Welp. Here I am, day late and a dollar short (okay, more like a month late...) but I am very pleased to present this chapter, at last. I think I'll skip the excuses and simply say thank you to anyone reading this - I really do appreciate your continued support.
To me, this chapter feels more like the show than anything I've posted so far. Why? Well, you'll find out soon enough...
Content warning: Violence, mild blood, and injury.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
BLUE WHISKEY
08 - 23 - 2506
The rougher part of Lu'Weng bristled with broken bottles and bits of metal, crunching under Mal's boots as he pelted down the street. He elbowed through a group of teenagers clumped on a corner, and caught a few razor-edged glares.
That day, the usual crowd of sidewalk gargoyles was sparse. A hush gripped the streets, making any conversation all the more salient, conducted like electricity through the currents of brisk autumn wind. Mal had been en route to his debriefing, in no particular hurry, when he first caught the rumor in passing, like a wisp of smoke.
"So, they finally gave it up."
A pure, ringing pitch had struck Mal's inner ear, blotting out everything else.
Forward momentum was all that kept him upright as he ran. His mind tipped, unsteady, buoyed by one hope: if the Browncoats on any of the Border planets had capitulated to Unification, his contacts would've found a way to tell him.
Unless they were the ones who had given in.
Mal ran faster. Murmurs brushed past his ears, blown like scraps of paper, without catching hold.
"-might has well have lit themselves on fire-"
"…Cowards."
"-those nǎo cán border-planet backbirths…"
A man hunched on the curb, his palms upturned and one phrase repeated as if in prayer, "We have lost our way. We have lost our way."
Mal slowed only when his destination came in sight. The Aerie had no sign, but they'd used it once before, and he recognized the tumor-like outgrowth on the uppermost floor of a cheap construction job, originally residential in purpose, smashed between two warehouses. In defiance of all building codes and the laws of physics, a third of the bar stuck out to hang over the street some 70 feet below.
The flimsy metal stairs screeched under Mal's boots as he pounded upwards, all six flights, and burst into the bar. The air closed in around him, thick with sweetleaf smoke and the buzz of low voices.
He stumbled forward, ignoring the glances thrown his way. A banner of scrolling text, alternating English and Chinese, hung above the shelves of liquor on the back wall. News bulletins, wired from all over the 'Verse.
Mal watched several slip past. He leaned against the bar, breathing hard through a slack mouth.
Then came a headline, first in Chinese, which started with "Independent Faction." Mal's pulse flat-lined as he read. But the characters were not the ones he'd expected. He blinked. The banner repeated the same message in English.
"Independent Faction signs Peace Treaty after Parliament compromises on UI"
Mal's head spun. He gripped the bar, to keep his balance, as the tension bled from his muscles, leaving him limp and wobbly.
"The hell...?" He squinted up at the banner, but it had already scrolled onto other headlines. Peace treaty, compromise, the words rolled in his mind, meaningless. UI, that was the Unification Initiative. What kind of compromise would Alliance Parliament be willing to make on that? Mal wondered.
And why should we trust them?
He grimaced. He'd have to save his questions for Moran and the others. If they even came. The thought sank through him, souring in his gut.
"Kid. Hey, kid."
Mal snapped his eyes to the bartender. "You alright?" she asked.
"Yeah." He released his grip on the counter, and sat down. "Just shiny."
He ordered a Mello-tone, the deep cobalt liquor that had choked him at his first debriefing. The bartender pushed the glass across the bar, and a pang lodged in Mal's ribcage. If only he knew what was happening back home. Were they celebrating? Throwing down their rifles? He couldn't picture it. All of Birdseye, Mal's friends, Hadley McDannel, Silas… surely they couldn't be toasting this. Mal stared down at his drink.
"Kěwù peace treaty," someone growled in Chinese, with a voice like unfinished concrete. "'S all a trick."
Mal turned, one eyebrow raised, to regard the older man on his right. A grimy maintenance uniform hung off his shoulders. "Zhǎo sǐ Independents just waiting for the right moment to come and slit our throats."
Mal's jaw clenched. He took a large gulp of his drink.
The sentiment echoed down the line of grey-faced workers seated at the bar, drinking away their rest shifts. The more they agreed, the louder they got.
"They'll have us all dead, the bastards."
"And here our Parliament's getting into bed with them…"
Mal tried to rein in his breath. He pressed a hand into the cool chrome surface of the bar, so that it might wick away the heat itching under his skin.
"I'd rather be dead than barely living."
Mal turned to the last who'd spoken. He was young, his voice obviously lubricated by a few drinks, but slight and sweet-faced. He reminded Mal more than a little of Hadley.
"Don' you see? Don' you 'unnerstand what this is?" He leaned over the counter, to address the critics seated on the other side of Mal. His spit nearly landed in Mal's glass. "They're working people, people like us, and they're standing up for their freedom. But all of you can only sit an' drink an' moan, because you don' know what freedom is. You've never known it."
Mal caught the young man's eyes, and gave him the slightest nod.
"Tony," the bartender snapped. "Bì zuǐ."
The maintenance worker on Mal's right squared his wiry frame, turning in his stool, glaring past Mal at the kid. "You better watch your tongue."
"Better that I use it, b'fore the Authority cut it out of me." Tony didn't miss a beat. "I can see they already got yours."
Mal couldn't help it. He grinned.
All down the counter, a half-dozen workers in identical uniforms rose from their stools. Mal winced. The floor shook with their weight, stalking over to surround the stool on Mal's left. Tony sat still, and refused to turn around. The biggest of the group, whose neck almost surpassed the width of his head, loomed close enough for Mal to smell his breath.
"I think you're forgetting where you are," he snarled into Tony's ear. "Forgetting your place in the order of things."
Every muscle in Mal's body snapped taut. The words wrapped around his neck with the tightness of his service uniform collar, as good as if he were wearing it.
From somewhere in his head, a quiet voice spoke up. Get up and walk away from the bar, Mal. It sounded suspiciously like Inara. Before you do something foolish.
Tony's breath shunted hard through his nose. He turned around in his stool, and looked up at the hulk, chin set hard. "Qù xià dì yù," he spat.
The worker's fist arced through the air, landing on the young man's jaw with a crack. Mal watched, open-mouthed, as Tony tried to return the gesture. Two other workers grabbed his arms. They held him back, against the bar.
A second hit landed, straight to the stomach, and the boy swallowed a groan. Mal sprang to his feet. He grabbed the half-empty glass in front of him. The giant was gearing up for another punch, when a wave of whiskey splashed into his eyes.
He clutched his face, with a wail that would have been hilarious, if his friends hadn't then turned on Mal.
One took him by the shoulders, and shoved him up against the counter. The hard edge threatened to rearrange the discs of Mal's spine.
"You wanna free drink, too?" Mal grit his teeth. "Sorry, fresh out."
He smashed the empty whiskey glass into the worker's mouth. It didn't break, but one or two of the man's teeth did, if his garbled scream was any indication. He let go of Mal, and staggered back, only to be replaced by two more.
Mal ducked the first punches and stayed low, jabbing outward to land his fist in the sake-softened belly of the man closest to him. His leaner companion launched a fist toward Mal, but he sidestepped neatly, and grabbed a bar stool to swing out in front of him, toppling both men to the ground in one pass.
"Aw, c'mon now. That's it?" Mal threw out his hands. "That all you g-"
A hard blow landed on his temple. The floor tilted under his feet, and rose up fast to meet him. He kept his grip on the bar stool as he went down, and wound up knocking his chin against one of the legs. He groaned.
He looked up, to find the biggest worker looming over him. He lifted Mal by the collar, until the toes of his boots almost left the ground, and brought their faces inches apart, so close Mal could see only the man's eyes, red and puffy, streaming with whiskey-infused tears.
He threw Mal against the bar. The crack of his skull against the chrome sounded louder than it felt, at least in that moment. Mal's feet slipped out from underneath him, and his arms were caught by two of the uniformed men. They held him upright, braced against the bar.
He looked around, trying to catch a glimpse of Tony. There was no sign of him. Mal smiled.
"What're you so happy about, sympathizer?" The thug didn't wait for an answer. He simply aimed for Mal's mouth.
When he pulled back, Mal spat up blood, and kept right on smiling. Just to screw with 'im. Pain registered as mere static, a distant, half-remembered thing. This lasted for two, maybe three more punches, before the gunshot.
The workers went still. Mal looked up. Moran stood on top of a table in the middle of the room, his revolver aimed for the ceiling.
"Playtime's over, everybody," drawled a familiar female voice.
Mal knew who it was, but his mind dragged, and the name didn't come. He was distracted by the sight of Latha and Anders stalking over to the bar. Both sported newly-shaved heads and white button-downs. They parted the crowd like a blade through butter. Anders wore a straight face, more serious than Mal had ever seen him. He pushed up his sleeve to reveal a tattoo on his inner arm: a string of Chinese characters forming a circle around a sword.
"This one's ours, boys," Latha sneered. "Hands off." Mal recalled, through a mind like cold molasses, where he'd seen that tattoo before: on the back of Latha's neck.
The workers stumbled out of the way, clumsy with fear. Mal pitched forward, into Anders' arms.
"Nice tattoo," he slurred. "'M guessin' you didn' get it in Birdseye."
Anders helped Mal upright, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. "You oughta save your words. You'll need plenty, to explain yourself to Mercey."
Mal lifted his head to see the blurred figure of a woman, narrow and slight in a billowing black duster, coming toward him. Her eyes met his, alight with an unspent threat.
She was the last thing he saw, before he gave into the darkness shimmering around the frame of his vision, and did the only thing left to do.
He passed out cold.
/*/*\*\
Voices rang in Mal's ears, coming in and out of range like a bad transmission.
"-a bunch of labor syndicate goons. No doubt he said something stupid, riled them up."
Mal swallowed past what felt like a throat-ful of rocks. Pain covered him in layers, thickening with every pulse of blood in his temples.
"Stupid will get him killed." Jo Mercey's voice sliced through Mal's brainstem. "He shoulda learned that already, after what he pulled on Shadow. Guess the lesson didn't sink in."
Lord help me. Mal groaned aloud.
"Rise 'n shine, Sleepin' Beauty." Anders thumped him on the collarbone. "Don't wanna end up with brain damage."
Mal pulled his eyes open. An off-white autumn sky flooded his vision with light so profound his ears started ringing. He shut his eyes again. Still daytime. That's good. The ground was smooth and yielded slightly under Mal's weight. Wind brushed over his face, cold pricking his ears.
"Brain damage?" he croaked. "How long was I-"
He cut short with a gasp. A pair of hands grabbed hold of Mal's collar, dragging him half-upright. He looked up to see Moran, face set hard as stone. Mal struggled in the man's grip, as he was pulled along, until the ground came to an abrupt end underneath them. Mal's back met the lip of some kind of barrier.
Realization dawned. The smooth, yielding ground wasn't really ground at all. It was solar sheeting.
They were on the roof of the Aerie.
Moran held Mal's upper half over the edge. His nostrils flared, a volatile strength coiled in the muscles of his arms. Mal panted, too stunned to speak, still blinking tiny stars from his vision.
"You were unconscious ten minutes. You're probably concussed." Moran spoke with deadly calm. "But let me assure you, that is the least of your problems."
"Are you- are you crazy?" Mal grit his teeth, snarling, "Dammit, leggo 'a me!"
"Let you go? I could do that. Since you've apparently decided to take us public, it might save a lot of trouble if I just…" he jerked his arms out further, bringing his face close to Mal's, "…let go."
Mal grabbed Moran's forearms, and held on for dear life. "Oh God Almighty, please don't," he gasped. "I'm sorry, okay? I screwed up. Just please, please…"
"Enough already, for chrissakes." Mal was surprised to hear Anders' voice, pinched in worry, even as he added, "Ain't worth the mess he'll make on the sidewalk."
It was Jo that pulled him back. "That'll do, Moran."
He released Mal's collar with a sneer. Mal collapsed against the edge of the roof, scrabbling to catch the concrete barrier with his hands. He slid all the way down. The adrenaline faded, and pain rushed to take its place, slamming into him sideways. He braced his head between his knees.
Black knee-high boots strode up, landing in front of him.
"Malcolm." Jo lowered into a crouch. She took hold of Mal's chin, and lifted his face to hers. "I came quite a ways to see how things were comin' along here."
Mal's breath fell heavy from his mouth. He froze under her eyes, a harsh, bright grey, like the kind of overcast sky that hurts to look at.
"So." Jo tilted her head. "Tell me exactly how you came to be on the wrong side of an Alliance-loyal labor syndicate gang."
Mal licked his split lip, and winced. He didn't remember getting punched on the mouth. "It's all… kinda fuzzy."
"I'll bet." Latha smirked at him from a few feet away, arms crossed.
"And it better start clearin' up real fast," said Jo.
"I didn't start nothin'. I swear. This bulletin came up on the news banner-"
"The peace treaty," Jo supplied.
"Is it true?" Mal couldn't help it. "Alliance really gave up on Unification?"
"Don't change the subject," said Moran coolly.
Mal scowled. "Anyway. The news inspired those fine loyal citizens to start in critiquing the Independents. I sat there, peaceable and quiet-like. But this guy next to me, he spoke up on our account." He dropped his eyes. "That's when the trouble started."
"So you stepped in as a matter of moral principle." Moran chiseled his voice hard. "You voluntarily defended a Browncoat sympathizer."
Mal got to his feet. "I was defendin' an outnumbered man. I couldn't just sit there and watch someone get macerated in an unfair fight." He threw out a hand. "It's not like I blew my cover."
"But you did," Moran almost roared. He took a breath, and finished, "Whom we choose to help reveals who we are."
Mal looked down at his hands. Fresh bruises purpled his knuckles. "The kid…" He cleared his throat. "At least he got away."
"Not very far." Anders grimaced. He kicked at the solar sheeting of the roof. "Think we tripped over his corpse on the way in."
Mal's eyes went wide. His stomach plummeted all six stories, to the street.
"What," Latha scoffed, "were you plannin' to team up and fight evil together?"
Mal glared at nothing. Funny how he'd thought, for even a second, that he helped the kid escape. As if he could do something of his own will without it all going to mǐ tián gong.
Jo shook her head, taking a few steps toward him. "I'm real disappointed, Malcolm. Won't deny it. You done pretty good here, so Moran's been tellin' me." She stopped. "But not good enough."
Mal snapped his head up. Jo's eyes settled in his.
"We're shuttin' down your mission."
Mal's pulse thudded beneath his collar. "What?"
"Word from on high. Command wants us out. A show of faith in this peace treaty they negotiated. Alliance agreed to give our own planetary officials final vote on every infrastructure change that'll come with Unification. It's more than we coulda hoped for."
"What?" Mal said again, panic hollowing out his chest. "But-"
"Don't make any kinda sense," Anders stole the words out of his mouth. He spoke with an edge Mal had never heard in him before. The image of the strange tattoo on Prince's wrist flickered in Mal's mind, made vivid by the terror it had inspired back in the bar.
Mal swallowed, looking to Jo. "You can't pull me out now," he said, with fire. "All these big-shots who've come to Zhi's estate in the past six months? Military Commanders. Top-level Security Commissioners. The aide to the Vice Minister of Parliament. I think he's planning something. Something big."
"'Think' is not enough." Moran's lips pulled tight. "We need to know."
"But he's gotta be... preparin' some kinda legislation." Mal's voice strained. "He'll have the power to do just about anything he wants, if he's elected Chancellor."
Jo sighed. "Look, I ain't disagreeing, but-"
Mal burst, without thinking, "I still got Inara." His gut twisted around her name. His fists tightened at his sides. "His daughter."
A thick silence followed. All stood motionless.
Jo lifted her chin. "That's right." Her lips twitched, thoughtful. "You been workin' her a long while now."
"Near on five months."
"She trust you?"
"Yes." The truth of it lodged in his throat.
Jo took slow strides toward the edge of the roof. "We've put a lot into this mission of yours. Lotta time, lotta resources. A whole lotta trust." She tilted her eyes to his. "If you think you can find us some evidence of what Zhi has planned, I can buy you a little leeway. No more than a month."
"Until the Elections?" Mal tried.
"If you're lucky." Jo gave a keen smile. "My advice? Focus on the girl. Use those pretty eyes of yours, make her spill Daddy's secrets."
Mal nodded. Like hell I will. It set firm, all the way to his core.
Whatever he did, he'd make sure Inara stayed well away from him. He was done pulling her into this mess.
Jo made a half-turn to leave, then stopped. She cut a look over her shoulder. "I hope this little episode has made it clear where heroics will get you in this line 'a work. If it hasn't, well, next time we won't bother to rescue you. We'll let them finish."
She stalked away. Moran, Latha and Anders trailed after. The sky had darkened overhead, brushed with an indigo-colored omen of approaching night. They reached the rooftop entrance, and Anders shot Mal a smirk that almost covered the flicker of fear in his eyes.
"Don't screw this up," he tossed out, before the door slammed shut.
translations:
nǎo cán - stupid
Kěwù - damn (lit. detestable, abominable)
Zhǎo sǐ - looking to die, asking for trouble
Qù xià dì yù - 'Go to hell'
mǐ tián gong - sh*t, excrement
Sorry, Mal. 'Fraid things don't get much better from here on in, either. But hey, it never does go smooth, does it?
Reviews are good for the soul! Yours and mine. Karma and all that, y'know. But in all seriousness, I'm very interested to hear your reactions to this chapter. How was the fight scene? Thoughts on the peace treaty news? Any speculations on Anders' and Latha's mysterious tattoos? I'm all ears.
I promise there won't be as long a wait for the next chapter. Until then, hope you're all staying cool out there! (If it's summer where you are, that is.)