Firefly: Big Damn Hero

by James Lovegrove

“Toby, maybe there’s a cure,” Mal said. “I have a doctor on board my ship, a really good one. He can try and fix you.”

  “He can’t, Mal. Nobody can. You know what, though? I thought I’d be happier to see you on the end of the rope, I really did. But somehow it just made me sad.” Toby’s voice was thick, husky. He sounded close to crying. “Sad that it’s come to this, and sad for all that we lost. Not just Jamie and Jinny. Not the millions of men and women the war killed. The… innocence. The fun we used to have on Shadow. Foolin’ around. Getting chased by Bundy. They were good times, weren’t they, Mal?”

  “The best, Toby. The best.”

  Now Toby really was crying, deep sobs wracking his body. “Oh God, Mal. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I shouldn’t have… I should never…”

  Toby’s gun had begun to droop in his grasp. Mal cast a quick, sidelong glance towards his own gun. If he could just keep this conversation going a few seconds longer, keep Toby distracted and off-beam, he might be able to make a bid for the Liberty Hammer.

  He tensed, ready to bat Toby’s gun aside and lunge for his own weapon. “It’s okay, Toby. We’re good. Come on, help me up and let’s go see if we can’t—”

  A shot rang out.

  Toby’s body jolted. He fell against the tunnel wall, then slid down to the floor.

  Mal, ears ringing from the detonation, turned to see Jayne standing some twenty feet away. Vera was in his hands, smoke coiling up from her muzzle.

  “Got him,” Jayne said with cold satisfaction. “You okay, Mal?”

  Mal looked back at Toby Finn, now just an inert heap, chin on sternum, blood on his breastbone glistening in the faint light. In a way he was glad Jayne had shot Toby. Even after everything, he mightn’t have been able to do it himself.

  In fact, he reckoned Jayne had done Toby a favor. Toby had been dying anyway. Jayne had only hastened what was inevitable, ending his life quickly, unexpectedly, rather than leaving him to be eaten away, an inch at a time, by the slow horror of cancer.

  “Come on,” Jayne said. “We gotta go. Don’t know how much longer Zoë’s going to be able to keep the vigilantes at bay with that detonator-switch con. They’re gettin’ all kinds of antsy.”

  “Con?”

  Jayne brought Mal up to speed on the plan involving the crate and the detonator.

  “Not bad,” Mal said. “Kind of sneakiness I might have come up with.”

  Wearily he got to his feet and retrieved his gun. He couldn’t remember when he had ever felt quite so tired, or so old. Jayne turned back down the tunnel, and Mal staggered after.

  Back in the cavern, Zoë was indeed finding it increasingly hard to keep the Browncoats restrained. Sonya Zuburi was giving her all manner of grief, calling her names and making feints towards her, trying to grab the detonator switch. Even back during the war there had never been much love lost between Zoë and Sonya. She’d been a good soldier but Zoë, even on her worst day, was ten times better, and whereas Zoë had been fast-tracked to corporal, Sonya had remained a humble private to the bitter end. That had been a source of great anguish and frustration to Sonya and she had tried to undermine Zoë every chance she got.

  “You won’t do it, bitch,” Sonya goaded. “You don’t have the balls.”

  “At least I don’t keep my husband’s in a purse,” Zoë retorted.

  Someone sniggered, and Sonya shot them a filthy look. David Zuburi himself seemed unamused, but appeared to acknowledge that there was some truth in Zoë’s taunt.

  Out of the corner of her eye Zoë saw Hunter Covington and Harlow sneaking towards the exit tunnel. She would have to deal with them later. Right now what mattered was the angry Browncoats. Where the hell was Jayne? She had sent him off in pursuit of Mal. He surely should have found him by now.

  There was a gunshot from the tunnel Jayne had followed Mal into. Zoë recognized the deep, bassy boom of Vera. Moments later, Jayne emerged from the tunnel with Mal in tow. The already irate Browncoats became more irate still.

  “Where’s Toby Finn?” someone demanded to know. “What have you done with him?”

  Zoë could tell the situation was about to spiral into chaos. Not even the threat of blowing up the mine entrance was going to keep a lid on it much longer. She began backing towards the tunnel, the barrel of her Mare’s Leg tracking this way and that, pausing at random Browncoats and curbing their aggression, if only temporarily.

  “I will shoot,” Zoë warned, backing towards the exit. “I don’t want to but I will if I have to, and anyone who knows me knows I am not the type to make idle threats.”

  Nonetheless the crowed kept edging closer, inciting one another forwards. An array of guns bristled around Zoë.

  “Let’s rush her,” Sonya said. “Somebody grabs her hand, clamps it tight around that switch, there’ll be nothing she can do.”

  Then Jayne and Mal were at Zoë’s side. That gave her a little more leverage, and the Browncoats knew it. They weren’t up against a lone gunwoman any more but a trio.

  “We’re outta here,” Jayne said to the crowd, “and I’d advise anyone who’s thinking about getting in our way to not to. Get in our way, that is. Or even think about it.”

  As they retreated towards the entrance, Zoë kept an eye out for Covington and Harlow, who might be lying in wait somewhere along the tunnel. In her judgment, however, the two men wouldn’t be hanging around. Instead, they’d be making for Covington’s yacht and hightailing it off Hades as fast as they could. Neither was any slouch when it came to self-preservation, she thought, and they must have realized that if it came to a shootout between the Browncoats and Zoë, Jayne, and Mal, there was a good chance of getting caught in the crossfire.

  She was mistaken about that, and nearly got a bullet through the head for her pains.

  Where the tunnel jinked round a corner, Harlow was lurking. If Zoë hadn’t caught a glimpse of the tail of his absurd yellow duster, she might not have been able to dodge in time. Her Mare’s Leg thundered a riposte, blasting away a section of rock just inches from Harlow’s hiding place.

  “Mr. Covington told me to delay you people,” Harlow called out. “Offered me damn good money for it, too. So that’s what I’m going to do.”

  Zoë looked at Jayne, put a finger to her lips, and gestured at him to pass Boo over to her. Jayne duly unholstered the wheelgun, giving her a mildly quizzical frown. Zoë responded with a “trust me” look.

  For what she had in mind, her Mare’s Leg wouldn’t do. She needed a solid round, not buckshot.

  “Harlow,” she said, softly cocking Boo’s hammer, “listen. Let us past and we won’t kill you.”

  “Nah. Figure I’ll just pin you three down where you are. Those Browncoats are coming. I can hear ’em. They’re following you up the tunnel. If I keep you there till they catch up, you’ll have plenty on your plate, and Mr. Covington and me, we can just mosey on home at our leisure.”

  “I wish you’d said you knew all along who Covington was and what this was all about.” Zoë began inching towards him, covering the sound of her advance by talking. “Would have made a difference.”

  “Fooled you, huh, Hopalong? And I led you a merry dance through Eavesdown as well, didn’t I? After we parted company, I knew you’d follow me, so I gave you the runaround. I thought winding up at Badger’s was a stroke of genius. Figured he’d tangle you up if nothing else did.”

  Closer she crept, ever closer, the wheelgun at the ready. “Yeah, you’re a smart operator all right, Harlow.” She studied the formation of the tunnel wall. The angles were just about right. It all depended on how good her eye was. “A real cool customer. You’d have to be to pull off that ten-gallon hat and puke-yellow duster combo.”

  “Aw, don’t be like that. I thought we’d reached a kinda understanding, you and me.”

  “Oh, we have,” Zoë said, lining up her shot. “I understand that you’re a gasbag idiot who loves the sound of his own voice, and me, I’m the one who’s about to deflate you.”


  “Now what in the hell do you mean by—”

  Zoë fired. The round ricocheted once, twice, and then Harlow gave a kind of “ugh” sound and toppled forward into view, thudding to the tunnel floor.

  “Ohhh,” he groaned, blood leaking from the corner of his mouth. “That was some nice shooting, Hopalong. Damn nice. And to think… you and me… we coulda had somethin’ special…”

  His eyes rolled white, his mouth slackened, his eyelids closed, and he was gone.

  Zoë tossed Boo back to Jayne, who caught and holstered the wheelgun in a single, smooth action.

  From behind, the clamor of the approaching Browncoats grew louder.

  “Come on,” she said to Mal and Jayne.

  * * *

  Nearing the tunnel entrance, the three Serenity crewmembers were greeted by Wash. He was just depositing the last of the five crates inside the tunnel.

  “Wash? What the hell’s this?” said Zoë. “We only needed one crate, not the whole gorramn lot.”

  “Yeah, well, about that,” said Wash. “Turns out we’re going to have to dump all of them here.”

  “Our entire cargo?” said Mal. “You better have a good reason.”

  “Great to see you too, Captain. Glad you’re well.”

  “Never mind that. Get these damn crates back on my ship.”

  “Uh, no can do. Kaylee says the HTX-20 is about to go off, and when that happens, it’s best we’re not around.”

  “She sure about that?”

  “I don’t think she’s just saying it for comedic effect.”

  “Gorramn it!” Mal said. “We never catch a break, do we?”

  From outside came a high-pitched whine of a ship’s engine powering up, resounding down the tunnel.

  “Oh yeah, that’ll be Covington’s yacht,” Wash said. “He ran past me a couple of minutes ago. Didn’t even stop to say hi. Guess he was in too much of a hurry. Pity, though.”

  “Why?”

  “I had Kaylee sneak aboard his ship. She’s disabled it. Listen to that?”

  The engine noise stuttered, then became a horrendous metallic gurgle. Zoë pictured the yacht shuddering from stem to stern like a vomiting cat.

  “Covington’s going nowhere in a hurry. Kaylee’s detached his pulse alternator and left it hanging off by its wires. It’s an easy fix, assuming he figures out that’s what the problem is.”

  Jayne and Mal hurried onward to the entrance. Zoë clambered onto the side of the forklift next to her husband.

  “My leg’s playing merry hell,” she said. “Mind giving a girl a lift?”

  “Don’t normally pick up hitchhikers, but for you, pretty lady, I’ll make an exception.”

  Wash deftly spun the vehicle around on its axis and drove it out into daylight. Just as they neared Serenity, shots crackled from the tunnel entrance. Rounds whanged and whined off the forklift’s bodywork. Wash ducked and swore, while Zoë leaned round and returned fire, her Mare’s Leg booming. Mal and Jayne, from the cargo-bay ramp, added their own salvoes to hers.

  The vigilantes were positioned just inside the tunnel mouth, some distance past the five crates of explosive. It seemed they were keen that the people who had disrupted their lynching should not get away scot-free.

  Sonya Zuburi was the one egging them on. “We can still take ’em down!” she yelled. Her husband David, at her side, looked less convinced.

  “Hold your fire!” Zoë called out to them. “All of you, listen.”

  She was shouting at the top of her voice, but above the sound of gunfire she was inaudible to the Browncoats. Still she persevered. “Those crates are about to blow, and when they do, they’ll bring this entire mountain down around our heads.”

  The vigilantes carried on with their broadside. Only David Zuburi seemed to have heard what Zoë had said. He was gesticulating and calling for a ceasefire, but he might as well have been dancing a jig for all the difference it made.

  Serenity’s shuttle abruptly burst into life. Zoë glimpsed Kaylee at the controls. Kaylee offered her a brief wave before goosing the engines to the very limits of their tolerance and launching. Wash scooted the forklift up the cargo-bay ramp and was off and running for the bridge before the vehicle had even come to a full stop.

  “What about Covington?” Zoë asked Mal. “We can’t just leave him there, can we?”

  “Don’t see why not. Guy’s a bondholder and an all-round shark. He’s got a chance to get away if he can mend what Kaylee did to his boat. If he can’t, that’s his tough dà tiáo.”

  Serenity began rumbling around them. Over the intercom Wash said, “Know those wonderfully genteel, laidback takeoffs I’m so famous for? This ain’t going to be one of them. Hang on tight, everyone.”

  The ship lurched skyward with enough force to throw Mal, Jayne, and Zoë off-kilter. Zoë felt the downward press of g-force, like a giant invisible hand trying to squash her flat, and bent her knees to absorb it as best she could. Serenity seemed to be fighting for every inch of altitude she gained. Zoë had no idea when the HTX-20 was going to explode but she knew she didn’t want to be anywhere near when it happened.

  Then it came: a percussive blast like every thunderclap there had ever been, all rolled into one. It was followed by the tumult of the overpressure wave seizing Serenity and shaking the ship about like an infant with a toy rattle. Zoë, Mal, and Jayne grabbed whatever they could for support. There was a series of sickening swoops and soars, pitches and yaws, like riding the worst rollercoaster ever. In her mind’s eye Zoë saw Wash up on the bridge battling to maintain control of the spacecraft and keep her on an even keel.

  No one could fly like Hoban Washburne. It was one of the articles of faith in Zoë’s life. If anybody could get them through this safely, it was him.

  Some time later—seconds of juddering upheaval that felt like hours—Serenity righted and leveled out. Zoë staggered over to the nearest rearward viewing port. Below, a mountain was dying. Its slopes were sinking inward on themselves, sending up a mighty pillar of dust and debris like smoke from the cauldron of a volcano. Huge chunks of rock had sheared away and were slithering down towards the plain some quarter-mile below. Amidst the tumbling avalanche she glimpsed Covington’s yacht and the vigilantes’ Komodo-class vessel. Both were rolling end over end, losing sections of hull plate and chunks of airframe along the way. They crashed to the bottom and were engulfed by rubble.

  Of the Browncoats themselves there was no sign, but then Zoë wasn’t expecting any. They would have been vaporized when the HTX-20 went up. She wished she felt sorrier for them than she did.

  Mal appeared beside her and looked on as the mountain continued to implode, shelving down into itself, becoming a crater. Gradually the turmoil receded into the distance as Serenity gained more height.

  “Care to tell me what this was all about, sir?” she asked as the pale blue of Hades’s atmosphere started shading into the inky blue of low-orbit space.

  “Long story, Zoë,” Mal said forlornly. “Long story from long, long ago. Another time, maybe. Right now, my throat’s as parched as a sidewinder’s belly and I believe there may be a bottle of sorghum wine somewhere in the galley. Care to join me?”

  “You have some baijiu?” Jayne said. “That rotgut? I’m in.”

  “If it’s not considered insubordination, sir,” Zoë said, “I would rather go up to the bridge and smooch with my husband. I reckon he’s earned it.”

  “Know what?” said Mal, with just a hint of the old familiar twinkle returning to his eyes. “I reckon he has and all.”

  So we’re all back on one boat again, the nine of us. Serenity has both her shuttles nestled on her wings, the chicks back with mama bird, and we’re heading off once more into the Black to see what we can find, work-wise. The usual deal: whatever’s going, if it pays, we’ll take it. Sorry state of affairs, but that’s how it is. Ain’t a kind or just ’verse, and nobody’s owed a living.

  Simon says my neck’s healing nicely. Rope burns won
’t even leave a scar, thanks to his doctoring. Talking still hurts some, but on this boat, with Wash and Kaylee, to name but two, it ain’t as if there’s a scarcity of chitter-chatter.

  Badger was rightly mad about his explosives. I pointed out that at least they’d blown up somewhere off my ship, ’cause if they’d destroyed Serenity and I hadn’t been on board, right now I’d be introducing him to the business end of a gun, shooting off little bits of him one after another; and if I had been on board, my ghost’d be haunting him till the day he died. Guess he feels I owe him one. Guess I feel we’re quits. Besides, Badger’ll get over it. He’s what you’d call the resilient type, too plain opportunistic or optimistic or whatever to burn a bridge permanently.

  Elmira Atadema is a free woman now. Book’s pal Mika Wong didn’t even need to pay off her debt, what with Hunter Covington being buried under a mountain and no longer in a fit state to collect and all, so he was pleased about that. I met Elmira for all of five minutes, after we’d rendezvoused on Persephone with Book, Inara, and the Tams. Even in that brief span of time she made an impression. Despite all she’d been through as a bondswoman and a confidential informer, all that suffering and peril, she seemed as if she was coping and would be able to move on with her life. Like Badger, resilient. Also, unlike Badger, not a pain in the ass.

  And now that we’re flying free, I’ve got time to think. About the past. About lost loves, damaged friendships and heart-wrenching regrets. I won’t ever be free of Jamie and Toby, I reckon. Wasn’t free of Jinny before. But it does seem as though some things that needed fixing have been fixed and some loose ends squared away. Maybe if Jinny and me had been honest with Toby from the start, none of this would have happened. It was Jinny’s call, though, and I went along with it because I respected her decision and I loved her. You can’t change the past and you can’t do aught but rue the way you sometimes acted back when you were young and stupid and thought you were immortal. Doesn’t prevent you from wishing you could.

  I’ve been thinking about stopping by Shadow, although not sure I’m up for that. I hear there’s plants pushing up through the cinders now around the spot where the Adares’ cowshed stood. I might like to see that for myself, but then I mightn’t want to reopen those old wounds either. Might also pay a call on Sheriff Bundy, Governor Bundy, whatever his title is these days. Assuming the overweight bastard’s still alive and some clogged artery of his hasn’t popped. Maybe he and I can have words, get to the bottom of what happened… and if he did what I think he did, I’ll teach him the error of his ways.