Firefly--Big Damn Hero

by James Lovegrove

  “I don’t have a mustache,” Simon pointed out.

  She leaned across and scribbled one under his nose with the charcoal. She giggled and pulled back.

  “You are such a brat,” her brother chided, his voice breaking just a little. He ruffled her hair and she shook her head, pushing him away.

  “You have no idea,” she said. Then, putting aside the drawing pad, she stretched and yawned.

  “Do you want to rest?”

  “Rest in peace,” she said. She closed her eyes and crossed her arms over her chest like a dead girl.

  Unnerved, Simon rose. He looked down at her placid face and wished that for her—peace. For himself as well.

  “Let’s get you to your bunk,” he said. “Okay?”

  She nodded and he escorted her back to her quarters. River lay down on the bed in all her finery and closed her vividly painted eyelids.

  “I’ll come check on you later,” Simon said. River did not answer. Maybe she was already asleep. In repose, she looked relaxed and tranquil. All the tension was drained from her face. She looked how a girl her age should look, unencumbered by cares. He kissed her lightly on the forehead and slipped out of her bunk.

  As he climbed back up the ladder into the corridor Simon found himself nose to nose with Kaylee. She raised her brows and cocked her head appraisingly.

  “Nice ’tache, Doc,” she said. “Makes you look more distinguished. Like a proper gentleman.”

  Awkwardly, hurriedly, he rubbed away River’s handiwork with the back of his hand.

  “How’s she doing?” Kaylee made as if to look around him so as to peer into his sister’s bunk.

  Simon put a finger to his lips. “Asleep.” Gently he pulled the door closed and gestured for Kaylee to walk with him.

  They headed back for the kitchen. Jayne was gone, and so were all the cookies. Simon glanced over his shoulder, assuring himself that there was no one within earshot, and said, “Kaylee, I know the Alliance is hounding us and all, but do you think there’s a way I could contact my parents somehow? I mean, a way that’s safe? Just to let them know River and I are alive and okay. I’ve been thinking about them, and I know I’m kind of estranged from them, but I miss them. River misses them. And maybe they miss us and are worried about us.”

  Kaylee sighed and shook her head. “It’s just too risky, Simon,” she said. “The Alliance is probably monitoring your parents’ wave accounts real close in case you try to make contact. If you look into how they’re doing, the Alliance finds out how you’re doing. They’ll know for sure that you’re both still alive, and they’ll be able to triangulate which sector you’re in. Next we know, we’ll have the I.A.V. Magellan or some such looming over us, sucking Serenity in like a bug into a vacuum cleaner.” She pulled a sad face. “Sorry.”

  “No, it’s fine. Just thought I’d ask. Should have known it wasn’t possible.”

  “You just have to accept that you and River are your only family for now. Well,” Kaylee added, “and us too. The crew, I mean. All of us. Not just me. I’m not saying I’m your family. Perish the thought. ’Cause that would sound like we’re, y’know, related, and we’re not related, and that’s good, real good, since us not being related means…”

  She was flustered. She seemed to have got herself all tangled up in her own words.

  “I’ll stop talking,” she said.

  Simon looked at her. Kaylee was the kindest, sweetest person he had ever met, and she, more than anyone else in the crew, was doing her darnedest to make him feel at home aboard Serenity. Not only that but sometimes, the way her eyes flashed when she looked at him, he got the sense that she was trying to tell him something about herself. She was sending him a coded message which he couldn’t quite interpret correctly.

  She reached over and touched his upper lip. “Missed a bit,” she said. “Just there.”

  Self-consciously he wiped away the last smudge of charcoal.

  “There,” Kaylee said. “Now you look like the Simon we all know and… like.”

  And with that, she trotted off back to the engine room, leaving Simon nonplussed but the kind of nonplussed that felt good. He put a fingertip back to where she had touched him, and for a brief while he forgot about his parents, about River, about the Alliance, and was consumed instead with thoughts of this wonderful, baffling young woman with the thick chestnut hair and hazel eyes and quirky smile who loved his sister almost as unconditionally as he did and who enjoyed teasing him and who would let him kiss her, he was sure, if only he could summon up the nerve to do so.

  It had been a long time since Book had piloted a shuttle, and it felt both odd and good to be in the driver’s seat. On Serenity he often served in what some might consider a passive capacity—as an observer, counselor, and father confessor, roles he had embraced willingly at Southdown Abbey and fulfilled on the ship in a somewhat more secular manner. He also prayed for everyone aboard, something Inara, when she’d found out about it, had advised him to conceal from the captain.

  To a true believer such as Book, prayer was as active a pursuit as shooting a gun or repairing an engine. But for Mal Reynolds it was a reminder that, to his way of thinking, God had deserted him and all the people he had fought for, and would have willingly died for, during the most crucial part of the war. Believers, in Mal’s view, were deluded fools, and he made no secret of the fact.

  It signified a profound loss of faith, and Book was very sorry for it. He was sorrier still that Mal was denied that source of strength and comfort in the trying times they lived in. The burdens the captain carried were heavy indeed.

  As Book guided the shuttle into a slow, careful descent to Eavesdown Docks, he beseeched the Lord to protect the crew and the captain, and for a successful outcome to his mission. He added a sincere plea to soften Mal’s heart and to help him find a way back to the comforts of belief.

  At least part of his prayer was answered as he completed his landing maneuvers at Guilder’s. The shipwrights seemed to buy his explanation that the missing shuttle was the result of a “family matter” and that that was why the authorities were not being called in. His clerical collar often eased his way, much as Inara’s status as a Registered Companion did for her. He knew Inara had some history, as did he—and like him, she kept her past to herself. He had always wondered why, if she had loved her home planet so much, she had left it. Had she done so willingly or had she been pressured to leave? He pondered on occasion if anyone was actively searching for her in the way that the Alliance was looking for the Tams. He would never bring it up—everyone had enough to worry about, and he wouldn’t want to put Inara on the spot—but he did cast a watchful eye on the waves and bulletins they received. When they spent time planetside, he stayed alert in case she might need assistance, but so far he hadn’t detected anything that could validate his concern.

  He left the shuttle with his satchel slung on his back. Inside were a few toiletries, some coin, and a high-tech stun gun and a charger for it. Some of the money came from Mal, a cut of the profits from previous jobs, which the captain distributed among the crew in accordance with the traditional pirate custom of sharing spoils, and Book had supplemented the sum with cash of his own. He might have taken a vow of poverty, but it was difficult to bribe people for information just by appealing to their better natures.

  “Hey, Shepherd,” Wash said through his comm link. “You down safe and sound?”

  “That I am,” Book replied.

  “You’re gonna find Mal, right?”

  “If providence is on my side, yes.”

  “When would providence not be on a Shepherd’s side?”

  “Quite. Now you get that Firefly to Aberdeen in one piece, you hear me, Wash? And everyone on board, too. I’ll be praying for you.”

  “Amen to that,” said Wash. “Be careful, Shepherd.”

  “Never knowingly not.”

  Ending the call, Book walked along the perimeter of the bustling, chaotic docks. Overhead, one of Persephone
’s two moons, Renao, was riding high and bright. Its smaller counterpart, Hades, had yet to rise.

  He found himself studying the sides of buildings and spacecraft wreckage for anything that might help him solve the mystery of their missing captain. Mika Wong would likelier than not prove useful in that regard, but Book was loath to call upon his old friend unless it was unavoidable. When mentioning Wong to the crew, he had shaded the true nature of their association. He knew his shipmates wondered about his past, but there was no benefit to be gained on either side by full disclosure, as yet. The time might come when Book could share his life story with them—a reverse confession, if you will; a preacher shriving himself of his sins to the members of the laity. Until then, his past and all its uncomfortable truths were better left buried.

  A grizzled older man fell into step beside him. The newcomer walked using a steel crutch, dragging his left foot. His entire left leg seemed atrophied. A birth defect, if Book didn’t miss his guess. The man was deft with the crutch and evidently accustomed to the disability, since it barely slowed his pace.

  “Can I be of help, Shepherd?” he offered. “If you’re looking to find the local abbey, be my pleasure to take you there.”

  “No, thank you, friend,” Book said. He decided to chance his arm. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. “Although actually, you may be able to assist me in another regard. You strike me as a knowledgeable sort.”

  “Some’d say.”

  “I’m looking for somebody, name of Hunter Covington. Would you happen to know how I can contact him?”

  The man’s bushy brows shot upward. “Hunter Covington, you say? You, ah, sure that’s who you want? The kinda line of work he’s in…” He smiled uneasily. “It ain’t what you might call holy.”

  “What line of work might that be?” Book asked neutrally, without slowing his pace to accommodate the hobbling man. He swept the surroundings with a sharp eye, alert to the possibility that this apparently harmless fellow had a confederate or two and that he was trying to waylay Book so that they could rob him. What was that old Earth-That-Was saying? Trust Allah but tie up your camel.

  “Well, not to speak ill of a fellow man, especially in this company, but some of what Covington gets up to is a little on the disreputable side.”

  People tended to edit themselves around a man of the cloth. “Care to elaborate?” Book asked.

  “Not really.”

  “Well, how about the rest of his business? The more reputable side. What can you tell me about that?”

  The man nodded, eager to ingratiate himself. “Whatever you need, I’ve heard Covington can get it for you. He’s connected.”

  “Connected,” Book said.

  “Knows everybody.”

  “That’s good. Then he may well be whom I need.”

  “May I be so bold as to inquire what you want Hunter Covington for?”

  Sometimes you had to give a little to get a little. “As it happens, I’m trying to track down an old friend. I know he’s on Persephone and I have it on good authority that he’s somewhere in Eavesdown.”

  “Well, now…” The man with the crutch scratched one of his prodigious eyebrows, causing the clustered gray and white hairs to spring out in all directions. “If your friend’s alive and in Eavesdown, Covington should know his whereabouts. And if he’s dead, Covington may well be able to tell you where he’s buried.”

  “Sounds like the ideal man for the job, then. Where might I find him?”

  “He’s got a few haunts, when he’s in the city. At the docks, you can find him at the quartermaster’s HQ, or in the Sea Wolf Tavern. Downtown, it’s Taggart’s Bar. I can take you there.”

  Book stopped and turned to face his newfound companion, who halted too. “No need,” he said. “I’m not unfamiliar with Eavesdown. I know my way around. But I thank you for your time nonetheless.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out a generous amount of platinum, which he held out to the man. “For your trouble.”

  “Mighty kind of you, sir,” the man said, plucking the bounty out of Book’s grasp as if he feared the Shepherd would suddenly change his mind. A wave of relief came over his dirty, weather-seamed face and Book gave a quick, silent prayer for him to find an easier path.

  “Might I have your name and a way to contact you if I need further assistance?” Book said.

  The man bobbed his head. “I’m Charlie Dunwoody, sir. I, uh, you can just ask anyone around here to get a message to me.”

  Book translated: Dunwoody had no comm link, nor any way to be waved.

  The crippled man leaned forward in a conspiratorial manner, holding his hand to the side of his mouth to keep from being overheard. “I like to move around a lot, the state of my leg notwithstanding. I stay loose.”

  “Understood.” Book smiled at him. “I’ll be sure to get a message to you if the occasion should arise. And thanks again for your help.” He adjusted his satchel and moved on. To his surprise, Dunwoody started walking again, too, right on his heels.

  “Yes?” Book said pleasantly, but inwardly steeling himself for a second dunning.

  The man chewed the inside of his lip for a second, then appeared to come to a decision. “Ah, Shepherd, I feel it’s only fair to tell you that around these here parts Hunter Covington is a bit… well, feared.”

  “As in violent?”

  “Well, sir, since you put it that way, yes, violent is as good a word as any. Leastways, he employs people who’ll do violence on his behalf. Just make sure what you’re getting into, if you don’t mind my advice.”

  The revelation was hardly a surprise, but Book affected apprehension. As far as Dunwoody was aware he was a mere Shepherd, with all the connotations of defenselessness and unworldliness that came with that.

  “I appreciate your concern,” he said. “Now I’ll be on my way,” he added pointedly.

  “Yes, yes of course.” On his open palm, Dunwoody mimicked running motions with two fingers. “You have things to do.”

  “Yes. I’m on a bit of a timetable.”

  “Yessir, of course, sir.” Dunwoody took a few steps away from Book and made a formal little bow.

  Book began to walk on, leaving Dunwoody in his wake. Then he turned back and said, “You say you know where an abbey is.”

  The man nodded. “All of ’em on-planet.”

  “If you’re looking for work, you might go to Southdown. It’s not far. Ask for the head abbot. Tell him Shepherd Book recommended you. The brethren are often in need of an extra set of hands.”

  “Oh.” Dunwoody’s face lit up. “Thank you. I will do that, Shepherd Book.”

  Book realized at once that it might have been a better idea to keep his identity concealed, but what was done was done, and if it benefited this poor man, then the risk was to a good purpose.

  With that, Book moved on, increasing his speed in order to guarantee that he left Dunwoody behind this time. He melted into the haze of smoke and dust, into the boisterous crowd that packed the street alongside the landing field. The Alliance Day celebrations were still ongoing, although to Book’s way of thinking they were starting to simmer down. The hour was approaching midnight, after all, and there was only so much roistering a body could handle before it began to flag.

  Some folks tipped their hats or pulled their forelocks when they saw his collar; others glared; most simply ignored him. Book was just an ant in a swarm of ants, some dark-complexioned, some light, some practically naked, some decked out in smothering layers of silk brocade.

  He made his first stop at the quartermaster’s office, passing two armed guards to gain entry into the single-story aluminum-clad building. The office itself consisted of a large main room without any seating. It was busy at this late hour, even on Alliance Day. Everyone stood in line to reach windows protected by metal bars and transaction drawers. A stocky woman towards the front was bellowing about being charged twice for her docking fees.

  All the clerks were occupied and the lines weren’t moving,
so Book passed some time scanning the various flyers, advertisements and notices tacked on a large bulletin board along the wall. There were a plethora of recruitment posters urging youth to join the Alliance galactic military force. PATRIOTISM! ADVENTURE! OPPORTUNITY! Words chosen carefully to stir young women and men to enlist, without spelling out the inherent risks, both to their own physical and psychological well-being and to those people whom the Alliance, in its infinite wisdom, turned them loose on. Nothing had changed in all these years.

  Then, in their midst, Book spied a WANTED poster. It was several months old, to judge by the brittleness of the paper and how deep it was buried among the others. What stood out on it, what had caught his eye, was a name: Hunter Covington.

  Book snatched the poster off its pins and studied it. The wanted person in question was not Covington himself, but a woman named Elmira Atadema. She was lovely, with coffee-colored skin, dark hair that curled around her shoulders, and striking gray-green eyes. The poster listed her vital statistics and last-seen location and date. She hadn’t been missing long at the time the poster had been issued, but from the bounty being offered, someone was taking her absence very seriously. And that someone was named on the poster as Hunter Covington.

  Book recalled Zoë’s description of the woman who had accompanied Covington on his meeting with Harlow. Zoë had intuited that she might have been a bondswoman, and lo and behold, Elmira Atadema was indeed an escaped bondswoman, according to the poster. She had run away from Covington, her bondholder, six months ago. The reward for her return—“alive and unharmed”—was substantial. For a lot of folk it was equivalent to a year’s wages.

  Maybe someone had ratted on Elmira, or Covington had lived up to his given name and hunted her down. Either way, he must have got her back, if she was the one who had been with him for the meet at Taggart’s two days ago.

  There was a proud set to Elmira’s posture that spoke of someone who had not been beaten down by her position in life. Being a bondsperson meant someone “owned” you for however long your contract stated, to do with as they pleased. Mal had masqueraded as Inara’s bondsman on Regina, when they had stolen some cargo from a train for Adelai Niska. As soon as they had realized what they’d taken—all that stood between the folk of Regina and a slow, agonizing death—they had returned it, earning the wrath of Niska. That they had dealt with, but word got around that the crew of Serenity had somehow botched a job and they had yet to fully restore trust among some that hired ships for transport.