Explosions.
Zoë gave her comm link one last, futile try, then hustled over to Badger’s hideout, into which Harlow had disappeared not half a minute earlier.
At the door, her way was blocked by a big man whose bloated belly strained against his sleeveless gray T-shirt. Blurred brown tattoos of Chinese characters ran up and down both arms from wrist to shoulder. He held up one hand in front of her face, and the other dropped to the grip of the machine pistol slung over his shoulder. Which reminded Zoë that even if Badger was smarmy and low-class, he and his minions were still capable of causing a great deal of trouble for them.
She said to the guard, “I’m here to see Badger. Tell him it’s Zoë Washburne and that it’s urgent.”
“You want in, give me your weapons,” he growled. “All of ’em.”
“First go tell him I’m here,” she said. She knew this was Badger’s standard procedure for a private interview. And his excess of caution, which bordered on paranoia, was one of the reasons he was still sucking air. Zoë didn’t like the idea of being outgunned when everything seemed to be going to hell, but under the circumstances she had no choice. She noted to herself that Harlow hadn’t been forced to disarm when he’d gone in. She knew he was carrying that six-gun inside his duster. The lack of even a pat-down to check for weapons indicated that he was either a friend or a lackey of Badger’s. Her money was on lackey.
The guard smirked and waved a finger under her nose. “No, first you give me your weapons.”
With a shrug and a certain amount of chagrin, Zoë handed over her Mare’s Leg. Then she unsheathed the eight-inch hunting knife that balanced out her holster rig.
The guard gathered the weapons like a haul from under the Christmas tree.
“Borosky!” he called through the door over his shoulder.
The door opened a crack and a second man stuck out his head. His doughy, pale face was blotched with red. To Zoë, it looked like an allergic reaction, maybe mild radiation poisoning.
“Tell Badger that Zoë… Washbasin, is it?”
“Washburne.”
“Zoë Washburne is here to see him.”
“And it’s urgent,” Zoë reminded him.
“And it’s urgent,” the guard relayed in a sarcastic drawl.
Borosky nodded and closed the door. Presently he returned, signaling for Zoë to follow him.
They strode through a dingy, poorly lit foyer cluttered by packing crates and metal drums. Borosky pushed open the Moroccan print curtains that passed for office doors. Badger’s office was gritty, with obnoxious royal-blue walls, and decorated with rug-market odds and ends. The man himself sat in a shabby, overstuffed brown leather office chair, behind a desk covered in miscellaneous papers, soiled plates, unidentifiable gizmos, and an overloaded wire mesh in-and-out box. Badger looked her up and down, dark eyes glittering.
“Wotcher, Miss Washburne,” he said.
“Mrs.,” said Zoë crisply.
“Yep, sorry. Mrs. Washburne. It’s just, you never seem like a married woman.”
“And how should a married woman seem?”
“I dunno. A bit more… wifely?”
“Well, what a pity I don’t live up to that high standard.”
Badger shrugged, as if in agreement. “Can’t ’elp notice you’re looking a little lame in the leg there. Tsk, tsk. ’Urt ourselves, ’ave we?” Before she could answer, he picked up an apple and crunched into it appreciatively. “What I find most interesting about you and your mates,” he went on, “is how predictable you are. Don’t tell me. Let me guess. Dare I say, bar fight?”
Zoë canted her head to the side, the most reluctant of admissions that he was correct.
“And you’ve come to see me why?”
“First of all, where’s Harlow?” she asked, scanning the room.
“You got business with ’im?” he asked, very interested. “Of what sort, may I ask?”
“That’s none of your concern,” she said. “He walked in here, but he didn’t walk back out.” She lifted her chin and raised her voice. “Harlow, if you’re in the building—”
“’E’s not,” Badger said. “And shouting isn’t going to bring the bloke back. ’E left by that door.” He gestured with his head towards the back of the room. “You might be able to catch up with ’im if you break into a run.” His wry smile told her that he didn’t think that was too likely.
The two of them regarded each other, a momentary standoff. Badger could be lying about Harlow being gone, Zoë thought, but what did he have to gain from that? A more important question was, since Harlow and Badger seemed to be connected, could Badger be behind Mal’s disappearance? Was he the one who had orchestrated the whole scheme? He could have hired Covington to abduct Mal, and Harlow had just now reported back to say “mission accomplished.”
On its face that scenario seemed unlikely. Taking Mal out of the equation would impede delivery of the important cargo, and possibly stop the transfer of related bags of coin into Badger’s coffers. Still, Zoë knew the shabby criminal thought himself capable of playing more than one level of simultaneous chess—despite all evidence to the contrary. Was that what he was doing?
“Harlow wasn’t here long,” Zoë observed, breaking the brief interlude of silence between them. “Couldn’t have been but two minutes since he came in.”
“I work fast,” Badger said. “Time is money.”
“What was he here for?”
“Well now, that’s interesting. Dunno if it’s coincidence or not, but ’e ’ad some info for me. About a certain woman who was looking for a certain missing friend who may or may not’ve been nabbed by someone—Hunter Covington, no less.”
“You know Covington?”
“Can’t work in Eavesdown and not know Hunter Covington.”
“Harlow said he didn’t.”
“Harlow’s a daft wanker. Anyway, apparently my name came up in the conversation, and Harlow thought I oughter know. Thought I might slip him a coin or two in return for telling me. You can imagine my views on that.”
“Less than positive, I’d have said.”
“Too right! Too bloody right! Sent ’im packing, with a flea in ’is ear. Not sure why anyone would reckon I care about being talked about behind my back. I mean, I’m a local celebrity. Goes with the territory. But that’s the trouble with geezers like Harlow— bottom-feeding grifters who’ve somehow got it into their heads they’re entrepreneurs. If there’s even a chance they can turn a profit from something…”
Badger’s expression, sly by default, turned slyer still.
“Funnily enough, it just so happens the woman he spoke about sounded an awful lot like you, Mrs. Washburne. ‘Balls of brass,’ he said, ‘with a side order of gorgeous.’ Which leads me to wonder whether I might be well acquainted with your friend what’s gone missing.”
Zoë decided she had no option but to come clean. There was a chance, however remote, that telling Badger the truth might help her. It might at least prompt Badger into initiating a search for Mal, because Badger had a dog in this fight. Without Mal, his cargo might not make it to its destination.
“I’m looking for Mal Reynolds,” she said.
“Oh-ho!” Badger chortled, clapping his palms together. He leaned back in his chair, planted his boot heels on his desk top, and laced his fingers behind his neck. “That’s it, is it? Captain Malcolm Reynolds has taken a sudden, unexpected leave of absence. What a surprising development.”
“I take it you didn’t have anything to do with it.”
“I’m shocked!” Badger declared, hand on heart. “Truly, deeply shocked. And not a little offended. Answer me this, Mrs. Washburne: Why the bleeding ’eck would I kidnap him? Captain who’s transporting goods for me? That would run counter to my own immediate interests, wouldn’t it? My suggestion is, since it’s Alliance Day, you should inquire at the local lockup. Maybe Reynolds got loaded and a bit lairy. Wouldn’t put it past ’im. The authorities don’t hold much wi
th drunk-and-disorderlies around here. They expect everyone to comport themselves in a genteel fashion, like what I do. Mind you, if Reynolds had got himself thrown in the detox tank, he’d surely have used his right to a single wave and contacted you or your ship. Assuming, of course, that the arresting officers had granted him that privilege on what would have to be one of their busiest nights of the year.”
“Mal wasn’t drunk this evening and never got the chance to be disorderly,” Zoë said. “Something else has happened.”
Badger took another big bite of apple and, eyes narrowed, methodically crushed it to mush between his back teeth. “Well now, ain’t this a pretty predicament? Especially with my crates of HTX-20 in your hold.”
“We’re taking care of them.”
“Time is of the essence,” he said. “The very essential essence.” He fished an apple seed out of his mouth. “In fact, all things considered, I find it a touch perturbing that you’re still planetside.”
“We’ll be leaving shortly,” Zoë bit off.
“That’s good. And I’m sure once Captain Reynolds wakes up from his drunken stupor he’ll give you a wave to tell you everything’s hunky-dory.”
She maintained her silence.
“Tick-tock-tick-tock,” Badger sang out. “Clock’s running.”
“We can’t lift off until Mal’s aboard to give the signal,” Zoë said resolutely. “If that’s a problem for you, you can find someone else to transport the goods.”
Badger’s eyebrows shot up. “Surely you wouldn’t renege on our deal. I’d hate for a lapse like that to become public knowledge. Remember what happened to Reynolds and your husband when you disappointed Adelai Niska.”
“Remember what happened to Adelai Niska’s henchmen,” Zoë shot back.
“Oh, dear lady, I’m no one’s henchman,” Badger said. “I’m the big cheese. The kingpin. A force in the community. If I spread word that you lot can’t be trusted—”
“I’m unloading the crates,” she declared. “You can find someone else to transport your cargo.”
Badger frowned. “It’s too late for that. The HTX-20 is already breaking down. It’s got a limited shelf life. And we have an agreement,” he protested.
Just then Borosky gestured to his boss. He might have been the forklift operator who’d loaded the crates, Zoe thought, but Badger’s men tended to look alike—solidly muscled and unkempt. The man was holding out a comm tablet.
Badger said, “Excuse me, missus. One moment.” He hurried over to the man and took the tablet, his lips moving as he scrolled with a fingertip. He said something under his breath to Borosky and they both looked at her. Badger walked back to her with the tablet, which he waved in the air like a trophy.
“Well, seems you got no choice but to keep my goods in your hold and get the ruddy ’ell out of here.” He tapped the tablet with his finger. “This is a bulletin, just got sent out all across the Cortex. Feds are hot on your tail. Seems you people have something they want. What is that, I wonder? What you got on board they’re so flaming interested in?”
Zoë scanned the bulletin, suppressing a sigh of exasperation.
What are the Alliance so interested in? Only River and Simon Tam. Has to be.
The Alliance was desperate to get its hands on the Tams, especially River, whom it seemed to consider its property. That detail was absent from the wave, and just as well, or Badger would even now be trying to detain Zoë, rather than urging her to leave, so that he could garner a portion of the bounty on the Tams’ heads.
If, however, another bulletin came through that mentioned the Tams explicitly or, even worse, if the Alliance caught up to Serenity, the siblings would be bound by law and River would be sent back to the place that her big brother had sacrificed everything to get her out of.
Qīng wā cāo de liú máng, Zoë thought. Badger was right. Mal or no Mal, she had to get Serenity off this world. ASAP.
“Well?” Badger prompted.
“Can’t say,” Zoë replied. “Could be any number of reasons. You know us. We sail close to the wind.”
“Not too close, I hope. For my sake.”
“Don’t worry, we’re going to finish the job,” she told him.
He grinned at her. “You mean you’ll skedaddle.”
She gave Badger a hard look. “And let me get something straight. If you are entertaining any notions of double-crossing us, sending the Alliance our way—”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Badger held up his hands. “I’m crushed you think so little of me. I don’t peach on my partners. I’ve got a reputation to protect. I’ve got roots in the alternative income community. I live ’ere.”
“Still, if Alliance troops come, and I find out you sent them,” she persisted, “you won’t be living anywhere.”
He chuckled. “Such loyalty to your captain. What do you see in that cranky old sergeant that makes you do-or-die for him? It can’t be that he pays you well. As near as I can tell, he ’ardly ever pays you.”
“I don’t think you’d understand even if I had the time to explain it to you.” Zoë said. “But please, if you do get any information about Mal…”
“No worries there, darlin’. I’ll let you know, of course. And for a fair market price.”
Disgusted, Zoë spun on her heel and left his den. Overhead, as she recovered her weapons from the tattooed sentry, the bunting and pennants of Alliance Day flapped as if waving her on: Hurry, hurry.
Limping away down the street, she contacted Serenity.
“Did you find him?” Wash asked her, first thing.
“No, I didn’t find him,” Zoë said in a rush. “Now listen up, lover. According to Badger, the Alliance is closing in on us.”
“When are they ever not?”
“But I saw a bulletin, and this time it sounds like they mean business. I need a ride back to the ship, pronto. I’m moving slowly.”
“My desert flower, are you hurt?”
“Just a bit banged up.” It bugged her to confess it.
“I’m on my way in the Mule to get you myself,” he said.
“No. You need to be ready to lift off in case the Alliance shows up.”
“Zoë—”
“Is Book back?”
“Just got in.”
“Send him to fetch me. If we get in a scrape at this end, he’ll be able to help.” More than once, Alliance military personnel had shown deference to Shepherd Book. No one aboard the ship knew why, and Book hadn’t seen fit to elaborate, but she knew he would be her best bet.
“What if the feds board us before you two get back?” Wash said. “The preacher might do more good here. We can’t risk Kaylee, either. Someone’s got to hold Serenity’s engine together during the pre-flight warm-up. Inara’s free. Well, not free, but you know what I mean.”
“She’s not regular crew.”
“But she is a Registered Companion. She did great on Higgins’ Moon. People always bow and scrape and do whatever she wants.”
“I’m here,” Inara said through the comm link. “Of course I’ll come, Zoë.”
“Thank you, Inara. I’ll find Jayne, if I can, and we’ll meet you by the store where the captain bought Kaylee her dress.”
“All right,” Inara said.
“Wash, after Inara leaves, you see them Alliance bastards coming for the ship, don’t wait for control-tower clearance. Forget the gorramn blast zone safety recs. You light her up. Hear me?”
“Roger, baby,” Wash said. “We’ll be out of here like a cat with a firework tied to its tail. Not that I’d know what that’s like, because I never tied a firework to a cat’s tail as a kid, and anyone who says I did is a liar.”
For several minutes Wash fidgeted with his collection of model dinosaurs, too distracted to stage exciting claw and fang fights. It was hard to keep a lid on his freak-out. Once upon a time at Li Shen’s Space Bazaar he had cracked open a fortune cookie that read, “You will live in interesting times.” Enough with the interesting. Bring on
the boredom.
“They back yet?” Kaylee asked, poking her head through the hatchway. She was wearing overalls decorated with happy teddy bear patches and a pink T-shirt splotched with engine grease.
“No,” Wash told her, depositing a T-Rex into the pocket of his vintage Hawaiian shirt for safekeeping.
“Niú fèn. And what’s this I’m hearing about the Alliance maybe boarding us? Inara mentioned it as she was getting into the Flying Mule just now. She said there wasn’t time to explain and I should ask you.”
Wash pulled up the latest Cortex-wide Alliance bulletin onscreen, which was undoubtedly the one Zoë had been referring to. It advised security personnel to be on the lookout for a Firefly-class transport suspected of an illegal smuggling operation.
“Has to be us,” he said.
“And has to be about River,” said Kaylee. “How come it doesn’t mention her by name, though? Or Simon?”
“Mal has a theory about Alliance bureaucracy. He reckons different departments create bulletins like this and fling them out at random like a drunk guy playing darts—one in the bullseye, one in the back of Joe Bob’s head. Some of the agencies know about the existence of the Tams and some don’t, and they don’t always talk to each other, at least not in the same language. Not that I much care. To a snail, a duck is a vengeful god.”
“What?”
“It’s a saying.”
“A saying said by who?”
“By, uh, me?” said Wash. “More and more, though, this situation with River and Simon is giving me the heebie-jeebies. It’s like we’re playing roulette every day, and every day there’s another zero on the wheel. There are times when you have to ask yourself if we mightn’t be better off ditching River—”
“Oh! Hey, sweetie,” Kaylee said, pointedly cutting Wash off.
Wash looked over to see River standing on the threshold of the bridge. Her eyes were enormous and streaked with tears. She was shivering as if she were freezing. Simon rushed up behind her, his gaze connecting with Wash’s.
“Let’s get you to your bunk, River,” Simon said, his cheeks reddening with embarrassment or consternation, or some of both.
Firefly--Big Damn Hero Page 9