Firefly--Life Signs

by James Lovegrove

  They laid out the unconscious Mal on the lower of the two bunks, and Simon gave him a thorough examination. Between the inmate with the tattooed head, Ornery Annie and Zoë, he had received an almighty drubbing, but it looked worse than it actually was. Contusions were bulging all over his face, distending it to ugly proportions. One of his eyes was swollen almost completely shut. However, the bones beneath the skin—including the most fragile of them, the zygomatic bones and the two maxilla—remained intact. Mal’s torso was likewise a mass of bruises but none of his ribs, again according to the evidence conveyed by Simon’s practiced fingers, was broken.

  “Zoë was helping Mal?” Jayne was still trying to fathom it out.

  “Helping all of us, I think,” Simon said. “And keep your voice down. Sound carries in a place like this.”

  “How was she helping all of us?” Jayne said, somewhat more quietly. “I don’t get it.”

  “Not only did she save Mal from getting seriously hurt, possibly even killed, but she’s gained the trust of one of the Regulators. That, in turn, has got her an entrée with Mr. O’Bannon.”

  The big mercenary scowled. “An entrée? Like a main course?”

  “Like a way in. Access. Now all she has to do is gain his trust, get him to talk, and maybe we can learn what’s become of you-know-who.” Even when speaking softly, Simon thought it wise not to say Dr. Weng’s name out loud.

  “I’m beginnin’ to think we’re never gonna find the guy,” Jayne opined. “Not alive, anyways. Maybe we should get us one of them weejee boards and contact him that way. Or maybe your nutso sister can speak with the dead. Ever think of that? Seems like alla the time she’s hearing things none of the rest of us can hear. Why not ghosts?”

  “River is not ‘nutso,’” Simon said firmly. “If the Alliance had done to you half of what they did to her, you’d be pretty damn messed up, Jayne.”

  “Okay, okay.” Jayne held his hands up in a warding-off gesture. “No need to get all hoity-toity about it. I wasn’t being serious.”

  “What if I called your brother nutso? Or your mother? How would you feel?”

  “Nobody insults Mama Cobb!” Jayne declared.

  “Exactly.”

  At that moment, they heard a voice calling tentatively from nearby. “Hello? Simon? Where are you?”

  “Oh dear,” Simon murmured.

  “Who is it?” hissed Jayne.

  “Sounds like Meadowlark.”

  “Who? Oh yeah. The flaky girl. Great. Like we don’t have enough of those in our lives.”

  Simon shot him a look. Then he turned round, in time to see Meadowlark Deane appear in the doorway.

  “There you are,” she said. “They told me you’d been assigned a cell somewhere along here.”

  “Meadowlark. How are you doing?” Simon put on his brightest smile, but a worm of misgiving was squirming in his stomach. It wasn’t as if he and she had parted on the best of terms.

  Meadowlark’s face, however, showed none of her previous vitriol. She looked concerned, more than anything.

  “I’m okay,” she said. “How about you? I heard there was a fight in the refectory and one of the people from #22 was involved. I was worried it might have been you.”

  “I’m fine. It wasn’t me, it was Mal here.”

  “My God! Poor him. Looks bad.”

  “He’ll be all right,” Simon said. “I’ve given him a full trauma survey and the prognosis is good.”

  “Prognosis? You sound like a doctor, Simon.”

  “Do I?” Simon realized he had erred. He was supposed to be a financier, not a medic. “Yes, well, you see, I took a first-aid course once. It was a workplace requirement at the investment strategy company. The investment strategy company where I used to be an employee, until I did that thing. Stole all that money. Because I’m a convicted embezzler.”

  He caught a sidelong glance from Jayne that said nice save but without sincerity.

  His clumsy effort to cover up his mistake seemed convincing to Meadowlark, at least. “Oh wow,” she said. “You are a man of many talents.”

  “You say that, but there are lots of things I can’t do. I can’t sing very well, for instance.”

  “Modest, too. Listen, Simon. Can I have a word?”

  “Um, sure.”

  “In private?” Meadowlark looked at Jayne.

  Jayne got the hint. “Fine,” he grumbled. “Don’t mind me. I’ll just go and… not be here.” He exited the cell.

  “Simon, about before…”

  “It’s all right, Meadowlark. I said the wrong thing.”

  “You didn’t. I overreacted. It seemed, in the moment, like you were, I dunno, questioning my integrity or something. I felt like my values were under attack, and I didn’t take it well, and… I guess I’m trying to say I’m sorry.”

  “Apology accepted. And I’m sorry too. I said it then, and I’m saying it again now.”

  “It’s about standards, really,” Meadowlark said. “I hold myself to a high standard. I hold other people to a high standard, too, but myself more than anyone. And if I feel somebody’s doubting that, I get cranky. Real cranky. It’s not your problem, Simon. It’s mine. I just think integrity is really important, above everything else. The most precious thing in the ’verse. I look for it everywhere. I look for it like a prospector looking for gold, and when I find it, I treasure it.”

  “That seems like a noble goal.”

  “Oh, it is. It is. All’s I’m hoping is we don’t let what happened come between us. We’re going to be here for a while, aren’t we? And I’d like to think we’re going to be good friends, and maybe more. I wouldn’t want us to keep having to avoid each other the whole time. So, bygones?”

  She held out a hand for him to shake.

  Simon took it. “Bygones,” he said.

  Abruptly, Meadowlark leaned in and kissed him, full on the lips. The kiss did not last long and was not passionate, but it was heartfelt and seemed a promise of something greater.

  For Simon’s part, he was too startled to reciprocate, but neither did he back away. He let the kiss happen, and he even enjoyed it, brief as it was.

  “That was nice,” Meadowlark said, letting go of his hand. “You’re nice.”

  “Thank you,” he said. It was a weird response, almost a reflex. Simon had been brought up to be polite and show gratitude when someone paid him a compliment.

  “I’ll be seeing you around, then.”

  “Yes. Definitely. Around.”

  “Cool.” Meadowlark skipped out of the cell on tiptoes, as though dancing.

  A few moments later, Jayne reappeared. “Hey there, Romeo.”

  “Is she gone?” said Simon, poking his head out the door and checking both ways.

  “Oh yeah. Way gone. Scooted off down that corridor like the sweet, honesty-loving girl she is.”

  “Ah. So you were listening in on our conversation.”

  “Every word. I was literally right outside. Congrats. I never thought of prison as a dating service before, but I guess you’ve proved it can be. You and she gonna, y’know, have a minglin’ of nethers before the mission’s over?”

  Simon snorted. “Of course not.”

  “She certainly seems to think it’s on the cards. Not that I’m criticizing, mind. Far as I can tell, you’ve been going through a pretty long dry spell, and since it ain’t happenin’ with Kaylee…”

  “Jayne, would you kindly guăn nĭ zì de shi.”

  “Why shouldn’t I make it my business, when it’s so much gorramn fun watching a girl come on to you and you get all squirmy?”

  “I’m pleased you find it amusing.”

  “You’re damn right I do,” said Jayne, grinning. “Precious few laughs about this situation, so I’ll take ’em where I can get ’em.”

  “Well, if you don’t mind, I’ve got other things to think about.”

  “Sure, Doc. Such as?”

  “Mal, for one.”

  Simon turned and bent over
Mal. He examined him again, although this time it was just for show. There wasn’t a lot he could do for his patient except keep an eye on him and wait for him to wake up.

  Jayne quickly grasped that he was being ignored, and he settled down in one corner of the cell and started gnawing on his fingernails.

  Simon couldn’t help reflecting on the feeling of Meadowlark’s lips on his, the warm pressure, the taste of her. Loath though he was to admit it, Jayne was right. He had been going through a pretty long dry spell. All that time, he’d been preoccupied with River, of course, and the whole being-on-the-run-from-the-Alliance thing. He’d had a lot else on his mind, and finding love was far down on his list of priorities. But wasn’t he due a little female attention? Overdue, as a matter of fact. And Meadowlark Deane was, if nothing else, bewitching. Those eyes.

  He recalled her words: I just think integrity is really important, above everything else.

  Simon had integrity. He believed that about himself, quite firmly. He was trustworthy, he was dependable, and he liked to think he would be able to prove that to Meadowlark, even if he wasn’t going to be in her life for long.

  Admittedly, he was here on Atata under false pretenses, playing the role of a convicted embezzler. Nevertheless, even if it involved a little deceit, maybe he could offer Meadowlark Deane some of that gold she was prospecting for.

  32

  The man in the cell was stretched out on the bunk, head propped up on pillows, blankets drawn up to his chin. He looked to be in his mid-forties, with a lean, sparse frame and a shock of raggedy salt-and-pepper hair. His skin bore a yellowish tinge, as did the whites of his eyes. His lips were pale and cracked, his cheekbones hollow.

  It was clear to Zoë that he wasn’t reclining languidly like some grandiose aristocrat. This impression was underlined by the faint sickly smell that hung in the air.

  The man was enfeebled.

  He was bedridden.

  He was ill.

  This? This was the fearsome Mr. O’Bannon? This was the figure who ruled Hellfreeze with a rod of iron?

  Zoë managed, she thought, to keep the shock from showing on her face. She nodded a greeting to him, which was returned, although the simple action of tilting his head forward seemed to require great effort.

  “Good evening, Zoë,” he said. His voice like a breeze-blown sheet of paper rustling across pavement. “Bartholomew O’Bannon, but you can call me Mr. O’Bannon. Everybody does. Nice meeting you.”

  “You too, Mr. O’Bannon,” Zoë replied guardedly.

  “You’re one of the folks from CU #22.”

  “That’s right.”

  “I trust you’re being well looked after.”

  “Can’t complain. You and your people took us in. You could have left us to freeze to death out there.”

  “It would have been inhumane not to show hospitality, not to mention morally wrong,” said Mr. O’Bannon. “What is it the Bible tells us? ‘Be not forgetful to entertain strangers: for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.’”

  “Maybe wouldn’t go so far as to call us angels,” Zoë said. “Especially since one of us started causing grief not long after we arrived.”

  “Yes, Annie told me everything. She also mentioned how you, Zoë, stepped up and helped resolve matters in the refectory. You impressed her, and it takes a lot to impress Ornery Annie.”

  “Sure does,” Annie agreed.

  “Just did what I thought had to be done,” Zoë said.

  “And now you reckon you’re Regulator material?”

  “Ain’t up to me to decide if I am or not,” said Zoë. “All I know is that a person has choices. You can be a cowherd or you can be one of the cows. Me, I like to think I’m of the cowherdly persuasion, and hence I could be useful to you.”

  “Annie says you were a Dust Devil once.”

  “Back when that sort of thing still mattered to me. Nowadays, I guess I’m resigned to the way the ’verse is.”

  “Didn’t stop the Alliance from punishing you for your past misdeeds.”

  “Alliance ain’t big on the old forgive-and-forget.”

  Mr. O’Bannon laughed—a weak, rattly sound, like a pebble falling down a drain. “I just don’t know whether a self-professed rebel, someone who wouldn’t give in even when she knew she ought to, would make for a good subordinate. You don’t strike me as a team player.”

  “Depends on the team. And the captain. Right team, right captain, I’ll be your MVP.”

  “Neat answer. You’re feisty, Zoë. I like feisty.”

  Zoë, for her part, did not like the word feisty and liked being called it even less. Talk about patronizing. However, she simply shrugged and smiled, as though accepting an accolade. “Been told it’s my outstanding quality.”

  “One thing that interests me.”

  “Yes? What’s that?”

  “You’ve seen me now,” said Mr. O’Bannon. “Seen how I am. The state I’m in. You haven’t once queried it or asked for an explanation.”

  “Is that wrong of me?”

  “I’m assuming Annie warned you in advance.”

  “As it happens, she didn’t.”

  “No, I didn’t,” Annie said. “You know how we don’t like to talk about… your condition, Mr. O’Bannon.”

  “And nobody else did?” said Mr. O’Bannon.

  “Not a soul,” said Zoë. “Up until a couple of minutes ago, I figured you for this tough, uncompromising, untouchable boss. The aloof-leader type, cultivating a mystique by showing yourself as little as possible. Letting people’s idea of you build you up in their imaginations.”

  “Time was, I wasn’t like that at all. I was approachable. I was hands-on. I got personally involved in business. Nowadays, not so much. Nowadays, the less I’m seen, the easier it is for everyone. My fellow Hellfreezers know I’m unwell but don’t like to be reminded of it, so I keep apart from them.”

  “Well, I still wasn’t that far off the mark.”

  “And what do you make of me? Now that you’ve laid eyes on me.”

  “It’s obvious you aren’t well. Got some kind of chronic disease. I’m no doctor, but some kind of liver disease would be my guess. Jaundice?”

  “Worse than that,” said Mr. O’Bannon. He stirred in his bed, grimacing, as though gripped by sudden discomfort. “Way worse. Jaundice I wouldn’t mind. It’d be a picnic compared to what I’ve actually got.”

  “Which is?”

  “Whole thing started out as a backache. That’s all I thought it was. Then stomach pains, which I assumed was gallstones or something. Took a while, but eventually I got informed by a reliable source that I didn’t have a bad back and I didn’t have gallstones. By then I was losing weight fast and my skin was turning this lovely shade of yellow that you see, all down to waste materials not getting filtered out properly and building up in my bloodstream. Pancreatic cancer. That was the expert opinion, and I have no reason to doubt it.”

  “I… Well, I guess I’m sorry to hear that,” said Zoë.

  “Not as sorry as I was,” said Mr. O’Bannon with a dry crackle of a laugh. “It would be treatable, naturally, if I were anywhere else but on Atata. Docs could do their medical voodoo and I’d stand a fair chance of recovering. Down here, though, we’re sent basic drugs only. Antibiotics, painkillers, insulin if you’re lucky. That’s all our captors trust us with. Any other prison in the ’verse, you get visiting physicians, a hospital ward, a fighting chance if you’re seriously sick. On Atata it’s, ‘Tough titty, you’re on your own, we wash our hands of you.’ You start dying of something, that’s it, you’re gonna die. Unless you manage to hold out until the end of your sentence and get back to civilization in time. But that option isn’t open to me, on account of I’m here for keeps. I’m thinking it might be the same for you, Miz Former Dust Devil.”

  “Not far off. I’m due for release sometime around my eightieth birthday.”

  “By which time, assuming you even make it that far, you’ll be too ricke
ty and frail to raise hell anymore.”

  “I’m hoping not, but it ain’t as if the Atata lifestyle is a recipe for good health.”

  “You can say that again,” said Mr. O’Bannon. “Know what an oubliette is?”

  “I’m not familiar with the term.”

  “It’s a kind of dungeon, from Earth-That-Was times. The worst kind. Basically, a hole in the ground with a door on top, like the lid on a jar. Word comes from the French oublier, meaning ‘to forget.’ And that was the point of it. When the king or duke or whoever chucked you in an oubliette, it was as if you’d been forgotten about. You’d get left to rot down there in the cold and the damp and the dark, on a floor covered with your own filth. It’s probably the most degrading kind of imprisonment there ever was. And that’s what this place is. Atata. It’s a gorramn oubliette. An oubliette the size of a planet.”

  For all the husky thinness of his voice, Mr. O’Bannon spoke with righteous indignation, and Zoë couldn’t help but be swayed by it. He wasn’t wrong. Atata was an unusually cruel form of jail. Even if you had earned your incarceration, nobody surely deserved incarceration like this.

  “Anyways,” he said, “listen to me, ranting on like a crazy old coot. I think I like you, Zoë. I like the cut of your jib, as they say. You go away and I’ll have a ponder about you becoming a Regulator. I reckon you might be an asset. Doesn’t hurt that you’re easy on the eye, too.”

  Again, patronizing. Again, Zoë bit her tongue.

  “Annie will show you the way out.”

  The interview was over. And an interview was what it had been, Zoë realized as she and Annie left the cell. She had been applying for a job, and Mr. O’Bannon, her potential employer, was going to consider her résumé and come to a decision about her suitability.

  “You did well,” Annie confided. “Mr. O’Bannon doesn’t normally take to someone on first meeting.”

  “I wasn’t in there long.”

  “You were, by his standards. Talking takes a lot out of him, see. He’d never show it, but the fact that he talked with you even for just five minutes—that’s a good sign. You should be honored.”