Jayne’s frozen grin rapidly melted away.
“I can’t decide whether that contraption makes me want to laugh or throw up,” said Large Forehead, a.k.a. Mitch.
Several people within earshot chortled merrily. “All this anti-hat talk gettin’ to you, huh?” said Zoë.
“Yup,” Jayne said.
“Stay cool. We’re not here for this. Low profile.”
Drunken louts at the surrounding tables rose awkwardly from their seats, pushing in closer to take a gander for themselves. Pointing at the hat which Jayne’s dear mother had made him with her own two hands, they roared with laughter.
This was becoming too much for Jayne. He let his arms drop to his sides, uncoiling like a snake.
“Take it easy, Jayne,” Zoë warned. “I mean it.”
Unfortunately, Mitch overheard the caution. “His name’s Jayne!” he hollered to the throng. “Can you believe it, this witless moron’s name is Jayne! And li’l Jaynie is wearing a baby hat!”
The crowd of maybe a dozen bar patrons pressed in even tighter, with more moving in behind them, filling in the vacated space.
“She’s probably wearing a baby diaper, too,” Mitch cried in delight. Flattening both hands on their table, he leaned forward and slurred into Jayne’s face, “Want us to change it for you, Li’l Jaynie?”
Jayne glowered at him. “No one mocks my mother,” he snarled, and began to rise.
Zoë rolled her eyes. Matters were about to get out of hand, and there was nothing she or anyone could do to prevent it.
The hairs on the back of Mal’s neck prickled as a man stepped from the shadows along the street outside Taggart’s, about ten feet from the swinging doors.
The newcomer had three others with him. One was a lanky, sallow-skinned type who looked several meals short of a decent diet and had jet-black hair with a pronounced widow’s peak. Another of them was tall and rangy, with a complexion as wrinkled and leathery as rawhide. The third had a droopy walrus-type mustache whose tips extended down past his jawline.
Now that the sun had gone down, just about the only light in the street came from the fritzing holographic bar window. Still, Mal could make out enough of the main man’s sleek, smug face to recognize him from the wave pic.
“Hunter Covington,” Mal said.
“None other,” the fellow confirmed. Covington was somewhat bulkier than he had appeared on the vid screen. It was likely he used a real-time appearance tweaking program—software beloved of the vain and the ugly throughout the ’verse—to make himself look thinner than he really was in waves. He was just as nattily dressed, however, right down to the feather-sprouting homburg on his head, the spats on his patent leather shoes and the rosewood cane in his hand. The cane seemed less a walking aid than a fashion accessory, since he did not lean on it as he stood. Its silver knob was carved in the shape of a cobra’s head.
As Covington and his cohorts approached, Covington himself made a straight course towards Mal, whereas the three underlings spread out in a way that Mal did not like, a way that made him more of a target, and them less. A couple of steps in either direction, and they’d be flanking him.
In response, Mal’s hand dropped to the butt of his holstered Moses Brothers Self-Defense Engine Frontier Model B pistol, known affectionately to him as his Liberty Hammer, and rested there all casual like. He was making what he hoped was a subtle but clear statement: Don’t even think about it.
“Pleasure to make your acquaintance in person, Mr. Covington,” he said, “and that of your three very diverse pals. Mighty fine evening for a nice, professional, businesslike chat with no threat of violence whatsoever, wouldn’t you say?”
Covington half-smiled. “As we discussed, Captain Reynolds…” he said.
“Call me Mal. Bein’ as I’d like to keep this on a friendly basis.”
“Very well. Mal.” He spoke as smooth and slow as syrup. “As we discussed, Mal, I have an assignment for you. A small package to be delivered down Bellerophon way next time you happen to be in the vicinity. No rush at our end. There’s a research scientist there, Professor Yakima Barnes, who wants to buy what we’ve got to offer. Thing is, he’s under house arrest so there have to be a couple of middlemen involved in the transfer. You being ours, if you want the job.”
I can walk away right now, Mal told himself as he eyed the quartet. We already have the Badger assignment. We could make do with it in a pinch.
But he was greedy. He knew it; accepted it. The more cargo he could pack in the hold, the more profitable the trip. Besides, Kaylee needed expensive replacement parts for the engine, including a new cross-braced adaptor port for the oxidizer preburner. Plus there was fuel and such. The crew had to eat. And bribes had to be paid. It all added up. And there was nothing awry with this situation that Mal could put his finger on just yet. It was just a feeling he had. And his feelings had often been wrong. Like when he’d been sure that Command would send air support to Serenity Valley and the Browncoats would win the war.
“And what is it we might be deliverin’ for you, Hunter?” he asked. When Covington didn’t reply, he prodded, “Is it poisonous? Bigger than a breadbox? Have claws and big scary teeth?”
“It’s a rare type of metallic ore,” Covington told him. “A small rock, like so.” Tucking his cane under one arm, he estimated the size between his hands—about that of a cantaloupe melon. “Weighs around twenty, twenty-five pounds.”
Mal nodded slowly, not particularly reassured. Something being small didn’t mean it wasn’t dangerous. Look at River Tam.
“Does this rock throw off toxic fumes?” he asked. “Radiation? Anything like that? I need to know for the safety of my ship and crew, and my other cargo.”
Growing up on the Reynolds family ranch on Shadow, Mal had learned about horses, cows, and alfalfa. In the war, it had been all strategy, tactics and field dressings. But in his new line of work, there were too many things to learn and he had to play it by ear much of the time. That meant asking a lot of questions, covering your bases as best you could, and reading the reactions of those trying to buy your services.
“Comes in a lead-lined container,” Covington replied, which was not exactly the answer Mal had been hoping for. “Perfectly safe,” he added. “If you want, Mal, you can examine it before you take the job. We’re keeping it just down the next alley.” He jerked his cane in that direction. “We got a place we’re staying at there.”
Dark alley.
Strangers.
Four-to-one odds.
Inside his head, Mal heard warning bells.
He said, “Know what? No offense, you seem like a great buncha guys an’ all, but I think I’m gonna pass.”
“Money’s good,” Covington insisted. “Plenty of platinum in it for you.”
“Yeah,” Mal said, with a show of regret that wasn’t entirely unfeigned. “Wouldn’t be surprised if I’m walkin’ away from the bargain of a lifetime, but still. Fine upstanding citizens like yourselves mightn’t understand this, but sometimes a man in my line of work’s just got to listen to his instincts, and mine are telling me it’s time to fold my tent and move on.”
“Captain Reynolds…” said Covington.
No more “Mal”. And a distinct note of menace in the voice.
Tension crackled in the air. Mal’s gaze flicked to the eyes of each of the four men one after another. Covington’s three underlings were, in turn, darting quick glances towards their boss. Looking for instruction. Waiting to be given the go-ahead.
Covington’s eyes narrowed. The eyes of the other three followed suit. So did Mal’s.
Fingers twitched. Shoulders squared. Jaws clenched.
Any moment now, someone was going to make a move.
Then there was a fizzle and snap from the holographic front window of Taggart’s Bar. The illusory glass dissolved and a man came flying through the opening, head first. A massed roar from inside the bar trailed him like rocket exhaust, blasting into the street as he ski
d-rolled across the sidewalk, ending up face down and unmoving in the gutter.
It was as if this was the cue the three goons had been waiting for. That, or they were so jumpy, so wired, that any sudden, unexpected movement would have provoked a reaction from them.
The one with the widow’s peak sprang first.
Mal, just as startled as they were by sight of a man being hurled forcibly out of Taggart’s, reacted a fraction of a second too slow. His hand snapped around the butt of his Liberty Hammer and he drew, but not fast enough. Widow’s Peak managed to grab him by the wrist and pin the gun in its leg sheath. Mal let his right hip go soft, twisting in the direction of the incoming force, and used the extra momentum to supercharge a short left punch to the side of his attacker’s head. It felt like he’d hit a brick. Widow’s Peak groaned and tumbled forward past him, onto his hands and knees.
With three more attackers bearing down fast, Mal took advantage of the unguarded moment to snap kick Widow’s Peak in the face, a blow that rolled the man moaning over onto his back, clutching his face in both hands.
Continuing the spin to his right, Mal cleared leather. As he swung around to confront his remaining opponents, he brought up his weapon. The quarters were so close, they were practically standing toe to toe. The other three had drawn their guns but for some reason didn’t open fire.
Mal had no such qualms, but before he could touch off a shot, the man with the complexion like rawhide darted in, grabbed hold of his hand and the pistol and shoved the barrel towards the sky.
The gun went off with a sharp, ear-stabbing crack! that echoed off the ruined buildings and rolled away down the street.
Rawhide Complexion clutched the Liberty Hammer in a death grip. Mal had the choice of letting the gun go and taking his chances bare-knuckled, or fighting for it. No way was he going to give up the weapon. He kicked Rawhide Complexion in the kneecap, feeling something break loose under the sole of his boot. The man screamed and dropped to the pavement, releasing the gun to grab his leg.
In the same instant the pistol came free, Mal sensed a rush of movement behind him on the left. He fired wildly as he turned away from that threat, trying to hit the man on his right, the one with the walrus mustache. Bullets sparked and ricocheted off the building opposite.
“Zoë! Jayne!” he yelled into his comm link. “Help!” Remembering the code word, he added, “Strawberries! Strawberries!”
Hunter Covington loomed on his left. Mal glimpsed the cane in his hand. He thought he was about to be struck, but instead Covington thrust the silver cobra-head knob up close to Mal’s face. The snake’s jaws snapped wide open, much as though it was baring its fangs. Inside, a small tube was revealed, from which came the short hiss of gas being released under pressure.
Mal smelled an acrid odor that he didn’t recognize. Something— some instinct—told him not to breathe, but by then it was already too late. Whatever the gaseous substance that had emerged from the cane was, Mal had inhaled some of it. Enough of it that his brain suddenly seemed to be whirling round and round within his skull like a child’s spinning top, gathering speed; and just when he thought it couldn’t turn any faster, not without gyrating clean out of his cranium, everything went black.
The man called Mitch couldn’t have seen the punch coming. Jayne Cobb might be big but he was fast too, when he needed to be.
It was a solid sock to the jaw, and Mitch went flying backwards, arms windmilling. He was caught by a couple of members of the crowd, who thrust him back towards Jayne, encouraging him to retaliate. Unfortunately for Mitch, he was too dazed to muster any kind of response. Glassy-eyed, he swayed in front of Jayne, who polished him off with a tidy right hook that dropped him to the floor like a felled tree.
Mitch’s buddy Earl now weighed in, swinging for Jayne. Jayne blocked the blow with a forearm and drove his fist into Earl’s paunchy midriff. The air whooshed out of Earl. His eyes and cheeks bulged like something out of a cartoon. Jayne followed up the gut-punch with an uppercut which fair lifted Earl off his feet. Earl flew bodily onto a table where four men were playing Tall Card. The table collapsed, sending cards, coins and drinks hurtling in all directions.
The card players were not exactly best pleased about this. As one, they lunged for Jayne, on whose face was plastered a big, sloppy grin.
It was at this point, with Jayne considerably outnumbered, that Zoë felt obliged to join in. She would much rather have sat out the fight, and she’d have been happy to watch Jayne get the tar beaten out of him. It would have been something of a bonus, in fact.
However, he was, all said and done, her crewmate and he had come to her aid more than once when they’d gotten into a scrape. More importantly, she needed to end the fracas before it escalated further. Brawls in a bar like this had a tendency to spread fast. A room full of unruly, very drunk people was like tinder: it only took a small spark to set the whole place on fire.
She decked the first of the card players with a simple, straight-fingered jab to the windpipe. He went down choking and spluttering, out of action for the foreseeable future.
One of his fellow card players, seeing this, made a grab for Zoë. She batted his outstretched hands aside, then pivoted on one leg, shoving the man past her. His face collided with the edge of her and Jayne’s table with a sickening crunch. Blood gushed from his nose, which was crushed flat by the impact. He slumped to the floor with a deep groan.
Jayne, meanwhile, grappled with his two opponents, who were raining punches on him. He managed to land a left-hand roundhouse on one of them but it was a flailing shot with little bodyweight behind it. The guy shrugged it off and walloped Jayne hard enough to make his eyes spin.
Zoë took the man out with a kick to the back of the knee chased up with a downward elbow jab to the top of his skull. He fell into an ungainly sitting position, legs splayed out in front of him, before keeling over sideways, out cold.
Being freed from one of his attackers enabled Jayne to give the other his full attention. He seized the man by the shirtfront and wrenched him close, before delivering a ferocious head butt to his face. Stunned, the man drooped in Jayne’s clutches.
“You look kinda peaky there, ol’ buddy,” Jayne remarked. “Maybe you need some air. Zoë? Wanna help?”
Zoë took one arm and leg, Jayne took the other, and together they swung the man back and forth, once, twice, before tossing him through the holographic window.
Zoë brushed her palms together. She assumed that was it. The fight was over and done with. Just a brief little taproom scuffle, no big deal.
One look around the bar told her she was sorely mistaken.
As she watched, someone in the drunken throng took umbrage because someone else had shoved in front of him to get a better view of the fight. The first guy—a farmer, to judge by his ruddy face and the smears of dried dung adhering to his clothes—picked up a near-full glass and broke it over the other guy’s head. Beer and blood sprayed.
This offended greatly the person whose beer it had been. She, a big bruiser of a woman with a plethora of homespun tattoos, thumped the farmer square in the face, adding a knee in the groin for good measure. As the farmer went down, gasping and clutching his nethers, a woman next to him who was most likely his wife uttered a wail of outrage. She leapt at the big woman, grabbing a handful of her hair. The two of them wrestled, howling like banshees.
By accident one of them spilled a drink with a jostling elbow. The man whose drink had been spilled thought someone else was responsible and duly hit that person.
From there, the situation rapidly deteriorated. It was a swift chain reaction, insult leading to insult, punch leading to punch. It unfurled with the incendiary inevitability of a forest fire. Chairs crashed down on heads. Bottles and table legs were pressed into service as makeshift weapons.
Above it all, a lone voice appealed for calm, that of Taggart himself, the bar owner. From behind the counter he begged his patrons to stop fighting and behave themselves, while th
e other bartender, his employee, crouched down in an attempt to avoid getting embroiled in the chaos.
Taggart’s efforts to restore order were curtailed as a bottle came flying his way, narrowly missing his head and shattering against the back wall behind him. At that, he vaulted over the counter and joined in the fray.
Zoë turned to Jayne. “We’ve got to get out of here.”
“Aw man,” said Jayne. “Really? Things were just gettin’ good.”
“We’re supposed to be keeping tabs on the captain, listening in case he gets into difficulties. Not scrapping with the locals.”
She was halfway to the exit when her eye fell on a kid—couldn’t have been more than seventeen or eighteen—who was on the receiving end of a pummeling from two men much older and larger than he was. The boy was attempting to fight back but the men kept whaling on him viciously. He was screaming in defiance and pain, but this just seemed to incite his assailants to hit him harder.
Zoë’s blood boiled.
Grown adults busting one another’s heads was one thing. Ganging up on a kid half your age and gleefully beating him all to hell was completely another. She doubted the boy had done anything to deserve this punishment. He’d just been in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Barely even thinking about it, she charged at the men. If there was one thing Zoë Alleyne Washburne could not abide, it was bullying. What was the Alliance’s behavior, after all, but bullying on a ’verse-wide scale?
She got one of the boy’s assailants in a headlock from behind, pulling on his throat, choking him. He reeled backwards, slamming her against an I-beam support column hard enough to loosen her grip. At the same time he rammed his boot-heel into her shin. Agony flared up Zoë’s leg. She bit back a cry, channeling her fury into a piledriver of a punch to the small of the man’s back. She caught him above the kidney. As he crumpled she clutched his ears with both hands and wrenched him down, simultaneously bringing up her leg, and felt as much as heard the crack! of the back of his skull connecting with her knee. His body went lettuce-limp and she threw him aside.
Firefly--Big Damn Hero Page 4