The Treasure of Lei Fong Wu

Chapter Fifty-Five

RESCUE PARTY –40:04

Jayne crawled forward on his belly, making nary a sound. The corridor was dim, lit only by the widely spaced emergency lights, and Jayne wore an all-black tactical suit, courtesy of the former Imperial Army. He had a bullpup carbine in his hands, but when he spotted his target he set it down, slowly, carefully, without even a click as it touched the cold deckplate. Instead he drew a large black automatic, pre-equiped with a silencer. That toy he had liberated from the armory, and he wouldn’t soon part with it. It was an odd caliber, a .41, but he didn’t mind. It was just the tool for taking out a sentry without calling undue attention to oneself. It was a longish shot, nearly a hundred feet. But Jayne waited for the right moment, watching the man patrol until he caught on to the pattern of his movements. While one part of his brain was doing that, the rest of it tried its best to think of nothing at all. He’d learned a long time ago that part of the art of sniping was not alerting your target, and for some reason if you stared at a man long enough, intently enough, he started getting nervous even if he didn’t know you were there. Folk got killed for that kind of subtle thing. You didn’t bring your attention to bear on a target until you were sure you were ready to pull the trigger. It was something you had to be careful with, and patient. It surprised some that a man like Jayne Cobb, who was so sloppy about so many things in the rest of his life, could operate with such care and professionalism when he was offing a body. Fact was, Jayne was real good at anything that might serve to keep Jayne breathing, a state he had grown accustomed to over the course of a long life. If not making any noise would get yourself shot, then Jayne would be the quietest gorram mouse in the church. Until he was ready, that is. Then his attention snapped totally towards his prey, just as he turned his back, and Jayne exhaled loudly and put two rounds high up in the torso of the white-coated sentry. The first round impacted on the man’s armor, the second took him clean through the neck. He vainly grabbed his ruined neck, unable to call for help as his recently frozen life’s essence drained out of him. He was unable to call for help, unable even to stand as shock set in. Jayne waited a whole minute while the man died to ensure that there were no alarms raised. Satisfied that the sentry was alone, Jayne touched his earpiece. “That’s two,” he mumbled quietly. “Three,” corrected Inara. “Johnny got his a moment ago.” Jayne grunted noncommittally. It wasn’t supposed to be a contest, but he couldn’t help feel competitive with the young Chinese prince. Younger man, and all. “Move up and get ready for the show,” Mal ordered over the line. “Is everyone else ready?” Jayne asked in a whisper. “Hate to start my bit and have everyone else still be in the john.” “You just do your part,” Mal insisted. “I’ll do the thinkin’. It’s my gorram plan.” “Yeah, well, then you can understand the level of my concern,” Jayne said bitingly. “Your plans is always great on paper, but this time we didn’t even have no paper.” “Do you need me to come change your diaper, or are you gonna move up and get into position?” Mal demanded. “Don’t keep the others waitin’!” “Yes sir, Cap’n Sir!” the mercenary mumbled savagely to himself as he pulled upright and gathered the carbine back into his arms. Jayne’s part in the plan was the fun bit. Using the crazy girl’s spooky abilities they were able to figure out more or less how many men guarded the prisoners, and where. Most of the soldiers had moved off further aft – at least, that’s what Campbell and the Doc thought she meant. But there were still a dozen or so wandering around here, for some reason. Probably, Jayne had figured out after considerable thought, to guard the prisoners. The bad guys were spread out over three decks and across two sections, a skeleton crew that guarded the main passageways to the cooling-tower hidey-hole that Mal and Inara had mentioned. They were lightly armed, just small arms, no support . . . and no appreciable back-up. Campbell had called them the fiercest soldiers alive, back in their time. Their punishing raids on dissidents and resistance cells on Xiao were as legendary as the master they served. They were a gorram ee-leet military unit, the special forces of the special forces. Best trained, vetted and equipped force in the whole gorram ‘verse. Jayne sneered as he passed by the unconscious White Tiger. The man was still alive – but not for long. Best gorram soldier in the ‘verse could still take a neck full of lead if he didn’t know it was coming for him. Jayne was like that. He wasn’t the strongest – but he was strong. He wasn’t the fastest – but he was fast. And Lord God Almighty knew for an established fact that he wasn’t the smartest of His creatures . . . but he was smart enough to find the gao tsao de bastard who was, and stick close by. Jayne wasn’t really the best at anything in particular. But he was very good at a whole lot of things that mattered, and you added them all up and you got Jayne Cobb, who shot at people in the dark, in the back, with a silencer. Jayne was like that. Jayne paused just long enough to loot the incipient corpse for treasure, which came up to some funny banknotes which he tossed, a ring and a chronometer which he kept, and a belt of grenades which he gleefully strapped over the first belt of grenades he wore. Jayne liked grenades. This intersection was important, and the sentry was checked by a patrol of three who made the rounds about every forty minutes or so. Of course all of that was fe hua conjecture based on the half-made directions of a contrary crazy girl, but after listening to Mal and Zoe wax philosophic about the essential nature of war Jayne had to admit that there were worse sources of intelligence. Besides, he had never doubted River’s abilities. On the contrary, he was terrified of them. But crazy girl had this one right. Jayne messed around with the corpse a little more, adding this and that, positioning him just so, before fading back into the generous shadows. “All set here,” he whispered into the radio. “Patrol’s due in ten, and I’m ready to dance.” “We’re ready,” Zoe answered back. “My group is just about into position,” responded Johnny Lei. Kid had a lilt to his voice since he had thawed out that sweet poon that Jayne envied. Jayne had always enjoyed fresh cooze, and while he was waiting he killed a good five minutes imagining in lurid detail the potential eccentricities of a nubile yet flash-frozen female. Jayne proved the concept that a man didn’t have to be intelligent or wise or well-educated to enjoy a rich and fulfilling fantasy life. He had just strayed into the idea of a little personal freezer in his quarters, where he could pop a babe out, thaw her out, have wild monkey sex after a long watch and then pop her back into the freezer before she could talk – which would make her about as close to the Perfect Woman as Jayne could imagine – when the patrol came up the starboard hallway. Just like Spooky Tam had said, there were three of the tough-looking ta ma deh in the patrol. They walked the patrol speaking in low voices, until they got close enough to the sentry point to realize that there was a problem. To their credit, they did not panic or do anything rash. Two of them readied their carbines and took defensive positions as close to textbook perfect as Jayne could imagine. The third cautiously approached the body, stepping over the growing puddle of dark arterial blood, and knelt to examine his comrade. Jayne prepared himself. When the soldier gently rolled the body over, it released the safety on the two fragmentation grenades that he had planted under it. Before the man could take half a turn away, both grenades exploded, taking most of the startled soldier’s face and neck with it. Jayne grinned. Jayne liked grenades. Jayne didn’t hesitate. In the half-a-second that the other two soldiers had to react, he calmly took three steps forward, drew his silenced .41 with his left hand and his very loud .45 revolver with his right and put two bullets in the back of each man’s brainpan. He waited until they had slumped to the floor to put a third bullet in each, and as an afterthought ensured the other two weren’t going to arise either. He toggled his headset when he was through. “This is the Ass Master. I got my four.” He waited for Mal to acknowledge, then bent to start going through the dead men’s pockets. Because Jayne was just like that.

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DELTA TEAM -42:21

“So that’s how we can do it,” Wash finished. “As long as Mal’s hocus pocus will work on that gorram frigate, that is.” “Gorram Frigate” was how they had been referring to the Relentless. They knew her name, but somehow the epithet was more appealing, considering the situation they faced. “It will,” Kaylee assured. “Them Sanchez boys’s good people. Wouldn’t let just anyone work on my girl.” “How soon can you get it up and running?” Master Lei asked from the console. He was still in the Bridge, monitoring the situation outside the ship. If he was tired after all the wakeful hours he had endured, he didn’t show it. Kaylee considered. “Well, seein’ as how I ain’t never worked on one afore, an’ seein’ as how they been sittin’ in dry dock for a hundred-plus years an’ I ain’t got a clue what might’ve fallen in disrepair in that span, I might could get one up’n’runnin’ in . . . maybe twelve hours?” she offered, uncertainly. “Don’t forget that you’ll have the full technical manuals,” Wash mentioned. “And you have access to a full shop and all the spare parts you could ask for.” “That’s true,” Kaylee admitted. “Maybe ten?” “Do it,” Master Lei ordered. “Both of you, get on this and make it happen. I’m going to hold back Captain Reynold’s trick until the very last second.” “What if they somehow overcome all the odds, summon up deep wells of courage they didn’t know they possessed, and through a combination of pure luck, tenacity, and grim determination happen to make it to the Engine Room and keep us from that last big dive?” Wash asked. “What if they do?” Master Lei asked. “Then all this work will be for nothing,” Wash observed. “Hell, no it ain’t for nothin’!” Kaylee said with a grin. “I want to get past the access hatches o’ that thing more than I wanna get into . . . uh . . .” “Yeah, I can finish the rest if that sentence in my head, thanks,” assured Wash with more than a hint of sarcasm to his voice. Master Lei barked a laugh. “Exactly. This is a learning experience, at the very least. Consider the possibility that they don’t, and Serenity is our last hope of getting out before the planet’s grim embrace. We won’t get very far with a small flotilla outside.” “Hey, I was just checkin’,” Wash said airily. “Let’s get on it. We’ll wave you when we get somewhere with it,” Kaylee told the old monk. “Y’all take care up there.” “Let’s go!” Wash said, clapping his hands together. “I find I’m as eager as a schoolgirl. I’ll get my ‘fix-stuff’ vest, you get your toolage, and we’ll go down and pick one out!” Ten minutes later they were standing in front of the sleek, deadly form of a fighter. It was nestled in its quick-release cradle, essentially a hole in the floor that allowed access to the ship’s engines, weapons, and cockpit, allowing the rest of the fighter to protrude out into the Black. When the time came for launch, a pressure seal would snap into place the moment the fighter left the cradle. Even with just the top-most portions of the ship in view, it still looked like a shark in repose, a slumbering predator that could spring into action the moment the prey was afoot. That image was misleading. The fighters had been in cool storage for over a century, and there were parts on it that had naturally degraded and oxidized in that time. It would require a lot of effort to put her right. “Isn’t she something,” Wash said with a note of awe. “The Haolin D-21 Marauder Interceptor. In its day, this class of fighter ruled the skies. Designed by Haolin Industries, reactor by Raytheon-Bell, engine by Rolls-Royce. Beautiful!” “She’s a mess,” Kaylee countered as she studied the matter. “Seals are shot, internal cells are dead, God knows what else is humped up in there. Plus, gonna need lubricants, coolants, fuel, atmo, and probably new filters.” “We’re gonna need to bleed and flush the lasers,” pointed out Wash. “Those are old-fashioned Hecklers. They use a one-shot chemical load, phosphorous based, to pump the light. It build up more heat, but it lets you fire independent of the main reactor. Pressure in the gas chamber’s bound to be off after all this time. And we’ll have to get new chemical loads.” “Ugh! That reactor! Gotta drain the coolant, re-initialize the primaries, recharge the sustainers, and take a good hard look at the compression coils. God, I hope they pulled the initiator block before they shelved her – that’s eight times the pain if they didn’t.” “Need missiles. And a good check of the racks. Oh – the avionics. Gotta do a full check on those.” “I bet the outtake valves on the attitude thrusters are corroded shut by now,” Kaylee added, pointing to the dorsal unit. “They’re old Bentley 821’s, which were great until the Honchu’s came along – about fifty years before I was born.” They both stared at the ship in silence for a few moments. Then Wash looked up at Kaylee, and gave her a searching look. “You as turned on as I am right now?” “I may have to change my panties,” she admitted. “You?” “Gotta boner like tungsten carbide,” agreed Wash. “Let’s commence with the foreplay!”

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HAMMERSTRIKE TEAM TWO –41:33

“Halt!” someone yelled from the front of the column. Rel swallowed a mammoth lump in his throat and clutched his rifle earnestly. The last three times that someone had called a halt, someone had gotten hurt by this damned ship. No one else had been killed, yet, but it was just a matter of time. This ship hated them. He could feel it. Every step his boot made was an affront to this gloomy, scary place. It resented them, the way a new horse resented the man who had the balls to slap a saddle on its back. Rel had very limited experience with spaceships – just his prison transport and the security-laden Relentless – but he suspected a man who had been born in space and had never set foot on a world would have the same opinion. There was just an air about the place that filled them all with dread. He could almost hear its enmity in the soft whisper of the ventilation. “What’s happening?” he whispered to Chunk, a massive Georgian whose name no one could pronounce so they all just called him Chunk. He was the one who carried the big .50 machinegun. “Looks like they came to somethin’ important,” Chunk grunted back to him. “Somethin’ good, or somethin’ that’s gonna kill us all?” Rel asked, nervously. Chunk shrugged. “Either way, good time for a break.” It only took a few moments for word to get passed down the line: the Engine Room was in sight, but there was an obstacle. Apparently the chamber that allowed access to the room proper was filled with something dangerous. While there was much idle speculation about what the danger might be, much of it obscene and improbable, orders soon came back for everyone to advance and soon enough they saw for themselves. It was a wide chamber, bigger than any house Rel had ever been in, and it was filled from wall to wall with hundreds of little dull metal spherical devices. “They mines?” he asked. “Nah,” Chunk said, hefting his big gun uncomfortably. “Not as such.” “What then?” “Dunno,” he shrugged. One of the officers figured it out the moment he stepped cautiously into the field of spheres. Before his second foot left the floor, the spheres closest to him suddenly sprouted six little feet and produced a wicked looking set of sharp blades from the top quarter. In a wave, each sphere that awakened awakened the others in proximity to it. The hair stood on the back of Rel’s head as the seething mass of metal started twitching and shivering – and heading right towards them. “Hold your fire!” the commander ordered. “Hump that!” Chunk said, hefting the .50 like a rifle and strafing the spheres. Even on their legs at full extension the spheres only came up to their knees. The .50 was somewhat effective at knocking them back, and the occasional leg or blade got shot off, but the spheres were well armored. It took five or six good shots to put one out of commission – and in the meantime the others would be crawling up your leg, slicing all the way. A string of profanity from the commander was soon drowned out by the staccato reports of gunfire. Rel did his part, using his fine new weapon to good effect. But the spheres were numerous, and every time he was able to hammer one back into ineffectiveness two more would get closer. It wasn’t long before he was kicking at them while he was trying to reload, and a few of his comrades had to contend with the metal insects climbing up their legs and slashing at every exposed piece of flesh. At one point he had to draw his revolver, a weapon with which he was more familiar, and shoot four of the mechanical beasts away from Chunk’s broad back. He was limping by then, thanks to one of the vicious little bastards slicing through his unarmored boot. Things were starting to look a little dire when some genius started lobbing EM grenades around. That was somewhat effective at shutting down small circles of the spheres, but had the unfortunate side-effect of shutting down the lights as well. Gunfire petered out for a moment as it became too hard to tell friend from foe, but the noise was soon replaced with screaming as the spheres started overwhelming the men. The light issue was taken care of a moment later when two or three flares were tossed around – that cast the already spooky little machines in stark light with flickering, multiple shadows in a bloody shade of red light. Rel hadn’t been what you would call a regular churchgoer, but he’d been often enough to know hell when he saw it. The choking smoke from the guns, the heat and eerie light of the flares, and the bug-like motions of the spheres – not to mention the electronic squeal and hiss that he assumed was their method of communication – made this as close to a scene from Perdition as he’d ever experienced. Even the dreadful monotony of the conveyer on Diablo was better than this seething pit. One by one they hit the little demons. He shot every round his rifle held, then every round his pistol held, and then he clubbed his rifle and went after them like he would have rabid raccoons in a trashheap. Twice he stooped and picked up weapons that the corpses of his mates didn’t need any more, and used them until they were depleted. But there seemed to be no end to them. A primal haze enveloped his mind as he fought, pushing conscious thought far away as he let his animal instincts take over. Somehow they started to thin the tide, and eventually there were fewer spheres than men. When the last one had been smashed into pieces, Rel looked around at the carnage – the lights were beginning to recover from the EMP grenades, and it looked slightly less like Hell. “How – how many down?” asked the commander, breathlessly, in the deafening silence after the last one was gone. Rel looked around. There seemed to be five bodies on the ground, not moving. “Five, sir!” he called out. “We fresh outa ammo, too!” “Everyone is,” a sergeant said, grimly. “I got maybe half a clip of 9mm, myself. But there ain’t anymore of these beasties. I think we can move forward.” “Police up our fallen, medic attend the wounded,” the commander called out. “Medic’s sittin’ o’er there with his guts ahangin’ out!” one of the younger men called in a wavering voice. Rel ventured a glance, then looked away, quick. The man wasn’t quite dead yet, but it wouldn’t be long. He was propped up against a bulkhead, a pistol in one hand, his other trying vainly to push his intestines back inside his body. The wide pool of blood that he now sat in mixed with the debris from the spheres in a sick soup of death. “Oh, ai ya woh men wanle! Fine, Romerez, you just got promoted to doctor.” “I ain’t got but three semesters o’ physickin’!” the man protested lamely. “That’s two more than anyone else has got,” the commander growled. “Get to it. We’re gonna need our people, I’m thinking.” “Yessir,” Romerez said, discouraged. Rel sat down himself, waiting for the short Madonnan to come by and spray the four or five wide gashes on his legs with dressing. He pulled out his canteen, coughed a little, and down half of it in one long pull. By the time he had screwed the cap back on, the officers had opened the door and entered the Engine Room, beyond. “Mission humpin’ accomplished,” Chunk said, when the feeble cheer was raised. “Only kilt six men. Gotta be a gorram record.” “I ain’t countin’ myself among ‘em,” Rel said philosophically. “I take that as a personal victory.” “Can’t argue w’that!” agreed Chunk with a grin. “You got any liquor?” “Nah, sergeants don’t hold wi’ that,” Rel said bitterly. “Not for the likes o’ us.” “Well, that didn’t stop McDonald,” he muttered. “He’s got a flask in his pack.” “McDonald’s dead,” Rel pointed out, nodding in the direction of the corpses. “His pack ain’t,” observed Chunk. “You gotta real interestin’ point there, Chunk,” Rel said, nodding. “Y’know, I think McDonald woulda wanted us to have that.” “My thinkin’ exactly,” agreed the big Georgian. A moment later they were passing it back and forth – a rough, ice-distilled vodka that must have been made in someone’s toilet. It tasted like ambrosia. “Here’s to us, the living,” Rel said. “To us,” agreed Chunk. “And here’s to the hard part bein’ well over with.” “You think?” Rel asked, raising an eyebrow. “After this, how much worse could it be?” Rel just stared at the man. “Brother, I gotta feelin’ we’re gonna be sorry you said that.”

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RESCUE PARTY –39:57

“You think River was sure about this?” asked Mal doubtfully. “She is crazy,” conceded her brother. “And prone to slipping into and out of lucidity. But she’s rarely been wrong about this sort of thing. If you understand her properly.” “Rarely?” Mal asked. “OK, so never, then. She’s always right about this sort of thing. Do you have any idea how frustrating that is?” “I can imagine.” They took a few more steps down the corridor, which seemed deserted. Mal toggled his headset to check in, spoke a few words, then nodded. “Zoe says her team hasn’t encountered any resistance. Johnny said he was fighting his two. Wonder where everyone—” He was stopped from finishing the thought by a muzzle flash and the unmistakable report of gunfire. Simon stopped stupidly and stared. Mal knocked him off his feet. “Gorram it!” he swore, bringing his own shotgun around and firing a few rounds. “Get your fuh leh ass under cover ma shong, nian ching da!” he ordered. “What cover?” Simon asked, panicked. There was virtually nothing in the corridor to hide behind. “Invent some,” Mal said, coming to a crouch and firing another two rounds at the foe. Simon rolled to the opposite side of the corridor and put his medical kit in front of him. In a moment he tugged his sleek automatic from his shoulder holster and took a textbook prone aiming stance. When he had prepared for River’s escape, it became dangerously clear from what his contacts had told him that there would be armed guards, and the possibility of armed combat – something he was singularly unprepared for. He had invested in basic firearms training from a retired security officer in Capitol City – a lot of doctors did, actually. It was in vogue at the time, and most passed off his weekly trips to the range as some healthy stress relief. Of course, his instructor had taught him little more than how to handle a pistol safely, and how to shoot more or less accurately – not how to keep his cool under fire. Still, a man who cuts into people for a living has iron nerves by definition. Simon aimed into the dimness over the pistol’s sights, but he didn’t see a target. “Whatcha waitin’ for, an engraved invite?” Mal mocked him. “I can’t see a target!” Simon insisted. “They can’t see you none, either. But they’re gonna start feeling cocky, they don’t get shot at some, dong ma?” “Shu ma niao!” Simon swore through clenched teeth, venturing a shot, then another. “Oh, that was enthusiastic,” Mal mocked, reloading the shotgun. “They didn’t exactly cover this in medical school,” the doctor pointed out. Mal grinned maniacally, then popped up, spraying the hallway with shotgun blasts, then falling back on his face when the bad guys returned fire. When they stopped, he drew both pistols, popped up, and emptied them into the darkness before dropping back down. Not wanting to be teased again, Simon looked for the muzzle flash from the enemy, and when he found it he squandered another two shots. He looked back at Mal, who was grinning like a kid at Christmas. “I just realized something,” he said. “What’s that, pokey?” “I know your secret. I just figured it out.” “My penchant for ladies clothes?” “No . . . not that one. Although I count it as so disturbing mentally that I’m unlikely to eat next time we stop. No,” he said, squeezing off another two miserly rounds while Mal reloaded. “Just now, when you jumped up. You’re just an adreniline junky.” “What’s that?” “You are addicted to adrenaline. Excitement. Danger. You need it, like a drug. You’ve been kind of luh suh since . . . well, since we got to Epiphany. This is the first time I’ve seen a genuine smile on your face in a while, and it’s because we’re in—” something caught his eye in the distance, and he fired again. “—mortal peril.” “That so?” Mal asked absently as he jammed shells into the shotgun. “Yes. You probably got a taste of it in the war – more than a taste – and you became dependant on it. That’s why you didn’t go home. Why you continued a life of crime. You need the excitement.” “Doc, I’d take it as a kindness if you would refrain from psychoanalyzing me in the middle of a firefight,” Mal cautioned. “Don’t do to tell a man with a shotgun that he’s a little crazy.” “We’re a bit beyond the polite niceties, Captain, don’t you think? And it’s more than a little crazy. It’s a classic deathwish.” “I’m as scared as you are right now – moreso,” Mal countered, rolling to the center of the corridor and firing a round prone, then rolling back into place. “I know all the nasty things they probably got, an’ that’s a handicap you don’t suffer from. I just know that whatever happens, my life ain’t worth that much to anyone ‘cept myself. So I don’t mind stickin’ my ass out when I’m tryin’ t’get somethin’ accomplished. Like rescuing a friend from evil bad guys.” “Point taken,” conceded Simon. “But you’re still an adrenaline junkie.” “If it helps you sleep better,” Mal grunted, pulling a revolver and taking careful aim. About the same time, Simon zeroed in on a muzzle flash, tried to guess where the man’s head might be, and emptied the clip into that spot of the darkness. The answering shots stopped. “Do you think—” “Yeah, we got ‘em,” Mal agreed, getting to his feet. “I don’t hear any breathing.” “You did before?” Simon asked, incredulous. “Sure. Part of the ‘adrenaline junkie’ package.” On their way cautiously up the corridor, Mal got a call on his headset. “Your sister says to watch out for the two sentries up ahead,” he said with a sarcastic laugh. “Be sure to thank her for her timely intervention.” The two soldiers were slumped on opposite sides of the hallway, both dead from massive head trauma. Simon didn’t want to think about the possibility that he was the one who had fired the killing shot. Three doors down, they found the door that River indicated contained Book. The two commandos that the bad guys had captured were further down – they could be attended to in a moment. Mal forced the door open, and the familiar figure of the preacher was slumped in a chair, his shirt off, his face and torso looking like hamburger. “Oh, my God,” Mal said, rushing in. “We got him! He’s alive, but hurt! Doc, you’re up!” “What . . . what took you so long?” the old preacher rasped out. Simon pushed passed while Mal was untying him. He started by pulling the two alligator clips gently off of the man’s bruised ears, then cut away the remains of his shirt so he could work on him. He would have sworn vilely at the sight, but he saved the energy for diagnosis. Massive trauma to the torso, though it didn’t look like the chest cavity had been punctured – thank God for small favors. Lots of blood loss – he slapped an anti-shock patch on his arm and pulled out a pack of plasma. Book cradled his hands, both of them looking like cartoonish parodies of themselves. “H-how . . . did . . . you find . . . me?” he asked as Simon pulled out a can of Second Skin wound dressing and began applying it liberally. The stuff stung, but Book was beyond complaining. “River,” Mal offered, grimly. “She got a way with matters like that.” Simon only half heard. He was busy being appalled. How could one human being do this to another? It made Mal and Wash’s wounds at Niska’s hands seem minor. Simon slapped some more painkilling tabs on Books neck, and started mending the worst of his open wounds. “Jesus, Shepherd, they did a number on you!” “Don’t . . . blaspheme . . . boy,” the man said through clenched teeth. The painkillers hadn’t quite started to work yet. Still, the old man held his head up and looked around before coming back to Mal’s face. “Captain,” he said, as formally as he could manage it. “Would you do me the kindness of loaning me your pistol?” Simon’s heart sank. Book’s wounds were not life threatening, just . . . massively painful. Still, there was no telling just how long the poor old preacher had to endure the torment. If he wished to end his life, as strongly as Simon objected, it was understandable. Mal looked at the man a long time before he pulled out one of his borrowed guns and solemnly pressed it into the old man’s hand. Book held it up, squinting as he examined the gun as if it were a foreign thing. “.38 Manchester. Good gun,” he said quietly. Simon winced. “Do you want to pray or—” Suddenly the preacher seemed to come into focus, bringing the pistol up in his hand. In one smooth motion that belied his wounds, he aimed with one eye squeezed shut and fired off a single shot. The bright light that had illuminated his field of sight so well was suddenly gone, and they were plunged into darkness, as only one faint emergency light was on otherwise. “Thank you,” the preacher said with a sigh, handing the Manchester back to Mal. “Gorram light was starting to make me a mite uncomfortable.”