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.

41. Chapter38 - Tell 'Em I Ain't Comin' Back

Chapter 38 - Tell 'Em I Ain't Comin' Back

Serenity, Bellerophon, White Sun System, The Verse - February, 2250
Passengers and crew all crowded around the mess hall table. Standing or seated, they all leaned forward to hear the plan under discussion. Across the tabletop had been unfurled a blue cloth, stained in some places, but more or less in good shape. A mismatched assortment of cups and mugs were turned over at various locations on the cloth, approximating various private flying estates and the Bellerophon Sea below.

"The Marshal," Bester advised, looking dolefully at the ad hoc 'map', "is moved periodically from one sanctuary to another. She is generally an unwelcome guest, an imposition from the Alliance. Based on the historical pattern, we believe that in three days she will be transported from the estate of one Cain Stephenson," he paused to indicate a teacup at one end of the table.

"Sure we can't hit 'em there?" Jayne cut in. "I'd love to put one over on that stuck-up, brass-buttoned, snake-like S.O.B. just one more time." Bester looked flatly at Jayne for several seconds. "Just askin'," Jayne offered uncomfortably.

"The Marshal will be transported by a single Alliance Short Range Enforcement Vessel with four guards, including the pilot. Their destination is the far more remote Jones estate." He indicated a tin mug at the other end of the table. "They won't be making it. We'll be causing them trouble about here," he pointed to an open section of cloth with nothing on it about halfway between the two estates.

"Open ocean," Starbuck noted. "You want us to interdict them with the Vipers? Shouldn't be hard. Those things are nearly as much a flying trash heap as this scow."

Mal glared daggers at her, but Bester merely chuckled. "Our goal is to get the Marshal out alive, not shoot her full of twenty-millimeter holes. No, as a high security Alliance vessel, it will be connected to the planetary datanet at all times. Boomer will hack the system."

Mal took over the briefing. "Now, even the Alliance ain't dumb enough to let some stupid computer fly the ship…not without the pilot being able t' take control at will." If Mal noticed the identical glares now coming from D'Anna and Boomer, he made no sign of it. "But if all their alarms and warnin' bells suddenly start goin' off…well, they've got protocol for that. That's to land…immediately."

"But there's nothing there," Kaylee pointed out.

"Exactly. If they were right on top of someplace, that'd raise suspicion. If they have to risk a few minutes of flight to get to the nearest estate…"

"So what's there?" Zoë asked, nodding at the cracked pink saucer which sat closest to the point of trouble.

"That's the Haymer Estate," Mal noted quietly. "Where we've got an inside man."

Zoë stared at him, her gaze switching quickly from confused to hard. "No," she said flatly.

"Let's hear out the rest of the…"

"You can't be serious, Captain! That pàntú would sell us all down the river without a second thought or a moment's hesitation! That was more than enough risk when we were just thieves. Now we're top of the Alliance's most wanted. She'll have every reason to sell us out."

"Except the one she wants the most," Mal countered

"What exactly are we talking about?" Inara asked in confusion.

"Saffron," Zoë spat.

"Oh…that." Wash said inadvertently, mouth moving before his brain quite registered the advisability of what was coming out.

His wife's gaze snapped over to him. "You knew?"

"I didn't…not…know…"

"Well, dear, it looks like we need to have a talk about the kinds of things a wife needs to know," she all but hissed. She switched her gaze back to resume her argument, "Captain…

"Is this really…" Inara began.

"Nǐmen dōu bìzuǐ!" Mal snapped, and the room immediately fell to silence. He looked over at Zoë. "You're right. The Alliance is huntin' us. Hard. We ain't exactly got a surplus of time t' be wastin' looking for a better option. Saffron is certainly all that you called her. But she's also there, gets us the access we need, and we got leverage on her. Like it or not, it's our best play. And this ain't no democracy."

"Is this something the rest of us need to know about?" Starbuck asked.

"Later," Mal grunted. He switched his gaze to Bester. "Commander?"

"When the ASREV puts down on the Haymer Estate, their protocols will be to get their primary away from the vehicle to a secure location. Which means they will demand…force if necessary…entry into the house proper. As their job is to keep the Marshal safe, secure, and healthy, while their craft is very heavily armed, they themselves will be carrying only sonic rifles."

"And their fists," Mal cut in. "Like as not, they'll have been picked for bein' fair to passable in a dust up."

Bester merely shrugged. "I don't anticipate that will be a problem, Captain."

"Just sayin'."

"While the Federal Agents will certainly be on their guard, it is unlikely that they will anticipate that we will have a team already within the estate; hired by Ms. Saffron as decorators and florists. The Agents will assuredly have radioed in their location, and additional ASREV will be scrambled to pick them up. We'll have at least five minutes…but likely no more than ten…to take control of Marshal Roberts and exfiltrate the facility."

"So kill the guards, grab the girl, get the heck off this rock," Jayne nodded. "Sounds easy."

Bester shook his head. "No killing. We don't want the Alliance knowing she had help escaping, and that would tip them off to our presence. For that matter, we'd like to leave them unaware, or at least uncertain, for as long as possible that there has even been an escape. You may have noticed that cruiser over our heads. I'd rather not find out if just a pair of Vipers can protect us from it. I think we all already know the answer."

Kaylee smiled. "You're gonna dump her out the trash while no one's looking! Then we just pick her up like last time!"

Mal shook his head. "She wouldn't fit. But even if she did…Haymer apparently didn't appreciate what happened with the Lassiter. He's had the trash chutes modified to incinerate everything before they make it to the dumpster. Besides, I think those Feds might notice a group of us tryin' to cram their precious hostage down a trash chute. So we need a distraction. A really big distraction."

"D'Anna will be part of the infiltration team," Bester resumed. "Apparently after Serenity's last visit, Mr. Haymer dramatically increased his network security. Probably more to prevent Ms. Saffron from facilitating her own escape than anything else, but it will still now require direct Cylon interface to pull off Captain Reynold's 'big distraction.'"

"And that is?" Inara asked.

"We're gonna cut the power to the grav engines and thrusters."

Eyes widened around the table, as only Mal and Al had been in on formulating this part of the plan. "Won't that…kill everyone?" Boomer asked with visible reluctance.

"We'll set them to kick back in well before impact," Mal noted. "But there will be nearly a minute of freefall. That should throw the Feds…and everyone else…into confusion. Along with throwin' 'em about whatever room they happen t' be in. Except our people. We'll be wearin' mag-boots. The floors of the estate contain their power, data, and utility grids. They're covered with metallic access tiles…fancy ones…so our boots will stick."

"We will coordinate with D'Anna," Bester continued, "so that the power is only cut when one of us is in position to grab the Marshal and hustle her out. Hopefully while the Agents are too shocked by the sudden freefall to notice or react. We'll arrange some preliminary distraction so that their eyes aren't on her at the moment."

"What's with all the disguises and distractions and sneakin' about?" Jayne asked bluntly. "Ain't y'all a bunch a witches or some such? Can't ya just melt their brains and make them think a pig or a…a…pet rock is the Marshal?"

Bester grimaced in irritation, but chose to answer politely. "The Alliance has at least limited telepathic talent of their own. If we melted their brains we would definitely be giving away the fact that Earth Force was involved, as well as capabilities that they don't yet know we possess. We need to avoid both if at all possible."

"Once we have the Marshal," Mal took back over, "we all make our way to the bottom of the estate via the maintenance shaft for the waste system. Which is where we will meet Serenity. By that time the freefall will have ended, and all of the staff and visitors and everyone with half a sense of self preservation will be fleeing for their lives. The team escapes…along with Saffron, assuming she hasn't tried to betray us by that point, and Serenity just blends in with all of the other fleeing traffic. All before the second Alliance team ever arrives. Any questions?"

Wash raised a hand. "Last time we were robbing Haymer, Serenity couldn't get close without being picked up by the estate's security. You said, security's tighter now, so won't we be setting off all kinds of alarms if we come close? I'm guessing Ms. D'Anna can't both erase the record of our presence and escape at the same time…can she?"

"No," Boomer agreed, "she can't. And I'm guessing she's not volunteering to get left behind either."

"No one's gettin' left," Mal replied. "The difference is that Serenity won't violate the proximity sensors because Serenity isn't coming to the mountain, the mountain is coming to Serenity. As far as the proximity and security sensors will be concerned, Serenity will just be part of the stationary landscape the whole estate is dropping down onto. We just need to make sure that Serenity is at the right height and position so she's in jumping range from the maintenance hatch. Any other questions?"

"Yeah, I have another question," Wash said, raising his hand again. "Are you insane? You're going to literally drop an island on all of our heads?"

"Except for those of us who are on the island…yes."

Wash stared in horror at Mal for several seconds before swallowing visibly. He then looked dazedly around at the other faces in the room before shrugging. "What could go wrong?"

---

Pegasus, Nebula near Miranda, The Verse - February, 2250
The Doctors aboard the Pegasus weren't particularly happy. For that matter, neither was Commander Lee Adama. But both Commodore Sheridan and Admiral Adama had insisted that the medical experiments upon the Reaver be moved to the Beast. Given the death of Doctor Michael Robert and the general danger of working with the Reaver, it was deemed inappropriate to continue the work on a civilian vessel. Of the military vessels, the Colonial Battlestar ended up having the most secure and spacious facilities, even if the indigenous tech was somewhat less advanced than its Earth Force counterparts. Just like the Reaver, tech could always be brought over.

Doctor Stephen Franklin, lead medical officer of the fleet, was busy going over recent physiological data from their patient when his colleague, Doctor Sarah Chambers walked in the room. "The subject is going through another round of emesis. No longer trying to eat the steak. Though it's pretty hard to chew and vomit at the same time." Stephen merely grunted in response, so she pressed ahead. "I'm getting worried. We're seeing signs of physiological stress…not that it's easy to tell. Their systems essentially live in that state. Still, he hasn't managed to intake any comestibles in quite a while. We may want to sedate the subject and provide intravenous nutrition…just for long enough to reinvigorate the general physiology."

Stephen finally looked up with a frown. "Sorry Sarah. That's both kind and cautious, but we can't afford the time. The Commodore could order us to suspend operations if we take too long, and the patient's life…along with those of all of his…kind…ride on our being successful. Quickly. Besides, its physiology was designed for exactly this kind of long term fasting." He sighed and brought a hand up to rub his eyes. "Has the patient tried eating any of the vegetarian options provided?"

"Not yet."

"Alright…what do you think about moving on to human tissue?"

She blinked in surprise. "You've got some volunteer willing to be eaten? That doesn't seem particularly ethical. Or were you planning to sacrifice yourself on the altar of science?"

Stephen chuckled. "Nothing like that. We have a couple of available options. Some of our medical cadavers…"

"That's really morbid. And I'm not sure necrotic flesh would trigger the Reaver's hyperphagia reflex."

"I checked our stocks. When we were setting up the hospital, Dr. Hobbs had some of the serial killer's telepath victims cryo-frozen immediately post mortem."

"That's…troubling. There's no way she got their permission. Not in the state they were in."

"Martial law, remember? Technically every person who was on the initial roster for the fleet already signed away their bodies, rights, and personal liberties, 'to be used at necessity for the survival of the species and the common good.' That includes the both of us. Those that joined us along the way are understood to have accepted the same agreement as a matter of course. Lillian froze their bodies to preserve the evidence in case it was needed to aid in the investigation or prosecution. As they were already frozen and the hospital potentially had need for cadavers, they were transferred to long term storage once the serial killer situation had been resolved."

Sarah shrugged. "I suppose that makes them viable candidates. For that matter, the unique concentrations of hormones and other chemicals within the telepath brain and body might assist the Reaver in return to full sapience. But, I believe the proper medical term is 'yuck.'"

"Our other option is to pull something out of our organ bank. I could pull out a liver or pancreas. Probably something glandular, for the chemical reason you just mentioned."

"Double yuck." She sighed. "Ok, let's start with the organs. I had a big breakfast. I don't need to watch him gorge and purge on what looks like a fresh body."

"Purge?" he asked with some amusement.

"Spew? Yack? Hurl? Gorilla? Puke? Upchuck? Plenty of ways to say throw-up."

"Let's stick with emesis. I didn't skip breakfast either."

---

A day later they'd had to move the Reaver, so they could hose out the inside of its cell. Franklin spoke into the project log recorder as he watched the technicians, in full hazmat suits, go about the unenviable task. "Subject has stopped trying to eat either the organs or the corpses. Definite signs of physical and emotional stress…not that it's particularly easy to tell. I think we may be getting close. Subject still refuses to eat any vegetable matter."

"Mushrooms," Chambers suggested.

"Excuse me?"

"Mushrooms. Fungi split from animals after we split from plants. We're closer to mushrooms than either of us are to plants." She shrugged. "I mean, people do say that mushrooms taste meaty. Maybe it will help to ease the transition. Besides, we were talking about chemicals and hormones. Have you ever heard of the Stoned Ape theory?"

"Junk science. Generally discredited. Or at least," he amended, "there's no actual proof and no way to test it that comes anywhere close to meeting proper scientific rigor and protocol."

She returned an indecipherable look. "There's not a thing about what we're doing that approaches proper scientific rigor and protocol."

Stephen sighed. "Fine. The stoned ape theory…if memory serves…postulated the idea that humans as a species were helped along in their evolution…in their cognitive development…by access to and consumption of certain mushrooms. Chief among these being Psilocybin mushrooms. There's an offshoot of the theory that speculates it was Dimethyltryptamine, DMT, rather than Psilocybin which catalyzed the change. DMT, of course, comes from animals and plants, such as Ayahuasca, rather than mushrooms. Are you actually suggesting we get the Reaver high? By feeding him Psilocybin mushrooms?"

"We've got them in storage. At this point, is there any reason not to? You just pointed out that we were all running out of time."

Stephen looked up and stared at the ceiling for a long moment. "Somewhere down the line someone is going to look back on all of this and retroactively pull all of our medical licenses."

"Let's hope. Because that'll mean we've gotten back to the point of having the luxury of societal morals. Until then…we do what we have to build the future that will condemn us. You taught me that."

---

More time passed. Reaver Bob…and when the hell did we start calling him by thatstupid appellation?...shrieked and hurled himself at the thick pane of transparent aluminum between himself and Dr. Franklin. Tiny vents with running fans drew Stephen's scent into the Reaver's pen. He pounded against the panel, snarling and spitting, before going back and eating a few more mushrooms. He particularly seemed to favor the Psilocybe Cubensis variety.

"Is it just me? Or did that attack seem a bit…pro forma?"

"Have you been dipping into the mushrooms as well?" Dr. Lillian Hobbs, helping out for the day, replied. "I thought he was going to come through. I nearly wet myself. And I'm not the one standing just on the other side of the glass."

"Aluminum," he corrected.

"It's solid and I can see through it. I'm calling it glass."

He shrugged and dropped the point. "We're not seeing any sign of cognitive change. Even without the mushrooms, its baseline physiology should be showing us something. It's supposed to get smarter, the longer it goes without meat." He thought for another moment, then came to a decision. "Bob's playing possum."

"Excuse me?"

"He's faking. You might want to back out of the room. You're not going to like what I'm about to do."

"What are you going to do?" she asked in alarm. Without a word Stephen reached out and flipped a switch. A series of heavy steel bars, clearly a cage, began descending right next to the 'glass.' "Dr. Franklin?" she asked, as the bars slammed down onto the floor. "Stephen?"
He flipped another switch, and the wall of aluminum began to rise upwards. Reaver Bob immediately stopped eating and looked over with a snarl, eyes unnaturally wide, slowly rising to his feet. "You're mad!" Hobbs practically shrieked and ran out the door. She slammed it shut and threw the heavy locking bolt besides. Moments later though, she appeared at the heavy window in the wall just behind Stephen. "You need to get out of there! He'll kill you!"

"I'll be staying outside of arm's reach. That's what the bars are for."

"Have you forgotten that they can spit?!"

"We've been tracking his emissions," Stephen said with clearly feigned…and visibly cracked…confidence. "He's out of ammo for the time being. Hopefully," he added, not quite under his breath."

"I'm calling the Marines!" she snapped, then ran off. He put her out of his mind, focusing his entire attention on Reaver Bob.

With good reason. The moment the aluminum partition retracted fully into the ceiling, Bob crossed his cage in an eyeblink, slamming up against the bars, clawed hands reaching through to grab and grasp at Franklin, just a few inches beyond reach. Howling, Bob hurled himself against the bars again and again and again, attempting to beat his body through the narrow gaps. Attempting to send streams of venomous spittle into Stephen's blood drained face.

Still, Steven held his ground, legs shaking. "Is that really necessary?" he asked.

Suddenly, the Reaver's movement became jerky…spastic. The movements of arms and legs lost coordination. The howling changed in pitch and timbre, becoming almost thready. His eyes seemed to lose focus.

"What's wrong with him?" Hobbs asked. Stephen didn't so much as glance over to where she had returned, back at the window. His entire attention was focused on Bob. And Bob suddenly pitched forward, arms and legs going limp, eyes rolling up in his head. He slumped against the bars, slowly sliding down them. "Stephen…" Lillian began warningly, but Franklin didn't even think. Years of training and practice snapped into place, and he stepped forward to check on a patient in distress.

His windpipe closed with an audible "urk" as Bob's hand shot out with blinding speed and closed around his throat. With incredible strength Bob lifted him one handed off of the floor and slammed him into the bars…squeezing him into the tiny gap…into easy reach of those razor sharp teeth. Razor sharp teeth on full display, Bob leaned forward to within mere inches of Stephen's petrified, orb like eyes. "Yeessss," he hissed. "It iss necessary. And yesss, I wass faking. Now tell me what you did to me, or sick or not, I will devour your face one piece at a time."

Stephen was too terrified to answer. Not that he had time. Marines burst through the door and hit Bob with their stun gear, sending enough electricity into him to drop an elephant or a Minbari. Stephen just had time to consider the fact that flesh conducts electricity, before the current flowed through Bob and into him, spasming them both with incredible pain and firmly putting the lights out.

---

Haymer Estate, Bellerophon, White Sun System, The Verse - February, 2250
An old chassis swiped from a junkyard, a few days of elbow grease and a few layers of paint, and suddenly Floral Serenity had a delivery vehicle. It took nearly as long just to get each member of the infiltration team to understand the difference between petunias and peonies. Finding and tailoring matching burgundy suits as a fancy business uniform was child's play in comparison. As for the flowers...they simply bought a truckload. There were plenty of vendors...it was one of the ways the various magnates and moguls used to show off their luxury estates.

With Bester at the stick, the Floral Serenity skytruck dropped onto the visitors' landing pad of Haymer's Estate. The crew of four...Mal, Zoë, D'Anna, and Bester...hopped out and began loading up with large armfuls of floral bouquets. With Mal in the lead, they approached the vendor entrance and knocked. After a wait which was certainly less than a minute, but which felt like an eternity to their keyed-up nerves, the door opened to reveal Saffron in her unique French Maid outfit. "Oh good," she said just slightly more loudly than required, "the florists are here. Come in, come in." She began leading them deeper into the estate.

"Thank you, Miss Yolanda," Mal replied. "We've brought enough stock to refresh your displays."

"Good. The current arrangements are already wilting. I'd better see quality stems. We're not paying for half rotten product." They passed a large kitchen, in which a chef and small kitchen staff were busy at work preparing the next meal. In the distance, another servant walked past in a cross corridor. Having gotten to a location she felt was safe from prying ears, Saffron hurried them into a side room. "We have a problem. Durran is here."

Mal's stress level immediately rocketed up, and he glanced around to ensure no other servants or vendors were within earshot. "You said he was going to be away on business," he said, tight lipped. "He'll recognize me. This could blow the whole mission."

"He's not feeling well, and decided to stay home today," she hissed back as quietly as she could. "It shouldn't be a problem. He's mostly been staying in bed. Just stay out of any place he's likely to be. And as long as you're replacing the flowers, he won't even glance at you twice. The 'help' is more or less invisible around here. Just spread out, grab whatever it is you came for, and get me out of here."

"What we came for won't be here for another five, maybe ten minutes. We're going to spread out and start replacing flowers." He handed her an earbud which would allow her to both hear and communicate with the team. "I need you to take D'Anna here down to the estate control center. Then come back. You'll need to greet the visitors when they arrive."

"What do you mean, it's not here yet?! What visitors? We don't have any guests scheduled today. We didn't discuss any of this!"

"You're damned right we didn't," Mal snapped. "You've got a history of using what you know to screw us over. You want out of here, you do what you're told."

"Screw that. You want me to take someone to the control room, or even tell them where it's at?" She lifted her foot off the ground. "You said you could get this off of me. Do it now or I'm turning you all in."

"Or we could just kill you," Zoë cut in. "Captain, we've been here too long. Someone's bound to notice."

Mal nodded. "You and Bester spread out and start replacing any flowers you see. Make noise, but don't be too obvious. I'll take care of this." Zoë nodded and headed out without another word. Bester hesitated, clearly thinking he could resolve the issue with their recalcitrant mole. But in the end he followed Zoë out to maintain their cover. Mal turned back to Saffron, who merely set her jaw in defiance. "If I have to tie you up and throw you in a closet, do you really think Haymer will believe you weren't in on it? You think the Alliance will?"

Saffron paled. "Who said anything about the Alliance?"

"I just did. The guests I mentioned earlier? And believe me, they won't be bringing a sense of humor."

"Look," she offered, trying to sound reasonable, "I can't get anywhere near the control room. Not with this on. It'll set off the alarm, if it doesn't just blow my leg. And if this plan of yours is as half assed as all of your others, I'm likely to get left to take the fall if I don't get this off in advance. So please, if you have a way to take it off, just do it and make all of our lives easier. I'll be good." She held up a hand, two fingers extended vertically. "Scout's honor."

"I don't know what's less likely, you as a scout, or you with any sort of honor at all." He sighed. "Fine. D'Anna, might as well do it now."

D'Anna stepped forward, laying a hard eye on the 'maid'. "That wasn't the plan."

"We're being flexible. Things will go more smoothly if we don't have to make excuses for her absence."

"Or death," D'Anna noted, glaring even harder at Saffron.

"Particularly tricky to explain away. Especially to Federal Agents. Just do it...please."

With a further grimace, D'Anna knelt down. Taking off her suit jacket, she unbuttoned the cuff of the shirt beneath and rolled up her left sleeve. A data cable was secreted beneath, wound around her forearm. Unwinding it, D'Anna plugged one end into the AI dataport on Saffron's security ankle bracelet. Then she plunged the other into her arm.

"What the hell?" Saffron blurted in shock.

"Everything's good," Mal noted calmly.

"Not really," D"Anna noted. "You may want to stand back."

"Why?"

"Because this AI is awfully stubborn, and actually fairly well designed. No point in all three of us dying if it decides to go off out of spite."

"Fuck me," Saffron cursed.

"I'm a little busy right now."

"She can handle this," Mal soothed, then turned to D'Anna. "You said you could handle this."

"I guess we'll find out." Moments ticked away, feeling like hours. Almost anticlimactically, the anklet suddenly popped open. D'Anna detached it from the cable and scooped it up. "You never know when a powerful, intelligent bomb might come in handy."

Mal chose to ignore that disturbing thought. "Head for the control room. Let me know when you have control."

D'Anna stood and wound the data cable back around her arm, leaving the other end still stuck in her arm, a thin trickle of blood running down her fair skin. She didn't bother to roll her sleeve back down, merely shrugged back into her jacket. It was assumed that any soak through would be undetectable against the garish color. She pulled a small datapad out of her jacket and handed it to Mal. "If possible, I will shunt direct control of the engines to you. Then you can make your move without needing to contact me. Otherwise, we'll just have to stay in contact by radio." She turned back to Saffron. "Lead the way."

Maid and Cylon departed, and Mal headed out into the living areas of the estate. He'd replaced three different bouquets before running out, and heading back out to the skytruck for more. Given the depletion of the stems inside, it was clear that Zoë and Bester had each already made at least one return trip. Loading up, he caught a flash out of the corner of his eye. Glancing out, he saw a speck, slowly growing, lights flashing from multiple surfaces. That had to be the ASREV. He smirked at the thought of the blaring alarms and flashing lights driving the Feds crazy, then turned and took his load of flowers back into the estate.

There really were only a small number of staff on duty. Mal was starting to think that just perhaps Saffron might actually have a point about being overworked. Not that he would feel sorry for her. Damnit.

Saffron arrived back on the main floor just as the door chime began ringing furiously. Mal discreetly followed her into the main entryway, where he found Bester already changing out flower arrangements. Moving to the other side of the room towards a stand Bester hadn't replaced yet, Mal watched out of the corner of his eye as Saffron opened the door. Any notice of the five people standing at the door...two men in front of and two behind the lone woman in the middle...was immediately arrested by the wailing alarms and flashing lights from the military combat spacecraft sitting on the visitors pad in the background. Mal found himself impressed at the level of soundproofing of the estate, it only now dawning on him that he hadn't noticed at all the roar of the ASREV's engines upon landing.

Saffron's attention was immediately ripped back, however, by the lead agent throwing his credentials in her face. "Federal Marshal, here on Alliance business. We require access to this residence. Someplace where we can sit for a while, preferably on the far side of the building. Don't worry, we won't be here long." If any of the agents noticed the skimpiness of her maid outfit, they made no outward sign. Certainly not one pair of eyeballs fell down her décolletage, as Mal's would have done, were he meeting her for the first time. The only one who grinned at all at her state of undress was the harridan in the center.

Mal surreptitiously assessed their target. Former Field Marshal Leanne Emilia Roberts was both smaller and less imposing than his memory would have led him to believe. Either the years since the war had been unkind, or the propaganda which had helped drive him into the fight for independence in the first place had striven to portray her as larger than life. Most likely a little of both. The iron haired woman was clearly on the back end of her middle years. Face etched with lines of both joy and sorrow. Standing only an inch or two taller than Saffron, the lean muscle cording her frame was visible even through the civilian garb which was clearly meant to at least echo her former uniform. Not an ounce of fat sat on that muscle, not even in places most women would have found it useful to carry a little extra fatty tissue. The once over she gave Saffron was not so much interested as amused and perhaps a bit derogatory.

A fact Saffron clearly didn't appreciate. "Alright," she offered professionally, "why don't you come in. The atrium is favored by our visitors, and it's on the other side of the residence." She stepped aside to let the quintet enter, then closed the door behind, mercifully shutting out the blasting and blaring of the ASREV's alarms. Barely a second later, however, a new alarm went off in the entryway. Along with a cheerful feminine voice repeating, 'Weapons detected," over and over.

The agent held up his ID to a security panel by the door, and the alarm immediately silenced. "Where is the estate holder?" the Fed wanted to know.

"He is currently ill and indisposed. If you will come with me?" Without another word, she turned and led the visitors deeper into the building.

Mal waited until they had left the room before speaking to the team. "Target present. Being moved to the atrium. We're on the clock. Are we ready?"

A series of clicks confirmed that each member was prepared. D'Anna replied. "Flight control and system security penetrated. Command authority transferred to your pad."

"Await my signal."

Bester had already left the room, heading for the atrium under the guise of replacing more flower arrangements. Mal gave it a minute before following. They had to ensure this wasn't obvious if they wanted to catch the Feds by surprise. He crossed the house and was nearly to the atrium when he discovered Saffron in a side room...a display room for art, artifacts, and other prized possessions. She was busy stuffing anything that appeared both small and valuable into an oversized backpack. With a quick glance around to make sure they were alone, Mal stepped into the room and rushed over to her, grabbing her arm. "What the hell is going on here?!"

She shrugged out of his grip. "They took away every last thing I own in the world. I've been kept as a virtual slave for...who knows how long. Durran owes me. I have no intention of being destitute after I get out of here." She punctuated this statement by shoving what looked like some kind of small archaic computer into her bag. She looked around, clearly assessing what else might be of value.

"What the hell is going on here?!" came a new yet familiar voice, causing Mal's heart to sink. "Yolanda? Are you trying to steal from me? Again?!" The righteous indignation was marred slightly, being punctuated by several wet coughs. Durran Haymer stormed across the room, grabbing Saffron's...or rather, Yolanda's only recently freed arm. It was only then that he seemed to realize that Mal was standing there. His eyes widened in recognition. "You!" he snarled.

Mal gave his most charming smile. "Hi," he said soothingly, then drove an elbow into Haymer's jaw. The man collapsed limply into both of their arms. They struggled to keep him upright and prevent him from knocking over any of the displays.

"What the hell is going on here?!" Mal and Saffron turned to see one of the Feds standing in the doorway. His pulse rifle wasn't exactly pointed right at them, but it was damned close.

"What do you think is going on?" Saffron snapped immediately. "The master just fainted. I told you he was sick. He shouldn't have been up and walking around!"

"Then why was he?" the agent asked suspiciously.

"Well maybe because somebody was beating on our door chime like an uncouth barbarian. And setting off weapons alarms and stomping about the house as though it's the final battle of the damned Unification War! Guests are supposed to be respectful of their hosts," she all but hissed. "Now we have to get him back to bed, so unless you want to help..."

"Sorry, I have a 'guest' of my own I need to keep an eye on," he smirked, and walked out the door.

"Nicely done," Mal whispered.

"Help me carry him to bed," Saffron said just loudly enough to carry out the door and down the hall a bit. The serious tone was underlied by a mischievous grin. Between the two of them, they dragged Haymer to the back of the room and dropped him...literally...into a secluded corner.

"Enough larceny," Mal ordered. "Head down and meet up with D'Anna. Get ready to jump ship." He pulled out the datapad and looked around. He was out of flowers, so grabbed up a wilted bunch on a table near the door, then tucked the pad in amongst the stems. Preparing for action, he headed for the atrium.

He was about to enter the room when he caught sight of Zoë standing by a large glass sculpture at the far end of a cross corridor that wrapped around the solid interior wall of the atrium. Diverting, he quickly moved to join her.

She nodded to him and spoke quietly. "This thing isn't anchored to the floor. That archway leads into the other end of the atrium. Figure if I knock this thing into the room, it'll draw their attention long enough for you to grab the Marshal and cut the engines?"

Mal grinned. "Just might." He turned and soft footed back down the corridor to the other entrance to the atrium and stepped through. Bester stood nearby, apparently switching out an arrangement of flowers. Which was problematic, because the flowers in this room were growing in planters, not merely cut stems. A quick assessment showed a long room, brightly lit. The far wall, a grid of glass panels, arched over to become the ceiling some thirty or more feet above their heads. The interior wall was faced in polished marble, and all of the furniture in the room...a lavish bar near the entrance and a scattering of curved and cushioned couches and benches...were constructed from matching material. Greenery filled the room, growing from an assortment of pots and planters.

Three of the agents were scattered along the exterior wall, peering through the glass for any sign of threat...or for their anticipated ride out of here. Typical spooks. Roberts, in a stroke of luck, was sitting at the bar. The fourth agent, the Federal Marshal who had done all the talking and who had refused to assist with Haymer, had clearly been left to keep an eye on her. However, Bester seemed to have caught his attention, and he'd stepped to a position where he could cover the man and keep an eye on Roberts at the same time.

Thinking quickly Mal stepped to the bar, just opposite Roberts, and tucked his bouquet of flowers, along with the hidden pad, down underneath. Calling out in a loud voice, he said, "where are our manners? Can I offer anyone a drink?" He reached under and pulled out a bottle, raising it to where they could see.

"We're on duty," one called back, not bothering to glance back at Mal. "I'd take some tea though."

"And how about you, Ma'am?" he asked, addressing Roberts directly. "Are you on duty?"

Mal was shocked at the piercing, knowing gaze which met his own. He felt as if she could see right through his eyes, through his very soul, right down to the stains in his drawers. "I'll take whatever you're offering," she replied quietly, the faintest of grins appearing about her lips.

A massive crash and the tinkle of shattering, spreading crystal echoed through the room. The agents' attention snapped to the far door. Mal activated his mag boots, then quickly grabbed Roberts with his left hand while spearing the kill button on the datapad.

Several things happened all at once. The agents shouted in shock as gravity suddenly disappeared and they lost contact with the floor. A typhoon of wind erupted just on the other side of the glass window, tearing up grass and flowers and soil as the floating island suddenly became a plummeting rock. Mal yanked Marshal Roberts over the top of the bar. And the Federal Marshal watching Bester, who had previously questioned Mal and Saffron, immediately shot the telepath down.

Bester had taken a moment to activate his grav boots, and hadn't reckoned on the sheer speed of the agent. He now stood, unconscious and anchored to the floor, with no gravity to collapse him into a heap. Proving quite adept at maneuvering in a zero-g environment, the agent twisted lithely and barely a heartbeat later was sending deadly accurate pulses towards Mal and Roberts. Thankfully clamped to the floor, Mal was able to pull himself and the Marshal behind the cover of the bar just in time. The agent continued to fire away, apparently unconcerned about energy reserves on the rifle. The sonic pulses slammed into the bar, only held back by its heavy marble construction. The internal alarms of the estate began blaring again, this time accompanied by the repeated phrase, 'Weapons fire detected' in that same cheerful voice.

Mal tried to peak over the bar, ducking rapidly as more sonic pulses tore through the air. He hadn't gotten much of a look. Just enough to know that the pulses were pushing the agent towards the exterior wall. Perhaps that was the idea...to give him something to push off against so he could head towards the bar. The other agents, the ones who had been by those windows from the beginning, apparently hadn't gotten that idea, instead kicking off towards cover and opening fire themselves.

Not sure what else to do, Mal grabbed expensive bottles of liquor and began chucking them blindly over the bar. "What are you doing?" Roberts hissed at him. "Return fire!"

"Did you miss the security system? We couldn't get guns in here!"

The look Roberts delivered made him feel very small and insignificant, though her following words caused only confusion. "Honestly, Captain Reynolds, you're going to make me lose faith in you." She grabbed at things within reach under the bar...a cleaning rag, a kitchen torch, and a powerful bottle of spirits. With practiced, economic moves she tore up the rag and stuffed a strip into the opening before lighting it with the torch. Barely ten seconds from start to finish, she tossed a molotov cocktail across the room to smash into the marble couch behind which a pair of Feds sheltered. Their firing stopped as they leaped away, attempting to put out bits of their clothing. Roberts was already tossing a second. "This won't hold them for long, Captain. Most of the stuff back here is fairly softcore.

Out of the corner of his eye, Mal saw Zoë swing through the nearer doorway, anchoring herself with one hand, to grab Bester and yank him into the safety of the corridor beyond. Bester's magboots resisted for a moment before coming loose with a clank. One of the agents switched fire to stop her, but managed only to strike the poor Commander again. Seeing them both safely in the corridor, Mal came to a decision. Reaching into the bar, he scooped out all the bottles, sending them tumbling through the air. He then kicked out the wooden shelf, opening up the space for the Field Marshal and him to literally climb inside the bar.

Opening his communication link, he ordered, "D'Anna, patch me through to Wash. Everybody! Grab onto something!" He gave them only a couple of seconds to comply, before activating the port side engines and contragravity. The room, the mansion...the whole island groaned around them as the port side of the estate tried to stop the fall. That side shot upwards, the other continuing to drop. The agents, cushions, and potted plants went careening around the room. "Wash. Wash!" he shouted, hoping D'Anna had patched his communications through as ordered. "Do you copy?!" Braced hard inside the bar, Mal waited until the estate was nearly perfectly sideways before cutting in the far side engines...thrusting in the opposite direction. The estate continued to roll, and artwork and furniture fell from walls, flying this way and that.

"What's going on Mal?"

"Heads up. You're about to have some visitors."

"Visitors? What kind of visitors?

"The falling kind. You know...aircars, trees, statues...maybe bits of the building. Don't be in the way." Only when the island was nearly inverted, and he found himself laying on his neck and shoulders within the bar, did Mal cut the engines and the grav supports to both function in the same direction. It stabilized...perfectly upside down.

"Oh dear God." Mal heard Wash cursing in Chinese and Serenity's engines howling through the commlink. "Was that the ASREV?! And the flower truck! My paint job!"

"You're going to have to come to us. Get up here. Now!" The whole place continuing to creak and groan around them, Mal and Roberts carefully righted themselves. Mal risked peeking his head out. The agents were on the glass ceiling, some thirty or more feet below, carefully picking themselves up. Looking down at the ocean below them apparently grabbed most of their attention. But that same one obstinate damned Fed was already taking aim at the bar and opening fire, trying to keep them pinned down. Mal ducked back into the bar, as the sonic pulses once more slammed into the heavy marble.

"Bèn tiānshēng de yī duī ròu!" Mal cursed. He looked out at the entrance to the corridor. It was roughly ten feet away, but due to the inversion the ceiling/floor was actually several feet lower. It wouldn't be an easy jump, starting huddled up within the bar, but it was doable.

Roberts was already way ahead of him, leaping hard for the corridor and tucking to land with a roll. A few stray shots from the Agent below tried to intercept her, but the move was too much of a surprise. Their target was safely away. Now Mal just needed to extricate himself. Which was easier said than done. The Feds were getting their act together, and now all four were firing steadily, rattling the bar. One of them was steadily firing between the bar and the corridor, attempting to dissuade any jump. Mal checked the timer on the datapad. This was all taking too long. Alliance backup could be arriving any minute. He did his best to time the pulses and leapt.

Between the abuse of multiple sonic pulses, the abuse of rotating gravity, a foundation never meant to hold up the bar's weight, and the final indignity of Mal's leap, the bar tore itself free from the floor and plummeted. Without a solid foundation for his jump, Mal's arc was a few feet short. He barely caught the edge of the corridor ceiling with his fingertips, holding on for dear life. Looking over his shoulder, he saw that damned Agent taking careful aim at him. One shot would be all it would take to end any hope for Mal's escape.

The heavy marble bar slammed into and right through the glass ceiling. Cracks spread like lightning across the entirety of the impromptu floor, and the whole thing shattered. All four agents, and everything else which had fallen down there, suddenly found themselves falling out into nothingness...nothing but blue sea thousands and thousands of feet below. The angry Agent's final shot went wild, still managing to smack the wall just a few feet below Mal's dangling boots.

Moments later, Zoë and Roberts were pulling Mal up into the corridor. Breathing hard, he looked out at the open sky below, and the current lack of Feds. "Zhēn dǎoméi." Looking over at Zoë and the Marshal, he nodded to them gratefully. "Let's get out of here before the other shoe drops."

---

The trip down…now up…the maintenance tunnel was a special kind of hell. Especially carrying Bester's limp form. Especially trying to climb the 'wrong' side of a staircase that just seemed to go on and on. Even when they linked up with D'Anna, and she hoisted the Commander off of Mal's exhausted shoulders, the trip was still far more grueling than they had expected. And they took every step as fast as their aching muscles, joints, and lungs would allow. Amazingly, Saffron didn't complain once the whole way out. Perhaps she had finally realized just what kind of lunatics she had thrown in with.

Finally they came to the inverted control panel which opened the final doors that let them access the exterior for maintenance of the trash chute and other systems. D'Anna had already disabled the security codes that secured the door, so it was a simple button push and they were shortly climbing out onto crumbling rock and blue sky.

Right into the gun sights of an ASREV combat craft. It was just swooping in at high speed, and their emergence was perfectly timed for drawing the pilot's attention. "Nice rescue." Roberts noted. "You came in here, didn't you have a plan for getting out?"

"Don't move!" came the pilot's voice over a loudspeaker. "Lay down with your hands above your heads, fingers interlaced. Attempt to run and you will be gunned down." As if to emphasize the point, the visible gun barrels seemed to line up on their small party.

Directly behind Mal, Serenity suddenly crested up over the bottom of the inverted estate, coming to a hover with a roar of her thrusting engines. The ramp was extended and the main cargo bay doors open, just out of reach. They could leap to them…if they dared move. Then Wash's voice crackled over the Serenity's loudspeakers. "Attention tiny spacecraft…go away, or we will blow a new hole in your little ship."

The response was immediate, and sounded not at all amused. "Negative Firefly class vessel. We can tell the difference between a threat and an unarmed transport. Set down immediately and prepare to be boarded, or you will be shot down."

The words were barely finished before a missile streaked out of the Serenity's open bay doors, plowing into the ASREV and detonating it in fire and fury. Mal and the group were knocked from their feet by the blast, only narrowly escaping the shrapnel pinging down all around them.

"You may want to come aboard," came Wash's nervous voice. "I think we've outstayed our welcome.

The group made the final leap onto Serenity's ramp, D'Anna tossing Bester unceremoniously across the gap. Zoë hit the control to raise the ramp and close the inner and outer airlock doors. Mal immediately grabbed up the intercom handset. "Take us out of the world, Wash. The crime's all done." He turned to look at their small group. "Zoë, take Mr. Bester to the doc. Get him checked out." As expected, his second didn't even hesitate in carrying out the order, or wait to hear the rest. She merely gathered up Bester, assisted by D'Anna, and hustled him away to seek medical attention. Mal glanced over at the pair of Vipers in his hold…no doubt the source of the timely missile. Starbuck and Boomer were both fully suited up and seated in their cockpits. He supposed they might soon have further use for them. Then he turned his attention back to Field Marshal Roberts. "Ma'am. You're with me. And we do be in a hurry."

They didn't run, but stepped lively on their way up to the bridge. "Was there something you wanted from me, Captain?" she asked politely.

Mal wasted no time. "Back there, while we were on our way out...you made it sound like you knew me. I want to know how and why."

She gave him a brief, inscrutable look before facing forward once more. "I've been following your career for quite some time, Captain."

"Why would you do that? We never met during the war. You were never once in my chain of command."

"Oh, no, I'd never even heard of you during the war. And you were less than a footnote afterwards. Some sergeant in Serenity Valley who stepped up and managed to keep a remnant of resistance alive, and afterwards keep the survivors of the survivors functional enough to last until the Alliance could deal with them? Who had to be promoted to Captain on the Alliance's say so..."

"What?!" he blurted in shock.

"You didn't know? The Purple Belly pretty boys were embarrassed, dealing with some low blooded noncom. It offended their sensibilities. They demanded to deal with an officer class, and not some sniveling lieutenant. But, as you will recall, just about all of the officers were dead. Those that remained were shell shocked, injured, or worse. And you were already doing a passable enough job that the UAP Naval Command asked the Independent High Command, busy being disbanded at the time, to promote you. As I recall there was some wanted to block you, to show the Alliance they couldn't have whatever they wanted. The Alliance asked the High Command if they'd rather spend their civilian years as civilians, prisoners, or corpses. Your promotion sailed right through."

Mal stared straight ahead, expressionless for a long moment. "Huh." Taking a deep breath as they continued on their way towards the bridge, he returned to the point. "So why do you know me?"

She paused thoughtfully for several steps before responding. "There weren't all that many notable members of the Independent cause who left the war with their names unsullied and their reputations more or less intact. In truth, the number is depressingly paltry. I've tried to keep up with you all. And you've been making a name for yourself out there on the Border and Rim. But that little bit of news you dropped recently...that takes the cake. That's when I really started checking into you and your crew."

"And what makes you think that was us?"

"Please. You suddenly shot to the top of Interpol's Most Wanted. And then shortly thereafter the news on Miranda is broadcast, and suddenly you're no longer the number one threat. If that's a coincidence, I'll eat my epaulets. It was a good job, by the way. I'm certain I'm not the only one who will have made the connection. You asked why I know about you? Because I was looking for people who weren't ruined or besmirched by the war or the Alliance's efforts afterwards. A rather short list for which you are well aware I do not qualify. As your Mr. Cobb could attest, folks living under oppression need heroes to have hope."

"I ain't no hero," he said with mildly offended bemusement.

"I don't need you to be. Just to play one on TV."

He gave her a rather confused look, but they were just taking the final steps up the corridor and onto the bridge. Wash was at the controls, with River of all people sitting in the copilot's seat. "Wash, what's our status?" he asked.

"We're just leaving atmo now, but we've got a problem. That big cruiser is still out there, and they must have heard what happened. They're headed this way, and they've already demanded we stop."

"A big ugly ship like the Tohoku class?" Roberts cut in. "Can't you outrun them?"

"Sure, if it was just the ship," Wash replied, clearly distressed. "But those twelve fighters they just launched to chase us down...not so much. We're already at full burn and they're catching up. They'll be in missile range in less than a minute."

"What kind of fighters?" Mal asked.

The Field Marshal had sat down at a station uninvited and was already checking camera and sensor feeds. "Alliance Patrol and Enforcement Cutters," she offered. "Looks like there's another dozen ASREVs launching and forming up now, but they're a few minutes behind. Those APECs will blow this ship out from under us long before the ASREVs get here."

"Bodies exposed to vacuum lose consciousness within ten seconds. Bodily fluids boil and muscles swell, cutting off circulation to the brain. Death ensues within less than two minutes," River noted in the same apathetic tone she would use to discuss the morning chores. Roberts appraised the odd girl with interest.

"Wash, Parth is comin' up." Mal noted. "Get that moon between us and the cruiser, and we can drop the NAVSAT decoys and make a real run of it."

"Those fighters'll be on us long before we get to Parth."

"I know." He leaned over a nearby console and flipped on the intercom to the main cargo hold. "We've got guests. Roll out the welcome wagon."

"Well open the barn door," came the cheeky response.

Grumbling, Mal flipped switches, evacuating the atmosphere from the cargo bay and then opening both the inner and outer doors of the forward airlock. He also patched through Serenity's sensor feed. "Keep us straight and steady Wash. Maintain best speed."

"Won't that make us an easy target?" the pilot asked, looking back over his shoulder.

"Relax. You're a leaf on the wind."

"That just sounds wrong when you say it."

"Firefly class transport," a new voice, almost bored sounding, crackled over their speakers, "heave to and prepare to be boarded. Fail to comply and you will be fired upon."

Wash looked back to Mal for instructions. Mal looked down at the exterior feed from the camera above the forward cargo hatch. The sleek image of a Viper was just now sliding out into the black. He looked back up. "Stall them."

"How?" When Mal shook his hand impatiently for Wash to get to the job, the pilot's eyes widened in apprehension as he turned back to his mike and keyed open the channel. After a brief pause he said, "Uhh...negative, negative. We have a...a reactor leak here, uh, now. We have to keep the engines at max to...draw off the power. Give us a few minutes to lock it down. Uh, large leak, very dangerous. But...we're fine. We're all fine here, now. Thank you. How are you?" Rolling his eyes, Mal threw a handy cup at the back of Wash's head. Hoban turned back to look at him with a helpless shrug.

In the view screen, Mal watched the second Viper slipping out of the airlock.

"Cut your engines now or be destroyed!" came the angry response. Blocked from the Alliance view by Serenity's bulk, the pair of Vipers now pulled forward, side-by-side, until they were just far enough ahead of Serenity to be visible to everyone on the bridge looking out the windows. Roberts stood up in interest. Serenity suddenly rocked violently from the nearby detonation of what was quite likely their one and only warning shot.

Mal keyed his radio. "Captain Thrace...would you please do something about this monkey on my back?"

In perfect synchronization, both Vipers suddenly flipped up and back, seemingly scraping past the Serenity's topside by mere centimeters, blossoming missiles as they went. Both Mal and Roberts ducked from sheer instinct. Roberts didn't hesitate though, leaping back to the console where she'd had a rear view pulled up. Just in time to see the Colonial missiles shatter the wing of APECs. Only a couple of them had the reaction speed to deploy countermeasures. For that matter most of them hadn't had the time to dodge. Two thirds of the flight were blown to pieces as the Vipers charged right through the Alliance formation. Roberts gasped at the ease with which the Vipers fired their guns off of their axis of movement by tumbling under violently graceful control. Those guns leaving another three of the APECs shattered bleeding wrecks. The final Alliance cutter was coming around hard...like an aircraft. Not like some whirling dervish. Which meant it was only halfway through the maneuver before two pairs of Colonial autocannon tore it to scrap. The Vipers returned to take up flanking escort positions around Serenity.

"Impressive," the Field Marshal noted huskily. "Tell me more about these friends of yours."

Mal looked at Wash. "Get us to that moon."

"Those ASREVS won't be taken by surprise," Wash noted. "And it's not as though the cruiser doesn't carry a lot more spacecraft besides. They'll still catch us well before we get to Parth."

"One problem at a time." He stepped across to sit facing the Marshal. He ignored her previous question, instead asking with thinly veiled suspicion, "So how exactly were you keeping tabs on us, Marshal Roberts? Weren't you a prisoner? Seems a might peculiar, the Alliance letting you keep tabs on such."

"Captain, why don't you call me Leanne?" she asked somberly. "It'll make life a bit easier. And the Alliance didn't let me do anything. How do you think I've managed to stay sane all these years? A prisoner being trotted out to use against my own people? It's because I kept busy." Mal raised his eyebrows to indicate she should elaborate. "Oh, I wallowed a bit at first. Self-pity. But the enforced isolation and seclusion quickly brought me to the brink of losing my mind. I needed mental exercise. A project. So I fell back on old habits and decided to overthrow the Alliance. It was a hobby. Practically a game. But an effort that allowed me to believe I was still making a difference."

Mal snorted. "So you were delusional."

"Most would probably agree with that assessment. But then I fought with the Independent movement against the juggernaut that was the Union of Allied Planets. Led a pretty significant chunk of it. Most would say that takes a special form of insanity. I think you know something about that."

"That's all kinds of interesting. But you still ain't said what I asked. How do you know me? How were you doin' all these things you claim?"

She sighed. "Because the Alliance is sloppy, lazy, and largely unprofessional. They've always had such an advantage, they've never really had to fix those things. Oh, I suppose it helped that part of my experience in the leadup to the war was setting up an information network...one that still existed, to an extent. But as you say, the real trick was finding a way to access data...and get messages out of course...right under the noses of the people whose job it was to ensure I did none of those things. Like I said, practically a game. Or literally, in some cases. The very first place I gained access to the Cortex signal, I did it by hacking a holographic pool table. As a mutual acquaintance of ours used to say, 'you can't stop the signal, the signal goes everywhere'."

"You knew Mr. Universe?"

"He was part of my information network. A big part of it. Not too long ago, I got an urgent message from him, saying something big was happening. Mentioned you...not by name of course. His signals were just as interceptable as everyone else's. Well, not quite, but craft and procedure are important. Anyway, I was waiting for follow on details that never came."

"He was killed by an Operative."

"That's a tragic loss. He'll be sorely missed." She shrugged. "But back to your question. Access has always been the big challenge, that occupies the bulk of my time. I have minders. Had them, anyway, until you showed up. It was their job to make certain I didn't do any of the things I was doing. So, I had to be covert. More important than that...I had to be boring. I can be very...very boring. I never argued. Never fought back. Never complained about any of their abuses. Spent all my time on 'hobbies,' but nothing suspicious. And when they got bored, they stopped looking so close. I was broken, hopeless, and Independent scum to boot. No one wanted the job of watching me, so it fell to the types who weren't going to do a good job in the first place. Who would have preferred not to have to even interact with me. Mostly anyway. I had to keep an eye out for the occasional professional or hardcore officer. Those types came and went, but never stayed long. So the big challenge was simply finding access that wouldn't tip them off...and finding it repeatedly.

"They moved me periodically, sometimes weekly. But they were also trying to show off how I had betrayed the cause for money and luxury. So they kept me moving around on Bellerophon, from estate to estate. The owners mostly wanted nothing to do with me, didn't even want to be seen with me. Some of them felt the need to take a sudden 'vacation' the moment I arrived. Which suited me of course. My guards would lock down all of the consoles meant for accessing the Cortex, of course. They weren't entirely incompetent. But heaven forbid the estate owners should ever be without their precious signal. Even when they weren't there, their estate needed to be connected, so they could check to ensure their pets were being fed properly, or their icebox was running at the correct temperature. Control freaks. But that meant that there were generally a lot of ways to access the signal, as long as I was mildly surreptitious. As I said, it started with a holographic pool table. It was hooked up so the owner could play virtually with friends on other estates or other worlds. I rigged it to send messages, painfully spelled out by playing the game. A letter correlated to each ball, with the message spelled out by the order the cue ball struck them. I spent hours playing at that table, and my guards didn't even care. Receiving data was a lot easier, as there was a display installed to show scores and messages from the owner's friends and rivals.

"And so it went, each move leading to a new challenge to locate access. Sometimes it was an alarm clock, or smart oven. Once it was a medical toilet. I had to give myself food poisoning for the duration of that particular stay. It was miserable. But each time I would reconnect with my informants, slowly rebuild my intelligence network, and oh so slowly build a new resistance. And each time I would need to remove any traces of my access before we left. The worst were the thankfully rare recluses and survivalists who chose to live off the grid and signal isolated. No connections to any utilities. No smart anything. Living the rough life on their own private flying islands. Or even real islands, in a very few cases. All I could do in those cases was attempt to maintain my boring persona and wait to move on. But the work progressed.

"So I was ready, the first time they took me off world to use against some minor revolution. Which happened all too often. And you'd see the same types of people, over and over again. Folks like yourself, carrying a grudge from the war. Or children who had been too young for the 'glory' of the first war but knew they could do better now that they were old enough. Or just common folks, of varying means, stepped on once too often by the Alliance. Some of them were just rabble rousers. Some were in open rebellion. And I'd be brought in to speak to them and then betray them. To talk them down. Directly if it could be arranged. Or over the Waves if not. Which of course was just another part of the Alliance's effort to destroy my reputation. But it gave me access to more resources. I made contact with them whenever possible. And if they were smart enough, dedicated enough, or just had access to money or resources; I found a way to get them out of the Alliance noose. Gave them new connections. New ways to fight back. Made them part of my network. And if they refused or were stupid and dangerous...I gave them to the Alliance. Locations, how to find them...everything."

"You sold out our brothers to the Alliance?!" Mal hissed in anger.

"The ones who would throw away lives and resources and precious hope because of their own ego and stupidity? The one who would destroy our fragile cause and hand final victory over to the Alliance because they were too blind or too angry to see reason? You're damned right I did. And made myself look invaluable to the Alliance. Everywhere they took me, insurrection simply melted away. And they caught the perpetrators...for public execution as often as not, if you're looking to add to the list of recriminations you'd like to hurl at me...just often enough that they didn't really question how often the rebels just seemed to vanish into the ether. The Alliance was content, the real movement was growing in size and strength, taking on a life of its own...and all it cost me was my honor and reputation. I'll pay that bill, any day of the week."

Mal took a deep breath, tamping down his emotions, and trying to work through all that she had just said. Finally, he latched onto the core point. The only thing of importance in all that she had said. "Are you telling me that you've been building a new Independence movement? That we'll rise again?"

"Yes," she said, and his hope surged...before coming crashing down. "Well, no. Not in the way you mean it. I told you...it's a hobby. A game. I've had time to think. To analyze. To look at how we lost the last war. To consider and reconsider every decision made during those bloody years. And I've come to the conclusion...we did just about everything right. Oh sure, there were inefficiencies. Poor leaders. Even corruption and graft. But that's always going to be the case. We had righteous determination on our side. Public support and morale. The full and complete dedication of the people and societies supporting us. A motivated and dedicated force of volunteer troops. And we were fighting an enemy with low motivation and morale who underestimated us at every turn. And we still lost. Because we never had a chance in the first place. Overwhelming numbers. Overwhelming industry and logistics. We poked a giant because it was newborn and we had no idea what it was. It's only gotten stronger in the years since, and we're but a shadow of what we were. It'll take at least a century...more likely two...before the Border and Rim have anything like the kind of population and industry to have a hope of throwing off the Alliance."

The bridge was silent. River stared with open curiosity at the Field Marshal. Wash pretended to be completely engrossed in flying Serenity, going so far as to repeatedly toggle switches Mal knew didn't do anything of import. Despite his anger and stirrings of despondency, it fell to Mal to respond to her. "Then why do it at all? Why put forth all that effort and risk for a hopeless cause? Why not just...play holo-pool?"

"I told you...girl's gotta have a hobby," she offered with a smirk. However, seeing the look of mingled disgust and hopelessness that washed across the Captain's face, she relented. "If my continued sanity isn't enough of a reason for you...then how about this? Because if we don't start this fight now...build this resistance now...then in a century, or more likely two...when there are Border and Rim worlds with the people and wealth and raw industrial capacity to throw off the Alliance yoke...they won't be Border or Rim worlds anymore. They'll just be more Core worlds, with no desire to throw off a damned thing."

They all looked at her for several long moments. Finally, Mal asked, "Are you sure there's no way to start the fight sooner?"

"Not and win. It'd take a miracle."

He smirked. "I've got access to several. Now..."

"I really hate to interrupt," Wash cut in, "but those ASREVS are gonna be on us any minute. Even if Starbuck and Boomer can win...can they do it and still keep us in one piece? And there's already another flight launching from the cruiser."

Grimly Mal turned to validate what Wash had reported and noted Roberts doing the same. But then a new voice intruded, coming over the intercom. "Captain Reynolds, this is D'Anna. I have an idea, but I need the Raptor, and I need your permission to carry it out."

Unsurprised that the Cylon had managed to hack the ship's intercom, Mal reached over and grabbed up the broadcast handset. "You didn't strike me as the kind to ask permission," he temporized.

"You'd be surprised. Do I have it?"

"I'd have thought you'd have asked Commander Bester...or Starbuck."

"Bester is still unconscious. Doctor Tam says he will be for several more hours. And I have not been required to accept Starbuck or Boomer having any authority over me. And now we're out of time for explanations. I might be able to get us out of this mess, but I need to go now. Your permission?"

He nodded, though he was fairly certain she couldn't see him. "Fine. Do what needs doin'."

"Mal, we've got Shuttle Bay One opening," Wash called out.

"Why do you sound surprised?" River asked. "She said she was taking the Raptor. Shuttle Deployment Arm extending," she noted.

"Isn't that Raptor supposed to be our escape method when...if the Alliance shoots us down. I'd kinda like to have it handy about now."

"Give her a chance," Mal said under his breath, standing and stepping closer to the forward windows to get a glimpse of the Raptor. The Colonial craft, notably smaller than one of their standard shuttles, flew forward and into the spot formerly held by the Vipers...the one shielded from the view of the Tohoku and her spacewing.

Roberts also rose to watch with mild interest, leaning against her former chair. Until the Raptor vanished in a flash of light. "Holy fuck! What the hell just happened?"

"You'll keep a civil tongue on my ship, Marshal," Mal drawled calmly.

"Tāmāde! You're seriously worried about vulgarity when that ship just… There's no debris so it didn't blow up. And you all seem completely unphased. So…" She turned and stared intently into Mal's eyes, and he once again got that feeling of being weighed and assessed right down to his toenails.

"The cruiser just cut acceleration by half," Wash called out, surprise in his voice. "They're broadcasting."

"Put it up," Mal ordered, intrigued. He reached over to a nearby panel and keyed up the rear facing view. The Tohoku was fairly distant, but Serenity had some capacity to zoom, and the view swept past the onrushing fighters to focus in on the cruiser. A cruiser that seemed to be venting plasma in several locations. A cruiser that was firing all of its point defense weaponry.

Wash had transferred the transmission to the bridge speakers. "All fighters! All fighters! Return to base! We are under attack! I repeat, return to base, we are under attack!" The voice, sounding more than a little panicked, began to repeat. Mal zoomed the camera feed back out, which gave them a perfect view of the flight of ASREVs turning about to get back to their beleaguered cruiser.

Mal gestured for Wash to cut the feed. "Get us to that moon, while we've got the opening. And get the decoys ready."

"Welcome back," River suddenly said, a pair of heartbeats before there was a flash of light directly before them. The light receded to reveal the Raptor. Mal noted with interest that the pylons, formerly bristling with ordinance, were all but empty.

"Permission to come aboard, Captain?" D'Anna's voice crackled over the speakers. Mal could feel the self-satisfaction through the coms channel.

"Good work. Permission granted. We kept the light on for you," he replied. Pleased himself, he glanced over at Marshal Roberts…to find her leveling that same piercing, weighing stare at him once more. The smile slipped from his face.

"Well, Captain Reynolds, it seems you do indeed have access to miracles. I think you'd better tell me all about your new friends. Spare no detail. And while we're at it…let me know if you're willing to give me access to a radio. Unless I miss my guess, I think we might want to talk quickly, before that man in your infirmary wakes up." The smile she gave him was downright predatory.

Mal matched it with a smile of his own. "Ō, zhè zhēn shì gè kuàilè de jìnzhǎn."

---

The Nova, Nebula near Miranda, The Verse - February, 2250
Doctors Stephen Franklin and Maximilian Eilerson sat at the center of the darkened briefing room, adjusting the various displays and data feeds before them. They were busy collecting and collating information, though largely they were simply waiting for the invited attendees to arrive. "How do you think they'll react?" Stephen asked.

"If it were my project? I'd have them eating out of the palm of my hand," Max replied deadpan. "For you? Just be glad Sheridan doesn't seem to favor firing squads."

Stephen snorted, "You're a real soft touch, you know that?"

"If you want someone to kiss your fears away, see that pretty blonde girlfriend of yours. I don't sugar coat things. But if you want advice...just be honest. They made the decision to head down this path."

"It was my idea."

"And they approved it. If they choose to hang you out to dry...there's nothing you can do about it now."

They continued to work in silence until the meeting time finally arrived. Commodore Sheridan was the first to arrive, accompanied by his XO, Commander Laurel Takashima. Stephen stood and offered a sharp salute, while Max continued to lounge in amusement. Before Sheridan had taken his seat, a pair of Adamas and President Roslin were arriving, and Stephen turned to greet them. They had a number Six Cylon with them. Stephen assumed it was Natalie Faust based upon her dress, but it could also have been Sonja. Fortunately, the leaders of the Sixes were mostly distinguishable. It almost certainly wasn't Caprica, who tended to always be in the company of either Baltar or one of Tessa's friends...usually Lyta or Talia. Stephen hadn't been in the loop on the peculiar enhancements of that particular group for all that long. He'd wanted to run tests on them to see how they'd diverged from baseline humans...or even telepaths or Cylons...but Tessa had firmly put her foot down, and they had the Commodore in their corner, so he had been limited to basic physicals to ensure continued health.

As the rest were taking their seats, Garibaldi was the last to arrive. "Dr. Franklinstein I presume?" he asked, nodding to Stephen with a smirk.

"Very funny."

"I do try, Doc. We ready to start this thing?" Michael asked, taking his own seat.

Nodding Stephen turned down the lights a bit further, and then brought up a series of images on the screens before the group. Most of the images were of Reaver Bob, though several were of a Reaver vessel in space. They cleared, and then all screens coordinated to display one large image...a disturbing closeup on Reaver Bob' face. "Thank you all for coming today. I was asked to provide an update on the Reaver project. There are significant developments on which to report."

"Yes, Doctor. How is your experiment in sociology going?" Roslin inquired. Stephen sensed an undertone of disapproval. He just hoped that didn't turn to outright condemnation.

"Allow me to begin with a quick recap. As you know, viral infection of the subject Reaver was successful, producing a subject who became willing to speak with us once the initial withdrawal and adaptation period had passed. Adjustment during this period was aided by the provision of fungal foodstuffs, including psilocybin bearing varieties. Post transition, subject still showed signs of significant aggression and tendencies towards what would, in baseline humans, be deemed sociopathic or even psychopathic behavior. However, communication, social interaction, understanding, bargaining, and potentially even social contracts and covenants between modified Reavers and humans appear to have become possible. However, it became necessary to see how modified Reavers would behave betwixt each other. So, with your approval, we undertook the next logical step of the experiment."

Touching a control, Stephen changed the image behind them to the interior of a small shuttle...packed with bodies. Franklin continued. "Without discussing our actions with the subject, he was sedated and placed, unconscious, aboard this shuttle. Twenty bodies of the very recently deceased, hopefully to be considered acceptable foodstuffs to the Reavers..."

"Whose bodies were they?" Roslin interrupted.

"There were no Colonial or Cylon citizens selected, Madam President," he quickly reassured. "Neither did we feel it was appropriate to use expiring Alliance officers or service men or women who were recovered after the recent battle. All bodies came from Earth Force service persons, whose enlistment contract and our current state of Martial Law allowed for this...disposition." Sheridan grimaced, but said nothing, merely indicating that Stephen should continue. "We infested the Reaver, the cadavers, and the entire interior of the shuttle with ticks, themselves infested by the requisite bacterium. The shuttle was then towed to and set adrift in the vicinity of a known Reaver vessel. The Reavers located and took possession of the shuttle within eight hours of the shuttle being cast loose."

Eilerson cut in. "And that's where I come in. Doctor Franklin brought me into the project so that I could observe and analyze the societal structure and interactions of the Reavers. They seemed to accept Bob...sorry, the medical staff had taken to calling the subject 'Reaver Bob'... without question. However, it was made immediately clear that he was at the very bottom of whatever social structure they possessed. Within a day of his introduction, the entire crew of the Reaver vessel had been infected, and were more or less incapacitated by the initial effects of the meat allergy."

"More or less?" Admiral Adama asked.

"While symptoms and reactions were largely similar, not all of the Reavers experienced them to the same degree or duration as Reaver Bob. A minority refused to accept their inability to eat flesh, forcing themselves to consume it again and again, becoming more violently ill each time. Most of these eventually relented when the side effects became severe enough, but perhaps three percent of the overall population continued to ingest meat until it killed them. On the other hand, a great many seem to be taking an easier course to their new reality. This largely comes down to Bob. He's supporting those who were...friendly, or perhaps tolerant is a better word, towards him. Apparently counseling them against eating meat and switching to the mushrooms. He's also taken control of the entire stock of psilocybin mushrooms and is providing them solely to those who...well, who fall into line. Bob's influence is skyrocketing. Not just because the others are too sick to oppose him. By now, a majority of the Reavers on that vessel are actively deferential towards him."

"How do you know all this?" Apollo asked. "I'm assuming you haven't got a spy on board that ship. And it seems unlikely that your pet Reaver is filing reports."

It was Garibaldi who answered. "I provided microcameras to the doc. Had them mounted on two or three out of every thousand ticks. We also installed a covert transponder onto the exterior hull of the shuttle, with its own power supply. It picks up the signal from the cameras and routes it back to us via tight-beam transmission."

"And what if the Reavers on that ship had noticed your communicator...taken it out?"

"Then we'd have had to find a different way to check up on them...but they didn't."

"What else can you tell us about the Reavers," Sheridan asked, bringing the discussion back on topic.

"Not much," Max replied. "We haven't had all that long observing them, and most of them have been rather…indisposed, during much of that time. But what we've seen since is extremely interesting. Given how quickly the entire crew succumbed to the infection, it's hard to say whether the culture we now see emerging is a continuation of what they had before, some modification of it, or entirely new. But given how solid it seems, my money is on the former."

"So there is a culture?" Roslin asked, clearly intrigued.

"Without a doubt. It's obviously patriarchal and apparently clan oriented. There seems to be a quite unique…almost bizarre, really… mix of hunter-gatherer, pastoral, and post-industrial societies. I could go into great detail, but what I suppose you are most interested in is how they play with others. And in that regard, they are incredibly violent, even between each other. It plays a significant, though not overarching, part in how they establish hierarchy. As has been mentioned previously, their individual psyches tend to fall somewhere between sociopathic and psychopathic. However, keeping this in check, we have seen indications of a strict behavioral code tied into the hierarchy and interpersonal interactions. We've been picking up on various conversations aboard that ship…the tick cameras included audio feed. Though Reaver conversations tend toward brevity, even terseness, it is perhaps unsurprising that the word 'honor,' has come up multiple times. Judging by the most likely analogues we can draw from both human and alien cultures…this is likely to be what we would consider a somewhat barbaric variety of honor, though possibly quite refined. Most probably tied to martial prowess and loyalty to the clan, state, or species. Again, I must caution that this analysis is entirely preliminary, based off of a very limited sample over a very brief course of time. A time during which this population was swept up by a life changing disease. It is entirely possible…entirely likely…that our findings are incomplete. Possibly even wrong. Though I doubt it." Max smirked. "I'm pretty good at my job."

The group sat in silence briefly, mulling Eilerson's report. The quiet was broken by Garibaldi's grunt, as he turned to Franklin and offered, "Congratulations, Doc. You made Klingons."

"Excuse me?" Stephen asked, baffled.

Looking around, Michael realized that no one had picked up on the reference. "Never mind. Bad analogy. Let's go with Minbari. You made your own artificial Minbari."

Stephen shook his head. "The Minbari generally aren't this violent, and they don't kill for pleasure…that I am aware of. If I'm being honest, your first analogy may have been the correct one."

"Klingons? I didn't think you got…"

"No," Stephen cut in, shaking his head. "Frankenstein's monster. I've pieced together something no one's even seen before. Take a baseline human. A touch of G-23 Paxilon Hydrochlorate. A few decades of barbarity. Fold in some advanced tick-bite-meat-allergy. And tack on some psilocybin to top it all off. Wala! Doctor Franklinstein's monster. This is probably…no, definitely…the craziest thing I've ever done. Hell, from a certain point of view, you might even say that I've brought these creatures back from the dead."

"Am I detecting a certain amount of remorse, Stephen?" Sheridan asked, sternly but not unkindly.

"Maybe. I just don't know."

"Well, what I need to know is whether we choose to expand this little experiment further, or strangle it in the cradle. Based on what's just been described, I'm leaning towards the latter. The three analogies that have been laid out are a monster out of ancient literature, judging from what I know of Colonel Garibaldi, some kind of sci-fi monster from the twentieth or twenty-first century, or the monster species that destroyed the Earth Alliance. That's not a cheerful set to consider. You're basically telling me that at best we've transformed one monster into another. Is there any reason to keep this going?"

Stephen hesitated. "You have to tell him," Max prodded.

"Tell me what?"

Taking a deep breath to brace himself, Stephen replied, "That there are two reasons to continue. The first is that simply…it may be too late to stop. Well…I suppose your stated alternative was wiping the Reavers out entirely. Which I suppose is entirely possible. But I would again urge you to make genocide the last possible recourse. Sir…"

"Why too late?" Sheridan asked sternly, cutting him off.

"Because our Reaver was more clever than I gave him credit for. Or perhaps I was less clever. He noticed the presence of the ticks, and figured out why they were there…why there were so many of them. Commodore, he's been actively, covertly spreading the ticks to every Reaver on board that ship. What's more, the vessel has had contact with no less than four other Reaver vessels. Reaver Bob initiated trade with these vessels, and in exchange for parts, gave them some of the bodies, which he ensured were heavily infested with the ticks. He also surreptitiously placed ticks directly onto the Reavers who came aboard to facilitate the trade."

"Why would he help us to spread the infection?" Roslin asked.

"Misery loves company?" Lee suggested. "Or maybe he's just trying to save his own skin. If the Reavers figure out what is happening before it's fully spread, they might try to root out the source of the disease. Amputate the infected. The Reavers don't strike me as the types to hesitate to wipe out any of their own people they thought might be a threat."

Takashima spoke up for the first time. "Maybe he just sees the benefit to his people," she offered hopefully. "Commander Franklin, you said being divorced from the feeding cycle increased their cognition, capacity to reason, and long-term planning. And didn't diminish their physical abilities in any notable capacity. That sounds like a win for them, doesn't it?"

"It's a power play," Bill cut in. "Plain and simple." He nodded to Franklin. "You already mentioned how he's rising to the top of the power structure on that ship. Your pet Reaver wants to be king."

"I'm afraid you are probably correct, Admiral," Stephen said. "Which brings me to the second reason we might want to continue this effort. The Reavers…or at least our Reaver…are willing to work with us." He struck a key, and all of the screens blanked, before displaying an image of what appeared to be a storage hold aboard the Reaver vessel. Given the camera's position atop one of the corpses which had been sent with Reaver Bob, it was clear the feed was from one of the tick-cams.

There was the sound of a hatch opening followed by footsteps, and suddenly large, blackened fingers swooped across the screen, plucking up the tick from its resting place. The camera view swooped, panning sickeningly, until it displayed the scarred, filthy face of Reaver Bob, holding the tick out at arms length. He was apparently alone in the hold. He spoke directly to the camera, sharpened and befouled teeth on full display. "You have done this to me, humans. Doctor Franklin. You are responsible. You have done this to me, and now you will do for me. Bring me more bodies, more of the blood parasites, and more of the mind mushrooms. Bring them to me, and I will have every Reaver converted within two months. Try to go around me, and the rest shall be warned. Your efforts will fail. You did this for a reason. My people, converted or not, need an enemy. Need prey. I propose a covenant. Provide me what I need, and your enemies shall be the enemies of the people…those of us you name Reavers. And your people shall be…left alone. Ignore me, try to unseat me, and I shall still spread your venom, but the Reavers I create shall prey on you and you alone. Bring me what I need…have the Doctor bring me what I need…and our pact shall be sealed." Reaver Bob's fingers snapped shut, smashing the camera and abruptly ending the feed.

Stephen looked about somberly. "As I said, I underestimated him. This mess is entirely my fault."

"We approved your project, Doctor," Bill offered quietly. "And again before you infected that ship. There's plenty of blame to go around. But right now, we need to decide whether or not we're going to take him up on his offer."

"It's too dangerous," Roslin warned. "With all due respect for Doctor Franklin's sensibilities, we need to put these dogs down now. If we accept them, we'll have to deal with them sooner or later. Who knows how dangerous a unified and controlled nation of Reavers might be? We'd be setting them loose on humans. And our whole purpose is for the Alliance not to be our enemies indefinitely. If we succumb to them or they succumb to us or we just come up with a lasting peace…at that point this weapon we're crafting will be pointed straight at us. Wipe them out. It's the wisest course, with likely the least suffering."

Sheridan drummed his fingers on the table before him. "Our friend the Operative…which sounds awfully pretentious, if he won't tell us his name, I say we just assign him one…he would say that we have an obligation to use this tool to create a better world. If we have to deal with the Reavers sooner or later, why not make it later and get some use out of them now? I'm not sure I agree with that reasoning, but perhaps we should at least consider it."

"The Reavers are disorganized now," Garibaldi advised. "If we allow them to become unified and organized under a single leader, one who builds their combat ability and knows that we specifically are out here…that could be a hell of a lot harder fight."

"But it allows us to deal with one threat at a time," the elder Adama noted. "We chose to work with Cylons, even when we thought it would bite us in the ass later on. You Earthers chose to bring as many telepaths as possible, even though you knew it might lead to social conflict. We can work with Reavers too. Maybe our luck will hold and it will even turn out as positively as those other risks."

"What do you think, Natalie?" Sheridan asked the Cylon, who also had yet to speak up.

She stared at her interlaced fingers for several seconds. "I was just remembering something Doctor Franklin had said before we started all this." She looked directly at Stephen. "You said that you could see the possibility of an actual cure for the Reavers. It was just that it would take years to achieve. Is there anything about their new state that would prevent this eventual cure from working on them?"

Franklin hesitated, thinking. "No…I suppose not."

"Then the Reavers can be useful now, and we can offer them the cure when it becomes available. Perhaps they will even take it willingly. But if we reach the point where they become our enemies…then we use the cure on them, whether they like it or not. This conflict with the Alliance seems likely to drag out for years. Doctor Franklin and his associates have time to find their cure." She turned back to John. "You asked me what I think. It's more important what I believe. The Cylons have been through a lot. We've learned some hard lessons. We believe in life. We practiced genocide once. Never again. I can't control your actions. I can only beg you to listen to the Doctor. Genocide must be the final resort."

Roslin stared at the blonde for several long moments. "I withdraw my objection. Let's make contact with Reaver B….Doctor, find out what his real name is," she ended in irritation.

"It seems we have consensus," Sheridan noted.

The words were no sooner out of his mouth, than Captain Sinclair burst through the hatch behind him. "Commodore, Admiral…we have a problem."

---

The Pegasus, Nebula near Miranda, The Verse - February, 2250
"Do we have a problem?" Marshal Roberts asked quietly, looking around at a cordon of heavily armed troops as the passengers and crew strolled uncertainly down Serenity's ramp.

"Problem?" Mal asked unconvincingly. "No problem. Why would there be a problem?"

"They don't look particularly happy," Zoë commented as expressionlessly as she could muster.

"Mal," Inara asked, growing concerned at the obvious hostility washing off of the troops…troops whose arms, while not pointed directly at them, were held in obvious readiness rather than being slung at ease, "what did you do?"

"Why would you assume he did something," Commander Bester asked in confusion. And then he caught a hint of a thought seeping out of Captain Reynold's mind. Spinning, he repeated the question. "What did you do?!"

"My question exactly," Admiral William Adama barked, striding up through the line of Marines. He was joined in a group by President Roslin, Commodore Sheridan, Colonel Garibaldi, Commander Lee Adama, and a pair of Sixes. "You have a lot of explaining to do."

"Commander Bester," Sheridan snapped, eyes hard and uncompromising, "you were supposed to be keeping an eye on this mission. Just what in the hell do you think you were doing?"

"I'm sorry, Commodore," Bester replied, snapping to attention, "I don't really know what you are referring to. I'm just now coming to understand that something additional transpired."

"I find that hard to believe, coming from a former PsiCop!"

"It's not his fault," D'Anna cut in, speaking up from the back of the group that had disembarked from Serenity. She glanced nervously over her shoulder, noting that the Marines behind them had closed in to encircle them. "He was shot…twice…on the mission. He spent more than a day unconscious. If anything happened, it must have been then."

Several pairs of hard eyes considered her. There was more than a little animosity radiating off of the Cylons. But then Boomer unexpectedly spoke up from where she also stood at rigid attention. "That's correct, Admiral. And if anything happened, it got past Starbuck and me as well. We were…all a little busy dealing with the Alliance forces coming after us. Things got a bit hairy, Sir."

"You must be Admiral Adama," Roberts said, choosing that moment to step forward and grab his attention. Then she made eye contact with John and Laura. "Commodore Sheridan. President Roslin. I'm sorry, I haven't gotten enough of a primer on your various command structures to put a name to the rest of you. For that matter, what I was told more than stretched the limits of credulity. It's only the view of ten massive capital ships, all of unknown make, and the awesome sight of a captured Crete carrier on our flight in that really made this all feel real. I'm Field Marshal Leanne Roberts." She held out her hand to Adama first, as he was the closest of the leaders.

Bill looked down at her proffered hand, but didn't shake it. "And are you responsible?"

"Responsible for what?" Mal snapped, stepping forward in annoyance. "For doing the job you sent us out to do? You're welcome. Not only did we bring back the Marshal, we also acquired medical data and more info on the origins of the 'Verse, just as you asked. What more do you want from us?"

"What we want," Sheridan said coldly, "is an explanation as to why seventeen different groups have begun rebellions against the Union of Allied Planets. Why no less than five different worlds have arrested their Alliance bureaucrats, taken up arms, and declared independence. Why there is bloodshed and chaos springing up all over the 'Verse. Why all of these nominally separate movements have declared their…and I quote: 'fraternity and association with the government and peoples of the Colonial Earth Alliance.' Curious, isn't it, how these independent groups somehow all leapt to action at the same time. And how they all felt the need to declare their alliance with a group none of them have ever met or interacted with. A group, by the way, that doesn't even exist! The Colonies and the Earth Alliance are two separate peoples!" His anger was beginning to seep through his stony facade, so he stopped and took a moment to regain his composure. "We'd like an explanation for all of that. And the word 'coincidence' had better not come out of your mouth."

Mal had shrunk slightly under the tirade, but answered immediately. "Oh. That. I don't know. I find such news quite encouraging."

"We made it quite clear," Adama snarled, "that we had no intention of fighting the Alliance. That it was our goal to find some sort of arrangement with them. Don't pretend you didn't understand that."

"Yes, I understood your goals. But those weren't my goals."

"Nor mine," Roberts added.

"I took a job from you," Mal continued, "and I delivered on everything I agreed to do. The rest…wasn't anything we made part of the deal.

"The Alliance has the same advantages over us as it did over your Independent movement," Roslin advised somberly. "Population, industry, and resources. The only way we win a fight is to utterly destroy them. To rain down the kind of destruction the Cylons brought to the Colonies or the Minbari brought to the Earth Alliance. None of us wants to see that…to be responsible for that. Do you? Anything longer than a brief war will see the Alliance address their shortcoming, and come back stronger and stronger until they grind us under their heel. Just as they did with you." She spread her gaze equally between Reynolds and Roberts. "But that all could have been avoided. The Alliance proposed talks. We might have worked something out. But they'll never believe we weren't behind this mess you've created now."

"Yes," Roberts said bluntly. "That was the idea."

Sheridan and Roslin stiffened identically, then both turned about and walked out. The Admiral gave them a more thoughtful look before similarly leaving without a word. Their subordinates turned and followed. Only Garibaldi stayed behind, stepping forward and giving Mal a somewhat sympathetic look. "Commander Bester, Captain Thrace, Lieutenant Valerii, and Ms. Biers…report to debriefing. Marines…take the rest of them to…guest quarters. Let's remember that they're guests. Normal movement restrictions in place."

"I'm guessing those movement restrictions mean we're not free to leave?" Marshal Roberts asked.

"No, you are not," Michael confirmed.

"Well, I just came from captivity, and it's not like I could take a stroll off the Serenity. So I suppose nothing has really changed."

"Everything has changed. You saw to that. You also have quite a way with the brass. You sure that was a wise move? You pushed them pretty hard back there."

"Yes. That was the idea," she replied, repeating herself. "Your leaders know the facts of what the Alliance did, they understand the horrors of Miranda and the Reavers, but they still don't have a feel, down in their guts, for just what the Alliance is. They still have some hope. The Alliance's next move will prove their stripes. Maybe your people will even be right. But I wouldn't bet on it. You're the intelligence chief, right? The thing you need to guard against most is giving up your advantages…your technology and strength…for empty Alliance promises. Because I can promise you…they'll only come back and use them against you in the end."

Thoughtfully, Garibaldi waved for the Marines to take them away.