Firefly--Big Damn Hero Read online

  “I’ll move them,” Wash said agreeably.

  Zoë watched as Wash climbed onto the repaired forklift, started it up, and with a grinding crunch, jammed it in reverse. Showing off his exceptional driving skills, he nearly backed over Bernard’s foot. Would have done, if Zoë hadn’t nudged the Alliance officer out of the path of the rear wheel.

  “Aargh. Sorry about that,” Wash said sheepishly as he squealed the brakes. “Accelerator sticks a bit.”

  He surged forward, dropping the fork so low, it sent sparks flying off the deck. With a reckless nonchalance, he scraped under and scooped up the nearest crate. Zoë was holding her breath. Jayne turned away, a scowl on his face. Kaylee looked plain desperate.

  “Where do you want it?” Wash asked as he raised the huge box, teetering, to eye level.

  “Anywhere,” Bernard said.

  As Wash reversed away with the crate, Major Bernard seemed disappointed to find no trap door hidden underneath. There was nothing but solid, bolted-down deck plate.

  “Move the others,” he told Wash.

  But it was the same story there. Bernard watched as his men tested the deck plates with their scanner wands, looking for voids that could hold contraband and stowaways. When they were done, they shook their heads.

  “Ship is clean, sir,” one of them reported. Then he added, hopefully, “A bit too clean maybe?”

  Zoë chortled merrily. “Oh, hush! Don’t you listen to him, Aubrey,” she said, resting a hand on Bernard’s forearm. “How can a ship be too clean? It’s ridiculous!”

  Her hand lingered. Major Bernard made no effort to dislodge it. Weighing up the evidence of his own eyes, and factoring in the obvious allure he held for Zoë, he came a decision. He scribbled something on the bottom of the manifest, then stamped it with his official stamp.

  “We appreciate your compliance and courtesy,” he said to Zoë. “You are good to go. We’ll be out of your way shortly.”

  “Excellent work,” Wash said, beaming at Bernard. “Very efficient. Very thorough. A credit to the Alliance.”

  “Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Zoë,” Bernard said, giving her a particularly snappy salute.

  “Likewise, I’m sure, Aubrey.”

  The boarding team left the crew’s weapons piled on the dining table and made a dignified, single-file exit.

  As the ramp closed behind them, Wash sidled over to Zoë. “I’ve got to say, Zoë, seeing that performance of yours just now, I don’t know whether I’m turned on or should start filing for divorce. Did ‘Aubrey’ give you his wave address? You two planning on seeing each other again, or was this a one-time thing?”

  “You know I only have eyes for you, husband.”

  “I was thinking, maybe we could play at being brother and sister again sometime. To, y’know, spice things up in the bedroom.”

  “Don’t push it, buster,” Zoë said, giving him a whack on the arm that left him wincing and rubbing the affected area for a minute afterwards.

  It took ten minutes for I.A.V. Stormfront to undock. By then, Wash was back up in the bridge. When Serenity was clear of the cruiser’s exhaust, he fired a single pulse of the engines and gentled her away, in the opposite direction Inara had flown.

  “We’ve got to do something about those crates,” Kaylee said to Zoë. “It can’t wait.”

  “If they’re overheating, there’s only one solution I can see. Jayne’s idea. We strap them down and blow the atmo. Hard vacuum will bring down their temperature in no time.”

  “What if that doesn’t work?”

  “We jettison them out into space,” Zoë said. She hated even thinking it, let alone voicing it. The crew were already so broke. But better broke than incinerated.

  “If we lose our cargo,” Jayne said, “we might as well quit flying.”

  Zoë rounded on him. “You care to rephrase that?”

  He shrugged. “Choice mightn’t be ours, anyway. We won’t have the coin we need to keep this boat in the sky.”

  She kept glaring at him, but he was only saying what she was thinking. She said, “Strap down the crates. Fast. And keep your mouth shut.”

  “This is not our best day,” Jayne muttered under his breath.

  Zoë thought of Mal. Wherever he had gotten to, she reckoned he was having an even worse day.

  Inara had seen larger, grander houses in her time, but Hunter Covington’s mansion was impressive nonetheless. It was wedding-cake white and sprawled over two stories, with Doric columns rising to the roof all along its front elevation, creating a broad, shaded porch area. Twenty rooms in the main building at least, she thought, along with a barn-like stable block to one side and a wing adjoining the rear which, to judge by the comparative plainness of its exterior, most likely housed the servants’ quarters.

  The grounds were impressive too, if for no other reason than the greenness of the neatly trimmed lawns and shrubbery. The surrounding landscape was arid and harshly brown, dotted here and there with vegetation but more or less desert. To use so much water in such a parched region to irrigate a garden was costly and profligate.

  It was early, but in the cool of the morning a gardener was already outdoors, clipping a hedge. He paused from his labors to watch Inara go past. Not five minutes earlier her shuttle had put down in front of the property. The gardener had been curious about that, but not as curious as he was to see a woman who was clearly a Companion sashaying forth. He touched a finger to the brim of his sunhat. Inara rewarded him with one her best and brightest smiles.

  She walked up a short flight of steps to the front door, which opened before she had even got a hand to the bellpush.

  The person on the other side was not some valet or butler, she knew that at a glance. He was a slab-faced bodyguard type, with a gun on his hip and an insolent, seen-it-all look about him.

  “Who are you?” he demanded.

  “Inara Serra. I’m expected.”

  “You sure as hell ain’t. Nobody’s expected.”

  Her forehead puckered into the slightest of frowns. “To whom am I speaking?”

  “Who I am ain’t none of your business, lady,” said the bodyguard.

  “Well, is Mr. Covington home?”

  “Mr. Covington ain’t home.”

  She looked flustered. “There must be some misunderstanding. I have an appointment with him this morning. Eight a.m. sharp. My credentials.”

  She showed him her Companion license and registration, etched with the insignia of House Madrassa.

  The bodyguard had already figured out her occupation for himself and gave the documents only a cursory glance.

  “He’s really not in?” she said.

  “Off-planet on business. You sure you have an appointment? Only Mr. Covington, he don’t consort with Companions, best I know. He has himself… alternative outlets for his needs, if you get what I’m saying. Must be there’s been some kinda mix-up.”

  Inara was now doing an impersonation of someone very confused and not a little indignant. “Mistakes like this simply don’t happen. I had a firm engagement with Mr. Covington at this hour. It was made over a month ago, and I’ve travelled a long way to be here. If he was going to cancel, he ought to have let me know in advance. I’ve a good mind to report him to the Guild over this. Wasting my time. He’ll be fined at the very least, and if I have my way he’ll be blackballed as well.”

  “Yeah, well, sorry about that,” said the bodyguard unapologetically.

  Inara insinuated herself into the doorway, so that he could not easily close the door on her. “May I make a small request?” He didn’t say no, so she continued, “I’ve been in my shuttle nearly three days straight. The water tanks are running low and, frankly, I could do with freshening up. Is there a bathroom nearby I could use? I promise I won’t be more than five minutes. You’d be doing me such a favor.”

  No one was impervious to Inara Serra’s charm when she turned it on full blast. Age, gender, sexual inclination, professional obligation, none of
it made any difference. A person’s inner barriers simply melted like ice under a blowtorch.

  The bodyguard could have no more refused her request than he could have forbidden the tide from turning or the sun from setting.

  “I dunno…”

  “Please?”

  Whatever last few misgivings he had evaporated. “Okay. It’s down this way. Follow me.”

  “You’re too kind… Do you have a name?”

  “Walter.”

  “Walter, you’re too kind.”

  Walter couldn’t help himself. A smile of appreciation plucked at the corners of his meaty mouth.

  Inara entered a huge hallway with a curved, sweeping staircase and teak floorboards polished to such a gleam they dazzled the eyes. The downstairs bathroom had gold and marble fittings. Inara ran the faucets a while and made some minor adjustments to her elaborate, kabuki-inflected makeup in the mirror. She was steeling herself for what she had to do next.

  Walter the bodyguard was waiting right outside as she re-emerged.

  “I’ll be leaving now,” she said. “Do tell Mr. Covington that I was disappointed to have missed him. I’m still unhappy about the unannounced cancellation, but your courtesy, Walter, has gone a long way to allaying my feelings of offense. Oh. You appear to have something on your neck. A speck of lint, it looks like. May I?”

  Not allowing him to grant permission, or even to try to remove the lint himself, Inara reached up and brushed the side of his thick neck.

  Walter touched the spot where her fingers had just been. A small knot formed between his eyebrows.

  “Feels odd,” he said. “Like my skin’s gone numb.”

  “A Companion’s touch has been known to have all sorts of effects,” Inara said.

  “Yeah, but this ain’t…” His eyes swam in their sockets. His body swayed. “What the hell’d you just do to me, you witch?” he said slurringly.

  “It’s a fast-acting, skin-contact sedative, Walter. An hour from now you’ll wake up with a raging headache and a powerful thirst, but otherwise unharmed.”

  He made to grab for her but the action was feeble and uncoordinated. His legs were buckling under him. He could barely stay standing.

  “Companions have these little tricks,” Inara continued, “in case a client gets aggressive or otherwise fails to observe the rules. Now why don’t you just sit down over there?” She guided him towards a gilt chair. “More comfortable than simply collapsing to the floor.”

  Walter sat heavily. His eyelids drooped. His head sagged.

  “Shou’ ne’er ha’ trust… a whorrr…”

  The words trailed off, to be replaced by deep snoring.

  “And because you called me that,” Inara said to his unconscious form, “I have even fewer qualms about doing what I just did.”

  She peeled off the oval-shaped transparent patch on the tip of her index finger. It was an impermeable membrane coated on one side with a dose of the sedative. All of the drug should have transferred itself to Walter but she was careful nonetheless as she rolled up the membrane and slipped it into a pocket.

  At that moment, a maid entered the hallway carrying a stack of folded towels. She took one look at Inara, and at the slumped, snoozing Walter, and her face fell in astonishment. She seemed on the brink of yelling.

  Inara hurried towards her, adopting a mask of anxiety. “Help me,” she said. “This man just collapsed. I don’t know what’s happened. I think he’s unwell.”

  The maid was unconvinced. “I don’t know who you are, lady, or what you’re doing here, but we’re told to be wary of all strangers, even fancily dressed ones.”

  “I imagine so. For what it’s worth, I mean you no harm. That said, I can’t have you screaming the house down either.”

  She was now only arm’s distance from the maid. There was no time for finesse or subtlety. She struck her a blow to the carotid with the edge of her hand like a sideways ax chop. The blow briefly interrupted the blood supply to the maid’s brain and stunned her temporarily, long enough for Inara to deliver a second deftly aimed jab to the vagus nerve in her neck. Instant insensibility ensued. Inara caught the maid as she fell, then dragged her to the doorway through which she had entered.

  In a laundry room, amid shelves piled high with clothes and fresh linen, she laid the maid out on the floor, then went back into the hallway to fetch the towels the woman had dropped. She rolled up one of them and placed it beneath the maid’s head. Like Walter, the maid would wake up with a headache but at least a stiff neck wouldn’t be a problem.

  Compassion was one of a Companion’s strongest suits, even when it came to visiting violence on others.

  While Inara infiltrated the mansion itself, Shepherd Book was moving stealthily round the perimeter of the grounds. He had no idea where Elmira Atadema was being kept on the premises, so his only option was reconnaissance. With Inara busy indoors distracting and neutralizing whatever security personnel Hunter Covington employed, Book crept along, keeping low behind the three-bar fence that encircled the property and studying the building from all angles. He reasoned that Covington would have Elmira under lock and key in an upstairs room, in order to make it that much harder for her to escape. To that end, he surveilled the house’s upper story, looking for a window that was shuttered or barred or both.

  The sound of a twig snapping behind him brought him whirling around. His stun gun was in his hand, fully charged and primed. Book almost pulled the trigger to unleash the electrified dart that would deliver a 50,000-volt shock.

  “River?”

  River Tam stood there, swinging her arms from side to side.

  “I thought we told you to stay in the shuttle with Simon.”

  “Simon wasn’t looking, so I came out,” River said. “To help you.”

  “You’re no help to me here,” Book said gently but with a forceful undertone. “This is something Inara and I have to do. You’re best off keeping out of sight with your brother.”

  “I know where she is.”

  “What?”

  “The woman. Elmira. She’s in there.” River pointed, straight-armed, towards the stable block.

  Just as Book was asking himself how River could know this— and be so certain about it, too—Simon came scurrying up.

  “River!” he hissed. “You shouldn’t have run away. I’ve been looking all over for you.”

  “Here I am,” she said simply. “You found me.”

  “Sorry, Shepherd. I’ll take her back to the shuttle. No harm done, I hope.”

  “Wait just a moment, son,” Book said. “River, are you sure that’s where Elmira is?”

  River nodded. “Uh-huh. I can see her. She’s sad. She’s chained up. Straw in her hair. She knows she’s going to die. Hunter’s mad at her. She sold him out, he says. ‘I’m going to fix you, woman.’” River’s voice had suddenly taken on a gravel-roughness and a masculine note. “‘See if I don’t. When I come back, I’m going to show you what happens to bitches that snitch to the authorities. They get cut. All over. Every part of their body. Every part. Cut till they bleed to death, but slow. Days-long slow.’ And she knows he’s going to do it, too.” Her voice had reverted to normal. “He’s not a man to lie about such things.”

  “Where precisely in the stable block is she?” River, if she was correct about Elmira’s location, had just saved Book a considerable amount of time and effort. The stable block would have been the last place he looked.

  “Easier if I show you.”

  Book looked at Simon, then at his sister, then back to Simon.

  “Are you asking my permission?” Simon said.

  “Preferably, but even if I don’t, River’s coming with me.”

  Simon debated inwardly. “Then I’m coming too. I already let her out of my sight once. I’m not doing it a second time. Who knows what we could be walking into?”

  Book did not like having two people tagging along with him. One was bad enough. But he respected Simon’s decision and his conce
rn for his sister’s welfare.

  “All right. Just please stay out of the way. Leave the rough stuff to me.”

  “Here we go.” River was already striding off towards the stable block. Book hurried to catch up, Simon at his heels. “Off to see the horsies.”

  They were halfway there when River said to Book, “By the way, there’s a man just inside the doorway. He hasn’t seen us yet. You have ten seconds before he does.”

  Again, Book wondered how the girl could have such knowledge. Those Dr. Frankensteins at the Academy had bestowed talents on her that were preternatural, that were even—although it seemed a mildly blasphemous thought—godlike.

  But he didn’t have time to dwell on it. He broke into a sprint, running towards the stable block as fast as his aged limbs would let him. Book was, in fact, in phenomenally good shape for a man of his advanced years, keeping himself that way through a routine of isometric strengthening exercises and abstinence from alcohol and narcotics. Within five seconds he had covered the thirty yards between him and the stable-block door. Two seconds later, he was inside the building and confronting the man stationed on guard duty, who was in the process of rising from the chair he’d been sitting on and raising the rifle that had been lying across his knees. The stun gun crackled in Book’s hand. The guard tumbled to the ground, juddering, like he was doing some kind of wild horizontal dance routine. His teeth were bared. An eerie, strangulated ululation escaped his throat. A wet patch spread across the crotch of his jeans.

  “There’s another one,” River said from the doorway.

  Book wheeled to see a second guard appear from the shadows of one of the looseboxes. He was drawing his pistol. Book hit the switch on the stun gun to detach the wire linking it to the dart hooked in the first guard’s chest. The gun was a two-shot deal, but it required closer range than he currently had. The second guard was a good five yards too far away. Book had no choice but to duck down and charge towards him, hoping he could bridge the gap in time. The guard was cocking his gun, however, and drawing a bead on Book. Book knew, with a dreadful certainty, that he was going to be too slow. The guard was going to shoot him before he could get him with the stun gun.