Chapter Text
“You want me to do what?”
Mal stopped himself from garnishing his question with a few choice expletives. The person seated before him just so happened to be his boss.
And Mal, as she was so fond of reminding him, was her lowly assistant.
“I’m offering you a free night of bliss with one of the most exclusive Companions currently contracting on Beaumonde.” Fortune Lamber twirled her tablet stylus between her fingers, peering over her bifocals at Mal. “With the slight caveat that you must work before you play.”
She was a petite woman just shy of her seventies, with obsidian eyes set into her beige, wrinkled face. No one who’d been on the receiving end of her gaze would ever describe her as ‘frail’ or ‘kindly.’ Despite her grandmotherly aspect, she was one of the sharpest and most ruthless planet-side merchants on all the worlds spinning. She specialized in Earth-that-Was antiquities, but dipped her fingers in many pies.
She paid her assistants well, but Mal didn’t think any amount could cover what she was asking.
Six more months. Mal clung to the thought. Only six more months before you’ll have enough to buy a ship and take whatever jobs you want without heelin’ for nobody.
“Ma’am, with all due respect, there’s gotta be a simpler way to get in touch with this seller you’re after.”
“That’s precisely the issue. He’s not a seller... yet.” Lamber frowned. “And really, I’d think you’ve lived on Beaumonde long enough to know that when it comes to the tangled web of social hierarchy, nothing is simple.”
Mal gave a grudging sigh. He’d been stuck on Beaumonde the past two years, having washed up there after peace was negotiated and the Independents disbanded for good. He’d watched many of his former comrades-in-arms lose themselves in drink or drops. Just what the Alliance wanted.
The best way to say 'tsao ni ma de' to the Alliance, by Mal’s reckoning, was to survive.
Zoe had gone underground, with the Dust Devils. Deep, deep underground. They were continuing the fight, which earned them the designation of terrorists from the Alliance, and even some ex-Browncoats who’d been thoroughly de-clawed. Every couple months Zoe would show up on the doorstep of Mal’s crappy one-bedroom, usually injured and covered in blood, not all of it her own. She’d collapse on his couch, sleep for a week, then vanish again. Mal never asked questions.
As for himself... well, he did alright. He kept busy. Bit by bit, he'd clawed his way into the world of interplanetary business which, in many respects, could be bloodier and more brutal than war. But he had a goal. He wanted his own ship, and he was willing to dirty himself any way necessary, in order to get it.
This particular task gave him pause, however.
“Raphe Harshek is the most elusive source I’ve ever courted,” Lamber went on, as she lit an herbal in her antique-style cigarette holder. “And I do mean courted. I’ve tried to woo him every way I know. But I haven’t gotten anywhere close to the bastard. Now, at long last, I’ve been thrown a crumb.”
She tapped her tablet, pulling on the elegant black stick between her fingers. Smoke poured from her mouth.
“Harshek is the epitome of antisocial. He can afford to be. But he makes an exception for one particular Companion.” She pursed her lips. “And I happen to know she is currently on Beaumonde, making her rounds among the local gentry.”
Lamber pushed the tablet toward him. It was open to an official Companion profile, or so Mal assumed, having never seen one before. The woman in the photographs looked... unreal. Too perfect, too gold-dusted, dark hair trussed up with jeweled pins, lips a deep wine red. A subtle challenge flickered in her eyes, directed at the viewer. Beside her picture was her name, Inara Serra, age 28, just a year older than Mal. There was a list of services provided, along with her ‘specialties.’
‘Foot-washing?’ Mal wrinkled his nose. The hell...
“What am I s’posed to get from her?” he asked.
“A ring.” Lamber exhaled another mouthful of smoke. “Harshek’s calling ring. Word is it’s made of Earth-that-was ivory. The ring alone is worth more than everything I currently have in stock.”
Mal quirked the corner of his mouth. “I’m guessin’ you don’t mean to sell it.”
“Oh, no. With that ring, I can get all the way to his personal assistant. My boundless charm will make up for the rest.”
“What if I can’t find it?”
Lamber’s laugh trilled like bells. “Aren’t you cute. Sometimes I forget how much of a bumpkin you really are.” She smirked. “That ring is the Beaumonde upper-class equivalent of a giant neon sign flashing: ‘I’m hot shit and important people like me.’ She’ll keep it visible. She might even be wearing it.”
“What, you want me to steal it off her finger?”
Lamber took another drag of her cigarette. “If you have to.” She shrugged a shoulder. “It would be awfully showy of her, if she did have it on her hand. Most likely, it’ll be displayed somewhere in her quarters.”
“And how in hell will you get me a session? I ain’t exactly...” He glanced at her picture again. “Yeah. Her type.”
Lamber pulled her tablet back. “If you mean your lack of social credentials, it’ll be taken care of. A well-connected local owes me a favor or two.” She smiled.
People were always owing her favors. Often, Mal was the one to drop by and remind them of it. Politely.
Posing as a client in order to infiltrate a Companion's shuttle, and steal an object of immense social and historical value, went a step beyond his job description, in Mal's opinion. The level of deceit required didn’t sit well in his gut. Not to mention he hadn't the slightest notion of what a session with a Companion even entailed. Besides the obvious, of course. He'd only seen them from afar, heard them spoken of in passing. Core-born, every last one of them, bred and fed by the hand of the Alliance.
No. None of this sat right with him.
His face must have shown it, because Lamber clicked her tongue.
“If you don’t feel up to the task... it wouldn’t give me any grief to dismiss you, and find another assistant.” She frowned. “Well, maybe I'd shed a single tear. You’ve been with me almost a year, now, haven’t you. That’s the longest I’ve ever kept one.”
She lifted her tidy silver brows. “Oh, I forgot to mention. When you bring me the ring, there’ll be a substantial bonus for you, alongside your usual pay.”
Mal clenched his jaw. A bonus would get him closer to his ship. To freedom.
“Right.” He let out his breath. “Tell me what I gotta do.”