Steven Brust - My Own Kind of Freedom

“Good. I’m looking forward to that.”

“Please try not to move your leg. It didn’t miss the artery by all that much.”

“Son, do you enjoy this?”

“Patching up bullet holes?”

“Well not that as much as, well, yes.”

“Do you enjoy getting them put in you?”

“Not so much.”

“There’s a satisfaction when someone comes in—”

“I don’t mean the afterward. I mean while you’re doing it.”

“Oh. Um, ask me another time. I’m sort of busy right now.”

“That’s what I thought.”

She took herself up to the bridge, sat herself in the co-pilot’s chair, and waited. She knew what was coming, and trying to avoid it would just make it worse. Her husband stared through the front window. Serenity was doing what Wash called “sleeping”—as close to a full shutdown as she could get without requiring hours to warm up. The comm was still up, though the keyboards and setting were locked, and if you concentrated, you could just feel the gentlest of vibrations. Everything was very quiet; the co-pilot’s chair gave a squeak as she leaned back.

Eventually, he said, “I know you have to take risks.”

“I hear a ‘but’ coming.”

“But can’t Mal manage to keep the risks down to what’s necessary, instead of—”

“That’s just what he does. I’ve never known the Captain to take an unnecessary risk.”

“Now that’s just not true.”

“Well, okay. I’ve never known him to take risks he didn’t think were justified.”

“Like sending you out to get that shuttle when the woods were full of—”

“They were disorganized and confused, thanks to you. The best time to retrieve the shuttles was right then, before the enemy could regroup.”

“Regroup. That’s one of those army words, isn’t it?”

“Sweetie, sarcasm is not one of your more endearing traits.”

Wash muttered under his breath. Then he said, “Look, I think I’ve been very patient—”

“With what? With me being what I was when we met?”

He stared out at the trees and the sky for the space of several breaths. “You’re right,” he said.

She nodded.

“But I don’t like it.”

She nodded again.

“Is there ever going to be a time when we stop?”

“And do what?” she said. “Think you could be happy if you weren’t flying?”

“No.”

“Neither could I.”

“Think you could be happy if you weren’t almost getting killed quite so often?”

“How do you plan to arrange that? We work the border worlds, because that’s where we can get jobs, and stay off the Alliance’s radar. And that’s how things are out here. We work for people looking for an edge, and that means sometimes they try to kill us for it.”

“I know.”

“I hate it when you look so glum.”

“We’ve been paid, haven’t we?”

She nodded.

“How long until we leave this rock?”

“That’s up to the Captain.”

“Any idea what the delay is?”

“I think he has to make a decision.”

“What decision?”

“I’m not exactly sure.” She wondered how much to say, then decided that the truth was probably the safest. “Something’s bothering him, and I can’t begin to figure out what it is.”

He nodded.

She stood up from the co-pilot’s chair, leaned over and kissed the back of his neck. He looked at her and his eyes were smiling. It did something to her when his eyes smiled like that.

“Want to head to the dining room?” he asked.

“Hungry?”

“I was thinking we could stop at the kitchen, pick up a snack, circle the dining room table to pick up some speed, then slant back to our bunk.”

Her pulse quickened just a little. “My man, the navigator.”

Simon nodded to Wash and Zoë as they entered the dining room and rummaged around briefly in the kitchen. They each gave him a quick smile, and maybe a bigger one to his sister, then they were gone, Wash walking around the table once, very somberly. From Zoë’s expression and the wink she gave River, it was some sort of private joke between them.

With the exception of Jayne, who, it seemed, was no longer part of the crew, no one appeared to resent River. Everyone liked her. Sometimes, it seemed even the Captain liked her; at least, as much as he could like anyone.

At the moment, she was staring down at a plate of protein and soy and artificial pork flavoring, making designs in it with her chopsticks. Just like a four-year-old child, except that the designs were anything but random doodling: the movement of the chopsticks was deft, precise, and deliberate, using both of them like an artist using two brushes at once.

“What is that?” he asked her.

She stopped what she was doing and stared at it for a moment, frowning. She tilted her head, and the frown deepened. Then she picked up the plate and hurled it at the wall.

She stared at the place on the table where the plate had been.

“The distinction between abstract and representational art is arbitrary to the point of meaninglessness. Only then why was the distinction ever made?”

Simon went into the kitchen and got a bucket and a sponge. He picked up the plate and started cleaning the wall, glad no one else had heard the noise and come to investigate. He felt his sister’s eyes on his back.

“I’m sorry, Simon,” she said.

He dropped the sponge in the bucket, sat down next to her, and put his arm around her. “It’s all right, mei-mei.” She leaned into his shoulder.

He said softly, “Can you tell me what it was you were drawing?”

“A map,” she said.

“A map of what?”

She spoke into his chest. “How you get from a Colonel to a monster and back. But what good is a map when you aren’t going anywhere?”

“We’ll be leaving here soon, River.”

“No, we won’t.”

“River—”

“But it’s all right. You’ll protect me. You always protect me.”

There was a lump in Simon’s throat.

He got up, went back to the bucket, and continued cleaning the wall. River found another sponge and knelt down to help him.

“Art,” she said as they wiped it away.

Simon looked at her.

“It’s the second person present singular form of the verb ‘to be,’ ” she said.

“I knew that,” he told her.

The Captain was standing above the cargo bay, staring at nothing. “Hey, Cap’n,” she said. “The shuttle is fixed, but I used the last of the fluid to refill her lines. We’re going to have to get more.”

He nodded, his eyes still fixed off in the distance.

She almost asked him what was wrong, but didn’t. She continued back to the engine room, and, just because it made her nervous to be low on fluid, she checked all the hydraulics.

“Well, if that isn’t…”

She shook her head in disgust. All that checking on the a-grav, and it was nothing more than low fluid in the control line. You’d think Wash would have noticed the control was sluggish. No, that wasn’t fair; it was her job to keep up on these things.

And now they were out of fluid.

She rubbed the bulkhead. “I’m sorry, honey,” she whispered. “Sometimes I’m just stupid.”

She tossed her hair back over her shoulder. She could apologize to Serenity later; now she had to come up with a solution.

Solution.

Yes.

Just what exactly was the solution for hydraulic fluid, and how much tolerance was there? And could she rig up a filter for what she’d cleaned up from the spill? Well, sure; a filter would be easy enough: just take a spare intake filter and reverse spin on the wet-pull she’d used for the clean-up. The hose itself would work to channel it. And she only needed a little—just a bit more than a liter, most like.