The Treasure of Lei Fong Wu

Chapter Seven

The skeleton framework for the new Mission House was starting to take shape in the heart of Meridian City. Book had helped the nine brothers who had come here to found the mission to raise the supporting walls, and now the monks and the volunteers from the community were assisting in hammering in supports and preparing the walls. When it was complete, this church complex would feed the hungry and clothe the naked. And provide spiritual sustenance to all who required it. Meridian City was a slum, the nearly lawless compost heap of humanity that had been born of Epiphany’s long journey into world-hood. It wasn’t the worst slum Book had seen, not by a long shot. Compared with some, this place looked like a bustling metropolis of commerce and community. The streets were reasonably clean, the buildings reasonably secure, and there was food in the market. He did see members of the local Tong prowling around – which probably accounted for the low crime rate, as the Triads disliked independents working their established territory – but apart from that he hadn’t noticed any blatant wrongdoing. The people of Meridian City were mostly Sinic Buddhists, with some confirmed Tao Chiang Taoists mixed in. A temple devoted to each of the religions stood in the square across the street from the Mission. But there were enough Christians to justify a church, and enough suffering to justify a mission, and his Order had never been afraid to send missionaries into areas not known for their hospitality. Not that they had been poorly treated. Quite the contrary. The saffron-robed, shaven headed monks from the Sacred Tripitika Temple across the way had even come by to offer their labor in raising the walls, and the bearded Taoist priests had collected alms to feed the crews and recruited workers, in a rare display of interfaith cooperation. In Book’s experience, the minority Taoists in Sinic communities considered Buddhism a flawed and foreign religion – despite its practice on the Sinic worlds, and in The Middle Kingdom itself, back on Earth That Was, for centuries. The Buddhists, on the other hand, often viewed the Taoists as atavistic shamans clouded by meaningless superstition. But both were happy to sit and break bread – okay, noodles – under the eaves of a Christian church. Book liked that. That was the spirit – if not, indeed, the manner – in which all the great religious figures had encouraged mankind to live. While he did not figure his sect had anything in particular to do with it, the idea of Jesus, Lao Tzu, and Shakyamuni all sitting around discussing the affairs of the ‘verse while eating noodles was a highly amusing notion. He wiped his brow and hefted his hammer again, about to start back up the ladder, when Brother Cyril came by looking for him. “You do good work, Brother Book. This has been a very impressive day. I thought it would take twice as long to put this together.” Book looked up at the skeleton slowly taking form, squinting in the bright sunlight.. “We’re a long way from having it together,” he remarked. “But this has been a good start. It will certainly get people’s attention.” “It already has,” the jovial monk said, shifting his woolen robe around his prominent belly a bit. Almost all of Epiphany was a tropical clime, but the monks had insisted on their traditional brown wool robes. They stood out as much for the sweatstains under their arms as they did the crosses around their necks. “I just received a wave from ECTC. They’ve offered to donate roofing materials – tiles left over from hotel construction in Apex. A perfect heat sink for this sunny weather. We can wet it down and let evaporation cool the Mission, keep our costs low.” “That would be an improvement,” agreed Book, wiping the sweat from his own brow with the corner of his shirt. “Although from the talk I’ve heard, there are those who would not be pleased to shelter in a church made from Company materials.” “They were owned by the Company at one time,” Cyril said, shaking his head. “As were many of the people. But they were made by the honest people of Meridian City. I’d like to view it as the Company returning to them, in some small way, the product of their own labors.” “Interesting perspective,” agreed Book. He wiped away sweat again and stretched his back. Bones popped. “See if they can’t donate me a new body, too. These old bones haven’t worked this hard since . . . well, since the bad ol’ days.” Cyril nodded gravely. “We did work a lot harder then,” he agreed, patting his ample stomach. “Who would have thought we’d end up here, all those years ago?” “I’ve always had a spiritual bent, even then,” Book admitted. “But I’m a lot happier toiling on this mission than I was . . . in our former employ.” “At least we aren’t shooting any more.” “Well,” Book said, “in all honesty, I might’ve backslid a bit a couple of months ago. Special circumstances. But I took no life.” “I’ve been tempted myself. The local Tong boss wants to shake down the church. I’m not going to let that happen, even if it means . . . You never really stop, you know,” Cyril said quietly. “You can’t ever stop. It gets to be part of you. Becomes who you are.” Book raised his eyebrows. Any Tong boss who thought Cyril was a man to lightly push around would be in for a serious – and nasty – surprise. The man had talent. He wore a monk’s robe now, and carried a Bible, but he had a talent for mayhem that Book had rarely seen. “Not a part I want to play anymore,” Book said, shaking his head. “I was a young man then. Young, idealistic, stupid, and greedy. Now I’m old, wise, broken, and cynical. Speaking of cynical, did my wave go through?” “They got it,” Cyril nodded. “Don’t know how much help you think you’re doing, though. Futile.” “All preaching is futile, Brother,” Book said with a grin. “Especially preaching to the likes of them. That doesn’t make it unworthy. The data I’ve collected on my journey, I reckon it will serve someone in good stead, mark me.” “I have my doubts. Not that I’m worried about it – the Almighty will take care of the ‘verse and its problems. But Book, what of your own path? Are you any closer to grace? Last time we spoke, you were headed into deep contemplation. Now you just show up, on an unregistered transport in a . . . dubious line of business. From what you’ve said, you sail with outlaws, fugitives, whores and mercenaries. Have you departed from your own journey? I worry,” he finished, simply. “There are men of conscience even in the most dire of hells,” Book countered. “Who is more in need of wise counsel, the sinner or the saint?” “You aren’t burnishing their souls, Brother,” admonished Cyril. “Doesn’t look to me like you’re really trying to save anyone.” “Y’know, after a lot of thought on the matter, I’ve decided that they must save themselves,” Book said, philosophically. “I’m merely along for the ride. Each one of them is on their own journey, and it’s rare that simple scripture can sustain them.” He put down the hammer and gave the monk his full attention. “That’s what is so intriguing about walking the world with them. You and I, we pray and contemplate, study and meditate. We reflect on the words and the parables and try to fill our lives with their meaning. For us, our faith is a comfortable old robe we wear around the house. We take it for granted, and it’s always there for us. Might need a good wash every now and then, but all the better. Just makes it more comfortable. “For them, my shipmates and those like them, what faith they have – in God, man, woman, government, fate, luck, anything – is more a . . . a spacesuit. It isn’t something that makes them comfortable and warm and happy – it’s what keeps them alive. They don’t study the words because they’re too busy surviving, staying free. Staying in the sky another day.” Cyril didn’t look convinced. “But for what reason? Without higher purpose, something greater, why bother? Seems to me that the Word was meant for the likes of them most of all.” Book looked at Brother Cyril thoughtfully. “Hard to say. We can’t all be Shepherds and monks. Not everyone’s inclined. Not everyone has the calling the same way. Truthful, I don’t think He ever expected everyone who heard what He had to say to drop everything and run off to help his fellow man, just like that. The ‘verse is more complex than that. No, I think He understood that you have the knowledge of what is right, what is just, what is loving, and you hold that in your heart as you walk the world.” “And this radical interpretation of the sacred scriptures you’ve developed – which, by the way, touches on heresy at a couple of key points – this separates seekers from sinners?” Brother Cyril looked cynical, as he took out his long pipe and began loading it. “What we do?” observed Book, looking around and indicating the church construction, “it’s nice. It’s important to those who we minister to. Important for us: we’re living the life we were called to. Wouldn’t trade it for anything. But everyday you get up and feed the hungry, or clothe them, or teach a kid to read, or . . . well, pretty much everything we do in this life of contemplation and service, we do it because we know it’s Right.” “Is that why? I thought it was for the stylish fashions.” “My point is, we know that it’s Right. It’s right there in our face, everyday. The Righteousness of our daily life is obvious. “But for them . . . they’re lives are not so simple. Every day, they face a true test of their souls, and they aren’t the easy tests. It’s uncomplicated to be a saint in a church. Much harder to be a sinner caught between the Lord and the ‘verse everyday, and deciding on which one is more important – for that particular day. These folks, they stare Evil dead in the eye. Sometimes they fight it – sometimes they shake hands with it and call it trade. Doesn’t mean they like it, or condone it . . . but they are there, and they are making those decisions. To try to make good church-goin’ folk out of them, well, not only would it be against their nature, some of them, but it’d be a disservice to those whom they help in their own way.” “You should have been a preacher,” Cyril mocked. “And there are holes in that steaming pile of theology I could herd cattle through. With properly cultivated Faith, we see the right choice every day, and that choice is for the Lord and His works.” “Ain’t always completely crystal clear where the Lord might reside on some of these issues they face. And faith . . . religious faith, as far as the scriptures go, it can be mute at the damndest of times. Usually when even a broad hint would be useful. Failing that, then I think having faith in something that sustains you when God doesn’t seem to be paying attention, that’s the important thing. That’s what they are teaching me, I suppose. You must have faith in something, even if it isn’t God. Faith in your fellow men, in your family. Cling to it in the direst of circumstances, while everything else we are is burned away.” “If lamentation, suffering and adversity made one holy, my mother would be a gorram saint,” grunted Cyril. “Without the Word, without Grace, there can be no salvation. Faith, alone, can’t lead to salvation.” “These folks, they ain’t looking for salvation. They’re looking for . . . endurance. Persistence. They don’t want to go anywhere – Heaven or Hell – they just want to keep going.” “So what do they have faith in, if you don’t preach God’s Word to them?” Cyril asked, gamely. Book knew the monk enjoyed this kind of intellectual debate on such abstract theological topics. He did himself, after a fashion. Sparring with the young, ultra-rational and clinically insane River had sharpened his skill in this arena of late. Cyril continued, after enveloping his head in a cloud of smoke. “What is it that keeps them going, if not faith in the Lord? And where the hell are they going, anyway?” “They don’t need a destination. They are already there. As tenuous as it is, their faith in . . . Serenity, whatever that might mean to them, is their spiritual spacesuit. It’s what allows them to keep striving, keep flying.” “So the next obvious question is what the hell are you doing there, Book?” Cyril asked. “You figure to guide them around in circles? While adversity scours their souls clean? Or are you just trying to vicariously relive your glory days through a sinning pack of liars, thieves, whores and killers?” “They don’t . . . need me,” Book said frankly. “Not like you mean. I’m a shipmate who happens to be a Shepherd. Oh, I talk to them, much as I can. I’ll minister to them, if they need me. And if I can help them stay on their course, well, so much the better. Can’t help but think my time with them might be drawing to an end though – especially in light of that . . . data I gave you.” “We shall see,” Cyril murmured. “Speaking of heathens, someone came to the gate a while ago, asking for you. Says he’s from that transport you like so much. Big fella. He’s been out front waiting patiently for you to come down off that ladder.” “Mal? Here?” Something thrilled in Book. Mal was no ordinary sinner; he was that most difficult of cases, a man of great faith poorly treated by God’s plan. Book had been cautious about discussing the subject – any attempts to do so overtly he knew would be met with hostility. But there was more than one way to minister, without preaching the Gospel. Perhaps he had begun to make inroads with him – especially if he was showing up here to help. Or maybe there was a problem, one that couldn’t be discussed by wave. “I’ll send him over. Wanted to check it with you, first.” “Oh, by all means, thank you Brother.” As the monk strolled away, Book climbed back up the ladder and tried to think what might have made the captain give up his vacation to come to this squalid place. And offer to assist in the building the Mission, perhaps? That seemed a little too altruistic for Mal. Something dramatic must have happened, though, to be here – perhaps the crisis of faith Book had seen building? Perhaps a long, dark night of the soul that had inspired a Samaritan reaction? Something, perhaps, concerning the Companion? No doubt he would make a thin and caustic excuse for his presence in an attempt to prove that he had not resolved his conflict with God – he was merely helping out a friend. Mal was a very prideful man, one of the most prideful Book had ever met – and that was saying something, considering Book’s long and inglorious history. No matter. The fact that he was here was proof enough to Book that something was churning in Malcolm Reynold’s soul, and for that he was grateful. “Howdy, Preacher,” a Rim world accent called out to him from below. Book looked around – and dropped the hammer. Jayne Cobb was the last person he had expected to see here. “Uh, Jayne?” “That’s me,” the mercenary affirmed. “Never been to a naked church afore.” “I see that. Except I’m not sure I believe it. Jayne? What are you doing here?” “Came t’see you. Had some thoughts. Figured I might talk ‘em out with you. I’m powerful confounded, Shepherd. I’m . . . I’ve sinned.” His face had a disturbed look to it, which was troubling in and of itself. But admitting he had sinned – Jayne, the walking id, the man who had by his own admission killed close to a hundred people in his life, some in cold blood, some who were friends, Jayne . . . had sinned? And admitted it? And felt bad about it? “Well, now,” Book said, climbing slowly down off the ladder. “That is quite a confession.” “I mean it, Shepherd. I . . . somethin’ happened to me, and I . . . I don’t know who else I can talk to. I took a transport over here as soon as I could. You mind chattin’ a spell?” “That’s what I’m here for, son,” Book said kindly. “Let’s take a break and go sit in the shade. I’ll get us some tea and you can tell me what happened.” Five minutes later they sat on a stack of lumber, glasses of cold tea in their hands, watching the patterns of the crowd walking by in the busy square. “Now,” Book began, “tell me about this sinning of yours.” “Uh, you gotta keep this under your hat, right?” He looked concerned. “Yes, in my Order the confessional is sacred. As long as you don’t tell me you’re going to kill— as long as you don’t tell me you’re going to . . . as long as you don’t tell me you’re going to hurt people, innocent people . . . oh, hell, my lips are sealed by sacred oath. Whatever you say to me stays between me, and you, and the Lord.” The mercenary looked relieved. “Well, Shepherd, I’ve lain with a woman.” Book blinked. Was that all? That couldn’t be all. “Correct me if I’m mistaken,” Book said cautiously, “But that ain’t exactly a novel occurrence for you.” “Naw. Naw! You know I done it plenty. Hell, I ‘bout wore my pecker out at the Heart o’ Gold.” He looked pleased as he recalled what was, no doubt, a very fond memory. “That’s what I recall,” Book said gravely, just a trace of humor on his lips. Then it faded. “Was this woman . . . unwilling?” “No, no sir, she was right willin’. Eager, you could say. Horny as a—” ‘Despite the fact that the official consecration has yet to take place,” interrupted Book, raising his hand for Jayne to stop his description, “this is still sacred ground, and a house of God. You want to confess your sins, I’m all ears. I don’t really need the sordid details, though. God’s already seen it.” “I guess so. Sorry, preacher,” Jayne said, honestly remorseful. “She was willin’. Picked her up at a bar, took her out, showed her a good time. Got mugged. Scared off the mugger – didn’t kill him none, I swear – just scared him mightily.” “All right, go on.” “We was havin’ a grand ol’ time. She did me—” “Details, son.” “Yeah, sorry. We had . . . relations out on th’ plaza . . . then again in the lift . . . then a couple more times in my room.” “Well. While I applaud your stamina, as you are not – I presume – betrothed, this does constitute a sin according to the Book. But I confess I’m a might confounded myself. This bothers you, son? Why her, and not the others?” “Cause she went and paid me for it, Preacher! I woke up the next day, rarin’ to go again, m’Willy back up to fightin’ trim . . . and there was money an’ a note, and she thought I was a yanse lang, a gorram boy-whore!” It all tumbled out. As each new piece of data fell into place, Book started giggling. Then roaring with laughter. “I knowed this was a mistake,” Jayne muttered, trying to get up. Book’s hand stayed him. “Enough! I’ll stop. I promise. I’m sorry, son, you just caught me off guard. She paid you. And now you feel . . .” “I feel cheap. I feel used. Like I weren’t a proper man.” Despite the implicit humor of the situation, Book could tell that Jayne was honestly perturbed. He tried to stifle his laughter and provide some comfort. “Son, son. You . . . she . . . look, there are a lot of people in this ‘verse. Most are very good people, who want nothing more than to live their lives in peace and be left alone. Some are not so nice – and for the record, I do put you in that category. No offense—” “None taken.” “—but you can’t live a life as you do and not expect some . . . consequences. Like an early grave. Or imprisonment. Possibly execution at the hands of the state. But I have to be honest with you son – I did not see this one comin’!” “Me either. I mean, I know I’m probably goin’ t’Hell. Been told too, often enough. Always figured I’d go one o’them ways you spoke of, too. Or, if I was lucksome, I’d be able to repent and get churched before I kicked.” “Well, there is always that,” admitted Book. “Although it isn’t the recommended course of action.” “Well, killin’ and theivin’ are ‘bout the only things I know, and the things I’m best at. And I’m in my prime, right now. I can’t give it up when I’m just startin’ to get paid. You know how it is.” “Back to the subject of your prostitution . . .” “Gorram it preacher, don’t be callin’ it that! I know that I’m goin’ t’hell. But I always reckoned it was for killin’ and theivin’. Not whorin’. That ain’t my . . . that ain’t my fortay, ain’t what I oughta get pinched for.” “But Jayne,” Book tried to explain. “The Lord forgives those lesser sins, too, you know.” “Well . . . what if I get to Hell, and they look at my book – ‘cause you just know there’s gonna be a book – what if they look in there and say, ‘Well Jayne, you were a desperate, vile murderer, and a despicable thief, and you’re gonna rot here in eternal pain and sufferin’ for all o’ Eternity, but in light o’ your sellin’ your body that one time, we’re gonna put you with the fancy boys.’ I couldn’t take it, Shepherd. I could stand Eternity surrounded by killers and thieves and ne’er-do-wells – Hell, it’s what I been doin’ since I was thirteen. But if I had to stare at a bunch o’ pretty boys damned for rentin’ out their peckers an’ their backsides, an’ have them think I was one o’ them, well, I don’t rightly think I could take it. Not for all o’Eternity. That’s a powerful long time.” “That . . . is a dilemma,” admitted Book. Despite the theological silliness of the appeal, he couldn’t deny that there was a real troubled soul at the heart of all this. And ministering to the soul – if not helping it save itself – was what Book had taken holy orders to do. “Jayne,” he began, after some thought, “it occurs to me that the way Hell must be set up, any punishment you may or may not garner from your sins here in the world would likely be carried out in order from the most serious to the most mundane. For example: Killin’ folk, that’s a sin, no doubt. Killin’ innocent folk, well, that’s a worse sin, and I dare say that Old Scratch would probably prosecute that more thoroughly – and first. Child molestation, that’d be right there towards the top, while stealing would be considerably lower – and circumstances would likely be taken into account.” He looked at the man, who was striving mightily to figure it out. “See what I mean?” “I think I do! You mean somthin’ like simple fu— uh, fornication, that’d be lower than somethin’ like . . . adultery.” He looked up. “By the way, Shepherd – what’s the difference between fornication and adultery?” “Uh,” Book said, thinking. “I’ll look it up and get back to you on that.” “Right. So beaten’ a man near senseless, that’d rate higher’n . . .” “Masturbation,” Book supplied. “Correct.” “Masturbation is a sin?” Jayne looked shocked. “Well, according to some interpretations,” admitted Book. “Oh, Lord, I’m in deep fe hua.” “Yes, no doubt. Again, it’s a matter of perspective. What I’m trying to say, son, is that regardless of how bad this has made you feel, in the grand scheme of God’s plan for the ‘verse, I seriously doubt it has much bearing on things. But I see it troubles you – so let’s try to figure out why.” “Why?” “A simple sin didn’t just make you travel a thousand miles to see me.” “Well . . . guess you’re right. I don’t feel . . . manly, now. Before, it was all about me, an’ what I wanted. Now I feel like she’s gone an’ made it about her, like I was some gorram circus monkey performin’ for her amusement! That can’t be borne, Preacher, not by me. I ain’t a yanse lang.” “Perhaps this is God’s way of teaching you a lesson in respect for womenfolk?” Or, thought Book, this was the most compelling case for the doctrine of Karma he’d ever seen. “I respect womenfolk!” Jayne defended. “I gotta momma, don’t I?” “What about the girls you . . . fornicate with? You respect them?” “They’re just whores, though. Not like proper womenfolk.” “So, being a whore means you ain’t proper?” “Well . . . yeah! Yeah, it does!” “So, the reason you feel powerful bad is because when someone paid you for their pleasure, you lost your self-respect. Because you don’t respect whores, and when someone went and treated you that way, you lost respect for your own self.” “Well . . . But preacher, I ain’t a whore. She just done made a mistake!” “It’s not about what she did, son,” Book said kindly. “It’s about how you feel about yourself. And about women. Whores are womenfolk – including more than a few saints and, according to the old Euroimperials, the bride of Christ himself. The job, it’s not respected much in the Book, it’s true; all sorts of things wrong with it. But it is a job, and one that seems to need doin’. Can’t say I hold with it, because I don’t. But the people doin’ that job, they’re just people, just doin’ a job. You respect a whore for her performance, but you don’t respect her as a person. Now the tables have been turned, and you got to look at life from the other side.” “So what do I do?” the mercenary asked, miserably. “I been treated like a whore – hell, I was a whore, accordin’ to her. You sayin’ that I need to re-evaluate my perspective on all o’ whoredom?” “That’s exactly what I’m sayin’, Jayne,” Book said emphatically. “Next time you’re with a workin’ girl, don’t just tell her she’s pretty and her . . . bosom intrigues you. Remember that she’s a person, just like you, doin’ a job, just like you. She may like the job – hell, she may have a bona fide vocation, like Inara does, but not the training or the trappings of a certified Companion. But there ain’t no reason why you should treat her with any less respect that you’d treat . . . Inara, or Zoe, or your mama.” There was a long silence as Jayne contemplated. Book could almost hear the rusty wheels turning in the man’s head. Finally, he sighed and leaned back on the lumber. Digging into a pocket, he pulled out a wad of Fed notes and handed them to Book. “Here. Take it. It’s what she gave me,” he said, sullenly. “Ain’t like me to part with coin lightly – and that’s a fair amount, didn’t know yanse lang made that much. But I can’t spend it. It wasn’t . . . it wasn’t earned proper. It’s dirty money. Ain’t money s’posed to be the root of all evil? I read that somewheres.” “Actually, the quote is ‘the Love of Money is the root of all Evil’, but it’s often misquoted. And I can put this to work here, good work. And thank you, Jayne. Never expected to see this side of you, truthfully.” “Hell, preacher, I ain’t even knowed I had this side o’ me. I reckon I got a lot o’ stuff to think through.” “Well sir,” Book said, picking up his hammer again, “Sometimes hard work is the best way to work through a problem.” He handed the hammer to Jayne, handle first. Jayne stared at it like it was radioactive. “Go on, take it,” Book encouraged. “I know for a plain fact that the next transport back to Apex don’t leave for three more hours, so you got at least two-and-a-half hours of penance for your sins to work out.” “Ai ya, Shepherd!” he exclaimed. “I done give you five hunnert credits!” “And your labor, on top of such a generous gift, will no doubt help bring you through this time of crisis. Might even shorten up that uncomfortable period in Hell. You never know. A couple of hours honest sweat, in exchange for a positive notation in that book you mentioned? Couldn’t hurt.” Jayne looked to the hammer, then back to Book. He swore and took the hammer. “You ain’t playin’ fair,” he muttered. “God don’t play fair,” he corrected, grinning wickedly. “I’m just here to keep score.” *

*

*

“Just got word from upstairs,” Mal said, yawning as he sprawled on the beach – the twenty-one hour day was starting to get to him, just one of the many dangers of being in the world too long. “Serenity will be back up and running day after tomorrow.” “Good news,” Wash agreed. “I’m starting to go planet-crazy. There’s only so much sun, sand, surf, fine food and luxurious living a man can take.” “And the sex,” reminded Zoe. “Don’t forget about the sex.” “I never forget about the sex,” Wash assured. “I was just being too polite to mention such a private and personal thing in mixed company.” “Since when?” Zoe asked in disbelief. “Since you went on ‘medical leave’ and threatened not to come back.” “Husband, you didn’t take that seriously, did you?” “When it concerns the sex supply, I always take it seriously.” “I didn’t realize I had that kind of power.” “Fe hua.” “Well . . . I should be back in business tonight.” “You know,” Simon said, philosophically, “I vote we return to the ‘private and personal’ thing.” “Second,” muttered Mal. “It ain’t like there’s a minor about – where is River, anyway?” asked Zoe. “She wanted to check out ‘probability anomalies in a real-world matrix’.” “What the hell is that?” “I’m a doctor. I’m not a . . . who ever it is that knows what the hell she was talking about. Divining the future from seagull droppings? Flipping coins until she gets a hundred consecutive ‘heads’? I gave up trying to understand River when I was fourteen.” “She ain’t that hard t’understand,” Kaylee objected. “We went shoppin’ yesterday, and she was about as normal as . . . well, as River can be. It was fun!” “It’s the meds,” Simon said. “An anti-psychotic cocktail I’ve put together. Enjoy it while it lasts: she’s already starting to adjust to it.” “Is that why she slapped you right in the face when you came back to the hotel last night?” “That’s what I’m guessing,” Simon said cautiously. “Some residual erratic behavior is to be expected. I’m just glad she wasn’t armed.” “She wouldn’t hurt her own brother . . . would she?” asked Wash. “She’s a surgically created paranoid schizophrenic with all manner of additional alterations to her brain. She’s been pumped full of God knows what kind of advanced drugs and nanotech, told all sorts of painful lies, and had the very fabric of her reality challenged on a daily basis for three years – three years which are tumultuous for nearly everyone, developmentally speaking. She hallucinates. If she didn’t recognize who I was, she might. Pass the cocktails, please. I’m not drunk enough by half.” “I hope she can be put right someday, though,” Kaylee said, biting her lip. “She’s nice. I mean, I like her as a person. She’s fun to be with.” “Yes, she likes you too,” Simon said, warily. “She considers you her best friend.” “Well ain’t that sweet!” Kaylee exclaimed. “I ain’t really had a best friend, a best girlfriend like that.” “Out o’ booze, Doc,” Wash said, sadly. “I’ll make a run to the bar. Why don’t you kids go play in the ocean?” “Yeah, we ain’t gonna have much chance to swim back on the ship,” Kaylee said, rising and grabbing Simon’s hand. He grinned sheepishly and stood, his tight, dark blue speed-swimming suit sticking to the chair only slightly. “Yes, just a few more days of paradise. Then back to the . . . ship,” he said, catching Kaylee’s warning look as he nearly made a disparaging remark about Serenity. “I’m lookin’ forward to getting’ back,” Kaylee said eagerly. “Oh, yes,” Simon commented as he took her hand and led her towards the waves. “I so miss the taste of resequenced protein . . . and running from the law . . . and breathing canned air . . . and the smell of Jayne in the morning.” He looked around for a moment, confounded. “Where is Jayne, anyway?” *

*

*

“He’s at the hotel,” a nervous-looking man told Campbell. “He landed in a shuttle – beat up shuttle, too. He’s with a whole group. No Sinics, though – not that I saw. One rich kid and his girlfriend, rest just common spacer trash.” The informant looked around, anxious about something. “One of them, he’s a big fella, big dangerous man. You might wanna watch out for him. Trouble!” he insisted, eyes wide. “You need not concern yourself,” Campbell said, passing the man an envelope which quickly disappeared. “Thanks for you assistance. I may have need of you again in the future, so don’t wander off.” “Yeah, like I can go someplace else,” he said, bitterly. “See that you don’t. Now vanish. I have some calls to make.” The boy vanished – he was merely a street thug who was willing to watch for Campbell, not a fighter of any sort. Campbell had brought a few with him – not his own men, they were busy in orbit, ensuring that Lei had not escaped some other way. He didn’t think the boy had, but Campbell was not the kind of man who let things slide on a ‘mayhap’. He made sure. The Tong thugs would do for now. Four of them, the best of the Tortoise’s sorry lot. They were wearing their best funeral clothes, which meant that they were only slightly out of place in the hotel. Campbell had made them shave, and broke a finger as an example to show how serious he was that his orders be obeyed. All four were now clean-shaven. They would go in tonight. Take the pilot, whisk him off to an unopened store he had secured the use of, and by dawn he’d know where Lei was staying. The man – he assumed it was the ‘big man’ the thug had mentioned – might put up a fight, but with four of them they should be able to handle it. How hard could it be?

*

*

*

“And the lady is a winner!” the croupier called, the professional note of pleasure in his voice decidedly strained. He gathered up a pile of chips and pushed them towards the dark-haired girl. It was her seventh consecutive blackjack hand. It was her seventh win. One more and he would have to call the pit boss. A drink lay untouched at her elbow, a very large pile of chips in front of her. “Another hand?” he asked, a sinking feeling in his stomach. “No,” she said, abruptly. “I don’t want to get you in trouble.” “Oh, miss, I—” “I know the rules. Besides, I tire of this amusement. There is no challenge in navigating this probability stream any more. I need a game where the human element is more involved in the creation of probability fields.” “Uh, perhaps the roulette wheel . . .” he offered. “It’s rigged. Mechanical. Uninteresting.” She was stacking her considerable pile of chips as she spoke, stacking them methodically and demonically fast. “Are you sure I can’t get you a drink?” “Relax,” she said, staring at him with those intense, not-quite-there eyes. “Here,” she said, sliding him a chip. “For your patience.” He took it automatically, his eyes growing wide when he looked down. “Miss! This is a thousand credits! That’s all you started with! Are you sure—?” “It’s only money,” she said dismissively. “That’s not the intriguing aspect, merely the method of tracking and tabulating concrete results.” She loaded her chips into one of the casino’s cups. “Besides,” she said with a grin. “I think I’ll try something like – poker. One chip more or less won’t matter. But you can afford to take your girlfriend home to meet your mother now.” “Thanks!” he said, beaming. He could, now. He had been saving for months, and had only three hundred and fifty in the coffee can under the sink of his mean little flat. It was only after she walked away that the croupier realized he had never mentioned his financial dilemma – or his girlfriend – or his mother. He picked up River’s untouched drink and finished it in one long swallow.