Big Damn Hero

15

“Not the gorramn chickenfeed hood again,” Mal slurred as Donovan Philips came towards him with the burlap sack in his hands.

Mal had come to just moments earlier, sitting propped up against a bulkhead. He had no idea how long he’d been out, or where he was, but he was thirsty and he had to pee. The shuttle was still spaceborne, that much he could tell from the rumble of its engines. Whatever its final destination was, it hadn’t yet made planetfall or even entered atmo. The artificial gravity was still on, and artificial gravity felt different from real gravity. On-world, your weight distribution was more even and there wasn’t that vague dizziness which dogged you all the time when you were shipboard and which you never quite got accustomed to, no matter how good your “space legs” were.

“It’s so’s you can’t go sharing any information about us,” Philips said.

“Furthest thing from my mind,” Mal said “I swear by your uniquely scarred face which would make it easy to describe you to the authorities and them to catch you that I will never breathe a word to anyone about you.” He shut his eyes tightly and braced himself, anticipating that his witticism would annoy the irritable Philips, who was in a perfect position to kick him in the teeth.

“You really do love to hear yourself talk, don’t you?” Philips said. “Bet you talk, talk, talk in front of a mirror and always crack yourself up. Got some news for you, traitor: being clever and using big words ain’t going to save your backside this time.”

“Please don’t hate me for my vocabulary,” Mal said.

“Shut up,” the man snarled. Then he bent down and drew the bag over Mal’s head, cinching the draw cord around his neck so he couldn’t shake it off.

There was no escaping the hood’s aroma. Or the fact that his captor was just inches away. For a split second, Mal debated whether to spring up and lunge for him in the hope of taking him down. But while he was effectively blind and his hands were tied, he knew it would be futile. He’d doubtless ended up getting hurt for his trouble.

Something scraped against the ropes that held his ankles pinned together and his legs were suddenly free.

Philips grabbed him under the arm and said, “Stand.” He yanked hard, nearly dislocating Mal’s shoulder but barely budging him from the deck.

“I would, except my feet are asleep,” Mal said. It was the God’s honest truth. Philips yanked him up anyway. Caterpillars by the billions skittered up his legs and his knees buckled. Philips grunted and pushed him forward.

Mal floated over the ground as Philips alternately shunted and guided him from behind.

“We’re at the coaming,” the man said. “Lift your feet up.”

Mal couldn’t feel a thing but did his best to comply, raising his leg to step over the lip in the floor that was part of the hatchway and bulkhead wall. On sea-going vessels, the coaming kept the ocean out if it had occasion to spill across the main deck and into the ship. On spaceships, it could halt the path of a fire or the vacuum of space by creating a seal with the hatch.

Again he contemplated, and discounted, some kind of escape attempt. What if he feigned falling over, dragging Philips to the floor with him? Then while Philips was sprawled off-balance, he could scissor his legs around the guy’s neck and try to choke him out. As long as the sack was on his head and his hands remained tied behind his back, however, Mal stood about as much chance of pulling off this feat as a one-legged man stood of winning an ass-kicking contest.

“Where we goin’?” he asked.

“You’ll find out soon enough,” Philips said. “Now, stop here and hold still.”

Mal heard footfalls thudding on the deck plates, faint at first, then growing gradually louder and louder. Sounded like four or five sets.

“Lăo tiān yé, what in heck do you still have a hood on him for?” someone new demanded.

From the edge the voice carried, Mal figured this to be someone in charge. Philips’s superior, at least.

“So’s he can’t tell no one anything ’bout us,” Philips said.

Mal refrained from pointing out that he already knew Phillip’s name and could identify him. What Philips hadn’t reasoned through couldn’t hurt him.

“Don’t concern yourself with that,” Someone New snapped. “He won’t be telling anyone about anything. Unless ghosts can gossip.”

That does not sound hopeful, Mal thought. No sir, not one bit hopeful.

“Well, I’m leaving it on anyways,” Philips shot back. “It makes him easier to handle.”

“Actually, not as much as you might think,” Mal ventured. “My feet are asleep and I’m swaying a bit. Difficult to keep my balance. Could go down in a heap any second.”

“Yeah,” Someone New said, “we were told you were tricky, Reynolds. The sort of guy you need to watch out for, in case of shenanigans.”

“Shenanigans? Me?” Mal said. “What lyin’ no-good polecat told you that?”

“I’m surprised you haven’t pieced it together yet.”

Mal thought for a second, then said, “Just for the sake of clarity, and of putting all cards on the table, let me ask: did I do something to piss off Hunter Covington? Because I’ve only met the fella the once, and all’s I thought he wanted was to hire me for a job, and now I’m a missing person and a prisoner, and if this is some kind of test of loyalty or personal grit, I would like to think by now I’ve surely passed it.”

“Just shut up,” said Someone New. “You’re right, Donovan. Keep the damned bag over his head. It muffles the sound of that voice.”

Oh ha ha, Mal thought. Beads of sweat rolled down his forehead, stinging his eyes and the cuts and bruises he realized he had around his mouth. He ran his tongue over his teeth. All still there. Who had he pissed off this bad? His ex-wife and former partner in thievery, YoSaffBridge? Niska? Both were still at large as far as he knew, and either would have been capable of chicanery like this. But it didn’t feel like their handiwork to him. What about that ornery old horse thief, Patience? No. She wouldn’t bother with leaving Whitefall, the moon she was currently bullying, and anyway, by now she would have already shot him several times. She was tetchy that way.

Mal tried again. “If there’s something I can do to put this right—”

His olive branch was rewarded with a punch on the jaw that sent him reeling. He would have collapsed except that one of his tormentors — he had no idea which — grabbed his shoulder, twisted him around, and slammed him head-first into a wall. For the briefest instant, Mal saw stars. Which, actually, was no improvement over seeing nothing.

“No more talking,” Philips said, “or I’ll cut out your tongue.”

Mal wondered why a gag wouldn’t be the rational first choice, but fell silent.

“That’s better,” Philips said. “See what I’ve been putting up with the whole way here?”

You have so not, Mal thought indignantly. I’ve been unconscious most of the time.

“Okay, enough of this,” Someone New said. “Prepare for landing.”

“Sit down,” Philips said to Mal. “And keep your mouth shut.”

Mal crossed his ankles and sank to the deck unsteadily. Though thick-headed, with his trapped hands now joining his feet in the Land of Numb, he began playing and replaying everything that had occurred since first contact with Hunter Covington.

Yesterday — if more time than that had not elapsed — had been Alliance Day, and judging by the ruckus that had come from Taggart’s during his own confrontation with Covington, he was confident Jayne and Zoë had enjoyed a big juicy bar fight with a side order of fisticuffs. He hoped his two crewmates had left the bar safe and sound and were at that very moment zeroing in on where he was and figuring out how to retrieve him from whoever had captured him. But there was also the less delightful possibility that they’d followed him out of the bar and gotten themselves taken, too, or worse, left for dead in some Persephone back alley. If the crew of Serenity were coming to save him, that meant they’d put the delivery of the crates on the backburner, a decision that while good for him could very well undermine business deals for the foreseeable future. After Niska, they needed to cement their reputation for reliable and on-time service. Their new motto: Smuggling Be Us, or some such.

The roar of retro-thrusters shut off his line of thought. The shuttle was breaking atmo at a seriously flawed angle. The too-steep re-entry made Mal’s cheeks go saggy and flutter wildly against his clenched teeth. Buffeting. Buffeting. He hoped to blue blazes someone had taken the time to check the heat shield before they started the descent. One crack could turn to two, and two to ten, and before you knew it you were a gorramn meteor. More buffeting. Harder. It was like being trapped inside a cocktail shaker without the booze.

Then the vibration stopped and the welcome pull of real gravity replaced the ship’s artificial. Mal’s ears popped. He still had to pee, and thanks to the sudden appearance of normal grav, with considerably more urgency. The vessel settled down on the ground with a resounding crunch, and the engines cut out.

Then he was pulled brusquely to his feet, maybe by Philips, maybe by Someone New. He flexed his hands over and over, trying without much luck to bring the feeling back into his fingers. There were other people around him, aside from Philips and Someone New. From the combined body warmth and parts per million of sweat odor, he knew he was well and completely surrounded, as though being escorted by an honor guard. As they dragged him off, he couldn’t come up with a single stratagem that could turn the tables and save his life. He was plumb out of imaginary heroics.

After a heap of clanging boot soles on metal deck plates, the path they were taking angled downward. He felt a rush of cool air and realized he was being herded off a gangplank. Then the footing under him got soft. Sand or fine soil, maybe. Earthy odors penetrated the chickenfeed stink of the burlap sack — mud, dirt, rock.

Down they walked, or rather, his escorts walked and Mal stumbled. After a bit, their breathing and grunts of effort suddenly got louder and their footsteps began to echo. Mal’s right shoulder scraped something hard and sharp, like chiseled rock. The air was noticeably damper and clammier and they were traveling on a shallow downward incline. He rationalized that they were taking him into a cavern or a tunnel. Something sizzled on the right side of his body, and he sensed a rush of heat, which quickly passed. He smelled burning rags and oil. A torch, most likely, stuck in the wall in a sconce.

The angle of their descent grew steeper, and it became even more of a challenge not to trip and fall. Mal didn’t want to give these guys any excuse to hit him. They were already a bit too fond of the exercise and he figured he might need his every speck of brains later.

Without warning the group stopped.

“That him?” someone double-new asked. The question echoed into the distance. That him… him… him…

Who else might it be? Mal wondered. A feeble hope fluttered in his throat that the kidnappers had somehow grabbed the wrong person outside Taggart’s, confused one Mal Reynolds with another of similar features and identical moniker. And then the hood was yanked off Mal’s head. Moldy subterranean air hit his face. Torches, dozens of them, flickered against the gloom of dark rock walls and ceiling.

The man glaring at him from arm’s length looked familiar to Mal. He had biggish ears, smallish eyes, and a decidedly crooked nose. It was the singular beak that tapped at Mal’s memory. There was no forgetting that narrow blade with the sudden dogleg to the right. Or the downright marvel that the two holes at the drippy end hadn’t by force of momentum ended up somewhere on his opposing cheek. That busted-to-hell nose had fought beside Mal’s own nose in the war, Mal was sure of it. He and the other man had taken on the Alliance nose to nose, as it were.

The man said nothing, only watched him with a calculation in his eyes.

The rows of torches on the walls hissed and sputtered, and gave off ribbons of black smoke.

“Help me out here,” Mal said. “I know you, right?”

“You’ll get it,” the man assured him. “Just take your time.”

After a few seconds it all came rushing back.

“Deakins,” Mal said, triumph and relief flooding his voice. It was Stuart Deakins, late of the so-called “Balls and Bayonets” Brigade. For two years that at the time seemed like a hundred and twelve, Stu Deakins had been a ground pounder under Sergeant Malcolm Reynolds’ command. Mal had half-carried, half-dragged the wounded man to safety in a firefight during the New Kasimir offensive, running a gauntlet of Alliance gunfire. He was glad to find his soldier still alive and, hopefully, on-scene to set straight whatever terrible misunderstanding had arisen. “Deakins — Stu — it’s me. Malcolm Reynolds. Sergeant Reynolds, as was.”

“Yeah, Sarge, I know who you are,” Stu Deakins said, “and who you were.”

With that, he dipped a shoulder and swung hard for Mal’s gut. The punch seemed to come at Mal in slow motion, and Mal tensed to absorb the blow. Surprise more than pain doubled him over. But the impact still knocked the wind out of him.

As he struggled to catch his breath, Mal looked up at Deakins in disbelief. Before he could speak, the men surrounding him caught him under the arms and steered him onward. Mal looked back to see Deakins spitting on the very ground where he had just stood. That utterly dumbfounded him.

I saved his life. That’s not something normally makes a man hit you, then hawk and spit in the dirt. Not unless the etiquette for gratitude has changed some since the war.

His captors led him on down a tunnel hewn from virgin rock. There were cavities in the walls and ceiling that marked where timber braces had at once time provided support. An old mine of some sort, then.

The tunnel split in two after a ways and his escorts shoved him down the right-hand fork. After a bit more walking, the rock corridor ended, opening onto a cavern whose floor was twenty feet lower. When Mal and his captors stepped to the edge, they were met by a chorus of shouts from below. Lit by torches and oildrum fires, a group of forty or so people stared up at them. Even in the flickering light, he could see the men and women all wore the traditional Independent outerwear: a knee-length coat of brown suede. It made his heart swell to see folks thus decked out, honoring the side for which he’d fought and bled, and would do again if given the opportunity. It wasn’t a costume party. They all looked to be roughly his age, certainly of a vintage that he could have served with — veterans of the war.

He thought he recognized a few of the faces. There was “Panda” Alcatraz with the wine-colored birthmarks around his eyes, and that guy Lucas, the sly bastard who had traded the now-deceased Tracey Smith a can of beans for what turned out to be the ’verse’s bluntest bayonet. Mal wondered if this whole shindig was some kind of elaborate Alliance Day practical joke, starting with a hazing and ending in a reunion of old comrades-in-arms. If so, it had been a little on the sadistic side, but all was well that ended well, right?

“Hail, Browncoats,” he called down happily.

As the echoes of his greeting faded away, the yelling stopped. Pins could have dropped in the cave and he would have heard them plink.

Mal then realized the people were all glaring up at him, not a smile or a friendly wink from the lot. Swallowing down any other felicitous words he might have spoken, he felt the force of gazes brimming over with anger and hatred and was baffled by it. What had he done to warrant such a reaction?

On the far side of the vault, he saw a raised wooden platform. Next to it stood what looked like the tower of an oil derrick, only about a tenth-scale version. It was, Mal thought, the remains of a drilling rig the miners would have used. It looked old. Somebody had prospected here once. Somebody had gone home empty-handed, doubtless having sunk some capital into the enterprise and bankrupted themselves. That would explain leaving equipment behind. No point throwing good money after bad.

The rig’s uppermost deck was raised about six feet from the floor. The familiar green and yellow flag of the Independents hung from the guardrail. Normally the emblem would have been an encouraging, uplifting sight to Mal, telling him he was among friends. Now he wasn’t so sure he was.

A chant began to rise from the crowd of people, low and scattered at first, then rapidly building so loud in the enclosed space that it hurt his ears — as well as his feelings.

“Trai-tor! Trai-tor!”

He blinked incredulously. Him. They were yelling it at him.

“Settle down!” a voice boomed over the crowd. “All of you, settle down!”

The Browncoat men and women immediately stopped yelling at Mal and turned to face the platform, where a man had just stepped into view. Mal’s jaw dropped as he recognized the speaker.

“Hey, Mal. Welcome to the end of your life,” said Toby Finn.