Chapter 2

The chapel was one of the oldest structures on the planet. Book stood just inside the narthex, looking with wonder at the dome. All built by one man, all rammed-earth construction. It wasn't a huge structure, by any means, but Book could not see himself managing the feat, even in his younger, more energetic days. To think that Warner was older than him when he had arrived on Ebenezer.

Everything except the single golden crucifix hanging in the apse was the grubby yellow of Ebenzer's dust. No pews in the nave, and a lack of rugs meant whoever celebrated here did it standing. The light came from LED pins strung above the apse, as there were no windows at all in the squat building.

Book stepped to the left, out of the doorway, and settled himself into seiza. Dirty knees were more than balanced by the chance to meditate inside the space such a sacrifice to faith had created. He began, as ever, with the breath. Soon enough, the familiar internal state was in place, and he began. One of the first things that he let go of was his time-sense.

One of the many things about Book that had made his superiors in the order dispair of him was his persistent unwillingness to completely abandon himself in a meditation. He maintained that there was always utility in being aware of someone approaching. As there was now.

Captaincy is a tricky thing. One is elevated to effective godhood, given both figurative and literal power of life and death over a crew, and control of the vast energies that allow space travel. On the other hand, depending the nature of the man or on where these powers descend from, this godhood can be a very effective prison. Han Yeun Lung mused on this frequently, staring across at the far towers of IAV Impregnable from the command deck.

He'd joined Alliance Forces in the last year of the war, although, as with any war, that was far from clear at the time. By the time he'd finished his officer's exams at Londinium Academy, the browncoats had been broken and the time of heroes was past. High enough marks to attract the eye of a fleet admiral looking for a good 2IC, high performance reviews in a gunship action against some holdouts who didn't accept the war's end, and the ultimate reward of his own cruiser. Here. The edge of nothing. You looked out the window and got a sense that the lights in the sky were other galaxies, not stars.

He listened in an absent way to Gascoyne's report. He knew it well enough after a month on the patrol route. Some rocks of almost no hazard to shipping. A dust cloud of entirely predicable dimensions. A great absence of threats, natural or man-made. Ebenezer, still where they left it, allowing for orbit. As always. He mustered the energy to avoid sighing.

"Telemetry reports an anomaly, out-system from us, approximately six hours standard drive distant," Gascoyne read from the bottom of the sheet. "A bit closer to Ebenzer than we are."

"Does telemetry define 'anomaly' at all, Mr. Gascoyne?"

"One moment, sir." He tapped the sheet to demand extra information. "Possible indication of engine power, multiple sources, but inconsistent." He frowned. "Sort of like engines being run briefly, then shut down."

"Interesting." Han was tapping a finger on his chin, the only outlet he'd allow himself, although inwardly he was vibrating like a sugar-filled teen. Something was happening. A break in the routine and the drills. His orders didn't explain why the Ebenezer Facility was so important to High Command, but they'd surely want unusual engine signatures investigated. "Havea couple of fighters sent out, top speed, for a recon. See if there's anything there worth worrying about."

Mal sat in the better of Ebenzer's two bars. This was purely coincidental, as the worse was in a farm collective, a half-day's walk to the north. He didn't feel entirely himself, and paused a moment to investigate the problem. After a second, he realized what the odd sensation was-- relaxation. A cargo delivered and payment given without a hitch, the only ugly customer on the receiving end of the deal seemed to actually like Jayne, and the local potatoes made a vodka that didn't taste of anything exotic or life threatening. Rare day indeed.

"You OK?" Zoe sat at the next table, her own tiny flask of vodka in front of her.

"Oddly enough, yes. When's Wash coming over?"

She made a vague gesture with her cup. "Soon. I told him Jayne was having fun without bloodshed, and he's anxious to get here. I think Kaylee's coming with him."

"No Simon?"

"Wash said he was tending to his sister. Told him she was more off than usual."

"Huh." He emptied his cup and reached for the flask. "I guess if anyone can tell, it's him."

Across the room, Jayne stood with several other rough men, some farmers, some tradesmen, others in less obvious lines of work. Most, Jayne included, had their left hands hanging on odd attitudes.

"Captain, what is Jayne doing, anyway?"

"Some kind of local arm-wrestling. If I understand it right, they just grip as hard as they can and the first one to cry uncle loses."

Zoe watched. The two competitors in the middle of the group stood staring at each other, left hands clenched together at chest level. It was too loud in the bar to hear, but it seemed to Zoe that their expressions implied a great deal of grunting. "Why left handed?"

Mal shrugged. "Suppose so that no one's work-hand is too badly crippled next day."

"Huh. Hope Wash gets here soon. He'd hate to miss watching Jayne hold hands with some strange man," she said with a smile.

Book looked up at the intruder. A small woman in a shapeless dress, who walked straight toward the altar, and seemed about as much of a threat as her weight in sparrows. Book smiled at himself. Some habits might slip, but others clung like a limpet. He watched her as she drew near the rail, wondering whether he should make her aware of his presence.

She dropped awkwardly onto her knees, staring up at the crucifix. Clasping her hands in front of her, child-like, she sniffed loudly and said, "What should I do?"

Book dropped his chin onto his chest, closed his eyes, and began to make a soft snoring noise. He heard a sudden intake of breath by the woman, and decided it was loud enough to wake him. "Hm? Oh... I'm sorry. I seem to have drifted off. I hope I didn't startle you."

He rose, dusting off his knees. The pants would definitely need cleaning. He took a step forward, smiling what he felt was one of his more harmless smiles. The woman was struggling to her feet, and Book realized that she was getting towards the end of a pregnancy. "No, Father. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to...."

"That's all right, child." He hadn't really meant to say that, but it was very apt. He would be very surprised if she were more than nineteen. "I'm reasonably certain that all are welcome in this place."

She looked at him as if he'd said something odd. After a pause that was almost uncomfortably long, she asked, "Are you going to be the new Shepherd here?"

"No." He was taken aback. "Is there no Shepherd in residence?"

"Father Gallivan had a heart attack two months ago. The parish sent a wave, but there's not a lot of transports get out here." Book was again stuck by an oddness. She wasn't lying, but she clearly had something else on her mind. Book stood quietly, hoping she'd fill the silence. "Can you hear a confession?"

"I can if you are troubled in your mind, dear. Give me a moment to prepare."

The images were appalling. Scows, the most miserable craft he'd ever set eyes on, parts lashed on without any seeming sense of order. Han stared at the vid coming back from the lead fighter. For all their haphazard appearance, the ships had an unmistakable air of menace-- whoever had tinkered them together had made them ugly as stonefish.

"How many?"

The petty officer checked her screen. "It's a bit unclear, sir. Fifteen at least. Some of these, though... it's almost as if they're towing some rocks with them. It's almost too sloppy to call a formation."

"Best guess, Malchyk," Gascoyne said quietly.

"Anywhere between fifteen and thirty vessels," she said almost instantly. "They've got anywhere up to a hundred lumps of rock with them, and it's making a hash of the readings. There," she pointed at the screen, "that lump has an engine attached to it. I've never seen the like, sir."

"Numbers aside," Han said, "where are they heading?"

As Malchyk drew breath, the screen flared. "The hell?! Signal lost, bringing up Slick Two." She tapped on her console, and Han could hear a voice leaking out of her headset, pitched high with stress. The screen image came back, showing a fading fireball, tiny angular debris silhouetted against it. "Slick Two reports One is splashed, likely a particle beam. Two is maneuvering to disengage."

"Where are they heading, Petty Officer?" Han was holding his hands together behind his back. His gloves would hide the white knuckles he could feel. He was abstractly pleased that he sounded so calm.

"Current vector has them in orbit, Ebenezer, one hundred and ninety minutes. Possible planetfall not earlier than two hundred minutes... I'd guess a little longer, given how jim-crack those things look, sir."

Han turned to the plotting table. "What's our best time to Ebenezer, Warrant Black?"

"Two hundred ten minutes if we push to one hundred ten percent, sir, and we'll shitcan half our regulators doing it. Four hours plus if we keep it under the limit."

Han looked around the command deck. Well, it's what you dreamed of. "Very well. Warrant, set the vector for Ebenezer at one-ten power. Engineering to GQ now, combat crews to GQ in thirty minutes...."

"Slick Two splashed," Malchyk intejected. "Weapon unknown, no beacon."

"Who the hell are these people?" Han realized he'd let his control slip even as he said it.

Gascoyne leaned close to him. "Sir, I've been on the fringe a long time, and I've heard stories...."

Han cut in quietly, "Don't sugar coat it, Mr. Gascoyne. If you've got something to say, say it."

"Reavers."

Han hadn't been on the fringe for so long, but he'd heard of the Reavers too. Abominations, no longer human in any way beyond rough outline.... "So many?"

Gascoyne shrugged. No story spoke of more than one Reaver ship appearing at one time, but some of the outposts which had been wiped out were more than one ship could have handled, even crammed from bilge to top-plate with berserkers. He knew the Core blamed most of those incidents on Independent holdouts... but he'd also heard the stories of the Reavers. Standing orders were for minimum possible contact with civilians, but he wasn't willing to let the people on Ebenezer face this sort of thing unaided. He could always justify it as moving to defend the Facility.

"Comm, send a wave to Ebenezer, all recievers. Send this: Force of fifteen plus hostiles approaching, planetfall under two hours. Local militia to activate, civilians should seek safety away from habitation. End. Run for your lives, folks," he added quietly. "Mr. Gascoyne, what forces did we leave there?"

"One platoon at the Facility. I think there might be some pitchforks and axes in the main town, not so many axes at that outlying farm."

"No need to be flippant, Gascoyne. Comm, prepare a situation report for Zone Command."