Firefly--Life Signs

by James Lovegrove

  Mal had never done jail time. This was not for want of trying. He had just never got caught. He had served a spell or two in police custody, however, not least during his hellion days on Shadow. As a tearaway youth he’d had numerous run-ins with his nemesis Sheriff Bundy, who was what passed for a lawman in Seven Pines Pass, Mal’s hometown.

  Nonetheless he had a fairly good idea of what a prison was usually like, thanks to first-hand accounts he’d picked up from ex-cons he had met over the years. A prison was noise and rage, twenty-four seven. It was jeers and catcalls, and the stench of sweaty bodies and bad food. It was the ever-present possibility of violence, like a stew of pent-up aggression ready to boil over at any moment. It was constantly watching your back and doing your best not to provoke any of your fellow inmates. It was a minefield, a cat’s cradle of tripwires, where any misstep could be your last.

  Here, in the building its inhabitants had dubbed Hellfreeze, there was none of that. There was a sense of, if not calm, then docility. Mal had observed this as soon as he entered the premises, from the way that people had gathered around the Slugger trailer and begun removing the crates in an orderly fashion, opening them up and carting the contents off to various destinations elsewhere in the building. Everyone seemed to know what was expected of them, and did it diligently. And as he and the other three crewmembers proceeded through the correctional unit, led by the stubble-chinned man and the woman with the scarred face, nothing he saw contradicted his initial impression.

  Whoever this Mr. O’Bannon was, he’d got people here firmly under his thumb. Mal wondered whether the man was loved or feared as a leader. Most likely it was a combination of the two, that special, heady cocktail of adoration and obeisance which dictators had relied on down through the centuries.

  The two inmates showed the newcomers to a pair of adjacent, empty cells, each with a steel-framed double bunk bed, a sink and a lidless porcelain commode.

  “Make yourselves at home,” said the stubble-chinned man. “We’ll see about gettin’ you some bedding.”

  “Dinner’s at eight sharp,” the woman with the scarred face added. She pointed towards an exit leading off from the central hall. “Refectory’s through there. Just follow the crowd.”

  “And Mr. O’Bannon himself?” Mal asked. “I’m curious to meet the boss. That gonna happen any time?”

  Mal wasn’t actually that keen on making Mr. O’Bannon’s acquaintance, but it might be advisable to introduce himself to the guy and maybe cozy up to him. In fact, it might arouse suspicion if the four of them, as guests in this little penal kingdom, didn’t seek an audience with its king.

  “You’ll meet him when he’s good and ready to meet you.”

  “And when might that be?”

  “Ain’t for us to decide,” said the stubble-chinned man. “Mr. O’Bannon does things in his own way and in his own time.”

  “You’ll tell him we’d like to make his acquaintance, though? To say thanks, if nothin’ else.”

  “For sure,” the woman with the scarred face said. She and her companion turned to leave.

  Mal motioned to Simon. Go ahead. Now’s your chance.

  Simon cleared his throat. “Excuse me.”

  “Yeah?” said the stubble-chinned man.

  “As I recall, there’s a friend of mine who’s… resident here.”

  “That so?”

  “Yes. I mean, I could be wrong, but I’m fairly certain he ended up in #23. It’s one of the reasons we decided to come to this unit rather than any other. Familiar face and all that.”

  “What’s the fella’s name?”

  “Weng,” Simon said. “Esau Weng.”

  At that, the stubble-chinned man and the woman with the scarred face seemed to flinch. Each darted a worried look at the other, before the stubble-chinned man turned back to Simon. Leaning in close, he hissed, “Listen to me, pal, and listen good. I’m going to pretend I never heard you say what you just did, and if you’re wise you’ll pretend you don’t know that person whose name you mentioned. You don’t speak about him to anybody. You don’t refer to him ever again. This is the one and only time I’m gonna tell you this. Okay?”

  The change that had come over the two inmates was startling. In a flash they had gone from comparatively hospitable to downright frosty. And not just that. Mal thought they looked scared. It was as though the words “Esau Weng” were a curse or something.

  “Okayyy,” Simon said.

  Without another word, or even a backward glance, the stubble-chinned man and the woman with the scarred face strode away.

  23

  “Can someone explain to me what all that was about?” said a perplexed Jayne. “Those two just ran off like a coupla scalded cats, and all ’cause the Doc asked ’em about Weng. That ain’t natural behavior.”

  “You’d think Weng had murdered their first-born or something,” Zoë chimed in.

  “It’s as if his name’s taboo,” Simon observed.

  “Don’t look at me,” Mal said, as their gazes turned on him. “I thought if Simon was the one inquiring about Weng—guy acting and sounding the way Simon does—it’d be plausible. They’d just go, ‘Esau Weng? Oh yeah, you would know him. Head down that corridor, take the first right, fourth cell along, can’t miss him.’ There’s somethin’ funny going on here, that’s for damn sure.”

  “They had heard of him, though,” Zoë pointed out. “So at least we’re on the right track.”

  “What’s the play now, Mal?” Jayne asked. “If we’re not supposed to mention Weng’s name to anyone, how’re we gonna find him?”

  “We know what he looks like. That’s a start.”

  “There’s a good five hundred folks to choose from.”

  “Around a third of whom are female,” Zoë pointed out, “so we can count them out.”

  “I guess our best bet is to mooch around looking for him,” Mal said. “What we don’t want to do is make it look like we’re looking. Don’t know if you’ve noticed, but our welcome here wasn’t super enthusiastic and we’re on kinda shaky ground. We act like we’re anything other than we say we are, it’s liable to get us thrown out on our asses, or worse. So we have to be discreet.”

  “Discreet,” said Jayne. “I can do that.”

  Mal tried to keep the skepticism from showing in his face. “Whyn’t we do this in pairs? You and Zoë, Jayne. Me and the Doc.”

  “Seems reasonable,” said Jayne. “I’m just glad to be gettin’ on with this. I don’t know about you all, but I’m eager not to hang around a moment longer’n I have to. There’s somethin’ about jail that don’t sit well with me. Maybe on account of it’s, y’know, jail, which is somewhere I’ve always been at pains to avoid endin’ up.”

  They split up, Zoë and Jayne heading one way, Mal and Simon the other.

  “Try not to rubberneck, Doc,” Mal said in a low voice as they walked along the row of cells. “Remember, you’ve already been doing a stretch at Correctional Unit #22. None of this is new to you.”

  “Got it.”

  Nonetheless Mal himself found it difficult not to stare. Some of the cells they passed were bare and unadorned, but in others the occupants had attempted to make them look a little more homely. Sheets had been hung up as screens. Pictures had been sketched on walls in charcoal, some crudely rendered but others showing considerable artistic merit. In one cell they spied one man adorning another with a tattoo, using a paperclip and ink that was most likely made from soot mixed with shampoo. In another, a mother was nursing an infant.

  Down in the central hall there was a workout area where some very large individuals were lifting dumbbells made out of rocks and rebar. Their grunts of effort were punctuated by the thud of the makeshift weights being returned to their rests. There were also several games of checkers going on, with homemade boards and slivers of bottle cork standing in for pieces.

  Now and then an inquisitive look came Mal and Simon’s way. It was clear word of the refugees from #22 had already
got around, so their presence was not challenged. Still, their faces were unfamiliar, worth a second glance.

  Nowhere did Mal spy the mild, unworldly features of Dr. Esau Weng.

  Then someone came sidling up to them.

  “Hey, Simon.”

  It was the girl from before, Meadowlark Deane. Now that she was no longer wrapped up against the cold outdoors, her face bare, Mal could see that she was very pretty indeed. She had a pert little snub nose to go with those big, blue eyes, and her smile was broad and guileless. Of course, she wasn’t showing any interest in him. Her attention was on Simon exclusively.

  “Meadowlark,” Simon said.

  “How are you finding it?”

  “It’s not like #22, that’s for certain.”

  “I know, right? We have it good here. Some of the other correctional units, they’re, like, zoos. In particular, if you’re a woman in one of those, you’ve got to be prepared to fight tooth and nail to protect yourself, or you’re going to get crushed. Here, Mr. O’Bannon won’t tolerate aggression of any kind. He says we’re all equals, and anyone who abuses or molests anyone else is going to regret it.”

  “He sounds like a terrific fellow.”

  “You won’t get any disagreement from me,” said Meadowlark. “Say, do you want me give you the guided tour?”

  “Uh…”

  “Come on!” Meadowlark linked her arm with his. “It’ll be fun.”

  Simon looked at Mal.

  “You go right ahead,” Mal said. It was evident that Meadowlark’s invitation did not include him. “I don’t mind.”

  “But shouldn’t we arrange to meet up again somewhere?” Simon said to Mal. Meadowlark was already dragging him away.

  “Dinnertime. The refectory.”

  Mal offered Simon a discreet little nod. Looking over his shoulder, Simon returned it. He’d got the hint, Mal thought. Maybe Meadowlark Deane would be willing to reveal something about Dr. Weng when no one else would. Being as she was so obviously smitten with him, Simon had leverage over her, and he should use it.

  24

  Meadowlark Deane was certainly talkative.

  As she escorted Simon around Correctional Unit #23’s kitchen, its food store, its communal bathroom, its poorly stocked library, and the room that housed its geothermal power plant, she gabbled away, scarcely pausing for breath. She seemed on friendly terms with everyone they encountered, and introduced Simon at every opportunity. He got the sense that not only was she showing him around, she was showing him off.

  This was, in its way, quite flattering. There was no denying Meadowlark was attractive. But it was also problematic. Simon had done nothing to encourage her interest, and he definitely didn’t want any romantic entanglement while he and the crew were on a mission. Especially not this mission, with Inara’s life at stake.

  Then there was the small matter of Kaylee Frye. She and he weren’t lovers, that was for sure, but there was something going on between them. Simon couldn’t put his finger on what it was exactly, but it existed and it was undeniable. Kaylee was unlike any of the women he had gone out with back on Osiris. His dates, from his college years onward, had been educated, professional types, respectable, cultured. He had never been in a relationship with a woman he felt his parents might disapprove of. Kaylee was different. He could imagine how Gabriel and Regan Tam would respond if he ever had the opportunity to bring her home to meet them. They would be incredibly polite, they would feign interest as Kaylee explained what her job as a ship’s engineer involved, they would pretend to be enchanted by her lack of sophistication—and then afterwards they would make it plain to Simon that they had no interest in seeing her again and neither should he. The Tams employed people like Kaylee; they did not socialize with them.

  Not that that meeting was likely to happen. Simon had burned all bridges with his past, including with his family. He had thrown away his career as a trauma surgeon, his entire future, all for River’s sake, and now he was a… He wasn’t even sure what he was. Part of a band of outcasts and reprobates who roved the ’verse, scrabbling to make a living and getting embroiled in various harebrained escapades. Like this one.

  The one redeeming feature of the whole situation Simon found himself in, aside from the fact that it protected River from the authorities, was Kaylee. She was beautiful, lively, intelligent, and so cheery in her outlook that at times being with her was like basking in warm sunshine. Even when she was down—and Inara’s plight had certainly brought her low—you had the sense that she was still striving to find the positive in it. So many times Simon wished he could just get over himself and tell her how he felt.

  Meadowlark Deane definitely reminded him of Kaylee. The enthusiasm, the talking, the way her eyes lit up when she looked at him. But it wasn’t as if anything was going to happen between the two of them. Simon anticipated being on Atata for a day at most. As soon as the crew found Dr. Weng, they’d be gone; and by the same token, if they couldn’t locate Weng anywhere in Correctional Unit #23, or they discovered that he was dead, they would beat a hasty retreat. Mal would send an alert beacon to Serenity using the tiny mid-range transceiver he was carrying, and Wash would swoop in and scoop them up.

  Meadowlark was just a distraction, that was all. A sidetrack.

  An interesting one, though. Simon rather liked being the center of her attention. He wasn’t a vain man, but it was nice when a woman took a fancy to you and made no secret of it.

  The guided tour wound up at the laundry, where work had just finished for the day. The smells of steam and washing powder still hung in the air. Freshly pressed sheets were heaped in hampers, while folded clothing lay in neat stacks.

  Meadowlark cast a glance around the room. “Okay, everyone’s gone. Coast’s clear. Can I show you something?”

  “Uh, sure.”

  “But you gotta keep it a secret. Swear?”

  “All right.”

  “Say ‘I swear.’”

  “I swear.”

  “Cross your heart.”

  “And hope to die,” Simon said, making an X shape over his sternum.

  “Wouldn’t want that,” Meadowlark said with a small smile.

  She reached between the wall and the back of one of the dryers. There was a loose section of paneling which she worked free, revealing a hole. Squeezing herself behind the dryer, she slid into the hole, then beckoned to Simon.

  “It’s fine, honest,” she said. “Come on. You’ll like this.”

  A touch hesitantly, Simon followed her into the hole.

  He found himself in a crawlspace roughly two feet wide, with sufficient headroom as long as he crouched. Large metal pipes ran above. There were blankets and pillows on the floor, piled up to form bedding like at the bottom of a hamster cage.

  “What is this?” he said. “Some kind of burrow?”

  “That’s exactly what it is,” said Meadowlark delightedly. She pulled the section of paneling back into position. A tiny bit of light crept in around its edges from outside, just enough to see by. “My private little burrow. Warm, isn’t it?”

  It was, if not balmy, then plenty warmer than anywhere else Simon had been in Correctional Unit #23.

  “These pipes carry heated water straight from the geothermal plant,” she said, sitting down cross-legged and inviting Simon to join her. “Smells a bit as well, I know. Like sweaty clothes? That’s ’cause the drain outlets from the dryers run through here too, and one of ’em’s got a leaky seal.”

  There was a distinctly musty odor, that was for sure, although it reminded Simon less of sweaty clothes and more of rancid food.

  “You sleep here?” he asked.

  “Sometimes. I’ve got a cell, of course, but my cellmate—well, she snores. I mean, really snores. Like a chainsaw. So most nights I sneak out and come here and get all cozy. Sleep like a baby.”

  “I didn’t realize you can leave your cells at night.”

  “Can’t you at #22?”

  “No, uh, we get lock
ed in. Curfew at nine sharp every evening.”

  “Well, not all correctional units are the same,” said Meadowlark with a shrug. “Another reason to be grateful for Mr. O’Bannon. He trusts us to behave.”

  “Presumably there are consequences if you don’t.”

  “Oh yeah. But seeing as everyone knows what they are, we don’t care to invite them on ourselves.”

  “And what are they, these consequences?” Simon asked. “After all, if Mr. O’Bannon lets me and my friends stay, we ought to have some idea of the rules.”

  Meadowlark pondered her response. “Put it this way. Mr. O’Bannon has this bunch of goons. There’s, like, six, seven of them. He calls ’em his Regulators, and they hang around with him all the time. You get out of line, and they’ll come down on you hard.”

  “How hard?”

  “It’s on a sliding scale. The punishment suits the crime. Like, if two people get into a fight, the Regulators will break it up then beat up both of ’em. You attack somebody, they’ll take you off somewhere and bust a bone, maybe a couple of bones. You kill somebody… Well, you get the picture. So if you’re thinking of killing anybody, Simon, my advice to you is be very careful about it. I’m kidding, by the way. You aren’t the killing type.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  Things were already quite snug in the crawlspace. Now Meadowlark butt-shuffled herself even closer to Simon, pressing herself against him.

  “You are just so not like anyone else on Atata,” she said. “It’s refreshing. You’re clearly smart, and you’ve got this—this openness about you. I feel I can talk to you about pretty much anything.”

  Simon chose his words carefully. “Is there really no one else like me in CU #23?”

  “Really. You’re special, and I’m the one you’ve singled out to get close with, and that makes me feel special too.”