But he had seen the interior of this vessel before. It was Serenity’s shuttle, the one that had been sent to Guilder’s Shipwright for repairs and that he, Jayne, and Zoë had been planning to pick up after the meet at Taggart’s.
Gorramn. Don’t this beat all.
“We going somewhere?” he inquired cheerily, like he was on some kind of excursion into the countryside, with maybe a picnic thrown in. “In my shuttle?” he added.
“We sure as hell are,” the sandy-haired man said, squatting on his haunches, hairy hands dangling between his legs like a baboon.
Mal’s vision finally adjusted to the light and he saw that his captor had bloodshot brown eyes. His face was scarred, with what looked like knife cuts or blast wounds on the right side from jawline to temple, although his right ear below the patchy, straw-like hair was still pretty much intact. He had perhaps half the regularly mandated quantity of teeth, and those he possessed were browned, thin as rice, and only just clinging on to their foundations in his gums. The well-worn gun belt around his waist held two pistols, and they were as roughened and ugly as his mug. A third gun — Mal’s own Liberty Hammer, in a lot better condition than the others — protruded from the belt.
“Nice piece,” Mal said, nodding to it. “I’ve got one just the same, only I appear to have mislaid it.”
Scarface smirked. “I agree, it’s a nice gun. Have me a mind to keep it, once all this is over.”
“‘All this?’ Care to enlighten me about that?”
“You’ll find out soon enough.”
“Well then, I don’t suppose you’d mind answering my earlier question. Where we headed? Not Pelorum, by any chance? Ain’t so far from here, and I hear it’s lovely whatever the season but especially at this time of year. Sun, sea, gambling, and so many folks lookin’ for a casual hook-up, I reckon even someone as deficient in the looks department as you could get laid.”
Anger flickered like lightning across Scarface’s distorted features. “We’re deliverin’ you to justice,” he grated.
That sounded ominous.
Mal tried to sit up, and failed. The man’s upper lip curled in amusement as he savored the struggle and defeat.
“Hmm. Justice,” Mal repeated. “Can you be a little more specific? I like justice, big fan, but I hadn’t planned on any side trips today. Did you take back the loaner shuttle? And do you know Hunter Covington?”
“He was right about you. You are stupid,” Scarface said.
“Covington insulted me? I’m crushed. I thought we were pals.”
“No, not him. Someone else.”
“Who?”
“You’ll find out soon enough.”
Mal was putting up a confident front, but he was right uneasy. It was now pretty obvious to him that Covington had never planned for him to deliver anything to anybody. That talk of a lump of metallic ore and somebody called Professor Yakima Barnes had been just so much hogwash. Covington had lured Mal out of Taggart’s for the sole purpose of shanghaiing him. And like a big dumbass, Mal had fallen for it.
“Maybe,” he said, “if you could explain to me what your beef is, I’m sure I could clear things up.”
“And maybe you could just shut up, traitor,” Scarface snapped.
“Traitor?” Mal wrinkled his forehead. “Who’s calling me that?”
“Donovan Philips,” Scarface said, slapping his chest. “That’s who’s calling you a traitor.”
“Glad to make your acquaintance, Donovan Philips.”
“And I ain’t alone in holdin’ that opinion of you,” Philips spat. “There’s a whole passel of us that think scum like you are the lowest form of life and should be exterminated.”
“Call me sensitive, but I’m picking up a distinctly hostile vibe here, Donnie ol’ pal. I’m reckonin’ you’ve got me confused with somebody else. There another Malcolm Reynolds in your address book? This could turn out to be one of those embarrassing mix-ups we all stand around and laugh about it afterwards over a beer or two.”
“No misunderstanding,” said Philips. “We got the right man.”
“But I ain’t no traitor. Never have been. A traitor to who? Or is it ‘to whom?’ Never could get that one straight.”
“You’re being called to account. And you’ll pay for what you done.”
“Been a lot of places, conducted a lot of business,” Mal said. “Fairly or not, I suppose I riled some of the folks I dealt with. They were expectin’ more, got less. But as to treason, maybe you could do me the kindness of dabbing a bit more paint on that canvas?”
“You ain’t the first and you won’t be the last to face the music for that particular crime.”
“Now that’s starting to sound a touch serious.”
“You’d be right in thinking that and wise not to be so flippant about it.”
Mal was still no nearer an understanding of what the gū yáng zhōng de gū yáng this was all about. What was clear was that there didn’t seem to be any room for negotiation with his captor. Donovan Philips hadn’t subtly floated the possibility of ransom, to be paid cash or barter. It was very much like the sentence of death had already been read and all that was left was the manner of execution.
Mal knew better than to show fear, even when helpless, with no cavalry in sight. “Where might this account-calling be located?” he said. “Can you at least tell me that? Is it far from Persephone? Am I going to be able to take my shuttle back? As I think I might have mentioned, I’m in the middle of a few important things—”
“Shut up.”
“No, listen. I really think there’s been a case of mistaken ident—”
“I said shut up!” Philips balanced himself on one hand and punched Mal square in the face with the other.
A searing flash of light filled Mal’s skull, blinding him as completely as the chickenfeed sack so recently had. In a world of hurt, with the taste of blood in his mouth, his head dropped, slamming hard on the metal.
Back to the black, the drifting black, tumbling, tumbling, tumbling.
Explosions.
10
Zoë gave her comm link one last, futile try, then hustled over to Badger’s hideout, into which Harlow had disappeared not half a minute earlier.
At the door, her way was blocked by a big man whose bloated belly strained against his sleeveless gray T-shirt. Blurred brown tattoos of Chinese characters ran up and down both arms from wrist to shoulder. He held up one hand in front of her face, and the other dropped to the grip of the machine pistol slung over his shoulder. Which reminded Zoë that even if Badger was smarmy and low-class, he and his minions were still capable of causing a great deal of trouble for them.
She said to the guard, “I’m here to see Badger. Tell him it’s Zoë Washburne and that it’s urgent.”
“You want in, give me your weapons,” he growled. “All of ’em.”
“First go tell him I’m here,” she said. She knew this was Badger’s standard procedure for a private interview. And his excess of caution, which bordered on paranoia, was one of the reasons he was still sucking air. Zoë didn’t like the idea of being outgunned when everything seemed to be going to hell, but under the circumstances she had no choice. She noted to herself that Harlow hadn’t been forced to disarm when he’d gone in. She knew he was carrying that six-gun inside his duster. The lack of even a pat-down to check for weapons indicated that he was either a friend or a lackey of Badger’s. Her money was on lackey.
The guard smirked and waved a finger under her nose. “No, first you give me your weapons.”