Firefly - Coup de Grâce E-Book

Una McCormack

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Seitenzahl: 375

Beschreibung

The Serenity lands on the remote moon of Abel for a lucrative job but becomes embroiled in a young woman's quest for vengeance and a starving frontier town's fight for survival. Join Mal and the gang in this enthralling original tie-in novel from the award-winning series. The Serenity crew head to Yell City, one of the settlements on Abel, a moon in the Rim. Their job: track down the killers of a local lawyer shot dead in the streets by a local gang. Their client is Annie Roberts, the eighteen year old daughter of the murdered man. Lucky for them, Annie Roberts is more than capable of handling herself. Unlucky for them, the job is lot more complicated than they first think. Annie's father is not just the victim of local gang violence, but the target of some powerful men. Taking down a local gang is one thing, but cleaning up a whole city? That's not a job for the Serenity crew. But when their ship is impounded, and Mal and the crew find themselves trapped in Yell City, they realise they are already in deeper than they could have ever imagined…

Leseprobe

CONTENTS

Cover

Also Available from Titan Books

Title Page

Leave Us a Review

Copyright

Dedication

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

Acknowledgements

About the Author

COUP DE GRÂCE

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Firefly: Coup de GrâceHardback edition ISBN: 9781789098372E-book edition ISBN: 9781789098426

Published by Titan BooksA division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UPwww.titanbooks.com

First edition: July 202310 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

© 2023 20th Television. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

Printed and bound by CPI (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY

For Amy H. Sturgis

From the journal of Anne Imelda Roberts

You may call it unlikely that a girl of my age and size might find herself out in wild country chasing her daddy’s killer with a cut-price ragtag band of rebels, and if you won’t take my word there’s always the sheriff’s report, should you care to read that kind of thing. My name is Anne Imelda Roberts—Annie to those who care to call me ‘friend’—and I was eighteen years old when the events I describe here occurred. Eighteen years old, suddenly all on my own, unsure who I could count upon. Turns out friends can be found in unexpected places, and don’t always look the way you might expect. If there’s a lesson to this story, then perhaps that’s what I learned.

But that is starting at the end, and perhaps I should start at the beginning. Our family was an old one on Abel. Daddy’s granddaddy came here when the world was opening up, and made a tidy fortune, and none of us have squandered it, though my daddy’s pockets were deep when he saw folks in need. I have been left more than comfortable, and there are still many on Abel right now who cannot say that.

My daddy, Isaac Roberts, was Abel-born and Abel-bred, which counts. I don’t hold those few years away at the Core against him, and nor should you. On the contrary, the Core was where he met Mamma, Alicia, and if he hadn’t met Mamma, they wouldn’t have had me. I call that a blessing. Other folks have opinions of their own. There are some in Yell City right now who might say that my being born was a good thing, and others might say something to the contrary, but those are the kind of folks always looking to blame another for their bad fortune. I’ll say this now, and let me be plain: none of what happened over those few days was my fault, and if people expected me to behave any differently, they didn’t know my mamma and they certainly didn’t know my daddy.

Daddy was a good man, by which I mean he trusted people who were not worthy of his trust. I will never make that mistake, and I would say that the events of those few days have proven to me the wisdom of this. Mamma, when she was alive, used to say that Daddy was a fool to everyone and himself most of all. She was in no way a mean woman—quite the contrary, in fact, everyone always said she was like summer in the mountains—but I suspect that even she must surely have found Daddy a trial at times. Always taking on cases that wouldn’t bring in a penny, because of some sob story or other. A big heart, people said to me after he died, as if that’s enough to pay one’s way in the world, enough to protect you from those whose hearts have shriveled away to nothing.

Maybe I should start with the last few days of my daddy’s life, even if that comes painful to me. And to tell you about those days, I must make clear straight away that Daddy was, above all, a man of the law. He loved the law, by which I mean laws made by men and women, and seeing the right thing done was the centerpiece of his life. Well, the truth of this ’verse is that there ain’t no law but God’s law, and that truth isn’t always clear. In the end, what is clear is my daddy was not wise to put his trust in the law of mortals. In the end, we all stand before Our Heavenly Father, and it is by him that we are held account for all we have said and done in our days. What I will say, however, is that sometimes there’s no harm in giving His law a helping hand along the way, as I believe this tale of mine once told will show.

My daddy went to the Core to do his training, and when he came home to Abel (bringing Mamma), he set up in Yell City. At first folks were not sure what to make of him—Abel-born, yes, but sent off to the Core to do his studying, and coming back with a Core-born wife—in the early days, persuading people to let him represent them was a struggle. That changed when he defended a group of folks living in one of them tenements down near the space docks who were under threat of eviction. They didn’t have anything to their names, but Daddy took on the case anyway, not only did he stop their landlord from throwing them out on the street, he even got written into their lease that the building should be properly maintained, so the landlord couldn’t let the place fall to ruin and say they must leave on account of safety. Daddy won—of course he won—and his victory was a big deal in Yell City: changed how a few things were done round here (although Daddy would be the first to say ‘not enough’). The case changed everything for Daddy too. Word went round ordinary folk that this was a decent man who cared for those who found themselves in trouble through no fault of their own. Many’s the time that a fellow and his family, in trouble with the bank or the landlord, came to my daddy, and found themselves with a few weeks’ grace (and more often than not a good few credits). Daddy had a knack for finding loopholes and letting the light shine through.

So his practice was always busy—if not always profitable— and between his own fortune and the money Mamma brought with her from the Core, I daresay we did more than fine. By the time of Daddy’s death, Mamma was long gone. He and I rubbed along together very nicely: him busy with his legal practice, and me doing the books, running the house, and keeping an eye on his diary. So I knew, of course, about the case that was coming up. In the three weeks before my daddy died, it seemed as though every evening, right when Daddy and I settled down for some talk or a game or two of checkers, the bell would ring, and poor Daddy—who didn’t have a moment to himself all day—would haul himself up from his armchair and take himself off into his study for yet another late-night meeting. He was busier than ever in recent years, what with the drought happening and so many farms failing and folks in need of his help. And sometimes the folks that came weren’t so humble. That night, it was Monseigneur de Cecille (yes, we were honored by a visit by that great man). The Monseigneur came with two or three others—rich fellas, local money—and from what I heard (I would not stoop to listening at the door, although I did happen to pass along the corridor outside the study a coupla times), it was a jovial occasion. I heard Monseigneur’s deep booming laugh again and again. It was well after midnight when they left, stumbling out to their fancy hovercars, stinking of whisky, their drivers running out from our kitchen to cart them home. My daddy, looking at me hazily, said, “Oh, Annie, I ain’t sure I been wise.”

I can’t rightly tell you whether he simply meant the liquor or something else, but I knew the case was coming, and I guess knowing what I know now I should have seen that it was going to be big. A smallholder named Jacky Colson—who had lost his farm to the bank—was trying to win his land back. Exactly the kinda case my daddy took on: small chance of success and even smaller chance of remuneration. “I won the lottery when it came to inheritance, Annie,” he would say to me. “A fellow’s gotta do some good with everything they’ve been given.”

Still, even knowing what I knew, I didn’t connect the case at first with what happened, not least because it was more than a month before the hearings were due to start. The day of my daddy’s death, so far as I was concerned, was an ordinary day— particularly pleasant for autumn, but not so grueling as that summer had been. I decided I might as well go for a walk that afternoon. Daddy and I had a cheerful breakfast, and I sent him on his way to his office, me telling him not to give away all our money, him telling me not to get into trouble. He kissed the top of my head, and off he went, whistling.

That was my last sight of him.

After he left, I took myself to my desk, where I wrote to Mamma’s sister back on Londinium, giving her the news from Abel. After Mamma died, my aunt suggested I should go and live with her, and at first Daddy was of a mind to send me, saying how much he’d learned out there, and how much I might benefit from the experience, but I was having none of that. Leave Abel? Daddy? Never. Plenty to keep me busy. Daddy’s practice, for one, not to mention helping more and more around town. Many folks were in a bad way, farms failing, forcing them into the city, but there weren’t enough jobs or places to live, and plenty were struggling. Lending a hand there was taking up more and more of my time: writing and asking the great and good of the city for money; helping out some charitable people that were getting clothes and other necessaries out to these people. My days were busier than ever, which speaks to the need on Abel at that time.

Mid-morning, I went for a walk around the park on the corner, which was looking sorry these days. Another hot summer had left the flowerbeds parched dry, and there hadn’t been anywhere near enough rain as yet this autumn. Place still dry as a bone, and I saw a couple of tents at one end too. That worried me. Last couple of winters had been particularly hard, snow even here in our part of the county. Those folks didn’t want to be outdoors and freezin’ when the snows came. Things weren’t right on Abel at that time, that was for sure, although I didn’t know how wrong they were, nor how close to home everything would soon be. I got home to find the hall full of a dozen sacks of clothes and other essentials from the collection drive I’d organized the previous week. My afternoon would be busy with Maisie (that’s the maid), sortin’ through what we’d got to pass along to folks in need. I had just finished lunch when I heard the bell ring. Maisie came back from the door and said, “Miss Annie, there’s two fellas from the sheriff’s office here to see you.”

She brought ’em in—them holdin’ their hats in front of them, the younger one not quite meeting my eye. I guess I knew then what they was there to tell me. You get a feeling about that kind of thing. I thought at first there must have been an accident, but it was worse than that. Much, much worse. Daddy’d been shot—in broad daylight, on Main Street, on the very steps of his office, and these men weren’t here to take me to the hospital. They were there to take me to the morgue.

* * *

Over a dozen people saw my daddy’s murder, happening as it did in broad daylight on Main Street, and half-a-dozen of them witnesses could name his killer: Young Bill Fincher. Some folks— my daddy was one—would say you shouldn’t speak ill of others, but in the case of the young man who murdered Daddy, I believe I’ll say whatever I choose, and I say now, and this comes from first-hand experience of the fellow, that he was nothing more than a piece of junk, something you would find on the sole of your shoe and hold your nose while you wiped it away. There are words I could use to describe that boy, but I shall not lower myself to his level by saying them. Even now, I can hear Daddy resting his hand upon my good arm, and saying, “Annie, love, that ain’t fair. You must think of where he came from, and you must think of his troubles. Life ain’t been easy for that young man.” To that I say, I too have had my share of griefs and losses, but none of them have turned me into junk.

Do you see what I mean about Daddy? Bill Fincher was the kind of fellow would come to him with a sob story to which Daddy would listen; indeed he’d saved Bill Fincher from the lock-up three or four times already, spoken for him in court, and all without earning a peck of platinum for his efforts. And this is how that man repaid him. I wouldn’t say Young Bill Fincher was born bad, for that’s for the Lord to judge and the Lord alone, but I feel no compunction in saying that he was born weak. That in itself doesn’t mean a child cannot be saved, for with the right guidance anyone can make something good of themselves. But it’s plain to all to see that there was no strong nor firm hand to guide Bill Fincher onto the right path. Quite the contrary, before he’d reached his teens he was known throughout the area as a thief and a rustler, and now he was eighteen with a murder under his belt. That boy was lost before he started.

Young Bill Fincher arrived at my daddy’s office a little before noon, most likely already the worse for wear since he had, by several separate accounts, been in Malley’s across the street since it opened. From what I understand (since there was no appointment with Fincher booked in Daddy’s diary, and Daddy had not mentioned to me that he would be seeing him), he had come to speak to Daddy about a matter concerning his mamma’s farm, which, like many such homesteads on Abel those days, was in trouble on account of the drought and those hard frosts we’d been getting. That, at least, was what he told Sadie Ryan, my daddy’s secretary, although I quickly had my own suspicions about the truth of this. Poor Sadie, whom I hold in no way responsible for what happened next, saw the state of Fincher and the nasty gleam in his eye (I said he was junk), and knocked on my daddy’s door.

“I tried to warn him,” she told me later. “But you know your daddy—Mister Roberts, I mean. ‘Send him in,’ he said. ‘I’m here to help.’”

So in the assassin went, by invitation, and we do not know in detail what transpired between them in the room, since the door was closed, and Daddy had thickened the glass on the door to make sure that his clients had privacy. After about ten minutes— certainly not more—the door swung open, and Fincher came stumbling out, his voice all slurred, and shouting, “It ain’t good enough! It ain’t nowhere near good enough! I have friends, you know! Friends in high places!” Sadie said that Daddy was calm, unruffled, saying to Fincher, “You keep a cool head, son. I know this ain’t the news you wanted to hear, but we’ll find a way.” Fincher, stormed out of the office, Daddy following behind—and the next thing Sadie heard was a pistol being fired. Young Bill Fincher didn’t hold back. Daddy must have known for a split second that he was shot, and that he weren’t going to make it, but from what I understand (and folks ain’t got no reason to be kind to me) he went quick and weren’t in much pain. Fincher was off like a bullet. I do not know if anyone tried to apprehend him, and I suspect not. Sadie, running out onto the street, held my daddy while he died. I guess that counts as a blessing.

When those two young men from the sheriff’s office came to tell me what had happened, and who had done the deed, I absented myself to visit the bathroom, where I cried and cried and cried. I loved my daddy so much, and I knew that, prickly as I could be, he loved me exactly as I was, because I was his girl, his and Mamma’s. I thought how losing him was like losing her all over again, all those memories of her that he had as a young woman. It was like Bill Fincher had stolen them both.

Hate isn’t good for you, but I hated that boy, and it was only the fact that we knew who the killer was that brought me any relief. I thought, at least we’ll soon have that fellow behind bars, and after that I’ll see him hang. If only that had been the case. Those that got in the way of justice have only themselves to blame for everything that came next. Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord, but a little earthly help jogging things along doesn’t do any harm.

But Fincher weren’t behind bars, not that day, nor the next, nor the one after, nor the one after that, and nor was he by the time it came for my daddy to be buried.

That was a hard day, hardest of my life so far, even counting when Mamma died, because I was small at the time of the accident that killed her, and because Daddy was there.

Now I was on my own.

I have not been much of a one for travelling, but I dare say that there is no place better in the ’verse than this good world of Abel on a clear autumn morning. This morning was glorious, showing proper respect for Daddy. I wouldn’t believe that even Earth-That-Was could have put on as pretty a display of color. The trees decked out in their best, like soldiers in dress uniform or ladies in their finery. Old Man Sun himself out, tipping his hat like he does in the children’s rhyme, so warm one might even call it unseasonable. I did not see any wildflowers, but we cannot ask for everything. This, then, was the day we buried my daddy—Isaac Roberts, father, husband, and lawman—a bright morning at the start of the fall. A fine day for a fine man—this is what I always tell myself. I must admit it ain’t much in the way of consolation, but you have to take what you can in this ’verse. They say that Earth-That-Was turned dry as dust and bare as bone before the end. Each day and night I thank the Lord Almighty I was born on Abel.

Six white horses pulled the carriage carrying my daddy’s coffin, all wearing silver harnesses, each animal plumed with two black feathers. I was in the carriage behind, with Monseigneur and Madame de Cecille. Outside our house, the road was quiet, but when we came down onto Main Street, I saw that each side of the street was lined—threedeep—with people, ordinary people, from across the divides in Yell City. There had been bad blood between the city folks and the incomers, the farmer folk, in recent months, but all were united that day in wanting to pay their respects to my daddy, Isaac Roberts.

There were faces I recognized, folks whom Daddy had helped, who had next to nothing, and yet had put on their finest. Oh, but how threadbare were some of them suits of clothes, and how thin and pinched were some of their faces. Something was wrong on Abel, something was out of balance, and my daddy being murdered was the latest proof of that. Anyone with their eyes open and half a brain in their head could look down Main Street and see the signs: boarded-up buildings, paint cracking and peeling from the heat of the summer, graffiti everywhere. Folks weren’t happy, and they were finding a way to have their say.

I saw too how some people were trying to paper over the cracks. Every single one of them buildings on Main Street, even the ones that had been shuttered and their businesses gone to the wall, was decked out in white flowers. I will say here and now (and I am not simply saying this because of what came after), that I was not particularly happy at the sight of such expense. Seemed a mighty great extravagance to me, but Monseigneur and Madame, whom my father called his good old friends, insisted that a man such as Daddy deserved recognition, and before I knew it, the arrangements were out of my hands and the money spent. Well, it was their money to do with as they saw fit, although I myself might have put more in the way of those poor people lining the streets. It ain’t a thing to be proud of, on a world like ours, to see folks struggling. And yet still they came out, to pay respects to Daddy. I saw men take off and hold their hats before them as our cortege went by; I saw women curtsy. And I saw tears, yes, heavens above, I saw plenty of tears that day, and on the faces of hard men, who’d seen bad things done in the war and after, whom I don’t think are much in the habit of weeping. I would say there weren’t a man in the whole of Yell City as loved as well as my daddy, for all the good it did for him.

Madame de Cecille was right beside me that day, and her grief: good Lord! You mighta thought it was her own father she was burying! I don’t know how many lacy white handkerchiefs that woman used that day, but I have never owned so many in my life. I saw tears spot the satin of her dress, and got to thinking how much that would cost to clean. I was in plain black; I ain’t much of a one for show. When the service was done we went back out to the carriages, and Madame de Cecille took hold of my good arm, refusing to let go, all whilst we committed my poor daddy’s mortal remains to the good soil of Abel. The whole time, she was murmuring, “You poor child… Your poor child…”

I know that it was kindly meant, but I was fair sick of the sight of the woman. “Madame,” I said. “I’d like a moment alone now with my daddy.”

Praise God, she left me in peace. I stood for a little while, thinking. I prayed of course, asking Our Heavenly Father, the last Judge and Redeemer of us all, to stand beside me as I went in search of justice. I asked him to guard me from all ills, and to smite my enemies. And I made a promise too. I said, “Daddy, the fella that did this wicked thing to you—he’s walking free right now, and that ain’t right. I swear to you, I swear in the sight of the Lord God Himself, who sees all and knows all and weighs the balance of our actions, that Bill Fincher will pay for this.”

That might sound to you like a dangerous thing to say, but I don’t make a promise lightly, and when I do, I move heaven and earth to keep my word. I wouldn’t make myself a liar. You use your own judgement as to whether that promise was kept. Myself, I know I rest easy at night.

There ain’t much comfort to be taken at the sight of your daddy’s coffin lying there in the ground, and after a while I started to feel lonesome. I said another little prayer—it seemed the right thing to do—and I thought about life without him; my goodness but that did make me feel low. I was giving myself a good hard shake, for what was there to be done about that, when I felt a hand upon my shoulder.

“Annie.”

I turned and saw the mayor. Mary McQuinn. I did not know her well. She was new to the job and had not visited the house. I knew that Daddy had met her several times in the course of his daily business, and he spoke kindly of her, but then my daddy spoke kindly of everyone.

“I’m so sorry about your father,” she said. If I had a grain of salt for each time someone said that to me during that week, you’d mistake me for Lot’s wife. I guess she saw a little of that in my face, as she went on, “But I think you’ve heard that enough already. I want to make a promise to you.”

“A promise?”

“We’re going to find who did this, and we’re going to bring him to justice.”

“Is that so?” I said, and she looked mighty surprised to hear me.

“Why yes, Annie, that is so—”

“Because it’s been almost a week now, and you and I and everyone on Abel knows who did this deed, and yet still he’s running around free.”

She didn’t answer straight away. And that was the moment that I thought, they’re none of them going to help me. Not one of them has the will to do this.

“I learned a lesson long ago,” I said. “That if you want a job doing, you do it yourself.”

“Annie,” she said. “We don’t know each other well. But when I make a promise, I mean it. We’ll get that fella Fincher.”

“I ain’t got any grounds to disbelieve you,” says I. “But I ain’t got grounds to believe you neither. So where does that leave me?”

“Annie,” she said, her voice becoming stern. “I hope you’re not getting ideas—”

“Ideas?”

“I’m not going to let this pass.”

“Talk’s cheap,” I told her. “I want action.”

“You’ll see action,” she said. “I know you ain’t got reason to listen to my advice, but I’m going to give it anyway. Leave this alone. I said justice will be done, and it will.” She looked down at the ground. “Ain’t no need to go complicating matters any more than they already are.”

I will say here and now that if she had simply stopped talking a mite sooner, I would most likely have been persuaded to leave well alone. But no, she had to go and add that last. Complicating matters indeed. As if I was some child, messing about in the business of her elders and betters. He was my daddy!

“I thank you for your advice, Madame Mayor,” I said, and I think she caught the chill in my voice because it would have frozen blood, “and I’ll take it under consideration.”

“I hope you do,” she said. “You’ll find, you know, that you have friends where don’t expect ’em. If you keep an open mind.”

“I ain’t in need of friends, Madame Mayor,” I told her. “I’m in need of justice.”

“I understand.”

“I think,” I said, “I’d like to be alone now.”

“Of course.” Before she went, she said, “You come to me if you need help.”

She left me staring down at the grave.

The diggers were starting to fill it in now. I watched them work. That talk with the mayor had set wheels turning in mind. More and more, I was starting to think that something wasn’t right here. Something out of season. After a while, I made a few decisions, and I turned to go. I was expected at the house for the wake, but I didn’t head that way. Why would I want to hear everyone saying their piece, making a fuss? I didn’t want to hear stories about Daddy. Daddy was dead, and he weren’t coming back, and stories about him weren’t going to help do that. I’ll say now what I said to Mayor McQuinn, that what mattered most to me was finding Daddy’s killers and seeing them punished. Justice mattered to Daddy too, of course—although I daresay he was more of a one for mercy. As God is my witness, there ain’t much mercy in me.

So I didn’t go home. Still in my mourning clothes, I marched back into town, down along Main Street, looking sorrier than ever now the flowers were fading, and straight into the sheriff’s office to get some answers to all my questions. In fairness, Sheriff Ned Peters did not keep me waiting. That is about the best that I can say of the man, who was in the habit of treating me like a child. Folks do that sometimes with people like me. But I ain’t a child and I ain’t been since Mamma died.

“Miss Annie,” he said, taking my good arm, “won’t you sit?”

It ain’t right for a man to touch a woman uninvited, but people seem to think they can take these liberties. I shrugged my shoulder, and he took the hint, moving that paw of his off of me. I sat in the chair he offered, removed my hat, and rested it upon my lap.

“Young Bill Fincher,” I said.

“What about him?” said the sheriff.

“He ain’t in jail.”

“No, Miss Annie, he ain’t.”

“And I’d like to hear straight from the horse’s mouth why not.”

I think he could see that the only way I was leaving that room without answers was if he dragged me out by the hair, so he sighed and settled back in his chair. “It ain’t simply Fincher,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“Fincher’s running with Frankie Collier these days. We move on Fincher means we move on the whole gang.”

“Not before time,” I said. They’d been making life a misery for folks in some of the small towns, as if life wasn’t hard enough at that time. “So when are you doing that?”

“We ain’t,” he said.

“You ain’t? Well, sir, I think I’d like to know why—”

“Miss Annie,” he said, and I know exasperation when I hear it since I hear it often enough, “you seen the state of this city these days?”

“I ain’t a fool. I know there’s more trouble than there used to be.”

“All these folks coming in from the sticks. Vagrants—” It weren’t their fault that the weather was bad. And it didn’t help tarring everyone with the same brush. He musta caught my look. “Not that everyone’s the same, of course.”

“Too much liquor about,” I said, eyeing the flask on his desk.

“That certainly don’t help. But whatever the cause, it’s all I can do at the moment to keep these streets quiet and safe—”

“Daddy was shot dead in broad daylight. You ain’t even doing that.”

Oh, the look he gave me then. But I ain’t scared of men like that. They’re weak, and I ain’t.

“What I’m tryna tell you, miss, is that I ain’t got neither the men nor the money to take on the Collier gang. If Young Bill Fincher is fool enough to come back into the city alone, then I’ll make my move on him, I promise you. Until then—I can’t go sending men out after Collier and his people. I got enough on my plate here.”

I sat for a minute or two and thought about what he’d told me. And I said, “I’ll pay.”

“You’ll what now?”

“I want justice,” I said.

“As do we all. Your daddy was a fine man—”

“And I’m willing to pay to see it done.”

“Miss Annie,” he said, shaking his head, “a sheriff can’t take money. That ain’t right and you know that.”

“I ain’t talking about you,” I said. “I’ll pay for someone to find Young Bill Fincher and bring him back. You tell me the name of the man for the job, and I’ll pay him to have justice done.”

He gaped at me like I’d told him I wanted to buy an elephant or maybe Londinium itself.

“You must know men who could do this job.”

“I guess,” he said.

“Then tell me their names.”

“There’s… Oh, Miss Annie, you can’t be serious about this—”

“Sheriff Peters,” I said. “My daddy was shot in broad daylight and his killer’s still strutting around scot-free. There must be consequences, so tell me their names.”

After a moment, he gave in. Toldya he was weak. “Well, there’s Moody Jones,” he said. “He cleared up over on Jacinta after Unification. Took down Cain O’Leary; didn’t get the older brother, mind you. Moody’s a good man and god-fearing. You would not go wrong with him.”

Why, I thought, would I want to hire someone who only got the younger brother?

“Looks like you might prefer someone else,” said the sheriff. He thought for a while. “I guess you could look up Tad Rourke. Likes his drink but not on the job. Best shot in these four systems.”

Neither of these fellows was exactly firing me up. One missed his man and the other didn’t miss a tipple. “Anyone else?”

He sighed. “There’s one other fellow. Mal Reynolds. You know, I can’t rightly say whether he’s fool or hero, but he don’t give up ’til the job’s done.” He thought for a minute. “I’d say that Moody Jones is the man for you. He’ll play fair by you.”

I said, “Where do I find this Mal Reynolds?”

At the precise moment his name was being invoked, Mal Reynolds was being utterly destroyed by a teenage girl. Her brother, looking up smugly from his plate of noodles nodded over at the checkerboard. “Told you not to take her on. I haven’t beaten her since she was five years old.”

Mal gave Simon the sourest of looks. “And I imagine that you were Mister High-and-Mighty Inter-Core All-Collegiate Checkers Champion,” he said bitterly. He watched River’s right hand, which had been hovering over the board like a vengeful god getting ready to smite, went and did its smiting, collecting up three more of Mal’s pieces.

“Actually,” said Simon, in that picky tone that was all but inviting a smitin’ in turn, “no, I wasn’t—”

River, looking up from the board, gave Mal a scornful look. Wŏ de mā, when did this girl get so sassy? She saw off one bounty hunter, she thought she was queen of the whole gorram ship. “Simon wasn’t checkers champion,” said River. “Checkers is a child’s game.”

“Thank you kindly,” said Mal.

“Simon was chess champion,” she finished, with considerable pride.

Mal moved his hand toward one of his pieces. River’s eyes followed the motion like a vulture waiting for a dying man to corpsify. Mal moved his hand back. River smiled. This was what he got for making an effort. For trying to be nice. A quick game of checkers, and it was turning out to be the most gorram stupid idea in a ’verse not short in general on gorram stupid ideas. Mal moved one of the pieces, quickly. River laughed. No, that weren’t a laugh. River cackled. Sometimes this kid seemed like some kinda gorram witch. At least, thought Mal, she was on their side…

“Checkers is fine,” said Jayne, coring an apple with his pocket-knife. “It’s chess ain’t a man’s game.”

“River beats me at chess too,” said Simon, in the mildest of voices. “You’re welcome to challenge her to checkers, Jayne. In fact, you’re welcome to challenge her to anything.”

Mal, listening closely to this exchange, looked over at Jayne. Jayne, catching his eye, scowled back. What you gonna say back, huh, Jayne? You gonna push? You looking for another date with an airlock? ’Cause I’m ready and waiting…

“Huh.” Jayne bit deep into his apple. “I ain’t interested in kids’ stuff.”

“That’s good,” said Simon, turning back to his plate of food. “Because I’m not interested in either.”

Mal looked approvingly at Simon. Seemed like he was getting the hang of things. Standing up for himself. Mal couldn’t always be there and, besides, he wasn’t always minded to help Simon. Simon Tam had caused him a whole ’verse of trouble.

River finished him off, and Mal, against both wisdom and experience, consented to another game. That didn’t take long either. Soon Jayne was cackling too, and Simon was smiling, presumably enjoying the sight of someone else losing to his baby sister. The match was heading toward the inevitable, brutal endgame when Zoë walked in.

“Zoë,” said Mal, turning to her in relief. “Something to report?”

Zoë, folding her arms, looked down at the board. “That little girl still beating you, sir?”

“Uh-huh,” said Mal.

“And yet you keep right on coming back for more?”

“Uh-huh,” said Mal.

“It ain’t a pretty sight,” said Jayne. “But it’s gorram funny.”

“Well, I ain’t never been mistaken for pretty,” said Mal. “Something in particular you wanted, Zoë? Something pressing, maybe, requires my immediate and undivided attention?”

“A message for you on the Cortex.”

“That’ll do fine,” said Mal. “It ain’t someone offering me money, is it?” He didn’t mean that, of course. People didn’t get up one morning and decide to offer him money .

“As a matter of fact, yes,” said Zoë.

“Yes?” said Mal.

“Someone wants us for a job,” said Zoë. “Asking for you by name.”

“By name?” said Mal. His reputation musta gone before him. He wasn’t sure whether to be pleased or troubled.

“What’s the catch?” said Jayne. “There’s gotta be a catch.”

“Isn’t asking for Mal by name the catch?” said Simon. Well, that was gratitude for you, thought Mal. He could fight all his own gorram battles in future.

“Is there a catch, Zoë?” said Mal.

“Not that I can see,” said Zoë. “You want to listen for yourself?”

Mal followed her to the cockpit, the others tagging behind, where she played back the message. A young woman—looked about the same age as River, Mal thought—was addressing him. She was thin, with a rather strained expression that, combined with her hair scraped back from her brow, made her look uncomfortably like one of the schoolmistresses whom Mal had habitually disobeyed as a boy. “Captain Malcolm Reynolds,” said the young woman. “My name is Anne Imelda Roberts. I live in Yell City on the world of Abel, and I am looking for someone to bring a killer to justice.”

“We can do that,” said Jayne.

“Depends on what she’s offering,” said Mal.

“I’m offering two hundred platinum.”

“Gŏu shĭ!” exclaimed Simon, who didn’t, as a rule, swear.

The others stared at him.

“You’ve been hangin’ around with bad company, doc,” said Zoë. “Oughta get yourself some better friends.”

“Well, it’s a lot, isn’t it?” said Simon.

“You’re not wrong there,” Mal said. Cover a few outstanding debts, and there’d likely be enough spare to replace the catalyzer for the starboard compression coil. Kaylee had been fretting about that ever since the port one blew, and since Mal wasn’t mighty keen to go through that whole near-death experience again, he’d been planning to give the girl what she wanted soon as the opportunity arose.

“Gotta be a catch,” muttered Jayne.

“Captain Reynolds, sir—my daddy was killed a week ago. Everyone knows who the killer is, but nobody’s making a move to arrest him. Sheriff Peters here in Yell City says that in these troubled times he cannot spare the men. And since that is the case, I must find someone myself to get this job done. This is where we are on Abel now, and in the name of the Good Lord it’s a sorry state of affairs.”

Mal glanced at Zoë and Jayne, who both looked unconcerned. Track a man down and bring him to justice? No problem with a job like that. Well within their capabilities. Was there really no catch?

“Captain Reynolds, sir, I’ve been told that you are both a fool and ahero—”

Jayne guffawed; Simon laughed too. Nice to see some amity there at last, Mal supposed; a pity it came at his expense.

“—andthe truth of the matter is that I don’t care either way. Because the word is you don’t give up ’til the job is done. That’s what I want, and I’ll pay for that privilege. So I’m hopin’ you’ll come to Abel, to Yell City, and together we’ll see justice done.”

“There has got to be a catch,” said Jayne.

“I have one condition.”

“Here it comes,” said Simon.

“I want to come along with you. I want to see the moment when you take Bill Fincher. I want to see his face when he knows his crimes have caught up with him. That’s my condition, and there ain’t no pay without it. I hope to hear from you soon and I pray for your safe journey here.”

The message ended.

“Fool, eh, Mal?” said Jayne.

“The young lady also said the word ‘hero’,” Mal pointed out.

“I guess everyone’s capable of one really bad error of judgement,” said Simon.

“Are we going, sir?” said Zoë.

“For that amount? You’re gorram right we are,” said Mal. “You, me, Jayne—between us we can bring one man to justice.”

“And don’t forget Miss Roberts,” said Simon. “She was very clear on that point.”

“She don’t look old, sir,” said Zoë, doubtfully.

Mal glanced over at River. She was holding checker pieces in each hand: two white in the left hand, two black in the right, as if weighing them against each other. “Reverse,” she said. “Everything is going in reverse.”

Jayne shook his head at the sight. “Gorram kids… This girl, this Annie. She’ll be more trouble’n she’s worth, I bet.”

“You’re more trouble’n you’re worth, Jayne,” Mal shot back. “But I keep you ’round nonetheless. Anyways,” he went on, “we all of us here have reason to know that youth ain’t always a barrier to being able to handle yourself in a tight spot. I say we meet Miss Roberts, see what’s she made of, and, if we think she’s a liability, we can use some of our famous charm to persuade her to stay home.”

“Famous charm?” Simon pulled a face. “Whose charm around here is famous? I mean, not counting Inara.”

“Not yours, that’s for sure,” muttered Jayne.

“Zoë,” said Mal. “Give that husband of yours a shake and tell him to get us on route to Abel lickety-split, please. And let Miss Roberts know we’re a-comin’.”

“On my way, sir,” said Zoë, with a nod, turning to head off to the cabins.

“I ain’t sure about this, Mal,” said Jayne. “Jobs like this, they’re not always easy. Some dumb kid’ll get in the way—”

“I’ve made my decision,” said Mal, firmly. “We meet Miss Roberts, let her make her case. Find out what she’s made of. Abel’s a Rim