Bandiagara, Part 5b
The Art of Flying, and Reaver Studies
This one's for RionaEire, who wanted River to go on a spacewalk.
"There is an art to flying," River stated, "or rather a knack."
"That so, Albatross?" Mal replied, as they floated slowly out the airlock in their spacesuits, with the tracking beacon held between them.
"The knack lies in learning how to throw yourself at the ground and miss."
Mal pondered for a moment, re-configuring his thoughts of flying from a deep-space to a planet-side perspective. "Huh," he responded, "reckon that makes sense. If you fall toward a planet from space, for instance, and miss, that just means you've put yourself in orbit. What's got you thinking such poetical thoughts about flying?"
"Wasn't thinking," River said. "Was quoting the twentieth-century philosopher Douglas Adams."
Not for the first time, Mal marveled at River's fondness for quoting ancient texts. "I'm amazed you been reading twentieth century philosophical texts, River. Sounds kinda dry and boring."
River giggled, and rolled over upside down. (Or maybe not—it all depended on your point of view. Maybe he was the one who was upside down.) "Not boring. Very amusing."
"Hafta take your word for it, Albatross."
She rotated slowly, taking in the multitude of stars in all directions. The view from the bridge of Serenity was stunning, but limited in scope. Out here, out in the Black, nothing but the comforting form of Serenity obscured the view. "I've climbed and joined the tumbling mirth…"
"You're twisting up the tether," Mal replied, but couldn't hold back a smile. Truth to tell, he felt a bit of the same awe and joy that he saw in River's face. He'd always loved the Black.
"…done a hundred things you have not dreamed of…" She stretched out her arms and legs, extending from a tuck to a pike.
River was a creature of natural grace, Mal thought. Like a soaring bird, great wings extended, riding the currents of air…
"…wheeled and soared and swung," River chanted, suiting action to word.
…like an albatross, Mal thought. Her nickname suited her in more ways than one.
"Just like an albatross," River said, speaking directly to Mal. "Highly efficient. Use dynamic soaring and slope soaring to cover great distances with little exertion," she declaimed, moving her arms and body gracefully to describe the actions. "A twenty-three to one glide ratio."
"That ain't half bad," he agreed. "The shuttle don't top that glide ratio, though a high performance glider can easily top fifty to one." With gloved hands he steadied the tracking beacon, and when satisfied that it was unperturbed, he released it, careful not to put any spin on it.
"Learned to fly, and learned the language of the birds."
"Don't get carried away, River," Mal smiled. "Get yourself into a spin, might not get you out of it again."
"A sign of great wisdom."
"What's a sign of great wisdom?"
"The power to understand the language of the birds. Sigurd roasted the heart of the dragon, burned his finger: put the finger in his mouth and understood the language of the birds. Goddess Athena gave the seer Tiresias the ability to understand the language of the birds. The mystical language of the angels in Persian poet's Conference of the Birds. The secret language of the Troubadours. Heiroglyphic writing the alphabet of the birds to the Egyptians."
"Seem to recollect I heard something about a Parliament of Fowls once upon a time." He shook his head. "Reckon I'm too much of a bird-brain to conjure your meaning there, River."
"Not you," she replied, pointing at her own head. "Bird brain. Albatross brain." She extended her arms again, floating in space.
For a while the silence of the stars reigned, and he heard no sound but his own breathing. They should be getting back into the airlock, but one look at River's delighted face made him willing to stay out just a bit longer.
"He started to fall, got distracted by a piece of left luggage, and missed the ground," she explained, smiling.
"Left luggage?" Mal asked, wondering what luggage had to do with anything.
"A somewhat large, black leather hand-bag, with handles to it. An ordinary hand-bag, in fact."
"Can you get back to the tellin' me what this has to do with flyin'? Or the language of the birds? Or anything at all? Where does the hand-bag come into this?"
"In the cloak-room at Victoria Station."
"You're talkin' wild, Albatross."
She gave him a brilliant smile, like he'd just got the right answer to a riddle. "Technically, I'm quoting Wilde," she said, "but I'll give you full credit."
This left him shaking his head in earnest. No telling what went on in that brain of hers. His albatross.
"Douglas Adams," she said.
Right, the 20th century philosopher, he thought. The philosopher what wrote amusing philosophical texts.
River smiled at him. "In Adams's book, the man learned to fly when he got distracted by a piece of left luggage, and missed the ground."
"You mean he just clean forgot to hit the dirt?" Mal chuckled, giving it right back to her. "Neglected to kiss the dirt. Didn't bite the dust. Kept flyin'."
"Kept flying."
. . .
Keeping the tracking beacon in sight, Mal eased Serenity away into her course change with the lightest touch on the attitude jets.
"Don't want to hit it with the wash," he explained unnecessarily to River.
"Wash?" River looked through him, like he was transparent as a ghost.
"The wash from the attitude jets."
River picked up a plastic stegosaurus and intoned in a sad dinosaur voice, "No Wash."
. . .
"I can honestly say I know very little about Reavers, Simon," Ip said. "Most of what I know I learned from that Miranda broadwave, just like you. You know, I worked at Blue Sun for almost three years as a research fellow. It was my first post-doctoral job, in fact, and I knew a guy who worked in Reavers—his name was Hari Nyiri, used to eat lunch with him, in fact—"
"'A guy who worked in Reavers'," Simon quoted. "Just what do you mean, Ip?"
"I mean he worked in the Reaver Studies Department," Ip said, as if it were a given that there would be such a department.
"The 'Reaver Studies Department'," Simon repeated. "You mean Blue Sun had a Reaver Studies Department?"
"Sure. A department devoted to the study of Reavers in all their aspects—biology, technology, habits, culture—"
"Culture?" Simon exclaimed, appalled. "Reaver culture?"
"I wasn't privy to the details, Simon," Ip explained calmly. "It was classified work, and I didn't have that kind of security clearance. They studied questions like, if Reavers fly without core containment, why don't they all just die of radiation poisoning? Are there female Reavers?—there are, by the way—If there are female Reavers, are they perpetually raped? Or do the female Reavers also rape others? Can Reavers reproduce, or are their genes too severely damaged by the radiation for that to be possible? Since Reavers cut on themselves, why don't they die of infections? Where do Reavers get fuel for their ships? What do they eat—strictly cannibals, or are they omnivores? Do they raid perpetually or just occasionally? How long do they live? Are there juveniles? Are Reavers enough different from other humans to be considered a separate species?"
Simon had never considered Reavers from a purely scientific standpoint—somehow, he'd been too busy worrying about the prospect of imminent death to consider them so abstractly—and his shock began to manifest itself in his expression.
Ip was continuing on in the same vein. "And since seeing the Miranda broadwave, I'm sure the researchers have added a few more questions, like, what triggers certain members of the population to turn Reaver and not others?"
"A Reaver research project! Treating it like gorram scientific research!"
"It was scientific research, Simon," Ip stated drily. "There was a problem. They were trying to solve it."
"Trying to solve it," Simon returned, emotionally, "by taking unsuspecting teenagers away from their families, conditioning them with triggers to fight Reavers, cutting into their brains—"
"Whatever are you talking about?" Ip looked at Simon as if he had gone off his gourd.
Simon suddenly realized that he probably shouldn't be talking, and shut his mouth. Mal didn't fully trust Ip Neumann, and maybe Simon shouldn't trust him either.
But Ip Neumann was a sharp young man, and although he didn't always read people well, he had an excellent memory, and was very good at putting things together. "River," he stated. "You think Blue Sun experimented on your sister."
"I don't think so. I know so."
As if on cue, River drifted into the room and joined the conversation just as if she were not the subject under discussion. "They cut into her brain," she said. "They opened up her skull and cut into her brain." Ip gave her an appalled look. "And they did it over, and over, and over."
Ip stared. At last he found words and said to River in a constricted voice, "They did this to you?"
Simon answered. "They did. They told our parents it was a school—"
"It was a school," River interjected with a smug and creepy smile. "Taught me how to kill Reavers." Ip gave her an utterly creepified look, as Simon continued.
"—a government-sponsored academy for gifted children."
"She was a gift," River inserted.
"It was government-sponsored? I thought you said Blue Sun," Ip broke in.
"Two by two, Hands of Blue," River chanted. "Two by two…"
"River won't say, she's too traumatized by what happened there—"
"You found me broken," River said in a small voice.
"—but she's always referring to Hands of Blue—some kind of Blue Sun secret operatives, I think."
"I never heard of Blue Sun secret operatives," Ip said. "Are you sure this is real?"
"Your own reality is what no other person can ever know," River inserted.
"Real enough," Simon answered. "They've chased us."
"How do you know they work for Blue Sun?" Ip queried.
"Ip, they've chased us—in a high tech stealth ship."
"Couldn't that be the government?" Ip was astonished with himself. A few short months ago, he never would have considered it. But since the Miranda broadwave, and the evidence that someone—government?—Blue Sun?—someone had covered up what happened there, his perspective had shifted. Despite his Core upbringing, he had, without realizing it, lost his unshakeable faith in the Alliance.
"Parliament's Operative was as good as his word," River stated, looking at Ip.
Simon didn't talk over and through River this time—he spoke to her. "You know this, River?"
"Ip's friend," River answered, non-specifically. "Confirmed what he said. The Tams are no longer a threat."
Ip was having trouble following the meaning of the siblings' exchange, but nonetheless found a question he wanted the answer to. "No longer a threat. You mean, you were?"
"I broke River out of that so-called school when I found out they were torturing her there," Simon answered, looking Ip directly in the eye. "We fled. Because of this we were fugitives. The Captain took us in and kept us safe." He looked at River, who was now dancing around the room unconcernedly, fluttering like a bird. "Since Miranda, we're fugitives no longer. And River is healing."
Ip looked doubtfully in River's direction, more disconcerted than ever by her detached behavior. Unmindful of the others, River balanced on one leg and flapped her arms like wings. Simon folded his arms and blocked Ip's access to the doorway with his body. "Now you know all about us. Time to reciprocate. Tell us everything you know about Blue Sun."
Ip opened his mouth, and did.
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Did you enjoy the Douglas Adams, John Gillespie Magee, and Oscar Wilde quotes? The author humbly requests that you practice the fine art of reviewing. :-)