Epilogue: Starlight

It was quiet, but not the chilling kind of quiet that signaled the ship's engine was out or atmo processor was blown. It was the peaceful quiet of a ship cruising through the Verse on its own, no one chasing it, no one fighting or dying, just . . . quiet. The only cause for excitement was the occasional sudden pull downward when the artificial gravity would try kicking in, and though he couldn't hear it, the quiet cursing of his mechanic as she tried to get the systems working normally.

He walk-crawled down the catwalk, pulling himself hand-over-hand along the railing, having ditched the space suit some hours ago. He'd given up the magboots that had come with it, but he was better off being out of the bulky outfit and back in normal clothes.

He was nearing the shuttle, a myriad of emotions fighting through him at that point in existence. There was anger, certainly, but a mish-mash of everything else too, and he wasn't sure why he was coming here, except possibly to sort those feelings out.

The air outside her shuttle was still tinged with the usual cloying touch of incense. He paused to take a breath of that sweet air outside, and rapped on the door.

There was no answer, so Mal did his usual and slid the door open.

The reassertion of gravity was unsettling to a gut that had been churning the last twenty-four hours on none. He staggered into the shuttle, nose flaring with the biting sweetness of the fragrance of the chamber and eyes caressed by the red velvet hues and black drapes.

The first thing he focused on was the familiar: a simple, elegant pistol lying on the table by her couch, beside her longbow and that short, straight blade she'd taken to. The familiar sights of weapons set order to the chaotic emotions he was feeling, which was good, because she was staring right at him.

"Captain," Inara spoke.

He was alive.

White light stung his eyelids as he laid back, rising up into the world of the living. The pain he'd remembered, the fear in the Doctor's voice as they'd been captured, was still fresh in his mind, but flowed back, receding like a tide.

He blinked through the whiteness, and Shepherd Book looked up into a pair of faces, one satisfied, other a mixture of relief and hardness.

"I suppose we made it?" he asked, and the hard face nodded.

"That we did," Mal replied.

"No one else hurt?" he asked.

"Aside from you, no," Simon said, shaking his head.

"River?"

"I'm okay."

Book looked across the room, past Simon's form, to see River sitting on the bed against the wall. Her arms and legs were bandaged, and a angry welt traced below her eye, but she was smiling, if only a little, and that cheered the old man's heart. He laid back, closing his eyes.

"Good."

A few moments passed, and he sensed movement. His eyes opened again, and the old preacher saw Simon had moved away, across the infirmary, leaving him alone with Mal, relatively speaking. The Captain seemed to be thinking, and finally leaned over him.

"I told you what we was gonna do, preacher," Mal said, pulling up a chair. It wasn't until then that Book realized the artificial gravity was working again. "We weren't going to risk everyone to save the Doc on some wild fool chance like you were cooking up."

"Wouldn't be the first mistake you've made," Book replied, meeting Mal's eyes. He rose up a little bit on his elbows, one hand hitting the controls for the bed to raise up the upper half to bring him even with Mal.

Their gazes met, long and hard, neither man yielding for the longest while.

Mal finally broke the stare, looking across the room, toward River, and then back toward Simon. Both the Tams were watching the exchange intently, and Book noted a tenseness in River's posture - as though she was prepared to spring up in case something went awry.

Mal closed his eyes for a second, leaning back a bit in his chair, and then returned to staring at Book.

"Leastway I see it," he said, "I'm not gonna blame River none for wanting to protect her brother. And if I can't bring myself to blame her, I can't well hold you for doing what you felt was right. Especially since I'm not sure what you did wasn't right my own self."

The silence following that was deafening. It took Book a moment to realize Simon had stopped moving about.

"A moment before you made off with the Doc, I realized what I owed my crew," he said. "I should have done all I could to save the Doc."

Mal turned and looked across the infirmary toward Simon. There was a moments' silence, and Mal nodded to the Doctor, before rising and walking out of the infirmary, coat whispering behind him.

That one word stung worse than anything else she could have said, and he let his best indignant expression creep over his face.

Distantly, he wondered if that was the exact intention she'd had.

He stared back at Inara for a moment, the Companion dressed in one of her more conservative outfits, and felt a mental fencing match begin as they locked eyes.

"Kaylee's working on getting the gravity back to normal," he said. "Once we've got that and the main engine running, we'll be heading on."

"That's good to hear," she said, nodding. An awkward silence hung in the air for a few seconds. He wasn't sure what to say, but he knew that it would be a mistake to back off and walk right out through that hatch. They had to air this out.

"Doc says the Shepherd's doing good," Mal added. "He'll come around in a couple hours once the meds wear off."

"And what then?" Inara asked.

Yeah. That was a good question. What would happen then, when Mal got to look the old man dead in the eye after he risked all their lives like that?

"We're going to have ourselves a lengthy discussion," Mal said. She stared back, their eyes locking.

"Well, if you do talk with him, I hope you do it with your mouth and not your fists," she said, her words chilled.

"I'm not gonna . . . . " Mal paused, closing his eyes. He sensed movement, and opened them again to see her rise from the red couch. He sighed, and came out with it.

"I was going for the Shepherd's notion," Mal said, meeting her dark eyes.

There was a span of silence stretching between them, as he let her process that. For Inara's part, she didn't move, or even give off the faintest sign of reaction, but he knew she was thinking over those words.

"And if you'd just trusted me . . . ." he continued, but was cut off.

"Trust you?" she said, the accusation growing. "Why should I have?"

Gravity was back on. That made sitting easier.

"That one was close," Zoë said, settling back into Wash's lap. He found it hard to lean back, considering that he was sitting on the bench in the dining room, so instead he simply leaned forward into his wife. Somehow, despite all the sweat and chaos and blood, her hair still smelled wonderful, and her butt was right on top of . . . .

Yes, he concluded. Gravity was very nice.

"Nah. I think the Captain had a good plan," Wash replied, angling the spoon in one hand around Zoë's head toward his mouth, the other arm wrapped around her waist.

"That's a chilling concept," Zoë commented, frowning. Wash couldn't help but nod as he slipped the spoon into his mouth, and moaned quietly through closed teeth.

"Baby, why don't you cook more?" he asked, after swallowing. "Wife soup is the most delicious thing I've had in weeks."

"Jayne's better," she replied.

"I don't like the idea of eating anything Jayne has touched," Wash mused, trying to get at the bowl again.

"Could be worse," Zoë said. "Captain could be cooking."

"He's still threatening to make me a cake," the husband grunted, and the wife chuckled.

"Probably just kidding, Wash," she said, reaching back and running a hand through his hair.

"Did you finish the checkup?" Wash asked after swallowing the next spoonful. His hand rose up and rubbed her belly, where their child was growing. "I mean, before the whole stabbing thing."

"Yes, I did," Zoë said, leaning back even further into him, to the point where Wash found her curls interfering with any further soup-eating. That was a decent tradeoff, he figured.

"And?"

"Nothing different," she replied. "Our little one is coming along good."

A few minutes passed, as Wash continued eating and Zoe continued enjoying his presence, and both made the usual wordless noises associated with that state of being. However, as time passed, Wash knew he was going to have to bring up what had happened earlier, or at least, one specific part of it. He steeled himself, getting read for one hell of an argument, and spoke.

"Hon," Wash said, frowning. "When Mal made that call earlier, you went with him."

"Yes," she replied, and he felt her tense up against him. "I agreed with him."

"You thought we should have let-" She turned in his lap, looking directly back at her husband.

"It was a hard call," she cut Wash off. "Listen. It was . . . Mal made a choice. I didn't like it, but I agreed with his reasons." She paused. Wash was about to speak again when she continued. "Didn't mean I wasn't glad when the preacher made his own choice."

The mess was filled with the thrumming of running electricity and the distant rumble of the engines. Wash's fingers played along the smooth metal of the spoon, flipping and churning the thick soup.

So, that was it? He'd expected a bit more conflict, some yelling and throwing about of things, but . . . well, he wasn't going to argue with it.

"Its done now," he said.

"Yeah, its done," Zoë replied, and leaned her head in, resting her forehead against his. He reached up around her shoulders, holding her against him, and they stayed that way for a while, husband and wife letting the stress of one insane day roll off them together.

That hit him like a punch in the gut. And she followed through just as fast.

"Your duty is to your crew, but you chose to let Simon die?"

"One person, or eight?" Mal countered. "What do you think I should choose, Inara?"

"What answer did you choose?" she replied, and he stopped in the middle of his countercharge.

"I made the decision I trusted Malcolm Reynolds to make," Inara said, taking a step closer, to the point where he could feel her body heat. "I made a choice we all trusted you to make."

He was verbally fencing with an expert, and Mal knew he had just been deftly skewered.

"This crew is family, Mal," she whispered, reaching up to touch his shoulder. "We'd die for each other."

"Except Jayne," he added, and she nodded, managing a slight smile.

"Yes. Except Jayne." She looked down for a moment, before continuing. "And still, even he would . . . none of us are afraid, Mal."

"I didn't suggest you were," he said.

"But you are."

Book wasn't sure how long it was until he'd woken up again, but when he did so, it was to the smell of food. He opened his eyes, his dried mouth watering a bit at the smell - what seemed like some form of processed protein mixed with beef flavoring, he guessed - and looked around the infirmary. He felt a distant pain in his stomach and legs, but it was just an echo of what he'd felt when he'd been sliced open.

River was up, sitting on her bed, a bowl in hand and eating, and a second one sat beside her. Simon was next to her, sorting through a shelf of drugs and speaking quietly to her. As soon as she saw the Shepherd start moving, though, she set her bowl down and picked up the other, moving by his side.

"Thank you," Book offered, taking the bowl in hands that were shaking, just a little bit, from blood loss. Simon glanced up, and walked by his side as the preacher took a bite, his stomach suddenly protesting loudly that it was empty.

"How are you feeling?" the doctor asked.

"Better," both River and Book answered at the same time. Her eyes widened a hair, and a bout of embarrassment spread over her features.

"I'm not in any pain," Book said after taking another bite. "A lot better, now." He moved his legs, and found them responsive, if aching from the beating they'd taken and the lengthy horizontal stay.

"That's good to hear," Simon said, nodding. "I think you should be safe to return to your room for some real rest." He smiled toward his sister. "River insisted I bring you something to eat. She said you'd both need something after everything we went through today."

"I did, thank you," Book said, once again toward River, and finished the bowl off. There hadn't been a whole lot of food in it, but the protein tended to be filling, if nothing else. Book set the bowl down and tried sitting up, which he did with no trouble, and Simon backed away when he slung his legs around off the bed, and slowly stood.

"Getting too old for this," the Shepherd said, feeling his back popping as he shakily stood, and then sat back down.

"You're healthier than most of the crew," Simon said, shrugging, and went back across the room to resume inspecting his equipment. As he started moving, however, the doctor noticed someone outside the infirmary, and broke off to walk outside.

River hovered by Book's side, uncertainty on her features, and her fingers interlaced, as if she was trying to say something.

"What is it?" Book asked, smiling to put her at ease. She was silent for a moment.

"Thank you," she said suddenly, and his smile grew. He reached up and grasped the girl's shoulder.

"I did what anyone should have done," he replied. "And you're welcome." She slowly smiled back, her face brightening, and she pulled the old Shepherd into a hug. Without warning, she rose and kissed him on the forehead, the same way a young girl would kiss her grandfather.

When she stepped back, the relieved happiness he saw on her face was genuine, but it faded a little bit as she glanced out the door to the infirmary, before looking back to him, that uncertainty reappearing.

"Later," she said, her words quiet. "We have to talk." He frowned but he understood.

"About that," he said, and she nodded. "Of course."

A moment later, the smile reappeared, and she picked up her bowl of protein.

"You're still hungry. Want the rest of mine?" she offered.

As River and Book were talking, Simon stepped outside the infirmary, and found himself running straight into Kaylee.

For a moment, she stared at him, and he stared right back, not sure what to say.

Then, she grabbed him, pulled him into a tight hug, and kissed him hard on the lips. It took a couple seconds for his own hands to move up and pull her into his chest, and she reciprocated, arms cinching tight around his waist. He wasn't sure how much time passed, but when they finally broke for breath, the young doctor felt a thousand times better.

They peered into each others' eyes, just inches apart, and he could see the worry, the redness, and the stains of dried tears on her face.

"Don't do that again," she said, her voice almost breaking. hew as at a loss to reply. "Don't do it. If you die, I might . . . I might have to hurt you, Simon."

He finally managed a smile, even as she had a half-sob, half-laugh of happiness, and he kissed her again, this one less desperate and forceful, but no less affectionate.

"Its okay," he whispered, once they'd broken. "I promise . . I promise I'll try very hard not to die anymore."

"Good," she said.

She looked past him, and he heard movement, and turned to see Book limping out of the infirmary, with River beside him and helping him stand. The doctor let Kaylee go and took a step toward them to assist, but the Shepherd raised his hand.

"I'm fine," he assured Simon. "I can make it to my room."

"Are you sure?" Simon asked. Book smiled, his expression weary but content., and River gave her brother her own tired grin.

"We can make it," she added, and started helping Book along. Simon hovered, uncertain, but then River glanced back.

"Kaylee," she said. "Simon needs to know how happy you are that he's not hurt."

"I am," she said, and touched his shoulder. "I really am, no matter how-"

"No," River said, frowning and shaking her head. "Tell him how happy you are." She gestured with her head at each emphasized word.

"Oooooh," the mechanic said, understanding.

The touch on Simon's shoulder became a grab, and that became a pull, and the young doctor realized what River meant as Kaylee hauled him toward the stairs.

A heavy weight of silence laid across his shoulders, as they stared at each other. At length, she finally spoke again.

"Sometimes I worry you've become too practical," she said. "That you lose what you are while trying to protect what you have."

"'Nara, I . . . ." Mal said, and closed his eyes, looking away.

He debated what to say. A hundred dead faces paraded before him. Bendis. Tracy. Nandi. Mr. Universe. The slack jaws of Miranda. The terrified look of that mercenary. The surrendering Alliance trooper on Haven. The Reaver-tortured kid on the derelict. Faces he'd lost or taken, directly or not, but all weighing down on him.

And then theirs. Jayne, lost and confused after Higgins' Moon. Kaylee, forlorn and distant as she stared at Serenity's inert engine. The Doc, dying from a gunshot wound to the gut. Zoe, shot and cut up on the floor beside Simon and Jayne. Book, a bullet wound in his shoulder and bleeding to death next to a cattle corral. Wash and River, both on their last legs after being tortured near to death.

Yes. She was right. He was afraid.

"What do you think I am, 'Nara?" Mal asked, quietly.

She answered by looking around the shuttle, and then toward the door.

"I already answered that not too long ago, Mal."

Mal slowly nodded, understanding her meaning.

"You're part of all of us," she continued. "You're the one keeping us flying. Whether we'll all admit it or not." She raised her hands to his jaw, and he looked her square in the eyes.

"We trust you to lead us the right way."

And that was it. That was why she'd gone behind his back. She wasn't trying to tear him down, he realized. She was just trying to do what he should have been doing.

The right thing wasn't always the smart thing. Shepherd Book understood that. Hell, wasn't that why he went for Miranda in the first place?

"Gorram it," Mal whispered, and her expression bunched up in confusion.

"What's wrong?"

"Damn preacher is still teaching me even when he's not," Mal muttered, shaking his head. He looked back up to her.

"What are you going to do now?" she asked.

"Like I said," Mal replied. "Have a talk with him." He turned toward the shuttle door, stopping at the entrance, and looked back toward her. "Inara, little as I am to admit it . . . you did right." A heartbeat.

"Thanks."

Before she could say anything in reply, he was gone.

He hauled himself up out of his bunk, grunting as he did so, trying to chase away the cobwebs of an all-too-short nap. Jayne clambered up into the crew corridor, shaking his head, and resolved to get a cup of caffeine right off.

The boat was quiet. Everyone was exhausted after that last narrow escape, and most of the crew had bedded down, Kaylee dragging the Doc off to her bunk and Wash and Zoe retiring to theirs. Of course, that meant he'd gotten pulled for watch duty while everyone else was sleeping. Yay.

No one ever appreciated the hard work he put in, sometimes.

Jayne walked into the darkened mess, rubbing his eyes as he did so, and that let him get halfway across the room toward the cabinets before he realized he wasn't alone. He paused, frowned, and scowled.

"The hell you doin'?" he asked.

River was lying on her back on the table, head resting on a cushion she'd apparently stolen from the sitting area behind the kitchen. The few knick-knacks that had been on the table were stacked neatly on the bench beside her. Her eyes were turned toward the ceiling, and she was staring upwards with a look of silly contentment.

"Stargazing," she replied, and that made Jayne's curious scowl deepen. He followed the line of her eyes, and saw she wasn't staring at the ceiling, but at the window in the top of the dining room, and the Black beyond.

"Hm," he replied, and went back to getting his cup of caffeine. He started up the pot, the metal clinking loudly in the kitchen, and the girl frowned.

"Shhh," she hissed, and he sneered back at her, loudly smacking the pot down on the counter. She glared daggers at him, but then went back to her stargazing. After a few minutes, the pot of caffeine finished, the smell of it filling the mess, and he poured himself a cup.

"Want some?" he asked her, walking back around toward the table. She shook her head, and he sat down beside her, steam wavering over her head. Her eyes flicked back and forth as they peered out the window, watching the slowly passing starscape outside with every sign of interest.

"You like stars?" he asked, sipping his drink and enjoying the hot, stiff taste.

"Yes," she replied, and one of her hands rose up toward the window, fingers outstretched as if she wanted to pluck them from the Black. "Simon won't let me go outside where I can hear them."

"Uh, yeah," Jayne said, frowning. "Need a spacesuit an' such for that." She nodded, her fingers waving slowly in the air.

This close, he saw one of the gashes on her arm, still fresh and pink, and that darkened his mood a bit. Her arm slowly dipped, dropping and folding over her stomach.

"You enjoyed it," she said abruptly, and he blinked.

"Enjoyed what?"

"Killing Reavers."

He was silent on that for a moment, and her head rose, eyes fixing him.

"Yeah," he admitted, nodding and sipping. "It felt good."

"Why?" she asked. "They scare you."

"Ain't nothin' scares me," Jayne replied, eyebrows bunching up in annoyance. "I just get put out by folks ain't civilized." She kept staring at him, and he realized he hadn't answered her question.

Fact was . . . .

"'Cause they hurt you," he said, straightforward and honest, and remembered the last time he'd seen her hurt like she'd been today, and how that had brought up the red. And how the red had been creeping into him when he'd been gunning down the Reavers, until Mal's voice had called him back to his senses.

She peered back at him, and her jaw worked, lips pressing together. After a few seconds, River laid her head back down looked up toward the stars, fingers wrapping around each other.

Shit, he realized. She was remembering. Better get her mind off it, but how would he . . . .

Jayne reached back into his pants pocket, remembering what he'd found in the infirmary earlier. He pulled the sheet of paper River had torn out of her drawing pad and unfolded it.

"Hey, girl," he grunted. "What's this?"

River's head rose again, and her eyes focused on the paper and the face drawn on it. She reached up and took it, looking at the half-finished figure: a man's face, young, narrow, with light hair. Dagger-like features, large eyes, and a serious look on the set of his jaw. Her fingers traced the edges of the picture, and ran down the kanji on the side.

"I couldn't read that, looked Japanese," Jayne said, shrugging.

"Eeko," she whispered.

"Huh?"

"Just an echo," she clarified, her words a bit louder. He watched her eyes, seeing a sense of recognition in her features, and something else, something he hadn't expected to see in her of all people: nostalgia.

"Who is he?" Jayne asked, reaching for the paper. What happened next caught him off-balance.

She snatched the paper away from him, a scowl appearing on her face, and she balled up the sheet. Her whole body pivoted, a single graceful motion of her legs that spun her around off the table, and River stood. She stepped around the table toward the kitchen and opened the incinerator, and shoved the paper inside.

"He's nobody," she said, her voice flat, and she slammed the incinerator door shut.

She stood there for a moment, watching the machine as it went to work silently, and then turned to face Jayne, catching his perplexed look.

"Nobody," she whispered, almost to herself. Then she was pushing past Jayne and hurrying toward the rear corridor. He rose, about to call after the crazy girl, but she was already gone.

"The hell?" he asked, confused. After a few seconds, he sat back down, and took another sip of his caffeine, wondering what that had been about.

They flowed past, a slow, smooth ocean of glittering lights and pure darkness. He settled into the pilot's chair, watching the vast, beautiful starscape drift along, only half a mind to the controls.

It had been a long, long time since Malcolm Reynolds appreciated the Black.

"It sure is peaceful."

Mal didn't jump; he'd sensed the other man's presence a while ago at the entrance to the bridge.

"Yeah, it is," Mal said, glancing back toward Book. The preacher limped into the room, shirt bulging from the bandages underneath much of his body. "You hurtin' any?"

"A little," Book replied, but from the sound of his voice it seemed like he was hurting plenty more than he let on. The Shepherd crossed the bridge and settled into the copilot's chair, with some obvious signs of relief.

"Care for some company?" the old man asked, and Mal shrugged.

"Oftentimes I got Albatross sittin' watch up here with me," Mal said, "When she can't sleep."

Book nodded, and went silent for a moment. There was a pause in the air, an anticipatory awkwardness.

"Wouldn't think you'd care for my company, Captain," Book finally said.

Another long, heavy pause filled the bridge as the Captain considered his response. It didn't take that long, actually, as every thought he had kept looping back to Inara's words, and the simple facts of life out this far.

"Jayne told me something, a little ways back, just after Miranda," Mal said. "He said we got enough enemies in the 'Verse as it was without tearing up on each other. Said it would be best if we let bygones be such, 'cause we wasn't gonna work if we were growling at each other all the time."

"An unusually thoughtful notion, coming from him," Book mused, and Mal nodded.

"Don't make it less the truth," Mal replied. "I'm left wondering where he got the idea from."

Silence once more reigned over the bridge, but it was not awkward this time. It seemed more . . . welcome. In a few words, without saying anything at all, the two men understood one another, and it was all past them.

Book peered out into the Black spiraling past on its languorous journey, and the Captain leaned back in his chair, a wistful smile on his face. The Shepherd noticed it, and frowned, curious.

"What is it?" he asked, and Mal looked back toward him.

"Hm?"

"What's so amusing?"

"Nothing," Mal replied, shaking his head, and peering back out at the stars before him, appreciating just how pretty they were as they drifted along.

"Still flying, is all."

The Hemmingway was a mess.

Forty-seven crew dead. Three times that injured. Thankfully, the Reavers hadn't had time to perform their craft on the injured, as they had been too busy fighting to survive, especially when nearly a quarter of their number had been killed in one stretch of corridor by a pair of blade-wielding killers and marine fire support.

For Captain Earnest Townsend, however, the battle wasn't over yet. He'd seen off the Reavers, but now he had to fight a worse foe: paperwork.

Almost the entire time since they'd cleared the ship of the Reavers had been spent coordinating the repair efforts on the already run-down frigate, and with the crews reduced to skeleton levels, that made things even harder. Still, as stressed and overwhelmed as he was, Townsend was glad for any reprieve, and one showed up a week after the battle aboard a small, light, fast-moving interstellar yacht built for speed, range, and not much else.

What made things a little more worrisome was the visitor's Vermillion-level security clearance.

"I apologize for keeping you waiting," Townsend said, stepping into the ready room beside his bridge a couple hours after the yacht had docked. The young man nodded, rising, and smiled, his face reflected in the polished walls and glossy tabletop.

"That's perfectly fine, captain," he said. "Out here, we're far enough out that there's little sanity in raising a fuss over waiting around for such a short time. Especially in light of what your crew has done."

"Thank you," the captain said, and they both took a seat. The first impression he got of the man was obvious youth: he seemed barely into his mid-twenties, though modern medical technology meant that a man could look a third his age without much difficulty. He was clad in a simple, tight gray suit and pants, his body slender and stocky, with pale blond hair and a face that reminded him of a knife: narrow and sharp. Wide blue eyes peered back at him, and a smile seemed to sit perpetually on his lips.

"I understand they're considering you for the Londinium Crest of Valor," the man mused, still grinning. "Destroying an entire Reaver flotilla by yourself? Impressive."

"Commander Pressly and the marines did most of the work," Townsend said, modest as usual. "I just shot a few animals and cleaned up the mess."

"Indeed," the man said, looking down at his datapad, consulting something. "I'm actually here in regards to that incident. Or rather, events happening parallel to that incident."

"You mean the other person with your clearance level," Townsend said, and the man nodded, his smile widening.

"Indeed," he replied.

"Are you oversight? Navy Intelligence?" Townsend asked, and the young man shook his head, chuckling.

"Nothing so cloak-and-dagger," he said. "I was actually alerted by your report, where you mentioned the individual in question was using a . . . Firefly-class transport? And seeking medical aid? Is that right?"

"Yes," the captain said, nodding. "He said he was in command of a Firefly. The shuttle he was using checked out, and his ship's medic had been injured in an accident."

"And you didn't probe any further when you saw his clearance level," the pale-haired man mused, and Townsend nodded.

"Not cleared to even know his name," the captain said, chuckling. "I didn't want to ask any questions."

"But you followed procedure, yes? You took detailed medical scans of the patient he brought on board? And everything checked out?"

"We did," Townsend said, frowning. "Unfortunately, we don't have any sensor or medical records from that time," he admitted. The young man frowned.

"What do you mean?"

"We're still trying to figure that out," Townsend said, shaking his head. "Somehow, all our sensor data and internal records relating to the incident were corrupted or deleted, and all long-range outgoing comm traffic during that time was squelched, so we didn't get a chance to compare the patient's biometrics to the sector databases. And somehow, all the tissue and blood samples were fed into the auto-incinerators. By the time our comms came back online, the records were lost."

"Sabotage?" the young man asked, his voice thoughtful. "Or combat damage?"

"Data loss was very specific," Townsend replied. "I think someone deliberately deleted all the records, though that would require root or command level access, and logs were deleted after the group left the ship, which means someone had to have ordered the ship's computer to delete the records up to a certain timestamp."

The young man looked away for a moment, nodding, and Townsend got the impression he understood what was going on, but if he knew anything, he wasn't talking.

"So," the man said, his tone disappointed. "You have no records of what happened on the ship." It wasn't a question.

"None," Captain Townsend replied, shaking his head. "But, I'm pretty certain that the woman who was with the old man who was behind it."

"Woman?" asked the pale-haired youth, eyebrows rising, and Townsend nodded.

"There were three," he said. "The old man, the young man who they said was a doctor or medic, and a girl. She couldn't have been past twenty."

"What did she look like?" the youth said, leaning forward, and Townsend noticed something different in his tone and posture. Before, he had been sitting straight, his voice calm and clinical. Now, there was something else: anticipation, and hunger.

"Small, slender, dark hair, very pale skin," Townsend said. "I didn't get a very good look at her, but she seemed familiar. And she fought like . . . like nothing I've ever seen before. One of my men who encountered her put up a report saying she was like an 'angel of death.'"

The pale-haired, finely featured young man stared at Townsend for a second, and then picked up his datapad. He put in a few keystrokes, and a moment later, the printer beside the ready room entrance hissed and produced a sheet of paper. The man retrieved it and set it down in front of Townsend.

"Did she look like this?" he asked, his voice sounding almost . . . hopeful.

"Yes," the captain breathed, the moment he saw the picture. It was her. But her eyes, her face, they were slack, empty. If he didn't know better, he'd say he was looking at a corpse, with all of her features dead and blank. But there was no doubt about it. "That's her."

He looked up, and saw a strange mixture of exultation and apprehension on the other man's face. Townsend watched as he reached down, picking up the printout of her empty features, and stared at it for a few seconds.

"What's this all about?" he asked. "And who are you? What's going on here?"

"The first and third questions, I can't answer," the young man said, and looked up at Townsend, smiling at him. "As for the second, I don't have name or rank. But for the purposes of this interview, you can call me Echo."

He set the printout of the girl's face on the table, and then leaned forward, that predatory gleam once more in his eyes.

"Now," he said, his voice low and hungry. "Tell me everything you know about this girl."

-

Oh, my. Is that some serious foreshadowing there?

Now, to address some specifics about this arc, and its themes. Personally, I've always felt that one of the key defining features of Firefly is family. I explored how the family works together in the previous arc, Mosaic, and in this arc, I explored the opposite: what happens when that family is in conflict. I asked myself at what point would family override loyalties, and the more I though about it, the more I realized the most basic defining factor of the crew of Serenity is that loyalty is defined by family. With the exception of Jayne, everyone on the crew would die for each other, and even Jayne's selfishness is iffy at this point in the plot.

So, central to the plot of Adrift was that Mal is forced into a difficult choice: sacrifice one for the whole, or risk the whole for the one. And Mal loves his crew, and Mal is scared to lose his crew, so he makes the choice to preserve the whole at the cost of the one, even though it is quite clear that the whole would gladly give itself for the one. Once Mal makes this decision, he then realizes how this goes against the very nature of his crew, and violates that unspoken trust the crew has in him. The reason the crew follows Mal and stays with him is not due to his authority, but because they trust him to protect everyone on the ship. That, more than anything else - whether it be his gun hand, his clever plans, or his force of personality - is what gives him his authority in the first place. Trust is what binds the crew to Mal, and when he breaks that trust . . . .

Well.

With that, we're at the end of the Adrift arc. A lot of stuff has been set up in the last few story arcs, and we're about to see the plot really thicken in the future. Expect to see some characters introduced in previous arcs return, as well as other villains taking a more active role. And we can expect at least one other character from the series to show up again soon. Things are really going to pick up over the next few arcs.

Note that in this chapter, the scene from Jayne's perspective refers to what is clearly katakana as kanji. That's deliberate; Jayne can barely read English, and knows virtually nothing about Japanese, let alone the differences in specific types of writing in that language in the first place.

Until next chapter . . . .