Chapter 3

Kaylee grasped the frame and pulled herself through the empty window. Lying flat on top of Serenity's hull, she shuffled round until she was looking back down into the dining area. Simon was there, waiting to hand the package up to hands brushed as they manoeuvred it onto the hull. Did his hand squeeze hers'? Kaylee had no time to consider the significance of this gesture. The others were waiting on her and every minute was precious. Clutching the package to her with one arm, she wriggled slowly across the hull.

She was thankful that it was a cloudy night. No moon or stars betrayed her movements. The Calico militia had trained floodlights on Serenity's cargo ramp but no light had been shone on the top of her hull, where the narrow window looked up from the dining area. Kaylee would rather someone else had gone, and so had Zoe, but she was the only one who could fit through the window. River could have managed it but, as they could not rely on her, Kaylee had gone.

She paused on the edge, where the curve of Serenity's 'thorax' fell away. Ahead of her was a land of dark, immobile shapes. She listened for the steady tread of a sentry's boots. There were faint sounds to her left, towards the cockpit where the militia had laid their cordon, but ahead and to her right there was silence. She slipped the rope from around her shoulder and attached the magnetic grapnel to the hull. With the package still clutched tightly to her chest, she rappelled, one handed, to the ground.

Now was the most dangerous moment, wriggling inch by inch through the dirt, not daring to raise her head, lest she attract the attention of the sentries mere metres away. The dark shapes ahead became clearer as she approached, taking the form of cargo shuttles and small freighters. Kaylee crawled between the sleeping giants, staying flat on her belly. The dirt was rising in little clouds that tickled her throat. It was a real effort not to sneeze.

It was hard to judge distance in the dark and she nearly crawled headfirst into the fence. It was basic, like most things on Tiger's Eye: seven feet of chicken wire crowned with barbed wire. Carefully placing the package at her feet, Kaylee set to work on the fence with a pair of wire cutters. She only needed a small hole to squeeze through. In less than five minutes she was past the fence and running, bent double, the package grasped to her chest.

Outside the ships' landing area, the streets of Calico were deserted. There was not even a stray dog snuffling in the gutters. Using the now distant light from the militia's floodlights as a guide, Kaylee made her way around the edge of the landing area, away from Serenity and towards a row of storehouses. Zoe had shown her their location on the map but, in the dark, the plain, low buildings all looked alike.

Anxious that she was taking too long, Kaylee darted towards a likely looking building. Built from wood, and bordering on another, similar building, it would serve her purpose. An alley ran between the two. Here Kaylee crouched down and unwrapped the package's oilskin cover. It was not the 'verse's most sophisticated bomb; little more than a timer attached to a propane tank, but they had had little time to prepare. She propped the bomb against a wall, gave herself five minutes on the timer and ran back the way she came.

Even though she knew that it was coming, the explosion still made Kaylee jump. As expected, the two buildings went up like bonfires. Yellow flames bathed the surrounding streets in a warm half-light. Kaylee was delighted to see that she had set the bomb on the very row of warehouses she had been searching for. Very soon the fire would spread along the row, perhaps even reaching the neighbouring streets.

Alarms were ringing. People left their houses to stare and ask each other what had caused the fire. A few brave souls even tied to fight it but their buckets were useless against the force of the flames. Militiamen pushed past, drawn away from the landing area trying to try and restore some order on the streets. Kaylee, anonymous in the confusion, made her way through the crowds and towards Calico's central crossroads.

Such was the noise of the crowd and the fire that few people seemed to notice the brief exchange of gunfire that came from the spaceships' landing area. Kaylee waited anxiously on the corner of the empty crossroads, half-hidden in the shadow of a building. The sound of a familiar engine drew her back into the light. Serenity's 'mule' drew up. Wash was driving, with Jayne and Zoe behind him. Simon and Book rode in the trailer, sheltering River beneath a blanket. Every spare inch of both 'mule' and trailer was covered in boxes of ammunition, spare food, water, fuel and clothing.

"Well done," said Zoe, smiling as Kaylee climbed onto the trailer. Wash pressed the accelerator and both 'mule' and trailer disappeared into the night.


Inara and Don Andres were in the gardens of Agua Fria, reclining on couches beneath a silk awning. A splendid trio of peacocks wandered aimlessly about the lawns, occasionally dipping their beaks into the irrigation channels to relieve their thirst. Sunlight sparkled cheerfully in the jets from the great fountain and warmed the marble statues standing in it. It was a shabby plot by the standards of the Core Planets but on the barren surface of Tiger's Eye it was luxurious.

Don Andres was wearing a loose turquoise shirt and matching breeches, sipping iced sherbet from a glass. Bewigged and liveried servants, their faces dripping with perspiration, stood close by with more refreshments.

"Inara, my delight, what's wrong? Can I get you something?" he asked, a slight frown creasing his perfect features.

Inara started. She had been staring blankly ahead, lost in her anxious thoughts. She refocused on Don Andres.

"No, darling, I'm quite alright. Really," she said, smiling prettily at him. It was easy for a skilled Companion to throw up such a mask. Inara had become very good at hiding her true feelings.

"I hope you aren't getting too distressed over that space captain fellow," said Don Andres, "He's not worth troubling yourself over."

Inara considered Don Andres. He was a regular client, which was quite rare: she had only half a dozen of them, and they were all special in some way. What was it that drew her to Don Andres? On first acquaintance it was easy to dismiss him as another spoilt aristocrat, made soft and indolent by privilege. He did not ride or shoot or fence; he abhorred physical activity in all its forms. He seemed to drift through life, disinterested in almost everything and everyone. Yet in bed he displayed a passion and intensity that was utterly out of keeping with his usual self. He fascinated Inara. She marvelled at how the man could change in a matter of moments. Which was his true persona: effete dandy or vigorous lover? Did he have to be one or the other?

"I know, darling," she said, feigning agitation, "It's just that… I am in shock. I thought I knew Captain Reynolds, you see? I could never have imagined that he was... was someone like that."

"Of course you didn't," said Don Andres, "That's rather the point of a secret identity."

"I know so little about it all," Inara continued, playing the bewildered ingénue, "What is he supposed to have done?"

"I couldn't really say," said Don Andres, shrugging, "He is a criminal. They don't tend to mix in polite society."

"But you must know something!"

"M'dear, you have spoken to the governor. Didn't he tell you?" Don Andres was becoming irritable.

"A little bit, but he was so unreasonable," said Inara piteously, "I'm sorry but I thought, if I knew what was happening, then I might be able to do something…"

"I'm afraid there's not much you or I can do for Captain Reynolds now."

"But you're a friend of the governor's, aren't you? You could…"

"I have had the honour of dining with His Excellency once or twice, m'dear, nothing more. I have no influence over him, certainly not in this matter. Now, if you'll excuse me, all this talk of criminals has quite fatigued me."

Don Andres rose and returned to the mansion, leaving Inara alone with the servants under the awning. Outwardly, she appeared calm but inwardly she was fuming. She had hoped that she could persuade or manipulate Don Andres to help Mal. If she could not rely on him, she would have to use her own resources.


The cell door swung open.

"Your confessor, Reynolds," said the guard. A robed friar, his face hidden beneath a cowl, shuffled into the cell. The door closed.

Mal looked up eagerly, hoping to see Book's face beneath the friar's hood. He was disappointed to discover that it was a genuine monk; a portly white man with a pudding bowl haircut.

"I am Fray Felipe," the man announced, "I have come to listen to your confession."

"Not interested," said Mal.

"Please, my son," Fray Felipe implored, "Please, that I may absolve you of your sins before you go to meet Him who sits in judgement on sins."

Mal sighed. The whole situation still seemed surreal to him, from the morning of his arrest to the grotesque mockery of a trial he had received at the court martial. Governor Quintero had presided, leering like a cat faced with a particularly plump mouse. Mal had listened silently as the list of charges had been read out to him: murder, assault, criminal damage, theft of various kinds. To be fair, he had committed similar crimes on a dozen worlds, but not those particular crimes on that particular planet. Captain Pasquale had then read out the evidence against him. He was allowed to make a short statement, which was almost immediately shouted down. He had been provided with no lawyer, no legal council, and no opportunity to present counter-evidence of any kind. The whole business, including the sentence, had taken less than half an hour.

That had been yesterday morning. Now noon had come, and he was to be taken out and hanged. Yet he still had hope.

"I won't confess. I'm not about to die," Mal told the friar, who smiled sadly at him.

"Courage is a virtue, my son, but so is prudence."

"I don't want to confess."

"Please, for the good –"

"No!"

The friar sighed and stood up.

"Then may God have mercy on you, my son," he said, making the sign of the cross.

The door opened and the friar left. Captain Pasquale now entered the cell. His smile was like a crocodile's.

"It is time, Captain Reynolds," he said. He was in full dress uniform, with golden epaulettes and shining leather boots.

"What, no last meal?" said Mal, not rising from the bench.

"On your feet," sneered Pasquale. Mal stood up. He was still wearing the travel stained clothes he had been arrested in. He had been given no toiletries, so he was also unshaven and unwashed. What a way to die, he thought bitterly.

He followed Pasquale into the corridor. A file of militiamen was waiting to escort him to the gallows. Mal glanced under their peaked caps, hoping to perhaps see some of his crew, ready to effect their rescue plan, but the militiamen were all strangers.

Pasquale led the way. Mal followed, hands cuffed behind his back, a militiaman on either arm and six more behind. They climbed a flight of stairs and passed through a thick security door. This led out into a large, dirt floored yard, baking beneath a cloudless sky. The walls were whitewashed, giving off a fierce glare. A wooden gallows had been erected at the near end. A line of militiamen was strung out across the yard, keeping a sullen crowd back from the gallows. They looked like poor, joyless folk but they cheered loudly as Mal appeared and shouted curses at Pasquale and his men. Wonderful, Mal thought, I am a folk hero, just like Jayne. How long beforethe whole crew are the heroes of some God forsaken rock, somewhere in the 'verse?

His eyes swept the crowd again, looking for familiar faces, perhaps carrying long, suspiciously gun-shaped packages, but all he saw was a sea of strangers.

He shook off the militiamen holding his arms and climbed the steps to the gallows alone. He looked attentively at the executioner. For a second he was sure that it was Jayne beneath the mask but then he realised that the man was Chinese. The executioner took his arm and moved him to stand over the trapdoor. The militiamen formed a guard at the foot of the steps, in case any of the angry crowd should break through the first line. Pasquale strode to the edge of the platform. He produced a piece of paper and began to read the sentence of execution, shouting to make himself heard over the crowd.

"Any minute now would be great, guys," Mal muttered, scanning the yard for signs of imminent rescue.

The sentence having been read, the executioner stepped forward and placed a cloth bag over Mal's head. He could see nothing anymore. The sounds of the crowd were muffled. He felt the rope being slipped over his head. The noose tightened around his neck. Someone had started playing a drum roll.

"Any second now," Mal said to himself, genuine panic starting to grip him.

The drum roll stopped suddenly.

"Great rescue, guys!" said Mal.

The trapdoor opened.