Chapter 10: Look to the Lady* (part I)

Zoë Alleyne – playing for time

Author's Note: We head into the final showdown and near the end of our tale. Another special thanks to Jadzia Bear for her help in editing "Look to the Lady (parts 1 and 2)" and to my ever-loyal sounding board Natasha for Vissarion. Love it? Hate it? Let me know!

If it hadn't been so ludicrous, Mal would have entertained the notion they'd intruded on a very private, possibly adult moment between his pilot and first mate.

There they were, half-way down the corridor. Zoë, kneeling on the floor, shapely legs exposed, wearing Wash's garish, oversized shirt and not quite clutching a long, menacing knife. And Wash, bare from the waist up, planted in front of her, seemingly poised to throw the petite scalpels balanced in each upraised hand. Try as he might, Mal found it in no way reassuring that the color had drained from Wash's face and his eyes were big as saucers.

What's he waiting for, an engraved invitation? Mal couldn't understand it. He was sure he was shouting at the top of his lungs for Wash to throw the ruttin' blades. He'd seen the pilot hit a bulls-eye from over eight meters away – with either hand! Callum wasn't as remote as that, and couldn't be standing in a more convenient trajectory. So why didn't the man throw? Had he shaved off all his sense along with the mustache?

Who are you kidding, Washburne? Wash's pulse and thoughts were accelerating, rapidly, but the rest of him was frozen in place. You can't do this. In what 'verse could you ever do this? She's gonna think you're pathetic, can't protect her. Yeah, might lose some ground on Mt. Zoë, but can't be helped. Don't remember skewering people with little knives being part of the job description. Nope, just checked and it definitely is not in there. Maybe if you had some time to practice, y'know, with a training dummy, or a board with Callum's face on it. Just get used to the idea gradually, work your way up to a life-sized cardboard Callum cut-out. Not even sure you can throw these things like darts. Might miss and hit...

At that point, Wash became distracted by the pain receptors in his raw wrists firing, because one of Callum's guards, tired of watching him hesitate, had crossed the short span into the hall and used an iron grip to make him drop the scalpels. The man started roughly tying Wash's hands behind his back, while Courage head-butted Doubt contemptuously. Then turned and smacked Stupidity upside the head.

Zoë just couldn't, it drove her to distraction how she just couldn't close her fingers around that knife hilt with any firmness. Her death-ray glare was in fine form, though, and as that was the only weapon she could control, she aimed it full at Callum.

He stared at her, stunned and disbelieving. And then, "No. No, no, no. That's not right," he protested, impatiently shoving Wash out of the way. "Lady Macbeth dies off stage." He was a few feet from her now, but coming no closer.

Zoë watched him like a snake in mid-uncoil. She sensed that inside him, within that fractured psyche, something was happening. Across his face the emotions traveled from confounded to intrigued, and then, yes, Zoë was sure of it, to awed.

A thought struck her. It was a terrible gamble, but there were no other cards to play. Zoë straightened up, her breasts filling the shirt front and making the palm trees swell. She put the knife aside with elaborate grace, at the same time shifting her weight to reveal more elegant leg. Then she tossed her hair lightly, pointed her chin and pushed down the growing disgust at what she was about to do.

"But I have another role, remember?" she said seductively. "The Angel of Death." And Death is like a lover. Zoë affected the most alluring smile. "At the moment, in need of an escort." She delicately extended her hand to him, palm downward, as if inviting him to squire her 'round the dance floor.

For Wash and Mal both, everything in the hall that wasn't Zoë or Callum blurred to grey and their vision telescoped in on the aberrant pair. For both, apprehension slid seamlessly into alarm as Callum, apparently falling into some poetic dream, stepped to Zoë's side, took her hand in the courtly, Core fashion Alliance officers learned, and reverently raised her to her feet.

Wash felt his chest being squeezed in a vice. Don't, don't hurt her!

Mal's eyes darted a quick left-right-left. Must be a move we can make, now he's distracted.

Then Zoë shot them the briefest look. Wash, who didn't know her very well, couldn't read it, but Mal got the message instantly: Follow my lead.

She had to dig deep for the strength to walk across that floor without falling. The cold anger helped. The adrenaline surge helped. The fact that the limp slowed his steps also helped. But she succeeded primarily out of loathing for the alternative, which was to put her arm around Callum for support. Bad enough, having to give him her hand, which longed either to return to Wash or to be holding an efficient and deadly weapon.

Once she was sure her body would play its part, she steeled mentally for the next feint. As they passed the prisoners, all except Wash still on their knees, Zoë said casually to Callum, "If the play is over, shouldn't the audience be excused?"

But that didn't have the intended effect. Zoë heard his breathing change and then he was standing not beside but in front of her. There was a brief look of recognition, and maybe even scorn, and then he slapped her hard across the face, backhanded. She crumpled to the floor. Leaning heavily on the crutch, Callum loomed over her, fuming, while Zoë gasped for air.

"Bravo, Corporal Alleyne! Who'd have thought you were so clever?" he sneered with patronizing zeal. "But the play isn't over, not yet." She tensed, anticipating more blows. But in the span of a few seconds, Callum seemed to have forgotten she was there. He straightened up and cocked his head to one side. "Ha! What a wonderful notion." He turned to Mal, genuinely excited. "I know what to do with your crew. It's perfect!"

Wash, Kaylee and Jayne stumbled into their seats in the main operating theater, ably assisted by two of Callum's heavily armed 'ushers'. It was a cavernous, circular room, with stadium-style benches fanning out from a central raised platform. Dissection lights, still harsh and unforgiving all these years after illuminating some doctor's final procedure, burned down on the dusty, vacant dais.

Their hands had been untied (so they could, what, applaud? Wash wondered), and Jayne was clearly flexing to fight. All things being equal, Wash knew the hulking mercenary could have taken down both guards. But Callum's men, and more importantly their shotguns, were watching him especially carefully and keeping a distance that left Jayne nothing to do but radiate ornery discontent.

Mal walked slowly, deliberately, down the aisle towards the center, carrying Zoë and trying hard not to jar her too much. That last gambit with Callum, that was the dregs, and now her last reserves of strength were empty. Nevertheless, the third guard followed warily behind them, keeping his gun at the ready and never getting too close.

Callum had gone ahead and was sitting in a chair on the edge of the platform.

"A front row seat for the lady," Callum sang out, rising. His face shone with giddy delight. "Vissarion," Callum called up to the risers. Kaylee started and blanched. "You were asking about stage fighting. It's all in the choreography, boy. Watch closely."

"What's that about?" Zoë kept her voice low. She grimaced, unable to hide the pain, as Mal positioned her in the chair.

"Seems he mistakes our Kaylee for a boy in his unit," Mal muttered back.

Hmm. Could they use that? "Don't seem his delusions help us much, since he's cast you as the villain."

Mal had already turned to face Callum, but he nodded agreement. Just give me a weapon, you za jiao hwoon dan. Got no more patience for the foreplay. Mal smirked despite himself. 'Scuse the pun.

"The broadsword was popular with men of honor and scoundrels alike once upon a time on Earth-that-Was," Callum explained as one of the men handed Mal what looked like a wide, two-foot-long dagger with a robin red basket hilt. "So it's a fitting weapon for today's drama. But I can't maneuver especially well with this leg, so we're gonna even things up."

Without warning, Callum drew his pistol and shot Mal in the right calf, not far from where the other bullet had grazed him earlier. Mal dropped on one knee, and looked up, seething. Callum's eyes narrowed. "And Sergeant," he continued, not a shred of warmth in his voice, "for your crew's sake I expect you to put on a good show, pretend you can save them."

"Don't worry," Mal said grimly, clutching his burning calf as the warm blood ran through his fingers and down the leg. "Won't be nothin' pretend about me killin' you. But what'll your men do then? They just gonna run along home like good little thugs?"

"If I die, yes. They have those instructions. But if I kill you," and here Callum's eyes sparkled, "which, of course, is how our drama actually ends, then they will help me dispose of Corporal Alleyne and the rest. As a gift to the lovely corporal, I promise everyone will die quickly."

Callum unbuckled his gun belt, lay down his crutch, gripped the sword with determination and attacked.

End chapter 10.

Chinese Quotes and Shakespeare References:

* Macbeth, Act II Scene 3 (Lady Macbeth distracts the Scottish lords who have been questioning her husband closely about King Duncan's murder)

za jiao = fucking

hwoon dan =bastard