O human race, born to fly upward, wherefore at a little wind dost thou so fall?
Firefly: Seven Deadly Sins
Chapter 7: Wrath
After leaving the training house, it had taken the Operative only a few minutes to reach his shuttle. A few more minutes passed as the craft took him into orbit, docking with the Alfred. And a few minutes after that, he was on the bridge of his ship. Carmelito greeted him instantly.
"We've tracked two of the navsats," the ensign said. "They're decoys. We're tracking the third now."
The Operative nodded. It was a futile effort, but fortune might favour them and provide them with Serenity's actual navsat. "Keep me informed. I will be with our guests."
For a moment, Carmelito looked uneasy. But a moment later, the look had gone, complimented with the words "yes Sir." And he returned to his post.
The Operative departed the bridge and headed down through the ship's main corridor. Before long he arrived at the entrance to the interrogation room. With a hiss, the door opened, and he stepped inside – the air circulation wasn't good in here – it pumped in very hot or cold air, depending on what the Operative ordered. The lights were too bright, and the walls were featureless black. Crude techniques for putting one's subject on edge, yet quite effective ones.
He knew that from experience. Even if he couldn't recall it, it had been part of his training. Torture resistance, escape…it had served him well. Even if he'd never been captured. Which was more than he could say for the two prisoners that resided in the chamber. After watching the feed from Beaumonde, he'd ordered Interpol to do some digging. And as he'd entered the Blue Sun system, fortune had smiled on him, and entrusted to him two persons of interest. Associates of Malcolm Reynolds, and twins, at that. Black hair that included moustaches and stubble, brown eyes, average builds…they reminded the Operative of weasels. In this case, battered, bruised, tied up, and most importantly, scared weasels. More crude, but effective interrogation techniques he'd employed before heading down to Burnet. And with Reynolds out in the Black, it was time to return to their session.
"We ain't done nothin!'" one twin cried as the Operative walked in. The words were slurred, due to him missing several of his teeth.
"Mister Mingojerry Rample. Mister Fantastic Rample. Twins, born to Alanna Rample and an unknown father. One boy derives his name from a misremembered T.S. Elliot poem, the other from Alanna Rample's expression upon realizing she had a second bun in the oven. A thoroughly unimaginative woman, who passed that trait onto her sons." The Operative sat down on the chair that faced the two twins. "As to Mingojerry's statement, that was, in fact, incorrect. You've done plenty. There are eight warrants with your names on them. If you wish to continue living to violate those warrants, gentlemen, you will be so kind as to answer every single question I have regarding Captain Malcolm Reynolds and the Serenity."
"Malcolm Reynolds?" Fanty asked. "We don't know any-"
The Operative kicked him. "Please don't waste my time. I know that Malcolm Reynolds is an associate of yours, and that his most recent escapade involved a heist on Lilac and a rendezvous on Beaumonde. Cherokee Security lost tens of thousands of scrip, not to mention their pride."
"We didn't-"
The Operative kicked him again. "And while I don't care what happens to private security firms who can't do the jobs they're hired for, my job is to track down Malcolm Reynolds. And to do my job I have to ask around." He smiled. "Do you understand?"
Fanty nodded. Mingo looked apprehensive. And the Operative's smile faded. Simple interrogation techniques – flickers of amity, but not too much to put the prisoner at ease. Not yet at least.
"We don't know where Reynolds is," Mingo slurred. "Last we saw of 'im was on Beaumonde."
"I know. And I believe you." The Operative began pacing around. "You were quite kind a few days ago when you told me about the girl you encountered in the Maidenhead. But I'm afraid that's not enough." He crouched down, and both of the twins looked at him. "So, here's what you're going to do. You're going to inform me of all of Reynold's known berths. Who he knows, where he can find haven, that sort of thing."
"We don't know-"
The Operative grabbed Fanty's ring finger and broke it.
"Try," said the Operative.
Like the bursting of a dam, the twins let their mouths open and words poured out. Name after name. Planet after planet, moon after moon, even the name of a few space stations. Some were wild shots. Others could have been lies. But the Operative nonetheless let them continue. Prompting them to do so through painful means when they slowed down. Even rewarding them with water as the half hour mark came. And then, finally, after an hour had passed, after Carmelito had long since informed him that they hadn't found Serenity, he'd had enough. The twins were on the edge of their leash. And had been beaten by the stick long enough.
So the Operative ended it. He walked over to the door, which opened with the same hiss it always did. He had a lot of work ahead of him.
"Wait."
He glanced back at the twins, not sure which had spoken. But it was Mingo that spoke next.
"You said that if we wanted to live…we-"
"Don't worry," the Operative said. "You'll be off my ship before you know it."
The door closed and the Operative headed for CIC. He had some data to shift through, favours to call in, orders to issue.
The first of which was assigning Bravo Team to take the twins to the airlock.
"Sir?"
The Operative remained seated in CIC. Days had passed since the Burnet FUBAR. In the span of those days, he'd cross referenced the data Fanty and Mingo had given him, and made the necessary decisions. Over the last five hours, by his hand, dozens, perhaps even hundreds of people had been killed by strike teams sent from all branches of the Alliance. "Carte blanche," were the words he had given to Serra, and those words still applied. And now he was tapped into numerous feeds from the sites – Sanchez Ship Repair and Storage on Boros. The K-3 Mining Post on Whitefall. The town on Haven on the moon of Haven – the least original of all the names, and the most problematic, as he'd lost contact with the cruiser sent to the world. And yet, from the reports he'd received, the one that had endured by far the most carnage.
"Sir?"
And this time he turned away from the screens. Before him stood Ensign Carmelito. Looking well dressed, well groomed, and not at all in a good state of mind.
"I asked not to be disturbed."
"Is it true?"
"When I ask not to be disturbed, I hope you realize that it's an order."
"Is it true?" Carmelito repeated.
The Operative sighed and closed his eyes. "What's true?"
"That you sent kill teams all over the 'Verse to kill anyone who even might have been in contact with Malcolm Reynolds?"
"Not sent, ordered. Other branches did the sending and-"
"We're not murderers!"
Carmelito was shaking; on the verge of tears. His fists were clenched. He wanted a fight. But likely knew that it would avail him nothing.
"Hold old are you?" the Operative asked.
"…twenty-seven."
"And you served on three ships before being granted this assignment."
"Yes Sir." The fists remained clenched.
"And on any of those ships, did you take part in any engagements? Smugglers? Pirates?" The Operative paused. "Reavers?"
"…yes Sir."
"And did you kill anyone?"
"No Sir."
"But people died, no?" the Operative asked.
"What does that have to do with anything?"
"Everything."
The Operative spun round in his chair and pressed a button. One of the feeds changed to a recording, showing a town reduced to smouldering ruins. Bodies were everywhere. Blood was on the few structures that remained standing, used to paint all manner of symbols that only made sense to the minds of the damned.
"This is a feed from a SAR team, taken from Viridian on Lilac a few days ago." He spun back round to Carmelito. "Reaver handiwork."
Carmelito suddenly looked a lot more pale than usual.
"Does it bother you, Ensign?"
He didn't answer.
"It should. Because this was a sin of which there is no forgiveness. The Reavers come. Kill. Rape. They do so without reason or mercy. That they are human is true only in a biological sense."
There was the sound of retching – someone on the SAR team had let the sight of mutilated corpses get to him.
"I came into contact with Reavers myself once," the Operative continued. "Two years ago, on a ship called the Vagabond. The Reavers killed almost everyone aboard. When my team and I arrived, they took the lives of ten more people, including eight of those that I entered the ship with." He paused, remembering the events. The screams. The shooting. How the Vagabond had been removed from the face of the universe. "Do you know why they do that Ensign?"
He remained silent.
"Neither do I." He shut the feed off. "But I do know why I have done this. It's horrible, yes. Like the Vagabond, many innocents have perished. But it is all for a purpose. It is what separates the Alliance from the Reavers – men like us, Carmelito. We make the hard choices. We do the things no-one else can. To be both angel and demon, so that Man may live in paradise, and never know of the depths of Hell we must enter in order to keep serpents out."
Carmelito swallowed. "Why are you telling me this Sir?"
"Because similar words were spoken to me once. Even after all these years, and the erasure of so many memories, I recall them. These words have kept me going. And if what I do bothers you, then you may take solace in knowing that there is more humanity in you than that what remains in me." He rose to his feet and placed a hand on the ensign's shoulder. "Now do your duty."
Carmelito remained in place, even as he took the Operative's arm, and removed it from his shoulder. They were of similar height, but that was where the similarities ended. Their skin, their eyes, even their uniforms were different. And Carmelito most certainly didn't have a sword at his side.
But the ensign said nothing. Not as he turned without saluting, not as he reached the door. And the Operative retook his seat and returned to the feed. Sooner or later, Reynolds would get in touch with him.
"Sir?"
The Operative looked back at him.
"Why did Mathias have to die?"
The Operative had no answer.
"We're after the Tams. But why Mathias? The damage was done. What could possibly warrant-"
"Ensign-"
"Do you even know?!"
The Operative sighed – he knew he should discipline Carmelito where he stood. But he indulged him.
"Someone high up wanted Mathias dead," he said. "That's the only conclusion I can draw. Quite possibly the same member of parliament whose mind was read by River Tam."
"And that's it," Carmelito said. "Mathias screwed up. And he had to die for it."
"Yes."
"And you don't even care."
"It's not my place to care."
"And why's that?"
"Because of what I am. An Operative. I don't question. I can't question. I can only do what parliament orders me to do, so that civilization is free to indulge in the questions of 'what if' or 'if only.'"
"Who are you?" Carmelito whispered. "What are you?"
"No one. Because of what I am. What I've been since the moment I became an Operative."
"And before that? What then? What kind of man decides to-"
"That will be all, Ensign."
Carmelito didn't continue. After a moment's pause, he walked out of CIC, the door closing behind him. And the Operative was glad. Their little heart to heart had wasted more time than he'd cared for. And raised questions he'd rather not consider.
I can't remember. I know I joined willingly. But…
He closed his eyes.
Better worlds. Worlds without sin.
He remembered those words. Somehow, after all these years, he remembered. Words by which men like Salim Bhairavi had died at his hand. Words that had allowed him to end the life of Philbert Mathias as well, in the knowledge of it being part of a greater good. Words that could lead him into battle with the Reavers. And give him solace as his nightmares sought to take that away from him.
All of them better worlds.
Carmelito was a good man. But he could make this mission more difficult than it needed to be.
Of course, he reflected, looking at the handiwork of the strike teams wasn't making it any easier.
And yet all he could do was wait. Sooner or later Reynolds would find out, and then, he'd get in touch. Sooner or later he would see sense and give River Tam over.
Or otherwise, join the departed.
At each of the sites, the Operative had instructed the strike teams to leave behind a Mole-class Cortex node. The Cortex facilitated FTL communications, but the nodes served a different purpose of being able to hone in on a starship's navsat. Further orders had been given for all ships to stay in the area of their attack and be ready to move in at his order once Serenity was detected. Yet not too close that prying eyes would suspect that the Alliance had been involved in mass killings.
Which was why it was to both his satisfaction and frustration that he received a navsat alert from Haven. On one hand, it was in Blue Sun, and in easy travel range. On the other, the cruiser that had attacked the township wasn't responding to hails, so he couldn't order them to make a strike. So now, as he watched the ping on his terminal at CIC, he was left to ask himself, "what now?" He could move in, but that would take time, and Reynolds might leave before he arrived. He could contact him, but that could tip him off. The Operative rubbed his chin. Wondering. And hoping.
One last chance.
His masters wanted the Tams. Reynolds was a criminal and a thug, but he wasn't his target. He would have to realize why Haven had been attacked. And maybe that would be enough to get the captain to see sense.
Very well.
The Operative gave the command to establish a link between the Alfred and Serenity. And pressed a single button on a nearby terminal, as the Alfred made its way to Haven. It would take the ship four hours to reach the moon, and likely, Reynolds would be gone before they arrived. But no harm in trying after all.
The link was established and the Operative frowned. Reynolds had tapped into feeds at their other safehouses. He and/or his crew were observing his handiwork right now. So as the words CONNECTION ESTABLISHED appeared on his screen, as he saw Reynolds on the other side of the link, he paused. His eyes watery, his jaw loose, the man looked…broken. There was no other word for it. The Operative had seen grief, guilt, and all manner of suffering. But never the gaze of one so dead to the universe.
"I'm sorry."
The words just came bubbling out. But he didn't regret them. At the least, Reynolds deserved to hear such an utterance. And he himself needed to say them as he remembered Carmelito's words.
We're not murderers.
Reynolds slowly looked at him. And the Operative continued. For both their sakes.
"If your quarry goes to ground, leave no ground to go to." He paused, before continuing. "You should have taken my offer. Or did you think none of this was your fault?"
"I don't murder children," Reynolds said, his tone sounding as dead as the gaze his face bore.
"I do, if I have to," the Operative responded.
"Why?" Reynolds whispered. "Do you even know why they sent you?"
The Operative paused. Remembering Mathias. Remembering that all he knew was that River Tam was an Alpha-level target who knew something that could destroy the Alliance. And that he had never asked why.
"It's not my place to ask."
As was the natural order of things.
"I believe in something greater," the Operative continued. "A world without sin."
"So me and mine gotta lay down and die so you can live in your better world?"
"I'm not going to live there." The Operative's tone was the same, but inside, he felt like a snake was crawling away at him. Tempting paradise, when he knew he could never reach it. "There's no place for me there, any more than there is for you. Malcolm…" He paused. Remembering Mathias. Carmelito. The faces of each and every person he'd killed.
"I'm a monster."
Knowing he would never receive thanks. That even as his actions were vindicated, history would forget him. A star long burnt out, eclipsed, as the universe grew brighter.
"What I do is evil, I've no illusions about it, but it must be done."
"Keep talking," Reynolds said, averting his gaze from the Operative. "You're not getting a location trace off this wave."
"And every minute you keep River Tam away from me, more people will die."
"You think I care?!"
"Of course you care," the Operative said, feeling an unwanted stab of pity for the captain. "You're not a Reaver Mal. You're a human man, and you will never understand how-"
Reynolds broke the connection. Leaving the Operative in the dark of his ship. And in silence.
And yet his gaze remained focused on the screen. Reynolds had been wrong about one thing – he had got a location trace off the Cortex wave, and glancing at another terminal, he had further confirmation that the Serenity was on Haven. And yet, even as Reynolds had expressed his ignorance, he hadn't derived any satisfaction from it. Malcolm Reynolds and all his crew would die, and there was no need for them to. He'd tried to make the man see sense, and he'd failed. True, the fault lay with Reynolds as well. And yet, he was the better man. He was the best of the best, the will of the Alliance, the one who did the things no one else could so that paradise could remain as was. And yet, he felt as if he had failed.
"Ensign," he said over the intercom. "ETA to Haven."
"Three hours, fifty-three minutes, and-"
The Operative shut it off. In other words, not nearly enough time to get to Haven before Reynolds departed it. Before he began running just a little longer.
"So that's how it is," he said to himself. "A chase to the end."
He frowned – monologuing. Pathetic. He leant back in his chair and closed his eyes, trying to avoid the gazes of Malcolm Reynolds and Philbert Mathias. Trying to cast his mind back through the years of carnage and intrigue. To wonder where he had lost count of how many lives he had taken. And to speak once more.
"We're making a better world. All of them, better worlds."
And that he had to believe it.
"Define 'disappeared.'"
The Operative had his back to Carmelito, and continued to star out through the bridge's plexiglas windows. Before him loomed the moon of Haven in all its brown, uninteresting glory.
"Sir, the Serenity is not on Haven."
"I know that Ensign, I wasn't expecting Reynolds to be an idiot and hang around. I want to know where he is now."
"Sir, we have over fifty ships sweeping the Blue Sun system. None of them have reported any sightings of Serenity, nor has law enforcement on any world picked them up."
"They must have something."
"No Sir. It's like they've…disappeared."
The Operative swore, much to his disapproval. Swearing was a reactionary mechanism, a way of releasing anger through verbal rather than physical means. It was what separated mankind from lesser beasts, yet made them animals all the same. And yet he recalled what he'd said to Reynolds. That he couldn't make him angry. And now?
And now you're intent on dragging this out as long as possible.
The Operative hadn't expected Reynolds to stay at Haven, though he'd brought the Alfred just to make sure. All they'd found was the town of Haven in ruins, and with the cruiser he'd sent downed, with all the crew dead. More lives lost to recover a pair of siblings harboured by a fugitive who he hadn't even heard of more than a week ago. And yet now, by proxy, Reynolds had become the most wanted man in the 'Verse.
"Give me a starmap." He turned to Carmelito. "I want to see our ship dispersal."
The ensign obliged, and before long, the Blue Sun system was being displayed. The inner planets, Meridian, New Canaan, Muir, and the gas giant Fury. Then the Uroboros asteroid field, followed by the outer planets of Highgate, Dragons Egg, Deadwood, and Shenzou. And finally, out on the fringes, the protostar Burnham. The first brown dwarf in the Verse to be helioformed. And yet left to rot. Burnham was deep in Reaver territory.
The Operative remained silent as Carmelito pinpointed all the major ships within the quadrant, stationed alongside the main shipping routes. Space was big – they both knew that. And it was unlikely that Reynolds would keep to the main space lanes. But the Serenity was a mere Firefly -class transport. Only four hours had passed since his conversation with Reynolds, and he couldn't have got out of Blue Sun by then. And he couldn't run forever either. Blue Sun was the edge of Alliance space.
So where are you Reynolds? The Operative wondered. Where's my albatross?
There was no answer. Not from the map, not from Carmelito, not from anyone.
"Alright," the Operative said. "Keep at it. And try to find out what you can about our last link. Mister Universe, I believe."
"That's not a lot to go on Sir."
"I know. But try anyway. We have the time. Reynolds doesn't."
He walked off the bridge and headed for his quarters. In the long run, Reynolds couldn't win. He could head out into the Black, or make a shot for Murphy or Georgia. But sooner or later, the albatross would be shot. Maybe even taken alive.
But something about this felt wrong. As an Operative, he had carte blanche over his hunt. But even he thought that fifty ships was excessive. And yet, the Alliance had provided them without hesitation. As soon as he'd confirmed the presence of Serenity within Blue Sun, Alliance High Command had sent an entire fleet's worth of ships into the system. Someone, or some people, were scared. Somehow, River Tam was worth all of this. Not just all the lives he'd taken, but this expenditure of this amount of resources as well.
Do you even know why they sent you?
He winced as he entered his quarters. Reynolds once again gnawed away at his thoughts.
It's not my place to ask.
And his training kept the demons at bay. He'd had enough trouble seeing the survey footage of Haven. As the children he had killed (because the situation had required it) looked up at him. Or faced the warm, dead earth.
Malcolm…I'm a monster.
He took a seat and booted up his terminal. He didn't disagree with those words. He didn't regret his actions. And yet, he'd never done something on this kind of scale. Had never taken the word "collateral" so literally. Never taken the lives of so many so he could take the life of one, for reasons that were unknown to him.
Did I know? He wondered. Was I comfortable with my choice then?
He couldn't answer. The mind wipe had seen to that. And given the unease he was feeling, that was probably for the best. He didn't need more emotional baggage.
It didn't stop him from drawing up a picture of himself within his files – it was for reference, used for identity generation when a photo was required. It depicted a 28 year old man. Strong. Tall. Calm and confident. Biting his lip, the Operative's hands flew across the keys. Running the photo through a software ageing program. And setting it backwards by six years.
Why am I doing this?
It didn't serve his mission. He should be searching for more leads. Or practicing his swordplay. Or heck, reading. That at least improved the mind. But this?
He nonetheless looked at the image. Six years younger. He didn't look that different, he thought. But six years ago was when he'd been made an Operative. Even if he couldn't remember it. That was when a life he couldn't even remember had come to an end. When he had ceased to exist.
His hands flew over the keys as he used the new image in facial recognition software. The same kind he'd used on Reynolds. More time wasting, part of his mind told him. More sloth. Another sin. And one so soon after falling to pride.
I need to know, another part of his mind said.
A match was found. The option to open the file was made.
For which much wisdom comes much sorrow.
He opened it, ignoring Ecclesiastes's words. And sitting back in his chair, he began to read.
Name: Dante Lodovico
Gender: Male
DOB: 2490/01/20
Social Control #: 18,241,012,010,524
Son of Beatrice and Virgil Lodovico, born on Londinium. Joined Alliance Marines in 2506, in light of the outbreak of the Unification War. Assigned to 29th Planetary Assault Division. Received rank of lieutenant in 2509 upon transfer to Special Alliance Support. Given command of Team Alpha 13 in 2510. Believed KIA at Battle of Serenity Valley, 2511, where Lodovico and his unit were tasked with disrupting Independent armoured forces. Operation carried out at cost of entire unit. No body was recovered.
Posthumous award of Silver Saber.
The Operative put a hand to his chin as he looked at the man before him. The aging software had been accurate, but this was...validation, he wondered? The notion that he was still a man? That he'd existed, and that at one point in his life, he'd had a name? That he'd willingly become the arm of the Alliance, sacrificing all that he'd known?
Serenity Valley.
Reynolds had been there. The chances of them meeting during the battle were slim, and if they had, Reynolds certainly hadn't recognised him. And yet he wondered…if fate existed, it had an interesting sense of humour.
Once you've been in Serenity, you never leave. You just learn to live there.
It was an old Independent saying from veterans of the battle. One that he'd picked up from Salim, before he'd killed the man. Like he'd do to Reynolds when the moment came.
I was there.
He'd visited Serenity Graveyard. The memory was a haze to him now. He knew he'd met another Operative that day, but he couldn't remember what they'd talked about. He frowned – he couldn't remember anything of his life before an Operative. But even after becoming one, some moments were unclear in his mind. In a manner that he couldn't attribute to time.
This is unproductive.
He shooed the thoughts away and extracted the image from the profile. He fed it to the software, de-aging it another six years. Dante Lodovico, at the age of sixteen. Longer hair. Softer features. Shorter as well. But there was no doubt that he was looking at the same person. Even if it was a face he could no longer remember.
What the hell am I doing?
The question remained in his mind, throbbing like a tumour. This didn't serve any purpose. He was on the hunt for an alpha-level target, in a mission that had seen him fail at least once, and as a result, take dozens of innocent lives. What good would this do him or the Alliance?
But he still read. Looked up everything he could on Dante Lodovico. School record. Service record. Memorial record.
This is a waste of time.
How had he felt when he'd lost his name, he asked? Had it bothered him during training?
A dangerous waste of time.
And still, he read.
Beatrice. His mother. Long dead. Killed in a car accident.
Virgil. His father. Long dead as well. A man who died not long after his son did as well, according to official records.
And another name that lay in his thoughts. Ever since he'd seen that recording of River Tam in the Maidenhead. A name that clawed away at his mind, claw and talon awash with the blood of distant memory.
A name that refused to vanish.
"You don't like Shakespeare?"
"No, actually I like him quite a lot. It's just The Tempest that I never liked."
"Why?"
"Oh, the characters are simplistic. Prospero has this great scheme for revenge that takes up the entirety of the play, and then abandons it at the last moment. Oh, and Miranda is a twit who falls for the first hunky boy she sees." His heart skipped a beat. "I mean, not like you. As in, I…um…"
"I understand," she said, smiling. "I still think you're wrong though."
He could live with that. Here, as they ate together in the mess hall, this was the only piece of 'living' he'd done in a long time. Even if he hadn't studied Shakespeare since high school, it was right now damn more entertaining than being yelled at on the firing range for not yet achieving 98% accuracy with a battle rifle.
"So what if it was Ferdinand though?" she asked, smiling between mouthfuls of the soup they were eating. "What if he was the one stranded?"
"As in a role reversal?" He smirked. "Same thing. Except a twat rather than a twit."
"There's a difference?"
He shrugged. "If there's one thing Shakespeare proved, it's that you can never have enough words in your vocabulary."
She laughed, and the smirk turned into a smile. He liked it when she laughed. She was beautiful when she did so.
"Naiveté is fine," he continued. "Just as long as you grow out of it."
"And is that you?" she asked. "Is this why you're here?"
"I'm on a space station that doesn't officially exist, training to be an agent of the Alliance who won't officially exist either." He folded his arms. "I think I'm as deep in the grey as I can get."
"Maybe." He smile faded for a moment, as her gaze averted his. A moment later, both had returned. And yet, he noticed it. Facial recognition analysis training was paying off.
"So then," she continued. "What's your favourite Shakespeare play?"
But training could wait. "Henry the Fifth," he said, without pause. "No question."
"And why's that?"
"Boy becomes king, king leads his people to war, king wins," he said. "Arguably simple. But Henry was a leader. He faced the odds, and succeeded at every turn. A hero."
"But not to the French."
"But to the reader. And to me."
He blushed as he raised an eyebrow. Heroes. He was yammering on about heroes in her presence as if he were a child. One with butterflies in his stomach, sweaty palms, and a deep, barely resistible need to kiss her.
"What's yours?" he asked, fighting that need all the while.
"Hmm." She took a moment to think. "I'd have to say Othello."
"Not Romeo and Juliet?"
He cursed himself for the joke. But she didn't seem to mind.
"Oh, that's nice as well," she said. "But those two had their love torn apart due to circumstances beyond their control. Othello, though…well, that's a tragedy. Insecurity, racial prejudice…but love. Up to the end."
The need to kiss her was getting even more intense. And, unlike his body, his soup was getting cold. So he was both relieved and disheartened as she got to her feet.
"I should go," she said.
"Yeah." He tried to avoid her gaze, but couldn't manage it. He wouldn't kiss her. Not yet. But looking at her, hearing her, being near her…it was almost enough.
"Night," she said.
"Goodnight, Miranda."
She smiled, paused, and bent down to him. Kissing him once. Quickly and softly. But with the force of a supernova, and a feeling beyond anything one of the greatest writers in human history had ever provided for him.
"Goodnight," she whispered. She rose to her feet, and gave him one last smile. "And don't worry about The Tempest. There's many other things called Miranda."
He smiled. And-
There's many other things called Miranda.
After all, from what he recalled, Miranda was the name of a moon in Earth-That-Was's-
There's many other things called Miranda.
It was around its…he couldn't remember how many planets Earth's system had-
There's many other things called Miranda.
Miranda.
Ever since Beaumonde, the name had been eating away at him. Even the quick dose he'd had had involved that word being repeated by some kind of strange woman. "Miranda" was not the activation code for Tam, he knew that much. Miranda was also the name of a character from Shakespeare, the moon of the planet Uranus in the star system of Earth-That-Was, and dozens of places and individuals within the Verse. But none of them had any kind of linkage to a psychic girl, or with any undesirable element. And now, at the end of his rope, he was looking at one more of these nondescript sites – Miranda. A blackrock, and the only planet of the Burnham system. Some kind of terraforming accident, back in '06, as he recalled. Not long before the Unification War broke out.
And yet, as he looked at the planet, he continued to frown, and let the name of "Miranda" gnaw away at his body and mind. There was nothing on the Cortex on the world, and he'd had to dig through public databases to learn that it even existed. Few would have reason to care about Miranda, he understood that, but the lack of detail was astounding. After using his clearance, he'd managed to get more detailed information, such as its mass, gravity, rotational period, and so on. But even then, in the bowls of the Alliance, there was nothing on it. No casualty figures, no details on the terraforming bar something going wrong with an atmospheric processor, or anything like that. It was as if a colony had never existed.
He remembered Kalista, on Argo. A lot of the meeting was vague in his mind, but he remembered that they'd discussed the Reavers. That the Reavers didn't officially exist, which was a line that was being repeated even now after the massacre on Lilac. Funny, he reflected, how the Reavers occupied the Burnham system as their own territory. Beings that didn't exist in the company of a planet that didn't exist.
"Sir?"
And he shut the screen of his terminal off as Carmelito walked into his quarters. Under normal circumstances, he'd have berated the ensign for now requesting permission for entry.
Aren't these normal circumstances?
No, he decided. He was hunting a girl that didn't exist, was having dreams about a woman who didn't exist, who shared the name of a planet who didn't exist. And in the midst of all this, he'd given orders that had resulted in hundreds of lives seeking to exist as well.
"What have you got?"
Carmelito handed him a data pad. On it was a profile of a man with brown eyes, messy black hair, and a smirk that made the Operative want to punch him. No-one should look that happy he reflected.
"Mister Universe," Carmelito said. "We've found him."
The Operative looked at the data. Real name unknown. Date and place of birth unknown. List of suspected aliases and supposed professions included Manfred Asbach (pilot), Forrest Whedon (shepherd), Pavlo McGill (planet-diver), and Scott David (prospector). Believed to reside on the moon of Siren.
"Siren?" the Operative asked. "I haven't heard of it."
"It's a small moon that orbits Fury. Most have heard of the planet's six inhabited moons, but there's plenty that haven't been settled. A report was made that the terraforming had fallen apart, and the people on the world had a month to get off. Data states that Siren's atmosphere is poisonous. A blackrock."
"And what do you think?"
"That SIGINT might be onto something. They've traced some anomalous waves to Fury ever since they turned Argo Station onto the area. It's helped our target that Siren's orbit is takes it further from Fury than the other moons, and that the path takes it near an ion cloud. Wrecks havoc with communications and scanning."
The Operative nodded. It matched what Fanty and Mingo had told him, of what little they knew – that Reynolds knew a reclusive techno-geek on an uninhabited moon who went by the name of "Mr Universe." In Blue Sun, a previously unknown location…could Reynolds have gone there?
"So what now?" Carmelito asked. "Do we kill him too?"
"Would it bother you if I said yes?"
Carmelito didn't answer. And the Operative cursed himself for even caring. This was a lowly ensign he was talking to. He didn't have to answer to him. There wasn't a single person on this gorram ship that he owed anything to.
"Well, it might not come to that. We'll head in. If the ion cloud's kept this Mister Universe safe, then it might cloak our approach as well."
"And if he's there?"
The Operative rose to his feet. He didn't owe Carmelito anything. But he still felt obliged to give him an answer.
"Then I decide how many people have to die."
The Operative watched as the man who called himself Mr Universe conversed with Reynolds. Acting the role he'd been ordered to when the Operative and a squad of marines had descended to the surface of Siren and honed in on the one structure that was emitting a signal. A former communications complex, retrofitted to be a listening station. Mr Universe, faced with the prospect of being gunned down where he stood, had agreed to play ball. And sure enough, Reynolds's crew had contacted him, not saying where or why. Only that they had a some dirt on the Alliance that he wanted out in the open. That the Alliance "wouldn't see this coming" and that he wanted to use his contact's equipment to broadcast it across the 'Verse.
The Operative looked around the room, making sure that none of his men would be seen by the crew in the range of vision the flatscreen provided. He didn't doubt that Mr Universe would have the capability to do such a thing at all.
"No problem," Mr Universe declared jubilantly. "Bring it on bring it on bring it on! From here to the eyes and ears of the 'Verse, that's my motto. Or it would be, if I had a motto."
"We won't be long," said the man on the other side of the screen. The Operative recognised it as Washburne, accompanied by his wife.
"You're gonna get caught in the ion cloud," Mr Universe continued. "It'll play merry hob with your radar, but pretty pretty lights and a few miles after you'll be right in my orbit."
He's talking too fast.
"You'll let us know if anyone else comes at you," Alleyne said.
"You'll be the first."
The transmission ended. Dozens more filled the room. Mr Universe was a technophile – through his facility, he had access to every wave that went through the 'Verse, whether it be communication, information, or entertainment. Bereft of any companionship bar the love-bot that was seated on a nearby sofa. God of the machine, without the need of the comfort of mere mortals. Free to act like one with the power that information provided. Power that could not be afforded to anyone not working for the Alliance.
The Operative watched as Mr Universe slowly swivelled around on his chair to look up at him. The smirk he'd seen on the earlier mugshot was gone. Instead he saw resentment. Defiance. The look of a man who was willing to sell out others to save his own skin, but would resent himself for the rest of his life for it.
"There," Mr Universe said. "Toss me my thirty coin, but I got a newswave for you friend-"
The Operative impaled him with his sword. Somehow he had all this information at his disposal, yet was unaware of the fate of traitors. The man looked up at the Operative with confusion. Then sadness. His face seemed to ask "why?" And the Operative, just for a moment, felt pity.
Better worlds. All of them better worlds.
The Operative drew out his sword.
Malcolm…I'm a monster.
And began walking. Glancing at Carmelito for a moment, seeing nothing but silent anger on his face. He'd broken no promise. He had decided that Mr Universe had to die. Just like Reynolds and his crew would. It was his curse, his duty, to make such decisions so that others didn't have to.
"Call every ship in the quadrant, we'll need them in the air," he said, as he headed for the exit. He glanced back at the room. "Destroy it all."
Silently, he headed through the complex to the surface. A shuttle was waiting for him that would take him up to the Alfred. A second shuttle would ferry his men up once the equipment had been destroyed.
It was time to end this.
Within the hour, fifty-two starships were in orbit of Siren, situated between the moon and the ion cloud. Lightning crackled through the vacuum as the haze of blue covered the entire space before them. Mr Universe hadn't been lying when he said that it would play with their radar – they couldn't detect anything beyond the cloud. Yet the same would apply for Reynolds. Once the Serenity passed through, it would be too late. Cowardly, perhaps, but it would finish this once and for all. The mission didn't have to be done right, it just had to be done.
So he stood there. Wearing his black uniform with his black body armour, Carmelito in his navy blues beside him. The ensign hadn't uttered a single word to him bar confirming that all of Mr Universe's equipment had been destroyed. After that, he'd come up to the bridge to watch the firestorm. To see just how many more people had to die.
Eight, the Operative reflected. Assuming that Serra remained with them. Love and madness indeed.
Finally, after an eternity of waiting, his helmsman called out, "reading activity in the cloud."
At last. Finally, this mission would be over. "Lock and fire on my command," the Operative said, smiling. Then, to himself, "you should have let me see her captain. We should have done this as men. Not with fire."
"Sir!"
The Operative didn't need warning as the ion cloud began to swirl with displacement. And then, Serenity itself emerged, heading straight for Siren. Like Ulysses swimming straight to the creatures of myth that the moon was named after. His crew unable to restrain him in this case.
Only it wasn't the Serenity that he recalled. This ship had been damaged, modified – been painted red in a haphazard manner, and been given a rather large cannon on its top. Looking at his console readout, the Operative saw that its radiation readings were all wrong.
And then he smiled, realizing what Reynolds had done. He had remade his ship in the image of the Reavers. The Operative had destroyed all the places Serenity could go to, and had forced Reynolds to get creative. Forced him to take his ship into Reaver territory.
"Vessel in range," the Operative said, addressing his entire fleet. "Lock on."
One cannon on a Class III Firefly was no match for any of the ships under the Operative's command, let alone fifty-two of them. And yet, Serenity kept heading towards his fleet. He shook his head. "Bastard's not even changing course."
Oddly, the ion cloud hadn't stopped swirling. In fact, it was moving at an even greater rate, as if several more-
No.
Fifty ships came out of the cloud, all of them in the same condition as Serenity. Radiation leakage, haphazard design, the extra paint jobs…
Reavers.
"Sir?" the helmsman called out, his voice betraying his fear. The Operative glanced around – the same fear that every bridge officer was now wearing.
Oh no.
Reynolds had hidden with the Reavers. And somehow, he'd got them to chase him. He'd known this was a trap, and had decided to spring one of his own.
"Target the Reavers," the Operative stammered.
No-one moved. The Reavers designed their ships to invoke fear in their prey.
"Target the Reavers," he repeated.
It was working.
"Target everyone, somebody fire!"
Finally, the Alfred obliged, as did the rest of his fleet. Missiles soared through the black, their exhaust dancing like comet contrails. Lasers pierced the dark, bringing light to the enemies of the Alliance. Mass driver rounds soared through the vacuum, hitting one Reaver ship after another. The might of the Alliance was displayed to the universe in all its fire and fury, bringing swift death to its enemies, as Hell was unleashed in Heaven.
And yet the Reavers kept coming.
The battle waged on. The Alliance ships kept firing, doing their best to stay in formation and continue their barrage. The Reaver ships did whatever the hell their pilots felt like. Some fired back. Some sent boarding parties. Some performed kamikaze runs into their foes, exploding in brief flares of light, only to fade. The Reavers unforgotten and unmourned. The Alliance personnel, not so much.
And in the midst of this, Serenity had slipped through. The last report from the Shang Yu was that the ship was heading straight for Siren, on a trajectory that aligned with Mr Universe's base.
You could have just handed her over, Reynolds, the Operative reflected, as he staggered through the corridors of his sinking ship. You could have made this simple. Instead, you have forced me to destroy so many people – and now you're providing some destruction of your own. This cannot possibly end in anything but more death. And you could have stopped it.
Reports of hull breaches sounded all around him – a Reaver ship had ploughed into the Alfred's port side, and while it hadn't cut through, it had sent the ship in freefall towards Siren, and left it on the verge of breaking apart. As sirens blared, as the Operative saw people scrambling in a vain attempt to stay alive, he reflected that even if by some miracle that the ship remained in one peace, the atmosphere would roast them alive. But as the ship's computer informed droned out that life support was fading, and the reactor was close to overloading, he wasn't expecting to get that far.
Grabbing a laser pistol off a dead soldier, the Operative headed towards the escape pods located on the lower deck. When he arrived, Carmelito, covered in blood that may or may not have been his own, was struggling to get into one of the crafts.
"Here."
He helped Carmelito slide into one of the pods. For a moment, the ensign glanced at him. No words were spoken. With the gaze of the dead coming from the young man's eyes, none needed to be.
I'm sorry.
Reynolds and his cronies would pay. The mission would be completed, and every last gorram Reaver in this gorram star system would be wiped from the face of Creation. Such was the Operative's vow as he got into his own escape pod.
The pods launched as the Alfred was consumed by fire – it was an outward blast, no doubt from its reactor. In an instant, 311 men and women were vaporized. Consigned to the solar winds, and memories of Man. He watched through his pod's HUD as the blast spread outwards.
I've been here before.
He remembered falling. Towards another hostile world, in the company of fellow soldiers. As if from a dream, or fleeting memory. It-
Carmelito.
Carmelito's pod had launched after his, even after the ensign had got in before him. He watched as the fire spread. As it approached the ensign's pod.
No.
Watched as the fire reached the pod.
No!
He turned his pod's radio off. He didn't want to hear the sound of Carmelito being burnt alive.
I'm so sorry.
Ensign Carmelito was dead. Killed in the line of duty, as part of some mad game that Reynolds had played right until the end. Just like the madman he was. Silently, the Operative adjusted the pod's trajectory to Mr Universe's base.
Soon, Captain Reynolds, we will, at last, end this monstrosity.
Soon, it would all end.
Like the fire up above, fire would burn the sin all away.
The Operative had made it to the surface of Siren, within fifty metres of Mr Universe's base. In the descent he'd seen no sign of Serenity, but had seen a Reaver pursuit ship setting down at the landing strip. He'd activated his pod's beacon and headed for the base itself, bypassing its main entrance and instead using its ventilation system. And now, after ten minutes of crawling, he burst out of a duct, landing at Mr Universe's sanctum.
Back here again.
He glanced around – the marines had done their job well. All of the hacker's monitors were blackened out – smashed, in some cases. No more listening in, no more sending signals out. Whatever Reynolds and his crew hoped to accomplish, it was doomed to failure.
Now all I have to do is find them. And hope that the Reavers don't find me.
He spared a second glance at Mr Universe's body. He'd crawled over to his love-bot, leaving a trail of blood behind him, and collapsed in her lap. Like a child, really. Certainly he'd been naive as one.
The Operative moved forward. Time to find Reynolds and-
"Mal."
He spun around. The love-bot was looking up at him.
"Guy killed me Mal," she said, her voice a monotone. "He killed me with a sword. How weird is that?"
It took the Operative less than a moment to realize that he was the "guy" that the love-bot was referring to. It took only slightly longer to realize that Mr Universe had somehow stayed alive long enough to leave a recorded message for his criminal friends.
"I got…a short span here," the love-bot continued. "They destroyed my equipment, but I have a backup unit. Bottom of the complex, right over the generator. Hard to get too. I know they missed it. They can't stop the signal Mal. They can never stop the signal. Okay, this is painful. On many levels. I'm not…"
The love-bot powered down, her eyes going dark. Leaving the Operative in the darkness of the room. And the darkness of his own thoughts.
Idiots, he reflected. Ni men dou shi sha gua!
Reynolds was here. He knew it. And if Reynolds had listened to this worm's epitaph, then…
They can't stop the signal Mal.
The Operative got moving.
Just watch me.
The access way to the generator was a long staircase that took him to a catwalk. On a central platform was a ramshackle mess of wires and terminals. He could hear the humming of a machine, and guessed that the generator was below.
But none of that mattered. Because Malcolm Reynolds was standing with his back turned to him, standing on the railing that separated the walkway from the platform, with the lack of any connecting walkway. Malcolm Reynolds was all that mattered. And Malcolm Reynolds would never use that device. Malcolm Reynolds, his foe, his target, had to die.
So he fired his laser pistol, hitting Reynolds in the back. Reynolds grunted and fell back onto the walkway. It wasn't a lethal shot – the power setting wasn't high enough for that. Reynolds would die, but he would give him the courtesy of doing it to his face.
The Operative holstered his pistol as he watched Reynolds struggle to his feet before turning around.
"Shot me in the back," Reynolds said. He forced a smile. "I haven't made you angry have I?"
"There's a lot of innocent people in the air being killed right now."
The smile faded. "You have no idea how true that is."
The Operative watched Reynolds. Gone was the scoundrel that he had seen on Burnet. Gone was the broken man of Haven, or the captain that had saved River on Beaumonde. All that stood before him now was Captain Malcolm Reynolds, 57th Brigade, Independent Army. Malcolm Reynolds his enemy. Malcolm Reynolds the soldier.
"I know the secret," Reynolds whispered. "The truth that burned up River Tam's brain. The rest of the 'Verse is going to know it too. Because they need to."
"Do you really believe that?" the Operative asked sadly.
"I do."
"You willing to die for that belief?"
Even now, he hoped.
"I am."
The Operative nodded. Reynolds had chosen his path. And he would meet the path's end. In the blink of an eye, he reached for his laser pistol.
Only Reynolds beat him to it as he drew out his revolver. The first shot hit the pistol, blasting it out of the Operative's hand. The next two shots hit his body armour, knocking him backwards. The Operative dived for cover behind some maintenance equipment.
"Of course," he heard Reynolds mutter, "that ain't exactly Plan A."
The Operative glanced out from behind cover – he watched Reynolds jump to one of the rungs that hung above. He went from one rung to the next, like monkey-bars.
Idiot.
The Operative ran over to his pistol – it was trashed. Reynold's bullet had torn right through it. And Reynolds himself was making decent headway to the transmission point.
The Operative jumped as well, grabbing a chain and swinging across. His feet hit Reynolds, sending him flying down towards the spinning blades of the generator below. Yet he caught himself between some chains, and began to climb up to the central platform. The Operative meanwhile carried himself over on the rungs. He dropped down once he was close enough, rolling across the platform to disperse the impact of his fall. As he turned around, he saw Reynolds climb up onto the platform and reach for his pistol.
No.
The Operative dived into Reynolds, sending them both sprawling, and causing Reynolds to drop the gun into the abyss below. The Operative got to his feet and dragged Reynolds with him. And with a flurry of punches and kicks, sent him staggering back against a railing.
This was how it would go. Reynolds had a faster draw than him, he'd give him that much. But he was slower, weaker, and no more skilled than he'd been on Burnet. He'd already won. And Reynolds was either too stubborn or too stupid to realize it, as he tried to hold his own against the Operative's attacks. Sometimes, he even got a blow of his own in. But it accounted for nothing. Especially as the Operative sent Reynolds sprawling down onto the platform. Slowly, he unsheathed his sword. And watched as Reynolds rose to his feet, holding a screwdriver as if it were a dagger. The Operative pointed his sword towards Reynolds, before swinging it twice. Reynolds dodged each blow and went on the attack. But he was easily stopped, as the Operative kneed him in the chest, and stabbed him in the stomach.
Reynolds struggled for breath. But he still stood there. Still with the screwdriver in his hand. Defiant to the last, as the two were locked in death's embrace.
"Do you know what your sin is, Mal?" the Operative whispered.
Reynolds gave the smile of the damned. "Ah hell," he said. "I'm a fan of all seven."
And then he head-butted the Operative. The Operative did a spinning kick in response, but yelled in pain as the screwdriver pierced the sole of his boot. Reynolds pulled the screwdriver in towards him and socked the Operative on the jaw, knocking him to the ground.
"But right now, I'm gonna have to go with wrath."
Wrath? You, who've brought Hell to my fleet, speak of wrath here?
The Operative watched as Reynolds drew the sword out of his stomach. He was trembling, and without medical attention, wouldn't last long.
Though what of the wrath I myself dispensed?
But Reynolds the soldier had declared himself willing to die for his crusade. And now, actions were speaking louder than words.
The sword came down. And, casting doubt to the ether, the Operative rolled to the side, kicking Reynolds, forcing him to stumble. He got up and punched Reynolds in his stomach wound, grinning as he watched, and heard, his foe scream.
It was inappropriate to derive this kind of pleasure, he knew that. He was an Operative of the parliament. The right hand of the Alliance, the defender of civilization. But right now, he was taking great pleasure from beating the shit out of Malcolm Reynolds. In hindsight, Serra had been correct – Reynolds had succeeded in overturning a decade of the finest training the Alliance could provide, and had actually succeeded in making him angry. Angry for his defiance, angry for the lives he had had to take, angry for the lives being lost in orbit right now. And that Reynolds had achieved all this made him angrier still. So it was with more than precision, more than the knowledge of the damage it would cause, that led him to kick Reynolds in the face.
It was anger.
After a moment, however, he got himself under control. He was better than this, made of worthier stuff than a common thug like Reynolds.
No, not a thug. Perhaps I was wrong about him being a plucky hero. Either way, though, this must end.
He watched Reynolds struggle to his feet – he had to know this was ending. Why else would he try to activate the transmission device?
"I'm sorry," the Operative said. And he meant it. Reynolds would have made such a talented Operative, if only he could have directed his anger at a target other than the Alliance.
But the sorrow didn't stop him from plunging his fingers into a nerve cluster in the captain's back, leaving him paralysed. Just like he'd done with Mathias. Reynolds gasped. And remained still.
The Operative began walking towards his sword. "You should know there's no shame in this," he said. "You've done remarkable things." He picked up the sword and began wiping the blood away. "But you're fighting a war that you've already lost."
He thrust his sword…
And Reynolds, impossibly, ducked out of the way.
The Operative stood there in mute shock at this patent impossibility. And that gave Reynolds all the opportunity he needed to grab the Operative's sword arm, yank it and him forward, and elbow him in the throat.
Gasping, choking, wheezing, the Operative dropped his sword and stumbled back, unable to speak. Reynolds walked towards him.
"Yeah, well, I'm known for that." Then, the captain grabbed the Operative into a wrestling hold and cracked his arms.
It was a relatively simple manoeuvre, and it all but won the fight for one simple reason: The Operative hadn't felt pain of this kind in years. Not since the earliest days of his training. He had forgotten how debilitating pain could be. He was so good, so skilled, so successful, that no opponent since those days had ever even seriously challenged, much less hurt him.
Reynolds dropped him to the floor, the impact against the cold surface adding to the pain coursing through the Operative's arms. Then the captain picked up the sword. "Piece'a shrapnel tore up that nerve cluster my first tour. Had it moved."
The Operative cursed himself for once again failing to put disparate pieces of information into a coherent whole. At the training house, he hadn't counted on Serra being a threat. And now, he'd done it again. He'd read Reynold's medical records from the war, had seen the military surgeon's report on the operation that moved the cluster, but never thought to apply it to a hand-to-hand strategy. But then, he'd never counted on requiring a hand-to-hand strategy with Reynolds either.
"Sorry 'bout the throat." Reynold's apology sounded considerably less sincere than the Operative's had been. He walked over. "Expect you'd want to say your famous last words now. Just one trouble."
The Operative couldn't respond, as he was too busy gasping for breath. And his arms were useless as Reynolds reached over the railing, pulled the back of the Operative's jacket through, and sliced the sword through the fabric – not through his heart, as he'd expected. Now he was pinned to the railing, unable to move, especially with his arms as damaged as they were.
Reynolds knelt down and met the Operative's eyes. The eyes of the soldier were back there. The eyes of a man who had lost everything, and would give up anything, to do what he thought he had to.
"I ain't gonna kill you," Reynolds said. He turned around and began walking towards the broadwave console, drawing out a cylinder from his pocket. "Hell, I'm gonna grant you your greatest wish." He put it in the player, and hit the SEND ALL button. I'm gonna show you a world without sin."
The screen at the top of the broadwave lit up, followed by every screen in the room. It showed a woman, dressed in the uniform of an Alliance official. Reynolds activated a bridge that extended from the control node to the room's exit, and walked off.
And a recording began to play.
"These are just a few of the images we've recorded. And you can see…it isn't what we thought."
The Operative watched on, staring at the images the woman was referring to. They cycled in groups of four, all showing the same thing – the bodies of the dead, in various states of decomposition.
"There's been no war here, no terraforming event. The environment is stable."
Where was 'here', though? He squinted closer, trying to get a sense of place. The timestamps were all in the month of March, 2506, across the span of the 15th to 16th. But there was no hint of the location.
"It's the Pax," the woman said, speaking on the verge of tears. "The G-23 paxilon hydrochlorenate that we added to the air processors. It was supposed to calm the population, weed out aggression." The woman started to cry. "Well it works. The people here stopped fighting. And then they stopped everything else."
There was a long pause as the woman stood in silence, letting her tears flow in place of her words. And the Operative leant forward even further, as the images continued to cycle. Pax. "Peace," in Latin. But he'd never heardof any chemical substance that bore its name, or the notion of seeding a planet's atmosphere with anything that wasn't meant to simulate Earth-like environments. And where was this world at all?
"They stopped going to work," she continued. "They stopped breeding…talking…eating…there's thirty million people here and they all just let themselves die. They didn't even kill themselves. They just…most starved. When they stopped working the power grids, there were overloads, fires…people burned to death just sitting in their chairs. Just sitting" She took a breath. "Thirty million."
Thirty million. Even as the tears poured down the woman's face, even as what left of his tarnished soul reached out for a fellow human being, it was the number that gave the Operative the greatest shot. Humans weren't good with numbers. One death was a tragedy, a million was a statistic, as the saying went. There was a point when the human mind stopped comprehending such figures on the personal level. But he was an Operative. He was trained to run the numbers – he'd run them over the past month, as he'd judged that the deaths of dozens of innocents were all worth ending the threat that River Tam presented, whatever that threat was. But thirty million?
He couldn't imagine it. Couldn't conceive how the Alliance could have been involved in the deaths of thirty million innocents.
There was a roar, and the sound of banging on a hatch. It was from the recording. The woman glanced sideways before returning to the recording device. She wore a mask, and its name was Death.
"I have to be quick," she said, the mask cracking as her tears dissolved it. "There was no-one working the receptors when we landed, so we hit pretty hard. We can't leave. We can't use any of the local transports because-" The bangs increased in intensity. "There are people…they're not people. About a tenth of a percent of the population had the opposite reaction to the Pax. Their aggressor response increased beyond madness. They have become…" She closed her eyes for a moment. "Well they've killed most of us. And not just killed. They've done things."
Reavers, the Operative reflected. Hearing her words, hearing the snarls nearby – snarls and roars that echoed from the Vagabond. It…no. It couldn't be. It-
"I won't live to report this," the woman sobbed, as the roars of monsters sung in discord with the hammering on her ship's hatch. "But people have to know. We meant it for the best. To make people safer." She looked to the side, and a different sound was heard. The sound of a hatch being bent open.
"God!" she screamed, and pulled out a pistol, firing once in the direction of the noise. Then she put it to her forehead, hoping for the mercy of a swift death.
But neither mercy nor God was found, as something tackled her to the floor of her ship. And the Operative felt a tear of his own trickle down, as he watched the sight. Biting her. Tearing into her clothes and fresh, roaring and spitting as she screamed. As more creatures poured in. As the roars grew louder. And the screams softer. As he saw what the creatures did. As he watched it all – to bear witness to the dead.
He knew that tens of billions of people had borne witness to it as well. And saw the recording cut out, and its epitaph displayed.
Recording taken on March 16th, 2506
IAV Antonio
Burnham system, Miranda
Miranda. The word of his dreams. A blackrock, deep in Reaver space. A terraforming accident. Lies, all of it. All to make people better. All to make a world without sin.
It was a lie.
It was that fact that got to him the most. Everything he had fought for. Better worlds. All the lives he had taken, to make that happen. All of that, based on this. No wonder the Alliance had been so desperate to prevent the truth from being known.
Everything I fought for…believed…a lie.
"Sir?"
His pocket comm. was receiving a feed. In the midst of all this, he had completely forgotten about it.
"Targets have been acquired. Do we engage?"
Reynolds was still alive. The Operative smiled, despite himself.
"Do we have a kill order?"
He could imagine them pointing their guns at Reynolds right now. Their fingers on the triggers. All too eager to bring death to the man who had brought so much death to them. Had brought the monsters home.
"Do we have a kill order?!"
Fighting the pain, he brought a hand down to the radio and activated it. Maybe, just maybe…
"Do we-"
"Stand down," he said. "It's finished. We're finished."
And he closed his eyes. Thinking of the waste of years, of the waste of lives. Of truth and falsehood, of virtue and sin. All leading to this one, final moment. Where the Alliance's pride had invoked karma's wrath. How he had been their willing instrument for oh so long. How his faith in falsehood had been rewarded.
I'm finished.
And how he too had finally paid the price for his sins.
A/N
So, the epilogue notwithstanding, that's the last chapter done.
Similar to ch. 6, this was a case of me relying on the movie and novelization, which in the case of the latter, did result in some verbatim sections when the Operative's POV was featured. That aside, not too much to say, but a few things I want to comment on.
In the novelization, the Operative was at Haven, and incapacitated Book with his "nerve pinch" technique. However, in a case of me truly going against canon, I decided to claim that in this story, it never happened. Partly because of the logistics - Mal and co. would leave Inara's planet/moon (I decided that it was Burnet based on the astro-geography of the 'Verse), and presumably head straight to Haven. It can be assumed that the Operative's ship is faster under the premise that a larger ship will result in greater speed in a zero-g environment. But even then, after leaving Burnet after Mal, he'd have to trace down Mal's contacts, attack Haven, leave Haven, and be so far away that he can't track Mal in less time than it takes Serenity to reach Haven after embarking on what can be assumed to be the shortest route. Yeah...that's stretching it.
Also made up Siren being Mr. Universe's moon, as the background for the moon in the novelization doesn't match any world in The Verse in Numbers, and given how quickly Serenity gets from Miranda to the moon, I have to assume that it's situated in Blue Sun. As such, gave Fury an extra moon, providing the rationale as to why it wouldn't come up much in star charts and whatnot given that it was classified as a blackrock. Miranda itself provides a precedent for this.
