Imani had worked up the remainder of the crew and was now left to do as she pleased, which was not a whole lot to choose from that list. But she did have her stash, a bottle of some type of liquor she couldn't bother to learn how to pronounce, much less spell. Pretty sure the real label was replaced and then the bottle resold, but that mattered even less. She was back in her private quarters standing in front of the mirror she had hung up on the bulkhead. A pair of scissors in one hand and a quarter-full glass on the other. She gulped down some of the drink, then stared at her reflection once more. There's no going back after this... It was almost as if she were trying to convince herself not to take the next step. But regardless, she did.

Little by little strands of her hair fell by her feet. Probably the second time ever she'd cut her own fringe. But Imani had done a whole lot of learning since, mainly in the form of observing how to go about it with the proper technique and practicing twice on someone. That someone—both times her friend's daughter, Catalina—was just about the sweetest little person she'd ever met. Of course she never minded when Imani would give her a haircut, and Imani couldn't help but wonder if Catalina would mind now. She was 12, growing and maturing like the rest of them despite her mother hoping otherwise.

Once the deed was done, Imani inspected her work. It wasn't bad, definitely not by her own standards. In fact, she was pretty impressed with herself, and that called for a celebratory shot. She put the scissors down and picked up the glass, heading over to snuggle with her comforter, which meant sitting up against the wall, her lap nice and covered while she messed with her datapad. Though this time, she'd be calling someone.

Settled in her spot, Imani called up her friend.

"Rosaline, hi."

The video feed came to life. "Well look who it is! You've gone and disappeared on me yet again. How long has it been now, six months?"

"Yeah, more or less," Imani laughed. Rosaline seemed to be cooking something, a section of her frame hidden by a large, white bowl. "I was just thinking 'bout you guys since I did this myself," Imani pointed to her new hairdo.

"Well look at that, Cat would be proud!"

"I bet she would, is she around?"

"Nah, she's off with her dad." 

"Guess you two never fixed the relationship?"

Rosaline answered with a sigh, "Nah, we weren't fixable, not anymore." Her voice had lowered, the subject no doubt a sore one. "But it happens, just a matter of getting over our many years together, though it's taking me longer to deal with than it took him."

Imani stayed silent, and eventually Rosaline spoke up again.

"But enough about that, I don't wanna sour this little chat of ours. How's your life? Any new developments, romantic or otherwise?"

Imani scoffed. "Just workin', flying through space doing medic stuff and serving this fine crew." Her statement sounded slightly sarcastic, however she didn't mean such tone.

“Oh you’re doing that again?” Rosaline asked.

“Yeah, sad story actually. The previous doctor onboard passed away, it was some tragic stuff. She was young and a really sweet girl, but when it’s your time, it’s your time... But other than, it’s the same old for me. Haven’t found anyone, rather inconvenient time given I’m stuck with the same faces out here in the black most of the time. Nothing wrong with ‘em, but none of them are my better half.”

Both women then continued their conversation for a little while longer, that which entailed recalling some shared memories as well as making vague plans for the future which would likely fall through, but the thought was there at least.

After saying their goodbyes, Imani tossed the datapad aside. She lingered in bed for a little while longer, then quietly decided to clean up the bit of mess on the floor. She headed out to gather the necessary supplies, and her plan for after the fact was to finish some more of the bottle.

He had been busy. More than some might appreciate, but thankfully less than they’d notice. Despite being large as he was, Elias had a way of being quite elusive about the place. Fuzzy pink loafers helped a lot to not make a sound, but thoroughly mapping the schedules of the crew helped more. Of course, it helped a lot less than he had hoped. This wasn’t the armed forces, the crew of the China Doll had a habit of… just doing stuff. Which he didn’t like. You were meant to organize spontaneity beforehand, such as appointed lunch-breaks. Briefly he figured he wouldn’t fit in with the crew to the point that he, they, or both would simply decide it was better to part ways. He wasn’t exactly married to the China Doll, but he somehow doubted he’d have an easy time finding another place to work like this. Anyway, he found himself slowly growing to the place. He became quite expert at recognizing the voices of each of the crew’s members even through walls, their gaits, the sound of their feat as he listened from his resting spot near the engines. And, perhaps they’d learn of his presence in their own subtle ways too.

Some things would be a lot cleaner or more maintained than they had been since perhaps the first year of the China Doll’s flight; coverings of lights would have all the spiders that made them their homes suddenly evicted. Rust would disappear from everywhere that it had begun to show, and old machinery would be oiled. Smoke detectors that no longer even beeped from a need of changed batteries would once more have a happy little green light to show all was well. Some things took him longer. Getting surety of all the hermetic seals in the event of a breach of the hull was much harder, especially since all the instruments and tools from the past mechanic weren’t configured as he was used to. But eventually he was able to finally get the concern out of his head that if there was a hole in the ship everyone would get sucked out like juice from a fruit because the vessel’s doors couldn’t hold as airlocks. What a long thought.

So many little things needed maintaining, and it was a nice way to busy himself. A clock he heard in a hallway had one out of every hundred or so ticks that followed each tock be missed. This added up to that part of the ship living in an entirely different universe that was minutes behind the rest of the galaxy! Thankfully, all that was needed was to bend a little spoke back into shape to fix this crime.

The truth was that Elias didn’t actually know what to do with himself other than work. Wealthy as his family was, he had somewhat gotten accustomed to expensive tastes from his youth, those which he just assumed couldn’t be fulfilled here even if he couldn’t elaborate much more beyond that. But musics, film, and all else really weren’t to his preference. He couldn’t really eat beyond chugging the admittedly appreciated efforts to make scentful meals for him, what was left to spend his days on?

Well, there were his personal projects he supposed. Picking heavy things up in a cyclic fashion at least gave him some calm, even if he had to chug a lot of those purees to try maintain any mass on a wiry skeleton that was more meant for a lean geek than his struggle to try to be a wall of muscle. There was the text to speech device. He appreciated the members of the crew that went out of their way to learn sign language for his sake, but it was clearly easier for them to hear his hastily punched out keys, especially since he didn’t need to have them be looking at his hands or even his chalkboard to read this. With just a little scrap electronics and maybe an alarm clock or two that people kept sleeping through anyway, his contraption was created.

But then of course, there was his magnum opus, or at least for this flight. The grand piano, everything from the strings to hammers to frame crafted by his own. A ramshackle mess, one that needed tuning. But in the quiet of the night, if a person went out for a glass of water or a call of nature, they might just hear a wistful tune.

There was the matter of identity to take care of, of course. He photocopied his fingerprints, refrigerated samples of his blood and hair and everything else. He’d written out complex letters detailing his situation that he’d use to help recover his name. The man had even considered making a chart to compare his mutilated features with those of old pictures of himself, but he figured eventually that the people who cared would figure this out themselves, walking around with a picture of a young man and his own disfigured portrait probably wouldn’t go down well.

However, if everything went right (as rare as such a thing might have been), then maybe Elias Riemen would finally have a bit of paper with a barcode that finally told the whole world that he was who he said he was. Such flimsy little things, all shiny and laminated these IDs. Yet so much meaning was assigned to them, meaning that he suffered because he couldn’t assign it to himself.

Happy thoughts, he had to think happy thoughts. Well, first he had to think of some, before he could think them.

“It’s not pretty,” Yuri agreed with McKenna’s estimation. “But it’ll do the job. How soon can you deliver?”

The truss before him was stacked onto three pallets. Each joint bore the dents and scars of many uses before. McKenna hadn’t bothered sprucing it up; bonding plates were scarred by the ragged traces of old welds, and the last two coats of sealer paint were chipping away. But Yuri didn’t care. If the job went according to plan, the blemished structure wouldn’t be seen by anyone but China Doll’s crew. With luck, he’d be right back here to sell it to McKenna for half what he paid…unless they could scare up another buyer.

“What’s your berth?” the merchant asked.

“Three-Oh-Nine.”

“Eh,” the old man’s lips twisted in displeasure. “You’re right on the main drag. Way too much foot traffic for my haulers to run it down there while all them businesses are open. Twenty-one hundred’s about as early as we can come without squashing folk. That gonna work?”

The first mate tossed a short nod. “That’s fair.” His eyes trailed over the rest of the equipment order. Hinge plates all stacked and strapped to a pallet. Another held his chain hoists, their housings dented and careworn from use…yet each bore a fresh inspection tag proclaiming its’ fitness. The final pallet held a pilot’s chair…a very large pilot’s chair. Though the dyed leather of the seat and armrests had seen better days, Yuri gauged them durable enough to bear up under Boone’s weight. The two slider tracks were a welcome surprise. “Didn’t think about those,” he chuckled.

“Part and parcel,” McKenna replied. “I threw in a bag of ten millimeter bolts for the deck mount.”

“All looking good,” Yuri agreed. “Can you walk me through those EB7’s?”

********************************

Little Moriah Skyplex was identical to all of her sisters, differing only by name and the types of merchants lining storefronts on the main thoroughfare. Yet, even those differences were illusory. There was always a bakery pumping out somebody’s trademark cookie, umpteen sandwich shops, places for pho and noodles, and usually three choices in saloon ranging from high toned to downright disreputable. Add to that the hundreds of street vendors pushing their own recipes and brik-a-brak, and you had a proper hullabaloo to echo throughout the station’s pressurized hull.

But, as he wove a path among the swelling humanity, Yuri found honest surprise in the sound of a piano.

He couldn’t see it; the place was simply too crowded for that. Instead, he let his ears suss out a bearing. Like a hound trailing a scent, the first mate nudged through knots of oblivious shoppers and gawkers. For the cacophony around him, Yuri could not recognize the tune, but only the presence of one, hanging above the teeming mass like an old ghost struck funny. In the distance lay an open court, an intersection sprouting vendor kiosks, some distractions for children, and the ubiquitous ‘YOU ARE HERE’ locator screens. As he stepped into the plaza, the piano’s voice became clear.

“Garner,” he muttered to himself. “Errol Garner.”

The piano, an old upright model, had seen better days. Though marred by graffiti and years of coarse paint to cover its’ blemishes, the instrument seemed in reasonable tune. Propped before it on an equally rough looking bench was an old man. As he came near, Yuri studied the man. He wore a charcoal suit jacket, its’ wrinkled sleeves having long ago found congruence with those upon his face. Given the midnight hue of his flesh, one might assume that man and suit were one and the same, had it not been for the thin sliver of shirt collar which peeked out above the jacket’s lapels.

He knew that profile. Despite the ravages of age and poverty, the razor straight jaw cut down toward ivory keys, an aqualine nose bending in perfect time as one hand managed the work of two. Eldrich Bernard, in the flesh, and right before him.

No one but the first mate took notice of the master in their presence. Awestruck as he was, Yuri had lost all sense of the crowd. Here was a man who’d managed to reach through time itself, not only to strike a series of recorded notes on the page, but to revive the spirits of men like Garner, Duke Ellington, Art Blakey, and Thelonius Monk. For a time, Eldrich Bernard took his place in the epicenter of a Jazz Rennaissance born out of a handful of seedy bars in the Eavesdown district of Persephone. As their notoriety took hold across the ‘verse, growing fame and wealth soon carried him and his chosen cohorts on the sound stages of Pacquin and other major destinations. His music, both renditions of the greats and original works, found their way across the black and into the ear of a disaffected young teenager.

Yuri idolized the jazz musician, dreamed of learning the piano. When news came of the fiery shuttle crash that cost Bernard both his wife and his left arm, the boy wept and grieved as so many avid listeners did. His parents were befuddled at this; his older brother openly scoffed. But Yuri kept the music, absorbed each subtle touch of the keys into unfailing memory that would immediately recognize “the Bernard method.” And now, here sat the man himself, his left sleeve pinned up, the right hand magnificent upon a rough old barrelhouse upright, playing unnoticed in the middle of a gorram merchants’ bazaar. It was insulting…yet, as he allowed his own temper to cool, he realized that the old musician had no more concern than the need to play. There was a slight upward curve to the narrow lips. Despite his station, despite all that Yuri could see the ‘verse had brought down upon him, Eldrich Bernard was enjoying himself.

As the song wound to a close, the young man might’ve made a gushing fool of himself, were it not for an aptly timed cortex message from the captain.

Sister’s hired us on a couple extra mouths to feed. You might want to head back and rethink our provisions for the run.

Yuri blinked. There was quite a bit to blink at. Then again, Captain’s sense of humor seemed to walk the edge at times. Two extra crew aboard meant quite a bit more than just provisions, and he knew his first mate now had a “whole passel” of rethinking to do on the matter. He tapped out a reply. On my way.

“Thanks,” the old man said to the ten credit coin dropped into his up ended bowler hat.

“My pleasure, Mr. Bernard.”

Dark eyes lifted from the keys to meet the younger man. “You know me? What’s your name?”

“Yuri Antonov,” he smiled. “Been a fan of yours since I was fourteen.”

Eldrich nodded, a hint of satisfaction on his features as he offered a handshake. “Fourteen,” he repeated, savoring the word. “Don’t hear that one a lot. What brings you ‘round here, Yuri Antonov?”

The first mate shook his head. “I heard your album “Monk Meets Garner,” and I was hooked. Bought everything I could get my hands on after that…’Blue Midnight, ‘Uptime Uptown’, ‘Songs For Loretta.” He paused, cursing himself for a fool. “I’m sorry, Mr. Bernard. So sorry.”

The old jazz man met this with a slow smile. “I still play her music ev’ry night, son. Keeps her right here with me. She’d be please to hear a young man like yourself speaking well of her music.” He cast an eye toward the bowler hat. “You dropped coin. Got a request?”

“I would,” Yuri shrugged, “but my boat’s calling me back as it is. Sir, is there any chance you’re playing a show here on the skyplex?”

Bernard stood up. “See down that alley?” He pointed out a narrow corridor lined with vendors’ stalls. “Little spot down there called Bert’s. You can’t miss it. We got a little trio plays in there at night for drinks and tips. Come on around ‘bout ten and you’ll find us.”

“That,” the young man nodded enthusiastically, “is a plan. See you tonight, sir!” With a wave toward an idol he never thought he’d meet, Yuri turned to set off through the milling crowds of the skyplex. From behind him, the old piano spoke again, the recognizable chords of “Misty” carrying over the unceasing murmur of an oblivious crowd. Doesn’t matter he told himself as he threaded his way beck to China Doll. Tonight…Eldrich Bernard…I’ll be right there! He’d let Edina know they were headed out. Maybe even Elias, given his own piano talents. But first, he had to see about these two new crewpeople.

As Cal entered the bridge, the pilot turned in his chair to look over his shoulder. With a nod, Cal crossed and situated himself in the Captain's chair. Setting a brand new brimmed hat on the console before him, Cal announced to the bridge, "Elias gave us the green light. You good?"

The massive pilot gave his customary high-octane cheer, belayed by the man's sinister tattoos.

"What about you, SAM? Everything buttoned up?"

A cool lilting accent filled the bridge, "Abby just closed up the cargo bay, Cal. We're ready for the next stop before our dog-leg." The speakers crackled slightly, distorting the electronic tones of SAM's last syllables.

The pilot looked up at Cal, his brow furrowed, mouth forming a question.

He raised a hand to interject, "We're gonna set up the trussin', get our ducks in a row before we haul out," with the other hand the Captain punched in the clearance code for undocking, raising the traffic controller to seal the deal. "Little Moriah, this is China Doll; we're loaded up and shippin' out. Thanks for the warm welcome."

The view cam on Cal's console sprung to life as a uniformed figure with short-kempt, brown hair issued a few short phrases, "China Doll, you are cleared to disembark. Come back soo--" The last was cut off as Cal flipped a switch and palmed the comm to his crew. "This is your Captain speaking. We got a couple new faces aboard; Abigail, why don't make your way over and strap them in. We're on our way to a pit stop where I'll need all hands to suit up; fresh-faces included. Hope everyone got their fill of society; won't see such for a while, and Tiānxiǎodé we're plum out." (God knows)

The comm barked as Cal let off the thumb hold, hanging it back on the bulkhead. "Take us out," the Captain bade his pilot. Boone went to work at his console and the China Doll sprung free from the Skyplex, drifting for a moment. The large man's hands edged the equipment and the Firefly's engines warmed, the thrum permeating the ship as the main engine came to pace. Leaning forward, the pilot took them out and away from their berth slowly, until they passed the floating satellites which denoted the safe distance to burn.

After a moment, the Captain strapped himself into the chair, the viewport filling with the emptiness of space.

"Do we have everything?" came SAM's query in her Earth-That-Was Bostonian accent.

"Dāngrán, fǒuzé wǒmen jiù xiànrù kùnjìngle," came Cal's reply. (Of course, or we're up a creek.)

"Xiàng qián!" SAM replied, the smile almost visible in her voice. (Onward!)

Cal turned to Boone, "You heard the lady" His view swept back to the viewport, "bring me that sky."