Serenity, Eavesdown Docks, Persephone (Day 10)

The others had gone to sleep in space and they would wake up in port, but Thomas had not closed his eyes since he felt Serenity touch down in the night. He'd not realized how loud she was in flight until he became aware of the absence of noise. It pressed against his ears, making him strain them for any sound, keeping him wakeful. And of course he had today's task to occupy his mind.

By the time the glowing ruby numbers on the bedside clock read 0600 he'd given up trying to get back to sleep. He turned on the lamp, swung his legs over the side of the bed, and smoked half a cigarette. Then he got up and dressed in his uniform, the only suit he had. He'd been sleeping in his underclothes and washing them out in the bathroom sink, bathing every day so he wouldn't get ripe. No one had offered to lend him any clothes and he wasn't going to ask.

He'd entertained thoughts of slipping out into the city before anyone else woke up, then realized he had no idea how to get off the ship. Oh, well. Cup of tea, then.

The corridor was dim and silent. The running lights guided him through the infirmary and into the cavern of the hold, where he tiptoed up the stairs to avoid disturbing the snorers. Most likely the crew would be up and about before the family, and he could leave before anyone noticed he was gone.

He hadn't planned on Daisy. There she was in the galley, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and putting the kettle on. "Oh, hullo, Thomas," she greeted him carelessly. He could remember a time when she'd have fallen over her own feet in terrified adoration at being in a room alone with him, but now she barely even looked up. After a few minutes she sat down with two steaming cups, sliding one across the table towards him.

"Dunno why I can't make myself lie in," she remarked. "It's not as if there's the fires to make or the range to feed. Or much to do at all, really."

"Old habits die hard, I suppose," Thomas said.

"I'll just be glad when we stop somewhere for good and there's a new house to set up," Daisy confessed. "I don't know what to do with myself here. Me and Anna and Mrs. Hughes, we've already cleaned the ship top to bottom. She needed it, too, I don't mind telling you."

Thomas wondered what Captain Reynolds thought of having a lot of women dusting and scrubbing around him, clucking at the state of his ship. He'd probably taken it about as gracefully as a British Army captain would have accepted housemaids in the trenches. "Ethel's not working anymore, then?" he asked.

Daisy rolled her eyes. "She acts like she is, but mostly she follows us around and jaws on about getting taken on at a great house after we land. She won't let the door hit her on the way out, that one."

The hatch from the crew quarters slid open and Zoe came in, followed by Wash. Thomas and Daisy jumped to their feet, prompting bemused looks from the couple.

"Good morning," Thomas said heartily.

"Morning," Zoe answered, raising an eyebrow. Wash just grunted and shuffled over to the coffeemaker.

"Mrs. Washburn, might I prevail upon you to open the hatch to the outside, now we've reached our destination?" Thomas gave the woman his most winning smile.

Her eyebrow crept higher. "You got somewhere to be this early?"

His lips remained upturned, but Thomas allowed the expression to leave his eyes: this usually unnerved people into doing what he wanted them to. Zoe, however, did not seem impressed. "Just feeling a bit hemmed in," he finally offered.

She stared at him a moment longer before giving an abbreviated nod. "Okay," she said. "Just make sure you're back here before oh-nine-hundred day after tomorrow. We lift off then, with or without you."

"Of course. I'll just get my things."

"Don't hurry yourself," she called after him. "I don't move 'til I finish my coffee."

He met her at the hatch twenty minutes later, the valise heavy in his hand. She raised her eyebrows again and glanced down at it, but he could practically hear her thinking None of my business. Thomas got the feeling Zoe didn't miss much.

He was unprepared for the emotion he felt when the golden morning light slid up the extending gangway and into his face: there were tears in his eyes, and not just from having the sun in them. His hands shook a little when he reached for the half cigarette he'd stowed behind his ear and Zoe regarded him with some sympathy. "Nice to see the sun come up again, isn't it," she said. "Even if it ain't your own." He nodded in reply, lit up, and started down.

"Hey," she called after him, and he turned. "Be careful out there." Thomas nodded again and walked off.

-ooo-

Robert tried not to stare as they threaded their way along the pavement, but there were a few individuals of such resplendent strangeness that he couldn't help it. He actually turned to look at one man who went by wearing long robes of electric-blue brocade, with a bright pink beard that flowed down his chest and a bald head as shiny as a peeled egg.

Zoe nudged him from behind. "That's the wrong sort to be gawkin' at," she hissed, and he hurried after Wash and Captain Reynolds without comment. He was learning that sometimes it was better not to ask questions.

Reynolds dropped back to speak with him. "So, Rob, you got any more ideas about where you might want to touch down permanent-like?" As Robert had requested, Mal had briefed him on the likely core worlds. Robert couldn't help but notice that the captain had also pointed out some that were farther out and had economies focused on agriculture, but he'd held his tongue, taking the advice in the spirit in which it was offered.

"We'd better see what price we can command for our goods first," Robert replied. "Then we'll know how much money we have to work with." On Serenity he'd told himself that his family's transition into their new home would be smooth, and that with a bit of luck they would rise. Now, in this grimy, neon-lit place, surrounded by careworn people who jostled him as indifferently as they did everyone else, he was not so sure.

"Well, we'll be making a stop on Pelorum, so you-all will be able to check it out. Seems Ethel's got herself a job interview," Mal said.

"How enterprising of her," Robert said faintly. His second housemaid was getting her life together more quickly than he was.

"Yep, the Companions' Guild House there needs a maid," Mal went on. "And your girl Ethel got Inara to put in a good word for her."

Robert had had little contact so far with Inara, other than noticing that her shoulders were frequently on display. His overriding impression of her was that she looked no better than she should be, and he hoped Ethel knew what she was about. It's out of my hands now, he thought helplessly, like nearly everything else.

Robert hated this feeling. At Downton he'd been important because he was the earl, the capstone of the pyramid. He'd never professed to love power, but then he'd never been without it. The Reavers had taken it all away: his home, his position, even his view of himself as a competent man who could be trusted to take care of those who depended on him. For God's sake, he hadn't even been able to save his dog. Captain Reynolds had flatly refused to have Isis aboard Serenity, and in any event she'd disappeared soon after the excitement started, no doubt spooked by the unaccustomed activity and the smell of fear. Robert wondered how she fared. It didn't matter: if the Reavers hadn't gotten her, the bombs would, and Isis would become just one more of the lives he'd failed to save. What upset him only slightly less, though, was the thought that he might always be what he was now: a nobody, impotent, adrift in a universe he could not hope to understand.

These were the thoughts that dogged him as they made their way into the marketplace, which bustled with even more people than had been near the ship. The tents drew in on either side and hundreds of shuffling feet kicked up thick dust, shot through with whatever beams of sunlight could penetrate the gaps in the awnings. Makeshift stalls bristled with goods of every possible description: Robert couldn't have guessed at the use of half the items for sale. The proprietors grinned and spoke to him, presumably urging him to try their wares, but most of the time it didn't even sound like they were speaking English.

He ignored them and shook his head clear. Even though Captain Reynolds had said to let him do the talking, Robert thought he'd best be on his toes for the negotiations. Presently they turned into an entryway and emerged into a dim space crowded with strong men half run to fat. They had arrived.

Badger - an unkempt chap who spoke in a Cockneyesque drawl - looked thoroughly disreputable to Robert's eyes. What did you expect? He asked himself. He is a criminal. Robert realized with a shock that he himself was as well, or at least whatever law existed here would probably see it that way.

The captain and the kingpin exchanged pleasantries, though it was obvious that the two men had little affection for each other. Reynolds had told Robert that he didn't trust Badger: "He's about twice as likely to put something over on you as give you a square deal" was the way he'd put it. But Robert needed money, and their options were few.

"Give us a butcher's at the zāngwù then," Badger said, beckoning, and Robert laid out his wife's jewelry (the girls' birthright, he thought bitterly) on the table. Badger's eyebrows twitched upward and he jerked his chin to one of his lieutenants, who disappeared momentarily and returned with a bespectacled man who looked like he'd been born cringing.

Spectacles set to his task. Robert watched his hands, with their halfmoons of grime under the nails, turning over Cora's brooches and earrings. They ran down the chain of her favorite lavalier to assess its gauge and Robert felt sick. The man's face stayed as still as stone, but Robert detected something like excitement in the eyes behind the small smoked-glass ovals. "Hm, hm, nineteenth, twentieth century," Spectacles muttered, before Badger made a zipping noise to shut him up. Robert could feel Mal and Zoe's eyes on him, urging him to refrain from speaking. They needn't have worried: the assessment was accurate as far as Robert was concerned.

The appraiser quickly sorted the items into three lots. After a time he nodded and murmured something inaudible to Badger, and then he faded into the background.

Badger addressed Robert. "Where'd you come by all this?" He sounded more interested in finding out whether Robert had an answer ready than in the answer itself.

"Most of it has been in my and my wife's families." Another accurate statement.

The boss pointed to the smallest pile. "Can't use them," he said. He indicated a bigger one. "Twenty-eight hundred platinum for that lot."

Reynolds shook his head. "'S worth at least twice that."

Badger gave him a sardonic smile. "It's not what it's worth that's in question; it's what I'll give you for it."

"Five thousand."

"Thirty-six. That's my final offer."

Reynolds caught Robert's eye and, seeing him give a small nod, assented. "And the rest of it?" Mal pointed to the third pile, which contained several of the most valuable pieces.

Badger's eyes cut over to Robert's, then back to the table. "Right pretty, those. But I'll need a mite more time with them before I can name a price.""

"Don't tell me you're expecting us to just leave a mess of jewels on you with no security," Mal scoffed.

Badger put on an expression of mock hurt. "Why, Captain. I thought we'd built up a relationship of trust."

"Trust but verify, I always say," Reynolds returned.

Badger shrugged. The gesture was casual, but Robert noticed again just how many men - presumably with guns - there were in the room. "If you think I'm going to nick it, feel free to take it back with you."

Reynolds looked at Robert again and held up one finger: give us a minute. He took Robert aside. "I figured he'd pull something like this," he muttered.

"Do you think he's honest?" Robert spoke in an undertone, but he could feel Badger's bright eyes on him, as sharp as those of his namesake.

The other man actually laughed. "Honest? Hell, no. Will he pay you what you're owed? It's possible. But I don't know too many other guys who deal in these kind of gimcracks - no offense - and I'll tell you right now, I don't have the time to shop your xiǎo zhuāng shì pǐn all over the 'verse for you. We all gotta make a living." Reynolds shrugged, a trifle defensively.

"Well, then there's nothing for it," Robert sighed. "We'll have to trust him." And hope this wasn't the last they'd see of Cora's emerald earrings.

They moved back to the front of the room. "Very well, Mr. Badger," Robert said, "I will leave these with you to be appraised." He began to gather up the rejected items.

"Good man. We'll see you tomorrow, then?" Robert nodded and Badger gestured to one of his men, who stepped up to hand Robert a rather small but quite heavy sack that chinked with what must be coins. Wash promptly relieved him of the money and stuffed something soft in with it to stop the rattling. "Hǎo," Badger said. "Come at teatime."

-ooo-

Tom sat cross-legged on his pallet in the hold, making a journal entry and pretending not to listen to the ladies' conversation. That was easier here than it had been when he drove them: being visually separated from them meant he didn't have to worry about controlling his face. It was also more likely to yield interesting information, as they seemed to forget so easily that there were others in the room. Out of sight, out of mind.

None of what he'd learned so far was very comforting. Apparently Captain Reynolds and his lieutenants had taken Lord Grantham to turn the Crawley family jewels into cash; tomorrow his Lordship would be inquiring into business opportunities and available real estate in the White Sun system. So either Sybil had not taken it upon herself to talk to her father, or he hadn't listened to her.

"I'm not sure about this at all," Lady Grantham was complaining to her mother-in-law. "This associate of Captain Reynolds' sounds rather disreputable. They call him Badger. What kind of a name is that?"

"My dear, your options are few and getting fewer," returned Old Lady Grantham. "I'm afraid beggars cannot be choosers."

Lady Grantham sighed. "I suppose not."

Female laughter drifted in along with a breeze from the airlock, where Ethel and Kaylee had set up a couple of folding chairs and were taking their ease. Sybil said, "I think I'd like to go and get some air. Certainly that's safe enough?" Tom wondered that Lady Grantham did not hear the guile in her daughter's voice. Apparently she gave her permission, though, because the next thing he heard was Sybil's feet shuffling as she rose. "Mary, will you come with me?"

"It sounds lovely," Mary answered, and their shoes clicked away across the floor.

A few minutes went by. Tom scribbled a line or two. A few more minutes passed, and he shut his notebook and rose to his feet. He wasn't following them, he told himself; he just wanted to say hello to Kaylee and Ethel. Besides, a look at the sky would do him good. And while he was out there, it wouldn't hurt to keep an eye on whatever the Crawley sisters might be up to.

-ooo-

Kaylee wore a dress that day and left her hair down, even put on a little makeup. She could always change for the supply run, and she liked getting dolled up. Anyway, who knew what the day would bring? Maybe she'd see if Simon wanted to head into town later, just for fun.

In the galley she found Ethel sitting at the table with a cup of tea. "What are you up to today?" she asked brightly. Kaylee hadn't spent much time with Ethel - or any of the 'fugees other than Tom, for that matter - but she got the sense that she was kind of an odd screw, not really seeming to belong anywhere. She hadn't made a very good impression on Inara, that was for sure. But then Inara could be awfully judgmental sometimes.

Ethel shrugged. "I've got no plans." She gave Kaylee a little smile.

Kaylee decided she might as well make a new friend. "You should come outside with me," she said. Sitting outside the airlock was one of Kaylee's favorite ways to spend a morning when Serenity was in port. You could watch a pretty good slice of the 'verse go by without having to leave your seat.

Ethel looked doubtful. "They told me it's not safe to go into the city."

"You don't have to go anywhere if you don't want to. I'm just gonna sit outside a spell before I head out to re-up on supplies. C'mon, It's great people-watching," Kaylee coaxed.

"All right then," Ethel said. Fifteen minutes later there they were with their feet up, enjoying the indirect morning sun and watching Eavesdown go about its business. Ethel started out a little shy but she soon loosened up, and by midmorning she and Kaylee were chattering away like old friends about the looks and fashion choices of the passersby. Being at the docks, there was no shortage of strapping male specimens to giggle over.

"Ooh, I'd love to get him into my bunk," Kaylee remarked after one went by, his well-defined pectorals rippling under his thin shirt. She craned her neck to get a better look at the way he filled out the seat of his pants.

Ethel looked shocked, though her half-smile gave Kaylee a notion that the other girl was putting some of it on for her benefit. "You can do that?"

"Well, yeah. Who's gonna stop me?"

Ethel chewed on that for a minute. "It really is different here, isn't it," she mused.

"Not that I take men to bed all the time or anything," Kaylee hastened to say. She didn't mention her half-formed hopes for herself and Simon. Ethel was nice and all, but she seemed like a bit of a blabbermouth.

The sun was more than halfway to its apex and Kaylee was thinking about going to get her shopping list when Jayne sauntered out, still yawning and rubbing his face. He nodded to the two women. "Ladies." Fueled by an hour of ogling, Ethel threw him a flirtatious grin, and Jayne took the bait eagerly. "Mind if I pop a squat?" He installed himself at Ethel's side and returned her smile with a crooked one of his own. Kaylee rolled her eyes. Jayne could be charming to the unwary, and "unwary" was this girl to a T. I better not leave them alone quite yet, she thought.

The three sat together, but Kaylee was mostly left to her own thoughts as Jayne and Ethel got to know each other better. Jayne said something to Ethel in a low voice that made her laugh uproariously and Kaylee started thinking again about getting in to market. Those spare parts weren't going to buy themselves.

Footsteps clicked down the hatchway behind them. Kaylee pegged them almost instantly: women, young, two pairs, either the other two maids or the daughters. The well-bred accents of Mary Crawley confirmed the latter. "What a lovely morning," she remarked. No matter how broke her daddy might be now, there was plenty of coin in that voice.

Ethel and Jayne both rocketed to their feet, but for different reasons. "Beg pardon, your ladyships," Ethel murmured, all her former easiness gone. "I'll just see if Mrs. Hughes wants me." She lifted her skirts and hustled up the ramp before Mary or Sybil could speak.

"She didn't have to go," Sybil said, looking regretful. She seemed like a good enough sort. She and Kaylee hadn't spoken since Sybil and Tom's argument in the engine room, but Kaylee had a notion that her witnessing their little tiff wasn't the only reason Sybil was distant to her. A tiny bit of her good mood drained away; she hated feeling like people didn't like her.

Kill 'em with kindness, she thought, standing up and giving the sisters a welcoming smile. "You're welcome to my seat," she said. "It's past time for me to go on a supply run. The good deals'll all have been snapped up!" She stretched a couple of kinks out of her legs.

With Ethel gone, Jayne oiled on over to Mary's side. He'd taken a shine to her and no mistake: Ethel who? But even though Mary talked to him civil enough, one look at her would tell you that Jayne was doomed to disappointment. He was about as not-her-type as a guy could get.

Sybil ignored the chairs and walked a little farther down the gangway to take in the bustling port. "It's so busy," she marveled. She turned to her sister with a bold look. "Let's go for a walk. We'll come back before they know we're gone." Her eyes were drawn back into the ship, behind Kaylee, and she smiled. "Hello, Branson."

Tom emerged from the airlock and made his greetings. To Kaylee he said, "You look different," and she noticed Sybil's eyes cut over; Kaylee wondered if he'd seen it. Most likely he had. He was probably enjoying what he thought was their little rivalry. Men. She couldn't blame him for being a mite cocky, though. He was shuai as all-get-out, especially in that suit.

Jayne spoke up. "I'd be happy to show you girls around, if you're wanting to get a bit of local color." Kaylee's mouth almost fell open. Jayne as tour guide? Where was her sardonic, self-interested shipmate?

Mary was suddenly all smiles. "We'd like that very much. Wouldn't we, Sybil?"

"Of course. And Mama can't object to us going out with Mr. Cobb to look after us, can she?"

"I'm sure she can," Mary said drily. "But she's half on our side anyway. We'll convince her."

"Kaylee? You coming?" Jayne asked, but she demurred, glad to have an excuse. Kaylee didn't fancy the idea of making awkward conversation with Sybil all day, plus being around Mary made her feel like she had something stuck in her teeth.

"I believe I'll go as well," Tom announced, earning a raised eyebrow from Mary. "If it's all right with you, m'lady." He tipped his hat to her. "It'll be a point in your favor with her ladyship, to have another man along."

Sybil laughed. "You're not wrong. Mary, let's go ask her now."

-ooo-

It was comforting, being in a place where no one knew him. Everyone going about their business, giving Thomas no more than a disinterested glance before their eyes flicked away again. Even if they could see what was in his heart, he thought, they probably wouldn't care.

Thomas knew he was no good; he'd always known it. He'd spent a great deal of time and effort trying to hide it from other people, but it always came out one way or another. It didn't matter what he did. He'd endured his mum's harsh words and his dad's fists without complaint until they finally threw him out, served Lord Grantham faithfully for years, suffered for his country. None of it signified. He was a crooked stick and always would be. But here, in a new and utterly foreign place, he could almost believe that it was possible to wash himself clean. He was tempted to stay on after he fenced the silver. Turn his back on the ship, on Mr. Carson and his poorly concealed contempt, on Lord Grantham and his big plans. It'd be easy enough to just melt into the crowd.

But no: Sarah wasn't the most trustworthy of friends, but she was the only one he had and he'd not let her down. Even though she'll probably just turn around and offer her ladyship her share of the money, Thomas thought with a smirk. He could just hear her now: Oh, m'lady, I had a little put by... it's not much, but I want you to have it. Sarah was forever coming up with schemes of that sort, giving with one hand while taking with the other. She'd jump at the chance to make herself look golden, while putting Lady Grantham in her debt.

Thomas was not so foolish. He'd fulfill his obligations, but he'd be gone as soon as he saw the right chance.

He'd been wandering for hours. At first he'd just taken things in. Banners printed with symbols whose meaning he couldn't guess at. People with skin of various hues, wearing strange clothes and jabbering away in foreign tongues, or some dialect of English that might as well be. After his narrow escape from Yorkshire and his time in the cramped environs of the spaceship, Thomas felt completely overwhelmed with the noise and light and alienness of it all. After a while, though, he started to look around for a likely place to get rid of his booty. He didn't quite know what he was looking for, but he figured it would make itself apparent at some point. He'd already gone through several small street markets; when he came upon a larger one encompassing several blocks, he slowed down and browsed each stall, getting an idea of what things cost.

Thomas had seldom been in such a crowd before, even in London. The narrow streets between the makeshift awnings were stuffed with people: cart-dragging grannies with hunched shoulders, young mothers hustling children and juggling shopping bags, sullen young toughs who jostled Thomas just a bit too hard as they passed. The crush of bodies demanded a slow, shuffling pace. Every couple of minutes they would have to part for one of the innumerable motorcycles that zig-zagged through, seemingly indifferent as to whether they ran someone down. In the end he was literally pushed into a table piled with tarnish-blackened silverware.

The woman standing behind the table grinned at him, showing a large gap between two incisors. "You want to buy?" She offered a dented tea service for his inspection. "Very nice. For you, hen piányi. Only ten credits. "

Thomas shook his head. "Sell. I want to sell." He hefted the suitcase he carried, allowing its contents to clank a little.

Understanding brightened the vendor's eyes. She couldn't have been more than fifty, but her hair was fluffy and white and she was stooped and gnarled like an old woman. She came around the table and grasped Thomas's wrist, pulling him into the shadows under her awning and through a door into a small, coldly lit room. She bade him sit on a hard sofa. "You wait here," she said. "I get my son." Then she disappeared.

Thomas's attention was drawn to the miniature movie screen in front of him. People had these in their houses here? How marvelous. With color and sound, too. Onscreen, a man and woman argued explosively in a language Thomas didn't know, finally ending their fight with a passionate kiss.

The woman was back in a matter of minutes, flanked by two men. One, eighteen or so, was apparently the son she'd spoken of. The other was white, thirtyish, wiry and mean-mouthed. Thomas felt a thrill of unease at there being two of them, and at their unfriendly looks. They came right up to him, invading his space, making him feel like he was pushing them back when he stood up.

"Whatcha got?" The older man demanded.

Thomas swallowed and put on an oily smile. "I'm sorry, I don't believe we've been properly introduced. I'm Thomas. And you are...?"

The man raised an eyebrow. "You can call me Chang."

Thomas believed the man's name was Chang like he believed John Bates was an innocent victim of circumstance. But he widened his smile and spread his hands, the picture of goodwill. "Mr. Chang, I'd like to offer you the chance to purchase some high-quality merchandise. Much better than that scrap outside." The boy's eyebrows drew together and Thomas could tell he'd blundered. "I only meant, surely you have higher-end inventory for your more upscale clientele," he said.

"Maybe we do and maybe we don't," the boy replied sullenly. He gestured to the case at Thomas's feet. "Let's see it."

Later, Thomas would pinpoint this moment as the one when things truly began to go pear-shaped. He sat down on the sofa and leaned over to spread the case open on the floor in front of him. Next thing he knew, he was pinned flat on his back with the boy's boot on his throat and hostile black eyes pouring vitriol down on him. "Here now," he choked, unable to manage anything else.

Chang came into his field of vision. "I'll just have a kànjiàn at your case here, Thomas. Then you can run along." The boy laughed. Why is that funny? Thomas wondered in alarm. He heard Chang sorting through the silver in the case, making sounds of admiration at its weight and sheen. "What service you in, Thomas?" the man asked mildly, as if making idle conversation.

Thomas's mind raced, but it wasn't up to the challenge of supplying a convincing lie. Probably had something to do with his oxygen being half cut off. "Army medical corps," he finally said.

"Is that a fact."

"My last posting was at Downton." He figured that was vague enough to be safe.

"How many nánrén did you kill at Downton?" The boy hurled down at him. He'd let up some on Thomas's neck, but now he mashed his foot down again.

Thomas gasped. Bright and dark flashes exploded behind his eyes. "Please," he coughed.

"Ease up, Johnny," Chang said, again in that mild tone. "We're not big fans of the military in this house," he explained.

Thomas didn't have the breath to tell them that they had the wrong man. He doubted Johnny, with his swagger and wounded eyes, would have cared anyway.

Chang snapped the case shut. "Good news, Thomas. We'll take it all." Johnny removed his boot and Thomas sat up, rubbing his throat gratefully.

After a minute Chang's words registered on him. "What about... what about my money?" He stammered.

"I don't remember discussing money. Johnny, did I say anything about money?" The boy shook his head. Cruel amusement danced in his eyes. The two men hauled Thomas to his feet and propelled him, still sputtering, towards the door.

"That's all I've got, you bastards!" He raged, even though he knew it was futile. He felt nauseous. Another plan gone wrong, just like always. "I'll have the police here, see if I don't!"

They'd just gotten him out the door. Johnny hissed into his ear: "That's a bad idea." Then he tripped him. Thomas sprawled forward onto the pavement. Before he could get his wind back, Johnny's boot in his ribs knocked it out of him again.

"Gorrammit, Thomas, that was the wrong thing to say," Chang told him, a little regretfully. Then he joined in.

They were still underneath the awning but within sight of the thoroughfare. Thomas could see people's feet shuffling by in front of him. Why doesn't someone do something? He thought as pain exploded in his side, his back, his shoulder. Surely they saw what was happening. That was the last thought he had before one of them kicked him in the head and everything went dark.

-ooo-

She's too soft on those girls, Sarah O'Brien thought after Lady Mary and Lady Sybil skipped off to do who knew what with the chauffeur and that gun-toting baboon. She'll come to grief over it one day. In fact, Lady Grantham already had. If the Crawley sisters had been more accustomed to discipline, they'd have been where they should on the night the Reavers came and they'd be three instead of two.

But of course it wasn't Sarah's place to say anything. She might make an oblique suggestion that night when she helped her ladyship to undress, but no more than that. It always chafed her, to see so clearly the likely results of the decisions taken by her so-called betters without having any power to directly affect them. But such is the lot of a lady's maid.

The flight from Downton and their present living conditions had not been unduly hard on Sarah. The quarters were close but then there'd not been much privacy at Downton either. She did feel a pang whenever she looked at Lady Cora's haggard face: it wasn't right that a daughter should die before her mother, especially in such grisly fashion. The closest things to children Sarah had had were her sister's, Alfie and Sophie and Jake, but there was no one else left down there who she would weep over. Her brother was dead, and poor Andrew Lang was probably better off going to his reward. She tried not to dwell on it. Instead she threw herself into the tasks at hand, smoothing her lady's way where she could.

At present she was standing off to the side, waiting for Mrs. Hughes to call the servants to luncheon. The food here - tasteless and not plentiful - was another minor hardship to bear. Apparently their stop in port would remedy the situation some, which Sarah was glad of. To distract herself from her growling stomach, she listened closely to Cora and Violet's talk. You never knew when you'd pick up a useful bit of information.

Old Lady Grantham was still amazed that Cora had let her daughters venture out into the city. "It's all so unpredictable," she was saying. "I half expect the ship to be swarmed by Morlocks again before we can get off the ground."

"I don't think the savages ever come here," Cora said. "From what the crew have said, this is a fairly civilized place, though nothing compared to some of the worlds where we might live."

Violet lowered her voice, but Sarah's hearing was good. "Exactly how much jewelry did you manage to bring along, dear? Will you truly be able to make a start with only that?"

"It depends on how much Robert is able to get for it. I really don't know."

"It is such a wretched thing to have to worry about money," Violet sighed.

Sarah wondered if Lord Grantham would really be able to manage the trick of setting the family up in a nice place. If he were, she had no doubt that his wife would engineer their entry into society with aplomb, and be the happier for seeing her remaining daughters securely settled. Before long things would go on much as they ever had, and there was something to be said for that. Thomas might have a place in the Grantham house then, and Sarah definitely would.

However, there was a part of her that was curious about the rim worlds she'd heard talk of. They sounded wild and dusty and uncomfortable, but that was hardly a deterrent. Sarah had to admit there was a certain charm to the notion of going somewhere barely settled, where there was none of the intrigue and backbiting of the old drawing rooms and servants' halls. It would be almost like retirement. She imagined her ladyship walking out over wide golden fields, a tranquil smile on her face.

As for herself, she didn't need much. A cottage. A room, even. Once Thomas brought her the money from the silver, perhaps she could offer her help.

In answer to Violet, Lady Cora shook her head ruefully. "It is rather a shock. We haven't had any of that kind of trouble since we married." She spoke in a similarly quiet voice, and now she lowered it to a murmur. "I feel terrible, but I just don't know how large a household we'll be able to maintain."

O'Brien did not look at them, but she could feel Old Lady Grantham's eyes flick over at her. "O'Brien, would you go and fetch the grey shawl from my room. It's rather chilly in here with the door open."

"Right away, m'lady." Sarah could tell that the dowager Countess just wanted to get her out of earshot while they talked about how many servants they'd keep. She walked across the hold and through the infirmary into the passenger corridor, where that strange girl - Rain or River or something equally heathenish - was coming out of her cabin. She steeled herself for an uncomfortable encounter, but the girl only nodded distractedly and walked off toward the hold.

By the time she returned with the shawl, Lord Grantham was back and grizzling about how he'd had to spend part of their earnings on provisions for the rest of the journey. "It's only fair, I suppose. With all these extra passengers, Captain Reynolds' supplies have been run through rather quickly," he conceded. "But things are dashed expensive out there, Cora. You've no idea." He shut up about money as soon as he caught sight of O'Brien, and looked around the hold. "Where are the girls?"

Cora looked down at her lap. "Well, as it turns out..."

Just then Mrs. Hughes called down that lunch was ready for the servants. Sarah thought that a meal had never been so ill-timed.

-ooo-

Mary soon regretted leaving the ship. As Papa had warned, the city was filthy and full of unnerving people, all heaving and jostling. Their party had already made several turns through the narrow, twisting streets, and she knew that without Mr. Cobb to guide them they would become lost in moments. And never mind asking him to accompany them back now, when it was all she could do to keep him in sight. He strode ahead with hardly a backward glance to make sure they were still with him, and if he noticed Mary glaring daggers through his back he didn't show it.

Thank heavens Branson's along to look after me and Sybil, Mary thought. The former chauffeur brought up the rear as they picked their way over uneven pavements, nearly getting run over on several occasions by buzzing, darting motorcycles. "Try and walk single file, m'lady!" Branson called up to her - if she didn't know better, she'd say he snapped - after the fourth close call. "That way they can get around you better."

Behind her, Sybil said something to Branson about not using their titles. She sounded rather nervous, Mary thought: Does she think someone's going to kidnap us for ransom? Mary looked at the ragged clothes and tired, smudged faces surrounding them: maybe it wasn't such a farfetched idea. Though after ten days of duress, she and Sybil didn't exactly look like prizes themselves. The only dress Sybil had of her own was the one she'd been wearing at dinner that last night at home, so her wardrobe was jumbled together from whatever items out of Edith's suitcase she could fit into. Mary was a little better turned out, but her clothes looked decidedly wilted after being worn so much more often than usual and not being properly cared for. As for her hair... well, Anna was a wonder, but even she couldn't work miracles.

Jayne stopped so abruptly that Mary almost ran into him. "Here we are." He opened a nondescript door and led them inside, where it was so dark after the glare of the street that they had to stand blinking until their eyes adjusted.

Branson was the first of the three to get his bearings. "A pub?" He exclaimed in disbelief. "You've brought them to a pub." He stood between and a little behind the women, a hand hovering protectively at each of their elbows.

Jayne shrugged. "C'mon, live a little." He led the way to a free table against the far wall.

Branson looked as if he had more to say, but Sybil had already plunged across the room after their guide, leaving him and Mary no option but to follow.

Mary had never been inside a public house before. She looked around curiously: now it did not seem so very dark, though still much dimmer than outside. Wall sconces threw reluctant smoky light in blue and fuschia, but most of the illumination came from screens mounted about the room, each one flickering with a different scene. The one opposite Mary showed a Chinese woman wearing a severe grey suit, who spoke seriously and soundlessly to her audience as brightly colored type inched across the screen underneath her torso.

Jayne went to the bar and carried back four glasses by their handles, full of what looked like semi-opaque ale. "Gānbēi," he muttered, and lifted his cup in a careless toast before draining it. Mary sniffed at hers and sipped a bit, then a bit more: it wasn't bad, actually. Rather sweet. "I know this ain't what you're used to," he said, gesturing at the room, its strange juxtaposition of squalid and glossy.

Mary turned a brittle smile on him. "None of what's been happening lately is what I'm used to, Mr. Cobb." She had to raise her voice to be heard above the music, a heavy, repetitive beat with a woman's voice ululating thinly over it. "But thank you for taking us out. It's been so interesting."

"Call me Jayne. We don't stand on ceremony around here, you might've noticed."

She dropped her eyes. "You'll have to forgive me. I'm afraid ceremony is what I'm used to." She glanced up at the screen: the woman had been replaced by a row of people wearing oversized animal costumes and using straws to siphon up the contents of what looked like fishbowls, apparently in a competition to see who could do it the fastest. "But perhaps you can tell me what they're up to," she said, waving a hand at their antics.

Empty glasses accumulated on the table, most of them Jayne's, though alcohol seemed to have little effect on the man. In an hour's time Mary had sipped her way through almost two drinks and she was beginning to feel a bit loose. She suppressed an urge to ask Jayne how a man had come by such a name: of course that would be terribly rude. The ale - or whatever it was - seemed as strong as liquor, maybe stronger. She probably shouldn't have any more.

Across the table, Sybil's color was high and she was chattering away to Branson while her eyes darted around the room. What Sybil found to talk about with the chauffeur was a mystery to Mary, but he seemed not to mind, and unlike the rest of them he'd barely touched his drink. Dear Branson. He'd been a brick to come with them.

Something about the way he was looking at Sybil set off an alarm in Mary's mind, and she remembered the scent of collusion she'd caught on the catwalk. They really are thick as thieves, she thought, frowning. But he couldn't possibly. Could he? Could she? Mary honestly wasn't sure. It seemed so ridiculous, but Sybil never had put much stock in the traditional way of doing things. And Branson... well, he'd never been overtly disrespectful, but he was a socialist.

She was distracted by the entrance door bursting open to admit several large men in uniforms. Beside her, Jayne stiffened, his hand going to his holster and caressing his sidearm as if for reassurance. If he'd been drunk, he did not look like it now. Why would he be worried? Mary wondered. The uniformed men were plainly policemen of some kind. We haven't done anything wrong.

The officers ran straight back towards the bar, apparently on a mission, and Mary felt Jayne relax a little. The patrons slouched there were rather pathetic specimens - they were, after all, skulking in a pub in the middle of the day - but none of them looked like criminals. The man the officers grabbed and pushed to lie facedown on the floor seemed as nonplussed as the others.

"Bryan Van Hardwick, you are bound by law for the crime of assault," the leader announced in a ringing voice.

The arrested man began to struggle. "What? I don't know what you're talking about!" he cried weakly, but it made no difference: his hands were bound behind him and he was pulled roughly to his feet. He continued to protest as he was manhandled toward the door. "I haven't done anything, gorrammit - I swear! No, don't take me away! I'll do anything you want, please!" He actually began to weep, and Mary looked away in mingled pity and disgust.

Branson and Sybil, sitting with their backs to the door, had turned in their seats at the noise. Now they exchanged fearful glances. Mary couldn't tell for sure in the sickly bluish light, but she thought they looked pale.

The door thumped shut behind the main contingent of policemen and their charge, but two of the men stayed behind to go around and speak to the other customers. "Let's go. Now," Jayne muttered. They all jumped up. "Out the back," the mercenary snapped, grabbing Mary's arm rather more roughly than she felt necessary. He steered her down a narrow corridor she hadn't noticed before and out a steel door into brilliant white sunlight, then hustled her through the grimy concrete alley, ignoring her protests, until they'd turned into the road and joined the flow of foot traffic.

"Sybil!" Mary cried over her shoulder. "Branson!"

"They'll catch up," Jayne growled. But when they finally paused to catch their breath, Sybil and Branson were nowhere to be seen.

-to be continued-