Big Damn Hero

4

The hairs on the back of Mal’s neck prickled as a man stepped from the shadows along the street outside Taggart’s, about ten feet from the swinging doors.

The newcomer had three others with him. One was a lanky, sallow-skinned type who looked several meals short of a decent diet and had jet-black hair with a pronounced widow’s peak. Another of them was tall and rangy, with a complexion as wrinkled and leathery as rawhide. The third had a droopy walrus-type mustache whose tips extended down past his jawline.

Now that the sun had gone down, just about the only light in the street came from the fritzing holographic bar window. Still, Mal could make out enough of the main man’s sleek, smug face to recognize him from the wave pic.

“Hunter Covington,” Mal said.

“None other,” the fellow confirmed. Covington was somewhat bulkier than he had appeared on the vid screen. It was likely he used a real-time appearance tweaking program — software beloved of the vain and the ugly throughout the ’verse — to make himself look thinner than he really was in waves. He was just as nattily dressed, however, right down to the feather-sprouting homburg on his head, the spats on his patent leather shoes and the rosewood cane in his hand. The cane seemed less a walking aid than a fashion accessory, since he did not lean on it as he stood. Its silver knob was carved in the shape of a cobra’s head.

As Covington and his cohorts approached, Covington himself made a straight course towards Mal, whereas the three underlings spread out in a way that Mal did not like, a way that made him more of a target, and them less. A couple of steps in either direction, and they’d be flanking him.

In response, Mal’s hand dropped to the butt of his holstered Moses Brothers Self-Defense Engine Frontier Model B pistol, known affectionately to him as his Liberty Hammer, and rested there all casual like. He was making what he hoped was a subtle but clear statement: Don’t even think about it.

“Pleasure to make your acquaintance in person, Mr. Covington,” he said, “and that of your three very diverse pals. Mighty fine evening for a nice, professional, businesslike chat with no threat of violence whatsoever, wouldn’t you say?”

Covington half-smiled. “As we discussed, Captain Reynolds…” he said.

“Call me Mal. Bein’ as I’d like to keep this on a friendly basis.”

“Very well. Mal.” He spoke as smooth and slow as syrup. “As we discussed, Mal, I have an assignment for you. A small package to be delivered down Bellerophon way next time you happen to be in the vicinity. No rush at our end. There’s a research scientist there, Professor Yakima Barnes, who wants to buy what we’ve got to offer. Thing is, he’s under house arrest so there have to be a couple of middlemen involved in the transfer. You being ours, if you want the job.”

I can walk away right now, Mal told himself as he eyed the quartet. We already have the Badger assignment. We could make do with it in a pinch.

But he was greedy. He knew it; accepted it. The more cargo he could pack in the hold, the more profitable the trip. Besides, Kaylee needed expensive replacement parts for the engine, including a new cross-braced adaptor port for the oxidizer preburner. Plus there was fuel and such. The crew had to eat. And bribes had to be paid. It all added up. And there was nothing awry with this situation that Mal could put his finger on just yet. It was just a feeling he had. And his feelings had often been wrong. Like when he’d been sure that Command would send air support to Serenity Valley and the Browncoats would win the war.

“And what is it we might be deliverin’ for you, Hunter?” he asked. When Covington didn’t reply, he prodded, “Is it poisonous? Bigger than a breadbox? Have claws and big scary teeth?”

“It’s a rare type of metallic ore,” Covington told him. “A small rock, like so.” Tucking his cane under one arm, he estimated the size between his hands — about that of a cantaloupe melon. “Weighs around twenty, twenty-five pounds.”

Mal nodded slowly, not particularly reassured. Something being small didn’t mean it wasn’t dangerous. Look at River Tam.

“Does this rock throw off toxic fumes?” he asked. “Radiation? Anything like that? I need to know for the safety of my ship and crew, and my other cargo.”

Growing up on the Reynolds family ranch on Shadow, Mal had learned about horses, cows, and alfalfa. In the war, it had been all strategy, tactics and field dressings. But in his new line of work, there were too many things to learn and he had to play it by ear much of the time. That meant asking a lot of questions, covering your bases as best you could, and reading the reactions of those trying to buy your services.

“Comes in a lead-lined container,” Covington replied, which was not exactly the answer Mal had been hoping for. “Perfectly safe,” he added. “If you want, Mal, you can examine it before you take the job. We’re keeping it just down the next alley.” He jerked his cane in that direction. “We got a place we’re staying at there.”

Dark alley.

Strangers.

Four-to-one odds.

Inside his head, Mal heard warning bells.

He said, “Know what? No offense, you seem like a great buncha guys an’ all, but I think I’m gonna pass.”

“Money’s good,” Covington insisted. “Plenty of platinum in it for you.”

“Yeah,” Mal said, with a show of regret that wasn’t entirely unfeigned. “Wouldn’t be surprised if I’m walkin’ away from the bargain of a lifetime, but still. Fine upstanding citizens like yourselves mightn’t understand this, but sometimes a man in my line of work’s just got to listen to his instincts, and mine are telling me it’s time to fold my tent and move on.”

“Captain Reynolds…” said Covington.

No more “Mal”. And a distinct note of menace in the voice.

Tension crackled in the air. Mal’s gaze flicked to the eyes of each of the four men one after another. Covington’s three underlings were, in turn, darting quick glances towards their boss. Looking for instruction. Waiting to be given the go-ahead.

Covington’s eyes narrowed. The eyes of the other three followed suit. So did Mal’s.

Fingers twitched. Shoulders squared. Jaws clenched.

Any moment now, someone was going to make a move.

Then there was a fizzle and snap from the holographic front window of Taggart’s Bar. The illusory glass dissolved and a man came flying through the opening, head first. A massed roar from inside the bar trailed him like rocket exhaust, blasting into the street as he skid-rolled across the sidewalk, ending up face down and unmoving in the gutter.

It was as if this was the cue the three goons had been waiting for. That, or they were so jumpy, so wired, that any sudden, unexpected movement would have provoked a reaction from them.

The one with the widow’s peak sprang first.

Mal, just as startled as they were by sight of a man being hurled forcibly out of Taggart’s, reacted a fraction of a second too slow. His hand snapped around the butt of his Liberty Hammer and he drew, but not fast enough. Widow’s Peak managed to grab him by the wrist and pin the gun in its leg sheath. Mal let his right hip go soft, twisting in the direction of the incoming force, and used the extra momentum to supercharge a short left punch to the side of his attacker’s head. It felt like he’d hit a brick. Widow’s Peak groaned and tumbled forward past him, onto his hands and knees.

With three more attackers bearing down fast, Mal took advantage of the unguarded moment to snap kick Widow’s Peak in the face, a blow that rolled the man moaning over onto his back, clutching his face in both hands.

Continuing the spin to his right, Mal cleared leather. As he swung around to confront his remaining opponents, he brought up his weapon. The quarters were so close, they were practically standing toe to toe. The other three had drawn their guns but for some reason didn’t open fire.

Mal had no such qualms, but before he could touch off a shot, the man with the complexion like rawhide darted in, grabbed hold of his hand and the pistol and shoved the barrel towards the sky.

The gun went off with a sharp, ear-stabbing crack! that echoed off the ruined buildings and rolled away down the street.

Rawhide Complexion clutched the Liberty Hammer in a death grip. Mal had the choice of letting the gun go and taking his chances bare-knuckled, or fighting for it. No way was he going to give up the weapon. He kicked Rawhide Complexion in the kneecap, feeling something break loose under the sole of his boot. The man screamed and dropped to the pavement, releasing the gun to grab his leg.

In the same instant the pistol came free, Mal sensed a rush of movement behind him on the left. He fired wildly as he turned away from that threat, trying to hit the man on his right, the one with the walrus mustache. Bullets sparked and ricocheted off the building opposite.

“Zoë! Jayne!” he yelled into his comm link. “Help!” Remembering the code word, he added, “Strawberries! Strawberries!”

Hunter Covington loomed on his left. Mal glimpsed the cane in his hand. He thought he was about to be struck, but instead Covington thrust the silver cobra-head knob up close to Mal’s face. The snake’s jaws snapped wide open, much as though it was baring its fangs. Inside, a small tube was revealed, from which came the short hiss of gas being released under pressure.

Mal smelled an acrid odor that he didn’t recognize. Something— some instinct — told him not to breathe, but by then it was already too late. Whatever the gaseous substance that had emerged from the cane was, Mal had inhaled some of it. Enough of it that his brain suddenly seemed to be whirling round and round within his skull like a child’s spinning top, gathering speed; and just when he thought it couldn’t turn any faster, not without gyrating clean out of his cranium, everything went black.