Steven Brust - My Own Kind of Freedom

“I heard a ‘but’ there.”

“I’m afraid someday I might.”

“Let someday take care of itself, doctor. We have to worry about today.”

“I know,” he said. “I know.”

“Well nuts,” she said to the empty engine room. “We never cleared atmo; how am I supposed to know if this works?”

Serenity was back on the ground, and seemed as disappointed about it as Kaylee. Serenity wanted to fly; she enjoyed flying. Sitting on the ground was something she had to do once in a while to get the wherewithal she needed to swim through the black.

Kaylee sighed.

She re-checked her work on the I-grav, and it seemed fine. What kept going through her mind was what would happen if she’d made some silly mistake: the first sign would be a shimmy, and then Wash would notice that he was having trouble getting lift, and then the grav-boot would just quit, and then…

Wash was a good enough pilot to give them a good landing on jets alone; she was sure of it.

But it wasn’t about crashing and dying; Serenity would never do that. It was about all the little things that, if she got them wrong, might leave Serenity where she was now, on the ground; might leave her consigned to the scrap heap, and all of them without a home. The Captain took care of the crew, but without the ship, there was no crew to take care of; and that meant, suddenly, she was no more. They were all nowhere.

She hated these times when they were just sitting, giving her too much time to think.

She re-checked her work on the I-grav one more time.

Sometimes she dreamed that they were staring at her, from the inside. Sometimes she dreamed that they were walking around inside of her, poking her with needles. Sometimes she dreamed that Serenity was inside of her mind, which was inside of the Academy, which was inside of her mind. When that happened, she became confused.

Then she’d wake up, and she’d feel the drugs running through her, and she’d wonder what they were doing. She’d become lucid, for a while, and remind herself that she had to trust her brother, but then he would change into hands with tubes and needles, and she’d see things with her ears, or know things without knowing how; there would be voices that the drugs couldn’t keep quiet.

Sometimes the voices just spoke; sometimes they whispered, and sometimes they sang. When they spoke, it was to ask her questions she didn’t understand. When they whispered, it was secrets she didn’t want to know. When they sang, it was all numbers, and she heard the truth of the numbers but didn’t dare believe them.

And then the voices would be quiet again, leaving her with the drugs and the memories of white tile and steel and long tubes and sensations that wouldn’t go into any categories, leaving her inside of herself like a cat in a rain-soaked cardboard box.

Then the effects of the drugs would fade, leaving her with only her memories.

Then she would huddle on her bed and shiver.

She stood there and waited; he appeared in about three minutes. “I’m ready, sir,” she said.

“So I see. What are you ready for?”

“To go look around, see if we can find out what’s going on.”

“I do believe I’m becoming predictable.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Let’s go, then.”

The doors slid open, and for the hundredth time, she noticed how slowly the ramp seemed to descend at times like this. For the hundredth time, she wondered how it was that she was still alive, not to mention having the use of both eyes, both ears, and all four limbs. Hell, she wasn’t even all that scarred up.

And her man liked the scars she had.

Focus, Zoë!

“Town is that way.”

Zoë nodded, turned to match the Captain’s stride, then stopped. The Captain went on a pace, then stopped himself. “What is it, Zoë?”

“Sir, did you leave instructions?”

“Instructions for—?”

“For when that big moving cannon shows up here and starts shooting at Serenity while we’re in town.”

The Captain blinked. “Right. Those instructions.” He picked up his portable comm unit. “Wash?”

It crackled. “Yes, Mal?”

“Keep the boat warm. If there’s trouble, get up and out and keep the ship safe.”

“All right.”

“Wash?”

“Yes?”

“That’s an order.”

“Okay.”

“That means that, if you decide to ignore it again, and put my boat at risk, I will come back and break both of your arms.”

“Mal, I can’t fly with broken arms.”

“Make it legs, then.”

“Okay, legs I can deal with.”

“Wash, do it.”

“All right. Understood.”

“Say it back.”

“If there’s trouble here, I’ll get Serenity up and safe.”

“Out.” He clicked off the comm. “Think he’ll do it, Zoë?”

“Fifty-fifty, sir.”

“ Gaisi fanshang de wangba… All right.”

They continued walking toward Yuva. The weight of the weapon at her hip comforted her.

“Sir, mind if I ask what we’re going to do?”

“Don’t mind at all.”

After another half a dozen steps she said, “I take it that you don’t have a plan.”

“Don’t I always have a plan?”

“No, sir. You usually make it up as you go.”

“That’s not true. I’ve had a lot of plans.”

“Yes, sir.”

“It’s just that they don’t always work out exactly.”

“Yes, sir.”

“My plan, such as it is, is to poke around and see if something comes up. In particular, I’d like to have a talk with Jayne.”

“With Jayne, sir?”

“Do you know how much of this he set off?”

“No…”

“Neither do I. And I’d like to.”

“What do you think he might have done?”

“What were we all thinking he’d do?”

“Call in the feds on River and the doctor. But how could that have had anything to do with this?”

“I have no idea. And I’m a bit curious too. Aren’t you?”

“Now that you mention it, yes I am.”

They continued walking.

How often had she wondered what would happen if and when she and Jayne had to face off? Well, now it might happen. She discovered that she was mildly curious, but not especially nervous about the idea.

“Any worries, Zoë?”

“Worries, sir?”

“About Jayne.”

How did he keep doing that?

“No, sir.”

No, a fight with Jayne wasn’t what she was worried about; that would go as it went. But, as she walked, she did what she had done a hundred times before: she prayed to a God in whom she just barely believed that she wouldn’t let the Captain down.

The door to the canteen swung open at noon, and he and Zoë were waiting. The bartender, keys still in his hand, glanced over his shoulder as they entered. “Well,” he said, “off to an early—oh.”

“I see you remember us, Mark.”

He stopped a few feet from the bar, his eyes went to the comm unit next to the cash box, then he turned back. “Mal, and Zoë.”

“You have a good memory for names.”

“I’m not looking for trouble.”

“Shiny,” said Mal. “We didn’t bring any.”

“All right. I’m going back behind the bar now.”

“No one is stopping you. I would take it as a kindness if you didn’t make any calls, though.”

The bartender nodded, went behind the bar, and closed the flap that completed it. He dropped the keys next to the register, and turned around, moving slowly as if he had weapons trained on him. Mal and Zoë had kept their weapons holstered, but Mark clearly hadn’t forgotten.