Fic: In Fernem Land (Firefly/Heroes)
For fan_elune and transtempts, who inspire me.
Simon, River and Adam. PG. The nameless come and go.
but love i cannot
guarantee
safe conduct
through the rubble
of my dreams
- Mervyn Morris, 'Peace-time'
In Fernem Land
'Why are you doing this?'
Through your episodic acquaintance, you have discovered some things about Simon Tam. That he is desperate and out of his depth, and just astute enough to half-realise this. That he is rubbish at holding his drink, marginally better at holding his tongue. That intelligence does not preclude his being easily deceived. That his timing is impeccably awful.
There was a time to ask questions and it was nine days ago. Not now, with an officer's silver decorating the collar of his stolen uniform, that in itself a 20-annum (plus fine and his family's demotion of status) offence, and most of the savings from his short but extremely lucrative medical career already wired to your account. If a man is going to cut loose, this is nearly the opportune moment. Drop the customer right into the authorities' lap.
Luckily for him, you count yourself as more than a petty cut-throat.
'Well, Dr. Tam,' you say, making a steep turn with the shuttle as you begin the landing. You flick the switch to activate the cloned signal identifying a Alliance vessel with top clearance. 'It's like I woke up one day from my cosy but unfulfilling job, and thought, "How can I do some good in this moribund and myopically dysfunctional 'verse?"'
This silences him for a moment, as you knew it would. 'No, you didn't,' he says finally, in a shallow, nervous voice.
'No.' You sigh inwardly. Another thing about Simon Tam: he has no appreciation for irony.
'You forget, Mr. Takezo, that I have met with saboteurs and idealists. They led me to you, after all. You came highly recommended. But you're different.'
'The people who actually get things done, usually are.' For better or for worse.
'Yes,' he agrees, to your surprise. 'I've learnt that too.'
A longer silence this time. You hope Simon isn't thinking of turning back. That would be inconvenient for all involved - especially the little girl. From the space next to his seat where Simon placed it, you pick up the navy officer's cap and hand it to him pointedly with a sideways look. He's sweating, you notice as he jams it on his head, the black hair sticking to the side of his neck in waves.
Below, the landing deck is the size of a doubloon, black "X" in the centre getting larger with every second. Switching back to the controls, you check your speed and altitude.
The voice to your right says: 'I don't know if I can trust you.' Quiet, almost sad. Just audible above the engines. He's speaking into the dashboard, but his back and shoulders are straight. Aloof. 'I don't even know your real name.
'I just want you to know, whatever you plan to do - I don't have a choice. Where River's concerned, it's this or...nothing.'
'Colonel.'
Simon looks up, more in reaction to the sharp note in your voice than to the address of his supposed rank.
'All you need to know is, I'm the man who's going to break your sister out.'
Black hair, tangled and mistreated. A single drop of blood carving its path down the pale forehead. She is a little older, a great deal more damaged, but otherwise unchanged from your recollection.
River shivers in her thin leotard, and her brother gently wraps her in his jacket. She touches the dress blues around her shoulders with spidery fingers; her teeth chatter even more loudly.
'Thorn in their side. Faster and faster until we all fall down. You can't go back.'
She looks you in the eye when she says the last. 'What's going on?' protests Simon.
You put the miniature vacuum down, and, without removing your kid leather gloves, tip the packet of forensics - hair and skin, none of it yours - over the pilot's seat and controls area. Let them chase a ghost; that's all you'll be to them. To River, you say: 'Are we talking about me, Experiment 901?'
'Many names. Experiment 214. Adam of Amsterdam and London.' You blink. Suddenly she is right in front of you, present in more than just her body; the back of her hand brushes your cheek.
You draw a deep breath, say: 'You two have to go now.' She nods, hand not leaving your face.
'I still have work to do.'
27 August 2008
Simon, River and Adam. PG. The nameless come and go.
but love i cannot
guarantee
safe conduct
through the rubble
of my dreams
- Mervyn Morris, 'Peace-time'
In Fernem Land
'Why are you doing this?'
Through your episodic acquaintance, you have discovered some things about Simon Tam. That he is desperate and out of his depth, and just astute enough to half-realise this. That he is rubbish at holding his drink, marginally better at holding his tongue. That intelligence does not preclude his being easily deceived. That his timing is impeccably awful.
There was a time to ask questions and it was nine days ago. Not now, with an officer's silver decorating the collar of his stolen uniform, that in itself a 20-annum (plus fine and his family's demotion of status) offence, and most of the savings from his short but extremely lucrative medical career already wired to your account. If a man is going to cut loose, this is nearly the opportune moment. Drop the customer right into the authorities' lap.
Luckily for him, you count yourself as more than a petty cut-throat.
'Well, Dr. Tam,' you say, making a steep turn with the shuttle as you begin the landing. You flick the switch to activate the cloned signal identifying a Alliance vessel with top clearance. 'It's like I woke up one day from my cosy but unfulfilling job, and thought, "How can I do some good in this moribund and myopically dysfunctional 'verse?"'
This silences him for a moment, as you knew it would. 'No, you didn't,' he says finally, in a shallow, nervous voice.
'No.' You sigh inwardly. Another thing about Simon Tam: he has no appreciation for irony.
'You forget, Mr. Takezo, that I have met with saboteurs and idealists. They led me to you, after all. You came highly recommended. But you're different.'
'The people who actually get things done, usually are.' For better or for worse.
'Yes,' he agrees, to your surprise. 'I've learnt that too.'
A longer silence this time. You hope Simon isn't thinking of turning back. That would be inconvenient for all involved - especially the little girl. From the space next to his seat where Simon placed it, you pick up the navy officer's cap and hand it to him pointedly with a sideways look. He's sweating, you notice as he jams it on his head, the black hair sticking to the side of his neck in waves.
Below, the landing deck is the size of a doubloon, black "X" in the centre getting larger with every second. Switching back to the controls, you check your speed and altitude.
The voice to your right says: 'I don't know if I can trust you.' Quiet, almost sad. Just audible above the engines. He's speaking into the dashboard, but his back and shoulders are straight. Aloof. 'I don't even know your real name.
'I just want you to know, whatever you plan to do - I don't have a choice. Where River's concerned, it's this or...nothing.'
'Colonel.'
Simon looks up, more in reaction to the sharp note in your voice than to the address of his supposed rank.
'All you need to know is, I'm the man who's going to break your sister out.'
Black hair, tangled and mistreated. A single drop of blood carving its path down the pale forehead. She is a little older, a great deal more damaged, but otherwise unchanged from your recollection.
River shivers in her thin leotard, and her brother gently wraps her in his jacket. She touches the dress blues around her shoulders with spidery fingers; her teeth chatter even more loudly.
'Thorn in their side. Faster and faster until we all fall down. You can't go back.'
She looks you in the eye when she says the last. 'What's going on?' protests Simon.
You put the miniature vacuum down, and, without removing your kid leather gloves, tip the packet of forensics - hair and skin, none of it yours - over the pilot's seat and controls area. Let them chase a ghost; that's all you'll be to them. To River, you say: 'Are we talking about me, Experiment 901?'
'Many names. Experiment 214. Adam of Amsterdam and London.' You blink. Suddenly she is right in front of you, present in more than just her body; the back of her hand brushes your cheek.
You draw a deep breath, say: 'You two have to go now.' She nods, hand not leaving your face.
'I still have work to do.'
27 August 2008