Firefly: Just a Little Favor for a Friend pt.1
***
for Jeff
***
Trees
***
As if the massive firs had been reaching toward the action in the sky, it appeared they stopped, still stretching, without bending down, to observe the small scene on their forest floor. The flier felt the trees were watching him, but they had not yet touched the sky he came from and could or would not bend to the ground to help. Light fell off their branches in orange, white and saffron, rippling down their rough trunks and sifting over his face. Next to him, the wounded gunner seemed to be in the dark-- a hollow of some kind-- roots held him-- as if a tree had paused in stepping at the lodging of something between its sturdy feet.
Hoban Washburne and the gunner, Sebastian Kinnaight, flew properly for the Alliance. The Alliance had paid them to fly and to shoot. But Wash had loyalty to the craft, not to the cause. He had family who were Independents, and thus he had nothing against them, as a crowd. Technically they were the enemy and had brought down his and Sink's plane, but that was not his problem at the moment.
His Alliance craft was out there somewhere and he, it sickened him to admit, had failed her. He and his crew had had to bail out. He'd been dragging the increasingly painridden and woozy gunner for a day and three-quarters. It seemed as if in the light changes under the canopy it had been a year.
The sounds and fire and smoke of battle had continued off and on in air, and a good part of Wash wanted to leap up there and join in. He would have climbed trees if they had branches low enough and his foot could take it. Perhaps it was not truly battle, since in air only one side was armed, but as he and his team had found, the other side had its share of tricks.
When he heard rustling in the needle-carpeted slopes behind him, Wash felt a languid, welcoming terror. He almost hoped it was the Independents come to shoot them. He wasn't worn-out nor too tired yet. He felt that he was cheating, a team leader pilot bailing out. At the same time, his mind calculated the distance to the supposed rendezvous point based on the beeps of his locator, checked his own minor wounds and felt sure they could make it that far. He did not glance at his gunner. He thought about the sliced hip and lower back. On Sink's right side a good portion below the hip was hamburger.
The scrambling sounds in the needles intensified and he knew it was no one attempting to be quiet. He turned and recognized James Ashwater. Popularly called, of course, Ash, the other pilot, skinny and grim at the best of times, looked like some kind of ghost as he snatched at roots that looped out of the soil, and clambered and skidded to where Wash was hunched near to Sink. Ash was plainly wounded in some way, for he had made a fuss over an easily traversed rolling piece of ground. A little blood, not much, showed on his right flight suit leg.
"Ash. You lucky enough to know where Tony is?"
Ash coughed, looked about, and flicked a needle off his finger. "You had to ask. He's dead. Dead. Dead, dead. Dead as a froghumpin' doornail."
"A little respect, please," wheezed Sink, his back turned to the others so he could lie on the less-injured side. His right hip was wrapped in the cut-off left leg of his suit. "I could join those doornails soon."
Ash looked, arched an eyebrow. "You ain't kiddin'. What you fellers got to eat? I'm starved." He dived clumsily for pouches and scrabbled at them.
Wash sat detached and let him maraude unrestrained. He surprised himself.
Ash hacked a cough again and said, picking over their supplies, "I couldn't save any food and got nothing with me. Starving, I tell you boys. Saved my smokes, though. Had to climb out over Tony's head and there wasn't room to take much, you understand."
Wash scooted a bit closer as if in a friendly, casual picnic conversation. "A little medicinal tobacco, eh? You got any beer, miraculous smokes-rescuer?"
"If I had, you can bet I'd be stone drunk on my back a mile or two from here, my friends." Ash pointed briefly with a long forefinger as if lecturing, then snatched at a small parcel in the canvas pouch. "What's this?" It was a dry cherry granola energy snack bar. He ate it in one mouthful.
"Yeah... I guess you would be," Wash agreed belatedly, casting worried looks at the crumpled granola wrapper. He had been saving that against a peril he'd heard a bit about and hoped he wouldn't have to meet, though he knew it seemed silly to save food in case of what was probably an exaggeration.
Wash realized he felt no motivation to go further that day. He had filled a canteen at the stream below and gotten some water into his gunner. If they kept climbing to the foothills where the rendezvous point was presumably located, they'd wear out in the cold night before they got to the shelter. The sun was going down. Might as well rest here. Besides, Ash looked like death and obviously didn't care to go far either. Ash stood for awhile, though, checking about nervously at the open bases of the trees where something could approach from trunk to trunk and, if careful to pick the right spots, arrive in an instant without warning.
It was only when Ash's leg seemed to buckle that he limped quickly to Wash and teetered over into a half-sitting position. "As long as you're up, I'm going to sleep. I figure it's too far even at my blistering pace to get to those nice warm shelters today."
"Yeah. I guess so," Wash said again.
In the reddish light that followed, Sink facing away, pallid while his equipment glowed in the changing shadow, and Ash lying like a forest animal, his skin white with grey lines, Wash felt surrounded by dead. He touched Ash's temple, then neck. Ash instinctively brushed at the touch. "Just checking," Wash said quietly.
It began to sound to him like Independents were coming. Ash slept for hours. Sink periodically cried, sounding sometimes as if he were in Wash's ear and sometimes far away. Most of the time he was silent except for his breathing, which caught and stopped occasionally, making Wash's stop, too.
Independents marched through the woods in numbers they had never had. Ships landed and unloaded gun-toting monsters, in Wash's imagination-- all faceless. Those with faces had those of family he knew sympathized with or supported the Independent fighters. In reality all was still, not even a bird song, not even an ant moving. If anything came, if anyone attacked them, he felt Ash could not get up and help him. He would be alone to deal with it and he felt rooted to the ground.
He felt glad the bugs had settled and weren't bothering Sink for the time being.
The night passed. Wash felt he slept, or, he had enough delusions that they might have been dreams. Dawn was cold, but quiet. Nobody stirred. Finally he shook Ash.
"Look you, wake up. If you're alive, for God's sake act like it."
"Yeah yeah I'm up. I've got a problem with whether I'm alive, but if I can fake it a bit you'll have to make do." Ash had black rings around his eyes and mouth. He looked worse than he should have after the same length of time on the ground as Sink and Wash, but then Wash always had a rounded appearance, even when stressed, and Ash always looked like a grim reaper without the hood.
"Look, I'm off," said Ash, weaving on his feet. "Thanks for looking out for me. You'd better leave him and come too."
"What?"
Ash nodded in the direction of Sink. "Leave. Sink. You know, come with me up to the rendezvous point, or just go yourself, whatever."
"What are you talking about? I can't leave him!"
"Well at least you dragged him out of coyote territory. I haven't even looked under that wrapping and I'm telling you, it's time to go. You know it too. You're not as hurt as I am. You could already have beaten me to the point if you hadn't carried Sink along. Time to get his patch and let go."
"You're insane."
"Alright." Ash twitched a bit and glanced around again. Then he seemed to consider his leg. "I might still make it. Seeyaround, I hope. Sink, good to know you."
Sink didn't answer. Whether he was conscious was hard to say. Wash edged over by him and felt his pulse. It seemed weak. Not that he'd know one pulse from another. It was just something to do.
When Wash looked up, Ash was walking. He seemed to get along alright, then his leg would dip out from under him suddenly and he'd jolt forward with the other to catch up. The grey light seemed to be a limbo, not daytime. Wash sat with his hand on Sink's neck, watching.
Sink said so quietly Wash had to strain to hear him, "He gone?"
Wash nodded, then said, "Yes."
Sink nodded. "Well. That's good. He'll make it I guess. He could use help."
"He could?"
"You know it."
"Yeah. Well."
Wash didn't start to drag Sink along again. He just sat. He watched until Ash had staggered out of sight.
Wash took some time with what bites they had for breakfast, fiddled with trying to open a pine nut with a sidearm-- it didn't work and he wasted ammunition-- and went down to the stream for more water, retracing steps and topping off a canteen that hadn't been emptied. He glanced around as if picking a route, though in the locator's indicated direction there was one clear line. Sink hummed an old flying recruitment tune to himself off-key. Sometimes he paused and hissed.
Wash avoided looking at the gunner for some time. When he did, he was surprised to find Sink's eyes on him. He hadn't rolled completely over, but turned his neck until he could face Wash almost full on. They stared at each other, Wash's eyes black and anxious. Sink had a tightness in his mouth, but his hoarse voice and expression were sympathetic. "You haven't got the guts."
for Jeff
***
Trees
***
As if the massive firs had been reaching toward the action in the sky, it appeared they stopped, still stretching, without bending down, to observe the small scene on their forest floor. The flier felt the trees were watching him, but they had not yet touched the sky he came from and could or would not bend to the ground to help. Light fell off their branches in orange, white and saffron, rippling down their rough trunks and sifting over his face. Next to him, the wounded gunner seemed to be in the dark-- a hollow of some kind-- roots held him-- as if a tree had paused in stepping at the lodging of something between its sturdy feet.
Hoban Washburne and the gunner, Sebastian Kinnaight, flew properly for the Alliance. The Alliance had paid them to fly and to shoot. But Wash had loyalty to the craft, not to the cause. He had family who were Independents, and thus he had nothing against them, as a crowd. Technically they were the enemy and had brought down his and Sink's plane, but that was not his problem at the moment.
His Alliance craft was out there somewhere and he, it sickened him to admit, had failed her. He and his crew had had to bail out. He'd been dragging the increasingly painridden and woozy gunner for a day and three-quarters. It seemed as if in the light changes under the canopy it had been a year.
The sounds and fire and smoke of battle had continued off and on in air, and a good part of Wash wanted to leap up there and join in. He would have climbed trees if they had branches low enough and his foot could take it. Perhaps it was not truly battle, since in air only one side was armed, but as he and his team had found, the other side had its share of tricks.
When he heard rustling in the needle-carpeted slopes behind him, Wash felt a languid, welcoming terror. He almost hoped it was the Independents come to shoot them. He wasn't worn-out nor too tired yet. He felt that he was cheating, a team leader pilot bailing out. At the same time, his mind calculated the distance to the supposed rendezvous point based on the beeps of his locator, checked his own minor wounds and felt sure they could make it that far. He did not glance at his gunner. He thought about the sliced hip and lower back. On Sink's right side a good portion below the hip was hamburger.
The scrambling sounds in the needles intensified and he knew it was no one attempting to be quiet. He turned and recognized James Ashwater. Popularly called, of course, Ash, the other pilot, skinny and grim at the best of times, looked like some kind of ghost as he snatched at roots that looped out of the soil, and clambered and skidded to where Wash was hunched near to Sink. Ash was plainly wounded in some way, for he had made a fuss over an easily traversed rolling piece of ground. A little blood, not much, showed on his right flight suit leg.
"Ash. You lucky enough to know where Tony is?"
Ash coughed, looked about, and flicked a needle off his finger. "You had to ask. He's dead. Dead. Dead, dead. Dead as a froghumpin' doornail."
"A little respect, please," wheezed Sink, his back turned to the others so he could lie on the less-injured side. His right hip was wrapped in the cut-off left leg of his suit. "I could join those doornails soon."
Ash looked, arched an eyebrow. "You ain't kiddin'. What you fellers got to eat? I'm starved." He dived clumsily for pouches and scrabbled at them.
Wash sat detached and let him maraude unrestrained. He surprised himself.
Ash hacked a cough again and said, picking over their supplies, "I couldn't save any food and got nothing with me. Starving, I tell you boys. Saved my smokes, though. Had to climb out over Tony's head and there wasn't room to take much, you understand."
Wash scooted a bit closer as if in a friendly, casual picnic conversation. "A little medicinal tobacco, eh? You got any beer, miraculous smokes-rescuer?"
"If I had, you can bet I'd be stone drunk on my back a mile or two from here, my friends." Ash pointed briefly with a long forefinger as if lecturing, then snatched at a small parcel in the canvas pouch. "What's this?" It was a dry cherry granola energy snack bar. He ate it in one mouthful.
"Yeah... I guess you would be," Wash agreed belatedly, casting worried looks at the crumpled granola wrapper. He had been saving that against a peril he'd heard a bit about and hoped he wouldn't have to meet, though he knew it seemed silly to save food in case of what was probably an exaggeration.
Wash realized he felt no motivation to go further that day. He had filled a canteen at the stream below and gotten some water into his gunner. If they kept climbing to the foothills where the rendezvous point was presumably located, they'd wear out in the cold night before they got to the shelter. The sun was going down. Might as well rest here. Besides, Ash looked like death and obviously didn't care to go far either. Ash stood for awhile, though, checking about nervously at the open bases of the trees where something could approach from trunk to trunk and, if careful to pick the right spots, arrive in an instant without warning.
It was only when Ash's leg seemed to buckle that he limped quickly to Wash and teetered over into a half-sitting position. "As long as you're up, I'm going to sleep. I figure it's too far even at my blistering pace to get to those nice warm shelters today."
"Yeah. I guess so," Wash said again.
In the reddish light that followed, Sink facing away, pallid while his equipment glowed in the changing shadow, and Ash lying like a forest animal, his skin white with grey lines, Wash felt surrounded by dead. He touched Ash's temple, then neck. Ash instinctively brushed at the touch. "Just checking," Wash said quietly.
It began to sound to him like Independents were coming. Ash slept for hours. Sink periodically cried, sounding sometimes as if he were in Wash's ear and sometimes far away. Most of the time he was silent except for his breathing, which caught and stopped occasionally, making Wash's stop, too.
Independents marched through the woods in numbers they had never had. Ships landed and unloaded gun-toting monsters, in Wash's imagination-- all faceless. Those with faces had those of family he knew sympathized with or supported the Independent fighters. In reality all was still, not even a bird song, not even an ant moving. If anything came, if anyone attacked them, he felt Ash could not get up and help him. He would be alone to deal with it and he felt rooted to the ground.
He felt glad the bugs had settled and weren't bothering Sink for the time being.
The night passed. Wash felt he slept, or, he had enough delusions that they might have been dreams. Dawn was cold, but quiet. Nobody stirred. Finally he shook Ash.
"Look you, wake up. If you're alive, for God's sake act like it."
"Yeah yeah I'm up. I've got a problem with whether I'm alive, but if I can fake it a bit you'll have to make do." Ash had black rings around his eyes and mouth. He looked worse than he should have after the same length of time on the ground as Sink and Wash, but then Wash always had a rounded appearance, even when stressed, and Ash always looked like a grim reaper without the hood.
"Look, I'm off," said Ash, weaving on his feet. "Thanks for looking out for me. You'd better leave him and come too."
"What?"
Ash nodded in the direction of Sink. "Leave. Sink. You know, come with me up to the rendezvous point, or just go yourself, whatever."
"What are you talking about? I can't leave him!"
"Well at least you dragged him out of coyote territory. I haven't even looked under that wrapping and I'm telling you, it's time to go. You know it too. You're not as hurt as I am. You could already have beaten me to the point if you hadn't carried Sink along. Time to get his patch and let go."
"You're insane."
"Alright." Ash twitched a bit and glanced around again. Then he seemed to consider his leg. "I might still make it. Seeyaround, I hope. Sink, good to know you."
Sink didn't answer. Whether he was conscious was hard to say. Wash edged over by him and felt his pulse. It seemed weak. Not that he'd know one pulse from another. It was just something to do.
When Wash looked up, Ash was walking. He seemed to get along alright, then his leg would dip out from under him suddenly and he'd jolt forward with the other to catch up. The grey light seemed to be a limbo, not daytime. Wash sat with his hand on Sink's neck, watching.
Sink said so quietly Wash had to strain to hear him, "He gone?"
Wash nodded, then said, "Yes."
Sink nodded. "Well. That's good. He'll make it I guess. He could use help."
"He could?"
"You know it."
"Yeah. Well."
Wash didn't start to drag Sink along again. He just sat. He watched until Ash had staggered out of sight.
Wash took some time with what bites they had for breakfast, fiddled with trying to open a pine nut with a sidearm-- it didn't work and he wasted ammunition-- and went down to the stream for more water, retracing steps and topping off a canteen that hadn't been emptied. He glanced around as if picking a route, though in the locator's indicated direction there was one clear line. Sink hummed an old flying recruitment tune to himself off-key. Sometimes he paused and hissed.
Wash avoided looking at the gunner for some time. When he did, he was surprised to find Sink's eyes on him. He hadn't rolled completely over, but turned his neck until he could face Wash almost full on. They stared at each other, Wash's eyes black and anxious. Sink had a tightness in his mouth, but his hoarse voice and expression were sympathetic. "You haven't got the guts."