One Man's Trash, Part 3a
Zoe and Mal encounter some Purplebellies in a bar.
Zoe and Mal sat at a table in the dimly lit Freight and Salvage bar. It was still broad daylight outside, but the place was quiet and dingy inside, busy enough but not too busy, a good place for a meet. Mal sat nursing the same drink he'd ordered when they first arrived, making it last, because they were on the job and they certainly didn't have the coin to waste. Zoe sipped her seltzer water with lemon and scanned the bar for the hundredth time. Monty's friend was supposed to show up an hour ago, and she didn't have high hopes anymore.
"Reckon he's not comin', sir," Zoe said, with just a hint of question in her voice.
Mal looked morosely down into his glass and swirled the contents. "Reckon he's not. Monty seemed confident of his man. Monty's never let me down."
"I'm sure Monty's good, sir," Zoe replied. "But didn't he get pinched last time he was on Beylix?"
"You're right, Zoe," Mal recollected.
"Could be his contact ain't no good no more."
"Reckon you're right," Mal said with a sigh. "Still, wouldn't be any other place today." He looked at Zoe and raised his glass.
Zoe knew he hadn't forgotten, that the meet had been set up here on purpose. There were two days of the year that Mal inevitably sought out a bar. One was Unification Day, when he went looking for trouble, deliberately picking the most Alliance-friendly bar he could get to, spoiling for a fight. The other was Serenity Day, not officially celebrated in the Core. It was the day they'd been ordered to lay down arms at the Battle of Serenity Valley. The day their hopes had been defeated. The day their sufferings had not ended, but entered a new, more hopeless phase. The day that Mal had to start watching the men and women around him die, senselessly, uselessly, without being able to do a gorram thing about it, not even fight back. Not an official holiday, it passed unremarked by most of the 'Verse. But for veterans of the battle, the day was a watershed, indelibly marking the separation between Before and After.
"To Serenity. To them as never left." They clinked glasses. Mal tossed back the remainder of his drink.
"To them as never left," Zoe echoed, drinking the rest of hers.
They stood up, scraping back their chairs, and headed for the door. As they walked, they passed a table where two men and one woman sat with a number of bottles. The three were wearing clothing in the purplish grey colors of the Alliance. One of the men called out as they approached, "Hey! Browncoat!"
Zoe saw Mal stiffen slightly, as she did herself behind him, but he did not pause in his stride.
"Browncoat!" the man repeated. "You know I'm talking to you!" He made eye contact with Mal. "Both of you," he added, looking Zoe in the eye, as well.
Mal stopped, his hands free and ready for action. Zoe readied herself to back his move. "You want to talk to me…" he said slowly, "Purplebelly."
There was a scraping of chairs as people nearby cleared out, sensing a fight about to happen.
"Yeah, I do," the man replied. "You know what day today is?"
"Surely I do," Mal replied, and Zoe sensed the rising tide of anger in him.
"Sir…" she began, warningly, but the Alliance man's attention was caught by her word.
"Oh, surely not—you weren't an officer." It was more of an evaluation than a question. Then he added, "A sergeant, weren't you?"
"We're all just plain folks, now," Mal answered. "Where're you leading this? Do you mind sayin'? 'Cause I got better things to do than stand about yammerin' with a —"
"—Purplebelly," the man filled in Mal's word. "We're not just plain folks. We're veterans. We're all veterans. Of a battle they've all but forgotten." He jerked his head, taking in the other people in the bar. "A battle we won't ever forget. Come, sit down. Join us for a drink."
This was an unexpected development, but Mal did not yet let down his guard. "What're you drinking to?" he asked carefully.
"To those that never left Serenity Valley—both sides."
Mal sat, and so did Zoe. "That I can do," Mal said, as glasses were filled and handed round. "To them as never left Serenity."
They all drank the toast and sat silent for a minute. "Sergeant Haxton," the man introduced himself, "Used to be Sergeant, anyway. This is Nguyen—" he indicated the woman sitting next to him "—and Sullivan," indicating the man. "From my platoon."
"Corporal Alleyne," Zoe introduced herself by the name she had borne during her soldiering days. She'd changed her name to Wash's when she married, on purpose to make a clean break, Mal knew. Zoe introduced Mal as well. "Sergeant Reynolds."
"Had you pegged for a sergeant," Nguyen said to Mal. "I could tell by how she backed you. Same as how I back Sergeant Haxton here."
More drinks were poured, and they found that their regiments had been opposite each other in the line. They probably had shot at each other during the battle. Probably killed each other's friends. 地狱 Dìyù, weren't no probably about it. They were sittin' there drinkin' with them they'd tried to kill and as tried to kill them. Weren't nothin' personal about it, though. Both sides, doing their duty. Risking their lives as they expected to do. Waiting for the higher-ups to step up and do their duty. Waiting after the cease-fire, waiting, and waiting, while men and women both sides died of their wounds, waiting for the medships that arrived too late.
"We didn't have much ourselves, just basic rations," Sullivan said. "Our medical facilities got shelled all to 拉屎 lāshǐ and re-supply hadn't landed—got delayed in space transit, they said."
Nguyen took up the tale. "We could hear the wounded and dying moaning—your wounded, I mean. Ours got taken to the med tents, such as they were. Especially at night, when the sound carried." She gave a shudder at the memory, which was echoed by everyone at the table.
"Our orders were not to give any aid to any wounded Browncoats we found," Haxton said, looking Mal in the eye. "Made me feel less than human, not to give a sip of water to a dying man." He re-filled Mal's glass, a vain attempt to make up for it, too little, too late, as he well knew. "The whole war we'd been taught that the enemy was wrong, and being wrong made 'em less human. We were good people, comrades, fighting the good fight, and the Browncoats were—less. Always called 'em 'The Enemy', or—you know, less flattering things." They all snorted. Mal and Zoe exchanged a look, recollecting some of the more colorful names they had called the Alliance. "The Enemy. Not people. But you can't hear, night after night, the moans of the dying, and not figure it out. People died, people suffered, both sides. And for what?"
"Peace and prosperity under the benevolent rule of the Alliance," said Mal flippantly. "All go home and live a shiny life." Disgusted snorts from all around the table followed Mal's pronouncement.
"Never could go home," Haxton said. "Planet where I'm from was the scene of some heavy fighting, and the mines still haven't been cleared from the place I used to call home. Now that planet's not of strategic interest, government's in no hurry to see the job done. Hands the contract over to some 吃垃圾 chī lājī Blue Sun subdivision, they collect the money and sit around."
"Don't that just figure," Mal commented. "Easy to make a mess of a planet, nobody takes responsibility for cleaning it up." He paused for a drink, then added, "Never could go home, neither. 'M from Shadow."
Any other group, that piece of info woulda dropped like a stone and stopped conversation dead. This group, they understood. They just nodded, then Sullivan said, "Moon I come from wasn't hardly touched by the war—but it didn't matter." Sullivan twisted his glass in his fingers. "No jobs to be found. Being a veteran wasn't worth a damn to employers. Didn't give any advantage—in fact, the ones who hadn't fought made out better—were sitting pretty in the jobs we left when we were called up to fight. I haven't had a job since the war that had anything to do with what I was trained for before. Used to make high-end specialty milled steel products." He gave a snort. "Now I sort garbage on Beylix."
"Only people who made out well from the war were the profiteers," Nguyen stated indignantly, then rattled off the names like it was her personal hit-list. "Vista Sun, New Worlds, Chow Interplanetary, Wing Beaumont, Bartihalon, Sun Microdot, Allmine, Huli Network. Made munitions, rations, military vehicles—"
"All divisions of Blue Sun," Zoe inserted, sipping her seltzer water.
"All?" Mal asked, astonished.
"Been talking to Neumann, sir."
Haxton looked at Zoe and nodded. "Only jobs to be had in the Border planets since the war, are working in reconstruction of the places laid waste by the war. Workin' for companies like Ring M, Durai, Doembrown and Sinkall—again, they're all divisions of Blue Sun."
"That's not true, Haxton," Sullivan cut in. "You can get a job running supplies to the dependent Rim worlds."
"But who supplies the Rim worlds?" Haxton countered. "Blue Sun again."
Mal was beginning to see a pattern. "Sometimes you can get a job running supplies," he inserted. The others looked at him. "I've been more fortunate than most," he said, and Zoe looked at him with surprise. "Got my own ship. Still, it's hard to find work."
"Hauling cargo?" Haxton asked.
Mal nodded.
"Decent living?" Sullivan inquired.
"Enough to put food on the table—mostly. Keep the ship from fallin' apart—mostly." Mal took another drink. "Right now, not so much. Can't find a job here on Beylix."
The others murmured their agreement. Wasn't easy finding a job, not anywhere.
"Last run was tough," Mal admitted. "Got chased by Reavers."
. . .
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glossary
地狱 Dìyù [Hell]
拉屎 lāshǐ [shit]
吃垃圾 chī lājī [garbage-eating]
A/N: I want to acknowledge the work of Guildsister here. Guildsister's story "Blue Sun Job" contains a scene in which Mal and Zoe sit down to drinks with some Alliance soldiers. I borrowed that set up and took it in a different direction.
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