** Chapter Five: Morning

In Which there are Uncomfortable Encounters, Real Coffee, and the Planning of Activities of an Illegal Nature ** A/N: meant to get this out yesterday, by my dad’s in hospital for heart stuff, so I was there all night. Finished this today in a massive effort to stop thinking about it. Worked pretty good too! **

Serenity slumbered quietly, her interior lights lowered to simulate night. It helped keep the crew’s circadian rhythms in order. Wash woke often during the ‘night’ to check on the auto-pilot now and then, but when they were waking for the day, the crew woke in odd shifts. Zoe was an early riser by habit, although the lure of her warm bunk and soft, cuddly husband frequently triumphed over years of training. Jayne was one to sleep as late as he could, and the Captain clung to no set pattern. Kaylee was often the first up, some irregularity in the hum of the engines, or just a need to check on her girl driving her from sleep. This morning was no exception, and by the time she started tinkering with the air filter behind an access panel in the skinny aisle between the passenger dorms, she’d already cleaned the port condensers, which had collected some carbon, and rewired the co-pilot’s console, hopeful that the warning light that kept popping up every time they went to full burn would shut off. Nothing wrong with the engine, so it had to be in the console. And now she was wriggled half-in and half out of the tiny crawlspace in the bulkhead, trying to figure out where that funky smell was coming from.

“Has Jayne been smokin’ those nasty stogies again?” she muttered to herself as she wrestled the filter panels from their casings. When they finally popped free, she heard the captain’s voice yellin’ for her and she was thrown back, surprised, and cracked the back of her head on cold metal. “Aw, jingcai, Kaylee. Ow!”

She wriggled backwards out of the hole, clutching her skull with one hand, two filter panels in the other and crawling on her knees and one elbow.

“Oh, hell. Kaylee, you okay?” Mal hustled across the lounge and into the cramped hallway after his mechanic. He knelt beside her, mistaking the shaking of her shoulders for tears. She turned and leaned back against the bulkhead, dropping the filters and laughing.

“Well, I guess you’re alright,” Mal said, a smile starting to work its way across his face. He saw the mechanic’s eyes widen perceptibly as he heard the soft swish of one of the dorm doors opening.

“What’s the racket?” The captain turned to see far more than he ever wanted to see of the doctor. Apparently he had been roused from sleep and hadn’t bothered with putting on a shirt. Mal didn’t know if the boy was wearing pants, as he didn’t allow his eyes to drift that far south, for his own sanity. He fixed his attention firmly on Simon’s face and answered, considering that Kaylee seemed to be a bit speechless.

“Fine, fine, doc, just that- ah-Kaylee was, uh- what was it you were doing, Kaylee?’

The girl waved the filters a bit dazedly.

“Right, cleaning the air filters and she bumped her head- uh- just a bit. Nothing requiring immediate attention. Probably hold long enough for you to –uh- freshen up?”

“Now Capt’n, let’s not be too hasty, there.” Kaylee seemed to have regained her voice, as well as picked up a lusty smile somewhere along the way. “I could be concussed.”

“Oh, Kaylee, are you all right?” Simon started towards her, only to be stopped by the captain’s upraised hand.

“I’m sure she’s fine doc. I’ll do the old ‘how many fingers?’ you just go, uh, back to sleep. Or get dressed.” He shot Kaylee a glare. “Got work to be done.”

Simon cast a doubtful look at the captain, but he didn’t argue.

“All right, but if Kaylee starts fainting or vomiting, you get to clean it up, fair?”

“Yeah, yeah doc.” Mal was beginning to get desperate. “Just, put on a shirt or somethin’. You’re blinding me here, your Paleness.”

Simon finally registered his state of undress and blushed to the roots of his hair-and the waistband of his pajama pants.

“Right.” He turned back into his room and quickly shut the door behind him.

“Oh, Cap’n. That was shiny.” Kaylee sighed and leaned her head back against the bulkhead, wincing a bit. “Did you see that? All smooth and pale and absolutely completely covered in muscles.”

“I saw. Hell, I’m still seein’. Now shut up about it.”

“Aw, but Cappy! Those abs!”

“Bizui, will you?”

“Oh, makes you wanna run your-”

“Cut it out!”

**

Book woke early as well, to read and pray or even just to putter about the kitchen with his tea. So he was surprised to find another soul in the galley, messing about with the temperamental coffee maker when he came in around 0700 to commence his putter.

“Well, good morning, Miss O’Malley.”

“GAGH!” She jumped a mile and nearly burned her hand on the hot plate below the coffee carafe. The shepherd smiled and so did she, a little sheepishly.

“You scared me there, Shepherd! You ought not be sneakin’ up on folk like that. ‘S rude.” “Terribly sorry.” The chuckle in his tone belied his words and he skirted her mess and began fixing his tea. As it brewed, he cast an eye over the stove. Something that looked remarkably like scrambled eggs was staying warm in a skillet while what were obviously real tomatoes sizzled happily in another. “Breakfast?”

“I’m a ‘breakfast’ kind of girl,” she agreed happily.

“Are those really eggs?”

“No,” Saoirse admitted sadly. “Don’t I wish. ‘S protein. Buttered eggs'll last for weeks, but they're a mite too fragile to pack in that duffle o' mine. No room for a box of 'em either. I’m trying to get them to taste more like eggs and less like scrambled cardboard.”

“Rosemary. Maybe a bit of thyme as well,” he suggested. Laying her hands on either side of the small stove, Saoirse sighed.

“You’d be right there, and a pat of butter too, but I can’t see Mal springing for dried herbs, much less the equipment to grow ‘em, like a Bunk Garden or somethin’. And I didn’t bring any with me.”

The Shepherd raised a finger with an enigmatic smile and opened one of the cubbies behind him. Rows of little jars lined the bottom and tiny bundles sat atop them. Saoirse’s eyes brightened and she began to smile.

“Well, well, Shepherd Book. I see you’re a man full of surprises.”

“Oh,” he dismissed as he searched for a bundle of twiggy, dried rosemary and a bottle of thyme “Aren’t we all?”

Saoirse smiled as she carefully seasoned the “eggs”, her eyes cast down.

“You know, I absolutely hate cooking. But after Mam died, Da made us all learn, so we could be self-sufficient. Bradan took to it, but the rest of us…”

“Bradan?” Book inquired gently, stirring a little sweetener into his tea.

“My little brother,” she said as she smiled and reached into a drawer for a knife. “the next one down from me. He’s about the doctor’s age, I’d say. 25.” She dug into the bag at her feet and triumphantly produced a carefully wrapped package. “He made this.” She unwrapped it and cut into the warm brown loaf.

“Real bread?” the Shepherd asked, eyebrows raised. “Not something one sees a lot of in the Black. Something to do with shipboard atmo. Yeast won’t rise. It’s expensive, too.”

“My favorite. It’s a bit squashed, but it’ll do.” She shook her head as she rummaged through one of the cubbies which still had a working refrigeration system. She found a large tub of something a bit heavy, opened it and scowled. “You know, this margarine is an unlikely shade of orange.”

Book smiled indulgently and attempted to strike up conversation about something other than food.

“Are you the oldest child, then?” he asked as he scraped the fried tomatoes into a bowl. “These smell lovely, by the way.”

“I am not,” his cooking partner admitted “Big family, though. My brother Pat’s the oldest, Padraig, he’s 37, then Barry, Finbar the Second, then me, I’m 29, Bradan’s 25, the twins, Declan and Cathal are 23 and Ruadhri, the youngest, he’s 18.”

“The only girl? You poor thing!” Book chuckled. Saoirse laughed aloud at that.

“Only occasionally. I held my own.”

“How old is Finbar?” She stopped cutting, the knife paused halfway through the bread.

“Pardon?”

“Well, you told me everyone else’s age, but not Barry’s.”

Brown eyes were fixed firmly on brown bread as she sawed the knife through it viciously.

“He would have been 32 this April.”

“I’m sorry, were you very close?”

The knife stopped again, seemingly of its own accord as Saoirse stared down at it. She was silent a moment before she shook her head, as if to clear it, red curls waving softly. She looked up at the Shepherd and her eyes were dry as she spoke.

“Yes.” She finished slicing the bread and put the knife down as she spoke. “He and I both ended up in the 57th Overlanders with Zoe and Mal. He was a great marksmen, I mean amazing. Could hit a playing card from fifty paces with a pistol.” She chuckled. “Plums tall. So he ended up a sniper. I learned demolitions. We were at Du-Khang, and he was pickin’ off purplebellies from a third-story window…elementary school I think. Perfect view of the line. They were throwing mortars at us, just softening us up a bit, really. ‘Cause there was this big line of cavalry, just waiting. Rollers, nasty things. Armored, these giant treads. No need to stick to roads either, they just push through buildings. Urban warfare worked for us, until they started knockin’ down our cover. Anyway, Mal and Zoe and this boy, Tracy- Tracy was-”

“We’ve met.” Book had started scraping the ‘eggs’ into a bowl, as Saoirse retrieved two plates.

“Oh, Right then. Idiot. Sweet boy, dumb as a sack o’ hammers. Anyway, him, Mal and Zoe drag Lt. Welch over to join up with the 22nd yelling over the com for me to meet ‘em there, but to see how much damage I could do along the way. Barry’s in a good spot though, and Mal doesn’t want him to move. So I turn off my com and head straight for the rollers.”

Book looked up, startled, as he set the bowls of food on the table. The storyteller noticed and smiled a little as she poured herself a cup of coffee.

“I know, good way to get yourself killed, yeah? But I was loaded down with all kids of nastiness-grenades, a little CP-HE-that’s-”

“Plastic explosive.” This time it was Saoirse who looked a little taken aback. But she just shrugged, sat down and began to scoop food onto her plate. When it was full, she crossed herself and bowed her head. When she looked up, Books head was likewise lowered. She waited until he raised it to continue.

So I’m duckin’ and dodgin’ through warehouses, trying to get close to these monsters. Not too hard, considerin’ that they’re all sort of sitting around in streets and alleyways, waiting for the ‘go’. I mange to get IED’s- I’m gonna assume you know what those are too, Shepherd?”

“’Deed I do. Improvised Explosive Devices.” She nodded

“I get IEDs packed into the treads of two of those huge wang ba dan- Rollers’re easy to bring down, you get close enough. Problem is they’re usually movin’, and they just squash you. Well these are stittin’ still, like they knew I was comin’ and laid out the best tea set. Well I only had enough to take down two, so I set the fuses and get to steppin’. Never even picked me up on the external cameras. I know, ‘cause if they had, I’d be a little grease spot on the pavement. I get a little east of the humpers- ‘scuse my language Shepherd,” Book shook his head and waved her on. His mouth was full of tomatoes and he was too involved in the story to stop her long enough to swallow. “Anyway, I’m three blocks away and three-quarters of the way to the school district when they go. Heard the noise and felt the shock that far away, and I just keep goin’. In fact, I started going faster, ‘cause that’s when I picked up a couple of tails. I ran straight by an Alliance infantry unit, camped out in this little burned-out restaurant, and when a couple of purplebellies see a Browncoat run by right after an explosion, well, only one thing they can do. But I wasn’t payin’ attention to where I was stepping and-”

“Wo de ma! Land mine?”

“Close, well done. I get within sight of the banner-you know, the Banner Black, Yellow and Green?”

“Might’ve heard of it once or twice.”

“And I’m waving up at Barry in a window, still running when I hear this little whirring sound. The Alliance had these nasty little hundan called Seekers. Some of ‘em were worth stealin’ just for the explosives inside. But this wasn’t one of the straight-forward, fly-at-you-blow-your-head-off brand. No way. Too quick, too easy. Dead soldiers don’t attract a lot of attention on a battlefield; after all, there’s not much more you can do for ‘em. Wounded, though, tend to elicit sympathy. And if they don’t they grab you by the ankle and threaten to shoot you unless you take ‘em off to the medic. I know, I’ve seen ‘em do it. So this lovely device floats about a foot in the air and when I come by, it explodes, and suddenly the air is full of these tiny pellets. Motion-sensored. I was lucky it was to one side of me, or I could have lost use of both legs. Instead, just my left knee gets tore all to pieces. I go down. And now I’m on my back, facing down about twelve purplebellies that had been comin’ up behind me. I can’t see, I’m almost passed out. I’m squeezing that trigger for all I’m worth. And the last thing I saw that day was my big brother, screamin’ like a damn banshee, thunderin’ down on ‘em, and they’re droppin’ like flies. I woke up in hospital a week later.”

“That’s quite a story, nianqing de.”

“Oh, it ain’t over yet. They sent me home. Girl can’t run around shootin’ people, blowin’ things up and generally mayhemin’ with basically no knee. Took me three damn years to get the prosthetic. Three years of layin’ in bed while Barry is off fightin’ the good fight. And you know why? Because on Hibernia, there’s a waiting list. Without Alliance supplies comin’ in every few weeks, during the war things got a little scarce. And, of course, we live in a cash society. And that’s something a farmer, even a strong farmer like me da, doesn’t have enough of. We ended up buying the damn thing at three times the price on the black market. The whole thing just sucked out Ma’s last strength. So I’m finally getting back on my feet, wobblin’ around on crutches even, when ol’ Sarge shows up at the homestead. He tried to break it to us gentle, but Ma had just passed three weeks before, and there wasn’t any consoling any of us. So, sin-sin*. Ma’s dead, Barry’s dead, and Ruadhri’s gonna be dead soon if we don’t do something about it.”

Book sat back and looked at his plate. It was empty and he wasn’t sure if he’d tasted any of it. He sighed.

“Maybe you’d better tell me about this job.”

“You know, I’d really like to wait until everyone else is here. I’m after telling it to Mal and Zoe and I don’t really want to do it more than necessary.”

“Fair enough.” The preacher solicitously changed the subject. “Why did you tell me all that, Miss O’Malley?” She shrugged.

“Got the collar. I know you’re not a Catholic priest, but…Guess I’m just used to confessing.”

“Somehow I don’t think that’s all.”

“I like telling stories where Barry comes out the hero. And quite a few people have already heard that one. Guay, preacher, Mal and Zoe were THERE. Nice to have a fresh audience.”

Book nodded and got up to refresh his tea. “A born storyteller, eh?”

“Suppose so. Try the coffee, Fath- er, Shepherd.” He smiled at the slip and did so, tasting it before he tried to sweeten it. Turned out he didn’t need to.

“Is this real coffee? Not engine lubricant thinly disguised, but actual coffee?”

**

Saoirse managed to put Book off until the crew was roused and gathered around the table. Grateful hums of appreciation over the tomatoes were eventually completely out-classed by the exclamations of delight over the coffee. Wash, in particular couldn’t seem to get over it.

“Real coffee? I mean, taste it! It’s a bean party in my mouth!”

That earned him some completely puzzled looks. Jayne, who had been stuffing his face full of scrambled protein and sopping up the tomato juices with his bread, snorted with laughter.

“Seriously! It’s manna!”

“Manna is bread from heaven, son.” Book corrected gently, with a smile.

“Well, then,” Wash clarified, holding up a thick slice of brown bread, “THIS is manna. And THIS is coffee from heaven. It’s heaven’s complimentary continental breakfast. What I’m wondering is, what’s room service like?”

“Non-existent.” Saoirse grinned. “I don’t do delivery service.”

“I believe the traditional beverage with manna is dew, actually.”

“Hump dew!”

“You can thank my brother Bradan for the bread when we get there. And I picked the coffee up on Santo. Right cheap, too.”

“Speaking of getting there,” Mal interjected

“Nice segue, sir.”

“Thanks, Zoe. Anyway, I believe Irish has a job for us, just a little jailbreak.” Saoirse grimaced. “Well, ok, not so little, but the actual jail should be easy enough, right?”

“Yeah,” Saoirse allowed. “I’ve got a contact inside who should be able to help out. Thing is, we can’t just send him a wave. His communications are watched. He’s awfully good at the cloak-and-dagger routine, though and I’ve had one of my boys send him a message. Should have a meet set up by time we arrive.”

“Your boys?” Trust Wash to pick up on things other people missed.

“Yeah,” Mal sighed. “look, we get into this, I feel you all oughta know what you’re getting into. Saoirse, do the honors, please?”

She briefly explained her activities since the war and why her (almost) completely innocent and (nearly) upstanding little brother had gotten picked up by the HPC.

“See, thing is, he’s not just in for some run-of-the-mill theft or murder. They’ll charge him under the Defense of the Realm Act.” Inara gasped, although the pronouncement didn’t seem to have the same effect on the rest of the crew.

“The what?” Kaylee’s face was scrunched in confusion.

“It means they can put him in front of the firing squad with no more than a military tribunal. No full trial, no defense counsel, just dead little brother.”

“Thanks, Inara, that won’t keep me up at night.” Saoirse shot a bit sharply. Her expression softened and she continued. “She’s right though. Now, because of a lot of red tape and paperwork, they’ll be holding him in Dun Laoghaire Regional, which is a cakewalk. Until four days after we hit atmo, when they’ll move him, under armed guard, in an armored vehicle, to Hibernian Planetary Penitentiary.”

“Which is…more like one of those fixed carnival games where you can’t get the ring around the post ‘cause the post is thicker than the ring?” Wash ventured.

“Well, kind of. It’s got key codes and retinal scans and lots and lots of HPC officers. Dun Laoghaire just has locks, bars, Snouty and a couple of grunts. My man’s just the night Captain, but he may be able to do quite a bit.”

“And Dun Laoghaire is closer to the O’Malley’s farm, which is where we’d be makin’ our homebase.” Mal interjected, before anyone could ask about Snouty. Wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise. Not that an asthmatic rat terrier was much of a surprise…

“Yep. And once you folks are safely away, I’d be movin’ young Ruadhri into 5 Mespil Road in Dublin with me. Safer. I can keep an eye on him and he can hide in plain sight.” She stopped and seemed to think about it a moment. “Actually Mal, I’d appreciate the loan of one of your shuttles for the job. Faster than Da’s truck and less likely to get pulled over on a deserted dirt road.”

“I think we could swing that…for a slightly higher fee, mind.” Mal said with a wink.

“The alternative never even crossed my mind.”

“Speakin’ o’ fees-” Jayne interrupted.

“I’m prepared to go as high as 45. That’s including the shuttle rent, Mal, and no arguments. You know I always give you my best, straight up. No haggling. I ain’t got more that I can spare.”

“Now forty-five don’t sound-”

“I believe she means forty-five thousand credits, Jayne.” Simon whispered.

“Oh. Right.” The mercenary settled down to figure out his cut (rather a long procedure involving carrying ones that were never in the original figure and a couple of separate tries at counting on his fingers) as Mal took a sounding of where everyone stood. After the more conventionally altruistic members of the crew had said their piece (generally amounting to “I’m in”) Jayne looked up with a grin. “Four and a half grand! Not bad! That could keep me in booze and cooze for a spell!

And with that ringing endorsement, Saoirse breathed a sigh of relief and the crew sat down to plan properly.

*** A/N cont'd: Anybody who spots the rampant Terry Prachett references in this, and the next chapter gets a gold star! And maybe a little cameo. Here's a hint: one's really really easy.

*sin-sin: Irish, pronounced shin-shin. "That's that."

Saoirse: Sayr-sha Ruadhri: Rory Finbar: uh...Fin-bar. Easy. Bradan: Bray-den Declan: Dek-lan. Duh. Cathal: Cah-al (Cal, if you're talkin' fast) Padraig: Pad-rag...kinda. More like...Pad-rig. Or somethin. Hard to convey phonetically, but it's the Irish version of Patrick. Dun Laoghaire: Dun Leary