TWO BY TWO BY TWO (10)

Part 10b

…and hitting.

This chapter rated K+.

The loading of the crates went better than Jayne expected. Both of the docs were skinny and underdeveloped-looking, but Doc was stronger than he looked, and Doc 'Noyman was willin' to work hard, even though he weren't no stronger than he looked. Still, woulda gone much faster with Mal and Zoe, and he still couldn't believe the bit about the docs not knowin' how to open a gorram door.

象的大便Xiàngde dàbiàn/span! Simon swore to himself as the sweat dripped into his eyes, stinging. He couldn't wipe it away on account of the fact that both of his arms were occupied hoisting the heavy crate onto the mule's cargo carrier. It was harder physical labor than he'd done in a long time, and he was bone-tired, but damned if he was going to let it show. Jayne was walking around whistling as he worked, and didn't even appear to have broken a sweat. Simon had to admit that the man-ape-gone-wrong-thing had his good points, and this was one of them. The man was a good worker—excelled, even, at physical labor—and Simon couldn't help but acknowledge that if he and Ip had been left to their own devices they'd probably still be standing outside the locked warehouse door, waiting for the Blue Hands to come and get them, or the Feds to come and arrest him. It was embarrassing. Determined not to be defeated by a simple cargo-loading job, Simon called on inner reserves of strength and redoubled his efforts.

Ip grunted and strained at the crate. 牛屎Niúshǐ. Damn thing wouldn't even budge. He shifted his position, trying to get a purchase on the smooth surface. Use physics, he thought to himself. Change the angle, better mechanical advantage. He tried again, got the crate to tip, struggled to control its fall, and ooffed as the thing careened into his chest. He'd wanted to ask the Captain if he was sure it was safe for him and Simon—and Jayne, too, he supposed, though Jayne seemed to be able to take care of himself—to go to the warehouse, with the Blue Hands and parties unknown at large, ready to ambush them, but he'd held his tongue. Of course it wasn't safe. But the alternative to loading the crates was disarming a live anti-personnel detonator on top of Serenity—the job the Captain had elected for himself—and that struck Ip as even more not safe.

He struggled to straighten his legs. At last he was standing with the thing in his arms. He staggered across the warehouse floor, trying not to bang the crate or himself on the doorjamb, and made it over to the mule, where he rested the bottom edge of the crate on the lip of the cargo hauler. He closed his eyes and prayed for the strength to get the thing loaded the rest of the way up onto it, but since he'd been raised in a multi-ethnic environment with at least three religious traditions in his family background and secular humanism dominating them all, his prayers lacked focus, and he ended up turning to the god of physics, as usual, for his solution. Duh. Use the angle. Mechanical advantage. With the right maneuvers, one person can move an upright piano onto a four-foot high stage from the floor below. Putting his shoulder to the crate, he rolled it over onto its end, its momentum carrying it over the edge and into position. Good thing the crates weren't labeled "This side up." Now all he had to do was walk back into the warehouse and do it again. And again.

Ip had never looked down on those who engaged in physical labor for a living, but he felt renewed respect as he watched how easily Jayne moved, shuttling the crates like it was all in a day's work, which Ip guessed it was for him. Ip felt like an idiot with the Captain's gun—loaded gun, he didn't doubt—stuffed into his back pocket. He had no experience whatsoever with firearms. He noticed that Jayne, while industriously moving crates, simultaneously kept a sharp lookout both inside and outside the warehouse, and kept more than one gun within hand's reach at all times. Even Simon wore his gun—Ip hadn't known that the physician kept a gun, let alone had a holster for it. Ip just hoped that the gun in his back pocket had its safety on, so he didn't end up accidentally shooting himself in the 屁股 pìgu.

"Don't know if I killed 'im, but I hope so." The Captain's blunt words about shooting a man shocked Ip. He understood the Captain's anger that anyone would shoot a pregnant woman, but…couldn't he just call the police, or something? Did he have to shoot the man? Kill him? It gave him a creepy feeling. Then Ip realized that, although for some reason he hadn't been as shocked, River Tam had killed a man before his very eyes that afternoon. By breaking his neck. That was creepy. And he didn't feel sorry for the 混蛋 húndàn either. He felt creepy, too, about his complete lack of compassion. And here was the really creepy thing: it wasn't even the creepiest thing that had happened to him that day. A day that seemed taken from the pages of a bad spy thriller, played out in the strange, cruel, incoherent world of a B-grade film noir.

What the hell had been going on in that alley? Ip thought. The Bill he used to know back on Bernadette wouldn't have done that. Wouldn't have come into a dark alley to kill an innocent man and a girl not out of her teens. Yet he understood clearly that it was the Bill he used to know that he had to thank for their escape. Bill had changed (obviously for the worse), but it was their old bond of friendship that had made Bill spare him from being the victim of a hit. The dead victim of a hit. Ip's brain was churning as he began to understand. 我的天啊 Wǒ de tiān ā. Bill was a hitman. A corporate hitman. Working for Blue Sun. Blue Sun was after him. Or after River. Why?

"Alright, Doc 'Noyman," Jayne called. "How's about you take us back to the ship? Go easy so all them crates don't tip off the side of the cargo hauler. Be a shame to hafta re-load 'em." Ip put the mule into gear and eased away from the warehouse door. "Next time," Jayne continued, "how's about we bring along the anti-grav pallet loader and a couple a' dollies? Make the work go faster."

. . .

Turned out Mal had succeeded in defusing the detonator by the time they got back to Serenity with the load. Kaylee was up topside installing the navsat, racing against the clock to get it done before it got dark and they just plain ran out of time. Mal had been helping Kaylee with the job, but as soon as he saw the mule turn into the entrance of Pedro Docks, he climbed down to assist in loading the crates into the cargo bay.

Mal was anxious to get away, out of atmo, and into the comfort of the Black. Most definitely he wanted out of Pedro Docks before dark, because nighttime made it just that much easier for…whoever they were to spring another attack. Jayne and the docs pulled up in the mule, the trailing cargo hauler precariously loaded with an absurd number of crates that Mal was dead certain exceeded the recommended utility class weight limit. Simon took a minute to look in at the infirmary and check on his patients, but both of them were resting and Inara told him nothing remarkable had happened—inside the ship at least. Mal set up the unloading for maximum efficiency. Simon and Dr Ip tried their best, but hoicking cargo crates clearly wasn't their strong suit, and Mal quickly set Ip to operating the anti-grav pallet loader, while Jayne manhandled the crates onto the pallet loader from the top of the cargo hauler, and he and Simon shuttled the unloaded crates into the cargo bay on dollies. With four men working and the assistance of the anti-grav pallet loader, unloading the mule took far less time than loading it had.

It had been one helluva day, Mal thought, as he maneuvered the heavily laden dolly up the ramp, and it weren't over yet. What with Buck Holden and his corporate espionage, Ip and River beset by the Blue Hands, Simon finding his picture plastered all over the cortex (maybe his warrant weren't so rescinded after all), the ambush, gettin' shot at and Zoe gettin' hurt, the ship gettin' sabotaged despite his attempts to prevent it, Kaylee finding a Qianxia proximity detonator topside and him having to defuse it, he was bushed. He just hoped there weren't no more surprises in store before he could close up the ramp and take Serenity out into the Black where she belonged.

As dusk began to gather and the last couple of crates went up the ramp, Mal registered that a small knot of people had gathered in front of his ship.

"What's goin' on here?" he demanded as he strode back down the ramp, hitching his browncoat in an automatic gesture that gave him clear access to his gun. The group didn't look to be hostile, looked in fact like nothin' more than delivery folk. He noted that Mrs Li's son Boqin and several of his workers were standing at the edge the crowd nearest the ramp, and knew they were performing the promised function of denying strangers access to his ship. There were several unfamiliar people in front of him, and most of them were hovering around crates. Mal signaled Jayne with a look to move the mule and cargo hauler back aboard ship and secure them for flight, and he saw Jayne acknowledge his silent order to cover him in case of unpleasant surprises. He turned to the nearest of the crowd and began dealing with them.

It was all deliveries. There was a crate of medical supplies that Simon had bought. There was a set of medium-sized crates from Reed Labs—the tech cargo Ip had arranged. He signed off on some paperwork and let Ip take care of the crates. Then there was a single hand-carry crate, size of a dog kennel, from the University—the other tech item Ip and River arranged before the Blue Hands caught up to them. He signed for it, and strangely, a crate of apples—musta been something Jayne ordered when he was seeing to the food and supplies. He hoped they didn't have Grizwalds in 'em, 'cause he really, really didn't want any more surprises. Last of all were the two crates—two large, gorram, clucking crates—filled with chickens. Gorrammit! Just 'cause they have feathers don't mean they can fly…leastaways he didn't want 'em flying on his boat. He was really hoping the rotten fruit man would forget to send them, miss the delivery somehow. He sighed. Having cargo wasn't always all it was cracked up to be.

. . .

Lift off had gone without incident, and soon as he pulled away from Beaumonde orbit and out into the Black, Mal keyed in the course settings, stifling a great big yawn as he did so.

And there was the next problem. With River out cold and Zoe flat on her back in the infirmary, the only pilot available to fly Serenity was him. He couldn't discount the possibility that Serenity was being watched and would be followed, by the attackers who'd laid the ambush, the Feds, the Blue Hands, any or all of 'em. While the ship could fly on autopilot well enough, someone had to be alert for a tail, so there'd be a chance to do something about it afore it was too late and they were all dead. And he could barely keep his eyes open. If he set the autopilot and tried to take watch, he'd be out like a light in the pilot's chair before you could say "Don't fall asleep on the job." He sorely needed to get horizontal, real rest in a real bed. And once he got there he would sleep like one dead.

Someone was hovering in the corridor outside the bridge. Not just any someone. "Inara," he said, swallowing the darlin' that came unbidden to the tip of his tongue, "can I ask you a favor?"

She stepped onto the bridge. No point lurking. She spoke with an edge in her voice to cover her discomfort. "Oh, so you're asking now, are you Mal? I thought I was under your orders."

Gorrammit. Why'd she wanna make this difficult? "Listen, I'm wonderin'—will you fly Serenity?" She looked at him in silence, her expression unreadable. "I'm out a pilot and a first officer. It's been one helluva day and I don't think I can keep awake no longer." He explained the issue of the tail succinctly. "So I'd be much obliged if you'd take a trick at the helm."

She didn't reply. He was too gorram tired to try to read what was on her mind, and he had no stomach for guessing games. He was sick of their not talking to each other. So he just stood up and gestured towards the pilot chair. "Have a seat."

She moved stiffly over to the chair and sat, her face a blank mask. "I set the autopilot, she'll just fly herself. Keep an eye on the wake scan and the sensors. You see anything untoward, anything at all, you call me to the bridge immediately. Don't care if you gotta throw a bucket of ice water over my head to wake me, you do it, anything makes you uneasy." He had already started towards his bunk when she spoke, softly but firmly, turning her head to look him in the face.

"Why, Mal?"

"Because I trust you, Inara," he replied, looking meaningfully into her eyes. "Trust you to take care of my girl."

He turned and stepped off the bridge, heading directly to his bunk. Inara knew he didn't see the flood of tears that ran down her face as his words echoed in her head. I trust you, I trust you, I trust you….

. . .

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fin

glossary

象的 大便 Xiàngde dàbiàn [Elephant excrement]

牛屎 Niúshǐ [Shit]

屁股 pìgu [butt]

混蛋 húndàn [bastard]

我的天啊 Wǒ de tiān ā [Oh my god]

A/N: And that's all, folks. For this story, anyway. I know that the ending doesn't resolve all the loose ends, and those of you who are wondering how Mal and Inara will ever heal this rift in their relationship will have to wait. (I do hope you'll find it worth the wait.) I am intending to take a pause in posting for a week or two, and will begin posting the next story, "What Begins with an Apple," after that. I appreciate your comments and reviews.