The Final Circle

by Sufficient Velocity

This is a Babylon 5 centered tale. It explores a BSG style exodus due to the loss of the Earth Minbari war. It becomes a crossover with nBSG as of Interlude 1, and crosses with Firefly as of Interlude 2. Most B5 and BSG canon should remain unchanged, including EU. However, Firefly will mostly use series and film canon. Its EU began to expand after I had already merged the plots.

40. Chapter 37 - Take Me Out To The Black

Chapter 37 - Take Me Out To The Black

Raptor 478, Ion Cloud near Mr. Universe's Plant, The Verse - February, 2250
Completing another leg of their mid-range scouting and recon mission, Lieutenant Margaret 'Racetrack' Edmondson and Lieutenant Hamish 'Skulls' McCall worked diligently, conversing only over the work at hand. They had just finished drifting on a ballistic arc through another debris field. Using passive and minimal active sensors, they drifted along, doing their best to look as much like a dead rock as possible. This part of their mission was to collect as much data as possible on the destroyed vessels and how they had reacted to Earth Force and Cylon munitions. The general answer seemed to be…badly. But so long as the Union of Allied Planets was shooting at them, they needed to gather all the intel possible.

Racetrack reoriented the Raptor as their ascending parabolic arc took them once more into the cover of the Ion Cloud. "Preparing for long range wide spectrum sweep," Skulls advised for the fifth or sixth time this flight. The whole procedure was starting to get a bit monotonous. But that was the job, and they both knew its import. It had been one of these recon flights that had spotted the Alliance task force heading for this rock, at enough distance to provide time to assemble a response force and even get them into a proper combat/ambush formation to maximize their combat ability if things went pear shaped. Which, of course, they had. So now, in addition to recon, they were analyzing the detritus remaining after the battle.

"We're about to skim the surface," Racetrack noted, and Skulls initiated his sensor sweep. Their ballistic arc didn't quite take them out of the Ion Cloud, but it did bring them close to the outer boundary for a considerable period of time, allowing the Raptor's sensors to sweep the surrounding skies while hopefully themselves remaining concealed in the cloud deck. Once their ballistic trajectory took them back deep enough into the Cloud, they'd burn to modify their course to fly a new arc through more Alliance scrap and then scan out past a different portion of the cloud. They had three more such sweeps before they could call it a day and return to the barn.

"Hold it…I've got something," Skulls advised sharply, and Margaret felt her own tension jump up several notches. They were all alone out here, and a Raptor wasn't a particularly hard target, even by local standards. "Looks like…a Victoria class corvette. It's burning hard this way."

"That's their Special Forces operations class, right? They've gotta be looking for trouble."

Skulls's brow furrowed in confusion. "Weird. That class is supposed to be loaded with stealth, ECM, ECCM…all the e-warfare goodies. It should have been much harder to spot, traveling alone like it is." He began flipping switches, adjusting sensor intakes. "It's like they're not trying to mask their approach at all. And they're in a hell of a hurry to get here. I don't like this shit. I'm gonna spool up the jump drive."

"We're at the top of our arc. We spool up now or start maneuvering and they're gonna spot us. That ship carries a hell of a lot of missiles."

"They can't outrun an FTL jump."

"Sure, assuming this janky ass bird actually manages to jump. Chief still ain't fixed it right. You know as well as I do that the jump engine doesn't work a quarter of the time."

"We can't just sit here like a couple of frakwads! At the very least we gotta send a sitrep."

"I wouldn't trust our systems to sneak a transmission past that ship. Not from here. Sitting tight is exactly what we do. Our trajectory will take us deeper into the cloud, and then we can bounce the frak off without getting blown to pieces."

Skulls gritted his teeth, about to argue, but then his console beeped to grab his attention. "Holy frak…they're transmitting."

"So do your frakkin' job and bring it up!" Racetrack snapped. "And make sure we're recording. The brass is gonna wanna hear this."

Hardly a moment later, a flat, uninflected voice, with perhaps more than a hint of smug arrogance, crackled through the cabin speakers. "...response. I repeat, this is a diplomatic vessel, bearing special envoys of the Parliament of the Union of Allied Planets. We are seeking to establish communication with the leadership of whatever force or movement assaulted our fleet. It is still possible to avoid the slaughter and suffering your actions are leading towards. We can rebuild peace and prosperity, but only if you choose dialogue. We await your response. I repeat, this is a diplomatic vessel, bearing…"

Skulls silenced the broadcast, then stared wide eyed at Racetrack. "Holy frak."

"We should be able to jump safely in another few minutes. Back to the barn. The brass will definitely want to hear this."

---

Lead Baseship, Orbiting Mr. Universe's Planet, The Verse - February, 2250

Colonels Garibaldi and Tigh, as well as Commander Bester and Major Shaw, the latter glancing suspiciously at the former, stood in an impromptu observation room arranged by their Cylon hosts. The Cylons had set up a screen for them, so they could keep an eye on the pair of 'Envoys' waiting for them in a nearby conference chamber. Those two men sat, both motionless and emotionless, their only movement being to periodically make eye contact with one another.

"What do you think?" Garibaldi asked of no one in particular, simply staring at the screen.

Shaw chose to respond. "I think we oughta bring over a few more godsdamned knuckle-draggers. Those two give me the creeps. And what's with the blue gloves?"

"I suspect they're much like the gloves I wear," Bester offered nonchalantly, "given they appear to be telepaths."

"You sure?"

The former Psi-Cop grimaced. "No. Not really. Not from just casual observation. But at the very least they are hardened defensively against telepathic contact. And I can say that their minds are in sync with each other…somehow. They're dangerous."

Tigh snorted. "You don't need to be a telepath to know that much!"

An obsequious number Five, standing at one of the gel based data interfaces, cleared his throat to gain their attention. "The video link has been established."

The moment Garibaldi had learned their two guests might be telepathic, he had adamantly insisted to both Sheridan and Adama that no members of fleet leadership be exposed to these two. When Roslin had objected, he'd also reminded them all that diplomatically it would be a sign of weakness for their top brass to leap at a meeting with the other side's flunkies. While it had taken some additional convincing and negotiation, the final decision had been to only send in telepaths of their own, and powerful ones at that.

"That's our cue then." Bester stood, with Shaw just a moment behind. The teeps would be backstopped by Garibaldi and Tigh, watching everything on video and with direct communications to the earpieces hidden deep within the Bester's and Shaw's ears. At the same time, Roslin, Sheridan, Adama, and other members of fleet leadership would be watching and listening remotely, ensconced on their own separate vessels, safely away from any surreptitious telepathic manipulation. Bester led the way through the hatch and into the room beyond.

The sole two occupants of that room neither rose nor moved a muscle, save only for turning their heads to track the progress of the Commander and Major as they came in and sat down across from them. Something about that gaze felt unnerving to Shaw…almost inhuman. Like a raptor tracking its prey. She didn't like feeling unnerved, and so she went on the attack. "You wanted to talk to us. So talk."

The one on the left met her gaze inscrutably. They hadn't offered names, referring to themselves only as special envoys. The Serenity crew had been shown images, but didn't know their names either. River Tam had simply referred to them as Hands of Blue One and Hands of Blue Two. "You are not the leaders of this force," he said. It was a statement, not a question, with no emotional force behind it. And yet it still drove shivers up her spine.

"And you aren't the leaders of the Alliance," Bester snarked with a smirk. "Your higher ups didn't feel the need to show up themselves, why do you think mine would? But we're all here anyway, so why don't you say what you've come to say? If it's at all interesting, we'll be sure to pass it along."

One and Two turned their heads to share a silent, momentary gaze, before looking back. It was Two who continued. "We are here to discuss ending your insurrection. It will without doubt lead to your destruction. However, you are likely to take a fair number of soldiers and innocent civilians along with you, which our leaders would prefer to avoid. So, we are here to offer you a chance to negotiate. To meet in good faith with the head of Parliament and negotiate a settlement that doesn't end with all of your deaths."

"Translation," Kendra spat, "we destroyed your little fleet and now your bosses are shaking in their little boots."

Hands of Blue One seemed to take no insult from her assertion, merely meeting her gaze and offering an emotionless, "Hardly."

"Where would this hypothetical convocation occur?" Bester asked. "Just out of curiosity."

"Londinium, of course. Or Sihnon, I suppose, if that is your preference. Discussions with the ultimate power of the government must take place within the capital."

Kendra snorted. "Our leaders have no intention of cooling their heels in one of your prisons. Nor sitting around waiting to see what forms of new and exciting torture you can dream up."

"The old ways are often the best," Hands of Blue Two offered, with no sign of either pique or jest.

"Why don't you bring your Parliamentarians here?" Bester offered lightly. "We'll be sure to roll out all the opulence and indulgence. They'll be right at home."

"The lion does not come to the mouse," Hands of Blue One rebuffed.

"He does when he's toothless." Alfred grinned broadly, revealing that he was far from. "And given the performance of your military to date, that would seem to be the case. Wouldn't you agree?"

"No," came the immediate response. But then the two envoys shared a meaningful glance between themselves. Finally, they both turned back, something having changed. "A neutral location then. How about Persephone? Take it or leave it. The Alliance is already bending over farther to accommodate you than ever before."

Now it was Bester and Shaw's turn to share a glance. "Alright, that's interesting," Kendra offered. "We'll see if there is any interest and get back to you. Wait here."

"We have nowhere else to go. Unless you wish to give us a tour of your vessel?"

"Pass," she snapped, then stood along with Bester and walked out the hatch, the heavily armed guard on the door clearly visible to those inside. "What do you think?" she asked Tigh the moment that hatch had been closed and secured.

"What do I think? I think it's a godsdamned trap," Saul snapped. "They didn't argue at all when you refused to go to their capital. That was never the plan. They were always going to offer Persephone. They plan to stab us in the back, first chance they get."

"How very paranoid of you," Michael smiled. "I approve."

"They might simply be trying to send a message," came Commodore Sheridan's disembodied voice, relayed from somewhere else in the fleet. Persephone was the capital of the Independent revolution. If they hold the talks there, it says 'those who oppose us are crushed.' This might be nothing more than a ploy to negotiate from strength."

"Persephone is also the wealthiest of the conquered Independent worlds," Roslin noted from her desk aboard Colonial One. "They're doing quite well. Perhaps the Alliance is trying to convey that those who submit will prosper, while death is the only alternative."

"Stick and carrot," Michael nodded. "That makes sense. But I'm still with Saul. This feels like a trap."

"I don't know that we really have a choice," Adama noted sourly from the Galactica. "The Alliance is an existential threat to the cohesion and continued existence of this fleet. Long term, they're holding all of the cards. What advantages we do have won't last long. It'll be a few years at best before the Alliance starts matching our firepower or simply drowning us in numbers, while our own ships will start breaking down….steadily deteriorating due to lack of major overhaul. And like it or not, we just aren't willing to do what it would take to put an end to that threat while we do have the advantage. Unless you want to end tens of billions more human lives? We simply have to find some sort of accommodation with the Alliance. There's no other choice."

There was a long silence after that, before Sheridan finally broke it. "Tell them we accept."

---

Eratosthenes, Ion Cloud near Miranda, The Verse - February, 2250

"You can't possibly accept. Nǐ fēngle ma?" Captain Malcom Reynolds snapped, springing to his feet. The former Companion Inara Serra placed a calming hand on his arm from where she sat next to him, but her countenance showed she hardly disagreed with the sentiment. To either side of them, Sheriff Bourne and the Operative, who had still not revealed his actual name, looked on silently but with open curiosity. They were both tactful enough to also remain seated.

The meeting had taken several days to set up, due to all the ongoing chaos. Finally however, Commodore Sheridan and Captain Sinclair, along with President Roslin and Admiral Adama, had found time for a proper sit-down with the guests the Serenity crew had brought them. Garibaldi and Shaw, having already made their reports, were busy attending to other duties. Mal and Inara, on the other hand, had insinuated themselves into the meeting on the pretext of being a necessary social bridge to span the incredible contextual gap that existed between the new immigrants to this system and either an Alliance Operative or a former revolutionary general.

Of course, not only did both Mal and Inara have trouble bridging their own social gaps with each of the individuals involved…and each other…but as his recent outburst proved, Mal wasn't exactly the most diplomatic of souls. "Sit down, Captain!" Admiral Adama barked right back. Reynolds took orders from no man…at least aboard his own ship…when guns weren't pointed at him…but the remarkable force of will and simple assurance of being obeyed radiating from the old navy man across from them caused Mal to almost unconsciously close his mouth and sit back down. Though the light of mulish contention in his eyes sprung back up again almost immediately.

Commodore Sheridan forestalled that argument simply by answering it. "We aren't here to refight past wars, even if there was a chance of winning them, which I just don't see. We're trying to create a future for our people, who have already been through more than enough. I think we've been pretty clear from the beginning, but just to ensure there's no misunderstanding, our goal is peaceful coexistence. I don't see any hope of long term survival if we don't get that. Your own experiences with the Alliance prove it."

"You could stomp them flat!" Reynolds argued.

"And then what?" Captain Sinclair asked. "They'll just rebuild and come after us again. And for every technological advantage we possess, they have their own. Right now we have the advantage of ships actually built for a proper war. But those ships are quickly wearing out, and we have neither the industry nor the infrastructure to rebuild them…and we won't for a very long time. We certainly don't have the populace. And if we don't have the people for that, it's not like we could invade and garrison their worlds to prevent them from rebuilding. No, the only military way for us to win is to wipe the Alliance all the way out. To blast them back into the stone age. I'm not willing to do that. Are you, Captain Reynolds?"

Mal had no answer for that. The Operative, on the other hand, certainly did. "Be that as it may, Captain Reynolds is quite correct. Meeting with the Alliance is foolhardy. You may have no desire to 'blast them back to the stone age,' but I assure you, they do not share the same compunctions towards you. This meeting will most certainly be a trap. Most likely if things don't proceed exactly as they wish, they intend to use the convention on Persephone as a means to assassinate the lot of you. I should know. It's what I would do."

"I hardly find that reassuring, given your presence in this meeting," Roslin responded tartly. "What's your role in all of this? Why should we put faith in anything you have to say?"

"Quite frankly you shouldn't," he advised unabashedly. "I was the servant of your enemies. The only person who vouches for me is a rogue captain whose judgment is questionable at best. Sorry." He offered to Mal without a trace of actual apology. Mal simply grunted in acknowledgement. "As to why I'm here…the Captain thought I might be useful to you. And he told me that I might find that for which I had been seeking. The better society that the Alliance turned out not to be. And he was correct. I have been most impressed."

Sinclair nodded with a smile. "Both the Earth Alliance and the Colonies have worked for democracy and inclusion over the course of generations. There is much to be proud of, but we're certainly still a work in progress."

"I'm sorry, did you think I meant you?" he glanced over in amusement to make eye contact with Mal, double-taking when he realized that the Captain of course had no idea what he was talking about. So instead, the Operative simply returned his gaze back to Captain Sinclair. "I've had the chance to walk among and speak with your people. Both the Earth Alliance and the Colonials. You're all just…more of the same. Deception and disorder intermixed with foolishness and naivete. It was all rather…disappointing. But in the mix I did finally find a properly civil society. One whose values we might all aspire to emulate. It is for them that I am willing to help you."

They all mulled this over for a long moment before Mal, a light dawning behind his eyes, blurted out, "The Cylons?!"

"Quite. It's rare to see proper harmony, order, and self-abnegation in deference to the needs of the society. I found your Cylons to be…quite inspiring. And for them, I offer my services to you."

This statement engendered yet more silence, during which there was a light tapping at the hatch before Doctor Stephen Franklin slipped in, with Doctor Simon Tam in tow. Sheridan waved for him to quietly take a seat, as Adama finally responded, "We'll keep that in mind."

"Surely there's some middle ground the Alliance will accept, though?" Sinclair pressed, doing his best to sort through a tangle of thoughts and emotions. "We have a lot in common. While we won't…can't accept slavery, we believe…the Earth Alliance, the Colonials, and even the Cylons… in the type of strong central government the Alliance represents."

"A wise shepherd once said, 'A government is a body of people, usually notably ungoverned,'" Mal chimed in.

"Not now, Mal," Inara shushed him.

Sinclair wouldn't be put off his train of thought though. "We have an incredible wealth of things to offer, and we're only asking for sovereignty over a single abandoned world at the edge of the system. They haven't even been to Miranda in years."

The Operative swept his flat stare over Reynolds and Sinclair both. "As I said. Naivete."

"What I'd like to know," Sheriff Bourne finally spoke up, "is if you all are so bound and determined to cut a deal with the Alliance…what am I doin' here?"

Sheridan provided the reply. "Captain Reynolds was tasked with finding us connections that might provide support for this fleet. Ideally, connections to the greater 'Verse which might provide a backdoor connection to this civilization, and make it less likely the Alliance would feel the desire to eliminate us. Financial or industrial connections which might provide a strong foundation for us to build upon, and in the worst case scenario give us a fighting chance at standing up against the Alliance. We appreciate his efforts, but it was always a longshot, and one we were hesitant to pursue. As expected, the Captain's roots in the Browncoats provide connections more focused on that worst case fight than on bridging the divide with the Alliance or even simply supporting the needs of this fleet."

"Because that gap is too wide to bridge," Mal argued obstinately. "And you shouldn't want to. You lie down with hungry dogs, you get ate."

Jeff smiled. "I believe the expression is, 'He that lieth down with dogs shall rise up with fleas.'"

"I've been in your fleet. You already got fleas. And you get involved with the Alliance, that'll be the least o' your troubles."

Doctor Franklin jumped in upon that note. "Speaking of our troubles, I was asked to discuss one of them?" He looked inquiringly at Commodore Sheridan.

"I asked the Commander here to discuss his findings on the Reaver issue. Our guests offer some unique perspectives and might have some insights to share with us. For that matter…they deserve to know."

"If you're talking about the fact that the Alliance tried some sort of mind control on Miranda, and screwed up to produce the Reavers instead… We've all seen the video. I don't think we need to beat that dead horse," Bourne grumbled.

"That's part of what I was going to discuss…though as it turns out, that understanding is incorrect."

"Hold on now," Mal began to argue, "we brought that video off of Miranda our own selves. I know what we seen. That Alliance doctor said her ownself what happened." He swiveled his gaze to Simon. "You tell 'em, Doc."

Simon grimaced. "We aren't saying she was lying, Captain. She just…wasn't entirely correct."

Mal was gearing for an angry outburst, so Sheridan stood and held up a hand to forestall him. "Captain Reynold, I understand that this is a matter of…great importance to you. Why don't you fully hear what Doctors Franklin and Tam have to say before you try to contradict it?" When Reynold scowled but nodded his assent, Sheridan looked around to the others. "What you are about to hear is classified. Only the highest members of Colonial and Earth Force command staff have been made aware. But, as I said earlier, you have a right to know. And we would like your insights and input. This information…has the potential to change how we try to deal with the Alliance moving forward. And Stephen," he said, turning a severe look towards Franklin, "the people in this room, Dr. Tam notwithstanding, are neither you colleagues nor med school student. Dumb down the science several notches. That's an order."

Franklin cleared his throat uncomfortably, clearly mentally revising his intended remarks. "Yes, Sir." After a pause to collect himself, he began. "After coming into conflict with the Reavers, and given the information provided by Captain Reynolds and his crew, it became obvious that we would need to find a way to deal with the Reavers. Genocide was under consideration…"

"Elimination," Adama cut in sharply. "I wouldn't assign anything so human as a cultural identity to the Reavers." Whether Adama was objecting due to his own compunctions, or if he was concerned over the ramifications usage of such a word might have upon their guests was unclear. However, of the four people in the room hearing this information for the first time, only Inara seemed the least bit troubled at the thought of wiping out the Reavers.

"Alright," Stephen acknowledged. "However, before we took that step, it was decided to study the Reavers further…in the hopes they might be recoverable."

"Recoverable?" Sheriff Bourne questioned.

"Restorative of baseline morphology."

"Was that in English?"

"Cured," Roslin offered without emotion. "He wants to cure the Reavers."

Mal looked back and forth between Franklin and Roslin, adding a glance at Simon. "Huh. Well that's…ambitious."

"Quite," Stephen agreed. "It required the acquisition and study of a primary source."

This time Mal looked directly at Simon, who helpfully explained, "They captured a Reaver, brought it aboard, and ran a battery of tests on it. Well… we ran tests."

"You brought one of those killers on your ship? Nǐ fēngle ma? How many of your people did this madness cost you?"

"Several Marines and a civilian doctor," Adama said gruffly. "That's on my conscience, not yours. Now will you let the man get out what he has to say? You can make all the flippant comments you like afterwards."

Clearing his throat, Stephen began again. "In our studies it became apparent that the Reaver biology was simply too specific, and far too variant from baseline in too many ways, for it to be caused by unintended consequence or random mutation. Given the nature and process of speciate divergence, the only possibility is finely calculated orchestration. In fact…"

"Wait," this time it was Inara who broke in. "You're…you're saying the Alliance…intended for the Reavers to happen? That they planned this?"

"In point of fact, we believe that there was a mistake…a failure…in how the introduced mutagen reacted with the overall population. But it was the appearance of overriding lethargy and apathy which was the discrepancy, not the Reavers. It is our belief that the Alliance's intention was for the entire populace of Miranda to be transformed into Reavers."

Inara shook her head in denial. "No…even the Alliance would never go that far. It's not…the people, the government, they aren't evil. There's just some corruption at the top."

"Of course they would," the Operative cut in. "It's damned brilliant. A wave of millions of Reavers screaming outwards from Miranda would have driven the entire 'Verse into joining the Alliance. And they'd have been happy to do so. No need for any Unification War. I can't believe I didn't see it before. And no, the Alliance isn't evil. But it doesn't take much corruption, concentrated in the right places, to allow for monsters to flourish. Just look at me."

Franklin cleared his throat. "Yes, well, we've learned quite a bit more in the last week."

"Did you find your cure?" Bourne wanted to know.

"Not…exactly."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"Again," Adama nearly barked, "let the man finish. Save your questions for the end. He's likely to answer them."

"You asked about casualties," Stephen said, nodding to Mal. "Much of what we learned only came about when one of our researchers, Dr. Michael Robert, made a mistake and was killed and partially devoured by the Reaver we were studying. Despite the tragedy, the data we compiled from the incident was transformative of our understanding of the Reavers." He paused, turning to insert a data crystal into a receptacle at the base of the wall display. An image came up… a disturbing closeup of a Reaver's face, jaws wide, razor sharp teeth on full display as they appeared ready to tear into something…or rather someone. "As it turns out, the Reavers' life cycle seems to be a balance between their digestive and endocrine systems. Let's start with what happens when they eat…specifically, when they eat human flesh. As you are all well aware, the Reavers' diet is both Carnivorous and Hematophagous, with an almost total focus on humans as their prey animal. The Reavers' glands produce a modified version of the hormone Ghrelin in significant quantities. This signal is so strong that it overrides much of their mental function. They are forced to hunt and feed." He paused to tap a button.

The image shifted to the inside of a Reaver's wide open mouth. "Proximity to humans…a combination of olfactory, visual, and auditory cues…leads to increased salivation. This further increases dramatically when the gustatory component is introduced. In other words, after their first bite. At that time, the secretions of the salivary glands are altered….to what we believe is a modified version of the original infecting pathogen."

"You mean the G-23 Paxilon Hydrochlorate?" Inara asked.

"Perhaps that is what it was called, but this is no simple chemical compound." The display changed again, this time showing a closeup of what looked like a complex cluster of thousands of black dots in a twisting, folded knot. "What we are looking at is a highly specific, incredibly complex viral agent. Larger and far more complex than the naturally occurring Mimivirus. And it bears all the markers of being artificially developed rather than evolved via natural mutation and speciation. Fortunately, the version being produced in Reaver salivary glands is no longer airborne…though we did discover they can spit this compound significant distances...perhaps up to a dozen meters.

"The secretion serves two functions, and we think this is where the Alliance scientists made the mistake that led to the failure on Miranda. Firstly, it acts as a sedative and paralytic, so that bitten or spit upon individuals are reduced in their capacity to resist. Second, it attempts to infect the victim, and if successful, to produce chemical signals of that infection. Thus, a feeding Reaver will continue to eat those who resist the infection, or stop eating the successfully infected after just a bite or two…thus adding a new member to the Reavers' ranks."

"They're godsdamned zombies," Adama uttered in disgust.

"Not the worst analogy," Stephen conceded. "It should also be noted that Reavers are still fully capable of reproducing in the normal fashion…though we haven't seen any Reaver females to date…at least not that we've been able to tell. But back to the feeding. The taste of flesh doesn't just increase salivation. It also releases a flood of stress hormones, including modified versions of Adrenaline, Cortisol, and Testosterone. The Reavers are thrown into an orgy of rage and violence and hunger, where the only thing preventing them from attacking, killing, and eating…"

"Don't forget raping," Mal added helpfully.

"Yes...that as well. Where the only thing preventing these actions is if the potential victim is also a Reaver. In other words, there will be no mercy. The Reavers will eliminate all humans in the area when they go into such a frenzy. They gorge, ingesting surprising volumes, because it may be days or even weeks before their next meal. And their bodies have been modified to thrive in this regimen of feast or famine."

Simon stepped up, taking over the presentation. "But it's after the feeding has stopped that things get really interesting. After a few hours without the taste of flesh, we see a slow but steady ramp up of modified Oxytocin, Serotonin, Melatonin, and others. Chemicals which serve to increase clarity, focus, and mental acuity. It's like emerging from a dream. The Reavers will regain their ability for forethought, planning, and higher-order thinking. That's how they're able to maintain a functional society, formulate complex tactics, and maintain and even design and innovate spacecraft and other high-end tech. But, while those chemicals continually increase as time passes, so does the level of Ghrelin."

"So while they're getting smarter," Sinclair observed, "they're also getting hungrier."

"Which forces them to bend their restored intellect towards catching their next meal," Simon nodded in agreement.

"Monstrous," the Operative noted. "And most elegant."

"And you weren't able to find a cure?" Sheridan asked, cutting to the heart of the matter.

"No. Or, not exactly," Franklin replied.

"You said that before," Sheriff Bourne said in exasperation. "What does that mean?"

As all eyes swung back to Franklin, he cleared his throat again. "We see a path towards designing a cure…a counteracting virus, actually. But such an effort will be long and difficult. Years at a minimum. Possibly decades."

"Then we'll need to go ahead and wipe…," Sheridan began.

"Please, Sir." Franklin cut in quickly. "We've found you another possibility."

"We're all listening."

Simon stepped back up. "As the Reavers become more lucid, it should be possible to deal with them. To communicate and even come to an agreement. At least it would be, if they weren't trying to eat us. If the first bite didn't ensure they would continue eating until everything around was gone. We just…need to get them to stop eating us. Need to get them to stop wanting to eat us."

"You plannin' on tryin' to sell the Reavers on the joys of a vegan diet, Doc?" Mal quipped. "Can't says I think that will go particular well."

Simon looked to Franklin, who pulled a small vial out of his pocket and rolled it up the table towards those seated at the far end. Roslin reached out and picked it up; looking, as was everyone else, at the tiny creature inside. "What's this?" she asked.

"Looks like a tick." Mal observed. "You brought ticks all the way from Earth? Strange use for cargo space."

"No." Franklin replied. "Or, well yes, we did…their genetic material at least. But we didn't need to reconstitute the species for this task. There were plenty of these creatures roaming around the surface of Miranda. Mr. Universe's planet as well."

"Ticks are pretty common, as pests go, across most of the Verse," Bourne advised. "They were particularly miserable during the war. I had to assign extra duty to any man found infested with one, just to ensure they were checking themselves properly. What the hell do you want with a tick?"

"It's not the tick itself that we need," Franklin advised. "Or rather, not just the tick. It's what the tick is carrying. And that we did bring from Earth. Stored with all of our historical medical data." He hit a button and an image of another microscopic creature…a bacterium this time…appeared. "This is an Erlichia bacterium. Ehrlichia is a genus of Rickettsiales bacteria that are transmitted to vertebrates by ticks. These bacteria cause the disease Ehrlichiosis, which is considered zoonotic…"

"Doctor," Sheridan drawled warningly.

"Sorry, Sir. Ehrlichiosis isn't the disease we want to focus on. Rather, it's a related effect, discovered in the late twentieth and early twenty-first centuries. Initially termed Alpha-gal Syndrome or Mammalian Meat Allergy, it caused affected humans to become mildly to severely allergic to red meat and other mammalian meat containing the carbohydrate galactose-alpha-1,3-galactose. This left them still able to consume poultry, fish, and reptilian meats. This version of the infection won't actually help us for the same reason that humans were so susceptible to it…because we don't naturally possess this carbohydrate. However, attempts to immunize against and eradicate the bacterium in the latter half of the twenty-first century led to a substantial mutation that took nearly a century to get under control."

"General Meat Allergy," Sinclair supplied, nodding. "I had a great grandfather who suffered from it. It caused extreme aversion to ingestion of any and all animal based foods."

"And immediate violent medical reaction upon the consumption of such foods," Franklin nodded. "Symptoms included severe stomach pain, extreme nausea, projectile vomiting, major drops in blood pressure, dizziness or faintness and difficulty breathing caused by swelling of the lips, tongue, and throat."

"Very nice," Reynolds noted. "Sounds like it will do the trick. Starve those bastards to death."

"What's the point," Inara asked, "of a cruel and torturous death sentence? Wouldn't it just be easier and more merciful to wipe them out the way you were originally planning?"

"Do unto them as they done to others. Ain't the golden rule, but it'll do well enough. Silver maybe?"

"Actually, Captain Reynolds," Stephen interjected, "it was my hope that this might save them. Some of them at least."

"A cure?" Adama asked.

"No. Not really. It won't actually change them." He sighed. "To be honest, we don't really know what it will do. We haven't tested the idea. Not without permission to go ahead with live trials. It's possible that the desire for human meat will lead the Reavers to simply eat themselves to death. Or they might all simply starve. But they retain the ability to digest vegetable matter. It's certainly possible that they could survive without eating another human or animal. And if they do…their mental acumen should increase while their desire for human flesh is masked by revulsion and nausea. If…and this is a major if…if this works as intended, the Reavers just might get to the point where we can successfully and peacefully communicate, interact, even work with them. Though there's every liklihood they would retain a predilection for rage and violence. Perhaps even full-blown sociopathy. But they'd be alive."

"That's a hell of a lot of ifs, Doc," Adama noted sourly.

"Which is why we didn't move ahead without first presenting this information to you."

"How would you even infect all of the Reavers?" Roslin wanted to know.

"With that tick." Simon replied. "Or rather, with tens of thousands of them. The live Reaver and all of their corpses we have recovered to date have had more than their fair share of parasites. They'll never notice until it's too late."

"There's no cure for GMA, just a vaccine," Sinclair noted, appearing quite disturbed. "Isn't it reckless to release thousands of infected parasites into the wild? I doubt the average citizen of the 'Verse particularly wants to give up eating meat."

"Yes, Sir. But every member of the Earth Alliance fleet should have received that vaccination as children. We can review the records to ensure none were missed. We can also inoculate the Colonials and the Cylons within the next several weeks. It's also our plan to attempt to introduce the parasites to the Reaver vessels directly via stealth insertion. We have no intention of a general release into the wild."

"However," Simon noted, "should the syndrome begin widespread proliferation throughout the 'Verse…your vaccine gives you additional leverage against the Alliance." Stephen looked disturbed at the thought…for that matter, so did Simon…but nodded in agreement."

Finally, Sheridan glanced at Adama, but then looked directly at Roslin. "Madam President? What do you think?"

She shrugged. "He's your mad scientist. I don't know what to think. I won't stand in the way though."

John turned to their guests native to the 'Verse. "And you? Part of why you're here is to offer the perspectives of those who have lived here all their lives."

Reynolds spoke up immediately. "Better to just kill 'em. But in the end, I'll get behind anything that has that as a possibility. Still, if the Reavers somehow come out the other side of this science experiment…don't trust 'em. They'll still be Reavers, even if they seem like people."

Sheriff Bourne wasn't so sanguine. "Better to just kill 'em, full stop. Too much risk for a reward I wouldn't want in a million years."

Inara, on the other hand, looked both thoughtful and troubled. "If…if there's any chance the Reavers can be saved…don't we have a responsibility to try? Isn't that the right thing to do?"

The Operative looked silently around at them all for a moment, then leaned forward intently. "Ms. Serra is a very good woman. But I…I am a very bad man. If there is any chance the Reavers can be used to further your cause, you have a responsibility to try that. Whether that is a vaccine that only you possess, or smarter Reavers which can become a distraction for the Alliance, you must take what advantage you can. You must survive." He shrugged and leaned back again. "So that Cylon society can survive."

It was another long moment of silence before Sheridan turned to Franklin. "Doctor, you are approved to proceed with initial trials. Let's see what happens when you infect your live Reaver. We'll hold any further decisions until after that. But, if you'll excuse us now, we need to get back to our prior conversation."

With a round of quiet thank-yous, Steven and Simon took their data crystal and left. Eyes then turned back towards Sheridan, but it was Adama who spoke up next. "Sheriff…General, you asked us what you were doing here. Given what we have just heard about the depths to which the Alliance will sink…I think we need to at least be prepared for a long-term fight with the Alliance. So if that's all your contacts and information can get us, I'm willing to take it. Just so long as you understand our intent is still to avoid that fight if possible."

Thoughtfully, Bourne scratched himself with a complete lack of self-consciousness. "Well…to be honest with ya, I may not have been the best choice. Sure, I was part of the general staff. But about as low down as you could get and still be recognized. The men respected me, but I didn't have much to do with strategy or politics. And both me and my superiors liked it that way. Most of my direct contacts are either dead or turncoats. Those that survived the war generally found themselves disappeared."

"So this was a waste of time then?" Sheridan grimaced in some irritation. "How about you?" he asked, switching his gaze to the Operative.

"Consorting with traitors wasn't exactly my area of expertise. I'm the one who disappeared them. Those that remain are obviously the ones I am unable to pinpoint."

"Hold on, now," Mal objected, turning back to Bourne. "There's gotta be somebody. You don't get to be brass without knowing people. And you don't stay alive without keepin' your ear to the ground."

Henry hesitated for a long moment before shrugging in decision. "Well…let's say I have an idea for someone who might be able to help, rather than an actual contact."

Sheridan grimaced again, but simply said, "We're listening."

"How about Marshal Roberts?"

"Another lawman?" Adama asked skeptically.

"No," Bourne replied shaking his head. "Not that kind of Marshal. Field Marshal Leanne Emilia Roberts of the Grand Army of Independence. A legend. She was the senior most military commander of the entire Independent Faction, answerable only to Independent High Command."

"A traitor," Mal snapped angrily. "She joined the Purple Bellies and was key to the subjugation of each and every one of the Independent worlds."

"A man shouldn't believe everything he hears just 'cause he's upset," Bourne said, seemingly to no one in particular. "Especially when he ain't got all the facts."

"Enlighten me then."

"That old bear of a woman was the only reason the rebellion lasted as long as it did. And the Alliance took notice. Roberts's army went down just before yours did. Only, the Alliance concentrated the bulk of their assets on her. That's how come Serenity Valley lasted so long, and made for such a…stirrin' tale. She was in an impossible spot, surrounded on all sides, gettin' hammered from space besides…but she still tried to fight her way out. To outsmart those bastards. Almost worked to, but while her army was stretched thin the Alliance dropped a team of…Operatives," he added a note of disgust to the word, glancing over at the man who bore the term, "...right on top of her command team. Wiped them all out, but made sure to take her alive. After that the High Command couldn't show their bellies to the Parliament Ministers fast enough. Left the armies still in the field…such as your own…swingin' in the wind. And they gave up Robert's family as hostages, to save their own skins. Under those circumstances….the Separatist movement dead, her kin under house arrest…she done what she had to."

"And betrayed us all in the process," Mal argued mulishly. "Every time there's a hint o' defiance from any world, that woman shows up to tell everyone how foolish they're bein' and ferret out the ring leaders until the whole thing collapses."

"Yup," Bourne nodded, "that's what most people have heard. And it ain't exactly wrong. But it ain't exactly right, neither. Every one o'them collapsed insurrections had exactly zero chance of success. Too small. Too local. The Independent Faction only worked as well as it done because it was all of the worlds. All at once. Together. But you were right. I do keep my ear to the ground. And it's a funny thing. More'n half the time when they trot Roberts out to stomp out some little brushfire…for some reason they just aren't quite able to round up the perpetrators and ring leaders." He grinned at Mal and drawled, "Quite the mystery."

"I hear tell she's livin' like a queen," Mal continued.

It was Inara who responded to that. "Even a gilded cage is still just a cage, Mal."

"If the Marshall was causing trouble, she'd just…have an accident," the Operative interjected firmly.

"Well, that don't quite work. Roberts was a hero. More'n any other. Even alive, even with all the rumors goin' round, she's still more'n halfway to a martyr as she is. That's gotta be half the reason the Alliance uses her the way they do, and make certain folks know she's livin' the good life. Tryin' to kill the legend. But that woman…she's smart as the devil and twice as nasty. And if anyone could find y'all contacts, resources, or influence…it'd be her. 'Course…the Alliance ain't like to let her go."

Adama nodded thoughtfully. "A rescue then. I'd rather not have our people squaring off against Alliance security forces. We're bound to be outnumbered. If she's that important, she'll be heavily guarded."

"It'd have to be smart and fast," Sheridan agreed. "A clandestine operation."

"Hold on now! We don't even know where she's being kept," Mal argued. "And that's assuming you believe the Sheriff's intuition about a woman he admits he's never met."

"Of course we know where she is," the Operative noted with complete confidence. "The Alliance is trying to portray her as a neo-aristocrat, living in remote luxury without care for or contact with the common folk. There's only one place that fits that bill."

Mal cursed. "Bellerophon."

"That's deep in Alliance territory," Roslin noted. "And the Admiral is right. If we turn this into a running battle, they'll just kill her. We need someone to sneak a team in and take her before the Alliance knows what's happening. We need criminals." She smirked. "Can you do it, Captain Reynolds?"

"Now that's a hell of heap o' trouble you're askin' me to drop my ship and crew into…" Mal began to object.

"Mal," Inara cut in, a strange look on her face, "since when do you turn down paying work? Especially when it's more honest than not?"

"Funny way to describe this business," he responded, but his heart was no longer in it. With as much graciousness as he could pull together, he simply surrendered. "I'll need my crew back though. Those that came with this last time were nice, but they ain't family. I need people I know around me."

"Reasonable," Adama agreed. "And if I recall correctly, your Doctor Tam has been wanting to get access to secure Alliance medical records. I assume that's possible on Bellerophon?"

"Likely," the Operative agreed.

"We won't be sending you out on your own though Captain," Bill continued. "We'll assemble a support team. Your hold is large enough that we could probably slip a couple of Vipers in there, to keep you alive if everything goes to hell. It'll still be long odds, so I'll make sure the pilots are tip of the spear. For that matter, we could swap out one of your shuttles with a Raptor, in case you have no choice but to abandon ship."

"I ain't leavin' my ship!" Mal blurted hotly.

"We're just covering all the possibilities, Captain," Sinclair assured smoothly. "Hopefully the negotiations on Persephone will be a good distraction, keeping this action unnoticed. And we're trying to increase the odds of survival as well as success. So we'll make sure the people we attach to you are some of our best. For that matter, a trained telepath or two wouldn't be a bad idea. Nor would some Cylon support."

"We can work out the details later," Sheridan cut in. "For now…are we all agreed on this course of action?"

There was only a single objection, and ironically, it came from Sheriff Bourne. "Ya know…the Alliance still has her family as hostages. She may not want to go."

Mal sighed. "We can jump off that bridge when we come to it."

---

Serenity, enroute to Bellerophon, The Verse - February, 2250

Sitting at the head of the table, Mal broke bread and passed it around as he studied their 'guests.' He was cosmopolitan enough not to be surprised that not just one, but both of the fighter pilots provided were women. The fact that one of them was a Cylon barely even registered. He'd be damned if he called them anything as silly as Starbuck or Boomer though. His eyes roamed over to the spook, eating his stew silently, just the trace of a smile about his lips. Their assigned telepath, he looked like a short, unimposing pencil pusher to the untrained eye. But Mal's hackles rose every time he was near the man. There was no room for doubt that he was every bit as dangerous as the Operative. Perhaps more so. Mal didn't know what to think of Mr. Bester's shadow. The woman had nearly a foot on him in those blocky heels, and yet she clearly deferred to him in all things. And apparently she was a Cylon as well, though Boomer…no, Ms. Valerii, he corrected himself subconsciously…didn't seem at all pleased to see her. Mal didn't like tension added to his ship. Especially when on a mission that was more than just a little likely to end with all their necks swinging from an Alliance jib.

His eyes swung over to River. That girl brought no end of tension. Even now. Here she was, bringin' more. Mal had heard she'd been approached by the Earthers…or maybe the Colonials…about some sort of mental training. So he'd assumed that Mr….Commander… Bester would be performing that training aboard the Serenity. But there River sat with Valerii and Thrace on either side of her like protective mother hens. And they both glared daggers at the spook, a man who significantly outranked them both. Did that mean they were telepaths as well? The spook was clearly feigning disinterest, which only seemed to add to their ire. What kind of powder keg had he been saddled with now? To think that he'd miss the likes of Garibaldi.

Bester looked up at him in exaggerated surprise. "Really Captain? Missing Michael Garibaldi? I can't think of a more likely sign for incipient senility or dementia. You might want to get that checked."

Mal drew back in shock. "Gǎo shénme guǐ? You stay the hell out of my head! It's already got someone in residence."

"And yet plenty of room, despite that fact," Bester responded with a mocking smile. "But you are correct, Captain. I would be happy to provide training to Miss Tam, though these three seem to object for some reason. I can't imagine why. The girl clearly needs help, and I have the training to provide it."

"You just keep your frakkin' head in your own head," Starbuck snarled. "If half of what she's said is true, River's been through enough trauma. She doesn't need you piling more on with your PsiCorp baggage."

"Sometimes you need to cauterize a wound to stop the bleeding," he replied affably, as though discussing something of little consequence. "Her mind is raw. A radio being overwhelmed by too many signals. I can teach her to control that, lock it away. Offer a guiding hand…"

"One should remember what happened the last time you laid that guiding hand on me," River commented, staring into her plate of food. Both Starbuck and Boomer erupted with malicious snorts and chuckles.

"Well, even if you don't want my training, there are simple steps you could take to dampen the inputs. Like wearing gloves. And shoes," he added, shifting his eyes pointedly downward. "Certainly it would be more hygienic at the dinner table." He tried another tack. "I can provide as little or as much assistance as you need. There's no need to push me away. It's madness."

"Talk, talk, talk," Jayne cut in, dropping his spoon into his dish. "All this jawin' is ruinin' a positively adequate meal. I don't have any idea what ya all are on about, but if'n we're gonna talk madness, how 'bout we talk about the fact that to protect all of us from gettin' shot outta space, they provided us with a couple a girls. Now don't get me wrong," he added, holding up his hands to forestall the glares now coming at him from every direction. "I'm perfectly happy to take on as many ladies as they want to send up. Fill the ship with pigtails and petticoats all you want. But if we're worried about bein' shout outta the sky by the Alliance….well, I wouldn't mind having at least a couple of real soldiers around."

"Excuse me?" Zoë asked in a dangerously calm voice. "You want to rethink that statement?"

"Aww, come on," Jayne objected. "You know what I mean! You're as good with a long gun as anyone I ever seen…'cept me o'course! But these girls are supposed t' be flyin' fighter jets. That's a man's job!"

"Jayne," Mal cut in with disgust, "your mouth is talkin' again. That really never ends well."

"No, it's alright Captain. This is fascinating," Starbuck said in a deceptively friendly tone which never touched her murderous eyes. She turned her gaze directly on Jayne. "Tell me, big man, are you all talk, or are you prepared to show us girlie girls what a real man can do?"

"Uhhh….what do you mean?"

"You've got a nice big cargo bay that's mostly empty right now. Seems like the perfect place to set up a little impromptu boxing ring."

"Starbuck," Boomer said warningly.

"No worries. Just a friendly little sports match. What do you say big man? Care to go a few rounds with this little girl?"

"You?" Jayne snorted in laughter. "You wanna…box…me?"

"As long as the Captain doesn't object," Starbuck confirmed, turning a questioning gaze to Mal.

As he could see exactly where things were headed, Mal simply shrugged. "No objections. We've got gloves, but no ring. We could tape out a ring on the floor though."

Jayne was chuckling. "Just so's we're clear, I got no problems hittin' a woman. You sure you wanna go through with this? I won't respect you any less if you back down. Don't see how that'd be possible."

Kara Thrace gave a deceptively sweet smile. "Why would I want to do that. It's just a game, right? So maybe we should make it more interesting." She stood up from the table and headed for the door. "What have you got to bet?"

---

It wasn't long before anyone who had interest as well as time…basically most of the crew, had made their way to the primary cargo hold. While Captain Reynolds was marking out the ring on the floor between the pair of Vipers which had been squeezed into the hold, Starbuck was taping her hands. Jayne, on the other hand, was strutting around. He'd removed his shirt, and was showing off for passengers and crew. Next to the notional ring lay their wager. Starbuck had been busy twitting Jayne's ego the entire way from the mess hall while continually upping the wager. As a consequence, her pile consisted of her sidearm and a half full bottle of ambrosia she'd managed to sneak aboard. Jayne, on the other hand, had been goaded into putting up a pair of heavy machine pistols, his entire collection of liquor, and Vera, the assault rifle which was his pride and joy.

"Are you really going to watch this barbaric exhibition?" D'Anna asked Alfred in the shadowy corner of the cargo bay where they both stood.

Al looked over at her speculatively. He found he was oddly glad for her presence. He'd expected, after he'd stripped her of the ability to disobey and Sheridan had granted her asylum, that she'd hate him and stay as far away as possible. Instead, she'd become his near constant companion. Almost as close as his shadow.

He wasn't entirely certain how it'd happened, either. Sheridan had ordered that he find her accommodations within the fleet and ensure that she was settled in and taken care of. However, practically the very next day she had begun following him around. When he'd asked what she wanted, she'd insisted that she needed something to do, and that since he'd done this to her, he was stuck with her. She stated flatly that she was to be his new assistant.

He'd let her follow him around, on the assumption that she'd soon become bored and just stop. Or that she'd give up on whatever it was she was trying to prove. (Her Cylon intentions were sometimes hard to read telepathically. Not that they were blocked, far from it. There was just so much activity going on in that brain…spilling out of it really…that filtering through it to find what he wanted was difficult with just passive reception. And an active scan, aside from being something she might notice and report, ran afoul of the orders given by Sheridan. Which were just as inviolable for him as for her.

It was only a day or so later that her resolve had been put to its first test. He'd been scheduled for a secure meeting. No one without a security clearance. The Marines on guard had informed her all too bluntly that her attendance was prohibited. He'd emerged from the four hour meeting to discover her paging through a truly massive stack of books. Apparently in the interim she'd spoken with Sheridan, and been enrolled in the Academy as a remote learner, assigned and attached to one Commander Alfred Bester. Aside from auditing certain lectures, daily PT, and requisite testing, it was entirely self paced.

So she'd become his assistant in point of fact, still restricted from secure information, but his to utilize during all other times. And when she had downtime, or was forced out of a meeting due to restricted content, she spent every available moment studying those books. As a consequence, after only a few months, she was very nearly done with her first year courses. Of course, that wasn't what was considered a 'full load' for most first year cadets. Rather, she was digesting every course offered to first years. While acing all of the testing. And destroying the PT of course.

He'd determined over time that she really didn't like humans. But that she considered him, all telepaths really, to be something more than human. He couldn't argue. He agreed. He also found that he didn't mind having a pet Cylon around. Her brute strength wasn't really needed, of course. But her physicality and mystique only added weight to his own reputation, which was quite useful. And her razor sharp digital brain was proving quite useful as well. So he gave her question careful consideration, rather than just shrugging it off with a quip. "She's quite a conundrum, our Ms. Thrace. She wasn't a teep when I first met her. And yet now, somehow, she is. And quite possibly nearly as strong as I am."

Having checked their gloves and then stepped into the 'ring' with the two adversaries, Mal now said, "Ding ding," and got out of the way.
Jayne sauntered towards Starbuck, arms spread wide. "Take your best shot, sweethea…." Starbuck threw a right cross that spun him about and planted him flat on his face.

"How is that possible?" D'Anna asked.

"The man's a rube," he explained. "Captain Thrace was playing to his ego and misconceptions. It's an old trick." He chuckled at the flat stare she gave him, and amended, "I don't really know, though I intend to find out. Ms. Valerii there is the same way. As are, I believe, a number of others. But it started before we even made contact with the Colonials. It started with Tessa Halloran, and a few other ladies…teeps…who were suddenly stronger than they had any right to be."

In the ring, Jayne was pushing himself off of the floor, stopping the count just as Mal reached seven. Straightening, he shook his head to clear it, and headed back towards Starbuck. "Not a bad punch for a gir…" Darting forward she placed an uppercut into his solar plexus, cutting off his words with a whoosh of expelled breath. Without so much as a pause she followed up with a left hook that spun his head to the side….right into the overhand right she sent thundering into his nose. Blood shot out, spattering to the ground…only a moment before he did. Face down, once again.

"How many of these enhanced telepaths are there?" D'Anna asked.

"I don't know, and Sheridan refused to say anything about them. Less than a dozen, I think, but I'm not even sure of that much." His frustration was evident.

This time, Jayne popped up before the count reached five, though he was clearly dizzy. He stumbled about a bit, shaking his head, trying to clear his vision. He lost his balance, stumbling awkwardly to the side. Then did so again.

Starbuck approached. "Who's the girl now, you chauvinist piece…"

Jaynes fist came up, catching her under the jaw hard enough to lift her entirely off the floor and toss her backwards a few feet. Mall started counting again. Starbuck almost didn't make it up before ten.

Neither antagonist was underestimating the other anymore. Neither were either of them particularly good at anything so passe as following the rules. The battle which ensued bore greater resemblance to homicidal mania than it did any form of pugilism. Mal stopped trying to enforce most of the rules and just focused on anything that looked particularly lethal. Eventually, he gave up on even that, walking out of the ring in disgust.

As one round bled into another, and then the concept of rounds was dropped altogether, most everyone else became bored or similarly fed up and left. Eventually Bester and D'Anna were the only other two still in the room. They watched as Starbuck and Jayne stumbled to a halt, both panting and leaning against whatever was convenient. This wasn't so much an official rest period between rounds as it was an involuntary pause due to mutual exhaustion.

Starbuck lurch up first, but Jayne, not to be outdone, was only a moment behind. Soon enough they were hammering away at each other again. "Is this ever going to end?" D'Anna asked.

"Not anytime soon. Based on their emotional state, their bodies are going to have to quit. Their minds refuse to." He turned to leave, and she moved to follow. "They're going to be going at it for quite a while."

---

Mal walked up the corridor to the mess hall. It was his turn to prepare the evening meal. Oddly, Zoë, Wash, Inara, and Sharon were all standing around by the closed doors to the dining area. "What's going on?" he asked, just as the sound of dishes clattering to the floor penetrated the door. This was followed by a meaty slap and a deep grunt from Jayne. "Are those two going at it again?"

Starbuck and Jayne had been locked in combat nearly all day. After having pummeled each other to bloody exhaustion, they'd jointly crawled over to the pile of alcohol and dove in. Which led to a lot of inebriated arguing and shouting. Which led them right back into fighting. This bore no resemblance whatsoever to boxing…they'd already taken the gloves off to get at the liquor. It was closer to wrestling…or perhaps mixed martial arts, though there was absolutely nothing artistic about it. It was far more…clumsy and intoxicated. But vigorous nonetheless.

Lack of judgment and awareness had caused their contest to spill out of the primary hold and into the secondary. Then into hallways and other rooms. At one point it had even made it up onto the catwalk. The crew gave them space, but kept out a careful eye to ensure no one actually got killed. And each time they were forced to break for exhaustion, they made their way back to the booze, which started it all up again.

"Yes, Mal," Wash confirmed, an odd look on his face, "they are definitely going at it."

"I'm putting a stop to this right now," Mal snapped in a fit of pique. He threw open the doors and walked in. "Hey you twhooaaa!" He spun around at the sight before him, placing his back to the room's occupants.

"Hey, Captain," came Starbuck's throaty purr. "Could we maybe get some privacy?"

Mal tried to get his brain moving again, while simultaneously trying to stamp the recent vision out of his memory. "Ummm…this…this is a communal area. And it's almost supper time. So…I need you to…" An interesting noise behind him caused Mal to instinctively glance over his shoulder. Which caused him to really process what he had seen before. "Hey! We eat on that table!" He threw up his hand to his shoulder, as if to block the vision, but a moment later couldn't help but peep through slightly spread fingers.

"People gotta eat," Jayne noted, sounding more than a little winded.

"Then we better hurry up and finish," Starbuck offered reasonably.

"Mal," Jayne said in his best asking-for-a-favor voice, "could we maybe get five minutes?"

"Five minutes?" Kara repeated in a mocking voice.

"Fifteen minutes," Jayne amended.

Closing his eyes with a sigh to collect himself, Mal peeped through his fingers one last time, before stepping forward and closing the doors behind him. In the corridor beyond, he found four people trying desperately to hold back their laughter. "Nǐmen dōu bìzuǐ!" he snapped, and beat a hasty retreat up the corridor.

---

Colonial One, Persephone, orbiting Lux, orbiting White Sun, The Verse - February, 2250

The President's office aboard Colonial One was all but empty for a change. The sole occupant, seated at the mostly comfortable, though not particularly luxurious, Executive Desk leaned back in the presidential chair, listening to the staticky radio. The communications feed from the bridge was being pumped directly to these speakers.

"Colonial One, this is Persephone Traffic Control. You are cleared for approach."

The reply from the Captain was almost immediate. "Roger, Persephone Control. We are on approach. Remind that Tohoku in orbit that we're friendly, will you?"

"No worries, Colonial One. Your official welcome is waiting on the tarmac. Persephone Traffic Control, out."

"That's our cue, Colonial One," came a new voice, that of the young Lieutenant Costanza, leading their escort wing of Starfuries. "This is as far as we take you. These pigs don't do well in atmo, and we aren't getting them that close to Alliance guns. You're on your own. Another wing will be back in twenty-four hours for the return escort. Good luck."

"Roger that, Hot Dog. Safe flying. Colonial One, over and out."

It wasn't long before the tone of the engines changed, and gravity could be felt shifting slightly as Persephone's natural (well, not entirely natural) field made itself known. The view directly out the windows began to contain a blue tinge as they made their first entry into the atmosphere. Gradually that atmosphere began to thicken. The sweeping broad vista out those windows was breathtaking. By now, the ridiculous 'office buildings' of the Tohoku class cruiser could be seen above them in its low orbit. But it was the view below which was truly spectacular.

Verdant greens and blues. Life. Riotous life. That alone would have been awe inspiring during their long sojourn between the stars, when such sights were all but nonexistent. Their arrival within the 'Verse had dulled that ache to an extent, but this world was something else. It was simply far more alive than either Miranda or Universe's Planet. The sky, the light, the land…everything was just a bit closer to the proper shade to make a human feel…at home.

And then Persephone City came into view. Spires of glass and steel. Skies filled with traffic…honest to God civilian air and space traffic. Not a fleet of fleeing refugees. Not a military armada. Just…people. People going about their lives. With their mundane problems and concerns. No one was really without a care in the world. But these people didn't have a care of the world. Of the world ending. Their civilization wasn't crumbling around them. The very concept of that possibility hadn't even touched this place. You could just feel it in the lack of….overhanging doom.

Soon enough they touched down at the starport, at a secured, military pad. Surrounded by the delegation sent to meet them. It was quite the site. The Alliance was trying to impress…likely even to intimidate them. Good luck with that.

He met his fellow diplomats at the hatch to the outside. They waited for it to open, and then descended the staircase, surrounded by their security retinue. A military band on the tarmac started up with the combined brazen and skirling tones of the Alliance national anthem. There would be no Colonial or Earth Force anthem to follow. The locals had no idea what those even sounded like. Not that they would offer such a sign of respect anyway. What the anthem did do was cause the brigade of soldiers, arrayed in formation wearing their full martial kit, to snap to attention. All five thousand of them. The snap and rumble of the synchronized movement was impressive. More impressive were the rings of tanks and artillery and attack craft surrounding the field.

Clearly the Alliance was trying to impress. It would do them little good. He'd seen their fleet shattered. Their largest vessel captured. He'd seen cargo holds full of the Earth Force Thor Main Battle Tanks, which looked far more impressive than anything on this field. He'd seen Marines and GroPos in their thousands as well. For that matter, the 'civilian' bodyguard and every member of the Colonial One flight crew save the Captain were actually disguised GroPos. A high intensity combat unit he had no doubt would, one for one, tear through the Alliance soldiers like a hot knife through butter. They'd better. If everything went to shit, they were his only chance of escaping alive.

He took another look at the soldiers they'd be facing if it came to that. The body armor the Alliance wore was nice enough, but then he'd stood in front of charging Centurions. The laser weapons they carried were another concern, but then they'd never faced PPG weaponry either. If the Alliance thought they could cow him into submission with a pretty military display, they'd better think again.

A delegation of men and women in fashionable suits stepped forward to greet them. He was surprised to see the two men with blue gloves hanging around just behind them. The leader, bright white hair and trim beard striking against his nut-brown skin, shook his hand in a firm grip. "Mr. Zarek. It's a pleasure to meet you."

"That's Vice President Zarek." He nodded to the man on his right, resplendent in dress uniform. "This is Captain Matthew Gideon." Indicating the man on his right dressed in a casual red suit, he continued, "And this is Councilor Aaron Doral. And you are?"

"Speaker Zhang of the House. The names of those behind me are unimportant. Generals, Admirals, and Ministers. They can introduce themselves later."

"Excuse me!" came a pretentious voice from behind him. It originated from the most brightly dressed of the lot, though it was in a style completely different from the rest. The man was the only one, civilian or military, wearing a sword at his side. "I am not unimportant. With all due respect, Speaker Zhang, this is my starport and my world."

Zhang didn't even bother to turn around. He barely raised his voice in mild disapproval. "Nobleman Wing, you are here as a courtesy, and because we grew tired of your incessant demands. This is a military facility under legal grant to the Alliance. Whether it reverts to your ownership in fifty years or not is entirely irrelevant. Now, if you speak again, I will have your property seized, your titles revoked, and your self thrown into the darkest pit which the prison system can locate. Wing turned an interesting shade of red, though he certainly shut up.

Zhang now smiled, returning his attention to Zarek and swung a hand to the side, indicating a red carpet leading towards a nearby hangar with open doors. "Now, if you will all please step this way, we have refreshments, as well as a table set up for our discussion." The group of them walked together, surrounded by their personal guards and then the various VIPs, and finally by a general ring of security. "I'm not certain why you would refuse to leave the port. There are far more luxurious facilities available within the city proper."

"Under the circumstances, we considered it inadvisable to wander farther than eyeshot from the ship," Captain Gideon replied.

"If we wished you harm, there is nothing your ship could do," Zhang noted ominously. Zarek's security tensed at the comment.

"They could report it. Immediately. Which is all that is required."

"But of course, we do not wish you harm," Zhang replied, a patently false smile affixed to his face.

The hangar was clearly for spacecraft maintenance, but had been thoroughly cleaned for all of that. The tools were removed and the inside blasted and painted. There wasn't a spot of rust or a cracked window in sight. In the center of the building, still within sight of Colonial One through the broad open hangar doors, sat a table with places set for gourmet fine dining. Nearby carts, surrounded by wait staff, were laden with highly aromatic and visually stimulating foods. Zarek had been expecting to be seated across a table divided for negotiations. Instead, he found himself seated directly across from Zhang, midway up the table. Gideon and Doral were to either side of him, but the Alliance VIPs wrapped around either side of the table, literally surrounding them.

"Speaker Zhang," he began, as the drinks were poured, "on behalf of the Colonies…"

"We are about to eat, Sir. Surely you people are not so gauche that you cannot wait to discuss business and politics in its proper time."

Zarek grimaced, but immediately slapped a fake smile over his face. "Of course."

"I'm always up for a good meal," Gideon noted, drawing Zhang's disapproving look. Tom couldn't quite figure out what Zhang disapproved of most…his unseemly youth, or the fact that he had spoken at all in the presence of his betters. He used the opportunity of accepting a plate of food from one of the servers to hide his very real smile. He wondered how Zhang would react if he pointed out that, as the representative of the Earth Alliance, Gideon in fact held far more power and influence than he and the Cylon combined. He wasn't particularly fond of that fact himself. Nor the fact that he'd had to ask for Gideon's permission to take point in these negotiations, due to his greater political experience. And the fact that he was the only one of the three who actually looked like a diplomat, rather than a teenaged truant playing dress-up or a mildly successful insurance salesman. He was just glad the young Captain had immediately seen reason.

The meal was a culinary masterpiece. Not to mention filled with the kinds of high society cultural etiquette and savoir-vivre that he found particularly objectionable. No doubt the three of them came off as provincial rubes. And no doubt, that was the point. The entire exercise was theater, and Zarek took it all in with a practiced eye.

The conversation swirled around them, the VIPs talking to each other. He didn't know the dropped names, but he got the jist. Discussions of art, ballet, opera, symphonies. Discussions of corporate and planetary politics. Industrial projects. Scientific endeavors. Even population growth. It was all lighthearted. It was all entirely spontaneous. It was all a sham.

Occasionally one would turn to him, or Gideon, or Doral, and ask about their opinion on some highbrow sports rivalry. He thought it might have been polo. Or inquire about some finer legal or bureaucratic point, which of course they had no foundation from which to answer. The fop who spoke out of turn earlier….Atherton Wing, a duke or baron or some such…asked Gideon if his service practiced any form of fencing or other martial tête-à-tête. The poor boy actually tried to regale the man with tales of his exploits on the academy wrestling team. Wing looked positively horrified.

The message these Alliance bigwigs were trying to convey was perfectly clear, at least to him. We are the center of civilization. Not you. We possess every advantage in population, industry, technology, wealth. Not you. We are bound by leisure and luxury and self-imposed policy, all of which, at need, could be shelved. The time and energy diverted to remorseless and implacable endeavor. Not you.

It was meant to be intimidating. Zarek almost laughed. They had no idea who they were dealing with. He'd championed the underdog in the face of the full might and weight of recalcitrant culture and government before. And he'd been unafraid to do whatever it took, up to and including terrorism, to advance the cause. This was no different.

Eventually they got around to digestifs. It was then that Zhang said, "Your exploits on the battlefield are indeed impressive. I would love to know how you developed and constructed such technologies. But we are aware of you now. You cannot hope to succeed in some pointless echo of the Unification War. Your resources and supporting population are simply far too limited. That much we have determined. So what is it that you're hoping for?"

"Peace? To be left alone? I came with an entire list of offers and requests for our negotiation, but you're not really interested in any of them, are you?"

"No, not really."

"Then why are we here?" Doral asked, stunned.

"Because I wanted to meet the leaders of this forlorn crusade. Which you three clearly are not. To take the measure of their wants and desires. To head off the hassle and expense of another pointless war. The border worlds are still recovering from the last one. Do you really want to subject those worlds to the misery and death which are the only possible consequence of your ridiculous insurrection?"

"You don't want a war and we don't want a war," Gideon noted somberly. "That sounds like a foundation for compromise to me."

Zhang regarded him as though he were a small yapping puppy, who had just piddled on the floor. "Perhaps. If you are able to see reason. You want freedom and independence. You cannot have it. You should know by now that this is the one line we will never cross. The dream of a united humanity took far too long to achieve. We finally have some semblance of peace and order. We won't allow chaos to creep back in by loosing immature societies to blunder and bungle their own path through the 'Verse."

"We keep trying to tell you, we're not who you think we are." Zarek replied, tamping down on his own growing irritation. "We've got every bit as much history and civilization as you do. Possibly more."

"Ah yes. Your Earth Colony Alliance. We have looked at this claim. You could hardly have come up with a less likely assertion."

"That's the Earth Alliance. And the Colonies. Two separate but allied groups."

"So an Earth Colony Alliance, as I said," Zhang waved his hand dismissively.

"Which colonies?" Atherton Wing asked from where he sat at the far end of the table. He was clearly unhappy at being forced to raise his voice to such an unseemly volume in order to be heard.

"The Colonies of Kobol. I'd be astonished if you had heard of them. They aren't in the 'Verse at all, and their population was the equal of your Alliance." The VIPs around him burst into laughter at such an impossible claim, though Zhang's face stayed completely impassive. "And the Earth Alliance is literally your Old Earth. Or so we believe. Their population wasn't so large, but they're obviously your forebears, with all the history and refinement that implies." This claim brought even greater laughter, several of the dignitaries going so far as to mock him under their breath.

"We've brought proof, if you'd like to review it," Gideon noted, evident anger carefully leashed.

"Yes, we've all seen your efforts at providing 'evidence,'" snapped a nearby Admiral who had yet to be introduced. "Don't pretend that farce about the Reavers being manufactured didn't come from you. Spewing such lies alone is an act of war. It's quite obvious that you are extremely skilled at manufacturing whatever evidence suits your needs."

"And how about us mopping the floor with your cute little fleet? Did we 'manufacture' that as well?"

"Why you…"

Zhang lifted his hand slightly, causing the Admiral to immediately snap his mouth shut. "Even if we give you the benefit of the doubt and simply accept that you are from Earth…or from some alternate 'Verse with just as much culture and population…you are not in those places now. You are, in fact, a very very long way from those homes you claim. This is our home. Our 'Verse. We will never allow you to shatter it."

"So you intend to refuse us? Without even hearing our requests or offers?" Zarek asked just as bluntly.

"Without hearing them from you, yes. If you want peace, then I propose we follow up with another meeting. And this time, send your real leaders."

"With all due respect Speaker Zhang, you aren't the Prime Minister. Why would I bring you our President? Or Commodore?" he added upon seeing Gideon stiffen.

"Because you are the supplicant here, Vice President Zarek . And because I believe they will want to hear what we have to offer. Independence is simply not an option. But perhaps some of your grievances can be addressed. Some few of your requests can be honored…liberties set aside for you and your people. Any war you wage must surely end in defeat. In the powerlessness and poverty of the leadership, if not outright execution. In the shattering and dissolution of your societies. But that can all be avoided. You can get some of what you seek, and in the process your leaders…yourselves included of course…can find themselves with power, prestige, fantastic wealth…and part of a real society. One that is here, and not part of a fairytale across a centuries wide gulf of space."

"So you want to buy us off? You really don't know me very well."

"If you wish to phrase it in so vulgar a fashion, that is your choice. As is the choice of whether we 'buy you off' or burn you out. But those are really the only two possibilities."

"Then I believe we are done here." He stood, Gideon and Doral following suit. Neither Zhang nor any of the others present did them the honor of rising themselves. "I'll make certain to pass your offer along to my leadership. No doubt, you'll be hearing from us again." They turned and walked away, feeling the eyes of the Alliance burning into their backs.

---

Serenity, enroute to Bellerophon, The Verse - February, 2250

"Mal," Wash called out across the bridge, "we're in range of Bellerophon's data net."

Mal nodded, then turned to his passengers. "You sure this is safe, Ms. Biers?"

"I appreciate your concern, Captain Reynolds," D'Anna replied, "but I've done this before. Part of the design. I'll be fine."

"Well, that's fine to hear, but I was more thinkin' on the possibility of you bringin' the Alliance down on our heads. Gettin' us all blown out the sky, corpses scattered and rottin'."

"Bodies don't rot in space, Mal," Wash called over his shoulder. "It's too cold."

"Scattered frozen corpsicles then."

"I've done this before, Captain. I'll be cautious not to tip our hand. Besides, what other choice do we have?" So saying, she flipped open her pocket knife and plunged it into her wrist, slicing upwards to expand the hole slightly. Wincing, she pulled out the knife and set it aside, then picked up a data cable wired into the communications console at which she sat. Taking a deep breath, she slowly fed the cable into her open wound, grimacing only slightly at the pain. Her eyes seemed to lose focus, as though gazing far into the distance. "I'm in. These people don't know how to secure a data network. Minimal security…everything's connected."

"It's like telepathy for computers," Bester noted, clearly impressed. Mal didn't really enjoy having the…whatever Bester was…on his bridge, but this whole espionage and infiltration thing was largely under the Commander's control.

"I can't believe they put private, civilian IT companies in charge of planetary data and network security," D'Anna groused. "Are these people idiots? This is a disaster just waiting to happen. I could drop half the population into the sea with a thought." Bellerophon was a getaway for the wealthy elite of the Alliance. People who seemed to consider the idea of building mansions on islands, then strapping massive engines to those islands and hovering them a mile up over the deep, empty ocean, to be the pinnacle of luxury.

"Let's start with Marshall Roberts," Bester ordered. "Can you locate her?" D'Anna grimaced, then winced, raising a hand to her head. "Are you alright? Did you trigger a defense?"

"No. It's just that the…accent…of these Alliance computers is really odd. It's giving me one hell of a headache. Remember, I'm basically doing this in a foreign language. If I hadn't already been learning it, and had months before that to figure out Earth based digital language, which is at least grounded in the same roots, there'd be no way I could do any of this."

"So not analogous to telepathy then."

She glared at him, but then continued. "I've found an online military presence. The only one on the planet. They must have her. No….that's a real actual firewall with some teeth. I'm not gonna try and crack that."

"Can't do it?" Mal challenged.

"Maybe. Maybe not. But I'd for certain give away our presence in the process. Let me try something else." She concentrated for several moments, but then gave a smirk. "Got it. Apparently the Alliance shuffles her around between various private estates weekly. It's supposed to be top secret, but the estate owners find the whole setup to be quite the imposition, and don't seem to think that nondisclosure applies to them. The boards are full of them complaining about her presence, having to feed her guards, having to reschedule personal engagements. Your standard whiney humans. I've identified everywhere she's been held for the past three years, and exactly when. There's a definite pattern. Unless they break pattern…I can tell you exactly where she is and where she'll be headed within the next week."

"Not bad, D'Anna. How about Dr. Tam's records request. Is there a secure Alliance medical facility on-world? Can you get in?"

"There is…the firewall is nearly as good as the military's. Hold on…" after a moment she laughed. "You can always count on humans to do something particularly stupid. One of the local moguls is a hypochondriac. Looks like she's bribed, bullied, or blackmailed someone into giving her a direct datapipe to the facility. She's using it to get high level reports on the eruption and movement of disease throughout the 'Verse, as well as using the medical professionals to act as her own personal team of physicians." D'Anna shook her head. "And her network security is a joke. I can ride that datapipe right through….downloading the Doctor's files now."

"And we've already accomplished our secondary mission." Bester actually smiled. It looked more than a little disturbing on his face. "Your turn, Captain. I'm told your criminal mind is responsible for swindling Ms. Roberts off of this world. D'Anna, shunt the information on the Marshall's whereabouts to the Captain's console."

Mal didn't like being told what to do on his own ship but chose not to respond. Instead, he simply began going through the information provided. D'Anna had shunted over the most likely current location, as well as the future locations and most likely transit routes between for the next three weeks. Mal reviewed all of it, step by step, until something caught his eye. "This estate, right here," he said, tapping the screen. "Can you pull me up all of the information you can get on it? Who's there. Who's visiting. Employees, vendors, family, business appointments…everything you can find."

"Yeah, just a minute," D'Anna replied, resuming her look of concentration.

It was significantly less than a minute before data began scrolling across Mal's screen. It was scrolling quite rapidly, and he almost missed it. But after a quick doubletake, he manually took control and scrolled back up, staring in disbelief. "Oh, you have got to be kidding me!"

---

Bellerophon, White Sun System, The Verse - February, 2250

Malcolm Reynolds stepped down off of a rented air transport onto the floating island. He was wearing a rented dark business suit that bound in all the wrong places and carrying a large bouquet of three dozen black roses, which Kaylee had spray painted from some cheap ones they'd managed to steal rather than acquiring the expensive genetically engineered variety. As he couldn't bring, much less wear, a gun of any kind, the long shiv he'd tucked amongst the stems was his only defense. Walking up the path set aside for servants and workmen, he knocked at the back door.

It was only a moment before the door opened to reveal a barefoot redheaded beauty, petite and lithe and sensual. She was carrying a large feather duster and wearing a French maid outfit far skimpier than Mal would have thought possible. A large gold and diamond studded anklet graced her left foot. He smiled broadly. "Honey, I'm home!"

Her reaction was near instantaneous, lunging forward with her feather duster as though it were rapier, intent on spearing his face. He caught the flash of steel buried deep amongst the feathers, feeling more than a bit of discomfort, but his parry was already in motion, bouquet of flowers coming in to intercept her attack. Steel met steel with a muffled clank, and a far less restrained explosion of feather and foliage.

As severed petals and plumage rained down around them, Mal reached forward in a gunslinger fast movement of his other arm, plucking what remained of the duster, including the blade buried within, from her grasp. They each took a quick step backwards, awaiting the next explosion of violence. "Why YoSaphBrig, you seem less than happy to see me," Mal noted dryly.

"You idiot," she hissed, "Now I'm going to have to clean that up. What are you doing here?"

"Hustlin' and swindlin'...so of course I thought of you. A better question is…what are you doing here?"

"I think you already know. Afterall, you and your side piece are the ones who left me to rot in that dumpster. Which is where the Federal Agents found me. You know, the ones you tipped off as to exactly where I was? I should have gotten some nice, cushy Federal Prison. I'd have been out in a week. But no, my 'husband' decided to pull some strings and get my sentence commuted to house arrest. As a member of staff." She hissed the last word with the same venom she had infused into the word 'husband. "I have to clean…and cook…and wear…and look however he wants, or I don't eat. Or get locked up without food or water, depending on his mood. He's discharged most of the staff and given me all of their jobs."

"Oh you poor baby. Don't pretend you're not working some angle. You can break out of Federal Prison in a week, but you can't escape house arrest? I wasn't born yesterday."

Saffron…or Brigette…or maybe even Yolanda, but probably none of those, held out her dainty left foot and gave it an attractive shake. "Modified house arrest ankle bracelet he had made off world. I'm told it's worth nearly five million credits. Graphene and nanotube construction to prevent me breaking into it. A specially designed virtual intelligence to prevent any form of tampering or interference and to trigger if I try to escape or break any of a thousand rules he set down at whim. It contains a custom shaped charge that will sever both of my legs above the knee if triggered. And alert the authorities at the same time. I'm not going anywhere until he lets me go."

"Which should still be easy for you. Just use those feminine wiles on him. You've had trickier marks eating out of the palm of your hand in less time."

"Don't you think I've tried?" she snarled. "He won't touch me...or let anyone else near me." A thoughtful look came over her face. "But you wouldn't be here if you didn't know all of this already. You're working something. Talk. What are you after?"

"None of your business. All you need to know, assuming you want in, is what you need to do. Do your part, and then maybe we'll let you in."

"You got me stuck here. Forget your little treasure. I can't spend it anyway. No, the real question is why shouldn't I report your presence right now. I might even get time off from my sentence for turning in wanted criminals. Wherever you're at, your gang of misfits isn't far off."

"I can get that bracelet off your foot. Get you off planet with all your pretty little limbs intact."

"Didn't you hear what I said before? This thing is hack proof. It goes boom if I even try."

"I found out you were here, didn't I? Have a little faith."

Hope dawned in her eyes, and then suddenly a wall seemed to fall. Her brave exterior crumpled and she wept, hiding her face in her hands. "Thank God you're here," she sobbed. "You don't understand how awful it's been. The things he's done to me. I..I really hoped you'd come back."

Mal took a large step backward. "Pull the other one. You're about as fragile as an Alliance tank. Quit playin'. We've got work to be about."

She pulled her hands away and looked up, dryeyed. "Can't blame a girl for trying."

"You're more serpent than girl. And either way I ain't eatin' any fruit you're offerin'. Just remember, you already got two strikes, tryin' to screw over me and mine. You backstab us again, the things I'll do to you'll make you wish for a cozy little house arrest."

"Promises, promises," she smirked, and they got down to work.