“Couldn’t you have said something to stop them?”
She’d been expecting the question in some form, but the way it came out was, well, it added levels of complexity that she knew her brother couldn’t have considered. Stopped them? Who was them? What sort of “stopped” did he mean? Was he asking if they were programmed with safewords? Was he asking if they could be held motionless by her voice?
It took her some time to sort through the possible meanings to come up with the highest probability interpretation. And once she had, it only raised more questions: what was he actually afraid of? And, if he thought their intended activity was such a bad idea, why had he agreed to it?
Going past all of that, she pulled another meaning out: he trusted her, and wanted to be reassured that everything was going to be all right. He was frightened.
Well, but there were so many things to be frightened of.
There were men coming to get her, and they would be here very soon, and they were terrifying. And there were so many ways things could go wrong between what Mal wanted to do and what the agent wanted to do. And there were always the fluke occurrences that, in a plan as intricate as theirs, could so easily, at so many points, make it all go bad. There were missed shots and jammed weapons. There were sudden gusts of wind while the shuttle was up. The chance Serenity would be found too soon. And so much more.
By the time she could give her brother all the probabilities for all the mishaps, whatever was going to happen would have happened a long time before, at least for the most useful definition of “long time” in this context.
But he was her brother, and he was frightened, and he needed reassurance, and she didn’t want to lie to him. So, she determined which high probability event had the greatest chance of making what he feared come true, and she considered it carefully, and was pleased to be able to give her brother the answer he wanted.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “Wash and the Alliance agent talked Kaylee out of crashing Serenity into the house.”
It was strange, judging from the look on his face, how little that appeared to reassure him.
Chapter 15
My Own Kind of present
He ran through the preliminary checklist a second time before he started warming up the shuttle. He thought about running through it a third, but there was an old saying to the effect that you shouldn’t start getting paranoid when time was running out.
Actually, there wasn’t any such saying, but there should be. Wash decided that if he lived through this, he’d have to come up with one. Meanwhile, he started the warmup process, again checking each step carefully.
It wasn’t like this would be the trickiest flying he’d ever done. Quite. No reason to be nervous.
He felt an obscure disappointment when the warmup sequence was completed, because now he had nothing to do except wait until it was time to move.
Oh, right: one thing that was always necessary when you were unlucky enough to be going into mortal danger, but lucky enough to have advance warning.
He got back from the toilet and sat down again. This pilot’s chair was fine, but it didn’t feel the same as his. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. Now, what? Was he really out of ways to kill time?
No, he could look over the plans again, and re-check the route, especially the final approach. He’d only been over it four times so far, and only once cross-checking it with the weather report.
He checked the time, and found that it was less than five minutes until launch. His palms were suddenly moist, and his mouth dry. That was all right, though; he’d be fine when it was time to launch.
The pilot was already in place, but no one else was, so he could choose his seat.
“Welcome aboard, welcome aboard,” said the one called Wash, turning in his chair. “Passengers are advised to strap down for their own safety, and, as always, we remind you that Washburn Passenger Service is not responsible for lost luggage, air-sickness, or suddenly exploding into fiery ruin.”
The first mate was in next; she kissed the pilot, squeezed his shoulder, and sat down next to him. The captain and the mercenary came in last; the captain took a position near the door.
“Is it time?” he asked.
“About a minute,” said the pilot. “And, not to be painfully obvious, but you should all make sure you’re strapped in good.” Then he stabbed a button. “Kaylee, open us up.”
“Copy,” came her voice.
A moment later, the pilot spoke again. “Kaylee?”
“Still here.”
“Open us up, Kaylee.”
“But… oh. That was the other one. There you go.”
“Thank you, Kaylee.”
“Good luck, all of you.”
“Disengaging in three… two… one… free.”
There was a mild jolt, a drop, and Kit was shoved back into his chair.
Okay, Kit, my boy. You’re in it now.
There was a faint whirring sound as the wings deployed, and they settled into the flight. He wiped his hands on his pants. The flight was scheduled to last just over twenty-six minutes. And end very abruptly.
He put his hand on the buckle that would release his restraints.
I’ll bet I’d have made a really good school teacher.
Serenity gave a little sigh and expressed a desire to list to starboard when the shuttle separated, but her gyros whirred, and she settled in. Kaylee sat in the pilot’s chair and watched the clock, as well as the screen that Wash had set up. It was seventeen minutes after thirteen hundred.
The screen was clear.
She tried to relax. It wasn’t easy up here on the bridge, in this chair, but she tried.
It was still seventeen minutes after.
The screen was still clear.
She noticed that her eyes hurt, and realized that it was because she hadn’t been letting herself blink. She blinked several times, rapidly, then, in sudden panic, looked at the screen. It was still clear.
And it was still seventeen minutes after.
A long, long time later it was eighteen minutes after.
And the screen was still clear.
She heard herself make a little mewing sound.
And the screen was still clear.
And then the screen wasn’t clear any more.
She heard a sound, midway between a sigh and a squeak, and realized it came from her.
Her hand was shaking as she reached for the green switch marked with the bright orange tape.
The “click” as she flipped it seemed very loud.
So was the next click as she started the timer for the jamming signal Wash had set up; a counter appeared in the upper right corner of the front screen. It started at nineteen minutes and began counting down.
Two lights far to the right turned green. In a moment, they were joined by a third one, flashing. Information began to fill the upper-most monitor, and then the blip on the screen she’d been watching moved across the top, stopped, and began to approach the center. Slowly, but still much too fast.
She remained in the pilot’s chair, shaking and waiting and trying to watch three screens at once, because a new blip was going to appear on one of them, and then she’d have to move quickly.
Miss Wuhan’s voice came over the intercom. “Filo.”
He tore himself away from the projections he was trying to run. The worst thing that backstabbing fed had done, he’d been thinking, was deprive him of someone who knew how to do those. He’d have to hire someone soon; and this time do a thorough background check on the gorram bastard.