Chapter 35 - I Don't Care, I'm Still Free

Serenity, Deep Space, The Verse - January, 2250
Serenity cruised silently through the void, as her passengers and crew gathered in the chow hall for a meal. Their first since departing the Pegasus, people filtered in by pairs and singles, taking seats around the table. Not yet at ease with each other, the seating was somewhat segregated, with Serenity's original crew gathering around Mal at the head of the table, and the newer crew and passengers gathered around Garibaldi at the foot.

"We doff our headwear at this table," Mal advised as Garibaldi sat down. "No matter how fine the hat."

"Certainly," Michael respectfully took off his rather large hat, brushed at an invisible piece of lint, then set it down before him. He then changed the subject. "Now that we're under way, Captain, I'd like to know where we're headed. You indicated you had contacts who could back our people as we establish ourselves in this system. But I'm also told you were stretching the truth. I'd like to know you aren't leading us on a wild goose chase." At these words, Eilerson and Dr. Hobbs both looked up in clear interest. Kendra and Cally kept their heads down, continuing to spoon a barely palatable looking stew into their mouths. Perhaps it was that they both came from a more military environment. Or perhaps it was merely that in their fleet you ate what and when you could. However, you could practically see their ears quivering, as they clearly listened in.

"Captain's got a plan," Zoë said as she brought a basket of rolls to the table, and then sat at Mal's right hand. "Aintcha, Captain?" she asked, eyeing him sideways with equal parts curiosity and disbelief.

Mal broke into a roll and began to chew. "Way I figure it, Monty's our best bet. He was an actual Captain during the war, not just promoted in the final moments. If anyone we know still has connections to the old movers and shakers, it'll be him. At least," he amended, "anyone not liable to start shootin' on sight."

"You sure Monty's not on that second list?" Jayne asked with a grin. "As I recall, last time we parted ways he's more than a might upset."

"Something about ruining his marriage and breaking his heart," Wash added. "Funny how people tend to get a bit tetchy when that happens."

"Big friendly guy like Monty?" Mal objected. "Live and let live is his mantra. I'm sure he's forgotten all about it."

"Not very likely," Inara snorted, bringing her own plate to the table. By now everyone around the table had begun eating the simple fare. "Besides, there's the little added problem of you having no idea where in the 'Verse he might be."

"No," Mal said thoughtfully, taking a moment to chew and swallow. "But we do know his habits, his hobbies, and what he'd likely be doin' to mend a broken heart. And we just happen to have a friendly contact in that particular trade." He took another forkful of his meal.

Inara sighed. "The Heart of Gold?"

"The Heart of Gold," Mal agreed.

"Hot damn! Now that's an idea I can get behind," Jayne enthused.

"Anybody care to fill the rest of us in on this plan?" Garibaldi asked. "This is all sounding pretty flimsy. We're going somewhere, where they might or might not know the location of a Monty who might or might not have contacts with power brokers who might or might not be willing to help us…if they even exist at all. That's the thinnest plan I've ever heard."

"Aww, cheer up," Jayne said, tossing him an apple. "This is a great plan! You're gonna love it. Starts with goin' to a whore house!"

Garibaldi actually grinned, and Major Shaw broke off from her chewing long enough to lean forward, giving the two of them disgusted glares. "Are you sure this Monty isn't dead? That Operative who was after you seemed to do a fair number on your friends. For that matter, are you sure he didn't count this Heart of Gold amongst them? For all you know, the place is nothing more than a smoking hole in the ground."

"Awww," Jayne grunted in horror through a mouthful of roll. He tossed the remainder still in his hand down onto his plate…then reached into his mouth, scooped out the rest, and tossed that down as well. "Now why'dja have to go'n say a thing like that? Ya ruined my appetite. I'll be in my bunk." As Jayne walked away from the table, Mal and Wash rose to return to their duties. Cally, having already finished her meal, rose and followed suit. Dr. Hobbs, who had clearly made the professional medical determination that simply starving was healthier than eating whatever it was lying in wait within the bowl in front of her, grabbed a roll and beat her own retreat. Having roughed it on several distant alien worlds weeks or months distant from Earth Alliance space, Max felt no compunctions about sliding her abandoned bowl over and helping himself to its contents. What was left of the meal was held more or less in silence.

Deadwood, Orbiting Blue Sun - January, 2250
Deadwood was the seventh planet of the Blue Sun system, but was far less habitable or populated than the planets orbiting further in. Not because it was colder further out…the blue primary provided an abundance of solar radiation. No, the world was less habitable because the terraformers had provided far less in the way of magnetic and atmospheric protection, and less surface water to provide an active hydrocycle. So Deadwood baked while the closer in worlds huddled in their seas and swamps under heavy cloud banks. The relatively few people who lived here tended to be as rough and disreputable as the planet itself.

Serenity set down into a storm of kicked up dust on a world that had little more to offer. The forward cargo hatch was already opening before the engines had started spooling down. Captain Malcolm Reynolds was the first to emerge, followed by the lion's share of the crew. Several felt the need to shade their eyes from the harsh sunlight as they scanned the desolate environs. Zoë cut the sightseeing short. "How you wanna play this, Captain?"

"Best not to put all our eggs in one basket," he mused. "They know us that's been here before. No need to go showin' 'em more faces than we have a need to. So we split up. Now..."

"I thought these people were your friends?" Kendra cut in with some concern.

"They are. But there's friends enough to welcome us, and there's friends enough not to give us up if the purple-bellies show up to apply some pressure. Two ain't the same." Garibaldi nodded at both the sense that made and the appropriate level of op-sec. Mal continued with his instructions. "Besides, we got other tasks to be about. Inara and I will take Major Shaw and Doc Hobbs to the Heart of Gold. Major, if you've got the talents you say you do, maybe you can sniff out if the Alliance has already been here. Now," he said, turning to the rest of the crew and passengers, "as for finding historical records, Zoë, you take Jayne and escort the Colonel and Professor Eilerson…"

"I'm not a Professor," Max interrupted.

"Closest we're likely to get anytime soon. Now, where was I? Right. Zoë, take Jayne…"

"Mal…" Jayne whinged.

"What!?" Mal snapped in exasperation. "People seem to have picked up the habit of interruptin' when there's instructions to be given. Best be seein' to that…"

"Mal," Jayne ignored him, "we can't have come all this way for me to not visit the girls. Now…those girls love me! It just wouldn't be right for them to be deprived of my company!"

Mal just stared at the man for a five count, before responding, "You're supposed to be body guardin' our passengers. Just in case there's trouble."

"But what if the Alliance shows up? Those girls' bodies need to be guarded to! Especially Helen!...and Lucy…and…"

"Yes, I'm quite certain you have all their bodies' best interests at heart. Fine," he ground out, "you can come. Wash," he said, facing his pilot. "You go with Zoë, since you've proven you can handle yourself, and escort Colonel Garibaldi…"

"Let's stick with Mister Garibaldi for the rest of the mission," Michael interrupted, grinning broadly. "Op-sec. Best not to let anyone know any of us carry rank."

Mal gave a long suffering sigh. "Escort Mister fancy pants and the Professor into town. Take the Mule. Rance Burgess kept his hacienda there. He aspired to bein' a robber baron, and like as not he kept a library for the respectability it brung. Now, we don't know the current state of his business or his missus, but 'less folks in these parts come down with a sudden and unexpected case of literacy, I imagine it'll still be there. Remember, you're refined offworld visitors, stoppin' by and interested in addin' to your collection. Questions?"

"Wash and I have been here before, Captain. What if they recognize us?"

"The only look they got at you last time was through gunsights. You stick to being guards and valets, they shouldn't pay you no mind. But if anyone does get particularly nosey, just shoot 'em."

"Shoot them?!" Eilerson asked derisively. "I thought we were supposed to be 'refined offword visitors.'"

"Shoot 'em graciously."

With a chuckle, Garibaldi turned to follow Wash and Zoë aboard the Mule. Max seemed inclined to argue, but after a moment silently fell into line as well. "What about me?" Cally asked.

"Last time we were here, some local color tried to grab Serenity and use her against us. Made a near thing of it too. I'd prefer to avoid that this time around, so you stay put and keep a sharp eye out. Keep the doors locked and the engines heated. We may need to depart rather briskly. Radio us if you spot any trouble."

With the crew given their marching orders, Mal turned and began his own march, or rather stroll, leading Inara, Hobbs, and Shaw through a couple of kilometers of sand, scrub, and broken ground. Finally, they rounded a small knoll and the modest but literally shining (solar reflective panels had a tendency to do that) form of the Heart of Gold sprang into view.

"Weapons close, but hands off. We don't wanna spook 'em." As it turned out, there was no need for such precaution. No one even noticed them until they walked through the front door. The whore house was doing a brisk trade, with locals lounging around the bar and in the foyer.

Several of the girls looked up and waved, but all were too engaged to stop and so much as speak with them, much to Jayne's dismay. "Awww. I might as well have gone to town. I liked it better when the townsfolk was tryin' ta kill 'em." At Mal's look of reprimand, he responded with a pointed glance, "Well, at least we got some attention. And I know I weren't the only one."

Before Mal had a chance to reply, a dour faced young woman emerged from the kitchen, child on hip, and bustled up to them. "Mal. Inara. What are you lot doing here?"

Before Mal could snap at the hostile reception, Inara stepped forward. "Petaline. It's so nice to see you again. You're looking well. And little Jonah," she added, smiling at the child. "He's getting so big."

Petaline's scowl softened somewhat. "I'm gratified that you're well, but that don't mean we've got room for you here. Why've you come? We don't need more trouble."

Mal took a half step closer. "Interesting reaction, given what me and mine done for you and yours last time we were here. I seem to recall you all bein' a lot more welcomin'."

"And we've finally gotten our relations with the community right again. We don't need you stirrin' up bad memories best left forgotten," Petaline retorted.

"You seem awful convinced we're here to cause you trouble." Mal noted.

"'Cause that's who you are. You drag it with you, everywhere you put in. The only people like to welcome that are those that are already deep in. Besides…the Alliance was already here…askin 'bout you. They questioned the girls hard. We had to swear you ain't been back since, and that we had no interests in you, just to get them to leave us alone. I don't intend to change that. Shiny?"

Mal took another step forward, any levity wiped away from his face. "And are they still around? The purple bellies?"

Refusing to back away from his now imposing bulk, Petaline matched him, glare for stare. "Not that I'm aware of."

Mal turned and looked towards Shaw, eyebrows raised in query. "She's not lying," Kendra replied. "But that doesn't mean they aren't keeping their presence hidden from her."

Mal nodded and turned back to Petaline. "You're right. We are trouble. And the longer we're here, the more like it is to fall on you. I've no desire for that. We're lookin' for someone. Someone that might have been through here. You help us with what you know…answer a few questions, and we'll be on our way all quick like. Otherwise, we're liable to be hangin' around for a good while, huntin' for clues. Makin' ourselves generally visible to anyone with a set of eyes to look."

"Mal," Inara chastised, "there's no need to threaten them."

"Isn't there?" he asked, never unlocking his gaze from Petaline's.

She took a deep breath, quickly reaching a decision. "Come in the back," she urged, "before more people notice you." She started to lead them out of the common areas when Jayne interrupted.

"Mal…do I really gotta stick around for more talkin'? Ain't exactly my strong suit. More of a doer. And if you don't mind, I'd like to get to doin'."

Petaline sighed. "Helen's in the kitchen. If you distract her, make it quick. She's got chores to do." Now ignoring Jayne, she turned and hurried the rest of them into the back rooms. Jayne sauntered off in the opposite direction. Leading them into a currently vacant lounge meant for the girls to relax in between clients, Petaline took a seat and rebalanced Jonah in her lap, fussing over him absentmindedly.

"It seems like you've taken charge around here?" Inara asked, as they all found seats.

"Someone had to. And not just around here. With Rance dead and buried, and most of his men wounded or drove off, the town started to fall apart. We offered support, here and there, gave some discounts. Surprising quick people in town were comin' to me for answers. The girls and I now hold a majority stake in several of the key businesses in town. There's some that want me to run for mayor. Of course, Rance's widow's been fightin' me every step of the way. But you aren't here to talk about me. Ask your questions and get gone. We've got enough troubles as it is."

"Perhaps we can repay you for some of that. Miss Lillian here is a doctor," Mal said, gesturing to Hobbs. "I know medical attention can be somewhat scarce in these parts."

"Less so than before," Petaline replied. "Rance's personal physician was forced to take up general practice for the whole town. So we're good. I appreciate the offer, but I'd just as soon you lot were gone as quick as can be."

"Alright then, we'll make it quick. We're looking for a friend of ours. A trader and sometimes smuggler running a ship about twice the size of the Serenity. Not as fast or nimble though. Big fellow, tough. Frequently bearded, though last time I laid eyes on him it was a mustache only. Goes by the name of Monty. And as I recall, he had a powerful fondness for the ladies."

"Captain Montgomery?"

"Don't think so. Monty don't like titles, and he ain't never gone by a handle quite so protracted."

"That's what we called him in the hopes of making him feel better. He came through here a few months back sufferin' from the worst case of broken heart I seen in years. Said his wife Bridget done made off with his heart and his beard. Cursed your name more than a few times, as I recall. You must be mad, sleepin' with Captain Montgomery's wife."

"Well, she is rather insanity provokin', but I ain't never slept with her!" Mal objected. "But that's besides the point. Can you tell us where he's like to be now?"

Bouncing Jonah in her lap, Petaline thought back for a few moments. "As I recall, he wasn't sure what his next destination would be. But he said he needed to work on his ship, as well as hisself. They were both gettin' a might run down. Said he thought Georgia might make a good target."

"But there are dozens of planets and moons orbiting Georgia," Inara objected.

"Best I got. Can't tell you what I don't know."

"It'll do," Mal said definitively. "Thank you. We'll get out of your hair now." As it turned out, their departure wasn't quite so immediate. It took some hunting, some waiting, and then more than a little bit of pounding on a boudoir door, to locate Jayne and peel him away from Helen.

"We're leavin' already?" the disgruntled crewmate demanded. "But we just got here!"

"There's work to be about, Jayne. We work before we play." Not waiting for Jayne's reply, Mal led the way back to the Serenity. They arrived at very nearly the same time as Zoë's returning party, walking up the ramp just as she was parking the Mule. "Any luck?" Mal called out.

"Shiny, Captain," she replied with a broad smile. "Seems the Burgess estate has seen better days. The widow Burgess took one look at Mr. Garibaldi here and practically dragged him inside. She's selling off anything she can to try to drum up cash. Seems she's in a political fight with, and I quote, 'a bunch of no-good dirty whores.'

"So hostile," Wash noted. "Those are friends of ours."

"I hope you didn't respond to that," Mal asked with very little concern.

"Captain," Zoë replied with mock affront, "we're professionals. However, while she was showing Mr. Garibaldi and Mr. Eilerson the library, we may have…"

"Made off with her silverware," Wash cut in, reaching into a bag to withdraw several knives, spoons, and forks. "Aren't they lovely?"

"I do believe they'll go great with our china," Zoë added.

Before Mal could decide whether to congratulate or reprimand either of them, Garibaldi strode up carting a heavy box, giving them the opportunity to sneak away. "We bought out her entire library, so anyone investigating wouldn't know exactly what we're looking for. Max even haggled her down more than I would have thought possible," he nodded to Max, who was just unloading his own heavy crate. "We'll go through all of the books. They might even have something useful. But the one book that covered the history of the 'Verse was same one that Ms. Serra kept in her own library."

"Inara, please," she said, walking over. "And it's not surprising. It's a common primer used for the border worlds. Space and time for educational materials is in rather limited supply, out this far."

Garibaldi grunted and gave a nod. "Do we have a next destination?"

Mal nodded. "Monty's headed for Georgia. And it seems he's suffering from a broken ship, as well as a broken heart. There's a number of places can deal with one or the other. But there's only one I recall that can deal with both." He picked up a handset and keyed on the intercom. "Wash, set course for Aphrodite. Get us out of the world before the Widow Burgess checks her drawers." Replacing the handset, he turned back to Michael. "Aphrodite orbits the protostar Murphy. It's got a shipyard. But just as importantly, it's got not one but three certified Companion Pleasure Houses."

"More whore houses?"

"Mr. Garibaldi," Inara snapped, "you're new here, so I will forgive that slip. But that is the last time that you will refer to Companions as whores. Are we clear?"

Michael looked at her in bemusement. "Yes, ma'am."

"Huh," Mal uttered. "Is that what it looks like when you lecture me? It's downright entertaining from this angle."

Deep Space, The Rim, Approaching Blue Sun - January, 2250
The transport scow aptly named The Ugly Scow was three weeks out of Muir, heading for one of the more recently terraformed moons around Dragon's Egg. The ship was more or less space worthy, so far as a country bumpkin like Lem Smith could tell. But the engines barely deserved the name. A good ship could make this run in a day, maybe less. They'd be enroute for another week, maybe more. If they made it at all, that was. "Can't this bucket go any faster?" he snapped.

The 'Captain' wasn't anything of the sort. John Smith was the community's faith leader. He also happened to be Lem's father. The one who had managed to scrape and sell, beg, borrow, and yes even steal…until they had just barely enough funds to purchase, provision, and fuel this vessel. But not enough to pay for a crew. Not that they wanted one. They'd be tearing apart the ship upon their arrival…resources to feed into the forge of their new community. "We can't run, Lem. Then they'd have to chase us. They'd have to chase us. It's their way. We have to hold course."

"But they're coming for us!"

"Don't seem they're in any rush. Could be they've already been somewhere. Could be they're already full, and just want a looksee."

"And if they aren't full? If they're…hungry?"

Lem's father looked at him gravely, then placed a six-gun in his hand. "We keep the faith. Do what the Lord taught us in the good book." He paused. "Like as not, they'll breach through the foreward hatch. That's where the men and I will stand to stop them. I'm sending you to the rear cargo hold with the women folk and the young'uns. You have six bullets there. Keep careful count. You run out of bullets before Reavers…you flush the hold."

"Into space?" Lem asked aghast. "But…we'll all die!"

"Better'n what the Reavers have in store. I won't have the women and children face that kind of cruelty. I'm countin' on ya, son."

"Can't we call for help?"

"We have, but we're deep out. No responses yet. And the Reavers might be jammin' the signal. We can't count on any help. We have to be prepared to do this ourselves. Can you do it?"

Clem nodded silently, hugging and clinging to his father. He wanted to stay and fight with the men…but he'd been given a duty. A man's responsibility. He had to see it through.

And so Clem found himself in the rearmost cargo hold, surrounded by women and children and squalling infants. He found himself carrying the only real weapon…the kitchen knives some of the women clung to simply didn't count. He found himself staring up the open corridor to the rest of the ship. He felt the lurch when the Reavers grappled The Ugly Scow.

And then the screaming started. That awful unending wailing. The roar of the rifles and scatter guns of the community's menfolk began at almost the same time. It didn't last long. The screaming never ended. It just got louder and louder as new voices joined in. Recognizable voices. The voices of friends and family, screaming out their agony.

There had been weeping and muted wailing from some of the women and children before. Now it broke out in full as panic began to set it. As what little self control remained to them began to break down. It redoubled as the hideous screaming of the bogeymen began to come closer.

Clem raised his six-gun towards the door, and was startled to see it shaking like a leaf. It took a moment for him to realize that strange panting sound was coming from his own mouth. His left hand shot out to hover over the button which would evacuate the compartment into space. He couldn't press it yet, no matter how scared he was. There might just be one or two Reavers left. Surely he could stop just one or two?

The screaming coming closer certainly didn't sound like one or two.

And then there was a thump…a physical impact from the far side of the bulkhead. A patch of bulkhead roughly human sized began to glow and spark as high temperature torches of some sort began to rapidly cut through it. The Reavers were coming through, to hit them from both directions!

Clem knew he could never stop that attack. He hit the button to open the cargo hatch. At least, he meant to. His hand, hovering just above it, wouldn't move. He willed it to move again, but it simply wouldn't. Clem wanted to rage and shout at his useless hand, but he knew the fault was his own. He was scared. He didn't want to die. It wasn't fair.

He tried again, and still his hand wouldn't move. The screaming was getting closer, and the new access point for the Reavers would be cut in moments. Looking at the gun still shaking violently in his other hand, he raised it high above his head and slammed it down on his recalcitrant appendage. Together, gun and hand mashed down upon the button.

The hatch lurched, but wouldn't open. Something on the other side was holding it closed. Clem lifted up the six-gun again, swinging it erratically back and forth between the open hatch to the rest of the ship and the glowing oval on the hull which was now complete, not certain in his terror where to point it. It occurred to him to start shooting the women and children, but he doubted he could kill them cleanly. And six rounds wouldn't even make a dent in their numbers. How could he choose to whom he should deliver such questionable mercy?

With a muted thump and then a much louder bang, the patch of hull that had been cut was booted out of its housing to slam metallically onto the deck. With a scream, Clem simply dropped the gun and sat down, crying.

A four man squad of troopers burst through the new opening, eliciting more screams from the women, out of shock if nothing else. Clem didn't recognize the armor. He didn't recognize the weapons. They turned and sprinted down the open hatch, towards the oncoming sounds of Reavers.

The next person to step through the new opening, much to Clem's wondering eyes, was a woman. Tall, statuesque really, with a hard countenance and harder eyes. Striding through in high heeled boots, she was carrying the largest machine pistol Clem had ever seen. She was easily the most striking vision he had ever beheld, and he simply couldn't take his eyes off of her.

She was followed by a significantly shorter man, pinched face made worse by the scowl he wore. He exuded command, regardless of what was clearly an officer's uniform, and Clem found himself at once both relieved and irritated with the fellow. And more than a little jealous at the frank and familiar way he spoke with the…with the…Clem wasn't sure what the woman was. Warrior princess was the ridiculous appellation which sprung to mind.

The pair were followed out by not one but two more combat squads, who similarly rushed through the hatch and out towards the sounds of the Reavers. A final pair of individuals took up guard positions on the hatch, keeping a sharp eye on everything and everyone. There were the sounds of fighting now coming down the corridor. Screams and the clash of metal on metal. Gunfire and strange crackling, whining snaps that Clem couldn't identify.

"Who…who are you?" Clem asked in trepidation. "A…Alliance?"

The woman glanced at him but ignored the question. "Contact with the enemy," she noted.

"Wait for the Marines to mop up resistance and report back," the short officer replied. "That's their job."

"The mission is to take at least one alive. How are your Marines at that?" she snapped.

He shrugged. "The PPGs they're using are liable to leave a survivor or two. They're far less likely to punch holes in this tin can as well," he said, gesturing around broadly. Clem now looked at the walls in concern, worried about possibly being exposed to the vacuum he had just attempted to dump them all into.

Clem saw one of the soldiers returning up the corridor. He offered the short officer a sharp salute, which was rather casually returned . "Commander Bester, we took them by surprise. Managed to inflict serious harm and knock the survivors back to their ship. That's the good news. The bad news is that they are somewhat resistant to even heavy PPG fire. A bit like fighting Minbari, it usually takes multiple hits to ensure they stay down. We've established a kill zone right outside of their breach point, but if we're going to assault their vessel, I would recommend bringing in reinforcement...preferably with heavier weapons."

"Did you manage to capture any wounded, Gunny?"

"Negative, Sir."

"Damn. I'd have preferred to just back off and blow their ship with a missile from the assault shuttle or one of the Starfuries. Alright, start passing out heavy weapons..."

With a scream, a pair of Reavers charged down the corridor. Before the Gunnery Sergeant could even turn his head, a spear tip erupted out of his throat, penetrating far enough to threaten impaling the Commander.

The two Marines assigned to protect the Commander and their vessel leapt forward to interpose themselves between their charge and the hostiles. They brought up those strange rifles and opened fire. Clem didn't recognize the shimmering pulses of dark energy the weapons fired, but they brought to mind the hellfire his father was fond of placing in every sermon. Clem saw that it took several hits before one of the Reavers went down, perhaps proof that the demons really were spawned in the pits of hell.

The other fired back with some kind of speargun, underslung on a literal spear, impaling one of the Marines right between the eyes. The still warm corpse fell over, fouling the shot of his compatriot. It was all the opening the Reaver needed, leaping through the air and bringing around the glaive-like weapon, chopping off the final Marine's head and left arm in a single blow. Clem desperately began scrambling around on the floor, trying to pick up his gun. The Commander sent a pair of the dark pulse into the Reaver from a small pistol he'd had strapped to his hip, but these weaker pulses seemed to have little effect on the beast.

The blast and roar of the amazon's hand cannon was another matter. Her shot struck it in the hip, and it jerked violently, going down on one knee. Howling, it struck out viciously with its weapon, and the woman was forced to parry with her machine pistol. The spear bit deeply into the weapon's barrel and she cursed, letting it go. "That was my favorite gun, you ass."

She stepped forward, firing a left hook into the creature's jaw, then brought her right knee up into its groin...twice...finally extending that leg into a kick which stripped the spear from its grasp, sending the weapon clattering to the floor. Clem, amazed, forgot all about picking up his weapon.

In a rage, the bleeding demon leapt at the female. Grasping the ragged tatters of what might once have been a jacket, the woman spun on one heel, whipping the Reaver around through the air to slam it brutally against the nearest bulkhead. Shifting her grip to its elbows, she pressed them back into the wall and braced her feet, locking the Reaver into place.

It was only stunned for a moment, and immediately began lunging at the woman, jerking around violently in her grasp. It darted its head forward, snapping its teeth mere centimeters from her nose. Howling and covering her face in a spray of spittle and bile.

"Hold it, D'Anna!" the Commander snapped.

"What do you think I'm trying to do? It's frakking strong! Do something!"

Commander Bester stepped forward, pulling off a glove. He reached out towards the Reaver...and was forced to draw his hand back as the digit was very nearly lost to another violent snap of those viciously sharp teeth. Biding his time for another few seconds, his hand snapped out, connecting this time with the Reaver's temple. Instantly it sagged into unconsciousness.

"Why didn't you do that before?" D'Anna asked, stepping back and letting the limp creature drop to the deck.

"The physical contact was required," he offered, evincing some surprise. "These Reavers are surprisingly resistant to telepathy. Probably that unceasing rage of theirs." He tapped at what was apparently a communications unit stuck to the back of his left hand. "Commander Bester to all units. We have what we came for. Assault team...withdraw from your current position and put a sealed bulkhead between yourselves and the breach. Starfury wing...sever the boarding tube the Reavers used to get aboard and all grapple points. Once their ship has been severed...end it. Repeat, put down the Reavers. Bester out."

It was only moments later before Clem felt the scow shudder and heard metallic shrapnel pinging off the hull. The rest of the Marines returned and carried the Reaver aboard their vessel. The women and children had stayed mostly silent throughout the whole affair, clearly mourning the loss of their menfolk, and just as clearly terrified of their rescuers, evinced by the weeping and wailing being kept mostly muted. Clem, for his part, was just as shocked over their loss. He couldn't imagine a world without his father. And yet...he couldn't take his eyes off of the woman...that D'Anna. She was at least a decade his senior, but if he'd simply had the courage, he would have proposed marriage to her right then and there. Sadly, courage had never been his strong suit. He knew she would leave now, and likely he would never see her again. But he knew with certainty that he would never forget her. That she would haunt his dreams for the rest of his life.

As it turned out, Clem was quite mistaken. As he despondently watched the woman leave through the new hatch their rescuers had installed over the hole they themselves had carved into the bulkhead, he barely noticed the diminutive Commander approach him and bend over to pick up his six-gun from where it still lay on the floor. He did notice when, oddly, the man emptied all six cartridges into his hand and pocketed them, then offered the weapon back to Clem. "Congratulations, my boy. You did an amazing thing here today. You saved all of these people."

Clem took the gun and pocketed it, but his gaze stayed locked on the floor, and his words came out as barely more than a mumble. "I dun't do nothin', Sir. I was useless. If not for you..."

"Nonsense," Commander Bester cut him off, and Clem felt an odd sensation, almost a buzzing, behind his eyes. The weeping and moaning from the women and children had ceased entirely, leaving the room eerily silent. "You stopped the Reavers. You managed to kill the few the brave men of your community weren't able to, using every last bullet you had left. And then you patched the hole they had blown into this room, before disentangling your ship."

That's not right, Clem thought. The Reavers didn't blow that hole. It was…it was…who?

"You saved all of these women and children, young man. And they all know it. You're a hero," said the voice out of nowhere, uttered by no one. "After all…we were never here."

Aphrodite, Orbiting Murphy, Orbiting Georgia - January, 2250
Wash brought Serenity into orbit at a leisurely pace. One which just happened to take them directly past each of the orbital repair slips and dry docks. They were running about as close as they could get without traffic control warning them off, and without it being too obvious they were checking out those docks. They didn't want to draw unwanted attention.

Most of the crew, and passengers as well, were crowded into the cramped flight deck, staring out the windows, scrutinizing every vessel they passed. Inara had taken Cally aboard her shuttle, so the two of them could view from the cockpit there. She hadn't made the immediate friendship with the girl that she had with Kaylee, but the similarities between the two engineers were striking enough that it simply felt like the right thing to do. And frankly it made Inara feel better to be looking out for someone.

"Are you sure about this, Mal?" Jayne complained, not the first time, as they passed another set of orbital drydocks. "We got a pretty good bounty on our heads, and there's a lot of eyeballs out there. What're the chances Monty's even here, anyway? This's all based on some claim by a whore who wanted to git us gone."

"As I recall," Mal replied, "you were more'n pleased to be visitin' them whores."

"Well that was then, and this is us stickin' our heads out to get 'em whacked clean off. Point is, ain't no chance Monty's ship is out there."

"And there she is," Zoë piped in, right on cue. She was pointing to a medium sized freighter with a pair of repair drones zipping around it. "I'd recognize Monty's ship anywhere."

Grumbling, Jayne simply turned and walked off the flight deck. Mal opened the intercom to Inara's shuttle. "We've located the ship. What's the nearest Companion House?"

After a bare moment's thought, Inara's voice came back, "We're currently above the western continent. That would make it Harmonia. It's not the largest certified Pleasure House on Aphrodite, but it is the oldest and most respected."

"Monty ain't exactly respectable."

"A Companion chooses whom she takes as a client. Wealth and position are far from the only criteria. I have no doubt that someone will have accepted Captain Montgomery's request."

"Fine then," Mal replied. "Wash, set a course down to Harmonia. We're gonna need a cover that lets us snoop about the place. I think Mr. Garibaldi and I will have to dust off our best hats and put on our finest whorin' clothes.

The White Star liner Atlantis, near Miranda - January, 2250

Shrieking and spraying bile from its lips, the Reaver hurled itself unceasingly against the restraints binding it to the medical bed upon which it lay. It snapped and gnashed at anyone who came into view. He…it was most definitely a he, as revealed by the predictable dislocation of the ridiculous looking hospital gown which was all that he wore, apart from the numerous medical sensor leads…seemed to be both cranky and tireless, and waking up strapped to a medical bed in a strange room had not brightened his mood at all. Nor had the numerous blood and tissue samples which had been repeatedly taken.

Doctors Franklin, Robert, Tam, and Chambers stood in a nearby room, reviewing the early results. Aside from the restraints, there were a pair of heavily armed Marines, Deputy Zack Allen of the civilian law enforcement service, and Ensign Lyta Alexander, not to mention a heavily armored wall and window, separating the Reaver from the medical team trying to find a cure for his condition.

"This just doesn't make any sense," Dr. Sarah Chambers noted in exasperation. "A chemical like G-23 Paxilon Hydrochlorate should have a fairly simple and direct impact on a biological organism. Stripping proteins or bonding to and blocking certain receptors. Breakdown of amino acids. Maybe a combination of several things. But these changes are far too complex. We're looking at significant anatomical changes to multiple systems….nervous, cardiovascular, respiratory, skeletal and muscular…these changes to the endocrine system are particularly striking. And for all of these changes to pull together into a system as functional as the Reavers…"

"I don't know that I'd exactly call the Reavers functional, Doc…" Zack called out from the other room.

"Your highly esteemed and perspicacious biological analysis is noted, Mr. Allen," Sarah called back. "But if you wouldn't mind letting us plodding medical types earn our pay, I'd appreciate the ability to finish my train of thought."

"Ouch," Lyta laughed at the red-faced deputy.

"As I was saying," Chambers continued, "these changes are too vast and too specific for a simple chemical. No matter how complex. This looks like genetic modification. Accomplishing changes of this magnitude while not rendering the host nonviable would require a virus, and not just any. We're looking at something either highly evolved…or highly engineered."

"Well…" Dr. Simon Tam, on loan from Serenity, drawled thoughtfully, "it could be done surgically." Not noticing the looks of surprise coming from the other doctors. "But that's obviously not the case here. There're obvious changes to the genome, and it's not like someone could perform surgery on an entire planet. Besides, that Alliance officer….Dr. Caron…she gave us the vector. How they intentionally laced the atmosphere with the Pax."

"But if it was a chemical causing these changes," Dr. Stephen Franklin noted, holding up his hand when Sarah began to object, "Dr. Chambers's points notwithstanding…but if it was a chemical, in order to continue manifesting the noted changes, the chemical would need to still be present within the biology. We can't find any sign of anything that could be G-23 in any of the fluid or tissue samples we've taken. And even I think we've been overly thorough."

"If only we had an original sample of the Pax," Dr. Michael Robert, who had been roped in from the Colonial fleet, sighed.

"But we don't. And it's not like the Alliance would give us a sample if we asked nicely," Simon replied.

"Look, I'm a virologist by specialization. And I'm telling you, this looks like the work of a highly advanced virus…engineered even. There's no way a simple chemical did this, no matter how refined," Sarah insisted.

"What about an environmental virus?" Robert asked. "Is it possible Dr. Caron was mistaken? That it wasn't actually the Pax which caused the outbreak?"

"Ok, but from where?" Simon countered. "The planet was just barely finished being terraformed. The only life on the planet, from viruses on up, was what the terraformers put there. Besides, Dr. Chambers is right. This is way too complex…too specific…for a simple virus, even one somehow modified by exposure to Pax. And given there was no time for evolution to tailor the pathogen, and no obvious progenitors in the medical record…I think we have to assume this was engineered."

"Call me Sarah," Sarah replied. "Is it possible that Dr. Caron was misled? Maybe she wasn't in charge of the Pax, but was just sent to monitor the results? Maybe the Alliance was pumping a tailored virus into the atmosphere, and had just told Caron's team that it was G-23 Paxilon Hydrochlorate."

"For what reason?" Stephen inquired. "Dr. Caron seemed to accept the primary mission of population attitude and activity adjustment. Why would it have mattered to her if the vector was a chemical or an engineered pathogen?"

"For that matter," Michael responded, "why bother engineering a virus at all? Why institute these massive biological changes? There are any number of neuroleptics, tranquilizers, and soporifics which, in combination, could have produced the desired effect. It's way too much work for the desired outcome. Like designing a reentry heat shield for use as a sweater. We're missing something here. Something critical."

Chambers tapped her chin thoughtfully. "I say we need to take another look at the cadavers from the planetary surface. Yes, their state of decay makes pulling samples more challenging, and the results more questionable. That just means we need to massively broaden the sample range and population. We're looking at the Reavers, but we need to remember that they are the side effect…the failures. While the experiment overall must certainly be deemed a failure, the vast majority of the population experienced effects much closer inline with the intended outcome. We should be looking at what changes the virus made on these near successes."

They all considered this for a brief moment, before Stephen's eyes suddenly went very wide, and he grunted as though struck. "Frag me." The words came out as barely a whisper.

"Stephen?" Sarah asked. "What's wrong?"

He looked up at her with haunted eyes. "What you just said…that's not how biology works."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that biology, evolution, viruses…they don't fail to success."

"Excuse me?"

Franklin was becoming more animated. "By any measure a population which survives and thrives is more successful than one which goes extinct. And when a genetic manipulation or adjustment fails to achieve its desired ends, it would almost certainly be because an error caused those changes to be nonviable….for the host to become themselves damaged or nonviable. Failure doesn't cause a series of highly specific and customized adjustments leading to a highly resilient and successful organism." In agitation, he ran his fingers through his hair. "The odds against random failure or mutation leading to something like the Reavers…it's ludicrous. Imagine being infected by a rhinovirus and somehow getting superpowers out of the experience."

"Wait," Simon said, holding up his hands. "Dr. Franklin…are you saying that controlling the populace wasn't the point of the experiment? That…that the Alliance intentionally created the Reavers?"

"I don't see any other reasonable explanation."

"But Dr. Carom said…"

Stephen cut him off. "They seem to have lied to her about the Pax being a chemical rather than an engineered virus. Why wouldn't they lie to her about that?"

"But… But…" Sarah temporized, floundering to understand, "why…why would the Alliance want a problem like the Reavers?"

Stephen and Simon looked just as confused, but Michael stepped in with an answer. "Because it keeps the rest of the system in line. It sows fear, and creates a common enemy. Nothing drives unity like a common enemy. The Colonies were at our strongest after we united in the face of the Cylon insurrection. It was only when the Cylons were gone for decades, when we started to forget, that Colonial security and strength started to fall apart. There are, what, fourteen Central Worlds? And only two that are truly at the heart of this civilization? Not too different from the Colonies, really. This all happened a bit before the Unification War, right? So the Central Worlds were looking at consolidating this vast 'Verse of yours. Only, they weren't certain they could pull it off…"

"So they created an enemy that would drive the rest of the 'Verse into their arms," Simon finished in growing horror. "Only, it didn't work out quite right. The vast majority of the people died. That was the failure. They got tens of thousands of Reavers instead of tens of millions. A force that wouldn't be a threat for decades. Gāisǐ. The Reavers started out as little more than rumors and fairytales, at the very edge of inhabited space."

"And so when plan A didn't work out," Robert continued, "they went with plan B."

"The Unification War."

"Are you telling me," Sarah asked softly, "that we're dealing with a government that was willing to turn thirty million of their own citizens into monsters, just to increase their own political influence and power?"

Nodding, Dr. Robert added, "Which also means that they won't hesitate at all to turn all of us into the unifying enemy they wanted from the beginning. We're frakked. Hells, they might try to use the Pax, or the virus, or whatever it was, against us. Reavers 2.0, the external threat to solidify their hold on everything."

"We can't let them get away with it," Franklin muttered.

"No, we can't," Robert said, straightening with sudden determination. He turned and opened the door to the Reavers room, walking through and picking up a syringe from a table against the side wall. He perused a rack of medications before selecting one and filling the syringe.

The other doctors followed him into the room. "Michael," Stephen asked, "what do you think you're doing?"

"We need answers," Robert replied. He walked up to the bound Reaver, who began lurching even more violently against his restraints, much to the displeasure of the Marines. Robert stabbed the syringe into the Reaver's thigh, injecting the clear medication. As the Reaver's struggles began to calm, he continued. "So far we've just been taking samples of tissues and body fluids, trying to understand the changes in the being. That's not enough anymore. We don't have the time. The Alliance is going to go to war with us. We're the opportunity they always wanted. This isn't just a mercy effort anymore. If they hit us with the Pax, or whatever the actual virus was called, we'll need to be able to treat it to survive."

"That's what we're working on, Doctor." Franklin said in irritation.

The Reaver had settled into a quiescent state. Robert gathered up a batch of new sensors from a nearby cabinet and began attaching them to the Reaver's head and torso. "Careful, Doc," Zack said, taking half a step closer in alarm.

"Officer, I just dosed this subject with enough tranquilizer to put down a dozen of your men. I'll be fine." He began adjusting the connection to the new sensors, and a fresh stream of data began scrolling across a nearby set of monitors. Turning his attention back to Franklin, he continued. "We need to start testing the Reavers' responses to stimulus. Pleasure, pain, anything we can think of. Find out what makes them tick. What makes them angry or calm. And what makes them think and reason. We know they can think. They couldn't run spacecraft or hunt down humans without that ability. Finding out how to force them to think is our key to dealing with them, and with any of our own people the Alliance might infect. That's how we find the eventual cure."

"That sound like to you want to subject this Reaver to torture," Franklin said suspiciously.

"Whatever it takes."

"I won't stand for that."

The two men stared hard at each other for a long moment, when Lyta suddenly shouted, "Careful! He's not…" The Reaver screamed and heaved violently against its restraints, and the audible sound of its right thumb dislocating was accompanied by the attached limb slipping from the restraining cuff. Without a moment's hesitation, the Reaver drove its injured hand, spear like, into Dr. Michael Robert's throat. The Doctor went rigid, eyes wide as saucers. As the Marines surged forward in an already futile attempt at rescue, the Reaver howled again and, curling its claw like fingers, jerked its arm back. A large gob of Robert's trachea, esophagus, and other tissues were torn free in a welter of gore, which the Reaver immediately popped into its mouth. It seemed to understand that it wouldn't be getting another bite. Robert dropped like a puppet with cut strings.

Both Marines and Deputy Allen tackled the Reaver's arm, but seemed to have difficulty restraining even that single limb. Lyta stepped forward and met the Reaver's gaze, slapping her hand to the side of its face. It seemed to struggle for a moment, then went limp, consciousness stomped out. Stephen and Simon grabbed up the former Dr. Robert, manhandling his body out the door into the nearest surgical room, calling for an IV and blood for a transfusion. They would make a significant effort to save Michael, but the man's fate had been sealed the moment the Reaver broke free.
Sarah, however, didn't participate in the effort to save her colleague. Rather, her eyes were glued to the nearby monitors, fed by the sensors Robert himself had attached, and the shocking stream of data scrolling across them the moment the Reaver swallowed Robert's flesh and slaked its voracious appetite.

Harmonia House, Aphrodite, orbiting Murphy, orbiting Georgia - January, 2250

"I think I'm losing my appetite." Kendra noted. She wasn't particularly pleased about any aspect of their current predicament. "Did you have to insist Garibaldi go barefoot?"

"Hey!" Michael objected.

"I'm with her," Mal noted. "What happened to my great idea about us comin' in all fanciful and such? Proper customers?"

Inara didn't look back as she answered under her voice, leading them through one of the lower utility levels of the Companion Pleasure House they had just breached. "One, your last great disguise idea for sneaking into a Companion House was dressing as a washerwoman. Which you abandoned just before you needed it most. Two, between the two of you, you and Michael couldn't put together a properly refined and cultured outfit if it bit you on your collective asses. And three, Companions choose their own clients, and that goes double for those who would visit a Pleasure House. Everyone on staff will know every guest and client who is allowed to be here, and neither of you fit that requirement. But no one will think twice at the sight of a pair of manservants or chamber boys attending to a full Companion."

"That's all great," Michael replied, "but why is Shaw dressed like a…"

"Colonel, I swear to you, if you call me a whore I will rip out your tongue and beat you to death with it," Kendra snapped sotto voce, before smiling and nodding politely at a passing servant carrying a large basket of laundry. She couldn't quite keep her hands from clenching into fists, so she used them to grip and lift her flowing skirts and keep herself from tripping over them.

Inara smiled and gave her an approving nod. "Companions in training are another common sight that will go unremarked by the House staff. And Ms. Shaw has both the body and the face to fill the role." After a moment's pause though, she added, "Though her demeanor could use some work."

"My demeanor is just fine."

"Companions in training do not go around scowling and glowering at everyone who crosses their path. Your role is to be submissive, studious and conscientious."

"I'm gonna conscientiously snap Garibaldi's neck if he looks at my ass again."

"Just making sure your disguise is holding together," Michael noted with a grin. "Ass looks fine. The top might need some adjustment though."

"Mal," Inara called through gritted teeth, "be a good serving boy and walk between Kendra and Michael, won't you?" She then smiled and nodded to yet another passing servant. After that they trod along in silence through the lower levels of the massive facility. It was only when Inara began leading them up a winding staircase that she signaled they must be extra cautious.

Three floors up though, Garibaldi ignored that demand by stopping dead in his tracks and calling for their attention. "There's the library."

"We don't have the luxury," Inara hissed through a rictus smile. "The library is way too public."

"It's also the only part of our mission that we know we can accomplish here. We have no idea if this Monty has the connections we hope…or if he's even down here. But the library in an official Companion House? You bringers-of-culture to a benighted land?" he added, sounding only slightly mocking. "There's no way this library doesn't contain a more in depth early history of the 'Verse, and how you all got here. We need that information."

Inara showed conflicted indecision for a brief moment. But, rather than arguing with Garibaldi, she merely put on an imperious air and swept her way into the library. The room was two stories and filled with shelves that stretched from floor to ceiling. The wood of the shelves and paneling wasn't terribly fancy, but it was polished to a fine sheen and kept more or less dusted. "Alright, my dear," she said loudly to Shaw. "Let's see if you've learned anything useful. Find me a book on…ooohhhh…the earliest history of the 'Verse. Quickly now," she added, snapping her fingers. "I am timing you."

Kendra's eyes widened, as they swiveled to take in the sizable library. She wanted to argue, but couldn't blow her cover. "May I…get assistance from the serving boys? They…should be good for holding a ladder, at least."

"You may have one," Inara deigned, waggling her fingers at Garibadli to go and assist.

Michael walked forward to join Kendra as they entered the stacks. "Now what?" he asked.

"How should I know?" she hissed back under her breath. "You were the one being so insistent about finding this history!"

"Because nothing here makes sense."

"Fine, but we're stuck now. So split up and try to figure out how to find what we're looking for."

"I've never searched a paper library before. Is there a computer that tells us where things are?"

"How should I know?" she snapped. "Split up. That should at least double our odds of finding something."

As they went their separate ways through the stacks of dusty tomes and ledgers, Kendra became more and more certain she would never find what they were looking for. The books seemed to be organized by some arcane cipher of numbers and letters and many didn't even have their title printed on the spine. She tried randomly pulling out a few here and there to read the cover or even crack them open, but nothing was even vaguely close. Worse, she was beginning to attract the attention of the various other people in the library. They were looking at her in confusion, or even suspicion, more and more. She began ducking down one aisle after another, in order to stay out of their sight, but already too much time had passed, and she didn't even have so much as a clue how to find the information they had targeted.

A very large man rounded the corner of the aisle and strode purposely towards her. He was wearing a uniform of some sort, but she didn't need that to know he was security. The way he moved, with the graceful yet solid stride of someone who was always prepared for a fight, told her everything she needed to know. His eyes also kept moving, checking to see who else was around, identifying avenues of attack and retreat. Kendra knew she wasn't getting away from this man, and she had her doubts she could take him in a straight fight. Garibaldi was nowhere to be seen. On the other hand, no one else was in view. It occurred to her that she might be able to lock him down telepathically and make him forget whatever suspicions he was holding.

He came to a stop not two paces from her and glanced around, making certain no one else was nearby. Reaching inside the breast of his jacket, he grabbed something and began to draw it out. Kendra quickly gathered her energies and prepared to attempt a telekinetic attack…then immediately let them dissipate when the hulking figure pulled forth a small, leatherbound tome and thrust it out towards her. She stared at it in shock. The embossed title simply proclaimed From the Earth to the 'Verse. She stared at it in shock, so he shook it under her nose. "Take it," he hissed, "before you get into further trouble. Don't you know your Dewey Decimal System? Stupid girl. Pay attention to your lessons, next time."

Not certain what else to do, Kendra simply grabbed the book, gave him a quick nod of thanks, and all but ran for the entry where Inara was waiting with not at all feigned impatience. Garibaldi joined her enroute, chuckling under his breath. "Were you responsible for that?" she snapped sotto voce.
"It worked, didn't it. I just sort of mentioned to him that if you took any longer finding your assigned reading, that the Mistress would take a switch to your pretty little back side. Worked like a charm."

"I don't want you looking at my backside. I certainly don't need you looking after it either."

"Technically, he was the one doing that."

"It's about time," Inara snapped loudly, as they presented themselves in front of her and Kendra offered up the requested book. "Be more diligent in your lessons, girl! That took entirely too long." Gathering them up with her eyes, Inara turned to lead them out the door.

And froze in place. Standing before her were a trio of Companions, armed with a rather eclectic range of weaponry. Weapons which were in their hands, though not quite pointed at Inara or her companions. Not quite. A half dozen guards armed with truncheons were arrayed behind them. "Clear the library," the central figure, a tall statuesque blonde with striking blue eyes and flowing golden robes demanded in a loud voice. She didn't shout exactly, but everyone present heard her clearly.

Without hesitation, every other person in the library began making their way rapidly towards the exits. The helpful security guard made eye contact with Kendra as he passed, clearly curious, but just as clearly having no intention of crossing the Companions. Rather, he joined the guards forming a semicircle behind the Companions. When all of the library staff and visitors had departed, and all of the doors been closed and locked, the lead Companion snarled, "Inara. You have some nerve coming here."

Inara motioned for Garibaldi and Mal to freeze when they gripped hidden weapons and began spreading out in preparation for trouble. "Sonja," she replied pleasantly to the lead figure. Nodding left and right, she added, "Guanyin. Ceres. How nice to see you all again. And what exactly is the problem? This is a Companion House. I am a registered Companion in good standing, am I not?"

"Yes, you are a Companion…for now," Sonja spat angrily. "But good standing? That ship has sailed."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean the Alliance bombed the Companion Training House in which you last resided, along with everyone inside. We lost more than a dozen of our sisters, and over a hundred trainees. Not to mention guests, servants, and visitors. We thought that included you, until the Alliance advised us you were wanted, and ordered us to turn you over immediately should you show up at any of our facilities." Pausing, Sonja took a deep breath, then stood up just a bit straighter and said in a most forceful voice, "Inara Serra, you are commanded to present yourself to House Madrassa on Sihnon for judgment."

Mal took an angry half step forward, causing weapons across both lines to twitch. He didn't seem to much care. "You send her to Sihnon, she'll be dead long before she steps foot in any Companion House, and you know it!"

"We have faith in her resourcefulness, even if you do not."

Mal was more than ready with a hot rejoinder, but Inara stopped him with a hand upon his arm. "Sonja, I'm quite certain you've seen the broadcast about Miranda. About what the Alliance did there, and how the Reavers came to be. They were trying to cover up their own crimes, and we exposed them. Why else do you think they were willing to take such drastic measures to get to me, to us, against the Companions no less. Think of the harm their actions have caused. The millions of lives lost. They have to be held accountable. Would you have done any less?"

"This isn't about me. Your actions have caused immense harm to the Sisterhood. The lives lost may not number in the millions, but they were our sisters and students. You must explain yourself. You must be held accountable. That is why you are being recalled to House Madrassa, Inara. The Guild does not bow to anyone. Not even the Alliance. But neither do we choose to make them our enemy; nor will we help chaos inundate all of civilization. Only the Alliance enforces civility in this 'Verse. There is no other option.

"Mighty civil of them," Mal drawled, "blowin' up a whole gorram chapter house like that. You know, on top of tryin' to chemically lobotomize an entire world and, what was it?...oh yeah, unleashing the Reavers on your precious civilization."

"And what evidence do we have of that?" Sonja asked hotly. "Only your word and a single recording broadcast across the 'Verse. Such things are easily manufactured."

"Nǐ fēngle ma, nǐ zhège fēnggǒu? Why would we make up something like that?" Inara snapped.

Angrily, Sonja stepped forward until she was practically nose to nose with Inara. "To cover up your own crimes? How should I know? Be certain that it shall be uncovered upon your return to Sihnon. Be just as certain that the Guild will not go to war with the Alliance merely on your say so. This conversation is over." She turned and lifted a hand, clearly ready to command her guards to seize them all.

Nonchalantly, Kendra reached around Inara and placed her hand upon the curve where Sonja's shoulder met her neck. The imposing blonde immediately slumped bonelessly to the floor. Garibaldi quirked an inquisitive brow, sending a questioning glance towards the woman. "I'm still learning," Kendra said defensively. "Touch is easier."

Aside from the two of them, however, the act was like throwing gasoline onto an open fire. Ceres and Guanyin pulled blades from their voluminous robes, the almond skinned and eyed Guanyin carrying a rapier, and the fiery redheaded Ceres brandishing a jian. Their guard raised their clubs and prepared to do violence.

Until Mal and Garibaldi each drew and cocked a revolver. While Inara had secreted her favorite laser pistol within her own robes, Kendra had elected to bring a sawed off shotgun strapped to her thigh. Three hammers cocking in time with the whine of a powercell charging immediately aborted the ill thought out charge of the House Guard. "Well look at that," Michael noted dryly. "Look like you brought sticks to a gunfight."

"There's not going to be any fight," Inara told him firmly. She switched her gaze to Mal, "Nor any bloodshed from a man who's 'just alright.' There will be no need." She brought her gaze back to Ceres and Guanyin. "We're friends. We trained together. You know me. I wouldn't make something like this up. And we need your help."

Guanyin sighed. "I believe you, Inara. But the Guild can't fight the Alliance. We'd be destroyed. And the Guild has spoken. You are summoned to House Madrassa."

"I understand the position the Guild is in. Perhaps I can help to solve it. If you help us and then allow us to leave in peace…I will publicly abdicate my Register, and abandon the Guild. That should remove whatever pressure the Alliance has applied to the Guild."

"Abdicate your Register?" Ceres asked, aghast. "Inara…are you sure?"

"How could it possibly matter," Guanyin cut it, "given her condition?"

"What condition?" Mal asked, concern and suspicion in his voice.

Inara ignored him. "Mal's right. If I attempt to go to Sihnon, I'm as good as dead anyway. And being wanted by the Alliance like this…there's no way for me to be a serving Companion anyway. So it doesn't matter anyway. But what we're doing now…it's that important. If you'd hear me out…"

"We don't want to know," Ceres cut in emphatically. "Whatever you tell us will just rope us into this, and invalidate your sacrifice."

"What condition?!" Mal snapped.

Ceres looked at him in annoyance. "If she didn't tell you then she obviously doesn't want you to know. Mind your own business, dolt."

Guanyin, on the other hand, cast a very considering look at Mal. "She's dying of an untreatable form of cancer." It was said abruptly, and without emotion. As though it was of no more import than a weather report. However, she studied Mal intensely as he turned to Inara for confirmation. "She likely has no more than a year to live."

"Less," Inara confirmed, also looking to Mal for a reaction.

They needn't have watched so intently. Mal's reaction was plain for all to see. He whirled on Guanyin, shouting, "And this is how you treat a dying Sister? Xiàng nǐ zhège biǎo zi yīyàng hé gǒu yīqǐ tǎng xià! You should have been bending over backwards to help her! Well, you're gonna help her now, or I'm gonna tear down your little den of iniquity around…"

"Mal!" Inara snapped. "It doesn't matter. Let's just finish what we came for and go."

Guanyin looked down at Sonja, lying at Inara's feet. "How long will she be out?"

"At least an hour," Kendra said.

"Then you have an hour to accomplish what you must and leave. Once she awakens, Sonja will surely report your presence."

"Then maybe she don't awaken," Mal said ominously.

Inara put her hand on his shoulder, calmingly. "An hour will be enough."

"How can we help you?" Ceres asked.

"We're looking for a man. A big man. A freighter captain by the name of Monty."

Upon providing directions to the room in which Monty was staying, Ceres and Guanyin had taken the guards and departed. They simply didn't want to know any more about the mission. The more they knew, the more could be used against both Inara and the Guild. Inara led the way up to Monty's room in silence. Mal hung back to the rear, clearly collecting his thoughts, and Michael hung back a little way as well, keeping an eye on him.
Kendra took the opportunity to sidle up next to Inara. "Why didn't you tell anyone?"

"It's my own cross to bear. I was a rising star in the Guild, you know. And then came the diagnosis. The failure of all treatment attempts. I could still have remained on the fast track…attained a high title amongst the leadership. They would not have held the disease against me. But everywhere I went came the pitying looks. And the walls of House Madrassa suddenly felt like a prison. I needed to get out. To see the 'Verse while I still could. To go where no one knew. I guess that's over now."

"It doesn't have to be. I could wipe the fact right out of Captain Reynold's mind. Should be easy to find. There's not much in there."

Inara looked at her, shocked. "You're joking," she said in horror.

"Yes, actually. That would very much be against the rules. And I'm pretty sure I don't have the skill to pull it off yet. At least, not without frying his brain. Probably."

"As you said," Inara cracked a smile, "there's not much to fry."

Kendra looked at her, seriousness returning. "But you still don't have to be 'the dying woman.' Instead of hiding the fact, just change it. Get rid of the cancer."

"Don't you think I tried? We spent years consulting every specialist in the Core. It's incurable."

"So was the cancer President Roslin had. And then we met these weirdos from Earth, and suddenly she was cured. At least check with the Earth Force doctors. Don't run away from hope just because you're afraid of being disappointed again."

Inara didn't respond, as they had arrived at Monty's door. Instead, she opened the door and went inside. Kendra heard an excited and slightly mocking voice call out, "It's about time, girly. You know how long I been waitin'?" Slipping through the door, Kendra looked over the shoulder of a smirking Inara to behold a bear of a man giving the Companion the once over. His shoulder length wavy hair had gone past thinning right to balding on top, and was put to shame by his thick, luxurious beard and mustache. He wore cowboy boots and a gunbelt, and not a stitch else. And though he lay reclining on the massive velvet covered bed, arms casually behind his head, he was very much standing at attention. Upon seeing Kendra entering the room, his smile grew immeasurably broader. "A two-fer? Hot damn! Well this will certainly be worth the wait!" Kendra's face flamed and, jumping, she immediately turned her head to look at anything else.

Which was why she saw Garibaldi entering the room. Apparently, Monty noticed him as well, as she heard his voice change. "Whoa. Hold on! I never said nuthin' about anything like this… Sorry," he said, addressing Michael, "it's just not my taste."

"What?" Mal asked, entering last, "are we not pretty enough for you? I'm hurt, I tell you. Hurt and dismayed. Downright disconsolate even."

"Mal?" Monty asked in shock. "What in blazes are you doin' here?" He seemed to take no notice of the fact that he was still stark naked.

"Heard you were in town. Thought we'd stop by and say hello. Maybe chew the fat a bit."

"I'm still mad as hell, Mal! You broke my heart!"

"And here I thought it wasn't your taste," Michael chimed in, smirking.

"That's not what I meant!"

"I didn't break your heart, Monty," Mal reasoned. "That was Saffron."

"Who?"

Mal huffed in exasperation. "Bridgette! Yolanda. Who knows how many other fake names. I certainly don't know the real one. That viper you took for a wife. She's the one betrayed you. I just let you know what kind of a creature you was beddin' down with."

"It still hurt, Mal."

"Well, for that, I am deeply sorry."

"Fun as this stroll down memory lane has been," Shaw called out over her shoulder, "we don't have much time. And we need your help. And I need you to put some pants on."

Monty made no move to dress, but he did pick up his hat from the headboard and drop it over his midsection. "What can I help you with, Miss?"

Sighing, Kendra decided that would have to be enough. Turning to face Monty again, she said, "We need some information, Captain. Which is why we had Captain Reynolds bring us here."

"Monty," Mal cut in, "you still got any contacts with the Independent brass?"

"Ain't no such thing no more."

"People that was, Monty. Someone with some influence who we can trust. Just 'cause they ain't operatin' no more don't mean they're all gone."

"Qù chī gǒu shǐ! If that's what this is about you can turn right around and get the hell out of here, Mal! I want nothin' to do with your madness."

"You have to have seen the broadcast. The news about Miranda and the Reavers."

"So? You think that's gonna change anything? That the Independents will suddenly rise again? It's not gonna happen! And even if it does, it'll end the same way. Thousands, maybe millions of dead, and Alliance control all the stronger and more intrusive. You're just making things worse, Mal!"

"No, Monty. This time there's actual hope. A power that can stand up to the Alliance. Maybe even bring them down."

"Hold on, Reynolds," Garibaldi cut in. "We didn't say anything about that."

"What happened to you Mal? I thought you'd be the last person to go crazy, chasin' dreams of yesterday."

"I'm serious, Monty. These people are from Earth-that-was. There must have been some survivors after our people left. And now they've come here! And they've got real power. Maybe as much as the Alliance. I've seen their ships with my own eyes."

"You are mad. Snap out of it, Mal!"

"Fine. You don't believe me. Well, that's ok. But we've always been friends, Monty. I've given you the literal shirt off my back. And I ain't asking for no commitments from you. Just a name or two. You were a real Captain during the war. Not some jumped up Sergeant that needed a promotion just to have the authority to surrender. You must have known people…reported to officers that were worth more than the spit on their boots. If you're concerned, then give me names that will be just as concerned. Just as cautious. You don't even need to put in a good word for us. You let me worry about the convincin'."

"It's not like I still know a lot of those people, Mal," Monty sighed. "Most of the good ones were executed or died under 'mysterious circumstances' while we was POWs at the end of the war. Any that don't fall into them categories are either deep in hiding, or being hidden away by the Alliance themselves."

"There's gotta be somebody."

"Maybe. Maybe one. There was a decentish one-star I reported to for a while. I heard he was wounded and cashiered out before the end, so he survived the purges. General Hard-Born."

"Never heard of him."

"Weren't his real name. Just the one the troops used if they had the misfortune of serving under him."

"Misfortune?" Garibaldi asked. "We don't want to meet some incompetent general."

"No, it weren't that. He wasn't any tactical genius, but he managed to keep his troops fed, armed, and mostly alive."

"That's better than nine-tenths of the Alliance generals," Mal noted. "So why the nickname?"

"Because he did it by working his troops to the bone. No let up, and if he caught you slackin' off, he'd double your workload. It was brutal, but it worked."

"So where is he now?"

"Last I heard he'd mostly retired. Taken up bein' a lawman for some backwater town on Regina."

"Zhè dǎoméi de yùnqì," Mal muttered to himself.

Inara turned to him, a look of surprise on her face. "You don't think it could possibly be…"

"With the way our luck runs? Who else could it be?" Just to be certain he turned back to Monty and asked, "This podunk town you mentioned. Paradiso?"

"How'd you know?" Monty asked in surprise.

"Because sometimes the 'Verse hates me. General Hard-Born. I should have figured it from that. Goes by Sheriff Bourne now. Don't think he's particularly fond of us." He sighed. "But that's none of your concern Monty. We'll ask you to keep this little visit under your hat. For your good as well as ours. The Alliance would be rather unhappy about this conversation. I know you think I'm crazy, but if you get curious, or if you decide you want to be part of things again…head for Mr. Universe's planet. You might just see some sights."