Unfinished Business

Chapter Eight

The Black Dog was a sturdy old freighter with a squarish body that could contain thrice the cargo of Serenity, and it squatted on the west side of the mesa like it was a natural feature of the landscape. The gray-green paint that had been applied so long ago was faded by countless atmo entries and hundreds of thousands of hours under the rays of a dozen suns. It was sturdy, of that there was no doubt. It was anything but graceful.

It was also the designated site of a grand old tradition: the Rimworld Independent Pilot’s Association Biannual Reunion Poker Tournament. A hand-written sign on the hatchway advertised the fact, and reiterated that the event was for pilots only. River stared at it doubtfully and twisted her hair, debating whether or not to go in.

“C’mon!” Rowan McKlintock insisted, pulling at her arm. “Uncle Devon is already inside. So’s about everyone else. We gotta go!”

“I don’t actually have any piloting credentials,” River said, a little sulkily. “This is for real pilots.”

“You take her up, you bring her down safe, you are a real pilot,” Rowan insisted rolling her eyes in teenaged frustration. “Hell, at least you’re the primary, and not a co-pilot. They won’t even let me sit in until the second round!”

“Simon wouldn’t approve. Poker’s too easy, anyway,” River said. “I’m sure they—”

“River Tam, quit bein’ so gorram humble an’ shy and get your ass in there!” Rowan urged, teenaged hyperbole coloring every syllable. “You’re a pilot, now. Only way you’re gonna get any respect is to go in there and let ‘em know who you are!”

“Wash should really be the one—”

“Wash ain’t Serenity’s pilot, no more, and that is a damn shame. But you are, an’ you got responsibilities. One of ‘em is to go lose some money to the older pilots an’ prove that you got the balls to swing a stick like any of ‘em. It’s your duty to your ship!”

River still stared at the sign, fidgeting a little more than usual. She was about to turn and head back to the saf