Chapter 5: In which Wash succumbs to his parental instincts, Zoë is one of the guys and River's naughtiness is discovered
"So," Kaylee's sister-in-law Marggie, asked during breakfast. "Y'all are pregnant?"
Zoë glanced at Wash and smiled, squeezing his hand affectionately. "Yah," She said, "Got any advice?"
"Give them what they need, not what they want," laughed Margie, who had a very plump one-year-old in her lap and was keeping her eyes on a two and a three-year-old who were playing with the other children in the yard behind Zoë.
"Sound advice," Wash said, "When our baby's crying for Champaign I'll be sure to put my foot down and say milk or nothing."
Margie laughed again, "You are so silly!"
"Seriously," Zoë insisted, pushing aside a set of chuckles. "What do you mean?"
"Baby's cry for everything," Margie explained. "You don' have ta give them everything. If ya need ta sleep, the baby can wait for ten minutes, ain't gonna kill it. If your arm's is tired, the baby can lie in the crib, ain't gonna hurt it."
"Seems a little mean," Wash said, perfectly seriously. "If the baby's crying you should . . ."
"I ain't sayin' ignore it," Margie quickly explained. "I love my babies more 'en I love anything. I'm jus' sayin' that some times a mom works too hard ta make sure the baby's always happy. It don't hurt the baby ta cry a little, but sometimes it can hurt you ta live your life makin' sure the baby don't cry."
"You're talkin' about setting boundaries," Zoë said, "Makin' sure I don't go nuts."
"First baby ya don't know what your doin' so ya jump at everything," Margie said. "I got so stressed my hair started turnin' white. Thought if little Alexis cried was 'cause I was bein' bad. Ain't so."
"Thanks," Zoë said. "I'll remember that."
"Ew," Wash said, kissing his wife on her temple, "White hairs, don't want that."
Margie laughed again, "Your husband, Zoë, he's crazy funny."
"What can I say," Zoë said, smiling lovingly at her husband. "Ya can't chose who ya fall in love with."
Margie laughed again, "Your both too funny. Must be horrible hilarious on that ship, what with Kaylee bein' happy all the time like she is. She is still happy all the time, ain't she?"
"Ridiculously so," Wash said.
"Good ta know," Margie said. "But then, I guess ya have ta be a pretty happy type person ta work on a space ship. No sun, no people ta talk to, nothin' but cold and dark."
"Ain't so bad," Zoë said. "Crew gets pretty tight."
"Bet they're all real excited 'bout the baby."
"Yeah," Zoë laughed. "It's really gonna change all our lives."
"Ya got a nursery for it?"
"Ah," Wash said, glancing at Zoë, then back at Margie, "No."
"Well, where's it gonna sleep?"
"That a good question," Wash said.
"In our room, I guess," Zoë said with a shrug.
"In our room?" Wash asked, clearly not likening the idea too much.
"It's a baby, sweetie," Zoë said practically. "Then, when it grows a bit, it can stay over in the guest quarters."
"Ya got a crib?" Margie asked.
"No," Wash said, "Why, you have an old one?"
"Naw," Margie laughed, "Just ya might wanna get somethin' sturdy. Don't know what it's like on a space ship, but can't be too careful on a home where the floor moves."
"She has a point," Wash told Zoë, "You said your husband was a carpenter, didn't you?"
"He could make ya somethin'," Margie said. "Wouldn't charge ya but for the wood, ya bein' Kaylee's shipmates and all."
"We couldn't possibly . . ." Zoë started.
"Would he let me help?" Wash interrupted. "Or, wait, no, would he let me make it?"
"Ya work much with wood?" Margie asked.
"No," Zoë said. "He hasn't."
"I've built a working atmo-ship practically from scratch."
"With Kaylee's help," Zoë interjected.
"I think I can hammer in a few nails."
"Great," Margie interjected. "I'll tell Collin, y'all can start this afternoon."
"I'm so excited," Wash said, drumming his fingers on the wooden table. "It's like the first step into a lifetime of fatherly projects. I've decided I'm going to be the kind of dad who can do everything."
"Hold up a minute," Zoë laughed. "'For you jump headlong into handymanship, you're forgetting something. Captain's got a big fishin' trip planed for today."
"Well I can miss it, can't I?" Wash asked, pouting a little. "How many people do you really need to fish? I mean, won't too many hooks confuse them, tip them off maybe?"
"Their brains are about the size of a pea," Zoë reminded him, "Don't think they got enough sense to get confused. 'Sides, the fishin' ain't the point. Crew bonding's the point."
"Kaylee isn't goin'," Wash pointed out.
"She's stayin' with her family. They ain't seen her for months on end."
"I haven't seen her family for months on end either."
"Everybody but Kaylee's goin'."
"River's not going either."
"You wanna sit in a small boat in the middle of a deep lake with that girl?"
"I don't even want to think of her near a tackle box, what with the sharp hooks and the more sharper hooks," Wash said. "But the point is that Kaylee and River and Simon – "
"Nope," Zoë said. "Contrary to popular belief, them two ain't joined at the hip. Simon's comin'. And you're comin'."
* * *
"Why isn't Wash coming?" Simon asked as the group headed out around noon for a slow, relaxed afternoon of fishing.
"He's got stuff he's doin'," Zoë clipped. "Got special dispensation from the Captain."
"And how did he --"
"River will be fine," Zoë said, cutting the doctor off before the young man got his hopes too high. "There's easily thirty people lookin' after her."
"None of whom have anything resembling medical or psychological training."
"They got compassion and common sense," Zoë said. "For a few hours, that'll be enough."
Simon took a deep breath and nodded. It had taken the captain, Kaylee and Book most of breakfast to convince him that leaving River alone with a group of girls her age would be good for her. It would, they argued, give her a chance to make friends and get a glimpse of how regular kids interacted. Simon agreed with them whole heatedly, she'd spent the majority of her adolescence in some perverted nightmare of a school. The social skills accumulated between the age of 14 and 17 were vital, and she'd been denied an environment where she could hope to learn them. If there were other children, Simon doubted she ever saw them. It spoke volumes of the depths of the Academy's cruelty that being robbed of such important interactions was the least of River's troubles.
The argument went that, as long as Simon was around, River would be inclined to stay with or near him, and the whole point of her staying behind (besides the fact that no one, including Simon, was in favor of putting her in a small boat and give her access to a box full of sharp hooks) would have been lost. Eventually, he'd had to agree. Still, every step he took farther away from River, the more worried he became. He couldn't ask to go back, Mal wouldn't have let him in a million years; nor could he find his way back to the Frye's house, he'd been so lost in worry that he hadn't been paying attention to the path they'd taken. So it was almost a good thing when Simon's attention was drawn away from his musings by someone pushing him roughly on the shoulder as they walked through the town.
"Excuse me," Simon said, his tone of voice making it clear he expected a full apology.
"Might," the man sighed. He was about Simon's age, very muscular, with oily brown hair and dark, dark eyes. There was something about the way he moved, or maybe the way he spoke, that made Simon uneasy. "I got a bone ta pick with you."
"Sir," Simon said, a condescending edge in his voice. "I don't see how that's possible considering we've never been introduced."
"What are your intentions ta my Kaylee?" he demanded.
"What, may I ask," Simon said, clearing his throat. "Entitles you to call her yours?"
"Don' you be questionin' me!" the man said, his small eyes looking just a little wild. "I hear her letter's read out loud."
"Her letters?" Simon, at this point, was as confused as he was affronted. "Are you her brother?"
"They read them after services on Sunday, ya fop," the man said, spitting tobacco juice out of the space where a tooth should have been on the side of his mouth. "And I listen 'cause, ya see, Kaylee 'n me, we is meant for each other."
Simon, who didn't believe fate or destiny had thrown him on Serenity, and certainly didn't believe his present relationship, nebulous though it was, was the result of some cosmic forces plotting and scheming their lives, driving Kaylee and him towards each other because they were, as Plato would have said it, to halves of the same soul. All that, Simon was convinced, fell under the category of utter nonsense for a feebly romantic mind. Still, oddly, he resented the idea that this man, crude and awkward, who chewed tobacco and considered his rotted-out teeth a convenience, could possibly be pretty little Kaylee's soul mate.
"She never mentioned you," Simon said, more than a little snidely.
"I'm surprised a fancy-dan like you listens when she talks," the man grunted before spitting again. "You go anywhere near her again and I'll beat your face so bad it'll never hold that smirk again."
Simon turned and looked at the man and tried to take him seriously, tried to feel something, fear, pity, compassion, anything except revulsion. He couldn't do it. "What makes you think I'd let you?"
The man laughed in Simon's face, letting a nauseating smell out of his mouth and displaying disgustingly inadequate dental work. "Pretty boy like you ain't never fought, bet ya can't take a hit."
"I'm
not going stand hear while you try and scare me with bao li," Simon said simply.
"Is that a challenge?" the
man asked, a vicious glimmer in his eyes.
"No," Simon answered plainly. "It's a fact. I don't care what you say or what you threaten, I'm not going to waste my time or energy on you."
"Ya don't understand," the man said, pivoting so that he was standing directly in Simon's path. "I ain't gonna stand for ya ta steal . . ."
"Kaylee is a grown woman who can make her own decisions," Simon said, forcing his voice to project over the disgusting man's. He didn't realize it, but his shoulders were squared and his hands were in fists and his usually soft stormy-blue eyes had narrowed into slits. "If you have a problem with her behavior it might behoove you to discuss it with her, not with me. I will never attempt to dictate her life to her, nor will I be intimidated into avoiding my friends. So, sir, if you are quite done demonstrating that you are an unashamed lok chat, I would appreciate it if you could please leave me alone."
The man stared, shocked, at Simon for a moment. But, before he could recover his brutish self, Mal's commanding voice drew the young doctor's attention away. "Hey, Doc, Ya commin' or what?"
"Yes, sir," Simon said, quickly stepping around his dumbfounded adversary and jogging to catch up with the rest of the Serenity's crew.
"What was that all about?" Mal asked once the doctor reached the rest of the party.
"Nothing, sir," Simon said quickly. "Just an old friend of Kaylee's."
Kaylee's father, who was hosting the fishing expedition, chuckled. "That weren't no friend, son, that there was Clinton Myers. He's had a bing crush on my daughter since they were kids. 'Cours she's smart enough ta see a crazy when he flirts with her."
"Crazy, huh?" Jayne asked. He was carrying a pile of fishing rods like he carried his shotgun, slung casually over his shoulder. "What'd he say ta ya, Doc?"
"Nothing important," Simon said cagily, taking the tackle box Mal handed him.
"He threaten you, Son?" Mal asked glancing over his shoulder at the now retreating form of Clinton Myers.
Simon sighed; he didn't want to relive the discussion. An ex-girlfriend had once told him that he turned into the biggest Jackass in the known universe every time he got assertive or aggressive or defensive. She'd told him he was sarcastic, belittling, shaming, pretentious, and just downright unlikable. Then, as he tried to defend himself he realized that he was being insufferably pertinacious as he sarcastically tried to belittle and shame her into taking back her observations. At the end of that discussion neither of them liked Simon very much. She had the advantage though, she could leave. And because Simon had no idea how to fix these character flaws he tried to avoid them, and when he couldn't do that he tried to ignore the fact that he'd displayed them, at least, as much as humanly possible.
"He wanted to know my intentions towards Kaylee," Simon answered.
"Boy might be a crazy, but he asks good questions," Mal said, a sort of mischievous glimmer in his eye. "What are your intentions, Doc?"
"My intentions?" Simon asked, wide-eyed. He had no idea how to answer; he could barely believe he was being asked.
"That is a good question," Al said, laughing dryly. This was a joke to them, Simon realized, he just had no clue which punch line wouldn't lead to him, well, being punched. "What are your intentions to my daughter?"
"We . . . well . . ." Simon stammered.
"What's wrong, Doc?" Jayne laughed, "Don'cha know?"
"Be kind, Jayne," Book said, "This isn't exactly an easy question to answer. Any young man would be nervous when having to explain himself to a pretty girl's father, her captain, and her preacher."
Simon sent a nearly-sinfully-angry glare at the preacher. Zoë Laughed out loud.
"Yeah," Jayne chuckled. "I can see how that could be a little nerve racking," He chuckled again. "No pressure, Doc."
Simon sighed. "I don't have any intentions towards Kaylee," he said, a little more defensively than he would have liked. "I'm not scheming or plotting, or flirting, or anything. I'm just . . . we're just . . . we're friends. She's my friend."
"Yeah," Jayne grunted. "'Cause ya look at her the way people look at their friends."
Simon felt himself blush, a harsh, sarcastic, belittling reply popped into his mind. He literally had to bite his tongue to keep from snapping at Jayne something, he was sure, would win him no points with Mr. Frye.
"Preacher was right when he told ya ta be kind, Jayne," Mal asserted. "Doc was gracious enough ta answer the huai hua question, no need ta make him feel the fool, well, more'n we already have." Mal, Jayne and Al laughed; Book and Zoë tried not to, but ended up just snickering. Simon took a deep breath and told himself it didn't matter.
"Don't worry, Son," Al said between laughs, slapping the doctor so hard on the back that Simon almost stumbled. "I know my daughter well enough ta know that the question ain't what your intentions are ta her. Question ought'a be what her intentions are ta you."
Everyone started laughing again, and even Simon managed to smile and nod and breathe a little bit easier. But as the conversation drifted, thankfully, away from him and onto less stressful topics, Simon couldn't help but wonder what, exactly, that was supposed to mean.
* * *
Gov. Comworth was busy reviewing the reports on the environmental impact of run-off on southern farmland from Newhope's vast salt mines. It was a complicated, politically charged issue that impacted a good deal of the planet's population and needed to be dealt with quickly, decisively, and fairly, with minimal disruption to the citizens lives. In short, it was the kind of engrossing problem that made Comworth wish he was not a governor and did not have any sort of power over people's lives. Therefore, it was not at all surprising when he snapped as his secretary poked his head into the governor's office.
"What is it, Tripper? I'm busy."
"I know sir, but we've received an unusual transmission."
"Transmission?" he grumbled, "From the High Command?"
"No, sir, it's short range, very quiet, has to be coming from on the grounds."
"Genie probably just . . ."
"No, sir, I don't think it's one of her pranks. It's very unusual."
"Can't you find the source?"
"No, sir, it's my understanding that the transmission is, ah, sort of echoing."
"Echoing?"
"It's been routed through the holographic art projectors. It's showing up instead of the paintings. I don't know how sir, we can't find the bandwidth but . . ."
"Agh," Comworth grunted, "Let me see."
The old man followed his secretary, a young man who would, undoubtedly in the future, turn into a prim and proper Alliance bureaucrat, through the outer office and to the hallways. Instead of images of humankind's greatest artistic achievements, Gov. Comworth was greeted by streaming text that didn't make any sense. They were Roman letters, but they weren't spelling any words, at least, not any words in any language that the Governor was familiar with. Still, they seemed not to be random, there was definitely a type of pattern, although he couldn't see it, not standing in the middle of the hallway watching letters stream past him.
"Is this a continuous stream? Is the pattern repeating itself?"
"Yes to both. The maintenance worker tells me he could cut off the stream at any time, I just thought you should see it."
"Yes," Comworth said, "Can we download it?"
"Already done, sir," Tripper said, handing the Governor a computer pad with the text on it. "This is the entire message. It's already looped three times, so I don't think it'll change."
"Well, tell Bester to cut the transmission, I want my art back. And he should figure out where it came from, if that's not too much for his stunning mind."
"I'll inform him of your wishes, sir," Tripper said, noting all of the Governor's orders on his own computer pad.
"And notify me immediately if any other such transmissions are received."
"Yes, sir."
"Good," Comworth said, nodding. "I'm going back to my reports."
And he did, for a few minutes. But there was something about that message that bothered him. He felt very strongly that he should be able to read it, that it shouldn't mystify him. With a sigh of resignation, he pushed aside the reports and took up the pad. The letters looked like utter nonsense; the first line, yaR revi. Those weren't words, they weren't words backwards, they weren't words coded. But then, as he scanned the document, he noticed that every other of the nonsense words began with ya. "What if," he muttered, taking the first line and writing it with the ya removed. R revi still didn't make much scence, neither did Rrevi, and neither did reviR. Then it hit him.
"Shen di yu," he said, his throat suddenly becoming very dry. "River."
To Be Continued . . .