Cry Havoc
A little over and a little late, for which I apologize. No beta.
1,050 words.
===
For seven hundred and seventeen days, Book's routine has been the same. The guard would come to his cell door with a bowl of gruel which Book has always refused to eat; then come the sessions with the interrogators, with blue-clad hands and spotless suits. Book always turns away the sandwich offered him for lunch, endures more questioning, varying only in its degree of intensity, and ignores the simple dinner awaiting him in his cell before lights-out.
Book has not eaten solid food for seven hundred and seventeen days; he suspects strongly that he is being fed through an intravenous line as he sleeps, as he has not yet died of starvation.
On the seven hundred and eighteenth day the routine changes; the guard comes to Book's cell, coughs blood into the bowl of gruel, and collapses like a marionette whose strings have been cut.
"The danger in creating an intelligent weapon is that someday it might decide you are the enemy," a familiar voice says in the gloom.
River steps into the light, no longer the helpless, half-there girl Book last saw, more substantial, more solid. She waves a device at the cell door (an electronic hairpin, Book realizes, so illegal he doubts more than a dozen exist in the 'verse), and the bolts on the door pop open.
"Can you walk?" River asks.
"Forty years if need be," Book answers, his voice hoarse, as he staggers to his feet.
"It may take longer than that," River muses, whether to Book or herself he can't tell. She reaches out a hand to him, and as she pulls him up, he is shocked at the strength she has now.
"The block guard," Book rasps in warning as River puts his arm over her shoulder.
"He made his choice," River says sadly as the armored block guard steps into the cell block hallway. The guard raises his weapon, there is a *ping* much like Book used to hear when Kaylee dropped a bolt into her parts bin, and he drops. Inara stands behind him, clad in an interceptor pilot's form-fitting environment suit that somehow makes her look four times more ravishing than the silk finery she has always worn before.
"You shouldn't have come," Book hisses, but he knows it's too late, knows the guards will be coming soon, knows that there's no escape, no hope, no future.
"You didn't think we would leave you behind, Shepherd?" Inara asks, as though to an idiot child, while she comes up to Book's other side and slips an arm around him.
"We had to get you," River says. "Can't start without you. It's about to begin."
"What?" Book asks, and it suddenly hits him that he's had no world of the Earths outside the prison walls since his capture.
"The beginning," River whispers, as though she were imparting a vital secret.
* * *
Book sees nobody as they pass through the corridors to the detention center's roof pad; whether they were diverted on his way out, or disposed of on the way in, he doesn't know and can't bring himself to care.
He flinches when he sees the long-range interceptor on the roof pad, his legs wilting, his heart going cold, but Inara and River don't break stride, carrying him as he stumbles, dragging him right to the vicious-looking aerospace fighter. They strap him into the gunner's seat and clamber into the cockpit; River begins snapping switches and brushing touch panels like a pro, but Inara is almost as fast and just as sure of herself.
The Companion must see Book's shock reflected in the canopy, because she turns to him and smiles. "You're not the only one with a secret past," she says.
Book's reply is drowned out by the scream of scramjets as the interceptor leaps into the black.
* * *
The journey is long, tense, and utterly without incident; at its end, the interceptor spirals down to a freighters' boneyard, home to obsolete Alliance patcoms, troop landers, and freighters of a dozen different types, including at least five derelict Fireflies of various types.
And one Firefly that only a trained eye can tell is still alive. Inara and River put the interceptor down right in front of its loading ramp, and Book strains his eyes and sees the name:
Serenity.
At the ramp, Book sees more faces than his mind can process; faces he knows by reputation, faces to fear, faces to distrust. Off to the side is Badger, bowler hat gone along with his smug expression. Front and center is Sir Warwick Harrow of Persephone, and flanking him, glory be to God, are his flock, the crew of Serenity. Kaylee and Simon, side-by-side, with Jayne behind them, Vera up and ready to fire at his side. On the other side, Wash and Zoe break into smiles, almost as though they'd forgotten how.
Jayne, oddly, is the first to speak. "Knew you were too tough to fold, Preacher," he says, breaking into a wolfish grin and extending a hand.
Book takes it, then blinks as he gets a good look at Jayne's eyes ... or rather the one genuine article and the one eye with the steel-blue tinge of a clonal transplant.
Jayne notices. "Took a shot when we broke River out," he says, as though it were nothing. "Doc does pretty good work."
"That's Alliance tech," Book whispers.
Harrow steps forward. "Half the Alliance is with you now. With us, I suppose you could say."
Zoe nods at his side. "Lot's changed while you were away, Shepherd. War's coming that'll make the Independence War look like a slap-fight."
Nods all around, and when Wash adds "Now we give 'em hell," a chorus of defiant yells starts echoing across the cargo bay.
"No," a voice calls out.
Book is somehow not surprised to know that the voice is River's, but he is startled when everyone in the cargo bay instantly falls silent and turns to listen to her.
"First we go get Mal," River announces, and the crew of Serenity nods their assent. "Then ... then we cry havoc. Then we can begin."
A grim, determined cheer rises up in the cargo bay, and it takes a moment for Book to realize that one of the cheering voices is his own.
He doesn't stop cheering.
fin
1,050 words.
===
For seven hundred and seventeen days, Book's routine has been the same. The guard would come to his cell door with a bowl of gruel which Book has always refused to eat; then come the sessions with the interrogators, with blue-clad hands and spotless suits. Book always turns away the sandwich offered him for lunch, endures more questioning, varying only in its degree of intensity, and ignores the simple dinner awaiting him in his cell before lights-out.
Book has not eaten solid food for seven hundred and seventeen days; he suspects strongly that he is being fed through an intravenous line as he sleeps, as he has not yet died of starvation.
On the seven hundred and eighteenth day the routine changes; the guard comes to Book's cell, coughs blood into the bowl of gruel, and collapses like a marionette whose strings have been cut.
"The danger in creating an intelligent weapon is that someday it might decide you are the enemy," a familiar voice says in the gloom.
River steps into the light, no longer the helpless, half-there girl Book last saw, more substantial, more solid. She waves a device at the cell door (an electronic hairpin, Book realizes, so illegal he doubts more than a dozen exist in the 'verse), and the bolts on the door pop open.
"Can you walk?" River asks.
"Forty years if need be," Book answers, his voice hoarse, as he staggers to his feet.
"It may take longer than that," River muses, whether to Book or herself he can't tell. She reaches out a hand to him, and as she pulls him up, he is shocked at the strength she has now.
"The block guard," Book rasps in warning as River puts his arm over her shoulder.
"He made his choice," River says sadly as the armored block guard steps into the cell block hallway. The guard raises his weapon, there is a *ping* much like Book used to hear when Kaylee dropped a bolt into her parts bin, and he drops. Inara stands behind him, clad in an interceptor pilot's form-fitting environment suit that somehow makes her look four times more ravishing than the silk finery she has always worn before.
"You shouldn't have come," Book hisses, but he knows it's too late, knows the guards will be coming soon, knows that there's no escape, no hope, no future.
"You didn't think we would leave you behind, Shepherd?" Inara asks, as though to an idiot child, while she comes up to Book's other side and slips an arm around him.
"We had to get you," River says. "Can't start without you. It's about to begin."
"What?" Book asks, and it suddenly hits him that he's had no world of the Earths outside the prison walls since his capture.
"The beginning," River whispers, as though she were imparting a vital secret.
* * *
Book sees nobody as they pass through the corridors to the detention center's roof pad; whether they were diverted on his way out, or disposed of on the way in, he doesn't know and can't bring himself to care.
He flinches when he sees the long-range interceptor on the roof pad, his legs wilting, his heart going cold, but Inara and River don't break stride, carrying him as he stumbles, dragging him right to the vicious-looking aerospace fighter. They strap him into the gunner's seat and clamber into the cockpit; River begins snapping switches and brushing touch panels like a pro, but Inara is almost as fast and just as sure of herself.
The Companion must see Book's shock reflected in the canopy, because she turns to him and smiles. "You're not the only one with a secret past," she says.
Book's reply is drowned out by the scream of scramjets as the interceptor leaps into the black.
* * *
The journey is long, tense, and utterly without incident; at its end, the interceptor spirals down to a freighters' boneyard, home to obsolete Alliance patcoms, troop landers, and freighters of a dozen different types, including at least five derelict Fireflies of various types.
And one Firefly that only a trained eye can tell is still alive. Inara and River put the interceptor down right in front of its loading ramp, and Book strains his eyes and sees the name:
Serenity.
At the ramp, Book sees more faces than his mind can process; faces he knows by reputation, faces to fear, faces to distrust. Off to the side is Badger, bowler hat gone along with his smug expression. Front and center is Sir Warwick Harrow of Persephone, and flanking him, glory be to God, are his flock, the crew of Serenity. Kaylee and Simon, side-by-side, with Jayne behind them, Vera up and ready to fire at his side. On the other side, Wash and Zoe break into smiles, almost as though they'd forgotten how.
Jayne, oddly, is the first to speak. "Knew you were too tough to fold, Preacher," he says, breaking into a wolfish grin and extending a hand.
Book takes it, then blinks as he gets a good look at Jayne's eyes ... or rather the one genuine article and the one eye with the steel-blue tinge of a clonal transplant.
Jayne notices. "Took a shot when we broke River out," he says, as though it were nothing. "Doc does pretty good work."
"That's Alliance tech," Book whispers.
Harrow steps forward. "Half the Alliance is with you now. With us, I suppose you could say."
Zoe nods at his side. "Lot's changed while you were away, Shepherd. War's coming that'll make the Independence War look like a slap-fight."
Nods all around, and when Wash adds "Now we give 'em hell," a chorus of defiant yells starts echoing across the cargo bay.
"No," a voice calls out.
Book is somehow not surprised to know that the voice is River's, but he is startled when everyone in the cargo bay instantly falls silent and turns to listen to her.
"First we go get Mal," River announces, and the crew of Serenity nods their assent. "Then ... then we cry havoc. Then we can begin."
A grim, determined cheer rises up in the cargo bay, and it takes a moment for Book to realize that one of the cheering voices is his own.
He doesn't stop cheering.
fin