Chapter 4

Twenty four hours ago…

"Once the gates are blown, we move in under cover of the smoke bombs," said Zoe, pointing to the map, "Jayne and I'll go first, followed by Wash and the doctor. We force this door, along this corridor, turn here, and here. We spring the captain and then go back out the way we came. We shoot anybody who gets in our way. Understand?"

There was silence from the crew. They were gathered in an old, worm-eaten miners' hut in the hills above Calico. They had fastened pieces of cloth over the windows to prevent anyone accidently looking in on them. Inside the hut it was stuffy and dark. The only light came from Simon's datapad, which was projecting the map of Calico prison onto a wall. Its glow turned everything in the hut a clinical shade of blue.

"I don't know, honey. It seems a little risky," said Wash tentatively.

"It's downright stupid, is what it is," said Jayne, for whom tact was as alien a concept as charitable donations or regular bathing.

"If you men are too scared to put your necks out for the captain…" Zoe said icily. Wash interjected:

"This isn't some mob boss's hideout. It's a government facility, full of government troops, and they'll be expecting an attack."

"Cap'n wouldn't take us on no suicide mission," Jayne muttered.

"The cap'n ain't here!" Zoe snapped. Her fear for Mal's safety and the pressure of leadership made her sound angrier than she felt. She was not a leader; she never had been. Mal always took charge. She was not used to coming up with plans.

"There's no other way," she continued, forcing herself to speak slowly and calmly, "We don't have a ship; we don't have any friends; but unless we do somethin', the cap'n is gonna hang tomorrow. Even if it is hopeless, I'm gonna try, 'cause I know he'd do the same for me; for any of us."

The crew sat in silence. No one could meet Zoe's cold, uncompromising stare. Then Simon spoke, as if thinking out loud:

"Is that what I think it is?"

Using the controls on his datapad, he changed the map to magnify the area around the gallows.

"What is it, son?" asked Book.

"There," said Simon. He touched a button on the datapad and a layer was stripped away from the map. It showed the subterranean level of the prison, including the condemned cells. Directly beneath the gallows was a small room with a narrow corridor running under the main prison building and joining the main stairwell.

"That's the room where the surgeon waits," Simon explained, "The body is lowered down there after the drop. The surgeon pronounces it dead and then leaves, with the body."

"Why?" asked Kaylee, horrified.

"For, experimentation," said Simon awkwardly, "I read about it in my Medical Ethics class. It's technically illegal but it's a very old custom. Many of the doctors on the border planets still see those corpses as their rightful property."

"So?" said Jayne.

"So, I think I know how we can save the captain," said Simon.


Sixteen hours ago…

Someone was knocking on the door. Doctor Piggott snarled as he put down his untouched brandy.

"Can't give me five minutes peace," he muttered as he crossed over to the door. He was in a bad mood as it was. He had received Governor Quintero's message late last night, informing him of Doctor Roberts's sudden illness and the need for a surgeon at tomorrow's execution. Reorganising his busy schedule at such short notice had been trying enough. Then there was the expense of booking a seat on the Calico stage coach. Doctor Piggott hated travelling. The journey had been very uncomfortable. To make matters even worse, the coach was delayed twice and he had missed dinner at the hotel. He had not even had time to unpack. All he wanted was a quiet drink before going to bed, and even that was being denied to him.

"Well, what is it?" he demanded, wrenching the door open. Two men, dressed in dirty, weather beaten trail gear were standing in the corridor, supporting a girl between them, her face hidden beneath a tattered shawl.

"Are you the doctor, sir?" asked the taller of the two men.

"I am. What do you want, man?"

"Oh Lord sir, I am right glad we found you," the man said, "Y'see our Mary, sir, she come over all funny, sir. We were all afraid for her, on account that she's only just recovered from the lung fever, sir. Then some folks told us this genu-ine physician had taken a room in the hotel, an' we just knew we had to get her to you quick."

"This is preposterous," snapped Piggott, "I am not some vagabond sawbones. Do you think my skills are free to any mongrel that happens to crawl onto my doorstep? I am an accredited physician! If you need the benefit of my skills, and can afford it, you should contact by secretary in Helena. Good night to you!"

Piggott began to shut the door. The taller man grabbed it and held it open.

"I'm afraid we're gonna have to insist, doc'," he said. Piggott frowned, looked down and saw that the second man was covering him with a pistol.

"Now don't you make a sound," said the tall man, "Or you're gonna needing an accredited physician of your own."

Piggott backed into his room, eyes riveted to the pistol. The two men followed. The girl in the shawl remained at the door, watching the corridor.

The taller man now drew his own pistol from within his jacket.

"Sit down," he said, motioning Piggott into the chair.

"That looks like a nice brandy," the man said meaningfully. Piggott poured the man a glass but his hands were trembling so violently that he spilled even more on the carpet.

"Damn, that's good," said the tall man, taking a sip.

"Hey doc', take your time," he said to his companion, who had holstered his pistol and was now rifling through Piggott's suitcase.

Piggott sat mute, unable to tear his eyes away from the pistol, while one of the men drank his brandy and the other searched his belongings.

"Got them," the shorter man said, holding up Piggott's security pass and identification cards.

"Any pictures on 'em?" the tall man asked.

"Yes, one, but it's not exactly sophisticated. We should be able to switch it."

"Good. Clean up here, then you and Kaylee get out down the backstairs. I'll deal with this one," said the taller man. The shorter man nodded and began bundling clothes back into the suitcase. Piggott saw him and the girl disappearing down the corridor while the taller man was manhandling him towards the en-suite bathroom.

He tied Piggott's hands with his own belt and gagged him with his handkerchief, then sat him on the toilet. Satisfied that Piggott was secure, the tall man then locked the door from the inside. Piggott cringed as the man turned back but, to his immense relief, the man holstered his gun.

"Hope you're comfy, 'cause you're in for a long wait," said the man, "Should be past lunchtime 'fore anyone thinks to look in on you."

He turned on the shower and, displaying a flexibility that was surprising in such a big man, climbed out of the small bathroom window.

It was only then that Doctor Piggott finally passed out.


Half an hour ago…

Wash peered round the corner. The gate leading into the prison yard was surrounded by a mob of people, pushing and jostling to get a better view. Wash had seen enough crowds in his time to know that these people were one thrown stone away from a riot. There was little shouting but lots of subdued muttering that threatened to swell into a roar at any moment. A group of militiamen were on the low wooden tower that overlooked the gate, peering fearfully down at the crowd. No one was looking at the prison building.

Wash turned and waved to Jayne, giving him the all clear. Jayne jogged out of the alley. He had a rope ladder curled under one arm and a rucksack on his back. His favourite gun, Vera, was slung over one shoulder. Wash's gaze swept back and forth one last time. The streets around the prison were deserted. Every man, woman and child in Calico was trying to get into the prison yard. They all wanted to tell their grandchildren that they had been there, to see their hero die.

The prison building was unimpressive, even by frontier standards: a two storey building with white washed walls and a slate roof. The shutters had been opened on account of the midday heat. Every window was barred. Wash and Jayne were standing beneath the broad, west face of the building. The yard was on the far side, and the main door was in the north face. No sentries had been posted to watch the west.

It was the work of moments for Wash and Jayne to reach the roof. First, Jayne knelt down so that Wash could stand on his shoulders. Jayne then stood up, lifting Wash until he could grab one of the broad beam ends that protruded from beneath the slates. Once Wash had hauled himself onto the roof, Jayne tossed up one end of the rope ladder, which Wash made fast to the beam end. Jayne then followed him up, carrying both rifle and rucksack.

Crawling on their bellies, the two men slithered up the roof until they could peek over the central ridge and into the yard below. A line of militiamen had been spread out to keep the crowd back from the gallows. The masked executioner was already up there, checking the noose and the trapdoor. Wash glanced over at the tower, terrified that someone might spot them, but the militiamen's attention was entirely given over to the crowd.

Jayne grabbed Wash's shoulder and pushed him back behind the central ridge.

"Ain't no need for you to be lookin'," he said, "Just sit tight."

Wash lay back on the slates and tried not to count the minutes off on his wristwatch. It was painfully hot on the roof; roasted by the sun and fried on the hot slates. Wash was a naturally talkative man and became even more so when nervous. To him, lying in silence was like being starved. Without even realising it, his hands began to tap out a rhythm on the slates.

"Stop that!" Jayne snarled, "You wanna knock of them off, bring a guard lookin'?"

Wash gave him an embarrassed smile and concentrated on trying to lie still. Ordinarily, Zoe would have been up there with Jayne but she could not climb very well with her wounded leg and, with Book watching over River back at the hut, Wash was the only crewmember remotely suitable for the job.

Searching for something to occupy his mind, he watched Jayne checking over Vera. Before they had left, he had covered all her reflective surfaces in boot blacking so that she would not catch the sun and attract attention. It was really quite fascinating to watch the care with which Jayne handled his gun. He was almost gentle with it; more gentle than he was with most human beings. Although Wash usually considered Jayne little more than a meathead, he was impressed at the deftness with which he handled Vera. When it came to guns, Jayne was probably brighter than either Mal and Zoe.

"Showtime," Jayne hissed. The noise of crowd swelled. Wash pulled himself up and looked down into the yard. Captain Pasquale had just entered, golden epaulettes blazing in the sun. Mal followed, pale and filthy, walking between two lines of militiamen. The crowd cheered to see him. They jeered Pasquale and his men.

Mal was climbing the steps to the gallows. Jayne rested Vera on the central ridge of slates and peered into the scope. He reached up, adjusted some dials, and looked into the scope again. He repeated the action five or six times in quick succession. Down on the gallows, Pasquale had finished reading the sentence of execution. The executioner was placing the bag over Mal's head. He had crossed over to the lever that released the trapdoor. Jayne crouched low, eye fixed to the scope, finger poised over the trigger. Wash held his breath, blinking furiously to keep the sweat that was running down his forehead out of his eyes. Everything rested on the next few seconds. If Jayne's timing was out, even by the merest fraction, Mal was a dead man.

The executioner pulled the lever. The trapdoor opened beneath Mal. Jayne squeezed the trigger. Vera barked. The bullet zipped through the air, over the heads of the crowd, over the militia, over the executioner and cut the rope, six inches above Mal's head. The trapdoor open, Mal plunged from view, leaving two feet of tattered rope hanging limply from the beam.


Mal's ankle buckled beneath him as he hit the hard, dirt floor. He was completely baffled. One moment, the trapdoor was beneath him and the next he was lying on the ground. What had happened to the rope? He could hear muffled sounds through the bag. Feet were moving around him. Then the bag was torn from his head and he could see.

He was lying in a bare, windowless cell. Directly above him was the open trapdoor; a square of perfect blue sky, bisected by the gallows beam. Simon was standing over him, covering a sergeant of the militia with a pistol. A badge on Simon's jacket identified him as 'Surgeon Doctor Q. Piggot'.

"And now his hands!" Simon ordered, his strained voice just shy of a falsetto. The sergeant bent down and hastily unlocked Mal's cuffs. Mal got to his feet, winced as he tried to put weight on his injured ankle and then floored the sergeant with a punch. Simon bent down and retrieved the man's ring of keys.

"Cutting it pretty fine, aren't you?" Mal said.

"We'll try to be earlier next time," Simon replied, giving Mal his shoulder.

They crossed the cell and through the only available door. Here, Simon turned and used the keys to lock the door behind them. Then, leaving Mal leaning against the wall, he ran along the corridor to the far door. First he locked it, then he produced a strip of auto-seal from his jacket. Laying it along the crack, over the bolt, he ripped the top layer away to unleash the chemical reaction that welded door and doorframe together.

"Err… wouldn't that be our way out you just shut?" Mal asked. The only other portal in the corridor was a narrow window, fitted with thick iron bars.


There was chaos down in the prison yard. The crowd was fighting with itself: the people at the front, having heard the gunshot, were trying to get out, while the people at the back, who had not, were still trying to get in. Some turned and tried to push past the militiamen, who were being urged up to the gallows by Captain Pasquale.

Bullets whizzed over Wash's head as the militiamen in the tower finally realised where the shot had come from. Wash and Jayne slid down the slate roof. Jayne seized the rucksack, tore it open and flung a costume at Wash. They found it quite difficult to change while lying on a sloping surface but in less than a minute he and Jayne were both resplendent in matching red capes, jackets and cavalier hats.

"Go!" Jayne shouted, pointing to the rope ladder. Wash nodded and slid down to the edge of the roof, dislodging several slates and sending them tumbling to the street below.

"Gao yang jong duh goo yang!" Wash grunted as he untangled his cape from his feet.

"Hurry it up!" Jayne yelled.

Wash swung himself over and scrambled down the rope ladder as fast as he could. A crowd had already gathered beneath him, fleeing from the prison yard. They whooped and applauded to see Wash in his red cape and hat.

A whistle blew away to his right. A group of militiamen were coming round the corner of the building. The sergeant shouted for Wash to stop but he was already running. The crowd parted before him and closed behind him just as quickly.

Now Jayne dropped to the ground. His costume was really too small for him but it was all the crew had been able to make at such short notice. The crowd stared and muttered to one another, bewildered. The sergeant stood, frozen for a moment by indecision, then shrugged and shouted for Jayne to stop. Jayne ignored him and rushed off in the opposite direction that Wash had taken, the crowd parting and closing up just as they had done for Wash. Regardless of who these two men were, the governor's men wanted them and that was enough to endear them to the people of Tiger's Eye.

The sergeant screamed abuse at the crowd and divided his men up. More militiamen were coming up, headed by a lieutenant but the situation had become hopelessly confused, with everybody convinced that they had seen the Scarlet Blade flee in a different direction. Parties of militiamen were formed and the streets ordered to be cleared but it was a pointless exercise. Wash and Jayne had already reached the horses they had known would be waiting for them and were galloping for the town limits.


A rope was flung through window, into the corridor. Simon grabbed it and, standing on tiptoes, lashed it to one of the bars. Another rope followed, which he tied to the next bar.

"Stand back, captain," said Simon, moving as far down the corridor as he could. Mal crouched back against the door. He could hear an engine revving outside and tires growling in the dirt. The window bars groaned. The plaster around them began to crack. Whole chunks dropped away. The noise of the engine grew louder. The bars squeaked. Now they were squealing.

They gave way without warning, in a crash of dust and falling plaster.

"Quick!" Simon said, motioning Mal to join him at the newly made breach.

"Hiya, cap'n!" said Kaylee, peering through at them. Over her shoulder, Mal could see Zoe sitting on Serenity's 'mule', the two ropes lying in the dust behind it like thin tails.

With Kaylee holding his arms and Simon supporting his legs, Mal was able to wriggle through the breach with only a little discomfort.

"Nice job," Mal said as Kaylee helped him to the 'mule', "but what about the militia?"

"All taken care of, sir," said Zoe, grinning.

"Hurry, I think they've brought welding torches to the door," said Simon as he joined them, having managed to squeeze through the window by himself. Zoe nodded. With Mal, Kaylee and Simon seated safely behind her, she turned the 'mule' about and headed down the street, away from the prison and the confused crowd of citizens and militiamen that was forming on the west side of the building.