Hello all, and happy Wednesday! First, I owe a heartfelt thanks to those who reviewed, followed and favorited last chapter. The support is so motivating, seriously. I'm overjoyed to have more readers and I do hope you continue to enjoy. Now, to the story!

CHAPTER FIVE

THORNS AND ROSES

Mal bit his lip. Flicking his eyes between the service panel set into the wall of his bunkroom, and the notebook in his hands, he pressed the pen against the paper, and began to write. Or try to, at least.

The hired help on Councilor Zhi's estate were all given a basic timeline of the man's schedule, which indicated only when their boss planned to be away. It didn't specify where he was going, but luckily Mal was good at making friends. His newest friend was the cook, whom he'd met on the pretense of seeking a certain rare herb, to treat a horse with indigestion.

The cook didn't have the herb. It would've been surprising if he had, considering Mal had made it up.

A separate building housed the kitchen, connected to the mansion by an underground walkway. Mal had found the cook alone there, wrapping what looked like hundreds of red bean paste balls in rice-flour dough. It turned out that Galileo Shen, who insisted Mal call him Leo, had been working for Zhi going on twenty years. Leo prepared an advance supply of these bean paste desserts every time the Councilor had to leave Sihnon, the only planet where the ingredients were available.

"He's off to Londinium tomorrow, for the opening of the Parliamentary session," Leo had explained. "Then they meet for the next six months, two days a week. But there's also the Military Council meetings, every other week, and those can change up to the last minute, depending on whatever fàng pì they have to deal with from the Border planets…" The cook tossed his paste-covered hands, shaking his head.

"That's a lot of bean paste balls," Mal had remarked. He promised to drop in again and say hello, whenever he had a few minutes free.

Then he'd rushed back to the stables, bursting at the seams. That past week, he'd gone through near every single drudge on Zhi's estate, digging up any excuse he could think of to start a conversation. At last, he'd found someone useful. Leo Shen had exactly the kind of information Mal's superiors wanted. But it had to pass through the proper avenues of communication first.

Anders had explained it all to Mal, though he didn't need to; anybody with eyes could see the Alliance stamp on all comms technology that existed, and deduce that the stamp spelled surveillance. Every transmission was recorded and sent up into their data cloud. From missile codes to grocery lists; if it was sent through the Cortex, the Feds could get their hands on it.

The solution, of course, was to go Old-tech. Really Old-tech.

Mal had not had much occasion to work with paper, or write by hand, back on Shadow. In school and in business most people used tablets; they were cheap enough, and useful. His mother had showed him how she kept the books, using a pencil and paper, but Mal hadn't had much patience for it.

If he'd known that one day he would be trying to write out a message with ink and paper as an Independent spy, he would've paid more attention.

At last, he managed to get it all down. A calendar grid for the month of March, which marked the dates when Councilor Zhi would be gone, where he would be, and what would he would be doing there. There were a few blank spaces, but Mal could fill those in later, maybe after chatting a bit more with the cook.

Mal nodded to himself. He wouldn't be winning any calligraphy contests, but it was legible enough.

He tore the page from the notebook and folded it up, to tuck in his pocket. A glance at the service panel told him the delivery speeder would be arriving in ten minutes, to drop off that week's supplies for the estate.

Mal turned to leave, then stopped. He couldn't be seen hanging around the front driveway any longer than necessary. Best to wait. He flopped backwards into his chair, with a sigh.

If any aspect of spying for the Independents might kill him, Mal decided, it was the waiting around. Cooling his heels in his tidy, soulless bunk room. Not to mention the hours he had to spend doing the job he supposedly came there for.

He liked working in the stables, truth to say. Muscle memory had kicked in, though almost four years had passed since he last worked with horses, caring and keeping them. The Councilor owned seven, all of them shimmery and thin-legged animals who could never have managed one day's work on a ranch.

Mal shook his head, and stood back up. The mirror on the back of the door tossed his reflection at him. He grimaced.

If the waiting didn't kill him, then his service uniform surely would. It had arrived a couple days before, tailor-made for him. Mal had never been measured for clothing before in his life. It made him feel like a doll, dressed up to his master's specifications.

The uniform came all in one piece, a dark grey jumpsuit of very fine material, with two rows of gold buttons making a kind of 'V' shape across his chest. Mal had to admit, it fit him well. A little too well, he thought, twisting to see the rear view. He scowled, and tugged at the upright collar, snug around his neck.

If I'd been wearin' this little ensemble last Sunday, he mused, maybe that Core-born girl wouldn't've taken me for some kinda fugitive pebble poacher.

Back on Shadow, everyone more or less dressed the same. But here, your clothes broadcasted everything about you. Everything that mattered, anyway. The only thing that mattered about Mal was that he worked in service. Convenient for Councilor Zhi and his sort. They didn't have to bother treating him like a human being.

But doubt lingered, small yet persistent, like an insect crawling up Mal's neck. No matter how many times he'd brushed it off that past week, it came back.

Why had the girl gone out of her way to lie for him? Flashing her smile at the groundskeeper, on Mal's behalf, minutes after she'd threatened him with a stick. Judging by her accent and attitude, she was as high-born as they came. Likely related by blood or social ties to Councilor Zhi.

It didn't make any kind of sense. But here on Sihnon, it seemed, nothing did. The only thing that mattered, that Mal could count on, was his mission.

He gave his reflection a nod, and opened the door.

/*/*\*\

Mal took the scenic route up the hillside toward the drive, through a display of roses in full bloom. They'd been genetically manipulated to grow thick and thorny, into a maze-like hedge that made for convenient cover.

When he emerged, the deliver speeder was starting off. Mal waved it down, and jogged over. His heartbeat, meanwhile, broke into a sprint.

He reached the vehicle, and squinted up at the driver, shading his eyes. "Thought I recognized you," he said, casual as he could. "Been a long time."

Mal had never seen the man before in his life, of course, except in the picture Anders had shown him. He'd been given a name, Emory Osborne, but it was an alias, no doubt. Only one thing about the man Mal knew for certain.

He was from Shadow.

The driver hopped down from his speeder. "It surely has." The lilt of his speech fell on Mal's ears like a familiar song.

He smiled. "You'll be flyin' my way again?" The security question.

"Same time next week," Emory replied. This was the affirmative. If he said anything different, it meant he couldn't take any messages.

They smiled at each other, just like old friends would, but there was something grim in it. The driver pulled Mal into a close handshake, thumping him on the back. Mal took the opportunity to slip the piece of paper from his palm, into the driver's.

"Wish I could stay and shoot the bull, but I got other deliveries to make." Emory shoved his hand into his pocket, and swung himself by one burly arm back into the speeder.

Mal lifted a hand. "You take care."

The entire interaction lasted less than a minute. Mal crunched down the drive, back toward the mansion, fighting a grin. All he had to do now was get back to the stables, without being seen.

Of course, his luck chose that moment to run out.

A figure lumbered up the side of the mansion, in his direction. Mal stopped in his tracks.

"Tā mā de," he muttered.

He had to wonder if a tracking tag had been stitched into his uniform, wouldn't be a surprise, because Talmai Davis always seemed to show up whenever Mal was somewhere he wasn't supposed to be. The man had already lectured him four times that week on his "aimless wandering." A fifth occasion might cause the groundskeeper's scant reserve of patience to dry up once and for all.

Mal followed his first instinct. Hide. Now. He dove sideways, into the hedge on the garden's perimeter, without giving full consideration to the fact that it was bristling with thorns.

"Tā mā de niǎo," Mal growled under his breath, fighting the vines that latched onto his uniform, his skin, everywhere. He ignored the prickly reception and wriggled deeper into the hedge. Through the leaves, he saw Davis stop about fifteen feet away, and lift his head. His brow furrowed as he peered in the direction of the rose garden.

"Good afternoon, Davis."

Mal jumped, and bit down another curse, as a thorn found purchase on his ear. A girl's voice- no, the girl's voice, had come from behind him. Miss Serra entered Mal's line of sight, coming out of the rose garden.

"Miss." Davis dipped his head to her. "Thought I heard someone over there."

She wore the same outfit as the week before, a plain yet well-made tunic and pants, with a thin gold rope tied around her waist. A uniform? Mal wondered. Or maybe a one-note wardrobe was the latest trend amongst Sihnon's well-to-do youth.

"I was just admiring the Queen Isabella rose," she said. "Do give Sonder my compliments, when you see him."

"Of course." Davis bowed. "Afternoon, Miss."

The man trudged away, toward the drive. Mal let out his breath.

It caught in his throat when Miss Serra turned around, and looked right into his hiding place.

"You can come out, now."

Mal started to tear himself free. "How'd you know I was-"

She cut him off with an arch of her brow. Then she saw the vines holding fast to his uniform, catching on his neck, and her face pinched in sympathy.

"Oh, hǎo kě lián." Before Mal could do anything to stop her, she was tugging plant matter out of his collar, and hair, helping him escape the shrub's claws. She lifted a hand, nearly brushing his cheek. "You're bleeding…"

Mal edged out of her reach. He shot the girl a look, eyes narrowed. "That's the second time you've covered for me. Why?"

She held his gaze. "Because I know why you were hiding from him."

His lungs filled with lead. He gaped at her.

"I also know I'm at least partially to blame," she finished, with a small smile.

Mal grasped her meaning, and gave a minute shake of his head. Of course she didn't know anything. Idiot, he scolded himself.

"The new groundskeeper is not the warmest person I've met. If he were my supervisor, I would hide, too. Though perhaps not in a rosebush." The girl drew one foot behind her, dipping into a curtsy, as she lifted a hand. "Inara Serra."

Mal looked at her hand. She'd offered it knuckles-up, a mighty strange way to go about a handshake. He took hold of it, and tried anyway. The girl's eyes got big. She made to pull her hand back, in obvious confusion.

Then, he got it. She'd offered her hand for him to kiss.

Mal shifted his grip, to hold her fingers gingerly. Her hand froze in his, as he lifted her knuckles to his mouth, and bumped his lips against them. He didn't take his eyes from hers, daring her to mock his mistake. She stared up at him. Her lips parted, as if halfway between a laugh and something else.

When at last they broke contact, Mal's head was buzzing. He swallowed. The girl, Inara, was looking at him, expectant.

"Uh, I'm Mal."

The second it left his mouth, the cold certainty of disaster struck hard. Like a spaceship collision, it unfolded in utter silence, wrenching the air between them.

"I thought your name was Wesley," Inara ventured.

"It is." His words strung together in a rush, "But Mal's my nickname, short for Malachi, which is my middle name."

"So, you're Wesley Malachi…"

"Gale," Mal finished. "But my old man is Wesley, so uh, call me Mal."

Inara bit her lip, ducking her eyes. "I'm afraid it wouldn't be proper. I wouldn't want to-" she hesitated, "presume any familiarity between us…"

"'Course not," Mal said quickly. "Call me whatever you want." With a bit of an edge, he added, "After all, you don't answer to me."

She winced. Apparently, she recognized the words she'd thrown at him the week before.

"If you'll excuse me, Miss Serra. I oughta get back to the stables." He started to move past her.

"Wait-" Her hand brushed his arm.

He turned.

"I was… looking for you, actually," she said, breathless. "I wanted to apologize."

Mal furrowed his brow. "For what?"

"For my behavior, when we first met. I made an assumption- several, in fact, and I treated you unfairly. I hope you can forgive me, but if not, I understand." She lifted her shoulders, only to let them fall. "I just wanted to convey my regret."

"Well, I wasn't too friendly, either." Mal rubbed his shoulder, eyes drifting to the side, before he forced them back to hers. "I'm sorry for gettin' short with you. And for, uh, cussin' like I did. I never would've used that kinda language if I'd known you were there."

"I believe that." Her mouth curled, twitching at the corners. "I appreciate, and accept, your apology."

"Yeah, so do I." Mal cleared his throat. "I mean, I accept yours, too."

Her smile broke open, and aiya, it was like staring into the White Sun. Mal decided there ought to be a law against smiles like hers. Or some kind of restriction, to prevent its unlawful use around mortal men. A verifiable concealed weapon. Fortunately, she ducked her gaze, so she didn't see Mal blinking, stunned.

She looked back up at him, and tucked a curl behind her ear. Mal caught a flash of light, glinting off gold. A closer look revealed it was an earring, no bigger than a 2.5-platinum coin, with six engraved stars. They formed an unmistakable pattern, one that turned Mal's stomach.

The girl wore the symbol of the Alliance flag. Tagged with it, on her ear, the same way they used to tag cattle, on Shadow. Mal fought to keep his disgust from showing on his face.

She kept on glowing at him. "I'm so very glad we're yàohǎo, now."

"Yeah." His mouth twitched. I most definitely ain't yàohǎo with no Alliance royalty, like you.

"You should clean those scratches," she glanced at his neck, "so they don't become infected."

"I'll be fine," Mal said coolly. "But thanks for your concern."

"Well." Her eyes dimmed. "I shouldn't keep you from your work, and get you in more trouble than I already have."

"You're no trouble at all, Miss." Mal tipped her a small bow. "Zhù dùguò yúkuài de yītiān," he chirped.

She gave him a thin smile. "Goodbye, Wesley," she said, soft.

Mal watched her walk away, curls bouncing against her shoulders, and chewed his lower lip. No trouble. He shook his head.

He almost dropped to his knees right there in the rose garden, to lift a prayer up to the Lord. For his own sake, and for the sake of his mission, Mal prayed he never crossed paths with Inara Serra again.

translations:

fàng pì - nonsense, bullsh*t

Tā mā de niǎo - f*cking hell (lit. "his mother's dick," a touch stronger than tā mā de)

hǎo kě lián - poor thing

yàohǎo - to be on good terms with someone, friendly

Zhù dùguò yúkuài de yītiān - Have a nice day

Sorry, Mal. 'Fraid your dear and fluffy Lord has other plans. I have to be honest: of all the issues I've had with this story, probably the second biggest (after pacing) is the "spy stuff." I would be so grateful to hear any insight as to how believable Mal's activities were, at the beginning of this chapter. It's not the point of the story, per say (he's not James Bond) but it's a big part of it and I want it to come off realistically. And of course, any comments you might have about the story thus far, good or bad, please don't be shy - I love hearing from you.

So, you've probably got it by now. Next Wednesday, next chapter. ;) Hope to see you then!