Steven Brust - My Own Kind of Freedom

“Okay, then… what’s that sound?”

They both stopped to listen for a moment, then, “Horses,” said the Captain.

“They’ll catch us easy in the open.”

“Yes, they will. I wonder if we can make it back to the trees.”

“Zoë? Did you try that?”

He boosted the engine a bit to slow his descent. The altimeter, calibrated for this place, said he was only about nine hundred meters from the deck.

“Zoë? Mal? Are you there?”

Nothing…

He gave it more power and came to a stop, hovering just over the tree line. He turned on the floods and checked the view below. The shuttle was there, its door open. No sign of any activity. An infrared scan picked up the slowly cooling engine, the rapidly cooling electronics, and nothing else.

Well, if they’d pulled it off, they wouldn’t be in the shuttle, would they? They’d be heading to the other shuttle, which was… looked like a quarter of a mile east.

“Zoë? Mal?”

Nothing. Well, in any case, they weren’t there yet.

He killed the light but kept on the infrared, and headed east, slowly.

He found them almost at once—they had to be the two bright spots, pursued by…

Yes. They were on horseback, and those little flashes had to be gunfire.

He hit the lights and dropped lower, then lower still.

They scattered nicely.

He rose, made a sharp one-eighty, and came back again. There was a group of three. He dropped toward them, and three horses were running wildly, and without their riders. The shooting had stopped.

He went back for another pass. “Swoop,” he said to himself. “Swoop, swoop. It’s like waltzing.”

He realized that he was smiling.

There weren’t any gorram answers.

That’s what it came to: no gorram answers at all.

He finished his beer, and yelled for another one. The bartender didn’t hear him, or chose to ignore him, so he pushed past the good citizens of Yuva up to the bar. He started to order another beer, then changed his mind and made it whiskey. He started to bring it back to his table, then shrugged and downed it. It was surprisingly smooth, burning just a little on his tongue, the back of his throat. He ordered another and looked around the room.

Upright citizens, one and all. All of them polite, and none of them looking like they could be pushed into a ruckus. Sad. He’d really have enjoyed a chance to get some of his frustration out.

He finished the whiskey, blinked, and noticed that the room was getting a little fuzzy around the edges.

Good.

He ordered another, drained it, wiped his lips with the back of his hand.

There were a lot of people here; there must be someone in the room who’d be willing to tussle, if pushed right. He turned back to the bar, and stumbled against it. He ordered another.

The bartender said, “Maybe it’d be better if you slowed down a bit.”

Jayne grinned slowly.

His brain tapped the keys while his hands absorbed the information.

Bring it up, send it off, knock it down, check the signal for listeners or intruders, move on to the next: order and process, logic and vision, waiting for the slap of epiphany if it chose to come, but keep poking and prying and figuring until then.

This was what he did; this was what he was good at. Collect the pieces, make sense of them, look for the fact that didn’t fit in, then follow it wherever it led. That his target was now his own people was no longer even a consideration; the work was everything, it had become its own goal.

Names and figures and data-points of history flashed before him, the search becoming wider and wider, then sometimes narrowing into a tight beam until possibility became negative, and the search widened again.

The goal had vanished long ago; the process was now all there was, and he reveled in it.

Kaylee was waiting when they came in, both of them out of breath.

“Cap’n! You’re bleeding!”

“Not too bad,” he said. “We need some work on shuttle two.”

“Okay. But you’re dripping on the floor.”

The Captain glanced down at his upper thigh and shifted his weight. He squished audibly. “First we have to get it back aboard. And I’d like to recover the other shuttle first.”

“I can do that, sir,” said Zoë. “Go get fixed up.”

Wash came rattling down the stairs and wrapped his arms around Zoë.

“Good job, Wash,” said the Captain.

Simon appeared next, looked them over, and said, “All right, Captain, let’s get you to the infirmary.”

“I don’t think we… ” he paused in mid-sentence, wavered on his feet, and said, “All right.” Simon put an arm under the Captain’s shoulder and led him off.

“I’ll be right back,” said Zoë.

“You’ll be what?” said Wash.

“I need to get the shuttle.”

“Honey-pooch, you just got back in, and there are people out there who want to shoot at you. Why don’t I bring Serenity to the shuttles?”

“The fuel cost.”

“ Gan zhe xie ranliao fei.”

“The Captain said—”

“ Ba yi ge ranliao dianchi lai cao chuanzhang . We can just—”

“Okay, compromise. Give me an exact location on the one we’re almost on top of, I’ll go get it, and meet you next to the other one.”

Wash exhaled slowly. “All right,” he said.

Kaylee tried not to smile. Wash was so adorable when he was being protective. “I’ll get my tools,” she said.

Twenty minutes later, she entered shuttle two, nodding to Zoë.

“Did they shoot at you any more?”

“No sign of them.”

“Good.”

“Ohhhh.”

“What is it?”

“One of the bullets knocked a piece of the bulkhead through the hydraulics. We’ve got fluid all over the place. How did you get the grav-boot to work?”

“We didn’t.”

“Oh. Okay. It’ll need to be welded. And I hope we have more fluid somewhere.”

“Need any help?”

“No, thanks.” She grinned. “Unless you want to help with the cleanup.”

“I’ll pass, thanks.”

She pulled out the welder and goggles, setting them next to the bullet hole. Almost without thinking about it, she moved back to the engine to close the valve, then up to the controls to make sure that everything was powered off.

The drill was in her hand, bolt puller inserted, and then the panel was off, exposing the damaged line, fluid still dripping from it. She sighed and rubbed her hand along the bulkhead. “Poor li’l guy,” she said.

“You’ve been wounded here before,” he said, his probe hovering over the injury.

“Shrapnel,” said the Captain. “Dhu-Kang. Is it the same spot?”

“Near enough.”

“That a problem?”

“I don’t know, yet. Can you not—?”

“Sorry.”

The Captain visibly relaxed against the exam table and stared up at the ceiling.

Simon opened the wound and studied it. “Interesting,” he said.

He felt the Captain looking at him.

“Oh, sorry. Clean entry and exit, but, it’s odd.”

“Doctor, there are certain sorts of pain your anesthetic isn’t dealing with.”

“Yes. Your previous injury, or, rather, the scar from your previous injury, pushed your artery a quarter of an inch to the left. Otherwise you might have bled to death before you got here.”

“So then, that means I’m not going to bleed to death, right? I just ask on account of I’m interested.”

“You’ll be fine. I’m going to clean it out, sew you up, and you’ll be ready to have more holes put in you.”