“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.