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Firefly: Seven Deadly Sins
Chapter 4: Reflection
Part I
"You're beginning to get a reputation."
"Not a bad reputation to have."
Tom didn't say anything, which left Zoë to continue bandaging her knuckles in silence, the only sound breaking it being the wind coming through their habitation unit's window. They ached, as did the rest of her body. Unlike most of her body however, they were caked in blood, the only other exception being her face, where the red liquid had mixed with the dust and grime. She'd been here about a week, and the soil of this world had already become as one with her flesh. Shaking it off didn't work. She'd been allowed one shower yesterday, and that had done jack point shit. The dust remained. The blood remained. Thankfully, most of it belonged to the dìqiú fú zhā that she'd come into contact with. As Tom had said, she'd begun to develop a reputation, ever since she'd defended "Milk" from that reprobate. "Milk," for his part, had been found on the edge of the prison with a broken neck a day later. On the same day, that was when the first group of hitmen had come for her...using the most generous definition of "hitmen" that was.
She'd stood her ground. Sent the bastards crawling. Had even forced the APA goons to intervene once. But damn, it made her knuckles hurt. And they'd even got a few hits in themselves.
"Three came this time," Tom said, as she continued to bandage, referring to the scuffle in the prison block less than an hour ago. "Next time it'll be four, then five. You're good, but eventually the numbers'll get you."
Zoë grunted. "I'm used to fighting when outnumbered."
Tom scoffed. "Yeah, the Unification War. I heard. Newsflash darling, the war's over."
"For some people," she murmured.
"For some people," Tom parroted. "But this ain't some POW camp."
"No." Her response was simple, and seeing that she wasn't interested in conversation, Tom made his way over to his bunk. He sat down on it, taking out a tattered book.
It's worse.
She had no interest in sharing war stories with Tom. If he didn't want to give his real name, she wasn't going to tell him of the camp she helped liberate on Kerry. Bad as this place was (Nirodha, a moon in the outer reaches of the White Sun system), she knew it could be worse.
"Well, I won't be here much longer anyhow," Zoë said. "I got friends coming for me."
Tom burst out laughing. "Yeah, we all got friends comin' for us."
"Not like these you don't."
"Yeah, sure, sure."
Zoë glared at him. The book's cover was torn, so she couldn't make out the title, only that the author was someone named Stephen King. "How'd you get that stuff anyway?"
"Huh? This?" Tom asked.
"That," Zoë said. "Plus the dozen or so murdered trees under your bunk."
"Okay, first of all, you can't murder a tree," Tom said. "Not even if you build a raft and go sailing with a nigger."
Zoë glared at him.
"Second of all..." He trailed off, giving away that he hadn't thought this response through. "Well, give a little, get a little...y'know..."
"You're a snitch." The glare remained.
"I ain't no snitch."
"Yeah? Then, what? You got your own library out of the goodness of your heart?"
"That, and other stuff," Tom said. He closed the book. "You got problems with that?" Zoë didn't answer, so he kept talking. "Been here ten years Miss Watson. You ain't survive that long without learning how to play the game." He rummaged under his bed and tossed her one of the books. "Here. Long as you're alive, I figure I can share."
Zoë had no interest in reading right now. Really, she'd never had much interest at all – when you were born vesselside, things made of metal were far more valuable than stuff made of trees, spawned by seeds taken from Earth-That-Was, growing light years from the now dead world that had spawned them. Still, she wasn't illiterate, so she could see that the title of the book was The Complete Works of William Shakespeare. The book was old, and it had a picture of a man on the front who looked like the type that would die within seconds if it ever came to fighting a war.
"Thanks," she murmured, not feeling thankful at all. When Serenity came (and it would come, she told herself), she doubted a book would make much difference. Nevertheless, she randomly chose a page, and read the first line.
All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players. They have their exits and their entrances, and one man in his time plays many parts, his acts being seven ages.
It was being spoken by someone named Jacques. The words made no sense, and every sentence on the page was just as nonsensical as the last. Scowling, she put the book down on the floor and lay down on her bunk, getting under the blanket. It did little to protect her from the wind's chill, but little was better than nothing.
"You going to sleep?" Tom asked. "I can turn the light off if you want. I mean, it's lights out in fifteen anyway, but hey, save power and save the world, am I right?"
Zoë grunted – she didn't care about Tom or greenies. She just wanted to sleep.
"Zoë?"
She grunted again, thinking of Emma. Of what it would be like to hold her in her arms. To keep her warm. To keep her safe. To nurture her, to raise her, to do everything a mother did for their child.
"Silent treatment huh?" Zoë heard the sound of a book being slammed shut. "Fine. Sure." There was a click of the light and she heard Tom get into his own bunk. On the first night, she'd not slept a wink, well aware of what people like Tom might be liable to do to her body. By the second, she'd slept a few winks. By the third, she'd given up. Maybe Tom would make his move, maybe not. But when her friends came (and they would come), she'd need all the strength she could get. And at the least, Tom had seen what she'd done in the yard. Hopefully he'd taken the hint.
"Say, Zoë."
The hint that she wanted to sleep? Not so much.
"So, if books aren't you thing, how you know about Huck?"
"Cultural osmosis," she grunted.
A shorter answer would have actually been "Inara." You didn't spend time with a Companion on your boat without getting a bit 'cultured.'
"Right..." He said.
Wash had caught the 'culture' as well. He'd learnt a word for his dinosaurs – "Mesozoic."
"Huck, my friend...real name was Aziz Chang. Little game we played before...well, just so you know."
She grunted – she didn't need to know, let alone want to. All she wanted to do was sleep.
"So what's your beef with the Alliance anyway?" Tom asked.
She groaned and put the pillow under her ears. Whispering in bed was what kids did. Not grown men. Granted, she and Wash had whispered many a night in Serenity, especially just after they'd married, but that had been a two way street.
"I mean, you mentioned you were a soldier once, but I'm betting that ain't it."
Please shut up.
"You said treason when you were in here, but-"
Shut up shut up shut up!
"...but there's many kinds of treason, and-"
"Okay," Zoë said, springing up in her bed. She could only make the faintest outline of Tom, who was lying in his bed, hands folded behind his head (probably had a dumb smirk on his face as well). "You want to play night whispers? Fine."
"...never heard of night whispers."
Was that true, she wondered? Didn't matter anyway.
"I've got some friends," Zoë said. "One day, we decided to do something a bit naughty. Like, the type of naughty that got an Alliance fleet come down on us, and the only way we were able to survive them was involve the Reavers."
"Reavers," Tom scoffed.
Zoë ignored him. "Well, long story short, we did what we had to do, but nine months on, it ain't counted for niú shǐ, which means that..." She swallowed. "It means that...that..."
"That?"
She was having trouble swallowing, let alone talking.
"That?" Tom parroted. "That? That? That?"
"That Wash died for nothing." The words came bubbling out like an underground spring – hot, bothered, and looking to flow somewhere. "That Book died for nothing. That...that my daughter is still out there, and she's never going to know her ma nor pa, and-"
"Whoa, whoa," Tom exclaimed. "You have a daughter?"
She fell silent. The spring had stopped, but the heat remained, even as a chill wind blew through in an effort to cool it.
"I do," she whispered eventually.
"Huh." He paused, "Where's she now?"
"With my friends. I hope." The words were slow, forced, and unwanted. Just talking about Emma was giving her throat a lump.
"And her dad?" Tom asked. "Like, were you married, or-"
"She'll never know her father."
"Oh." She heard Tom snigger. "So, like, was there foreplay, or-"
"Before we got married? Yes." She sat up in her bed and stared through the gloom at Tom's bed, just able to make out his form. "Want to know how long?"
Tom murmured something that she couldn't make out.
"My daughter is never going to know her father because the Alliance killed him," she said. "I..."
She trailed off. There was no way Tom would know exactly what had happened on Siren.
"How'd he die?"
Did he know that the Reavers had been born from the Alliance's actions on Miranda? Did he know that it had been at the hands of the Reavers that Hoban Washburne had died?
"Zoë?"
"The Alliance pulled the trigger," she whispered.
The words were as much for herself as for her cellmate. The Reavers had killed her husband, but they were dogs, left free to run loose by their master. You put wild animals down. You held thinking, intelligent humans to account if their pets harmed others.
"Jesus," he said. "I guess that must've hurt."
She couldn't help but laugh, as she got back under the blankets. She lay on her side, one hand on her pillow, the other in a fist down by her waist. "You have no idea," she whispered.
There was no way he could.
"So, do you know who did it?" Tom asked.
"I do," she whispered. "And I let him go."
"...why?"
Why. Why, why, why. The question that had haunted her dreams, always returning after Emma exorcized the question. Why?
She could have killed him. She'd let Mal get away with murder before. If she'd killed him, the man who took her husband from her, she'd be alive to piss on whatever grave her captain deemed fit for him. The Operative. He hadn't created the Reavers. He hadn't pressed the button that ended Wash's life. But like the Reavers, he'd been the Alliance's dog, and the dog had hounded them from Burnet to Siren, killing numerous innocents along the way. As soon as she'd seen those harpoons pierce her husband's body, a switch had flipped inside her. Like a dead woman walking, she'd fought the Reavers, unloading lead while being uncaring of what they threw back at her. Like a ghost, she'd walked across the surface of the moon to lay a wreath at her husband's grave. Still a ghost, she'd kept onboard the ship, even as the Operative had helped them repair their boat. It wasn't until well after Siren that the switch had begun flipping the other way. And it wasn't until after Simon had told her that she was pregnant that she'd actually asked the question that had haunted her dreams – "why?"
Why was he still alive, when her husband wasn't? Why hadn't Mal shot the bī after all was said and done. Hell, why hadn't she?
"Zoë?"
"I don't know," she whispered. "But if I see him again..."
"Yeah, about that..." Tom murmured.
Say it. Go on, say I'll never see him again.
Not that escaping from here meant that she would see him again. Whatever rock the Operative had crawled under, it would be one of thousands in this miserable part of the galaxy. Closing her eyes, she clenched her fist tighter.
"So what stage of grief you up to?" Tom asked.
Still closed, she murmured "the fuck you on about?"
"Seven stages of grief. Husband's dead, so, where you up to?"
She grunted.
"You know what I'm talking about?"
No.
"Denial, pain, anger, reflection, recovery, reconstruction, acceptance." He sniggered. "Yeah, I read some non-fiction to. I mean, I bet when he died, you refused to accept it. Even well after he carked it."
She winced.
"And, like, then came the pain. Gnaws away at you. Then-"
"Tom?"
"Yeah?"
"Shut up."
"...sure."
She loosened her fist a little. She knew that this time, Tom was telling the truth about being quiet. That, and upon reflection, a lot more.
The pain of losing her husband was dull now, now longer the sharp edge of the blade that cut her soul. The anger, once always at the surface, was now simmering within her. Cool, for now. And lying here, letting the days pass by as surely as the turning of worlds, waiting for a sign from the heavens that her friends had come...well, that had left lots of time for reflection. Reflection on the good and the bad. On the all the things she'd done, and in recent times, all the things she hadn't. That Mal hadn't.
"Goodnight Tom," she whispered, finally unclenching her fist. Letting it make its way to the side of the bed, where none would sleep.
Goodnight Wash.
She wasn't in denial. She knew her husband was dead, and that neither science nor magic would ever bring him back.
But she could dream.
She ended up dreaming about Jayne.
Though not so much dreaming as recalling.
She was there, standing on one of the docking bays of Helsinki Station; a transit point on one of the 'Verse's many shipping lanes. A lane that Serenity was keeping off of right now. She, Mal, and Jayne had taken one of the ship's shuttles, since even three months after the Miranda Broadwave, Mal didn't want to risk any more exposure of Serenity than he had to. They took the small jobs. The dirty jobs, so long as the dirt didn't stick on them. The type of jobs that had kept them afloat.
The types of jobs that had made Jayne leave.
Most of the goodbyes had been said on the ship. The shuttle could only fit four, but no-one had deemed it necessary to accompany the merc to the transit point. Inara had been cordial. Simon had been distant. Kaylee had been emotional and River, for some reason, had been disappointed. Jayne himself had said little, and the trip to the station had been just as silent. Standing here in the docking bays though, with the hustle and bustle of people going from one end of the 'Verse to another...it was deafening. She recalled that there'd been the smell of sweat and grease as well, but in the dream, there was only sound. Sound that had filled her ears then, and sound that filled her mind now.
"Guess this is it."
But the sound wasn't so deafening that she couldn't hear Jayne speak over the crescendo of humanity around them.
"Guess it is," Mal said. He'd folded his arms, and was staring Jayne down. Jayne, who had nothing but an orange woollen cap, his clothes, boots, and a rucksack of all his belongings. Guns, mostly.
"You headed home then?" Zoë asked.
"Yep. Mum could use the help."
She knew that already, but she wanted to say something. Anything to make this parting as natural as possible. Trip had been silent, didn't mean the departure had to be.
"Right," Mal said. "Say I'm hiding under the rock, but ol' Radiant gonna get her little boy back."
"Yeah, well, least I got family. And hot shotting Inara ain't counting."
Mal looked ready to kill someone. Or, rather, one particular person. Zoë saw him clench his fist.
"Don't," she said, taking his arm. She looked at Mal, then Jayne. "Let's not end things like this."
Mal said nothing. He looked slightly less murderous, but Zoë knew Mal could kill at the drop of a hat, even on a good day with a shining sun and plenty of lemonade.
"You're right," Jayne said, forcing a smile. "I mean, hey, just the three of us, right? Like old times?"
"I remember correctly you tried to steal my ship," Mal said.
"Yeah, and? Didn't try too hard."
"No." Mal's face had locked into a scowl. "Ain't that just like you Jayne. Ain't gotta try. Ain't ever gonna try. Just take it easy and be a good dog, right till the bone lose its taste."
"Mal..." Zoë said.
"No, I get it," Jayne said. "I'm the dog, eh? Well, what you then? The soldier turned kennel duster? I ain't the one who kicks the hornet's nest then runs as soon they start stinging."
"Metaphors. How erudite of you."
The look on Jayne's face told Zoë that he didn't know what the word 'erudite' meant. But she guessed it didn't matter. This had been coming for months, ever since Siren. Or, more specifically, ever since it had become clear that their broadwave had done nothing. That Book and Wash had died for nothing, and that Mal's only plan of action was to stay low and take what scraps the bitch named Fate handed out to them. Jayne's attitude on Ithaca had just been the tip of the asteroid. Jayne had wanted to fight. Mal had wanted to hide. Came a point where one course had to get out of the way of the other.
"Y'know what? I'm gonna actually miss you," Jayne said eventually. He smirked, as only a merc and outlaw with no rope tying him down could, and stuck out a hand. "Been a pleasure cap."
Mal didn't take it. He just nodded further down the dock. "Ship's that way. You ain't comin' back to mine."
The smile faded. "Alright then." He turned to look at Zoë. "Believe it or not Zo, I gonna be missin' you too."
"Believe it or not, I..." She paused, before sticking out a hand. "Think I'm gonna miss you too Jayne."
"You are?" the two men asked.
"Yeah. Need someone to remind me that there's always a little lower I can sink." The smile widened. "But...well, Jayne, what can I say. Having a big strong man join you as muscle after a botched theft attempt can turn a woman on."
"Okay, first off, I..." He sighed. "Ah, forget it." He took Zoë's hand and shook it, winking at Mal. Through the side of her own eye, Zoë saw her captain turn away.
"Serious though," Jayne said. "Look after yourself. Not to mention..." He gave Zoë a pat on her stomach. Her bloated, heavy, balloon-like stomach. "Well, y'know."
She grunted. The 'thing' growing inside her was one problem she wouldn't have to deal with for months now. Jayne, unlike her baby's father, was still alive. She was here for Jayne, even if Mal wasn't.
"Well, see ya," Jayne said. "Y'ever grow a pair Captain, y'know where to call."
Mal said nothing. As it was, that was the last the three of them would speak for the next minute as Jayne walked off down the dock, headed to whatever boat would take him home. The type of home that Zoë had never had. She'd been born in space – any planet or moon in this universe was just a waystation between her birth and her death. Course, Wash had sometimes raised the prospect of settling down, but...
She winced, clenching her stomach. "Zoë?" Mal asked.
"Fine," she rasped. "Just...baby pain."
"Yeah, right..." The words were simple, but not dismissive. She managed to steady herself, getting up on her feet. A lot of the dockworkers were giving her glances, as if wondering what a pregnant woman was even doing here. Considering how tired she felt these days, she was beginning to wonder the same thing.
"You really mean it?" Mal asked. "You really gonna miss him?"
"Well, yes," Zoë said. "What? You not?"
"Stay on my boat, you become family. Family don't up and leave when the going gets tough."
"This is Jayne Mal. He didn't kill us on Aberdeen because we made him a better offer, not out of the goodness of his heart."
"Yeah, well..." She saw her captain glance at the departing merc. "Figured there might be slightly more goodness or somesuch in there. Dogs come from bitches, but they ain't bereft of gold."
"You know that?"
"I worked with dogs on Shadow. Good, loyal. Course they're dead now. Alliance saw to that." He sighed. "Know you gonna say it's always been our fight Zo, not Jayne's but..."
"Actually, I think part of it was his fight. He just got upset that you stopped fighting."
Mal looked at her funny. "Zoë, if you think-"
"No, I get it," she said. "Book, Wash, now Jayne...can't lose anymore Mal."
"Yeah." He smiled, and put a hand on Zoë's stomach. "Know I ain't Wash Zo, but..."
"But?"
"Do I get to be the kid's uncle?"
She went to say something. Something that, even now, she remembered. Something that she was glad she never said. Because in the dream, there was a bang, as a pair of loaders collided – not hard enough to do any damage, but certainly hard enough to get them to stop, and their drivers to engage in a shouting match. In that moment, all thoughts of Wash evaporated, and-
There was a second bang.
Which was odd, because if she recalled correctly, there'd only been one back then, and-
Bang!
She woke up.
"What the hell was that?!"
By the sound of it, Tom had woken up as well. And speaking of sound, that was what had been broken. Because while the bang of the waking world had been different from the one in her dreams. This one was that of a sonic boom. The type a ship might make upon atmospheric re-entry. Opening her eyes, she rushed over to the window. There were no further booms, but rather a steady "vrroooom" sound. But more important than sound right now, was sight. The sight of a ball of fire making its way across the night sky – a not a literal ball of course, just the heat of friction surrounding the craft. One particular type of craft.
"A Firefly..." Zoë whispered.
Not that she could see it of course, but she could guess...hope...that it was a class three. One that bore the name of Serenity.
"A what?" Tom asked.
She looked back at him.
"What is it?" he asked.
She smiled. "Friends."
Dawn had come. One way or another, it would be the last day on this world.
As she'd done every prior day she'd been here, she, Tom, and all the other prisoners shuffled their way into the courtyard. No-one was allowed to stay in their habitation units – Tom had told her that the official reason was that the guards didn't want their guests to "get any ideas," but had suggested that they wanted the prisoners in the yard because inevitably, it would result in casualties. Fewer mouths to feed and all that, whether it be from heatstroke or someone's fists. For her part, Zoë suspected it was a combination of the two. But then, it didn't matter. Either her plan would succeed, or it wouldn't, in which case, she'd likely be dead. The guards let people wander out to die if they wanted, but if they ever got an inkling that she might have a plan beyond "follow the horizon..."
"So," Tom said, as they made their way along the courtyard's perimeter. "These friends of yours...they nice?"
"Could say that." Tom looked at her, so she continued. "Basically a collection of war veterans, mercenaries, prostitutes, and assassins. You'd love 'em."
"Damn." He smirked, showing his broken teeth. "You really are crazy."
"Crazy come, crazy go. And I'm going."
"Yeah, that's not part of the actual phrase. And if you go out there..." Tom gestured to the wasteland beyond the pylons. "Only place you're going is an even warmer place."
"I'd like to think my immortal soul would go somewhere better. Luckily though, ain't gonna after worry about that for awhile."
She did worry though – least in the sense that she might end up dead. That she might never see one of those crazy sons-of-bitches that she called family again. That she'd never see Emma again.
"So," Tom said. "This is it."
Both of them came to a stop at one of the pylons. Both of them were on the far side of the courtyard. Behind them was the way to the habitation units, the way forward was dirt, rock, and more rock.
"This is it," Zoë said. She looked at Tom. "They really just let people walk out here?"
He nodded.
"Fuck me."
"Stay in the sun too long, you will." He sighed. "Listen, kid-"
Kid? How old do you think I am?
"...can't say I haven't entertained of going walkabout myself. But those friends of yours..."
"They'll be here," she said. "Angle of the ship, coupled with what I know of the captain? They're coming."
"And if you're wrong?"
"Then you get to keep your domicile to yourself a bit longer."
"Yeah..." He looked and sounded genuinely disappointed. "But hey, just in case...want you to have this."
He took something out of his jumpsuit. A small book. Specifically-
"The Complete Works of William Shakespeare?" Zoë asked. "What makes you think I need this?"
He shrugged. "Parting gift. I've got more."
"You know that one way or another you're not going to get this back, right?"
"I know. But hey, maybe when your friends rescue you, you can come back one day?"
There was a tremor in his voice. Small, but there. A look in his eye that prompted Zoë not to say that they would (because she couldn't promise that), but instead murmured, "you could come too you know."
"No." He shook his head. "Call me a coward, but I'd rather stay living. 'Sides, better or worse, this is my home now. Hell, but home." He looked up at the sky. "Ain't no place in Heaven for me."
"Might be. Certainly there ain't no angels up there." She nodded towards the sky before sticking out her hand. "Goodbye Tom."
He shook it. "Goodbye Zoë."
She nodded and pocketed the book in her jumpsuit. A gift for Inara, she told herself. Taking a breath, she took a step beyond the pylons – nothing happened. No invisible electrical field, no alarm, nothing. She stopped and looked back at Tom. He smiled, this time not showing any of his teeth, and gave her a thumbs up.
"Go get free kid."
She smiled, turned, and began the walk to freedom.
Where are they?
Having counted her steps, Zoë estimated that she was about 125 metres away from the prison perimeter. Or 410 feet if one really wanted to use that form of measurement, and the Unification War had taught her the value of knowing both systems. But while it had also taught her the virtue of patience, that wasn't to say that that was a resource she had in infinite supply.
Come on Mal.
Maybe she'd got this wrong, she reflected. She was certainly headed in the direction that Serenity had come down in, but maybe they were approaching the prison from another angle. Maybe they were biding their time. Maybe...she frowned as she rose both hands to her forehead to shield against the sun's glare. Maybe this was all a waste of time. Maybe she'd got it wrong. Maybe she was fated to rot on this world for the rest of her days. To never see Mal or her crew again. To never see her daughter again. To-
There you are.
She began to run. It was faint, and the object in the distance was being obscured by the dust it was picking up. But if anything, that was a good sign. Because while quite a few vehicles could move fast enough to generate that kind of dust cloud, one of them was the MF-813 Flying Mule. One of which was stored on Serenity.
She kept running towards the dust, breathing heavily. Her arms were on fire, her legs were on fire, her lungs were where all the fire went. But she kept running.
Crack!
Even as she heard the sound of a rifle being fired. Fighting her instinct to hit the dirt, she kept running. If it had been aimed at her, the shooter had missed, and the best thing she could do was to keep moving. If it hadn't been aimed at her, then that was all the more reason to keep up the pace.
She could make out the vehicle. Even if not for the dust cloud, its whirring sound would have given it away. Even as the fire in her raged, as she drew one ragged breath after another as she covered the endless sands, she pushed herself forward. Because while she dared not look back. There was a heavier, more throbbing sound from behind. Not too close, but she identified it as a Type-7 hoverbike. The type used by local law enforcement on the Inner Planets. Or in this case, by the APA. And by the sound of it, there were a lot of them.
Move it damn it, Zoë thought, as the Mule edged ever closer to her. Move it move it move it!
She could make out the Mule clearly now. More importantly, she could see that it was carrying three people and-
What the hell?
Now, even more than when she heard the rifle shot, Zoë felt the need to stop. Not so much because of the cries of her lungs, but of the sight of who the Mule's passengers were. In the space of a second, her mind ran faster and further than her body had taken her.
One of them was Mal. A bandage was over his nose and a patch was on his left neck. But apart from that, he was the same old captain she recognised. He was riding shotgun, his duster flying in the wind, carrying his revolver with what looked like the intent to use it should the APA goons get close enough – something that, from the sound of the hoverbikes, was about to happen in a manner of seconds.
The second passenger was the only one she didn't recognise. She was standing on the back of the Mal, holding a revolver similar to Mal's, wearing a duster similar to Mal's, having patches on her cheek and forehead similar to Mal's and, Christ, even holding herself similar to Mal. Except she wasn't Mal. Not only was she a girl, but her hair was mostly black, except for part of it on the right which was dyed blue. She looked Asian in ethnicity as well. But most of all, unlike Mal, she looked young. Younger than anyone on the Mule by the looks of things. What she was doing there was a question that Mal would have to answer eventually, but for now, Zoë supposed that she could count on her as an ally.
But it was the third passenger that got to her the most. The one who wasn't even really a passenger, considering that he was driving the Mule. The one who didn't look like Mal or the girl in appearance, clothing, or anything else. The one whom she had never thought, nor desired, to see again. The one who, more than anything, gave her the need to just stop running and stare.
The Operative.
She kept running. If she stopped, she was dead – she could live with that if not for the fact that her daughter was waiting for her on Serenity. And damn it, taste in companions aside, Mal had come for her, risking life and limb to do so. Least she could do was make that worthwhile.
So she kept running. Right up to the point where the Mule swerved to the side, holding in place. Lungs afire, eyes burning, Zoë reached up to Mal, who was standing above her. Holding an arm down like some gorram avenging angel. A determined look on that angel's face, as if ready and willing to plunge headfirst into Hell with spear and shield. A hundred words rested on Zoë's lips...
"Took you long enough."
But that was all she could say right now. But she saw Mal smile as he took her hand, lifting her up to the Mule. He got it. He understood.
"Go!" he yelled.
The Mule completed its 180 and sped off in the direction from whence it came. Looking back through the dust cloud, Zoë saw what had been chasing her.
"Xiělínlín dì dìyù," she whispered.
Hoverbikes. At least twenty of them. All of them piloted by an APA goon that, even through their visors, looked a mite pissed.
"Faster," Mal said. "Faster."
"We have four now. That complicates things."
It was the Operative who said that. The Operative, who kept his face forward, not giving Zoë a glance. The Operative, who Zoë took a step towards, instinct prompting her to finish what should have happened on Siren and-
"Gorram it," Mal said. He reached down into the Mule's central compartment, picking out a revolver. "Listen, Zo, you look more beat up than a slaughtered calf, but-"
She grabbed the revolver, gave its firing chamber a spin, then knocked it back in. "Good to go Sir."
"Ain't no Sir. But glad to hear it." He smiled, as only Mal in one of his "let's do something crazy" moments could. "Bea, Zoë, on me."
Bea. So that was the girl's name. She gave Zoë a look, and Zoë nodded in response. She didn't know her. But she wasn't her enemy. Unlike the murderer driving this flying crate, that was something she could get behind.
She couldn't shoot him. Not yet. He was their driver after all.
The three Browncoats lined up their sights. The bikes were gaining on them – even without four people in the Mule, they'd have still caught up. One of them went ahead of his APA fellows, drawing out a sub-machine gun. Zoë lined up her sights, and-
Crack!
The biker into the dust, causing his comrades to swerve around him.
Crack.
Crack.
More of them fell. Someone was shooting at them. Someone not on the Mule. Someone who was a good shot.
"Good shooting Jayne."
Jayne? He's here?
It was Mal who said it. Mal, who must have had some kind of comm. link, and who was now opening fire with his revolver alongside Bea. Zoë added her revolver to the chorus – they were the melody, while the "cracks" of a high-powered rifle kept the tempo. Problem was, the bikers were now taking pot-shots back.
"Shit."
Zoë ducked down as bullets hit the Mule. The goons weren't the best shots in the world, but numbers coupled with rate of fire, coupled with proximity? She didn't want to take her chances.
"Jayne, get back to the ship," she heard Mal say. "River, spin the engines up."
Zoë had long since realized that Mal must have been using an earpiece. But just hearing him confirm that the ship was on this rock, and that River was still at the helm...that did her heart some good.
"Mal, is Em-"
"Mal, duck!"
Bea interrupted her. Mal did duck, and the girl fired, hitting another of the bikers. Mal fired as well. One of the bikers got too close to the Mule, only for the Operative to lean aside and kick the cunt off his vehicle.
I'm not thanking you.
Zoë looked down the sights, fired, and hit one of the thugs in his arm, causing him to fall off his bike.
I'm never thanking you.
She fired another shot, missing this time. "Mal, where's the-"
Firing with one hand, he reached into his pocket and dropped a sixtet of bullets.
"Thanks."
She'd thank Mal. For this, and a hundred other things. When this was done, she'd thank the girl named Bea as well – she was pulling her weight, taking out another biker with a well-aimed shot. And she was most certainly going to thank River, who, up ahead, was warming up the engines of Serenity. Seeing the old girl up ahead, it reminded Zoë of a swan. A 128 tonne swan built out of steel, but a swan nonetheless. And far more beautiful.
"Come on," Mal said, as the Mule headed for the cargo bay. "Come on come on come on!"
The Operative put his foot down. Zoë swayed due to the increase in speed, which caused her to miss her shot at one of the APA thugs. But the same speed was making it harder for them to be hit as well – she could hear the bullets whizzing around them. Could practically feel them, as they tore through the air beside her. The Mule was screaming, the air was screaming, and she nearly screamed herself as the Mule swerved to a halt. She held on for dear life. For herself. For her daughter.
"Alright, we're onboard," Mal said. "Punch it."
Zoë could hear the rumble of the engines. Saw and heard the ship's cargo ramp retract, cutting off the view of the numerous APA troopers still closing in on the ship. Still, she hung on as Serenity soared up into the sky.
"Zoë?"
Still held on, breathing heavily.
"Zoë, we're safe."
She looked up at Mal. He was smiling and standing above her.
Safe.
"You're home."
Home. On Serenity. With her friends. Her family. Her-
"Where is she?"
She vaulted out of the Mule, looking around the cargo bay. "Where is she?!"
There were a lot of people in the cargo bay, and they were coming out to see the new arrivals. Zoë didn't recognise any of the three or so dozen there, she was just after one person.
"Where is she?!"
"She's right here Zoë."
Zoë stopped. Before her was one person she recognised – Kaylee Frye. Another friend she was glad to see. But right now, that feeling of relief was nothing compared to the feeling she got seeing the person in the mechanic's arms. The person that caused Zoë to gasp, putting her hands to her mouth.
"She's right here."
"Emma!"
She rushed over, taking her child from Kaylee's arms. Kissed her daughter again and again. Maybe that was what caused her to start crying. Maybe not. But either way, it was enough to get Zoë to take the infant in her arms. To rock her, as her mother had done in space so many years ago.
"That's all right, little girl, that's all right," Zoë whispered.
So many years, so many miles, that it felt like another world. Another lifetime. Memories eclipsed by a present glowing bright. A present where her daughter stopped crying and looked up at her mother, eyes wide. Eyes filled with wonder. With love. With recognition. Eyes that met the eyes of her mother's, which began to fill with tears.
"I'm here Emma," Zoë whispered, drawing her child in closer. Hugging her tight. So tight, that she couldn't imagine ever letting her go.
"I'm right here."