Thick. Chapter H: Shifting Ground.

-

* Characters and world belong to Mr. Whedon and co. Mistakes and follies, my own.

-

-

“We get word yet?”

“Naw, Captain, not a one.” Mal did not speak his frustration. Wash was busy reading over spaceport news; Milagros’s atmo was always tricky. Full of storms and powerful winds. Another reason it had stayed off Alliance radar. Purplebellies too lazy to deal with it, Wash thought. Thank the ‘verse for some constants.

“We got a plan, here?” Jayne asked. Leaning forward over the various world sheets spread across consoles. Wash slapped at his hand.

“Don’t play with the grown-ups’ work.” Jayne moved his hand back to retaliate; Zoe stood up from her leaning posture against Wash’s chair; Mal cleared his throat.

“Not rightly sure. Jayne knows the land, might point us in some direction. If we don’t hear from the doc. Figure it’s best, leaving Ledah somewhere’s medical. On Milagros. Where’s a problem. But, we’ve still got to take our cargo to Santo. Could scout around there a bit. Things look good, wave her back, tell her to move on.” Jayne nodded along with Mal’s unfurling idea. Liking the simplicity, the leaving complications behind them.

“Leave them there.” It was Zoe, though, that spoke to the heart of Mal’s plan.

“Girl’s trouble ain’t ours. Reckon we’ve done more than she asked, if we get her to a clinic.”

“She paid for a ride to Santo.”

“She lied about going to Santo, Wash. And, if I recall correctly, boy needs help now, not three days hence.”

“Wouldn’t take—”

“Enough. She stays here. Only question is where, and how we get her there. And what we do when we get to Santo. We clear?” Zoe again replied:

“Clear, sir.” And she shot Wash a warning glance. But Mal knew the difference between obeying an order and believing in it. Not that he had the luxury to fix that issue right now.

“Preacher, think you can handle escorting the lady through, whatever this town’s called, where we're landing? Find her a doc?”

“I’m not