SUMMARY:  Post-Serenity story.  When these five kinds [of spies] are all at work, none can discover the secret system.  This is called divine manipulation of the threads. -Sun Tze

RATING: R for gratuitous cursing in several languages.

THANKS:  Huge thanks to Em Meredith, of course, for months of hand-holding and beta services extraordinaire.  Thanks also to Jo March, Carmen Sandiego, Philateley, QofMush, Sosmitten, and Edanielrya for early encouragement, feedback, and invaluable betaing.

GLOSSARY: All Chinese words and phrases used in this story are contained in this glossary.

*****

All warfare is based on deception.  --Sun Tze.

*****

"APP3500658."

Mal roused from his half-doze, but didn't bother to swivel the pilot's chair around to face her.  "Evenin', River."  These days, she roamed the ship all hours, slipping in and out of places she had no business being.  Mal didn't have the heart to tell her to quit.

Was a bit past 0200 hours, and most nights he was the only crew member awake.  He'd taken to sitting up for the late shift, feeling a responsibility to his pilot-less ship, even if it forced him to sit up here in Wash's seat with Wash's dinosaurs eyeing him suspicious-like.

Mal stole a look at River, makin' sure she didn't catch that last ridiculous thought.  He could just see her announcing middle of dinner that the Cap'n felt guilty every time he looked at a bunch of toys.  But River stood just inside the hatch, one pale hand tracing patterns on the gun cabinet, not sparing Mal or his guilt a glance.

Maybe staying up nights was a bit of penance.  Zoe'd got him through that gorram war, just like he'd got her through, but neither one of 'em was quite right after it all ended.  Viewing things from an objective standpoint, she'd been doing a sight better than Mal, least until Wash fell.  Since then, she'd been different, diminished, even though she tried to hide it.  For all of their sakes, Mal wished he could've done something to prevent her from backsliding.

"Not sliding," River murmured from behind him, in that creepifying voice she used when she was speaking out of turn.  "Falling.  Like a leaf on the wind."

Memory came back with brutal clarity, Wash keeping them all from a fiery death as he crash-landed Serenity.  No style points, but she was down, and thank God for that, he'd thought, trying not to let himself feel relief since they had a long way to go, and it would only get worse.  Then Wash was gone with unforgivable suddenness, and Zoe's ragged voice -- the memory scraped against Mal's raw nerves, and he couldn't come up with a single thing to say to River in response.

"He didn't get taken away, not all the way."  River edged into his peripheral vision, moving in that graceful, tentative way of hers as she settled into the empty co-pilot seat.  "She sees him every night."  Mal glanced over at River, who had a dreamy look on her face, and one small hand pressed tightly to her chest.  "Right here," she added, her fingers tapping against her breastbone.

Mal could find nothing of importance to add to the one-sided conversation, so he simply turned his gaze to the black, staring into the vast emptiness flowing before them.

"APP3500658," River murmured, leaning forward.  "Needs my help."

Mal pulled his old infantry blanket more tightly around his shoulders to ward off a chill, almost liking the way it scratched the back of his neck.  "You speakin' in some sort of code, little albatross?"

"Albatross," she echoed, curling her legs up to her body.  "Mollymawks are in trouble."

"Mollymawks?" he asked, frowning a bit.  Sounded familiar, but he couldn't quite match it up to anything in his recollection.  Turning his chair a fraction, he let his gaze settle on River's tiny form, swathed in layers of gauzy fabric, with a sweater over the top that probably hung all the way down to her knees.

"Mollymawks fly," she continued, resting her chin on her drawn-up knee, staring out at the black.  "Graceful.  Efficient."

"So they're birds," Mal deduced, a little worried that she was back to sending out words in scattershot bursts instead of stringing together sentences other people could mostly comprehend.  She'd been pretty coherent of late -- least for River.  "Earth-That-Was?"

"Birds we learn about at school.  Trapped," she answered, her expression clouded.  She lifted her arm, gazing solemnly at her own pale skin as if it revealed the secrets of the 'verse.  "Caged and cut."

Studying her closely for signs of an impending episode, Mal answered with a noncommittal hum.  She'd been better since the Reavers, and that worried Mal more than he liked to admit.  That room -- she'd taken down least a dozen Reavers her own self, and yet she seemed... fine.  Better, even.  Didn't make a lick of sense.

"You don't know," River said, a bitter smile curving her lips.  "You can't know.  But he knows."

"Who knows?"

"APP3500658," she answered promptly, turning to face him, the curtain of her hair partially obscuring her face.

"So not code so much as a person," Mal concluded, still not sure where she was going with this.  "Well, I don't know any APP-whatever, so--"

"You do know," River interrupted, straightening a bit.  He could tell she was struggling for lucidity.  She turned to face him, eyes wide and intense.  "He's waiting.  Every day it's worse.  He was the first, and I was the last, but not for long."

Stumped, Mal shrugged, wishing, like always, that he could ease her troubles.  He felt responsible for all his crew, but this girl -- if they'd won the war, there wouldn't have been an Alliance to cut her mind to pieces.  "I'm not following, little albatross."

Abruptly, she was on her feet, glaring angrily down at him.  "Listen, but don't hear," she fumed.  "APP3500658 was the first mollymawk.  It's not right to keep a caged bird."

"Okay," Mal agreed, amiable enough now that she was trying for sentences.  He flashed a grin at her.  "That's part of why I don't allow pets on Serenity."

"We're not pets," River shouted, tossing a crumpled piece of paper at him before storming off the bridge.

Frowning, Mal turned his chair to watch her, hair trailing behind like a banner.  He looked down at the paper he'd caught reflexively, ignoring his apprehension as he smoothed it out.  

It was a drawing, quick, angry strokes of ink bringing to life a prisoner, dressed in old-fashioned black-and-white stripes, curled in a ball in the corner of what Mal could only assume was his cell.  The rendering chilled him in a way his blanket couldn't quite counteract.  Somehow, River had managed to convey despair and desperation in the lines of the prisoner's body.  Along the bottom, she'd scrawled, "Australia."

Mal wasn't one for premonitions and such, but he'd been 'round the 'verse long enough to trust his own instincts.  Even without knowing what River was on about, Mal had a bad feeling it wouldn't take them anyplace good.  He brought the galaxy map online, typed in "Australia," and waited for a response.

*****

Simon traced patterns on the golden skin of Kaylee's back, pressed up tight against her in her cramped bunk.  She huffed a laugh, already settling into the pillows to sleep.  She always dozed off, after, leaving Simon to watch her and wonder at his luck.  What could someone so vibrant, so carefree, possibly see in an uptight, intergalactic fugitive such as himself?

"Mmm," Kaylee murmured, trailing her warm palm up his thigh.  "Feels good."

"Good," Simon answered, not fully aware that his mindless patterns had shifted into Chinese characters half-remembered from Mme. Thibodeaux's class.  Kaylee's tousled brown hair hid her cheek, and he reached up to tuck the strands gently behind her ear.  Without lifting his fingers from her skin, he trailed down her lovely neck, across her shoulder, looped down around her shoulder blade, and then journeyed down the expanse of her spine.

"You got such lovely hands," Kaylee told him, arching up into his caress with a sigh.  "You touch me so nice, Simon."

"You're nice to touch," he admitted, turning onto his side to face her more fully in the narrow confines of her bunk.  She loved to be touched, thrilled in it like an affection-starved cat.  She was different from Simon, who had always been secure in his intellectual talents, but had never really understood the allure of mindless physical pleasure.  Under Kaylee's spell, however, being touched for no reason other than her pleasure and his was starting to make some sense.

Kindness, he traced onto her skin, letting his mind drift as he lay his head on the pillow.  He was terrible with words, especially around Kaylee.  She made him over into an inarticulate imbecile, so he traced all of the things he knew he should say to her into her skin, hoping she'd be able to feel what he meant.  Beauty.  He'd never thought of himself as having a type -- hadn't dated enough to find any sort of common thread -- but she was just so beautiful.  Pretty face, pretty body, pretty personality, all added up to an earthy kind of beauty the likes of which he'd never seen on Osiris.  Home.

Simon's hand stopped short, his fingers barely touching her.  Home?  Where had that come from?

Kaylee shifted beneath him, grumbling, "No, don't stop."

But he couldn't not, stunned into inaction with his association of Kaylee with the concept of home.  He wasn't sure how he felt about the revelation.  Home used to be Osiris; since he'd gotten River out, home had been wherever he could keep her safe, which to his surprise had come to mean Serenity.

But Kaylee?  Was she already that important to him, as important as River?  The thought made him uncomfortable in a way he couldn't really identify.  It felt almost... threatening, which he couldn't begin to understand.

"Simon?" Kaylee asked, fully awake now and rolling onto her side so she could look him in the face.  She reached up, tracing a line along his jaw until her touch made him shiver.  "What's wrong?"

"What?  Nothing," he lied, and unconvincingly, judging by the way her expression crumpled.  He hated that he had the ability to hurt her, and the propensity to do it often and unwittingly.  Yet that didn't stop him from sitting up and reaching for his trousers.

"Time to go already," Kaylee observed.  She was a terrible actress, her hurt and insecurity bleeding into every word.  She half-sat behind him, not bothering to pull the sheets up to cover her nudity.

"I'm sorry, ài rén," he said, same as every night.  "I have to be there--"

"In case she has a nightmare," Kaylee cut him off, her eyes downcast.  "I know."

But she didn't.  Or more accurately, she knew his reasoning but disagreed with his conclusions.  They'd had the same discussion countless times already, and he knew that soon it would evolve into an argument.  Simon suspected his torn loyalties would be the thing that eventually split them up.  The mere thought of such an outcome was surprisingly painful, considering they'd only been together a few short months.

Simon shrugged into his shirt and turned to her, that lush body only half-covered by rumpled floral sheets, her hair obscuring her face as she picked at her tattered quilt.  "I'm sorry," he said again, leaning down, his hand landing on her shoulder.  She turned her face up to receive his kiss, but her expression was still troubled when he straightened.

"Go," she told him, remaining propped up on one elbow, watching him with big, sad eyes as he climbed the ladder.  He wondered when he'd adjust to being with Kaylee, when he'd be comfortable enough to invite her to stay with him in his cabin, regardless of River's presence across the hall.  More to the point, he wondered how many more times Kaylee would let him leave her at night before forcing the issue.

Reflexively, Simon glanced up at the bridge when he stepped out of Kaylee's quarters, still half-expecting to see Wash's spiky blonde hair though it'd been months since Miranda.  It was Mal at the helm, of course, and tonight he swiveled the pilot's chair around and pinned Simon with an inscrutable look.

Flushing, Simon raised one hand in a tentative wave.  Mal crooked a finger in response, and Simon wondered if this was going to be one of the Captain's lectures on shipboard romances, or maybe another chorus of, You Break Her Heart, I Break Your Neck, Cheerfully.

Simon knew it was late, closing in on 0300.  He'd stayed too long away from the passenger cabins already, but Mal didn't look particularly genial.  Resigned, Simon heeded the Captain's wordless summons and trudged up to the bridge.

"Out mighty late," Mal observed, his expression curmudgeonly, but no more so than normal.

Simon nodded, running a self-conscious hand through his hair.  His shirt was properly buttoned, but not tucked into his trousers, and he felt a little uncomfortable with the way the Captain was eyeing him.  Mal hesitated, but did not press the subject of Kaylee.  Concerned now, Simon stepped farther onto the bridge, letting his gaze settle on the starscape outside.  From here, safely inside and grounded by the gravdrive, he could appreciate its austere beauty.

"You recognize this?" Mal asked, and when Simon turned, the Captain was holding up a bold drawing of -- he leaned closer -- a prisoner in a cell.

Curious, Simon held out one hand.  "May I?"

"'Course."

Moving closer to the center of the room, Simon tilted the paper to make the most of the available light.  The rendering was spare and compelling, and Simon knew by the sudden tightness in his gut who had drawn it.  "River?"

Mal leaned forward in his chair, hands folded together, elbows on his knees.  "Yes.  Don't rightly know what Australia is.  Nothing comes up on the Cortex."

Glancing back down, Simon saw the word, traced it absently.  Australia.  It was -- Simon lifted one hand to his temple, as if to draw the memory to the surface.  "I think Australia was a country," he ventured, wishing he'd paid more attention in History.  Of course, Osiris Prep spent more class time on the glories of opening the border planets to the less fortunate than on the evolution and devolution of--

"Earth-That-Was?" Mal guessed, eyebrows lifting.

Simon nodded.  "I'll have to do some research.  I don't remember much."

Mal considered that.  "So you don't know who that is?"

"Should I?"

The Captain shrugged.  "She was having some trouble with coherence," he explained, his expression grim.  "Kept calling him a mollymawk.  Some kind of bird, I gather."

Dread flared low and heavy in Simon's gut.  She'd been doing better, hours at a time of the winsome, brilliant girl he remembered.  Not perfect, of course, and Simon had tried to give up the hope that she ever could recover fully.  But the latest protocol seemed to have helped keep River on a more even keel, and her flashbacks had eased a bit since she confronted the horrors of Miranda.

"Was she lucid at all?" he asked, hoping the Captain wouldn't notice the plea in his words.

"Wasn't one of her real bad spells," Mal answered slowly, and Simon wondered how charily he was editing his words.  "More like she was thinking three times faster'n me and got frustrated on account of me not keeping up."

"How frustrated?" Simon asked, suddenly weary.

Mal shrugged, the blanket around his shoulders slipping down.  "Told me they're not pets and stomped off.  Lost some of the effect seeing as she was barefoot."

Simon didn't so much as smile at Mal's attempt at levity.  "They're not pets," he echoed slowly.  "What aren't you telling me?"

Reluctantly, Mal answered, "The 'they' was, in truth, a 'we.'  She said, 'We're not pets.'"

Simon stared hard at the drawing, willing the figure to resolve itself into someone recognizable, something he could understand.  "We're not pets," he repeated quietly.

"Ring any bells?"

"No," Simon admitted, lifting his head to meet the Captain's troubled gaze.  "None at all."  After an awkward moment, Simon held up the drawing.  "May I keep this?"

"Sure," Mal agreed.  "She's been all right of late," he added, but it was more a question than an observation.

"She has, yes," Simon confirmed, waving in the general direction of his quarters.  "I should get some sleep.  Thank you for telling me."

"Sleep tight," Mal replied, swiveling his chair back around to face the emptiness of space.

Simon made his way down to the guest quarters, pausing outside of River's room, staring at the odd drawing.  Quietly, he slid her door open, holding his breath until he located her, curled up in the center of her bunk with only her feet tucked under the blanket as she slept.

He watched her for a long time, thoughts churning, before retreating to his bunk and pulling out his encyclopedia.

*****

Jayne reached past Kaylee, letting his forearm brush up against her soft womanly parts until she smacked him.  "Jayne!" she scolded, crossing her arms protectively.

"Need some sauce," he answered with a shrug.  Wouldn't apologize for appreciatin' her; she was too much woman for that ruttin' doctor, anyway.

Kaylee glared at him for a moment, then handed over the spicy sauce and went back to ignoring him.  Grinning, Jayne settled back into his chair, dumping a goodly portion of sauce onto his protein, ignoring the look Simon was giving him.  Doc had a tough lesson comin' if he thought that face would intimidate anyone.  Mayhap he should start with growing some facial hair or learnin' to shoot a gun.

"Simon," Mal said between forkfuls of sauce-covered protein, "you figure out what Australia is?"

Little Sis perked up at that, those crazy eyes flicking back and forth 'tween the doc and the captain.  Word Mal said didn't ring no bells, so Jayne figured his input weren't necessary.  Not being one for dinner conversation, Jayne turned his attention back to eating.   Sooner he finished eating, sooner he could leave.  Had a brand new mag waiting on him in his bunk, picked up back on the SkyPlex.  Buxom girls holding real big guns, usually with strategically placed gun belts and real nice--

The doc's whiny little voice interrupted Jayne's perfectly good train o' thought:  "Do you really think now--?"

"Now's good a time as any," Mal interrupted.  "Secrets have a way of festering, small ship like this."

Protein tasted same as always, like cardboard with spicy sauce on it.  Jayne leaned into Kaylee again, this time reaching for the pepper.  She had pretty nice năizi for such a wee thing.

"No," she scolded him, sliding the shaker over to Zoe, who took it and casually sprinkled some on her food.  "You used up more'n your fair share last night.  Quit hogging the preserves," Kaylee warned him, elbowing him in the ribs.

Jayne made a face and kept on eating.  Weren't like pepper would do much for the protein.  Days like these, he missed his mother's cooking.  She'd be able to whip up something proper when they got them chickens aboard, never mind Mal and his "no eating the cargo" rule.  Jayne wondered how long 'til they set down on Themis and got some proper food.

"Australia was a country, back on Earth-That-Was," Simon explained, his voice all tight and funny.  Woulda caught Jayne's attention, but in his experience, Doc always had his panties in a twist 'bout some thing or another.  Plus Jayne was busy imagining deep-fried chicken.

"Sail away," River said, sliding her plate across the tabletop and making quite a ruckus.  Jayne glanced over at her, watching closely in case Little Sis decided to go cuttin' on people again.  "Sent away.  Exile on the high sea."

Never much liked to hear her gibbering on like that.  Reminded Jayne of the Maidenhead, and most days, he tried to forget she could morph into some crazy trained fighter out of the clear blue.  Made it hard for a man to sleep, knowing there was a gorram cracked assassin on board.

"Yes, that's right," Simon confirmed, staring at his sister.  "During the early modern period, one of the colonial powers, England, sent its prisoners to Australia to form a penal colony."

"To form a what now?"  Jayne jerked his attention to the doc.  "You talkin' a whole bunch of sly fellas living in one big, dirty--?"

"Bars and stripes," River interrupted, swiveling that tiny, deadly body around to face him, eyes wide.  "Not what you think."

Jayne felt his lip curl.  He liked her well enough when she was sane -- least liked her as much as he liked any fugie hiding out on their boat and putting 'em all in Alliance crosshairs.  But when she got too moonbrained, Jayne wanted no part of her.  "Good, then," he decided, still eyeing her a bit wary as he brought another forkful of protein to his mouth.

"Bars," Zoe said, and she spoke so rare these days that Jayne startled a bit and turned to watch her close.  "Prison," she continued, her weighty gaze settling on Little Sis.  "You labeled the prison Australia.  Why?"

"Huh?" Jayne asked, squinting at Zoe, then Mal.  "What's all this about a gorram jail?"

Kaylee pitched her voice low and explained, "River drew a prisoner."

Jayne blinked.  "That all?" he asked scornfully.  "Don't see what's the fuss if'n she wants to waste her time drawin' old jails.  Better'n going ruttin' crazy on us again."

"Jayne," Mal warned.

"APP3500658," River said, turning those mooneyes on him again.  "He is the first."  She looked at Zoe, then Mal.  "I am the last, but not for long."

Jayne frowned, trying to puzzle out her meaning.  "See?" he told Mal.  "Shénjīng."  With a sense of righteousness, Jayne leaned back in his seat, flicked open his smallest knife, Bitsy, and proceeded to pick his teeth.

"Cycles, Simon," Little Sis continued in that creepifying singsong.  "Cycle of life, cycle of death.  We have to--"  She broke off, wincing and bringing a hand to her head.  "He needs me."

She rose, and sure 'nuff Simon jumped up mâshàng to follow.  Seeing as how River headed for the bridge, everyone 'cept Jayne hurried along after her, all atwitter.  Alone at the table, Jayne reached across to snare a buttered roll from the doc's plate.  Breadstuffs were rare enough, and butter was near cause for a holiday out in the black.  He already tore through his portion, but if Simon weren't gonna eat his last roll, Jayne was happy to take care of it.

Jayne ignored the babble of voices on the bridge for as long as he could, chewing contentedly on the roll.  Weren't like he cared, understand, but he figured he needed to know what all the squawkin' was about.

Taking the steps two at a time, Jayne lurked in the doorway to the bridge for a bit, but none of the arguin' voices were makin' a lick of sense.  "Why," he interrupted loudly, brushing breadcrumbs off his t-shirt, "are we fussin' 'bout a drawing?  'Less we can sell it for money--"

"Jayne," Mal ordered in that gorram captain-y tone of his.

"Here," River said, curled up in the copilot's seat.  Jayne looked closer and realized she was tracing a small circle on what looked a lot like the intergalactic map.  "APP3500658."

Mal leaned over her shoulder, then exchanged grim looks with the doc and Zoe.

"What?" Jayne demanded, impatient now.  "What is it?"

"Eunomia," Simon answered, turning to stare at his crazy kid sis.  "It's a penal colony.  A moon with several penal colonies, actually."

River nodded, slow and dreamlike.  "He needs me."

"A prisoner on Eunomia needs you," Mal said, sounding a mite skeptical.  "Any particular reason why?"

"He is me," Little Sis answered, leaning her head back against the chair, her eyes closing, her arms wrapped tight 'round her knees.  "He," she repeated, whispering now, "is me."

Simon swallowed hard.  "River, was APP3...5..." he trailed off, frowning.  "Was he at the Academy with you?"

River shook her head, then sat up, looking a bit less moonbrained.  "He was the first."

Jayne glanced around at the assembled crew.  "I ain't plannin' to set down on no prison moon on account of her art project," he declared, then turned and stomped down to his bunk.  

Gorram crazy assassin girl always messed everything up.

*****

Inara docked her shuttle with Serenity and powered down, letting her head drop a bit in relief.  Her latest client had been... less than ideal.  Eager and able to pay, but not up to Inara's usual impeccable standards.  She used to love her job, used to enjoy bringing spiritual and physical peace to men and women whose energies meshed well with hers.  It used to bring her peace as well.  And, obviously, satisfaction.  

Lately, however, it was less enjoyable.

It still paid handsomely, however, and Inara was keenly aware that Serenity was struggling to stay afloat, what with the ship's increased notoriety and, consequently, their limited mobility.  Quite honestly, it was amazing she was able to find work at all, given her association with Serenity; she felt a certain responsibility to the ship, to the crew, to Mal, to take on whatever clients she could.  Her rent, after all, helped keep them flying.

This sense of responsibility to Mal and his crew was exactly what she'd sought to avoid by leaving, but after Miranda, they'd all lost too much for her to abandon them again.  And after Miranda, she had no real desire to go.  But that realization was one she preferred not to examine too closely, as the implications were troubling.

A knock on the door startled her, and Inara rose, steeling herself for Mal's usual assortment of barbs.  To her surprise, her visitor was Zoe, looking as drawn and brittle as she had since Wash's death.  Zoe was loyal to Mal and the rest, same as she'd always been, but something was missing, something essential.  It was growing difficult for Inara to recall the lively, vibrant Zoe.

"Zoe," Inara greeted, genuinely happy to see her.  "Please -- come in."

"Thanks," Zoe answered, stepping onto the shuttle and following Inara to the velvet couch.  Zoe sat, her spine stick-straight.  "Welcome back," she said, and though Inara could tell she meant it sincerely, a lot of Zoe's natural warmth was missing, hiding under a carefully crafted mask of neutrality.  Inara couldn't remember the last time she'd heard Zoe's laugh.

"Thank you."  Inara studied Zoe, noting the tension in her shoulders and the way she clasped her hands together in her lap.  "Can I offer you some tea?"

Zoe gave a ghost of a smile.  "Tea might be nice."  As Inara stood, Zoe took a breath and said, "Looks like we might have something of a situation."

"Is that so?" Inara asked, humor infusing her tone with warmth.  After all, they'd had nothing but a series of "situations" since Miranda.  From one close call to the next, they'd managed to stay flying, barely a step or two ahead of the Alliance.  Inara worried that their luck couldn't hold out indefinitely, and she knew that the Alliance could disappear them all, with no consequences.  Inara understood politics, and she knew that after broadcasting the truth about Miranda, Serenity and her crew had gained a measure of notoriety, but they were by no means untouchable.  "Anything I should be concerned about?"

"Not just yet, no," Zoe answered.  "And I'm sure the captain will fill you in soon enough."

Inara glanced over her shoulder, giving Zoe a knowing look as she methodically boiled water for tea.  "I appreciate hearing it from you," she admitted.  Mal had a tendency to sugarcoat things, due to his ridiculous determination to keep her out of the thieving business.  (A yūchŭn notion, Inara maintained, since the Alliance would not make a distinction between her and the rest of the crew, should they get caught with black market goods on board.)  Also, their typical conversation devolved into an argument within two minutes, the net result of which was Inara only ever got half the story of Serenity's latest troubles.  

Needless to say, she preferred to get her updates from anyone but Mal; before Miranda, she'd received state of the ship dispatches from Wash whenever she returned.  He'd certainly had a gift for emphasizing the humor in even the direst of situations, a talent that she sorely missed.  Inara paused in her tea preparation, stepping to her small altar and lighting a stick of incense, closing her eyes and praying to her ancestors to watch over him.

If Zoe noticed or understood Inara's actions, she didn't let on.  In calm, even tones, she explained River's drawing and the limited information they'd drawn from the troubled girl.  Inara lit a soothing lavender candle and selected lemon-ginger tea, letting Zoe's story wash over her before she tried to figure out what, exactly, Zoe thought she could do to help.

"Here you go," Inara said, settling back onto the couch and pouring tea into a delicate teacup that she handed to Zoe.  "It sounds a little..." Inara shrugged, pouring herself a cup, "unsubstantiated?"

"But you know the captain," Zoe answered.  She paused to sip the tea, then lifted her eyebrows.  "Mmmm," she hummed.  "Very good."

Inara accepted her praise with a small nod.  The tea's healing properties helped to soothe emotional distress, but Inara kept that to herself.  She'd tried, repeatedly, to help Zoe with her grief.  She'd offered solace in the form of a shoulder to cry on, a willing conversational partner, even a friend to go shopping with, but Zoe had stoically resisted all attempts.

And not just Inara's attempts.  As far as she could tell, Zoe wasn't talking to anyone about Wash.  Of course, every time Inara attempted to discuss her concern for Zoe with Mal, he would simply belittle Inara's worry by pointing out Zoe'd lost her parents and a good number of friends during the war.  Typically obtuse, Mal refused to acknowledge any difference between losing your friend and losing your life partner.  He could be so lìngrén shēngqì dense sometimes.

"Inara?" Zoe asked, favoring Inara with a quizzical look.  "You okay?"

"I'm sorry, Zoe," Inara apologized, flushing a bit.  She forced herself to concentrate on the more immediate problem.  "I'm wondering how I can help with the River situation.  Have Mal and Simon investigated River's information?"

"Ań tú suŏ jì?" Zoe asked, her tone mildly sarcastic.  "They tried the public records, but there's not much to go on.  River doesn't seem able to give us much more," she explained, cradling her cup with both hands, letting the warmth seep into her skin.  "You know he'll move on this if he has half a notion we can tweak the Alliance in the process."

"A prison break?" Inara guessed, surprised at the thought.  "Wouldn't that be very risky?  Especially without knowing where this prisoner is being held, or if he even exists?"

"Risky?  The captain's plans?  Never," Zoe answered dryly.  She rarely cracked jokes these days, and Inara keenly missed her wry humor.  The moment of levity passed quickly; Zoe's smile faded and she said, "In truth, this is still just a matter of curiosity.  River's--"  Zoe stopped, shrugged-- "not particularly coherent on the subject.  This point, captain's wondering if River's mollymawk is even a real person."

Inara took a sip of her own tea, let it slide down her throat and warm her.  "I'm not sure I have many contacts who could confirm this for us.  Especially if the end result is breaking this particular prisoner out.  My contact might then feel compelled to turn us in."

"I understand."  Zoe sat up even straighter, abandoning her tea up to the small, highly polished table.  "Asking about a particular prisoner would be reckless.  We gather there are four penal colonies on Eunomia; three of 'em are men's prisons.  If we could get information on how the prisoners are housed, what organizational system the prisons use, that would go a long way toward pinpointing this particular prisoner's location."

"Of course," Inara agreed, wondering why she hadn't come up with this idea first.  She was an intelligent woman, true, but she was still learning to use her talents for mischief-making.  "I suppose," she continued slowly, working things out as she spoke, "I could frame my inquiries in the context of camp-followers."

Zoe lifted an eyebrow.  "Camp-followers?  On Eunomia?"

"Yes.  Just like during the war," Inara explained, "there are whores who follow any large population of men.  And some who follow the women," she added with a small smile, "though that particular population will do us little good.  The guards on Eunomia probably work in six months shifts; the Alliance deploys its police force just like troops in a war, and just like troops in a war--"

"Some of 'em use whores to warm their beds," Zoe surmised.  She tapped her fingers against her knee.  

"Exactly," Inara confirmed.  "I could inquire about the camp-follower situation on Eunomia, ask where they congregate.  I have something of a reputation for trying to organize common whores, get them--"  

"To unionize?" Zoe interrupted, a small smile on her lips.  

"Yes," Inara answered.  "You remember Nandi."  Inara paused once more, swallowing the flare of grief, betrayal, and guilt.  "Her operation was the exception.  Most whorehouses, especially on the outer planets, are filthy, dangerous places run by predators.  But if the women -- and men -- would join together, they could force their house-owners to provide food, clothing, medical care."

"Wouldn't that bother the Guild if the whores organized?  Honing in on their monopoly?"

"The Guild doesn't consider common whores to be anything close to Companions.  They do, however, dislike Guild members fraternizing with whores," Inara admitted, remembering a particularly contentious disciplinary meeting she'd endured.  "Tarnishes our image, or so I was told."

"I had no idea you had a background in political muckraking," Zoe answered with a hint of admiration in her tone.  "You'll have to tell me about your campaign to unionize the whores some day."

"Some day," Inara agreed before turning back to the problem at hand.  "I might be able to slip in some questions about how the prisoners are separated, and how well they're guarded.  Get the lay of the land, so to speak."

Zoe nodded.  "That would be helpful."

"I'm happy to do it," Inara answered.  "In fact--"

"'Nara," Mal called, sticking his head in the door, "now you're back -- Zoe!"

Zoe stood and turned a bland expression Mal's way.  "Sir," she greeted, smoothing her leather vest down over her waist.

Inara returned her teacup to its saucer and moved to Zoe's side, placing a hand on the taller woman's shoulder.  "Hello, Mal."  The expression on his face as he looked back and forth between the two women was quite comical, and Inara forced herself not to laugh.  "Did you need me?" she asked sweetly.  "Zoe and I were in the middle of something."

"In the middle of--?"  Mal broke off, shook his head a bit as if he'd misheard.  His gaze dropped to the candles flickering merrily on the tabletop.  "You were--"

"Yì yān nán jìn, sir," Zoe interrupted.  "I'll go."  She turned to Inara, the edge of her mouth quirked in amusement.  "Thank you for the tea and... everything."

"My pleasure," Inara answered, swallowing her laughter as Mal's eyes widened.  Zoe swept past him with another deferential "Sir," on her way out.  "Mal?" Inara prompted, clasping her hands together before her.

"For the tea?" Mal spluttered.  "And everything?" he echoed, crossing his arms.  "Just what is everything?"

"As you well know, what happens in the privacy of my shuttle is privileged," Inara answered smoothly.  "Now--"

"But you just docked," Mal interrupted, gesturing wildly in the direction of the perfectly made bed.  "And I thought you didn't service--?"

"Mal," Inara said, her tone sharp.  "Tread carefully."

He blinked at her, obviously still stunned at finding Inara, Zoe, and scented candles in her shuttle.  "I just wanted..."  He shrugged.  "Welcome back."

"Xièxie nî," Inara answered.  She escorted him toward the shuttle door.  "Now if you don't mind, I'd like to wash up before dinner."

More pliable than usual, Mal let her usher him out the door.  He stood, flabbergasted, as she closed the door and waved her dismissal through the small porthole.  Inara turned and made her way to the cortex, settling in to skim through her client list for an appropriate and trustworthy contact.

*****

Glossary | End Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Part Six | Part Seven

Firefly fic