Mal clambered out of the crate and stood stiffly upright, easing out cramped limbs and a kinked spine. He went to the nearest of the other large crates and rapped on the lid. Out came Zoë. Jayne and Simon followed in swift succession. Each of them, like Mal, was dressed in multiple layers of clothing, everything patched, ragged and torn. Scraps of cloth were wrapped around their heads to serve as scarves and mufflers; likewise around their hands to serve as gloves. This was more or less standard inmate wear on Atata, where prison jumpsuits were considered yet another expense that Blue Sun could do without.
They rearranged the contents of the crates they had lain in—shrinkwrapped multipacks of protein bars—until it did not look as though there had been enough extra space to accommodate a person. Then they closed the lids.
“Can’t hang around any longer,” Zoë said. “Gotta move.”
They ducked out from under the awning, making for the door. Mal yanked on the handle and rolled it open on its sliding track just far enough for them to slip through one at a time. He went last, pulling the door shut behind him.
He glanced towards the big, low cinderblock building that hulked half a mile away: Correctional Unit #23. The unit that Dr. Weng had been assigned to, according to Alliance records. A path marked with bright orange flags arrowed across the flat expanse of plain between here and there. The flags were in case of poor visibility, if fog set in, say, or a snowstorm.
As far as Mal could tell, no one had come out yet to make the journey from the depot. But that didn’t mean he and the others shouldn’t hurry. They had to find somewhere to hide.
So far, things had gone according to plan. It was safe—and wise—to assume that Serenity had been monitored every step of the way by Constant Vigilance, from atmo entry to landing at the depot and her subsequent departure. Their L’Amour Lines affiliation story had held up to scrutiny, but Commander Victoria Levine had sounded like the wary sort, and she’d be a fool not to keep the ship under observation.
Nothing Serenity had done at the depot should have aroused suspicion. Her crew had offloaded the cargo, stashing it beneath the loading dock’s awning. This was where the crates were supposed to go. More importantly, it was where they could not be seen from space, the awning shielding them from an Alliance corvette’s long-range, high-resolution cameras.
Constant Vigilance would now no longer be surveying the depot or its surrounding area. That was the ideal scenario.
But then a truly ideal scenario would be one in which Serenity hadn’t encountered Constant Vigilance in the first place. Mal had made allowances for the eventuality of running into one of the corvettes, but it had definitely complicated matters.
He spied a stand of pines a couple of hundred yards away. Not perfect cover but good enough. He indicated to the others, and, crouching low, the foursome ran.
Reaching the pines, they settled down beneath the trees’ snow-swathed branches and waited.
And waited.
And waited.
“Remind me again why this is a good idea,” Jayne groused.
“It’s called infiltration, Jayne,” said Mal, his gaze fixed on Correctional Unit #23.
“I call it freezin’ our peckers off.”
“Speak for yourself,” said Zoë.
“We ain’t even got any guns,” Jayne went on.
“You know why that is.”
“’Cause we’re tryin’ to pass as prisoners, and prisoners don’t carry guns.”
“See? You were paying attention when I outlined the plan. Don’t let anybody tell you you’re no good at retaining information.”
“But nothin’? Not even a knife?”
“Look, you gonna keep whining like a baby the whole time?” Mal said. “I might expect it from the Doc, but not from you. No offence, Doc.”
“Some taken,” said Simon. “Truth is, I’d probably be whining myself, if moving my lips weren’t such an effort.”
They waited some more, shivering in their makeshift cold-weather gear. Every now and then a trickle of snow sifted down from a pine bough. The sun was sinking.
“Is anyone even comin’ out?” Jayne wanted to know.
“Give ’em a chance,” Mal said. “They’ll be mustering, gettin’ themselves organized.”
“We always knew we’d have to hunker down like this awhile, Jayne,” said Zoë. “Ain’t as if it’s a surprise to you. So suck it up.”
“Nobody said how long for, though,” Jayne said.
“As long as it takes,” said Mal. “Now please, tiān ya, will you shut your yap!”
More waiting, and the shivering was becoming uncontrollable. At one point, a small, white-furred mammal—something like an opossum, but with unusually enormous ears—ventured out from under a nearby rock outcrop. It sat up on its haunches, sniffing the air tentatively, those ears rotating in different directions like twin radar dishes.
“Just what in heck is that?” Jayne wanted to know, peering at the creature. At the sound of his voice, the animal peered back, its ears now fixed, pointing forwards. “Ain’t never seen nothin’ like it.”
“Terrafreak,” Simon said. “Must be.”
“Terra-what now?”
“Genetically anomalous species that arises when the terraforming process doesn’t work properly.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard about those,” said Zoë. “Weird hybrids and such.”
“Ain’t natural,” said Jayne.
“And terraforming is?” said Simon.
The terrafreak opossum studied them with its round black eyes as though unsure what to make of them. Then, all at once, it scuttled back under the rocks for cover.
What had startled it was activity over at Correctional Unit #23. A door had opened at the building’s base, and now a handful of figures emerged, nine in all. Each was huddled within bulky thermal outerwear, which made their movements somewhat clumsy, as though they were deep underwater.
“We got company,” Mal said.
“’Bout gorramn time,” said Jayne.
There was the faint sound of a motor starting up, and out through the doorway came a narrow, low-slung, open-topped vehicle, driven by a tenth person. It was a Slugger. Supposedly an all-purpose workhorse, the slow-moving, caterpillar-tracked Slugger was known for two things: being difficult to drive, and breaking down. Mechanics called it the masochist’s machine, but some ranchers and loggers loved it. For those of a certain persuasion, its cantankerousness and unreliability were all part of its charm.
This one had a ski-mounted trailer hitched behind it. The other inmates clambered aboard the trailer, and off the Slugger went, crawling along the demarcated path towards the depot.
“Okay,” Mal said. “Moment of truth.”
13
Mal stood up. The other three followed suit.
To look at them, you would not necessarily think these four had arrived on Atata by ship less than an hour ago. Blue lips, frosted eyebrows and chattering teeth reinforced this impression.
Nerving himself, Mal stepped out from the trees and started waving his arms at the people on the approaching Slugger.
“Hey! Hey!” he called out.
The Slugger driver, spotting him, decelerated. The people in the trailer turned to look.
Mal waded towards them through the shin-deep snow, with Zoë, Jayne and Simon traipsing after him. They reached the Slugger just as it came to a complete halt.
“Who, in name of all that’s holy, are you?” demanded the driver. He was a large man and was wearing a set of green-tinted goggles.
“Name’s Mal. These here are my buddies.”
“An’ where in hell have you come from?” said one of the inmates on the trailer, a woman with a pinched, scarred face.
“Correctional Unit #22,” Mal replied.
“You gotta be kidding,” said the Slugger driver.
“Wish I were.”
“That’s a good two hundred fifty miles over yonder,” said another inmate, a man with a chin speckled with gray s
tubble. “Ain’t no way you’ve walked from there, not in these conditions. Could just about believe it if it were during the thaw season, but that ain’t for another couple months.”
“Nor did we,” said Mal. “Had ourselves a Slugger just like yours.” He gestured at the vehicle. “Got most of the way on that, ’til it up and died on us. Walked the rest. Musta traveled a good ten, twelve miles on foot, and as you can see, it’s left us sore, weary and chilled to the bone. Frankly, we weren’t sure we were even gonna make it.”
The driver eyed them up and down. “CU #22, you say?”
“I do. Popularly known as the Big Cube.”
“I heard things ain’t too peachy there right now.”
“You heard correctly. Part of the roof got blown off in a storm last month, and Blue Sun ain’t sent nobody to fix it yet.” This much was true, at least according to research River had done. She’d found a reference to the storm damage at CU #22 buried deep in a Blue Sun communiqué file, along with a note from someone high up in the corporation saying that effecting repairs was not considered a priority.
“Don’t suppose they ever will,” said the woman with the scarred face.
“Without a roof, the Big Cube became more like the Ice Cube. We were freezin’ half to death, and us four, we decided enough was enough. Commandeered the Slugger and skedaddled for our nearest neighbors. Which is you. Wish we could’ve picked up some thermal gear like you have on, but we left in kind of a hurry.”
“There’s some mighty rough terrain between here and #22,” said the Slugger driver. “It’s a miracle your Slugger got you as far as it did.”
“Our angels were watching over us, no doubt about it,” Mal said. He held out his rag-swaddled hands importunately. “What we’re hoping—praying for, even—is that you people will be angels yourselves and take us in.”
The inmates looked at one another.
“Well now,” said the driver, “it’s not up to us. Ain’t as if you’re part of any official new intake, bussed in by Blue Sun. Then we’d have no choice about it. As things stand, this is a decision for Mr. O’Bannon to make.”
“Mr. O’Bannon?”
“Guess you could call him our boss,” said the stubble-chinned man. “Runs CU #23. Nothing happens on our block without his say-so.”
“And how do we meet him?” Mal asked.
The Slugger driver cocked his head. “Tell you what. We just had some supplies delivered.”
“I know. See those foot tracks there in the snow? Those are ours. Saw a Firefly come down at the depot and we were thinkin’ we might try and sneak aboard. Maybe stow away, or maybe threaten the crew, persuade them it’d be in their best interests to fly us off this godforsaken snowball. Only, that didn’t work on account of the depot door was locked, so we went away again and hung out among those trees.”
This wasn’t the story their tracks actually told, but the four sets of footprints were so muddled and messy that Mal reckoned nobody would notice they went in only one direction, away from the depot.
“Knew people’d come out of your unit eventually to pick up what the Firefly dropped off,” he went on. “Thought we’d stick with Plan A and throw ourselves on your mercy.”
The driver mulled things over, then said, “Well, what I’m thinking is, those supplies need to get onto this here trailer. The more hands doing the work, the quicker it’ll take. Help us out, and it’ll be a point in your favor. Meantime, I’ll send someone back over to the block to tell Mr. O’Bannon about you. He says you can stay, then you can stay.”
14
As they were transferring the crates from the depot loading dock to the Slugger trailer, Zoë briefly caught Mal’s eye. Her look said what he was thinking. We’ve made good progress so far, but the hard part’s still to be done.
Mal himself was wondering what sort of person this Mr. O’Bannon was and how best to deal with him. Assuming, that was, that Mr. O’Bannon gave permission for Mal and the others to enter Correctional Unit #23 at all. Otherwise their job had just become about ten times more difficult. Maybe, if necessary, they could plead their case to him and he would see reason. Then again, maybe not. Mr. O’Bannon was, after all, someone who held sway over a building filled with hardcore criminals. He was unlikely to have a caring, sensitive disposition.
At least the physical exertion of shifting crates around helped warm the four crewmembers up after that period of lying inert in the snow.
The work was nearly done when the person who had been sent over to consult Mr. O’Bannon returned. The Slugger driver relayed the verdict.
“Good news. Mr. O’Bannon says it’s okay. You can stay. How long for will depend on a lot of things, mostly how you behave. Don’t rock the boat, and you should be fine.”
Mal thanked him.
“Hey, don’t thank me. Thank Mr. O’Bannon, when you get the chance to meet him.”
A hurdle had been cleared, and Mal felt relief. He resumed hefting crates around.
Finally, with its trailer loaded, the Slugger rumbled off, retracing its journey to Correctional Unit #23. There was now no room on the trailer for people, so everyone except the Slugger driver had to follow on foot. The vehicle soon built up a lead, the gap between it and the people behind gradually widening.
As they trudged along in the grooves left in the snow by the Slugger, Mal noticed a young woman moving in close to Simon, who was walking a few paces ahead of him. Earlier, while everyone was busy with the crates, he had seen this same young woman shoot searching glances at all four crewmembers one after another, as if sizing up these strangers. She had subjected Simon to longer scrutiny than she had Mal, Zoë or Jayne, and now she was clearly making an approach.
“Hi,” Mal heard her say to Simon. Her face was mostly covered up but her eyes were visible—large, long-lashed, baby blue—and Mal recognized the look in them. It was appreciative. Acquisitive, even. Just the look a young woman might direct at a handsome young man she’d taken a shine to.
“Uh, hi,” Simon said.
“I’m Meadowlark. Meadowlark Deane.”
“Hi, Meadowlark Deane. Meadowlark. That’s a lovely name.”
There was a pause, then Meadowlark said, “Ain’t you going to tell me yours?”
“Yes. Of course. Sorry. It’s Simon.”
“Simon. I like the name Simon. Sounds dignified. Nice to meet you, Simon.”
Meadowlark Deane held out a hand sheathed in a mitten, and Simon shook it.
“So,” she said, “CU #22, huh?”
“That’s right.”
“Did you like it there?”
“Uh, no. Not really. It’s jail. What’s to like?”
This was far from being the wittiest thing anyone had ever said. Still, Meadowlark laughed as though it was utterly hilarious.
“You’re funny, Simon.”
“I am?”
“Yeah. I like a boy who can make me laugh.”
“Oh,” said Simon, sounding mystified. “Well, I’m glad I did.”
Only a blockhead would fail to realize that Meadowlark was flirting. It seemed, however, that Simon was that blockhead. Not for the first time, Mal was amazed at how someone with so much smarts and book-learning could be so hopeless when it came to human behavior. Simon knew everything about how a person’s body worked but next to nothing about how people worked.
“If you don’t mind my asking, why’re you on Atata?” Meadowlark said. “Only, by the looks of you, you aren’t the average inmate.”
Here we go, thought Mal. First test of your cover story, Simon. Don’t blow it.
“I’m here for the food and the fine wine,” Simon said.
Good boy. Just like we practiced. Deflect first.
“Gotcha,” said Meadowlark. “‘Shut up, Meadowlark. Don’t be so nosy.’” She did not shut up, though. “I’m betting it’s something financial. I’m good at reading people, and you don’t strike me as someone who’s ever, for instance, killed somebody. Not like your pal over there, the
big guy.” She nodded towards Jayne. “Him I can see getting hauled up on a murder rap, but not you.”
“Well, I don’t really like to discuss it, Meadowlark.”
“But it was financial? I’m right?”
Simon, with a show of reluctance, nodded. “Embezzlement. I was convicted of misappropriating funds from the investment strategy firm I worked for.”
“How much? Or is it impolite to ask that in embezzler circles?”
“Let’s just call it ‘a lot’ and leave it at that,” Simon said. “Thing is, I didn’t actually do it.”
Mal had decided that no one would buy Simon Tam as a crook, even a white-collar one. He was just too straightforward and clean-cut. Therefore he had to be the victim of a miscarriage of justice.
“It was my department manager,” Simon went continued. “He was squirreling all this money away. He’d been doing it for months. I spotted some irregularities in the accounts and I realized what was going on. I confronted him, and he tried to buy me off. I said no, and that was my big mistake. The department manager went to the board of directors before I could. He made it look as though I was the one who’d been embezzling. Left a trail that led right to me. Set me up good and proper. And of course the board of directors believed him over me. He’d been with the company for years, and I was just a lowly junior.”
“Don’t tell me,” said Meadowlark. “They ganged up on you. Really went to town.”
“They said they were going to make an example of me, so that no one else would dare try to do what I did. They hired lawyers, I hired lawyers, but their lawyers were way bigger and more expensive than my lawyers. I didn’t stand a chance.”
“Oh, Simon.” She touched his arm. Her hand lingered a fraction too long for it to be considered just a friendly gesture. “You poor thing.”
Simon looked brave and resigned. He was doing a good job, Mal thought.
Better than I’d hoped. Lying doesn’t come naturally to the Doc. It must be the months he’s spent on Serenity. All those scrapes we’ve gotten into. All those brushes with the law. It’s taught him a thing or two.
Firefly--Life Signs Page 6