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Firefly: All the World's a Stage
Chapter 3: Anger
Part II
At 22 years of age, Zoë didn't live with her parents, but she still remained on the Torres.
Vesselsiders weren't expected to stay on the one ship their whole lives, even if they remained content to stay in the Black. Because the average ship could maintain less than a hundred people for extended periods of time, inbreeding was a problem that captains remained aware of. Joseph Alleyne might have been born groundside, but Moses and Jessica Alleyne had brought him onto the Torres as a child, while Gina Ezequiel had come from the Sadyojata before taking Joseph's surname. If she ever wanted to get married (and that was a big "if" as far as she was concerned), the 'stock,' as vesselsiders put it, had to come from elsewhere, or she'd have to go to them. Vesselsiders lived as one big family, in theory. In practice? Genes were still a thing. It was why, despite some old prejudices against "groundsiders," that those people were allowed on at all. Fresh hands, fresh minds, fresh stock.
Rummaging through her cabin, Zoë wasn't sure why her thoughts were turning to such mundane matters. Maybe some kind of defence mechanism. Because in this universe, stuff like marriage and genes was a hell of lot more simple than what was going on right now, as the flatscreen in her cabin reminded her of.
It was a CNN broadcast – she'd set it to mute, but the pundits' faces and ticker on the bottom of the screen reminded her of the current situation all the same every time the flickering screen caught her eye. Tensions rising between the Alliance and the newly declared Independent Planets, more commonly referred to as the Independents. A collection of planets and moons from the Border to the Rim, saying "no" to Alliance control. Decades of rising tensions, with people on Londinium and Sihon declaring that as the successor to the Global Exodus Alliance that had led humanity away from a dying world, the Union of Allied Planets had just sovereignty over all inhabitants of the 'Verse. Not to mention that the unification of humanity would bring benefits to all, from the deep core to the far reaches of Blue Sun. Others, it seemed, disagreed. Disagreed with tariffs, disagreed with ship seizures, disagreed with land purchases driving the locals out of business, disagreed with the idea that fancy bigwigs on Londinium could tell dirt farmers how to live. Disagreed so much that four days ago, the ISV Alexandria, on patrol in the Georgia system, had been sunk by a collection of gunboats, or, rather, transport ships jerry-rigged as gunboats. The warship had been operating in Independent space, came the declaration, and had been met with just force. A number of the crew had escaped to Herschel, where they were awaiting retrieval, but dozens hadn't been as lucky.
Two days after that, Alliance marines had occupied Oslo Station on the premise of shutting down an illegal arms trade between the Core and the Rim, a claim that the waystation's administrators had decried as being absurd. Whatever the truth, Oslo Station had a lot of weapons – enough that by the time the situation was "brought under control," at least seven marines and fifty-three civilians and station personnel were dead, though some were calling the casualty figures "gross underestimates." And one day after that, Fort Wood on Persephone had been attacked by insurgents, demanding independence. Persephone, being a core world. A core world that had dispatched gunships to deal with the attackers, but not before the Independent flag had been risen, however briefly, above the smoke and ashes.
At the time, Zoë had been watching it in the Torres's cantina, and the look on everyone's face had indicated that they'd come to the same realization that she had. It had happened. The Alliance and Independents were at war. Even without a declaration, shots had been fired, people had died, and in the last twenty-four hours, half of all the planets and moons beyond the Core had declared affiliation with the so-called Independent Planets, with many of the other half looking set to follow. Martial law had been declared on some of those worlds, the Alliance trying to maintain an authority it didn't technically have. Rumours of fleet movements abounded. Riots were occurring even in the Core, as pro and anti-war protesters clashed in the streets. The Torres itself was no different, sespite Captain Zakiyuddin calling for calm. Some people didn't want to be calm – some wanted to stay neutral. Some wanted to sell their services. Some wanted to enlist with the Independents, and bizarrely, some even with the Alliance.
To Zoë, it didn't matter. She wouldn't be talking with those people again. Right now, the Torres was in the fringes of the Georgia system, and a quick shuttle ride to the outermost planet of Meadow. She'd catch a ride, find a recruiter, and-
"Zoë?"
She clenched her fists, pressing them down on her duffel bag, and sighed. Just because she didn't live in the same room as her parents didn't mean she was free of them. Nevertheless, having heard her mother's voice, she turned to see them. Gina Alleyne, her eyes filled with worry, doing the talking. Joseph Alleyne, standing behind her, his eyes not locking in with his daughter's, his Winchester slung over his shoulder. As if he was already prepared to begin the long march to war.
"Zoë, what are you doing?" Gina asked.
"Catching a ride," she grunted.
"Zoë-"
"Mum, don't." She hoisted the bag over her shoulder. "I know what's about to happen. We all do. Whole damn 'Verse knows it." She looked at her father. "Looks like dad knows it."
Joseph glanced at her. Gina glanced at him. Zoë just remained standing.
"Zoë…" her mother began.
"Mum, don't. You can't stop me." She moved forward, but stopped short, as her mother interrupted.
"Zoë, you're a vesselsider. You belong on a ship."
"Get out of my way mum."
"Are you really going to throw your life away? For this?!"
"You going to let your life not count for anything?"
"Zoë, this is…" Gina looked at her husband. "Joseph, for God's sake, say something."
Joseph Alleyne sighed, and walked into the room. His eyes were locked on the shelf that lay above Zoë's bunk, specifically a small red cat that had come from Gonghe – third planet of the White Sun system.
"I remember when I got you this," he murmured. "You were eight at the time."
"Nine," Zoë murmured.
He picked up the cat. "You loved it," he said. "Red's a lucky colour there. You said you wanted it because you wanted good luck of your own. Cost me a bit of plat, but I finally agreed."
Zoë wasn't sure where this was going – a guilt trip, most likely.
"Someone made it there," he said. "Some good Alliance citizen selling their wares to a vesselsider, who could sell it out in the Border or Rim, or in your case, keep it. Something that might speak to a common humanity."
Now she really wasn't sure where this was going.
"Guess we know how that's gone now." He put the cat back on the shelf and looked up on the flatscreen – the ticker at the bottom confirmed that an Alliance naval task force was gathering in orbit of Ariel, in what was going to be "a quick and decisive solution to the current civil insurrection." What the pundits were calling it, Zoë didn't know. She couldn't lipread. And right now, didn't want to turn up the volume and hear their piàoliang dehuà anyway. Talk had being going on for decades, and what had it accomplished?
"The Torres is going to fight for the Independents," Joseph said. He looked at Gina, and following her father's gaze, Zoë saw her mother's lips purse, but otherwise move as she nodded. "Alliance has screwed all of us over at least one point in our lives – tariffs, confiscations, arrests…odd taser or two," he murmured, rubbing the right side of his chest. "Captain hasn't said anything official yet, but that's the way the wind's blowing."
"It's madness," Gina said.
Zoë looked at her.
"But it's madness the Alliance started," Gina continued.
Zoë wasn't sure, because looking at her mother's eyes, she could tell that Gina Alleyne wasn't sure either. And that doubt, however distant, wormed its way into her mind, however briefly. Because nine years ago, her father had asked her what interplanetary war would look like. Over the last week, she'd seen the signs. And part of her was terrified at it. But then…
"So we fight," Zoë said. She looked at her father's rifle. "What's the issue then?"
But then if she was terrified, then it was terror the Alliance had started, she reminded herself.
"No issue," Joseph whispered. "No issue at all."
She could tell that he was lying. In a way, that made her resent him more than her mother. Least she was being honest about not wanting her baby to go.
"I'd rather you be here," Joseph said. "But you became a better shot than me, even if it didn't start off that way. And we both know that growing plants isn't your thing, even if running in the dirt is."
Gina didn't say anything. No-one did.
"So I'm giving this to you," Joseph said, as he unfastened the Winchester. "As someone who's going to fight on the ground, under sky, rather than above it." He handed it to her. "Take it."
Tears welling in her eyes, Zoë shook her head.
"Take it," Joseph repeated.
"Dad, no. It's yours."
"Zoë, take it," Gina said. She put a hand on her daughter's shoulder. "God knows I don't want you to go. God knows I don't want any of this. But if you're going to leave us, then…" She trailed off, putting a hand to her mouth.
Zoë hugged her. "I love you," she whispered. "Don't forget that."
"I know." Gina, tears in her eyes, kissed Zoë on the forehead. "Oh, my brave, beautiful girl. Don't forget that."
Zoë didn't. Not in that moment.
Not when the shuttle left.
Not even as she began to awake, as the waking world returned to claim her, reminding her of where and when she was.
In a world where she was still a captive.
In a world where the Alliance had won.
When she woke up, she was without pain.
Physical pain at least. The emotional pain though...that was still there. As she entered the waking world, she was reminded of two things – that she was in the custody of the Alliance, and that her daughter was a dozen or more astronomical units away. It was pain that quickly made its way into anger, adding to the rising tide behind the dam that was her heart. But even as she clenched the sheets of the bed she was in, she managed to keep it at bay. For now.
So where am I?
In a bed, though there were millions of beds in the 'Verse, so that didn't tell her much. Looking at her right arm, she could see an IV drip, so at least the Alliance wanted her alive (again, a case of "for now"). Looking to her left, she could see two giant windows, showing the darkness of space beyond them. Looking straight ahead, she could see an Alliance officer, and beyond him, the door to the room she was in, guarded by a pair of purple bellies equipped with rifles. Even if she had the strength to get out of bed, she'd be shot before she made a step towards them.
"Oh good. You're awake," said the officer.
She watched as he slowly walked round from the front of the bed to its left side. If he was trying to intimidate her, he was failing. Having completed his prowl, he put his cap on the end of the bed and just stood there, staring at her with his blue eyes, above which was his short blonde hair, not touching his crisp grey uniform. Career military through and through.
"Who are you?" Zoë asked.
"Name's Rogers."
She suspected there was a "Captain" or "Commander" in front of that name. "What do you want?" she asked.
"I want you to tell me where your friends are. I want you to be telling me the truth."
Zoë turned her head to the side of the pillow. Screw you.
"But that's not going to happen, if it?" Rogers continued. "You're too stubborn, too principled. I can tell that right now."
She continued to lie there for a few seconds. She'd been interrogated before. She hadn't given anything up then, and she wasn't about to now. She turned to Rogers and said, "that's right."
It might have been her imagination, but she could swear she saw a glint in the commander's eyes. Frustration, anger, she couldn't tell, but she'd pissed him off, however slightly, and that did her spirit some good. While he stood there, she glanced at the marines. Still standing on guard duty like the obedient lapdogs they were.
Rúguǒ nǐ tǎngzhe gǒu, nǐ jiù huì yòng tiàozǎo xǐng lái.
"Shame," Rogers said. She watched as he took out a datapad and began scrolling through it, as if pretending that he didn't already have what he was looking for. "Corporal Zoë Alleyne. Fifty-seventh Overlanders Brigade, Army of the Independent Planets. Twice received the Purple Heart, once received the Guiding Star, and in the aftermath of Serenity Valley, a commendary-"
"My military record isn't a secret."
"No. It isn't." Rogers turned the datapad to face her. "Thing is Corporal, a lot of your secrets aren't actually secrets."
"What are you talking about?"
He smirked and turned the datapad to face her. Her eyes widened – it was a picture of her, Mal, and Jayne. It didn't take her long to realize the time and place was eight months ago and Ithaca respectively. Specifically the town of Spearow, as they parted ways with Troy.
"Little sojourn you made to Ithaca," he said. "Believe you met with Captain Calvert there."
"Who?"
"Captain John Calvert. Believe you know him as Troy." He took the datapad back. "Interesting choice of companions, all things considered."
"Why?" she asked. "Why is that interesting?"
He ignored her. "Calvert's irrelevant – his network's been destroyed, and he's gone to ground, apparently willing to die in all the shit he stirred up over the years." He looked at her like a fox above a chicken coop. "You don't have many friends left Miss Alleyne. Which brings me to the question – are you going to what's right, or what's stubborn?"
She didn't answer at first. The urge to get out of the bed and punch him, damn the consequences, was a temptation that was warring with the still existing temptation to give Rogers what he wanted. The temptation that stemmed from the belief, nay hope, that somehow, it would all work out. That she might see her daughter again. The temptation to betray her friends and crew for the sake of false hope.
"You don't scare me," she said.
Temptation that was squashed.
"You've only got the one picture," she continued. "You only found us when we checked in at the Saint John. You're still looking for Troy, and if what half I heard off the news is true, you've got your hands full with a nascent insurrection. So you can either let me go my way, or get ready to have your life made even more difficult."
Rogers frowned. He pocketed the datapad and leant over the bed, his eyes meeting hers. "Alright," he said. "I can see this is a waste of time. You want to fraternize with men like John Calvert, fine. You want to slaughter thousands, fine. You want to plunge the 'Verse into civil war, fine. But you're not going to do it on my watch."
"I didn't slaughter thousands," Zoë said. "And even if I did, that's still far short of thirty million."
He ignored her. "So I'm going to wait until you are healthy enough to travel and then I am going to put you in a prison on some desolate rock at the edge of lord knows where, and I'm going to lose track of you. And no-one, no Malcolm Reynolds, or anybody else, will ever find you, and you will never see your baby again, because you are stubborn." He drew back, standing straight, and put his hat back on. He didn't offer a final chance for her to relent and tell him anything. The offer hung in the air, waiting for her to take it.
She refused. She just clenched the sheets again, refusing to break away from his gaze. It was neither war nor battle that was being fought, but the conflict was still there. The conflict that had erupted in 2506, and had never really ended. This time at least, it was the Alliance that backed down, as Rogers turned and walked away from the bed, moving like he had a purpose.
"How do you know about Emma?" Zoë asked.
She could afford to give some ground.
"Is that her name?" he asked. "Your child?"
She didn't say anything.
"We took the records from the Saint John. They established that your internal bleeding was caused by childbirth." She watched as he bit his lip, and took a step towards her. "I could make it work of course. If you cooperated, I could see that you're reunited with your daughter and-"
"Go to hell."
He frowned, drawing back. She watched as he glanced out the windows, to the void of space. To planets and moons bathed in the glow of suns, many of which had fires of their own being kindled.
"Maybe someday," he murmured. "But you'll be seeing it first."
The prison shuttle was completely full.
There wasn't a word exchanged between her or any of the other prisoners. Including her, there was about twenty of them in its bay. All of them wearing a standard issue jumpsuit, all of them shackled around their wrists and ankles. Men and women of various ages, ethnicities, and likely creeds - the Alliance had no shortage of people who wanted to do it harm after all. She supposed that might be the one thing they had in common, apart from the fact that all of them were prisoners, and all of them were silent. For the last half hour, the only sounds had been the occasional cough, the hum of the ship's engines, and the roar of atmospheric re-entry. And now, finally, the 'clump' of a soft landing, and the sound of footsteps as one of the two marines in the cockpit turned around and looked at the detritus of human civilization.
"Alright," he said. "Disembarkation will begin in one minute. First row (he gestured to the prisoners opposite Zoë) will exit the shuttle first. Second row will follow suit."
One of the prisoners used his cuffed hands to point to his ankles as best he could. "Bit hard to do that purple belly."
The prisoner got an electric shock to his gut, and the marine kept walking. "Don't worry, you'll be able to walk. We ain't carrying you, and this ain't daycare."
Zoë watched as he pressed a button by the shuttle's rear hatch. She and all the other prisoners peered out. She couldn't see much through the glare. But she could hear the wind. See the dust blowing into the shuttle. Could feel it on her skin. Taste it on her tongue. It tasted just like the dust of every other planet she'd been on, just with a lot more sand in it.
She saw a pair of guards come up, both of them equipped with automatic rifles, body armour, and insignias with the letters APA – Alliance Penal Authority. One of them began to undo the chains that bound the prisoners to the wall of the shuttle, while the other stood ready, ushering the convicts down towards the exit. She winced as she saw one of the inmates spit in the face of the guard, only for the butt of the rifle to come into his stomach. So when the time came for her own shackles to be undone, she didn't do or say anything. She'd fought the Alliance. Had even been captured by them for a time during the war, before her fellow Browncoats had rescued her. If the life of the soldier and after that, the life of an outlaw/smuggler/privateer/whatever had taught her anything, it was knowing when to fight her battles. So on she went, following the second row of inmates, out of the shuttle and onto the world before her.
The first thing that got to her was the brightness. She'd been in space for the last few weeks, but even so, the amount of light was almost blinding. She tried to shield her eyes from the glare, but that caused her to slow down, which in turn earned her a prod from one of the APA goons' shock sticks. The charge wasn't too severe, but it gave her the impetus to keep moving. Which she did as best she could, given the circumstances. Because the sun wasn't just bright, it was hot – sweat poured out of every pore in her skin. A large, grey world hung in the sky, blocking out most of it like an ugly bruise, but she couldn't tell if it was a planet or a moon.
The second thing she noticed was the air. It was dry, dusty, but most of all, thin. Looking around the desertscape she was walking through, she realized that they couldn't be at high altitude – they were at sea level, or thereabouts. And yet, she found herself finding it difficult to breathe. Her sinuses were clearing out, her head was beginning to ache, and part of her wanted to just lie down in the dust. Never mind the heat, never mind the sand, she just wanted time to catch her breath. Still, she saw one of the inmates stumble up ahead. Saw how an APA officer came with a shock stick, used it, and kept using it until the poor sod was on his feet again. Similar to the shuttle, that gave her enough incentive to keep moving.
The third and final thing to catch her eye was the compound itself. Giant pylons jutted out from the dust, forming a perimeter, but there was no fence to be seen. Some kind of electrical field perhaps, she wondered? Maybe, but that didn't seem cost efficient – iron could have done the job just as well. She took a quick count of the APA troopers guarding the perimeter– about seven in total, all of them armed with rifles, all of them wearing sunglasses. They might be thugs, but they weren't stupid, though she supposed operating a prison camp with no physical barrier around it might call her to reassess that assessment. But that, like many other things, would have to wait. She found herself going through the gatehouse – a mushroom-shaped building between two pylons, similarly without any exit or entry doors. Following the line, she came to a counter – a window pane separated her from the fat, bored looking, dumpy officer on the other side. The look from the woman told Zoë that she'd done this a thousand times, and had got bored with it by the first twenty.
"Hands in and look at the camera," she grunted.
Zoë followed the direction, putting her hands through a pair of holes beneath the counter while looking at a small glass circle built into the window. There was a humming sound, and she saw the officer turn her attention to a terminal. Peering through the glass, she saw a mugshot of her come up. One about six years out of date.
"Alleyne, Zoë," the officer said. "Charges of terrorism, sedition-"
"Can I refute those charges?" Zoë asked. She knew it was pushing her luck, but she could only play it safe for so long.
"...smuggling, conspiracy..."
Luckily, the guard didn't seem to mind.
"...and illegal salvage." Through the glass, Zoë saw her fingerprints appear on the terminal, along with a list of charges that both flattered and offended her, depending on their type. "Prisoner ID 1907-18A. Sentence is life imprisonment, with no chance of parole."
Zoë snorted. And when the officer turned around to face her, she glared at her.
"You've been assigned habitation unit seven, cell three" the officer said. "Enjoy your stay."
Zoë's glare intensified. "That part of the script, or you just make it up?"
The officer just turned back to her terminal. As a pair of guards lead Zoë away, she heard the desk jockey call out "next!"
The guards were just as intent on ignoring her as they led her across the desert sands – there was no hard surface in the prison, only dust, and numerous trapezoid-shaped structures. The habitation units she supposed. The guards remained silent, and so did she – even through the harsh light and the thin air, she tried to keep her eyes and ears alert – she wasn't going to be staying here long. Somewhere, her daughter was waiting for her. And as her mother, it was her duty to do everything in her power to get back to her. Even if that meant playing the game and being a good soldier – get information, then take action.
"Here," one of the goons grunted. The trio came to a halt, and Zoë saw the trapezoid – just like every other trapezoid, only with a "7" on its plascrete walls rather than an "8" or a "6." She glanced back at the other prisoners coming through the gate house as the guards led her into the structure. It wasn't long until they came to the door marked "3."
"You'll be let out into the central assembly area in an hour," he said. He typed something on the keypad and the door to the habitation unit opened up with a hiss. "Welcome to your new home."
"Thanks," she said. "But I've got a home. It isn't here."
"Is now." The goon grabbed her and threw her into the room. "Have fun."
She landed on the floor with a thud, and heard the door hiss shut behind her. For a moment, she just lay there. The floor was hard, cool, and a refuge from the blazing heat of the world outside. But it was cold comfort, but figuratively and literally. She clenched her fists, a heat rising inside her, even as her body grew cold. A fire that had once burnt bright years ago, but now, after everything that had happened, had been re-sparked.
This was wrong. This place was wrong. The lack of process was wrong. The Alliance had been in the wrong in the Unification War, and now, as their boot was pressed ever further against the neck of the 'Verse, was still in the wrong. Only now, unlike that war, she couldn't fight them. She'd tried, and it was wrong that the Miranda Broadwave had apparently done nothing, but that people, from Miranda, to Haven, to even those in the Alliance itself, had died for nothing as well. And most of all, Emma. Days ago, she'd held her child in her arms. She'd become a mother. And just as the Reavers had taken away her husband, the Alliance had taken her child away from her. In this moment, in this place, she knew that if it came to it, she'd start a war all over again if she could see her daughter at the end of it.
I'm coming for you.
She told herself that the words were for her daughter, and not for herself. She began to rise to her feet, rubbing her head. Her headache was getting worse.
"Hey there. Whatcha in for?"
She rose her gaze upwards, a surge of adrenalin racing through her. The surge became a trickle, but the flow didn't stop completely, as she saw that she had a roommate. He was wearing the same green jumpsuit that she was. His left eye was missing, and a scar ran down over where the skin had healed itself as best it could. He smirked, and Zoë could tell that while it might not be best to trust him, she wasn't in any immediate danger either. That, or it was a damn good smirk.
"Treason," she grunted – she wasn't feeling inclined to give the full list of charges against her. "You?"
"This and that," he said.
"Right..." She decided not to ask. "When you getting out?"
He snorted, his smirk turning into a smile, revealing that behind his cracked lips were two rows of cracked teeth. "No-one gets out of here," he said.
Zoë ignored him. She didn't get to her feet, but made her way across the room on her knees towards its single window. It was small – too small for her to fit out of, but large enough that the wind and dust had no trouble getting in. Before her were the pylons that surrounded the encampment, and a wasteland of nothing. Just sand, sand, and more sand.
"I'm getting you out," she said. "Promise you that."
Her cellmate laughed and patted her on the shoulder. "Right. Sure. I'll hold you to that."
In spite of everything, Zoë couldn't help but give a small smile. Her cellmate seemed nice enough, but he was a fool.
After all, he wasn't the one she'd made that promise to.
"So what's your name anyway?"
"Tom Sawyer."
Zoë couldn't help but smirk. "What happened to Huck?"
"Gang raped and killed in the shower block. He's buried in a graveyard a mile away."
"...oh."
She didn't believe for a minute that her cellmate's name was actually "Tom Sawyer," but if he wanted to name himself after a juvenile delinquent, more power to him. Because Lord knew that neither she nor any of the other prisoners had any power right now. Not as she and the other prisoners of habitation unit seven marched down the corridor in single file as a siren went off outside. All Zoë could do was shuffle along, following "Tom." All of the inmates were clad in the same green jumpsuit she was. All of them had their faces either forward or down, their eyes open like books of the dead.
"So is this how it usually happens?" she asked.
"Yep. Siren goes off, we're led out into the yard, world becomes our crab."
"Oyster," Zoë murmured.
If Tom heard, he gave no sign. Shooting him a look, Zoë could see the same dead look in his one remaining eye. Not as dead as everyone else, but it was there. The look she'd seen in numerous soldiers as the Unification War had dragged on. The look she'd seen in Mal's eyes after Serenity Valley.
"So there's no guards in the yard?" she asked.
"Nope. No walls neither."
"Yeah, I saw," she said. "Makes me ask what's to stop me from walking out of here?"
Tom snorted. "Wait till we get outside."
She'd been outside already, but didn't point that out. They came to the end of the hallway, which led to the habitation unit's exit. Before them was a pair of guards, one of them equipped with a retinal scanner.
"Next," the guard grunted. Zoë shuffled forward and let him run hold the glass rectangle in front of her face.
"Next."
She moved past him and into the light – the sun was just as fierce as it had been when she first arrived.
"Next."
She glanced round and saw Tom come walking out. "Well," he said. "You want to know why you can't escape? Here's why."
Squinting through the glare, Zoë reflected that as grim as the scene before her was, it didn't offer an explanation in of itself as to why she couldn't leave. She could see that the prison's layout was circular and that it effectively had two rings, the outermost being pylons at regular intervals, the other being habitation units identical to the one she'd emerged from. In the centre of it was throng of humanity – prisoners dressed identically to her, and doing what prisoners did. Keep to themselves on the side, or get into fights in the centre. She couldn't see any guards – they might have been on the perimeter, but there had to be thousands of prisoners here, and yet, hardly any prison staff were present to keep them in line.
"I don't get it," she said. "What's stopping me from escaping?"
"Easy," Tom said. "The desert."
As they shuffled along in the ever-expanding line, Zoë looked at the world beyond the prison yard. Sand, dust, rock, sand, more dust, more rock...definitely a desert. One where the temperature was high, and the air was thin. It hadn't been as bad in the habitation unit, but out here...she put her palm to her forehead. She had a headache coming, which wasn't making her feelings of nausea any worse.
Altitude sickness at sea level. Great.
"Rock's too hot," Tom continued. "Terra wouldn't take. Nothing but nothing in all directions. You can walk, but you'll die." The pair of them came to a halt on the edge of the prison yard. "And if the dessert doesn't kill you, the guests will. They let us run wild, pick each other off."
"But...they feed us right?" Zoë asked. "Clothe us? Shelter us?"
"Well, yeah, sure. But the dead don't need any of that stuff, so the Alliance ain't gonna complain if people like Huck end up at the bottom of the Mississippi." He smirked, his broken teeth shining. "Not that there's any rivers round here."
The nausea in her stomach remained, but there was a fire growing in it. The same fire that had grown over the last few days. She'd fought against this. The Alliance was the sole power in the 'Verse, and they could do whatever they wanted, whether it be sentencing millions to die on Miranda, or by letting dangerous criminals run amok so that their hands would be less dirty when the blood hit the sand. Her daughter was millions of miles away, and...She clenched her fist.
Emma. Thank God you're not here.
She began to walk towards the centre of the yard. The Alliance had made her glad that her daughter wasn't with her. Somehow, the bastards had not only removed the last light she had in her life, but had made her glad the light was no longer shining.
"This ain't right," she murmured.
"No ma'am, it ain't." Tom had followed her, and she felt his hand come down on her shoulder. "Word of advice, keep to the edge. Prison yard's like an ocean. Deeper you go, more dangerous things get."
She didn't say anything. She just stood there. All around her fights were being waged. Shouts and curses filled the air, in languages from English to Mandarin, to those she thought had long been dead. She didn't know what "minä tapan sinut, sinä paskiainen!" meant, but considering it involved an inmate being punched in the gut by a thug, as two others held her arms, she doubted it meant anything good.
"How long you been here?" Zoë asked.
"Ten years, give or take."
"Ten years." She closed her eyes, trying to imagine surviving here for one year, let alone a decade. "How you still alive?"
Tom shrugged. Maybe he didn't know.
This the dawn of a new galaxy? She wondered, remembering the Alliance's declaration after the end of the war. A safe and just universe? This is what you killed my people for? My comrades? My parents?
The Alliance wouldn't hear her. They'd put her on this rock to die. If they heard her screams, well, that was just one less mouth to feed. Once again, she clenched her fists. Once again, the fire rose, but this time, it would not be quenched. Heat came from within, even more than from without.
"Please, I'm sorry!"
This was humanity, she reflected. They'd killed their homeworld, and now, in the year of someone's lord, 2518, they were quite content to keep killing each other.
"I'm sorry! Stop!"
The screams were coming about five feet away. One of the inmates was on the ground, trying to stop the punches from his assailant.
"Like it Milk? You want it Milk?!"
The assailant possessing a shaved head, big arms, and big fists. She didn't know why he was calling his victim "Milk," but something was being spilled onto the dust. Liquid of the red rather than white kind.
"Had enough Milk?!"
She watched as the bàotú picked up Milk's collar, Milk himself appearing barely conscious.
That's enough, she thought. Let him go.
Why this prisoner was catching her attention, she didn't know. There was no shortage of violence here, much less the 'Verse.
"Didn't hear that Milk."
She watched the thug draw his fist back.
Don't do it.
Emma was out there. Emma would never know her father. She had to give her daughter the chance to at least know her mother, and picking fights wasn't going to improve the chances of that.
Seriously, don't.
But she knew what she had to do. Fire burst into fury, and fury took hold of her heart. On Serenity, she'd been helpless. Just as on the Saint John, just as on the Alliance ship, just as on the prison transport. Here, now...she could do something.
Had to do something.
"Zoë, what are you-"
She ignored Tom and grabbed the thug's arm as he brought it down. Milk was spared contact.
"Hey!" she yelled. "That's enough!"
The thug looked at her – numerous scars crossed his face, most of them coming over the mended flesh of what had once been his right eye. He smiled, and she could see that he was missing at least five of his teeth, and the ones that were remaining had seen better days. Clearly he'd received it as good as he'd given it.
"Who the hell are you?" he asked.
"Name's Zoë," she said. Sweat trickled down her brow and neck. Her heart beat the rhythm of the Devil, and her eyes were wide with the fury of God Almighty. "Who the hell are you?"
The thug tried to punch her. She ducked, bringing her fist up in an uppercut. Blood flew through the air.
Not enough.
Before he could react, she grabbed his head with both her hands, brought it down, then brought her knee into his nose. A sickening 'crack' filled the air.
Still not enough.
The fire burned, the sweat flowed, and the blood sanctified the soil. It did so as he fell into the dust. As she grabbed him by the neck and punched him. Then again. And again. And again. Blood flowed, as did sweat. As did tears. Tears for her husband long departed. Tears for her daughter, not so long removed. Tears for Book, for Miranda, for everyone who'd fought and died in the Unification War, hell, for humanity herself. And her. Reduced to this. Beating a man into the soil that had borne him, in the knowledge that despite her sins, it all meant nothing.
This was nothing. He was nothing. As she finally rose to her feet, as she gave him one last kick for good measure, she knew the truth.
She was nothing.
She screamed at the heavens, as the fire burnt out, and fury was released into the air. She glared around at the inmates like a cornered animal, daring them to tempt her wrath. The look in their eyes told her that they wouldn't...yet.
"You're getting your strength back," Tom said. "That's good."
"Sure is."
A lie. She was without her daughter, without her ship, without her crew. And finally, after all these months, in this moment of time, she was finally, at last, without anger.
And thus, left with nothing.
My tongue will tell the anger of my heart,
Or else my heart concealing it will break.