't spoken much to each other. They were all crowded in and they were now short a uniform. That was the kind of thing that would get them in trouble. All they could do was sneak into one of the tents and try to take one off the many companies on base, hope that in the dark none of the officers would notice.
The tank settled, engine clunking as it turned over to a stop, sand scrapping a little in the hydrogen combustion turbine. Once they were all powered down, Jayne busted the comm array with the butt of a rifle as the two taller girls climbed out and gave the all clear. Mal got up from his seat, standing over the four men, tied up, gagged, and stripped down to the skivvies. They glared back. He checked the knots on one, who struggled but made no headway in loosening his bonds. Good enough. He shrugged at them, not quite apologetic. "Thanks for the ride," he said. "I'll leave a note so someone'll let you out before mornin'."
The Alliance soldiers all wriggled around at that, screaming at him in muffled and incoherent anger. He went up the ladder after the last girl and Jayne, and quickly shut the hatch behind him, cutting off a stream of likely unflattering rants and death threats.
Iris held a finger up for silence, then pointed at the cluster of desert camo across the open grounds. Jayne opened his mouth anyway the moment they started walking, shaking his head like he'd been dazed from a knock to the skull. "So wait," he said, slowly, trying to make sense of things. "Zoë?"
He'd never have believed he'd see Zoë become a mother. Before Wash, she'd been harder than him, still was in some ways. Not an ounce of the sentimental in her. But then he'd never figured her for the loving wife or marriage sort, and she'd been both with Wash. "Yeah," he agreed, somewhat overwhelmed by the idea himself.
Some sense of panic in him had wanted to yell at her what was she thinking, or maybe shake some sense into her. A toddler, out in the black on Serenity, with all the gunfights and sharp corners and break downs? Around Jayne? Around him? And that all was much later. He couldn't imagine anything could slow Zoë down, not even balance issues or twenty or so extra pounds. As a soldier under his command, she'd probably carted around loads heavier, and that never stopped her from covering his sorry hide. But even the healthiest of women could die in childbirth.
A smarter part of him knew just how much she needed this. More than that, she was right, about the sacrifices they'd made, about Wash's legacy. The risks he took, all of it could be in vain.
He wondered sometimes how things might've turned out, the few times they'd come into money, like after they'd sold that antique gun and retrofitted Serenity and bought the new hovermule, or that time they'd had to go treasure hunting for a pay-off and it had been more than anyone expected. They could have retired, lived well. But the past had come back to bite them, as usual; an Alliance special ops had gone after Serenity after hearing a report about Zoë's days as a Dust Devil. He'd given up all that money as a bribe in return for their safety.
He could've taken jail, the show trial, the trumped charges, the prison time. But truth be told, he had been afraid, had seen the future laid out before him harsh and lonely. He'd betrayed his own crew, held them all back for his own sake, and now the Shepherd was gone, and now Zoë's child would never know a father.
She'd moved on with her life, something he'd never managed, something he rarely ever let himself think about. He had to respect that. Even when it meant she was moving on from him and their past and their soldiering days, and didn't need him anymore. Better alive, and him alone, then dead.
Jayne was still talking. "She gonna get all enormous?" he complained. "Lose her figure?" There was some manner of disappointment in his tone about the last part, earning the troll an annoyed look from the three other women.
That was his second in command the mercenary was talking about. "Zoë has never once failed in the line of duty, and I don't expect that to change. That's all that matters." Mal rebuked. They came to a stop outside and around back of one of the field tents. "Also, wouldn't exactly go around talkin' shape nor size. She's already inclined to strangle you."
The caveats were enough to shut him up for a few seconds, but he soon spoke again, with some genuine fear. "We already got one crazy running around. What if she gets all... hormonal?" Jayne's voice hushed on the terrifying word, and he hugged his big gun closer. "Goes at me with a knife?"
Mal shrugged blithely, and lifted a corner of the tent flap. "Run for your life and hope she don't waddle too fast." He crawled under the canvas panel, emerging at the end of a line of cots.
The soldier laying on the nearest gurney was staring up at him. His nerves all jumped, but the man didn't move beyond the steady rise and fall of his chest. The others joined the captain, each startling in turn. Jayne waved a hand in front of the marine's wide open eyes, before one of the blondes caught his wrist and squeezed like she was going to break each of his meaty fingers. Mal took in their surroundings, and frowned.
They were all like that. Every single person in the tent. There was a pile of fliers scattered over the nearest crate - All soldiers showing any signs of reaction must be brought to the infirmary, followed by a list of symptoms in tiny print.
About then, they heard a noise, like someone shifting, and ducked back down into the shadows. There was an Alliance medic towards the front of the tent, going down the rows of injured. He stopped at each soldier, crouched, gave an injection. As they watched, the treated soldiers would suddenly jolt, flailing out, and the doctor would catch their limbs, lean down and say something to calm the patient. After a few tests, raising arms, legs, curling and uncurling fingers, some mark would be made on a clip board, and the soldier would sit up, gather their effects, and walk out.
Mal stole one of the nearby papers and they silently withdrew.
- - - - -
Across the breathless expanse, the I.A.V. Ratched grew from a black spot into imposing spires against the lit backdrop of Ezra. Like a hole consuming the interdicted world.
The cortex was silent about his movements, as expected. This was a game of cat and mouse. With one rogue Operative and another left dead for them to find, they had to catch him before any more damage could be done. They would track him by the stolen identity, lure him into a false sense of security, and never admit he was at large. His mission was to secure his objectives then get out before he could be recognized as an imposter.
After he sent out his docking request, and allowed the automatic systems to take over, he pulled up the confidential files for the teenage test subjects on board. When the ships connected with a distant echo and a chime from the console, he stood to meet whoever or whatever awaited him on the other side of the airlock.
As Zoë left him and went back out into the sunlight, he felt like he was watching himself from a distance, ringing numb and in a stupor. Dust motes drifted through rays of light from cuts in the sandy walls. Life went on around him. He glanced up towards the cross, illuminated high above the crowded chapel, one of the three schools of worship that used the room. Abandoned. Funny how that was. He could be in a crowd or surrounded by his crew, and still be set apart.
The sounds of the hall started to fade back in, and he dragged his eyes away, the room seeming darker than before. He made his way through. Nothing he wasn't used to.
People were still stuffing themselves in; all the settlements were gathering so as to wave the Alliance with their intention to lay down arms, soon as the Cortex link was back up. He wanted to be gone before too many refugees started to recognize him, or worse, concoct new tall tales to share. Just his luck, when he passed through the door he had to go by some of the villagers who'd taken them in after the crash. Their patriarch gave him a kind, almost pitying smile, that told him he'd let too much Malcolm Reynolds show and not enough Mal.
Wasn't God going to help them, his crew, nor Inara. Not the Alliance they were begging forgiveness, not even the hopes they had pinned on the shadow behind the stories they were telling about him. None of his efforts had been for them. He wasn't any kind of champion, least of all theirs. But he'd do what he had to.
He ignored their prayers and blessings, left the church for the hellish beige swelter of the plaza. There was Zoë, back at the wheel of the mule, as though she were about to drive off without him. Jayne and Kaylee were sill there, hanging around waiting with a few of the rebels he'd already met, his smiling mechanic trying and failing to make awkward small talk, and Jayne glowering, arms-crossed, and impatient whether it was desert midday or not.
Two willowy long faced blondes by the names of June and Lena Tol sized him up as he approached, distrustful. They looked out of place wearing local skirts in bright green and blue, holding a couple of heavy rifles, but they had hardness and competence enough to put off anyone with any Jayne-like ideas. But the mercenary was glaring at Iris Katsumi instead, tiny girl with short black hair and almond eyes who had taken them captive a few nights ago with a stun rifle. If she was intimidated at all by the bruiser she was hiding it under a good show of curiosity.
This world wanted a fable, the Illiad was as good as any. Give Omar something to talk about besides parables and belief. He stood before them and took them in, and supposed after Zoe took Kaylee back to repair Serenity this would be his team. "You still got that roller you stole before?" Mal asked, in lieu of greeting.
So that was how he ended up at the back of a murky pit of a saloon, waiting to take down a gorramn tank.
The bar happened to be handy alongside a patrol route and most of the patrons were spacer dregs. Like themselves, and already irritable, also like themselves. Behind the counter was a bald man, shirtless and pot-bellied, with a shotgun in the crook of his arm and as concerned about any imminent violence as the battered walls were. Good recipe for his purposes, thanks in no small part to the blockade, temperament, and the heat.
At this time of day there was no escape. Taking shelter just trapped all the sweat and misery indoors. He was nursing a warm beer tasted like it'd been squeezed out of the bartender's apron, looking for the right spark, when a conversation from across the room erupted. Two jackasses by the loophole bickering over their tab, slurring, red in the face, and with two days worth of stubble, discussing the finer points of whether somebody could owe some-other-body for not busting any of their teeth. The usual kind of exchange for an establishment of this high standing. Mal nodded to Jayne, then left some platinum. They'd do. He grabbed his coat from the booth.
The bar, half sensing some entertainment and half hungover yelling for the men to shut their yaps were already watching when the soldier and the mercenary approached the brewing fisticuffs. It took Mal catching an alcohol-slowed punch for the drunks to notice they had a crowd. "What's your problem?" snapped the brawler, fixing for another fight. Mal, for his part, guessed it was the other man's head-wear. Hat like that would make anybody ornery. Like a muskrat mated with roadkill skunk. He glanced at Jayne, who knew every type of offensive and was looking to enjoy the one they had in mind. Yep. Definitely the second worst looking hat he'd ever seen.
"Word of advice," Mal offered. "Don't forget to tip."
For a moment, they were confused, until his thug overturned their table and they both went heels up. Mal stepped over the nearer man despite all the cursing and a few kicks aimed at his ankles, righted a vacated chair while Jayne fixed the settings, then they took their places. The fallen two scrambled to their feet, enraged by the casual display, when one of them spotted his coat and it registered through the haze. "You're that Malcolm Reynolds," he realized.
Scattered laughter at the sudden upheaval went dead quiet. He rolled his eyes, shook his head at all these people. About time. "Yeah," Mal replied, feigning disbelief and mockery. He waved at the brute in the goatee. "And this here's the hero of Canton, the man they call Jayne."
The mercenary smirked. "It's funny 'cause it's true."
Their audience was muttering, pulling out handsets, the wanted posters, cortex links to check. Mal could say with relative certainty who he was, and by the sound of it, everyone else was figuring it out as well. He could hear their back and forth about whether to turn him in.
"There's a bounty on your head," the man continued, as if Mal didn't know. His friend joined in and pulled a pistol on them.
A dagger, out of nowhere and expertly thrown imbedded itself in the barrel of the revolver. He quickly found the culprit, a stern and very large man, darker even than Zoë, covered in metal studs and tattoos who nodded to him. Jayne was already moving, picking up the would-be gunman and tossing him outside. Mal wrapped a hand around the other man's head, knocked off his hat, then smashed his face into the ledge.
The whole room was quickly turning into fist-hammering, person throwing, glass shattering chaos; those fighting over collecting on him, and those joining in for the hell of it. A swordsman dressed fancier than the rest of the patrons in crimson robes ran at him hollering and waving around a fencing sword; he tripped an attacker charging from the other direction, who barreled into the man's legs and they both fell hard into a table. The bartender had raised his double-barrel and was yelling for everyone to get out, and Jayne grabbed a chair, slung the guy attached into a wall, and began to clear a path to the door without much trouble. Mal thought that was maybe a good idea, except most of them were gunning for him. And going for their sidearms.
He ended up ducking the other way as the first shot exploded a tankard by him, spraying the wall, and then he was hit, though not by a bullet. After he shrugged off whoever was hanging from around his shoulders - the sha gua was wearing that hat again? - he threw them towards a thick batch of rowdy. A waitress got the man across the face with a serving tray and a satisfying clang of metal.
"Hey Mal!" he heard Jayne calling from outside, "Still alive in there or 'm I gonna haul your carcass out?"
Almost in answer he found himself propelled through the hole in the wall, and it occurred to him that he had far too much experience with that kind of fun. He stood, brushing himself off, then almost immediately was back on the ground when the first casualty Jayne had taken out of the fight chose that moment to get back in. He looked up, happened to see the blade of the swordfighter stabbing down at him and rolled out of the way. The other scrapper spat out a blue streak and began trying to pull his sleeve free while the swashbuckler tried to recover his sabre.
The brawl inside the bar was starting to boil out into the street when the Alliance roller came crashing along the avenue. For a moment Mal blinked, and was back in Du Khang, drawing the enemy towards their choke point. Daring them at the top of his lungs to kill him like they had his friends and family.
An ultimatum came on over the loudspeaker, with a warning burst from the gat-laser. A radiant red wave swept the street, streaking over his head, and after that just about everyone but him and Jayne were scattering.
He laid there for a while, catching his breath and bruised. Someone had hit him with mug at some point, the alcohol stinging as it seeped into his new cuts. A pair of Alliance marines unloaded themselves from the AFV, hauled him up, one of them was reaching for the headset in his helmet to call in his capture when one of the blondes came up from behind the tank and tossed a flashbang down the top-hatch. The soldiers turned, and she lobbed another at them.
By the time the thunderous light faded, the three girls had the gunner and driver out and the entire firesquad all tied up. One of the blondes gave him an even less impressed look than she usually had, but then he was more dirt and blood at the moment than human. Probably Lena, though she was hard to tell apart from her twin. "Are all your plans this bad, or was that some kind of cry for help?" she asked. "I can't decide if you're stupid, insane, or if you just have the worst luck I've ever seen." Mal didn't think he could rightfully answer one way or another, let alone dignify that with a response. It was a fair question, though. First time he'd met these people, he's also been in a bad way, and not just because he had a whole bunch of slavers shooting at him. "Stupid it is," she concluded.
- - - - -
They rumbled into base when dusk was blazing rose and periwinkle, among hulking shadows of machinery and fire from the sunset spilling out on the ground. After the attack they were feeling tense, hadn't spoken much to each other. They were all crowded in and they were now short a uniform. That was the kind of thing that would get them in trouble. All they could do was sneak into one of the tents and try to take one off the many companies on base, hope that in the dark none of the officers would notice.
The tank settled, engine clunking as it turned over to a stop, sand scrapping a little in the hydrogen combustion turbine. Once they were all powered down, Jayne busted the comm array with the butt of a rifle as the two taller girls climbed out and gave the all clear. Mal got up from his seat, standing over the four men, tied up, gagged, and stripped down to the skivvies. They glared back. He checked the knots on one, who struggled but made no headway in loosening his bonds. Good enough. He shrugged at them, not quite apologetic. "Thanks for the ride," he said. "I'll leave a note so someone'll let you out before mornin'."
The Alliance soldiers all wriggled around at that, screaming at him in muffled and incoherent anger. He went up the ladder after the last girl and Jayne, and quickly shut the hatch behind him, cutting off a stream of likely unflattering rants and death threats.
Iris held a finger up for silence, then pointed at the cluster of desert camo across the open grounds. Jayne opened his mouth anyway the moment they started walking, shaking his head like he'd been dazed from a knock to the skull. "So wait," he said, slowly, trying to make sense of things. "Zoë?"
He'd never have believed he'd see Zoë become a mother. Before Wash, she'd been harder than him, still was in some ways. Not an ounce of the sentimental in her. But then he'd never figured her for the loving wife or marriage sort, and she'd been both with Wash. "Yeah," he agreed, somewhat overwhelmed by the idea himself.
Some sense of panic in him had wanted to yell at her what was she thinking, or maybe shake some sense into her. A toddler, out in the black on Serenity, with all the gunfights and sharp corners and break downs? Around Jayne? Around him? And that all was much later. He couldn't imagine anything could slow Zoë down, not even balance issues or twenty or so extra pounds. As a soldier under his command, she'd probably carted around loads heavier, and that never stopped her from covering his sorry hide. But even the healthiest of women could die in childbirth.
A smarter part of him knew just how much she needed this. More than that, she was right, about the sacrifices they'd made, about Wash's legacy. The risks he took, all of it could be in vain.
He wondered sometimes how things might've turned out, the few times they'd come into money, like after they'd sold that antique gun and retrofitted Serenity and bought the new hovermule, or that time they'd had to go treasure hunting for a pay-off and it had been more than anyone expected. They could have retired, lived well. But the past had come back to bite them, as usual; an Alliance special ops had gone after Serenity after hearing a report about Zoë's days as a Dust Devil. He'd given up all that money as a bribe in return for their safety.
He could've taken jail, the show trial, the trumped charges, the prison time. But truth be told, he had been afraid, had seen the future laid out before him harsh and lonely. He'd betrayed his own crew, held them all back for his own sake, and now the Shepherd was gone, and now Zoë's child would never know a father.
She'd moved on with her life, something he'd never managed, something he rarely ever let himself think about. He had to respect that. Even when it meant she was moving on from him and their past and their soldiering days, and didn't need him anymore. Better alive, and him alone, then dead.
Jayne was still talking. "She gonna get all enormous?" he complained. "Lose her figure?" There was some manner of disappointment in his tone about the last part, earning the troll an annoyed look from the three other women.
That was his second in command the mercenary was talking about. "Zoë has never once failed in the line of duty, and I don't expect that to change. That's all that matters." Mal rebuked. They came to a stop outside and around back of one of the field tents. "Also, wouldn't exactly go around talkin' shape nor size. She's already inclined to strangle you."
The caveats were enough to shut him up for a few seconds, but he soon spoke again, with some genuine fear. "We already got one crazy running around. What if she gets all... hormonal?" Jayne's voice hushed on the terrifying word, and he hugged his big gun closer. "Goes at me with a knife?"
Mal shrugged blithely, and lifted a corner of the tent flap. "Run for your life and hope she don't waddle too fast." He crawled under the canvas panel, emerging at the end of a line of cots.
The soldier laying on the nearest gurney was staring up at him. His nerves all jumped, but the man didn't move beyond the steady rise and fall of his chest. The others joined the captain, each startling in turn. Jayne waved a hand in front of the marine's wide open eyes, before one of the blondes caught his wrist and squeezed like she was going to break each of his meaty fingers. Mal took in their surroundings, and frowned.
They were all like that. Every single person in the tent. There was a pile of fliers scattered over the nearest crate - All soldiers showing any signs of reaction must be brought to the infirmary, followed by a list of symptoms in tiny print.
About then, they heard a noise, like someone shifting, and ducked back down into the shadows. There was an Alliance medic towards the front of the tent, going down the rows of injured. He stopped at each soldier, crouched, gave an injection. As they watched, the treated soldiers would suddenly jolt, flailing out, and the doctor would catch their limbs, lean down and say something to calm the patient. After a few tests, raising arms, legs, curling and uncurling fingers, some mark would be made on a clip board, and the soldier would sit up, gather their effects, and walk out.
Mal stole one of the nearby papers and they silently withdrew.
- - - - -
Across the breathless expanse, the I.A.V. Ratched grew from a black spot into imposing spires against the lit backdrop of Ezra. Like a hole consuming the interdicted world.
The cortex was silent about his movements, as expected. This was a game of cat and mouse. With one rogue Operative and another left dead for them to find, they had to catch him before any more damage could be done. They would track him by the stolen identity, lure him into a false sense of security, and never admit he was at large. His mission was to secure his objectives then get out before he could be recognized as an imposter.
After he sent out his docking request, and allowed the automatic systems to take over, he pulled up the confidential files for the teenage test subjects on board. When the ships connected with a distant echo and a chime from the console, he stood to meet whoever or whatever awaited him on the other side of the airlock.
Bytemite- Posts : 680
Join date : 2012-06-25
Re: Eidolon Postings
Bytemite Thu Aug 09, 2012 10:51 am
Chapter 28
Most of the day had been too hot by far for working outside when Kaylee and Zoë had parked the hovermule among some piles of scrap, the air wavering as it rose off the shimmering dunes. Kaylee had given the mule a long look, but figured she didn't need to disable it, since no one was around in this heat anyway and she had to admit it kind of blended in. Kaylee felt bad for the machine, in that way most other folks thought was crazy - she didn't always have the parts to keep everything on Serenity better than mint, including the mule, and while she might be able to look at the heart of things and see something shiny there, everyone else always just saw something broken down and good-for-nothing. Maybe that's why she'd been drawn to the people she was. Her crew had a lot in common with her ship.
So she and Zoë had holed themselves up in the shade of the grandmother of Serenity, a model 01 Firefly, waiting for the cooler hours. The Susanna didn't have the part she needed, she'd found it earlier on a Huey and she'd checked the Firefly already the first time she'd been by. They could still use some of the other stuff though, because except for a few modifications on the extenders, the Firefly models hadn't changed much. The ship was dead, its family scattered. But everything lived on in some way or another.
They both worked quietly at first, Kaylee only speaking to point out what they wanted and explaining how to take things apart. Kaylee had always looked up to the warrior woman for her strength, but she had some trouble communing with her - when Zoë wasn't focused on work, she also wasn't much for girl talk. Sometimes she'd taken to asking Zoë about the war, with some mixed results. Nowadays making chatter was even harder. Used to be she could talk about Simon, and Zoë would talk about Wash, but that had changed too, with her and the doctor carrying on while Zoe was in mourning.
She found herself really missing Wash and his jokes and his easy conversation. As a pilot he'd had at least some idea about electronics and engineering. Captain tried, but the only piece he'd ever memorized what it was and where it went after almost ten years was the catalyzer he'd nearly died for. So usually Wash went with her on her errands, and they always got to gossiping about all the shipboard romance. He'd never failed to give her good counsel, he'd probably know exactly what she could do about Simon and solve all her problems.
Last time she and Wash had been scavenging was just before Miranda. They'd snuck into a shifty impound yard and nearly were caught before they'd taken cover in another aught one Firefly, though Wash was shoulder-shot in the confusion. Captain and Zoë went looking when they hadn't come back timely, but they'd only found them after she'd had to jury-rig the gravity and Wash had flown them to a pick-up point and made contact.
Kaylee had been more aware than him, what with Wash bleeding out like he was, and she'd had to try to assure him that the others would come for them. Wash hadn't thought so; his wife was nothing if not practical.
"But she loves you," she'd insisted.
"Like air," he'd answered. And here Zoë was, still breathing, but missing something that made her work right. Like air.
She'd wondered at the time what it would be like to lose someone. Nothing really could have prepared her for the reality. So she asked, breaking into the easy routine they'd sunk into, her loosening the pressurizer from the housing while Zoë kept tugging at the radiator. People always overlooked the coolant systems. "How come Cap'n left you behind?" Not easy to miss they'd been at odds for a while, but she never would have thought she'd see the day Cap favoured Jayne over Zoe on a dangerous job. A shift like the shudder before gravity gave out and set everyone drifting.
The part had come out, and Zoë was crouched down putting it in their rucksack when she paused a moment as though thinking it over. "Maternity leave."
Something clattered to the metal grating underfoot, not that Kaylee was paying much attention to her tools at the moment. "Xi cóng tian jiàng!" she exclaimed, clapping her hands together in joy and almost singing. "Wash woulda been downright delirious!" She wasn't far off from that herself. The whole engine room seemed to bounce until she settled herself back down and she dialed her voice down to something not so high-pitched. "Oh Zoë," she breathed, "You an' him always wanted kids, he even said so. You remember? When we had all that money and we were talking 'bout what we all were gonna do with it?" The mother-to-be smiled, a little pensive, and Kaylee realized she ought to get back on subject. "What'd the captain say?"
The hope glowing in Zoë's face dimmed. "Nothin'. Just stood there."
Even in full steely mode Kaylee could see she was hurt. History like they had, much as he depended on her, and Zoë got the brush off like that? Kaylee shook her head. "He'll be all smiles, soon as his heart catches up with his brain." She frowned at his image, then scooped up her wrench and yanked the water reactor's control nozzle out. "Bèn zhuo de mù gùn," she muttered. Then she had the cooler free and in the bag, and saw Zoë waiting, hand at her waist and all business again.
"We done here?" Wasn't a question. Kaylee nodded, Zoë slung the sack of goodies over their shoulder and they made their down the stairs and out.
The sky had seemed to come ablaze, spilling fire out onto the ground like doomsday. Kaylee wondered at it. A baby. All that back and forth between Zoë and Wash over kids, and there was a little half-Wash and half-Zoë on the way after all. She looked up at the mule as Zoë lifted the swag into the back and climbed in, and had one more question. "Zoë? You had your tiffs with Wash. How'd you get through 'em?"
Zoë's hands clenched on the wheel. She closed her eyes like to take in the last of the fading warmth. When she opened them again, they were stern. "You don't fight now and then, you don't know how you'll take the hard times when they come." Kaylee drew closer and settled on the seat next to her. "And when they do, you got that choice, to stay together or go it alone. And if you both want it," she trailed off, a tremor in her voice, and then continued strong, "You hold on to each other. You don't give up until the end, and sometimes not even then. Sometimes you say sorry, and sometimes you don't have to, but you live every moment like it's the last."
The advice was almost lost in the noise as Zoë released the brakes with a clatter. The engine rumbled as they sped away, floated out over the glittering reach of sand.
- - - - -
Port control was housed in the only building on the airstrip, a monitoring tower atop a sandstone bunker. Like some kind of fortified lighthouse.
They were boasting a system more high-tech than the usual gun-wielding thugs, though it had that too, whole army of professionals camped out on the perimeter. Mal surveyed the contrivance by the steel blast doors, thinking that if Kaylee were here, she'd be in already.
No thanks to Jayne, whose idea of cracking the entry was to mash his palm into the keypad. "Access denied," chastised a benignly calm and matronly sounding computer, "zhe duàn, tong xíng zhèn." Mal found his lungs again and blew out hard. No auto-fire, no one to come investigate the sound. The mercenary shrugged at him.
After he told himself Jayne looked contrite, he turned to the three ladies, who were staring at the spectacle. Mù bù ren shì. "'Scuse me, don't suppose any of you know the pass code?" he asked, playing the goof casual.
"Move," said one of the blonde twins, not even giving him the time to drag Jayne out of the way. Probably June, who talked more, terse though she was. She entered a series of numbers until the digital display read off "maintenance," while her sister Lena knelt, ripping out the wiring behind the panel and stripping some down to the metal. Jayne sat himself up against the stonewall in a sulk after recovering his rifle and grumbled about them, about the security, and about not having any charges to fix this all right up.
He was worrying over anti-tampering alarms and whether their specialists knew what they were doing - disconcerting when he was dealing with folks more reckless than him - when the smallest girl shouldered a gun almost larger than herself awkwardly. "We all used to work here," Iris explained, her dark eyes far away and staring up at the view screen in the traffic tower high above, affording a vantage over all the docks. "June was on the Cortex, Lena was on the electronics and monitors, and I was a pilot hired on for flight information and navigation."
That explained how they were planning to take out the antlion then. He wouldn't have thought it to look at them, the only other cyber-techs he'd ever met were non-combatant types. These ones knew their way around firearms and clearly didn't trust him, and that had him on edge. They reminded him of when Zoe was new to the Overlanders and doubted he had the brains to fill a rooster's skull - not that she had changed her mind any after near on a decade of friendship. "So why all the gunshow?" he asked, and attitude, he thought, and already had his guess.
Iris had pulled into herself, hugging her arms and her weapon close. She glanced at him, then away, hiding behind her chin-length black hair, but it set her talking again. "One day, the Federal Marshall stationed here, Folsen, he decides he doesn't want to pay us anymore. Ties us up, sells us off to Shosenk." Her voice went very quiet. "Took months before we could get away."
Slavers. Chái láng shi tú. He had really wanted to be wrong. "Folsen," Mal repeated, and the girl shrank even more at the name. "Bleached hair, the one we killed?" He kept his tone level. She nodded. Too bad. He wished the monster was still alive so he could shoot him again.
There were a few moments of thoughtful silence. Jayne scratched himself, couth as a bear at a tea party. "So how long's this gonna take?"
"Bypassing voice command," Lena answered brusquely, with the implication for them all to bì shang zui ba so their jabber didn't set it off. Another pair of wires crossed, and they looked over at the door expectantly. Nothing happened. She frowned, inspected her work intently and then sighed, unbraided part of it, started re-weaving. This time the latch clanked aside and the steel split open down the middle to surprise them. "Done," Lena told him, pointedly, holding up the correct wire combination.
They moved into the hall as the lights flickered on, and Mal stopped for a moment just inside the entry. He'd expected more sandstone, a tunnel like Jordan village out in the grasslands where they found safety. The Alliance apparently liked to standardize all their facilities with their penchant for too bright, stark, ultramodern corridors. He didn't notice his own recoil until he bumped up against the door again. Trapped. This ain't a dream, he reprimanded himself, and made himself take a step forward, then another. Get a grip.
Now that he was looking, he saw the differences, not some dead end with no way in or out and he had no idea how he'd gotten there. There were two alcoves to either side leading to other rooms and stairs at the far end. Their specialists were set on heading up to the cortex source box at the top of the tower, but Jayne was more curious about the other rooms. The man caught his eye, and Mal ignored the girl's impatience and went over to take a gander himself. Jayne was a lot of things, most negative, but he was also one to know danger when he saw it.
Turns out there was plenty to see. There was some kind of lab behind a barrier field, separated in two with a prep/decon staging area and a cleanroom. Scientists in what looked like EVA suits were gathered around a table, hard at work even going late into the night.
"Why're they messin' with them grenades?" Jayne muttered.
Mal squinted - they were. Flash bangs, not frag, but they had them scattered around in parts for reassembly. "Looks like they're laced with something," he guessed. "Probably smoke powder. Disorients for longer." But he wasn't sure himself. He'd never seen the stuff packaged in vials like that, or needing that amount of caution. He thought back to the immobilized soldiers they'd seen in the med tent, the warning about some kind of reaction. This looked like the cause, whatever it was.
Inara. She'd been in some kind of explosion at the councilor's mansion. Mal sucked in air at the rush of energy that seared along his nerves, and barely heard June insisting that they hurry up. They needed to know what that chemical was and the medicine they were treating it with.
He ignored the complaints to check the other side of the hall, which turned out to be a storeroom. Amid all the crates there was a fortune to sell on the blackmarket, everything from extra fuel cells to ration bars. Jayne broke into a grin at the sight, and they started searching the inventory. The girls stood waiting impatiently in the doorway. "What are you doing?" June demanded.
Mal didn't bother answering, he thought it was pretty obvious. Especially with Jayne grabbing about everything he could shove into the cargo pockets of their disguise uniforms from off the shelves, with particular interest in some sort of antibiotic inhaler. A new thought occurred to him. "Those concussives you used earlier, were they Alliance made?" he asked.
She was so taken aback by the unexpected question, she managed a full answer with more than four syllables. "No, they were from one of our old stockpiles." He nodded to himself. At least they wouldn't also succumb to whatever had laid down the Alliance ranks.
Then he found the vials.
- - - - -
Every now and then, Serenity was actually quiet. He settled on the beaten yellow common room couch outside the infirmary with his medical encyclopedia. Nothing to organize, he'd finally gotten everything back in place after the crash, and he'd given a glance at the cryochamber, looking after his patient. No change.
Simon had long since become accustomed to the dichotomy of life aboard the ship - spikes of terror amid long stretches of boredom. Perhaps he had changed since he had left Osirius with River, looking over his shoulder. He used to relish those breathers. Now he looked forward to port leave as much as everyone else, anything to break up the tedium of travel, and yet despite the close quarters and high tensions that sometimes resulted, he worried about the crew when they were gone. Well, not everyone on the crew. He couldn't quite manage any concern for the captain or Jayne at the moment, but what had happened to Inara wasn't any fault of her own.
If he had to admit it, he was missing one person more than others. Specifically, he missed Kaylee's smile. Which was strange, because Kaylee wasn't in any danger, and she hadn't even been away for long. They'd been distant after his confession, and then after he hurt her again like an idiot.
"She's sorry," River said. He hadn't realized she'd been watching him.
This was a huge risk they were taking, not waiting out the blockade. If the Alliance stopped them in their getaway, if they boarded them, they might find River. He'd spent so much time trying to keep her safe from them, and now they were flying right into their hands. "You have nothing to be sorry about," he assured her, angry on her behalf, "the captain shouldn't put you in danger like he does."
His sister looked at him like he had graduated top three percent in stupidity. "You're so alike," she said. "I know you tried to save me. Still are. You never failed me, Simon." Her mouth curved upward, but her eyes were sad. "Evangeline drowned in the River. The blame game has to end, because everyone has lost."
He'd understood her to the last part, and that confused him more than chastised him. He returned her smile anyway, apologetic; it had really seemed like for a moment she had shone through the fog that settled over her for the past week. "Evangeline?" he echoed.
"Captain's mèi mei. Her eyes were blue," she explained.
Simon couldn't reconcile the concept; Malcolm Reynolds, black hearted tyrant, taking them back aboard despite the Alliance hunting for River and Simon's subordination, his big brother role for Kaylee, the tolerance for Jayne, human catastrophe of manners only looking out for his own blood and kin.
Before he could decide what to think, Mal spoke over the ship's loudspeaker. "Doc."
He pushed aside his questions as he stood, clapping his hand on his knees, resigned, strode out from around the cluttered end table and stepped up to the intercom. Normally the crew didn't ask for him on a job unless someone was injured. "Captain," Simon acknowledged. "Is everyone all right?"
The captain hurdled right past the inquiry. "Got something here, need your expertise. What's Fuss-fo-no Math-y Kwin-o Zal-in Deen?" Mal had to repeat himself twice before Simon could catch the entire chemical name.
"Phosphono-methyl-quinoxaline-dione?" Simon translated. He had to rack his memory a little, and vaguely remembered it from something he had been researching in regards to River's condition. Specifically he'd been interested in the opposite effect, as the compounds tended to increase psychotic and schizophrenic behaviour. "It's a family of chemicals that affects neurotransmitters - nerve cells signaling between each other. Why?"
Mal already sounded serious, but his voice took on a grim edge. "Because the Alliance has a whole lot of people out here in the same state as Inara, and they're putting this stuff in grenades. I'm thinkin' that's the reason."
"That's not possible," the doctor dismissed automatically, consolingly, but his mind was already working. There was something he wasn't quite recalling, that seemed important. He ran a search in his databook. It all clicked together, and Simon went numb. G-23 Paxilon Hydrochlorate. "Oh, tian na. It's the Pax."
Most of the day had been too hot by far for working outside when Kaylee and Zoë had parked the hovermule among some piles of scrap, the air wavering as it rose off the shimmering dunes. Kaylee had given the mule a long look, but figured she didn't need to disable it, since no one was around in this heat anyway and she had to admit it kind of blended in. Kaylee felt bad for the machine, in that way most other folks thought was crazy - she didn't always have the parts to keep everything on Serenity better than mint, including the mule, and while she might be able to look at the heart of things and see something shiny there, everyone else always just saw something broken down and good-for-nothing. Maybe that's why she'd been drawn to the people she was. Her crew had a lot in common with her ship.
So she and Zoë had holed themselves up in the shade of the grandmother of Serenity, a model 01 Firefly, waiting for the cooler hours. The Susanna didn't have the part she needed, she'd found it earlier on a Huey and she'd checked the Firefly already the first time she'd been by. They could still use some of the other stuff though, because except for a few modifications on the extenders, the Firefly models hadn't changed much. The ship was dead, its family scattered. But everything lived on in some way or another.
They both worked quietly at first, Kaylee only speaking to point out what they wanted and explaining how to take things apart. Kaylee had always looked up to the warrior woman for her strength, but she had some trouble communing with her - when Zoë wasn't focused on work, she also wasn't much for girl talk. Sometimes she'd taken to asking Zoë about the war, with some mixed results. Nowadays making chatter was even harder. Used to be she could talk about Simon, and Zoë would talk about Wash, but that had changed too, with her and the doctor carrying on while Zoe was in mourning.
She found herself really missing Wash and his jokes and his easy conversation. As a pilot he'd had at least some idea about electronics and engineering. Captain tried, but the only piece he'd ever memorized what it was and where it went after almost ten years was the catalyzer he'd nearly died for. So usually Wash went with her on her errands, and they always got to gossiping about all the shipboard romance. He'd never failed to give her good counsel, he'd probably know exactly what she could do about Simon and solve all her problems.
Last time she and Wash had been scavenging was just before Miranda. They'd snuck into a shifty impound yard and nearly were caught before they'd taken cover in another aught one Firefly, though Wash was shoulder-shot in the confusion. Captain and Zoë went looking when they hadn't come back timely, but they'd only found them after she'd had to jury-rig the gravity and Wash had flown them to a pick-up point and made contact.
Kaylee had been more aware than him, what with Wash bleeding out like he was, and she'd had to try to assure him that the others would come for them. Wash hadn't thought so; his wife was nothing if not practical.
"But she loves you," she'd insisted.
"Like air," he'd answered. And here Zoë was, still breathing, but missing something that made her work right. Like air.
She'd wondered at the time what it would be like to lose someone. Nothing really could have prepared her for the reality. So she asked, breaking into the easy routine they'd sunk into, her loosening the pressurizer from the housing while Zoë kept tugging at the radiator. People always overlooked the coolant systems. "How come Cap'n left you behind?" Not easy to miss they'd been at odds for a while, but she never would have thought she'd see the day Cap favoured Jayne over Zoe on a dangerous job. A shift like the shudder before gravity gave out and set everyone drifting.
The part had come out, and Zoë was crouched down putting it in their rucksack when she paused a moment as though thinking it over. "Maternity leave."
Something clattered to the metal grating underfoot, not that Kaylee was paying much attention to her tools at the moment. "Xi cóng tian jiàng!" she exclaimed, clapping her hands together in joy and almost singing. "Wash woulda been downright delirious!" She wasn't far off from that herself. The whole engine room seemed to bounce until she settled herself back down and she dialed her voice down to something not so high-pitched. "Oh Zoë," she breathed, "You an' him always wanted kids, he even said so. You remember? When we had all that money and we were talking 'bout what we all were gonna do with it?" The mother-to-be smiled, a little pensive, and Kaylee realized she ought to get back on subject. "What'd the captain say?"
The hope glowing in Zoë's face dimmed. "Nothin'. Just stood there."
Even in full steely mode Kaylee could see she was hurt. History like they had, much as he depended on her, and Zoë got the brush off like that? Kaylee shook her head. "He'll be all smiles, soon as his heart catches up with his brain." She frowned at his image, then scooped up her wrench and yanked the water reactor's control nozzle out. "Bèn zhuo de mù gùn," she muttered. Then she had the cooler free and in the bag, and saw Zoë waiting, hand at her waist and all business again.
"We done here?" Wasn't a question. Kaylee nodded, Zoë slung the sack of goodies over their shoulder and they made their down the stairs and out.
The sky had seemed to come ablaze, spilling fire out onto the ground like doomsday. Kaylee wondered at it. A baby. All that back and forth between Zoë and Wash over kids, and there was a little half-Wash and half-Zoë on the way after all. She looked up at the mule as Zoë lifted the swag into the back and climbed in, and had one more question. "Zoë? You had your tiffs with Wash. How'd you get through 'em?"
Zoë's hands clenched on the wheel. She closed her eyes like to take in the last of the fading warmth. When she opened them again, they were stern. "You don't fight now and then, you don't know how you'll take the hard times when they come." Kaylee drew closer and settled on the seat next to her. "And when they do, you got that choice, to stay together or go it alone. And if you both want it," she trailed off, a tremor in her voice, and then continued strong, "You hold on to each other. You don't give up until the end, and sometimes not even then. Sometimes you say sorry, and sometimes you don't have to, but you live every moment like it's the last."
The advice was almost lost in the noise as Zoë released the brakes with a clatter. The engine rumbled as they sped away, floated out over the glittering reach of sand.
- - - - -
Port control was housed in the only building on the airstrip, a monitoring tower atop a sandstone bunker. Like some kind of fortified lighthouse.
They were boasting a system more high-tech than the usual gun-wielding thugs, though it had that too, whole army of professionals camped out on the perimeter. Mal surveyed the contrivance by the steel blast doors, thinking that if Kaylee were here, she'd be in already.
No thanks to Jayne, whose idea of cracking the entry was to mash his palm into the keypad. "Access denied," chastised a benignly calm and matronly sounding computer, "zhe duàn, tong xíng zhèn." Mal found his lungs again and blew out hard. No auto-fire, no one to come investigate the sound. The mercenary shrugged at him.
After he told himself Jayne looked contrite, he turned to the three ladies, who were staring at the spectacle. Mù bù ren shì. "'Scuse me, don't suppose any of you know the pass code?" he asked, playing the goof casual.
"Move," said one of the blonde twins, not even giving him the time to drag Jayne out of the way. Probably June, who talked more, terse though she was. She entered a series of numbers until the digital display read off "maintenance," while her sister Lena knelt, ripping out the wiring behind the panel and stripping some down to the metal. Jayne sat himself up against the stonewall in a sulk after recovering his rifle and grumbled about them, about the security, and about not having any charges to fix this all right up.
He was worrying over anti-tampering alarms and whether their specialists knew what they were doing - disconcerting when he was dealing with folks more reckless than him - when the smallest girl shouldered a gun almost larger than herself awkwardly. "We all used to work here," Iris explained, her dark eyes far away and staring up at the view screen in the traffic tower high above, affording a vantage over all the docks. "June was on the Cortex, Lena was on the electronics and monitors, and I was a pilot hired on for flight information and navigation."
That explained how they were planning to take out the antlion then. He wouldn't have thought it to look at them, the only other cyber-techs he'd ever met were non-combatant types. These ones knew their way around firearms and clearly didn't trust him, and that had him on edge. They reminded him of when Zoe was new to the Overlanders and doubted he had the brains to fill a rooster's skull - not that she had changed her mind any after near on a decade of friendship. "So why all the gunshow?" he asked, and attitude, he thought, and already had his guess.
Iris had pulled into herself, hugging her arms and her weapon close. She glanced at him, then away, hiding behind her chin-length black hair, but it set her talking again. "One day, the Federal Marshall stationed here, Folsen, he decides he doesn't want to pay us anymore. Ties us up, sells us off to Shosenk." Her voice went very quiet. "Took months before we could get away."
Slavers. Chái láng shi tú. He had really wanted to be wrong. "Folsen," Mal repeated, and the girl shrank even more at the name. "Bleached hair, the one we killed?" He kept his tone level. She nodded. Too bad. He wished the monster was still alive so he could shoot him again.
There were a few moments of thoughtful silence. Jayne scratched himself, couth as a bear at a tea party. "So how long's this gonna take?"
"Bypassing voice command," Lena answered brusquely, with the implication for them all to bì shang zui ba so their jabber didn't set it off. Another pair of wires crossed, and they looked over at the door expectantly. Nothing happened. She frowned, inspected her work intently and then sighed, unbraided part of it, started re-weaving. This time the latch clanked aside and the steel split open down the middle to surprise them. "Done," Lena told him, pointedly, holding up the correct wire combination.
They moved into the hall as the lights flickered on, and Mal stopped for a moment just inside the entry. He'd expected more sandstone, a tunnel like Jordan village out in the grasslands where they found safety. The Alliance apparently liked to standardize all their facilities with their penchant for too bright, stark, ultramodern corridors. He didn't notice his own recoil until he bumped up against the door again. Trapped. This ain't a dream, he reprimanded himself, and made himself take a step forward, then another. Get a grip.
Now that he was looking, he saw the differences, not some dead end with no way in or out and he had no idea how he'd gotten there. There were two alcoves to either side leading to other rooms and stairs at the far end. Their specialists were set on heading up to the cortex source box at the top of the tower, but Jayne was more curious about the other rooms. The man caught his eye, and Mal ignored the girl's impatience and went over to take a gander himself. Jayne was a lot of things, most negative, but he was also one to know danger when he saw it.
Turns out there was plenty to see. There was some kind of lab behind a barrier field, separated in two with a prep/decon staging area and a cleanroom. Scientists in what looked like EVA suits were gathered around a table, hard at work even going late into the night.
"Why're they messin' with them grenades?" Jayne muttered.
Mal squinted - they were. Flash bangs, not frag, but they had them scattered around in parts for reassembly. "Looks like they're laced with something," he guessed. "Probably smoke powder. Disorients for longer." But he wasn't sure himself. He'd never seen the stuff packaged in vials like that, or needing that amount of caution. He thought back to the immobilized soldiers they'd seen in the med tent, the warning about some kind of reaction. This looked like the cause, whatever it was.
Inara. She'd been in some kind of explosion at the councilor's mansion. Mal sucked in air at the rush of energy that seared along his nerves, and barely heard June insisting that they hurry up. They needed to know what that chemical was and the medicine they were treating it with.
He ignored the complaints to check the other side of the hall, which turned out to be a storeroom. Amid all the crates there was a fortune to sell on the blackmarket, everything from extra fuel cells to ration bars. Jayne broke into a grin at the sight, and they started searching the inventory. The girls stood waiting impatiently in the doorway. "What are you doing?" June demanded.
Mal didn't bother answering, he thought it was pretty obvious. Especially with Jayne grabbing about everything he could shove into the cargo pockets of their disguise uniforms from off the shelves, with particular interest in some sort of antibiotic inhaler. A new thought occurred to him. "Those concussives you used earlier, were they Alliance made?" he asked.
She was so taken aback by the unexpected question, she managed a full answer with more than four syllables. "No, they were from one of our old stockpiles." He nodded to himself. At least they wouldn't also succumb to whatever had laid down the Alliance ranks.
Then he found the vials.
- - - - -
Every now and then, Serenity was actually quiet. He settled on the beaten yellow common room couch outside the infirmary with his medical encyclopedia. Nothing to organize, he'd finally gotten everything back in place after the crash, and he'd given a glance at the cryochamber, looking after his patient. No change.
Simon had long since become accustomed to the dichotomy of life aboard the ship - spikes of terror amid long stretches of boredom. Perhaps he had changed since he had left Osirius with River, looking over his shoulder. He used to relish those breathers. Now he looked forward to port leave as much as everyone else, anything to break up the tedium of travel, and yet despite the close quarters and high tensions that sometimes resulted, he worried about the crew when they were gone. Well, not everyone on the crew. He couldn't quite manage any concern for the captain or Jayne at the moment, but what had happened to Inara wasn't any fault of her own.
If he had to admit it, he was missing one person more than others. Specifically, he missed Kaylee's smile. Which was strange, because Kaylee wasn't in any danger, and she hadn't even been away for long. They'd been distant after his confession, and then after he hurt her again like an idiot.
"She's sorry," River said. He hadn't realized she'd been watching him.
This was a huge risk they were taking, not waiting out the blockade. If the Alliance stopped them in their getaway, if they boarded them, they might find River. He'd spent so much time trying to keep her safe from them, and now they were flying right into their hands. "You have nothing to be sorry about," he assured her, angry on her behalf, "the captain shouldn't put you in danger like he does."
His sister looked at him like he had graduated top three percent in stupidity. "You're so alike," she said. "I know you tried to save me. Still are. You never failed me, Simon." Her mouth curved upward, but her eyes were sad. "Evangeline drowned in the River. The blame game has to end, because everyone has lost."
He'd understood her to the last part, and that confused him more than chastised him. He returned her smile anyway, apologetic; it had really seemed like for a moment she had shone through the fog that settled over her for the past week. "Evangeline?" he echoed.
"Captain's mèi mei. Her eyes were blue," she explained.
Simon couldn't reconcile the concept; Malcolm Reynolds, black hearted tyrant, taking them back aboard despite the Alliance hunting for River and Simon's subordination, his big brother role for Kaylee, the tolerance for Jayne, human catastrophe of manners only looking out for his own blood and kin.
Before he could decide what to think, Mal spoke over the ship's loudspeaker. "Doc."
He pushed aside his questions as he stood, clapping his hand on his knees, resigned, strode out from around the cluttered end table and stepped up to the intercom. Normally the crew didn't ask for him on a job unless someone was injured. "Captain," Simon acknowledged. "Is everyone all right?"
The captain hurdled right past the inquiry. "Got something here, need your expertise. What's Fuss-fo-no Math-y Kwin-o Zal-in Deen?" Mal had to repeat himself twice before Simon could catch the entire chemical name.
"Phosphono-methyl-quinoxaline-dione?" Simon translated. He had to rack his memory a little, and vaguely remembered it from something he had been researching in regards to River's condition. Specifically he'd been interested in the opposite effect, as the compounds tended to increase psychotic and schizophrenic behaviour. "It's a family of chemicals that affects neurotransmitters - nerve cells signaling between each other. Why?"
Mal already sounded serious, but his voice took on a grim edge. "Because the Alliance has a whole lot of people out here in the same state as Inara, and they're putting this stuff in grenades. I'm thinkin' that's the reason."
"That's not possible," the doctor dismissed automatically, consolingly, but his mind was already working. There was something he wasn't quite recalling, that seemed important. He ran a search in his databook. It all clicked together, and Simon went numb. G-23 Paxilon Hydrochlorate. "Oh, tian na. It's the Pax."
Bytemite- Posts : 680
Join date : 2012-06-25
Re: Eidolon Postings
wytchcroft Thu Aug 09, 2012 5:51 pm
ok so i was about to complement your description of River as something almost elemental but i done read on - and now i'm back to gnashing my teeth and making incoherent sounds. Damn the pax. Nice to see Simon using his skills but - god, poor Inara.
this is all kinds of epic.
this is all kinds of epic.
wytchcroft- Posts : 377
Join date : 2012-06-25
Location : looking for noodles
Re: Eidolon Postings
ebfiddler987 Thu Aug 09, 2012 8:55 pm
Yep, this is all kinds of awesome, and the last few chapters especially, things are really cranking up. I read chapter 26 here today, Byte. It has all kinds of good things in it, especially Zoe's moment. I haven't been commenting here because as you know I'm reading Eidolon in two other places! 
ebfiddler987- Posts : 358
Join date : 2012-06-25
Re: Eidolon Postings
Bytemite Thu Aug 09, 2012 10:21 pm
Yeah, here I'm mostly trying to just catch Eidolon up to the newest chapters. It's actually getting close to finished, couple more months should do it. So no worries about comments.
if I do two more chapters here tonight, and the last four tomorrow, I should be all caught up.
So, coming up next, some nice Inara dream point of view.
if I do two more chapters here tonight, and the last four tomorrow, I should be all caught up.
So, coming up next, some nice Inara dream point of view.
Bytemite- Posts : 680
Join date : 2012-06-25
Re: Eidolon Postings
Bytemite Thu Aug 09, 2012 10:23 pm
Chapter 29
A spot of cold kissed her brow, drawing Inara out from the soft black behind her eyelids and into the quiet of night. The change seemed little different; the world was muffled, all sensations dampened. She couldn't see anything, suspended between and outside her own awareness, at one with everything and nothing without distinction. Scattered stars appeared above her, first a few, then many, until they filled the entire sky. Inara admired them, shining across the distance, spiraling down towards her as she stood looking up.
Slowly features began to emerge, a sense of herself then her surroundings. An elegant marble bridge over a koi pond in a frozen garden, leaves and branches glittering and fragile, like glass. The frost had traced beaded swirls over everything, over her skin, patterns over the long skirt of her powder blue dress.
She had walked this path before, during her training days. Her students would have loved this. Girls and boys conversing like adults under the cherry blossoms about their studies, about art, music, theatre, philosophy, skills they were practicing; chattering like children about teachers and companions they admired, the whispers of intrigues they had overheard. The Guild taught acolytes self-control from the time they were twelve, but some took more to those lessons than others. Inara had primly declined to engage in such sport, but her friend Nandi had an enthusiasm for gossip, and made a game of getting Inara to blush.
Nandi would always sneak the acolytes up to an unused balcony in the Summer Temple to watch the the Kunlun Gala, a whirling masquerade of feathers, gemstones, and colour against a backdrop of gilded murals and flowing calligraphy. There they would speculate about which of the debutants would approach each habitue - long time clients and former companions selected for the honour by the chaperones. The habitue were relatively unchanging year to year, chosen for patience and tenderness to ease new companions into the rites, and most of her friends had their own favourites. Invariably, some of the other students would share an interest, or disagree about suitability, and the resulting argument would result in the concierge finding them and chasing them back to the dormitories.
Everything was just as she remembered, like a painting in a museum. This was House Madrassa, or Sihnon, or maybe an approximation at Sheydra's Training House on Burnet. Perfect. Beautiful. Lonely. They'd both left for the Rim and it had been years before they'd seen each other again, and by then, Nandi had been in trouble, and then it had been too late. Inara no longer belonged here. Maybe, for all she had tried to follow her mother's example, she never really had.
The snow dwindled and the lull of darkness enveloped her again, unexpectedly warm, consoling and soothing. She let it carry her away from her regrets and anxieties, the memories and pain fading with it. Her limbs grew heavy and then only her breath remained, until she forgot even that.
Some duration passed unmarked by time or conscious notice, and then someone rolled half on top of her. She blinked, immediately taking in the sight of her curtains in Serenity's shuttle, the elaborate fretwork of her cabinet, the floral motif of her empty flower vase and the little clock arranged on top of it. Whoever was nestled against her shifted again with a masculine grunt and pressed their face into her shoulder, one arm thrown over her waist, then stilled again. She considered her options. He might have rudely jolted her, but a companion was always discreet. She eased herself away from the body against her back and the hot air against her neck, then raised herself up on her hands to survey her visitor.
Oh. Long eyelashes beside a proud aquiline nose, a mess of sleep-tussled hair... Mal, lightly bronzed and shirtless, dozing in her bed beside her, laying under her scarlet quilt. Or rather not quite under, her movement had pulled the covers to his waist. As her gaze trailed over the muscles of his broad shoulders then down his chest and stomach and lower, she started to wonder less than chaste thoughts and turned away quickly, cheeks burning. She couldn't help glancing back. There was nowhere safe to rest her sight without wanting to scrape her teeth along his neck and press her lips against the stubble of his jaw, not even his sweetly unguarded face, normally so tense.
Mal woke then, his blue eyes suddenly on her, tired but bright and alert. He raised his head and reached out to lay a reassuring hand on her shoulder, squinting as he automatically searched around for threats, his mind not quite so aware as his startle response. An inarticulate question, asking if anything was wrong. The man could be sprawled out in the infirmary, Simon holding up the newest extracted addition to the captain's lead collection, and his first thought would still be for whether everyone else was all right.
She couldn't help teasing him, not when he was like this. "You're in my bed," she observed.
No danger here. The anxiety left him, and so did the underlying drowsiness when he found her again. He studied her, a different kind of intensity, then he looked around her shuttle again with faked surprise. A nod. "Seems right to me," he smirked, and sat up against her pillows, tucking his hands behind his head.
Some of her amusement faded at his show of self-satisfaction. Careful. She must not show how she enjoyed his good moods, his company and banter. If he felt too welcome, he'd take that as an all-hours invitation to burst into her life and love her. And then he might never want her to leave. "Why are you in my bed?" she asked.
He kicked his legs (disappointingly clothed, she noticed) out onto her sheets in an infuriatingly smug and endearing way. "Couldn't withstand my charms no more," he guessed.
Inara rolled her eyes at the suggestion. "Yes, that's it exactly. Only entirely backwards." She reached for a long cerulean robe, hung unobtrusively behind her drapery by her bedpost. An extra layer of defense and distance was needed if they were about to start another fight. Or if he was going to continue being so irresistibly winsome.
A shrug, a flash of hurt before he looked elsewhere. "You tell me. It's your bed, up to you whether you lie in it."
There were a number of reasons, none of them really voiceable - Because so many people are gone. Because my idealism was untrue. Because I feel lost, and we could find our way together. Because I don't want to hurt you, but I need you. Inara sighed and gave up. "I don't think either of us know why we're here," she answered, her bare feet cold on her rug as she slipped into the ribbon sandals from beside her nightstand.
She began tidying, self-conscious under his scrutiny as he watched her, bells chiming at her ankles. There was nothing out of place to occupy her. Normally she'd prepare her morning infusion, then dress, style her hair, and apply her makeup, none of which she could do while Mal was in the same room, not without his commentary about her companion wiles. She turned to him, about to make a futile offer of refreshments despite herself, to find he had followed her. He was much nearer than she expected - she had to tilt her head back to look up at him, his eyes half-lidded, tracing her startled face, her parted lips. "I'm glad you are," he said, finally.
Her heart did a strange leap, fluttering, a shiver traveling over her skin where the breath of his words swept over her. A half step towards the tea set on her end table and familiar ceremony and ritual. He caught her around her bicep, stopped her.
"Here's what I don't understand," he murmured, low and resonating. "There's nobody lives forever, there's just making the most of our time." His expression was without any bitterness; curious, sincere, concerned. "So why are you always pushing me away?"
An ache crept through her, a pang of grief and longing. He'd lost so much already. "I'd only hurt you," she told him. She already had.
He was altogether too interested in that offer. "Like with leather and collars?" Mal gave her a crooked smile, something very like desire underneath. "I could be into that." She sent him an exasperated glare over her shoulder, and he pulled his hand back, regretful, before she could snap at him. "I'm not exactly blameless myself. We do both like to rile each other." They each had their troubles and secrets, were sometimes taciturn and defensive. Not always, of course. Certainly not at the moment. There was a connection between them that defied all their attempts at distance. A truth, an admission she so wanted to hear, and she could not bring herself to interrupt him this time. He drew closer still. "And I'll take that," he asserted. "A day, a night, several, a lifetime. Even when all I have is the memory of you." A plea, an oath, the last part rough, whispered. "It'd be worth it."
Her resolve broke, and she as much reached for him as he pulled her against him, as he wrapped his arms around her, as she stretched up to touch his jaw, his cheek.
Someone sighed in impatience at them, and they broke apart. River! Standing not three feet away from them. How much had she seen? They were in the galley somehow, in the lounge off to the side, standing among their choice of furniture and cushions. Everything was bright, golden, too warm. The everyone was at the table, and apparently hadn't noticed their sudden lapse from sanity, Wash telling a joke while Book approached with a pot of breakfast. Not just the crew - Nandi and her mother were seated among them, enjoying the morning antics on Serenity. Children were underfoot, playing around the legs of the adults and ducking under the chairs, one a little girl with her own colouration, clutching a stuffed unicorn.
"I promised," River told her, dark eyes flicking past Mal, inspecting Kaylee's stenciled vines curling up the support beam. "Somewhere always summer." She shook her head. "I promised, but we have to go."
Inara worked to steady her breathing, to find her control. She was burning, trembling. The captain exchanged a glance with her, then moved away to mingle with his crew, nonchalant. Saohuò bùyàolian de dongxi! How could he leave her as if nothing had just happened?
"This is important," River interrupted again, demanding her attention. The teenager scanned her face. "All responses normal. No permanent damage," she assessed. "Reestablish equilibrium to restore full function."
She didn't know what that meant. "River, you aren't damaged," Inara tried, guessing, an attempt to reassure the girl. She tucked some of the long straight strands of dark brown hair behind River's ear.
"You have to understand," she insisted, grabbing her hand, pulling her out from the sofas and towards the passage to the dimly-lit back corridor. "You'd die to save him."
Mal returned, sensing something wrong. "What's going on?" he asked, eyes sliding between them.
"He'd do the same," the psychic told her. "You'll see." She looked apologetic. "It won't be painless."
They plunged into the darkness beyond.
A spot of cold kissed her brow, drawing Inara out from the soft black behind her eyelids and into the quiet of night. The change seemed little different; the world was muffled, all sensations dampened. She couldn't see anything, suspended between and outside her own awareness, at one with everything and nothing without distinction. Scattered stars appeared above her, first a few, then many, until they filled the entire sky. Inara admired them, shining across the distance, spiraling down towards her as she stood looking up.
Slowly features began to emerge, a sense of herself then her surroundings. An elegant marble bridge over a koi pond in a frozen garden, leaves and branches glittering and fragile, like glass. The frost had traced beaded swirls over everything, over her skin, patterns over the long skirt of her powder blue dress.
She had walked this path before, during her training days. Her students would have loved this. Girls and boys conversing like adults under the cherry blossoms about their studies, about art, music, theatre, philosophy, skills they were practicing; chattering like children about teachers and companions they admired, the whispers of intrigues they had overheard. The Guild taught acolytes self-control from the time they were twelve, but some took more to those lessons than others. Inara had primly declined to engage in such sport, but her friend Nandi had an enthusiasm for gossip, and made a game of getting Inara to blush.
Nandi would always sneak the acolytes up to an unused balcony in the Summer Temple to watch the the Kunlun Gala, a whirling masquerade of feathers, gemstones, and colour against a backdrop of gilded murals and flowing calligraphy. There they would speculate about which of the debutants would approach each habitue - long time clients and former companions selected for the honour by the chaperones. The habitue were relatively unchanging year to year, chosen for patience and tenderness to ease new companions into the rites, and most of her friends had their own favourites. Invariably, some of the other students would share an interest, or disagree about suitability, and the resulting argument would result in the concierge finding them and chasing them back to the dormitories.
Everything was just as she remembered, like a painting in a museum. This was House Madrassa, or Sihnon, or maybe an approximation at Sheydra's Training House on Burnet. Perfect. Beautiful. Lonely. They'd both left for the Rim and it had been years before they'd seen each other again, and by then, Nandi had been in trouble, and then it had been too late. Inara no longer belonged here. Maybe, for all she had tried to follow her mother's example, she never really had.
The snow dwindled and the lull of darkness enveloped her again, unexpectedly warm, consoling and soothing. She let it carry her away from her regrets and anxieties, the memories and pain fading with it. Her limbs grew heavy and then only her breath remained, until she forgot even that.
Some duration passed unmarked by time or conscious notice, and then someone rolled half on top of her. She blinked, immediately taking in the sight of her curtains in Serenity's shuttle, the elaborate fretwork of her cabinet, the floral motif of her empty flower vase and the little clock arranged on top of it. Whoever was nestled against her shifted again with a masculine grunt and pressed their face into her shoulder, one arm thrown over her waist, then stilled again. She considered her options. He might have rudely jolted her, but a companion was always discreet. She eased herself away from the body against her back and the hot air against her neck, then raised herself up on her hands to survey her visitor.
Oh. Long eyelashes beside a proud aquiline nose, a mess of sleep-tussled hair... Mal, lightly bronzed and shirtless, dozing in her bed beside her, laying under her scarlet quilt. Or rather not quite under, her movement had pulled the covers to his waist. As her gaze trailed over the muscles of his broad shoulders then down his chest and stomach and lower, she started to wonder less than chaste thoughts and turned away quickly, cheeks burning. She couldn't help glancing back. There was nowhere safe to rest her sight without wanting to scrape her teeth along his neck and press her lips against the stubble of his jaw, not even his sweetly unguarded face, normally so tense.
Mal woke then, his blue eyes suddenly on her, tired but bright and alert. He raised his head and reached out to lay a reassuring hand on her shoulder, squinting as he automatically searched around for threats, his mind not quite so aware as his startle response. An inarticulate question, asking if anything was wrong. The man could be sprawled out in the infirmary, Simon holding up the newest extracted addition to the captain's lead collection, and his first thought would still be for whether everyone else was all right.
She couldn't help teasing him, not when he was like this. "You're in my bed," she observed.
No danger here. The anxiety left him, and so did the underlying drowsiness when he found her again. He studied her, a different kind of intensity, then he looked around her shuttle again with faked surprise. A nod. "Seems right to me," he smirked, and sat up against her pillows, tucking his hands behind his head.
Some of her amusement faded at his show of self-satisfaction. Careful. She must not show how she enjoyed his good moods, his company and banter. If he felt too welcome, he'd take that as an all-hours invitation to burst into her life and love her. And then he might never want her to leave. "Why are you in my bed?" she asked.
He kicked his legs (disappointingly clothed, she noticed) out onto her sheets in an infuriatingly smug and endearing way. "Couldn't withstand my charms no more," he guessed.
Inara rolled her eyes at the suggestion. "Yes, that's it exactly. Only entirely backwards." She reached for a long cerulean robe, hung unobtrusively behind her drapery by her bedpost. An extra layer of defense and distance was needed if they were about to start another fight. Or if he was going to continue being so irresistibly winsome.
A shrug, a flash of hurt before he looked elsewhere. "You tell me. It's your bed, up to you whether you lie in it."
There were a number of reasons, none of them really voiceable - Because so many people are gone. Because my idealism was untrue. Because I feel lost, and we could find our way together. Because I don't want to hurt you, but I need you. Inara sighed and gave up. "I don't think either of us know why we're here," she answered, her bare feet cold on her rug as she slipped into the ribbon sandals from beside her nightstand.
She began tidying, self-conscious under his scrutiny as he watched her, bells chiming at her ankles. There was nothing out of place to occupy her. Normally she'd prepare her morning infusion, then dress, style her hair, and apply her makeup, none of which she could do while Mal was in the same room, not without his commentary about her companion wiles. She turned to him, about to make a futile offer of refreshments despite herself, to find he had followed her. He was much nearer than she expected - she had to tilt her head back to look up at him, his eyes half-lidded, tracing her startled face, her parted lips. "I'm glad you are," he said, finally.
Her heart did a strange leap, fluttering, a shiver traveling over her skin where the breath of his words swept over her. A half step towards the tea set on her end table and familiar ceremony and ritual. He caught her around her bicep, stopped her.
"Here's what I don't understand," he murmured, low and resonating. "There's nobody lives forever, there's just making the most of our time." His expression was without any bitterness; curious, sincere, concerned. "So why are you always pushing me away?"
An ache crept through her, a pang of grief and longing. He'd lost so much already. "I'd only hurt you," she told him. She already had.
He was altogether too interested in that offer. "Like with leather and collars?" Mal gave her a crooked smile, something very like desire underneath. "I could be into that." She sent him an exasperated glare over her shoulder, and he pulled his hand back, regretful, before she could snap at him. "I'm not exactly blameless myself. We do both like to rile each other." They each had their troubles and secrets, were sometimes taciturn and defensive. Not always, of course. Certainly not at the moment. There was a connection between them that defied all their attempts at distance. A truth, an admission she so wanted to hear, and she could not bring herself to interrupt him this time. He drew closer still. "And I'll take that," he asserted. "A day, a night, several, a lifetime. Even when all I have is the memory of you." A plea, an oath, the last part rough, whispered. "It'd be worth it."
Her resolve broke, and she as much reached for him as he pulled her against him, as he wrapped his arms around her, as she stretched up to touch his jaw, his cheek.
Someone sighed in impatience at them, and they broke apart. River! Standing not three feet away from them. How much had she seen? They were in the galley somehow, in the lounge off to the side, standing among their choice of furniture and cushions. Everything was bright, golden, too warm. The everyone was at the table, and apparently hadn't noticed their sudden lapse from sanity, Wash telling a joke while Book approached with a pot of breakfast. Not just the crew - Nandi and her mother were seated among them, enjoying the morning antics on Serenity. Children were underfoot, playing around the legs of the adults and ducking under the chairs, one a little girl with her own colouration, clutching a stuffed unicorn.
"I promised," River told her, dark eyes flicking past Mal, inspecting Kaylee's stenciled vines curling up the support beam. "Somewhere always summer." She shook her head. "I promised, but we have to go."
Inara worked to steady her breathing, to find her control. She was burning, trembling. The captain exchanged a glance with her, then moved away to mingle with his crew, nonchalant. Saohuò bùyàolian de dongxi! How could he leave her as if nothing had just happened?
"This is important," River interrupted again, demanding her attention. The teenager scanned her face. "All responses normal. No permanent damage," she assessed. "Reestablish equilibrium to restore full function."
She didn't know what that meant. "River, you aren't damaged," Inara tried, guessing, an attempt to reassure the girl. She tucked some of the long straight strands of dark brown hair behind River's ear.
"You have to understand," she insisted, grabbing her hand, pulling her out from the sofas and towards the passage to the dimly-lit back corridor. "You'd die to save him."
Mal returned, sensing something wrong. "What's going on?" he asked, eyes sliding between them.
"He'd do the same," the psychic told her. "You'll see." She looked apologetic. "It won't be painless."
They plunged into the darkness beyond.
Bytemite- Posts : 680
Join date : 2012-06-25
Re: Eidolon Postings
Bytemite Thu Aug 09, 2012 10:24 pm
Chapter 30
The Alliance labcoat inspected the boxes on the shelves, each in turn, the storeroom lit up as brightly as the hall outside. Soon as the selection was only just set out on the counter, the low thrum of a pressure wave gave a hello from off to the side, and the medic dropped, out cold. Captain Reynolds rose from where he was crouched between some crates. No sympathy for the headache the man would have. Mal might've been wearing stolen colours now, the black and purple uniform of a marine Federal, but former and still defiant insurrectionist he was, his hand was itching for his Independents-issued service pistol from the war. Even that might be too good for these folks.
He stepped over the self-righteous fallen, plunked the sonic rifle down as he pulled out his army knife and a radio handset from a pocket in the tactical vest. "Diazepam," Mal read off, and broke the packaging seal, pulled out a vial of unhealthy looking pale yellow. "This the right medicine?" he asked, doubtful.
A burst of static. "Diazepam," his own fugitive doctor mused, and Mal could just see the boy's thoughtful frown. "But that's a sedative."
And that would be no help for Inara. He put the glass back, and considered his informant, sprawled out limp and lying at his feet. Some plaything, tossed aside and abandoned. Young, gangly, mousy haired, lightweight. Easy to hoist up against the trestles, hang him with some engineering tape by the wrists, the ankles. Wheezing around a cinched garrote. Less like the expected monster. Maybe even a real human being.
"We always treated the wounded," Mal commented idly as the charlatan stirred in discomfort, looked around dizzily. Then the Alliance doctor saw him, and jerked alert, though he at least had the sense to not tug on the bondage and bring the whole shelving unit down on him. "Wasn't that we were fighting against your soldiers - that was more about survival. We just had all these values and principles, and they weren't gonna uphold themselves." Less so much after Shadow, of course, but he'd tempered the loss, the outrage, because of those ideals, because he just knew he was on the right side, so he figured he ought to act like it. "Sometimes the brass ordered us otherwise, but they usually weren't around long enough to make much everhow, and didn't tend to notice if some purplebellies got snuck in to our medics."
The doctor was glaring at him. "I heard - about - your butchers," he choked out, not more than a gravelly whisper.
Mal folded his arms. "Rim world medicine, sergeant. Our own troops got the exact same treatment, an' we lost plenty. Conditions in the field were near to [/i]dì yù[/i] and we had no medical supplies and little training. Most of ours only prior experience they had was with livestock." He stared the doctor down. "Do no harm." Mal shrugged. "Not so easy as it seems. I surely can make no claims over you." He lifted a clear vial of the Pax. "I really can't," he said, pensive, and jabbed the a syringe through the gel cap. "Then again, I got another code I live by. Do unto them as they'da done onto mine."
The hypodermic filled and the doctor paled. "What - You can't-" he coughed.
The captain peered over at his captive. "So you do know." A dangerous note crept into his voice as he advanced on him with the needle. "You knew all along, and you've been lacing your grenades and concussives. Letting the PAX spread throughout the city, all those good Alliance citizens, waitin' for the cortex to come back up so they can call in and surrender. Treating your own forces while everyone else is holed up in a church bound for kingdom come." He kept his volume level, but the tone got rougher until he was almost growling. "Or maybe that was your plan all the while. Come in with the answer to a problem you created, and be welcomed and cheered on like salvation."
"That - dilution - is harmless," he objected.
Did he really believe that? Dumb kids eating up every bit of propaganda thrown their way, told what to think and not using their own eyes and brains to see the proof otherwise in front of them. "What about those soldiers you're treatin' out there for exposure? They think it's harmless?"
The quacksalver shut up promptly. Mal watched him mull it over then sag in the restraints. "Your intentions?" he rasped.
He held up the auto-injector again. "Lookin' for the remedy to this for them out there who need it." Any minute now, the cortex blockade will be coming down, and his hulking brute should be around with their exit. If neither of them were persuasive enough, the PAX would be. Should have just enough time to get guided right-ways before the effects kicked in.
To his surprise, the medic chose to cooperate. "There - on the table." Mal eyed him, skeptical, then reached out and loosed the slipknot, with a warning look against shouting for the guards. The doctor caught his breath, almost thankful for the air. "The incapacitating agent is volatile, but it disperses quickly in air, diminishing to safe levels in seconds," he continued, his throat still hoarse over his polished Londinium accent. "When we do see an overdose, one injection is usually sufficient."
Even he could gather that much. "Overdose?" he scoffed, "There's people out there, dyin'." Mal planted his hands hard either side of the boy's head, the needle point very close to his scrawny neck. "I have zero time for games. So how about we try that again, this time with the truth. Even were I the trustful type, I ain't givin' them somethin' that'll make 'em worse."
"It won't," he answered, sincere but with a bit of growing exasperation. "Look, I'm not a biochemist, but that's what I've been administering, and it's effective up to forty-eight hours from onset."
Simon chimed in from his pocket radio. "I think that might work," he pronounced, unaware of what he was interrupting.
Mal glanced at the captive, who was watching warily. "Guess my second opinion agrees with you." He left the syringe on the shelf and went for his handset. Whatever had changed Simon's mind, he wasn't taking any chances. "She's unconscious, doc, she don't get much more sedate than that."
"The diazepam will have the exact opposite effect against the Pax," Simon insisted. "How much is there?"
"'Bout a whole case, couple dozen fingers worth," the captain apprised.
"Get as much as you can. There's no telling if we might need more of it when all this is through." That was a fact. Entire planet of Ezra might need some of the medicine, if the Alliance kept up their pacification efforts. Mal nodded to the other doctor, picking up the roll of tape and ripping off another piece.
The medic fought against the bindings a little. "Hey, wait -"
Couldn't untie him or the alarm might be sounded. He shrugged and muzzled him again. "Sorry, doctor. Got me another appointment to get to." He grabbed the box from the counter and hustled his way out to the hallway. "We only have one shot at this," Mal said into his comm, "You're sure?"
Simon answered with all the pride of someone who'd just figured out a contrivance of a puzzle. "The Pax shuts down an important neural protein, the NMDA receptor, which is essential for nerve impulses and signaling. At lower doses it induces a mildly euphoric state, at higher doses it causes hallucinations and eventually a complete loss of self-awareness. In the meantime, it displaces glutamate, which begins to accumulate."
"The what?" He was moving casually now, but quick, checking around the too bright hallway for anyone who might stop him, especially the lab where those scientists were working with all the chemicals.
"Glutamate. It's one of the essential amino acids, the building blocks of proteins." Simon explained. "And it also happens that glutamate is an important neurotransmitter, a substance that excites the neurons. Stimulates them." A slight hesitation. "I thought her genetic condition had manifested, because of the amount of glutamate in Inara's blood samples after she collapsed. And that's the biggest danger. Glutamate activates a lot of other neurotransmitters."
"Wouldn't that make her more alert?" Mal asked.
"It kills the brain cells," Simon answered grimly. "Not right away, the neurons can resist high levels of glutamate for a while before the condition is irreversible and permanent damage occurs, but they become flooded with ions. It would be like having a non-convulsive seizure. For days." The horror of that sunk in. Inara. That was what was happening to her. "If they survive that, then they'll either continue to be catatonic when the initial dopamine spike from the PAX falls, or, if their dopamine stays elevated, their behaviour will become erratic, increasingly aggressive and paranoid."
Reavers. "And we can save her from that." Wasn't a question that time.
"The diazepam will indirectly compete with the PAX and moderate the glutamate, dopamine, and ion flow," the doctor said. There was a smile in his voice. "We can save her, Mal," he confirmed.
There was something else too, something knowing, an assurance that bothered him. "Tell River and Kaylee to have us ready. I want us off world soon as the fuel we got hits the tank." He didn't wait for the boy's response, went radio silent. The less he hoped, the less likely he was to have those hopes yanked out from under him. He strode out from the vault doors into the brisk desert night. Gorramn Alliance. Thought that the bigger and more intimidating and technological something was, the more security it had. He rounded the corner of the bunker, where the armored transport they'd hotwired was parked.
He popped the driver's side hatch and tucked the box under the chair for safe keeping. His browncoat dropped onto the cushion, and he looked up, almost thrown for a moment. "Jayne." The man was looking bored in the passenger seat, chewing on one of the liberated nutrient bars, one big paw curled around the wrapper and the other around a laser rifle. Mal thought he might've been gone already with their bounty. "Any surprises?"
A siren rose, blaring out over the tired camp. Jayne rolled his eyes. "Just had to ask, din'tcha," the mercenary huffed at him, like this was his fault. The captain guessed it was his luck at least.
Mal glanced in the back. Empty. Two rows of seats where the troops would sit until they were deployed. Where were the saboteurs? They were to meet them out there for the rousing getaway. If they weren't there... Only one place they could be. He craned his neck back to look at the air control tower. Just this once, he thought, why couldn't it go according to the gorramn plan? If the girls failed, the antlion would still be in place, the cortex would still be down, and they would be grounded. Ripe pickings for the Alliance to march up and arrest them all.
He'd have to depend on Jayne. "I'm going after them. Get everything back to Serenity," he ordered. Something had gone wrong, as usual. But there was one thing he could ensure, and damned if he didn't.
The man's brow furrowed in confusion. "What, y'mean right now?"
"I'll find another way back." Even as he said it, he knew how unlikely it was. Jayne was staring at him. He understood. "Don't have to tell you what's at stake here." Begging off Jayne. Well, he could die proper now. His pride wasn't ever going to recover from this. "Do whatever you can to get that medicine out."
"Yeah Mal." Jayne swung himself over into the driver's seat. "I was there," the mercenary told him, quieter. "Saw Miranda too."
His throat tightened in gratitude, so he thumped the steel frame instead. "Go," he managed.
- - - - -
Jayne scowled, hands clenched tight on the wheel to keep himself from fidgeting. Mal was taking his time a-rescuing. Probably stopped for a kitten on a ledge, then he'd do something stupid, like try to blow up the PAX and himself with it, spread it everywhere. If Mal somehow managed to not get himself exploded or gunned down, he'd come back and give hell over not following commands, but there was no-way no-how that Jayne would go up to Serenity without the dumbass or Zoë would kill him. No matter how much life-saving medicines and acts of heroism he was bringing with him.
This job wasn't the most steady pay, and three years ago hadn't been even a month Jayne had been aboard that he'd seen the captain had no kind of clue about money or how to earn it. The crew had the skill, but Mal still went for the copper a dozen low profit work with all the circling vultures instead of the big takes with less competition.
Weren't so long ago all he ever wanted was one heist that'd keep him in coin and beer and cigars with women up to his waist for the rest of his days, but that'd changed. Rather than growing old and retiring, he could have Serenity and the crew for himself, keep on living how he was accustomed and go out in a blaze of glory.
As he'd thought about it more, being captain meant all Mal did for his share was yell a lot and shoot interlopers, and the more he thought he could do that easy. Be better at it, too; already kind of was, Mal's problem was he was soft-hearted when he should be hard, but Jayne never had any trouble intimidating or strong arming. There were sometimes he'd agree with Mal on one of his crusades, like that business on Miranda even though it'd cost them, but Jayne was just more practical and looked out for himself too. Couldn't survive this verse if a person didn't. Jayne even emblematized the interests of the crew more than Mal did, by always thinking on their wallets and doling out wisdom whenever Mal went astray.
Then he found out Mal wasn't bunked with all or even any of the womanly pieces of tasty they had around, mindboggling as that was, and wasn't sly and wasn't deviant, and that clinched the ineptitude. When Jayne was in charge, that'd be the first thing he took care of. Couldn't have a captain less than focused because he had the blue balls or because he was too busy trying to impress a skirt.
Finally one time he had his chance and took over, but no-one joined the mutiny or listened to him. So maybe his own ship and his own crew would obey. A loyal and wanton harem for him. He'd stay with Serenity until then, and he probably wouldn't even betray any of them when he left, unless someone got in his way.
He'd given some thought to the trio while the captain was setting up his ambush. Who wouldn't? Blonde twins with long legs and big chests, and Iris might've knocked him out before but least she was polite. If he just got Kaylee and another ginger, maybe that tricky Saffron woman who hated Mal, and they all forgot what clothes were for, he'd be made. That was, until he saw the three strolling towards his transport - finally - and Mal wasn't with them.
"This is our escape strategy?" June asked, like some gorramn queen who saw a spot of dirt on her chariot. "Leave it. We're stealing one of the gunships, when the cortex reboots they won't be able to chase us."
Jayne furrowed his brow suspiciously. "Where's Mal?"
Iris turned sad brown eyes on him. "He's been captured. Bought us the time to get away. They're taking him in a shuttle up to their big cruiser."
June crossed her arms, glaring at him. "I don't intend to let his sacrifice go to waste. Are you coming or not? I've had enough of this world."
And Jayne could understand that. He had the meds for his little brother, who was getting weaker and could barely breathe from the damp lung, and couldn't get there too soon. This world was a mess and looking to get worse, if it didn't tear itself apart altogether. And an Alliance military craft, with missiles and guns, that was traveling in style.
But Lena was twitchy, and was reaching for her sidearm. And something about this just wasn't feeling right. "Can't land an ASREV on a Firefly," he answered bluntly. "Got some important deliveries to make or some people I know're gonna die." Then he knew. "And seein' as how you called the alarm down on Mal, I don't expect I'd survive the experience. I got a powerful fondness for livin'."
They stared at him, Iris looking scared and upset, then June shrugged, tossing her blonde hair over her shoulder. "That's a shame." Her sister Lena drew her carbine and trained it on him, and she copied the motion. June shook her head at him. "I'm just glad your captain is the one who took the bait. Now that they've found him they won't be looking for us." Her eyes flashed at him. "But that's only true as long as there's no witnesses left to turn us in."
Jayne grumbled and put his hands up. "An' if I were to say I wouldn't?"
"I don't trust you," June snapped, something brittle and painful in her voice. "It doesn't matter either way, because I can't take that risk." He'd been threatened by many a desperate type before, but they'd never looked so small and broken to him before. "You don't know what it's like, what they did to us. An Alliance marshall turned slaver. We won't go to jail for this. We won't go back to the slavers. We're going far away, and they won't hold us down ever again."
Well, that was wishful thinking if he ever heard it. "Ain't gonna work," he said.
The anger was back. "Why not?" she snarled.
The explosion rocked them, but then a few bombs mixed with a squadron of fueled up and fully armed gunships would do that. Or, a squadron of fueled up and fully armed molten scrap. The fire worked it's way down the row along the fuel lines, and there were already people running towards the crisis from the canvas tents, shouting and hollering. Jayne hadn't exactly planned on going back to Serenity and being blown out of the sky when they took off either.
The girls startled at the distraction, taking their eyes off him, and that was all it took. He revved up the anti-grav generators and left them in a cloud of dust, by the time they started shooting he was out of range.
- - - - -
She'd stood over broken battlefields and among desolation before, even said goodbye to her husband in a lilac coloured wasteland. The night wind gusted around them as the stolen military skiff pulled up to the chapel, where Zoë was waiting with Simon, stoic by the mule. The doc had insisted he come, that he administer and distribute the miracle cure himself both as a moral obligation and to test the efficacy and look for side effects before trying it on Inara.
Jayne exited the driver's side, alone, climbed down the side of the transport to rummage through the cabin. The subdued merc dragged his feet over to them, passed the box of medicine over, then held Mal's rawhide coat and holster out to Zoë. Her fists clenched around the leather.
They were quiet a moment, then followed Simon in as he began seeing to the sick refugees. There was a group of them, separated, some cared for by family and the priests, some with no one, alone. The doctor worked down the line, administering the treatment, explaining and tending. Most were dehydrated after a few days in the dry climate, and would recover, but some, those who had been hit early on in the occupation, they had shakes that would never go away.
Zoë found herself sitting by the littlest patient again, the girl seeming asleep as the medicine worked. An orphan. Zoë held her and wondered how much more the Alliance could take from them.
The Alliance labcoat inspected the boxes on the shelves, each in turn, the storeroom lit up as brightly as the hall outside. Soon as the selection was only just set out on the counter, the low thrum of a pressure wave gave a hello from off to the side, and the medic dropped, out cold. Captain Reynolds rose from where he was crouched between some crates. No sympathy for the headache the man would have. Mal might've been wearing stolen colours now, the black and purple uniform of a marine Federal, but former and still defiant insurrectionist he was, his hand was itching for his Independents-issued service pistol from the war. Even that might be too good for these folks.
He stepped over the self-righteous fallen, plunked the sonic rifle down as he pulled out his army knife and a radio handset from a pocket in the tactical vest. "Diazepam," Mal read off, and broke the packaging seal, pulled out a vial of unhealthy looking pale yellow. "This the right medicine?" he asked, doubtful.
A burst of static. "Diazepam," his own fugitive doctor mused, and Mal could just see the boy's thoughtful frown. "But that's a sedative."
And that would be no help for Inara. He put the glass back, and considered his informant, sprawled out limp and lying at his feet. Some plaything, tossed aside and abandoned. Young, gangly, mousy haired, lightweight. Easy to hoist up against the trestles, hang him with some engineering tape by the wrists, the ankles. Wheezing around a cinched garrote. Less like the expected monster. Maybe even a real human being.
"We always treated the wounded," Mal commented idly as the charlatan stirred in discomfort, looked around dizzily. Then the Alliance doctor saw him, and jerked alert, though he at least had the sense to not tug on the bondage and bring the whole shelving unit down on him. "Wasn't that we were fighting against your soldiers - that was more about survival. We just had all these values and principles, and they weren't gonna uphold themselves." Less so much after Shadow, of course, but he'd tempered the loss, the outrage, because of those ideals, because he just knew he was on the right side, so he figured he ought to act like it. "Sometimes the brass ordered us otherwise, but they usually weren't around long enough to make much everhow, and didn't tend to notice if some purplebellies got snuck in to our medics."
The doctor was glaring at him. "I heard - about - your butchers," he choked out, not more than a gravelly whisper.
Mal folded his arms. "Rim world medicine, sergeant. Our own troops got the exact same treatment, an' we lost plenty. Conditions in the field were near to [/i]dì yù[/i] and we had no medical supplies and little training. Most of ours only prior experience they had was with livestock." He stared the doctor down. "Do no harm." Mal shrugged. "Not so easy as it seems. I surely can make no claims over you." He lifted a clear vial of the Pax. "I really can't," he said, pensive, and jabbed the a syringe through the gel cap. "Then again, I got another code I live by. Do unto them as they'da done onto mine."
The hypodermic filled and the doctor paled. "What - You can't-" he coughed.
The captain peered over at his captive. "So you do know." A dangerous note crept into his voice as he advanced on him with the needle. "You knew all along, and you've been lacing your grenades and concussives. Letting the PAX spread throughout the city, all those good Alliance citizens, waitin' for the cortex to come back up so they can call in and surrender. Treating your own forces while everyone else is holed up in a church bound for kingdom come." He kept his volume level, but the tone got rougher until he was almost growling. "Or maybe that was your plan all the while. Come in with the answer to a problem you created, and be welcomed and cheered on like salvation."
"That - dilution - is harmless," he objected.
Did he really believe that? Dumb kids eating up every bit of propaganda thrown their way, told what to think and not using their own eyes and brains to see the proof otherwise in front of them. "What about those soldiers you're treatin' out there for exposure? They think it's harmless?"
The quacksalver shut up promptly. Mal watched him mull it over then sag in the restraints. "Your intentions?" he rasped.
He held up the auto-injector again. "Lookin' for the remedy to this for them out there who need it." Any minute now, the cortex blockade will be coming down, and his hulking brute should be around with their exit. If neither of them were persuasive enough, the PAX would be. Should have just enough time to get guided right-ways before the effects kicked in.
To his surprise, the medic chose to cooperate. "There - on the table." Mal eyed him, skeptical, then reached out and loosed the slipknot, with a warning look against shouting for the guards. The doctor caught his breath, almost thankful for the air. "The incapacitating agent is volatile, but it disperses quickly in air, diminishing to safe levels in seconds," he continued, his throat still hoarse over his polished Londinium accent. "When we do see an overdose, one injection is usually sufficient."
Even he could gather that much. "Overdose?" he scoffed, "There's people out there, dyin'." Mal planted his hands hard either side of the boy's head, the needle point very close to his scrawny neck. "I have zero time for games. So how about we try that again, this time with the truth. Even were I the trustful type, I ain't givin' them somethin' that'll make 'em worse."
"It won't," he answered, sincere but with a bit of growing exasperation. "Look, I'm not a biochemist, but that's what I've been administering, and it's effective up to forty-eight hours from onset."
Simon chimed in from his pocket radio. "I think that might work," he pronounced, unaware of what he was interrupting.
Mal glanced at the captive, who was watching warily. "Guess my second opinion agrees with you." He left the syringe on the shelf and went for his handset. Whatever had changed Simon's mind, he wasn't taking any chances. "She's unconscious, doc, she don't get much more sedate than that."
"The diazepam will have the exact opposite effect against the Pax," Simon insisted. "How much is there?"
"'Bout a whole case, couple dozen fingers worth," the captain apprised.
"Get as much as you can. There's no telling if we might need more of it when all this is through." That was a fact. Entire planet of Ezra might need some of the medicine, if the Alliance kept up their pacification efforts. Mal nodded to the other doctor, picking up the roll of tape and ripping off another piece.
The medic fought against the bindings a little. "Hey, wait -"
Couldn't untie him or the alarm might be sounded. He shrugged and muzzled him again. "Sorry, doctor. Got me another appointment to get to." He grabbed the box from the counter and hustled his way out to the hallway. "We only have one shot at this," Mal said into his comm, "You're sure?"
Simon answered with all the pride of someone who'd just figured out a contrivance of a puzzle. "The Pax shuts down an important neural protein, the NMDA receptor, which is essential for nerve impulses and signaling. At lower doses it induces a mildly euphoric state, at higher doses it causes hallucinations and eventually a complete loss of self-awareness. In the meantime, it displaces glutamate, which begins to accumulate."
"The what?" He was moving casually now, but quick, checking around the too bright hallway for anyone who might stop him, especially the lab where those scientists were working with all the chemicals.
"Glutamate. It's one of the essential amino acids, the building blocks of proteins." Simon explained. "And it also happens that glutamate is an important neurotransmitter, a substance that excites the neurons. Stimulates them." A slight hesitation. "I thought her genetic condition had manifested, because of the amount of glutamate in Inara's blood samples after she collapsed. And that's the biggest danger. Glutamate activates a lot of other neurotransmitters."
"Wouldn't that make her more alert?" Mal asked.
"It kills the brain cells," Simon answered grimly. "Not right away, the neurons can resist high levels of glutamate for a while before the condition is irreversible and permanent damage occurs, but they become flooded with ions. It would be like having a non-convulsive seizure. For days." The horror of that sunk in. Inara. That was what was happening to her. "If they survive that, then they'll either continue to be catatonic when the initial dopamine spike from the PAX falls, or, if their dopamine stays elevated, their behaviour will become erratic, increasingly aggressive and paranoid."
Reavers. "And we can save her from that." Wasn't a question that time.
"The diazepam will indirectly compete with the PAX and moderate the glutamate, dopamine, and ion flow," the doctor said. There was a smile in his voice. "We can save her, Mal," he confirmed.
There was something else too, something knowing, an assurance that bothered him. "Tell River and Kaylee to have us ready. I want us off world soon as the fuel we got hits the tank." He didn't wait for the boy's response, went radio silent. The less he hoped, the less likely he was to have those hopes yanked out from under him. He strode out from the vault doors into the brisk desert night. Gorramn Alliance. Thought that the bigger and more intimidating and technological something was, the more security it had. He rounded the corner of the bunker, where the armored transport they'd hotwired was parked.
He popped the driver's side hatch and tucked the box under the chair for safe keeping. His browncoat dropped onto the cushion, and he looked up, almost thrown for a moment. "Jayne." The man was looking bored in the passenger seat, chewing on one of the liberated nutrient bars, one big paw curled around the wrapper and the other around a laser rifle. Mal thought he might've been gone already with their bounty. "Any surprises?"
A siren rose, blaring out over the tired camp. Jayne rolled his eyes. "Just had to ask, din'tcha," the mercenary huffed at him, like this was his fault. The captain guessed it was his luck at least.
Mal glanced in the back. Empty. Two rows of seats where the troops would sit until they were deployed. Where were the saboteurs? They were to meet them out there for the rousing getaway. If they weren't there... Only one place they could be. He craned his neck back to look at the air control tower. Just this once, he thought, why couldn't it go according to the gorramn plan? If the girls failed, the antlion would still be in place, the cortex would still be down, and they would be grounded. Ripe pickings for the Alliance to march up and arrest them all.
He'd have to depend on Jayne. "I'm going after them. Get everything back to Serenity," he ordered. Something had gone wrong, as usual. But there was one thing he could ensure, and damned if he didn't.
The man's brow furrowed in confusion. "What, y'mean right now?"
"I'll find another way back." Even as he said it, he knew how unlikely it was. Jayne was staring at him. He understood. "Don't have to tell you what's at stake here." Begging off Jayne. Well, he could die proper now. His pride wasn't ever going to recover from this. "Do whatever you can to get that medicine out."
"Yeah Mal." Jayne swung himself over into the driver's seat. "I was there," the mercenary told him, quieter. "Saw Miranda too."
His throat tightened in gratitude, so he thumped the steel frame instead. "Go," he managed.
- - - - -
Jayne scowled, hands clenched tight on the wheel to keep himself from fidgeting. Mal was taking his time a-rescuing. Probably stopped for a kitten on a ledge, then he'd do something stupid, like try to blow up the PAX and himself with it, spread it everywhere. If Mal somehow managed to not get himself exploded or gunned down, he'd come back and give hell over not following commands, but there was no-way no-how that Jayne would go up to Serenity without the dumbass or Zoë would kill him. No matter how much life-saving medicines and acts of heroism he was bringing with him.
This job wasn't the most steady pay, and three years ago hadn't been even a month Jayne had been aboard that he'd seen the captain had no kind of clue about money or how to earn it. The crew had the skill, but Mal still went for the copper a dozen low profit work with all the circling vultures instead of the big takes with less competition.
Weren't so long ago all he ever wanted was one heist that'd keep him in coin and beer and cigars with women up to his waist for the rest of his days, but that'd changed. Rather than growing old and retiring, he could have Serenity and the crew for himself, keep on living how he was accustomed and go out in a blaze of glory.
As he'd thought about it more, being captain meant all Mal did for his share was yell a lot and shoot interlopers, and the more he thought he could do that easy. Be better at it, too; already kind of was, Mal's problem was he was soft-hearted when he should be hard, but Jayne never had any trouble intimidating or strong arming. There were sometimes he'd agree with Mal on one of his crusades, like that business on Miranda even though it'd cost them, but Jayne was just more practical and looked out for himself too. Couldn't survive this verse if a person didn't. Jayne even emblematized the interests of the crew more than Mal did, by always thinking on their wallets and doling out wisdom whenever Mal went astray.
Then he found out Mal wasn't bunked with all or even any of the womanly pieces of tasty they had around, mindboggling as that was, and wasn't sly and wasn't deviant, and that clinched the ineptitude. When Jayne was in charge, that'd be the first thing he took care of. Couldn't have a captain less than focused because he had the blue balls or because he was too busy trying to impress a skirt.
Finally one time he had his chance and took over, but no-one joined the mutiny or listened to him. So maybe his own ship and his own crew would obey. A loyal and wanton harem for him. He'd stay with Serenity until then, and he probably wouldn't even betray any of them when he left, unless someone got in his way.
He'd given some thought to the trio while the captain was setting up his ambush. Who wouldn't? Blonde twins with long legs and big chests, and Iris might've knocked him out before but least she was polite. If he just got Kaylee and another ginger, maybe that tricky Saffron woman who hated Mal, and they all forgot what clothes were for, he'd be made. That was, until he saw the three strolling towards his transport - finally - and Mal wasn't with them.
"This is our escape strategy?" June asked, like some gorramn queen who saw a spot of dirt on her chariot. "Leave it. We're stealing one of the gunships, when the cortex reboots they won't be able to chase us."
Jayne furrowed his brow suspiciously. "Where's Mal?"
Iris turned sad brown eyes on him. "He's been captured. Bought us the time to get away. They're taking him in a shuttle up to their big cruiser."
June crossed her arms, glaring at him. "I don't intend to let his sacrifice go to waste. Are you coming or not? I've had enough of this world."
And Jayne could understand that. He had the meds for his little brother, who was getting weaker and could barely breathe from the damp lung, and couldn't get there too soon. This world was a mess and looking to get worse, if it didn't tear itself apart altogether. And an Alliance military craft, with missiles and guns, that was traveling in style.
But Lena was twitchy, and was reaching for her sidearm. And something about this just wasn't feeling right. "Can't land an ASREV on a Firefly," he answered bluntly. "Got some important deliveries to make or some people I know're gonna die." Then he knew. "And seein' as how you called the alarm down on Mal, I don't expect I'd survive the experience. I got a powerful fondness for livin'."
They stared at him, Iris looking scared and upset, then June shrugged, tossing her blonde hair over her shoulder. "That's a shame." Her sister Lena drew her carbine and trained it on him, and she copied the motion. June shook her head at him. "I'm just glad your captain is the one who took the bait. Now that they've found him they won't be looking for us." Her eyes flashed at him. "But that's only true as long as there's no witnesses left to turn us in."
Jayne grumbled and put his hands up. "An' if I were to say I wouldn't?"
"I don't trust you," June snapped, something brittle and painful in her voice. "It doesn't matter either way, because I can't take that risk." He'd been threatened by many a desperate type before, but they'd never looked so small and broken to him before. "You don't know what it's like, what they did to us. An Alliance marshall turned slaver. We won't go to jail for this. We won't go back to the slavers. We're going far away, and they won't hold us down ever again."
Well, that was wishful thinking if he ever heard it. "Ain't gonna work," he said.
The anger was back. "Why not?" she snarled.
The explosion rocked them, but then a few bombs mixed with a squadron of fueled up and fully armed gunships would do that. Or, a squadron of fueled up and fully armed molten scrap. The fire worked it's way down the row along the fuel lines, and there were already people running towards the crisis from the canvas tents, shouting and hollering. Jayne hadn't exactly planned on going back to Serenity and being blown out of the sky when they took off either.
The girls startled at the distraction, taking their eyes off him, and that was all it took. He revved up the anti-grav generators and left them in a cloud of dust, by the time they started shooting he was out of range.
- - - - -
She'd stood over broken battlefields and among desolation before, even said goodbye to her husband in a lilac coloured wasteland. The night wind gusted around them as the stolen military skiff pulled up to the chapel, where Zoë was waiting with Simon, stoic by the mule. The doc had insisted he come, that he administer and distribute the miracle cure himself both as a moral obligation and to test the efficacy and look for side effects before trying it on Inara.
Jayne exited the driver's side, alone, climbed down the side of the transport to rummage through the cabin. The subdued merc dragged his feet over to them, passed the box of medicine over, then held Mal's rawhide coat and holster out to Zoë. Her fists clenched around the leather.
They were quiet a moment, then followed Simon in as he began seeing to the sick refugees. There was a group of them, separated, some cared for by family and the priests, some with no one, alone. The doctor worked down the line, administering the treatment, explaining and tending. Most were dehydrated after a few days in the dry climate, and would recover, but some, those who had been hit early on in the occupation, they had shakes that would never go away.
Zoë found herself sitting by the littlest patient again, the girl seeming asleep as the medicine worked. An orphan. Zoë held her and wondered how much more the Alliance could take from them.
Bytemite- Posts : 680
Join date : 2012-06-25
Re: Eidolon Postings
Bytemite Mon Aug 13, 2012 12:44 pm
Chapter 31
There was a moment, breathless, rushing as the air parted. A meteoric ascension towards one small spark from amid the screaming inferno looming above, detached and blank before convergence. Nightmares wandered through the labyrinth; grasped, captured, victims dragged away trying to escape the needles and machines. Strapped them to tables in sterile rooms behind bolted steel.
They were pleased. A mistake had been corrected, and one of their more elusive subjects was within their grasp. Ten years of carnage ended. An accusation. There are many kinds of monsters out there. None better or worse than others, just more self-aware.
"I don't -" Feeble denial, spoken in tandem.
"Yes you do. I know you do." Painful truth, haunted by the past. They could wake up from nightmares, but not from reality. Not from what they were and what they'd become.
Then she was River again, standing in the cold harsh-lit parallel. Outside they were planning, and waiting, as the lounge function demanded. She had to hurry. Prove them all wrong. They'd saved the dawn rose from the frost, and this time the spindle would wake her. She settled on the perch like a little bird and whispered in sleeping beauty's ear. "I'm going to tell you a story," she whispered.
- - - - -
Inara was lost. The abyss crushed around her so she couldn't breathe, couldn't speak. She was abandoned and alone, hostage to her fears. Sinister shapes hovered at the edges of her sight, and her only company was a repetitive echo, dripping water and a rhythmic beating rendered in electronics like a measure of her life.
"It's a fairy tale," said the voice. "Because I'm -" A terrible piercing screech rose to drown out the explanation, like feedback from over the cortex, and a girl fluctuating between an alarming mix of children's laughter and sobbing.
"River?" The thought filled the space around her like a shout. The air stilled, dying down to a low murmur of conversation.
We were deceived. But how? This capability was always there. Everyone has a shadow, repressed feelings hidden by outer conduct, growing ever denser the brighter the surface is. This is the danger of descent - the dissolution of the persona, falling prey and possessed by an emerging and overwhelming violence.
It consumes them. They'd slit their throat to spite their neck, and gnaw their arms off rather than be shackled. They are as much a threat to themselves as they are to everyone else.
Dope him.
River continued despite the interruptions. "Once upon a time there were three families, separated by a pretty blue ocean."
In the background was a high pitched hum rising in scale, whining both expectant and demanding. A charge and a discharge. No response. The files suggested this might be an issue. Again.
"But they were bewitched," the teenager narrated. "One brave but reckless, another with grace too gentle, and the last cursed with curiosity. The clever little sister would lose her mind, the princess would fall into an endless sleep, and a courageous knight - " she paused dramatically - "would become a beast."
She could hear another tense discussion, just barely, fainter than the others, as though farther away. Reavers ain't men. Or they forgot how to be. Now they're just nothing.
You saw them then?
This was important, Inara realized. A memory? A message? A warning? Inara wasn't sure yet. She couldn't quite focus on any particular topic, but they all seemed related.
"One day the ocean grew jealous. Swelled and knocked down all the castles. Swept everyone away and they almost drowned. Dulcinea would not revive."
Then she remembered. Bright lights, and a terrible darkness. Anxiety gripped her. Was she there?
Kinda darkness you can't even imagine. More'n even the space it moves in. Mal?
"The hero found a way to break the enchantment, and she pricked her hands on the rose thorns, but too late; he had to swim against the rising tide to reach her, and she jumped in after him."
Where was he? If he wasn't with her, then chances were he'd tried something incredibly stubborn and noble and foolhardy. What had happened to her? What had he done? She had to find him before he hurt himself. But the bleak atmosphere wouldn't permit her. If anything, it grew thicker around her, as though to stop her.
"And that's when they got them. Sterile blue gloves that came out of the black. Put electrodes in their heads and shocked them until they couldn't scream."
A white flash burst over them, the glow lingering on her skin. Inara managed to break free, gasping as though she'd been submerged in water, or perhaps trapped in a deep faint or sinking through tar. She heard them talking again, closer and too real. Again. Higher this time.
She was treading, still fighting, and then she was in safe hands, warm around her own, drawn upwards as though on steel wings. Lightning split the gloom before her, and the stars fled like hopes she thought she'd resigned. Electricity crackled along beneath her like roots, spreading out from the shining fissure stretching from the sky, illuminating every corner and chasing away the memories. Her feet touched down, and she ran. Through a bright corridor, military and efficient, then a land of mist and snow, through the rising water cold upon her soles.
A low growl followed her, hurrying her footsteps. She thought she was being hunted; she wasn't sure how far she had gone. Not far enough. The snarl rose to a roar, and the ground shattered, burst apart in the firelight, mistaken momentarily for the sun. The smoke drifted from the ground around her and she gasped against its acrid taste. Inara passed the ghostly dead, silent in their uniforms and staring with glazed eyes shining out from the night, an army of two sides bound where they had fallen, coats and scarves, jackets and armor. She chased the deep rumbling bird-call of an engine, aflight and burning, a torch to light the way through the trenches and the tunnels like catacombs.
Then she was there at the airlock, Serenity lying in a hollow like a wreck in its grave. River was waiting for her, the guardian of the gates - "I'm just the medium," she corrected - dressed in a girlish sundress and pigtails. "Hurry."
- - - - -
The captain was aggravating as a brother. He'd seemed like a fool at first, recklessly cheerful and a wild card, bantering friendly with everyone even across trenches with the purplebellies. Soon, Zoë was just one of the boys of the 57th Overlanders to Mal, which was better than she could say for her other C.O.'s and squads. She figured he was just reserves and would harden up or die, until she found out he'd joined up around the very beginning and had already survived two and a half years through some of the worst of the earliest fighting.
After that she thought maybe he was unhinged, but that was also just how he was. He understood all the death, talked about friends he missed, his lost family back on Shadow, and prayed over every life he took. Somehow, nothing he'd seen had dimmed whatever it was about him that had rallied soldiers around him. He acted like he was on adventure, his first time off-world. Everyone was good people and all the life or death was just heroics, to last until the war was over and the Alliance realized their mistake.
Only Serenity Valley and the surrender had managed to put a damper on his mania. Early on there hadn't been any anger or hate yet, just a bone-deep shock and weariness. He'd been there for them, keeping up morale as negotiations dragged on and disease and desperation set in, but he'd also grown inwards, and since then never showed his lighter side much. As he became more distant, and then when they were separated into the internment camps, Zoë understood how much just a familiar face and friendship and Reynold's jackass brand of horseplay had kept them alive. Barely, and sometimes dropping some very unwanted excitement on them all, but they survived, because if a yě shēng hú ní like that could manage, they none of them had any excuse dying.
Entire month she'd been so angry with him, and angry with herself, because somewhere down deep she couldn't disagree with the choices he'd made, even with what they'd cost. Looking back, he'd never done anything truly unforgivable. Until this. Until he hadn't come back, and she was left alone to remember.
Soon as they were back and the hovermule was secure, Zoë called Kaylee down from the engine room while Simon administered the treatment to Inara, then they regrouped in the cargo bay for a debriefing. Mal might've been a natural leader, but Zoë wasn't promoted to corporal and second in charge under his command because she liked to sit around and look pretty. She gave Jayne a hard look. Best get the hard part over with so they could get moving. "What happened?"
Jayne looked angry, and not a little defensive. "Got tricked by them women. They cried wolf, Mal fell for it and ran right into the Feds," he admitted. Grudgingly, like he was stung by the betrayal. "Figured somethin' was up first, so he told me to get the meds to the doc. Then the huǐ xī went gunnin' for me while they hauled him out to their flyin' fortress, an' here I am."
"Yǎo rén gǒu bù lù chǐ," she muttered. For a moment she wondered if Jayne hadn't been in on the plan, greedy for some pay-off, but then he wouldn't have shown up within shooting distance of her and wouldn't look like a pit bull that'd just been kicked and crawled up tail between legs.
Kaylee's fingers brushed over the coat, as though to confirm for herself, and then she looked around at them all like they had all the answers. "What'll we do?" she asked.
Jayne didn't bother to talk soft around the girl. "We leave Mal up there, they'll mind-bend 'im. Make him talk."
Simon spoke out. "Most of the Alliance forces are on the ground and the cruiser probably only has a skeleton crew." He checked with the former soldier for confirmation, which was granted, but if anything he only got more hesitant. "If River and I were to fake turning ourselves in, we could use that as an opening to get in and rescue the captain."
"No," Zoë answered flatly, at about the same time as a panicked shout - we can't lose anyone else! She glanced at Kaylee, who was begging soul in eyes to protect Simon from his own magnanimity. Zoë nodded to her. "She's right." Wash hadn't died so Simon and River could throw his efforts away for a chance at capture and torture.
"The captain is annoying, insane, and I've had to spend hours patching him back together after some ill-advised plan," Simon argued. "He's my patient. We have to do something."
Zoë knew it. What had happened to Mal after he was taken to the Ratched, he'd shut down for a while and never fully came back. Mal'd gone along with these Ezra rebels into the lion's den, had been willing to risk capture, subject himself to that again, to sacrifice himself for a chance at getting off-world and to save Inara. She searched around the crew, cogitating for any other ideas, when she spotted River through the infirmary window. The mindreader suddenly looked over at her, before launching into another wild speech of some sort.
- - - - -
Serenity, for once, was completely quiet. For as long as Inara had been on the ship, there had been a messy collection of oddities kept in the cavernous bay; cargo they hadn't found buyers for, but that Mal had at least kept somewhat organized and tied down for transit and safety. Now debris and overturned crates were scattered everywhere and gathering dust. The power had failed and the lights didn't respond to her movement, and the space remained grey, indistinct, barely enough to see, motes suspended in time as she made her way by memory.
There was no one in the common lounge or the passenger dorms, all in disarray, the furniture broken, fabric torn. Inara climbed the stairs to the galley - if she would find anyone, they would be there.
Yet, despite her expectations, she was startled when she saw them, vague apparitions just standing around the dinner table, motionless as statues. This wasn't the active lively scene she had left, but they were all there, except for one, her friends and children not yet born. "What happened?" she asked. They did not speak to her, but raised their arms lifelessly to point towards the front hall.
Inara took their direction, and somehow ended up in neither the front hall, nor the bridge. She would have approached Mal, at the apex of the helm, his hands planted on the glass as he stared out into the vast empty black through his reflection. A barrier that kept them safe from that terrible place of nothing.
He was there with her anyway, red and brown and in this same white expanse, standing away from her, braced against the far wall. Between them on the tiled floor, a dangerous-looking silvery katana stuck through a leather coat, almost auburn, and curled around a pool of scarlet; her own dress, her own self, their hands joined and so pale. The sight struck her, as sharply as a blade. They'd always been racing each other to an early grave. Now it looked like they finally crossed the finish line together.
She closed the distance, following the vivid footprints stained against the canvas. He was wounded, she saw, blood soaking his side, and she wasn't so certain the gown she was wearing had always been crimson. "Never thought there'd be jasmine perfume in hell." He looked over at her, and she almost flinched at the intensity of his blue eyes, the emotions that were almost always there - sad, tired, worried. "You shouldn't be here."
The sound of their pursuit was getting louder. It's time to go. She tried to smile, a reassurance, not sure if it was for his benefit, or hers, and they faded away together.
- - - - -
Dreams had a mind of their own. From the subconscious; underneath knowledge, shared awareness. Some danced in meadows while others opened locked doors. The prophets and philosophers from old saw significance in them, but only by granting them meaning. Such a landscape was treacherous as sand, shifting and burying, flitting across the mirrors to distort and shatter the image until everything overlapped. Her own fears in three echoes and relived through different perspectives. Answers in hidden tendencies, honed from pre-existing inclinations.
Not the first time, or the last. One could awaken from a dream, even from the dream of death. What light through yonder window breaks? With a fan of butterfly wings fair psyche opened her eyes, and was welcomed. "Be ready," River told her, and provided the solution.
There was a moment, breathless, rushing as the air parted. A meteoric ascension towards one small spark from amid the screaming inferno looming above, detached and blank before convergence. Nightmares wandered through the labyrinth; grasped, captured, victims dragged away trying to escape the needles and machines. Strapped them to tables in sterile rooms behind bolted steel.
They were pleased. A mistake had been corrected, and one of their more elusive subjects was within their grasp. Ten years of carnage ended. An accusation. There are many kinds of monsters out there. None better or worse than others, just more self-aware.
"I don't -" Feeble denial, spoken in tandem.
"Yes you do. I know you do." Painful truth, haunted by the past. They could wake up from nightmares, but not from reality. Not from what they were and what they'd become.
Then she was River again, standing in the cold harsh-lit parallel. Outside they were planning, and waiting, as the lounge function demanded. She had to hurry. Prove them all wrong. They'd saved the dawn rose from the frost, and this time the spindle would wake her. She settled on the perch like a little bird and whispered in sleeping beauty's ear. "I'm going to tell you a story," she whispered.
- - - - -
Inara was lost. The abyss crushed around her so she couldn't breathe, couldn't speak. She was abandoned and alone, hostage to her fears. Sinister shapes hovered at the edges of her sight, and her only company was a repetitive echo, dripping water and a rhythmic beating rendered in electronics like a measure of her life.
"It's a fairy tale," said the voice. "Because I'm -" A terrible piercing screech rose to drown out the explanation, like feedback from over the cortex, and a girl fluctuating between an alarming mix of children's laughter and sobbing.
"River?" The thought filled the space around her like a shout. The air stilled, dying down to a low murmur of conversation.
We were deceived. But how? This capability was always there. Everyone has a shadow, repressed feelings hidden by outer conduct, growing ever denser the brighter the surface is. This is the danger of descent - the dissolution of the persona, falling prey and possessed by an emerging and overwhelming violence.
It consumes them. They'd slit their throat to spite their neck, and gnaw their arms off rather than be shackled. They are as much a threat to themselves as they are to everyone else.
Dope him.
River continued despite the interruptions. "Once upon a time there were three families, separated by a pretty blue ocean."
In the background was a high pitched hum rising in scale, whining both expectant and demanding. A charge and a discharge. No response. The files suggested this might be an issue. Again.
"But they were bewitched," the teenager narrated. "One brave but reckless, another with grace too gentle, and the last cursed with curiosity. The clever little sister would lose her mind, the princess would fall into an endless sleep, and a courageous knight - " she paused dramatically - "would become a beast."
She could hear another tense discussion, just barely, fainter than the others, as though farther away. Reavers ain't men. Or they forgot how to be. Now they're just nothing.
You saw them then?
This was important, Inara realized. A memory? A message? A warning? Inara wasn't sure yet. She couldn't quite focus on any particular topic, but they all seemed related.
"One day the ocean grew jealous. Swelled and knocked down all the castles. Swept everyone away and they almost drowned. Dulcinea would not revive."
Then she remembered. Bright lights, and a terrible darkness. Anxiety gripped her. Was she there?
Kinda darkness you can't even imagine. More'n even the space it moves in. Mal?
"The hero found a way to break the enchantment, and she pricked her hands on the rose thorns, but too late; he had to swim against the rising tide to reach her, and she jumped in after him."
Where was he? If he wasn't with her, then chances were he'd tried something incredibly stubborn and noble and foolhardy. What had happened to her? What had he done? She had to find him before he hurt himself. But the bleak atmosphere wouldn't permit her. If anything, it grew thicker around her, as though to stop her.
"And that's when they got them. Sterile blue gloves that came out of the black. Put electrodes in their heads and shocked them until they couldn't scream."
A white flash burst over them, the glow lingering on her skin. Inara managed to break free, gasping as though she'd been submerged in water, or perhaps trapped in a deep faint or sinking through tar. She heard them talking again, closer and too real. Again. Higher this time.
She was treading, still fighting, and then she was in safe hands, warm around her own, drawn upwards as though on steel wings. Lightning split the gloom before her, and the stars fled like hopes she thought she'd resigned. Electricity crackled along beneath her like roots, spreading out from the shining fissure stretching from the sky, illuminating every corner and chasing away the memories. Her feet touched down, and she ran. Through a bright corridor, military and efficient, then a land of mist and snow, through the rising water cold upon her soles.
A low growl followed her, hurrying her footsteps. She thought she was being hunted; she wasn't sure how far she had gone. Not far enough. The snarl rose to a roar, and the ground shattered, burst apart in the firelight, mistaken momentarily for the sun. The smoke drifted from the ground around her and she gasped against its acrid taste. Inara passed the ghostly dead, silent in their uniforms and staring with glazed eyes shining out from the night, an army of two sides bound where they had fallen, coats and scarves, jackets and armor. She chased the deep rumbling bird-call of an engine, aflight and burning, a torch to light the way through the trenches and the tunnels like catacombs.
Then she was there at the airlock, Serenity lying in a hollow like a wreck in its grave. River was waiting for her, the guardian of the gates - "I'm just the medium," she corrected - dressed in a girlish sundress and pigtails. "Hurry."
- - - - -
The captain was aggravating as a brother. He'd seemed like a fool at first, recklessly cheerful and a wild card, bantering friendly with everyone even across trenches with the purplebellies. Soon, Zoë was just one of the boys of the 57th Overlanders to Mal, which was better than she could say for her other C.O.'s and squads. She figured he was just reserves and would harden up or die, until she found out he'd joined up around the very beginning and had already survived two and a half years through some of the worst of the earliest fighting.
After that she thought maybe he was unhinged, but that was also just how he was. He understood all the death, talked about friends he missed, his lost family back on Shadow, and prayed over every life he took. Somehow, nothing he'd seen had dimmed whatever it was about him that had rallied soldiers around him. He acted like he was on adventure, his first time off-world. Everyone was good people and all the life or death was just heroics, to last until the war was over and the Alliance realized their mistake.
Only Serenity Valley and the surrender had managed to put a damper on his mania. Early on there hadn't been any anger or hate yet, just a bone-deep shock and weariness. He'd been there for them, keeping up morale as negotiations dragged on and disease and desperation set in, but he'd also grown inwards, and since then never showed his lighter side much. As he became more distant, and then when they were separated into the internment camps, Zoë understood how much just a familiar face and friendship and Reynold's jackass brand of horseplay had kept them alive. Barely, and sometimes dropping some very unwanted excitement on them all, but they survived, because if a yě shēng hú ní like that could manage, they none of them had any excuse dying.
Entire month she'd been so angry with him, and angry with herself, because somewhere down deep she couldn't disagree with the choices he'd made, even with what they'd cost. Looking back, he'd never done anything truly unforgivable. Until this. Until he hadn't come back, and she was left alone to remember.
Soon as they were back and the hovermule was secure, Zoë called Kaylee down from the engine room while Simon administered the treatment to Inara, then they regrouped in the cargo bay for a debriefing. Mal might've been a natural leader, but Zoë wasn't promoted to corporal and second in charge under his command because she liked to sit around and look pretty. She gave Jayne a hard look. Best get the hard part over with so they could get moving. "What happened?"
Jayne looked angry, and not a little defensive. "Got tricked by them women. They cried wolf, Mal fell for it and ran right into the Feds," he admitted. Grudgingly, like he was stung by the betrayal. "Figured somethin' was up first, so he told me to get the meds to the doc. Then the huǐ xī went gunnin' for me while they hauled him out to their flyin' fortress, an' here I am."
"Yǎo rén gǒu bù lù chǐ," she muttered. For a moment she wondered if Jayne hadn't been in on the plan, greedy for some pay-off, but then he wouldn't have shown up within shooting distance of her and wouldn't look like a pit bull that'd just been kicked and crawled up tail between legs.
Kaylee's fingers brushed over the coat, as though to confirm for herself, and then she looked around at them all like they had all the answers. "What'll we do?" she asked.
Jayne didn't bother to talk soft around the girl. "We leave Mal up there, they'll mind-bend 'im. Make him talk."
Simon spoke out. "Most of the Alliance forces are on the ground and the cruiser probably only has a skeleton crew." He checked with the former soldier for confirmation, which was granted, but if anything he only got more hesitant. "If River and I were to fake turning ourselves in, we could use that as an opening to get in and rescue the captain."
"No," Zoë answered flatly, at about the same time as a panicked shout - we can't lose anyone else! She glanced at Kaylee, who was begging soul in eyes to protect Simon from his own magnanimity. Zoë nodded to her. "She's right." Wash hadn't died so Simon and River could throw his efforts away for a chance at capture and torture.
"The captain is annoying, insane, and I've had to spend hours patching him back together after some ill-advised plan," Simon argued. "He's my patient. We have to do something."
Zoë knew it. What had happened to Mal after he was taken to the Ratched, he'd shut down for a while and never fully came back. Mal'd gone along with these Ezra rebels into the lion's den, had been willing to risk capture, subject himself to that again, to sacrifice himself for a chance at getting off-world and to save Inara. She searched around the crew, cogitating for any other ideas, when she spotted River through the infirmary window. The mindreader suddenly looked over at her, before launching into another wild speech of some sort.
- - - - -
Serenity, for once, was completely quiet. For as long as Inara had been on the ship, there had been a messy collection of oddities kept in the cavernous bay; cargo they hadn't found buyers for, but that Mal had at least kept somewhat organized and tied down for transit and safety. Now debris and overturned crates were scattered everywhere and gathering dust. The power had failed and the lights didn't respond to her movement, and the space remained grey, indistinct, barely enough to see, motes suspended in time as she made her way by memory.
There was no one in the common lounge or the passenger dorms, all in disarray, the furniture broken, fabric torn. Inara climbed the stairs to the galley - if she would find anyone, they would be there.
Yet, despite her expectations, she was startled when she saw them, vague apparitions just standing around the dinner table, motionless as statues. This wasn't the active lively scene she had left, but they were all there, except for one, her friends and children not yet born. "What happened?" she asked. They did not speak to her, but raised their arms lifelessly to point towards the front hall.
Inara took their direction, and somehow ended up in neither the front hall, nor the bridge. She would have approached Mal, at the apex of the helm, his hands planted on the glass as he stared out into the vast empty black through his reflection. A barrier that kept them safe from that terrible place of nothing.
He was there with her anyway, red and brown and in this same white expanse, standing away from her, braced against the far wall. Between them on the tiled floor, a dangerous-looking silvery katana stuck through a leather coat, almost auburn, and curled around a pool of scarlet; her own dress, her own self, their hands joined and so pale. The sight struck her, as sharply as a blade. They'd always been racing each other to an early grave. Now it looked like they finally crossed the finish line together.
She closed the distance, following the vivid footprints stained against the canvas. He was wounded, she saw, blood soaking his side, and she wasn't so certain the gown she was wearing had always been crimson. "Never thought there'd be jasmine perfume in hell." He looked over at her, and she almost flinched at the intensity of his blue eyes, the emotions that were almost always there - sad, tired, worried. "You shouldn't be here."
The sound of their pursuit was getting louder. It's time to go. She tried to smile, a reassurance, not sure if it was for his benefit, or hers, and they faded away together.
- - - - -
Dreams had a mind of their own. From the subconscious; underneath knowledge, shared awareness. Some danced in meadows while others opened locked doors. The prophets and philosophers from old saw significance in them, but only by granting them meaning. Such a landscape was treacherous as sand, shifting and burying, flitting across the mirrors to distort and shatter the image until everything overlapped. Her own fears in three echoes and relived through different perspectives. Answers in hidden tendencies, honed from pre-existing inclinations.
Not the first time, or the last. One could awaken from a dream, even from the dream of death. What light through yonder window breaks? With a fan of butterfly wings fair psyche opened her eyes, and was welcomed. "Be ready," River told her, and provided the solution.
Bytemite- Posts : 680
Join date : 2012-06-25
Re: Eidolon Postings
Bytemite Mon Aug 13, 2012 12:45 pm
The R&J quote is pretty weaksauce there, but it carries through a thematic element so I guess it has to stay.
Bytemite- Posts : 680
Join date : 2012-06-25
Re: Eidolon Postings
Bytemite Mon Aug 13, 2012 12:46 pm
Chapter 32
The central hanger was clean and featureless as to be expected. If he had his preferences, he might have more appreciated the functional and striking aesthetic of the open view from the transparent airlocks of a carrier, the long walkway floating among the stars. Perhaps. If he hadn't been raised in a claustrophobic underground complex.
Two officers were waiting at attention in the mostly empty space, standing a distance specified in an operating procedure manual appropriate for the circumstance and the docking code used. A blonde traffic controller in her greys. The other, Captain Teram Baker, a man built like a marine in a grey naval uniform; tall, lean, square jaw, and a brown regulation haircut with somewhat flinty eyes. The Operative approached them.
"Ensign," he acknowledged. She processed his identification with an attitude that could only be described as politely bored, and almost managed mild surprise when she saw his full security clearance. She hesitantly saluted, and he inwardly sighed at the all-too-familiar confusion. "I have no rank," he explained to her, before she could attempt to ask. "Nor any name, and you would be advised, after this conversation, to consider that I am a figment of your imagination." Little more than a shadow, easily forgotten, and if what he'd heard about this facility was accurate, everyone stationed here was heavily modified and could be remote wiped or commanded as necessary. Parliament was very serious about controlling dangerous information and security leaks, and almost as serious about not wasting any more resources than they had to.
"O-of course," she answered, dubiously, and carefully swallowed the 'sir' that she was trained to add. She exchanged a look and a nod with her supervisor, and was dismissed. They none of them had any idea how easily they could disappear.
He was on the clock now. Nine hours from that reading, a notification from over the cortex would reach the citadel on Londinium, confirm the tracking data from his stolen transport, and another nine hours later the manhunt would begin. The ranking officer fell into step, and the Operative allowed Captain Baker to play the diplomatic tour guide and escort him to the turbolifts. "Welcome aboard," the man greeted. "My apologies for the extra scrutiny. We've just captured the leader of a terrorist cell. Can't be too careful."
"You have Reynolds?" Monitoring military chatter as he traveled had revealed the new impossible situation the small-time freighter crew had gotten themselves into. Their ability to appear at the center of chaos was nothing short of astonishing.
"Apprehended him about an hour ago planetside, after an expensive bit of sabotage. He managed to take out our ASREVs on the ground and steal some important medicines." Baker frowned, either out of annoyance at the sheer bravado of the act, or perhaps just now wondering why his superiors had dispatched an assassin to his flagship. "Is he the purpose of your visit?"
The less said about his intentions the better. "I'm looking for the fugitive River Tam. Reynolds has information I need," the Operative answered.
A nod, and the lift panels slid silently aside to admit them. The broad circular platform was wide enough to transport an entire platoon at once, and the overhead the shaft seemed to narrow to some distant horizon at around the hundredth floor. "You're in luck. Our contractors think they may have located her. We should have her and all her associates shortly." His escort tapped at the controls in the central podium, and the panel lit up with a chime. The anti-gravity generators hummed as they began to move.
He kept his features calm. "I'll need to see her parents and fellow students as well. Where are you holding them?"
His counterpart stood feet apart, looking at the numbers over their heads as they ticked away, military at-ease in a stance that never looked particularly relaxed. Viewscreens flashed by of walkways suspended above a man-made chasm, lined by thousands of compartments. Like a glacial fissure, frozen in time. "Most of them are in stasis," he said, indicating the bioluminescent cells. "Reynolds is in quarantine," he explained, then added, at the inquiring glance, "Research labs. With the other Reavers."
The steel doors opened for them to a bright vault beyond, sectioned off into transparent observation cells and the path between them. There were people in them, seeming long forgotten, lying limp on the ground or against the walls of their cages, their eyes blank and distant. Most were in hospital garb, some in straightjackets. A few startled to activity at their entrance, dazed and aimlessly crawling around the white tiled floor like feral animals. Each cell was sparsely furnished except for a drain in the center. To hose down the blood and waste, he supposed.
"They're hyperviolent," the captain said, his voice almost hushed as though they could hear them. An understatement. "They can use anything as a weapon. We took out all the bedding and the heads to stop the Reavers from breaking them into parts. Then some of them chewed their own limbs off to sharpen the bones." The man shook his head wearily. "Now we just monitor their vitals and pump in a sedative when they start to rile up."
A malnourished woman suddenly bumped up against the barrier of her prison, then again, her glassy eyes staring at them, her jumpsuit torn, her face a mess of scarred over self-inflicted mutilation behind long scraggly hair. She slid down the glass the third time and stilled. One of her arms was missing. "There's no cure?" he asked, and already knew the answer.
"No, their minds are damaged beyond our ability to repair them. We can't even apply a neural-overlay or give them a new personality," Baker answered, with genuine pity but not without a hard edge. "They're also contagious. Anyone exposed to them becomes just like them." The captain crossed his arms, looking back at the Reaver woman as she silently watched them, two predators stalking their prey, like mirrors to each other. "If it were up to me, I'd have them all shot and the bodies burned."
The overlays sometimes did not integrate fully with the subject, leaving memory fragments or even creating split personalities. While the solution was still workable with conditioning and triggers, such as if the surgery and tampering had left a sleeper agent or assassin emotionally unstable, it could also be unpredictable. The Operative wondered how much the man knew, if he remembered anything about his past life. Then the tension broke, and Baker led him deeper into the labs, where they kept the more dangerous specimens.
- - - - -
River danced out of the infirmary ahead of her, a stream of pronouncements about a sunrise as she secured her loose saffron dressing gown around her. On waking, Inara realized that she had fainted - again- in front of Mal. Her secret would be impossible to hide now. What must he think of her? The usual, she supposed, the damsel in distress in need of rescue. The memory River had shown her lingered. The past month, the medical clinic, the fear and confusion. Helpless. Drugged.
She had just enough strength to stand, leaning against the bulkhead, and she smiled wanly at the crew as they looked over from their intense discussion. The conversation stilled and she faltered under the scrutiny. Had she lost their trust? Simon's relationship with Kaylee was in turmoil because of her, and Zoë was frowning at her as though she had betrayed Mal. In a way, perhaps she had. They deserved the truth, when she could barely accept it herself.
The doctor forced a courteous smile. "Good to see you're awake," he said, seeming perfectly sincere, but there was something almost pained underlying the well-wishes.
As though prompted by Simon's show of civility, Kaylee stepped out from among the crew, her eyes rimmed in red, took in the companion head to toe as though searching for something, then strode over and buried her face into Inara's shoulder with an insistent hug. Inara met Zoë's steady cool gaze over Kaylee's hair, and the other woman gave her a curt nod. "Thank you," Inara answered, disconcerted.
Jayne was less enthusiastic. "Ain't still infectious, is she?" he asked.
Simon rolled his eyes. "She wasn't... No Jayne."
The moment was short lived, and Kaylee pulled away from her, suddenly furious. "Didn't tell me, didn't tell the captain, d'you know how scared you had us?" she ranted. "We're s'posed to be your friends!" The girl swiped her wrist across her cheek and turned aside in a huff.
"I told Simon," Inara offered meekly, prompting a few glares. She sighed. They all meant so much to her. She hadn't many options when she first joined them. Hers was a lonely road, carefully detached and maintained, a mercy for herself and others to lessen the ache of their parting. She never expected to be welcomed into their lives as she had. For their acceptance to be so appealing. "I'm sorry. I didn't want to upset any of you."
Jayne snorted at her. "Well that worked out all right," he commented, full of sarcasm.
Clearly not. But if they already knew, there was no use putting off reality any longer. "How long was I out?" she asked.
"About a day," Simon replied, sympathetically. Before she could accept his answer with disheartened resignation, he spoke up again. "It wasn't the Ataxia," the doctor added, "not this time."
She blinked. What? His statement carried the gravity of an even more serious problem. "Captain ran off to find some medicine for you," Zoë said, mildly. There was anger underneath her words, an accusation in the former soldier's narrowed eyes. "Went and got himself captured on your behalf in the process."
Her dream, River's warning. "I was afraid he might," Inara admitted. Why did he have to be so frustrating and imposing and stubbornly noble? He had always thought she needed saving. More than ever this would have confirmed his suspicions, and prompted him into reckless action.
That set Kaylee off again. "And now he's in the clink for us all," she complained miserably, "and apart from all the thievin' and explosions and shoot outs he ain't even done anythin' wrong." Inara wasn't sure if it was more to Kaylee's credit or Mal's that she could say that without any amount of irony.
"Not just any prison either," Zoë corrected grimly. "When we were first picked up after the surrender, Alliance wanted information we none of us had. None of us were in any shape for interrogation, half-starved, feverish and exhausted. Didn't stop them from trying to beat it out of us. So captain got the heat off the rest of us, volunteered himself for their attention."
"Violently, I'm guessing," Inara observed wryly.
"Got it in one," the corporal confirmed. "For that they flagged him for special imprisonment. Took him up to the Ratched. He won't talk about it, but we all heard rumours. Some of the inmates up there, they just weren't right. Savage men from the far edge, inclined to cannibalism and other such pleasantries." She thought a moment, then shook her head. "He had no living family anymore, they must've figured he wouldn't have been missed. But I still don't know why they stuck him in among them."
"I think I might," Simon interjected. "Most of the people on Miranda didn't turn violent; just the opposite, in fact. But if someone already had a preexisting condition the Pax might have exacerbated the problem, made them more susceptible to the other effects. Aggression, schizophrenia, personality disorders, anxiety disorders... and PTSD," he listed. "If doctors were looking for patients showing early signs of abnormal reaction to Pax, then any of those might have mimicked the symptoms and vice versa." Simon frowned. "Assuming they weren't also just selecting test subjects for Pax exposure."
"Might be," she agreed, grimly. "There were a lot of washouts from the program, I was with the Dust Devils when we started finding them. Most of them were yōumíng. Light's on, no one home. Traced them back to a hospital where they were sent to waste away and die." Her mouth twisted into a scowl. "Got there just in time for the fire."
"Cover-up?" Kaylee asked, eyes wide.
"Outbreak," Zoë answered. "Some of the patients snapped out of the stupor, went on a rampage. Alliance had to put them down." 30 million dead already. Perhaps the Alliance didn't think a few more lives would make any difference. "Mal crawled away somehow, found him in a ditch nearby. He seemed like another vegetable, but finally about a week later he looks up at me while I'm makin' soup, seein' how that was about the only way I could feed him, and asks me where the hell are we and why we aren't on the front lines. Didn't even remember the past year."
And he was back there now, because of her. Surely he had known he might be captured, but he had risked that anyway. Then again, she was about to do the same for him. "I've been talking to River," Inara started.
"She ain't goin' up there any more'n her brother is," Zoë interrupted with finality.
"No," Inara said. She gathered herself, all the poise and focus of her bearing and station compounded by her concern, her heart, and her love. "Not her. Me."
The first mate scoffed in disbelief. "After all that effort captain wouldn't want you in danger."
"Whether or not I try to help isn't Mal's choice to make," she insisted.
An echo rang through the ship, distracting, a sudden nervous fear descending on them as they raised their sights, Jayne and Zoë both already with weapons out. "We'll all go together," River intoned. Then, chilling: "They're here."
The central hanger was clean and featureless as to be expected. If he had his preferences, he might have more appreciated the functional and striking aesthetic of the open view from the transparent airlocks of a carrier, the long walkway floating among the stars. Perhaps. If he hadn't been raised in a claustrophobic underground complex.
Two officers were waiting at attention in the mostly empty space, standing a distance specified in an operating procedure manual appropriate for the circumstance and the docking code used. A blonde traffic controller in her greys. The other, Captain Teram Baker, a man built like a marine in a grey naval uniform; tall, lean, square jaw, and a brown regulation haircut with somewhat flinty eyes. The Operative approached them.
"Ensign," he acknowledged. She processed his identification with an attitude that could only be described as politely bored, and almost managed mild surprise when she saw his full security clearance. She hesitantly saluted, and he inwardly sighed at the all-too-familiar confusion. "I have no rank," he explained to her, before she could attempt to ask. "Nor any name, and you would be advised, after this conversation, to consider that I am a figment of your imagination." Little more than a shadow, easily forgotten, and if what he'd heard about this facility was accurate, everyone stationed here was heavily modified and could be remote wiped or commanded as necessary. Parliament was very serious about controlling dangerous information and security leaks, and almost as serious about not wasting any more resources than they had to.
"O-of course," she answered, dubiously, and carefully swallowed the 'sir' that she was trained to add. She exchanged a look and a nod with her supervisor, and was dismissed. They none of them had any idea how easily they could disappear.
He was on the clock now. Nine hours from that reading, a notification from over the cortex would reach the citadel on Londinium, confirm the tracking data from his stolen transport, and another nine hours later the manhunt would begin. The ranking officer fell into step, and the Operative allowed Captain Baker to play the diplomatic tour guide and escort him to the turbolifts. "Welcome aboard," the man greeted. "My apologies for the extra scrutiny. We've just captured the leader of a terrorist cell. Can't be too careful."
"You have Reynolds?" Monitoring military chatter as he traveled had revealed the new impossible situation the small-time freighter crew had gotten themselves into. Their ability to appear at the center of chaos was nothing short of astonishing.
"Apprehended him about an hour ago planetside, after an expensive bit of sabotage. He managed to take out our ASREVs on the ground and steal some important medicines." Baker frowned, either out of annoyance at the sheer bravado of the act, or perhaps just now wondering why his superiors had dispatched an assassin to his flagship. "Is he the purpose of your visit?"
The less said about his intentions the better. "I'm looking for the fugitive River Tam. Reynolds has information I need," the Operative answered.
A nod, and the lift panels slid silently aside to admit them. The broad circular platform was wide enough to transport an entire platoon at once, and the overhead the shaft seemed to narrow to some distant horizon at around the hundredth floor. "You're in luck. Our contractors think they may have located her. We should have her and all her associates shortly." His escort tapped at the controls in the central podium, and the panel lit up with a chime. The anti-gravity generators hummed as they began to move.
He kept his features calm. "I'll need to see her parents and fellow students as well. Where are you holding them?"
His counterpart stood feet apart, looking at the numbers over their heads as they ticked away, military at-ease in a stance that never looked particularly relaxed. Viewscreens flashed by of walkways suspended above a man-made chasm, lined by thousands of compartments. Like a glacial fissure, frozen in time. "Most of them are in stasis," he said, indicating the bioluminescent cells. "Reynolds is in quarantine," he explained, then added, at the inquiring glance, "Research labs. With the other Reavers."
The steel doors opened for them to a bright vault beyond, sectioned off into transparent observation cells and the path between them. There were people in them, seeming long forgotten, lying limp on the ground or against the walls of their cages, their eyes blank and distant. Most were in hospital garb, some in straightjackets. A few startled to activity at their entrance, dazed and aimlessly crawling around the white tiled floor like feral animals. Each cell was sparsely furnished except for a drain in the center. To hose down the blood and waste, he supposed.
"They're hyperviolent," the captain said, his voice almost hushed as though they could hear them. An understatement. "They can use anything as a weapon. We took out all the bedding and the heads to stop the Reavers from breaking them into parts. Then some of them chewed their own limbs off to sharpen the bones." The man shook his head wearily. "Now we just monitor their vitals and pump in a sedative when they start to rile up."
A malnourished woman suddenly bumped up against the barrier of her prison, then again, her glassy eyes staring at them, her jumpsuit torn, her face a mess of scarred over self-inflicted mutilation behind long scraggly hair. She slid down the glass the third time and stilled. One of her arms was missing. "There's no cure?" he asked, and already knew the answer.
"No, their minds are damaged beyond our ability to repair them. We can't even apply a neural-overlay or give them a new personality," Baker answered, with genuine pity but not without a hard edge. "They're also contagious. Anyone exposed to them becomes just like them." The captain crossed his arms, looking back at the Reaver woman as she silently watched them, two predators stalking their prey, like mirrors to each other. "If it were up to me, I'd have them all shot and the bodies burned."
The overlays sometimes did not integrate fully with the subject, leaving memory fragments or even creating split personalities. While the solution was still workable with conditioning and triggers, such as if the surgery and tampering had left a sleeper agent or assassin emotionally unstable, it could also be unpredictable. The Operative wondered how much the man knew, if he remembered anything about his past life. Then the tension broke, and Baker led him deeper into the labs, where they kept the more dangerous specimens.
- - - - -
River danced out of the infirmary ahead of her, a stream of pronouncements about a sunrise as she secured her loose saffron dressing gown around her. On waking, Inara realized that she had fainted - again- in front of Mal. Her secret would be impossible to hide now. What must he think of her? The usual, she supposed, the damsel in distress in need of rescue. The memory River had shown her lingered. The past month, the medical clinic, the fear and confusion. Helpless. Drugged.
She had just enough strength to stand, leaning against the bulkhead, and she smiled wanly at the crew as they looked over from their intense discussion. The conversation stilled and she faltered under the scrutiny. Had she lost their trust? Simon's relationship with Kaylee was in turmoil because of her, and Zoë was frowning at her as though she had betrayed Mal. In a way, perhaps she had. They deserved the truth, when she could barely accept it herself.
The doctor forced a courteous smile. "Good to see you're awake," he said, seeming perfectly sincere, but there was something almost pained underlying the well-wishes.
As though prompted by Simon's show of civility, Kaylee stepped out from among the crew, her eyes rimmed in red, took in the companion head to toe as though searching for something, then strode over and buried her face into Inara's shoulder with an insistent hug. Inara met Zoë's steady cool gaze over Kaylee's hair, and the other woman gave her a curt nod. "Thank you," Inara answered, disconcerted.
Jayne was less enthusiastic. "Ain't still infectious, is she?" he asked.
Simon rolled his eyes. "She wasn't... No Jayne."
The moment was short lived, and Kaylee pulled away from her, suddenly furious. "Didn't tell me, didn't tell the captain, d'you know how scared you had us?" she ranted. "We're s'posed to be your friends!" The girl swiped her wrist across her cheek and turned aside in a huff.
"I told Simon," Inara offered meekly, prompting a few glares. She sighed. They all meant so much to her. She hadn't many options when she first joined them. Hers was a lonely road, carefully detached and maintained, a mercy for herself and others to lessen the ache of their parting. She never expected to be welcomed into their lives as she had. For their acceptance to be so appealing. "I'm sorry. I didn't want to upset any of you."
Jayne snorted at her. "Well that worked out all right," he commented, full of sarcasm.
Clearly not. But if they already knew, there was no use putting off reality any longer. "How long was I out?" she asked.
"About a day," Simon replied, sympathetically. Before she could accept his answer with disheartened resignation, he spoke up again. "It wasn't the Ataxia," the doctor added, "not this time."
She blinked. What? His statement carried the gravity of an even more serious problem. "Captain ran off to find some medicine for you," Zoë said, mildly. There was anger underneath her words, an accusation in the former soldier's narrowed eyes. "Went and got himself captured on your behalf in the process."
Her dream, River's warning. "I was afraid he might," Inara admitted. Why did he have to be so frustrating and imposing and stubbornly noble? He had always thought she needed saving. More than ever this would have confirmed his suspicions, and prompted him into reckless action.
That set Kaylee off again. "And now he's in the clink for us all," she complained miserably, "and apart from all the thievin' and explosions and shoot outs he ain't even done anythin' wrong." Inara wasn't sure if it was more to Kaylee's credit or Mal's that she could say that without any amount of irony.
"Not just any prison either," Zoë corrected grimly. "When we were first picked up after the surrender, Alliance wanted information we none of us had. None of us were in any shape for interrogation, half-starved, feverish and exhausted. Didn't stop them from trying to beat it out of us. So captain got the heat off the rest of us, volunteered himself for their attention."
"Violently, I'm guessing," Inara observed wryly.
"Got it in one," the corporal confirmed. "For that they flagged him for special imprisonment. Took him up to the Ratched. He won't talk about it, but we all heard rumours. Some of the inmates up there, they just weren't right. Savage men from the far edge, inclined to cannibalism and other such pleasantries." She thought a moment, then shook her head. "He had no living family anymore, they must've figured he wouldn't have been missed. But I still don't know why they stuck him in among them."
"I think I might," Simon interjected. "Most of the people on Miranda didn't turn violent; just the opposite, in fact. But if someone already had a preexisting condition the Pax might have exacerbated the problem, made them more susceptible to the other effects. Aggression, schizophrenia, personality disorders, anxiety disorders... and PTSD," he listed. "If doctors were looking for patients showing early signs of abnormal reaction to Pax, then any of those might have mimicked the symptoms and vice versa." Simon frowned. "Assuming they weren't also just selecting test subjects for Pax exposure."
"Might be," she agreed, grimly. "There were a lot of washouts from the program, I was with the Dust Devils when we started finding them. Most of them were yōumíng. Light's on, no one home. Traced them back to a hospital where they were sent to waste away and die." Her mouth twisted into a scowl. "Got there just in time for the fire."
"Cover-up?" Kaylee asked, eyes wide.
"Outbreak," Zoë answered. "Some of the patients snapped out of the stupor, went on a rampage. Alliance had to put them down." 30 million dead already. Perhaps the Alliance didn't think a few more lives would make any difference. "Mal crawled away somehow, found him in a ditch nearby. He seemed like another vegetable, but finally about a week later he looks up at me while I'm makin' soup, seein' how that was about the only way I could feed him, and asks me where the hell are we and why we aren't on the front lines. Didn't even remember the past year."
And he was back there now, because of her. Surely he had known he might be captured, but he had risked that anyway. Then again, she was about to do the same for him. "I've been talking to River," Inara started.
"She ain't goin' up there any more'n her brother is," Zoë interrupted with finality.
"No," Inara said. She gathered herself, all the poise and focus of her bearing and station compounded by her concern, her heart, and her love. "Not her. Me."
The first mate scoffed in disbelief. "After all that effort captain wouldn't want you in danger."
"Whether or not I try to help isn't Mal's choice to make," she insisted.
An echo rang through the ship, distracting, a sudden nervous fear descending on them as they raised their sights, Jayne and Zoë both already with weapons out. "We'll all go together," River intoned. Then, chilling: "They're here."
Bytemite- Posts : 680
Join date : 2012-06-25
Re: Eidolon Postings
Bytemite Mon Aug 13, 2012 12:48 pm
Chapter 33
A shudder ran through them, and if Kaylee didn't know better, she'd have thought that the result of the doomsaying instead of the ship. Someone was trying to steal Serenity out from underneath them. She felt the engine object like a skipped heartbeat as they flubbed the start-up sequence, and then she wasn't shaking so much from fear anymore but outrage. The gall of them, touching the helm controls, sitting in Wash's chair, mucking about with the workings. Now they'd gone too far, couldn't just leave them alone.
Zoë waved them back into the passenger commons while she and Jayne covered for them. Their guns glinted, distracting and dangerous. There'll be more shootin' soon, Kaylee thought. River in a jumper dress, Kaylee in her overalls, Inara in silks, Jayne in a t-shirt, Zoë in her usual leather vest, not a stitch of armour and a few pistols and rounds between them against a fully armed SWAT team.
"Please, Zoë. Let me go out there. It will buy you time," Inara argued. Maybe she wasn't thawed out all the way. Kind of bedraggled, wasn't making sense and didn't have all her usual reserve. There was her grace though, all manners and gestures like a storybook princess in golden robes asking help to slay some monster.
Zoë gritted her teeth, frazzled and frizzy-haired and the soldier looking like she was trying to keep her focus and not slap the other woman. "They'll just kill you."
Once the purplebellies had River they were all dead. The shadows cast by the scaffolding and superstructure around the sparse-lit lounge seemed to hide all kinds of trouble. Some of the shapes were moving even, soldiers around the nook at the top of the stairs closing in.
Simon was talking to his sister, soothing, looking kind and handsome and wonderful but River didn't seem all there until she snapped at him. "It'll be all right, Simon!" River said, unconvincingly grumpy, then her face cleared. "Trust me." Kaylee suddenly wanted to fight, if just for Simon and everyone so that all those reassurances would be true. Like when they were facing down the Reavers again, and she'd tapped that same well of determination.
"Kaylee," the first mate called her back before Inara could say any more, nodded to the maintenance ladder down the corridor, tucked in behind the dorms and some old boxes of rags and ammo. "Get up to the engine room and stop the rotors."
"Can't." The mechanic shook her head, riding over the frown Zoë sent her way, "less'n you want us cratered. They'll have us in the air first an' we don't want to blind fire the engine. Gotta retake the helm." And she even had an idea how. "If we get to the access panel we can go right down Serenity's center-line through the crawl space."
Jayne didn't look happy, not that she could blame him. She had to work in there sometimes, in the dust and spiders and space bugs. "Gonna be tight. Ain't exactly twig-like."
Inara just sighed at him. "I haven't heard that one before."
Kaylee tried to smile for them. "Captain did it the once when River sealed herself on the bridge and he had to talk her down. Should be okay, just bring up the back, case you get stuck," she suggested. Jayne wasn't much encouraged.
"May be our best chance for a rescue," Zoë agreed, "if they already sent out a docking request to the Ratched."
A volley of concussive waves burst from around the corner and Zoë ducked back behind the frame, looking for a clear shot. At least they weren't using the PAX-bangs.
"Put me back in that place," River said, "Little bluebird singing in a cage, puppet on broken strings."
Voices muddled the air around them. They had to get Simon and River away first, and Kaylee went to River where the girl had stopped, wide eyed with her head tilted to the side and listening. Kaylee raised her hand to River's shoulder, about to talk her out of her fear. She exchanged a look with Simon who moved to help but River stepped away.
Music, Kaylee realized, underneath all the noise the soldiers were making. A cheerful jingle, something about the Blue Sun corporation's latest imitation coffee blend. The intercoms! "Zoë!" she shouted. Wake up and light the morning, the lyrics chanted. River lashed out in a fan-kick, a blur as she knocked Jayne's carbine aside.
"Gorramn girl!" he snarled and swung a backhand at her. She blocked then somehow she had the barrel of his gun in her hand and brought the stock hard against the side of his head, crumpling him like Jayne sized tin can. Zoë was sweeping her side-arm towards the assassin, who flipped the gun around and Kaylee found herself next to Simon, staring down the sights.
"River," Simon whispered, choked. His sister didn't even waver, in a staring match between herself and Zoë, who carefully dropped her sawn-off to the floor, not about to invite any reprisals. Serenity bucked underneath their feet like an objection, and Zoë lunged forward, hoping to catch the girl off guard but slammed herself into the steel frame. She lay there, dizzily, and two men in suits stepped over her and Jayne, flanking River. Kaylee recoiled, she remembered them, boarding Serenity while the captain and the others had been lead into an ambush, looming over her. They'd died. She was sure of it. But these two, they looked exactly the same as the pair who had attacked her.
"Secure them." The purplebellies rushed in around River.
- - - - -
Simon had never liked flying, not when their chauffer was navigating through the floating twilight traffic of the Capital, and he liked it even less when a crushing vacuum surrounded them. As time went on, he'd gotten used to spending weeks off solid ground, long trips out of their way to avoid the common trade routes and patrols.
The five minute transit between Ezra and the Ratched was starting to look like the worst flight of his entire life.
The soldiers searched Jayne first without much trouble, one scanning his muscular bulk with a handheld x-ray device while three others held him down, apparently concerned that he might try to throw them off while unconscious. Not that their concerns were entirely unwarranted; Simon had often found Jayne an irritable and uncontrollable patient, and the ox-like mercenary was certainly strong enough. They methodically removed all contraband, accumulating an impressive pile of explosives in all sizes, the harsh-looking hand gun, an impossibly well-hidden back-up pistol, a knife, and an assortment of stolen food and medical supplies.
Zoë, however, could put up a fight even while dazed. She lashed out at the first woman that tried to handle her - the Alliance was good enough to process them by gender, but not enough to let them go, Simon thought wryly - a vicious strike at the guard's throat with the edge of her hand that left the other woman gasping on the floor. It took two more to wrestle Zoe to the ground and get her switchblade away from her, and Zoe only stopped struggling when they fired a stun rifle point blank at her. As her doctor, he tried to protest, but without any success. He'd have to perform a check-up later on the mother-to-be and the unborn child.
Their two best remaining fighters were down, and River wasn't in any condition to help them. He did not resist further, and Kaylee and Inara both submitted quietly to the search, giving up a pocket screwdriver, then a syringe. Once they were bound, numbing bands around their wrists and ankles, and the remaining guns and rifles were gathered, they were half-escorted-half-dragged out to the cargo bay and forced to kneel. More troops lined the walkways, ready to fire down on them.
Were they going to be executed before they even arrived? The last time they had been ordered to dock with an Alliance cruiser, the crew suited Simon and his sister up for EVA so they wouldn't be found. He spent the entire time clinging to the hull in a desperate panic, knowing that one slip and he would either be floating, or worse, discovered. The experience left something to be desired. River, though, had been delighted. His sister, the scientific genius, looking out into the unknown. The six year old who once redid his eighth grade math homework, the ten year old who inventoried the microbiology of the servant's quarters for the pun of it, the twelve year old who still skipped everywhere. She had beamed back at the stars, in a way he hadn't seen since she'd gone away to the Academy and the tortures they had inflicted on her.
The girl who he'd given up his life to save, restore, and protect, she was gone. No sign of her playfulness or intelligence or eccentricity or profundity. Just an automaton following orders, holding him at gunpoint without any recognition or familiarity. No hiding under Serenity's wings this time, or seeking shelter with criminals, or a dubious settlement with an even more shadowy and inexplicable chaplain.
She stood with her two captors as they studied them, predators stalking prey. The ship connected with the Ratched's airlock, the metal objecting to the impact like rolling thunder. No one moved. Waiting. Simon knew where this was going. Their previous arrest had ended with the Alliance slagging a derelict that had been hit by a Reaver attack. No one was to know what had happened on that ship. No one would have believed it.
He grabbed Kaylee's hand, fingers tangled with hers.
One of the two men in black suits gestured, and the soldiers pulled them to their feet, broke his connection with Kaylee. He tried to turn to see her, saw one of the agents brush his hand across River's forehead, like a father and child, and then she collapsed. The code phrase - Eta kuram na smekh.
His brother's instinct rebelled at the danger, even as a marine jabbed a rifle into his ribs. "What do you want with her?" he demanded, refusing to be bullied. Hadn't they done enough to her? To them? The soldiers pushed him away, down the docking bridge tunnel, but the inhumanly cold and menacing stares followed him.
A shudder ran through them, and if Kaylee didn't know better, she'd have thought that the result of the doomsaying instead of the ship. Someone was trying to steal Serenity out from underneath them. She felt the engine object like a skipped heartbeat as they flubbed the start-up sequence, and then she wasn't shaking so much from fear anymore but outrage. The gall of them, touching the helm controls, sitting in Wash's chair, mucking about with the workings. Now they'd gone too far, couldn't just leave them alone.
Zoë waved them back into the passenger commons while she and Jayne covered for them. Their guns glinted, distracting and dangerous. There'll be more shootin' soon, Kaylee thought. River in a jumper dress, Kaylee in her overalls, Inara in silks, Jayne in a t-shirt, Zoë in her usual leather vest, not a stitch of armour and a few pistols and rounds between them against a fully armed SWAT team.
"Please, Zoë. Let me go out there. It will buy you time," Inara argued. Maybe she wasn't thawed out all the way. Kind of bedraggled, wasn't making sense and didn't have all her usual reserve. There was her grace though, all manners and gestures like a storybook princess in golden robes asking help to slay some monster.
Zoë gritted her teeth, frazzled and frizzy-haired and the soldier looking like she was trying to keep her focus and not slap the other woman. "They'll just kill you."
Once the purplebellies had River they were all dead. The shadows cast by the scaffolding and superstructure around the sparse-lit lounge seemed to hide all kinds of trouble. Some of the shapes were moving even, soldiers around the nook at the top of the stairs closing in.
Simon was talking to his sister, soothing, looking kind and handsome and wonderful but River didn't seem all there until she snapped at him. "It'll be all right, Simon!" River said, unconvincingly grumpy, then her face cleared. "Trust me." Kaylee suddenly wanted to fight, if just for Simon and everyone so that all those reassurances would be true. Like when they were facing down the Reavers again, and she'd tapped that same well of determination.
"Kaylee," the first mate called her back before Inara could say any more, nodded to the maintenance ladder down the corridor, tucked in behind the dorms and some old boxes of rags and ammo. "Get up to the engine room and stop the rotors."
"Can't." The mechanic shook her head, riding over the frown Zoë sent her way, "less'n you want us cratered. They'll have us in the air first an' we don't want to blind fire the engine. Gotta retake the helm." And she even had an idea how. "If we get to the access panel we can go right down Serenity's center-line through the crawl space."
Jayne didn't look happy, not that she could blame him. She had to work in there sometimes, in the dust and spiders and space bugs. "Gonna be tight. Ain't exactly twig-like."
Inara just sighed at him. "I haven't heard that one before."
Kaylee tried to smile for them. "Captain did it the once when River sealed herself on the bridge and he had to talk her down. Should be okay, just bring up the back, case you get stuck," she suggested. Jayne wasn't much encouraged.
"May be our best chance for a rescue," Zoë agreed, "if they already sent out a docking request to the Ratched."
A volley of concussive waves burst from around the corner and Zoë ducked back behind the frame, looking for a clear shot. At least they weren't using the PAX-bangs.
"Put me back in that place," River said, "Little bluebird singing in a cage, puppet on broken strings."
Voices muddled the air around them. They had to get Simon and River away first, and Kaylee went to River where the girl had stopped, wide eyed with her head tilted to the side and listening. Kaylee raised her hand to River's shoulder, about to talk her out of her fear. She exchanged a look with Simon who moved to help but River stepped away.
Music, Kaylee realized, underneath all the noise the soldiers were making. A cheerful jingle, something about the Blue Sun corporation's latest imitation coffee blend. The intercoms! "Zoë!" she shouted. Wake up and light the morning, the lyrics chanted. River lashed out in a fan-kick, a blur as she knocked Jayne's carbine aside.
"Gorramn girl!" he snarled and swung a backhand at her. She blocked then somehow she had the barrel of his gun in her hand and brought the stock hard against the side of his head, crumpling him like Jayne sized tin can. Zoë was sweeping her side-arm towards the assassin, who flipped the gun around and Kaylee found herself next to Simon, staring down the sights.
"River," Simon whispered, choked. His sister didn't even waver, in a staring match between herself and Zoë, who carefully dropped her sawn-off to the floor, not about to invite any reprisals. Serenity bucked underneath their feet like an objection, and Zoë lunged forward, hoping to catch the girl off guard but slammed herself into the steel frame. She lay there, dizzily, and two men in suits stepped over her and Jayne, flanking River. Kaylee recoiled, she remembered them, boarding Serenity while the captain and the others had been lead into an ambush, looming over her. They'd died. She was sure of it. But these two, they looked exactly the same as the pair who had attacked her.
"Secure them." The purplebellies rushed in around River.
- - - - -
Simon had never liked flying, not when their chauffer was navigating through the floating twilight traffic of the Capital, and he liked it even less when a crushing vacuum surrounded them. As time went on, he'd gotten used to spending weeks off solid ground, long trips out of their way to avoid the common trade routes and patrols.
The five minute transit between Ezra and the Ratched was starting to look like the worst flight of his entire life.
The soldiers searched Jayne first without much trouble, one scanning his muscular bulk with a handheld x-ray device while three others held him down, apparently concerned that he might try to throw them off while unconscious. Not that their concerns were entirely unwarranted; Simon had often found Jayne an irritable and uncontrollable patient, and the ox-like mercenary was certainly strong enough. They methodically removed all contraband, accumulating an impressive pile of explosives in all sizes, the harsh-looking hand gun, an impossibly well-hidden back-up pistol, a knife, and an assortment of stolen food and medical supplies.
Zoë, however, could put up a fight even while dazed. She lashed out at the first woman that tried to handle her - the Alliance was good enough to process them by gender, but not enough to let them go, Simon thought wryly - a vicious strike at the guard's throat with the edge of her hand that left the other woman gasping on the floor. It took two more to wrestle Zoe to the ground and get her switchblade away from her, and Zoe only stopped struggling when they fired a stun rifle point blank at her. As her doctor, he tried to protest, but without any success. He'd have to perform a check-up later on the mother-to-be and the unborn child.
Their two best remaining fighters were down, and River wasn't in any condition to help them. He did not resist further, and Kaylee and Inara both submitted quietly to the search, giving up a pocket screwdriver, then a syringe. Once they were bound, numbing bands around their wrists and ankles, and the remaining guns and rifles were gathered, they were half-escorted-half-dragged out to the cargo bay and forced to kneel. More troops lined the walkways, ready to fire down on them.
Were they going to be executed before they even arrived? The last time they had been ordered to dock with an Alliance cruiser, the crew suited Simon and his sister up for EVA so they wouldn't be found. He spent the entire time clinging to the hull in a desperate panic, knowing that one slip and he would either be floating, or worse, discovered. The experience left something to be desired. River, though, had been delighted. His sister, the scientific genius, looking out into the unknown. The six year old who once redid his eighth grade math homework, the ten year old who inventoried the microbiology of the servant's quarters for the pun of it, the twelve year old who still skipped everywhere. She had beamed back at the stars, in a way he hadn't seen since she'd gone away to the Academy and the tortures they had inflicted on her.
The girl who he'd given up his life to save, restore, and protect, she was gone. No sign of her playfulness or intelligence or eccentricity or profundity. Just an automaton following orders, holding him at gunpoint without any recognition or familiarity. No hiding under Serenity's wings this time, or seeking shelter with criminals, or a dubious settlement with an even more shadowy and inexplicable chaplain.
She stood with her two captors as they studied them, predators stalking prey. The ship connected with the Ratched's airlock, the metal objecting to the impact like rolling thunder. No one moved. Waiting. Simon knew where this was going. Their previous arrest had ended with the Alliance slagging a derelict that had been hit by a Reaver attack. No one was to know what had happened on that ship. No one would have believed it.
He grabbed Kaylee's hand, fingers tangled with hers.
One of the two men in black suits gestured, and the soldiers pulled them to their feet, broke his connection with Kaylee. He tried to turn to see her, saw one of the agents brush his hand across River's forehead, like a father and child, and then she collapsed. The code phrase - Eta kuram na smekh.
His brother's instinct rebelled at the danger, even as a marine jabbed a rifle into his ribs. "What do you want with her?" he demanded, refusing to be bullied. Hadn't they done enough to her? To them? The soldiers pushed him away, down the docking bridge tunnel, but the inhumanly cold and menacing stares followed him.
Bytemite- Posts : 680
Join date : 2012-06-25
Re: Eidolon Postings
Bytemite Mon Aug 13, 2012 12:50 pm
Chapter 34
Inara could not decide which seemed bleaker, their situation, or the sterile, featureless surroundings the guards escorted them through. The space was otherwise abandoned, and the unsettling desolation crept through her like frost warning of further bad weather. In the disquieting dreams she'd had, River had shown her a place like this in stolen visions. A glimpse, that had morphed into a surreal journey through frozen worlds and battlefields and tombs.
As a girl Inara had entertained herself with fairytales and stories about the spirit world. There, she could escape from the tower into the wilds. Then her mother crossed over, and the fantasy lost the appeal. Later she learned she had always been far closer to that world than she wanted to be, halfway there already; living, and in some ways already gone. She had been specially selected, and it wasn't as beautiful or lovely as she had hoped. Story of her life, really.
She knew this place like her last breath. If she should stay here, and allow her friends another chance, she would. She couldn't offer much else for them anyway. So it wasn't her fast approaching end that frightened her, but rather the prospects of who else she might find there with her.
Surrounded as they were, it wasn't until they had nearly passed through that Inara realized the foreboding gates had finally opened for her. The soldiers packed them into the lift tight, an oubliette of smooth steel walls. Another disappearance, unheard and silent through the black soundless and crushing around this prison. She was determined that would not be the fate of her friends. A blessing, that they were all standing so near; Kaylee was right beside her, and the soldiers were paying more attention to Zoe and Jayne and their penchant for brawling as the two gunhands slumbered.
Serenity's mechanic was just a girl, barely into her womanhood, and Inara sometimes wondered what Mal had been thinking, letting such a dear heart into the dangers they faced aboard the ship. Yet Kaylee had proven herself time and again; there was a special kind of bravery to fly around on the edge of civilization with all the treachery and aggression out there.
Right then Kaylee was a bundle of shivering nerves, her russet hair ruffled and her cheeks smeared with oil from the engines she had been working on. With a little reassurance and encouragement, she wouldn't falter. Inara pulled Kaylee into a hug - over the shoulder, a suggestion of shelter - and absorbed those fears until the trembling subsided almost with relief. "I think they're just holding us for now," Inara speculated. They hadn't killed them yet, after all.
Kaylee drew from her warmth. A little reassurance and encouragement and she was better. "Sorry how I acted 'bout you and Simon," she said, voice still quavering.
Inara felt another pang of regret over the incident, but couldn't help a wistful smile and a surge of affection of the girl. Of all the times and of all the things to apologize for at the moment. She wondered if she would see them again after this. "I should have told you all," she admitted.
"Kinda see why you didn't though," Kaylee answered. Another thought, sadder. "Cap'n doesn't even know he saved you."
The companion demurred, her eyes half-lidded, a fan of dark sooty lashes to hide her small sense of victory. "Perhaps it's for the best." Inara carefully slipped the screwdriver she'd pickpocketed from one of the guards into the heart-patch adorned front pockets of Kaylee's turquoise over-alls, then concealed her syringe in the marigold folds of her silk robes. "Getting arrested and forgetting everything he ever taught me? I can only imagine that lecture." Her words belied unexpected pride at the stealth of the exchange. No, instead he would tell her that she was not a petty thief like him and that she should never stoop to that. In between accidental compliments and trying not to praise her.
She smiled at Kaylee, who grinned back, and she tried not to think of it as a goodbye, but a joke shared between friends. The soldiers moved them out from the elevators towards the cell blocks.
- - - - -
Stars scattered in the night, coalesced from the stellar dust from a far away sun and others that came before. A spark, scintillating into a network, a stream, like the lights and streets of a city. Ghost images trying to live up to an ideal. Phantoms. Echoes. All in her head, cerebral impressions upon her senses, her memories. Cortex - shell, outer layer, surface, bark of a tree with brachiated roots and canopy. A sacred ash fed by the well lake and springs of wisdom, tended by the three maiden giants. There they lived, breathing myths, all beasts and mortals dying by the laws writ there.
Individual. Isolated. Connected. A cascade of electricity, whirling around her. The branches crackled against the sky like lightning. With a dedicated source, it would not short out. Beware all the tiān xiǎo de that might filter in though, bad influence on impressionable minds.
They thought she wasn't listening, too far under. She could hear everything, could never stop. Saw herself from the outside. Broken wreck and deadly assassin concealed behind dark curtains. The signals were crossed, needed to ensure her loyalty, her obedience. They had stimulated her temporoparietal junction, inducing another dissociative episode. Hadn't anticipated her defense. They had made her too strong. Suspended between here and there, simultaneously strapped to the chair and center of the storm. Louder here. Innocence under the malice, unaware of their actions as the would-be gods played with them.
She reached out into the current raging around her. The disruption sent ripples throughout the entire network, to each individual node. Land of butterflies and bluebirds and forgotten memories. A virtual reality, bound intricately to the other lives that sustained it, both the incorporeal and their changeling impostors. A suggestion arced towards her, seeking, imperative, invasive. They would drown her if they could. She intercepted the thought, and it unraveled in her hand.
These thieves, of both bodies and souls. Con artists down in the eighth circle with the vipers, smiling and biting. This could work both ways. Live by the sword, die by the sword. All weapons were double-edged.
Voices drifted to her as though on the breeze, other tortured students of the academy, friends, family. They imbued her. Her lifeline. Thread through the maze. Frustrate the devouring monster lying in wait. Need only follow it back and she would find them. She had her guide. Sialia - Cho, so insistent. All of them so desperate to reclaim what was theirs. Perhaps they were cheering her on.
Dive into the deep, dowsing herself for spirits. The shock might have killed her, quickening of synapses, but she knew the way back. Answer the rallying cry. The sea boiled, all of it away. They gathered to her, and she emerged, eyes open, released from bondage, and they followed her like fledglings down the hall.
- - - - -
The Ezrans had been arriving for almost an hour now, grumbling and marching through the streets to gather, lit by the glow of the fuel fires behind the line of Alliance soldiers. At first when there had been a call away from fighting the blaze to deal with a situation at the north barricades, they thought they were just going to have to disperse curious civilians and turn looters away. Instead, they'd found a near riot that began jeering the moment they appeared along the wall.
The men and women of the regiment gazed out over the throng, their Iskellian laser carbines at the ready and growing ever more irritable from every shout directed at them. The lieutenant looked about ready to start yelling himself. "We're shining the light of civilization on this desert pit. They could at least be grateful," he bit out, gripping the rifle stock like a stranglehold.
Not that they could really understand any of it. "You'd think if they were going to try to insult us, they'd speak a language we actually know," Josie added. She saw Mick frowning as he ran it through the translator. Dà huò lín tóu. If he was concerned this was serious. "What're they saying?"
"Slavers, plague rats, curses involving goats," Mick answered with forced nonchalance. "And something about explosive sleep poison. They're demanding medicine."
It took Pvt. Haverson a moment to process that. "The flashbangs?" Josie asked, disbelieving.
The citizens had started to attack the roadblocks in a frenzy, working to tear the obstacles down and swarm the wall. A thrown rock nearly winged the lieutenant's ear, and that prompted him out of his indecision into frustration. "They don't like non-lethals, maybe they'll appreciate this," he growled, hand pressed to the speaker and microphone in his helmet. "Turrets, lay down scatter fire on my signal." He pulled his side arm and fired into the air, three times, rapidly. They surged forward, outraged and undeterred.
Was that the signal? Josie wondered. The civilians were now too close, the turrets would just slaughter them. She glanced at Mick, and they pulled their concussive grenades. A single red shot seared into the night.
- - - - -
When last he had seen Captain Reynolds, there was fire in his eyes and soul. They had been adversaries then, a fight for survival, for unattainable ideals, for all the lives on Miranda, lost and forgotten; for revenge for an fleet destroyed, for an entire settlement of friends and an entire planet of strangers. Alliance justice had cut down both innocents and the unsavoury in its crusade by blade or bombardment alike; at the time, the Operative had not known the full extent of that guilt, had seen the atrocity brought to the skies overhead but not his own. Then he had witnessed the truth he had been sent to silence, forced to acknowledge what they had created and what he would preserve. The Reavers attacking the fleet, all those dying were his own fault, his own failure, complicit with the actions of his superiors. There was no better world, only monsters.
From that perspective, their actions had been self-defense. Humbled, he had granted the crew of Serenity pardon, and Reynolds, now merely an enemy of an enemy instead of his prey, had threatened violence if they ever crossed paths. The Operative promised he wouldn't. There is nothing left to see. The ship had rumbled free from the bounds of the ground and sky, and a former true believer had disappeared among the machines and rough hewn storehouses of the docks.
He was beyond redemption. So many times he had offered his victims an honourable death for the sake of the Alliance, and that had almost been his own fate. The captain had taught him the only reason for his continuing mortal defiance, however - to merely fall on his sword was too easy, and too painless, for the penance he deserved. His mind had been in a turmoil still, haunted by the ghosts of the lives he had been responsible for, the long list of his crimes.
They surrounded him again now like an arctic chill. This was a charnel house, and they were all Reavers on either side of the glass.
The cell might as well have been vacant. Reynolds was a man who could lose everything and not be cowed, who endured pain and torture with alarming regularity. A larger than life personality, and yet imprisoned in this endless white space he should look so small. All of that irascibility and determination had been extinguished; no more roguish banditry, brave enterprise, or downtrodden dignity, only nightmares for company. The years seemed to weigh on the captain's beaten and haunted features, old hardships and the newer electrical burns drawn across his face. A lifeless body in an orange jumpsuit, left to waste away in the dangerous specimens lab. Shrunken to an empty husk.
Those blue eyes stared out from shadowed, skeletal sockets as the captain glowered at some phantom from the past. Reactions remained, instinctive; the prisoner had curled in on himself with his back to the wall, motionless and hunched over as though ambush were imminent.
The Ratched's commander had left to prepare the other captives for his visit, and the Operative stepped through the invisible seal in the barrier. Reynolds tensed at the intrusion, both aware and not. Their gazes met, a sudden distrust and anger without recognition or reason. This response to the interrogation drugs was not uncommon; memory enhancers and truth serum could have volatile results on prisoners with violent backgrounds. One time the Operative had seen six marines struggle to carry away one man, uncontrollable and enraged by the horrors he had been forced to relive. He could still remember the screams.
Then Reynolds rolled onto his feet, trying to circle to one side, assessing, dangerous. This was no longer a man, but a feral animal. The Operative drew his blade in sorrow, a merciful scrape of metal. The captain lashed out in response, almost staggering into the deadly steel. Bare metal bit sharp and cruel as Reynolds ducked under the arc of the swing and grasped at the cold edge. A red gash opened unfelt along the palm of his offhand.
The momentum of the feint jerked the Operative off his feet and separated him from his weapon. He scrambled back up as the captain lost his balance and stumbled. The blade clattered to the ground, Reynolds skidded on his side to a stop, and did not, could not rise. Paralyzed. Weak. The sedatives had done their work.
He retrieved the blade, the hilt back in his hands like an old friend. A well placed boot knocked Reynolds over onto his back, and through the haze, a light of familiarity dawned as the man stared up at him. He coughed. "This your better world?" he asked deliriously, his throat harsh and raw from Alliance questioning and still too far gone to save.
The Operative shook his head. "This is," he answered. The captain jerked as the blade slid through his center, an apology at the tip of a sword. "Rest now," he said, and pulled the katana free, and wiped it with silk as he walked away, another life bleeding out behind him. There were others who needed to be saved as well.
Inara could not decide which seemed bleaker, their situation, or the sterile, featureless surroundings the guards escorted them through. The space was otherwise abandoned, and the unsettling desolation crept through her like frost warning of further bad weather. In the disquieting dreams she'd had, River had shown her a place like this in stolen visions. A glimpse, that had morphed into a surreal journey through frozen worlds and battlefields and tombs.
As a girl Inara had entertained herself with fairytales and stories about the spirit world. There, she could escape from the tower into the wilds. Then her mother crossed over, and the fantasy lost the appeal. Later she learned she had always been far closer to that world than she wanted to be, halfway there already; living, and in some ways already gone. She had been specially selected, and it wasn't as beautiful or lovely as she had hoped. Story of her life, really.
She knew this place like her last breath. If she should stay here, and allow her friends another chance, she would. She couldn't offer much else for them anyway. So it wasn't her fast approaching end that frightened her, but rather the prospects of who else she might find there with her.
Surrounded as they were, it wasn't until they had nearly passed through that Inara realized the foreboding gates had finally opened for her. The soldiers packed them into the lift tight, an oubliette of smooth steel walls. Another disappearance, unheard and silent through the black soundless and crushing around this prison. She was determined that would not be the fate of her friends. A blessing, that they were all standing so near; Kaylee was right beside her, and the soldiers were paying more attention to Zoe and Jayne and their penchant for brawling as the two gunhands slumbered.
Serenity's mechanic was just a girl, barely into her womanhood, and Inara sometimes wondered what Mal had been thinking, letting such a dear heart into the dangers they faced aboard the ship. Yet Kaylee had proven herself time and again; there was a special kind of bravery to fly around on the edge of civilization with all the treachery and aggression out there.
Right then Kaylee was a bundle of shivering nerves, her russet hair ruffled and her cheeks smeared with oil from the engines she had been working on. With a little reassurance and encouragement, she wouldn't falter. Inara pulled Kaylee into a hug - over the shoulder, a suggestion of shelter - and absorbed those fears until the trembling subsided almost with relief. "I think they're just holding us for now," Inara speculated. They hadn't killed them yet, after all.
Kaylee drew from her warmth. A little reassurance and encouragement and she was better. "Sorry how I acted 'bout you and Simon," she said, voice still quavering.
Inara felt another pang of regret over the incident, but couldn't help a wistful smile and a surge of affection of the girl. Of all the times and of all the things to apologize for at the moment. She wondered if she would see them again after this. "I should have told you all," she admitted.
"Kinda see why you didn't though," Kaylee answered. Another thought, sadder. "Cap'n doesn't even know he saved you."
The companion demurred, her eyes half-lidded, a fan of dark sooty lashes to hide her small sense of victory. "Perhaps it's for the best." Inara carefully slipped the screwdriver she'd pickpocketed from one of the guards into the heart-patch adorned front pockets of Kaylee's turquoise over-alls, then concealed her syringe in the marigold folds of her silk robes. "Getting arrested and forgetting everything he ever taught me? I can only imagine that lecture." Her words belied unexpected pride at the stealth of the exchange. No, instead he would tell her that she was not a petty thief like him and that she should never stoop to that. In between accidental compliments and trying not to praise her.
She smiled at Kaylee, who grinned back, and she tried not to think of it as a goodbye, but a joke shared between friends. The soldiers moved them out from the elevators towards the cell blocks.
- - - - -
Stars scattered in the night, coalesced from the stellar dust from a far away sun and others that came before. A spark, scintillating into a network, a stream, like the lights and streets of a city. Ghost images trying to live up to an ideal. Phantoms. Echoes. All in her head, cerebral impressions upon her senses, her memories. Cortex - shell, outer layer, surface, bark of a tree with brachiated roots and canopy. A sacred ash fed by the well lake and springs of wisdom, tended by the three maiden giants. There they lived, breathing myths, all beasts and mortals dying by the laws writ there.
Individual. Isolated. Connected. A cascade of electricity, whirling around her. The branches crackled against the sky like lightning. With a dedicated source, it would not short out. Beware all the tiān xiǎo de that might filter in though, bad influence on impressionable minds.
They thought she wasn't listening, too far under. She could hear everything, could never stop. Saw herself from the outside. Broken wreck and deadly assassin concealed behind dark curtains. The signals were crossed, needed to ensure her loyalty, her obedience. They had stimulated her temporoparietal junction, inducing another dissociative episode. Hadn't anticipated her defense. They had made her too strong. Suspended between here and there, simultaneously strapped to the chair and center of the storm. Louder here. Innocence under the malice, unaware of their actions as the would-be gods played with them.
She reached out into the current raging around her. The disruption sent ripples throughout the entire network, to each individual node. Land of butterflies and bluebirds and forgotten memories. A virtual reality, bound intricately to the other lives that sustained it, both the incorporeal and their changeling impostors. A suggestion arced towards her, seeking, imperative, invasive. They would drown her if they could. She intercepted the thought, and it unraveled in her hand.
These thieves, of both bodies and souls. Con artists down in the eighth circle with the vipers, smiling and biting. This could work both ways. Live by the sword, die by the sword. All weapons were double-edged.
Voices drifted to her as though on the breeze, other tortured students of the academy, friends, family. They imbued her. Her lifeline. Thread through the maze. Frustrate the devouring monster lying in wait. Need only follow it back and she would find them. She had her guide. Sialia - Cho, so insistent. All of them so desperate to reclaim what was theirs. Perhaps they were cheering her on.
Dive into the deep, dowsing herself for spirits. The shock might have killed her, quickening of synapses, but she knew the way back. Answer the rallying cry. The sea boiled, all of it away. They gathered to her, and she emerged, eyes open, released from bondage, and they followed her like fledglings down the hall.
- - - - -
The Ezrans had been arriving for almost an hour now, grumbling and marching through the streets to gather, lit by the glow of the fuel fires behind the line of Alliance soldiers. At first when there had been a call away from fighting the blaze to deal with a situation at the north barricades, they thought they were just going to have to disperse curious civilians and turn looters away. Instead, they'd found a near riot that began jeering the moment they appeared along the wall.
The men and women of the regiment gazed out over the throng, their Iskellian laser carbines at the ready and growing ever more irritable from every shout directed at them. The lieutenant looked about ready to start yelling himself. "We're shining the light of civilization on this desert pit. They could at least be grateful," he bit out, gripping the rifle stock like a stranglehold.
Not that they could really understand any of it. "You'd think if they were going to try to insult us, they'd speak a language we actually know," Josie added. She saw Mick frowning as he ran it through the translator. Dà huò lín tóu. If he was concerned this was serious. "What're they saying?"
"Slavers, plague rats, curses involving goats," Mick answered with forced nonchalance. "And something about explosive sleep poison. They're demanding medicine."
It took Pvt. Haverson a moment to process that. "The flashbangs?" Josie asked, disbelieving.
The citizens had started to attack the roadblocks in a frenzy, working to tear the obstacles down and swarm the wall. A thrown rock nearly winged the lieutenant's ear, and that prompted him out of his indecision into frustration. "They don't like non-lethals, maybe they'll appreciate this," he growled, hand pressed to the speaker and microphone in his helmet. "Turrets, lay down scatter fire on my signal." He pulled his side arm and fired into the air, three times, rapidly. They surged forward, outraged and undeterred.
Was that the signal? Josie wondered. The civilians were now too close, the turrets would just slaughter them. She glanced at Mick, and they pulled their concussive grenades. A single red shot seared into the night.
- - - - -
When last he had seen Captain Reynolds, there was fire in his eyes and soul. They had been adversaries then, a fight for survival, for unattainable ideals, for all the lives on Miranda, lost and forgotten; for revenge for an fleet destroyed, for an entire settlement of friends and an entire planet of strangers. Alliance justice had cut down both innocents and the unsavoury in its crusade by blade or bombardment alike; at the time, the Operative had not known the full extent of that guilt, had seen the atrocity brought to the skies overhead but not his own. Then he had witnessed the truth he had been sent to silence, forced to acknowledge what they had created and what he would preserve. The Reavers attacking the fleet, all those dying were his own fault, his own failure, complicit with the actions of his superiors. There was no better world, only monsters.
From that perspective, their actions had been self-defense. Humbled, he had granted the crew of Serenity pardon, and Reynolds, now merely an enemy of an enemy instead of his prey, had threatened violence if they ever crossed paths. The Operative promised he wouldn't. There is nothing left to see. The ship had rumbled free from the bounds of the ground and sky, and a former true believer had disappeared among the machines and rough hewn storehouses of the docks.
He was beyond redemption. So many times he had offered his victims an honourable death for the sake of the Alliance, and that had almost been his own fate. The captain had taught him the only reason for his continuing mortal defiance, however - to merely fall on his sword was too easy, and too painless, for the penance he deserved. His mind had been in a turmoil still, haunted by the ghosts of the lives he had been responsible for, the long list of his crimes.
They surrounded him again now like an arctic chill. This was a charnel house, and they were all Reavers on either side of the glass.
The cell might as well have been vacant. Reynolds was a man who could lose everything and not be cowed, who endured pain and torture with alarming regularity. A larger than life personality, and yet imprisoned in this endless white space he should look so small. All of that irascibility and determination had been extinguished; no more roguish banditry, brave enterprise, or downtrodden dignity, only nightmares for company. The years seemed to weigh on the captain's beaten and haunted features, old hardships and the newer electrical burns drawn across his face. A lifeless body in an orange jumpsuit, left to waste away in the dangerous specimens lab. Shrunken to an empty husk.
Those blue eyes stared out from shadowed, skeletal sockets as the captain glowered at some phantom from the past. Reactions remained, instinctive; the prisoner had curled in on himself with his back to the wall, motionless and hunched over as though ambush were imminent.
The Ratched's commander had left to prepare the other captives for his visit, and the Operative stepped through the invisible seal in the barrier. Reynolds tensed at the intrusion, both aware and not. Their gazes met, a sudden distrust and anger without recognition or reason. This response to the interrogation drugs was not uncommon; memory enhancers and truth serum could have volatile results on prisoners with violent backgrounds. One time the Operative had seen six marines struggle to carry away one man, uncontrollable and enraged by the horrors he had been forced to relive. He could still remember the screams.
Then Reynolds rolled onto his feet, trying to circle to one side, assessing, dangerous. This was no longer a man, but a feral animal. The Operative drew his blade in sorrow, a merciful scrape of metal. The captain lashed out in response, almost staggering into the deadly steel. Bare metal bit sharp and cruel as Reynolds ducked under the arc of the swing and grasped at the cold edge. A red gash opened unfelt along the palm of his offhand.
The momentum of the feint jerked the Operative off his feet and separated him from his weapon. He scrambled back up as the captain lost his balance and stumbled. The blade clattered to the ground, Reynolds skidded on his side to a stop, and did not, could not rise. Paralyzed. Weak. The sedatives had done their work.
He retrieved the blade, the hilt back in his hands like an old friend. A well placed boot knocked Reynolds over onto his back, and through the haze, a light of familiarity dawned as the man stared up at him. He coughed. "This your better world?" he asked deliriously, his throat harsh and raw from Alliance questioning and still too far gone to save.
The Operative shook his head. "This is," he answered. The captain jerked as the blade slid through his center, an apology at the tip of a sword. "Rest now," he said, and pulled the katana free, and wiped it with silk as he walked away, another life bleeding out behind him. There were others who needed to be saved as well.
Last edited by Bytemite on Mon Oct 01, 2012 9:45 pm; edited 2 times in total
Bytemite- Posts : 680
Join date : 2012-06-25
Re: Eidolon Postings
Bytemite Mon Aug 13, 2012 1:00 pm
And with this new chapter, we're all caught up.
I confess some inspiration from your fic with Zoe as a mercenary, Wytch, and GR's pre-series fic about Wash and Zoe.
=================================
Chapter 35
"Clear," River announced, and Kaylee ripped the control panel off the wall in a shower of sparks.
- - - - -
The Alleyne family tradition was one of stealth and survival and a hierarchy of command. She'd been raised like that. Yes ma'am, yes sir, right away. Only let her guard down a few times in her life. First time had been an early mission with a posse chasing some fugitive horse thieves, her before even her monthlies, but tall, showing signs of the woman she'd grow into. They'd been getting close, made their camp. Then one of the men with her had gotten some ideas. That'd been her first kill, and she hadn't thought much of it. Ended another man the next day when they found their targets, brought back enough of the bounty for some supplies before they left the world. Just regular life on the rim.
Zoë was alert or else. Even with Wash, at first. He was a flyboy, seemed to know everyone in every bar, a girl in every port, and if not he could make friends fast enough anyway. Took her a six months to notice his glances instead of the bushy mustache and the messy blond hair and the floozies, realize he was serious about her. After they started getting together, she slowly eased into trust, went back and forth on whether to be hard with him or soft. Soft won out most of the time. The man got under her armor like no one else, with his combination of jokes and silly sweet talk. Her wedding night with Wash, they'd both been drinking some, she'd been the most carefree she'd ever feel in her whole life.
Then Wash had been skewered by Reavers and a blood-splattered harpoon big around as the tree trunk it'd been carved from, because she hadn't been paying enough attention.
Life had taught her how to be ready for anything, even waking up with a concussion, or in this case, a concussion, hormones, and a bad taste slicking her tongue. Like finding out she was pregnant had somehow made it real, and now her body was catching up with a vengeance on what maternity was supposed to be like. Then again, maybe it was where she was, locked up in the brig, on this ship, that had her rolling out off the bunk before ever her eyes were open, sickened and steeled for a fight. Smelled like the Alliance, and that would have her on edge in her sleep.
Weren't any purple or grey in all this blank white, but they'd be around any time. She remembered how it was, ever-present from the time they loaded the remnants of the last stand onto a dropship like cattle, sick and injured and dying along with the healthy, all the way to when the prisoners were discharged as a show of amnesty. Only half of the POWs even made it to the camp.
Hera hadn't gotten ruined like Shadow, but the bombardment had played with the climate some. The protostar blazed down on its closest world as near a thousand combatants and sympathizers lined up single file at the gate for processing. Survive heatstroke, and they were given a number, pushed into a stall, then stripped and hit with itchy delousing powder. The officers and the troublemakers were then singled out for further interrogation. Some were killed resisting, those thinking the Alliance were intending worse and those with their minds too far gone to understand. Everyone else got two sets of prison orange to alternate days and were assigned to a work group. Guards and overseers were there for every roll-call and random search, inspection, and beating.
So her opportunity would come around to check on her soon, and then she'd catch them by surprise. Zoë slid along the bulk head, searching - no obvious seams, but her best guess would be opposite the bare frame pallet. She crouched, coiled for the first strike.
"Zoë?"
The question was indistinct and muffled, but unmistakeable. "Kaylee?" she wondered. Must be in the next cell over. That was handy; the little mechanic couldn't fight, but she could spring Serenity from the lockdown. Just had to free herself first, then Kaylee, and find the others.
She heard the panel workings open with a hiss and focused again, tensing, when the girl leaned into the cell like a daisy after the sun, head turning and hair bouncing until Kaylee spotted her. "There you are."
Her headache wasn't near so bad as concussion dreams about an unarmed flower-child waltzing through a gorramn fortress and legionnaires alike to her rescue. Reality had taken a whimsical turn. She pushed herself upright; no time for disbelief. "How'd you get out?"
"Hotwired the door open," the girl said, a marvel of engineering prowess distilled down to pure blithe and off-hand, a brave front to hide the note of anxiety. Kaylee was the only person in the verse who could still be cheerful even when nervous and hurried and every reason to be.
Zoë just nodded. Carefully. "Any alarms?" Shake of the head, hesitant but negative as she stepped through to the hallway.
A few Alliance harpies were just laying out there around an electronic console, purplebellies and faces to the floor. Eerie and motionless except for breathing. Almost like they were sleeping. "Somethin' wrong with 'em," Kaylee said, wringing her hands. "They're all like that. Every one." The girl looked to Zoë for her experience, for assurance. "Is it the Pax?"
She spotted some of their contraband scattered around the keyboard and moved towards the guard station at a brisk pace, searching while trying not to disturb the bodies or the glossies. "We ain't stayin' long enough to find out," she answered, and tightened her gunbelt.
Laughter rose around them, tinny with reverb. "They wanted to play." River and intercoms. Last couple times that hadn't exactly been an encouraging combination. They'd already be dead if River were hunting them, Zoë supposed. Alliance had just played the teenager's shattered mind like galanty, and her own skull like percussion. Was the girl recovered? She might not be herself. Scarier than that, a sleeper agent could be activated or influenced and even River wouldn't know until the trap closed around them. "Queen of Hearts, double or nothing. Two down."
An admission, maybe, for knocking out Jayne and attacking her, but no, Kaylee walked over to another set of controls. "Inara?" In here, the answering call. A few twists of a little turnscrew and the mechanic was stripping wires and rerouting circuits in moments. In all of a minute Kaylee had cracked the door security. Their curly haired lodger rushed out in relief and her greeting about lifted Kaylee off the floor. A genteel whisper of thanks, a squeeze, then released.
In the meantime, Zoë located the guard keys and was working on the handcuffs. No easy task on account of the numbing field, but she got them off her, the feeling returning to her fingers like pins and needles. "Let's get your hands free," she suggested.
"Oh! Sorry," Inara exclaimed, her own arms notably unbound, and turned to Kaylee. A flick of the wrist and the manacles dropped.
The girl whistled. "Y'learn that from the cap'n too?" she admired.
She rolled her eyes. "Please. Mal's rather better at getting himself into handcuffs than out of them." Zoë appraised her. "Companion secrets," Inara added primly. As though the Guild was steeped in tricks out of a spy novel and that explained everything, and maybe it did. Surely put off any unwanted and possessive suitors Inara might attract. "Where is everyone else?" she asked, tentative as a deer tip-toeing out onto a frozen lake, and stopping when she saw the unconscious women.
Kaylee looked up at the ceiling. "River?"
"Here."
All the anger seemed so pointless now, over the war, over Wash. Life was what mattered, what she'd had and the future. Her husband, and her child, and the crew, and the captain, all of them. No matter how much she questioned, Zoë was true to them. Fiercely. Wasn't a blind loyalty, or conflicted. They'd been asked, had the option, whether or not to risk everything to do something right. Wash chose, same as her. She had to do the same again, one more time, she would. For her child. For her friends. "We'll find them," Zoë said.
- - - - -
Wham wham wham bam wham. The incessant pounding found its obnoxious match only in the tirade of Chinese cursing and insults issuing from the adjacent cell, and was only exceeded by its source. "Jayne?" Simon shouted.
The commotion paused for much appreciated and all too brief respite, then resumed, louder and and more adamant. "Snake eatin' guī' ér zi! Yán xíng zhòng dian de líng chí next to him!" Jayne bellowed. "Zhòng ni men nòng si!"
The sentiment was entirely mutual. Clearly the guards had a sick and twisted sense of humour. He sighed in aggravation and flopped down on the mattress in his cell, trying to bury his face and his ears.
No such luck. The man left him no recourse but sarcasm. "Maybe they can't hear you!" Simon snapped. The man-ape stopped. Had something happened? He lifted his head cautiously, then sat up when no more invectives were forthcoming. "Jayne?" he tried, his voice small.
"Simon!" Kaylee burst into his room and nearly tackled him. He was almost too shocked to process anything, but he had enough wherewithall to return her enthusiastic hug. Until he realized they were lying on a bed, the rest of the crew looking on in amusement, and they'd had a serious argument not more than a few hours ago. She extricated herself awkwardly, her cheeks flushed and looking embarrassed.
The doctor untangled himself from her embrace and composed himself. "Okay?" he asked her. She nodded quickly. Tiān na, River and the captain were missing. They had all been manhandled if not knocked out, and Zoë was pregnant. He scanned the rest of them, settling on Serenity's first mate for priority triage. He should examine them all later. "Where's River?"
"Diversion." The intercom answered him. "More to save."
- - - - -
She ignored Jayne's leer as she released him from bondage, and his grumbling at her as he and Zoë begin looting the guard station while she helped Simon. Kaylee was occupied searching through the logs, and so Inara was the first to see the vast containment chamber, to stand on the stair landing between the two sections.
Light flickered along the edges of the forcefields, glimmering squares refracted like shards of frozen crystal, a transparent maze spread out across the expanse. The tormented denizens of the quarantine eyed the progress of the visitors, prowling along the barriers hungrily. For a moment, she could hear only her own breath, her fears, and the whispers of River's prophecy floating over both. "But fiercely ran the current, swollen high by months of rain..."
The others joined her, cautious as they spotted the prisoners. "Reavers," Zoë confirmed gravely.
Jayne stopped outright, refusing to go any further, but Inara darted down the stairs two at a time, afraid of what she might discover. Her friends tried to call her back, but she had desperation guiding her steps. An urgency like a half-remembered nightmare hurried her, a strange dream becoming all too real. "And fast his blood was flowing, and he was sore in pain..."
She found him amid a streak of red in all the white, where he had collapsed on the far side of the lonely room, staggered footprints crimson around him. Inara pressed her hands against the clear wall between them, a ripple of static crackling over the surface as she reached for him, searched for an opening. Then she was through, scrambling to him, his name a mantra on her lips like a prayer, her eyes stinging.
Too late, one too many times. How often did she have to see him sprawled and lifeless? Fool, dear fool, always sacrificing without any thought to himself. She did not crave his chivalry, his suffering; she wanted peace for him, restoration, his warrior soul becalmed and healed. He persisted despite pain and tragedy and gave her spirit enough to fight for the short time she had left, even as she wished to spare him from further losses. Now he was fading, and Mal would take her hopes for him, and for herself, with him. She had killed him, as she feared, and despite his best efforts she would die anyway. A glimpse of his injuries, and she half stumbled, half knelt by his side, stricken herself by the sight.
She laid her palm over his heart. Still warm, pulsing with life, seeping into her fingers. Tears pricked at the corner of her eyes, both relief at his survival and grief at his condition; his face was marked with fresh bruises and burns. "Oh Mal," she whispered, a breath struggling past the tightness in her throat. "What did they do to you?"
Mal jerked and startled at her touch, and for a moment she thought he was having a seizure. She pinned him, devoting her full body to the effort of trying to keep him still, from doing further harm to himself. "And heavy with his armor, and spent with charging blows..." River almost sang.
"Don't you dare!" Inara said, fiercely, trying to hold onto him as he seemed to be shaking himself apart from within.
His eyes were open, wide, shocking blue and almost moreso from the pain, and she stared back, trying, begging for him to focus on her. She saw then, his mouth moving, voiceless, her name - Inara, Inara.
"I'm here," she called back, and cradled his face in her hands, but he recoiled, and she realized then that he couldn't see her, as though trapped in a memory. He wasn't convulsing, he was struggling in his confusion, weak from the blood loss but still almost strong enough to overpower her. "Mal, it's me, I'm here," she insisted.
"Inara," he managed, almost a croak, turning his head to each side trying to find her.
Suddenly she was resolved, she wouldn't leave him forsaken in wherever horrible place his mind couldn't escape. She wrapped her hands around his shoulders and before he could shrug her off, she pressed herself against him, slid herself up to close the distance between them and lay her check to his and murmur in his ear. She wasn't even sure if he could actually hear her, but he slowly stilled, breathing her in, her hair and skin, the jasmine scent of her favourite bath soap heavy in the air around them, soothing him.
She felt his arms enfold her, and she stayed like that a moment, then pulled back, and this time he watched her. A swallow, uncertain. "This real?" he asked, and she nodded. He glanced around, taking in their surroundings, and he didn't like what he saw. "No," he said, shaking his head with renewed horror. "No, not here. Anywhere but here," he pleaded.
Inara blinked at him. "We're going to get you out," she promised.
"Not me!" Mal objected, "You!" He winced, gritting his teeth as he became aware of the pain again. "You shouldn't be here," he rasped, brokenly. "I was s'posed to protect you from this. Save everyone. I couldn't. I can't..." She was forfeiting him again to the shadows, his tone hollow.
Her heart wrenched painfully in her chest. He thought he had failed her and everyone else, that she wasn't really there, that he was talking to a ghost. "Mal, no," she said, desperate to reassure him, but he wasn't listening, or perhaps he couldn't hear her anymore.
She tried to stroke his fringe of brown hair, but someone had her by the arm, and was dragging her away. She resisted, frantic to be by his side. "Move!" Simon demanded, "I need to see!" The entire crew burst into the cell, Kaylee gasping at the blood. Zoë grabbed Inara and held her back, to give the doctor space to work, but Inara could not excuse their interference. They pulled her to the side.
Mal reacted, wild, berserk, and lunged at them, almost faster than they could react. Desperation. As though his dizzying agony and blood loss were forgotten, he saw only that she was threatened and in danger, and that he had to fight off the intruders. Jayne intercepted him with a knock to the jaw. Mal didn't stay down, but bounced back up, turning on the mercenary. "And oft they thought him sinking, but still again he rose."
Only a low thrum from a stun rifle was able to save the two men from each other. The captain fell again, and Inara cried out in alarm, but this time he didn't move, blessedly unconscious. Zoë lowered the muzzle with only the slightest shake to her hands, but all off them looked on, watching him, unnerved. "Best get moving," she said, her voice steady as ever. "Kaylee, you ever figure out where the hangar controls are?" The mechanic nodded, frightened and speechless. "Let's go then," Zoë decided, releasing Inara with a jerk of her head towards the doctor and the captain. Inara moved quickly to gather Mal, then Simon stepped forward to assist. "Take him. We'll tie him down if he acts up again."
I confess some inspiration from your fic with Zoe as a mercenary, Wytch, and GR's pre-series fic about Wash and Zoe.
=================================
Chapter 35
"Clear," River announced, and Kaylee ripped the control panel off the wall in a shower of sparks.
- - - - -
The Alleyne family tradition was one of stealth and survival and a hierarchy of command. She'd been raised like that. Yes ma'am, yes sir, right away. Only let her guard down a few times in her life. First time had been an early mission with a posse chasing some fugitive horse thieves, her before even her monthlies, but tall, showing signs of the woman she'd grow into. They'd been getting close, made their camp. Then one of the men with her had gotten some ideas. That'd been her first kill, and she hadn't thought much of it. Ended another man the next day when they found their targets, brought back enough of the bounty for some supplies before they left the world. Just regular life on the rim.
Zoë was alert or else. Even with Wash, at first. He was a flyboy, seemed to know everyone in every bar, a girl in every port, and if not he could make friends fast enough anyway. Took her a six months to notice his glances instead of the bushy mustache and the messy blond hair and the floozies, realize he was serious about her. After they started getting together, she slowly eased into trust, went back and forth on whether to be hard with him or soft. Soft won out most of the time. The man got under her armor like no one else, with his combination of jokes and silly sweet talk. Her wedding night with Wash, they'd both been drinking some, she'd been the most carefree she'd ever feel in her whole life.
Then Wash had been skewered by Reavers and a blood-splattered harpoon big around as the tree trunk it'd been carved from, because she hadn't been paying enough attention.
Life had taught her how to be ready for anything, even waking up with a concussion, or in this case, a concussion, hormones, and a bad taste slicking her tongue. Like finding out she was pregnant had somehow made it real, and now her body was catching up with a vengeance on what maternity was supposed to be like. Then again, maybe it was where she was, locked up in the brig, on this ship, that had her rolling out off the bunk before ever her eyes were open, sickened and steeled for a fight. Smelled like the Alliance, and that would have her on edge in her sleep.
Weren't any purple or grey in all this blank white, but they'd be around any time. She remembered how it was, ever-present from the time they loaded the remnants of the last stand onto a dropship like cattle, sick and injured and dying along with the healthy, all the way to when the prisoners were discharged as a show of amnesty. Only half of the POWs even made it to the camp.
Hera hadn't gotten ruined like Shadow, but the bombardment had played with the climate some. The protostar blazed down on its closest world as near a thousand combatants and sympathizers lined up single file at the gate for processing. Survive heatstroke, and they were given a number, pushed into a stall, then stripped and hit with itchy delousing powder. The officers and the troublemakers were then singled out for further interrogation. Some were killed resisting, those thinking the Alliance were intending worse and those with their minds too far gone to understand. Everyone else got two sets of prison orange to alternate days and were assigned to a work group. Guards and overseers were there for every roll-call and random search, inspection, and beating.
So her opportunity would come around to check on her soon, and then she'd catch them by surprise. Zoë slid along the bulk head, searching - no obvious seams, but her best guess would be opposite the bare frame pallet. She crouched, coiled for the first strike.
"Zoë?"
The question was indistinct and muffled, but unmistakeable. "Kaylee?" she wondered. Must be in the next cell over. That was handy; the little mechanic couldn't fight, but she could spring Serenity from the lockdown. Just had to free herself first, then Kaylee, and find the others.
She heard the panel workings open with a hiss and focused again, tensing, when the girl leaned into the cell like a daisy after the sun, head turning and hair bouncing until Kaylee spotted her. "There you are."
Her headache wasn't near so bad as concussion dreams about an unarmed flower-child waltzing through a gorramn fortress and legionnaires alike to her rescue. Reality had taken a whimsical turn. She pushed herself upright; no time for disbelief. "How'd you get out?"
"Hotwired the door open," the girl said, a marvel of engineering prowess distilled down to pure blithe and off-hand, a brave front to hide the note of anxiety. Kaylee was the only person in the verse who could still be cheerful even when nervous and hurried and every reason to be.
Zoë just nodded. Carefully. "Any alarms?" Shake of the head, hesitant but negative as she stepped through to the hallway.
A few Alliance harpies were just laying out there around an electronic console, purplebellies and faces to the floor. Eerie and motionless except for breathing. Almost like they were sleeping. "Somethin' wrong with 'em," Kaylee said, wringing her hands. "They're all like that. Every one." The girl looked to Zoë for her experience, for assurance. "Is it the Pax?"
She spotted some of their contraband scattered around the keyboard and moved towards the guard station at a brisk pace, searching while trying not to disturb the bodies or the glossies. "We ain't stayin' long enough to find out," she answered, and tightened her gunbelt.
Laughter rose around them, tinny with reverb. "They wanted to play." River and intercoms. Last couple times that hadn't exactly been an encouraging combination. They'd already be dead if River were hunting them, Zoë supposed. Alliance had just played the teenager's shattered mind like galanty, and her own skull like percussion. Was the girl recovered? She might not be herself. Scarier than that, a sleeper agent could be activated or influenced and even River wouldn't know until the trap closed around them. "Queen of Hearts, double or nothing. Two down."
An admission, maybe, for knocking out Jayne and attacking her, but no, Kaylee walked over to another set of controls. "Inara?" In here, the answering call. A few twists of a little turnscrew and the mechanic was stripping wires and rerouting circuits in moments. In all of a minute Kaylee had cracked the door security. Their curly haired lodger rushed out in relief and her greeting about lifted Kaylee off the floor. A genteel whisper of thanks, a squeeze, then released.
In the meantime, Zoë located the guard keys and was working on the handcuffs. No easy task on account of the numbing field, but she got them off her, the feeling returning to her fingers like pins and needles. "Let's get your hands free," she suggested.
"Oh! Sorry," Inara exclaimed, her own arms notably unbound, and turned to Kaylee. A flick of the wrist and the manacles dropped.
The girl whistled. "Y'learn that from the cap'n too?" she admired.
She rolled her eyes. "Please. Mal's rather better at getting himself into handcuffs than out of them." Zoë appraised her. "Companion secrets," Inara added primly. As though the Guild was steeped in tricks out of a spy novel and that explained everything, and maybe it did. Surely put off any unwanted and possessive suitors Inara might attract. "Where is everyone else?" she asked, tentative as a deer tip-toeing out onto a frozen lake, and stopping when she saw the unconscious women.
Kaylee looked up at the ceiling. "River?"
"Here."
All the anger seemed so pointless now, over the war, over Wash. Life was what mattered, what she'd had and the future. Her husband, and her child, and the crew, and the captain, all of them. No matter how much she questioned, Zoë was true to them. Fiercely. Wasn't a blind loyalty, or conflicted. They'd been asked, had the option, whether or not to risk everything to do something right. Wash chose, same as her. She had to do the same again, one more time, she would. For her child. For her friends. "We'll find them," Zoë said.
- - - - -
Wham wham wham bam wham. The incessant pounding found its obnoxious match only in the tirade of Chinese cursing and insults issuing from the adjacent cell, and was only exceeded by its source. "Jayne?" Simon shouted.
The commotion paused for much appreciated and all too brief respite, then resumed, louder and and more adamant. "Snake eatin' guī' ér zi! Yán xíng zhòng dian de líng chí next to him!" Jayne bellowed. "Zhòng ni men nòng si!"
The sentiment was entirely mutual. Clearly the guards had a sick and twisted sense of humour. He sighed in aggravation and flopped down on the mattress in his cell, trying to bury his face and his ears.
No such luck. The man left him no recourse but sarcasm. "Maybe they can't hear you!" Simon snapped. The man-ape stopped. Had something happened? He lifted his head cautiously, then sat up when no more invectives were forthcoming. "Jayne?" he tried, his voice small.
"Simon!" Kaylee burst into his room and nearly tackled him. He was almost too shocked to process anything, but he had enough wherewithall to return her enthusiastic hug. Until he realized they were lying on a bed, the rest of the crew looking on in amusement, and they'd had a serious argument not more than a few hours ago. She extricated herself awkwardly, her cheeks flushed and looking embarrassed.
The doctor untangled himself from her embrace and composed himself. "Okay?" he asked her. She nodded quickly. Tiān na, River and the captain were missing. They had all been manhandled if not knocked out, and Zoë was pregnant. He scanned the rest of them, settling on Serenity's first mate for priority triage. He should examine them all later. "Where's River?"
"Diversion." The intercom answered him. "More to save."
- - - - -
She ignored Jayne's leer as she released him from bondage, and his grumbling at her as he and Zoë begin looting the guard station while she helped Simon. Kaylee was occupied searching through the logs, and so Inara was the first to see the vast containment chamber, to stand on the stair landing between the two sections.
Light flickered along the edges of the forcefields, glimmering squares refracted like shards of frozen crystal, a transparent maze spread out across the expanse. The tormented denizens of the quarantine eyed the progress of the visitors, prowling along the barriers hungrily. For a moment, she could hear only her own breath, her fears, and the whispers of River's prophecy floating over both. "But fiercely ran the current, swollen high by months of rain..."
The others joined her, cautious as they spotted the prisoners. "Reavers," Zoë confirmed gravely.
Jayne stopped outright, refusing to go any further, but Inara darted down the stairs two at a time, afraid of what she might discover. Her friends tried to call her back, but she had desperation guiding her steps. An urgency like a half-remembered nightmare hurried her, a strange dream becoming all too real. "And fast his blood was flowing, and he was sore in pain..."
She found him amid a streak of red in all the white, where he had collapsed on the far side of the lonely room, staggered footprints crimson around him. Inara pressed her hands against the clear wall between them, a ripple of static crackling over the surface as she reached for him, searched for an opening. Then she was through, scrambling to him, his name a mantra on her lips like a prayer, her eyes stinging.
Too late, one too many times. How often did she have to see him sprawled and lifeless? Fool, dear fool, always sacrificing without any thought to himself. She did not crave his chivalry, his suffering; she wanted peace for him, restoration, his warrior soul becalmed and healed. He persisted despite pain and tragedy and gave her spirit enough to fight for the short time she had left, even as she wished to spare him from further losses. Now he was fading, and Mal would take her hopes for him, and for herself, with him. She had killed him, as she feared, and despite his best efforts she would die anyway. A glimpse of his injuries, and she half stumbled, half knelt by his side, stricken herself by the sight.
She laid her palm over his heart. Still warm, pulsing with life, seeping into her fingers. Tears pricked at the corner of her eyes, both relief at his survival and grief at his condition; his face was marked with fresh bruises and burns. "Oh Mal," she whispered, a breath struggling past the tightness in her throat. "What did they do to you?"
Mal jerked and startled at her touch, and for a moment she thought he was having a seizure. She pinned him, devoting her full body to the effort of trying to keep him still, from doing further harm to himself. "And heavy with his armor, and spent with charging blows..." River almost sang.
"Don't you dare!" Inara said, fiercely, trying to hold onto him as he seemed to be shaking himself apart from within.
His eyes were open, wide, shocking blue and almost moreso from the pain, and she stared back, trying, begging for him to focus on her. She saw then, his mouth moving, voiceless, her name - Inara, Inara.
"I'm here," she called back, and cradled his face in her hands, but he recoiled, and she realized then that he couldn't see her, as though trapped in a memory. He wasn't convulsing, he was struggling in his confusion, weak from the blood loss but still almost strong enough to overpower her. "Mal, it's me, I'm here," she insisted.
"Inara," he managed, almost a croak, turning his head to each side trying to find her.
Suddenly she was resolved, she wouldn't leave him forsaken in wherever horrible place his mind couldn't escape. She wrapped her hands around his shoulders and before he could shrug her off, she pressed herself against him, slid herself up to close the distance between them and lay her check to his and murmur in his ear. She wasn't even sure if he could actually hear her, but he slowly stilled, breathing her in, her hair and skin, the jasmine scent of her favourite bath soap heavy in the air around them, soothing him.
She felt his arms enfold her, and she stayed like that a moment, then pulled back, and this time he watched her. A swallow, uncertain. "This real?" he asked, and she nodded. He glanced around, taking in their surroundings, and he didn't like what he saw. "No," he said, shaking his head with renewed horror. "No, not here. Anywhere but here," he pleaded.
Inara blinked at him. "We're going to get you out," she promised.
"Not me!" Mal objected, "You!" He winced, gritting his teeth as he became aware of the pain again. "You shouldn't be here," he rasped, brokenly. "I was s'posed to protect you from this. Save everyone. I couldn't. I can't..." She was forfeiting him again to the shadows, his tone hollow.
Her heart wrenched painfully in her chest. He thought he had failed her and everyone else, that she wasn't really there, that he was talking to a ghost. "Mal, no," she said, desperate to reassure him, but he wasn't listening, or perhaps he couldn't hear her anymore.
She tried to stroke his fringe of brown hair, but someone had her by the arm, and was dragging her away. She resisted, frantic to be by his side. "Move!" Simon demanded, "I need to see!" The entire crew burst into the cell, Kaylee gasping at the blood. Zoë grabbed Inara and held her back, to give the doctor space to work, but Inara could not excuse their interference. They pulled her to the side.
Mal reacted, wild, berserk, and lunged at them, almost faster than they could react. Desperation. As though his dizzying agony and blood loss were forgotten, he saw only that she was threatened and in danger, and that he had to fight off the intruders. Jayne intercepted him with a knock to the jaw. Mal didn't stay down, but bounced back up, turning on the mercenary. "And oft they thought him sinking, but still again he rose."
Only a low thrum from a stun rifle was able to save the two men from each other. The captain fell again, and Inara cried out in alarm, but this time he didn't move, blessedly unconscious. Zoë lowered the muzzle with only the slightest shake to her hands, but all off them looked on, watching him, unnerved. "Best get moving," she said, her voice steady as ever. "Kaylee, you ever figure out where the hangar controls are?" The mechanic nodded, frightened and speechless. "Let's go then," Zoë decided, releasing Inara with a jerk of her head towards the doctor and the captain. Inara moved quickly to gather Mal, then Simon stepped forward to assist. "Take him. We'll tie him down if he acts up again."
Last edited by Bytemite on Mon Dec 17, 2012 11:46 pm; edited 4 times in total
Bytemite- Posts : 680
Join date : 2012-06-25
Re: Eidolon Postings
wytchcroft Wed Aug 15, 2012 6:28 pm
Ah, Alleyne back-story. It really does help round out Zoe's character.
wytchcroft- Posts : 377
Join date : 2012-06-25
Location : looking for noodles
Re: Eidolon Postings
Bytemite Thu Aug 16, 2012 12:36 am
Yeah. I kinda grabbed stuff you guys suggested then put a True Grit spin on it.
Bytemite- Posts : 680
Join date : 2012-06-25
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