The day after they set down at the derelict docks on the dark side of K'uei-Hsing, Simon cleared Leung to join them for dinner.  Leung had lucid periods now, several minutes at a stretch when he could articulate himself.  The first thing he'd said that made any sense at all was that he was sorry to have put them all to such trouble on his account.  Simon couldn't help but wonder what the man had been like before, and what could have reduced him to such a state.

The infirmary certainly didn't have the equipment to perform sophisticated tests on Leung, but the man had been physically brutalized.  Both legs had been broken more than once, along with several ribs.  His right hand had been damaged and then neglected, rendering it nearly useless for all but the most brute tasks.  And his reaction to certain stimuli suggested post-traumatic stress disorder.

All told, Leung was not the picture of physical or mental health.  But his appetite seemed to return with his lucidity, and Simon thought a gradual reintroduction to human interaction would help Leung's recovery.

Mal, however, had emphatically not been in favor of Simon's plan.  The Captain reluctantly agreed once River stepped into the argument and said it was only proper to dine with their guest.  Mal had cursed under his breath and walked away, and that evening, River led Henry to the table by one hand, murmuring encouragement.

Still breathing a little heavily, Leung settled awkwardly into a chair between River and Simon.  "Good evening," he offered in a strained voice.

"Evenin', Specialist," Zoe answered, handing off a plate of rice.  

Simon watched carefully, ready to assist Leung with the plate, but he brought it to the table with his good hand, then clumsily scooped some rice onto his plate.  Inara slid the rolls over to Leung, thoughtfully making sure they were near his good hand.

"How are you feeling?" Kaylee asked, smiling kindly at Leung.  Simon felt a strange, dull jealousy to see her natural cheeriness directed at someone else.

Leung kept his gaze on his plate.  "Better, thank you."

Jayne half-stood and leaned over the table, plucking a piece of bread from the breadbasket beside Leung's plate.  "Good, then you ain't gonna send no crazy spy brainwaves to the Alliance, are you?"

"Jayne," Mal snapped.  "Leave him alone."

Leung had frozen, his hands flat on the table beside his plate, his head bowed in the face of Jayne's open hostility.  River pushed her chair back and leaned gracefully across the table until her face was mere inches from Jayne's.  "Play nice," she told him, "or I'll hurt you."

Jayne's eyes widened and he didn't seem to know what to do.  He held his ground, staring back at River.  "Just makin' sure he ain't still working for them purplebellies," Jayne said finally, straightening up to tower over River before settling back in his chair, the picture of insolence as he tore open the roll he'd pilfered and reached for the butter.  But Simon could tell from the nervous twitch of Jayne's jaw that he still harbored more than a little fear of River.  Jayne slouched low in his seat, eating his roll and glaring at Leung.

"I'm not a spy," Leung said quietly.

Zoe and Mal exchanged impassive looks.  "You were a spy when you were in my unit," Mal noted evenly.

"Not on purpose," Leung answered, tapping his index finger against his temple.  "The cockroaches, they cut my brain."

Simon held up a hand, warning Mal off.  "Henry, maybe now isn't a good time to get into this.  Let's all eat and--"

"They cut my brain and put it back together wrong," Leung said, his gaze locking with Mal's.  "Sarge, I swear, I didn't want to leave the unit."

Mal looked sour, but jerked a nod.  "Fair enough.  Eat up, Specialist.  You need to get your strength up."

Simon glanced at his sister, who gracefully dropped back into her seat.  "Mal," she said, folding her hands on the table before her, "I think Henry should help us blow up the Academy."

Simon jerked around to face his little sister.  "River, what--?"

"Not going to happen," Mal interrupted, gritting his teeth in an attempt to keep calm.  "And I'd appreciate it if we could enjoy one gorram meal in peace."

Simon watched Leung as he sat, complacent, while the others argued around him.  River's suggestion hadn't startled Leung, which meant either he'd disassociated from the conversation entirely, or she'd told him of their plans.  Plans that Simon only knew of in the most general sense, since Mal and Zoe had kept everything very hush-hush.

Leung turned his head and met Simon's curious gaze.  "River told me of the plans," he said, answering Simon's unasked question.

A sick feeling gnawed at Simon's gut as Mal slammed a fist down onto the table for silence.  Glancing back and forth between Leung and River, Mal said, "Excuse me?"

River placed a calming hand over Leung's mangled hand.  "I told him," River said, chin lifted in defiance.  "It's a good plan, and we can help."

Mal shook his head, spluttering a bit, as Zoe narrowed her eyes and asked, "How do you know what the plan is, assuming we have a plan?"

River gave Zoe a withering look.  "Inara stole the blueprints from the Administrator who likes to be tied up with silk and then called names like--"

"River!" Inara interrupted.  Mal closed his eyes briefly.

River merely shrugged.  "The blueprints are from six months ago.  Things may have been altered in the meantime, but it's a good start.  Better than the whispers of disgruntled, underpaid purplebellies."

Simon felt like he should say something, maybe stop his sister from speaking, or defend her from the anger he could see building in Mal.  But his brain didn't seem to be working properly at the moment, so he sat and watched his sister explain in detail the plans that Mal and Zoe had, to the best of Simon's knowledge, worked up in secret.

He certainly hadn't known anything about the plastique explosives stored on board, and quite frankly, the thought of being out in the black with something that could breach the hull at any time made him a bit queasy.  One wrong jostle leaving atmo, and they'd-- the ship would simply--  

Simon felt a little bit lightheaded; he inhaled sharply through his nose.

River barely glanced at him as she said, "Plastique is a relatively stable form of explosive material."

River couldn't possibly read minds.  The idea was absurd.  The other possibility, of course, was nearly as upsetting -- that she'd deliberately eavesdropped and sifted through their private wave accounts to access the information Mal and Zoe had gathered, then pieced the plan together on her own.  And if she could only do that sort of reconnaissance, it only stood to reason that she was-- that she had been trained to be--

No.  She wasn't.  She couldn't be.

Simon sat stock still as River turned a hurt expression his way.  "I'm not a spy."

"River, no," Simon stuttered.  "No, I know you're not a spy."

"I didn't eavesdrop," she said.  "Mal thinks too loudly."  She gave the captain an apologetic look.  "Zoe's much quieter."

"Okay," Mal erupted, "Leung, you stay here with Simon and finish your dinner.  River--"

"Sarge," Leung interrupted, his voice shaking a bit, "I can help."

"With River's fantasy demolition plan?" Mal scoffed. "No, thank you."

Jayne frowned.  "Wait -- Fantasy?  I thought you said we was blowing it up?"

Mal closed his eyes for a moment.  "Jayne?"

"Yeah, Mal?"

"Bì zui."

"I'm a munitions expert," Leung said.

"I'm not discussing this," Mal answered, standing to leave.  Zoe hastily rose as well, watching Leung closely.

"You need all the mice--" He stopped, shook his head a bit, blinked like he was having trouble focusing on Mal.  "All the soldiers you can get, Sarge," Leung said.  "I got a stake in this."

Simon looked back and forth between Mal and Leung, ready to intervene if necessary.  But Mal simply shook his head and turned to River.  "You," he ordered, "come with me."

"Mal," Simon said.  "I really don't--"

"I need to speak to your sister," Mal interrupted, his tone fierce.  "Do your job.  Take care of Leung."

Mal and Zoe headed up to the bridge, River gliding after them.  Simon watched, impotent, not realizing he was muttering curses until Kaylee touched his hand.

"Come on," Kaylee murmured.  "Cap'n just wants to talk to her."

"'Bout her moonbrain friend here," Jayne muttered, stabbing at his protein bar.

"Jayne," Kaylee snapped.  "Didn't your mama teach you better manners?"

To Simon's surprise, Jayne muttered something that might have been an apology.  He didn't have much time to contemplate this turn of events, however, as Leung lurched to his feet and looked around, eyes wild.

"Can't let the cockroaches win," he said, turning vacant eyes to Simon, who leaped up and caught Leung's arm when the man swayed precariously.

"Kaylee, help me get him to the infirmary," he ordered.  Definitely PTSD, Simon thought grimly.  Too much stimulation, too many reminders of the Alliance and the Academy, and Leung was right back there, reliving the horrors in his mind.

Perhaps Simon had overestimated the pace of Leung's recovery.

*****

Zoe stood in the doorway of the bridge, her back to the closed hatch, arms crossed.  River and Mal stood five feet apart, staring at each other with equally determined expressions in place.  She hated to admit it, but Zoe was near convinced that if it came down to it, River would win any sort of tussle.

"I would win," River said, not even glancing in Zoe's direction.  "Mal, you used me before to--"

"I'm not using you," Mal spat, looking pained.

"You let me help on Lilac," River countered.  "You know I can help keep everyone safe."

"And Leung?" Mal demanded.  "He's unstable, besides which he can't lay charges with the damage to his hand."

"He is me," River said.  "He feels things, too."

"River--"

"You want to destroy the Academy and keep everyone safe."

"Yes," Mal agreed, "but--"

"There are guards and electrified fences and partially constructed brick walls between you and the school.  Henry and I can keep track of the guards while you take care of the rest."

Didn't sound like a terrible idea to Zoe, but she knew Mal would need more convincing.

"We have binoculars for that," Mal answered flatly.

"My way," River interrupted, "is safer.  Băi wú yī shī.  You can concentrate on laying the explosives and we'll keep watch."

Frowning, Mal glanced at Zoe to get her take.  Zoe simply lifted an eyebrow in response.  Girl made some good points, and the more people watching their back, the better.  Last thing Zoe wanted was more time in an Alliance prison.

Mal grimaced in reply, then turned his attention back to River.  "If I decide to let you help, you are not coming anywhere near the school," Mal decided.  "And Leung is nowhere near stable enough to come at all."

"He is stable," River countered, eyes narrowing.  "Feels guilty about what he's done, and sometimes that's too much for him to think about."  She dipped her chin, her hair shadowing her face.  "Only way to escape is to--" With a near-imperceptible shake of her head, she lowered her voice-- "Disassociate."

Zoe's gut twisted, and she reached out to lay a gentle hand on River's shoulder.  River shifted away and Zoe let River pass, turning to watch the girl stomp down the stairs and disappear.  Slowly, Zoe turned back to Mal.  "That went well."

Mal waved off the subject and paced in a small circle.  "I'm still not sure we're doing right," he admitted, his voice low.

Zoe watched him silently, unable to put her thoughts into words just yet.

He stopped, hands on his hips, back to her.  "Feels a little bit like we're running full tilt into the warm embrace of a scorpion."

"We're not."

Mal turned, questioning her with a look.

"Some things are worth fighting for," Zoe explained.  "Power corrupts.  Miranda, it was stupid and not ill-intentioned, but they did it because they could.  This is willful torture of kids can't fight back, and they're doing it because they think they can.  This is worth taking a stand."  She closed her eyes, picturing Wash's smiling face.  "This is worth the risk"

Her words hung in the air a moment as Mal considered 'em.  "Is it taking a stand?" he wondered.  "We ain't telling the 'verse like Miranda.  If it all goes right, we escape to the black and the Alliance mentions a construction accident on Kuei-Hsing.  Won't stop 'em."

"Might," Zoe countered.  "Dă căo jīng shéi."

Mal stared at her.  "This kind of snake don't scare easy."

Zoe nodded, accepting his point.  They wouldn't win the war by blowing up one school.  Might have four others already up and running.  But they could win one battle.  "At the very least, we'll slow them down.  Academy won't open on schedule, and these girls won't be tortured next month.  We can't save the 'verse, Mal.  We just do what we can."

Mal stared down at the floor.  "And that's enough?" he muttered.

Zoe headed for the hatch, touching his elbow as she passed.  "Has to be."

Simon perched nervously just outside the shuttle, watching through slightly unfocused binoculars for any sign of trouble.  Inara was in the shuttle, waiting to take them back to Serenity as soon as the others returned.  Beside him on the rocky ground crouched River and Leung, trying to sense trouble.  Simon couldn't think about that.  It made him uncomfortable, this idea that his sister was psychic--

"Simon," River chided.  "Concentrate."

He spared her an annoyed look and went back to his observations.  Mal, Zoe, and Jayne were somewhere in the dimly lit construction zone laying explosives on the grounds of what was slated to be another Academy of Torture.  Even through binoculars, Simon could see nothing.  He checked his watch.  They could all be captured and carted off by now, and he wouldn't have the first idea.

"They're not captured," River whispered.  "Jayne got a little tangled up in the charge wire, but Mal and Zoe are nearly done.  They'll be back soon."

Simon's mouth tightened, but he didn't reply.  Mal and Zoe had nixed his suggestion of radios, pointing out that the Alliance security measures at the building site would likely include something to detect radiowaves.  Simon had countered by suggesting the security would also include something to detect people sneaking in to lay plastique explosives, too, but that didn't seem to be stopping them from doing that.

"There," River said, pointing to the left side of the hulking structure.

Simon followed her direction, scanning the area through binoculars until he caught a flash of movement.  After a moment, he could see all three moving back, Zoe then Jayne then Mal, unwinding the charge wire as he retreated.  They eased through the small tear in the electrified fence -- shorted out by the same small EMP that had knocked out videowave surveillance -- and drew closer.

Starting to breathe a bit easier, Simon eased backwards on trembling legs, fumbling for the detonator.  

Zoe reached them and fell in line, patting River on the shoulder as she sank silently to the ground.  "No trouble?" she breathed.  River shook her head.

Jayne scrambled over a small boulder, dropping beside Simon with a small grunt of exertion.  "Ruttin' Alliance builders," he muttered, picking pebbles out of a gash on his arm.

Simon frowned, reaching for Jayne's arm.  "Let me see."

"Ain't nothin'," Jayne answered, shaking him off as Mal took the ignition switch from Simon's other hand.

"Would you just let me see it?" Simon argued.  He could smell the thick copper of blood, which meant Jayne had already bled quite a bit.

"Mal," Jayne whined, "get the doctor off my ass."

"Wŏ jì méi yŏu shíjìan yēméi yŏu jīnglī gēntā zhēnglùn," Mal snapped, still twisting the charge wires into place.  "Time?"

"Going on seventeen minutes," Zoe answered.  "We've got three minutes, tops, before a patrol gets here to investigate the power loss."

Nodding, Mal carefully set the detonator, giving them sixty seconds until the first of 23 charges started off the chain reaction that would, if their calculations were correct, leave naught but a pile of rubble in its wake.  "We're in the air before the first explosion.  Inara?" he asked.

"Ready, Mal," she called back.

Mal glanced at each of them in turn.  "Go?"

Simon sat there, still and scared, while River and Jayne nodded.  Zoe answered, "It's a go, sir."

"Good," Mal said, and pressed the button.  A small green bulb blinked to life, and Mal placed the activated detonator on the ground.  "Let's go."

Simon stood on shaky legs and reached for his sister, handing her onto the shuttle.  Just as she stepped aboard, she stiffened and whirled around.  "Henry!"  She lunged past Simon, leaving him grasping at air as she launched herself back toward the Academy.  Mal and Jayne tackled River, and Simon caught a glimpse of a figure scrambling back toward the Academy.  

Leung.  Dammit.

"Gorram it," Jayne yelled, holding River about the waist.  "Doc, take her," he demanded, struggling to hold her still while Mal and Zoe grabbed her arms and one leg.  "Quit it, girl.  I'll go after him."

Panicked now, Simon wrapped his arms tight around his sister's struggling body as Jayne let go.

"Jayne," Mal shouted, his hands full of angry River.  "Bié dòng."

But Jayne jumped the boulder and took off in pursuit of Leung.  Simon couldn't follow his progress, because his sister was so incensed it took all three of them to drag her back toward the shuttle.  Simon cursed, regretting that he hadn't protested Leung's inclusion in this ridiculous caper.

And then River sagged, going limp and throwing Simon off balance.  She keened, low and mournful, and moments later, the first explosion rocked the shuttle.

"Chùsheng xai-jiao de xiang huo," Mal cursed, his face pale in the bright orange light of the exploding Academy.  He stood in the doorway and watched through narrowed eyes as the walls imploded.

Simon still had his arms around River, but couldn't tear his gaze from the grim beauty of explosions.  Finally, the night dimmed, leaving bright reflections spotting his vision as he blinked.  The silence was broken only by his sister's sniffles and the faint wail of sirens.

Mal turned, dropping to one knee in front of River and taking her by the shoulders.  "River."  He shook her.  "River!"

"Mal," Simon warned, noting her wide, unfocused eyes.  "She's in shock."

Mal ignored him.  "We need to go.  Where are they?"

"Mollymawk," she answered, her voice trembling.  "Mollymawk's gone."

Mal dropped his head and whispered something too low for Simon to make it out.

Zoe leaned closer.  "And Jayne?"

"Red," River answered.  "Red and hot.  The ground is wet."  She shut her eyes briefly, then locked gazes with Simon.  "Go.  He needs your help."

"Where is he?" Simon asked, ignoring the chills her unnatural knowledge still gave him.  It didn't take psychic ability to predict that a man running headlong toward a series of explosions would need medical attention, but she said things with such an eerie certainty -- he didn't have time for that.

"Straight up the middle, but not all the way there."  She winced.  "Near the fence.  Hurry."

"You'll stay here?" Simon demanded.

Inara appeared in the doorway, stepping down and wrapping her arms around River.  "I've got her."

River nodded, unresisting, and curling into a ball.  "Simon, go."

Simon stood and looked to Mal and Zoe, who had already jumped down from the shuttle.  Mal gestured impatiently.  "Come on if you're coming.  Scoop and run.  We need to get gone."

They ran toward the rubble three abreast, not bothering to attempt stealth.  The sirens grew louder, and Simon had a leaden feeling in his gut as they pressed on toward the heat of the smoldering buildings, toward the acrid scent of destruction.

Zoe found Jayne and dropped to her knees beside his crumpled form, splayed across the rubble of what had been part of the outer wall.  Simon mirrored Zoe on Jayne's other side, running his hands quickly over Jayne's body in search of broken bones, noting serious blood loss from a large gash in his right leg.  His eyes were closed, breathing regular, though his heartbeat was a little fast for Simon's liking.

"We don't have time," Mal shouted over the wail of the approaching sirens.  He unfolded a sheet of canvas with a quick snap of his wrists.

"If he's badly injured, jostling him could kill or paralyze him," Simon shot back.  Flashes of indigo and red crept closer.

Mal and Zoe worked quickly, ignoring him as they shifted Jayne to slide the canvas beneath him. "Trust me," Zoe said, her tone grim, "Jayne would rather be paralyzed in the black than healthy in an Alliance prison, and I can't say as I disagree.  Now let's go."

Simon grabbed hold of the canvas and tried not to think of all the possible damage they were doing as they staggered back to the shuttle, alarms and sirens growing louder and louder behind them.

*****

Kaylee hadn't ever been one to embrace the more dangerous side of life on a transport moonlighting in moving not-so-legal cargo, and she ain't never had the urge to carry a gun and face down bad guys.  Miranda and the aftermath only reinforced Kaylee's belief that she wanted no part of violence if she could help it.

Still, sitting on her hands while Simon and Mal and Jayne and Zoe and 'Nara and River and even Leung were off layin' bombs on Alliance property -- it just didn't feel right.

Cap'n told her to keep Serenity ready to go, so she worked off some of her nervous energy by pacing in the small confines of the bridge.  She paced and rambled aloud, spilling her thoughts to Serenity, who weren't answerin' back.

Waited.

Paced.

Waited some more.

Double-checked the comms, 'cause what if they were S.O.S.-ing and she didn't know?  Comms were fine.

"Shiny," she told Serenity.  "I'm sure everything's shiny."

Paced.

Waited.

Twisted her hands together, picturing all kinds of horrible possibilities.

Then -- finally -- she heard the familiar sound of Inara's shuttle docking and Serenity's muted sigh of contentment.  "Good girl," Kaylee praised.  "Let's get ready."  She powered up Serenity and got her to ready-one before Mal came bursting onto the bridge looking grim.

"We set?" he asked.

"Yes.  Is everyone--?"

"I'll get us off the ground," he answered, dropping into the pilot's seat.

Kaylee froze, her hands clasped together in prayer.  What if Simon was dead?  What if River did that scary fighting again, but didn't do quite as well this time 'round?  Why didn't the Cap'n answer her question?  Her voice shook when she said, "Cap'n?"

He grimaced, easing Serenity off the ground.  "Leung's gone.  Jayne's hurt."

Kaylee blinked.  "Gone?"  Cap'n couldn't possibly mean--

"Died."  He looked over when she didn't answer, raising his voice and ordering brusquely, "Go see if Simon needs any help."

Stung, Kaylee retreated, trying to remind herself that the Cap'n was upset, not mad at her.  Still hurt bearing the brunt, but she could handle it.  She took the stairs two at a time, clomping her way down to the infirmary, her heart racin' in panic.

Inara stood outside the infirmary, watching through the window with a grim look on her face.  She barely glanced up as Kaylee clambered down the staircase.  Kaylee touched Inara's shoulder on her way past, stunned to a stop in the infirmary doorway when she saw blood all over Simon.

"Simon," she blurted, "are you hurt?"  Kaylee was standing beside him without realizing she'd moved.

He met her gaze for the briefest of moments, not quite managing a smile as he explained, "It's Jayne's blood."  Simon wasn't even in a sterile gown, just blood-covered latex gloves and his dark blue shirt stained red.

Kaylee looked down at Jayne, unconscious on the table, and bit her lip.  Didn't hardly look like him, goatee only partially grown back, skin frighteningly pale under the lights.  "Oh, my God, is he going to be okay?"

Must've been her imagination, but Simon sounded irritated when he said, "Should be fine if I can get this bleeding under control."

Wide-eyed, Kaylee stared at the gash in Jayne's leg.  She moved back a bit, trying to stay out of the way.

Across the table, Zoe dug out an instrument for Simon and handed it over.  "Want me to clean out the lac on his arm?" she asked, waiting for Simon's nod before she reached for the iodine.

"He's fighting," River said from her perch on the bench lining the wall.  She had her arms wrapped around her knees, and blood smeared along the back of her hand.  Closing her eyes, she laid her forehead against her kneecaps.

Feeling helpless, Kaylee patted the toe of Jayne's boot.  "Can I help?" she asked.

Grimacing, Simon didn't answer, simply leaning closer to the gash in Jayne's leg, using the tong-looking things Zoe had handed him to dig in the wound.  Kaylee felt a bit lightheaded and stepped back, but she couldn't quite block out the horrible, squishy noises.  She reached back to brace herself against the countertop.

After a moment, Simon finished whatever horrible thing he was doing to Jayne's leg and handed the tongs back to Zoe.  He glanced back at Kaylee and mustered a smile.  "Could you do me a favor?"

"Of course."  Kaylee pushed away, swaying a bit on her feet.  "You're really okay?" she couldn't help asking.

"I'm not hurt," Simon told her, and he was looking at her the way he used to, like she was important.  "I need to irrigate the wound and close it up," he explained.  "Jayne should be fine, but this will take a while.  Zoe's going to help."  Simon glanced at his sister.  "Would you -- would you maybe take care of River for me?" he asked, and Kaylee could tell from the tremor in his voice that it wasn't easy for him.  "Help her get cleaned up, keep her warm.  She's in shock."

Kaylee felt warm again, like someone had finally turned the heat back on inside of her chest.  She took a shaky breath.  "Sure, I can do that."  She hesitated for a moment, then stepped up to his side, placing her hand on his shoulder and leaning up to kiss him quickly.  He looked back at her with wide, surprised eyes, but she just smiled.  Before he could come up with a response, Kaylee pulled out a sterile gown and unwrapped it, holding it out for him.

Simon stripped the bloody gloves off and moved forward, putting his arms through the sleeves before kissing her on the forehead.  "Thank you," he murmured.

Kaylee rounded the table, squeezing the toe of Jayne's boot as she passed, and moved to River's side.  "River?"

Slowly, River lifted her head from her knees and dully met Kaylee's gaze.  "Mollymawk's dead."

"I know, mèimei, and I'm sorry."  She rubbed River's back.  "Let's go get cleaned up, let your brother fix up Jayne."

River moved slowly and without her normal grace as she slid down from the counter.  "Mèimei," she echoed.

"That's right," Kaylee soothed, and as she ushered River out of the infirmary, Simon glanced at the two of them with an expression that Kaylee didn't recognize.

*****

Gorram son of a whore.

Fire creepin' up his leg, throbbin' in his arm, and a headache like a damn.  Mouth dry, like the worst kinda hangover, tongue fuzzy and thick.

Hand on his arm.

Jayne reached up and grabbed it, trapped it tight.  Opened his eyes, squintin' against the bright.  "Lemme go."

"You're safe."

Gorram pretty boy doctor.  "Gimme drugs," Jayne demanded, squeezing Doc's hand.  "What the ruttin' hell you do to me?"

"Simon saved you."  Kaylee now.  She stepped closer so's he could see her, and he felt a tiny hand slip into his.  "You were real brave, Jayne."

Jayne grumbled something would've been an insult if he could concentrate on anythin' but the blistering agony in his leg.  Arm hurt, too.  "Drugs," he said, tossing Doc's hand aside and grippin' the edge of the mattress.

"In a minute," Doc answered, leaning over until he loomed over Jayne, who closed his eyes in protest.  "Look at me."

Jayne did his best to glower without opening his eyes.  "Cào nî zûxiān shí bâ dai."

"Sounds like Jayne," Mal said, from somewhere behind Jayne.

"Mal, tell him to give me some drugs."

"Jayne," Doc said, pulling his eyelids up on at a time and shining a gorram spotlight in 'em, "I need to make sure you haven't sustained any head trauma--"

"I'll show you head trauma, boy," Jayne gritted, swatting at the hands touching his face.  Moving made the pain ten times worse, and he spit out a string of curses, muscles clenched until he started to shake with the effort to stay still.

"What year did the Alliance unify the 'verse?" Simon asked.

Mal's voice was like ice.  "Ask him something he might actually know."

"Jayne."  Kaylee now.  "What year did you come to Serenity?"

White hot pulse of pain shot up his leg.  "Year I found out Marco was stiffin' me."  He tried to relax his muscles, but doin' anything hurt like blisterin' hell.  "Mal?"

"He's fine, Simon," Mal said.  "Give him something."

Stickpin in his neck, then a flood of tingly goodness.  Jayne felt his muscles go slack, and his eyes drifted shut.  The pain drowned under a wave of drugs, and he near fell back to sleep.  Driftin', pain all locked up far away.

Little Sister still had her hand tucked in his.

It occurred to him to ask what had happened.  "How'd my..."  Jayne stopped, unable to come up with the word for what was hurt.

"The Academy," Kaylee prompted.  "You blew it up."

Explosions.  Orange and hot and loud and painful.  He was... running toward the Academy?

"Yes, you were."  Little Sister floated into view and Jayne tried hard to keep his eyes open.  She smiled at him.  "You tried to save Henry."

Tried?

"Henry wanted to die," River answered.  "He knew they'd concentrate on him instead of tracking us."

Jayne tried to nod.  Anyone else hurt?

"Just you," River said.  "Everyone else is fine."

Good.  Jayne wanted to stay awake, wanted to find out more 'bout what happened, but he couldn't seem to open his eyes.

"The Academy is rubble.  You saved the mice."  River's voice soothed him.  "Thank you."

"Welcome," he mumbled, feeling something feather-light brush across his cheek.

*****

The sheep weren't sheep, and they weren't meals, either.

Conundrum.

River crouched in the cargo bay, studying their flat eyes and their nervous stillness, wondering why they couldn't remember what they were.  Suspended animation, waiting for something to change.  Waiting like Simon.

Abandoning the not-sheep, River made her way to the passenger cabins to look in on her brother again.  He was still shut up in his pen thinking dark, confused thoughts.

"She misses you," River told him, feeling Kaylee's presence, warm, like Serenity's heart, pulsating with life and color and heat.  And a purple streak of sadness.

Simon looked up at River with blank eyes, thinking with a taste of bitterness, How would you know?

River simply shrugged, because hard as she tried to explain, no one ever really understood.  She knew Kaylee was okay, or she would taste wrong, like a scream, like she did on Niska's space station holding cold, black death in her hands, unable to move.  Simon just stared at her some more, so River retreated.

In the infirmary, Jayne was sleeping, sweet dreams of naked women keeping him sound and healing.  River peeked in to feel his leg stitching itself back together slowly, slowly, slowly, but without the orange-flash stink of infection.

She wondered if women were really that flexible.  

She doubted Jayne would answer her if she asked.

River moved on, up the stairs, pausing in the hallway, steadying herself against metal walls that hummed.  Sorrow still too white hot for Zoe to look at directly, but somewhere underneath it like an aftertaste, the cool bee sting of tears.

River stepped up onto the bridge.  Thoughts weren't much brighter up here.

"Little albatross," Mal greeted, not turning to look.  Need to keep her safe.  He sounded warm, like sunshine, and fuzzy like the fur on a puppy's belly.  She wanted to lie down beside him with her head in his lap, innocent and warm and safe like when she was a girl.

But she wasn't a girl.

"She is safe," River said.  She wanted him to feel the truth of it, even though he lived his whole life doubting any truth unless he could bang his head against it and come away bloody and convinced.  "I am safe."  She smiled, letting the knowledge ripple though her muscles.  "I am safety."

Mal glanced over at her.  "I do believe you just might be," he admitted.  God help us all.  Dark thoughts, again.  Futility.  Horrible sound of dying comrades.  Bitter taste of Zoe screaming for Wash.  Leung taken by the fires--

River blinked.  She moved, settling into the copilot's chair, letting her fingers dance across the controls, letting Mal's prayers for the dead slip past her and out into the black.

Mal still believed in his God, his symbol, though he told himself he didn't.  Mal told himself a lot of things that weren't true, and then he tucked his cross away with Book's leather hair tie, and touched the box reverently morning and night.  Pretended not to care, not to feel, then kept a capture of Inara hidden between the covers of his family Bible, nestled next to the fading ink of the handwritten Reynolds family tree.  Every once in a while, he dug out an old letter from home, and read the ending over and over with tears stinging his eyes.

Come home soon, dear boy,
Mama

"Something on your mind?" Mal asked, awash in nervousness, worried she might feel his secrets.

"Something's on yours," River answered, looking out into the black.

"I owe you an apology," Mal said, his tone gruff.  For not trusting her.  River actually laughed, earning herself a puzzled look and a flash of irritation.  "What's so funny?"

"You don't trust anyone but Zoe," River explained.

Mal shifted, uncomfortable with her perception.  "I trust you.  I just don't trust what those tāmāde húndàn did to your brain."

River let his words stand.  She used to be a smart girl who loved to dance.  Then she was altered by the cockroaches, and she could never be separate from what they did.

River was.

Simple and impossible.

Mal knew it, too, but wouldn't ever admit that he couldn't trust her.  Too gentlemanly.  She hid her smile by bringing her knees up to her chin.  Engines burning low, inertia doing its part to propel them through space.  A glance at the console gave her their position and velocity, and she let the numbers dance into alignment.  Seven-point-three-eight-four-six hours from the Georgia System.  She asked him anyway.  "How much longer?"

Mal glanced at her.  "'Bout seven hours, give or take."  Restless, anxious, and beneath it all, anger.  At himself, for putting them all in danger, for not saving Leung.  At Inara for being who she was, and for being what she was.  At Kaylee, at Jayne, at Simon.  At River, for starting all of this.

River stared down at her hands, delicate, deadly fingers, and wished she could manipulate Joseph Larmor 's theory of time dilation and go back to before.  Before Miranda and save Wash and Book; before Persephone and save Mal's hero complex; before the Academy and save Simon the trouble.

Before she left for school, and save the River she used to be.

"What happens next?" River asked, letting her eyes close.  She saw a dozen scenarios bubbling through his mind, variations on the past.  Serenity Valley, not a bloodbath but a turning point in the war.  Finding perfect strangers to run his ship, not becoming attached to anyone and not caring if his crew left or died.  Leaving well enough alone, leaving them all on Haven among the dead, not bringing them into danger, not losing Book and Wash.

Darker.

Doubts.

Too late, always too late, and there are torn, crumpled, bleeding bodies in the hallway of Mr. Universe's compound.  Too stupid, and Kaylee sneaks away and gets killed trying to play the wrong purplebelly for information.  Too soft, and Inara gets caught up in the Alliance net trying to get intell on the Academy.  Too slow, and Jayne bleeds to death alongside Leung.  

Nothing he did was ever enough to save River.

River blinked.

"I don't need saving anymore," she declared, earning herself a sharp look from Mal.  She met his gaze, unapologetic.  Not like she could help it when he was bleeding thoughts like that.

"Next," Mal answered in a tight voice, ignoring everything but the question she'd asked, "we set back to Persephone and scrounge up some more work.  Keep our noses clean.  See what happens."

Nodding, River subsided.  It wasn't much of a plan.  

But soon, the sheep would be sheep again.

*****

THE END

*****

Author's Note: River quotes (and misquotes) passages from Sun Tze's Art of War throughout this story, sometimes recognized by the narrative character, but sometimes not.  All epigrams are also Sun Tze.  Planet names are taken from Chinese mythology, and all the Chinese (mis)used throughout is from various Chinese-English dictionaries and phrasebooks, most notably Langschneidt's.  All mistakes are mine.

Zoe took night watch, since she didn't sleep much anyway.  Kaylee bunked down in the engine room, locking the door behind her, and Zoe made one circuit of the ship before she slipped into the copilot seat up top.

Couldn't quite bring herself to sit in Wash's seat.  She didn't believe in ghosts, but he'd died there.  Cut her to the quick every time she saw someone sitting there wasn't him.

Up here on the bridge, alone with Wash's absence, the night passed slowly.  Zoe stared out at the starscape, letting her thoughts wander.  Remembering her parents, her home planet.  Remembering the war.  Remembering the P.O.W. camp and the reeducation.  Remembering how dark and desolate her life was before Wash, and trying not to compare it to how alone she felt now.  Eyes painfully dry, Zoe stared at a distant star until it blurred.

Soft footsteps sounded on the stairs, and Zoe swiveled her chair around.  Inara slipped onto the bridge.  "Morning," she greeted.

Surprised, Zoe asked, "Is it?"

"Just barely," Inara admitted, a self-conscious smile on her lips.  "May I join you?"

"Please," Zoe invited, steeling herself against Inara taking Wash's seat.

"Do you really think River might be a spy?" she asked, moving closer, her gaze trained on Zoe.  Inara hesitated almost imperceptibly, then altered course and settled herself at the top of the staircase leading down to the manual backup systems.  She tucked her silken robe around her feet and leaned against the railing.

"I don't know," Zoe answered belatedly.  "But the Maidenhead..." She trailed off, unable to put her doubts into words.

Inara sighed, wrapping her arms around her knees.  "I know.  But it seems like something would've happened before now.  Simon and River have been with us for over a year."

"True," Zoe answered.  "'Cept we just started makin' mischief for the Alliance six weeks ago."  Six weeks.  Felt like six years sometimes.

Inara didn't answer right away, her brow furrowing as she considered Zoe's point.  "I just worry sometimes," she confessed in hushed tones.  "Mal gets so paranoid."

"It's not paranoia," Zoe answered, thankful to be back on familiar ground.  Alliance really was out to get them in some form or another, and Zoe wouldn't put it past them to use River's burned up brain as an advantage if they could.

Inara blew out a frustrated breath.  "I know the Alliance wouldn't mind putting us all through an airlock.  But half the time, Mal wears that as a badge of honor, and the other half, he's keeping us hiding among the border planets convinced one of us will do him in, either maliciously or unwittingly."

Zoe felt herself bristling and tried to modulate her tone.  "Inara, you don't understand what he's been through--"

Inara turned to sit sideways, meeting Zoe's gaze, her expression determined.  "And at some point, that doesn't work as an excuse anymore."

"It's not an excuse," Zoe snapped on a flood of cold anger.

Shaking her head, Inara pushed herself upright, pacing the bridge in small, tight circles.  "You're misunderstanding what I'm trying to say," she explained.  "I'll never know what happened in Serenity Valley, or in any of the other battles you fought.  I've heard descriptions, but I'll never really know."

"No, you won't," Zoe agreed, blocking out the darkest of her memories.  She resisted the urge to tell some of her stories to Inara since she was ultimately right -- Zoe could explain how it felt to lie among her dead comrades, she could describe the smell of it, and it wouldn't matter.  Inara would never know, and Zoe would never forget.

"I know the war won't ever be over for either of you, not all the way.  But--"  Inara shrugged helplessly.  "It is over."

"Not as long as the Alliance is after us, it's not," Zoe countered, arms crossed.  Since Miranda, she almost relished this thought -- long as the Alliance kept after 'em, they'd have opportunities to strike back, get some small measure of justice for Shepherd Book, and for Wash.

Wouldn't ever be enough, but something was better than nothing.

"That's exactly what I mean," Inara said, moving closer and dropping to her knees to be more on a level with Zoe.  "The war for independence is over.  What's going on now -- it's not you and Mal against the world.  This is happening to all of us, even spoiled, selfish me," she explained, and from the bitterness in her tone, Zoe knew Inara was quoting Mal.

"I don't see your distinction," Zoe answered.

"You do," Inara argued, eyes beseeching.  "You thought Mal should've let Kaylee help.  You let me go in after Jayne when you know Mal wouldn't have.  You let me go because you knew that it was the best tactical move, and because I'm in this as deeply as you.  I'm in this," she repeated fiercely.

"Inara--"

"I'm not asking you to be disloyal," Inara interrupted.  "But you know Mal doesn't listen when I try to talk to him.  Whatever's coming -- we're all a part of it."

Zoe held Inara's steady gaze for a moment.  Seemed like Inara was making the same point Zoe'd already made to Mal.  She dipped her chin.  "I know."

Inara let that stand for a moment, then asked quietly, "Does Mal know?"  But that was further than Zoe could go.  Whatever counsel she gave Mal -- wanted or unwanted -- was between them.  Much as she'd like to reassure Inara that Mal already got an earful on this particular subject, she wouldn't betray her captain.  She simply stared back at Inara, her expression blank.  

Inara nodded once and rose gracefully to her feet.  "Fair enough," she said.  "I'm going to try to get a little sleep."

Zoe accepted this without comment, simply swiveling her chair back to face the starscape, listening as Inara slid the door shut behind her.  Mal hadn't said much to her outside of direct orders, but Zoe wasn't about to force another conversation Mal didn't want to have.

Unless she had to.

*****

Mal dragged the last of the provisions into the cargo bay and paused to catch his breath. Sector 6834 boasted a decent waystation, but he still hated to be anywhere with so many wavescreens.  Not just for River's sake -- for certain most of the crew were on wanted screens somewhere with a price on their heads.

It was safer to barter for fuel on the border planets, but Jean-Paul hadn't exactly been the picture of rationality.  He'd figured getting off Beaumonde in one piece was probably the wisest course, regardless of the ship being low on pesky things like fuel and provisions.

Which brought them to the 6834 waystation, which was, it didn't escape his notice, about halfway to K'uei-Hsing.  From the looks Zoe was shooting his way, didn't escape hers, either.  He flashed her an unspoken warning and turned to Kaylee, "We all set?"

"Yessir, Cap'n," she answered.

With a nod, Mal climbed up to the bridge, disappointed not to find River sitting in the copilot's chair.  She'd taken to avoiding him, and it bothered him more than he wanted to admit that he'd managed to disappoint her.

Mal powered Serenity up and took them off the waystation, firing the engines and turning toward Osiris.  Or, if someone were to be picky about it, toward K'uei-Hsing.  He programmed the course heading and scanned for other ships.  Finding nothing but black, he stood and stretched.

Half his crew was 'round the table, eating quietly, and Jayne was over in the lounge -- Mal squinted -- was he reading?  That couldn't be right.  River drifted closer to Jayne and curled up in the chair next to him, resting her chin in her hands.  "Lovely fable," she commented.

"Fable?" Jayne echoed, brow furrowed.  "What're you on about, girl?"

"The mother goddess kills the young god-king to save all mankind," River answered.  "The young god-king is Osiris and Dionysus and Jesus."

Jayne looked aghast.  "The sweet virgin Mary didn't kill her boy."

River shrugged one shoulder.  "Variations on a theme."

Mal glanced at Zoe, who shrugged.  "He's reading Shepherd's Bible."

Simon grimaced.  "I wasn't aware he could read," he commented, cutting his protein bar into perfect squares.

"Hey!" Jayne shouted, glaring in their direction.  "I read good."

Wincing, Simon muttered, "Intimately familiar with grammar, too."

"What'd you say about my grandmama?" Jayne thundered, pushing himself to his feet.

River tugged at his sleeve and urged him to sit.  "Read me your favorite story from Shepherd's book."

"Ain't stories," Jayne told her eventually, still glowering in Simon's direction as he dropped back into his seat.  "My favorite?" he echoed, looking a bit flustered as he paged through the good Book.

Mal felt a twinge watching the scene unfold, an ache that he didn't want to contemplate, so he turned away.  "Little Kaylee, what'd you whip up for us menfolk to eat?"

Kaylee rolled her eyes at him.  "Zoe fried some rice and Simon warmed the protein bars."

Sliding into his customary seat, Mal reached for the platter of rice.  "Yum."

"Hey.  I added spices tonight," Zoe told him, her tone almost playful.

It'd been quite a while since he'd heard levity from her, and Mal grinned in response.  "Spices, huh?"

Inara slid a teapot in his direction, and he accepted with a nod of thanks.  "How's Leung?" he asked, pitching his voice low.  Last thing he needed was another round of Let's Attack the Alliance from River.

Simon glanced over at his sister before answering.  "Fine.  Asleep right now.  He's still showing signs of psychosis, but physically he's stabilizing."

Mal nodded, chewing a tasteless hunk of protein.  "Doc, I need you to think back to when your sister left for the Academy and tell me everything you remember.  Everything about the school, everything about the adwaves -- every last thing you can remember."

Zoe stilled beside him.  "Sir?"

"Just getting the facts," he answered.  "Don't go getting any excitable ideas," he added for Kaylee's sake.  "Simon?"

The good doctor was still staring at him, mouth ajar.  He gathered himself, primly placing his fork down on the edge of his dented metal plate.  "The Academy," he said, nodding slowly.  "Just -- Give me a second."

"Fair enough," Mal said.  "Kaylee, you gonna eat that orange slice."

Kaylee all but folded herself in half to shelter her coveted fruit from his lecherous gaze.  "Yes, I am," she answered, then popped the slice into her mouth.  "Mmmmmm..." she moaned in a near obscene fashion.

Across the table, Inara laughed.  "Try not to distract Simon."

Kaylee's eyes flicked over to the doctor, who was watching her with more than a bit of lust in his gaze.  'Least they could do was keep from gettin' all moon-eyed at the dinner table.  To Mal's surprise, Kaylee looked flustered, her cheeks flushing as she turned her gaze down to the near empty plate before her.  Guess she and the good doctor were still quarrelin'.  

Damn shipboard romances.  Irritably, Mal tapped his fork against his protein bar.  "Doc?"

"Yes," Simon answered, bit flustered.  "Well, my parents collected several adwaves for schools for River.  I'd already graduated Osiris Prep, and they'd intended to send River there as well, but she tested off the charts.  I mean literally off the charts -- perfect scores on written examinations, and her brainwave and skills tests were unprecedented.  Immeasurable with the standard equipment."

Mal idly wondered whether speaking in low tones did a thing to keep their conversation from River.  He checked, but she was still watching Jayne as he read haltingly from the Bible.  Sight Mal never imagined he'd see.

"The Academy sent a direct wave to our house, from their Director of Admissions.  She said she'd learned of River's results and wanted to give River the opportunity to attend a new kind of Academy."

Kaylee muttered something under her breath and stabbed at her rice.

Simon shook his head.  "I didn't want my sister to go so far away, but she was so excited by the opportunity, and my parents were adamant.  Eventually I said my goodbyes and..."  Simon looked pained, "I turned my attention to my own studies.  I only started researching the Academy once her messages started to make me suspicious."

Mal glanced at Zoe, who dipped her chin once and took over the line of questioning.  "You were there to break her out -- what were the buildings like?"

"Buildings?" Simon echoed, his eyes a bit unfocused as he conjured up his memories.  "It was a large campus.  Bucolic, even though it was only 75 or so kilometers from Capital City.  There was one main building that housed the classrooms; it had a large courtyard in the middle, too, with desks and wavescreens for outdoor classes.  I think there were three, maybe four small dormitory buildings, plus a faculty facility around back.  The buildings were clustered together, and there were acres and acres of land surrounding the Academy.  And then," he added, his mouth tightening, "the walls.  Double walls, guarded from the inside, supposedly to keep the students safe from intruders."

Mal and Zoe exchanged looks.  Basics didn't sound too different from their P.O.W. camp.  They had guards to keep out intruders, too, whenever the higher ups stopped by.  Guards who passed their shifts beating and harassing the prisoners.  Zoe and Mal had spent hours contemplating various escape plans -- routes, makeshift weapons, safehouses on the outside -- but they were unceremoniously dumped planetside before they ever hatched a plan with any shot of working.  "Anything else you can remember might be useful?" Mal pressed.

Simon turned a suspicious gaze his way.  "Useful how?  You're not actually planning--"

"Ain't planning anything," Mal cut in.  "Just trying to figure whether Leung's telling the truth or totally untethered."

Simon looked dubious.  After a moment, he shrugged.  "Nothing else useful I can think of."

"This might be useful," Jayne announced, standing suddenly at the end of the table, expression grim.  River stood beside him, her arms wrapped around her midsection, her expression inscrutable.

"What might be useful?" Mal asked.

Jayne tapped a small card against his palm, then tossed it onto the table in front of Mal.  Shepherd Book's unsmiling face stared up at them from an ident card.  "If I recollect," Jayne said, "that card opened some doors wouldn't have opened for any one of us here."

The crew 'round the table stared at the card in silence.  Mal remembered the way those hostile Alliance soldiers' backs straightened, the way they hustled Book off for proper care after a simple look at this very ident card.  "Where did you--?"

"Book," Jayne answered, holding the Shepherd's Bible closer to his chest.  "Was tucked in the pages."

Mal had half a mind to ask which pages, which psalm, which story.  Because Book had a way about him, a certain manner of getting his message across regardless of whether anyone wanted to hear it.  Wouldn't surprise Mal to learn the good Shepherd had sent them some kind of message from the grave.

River looked up, locking gazes with him.  "Psalm 72:4," she answered his unspoken question.

He will defend the afflicted among the people
  and save the children of the needy;
   he will crush the oppressor.

Huh.

Kaylee nested down for the night in her hammock beside Serenity's heart, the engine room door closed tight and locked so only Mal could get in without her entering the code.  Simon always asked how she could sleep comfortable in a hammock, explaining that it couldn't possibly support her back properly.  Well, Simon always used to ask, back when they were speaking.

They weren't not speaking.  Not exactly.  It was just that Kaylee couldn't come up with anything worthwhile to say to him.  Just looking at him made her feel guilty for agreeing to guard Serenity from River.

At least havin' to spend nights in with Serenity gave her an easy excuse for not bedding with Simon.  Not that he'd asked, of course.  She tried to remind herself that he was painful shy about sex, and that he had a few more important things going on right now, but it didn't work.  His disinterest hurt.  That plus the way he stuttered 'round her the way he did before they'd had sex -- well, it was easier not to see him much, even if not seeing him made her heart ache.

The door lock released and Kaylee jerked upright, half-expecting River to be standing in the doorframe with that pretty, vacant smile.

It was Mal instead.  "Evenin'."

"Hey, Cap'n," Kaylee greeted, swinging her legs over the side of her hammock and reaching for her boots.  "Something wrong?"

"Nope.  How's my girl?"  Mal wandered closer to the glowing heart of Serenity, running a gentle hand 'long her casing.  "Any more troubles?"

"She's been fine," Kaylee answered.  "Better than."  Mal nodded, but didn't say anything further.  Kaylee struggled for a moment to put her jumbled thoughts into words.  "River ain't a spy, I don't think."

Mal regarded her with a skeptical expression.  "You sure about that, little Kaylee?"

"Asked Serenity three times," she answered, jumping down from her hammock, her boots ringing against the grated floor loud as gunshots.  She glanced guiltily down the hall, hoping she hadn't woken anyone on the darkened ship.

"I meant," Cap'n explained, his expression grim, "River might not have done it on purpose."  

"Huh?"  Kaylee scrunched up her nose.  "I thought you thought she was a spy might've tossed scrap metal into Serenity's compressor on purpose."

"Didn't think she was a spy," Mal clarified, "thought she might be.  And you don't take my meaning.  River may not be acting of her own free will.  She didn't kill those men at the Maidenhead on purpose, in the strictest sense."

Kaylee frowned, considering the Cap'n's point.  He weren't wrong.  She touched a hand to Serenity's heart, let her heat warm away Kaylee's sudden chill.  She hadn't even thought of that.  But on Niska's space station and again with the Reavers, when River took to killin', she seemed... different.  Far away, somehow.  Maybe she really wasn't River when she was fighting.  "I don't know," she admitted in a near whisper.

Mal nodded, turning his attention back to Serenity's engine.  "Are you comfortable with Leung?"

"Leung?" Kaylee echoed, confused.  She'd never so much as interacted with the poor man; closest she'd come was listening to his broken explanations from the doorway of the medbay.  "Ain't scared of him if that's what you're asking."

"Zoe and I have an appointment tomorrow, and we may take Jayne for muscle.  Won't, though, unless you're comfortable keeping charge of the others while we're gone."

Kaylee felt a sharp stab of sadness.  It should be Wash staying back and keeping charge of Serenity, not a scared mechanic couldn't shoot a gun proper.

"Appointment?" asked a voice from the doorway.  Mal and Kaylee turned to find Inara watching them.  "On K'uei-Hsing?"  She raised an eyebrow at the Cap'n.

"Yes.  Appointment," Mal answered, crossing his arms.  "What's it to you?"

Inara lifted her chin.  "I have a suggestion for getting the information you need on the new Academy."

Kaylee turned wide eyes to Mal, who spluttered for a moment, an incredulous look on his face.  "Information on the Academy?" he echoed.

"You're not a mystery, Mal," Inara informed him, stepping down into the engine room.  "The thought of a hundred girls being tortured the way that River was tortured has been eating at you for weeks.  I'm only mildly surprised it took you this long to make up your mind to destroy the Academy before it opens."  She paused, and gave him a smug look.  "That is the plan, right?"

"You're crazy," Mal told her, but even Kaylee could tell he weren't bein' truthful.

"Cap'n," Kaylee said, feeling proud and exhilarated and scared all at the same time.  "We're going to bring it down?"

"No," Mal answered, glowering now.  "We're not doing anything.  Zoe and Jayne and I--"

"Mal," Inara interrupted, her tone cold and sharp as diamonds.  "Stop.  I can get you the information quickly, and not word-of-mouth accounts from underpaid, disgruntled Alliance soldiers.  Accurate information, from the Alliance itself."

"You can?" Kaylee asked, impressed.  She was still pretty new to the more violent parts of thievin', but she knew already that accurate information helped keep people safe.  "Shiny."

"No, not shiny," Mal protested, pointing at Kaylee, then Inara.  "And not happening."

Inara lifted her chin in defiance.  "An occasional client of mine works on K'uei-Hsing.  He's an upper administrator in the Education Ministry.  I've already waved him for an appointment."

"You what?" Mal exploded.

"He thinks I want a letter of introduction for potential clients out toward the border planets," Inara continued evenly, ignoring Mal's mounting irritation.  "I need two things from you."

"Well, please," Mal answered sarcastically, "do tell."

Kaylee elbowed him.  "Be nice."

"Thank you," Inara told Kaylee, favoring her with a small smile.  Then she turned to Mal.  "I need you to call in some sort of distraction once I'm inside his quarters, and I need Shepherd Book's ident card."

"Absolutely not," Mal answered.

Kaylee's eyebrows lifted.  "Oh," she said, understanding what Inara was proposing.  "You're going to use Book's card to access your client's system--"

"And infochip what we need, yes," Inara confirmed, "which would make any plans to destroy the school a lot less risky in turn."

Mal was shaking his head, pacing in short little bursts beside the engine.  "We don't know anything about Book's ident card.  There must be layers of security--"

"Shepherd Book was more than a simple Shepherd, Mal," Inara countered.  "I don't know exactly what his ident card says about him, but you saw how the Alliance reacted to it.  No effort was spared to save his life.  Do you really think his ident card wouldn't allow me access to the Alliance's plans if used on their own network?"

"Awful lot of assumptions there, Inara," Mal snapped.  "Maybe you'd best leave the planning to us career criminal types."

"And just what is your plan, Mal?" Inara demanded, stepping forward in her anger until they were toe to toe, glaring at each other.  "Ask twenty or thirty of your closest friends if they've heard anything about a secret Alliance Academy for gifted children?  How many of the people you're planning to ask would sell you out for a few credits?  All of them, or is there maybe one in there you can actually trust?"

Kaylee shrank back against Serenity's beating heart, hating conflict as always.  They were both making good arguments, only she wished they could just talk civil-like.  She watched them argue, her gaze shifting back and forth, her opinion on Inara's and Mal's respective plans changing with every point made.

"I don't trust anyone," Mal answered.  "And I plan to get information from purplebelly turncoats.  Believe me, there are enough of them."

"Are you so sure you won't run into a double agent?"

"Are you so sure Book's ident card isn't flagged in the Alliance system?"

"Why would it be?" Inara answered, her tone subdued.  "We buried him ourselves.  The Alliance likely doesn't know he's dead."  Her voice caught, and she ducked her head.

Mal turned away, his breathing ragged in the sudden quiet.

"Cap'n?" Kaylee asked when the silence started to feel uncomfortable.  The Cap'n looked to Kaylee, but didn't speak.  She decided to take that as an invitation to voice her opinion on the subject.  "I'm no expert on this type thing," Kaylee ventured, "but Inara's plan sounds less..." Kaylee shrugged, "risky."

"But it's risking her," Mal shot back, his tone haggard.  He looked to Inara; they stared at each other so long and so intense that Kaylee thought maybe she should leave 'em alone.

"Mal," Inara said finally, "I worry just as much about you when you put yourself in danger--"

"I don't willfully put myself in danger, is the difference," Mal interrupted, his jaw tight with anger and fear.

Kaylee snorted, then regretted it when the Cap'n turned an irritable glare her way.  "You made all of us stay back while you went by yourself to broadcast the Miranda wave," Kaylee reminded him.

Mal's eyes nearly bugged right out of his face.  "I left you with a shipful of Reavers!"

"And a door that was s'posed to hold them off," Kaylee shot back.

"You have no idea the hell I was in on that elevator, dreading the door opening 'cause I knew I would find you all torn to pieces--" He stopped, turned away, his jaw clenched.

Inara touched his arm.  "Mal--"

"Tāmāde!"  Mal shrugged her off and turned toward the door.  "I can't have this argument right now."

"I can do this," Inara said, moving to block his exit.

"I don't doubt your ability," Mal admitted.  "But this is a mighty big step to be taking."

"Mal--"

"I'm serious, Inara.  We're already criminals; after this, we'll be labeled traitors and terrorists.  You'd be risking your reputation--" his jaw tightened-- "your livelihood."

"My livelihood," Inara repeated with a humorless little laugh.  "Mal, my association with bitter Browncoats is already common knowledge.  I wasn't having much luck as Companion to petty border lords before this."  She paused, letting her words sink in.  "I understand what I'm risking."

Kaylee stared at Mal, wondering what he would do.  Inara'd said all the right things, and she was right about her plan probably bein' the best so far.  But the Cap'n weren't one to see sense when it came to women riskin' themselves.  'Cept Zoe, of course, but she was a soldier in Mal's eyes.

Mal grumbled something under his breath and turned away, walking in a short circle before stopping near back where he started.  He glanced at Kaylee, then sighed and turned to Inara.  "Let me think on it," he said.  "Get some sleep, the both of you."

With that, he loped up the stairs, down the corridor and disappeared up onto the bridge.  Stunned, Kaylee looked over at Inara, who looked just as shocked.

Inara pointed in the direction Mal'd disappeared and asked, "Did he just...?"

"Sorta agree to your plan?" Kaylee said.  "I think so."

*****

Mal heard the sounds of dinner -- plates clanging, Kaylee laughing, Jayne complaining he didn't have enough food -- but stayed up on the bridge by himself.  The Kuei-Hsing docks weren't lit up much at night; the familiar starscape was almost enough to lull him into believing they were safe out in the black, 'stead of parked planetside contemplating an attack could get 'em all killed or pinched.

Still hadn't come to a final decision about the Academy.  

In truth, he wanted to take out every last one of them purple bastards, but, hell, a whole army hadn't been enough to overthrow the Alliance.  Tried to deny it, but Mal still burned with bitterness and anger and regret 'bout the failure of the Independents.  He'd carved out a good life along the edges -- surrounded himself with good people, and did jobs that sometimes had the happy side effect of tweaking the Alliance.

'Fore Miranda, he thought he could be happy living out his life this way.  But Miranda woke up all that anger, all that righteous indignation he'd thought a year in the P.O.W. prison camp had starved and beaten out of him.  Any government that would gas its own people with a tranquilizing drug then turn tail and let the marauding killers they'd created roam unchecked deserved to be overthrown.

Turned out to be a yūchŭn notion, but Mal had thought exposing the Alliance for what it was would've sparked something among his fellow Browncoats and sympathizers.  Mayhap it had, but Mal hadn't heard much, just some coordinated protests on the central planets and one mealy-mouthed apology from the Alliance.  Millions dead by their hand, and all they could muster was one gorram apology.

And then -- nothing.

Thirty million people on Miranda and Wash and Book and Mr. Universe and even Patience, all dead, and for what?  A small wave of outrage too soon forgot.

Mal took that worse than Miranda, truth be told.  He expected corruption and thoughtless evil from the Alliance, but he'd expected more from the rest of the 'verse.  Zoe had called him an idealist during the war.  Āi bīng bì shèng, he used to tell her.  Didn't think of it as idealism, though -- he used to think that God was on their side.

Didn't have God anymore, and Mal thought he was cynical as hell these days, but Zoe had always been the person could rein him in when he got too excitable over something.  Zoe, now, had lost the most important person in her life, and Mal suspected that nowadays she burned with the same kind of unquenchable anger as he did.  

Weren't that he didn't think this particular mission was worth the risk.  Every day he saw the aftermath of those torture academies walking barefoot 'round his ship, eyes troubled.  He knew all of 'em on board would die to save River's kind from torture, even Jayne.

But what would become of his crew if the Kuei-Hsing plan led to another, and another, until all Mal did was plot against the Alliance?  Asymmetrical warfare.  Seven against millions -- unlikely they'd get very far, and martyrdom had never been his aim.  He was willing to die for what's right, for fairness and justice and all that, but he'd much rather be around to enjoy it when it came.

So question was, could Mal be satisfied knocking over a school meant to torture little girls, or would that just be the beginning?

"Hey, Mal," Jayne said, his boots thumping on the stairs as he stepped up onto the bridge.  "Kaylee saved you some grub, but I ain't above wrasslin' her for it if you ain't eatin'."

Mal turned the pilot's chair partway around.  Jayne was leaning against the weapons cabinet, arms crossed, a mean-looking hunting knife lashed to his thigh.

"You expecting a woolly mammoth?" Mal asked, gesturing at the knife.

Jayne grimaced.  "Leung ain't right in the head."

"You think he's going to attack us?"

"Maybe, maybe not," Jayne answered.  "But I didn't expect Little Sister to take out a barful o' thugs, so I figure I oughtta be prepared long as there are moonbrains on board."

Mal considered correcting his use of the pejorative.  But Jayne was Jayne, and sometimes it was easier to let him be. "You think he's wrong about the Academy?" Mal asked.  One good thing about Jayne, he rarely bothered to lie.

"Naw," Jayne answered, pulling an unwrapped piece of protein from his pants pocket and gnawing off the corner.  "Nobody should torture kids."

"Just kids?"

Jayne grinned.  "Men what are responsible for their own actions," he answered with a half-shrug, "sometimes they deserve a little torture.  Teach 'em a lesson."

Mal couldn't help but shake his head.  "Right."  He tapped one hand against the console.  "You think we should bring Leung along?"

Jayne grimaced.  "Moonbrain ain't like to be much help.  Still, rather have him close than leave him here with Kaylee," he reasoned, "case he goes juānhuàile while we're gone."

Hell of a point.  Mal was a mite disturbed he hadn't thought of that his own self.  What else had he missed?  "And if we bring him along, what do we do with him?"

Jayne chewed his protein square thoughtfully.  "Prob'ly leave him with Little Sister."

"Leave him with the shuttle?" Mal clarified, considering.  Inara and Simon weren't much in the way of fighters, but they'd have guns and they'd have River with them.  Probably a better solution than bringing Leung into the compound.

" Seems Leung wants to do right," Jayne answered.  "But his brain's been rewired wrong.  River'll take care of him if he gets out of hand."

Mal didn't want to contemplate the possibilities.

Jayne pushed himself away from the cabinet.  "You eatin' or what?"

"Yeah," Mal answered, rising to his feet.  "I'm eating."

"Damn," Jayne muttered, turning and stomping his way down the stairs.  "Really wanted that fruit."

Mal followed him down into the dining area, realizing he'd made his decision during their conversation.

River was right -- war wasn't over.  Odds weren't in their favor, but they might could win this particular battle.

*****

Inara docked her shuttle with hands that were still trembling.

The flight from her client's lush home to the derelict docks on the dark side of K'uei-Hsing where Serenity waited was relatively short, less than an hour.  Her covert mission had gone as well as possible -- her radiowave to Mal hadn't been a lie.  But for some reason, she had a knot in her stomach and a nervous tremor that would not be easily soothed.

As soon as the air lock was properly connected, her shuttle door burst open and Mal stumbled in, his gaze sweeping her form in search of injuries.  "Inara?"

"I'm fine, Mal," she snapped, pushing herself out of the pilot's seat with an annoyed flip of her silken wrap.  Chin held high, she swept toward him, not allowing herself to dwell on his obvious concern, and especially not paying any attention to the way he was drinking her in.  Instead, she pulled the small infochip from the leather rope around her neck and held it out toward Mal.

"Any trouble?" he pressed, accepting the chip and folding it securely in his palm, all without taking his eyes off of her.  "Anything at all out of the ordinary?"

"It wasn't that kind of appointment," Inara answered briskly.  Her irritation with him was doing wonders for her composure.  She wasn't quite sure why she was suddenly so frustrated by his concern, but it wasn't a subject that needed serious reflection just now.  She folded her arms beneath her breasts and raised an eyebrow.  "Shouldn't you be off analyzing that information?"

"In a minute," he answered, starting to look a mite irritated himself  "He didn't watch you suspiciously or say anything even slightly unusual?   There were no cameras in his office--?"

"We weren't in his office," Inara interrupted sweetly, knowing the implication would slither its way under Mal's skin.  "And it wouldn't surprise me if he did have cameras set up, but why would he check up on me?"

Mal looked aghast.  "Inara."

"When he went to attend to your manufactured emergency, I asked permission to use his terminal, telling him I was awaiting an important wave related to the job.  Remember?" she prodded.  "My cover story?"

"And he left you alone?"  He sounded incredulous.

"Not everyone is as mistrustful as you," Inara answered, her tone haughty.  She wasn't angry with him, not really, and she tried to modify her tone and explain what had happened.  "If he watches surveillance footage, he'll only see me use my ident card to logon and look through some files.  I was very careful to conceal the infochip while I loaded the information."

Mal's face was pale and he looked like he was regretting letting her embark on her mission of espionage.  "Inara."  He shook his head.

"I'm not in the mood for a lecture," she warned, scaling back the hostility.  He didn't deserve to be yelled at when he'd done nothing wrong -- it was his nature to worry, and he'd barely brought himself to agree to her plan.  That he hadn't forbidden it at the last moment was a large concession on his part, and the last thing she should do was punish him for her own insecurities.

He swallowed, glanced down at the chip in his hand, then met her gaze once more.  "Thank you," he said, dipping his chin once.  Then he turned and left her alone in her shuttle.

She felt a strange combination of disappointment and relief, and moved to her tea set, quelling the bizarre urge to run after him and ask him to stay.  Maybe a third cup of tea would help calm her nerves.  Carefully, she heated the water and chose a soothing combination of herbs.  As she poured the steaming water into her teacup, she realized her hands were shaking once more.

Her reaction was silly -- nothing had happened.  She'd raised not even the slightest suspicion in Heilbronner.  She knew that.  But she still felt slightly panicked, as if the other shoe were teetering precariously above her head.

"There are no shoes," River announced, startling Inara into dropping her delicate teacup.  It crashed into the floor and shattered as Inara whirled around to find River standing a good distance inside the shuttle.

"River," Inara said, hand pressed to her chest.  "I didn't hear you come in."

"I'm sorry," River apologized, inching back towards the shuttle door.

"Please stay," Inara said, holding one hand out toward River.  Inara took a slow, deep breath and tried to smile.

River nodded and moved closer, kneeling on the floor.  "Let me," she said, her small hands capturing shards of glass and placing them on the edge of Inara's tea tray.  "I'm sorry," she apologized again.

"I shouldn't have been so startled," Inara answered, pulling a rag from the cupboard and joining River on the floor.  She mopped up the tea, feeling the rag warm beneath her fingers as the liquid soaked in.

"There are no shoes," River said again, her focus seemingly fixed on picking every last piece of shattered china from the floor.  "No one suspects you.  No one watched the video of you on his terminal.  No one checked for an infochip imprint.  You did well."

Inara knelt, unmoving, and stared at River.  "How can you be sure."

River glanced up, one long ringlet falling forward to bisect her cheek, and smiled.  "I'm sure."

Somehow, River's mysterious declaration calmed her in a way the tea couldn't.  She nodded.  "Thank you."

"Mal worries," River continued, holding a small piece of the teacup and tracing the sharp edges with one finger.  "He worries that you will die like Wash and he will be Zoe."

Inara's breath caught, and she couldn't seem to find the words to reply.

"Simon worries that I will disappear."  River pressed the pad of her finger against the sharp tip of shattered china.  "He worries that Kaylee will get impatient and leave him."  She very carefully placed the shard with the rest and met Inara's gaze.  "Simon shouldn't be stuck with a crazy fugitive sister."

Inara settled more comfortably on the floor and placed a hand on River's knee.  "Your brother loves you, and he wants to make sure you stay safe."

"I am safe."  River smiled down at her hands.  "Mal keeps me safe, too.  Simon should be helping people.  He should be a real doctor again and not stuck out here with me."

"Simon is happy here," Inara countered.  "Happy to be somewhere where you are safe and well, and happy to be with Kaylee."

River's smile faded.  "He should be with Kaylee.  But Simon won't listen to me when I talk.  Anything he doesn't understand he thinks is torturetalk."  Inara opened her mouth, then closed it again, but River's sly smile seemed to acknowledge the question Inara couldn't seem to ask.  "Torturetalk," the girl repeated.  "River talking crazy because her brain was cut up."  River leaned closer and lowered her voice to a conspiratorial tone.  "He hates it when I refer to myself in the third person."

"He worries," Inara answers.

"I worry about him."  River sat there on the floor of Inara's shuttle, her hands clasped in her lap, and Inara could see the little girl she'd been.  Before.

River nodded.  "Before," she said, meeting Inara's gaze with eyes far too careworn for a girl her age.  "I miss before."

Inara thought about Wash, about Shepherd Book, about the hell Mal had been through, even just since she'd known him, and found she agreed with River.  "I miss before, too," Inara admitted.  She let their commiseration linger in silence for a long moment, then reached up and tucked River's hair behind her ear.  "Come," she said, shifting to the balls of her feet and pushing herself upright.  "Let me make you some tea."

*****

The crew settled uneasily in the dining area.  Simon took a seat between Kaylee, who wouldn't look at him, and River, who wouldn't look away from Mal.  Were he less literal-minded, he might have considered the metaphorical significance.

The rest of the crew settled in around the dining room table to discuss Leung, who was sedated and dozing quietly in the infirmary.  Simon had left the comm link open to hear his patient's first stirrings; before that happened, he wanted someone to damn well explain to him what connection River had to an Alliance spy whom Mal and Zoe had known during the war.  River was a just a little girl during the war -- a beloved, protected girl on the central planets who knew of the war only from the nightly newswave and an occasional discussion around the dinner table.

Mal seemed reluctant to discuss the subject, pacing in small loops near the head of the table.

Arms crossed, Zoe leaned back in her chair.  "Sir?"

"Huh?"  Mal glanced around the table, grimaced, and crossed his arm, girding himself for the discussion.  "Leung was assigned to one of the brigades in Yeng-Wang-Yeh that lost a commander.  Wasn't as bad as -- some other battles," Mal edited, even though everyone at the table knew he was referring to Serenity Valley, "but I ended up in command of a couple extra brigades."

Hands wrapped around a warm cup of tea, Inara tapped her fingernails against the ceramic and asked, "So you know this man and River knows him.  How is that possible?"

"Small 'verse," Kaylee murmured, drawing Simon's attention, but she kept that wide-eyed gaze trained on Mal, and Simon wasn't sure whether she hadn't noticed his look or was purposefully ignoring him.

Simon glanced over at River, who had a half-smile on her face.  "I don't know him," she explained, seemingly lucid.  She nodded at her brother, the movement strangely encouraging, as if she were simply bucking up his confidence at one of his Academy grassball matches.  "I know of him.  He is me."

"Yeah, yeah, he is me," Jayne snapped, setting his jug of liquor down with more force than strictly necessary.  "What the ruttin' hell does that mean?"

"Leung went to the Academy," Zoe answered, her voice low.  "Just like River.  And I'm guessing they did things to him, just like River."

"That right, little albatross?" Mal asked, moving closer to River.  His tone was surprisingly gentle, which irked Simon.  He should be the one asking his sister the questions, not Mal.  Mal had no training, no experience dealing with fragile psyches, and he certainly didn't care for River as much as Simon did.

River just nodded at Mal, that strange half-smile still in place.  "They took his mind apart and reassembled it until he soared not-free."

Frowning, Mal asked, "Not free?"

"They put him on a leash," River answered, her tone pugnacious in a way Simon remembered from their childhood.  "Like a dog."

"A flying dog?" Jayne sneered.

Straightening in her seat, Kaylee glared across the table at him.  "Jayne."  He shrugged insolently, but subsided.

None of which distracted Simon from what his sister had said.  He turned his attention to Mal.  "You said Leung was an Alliance spy."

Mal nodded, his mouth tight, and Zoe rounded on him, looking incredulous.  "You knew this?  Back then?"

"Suspected.  Gave him some false information," Mal explained, gaze trained on Zoe, "seemed like the Alliance kept turning up where I told Leung we'd be.  Knew it when he got lifted."

Zoe looked a bit miffed.  "Shél yĕ bú gāosu wŏ rènhé shìqing."

"You didn't need to know," Mal answered.  "Can't swing a dead cat during a war without hitting three spies.  We had ours in their camp, too."

"We did?" Zoe asked, lifting an eyebrow.

"Sure."

Zoe considered for a moment.  "Impressive," she decided.  "Never thought our side had many who could play at bein' a purplebelly without setting the real purplebellies to laughing."

Kaylee tilted her head in Jayne's direction.  "Jayne convinced the Alliance he was a loyal guard," she noted.  Her obvious pride in his accomplishment slithered under Simon's skin, irritating him further.

"Fair point," Zoe conceded, half-smiling at Jayne.  "You're gonna grow that back, right?" she asked, pointing to his bare chin and scrunching her nose a bit in distaste.

"'Nara didn't seem to mind me cleanshaven," Jayne shot back, aiming a leer at Inara.

Inara reached for an apple and tossed it at his head, while Mal, stiff and suspicious, asked, "'Scuse me?"

"I said," Jayne answered, polishing the apple on his filthy t-shirt, "that--"

"Can we possibly," Simon interrupted, unable to abide their levity under the circumstances, "get back to the alleged spy in the infirmary and what possible connection he has to my sister?"

Jayne shrugged and took a loud bite of the apple, staring at Simon with an insolent smirk as he chewed.

Mal answered in clipped tones, still staring at Inara with narrowed eyes, "I think the Alliance sent Leung in to spy during the war, and I think they did it without his consent."

Jayne paused mid-chew, looking puzzled.  Kaylee shook her head and asked, "Without his consent?"  Frowning, she glanced to Zoe for clarification.  "But how could they do that?"

Simon went very still, hating the implications.  Disbelieving the implications because they were so repulsive.  "You're saying--"

"The Alliance twisted his mind until they could control him.  And then they sent him in," Mal confirmed, looking none too pleased himself.

"Mind control?" Zoe asked, leaning forward a bit, her hands folded together on the tabletop.  "Sir, that's--"

"Crazy," Inara supplied.

"You've seen it with your own eyes," Mal answered Zoe, ignoring Inara's outburst entirely.  "They programmed River with an on/off switch.  She didn't kill those people in the Maidenhead of her own free will."

Reflexively, Simon glanced at his sister, who ducked her chin.  Her hair hid her face, but she pulled her knees up and wrapped her arms around them, shrinking into herself.  The sight tightened Simon's gut.  He wasn't sure whether whisking her away from any discussion about the Maidenhead would be protective or damaging.

"That's different."  Inara shook her head, speaking animatedly now.  "There's no way to turn humans into mindless drones serving the will of their master.  Not the way you're suggesting."

"You're so sure of that?" Mal challenged.  "Because we got a former Alliance spy in there talking gibberish after getting pinched for some political crime.  Pieces don't add up right."

"That doesn't mean you change from base-10 to base-47 and try again," Simon interjected, his tone irritable.  Of course, no one in the room except his sister understood his admittedly poor metaphor, and she didn't seem to be paying attention, so Simon pressed on, willing himself to remain calm.  "Just because the pieces don't add up with what limited information we have now doesn't mean you can assume an implausible premise to be true just because it happens to fit into your paranoid world view."

"Paranoid world view?" Mal sputtered, taking two steps and leaning forward to place his palms flat on the tabletop.  "'Case you haven't noticed, we've been two steps from prison since Miranda.  Ain't my fondest wish to believe the Alliance is capable of something like this, but I don't have the luxury of ignoring explanations don't cast your sister in the best light."

"Mal," Inara implored.  "Maybe we should discuss this later."

Simon stood, his chair scraping loudly along the floor.  "My sister--"

"--brought us here," Mal interrupted loudly, his words echoing in the sudden quiet.  "Just like she brought us to Miranda.  We already know they tweaked her brain at that Academy, and you yourself know there are things she can do need a safe word to snap her out.  You telling me that ain't enough to start linking coincidences together?"

Simon couldn't muster the words to argue.  He could feel the curious gazes of the others looking twixt he and his sister.  He wanted to bundle River onto the extra shuttle and take her away from this place, but no matter how much he rejected the thought, there were too many coincidences for him to walk away.  Not if walking away would take River from the safest place she'd been since she left home.

"If the Alliance was able to program Leung so completely fifteen years ago," Zoe said slowly. Her gaze shifted to River and she didn't finish the thought.  She didn't need to.

Simon watched, burning with anger, as every person in the room turned wary gazes to River.  His sister slowly lifted her head, staring back at Zoe with a blank expression on her face.  She didn't say a word in her own defense.  Simon, noting the way she simply sat there with her unruly locks and her fragile expression, couldn't understand how anyone could suspect her of anything sinister.

Simon placed his hand on River's shoulder.  "She's not a spy," he spat, furious.

Mal and Zoe exchanged a significant look, then the Captain met Simon's gaze and said, "Not willingly."  Mal turned his attention to River.  "But maybe you don't even know it's happening."

"That's it," Simon snapped, urging his sister to rise.  "We're done here."

*****

Kaylee watched, torn, as Simon bundled his sister in a blanket and ushered her out of the kitchen, glancing back to favor 'em all with a withering look.  Kaylee ducked her chin guiltily.  

Weren't fair, suspecting River of who knows what.  Still, Kaylee remembered all too clear the dread she'd felt when River killed three o' Niska's men without blinking.  Add that to the Maidenhead and the Reavers, well...  River had special powers, no doubt.  But a spy?  Working for the Alliance?  Kaylee didn't want to believe that.

At the head of the table, Mal pulled a chair out and plopped down into it.  "That went well," he commented, catching Zoe's eye.

Zoe only lifted an eyebrow and asked, "Who were our spies?"

Gesturing at Kaylee, Jayne, and Inara, Mal asked, "Do you really think it's a good idea to go listing our spies?"

With the slightest hint of smile, Zoe nodded  "You'll tell me later."

"No, I won't," Mal answered, turning his gaze on Kaylee.  "I need you to think about something, little Kaylee."

Kaylee still wasn't sure what Cap'n intended to do 'bout her spying mission down on Eunomia.  Jayne said Mal was madder than a wet hen, but they hadn't really had time to say more 'n two words to each other, seeing as how she got back to Serenity right before he and Simon headed for the prison.  "Think about something?" she echoed, proud her voice didn't shake.

"That piece of metal in the engine," Mal said, and Kaylee instinctively folded her healing fingertips into her palms.  "Did you ever identify it?"

"The burnt metal?" Kaylee asked, shaking her head a bit.  "No, but when I fixed up the engine, she told me it weren't hers.  Guess it must've been space trash."

Inara sat up straighter, glaring at Mal.  "You can't be serious."

Frowning, Jayne looked between Inara and Mal.  "What?"

Mal ignored the others, holding Kaylee's gaze.  "You ever seen space trash end up in a compressor before?"

"Well... no," she answered slowly, starting to see where he was going with this and not likin' it one tiny bit.  He couldn't be right 'bout River.  She was just a troubled girl, mind all twisted up with torture and bein' turned into a fightin' machine.  "But there must be quite a bit of space trash out there," Kaylee said, gesturing toward the ceiling to indicate open space above them.  "Chances are it's happened before," Kaylee concluded, shrugging.

"What's happened?" Jayne repeated, frustrated.

"Mal," Inara implored.

"Ain't asking your opinion," Mal snapped back, not looking at Inara.  "Kaylee, could someone have put that metal in the engine?"

Kaylee reflexively wanted to say no, River couldn't have done it.  But she made herself consider the question.  She'd climbed halfway into the thruster to drag the chunk of charred metal out of Serenity's compressor.  Stood to reason someone could've done the same to jam the piece in there in the first place.   Someone small, 'cause Kaylee'd had a devil of a time slithering her way into position.

"Guess so," she answered quietly

Jayne sneered, dropping the half-eaten apple onto the tabletop.  "Who'd disable the ship on purpose out in the black?" he scoffed.  "Ain't the kind of prank you walk away from."

Mal ignored him.  "Kaylee?" he pressed.

She looked around for help, but Zoe was simply looking right back all placid-like.  Kaylee didn't want to answer, but she owed the Cap'n the truth.  "Would have to be someone small 'nough to fit in the hatch," she admitted.

"Why would River sabotage the ship?" Inara demanded angrily.  "Mal, you know she would never do such a thing."

"River?" Jayne echoed, eyes wide.  "You think Little Sister--"

"I don't know," Mal interrupted.  "Could've been space trash.  I just need to consider all the possibilities.  Zoe, we got anything in the works?"

"Jobs, sir?"

"Something real legal-like would be good about now."

"Jean-Paul waved," Zoe answered.  "Needs something fetched to Beaumonde."

Mal groaned.  "Define 'something.'"

"Dunno, sir.  Thought it best not to ask."

"Is the something far away from here?"

Zoe nodded.  "Pickup's on Newhall.  Solid three days' journey."

Mal considered their options, then sighed.  "Let's head out that way.  Kaylee, I want you to keep a good eye on Serenity."

She agreed.  "Yes, Cap'n."  He couldn't be right about River, and Kaylee figured keeping a close eye on Serenity would be one way to prove it.

"And," he added, holding her in her seat with a real ferocious look, "the next time you get some huāngmiù idea like playing whore to spy on the Alliance, I drop you back at home and find Serenity a new mechanic.  We clear?"

Kaylee knew she should agree meekly, but her momma didn't call her a stubborn fool for nothing.  "Weren't huāngmiù," she answered quietly.  "I helped."

"By putting yourself in danger without any backup," Mal answered, gettin' louder.

"Only because you wouldn't agree," Kaylee shot back.

"Hú shuō bā dào," Mal said, exasperated.  "This ain't a democracy, little Kaylee, and when I say no, I mean no.  I won't have you risking your neck--"

"Weren't her neck she was risking," Jayne muttered.

"--in some dangerous scheme like that, and," Mal added, rounding on Jayne.  "I don't remember asking for your opinion on the subject."

"Seems you're just mad 'cause Kaylee here got the information you needed for your little jailbreak," Jayne argued.  "She weren't hardly in danger.  Girl blended in like none o' the rest of us coulda, and this ain't a democracy, but mayhap you should listen to someone other than yourself once in a while."  Jayne shoved back his chair and stormed out, leaving Kaylee staring openmouthed at the empty doorway.

"This day keeps getting better and better."  Mal stood abruptly, looking hard at each of them in turn.  "I'm done with this conversation.  We're heading to Beaumonde by way of Newhall, and I want everyone watching River and Leung while we're in the black.  Dong ma?"

Kaylee still wasn't sure she agreed with him, but she nodded.  "Dong ma."

Jayne weren't one to care much 'bout hurt feelings and pouting, 'less it got in his way.  Far as he could tell, Kaylee was mad at Simon, who was mad at Mal, who was mad at Inara, all 'bout something different.  And weren't none of 'em on board trusted Little Sister 'cept the Doc.  

So far, all that bad blood weren't getting' in his way none, so Jayne just went about his business -- took his turn watchin' the moonbrain, showed up to dinner, ate his fill, admired 'Nara and Kaylee a bit, then cleaned his guns 'fore climbing into bed with his girlie screens.  Not a bad way to pass the trip to Whitefall.

Should'a known it wouldn't last.  Right in the middle of dinner, no less.  Nearly jumped outta his skin when Little Sister leaned through the doorway all of a sudden, eyes wide, and pointed at Mal.  "You," she said, turning her finger 'round to beckon.  "Henry's coming around."

Like clockwork, everyone else jumped up and skedaddled after her, but Jayne's momma didn't raise no fool.  He surveyed the plates on the table, took an untouched potato, drippin' hot with butter, and pocketed the protein bar on Doc's plate before sauntering off toward the medbay.

Jayne stopped just outside the door, parking himself right up next to Kaylee to watch the freak show.  He didn't want to be any closer than necessary, just in case.  If the Alliance could control that spy from far away, he weren't about to trust that there weren't some crazy sort of transmitter in his noggin, too, reportin' back that one Jayne Cobb, wanted felon, were on this boat.

Mal was standing near the spy's head, arms crossed, face scrunched up into that Captain Tightass look he got at the most annoyin' times.  Doc was a half-step back, hovering 'bout his sister like she were like to burst into flames and he needed to be close enough to smother 'em out.  Zoe and Inara were leanin' against the far cabinets, quiet and observant.

"Why ain't you gone in?" Jayne asked Kaylee, sparin' her a quick glance.

She looked troubled, arms tucked right up under her breasts, brow furrowed.  "Didn't want to crowd him."

"The spy or pretty boy?" Jayne muttered, ignoring the tiny fist barely made an impression on his biceps.  "He talkin' sense yet?"

"Guess so," Kaylee answered, but she didn't sound real sure.  "Keeps saying the cockroaches are gatherin' at the K'uei-Hsing."

Jayne frowned, trying to place that name.  "Ain't that near Osiris?"

"Think so."

The spy's voice rose, and when Jayne turned back to the scene in the medbay, the moonbrain seemed agitated, eyes wide and staring at Little Sister.

"Tell them," he insisted, clamping his fingers 'round River's wrist.  "Tell them the cockroaches are crawling in--"

"Let her go," Doc interrupted, grabbing at the spy, who cringed and let go, bringing his hands up to protect his head.  Jayne's eyes narrowed.  Moonbrain was tortured at some point, never got proper training to resist.  Any self-respectin' thief could get through the Alliance torture chambers without so much as a peep 'bout nothin' real.  Spinnin' stories was the key, and Jayne found out the hard way he had a knack for tellin' tales.  Probably helped that Jayne weren't a moonbrain to start.

Combination of crazy and tortured made Jayne suspect this particular moonbrain couldn't tell the truth even if he wanted to, 'specially with Simon looming over him looking 'bout as fierce as he was able.  Weren't very fierce, to be sure, but Mal intervened anyway, one hand flat in the middle of Simon's chest to push him back a step.  "Simon," he warned.

Doc didn't relent 'till Little Sis turned those mooneyes on him and said, "Simon, stop."  She turned her attention back to her mollymawk, patting his shoulder like he were a kid with nightmares.  "Henry, tell me more about the cockroaches.  Tell me about the girls and the mice."  She turned her hand over, clasping Leung's in both of hers.  The spy met her gaze, and they stared at each other for a long while, silent.

Jayne frowned, not trustin' the way Little Sister was so friendly with a crazy Alliance puppet.  'Course, argument could be made that River was a crazy Alliance puppet, too.  Jayne edged closer, glancin' at Mal to make sure he was keepin' control of the situation.  Moonbrain looked sickly and weak, but Jayne wouldn't have expected a tiny girl like River to be able to take out twenty Reavers by herself, neither.

Leung nodded, starin' at River like she was salvation.  "Cockroaches.  Mice in dresses--" He stopped, shook his head.  "Girls in dresses.  Can't kill all the cockroaches."  He relented a bit, fell back against the chair and let his eyes half-close.  

River leaned closer, nodding, and said, "We can kill some of the cockroaches, Henry.  We'll keep the girls safe."

"River?" Mal prompted, eyebrows lifted expectantly.  "Care to translate?"

Little Sister glanced over at Doc, still pouting in the corner, then looked to Mal and said, "The Alliance built another Academy for gifted children."  Behind her, Doc stiffened, but River ignored him.  "It's on K'uei-Hsing, outside the capital."

Tilting his head just a touch, Mal said, "Excuse me?"

Zoe looked near as skeptical.  "You got that from his story about cockroaches and mice?"

Look on Little Sister's face was downright scary, and Jayne made sure to keep well back.  Girl said she could kill with her mind, and Jayne weren't stupid enough to test her.  River turned her attention back to the moonbrain.  "How close, Henry?"

Mal asked Simon, "What's she talking about?"

Simon glared at Mal, stepping closer to River and drawing a sharp look from his sister.

But the spy was rambling again, all kinds of nonsense about mice and K'uei-Hsing and metal; grated on Jayne's nerves enough that he had half a mind to leave.  Moonbrain weren't makin' sense, and who could trust River to translate proper?

"Not translating," River said, pinning Jayne with a fierce look.  "Henry's just getting some words mixed up."

"That or you're mixin' 'em up for him," Jayne suggested, defiant.  Probably foolish, too, but he weren't one to weigh his actions.  Stepping through the medbay door, he focused on Mal.  "Moonbrain's talkin' nonsense 'bout critters and vermin, and you're set to trust our own brainwashed assassin to explain what he means?"

"She's not an assassin," Simon snapped, stepping around River and bristling for a fight Jayne was more than happy to provide.

"Simon," Mal warned.  "Jayne--"

"I'm not brainwashed," Little Sister declared, prim as can be standin' there next to her mollymawk like she didn't cut his chest open when her head was on crooked.

"Care to tell that to my qìúxī?" Jayne demanded, grabbing his crotch.  "Think I'm still bruised from your little adventure at the Maidenhead."

"Jayne," Zoe admonished.  "Watch your tongue."

Jayne looked at her, openmouthed.  "Girl killed roomful o' Reavers and you're worried about her sensibilities?"

"The cockroaches will break the mice," Leung shouted, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes.

"No, they won't," Little Sister said in the sudden quiet.  "The cockroaches won't get a chance."  She patted Henry's shoulder and turned to stare at Mal.  "We're going to shut the Academy down before it opens."

Jayne, mouth dropping open, shook his head wildly.  "No ruttin' way," he said, turning away from River for backup.  "Mal, tell her we ain't doing no such thing."

*****

The tension aboard Serenity was beginning to affect Inara's ability to sleep.  She had always been hypersensitive to others' feelings; it was part of what made her such an effective Companion.  But the lingering resentments among the crew were wearing her down.

Jayne wanted to put Henry through an airlock and forget the information River had translated.  Simon wanted to wrap his defiant sister in cotton and hide her away for all time.  Kaylee wanted to help everyone, including Henry and the potential victims of a rebuilt Academy.  Mal wanted them all to simmer down and stay safe out in the black, though underneath it all he burned with anger at the Alliance for torturing children.  Zoe was quiet, which suggested to Inara that she didn't completely agree with Mal's flat refusal to discuss Henry's information.

Thankfully, Mal and Zoe and Jayne were (and she hated to use the word, considering their particular line of work) professional enough to leave their mistrust aside when they put down at Beaumonde.  Jean-Paul wasn't an easy person to deal with, but aside from a minor firefight, the transaction appeared to have gone off without a hitch; they reappeared at the agreed upon time, a sack of coins tucked in Mal's pocket.

"Let's go," Mal ordered shortly, climbing up the ramp and slamming the button that set the hatch to closing.  "I want us clearing atmo in five minutes."

Zoe and Jayne wordlessly headed off in opposite directions, and Mal spared Inara a brief glance.  "Any waves?"

"No," she answered, following him up toward the bridge.  She could tell from the stiffness in his frame that he was in no mood to talk, so she settled herself in the lounge with a book.  She stared at the pages as Serenity lifted off, but the delicate characters blurred into illegibility as her stormy thoughts kept her from concentrating.

As she suspected, once the ship cleared Beaumonde's atmosphere, Mal left the bridge to rustle in the galley cupboards for something to eat.  Inara didn't move until he dropped into his customary seat at the table with a tired sigh.  She considered letting him be, but knew she couldn't leave the lounge unnoticed anyway.  Might as well make it worth her while.

She stood, drawing his attention immediately, and moved toward the cupboard to fix herself a saucer of tea.  Mal didn't speak as she heated the water, and Inara knew any conversation would be an uphill battle.  She carried her tea to the table and sat a few seats down from him, trying not to crowd him.  "Where are we headed?" she asked.

Mal huffed a laugh.  "Not beating around the bush today, eh?"

"No reason to," Inara admitted.  "We're done with the Beaumonde job.  No immediate obligations.  What's next is a fair question."

"Same as always," Mal answered, keeping his focus on the plate of food in front of him.  "'Nother job."

She let his answer stand for a moment, debating whether to admit what she'd been doing during the journey to Beaumonde.  With a fortifying sip of tea, she fixed her gaze on him.  "I did a little poking around--"

Mal shot her an irritable look.  "Inara."

"--and found quite a bit to suggest that Henry's information about an Academy on K'uei-Hsing is correct."  That he didn't immediately stand up and leave the room was as close as Inara figured he would ever get to Why, thank you for your research, please do continue, Inara from him.  "The Alliance dedicated money to a 'research facility' on K'uei-Hsing about a year ago, and construction is scheduled to finish up next month.  It's hard to find much about any possible recruitment, but I did find this adwave.  It ran for about a week out on Persephone."  Inara pulled a scrap of paper from her pocket and flattened it against the tabletop before sliding it over to him.

Mal didn't touch it, but he did lean closer and read the words Inara had already memorized.

Does your child need a more challenging learning environment? The Alliance is proud to announce a new educational opportunity designed to aid the most gifted students achieve more than they dreamed.  Wave the Zhuang-Lun Wang Academy for more information.

"Zhuang-Lun-Wang Academy," he muttered irritably.  "That could be legitimate," Mal said, but he didn't sound convinced.

"The timing is suspicious at the very least," Inara pointed out.

"I won't risk lives on the basis of suspicious timing and an adwave out on a border planet," he sniped, stabbing at his block of protein with a fork.

"Mal--"

"Not right now, Inara," he interrupted, strain evident in his voice.  "I--"   He broke off, looking past her, and Inara turned to see River standing silent in the doorway.

"Hello," River greeted quietly, stepping down into the dining area and drifting toward the table.  Her hair was tucked behind one ear, her feet bare, but she looked more substantial, somehow, than she had in weeks.  More focused.  "Are we heading for K'uei-Hsing?"

Mal dropped his chin for a moment, shaking his head almost imperceptibly.  "No," he answered, his tone regretful.  "We can't risk it right now, River."

The smile River gave him was stunning in its joy, and more than a little disturbing in its incongruity.  River primly took a seat at the head of the table and held Mal's gaze, all but ignoring Inara.  "All warfare is based on deception."

Working his jaw for a moment, Mal gave a grudging nod.  "Yes, but this ain't warfare.  This," he said, gesturing at the ship around them, "is commerce."

"When able to attack, we must seem unable," River countered.  "When near, we must make them believe we are far away."

Inara could tell from the singsong quality of River's voice that she was quoting something, but didn't recognize the source.  Inara's education, after all, hadn't placed much emphasis on game theory or warfare.  A glance at Mal convinced her that he couldn't place the recitation either.

"River, I know what Leung said upsets you--"

"I'm not upset," River interrupted, that serene smile crumbling along with her composure, "because we're going to make sure that Academy doesn't open."  She leaned closer, eyes wide.  "Hold out bait to entice the enemy.  Feign disorder and crush him.  Pretend to be weak, that he may grow arrogant."

"No need to pretend, River, we are weak," Mal pointed out.  "I wish we had the forces to take out the Academy, River, but we're down a man, two if you count the Shepherd as a fighting man--" Pain tightened his features at this mention of their dead-- "and this isn't a platoon under the best of circumstances."

"Time moves in one direction," River lamented, sorrow bowing her shoulders.  "I want to go back and bring them with us."

Mal's jaw tightened.  "Can't go back.  Just live and learn from your mistakes."

"Wasn't a mistake," River countered, straightening once more and meeting Mal's gaze with fierce assurance despite the tears sparkling in her eyes.  "Wash agrees."

Inara stared at River.  She couldn't possibly--

Mal thumped his fist against the table.  "We fight when we got no other choice," he said, tone grim, "but a tactical assault?  We're not trained for that."

Inara took mental stock of the crew -- two soldiers, a mercenary, a doctor, a Companion, a mechanic, and a trained assassin -- and tended to agree with Mal.  Could they really expect to take on the Alliance again and walk away mostly intact?  She closed her eyes for a moment and conjured up Wash's familiar face.  Would this be worth River's life?  Kaylee's?  Mal's?

"Yes," River answered, and when Inara looked over, she was startled to find the girl looking straight at her, eyes wide and desperate.  "It is worth risking our lives.  You don't understand what they'll do to these girls."

Shame pooled in Inara's gut.  "River--"

"Needles and scalpels and simulations that don't ever seem like they'll end," River continued, her voice shrill.  "They manipulate your mind until you don't know what's real and what's not, until you'll do horrible things to stop the pain, because what you're doing isn't real anyway.  Nothing's real.  Only it is."  She sucked in a breath.  "And then you've killed people, real people, without knowing it or wanting it or meaning it, and nothing I ever do will bring them back."

"River," Mal said, low and soothing.  "That's not your fault--"

"I did it," she interrupted, tears shimmering in her eyes.  "I didn't want to stab him with a pen.  Too much blood, no air, too much suffering.  I didn't want to kill anyone, but I did, and it doesn't matter why anymore, because time moves in one direction and I can't undo it."  Regret radiated from River until Inara ached for the girl.  River turned to Inara and nodded, "You can feel it, but only a little.  It doesn't ever stop."

"I've killed, too," Mal said quietly.  "It ain't ever fun, and that feeling won't go away.  But getting the rest of my crew, getting your brother killed in some sort of revenge–"

"It's not revenge," River protested, her tone vehement.  "I can't ever get the men who did this to me -- Dr. Mathias is dead already.  But I can keep them from doing it to someone else."  River leaned closer, pinning Mal with her gaze.  "Băi chuān guī hăi.  I know you want to save me.  I don't need saving anymore, but you can save the next River."  She paused to let her words sink in.  "Time moves in one direction."

Mal looked grim.  "I'm sorry.  We can't.  I won't risk my crew."

"Attack him where he is unprepared," River said, her tone desperate now as she stood, her pleading gaze still fixed on Mal.  "Appear where you are not expected."   She stepped back.  "You risk your crew for coin.  You risked Wash for what's right.  This is why you joined up."  She shook her head, pressed her trembling lips together.  She shrugged.  "War's not over, Mal."

Inara flinched, expecting an explosion from Mal as River turned on her heel and left.  But Mal's only response was a desolate silence.  When Inara looked over at him, she could tell River's implicit accusation of cowardice had cut him to the quick.  "She's wrong," Inara told him quietly.

"Is she now?" Mal asked bitterly.  His chair skidded backwards and he carried his half-eaten meal to the trash, dumping it, then tossing his metal plate and fork into the sink.

"The war is over, Mal.  River is--"

"Not now, Inara," he snapped, his boots clomping up the stairway to the bridge.  Inara wanted nothing better than to follow him, but knew he would accept no comfort from her.  And he wasn't in the frame of mind to listen to reason.

*****

Kaylee's hands trembled a bit as she scanned the guards lining the bar.  They were knocking back liquor and eyeing the girls with varying degrees of lust.  Her stomach in knots, Kaylee zeroed in on a likely customer -- tall but not too tall, medium build, short brown hair, skittish expression on his face as he stole sidelong glances at the half-dressed women strutting around the saloon.  Didn't look like he did this often, which would probably be for the best, since she didn't really do this often, either.

She liked sex lots, but she'd never really learned the arts of seduction.  She was far too straightforward for work like this, preferring plain talk to hints and double entendres.  The other girls draped themselves on the guards, usin' their hair and their scent and their whispered words to seduce 'em 'till they didn't know nothin' but their need to bed someone, sooner than later.  Kaylee knew she wouldn't be able to pull that sort of thing off, no matter how many times she'd seen 'Nara do it.

Kaylee hoped her approach wouldn't spook a man embarrassed to be in a whorehouse, watching as the shy young guard nearly dropped his mug of shaoxing jui.

Steeling herself, Kaylee pushed away from the wall and moved toward him, still a little uncertain on the heels Xi He had given her.  She felt her hips sway, exaggerated-like, and made herself smile when her mark noticed her approach.  Inhaling slowly to calm her nerves, Kaylee reached his side and linked her arm through his.  "First time here?"

"Ye--yes," he answered, eyes wide.  Shy as he was, his gaze kept dropping to her cleavage, and Kaylee knew she had him.  She felt an odd sense of power, of confidence, and let herself embrace her role.

Leaning up, she murmured in his ear, "I'll be gentle with you."  Kaylee let her breath dance across his neck until he shivered.  "Unless you want me to be rough."

He choked, coughing into his fist for a moment.  "Excuse me," he said, his eyes on the floor, his arm stiff under her hands.  Kaylee stuck to him like a burr, trailing her fingers down his biceps.  After a long moment, he stole a glance at her face, and she nodded encouragement.

Awkwardly, he shoved his free hand in his pocket and came up with three silver coins.  Kaylee accepted payment with a smile, tucking the coins into her top before ushering him across the room.  She glanced at the bar, where Xi He was giving her a look of maternal pride that turned Kaylee's stomach.

Pushing that aside, she showed her shy client into her room and asked, "What's your name?"

"Ted Huang," he answered, his voice still shaky as he stared at the bed, eyes wide.

Kaylee nodded, running her hands over his chest, feeling the rectangle of his ident card tucked into his pocket.  "Nice to meetcha, Ted.  You can call me Kate," she answered, her voice low and throaty.  

"Kate," he repeated, still a bit dazed.  He stood stock still, letting her caress him without even reaching for her.  Kaylee decided he needed to be put at his ease for this to work.

"You work down here on Eunomia?" she asked, her tone conversational as she smiled up at him.  No reason she couldn't get useful information while she worked him.

Huang nodded emphatically, his breathing erratic as Kaylee started to toy with the buttons of his shirt.  She gave him a sweet smile.  "You work with all those scary prisoners?" she cooed, running her fingertips along his biceps as she skimmed the shirt from his body, tossing it against the wall.

"Not the real dan-- dangerous prisoners," he answered absently, the words tumbling from him in short bursts.  "I guard the political prisoners.  Not very violent."

"Still," Kaylee answered, twining her arms around his neck and pressing herself against him until he groaned.  "That's a very manly job," she whispered, leaning up to kiss him.  His arms came suddenly around her ribcage, pulling her close as he deepened the kiss.

Her hands were unsteady, the spring-loaded needle unwieldy in her grasp, but she managed to press it against his neck and pull the trigger.  As the sedative flooded his system, Huang staggered back, his pupils blown out.  "Wha--?" he asked, then slumped to the floor in an awkward heap.

Breathing hard, Kaylee stared down at his unconscious body, overwhelmed.

"Gorram girl," Jayne said, his voice low as he swung a leg over the windowsill.  The opening was barely large enough for him to squeeze his way in, and set high up in the wall.  He dropped awkwardly to the floor.  "Took you long enough."  He tossed a small knapsack onto the bed, not taking his eyes off the unconscious man.

Kaylee turned to him, her legs feeling unsteady.  He looked blurry, somehow, and she blinked, trying to clear her vision.  "Jayne--"

"Sssh," he admonished, suddenly at her side.  His hands encircled her forearms, and he pushed her down onto the mattress, then urged her to lean forward.  "Head between your knees," he ordered, his hand awkwardly patting her shoulder for a moment.  "I'll take care of this one."

Dots swam before Kaylee's eyes, and she obeyed Jayne, gasping.  Eventually, the lightheadedness dissipated, and Kaylee was able to sit back up, still feeling unsteady.  Jayne had Huang tied up and was stripping off his boots.

"Get changed," Jayne ordered, not looking up from his work.

Kaylee looked down at her skimpy dress, having a bit of trouble focusing on the situation.  She felt numb.  "What?"

"The bag," Jayne explained, grunting as he pulled the rope tight around Huang's wrists.  "Brought you some clothes."

"Oh."  Kaylee opened the bag with some difficulty, her fingers responding sluggishly to her commands.  Normally, she'd be embarrassed to change in front of Jayne.  Now, she didn't much care about modesty; she wanted only to get out of this place.  Quickly, she pulled her familiar olive green jumpsuit on, her equilibrium coming back slowly.  She rubbed the embroidered bear on the leg.  "I'm ready."

"Good," Jayne answered, kneeling beside her trunk.  He tossed handfuls of gauzy, sequined fabrics onto the bed.  "Help me put him in here."

"Jayne--"

"Ain't killed him, Kaylee," Jayne told her, "and a few hours in here won't either."

Reluctantly, Kaylee moved to Huang's form and gripped his ankles with shaking hands.  He was heavy, but they got him into the trunk with a loud thud that made Kaylee wince.  "Sorry, Ted," she whispered as Jayne pushed the cover down, then scooped the whoring clothes over the top of it.  

He grabbed the knapsack, folded it up, and shoved it into the cargo pocket of his vest, then looked to Kaylee.  "Let's go."

Kaylee cast one last glance around the room, then stepped in his cupped hands to boost herself up and out the window.

*****

Inara rubbed her forehead tiredly, a little frustrated that her tea hadn't managed to stave off the headache she'd earned scanning hours of archival footage.  Political trials were theatre, to be sure, but not in the least bit entertaining.  In fact, watching the scared, defiant men and women be accused by silver-tongued Alliance officials was disheartening.

She'd supported unification, had assumed that a single government would ensure equality for all.  How wrong she'd been.  Her experience trying to help the whores on Sihnon and her eye-opening time aboard Serenity were nothing compared to watching the Alliance railroad its political enemies.

Still, the long, tiresome search had turned up no one River recognized as her mollymawk, which led them to their working theory that the mysterious prisoner was being held in jail awaiting his farce of a trial.  

Intransigent man he was, Mal pointed out that River seemed to be regressing to her fragmentary, confusing speech patterns, suggesting that the girl just hadn't been able to articulate it when they showed her the mollymawk.  Inara, who'd spent large portions of her life attuned to the shifting moods of others, was confident that River hadn't seen her mollymawk.  The girl had watched all of the footage with the same fitful disinterest, Simon hovering worriedly at her back, asking her questions in soothing tones.  Finally, she'd upended a tea service and stormed out, Simon trailing worriedly along.

Exhausted, Inara had chosen to nap in her shuttle while Zoe and Mal retired to the bridge to discuss strategy.  Sometime while Inara was asleep, River had crept into her shuttle and curled up beside Inara, sleeping the deep sleep of an exhausted child.  Inara hadn't the heart to wake her, gently pulling a blanket over the girl's shoulders and slipping out of her shuttle instead, intent on brewing a stronger medicinal tea.

She reached the kitchen before she registered Simon's presence, sitting at the large table, poking at a bowl of rice with marked disinterest.

"Good evening," she greeted, attempting to gauge his mood.  He'd been short with her this entire journey, and Inara wasn't sure whether it was his general stress or the role she'd played in Kaylee's excursion to Eunomia.

Simon spared her an uncharitable look, then turned his attention back to his food, bringing his chopsticks to his mouth and chewing with a slight grimace.

Apparently, his anger was about Kaylee.  Inara reached into her small cabinet, pulling out a serving of sauce and moving to the table.  "Here," she said, placing the small packet on the scarred wood near his bowl.

"No, thanks," Simon answered, his tone hostile.  He didn't bother to look at her.

She watched him for a moment, then nodded and retrieved the sauce, returning it to its rightful place as the uncomfortable silence spooled out.  Simon was in a dark place -- angry and fearful all at once.  "Your sister's in my shuttle, if you're looking for her."

"Why is she there?" Simon demanded, his tone accusatory, as if he suspected Inara of luring the girl with the promise of ice planets.

"I don't know," Inara admitted, adding a pinch of feverfew to her small teabag to help with her headache.  "I was asleep when she came in, so I couldn't ask her."

Simon's chair scraped against the floor.  "I'll get her."

"No," Inara turned to find him standing, rice bowl in hand, his face averted.  "She's asleep.  I think she could use the rest."

"She can sleep in her own quarters."  Simon sounded unmoved.

"Why disturb her?"  Inara poured hot water into her mug, watching it darken as it filtered through the teabag.  "She's fine where she is."

"I disagree," he countered primly.

Sighing, Inara took a seat on the other side of the table, gesturing for him to sit back down.  He stood stubbornly, but didn't immediately leave, which she decided to take as a small victory.  Wrapping her fingers around the warm mug, she said, "I'm sorry you're angry with me, Simon, but--"

"You took her to Eunomia," Simon interrupted angrily, his knuckles sickly white where he clutched his bowl.

The change of subject didn't surprise Inara; she'd expected Simon to bring up Kaylee.  "Actually, I took her to the other side of Themis to catch a shuttle to Eunomia," Inara corrected gently.

"Splitting hairs," Simon spat, finally looking at her again.  "She wouldn't have gone if you hadn't encouraged her."

Inara was worried for Kaylee, loved her as a sister, and she wasn't much enjoying being the target of Simon's wrath.  She was just as worried about Kaylee as Simon, and as much as she hated to admit it, she felt some guilt for agreeing to bring Kaylee to the docks.  At the time, it seemed like the right thing to do since Mal was being so unreasonable and Kaylee swore her plan was relatively safe.  Now, Inara wasn't quite as sure as she should be that she'd made the right choice, and she couldn't quite blame Simon for being agree at her.  And all things considered, his sniping at her was preferable to fisticuffs with Mal.  "I didn't encourage her," she told Simon, not expecting him to believe her when the alternative was to blame Kaylee for her actions.

"You told Mal she would be the perfect choice to whore herself," Simon accused, jabbing the air with his chopsticks to emphasize his point.

Stung, Inara paused, wondering if he was even capable of hearing reason when he was so upset for so many different reasons.  "I said that, of the three women on Serenity, Kaylee was the most likely to pass on Eunomia as a small-planet girl down on her luck and desperate enough to turn to whoring.  I certainly didn't come up with this plan in the first place, nor did I urge Kaylee on."

Simon lifted his eyebrows, not bothering to answer aloud.

"When Kaylee came to me asking for a ride to the docks," Inara continued, "we argued for quite a while."

"I'm sure you did your best to dissuade her," Simon shot back, rounding the table and bringing his bowl to the small sink to wash it.

Inara turned in her seat, following his progress.  "Simon," she said, her tone more commanding now.  "You don't have to believe me, but I did try to talk her out of it.  Kaylee is very dear to me, and I know she's not trained for--"

"And yet you still flew her to the docks," he shot back, scrubbing angrily at the bowl, the sponge squeaking in protest.

Inara'd had this fight with Mal already, and she really didn't have the energy for another round, especially not with the way her head was throbbing.  "Kaylee made a decision--"

"Mal made a decision that Zoe's idea was too dangerous," Simon interrupted, slamming the bowl down and heading for the door.  "But you ignored that.  You and Kaylee both.  And now she's in danger, and we're millions of kilometers away if she gets into trouble.  If anything happens to her--"  He broke off, shaking his head.

Inara watched the emotions flit across his face, but before she could respond, he stormed out of the kitchen and disappeared.  Inara took a deep breath, closing her eyes to center herself.  Her guilt and fear wouldn't help Kaylee, and it would only serve to cloud Inara's ability to help resolve the situation.  She reached for her tea, surprised to find that her fingers were trembling.

"Simon doesn't blame you," River said from the doorway, one hand on the jamb.

Startled, Inara nearly upended her teacup.  "River.  You're awake."

"He blames me," River said, her tone sad.  Resigned, even, as she entered the room and crossed behind Inara, heading for the bridge with her awkward grace.

Puzzled, Inara turned in her chair and touched the girl's arm as she passed by.  "River, honey, I'm sure that's not true."

But River never stopped moving.  "Kaylee did this to help me, because she thought it would make him feel better," she explained, reaching the stairs on the other side of the kitchen.  "Simon shouldn't be stuck with a broken sister who complicates everything."

Dumbstruck, Inara shook her head.  "River, no--"

"Yes," River interrupted, turning away, chin tilted down until her hair obscured her face.  "But I don't need to be first and Simon won't let me be second."  She paused, glancing back from the shadows of the passageway.  "Impasse," she said, then continued on her way.

*****

Weren't for lack of trying on the Shepherd's part, but Jayne never did learn the proper words for prayer more complicated than blessing food or rememberin' the dead.  Still, right before lyin' his way into an Alliance prison seemed good a time as any to pray, so he jus' muttered, "Keep a good thought for me, Shepherd," and moved toward the imposing gate.  Thing was made of some real shiny metal, tall and wide, with a small guardhouse off to the left.

Kaylee'd done good gettin' him proper Alliance duds, but Huang weren't close to Jayne's size, and the stolen pants were barely long enough to tuck into his boots.  At the front gate of the main prison, Jayne paused, adjusting his gorram purple vest one last time, hopin' it covered the pins holding Huang's regulation shirt together, since the buttons tore clean off.  The guardhouse door opened and a suspicious little man peered out at Jayne from behind the barrel of a gun near as fancy as Vera.  "Who's there?"

"Ted Huang."  Jayne moved into the light, hands held high, doing his best impression of a zôugôu Alliance type.  Went against his nature, but he forced a smile.  "Reporting for duty, sir."

"Huang?" the little man repeated, still training his weapon on Jayne as he glanced down at his handheld timepiece.  "Shift started nearly an hour ago."

"Sorry, sir," Jayne answered, all but battin' his eyelashes.  "Got tied up."  Were a truer statement than the little colonel suspected, since Huang was hogtied in Kaylee's trunk back at the whorehouse.  Before the little fascist could get too worked up, Jayne added, sweet as cherry pie, "Couple o' girls at Xi He's had a little transportation problem, so I got them to safety and came right here to report."

The little man still looked a mite suspicious, but tilted the business end of his gun just to the left of Jayne's head, tucking his timepiece away before demanding, "Ident card."

"Yes, sir," Jayne answered, handing it over and watching, a little twitchy, as the little man disappeared into the guardhouse, the door closing behind him with an authoritative click.
Jayne and Kaylee'd spent considerable time back on the shuttle altering the photo on Huang's card.  Weren't a perfect mockup job, but it would pass all but an electronic examination.  Soon enough, the little man reappeared, holding the guardhouse door open.

"Come on," he ordered, impatient.  "You get border patrol tonight, since you're late without an excuse."

Jayne's eyes narrowed as he accepted his ident card, tucking it back into his pocket.  "I got an excuse.  Told you--"

"Helping ladies of the night is not an accepted reason to miss work," the little man answered, adding a mannered sniff said he disapproved of whorin' of all sorts.

With a shrug, Jayne let the argument go, not wanting to chase danger pressing the issue.  Sooner he was out of this man's sight the better.

The little man pointed to the guard desk just inside the prison entrance.  "They'll tell you where you're assigned."

Jayne tipped his cap.  "Much obliged, sir," he answered, heading across the small prison yard, his breath visible in the crisp air.  Jayne greeted the two guards behind the desk with a cheerful, "Evenin'."

They were less friendly than the little liúmáng in the guardhouse, giving Jayne his assignment in clipped words.  Probably for the best that he was to spend his shift outside marching in circles 'stead of behind a desk makin' ruttin' small talk with Alliance types.  Weren't that he was all political like Mal.  Jayne didn't take no theoretical approach to right and wrong and unification and such -- he just found those tight Alliance types grating.

So Jayne tipped his cap and took up his post clear on the other side of the place, walking slowly up and down along the southern perimeter.

Pointless task for someone like him what could just track down anyone who escaped inside of an hour, but Jayne kept up his mindless task for nearly his whole shift.  Saw naught but a few rats, skitterin' in and out of the light.  By 2300, he knew the location of every surveillance screen in his area, and made note of what kind o' nooks and crannies they used to hide 'em.

Jayne made a show of glancing around real furtive-like, then backed up to the wall, leaning against it for a rest.  Crossing his boots, he lit a cigarette and took a slow drag, watching the doors.  Nothing.  Jayne smiled.  

When his cigarette was near down to the filter, he shifted his feet and slid down the wall, sittin' down within view of the cameras.  Still no one came out barkin' orders and reprimands.  Jayne pretended to notice something unsavory on the ground beside him and scooted sideways, far enough to be just outside camera range.

Moving quickly now, Jayne lit another cigarette and placed it on the ground beside him, hoping some of the smoke would be visible to the screens.  Then he crab-walked toward the door, skirting the surveillance, and opened the door slowly.  Hat pulled low over his eyes, Jayne ducked his chin and moved purposefully into screen-range inside the hallways, knowing they could see a guard, but couldn't identify him from above.

He rounded a corner, heading for the cellblocks.  He began to jog, hearing voices behind him, hearing his fake name called out.

"Theodorius Jehosephat Huang!" shrieked an all-too-familiar voice.  "You get yourself over here right now!"

Jayne stopped short then very, very slowly, he turned to face her, his jaw hanging open in shock.

She stood there in the brightly lit hallway with guards on either side, her dark hair hanging in listless, messy waves around her dirt-smudged face.  Her ugly, ill-fitting clothes obscured her curvy figure and she was glaring at him with a frightful scowl.

Feeling his mouth drop open in shock, Jayne blinked.  Then he shook his head, trying to dislodge the image, but it weren't workin'.  He took a step towards her and said, "Ina--"

"Don't you dare say my name," she interrupted furiously.  "After all I've put up with from you!  I've given you seven children and this is how you repay me?"

Jayne stared at Inara, completely dumbfounded, and muttered, "Tāmāde."

Mal loitered just outside the service entrance, taking nips of whiskey to ward off the chill of Eunomia's weeks-long night.  Frigid moon, perfect place for a prison like this one -- guards equaling almost half the population of prisoners, quadruple-check entry systems, and near universal surveillance inside.

Not the easiest place to get a person out of if the guards were doing their jobs, which was where Jayne came in.  Mal still wasn't sure the details of how Jayne was planning to distract the guards, and he half-suspected that they'd have to plan a second prison break once Jayne got himself pinched, but that was a problem for another day.

When Mal heard amused hoots inside, he tucked the flask into his vest pocket and waved Simon over from the small hovercraft.  "It's time."

Simon looked a little pale and shaky, and Mal cursed under his breath.  Hearing this, Simon straightened his spine and smoothed imaginary wrinkles from his nondescript grey jumpsuit.  "I'm ready," he declared with the diction of a proper central planet boy.

Taking a wanted man into an Alliance prison to participate in a jailbreak -- not the best plan ever, but it weren't like they had a lot of options.  Zoe would've been a better choice in all respects 'cept where the jail didn't allow female workers near the male prisoners.  Simon had been Mal's second choice only for his medical skills.  He jerked a nod and opened the door, holding it while Simon pulled the laundry cart into the small guard station.  Leaning close as Simon passed by, Mal ordered, "Don't talk.  At all."

A withering look was Simon's only answer, and Mal decided to consider that a small victory.  He followed Simon inside, not liking the sound of the lock engaging behind them or the sight of so many guards wearing purple vests and weaponry.

"Evenin'," Mal greeted, favoring the distracted guards with a smile.  They were smirking down at the surveillance screens, and there were five of them behind the desk instead of the required two, which meant things were going their way so far.  Mal knew better than to expect that to continue.  "Problems?"

One of the guards spared him a brief, amused glance.  "Not at all.  Ident card?"  Simon and Mal obediently handed them over, waiting as the guard swiped them quickly.  The guard waved them through the biometric scanner and then handed back the ident cards.  He created a passkey for the cellblocks and opened the first gate for them. "Go on in."

"Many thanks," Mal answered, accepting the passkey with one hand and pulling the cart with the other.  

Simon brought up the rear, inhaling sharply as the heavy barred door clanged shut behind them.  After a moment, the cellblock gate rolled open and they stepped inside.  Typical Alliance construction, all rigid lines and hard metal, with individual cells ringing a sparsely furnished common area.  Furniture was purple, of course.  "Nice place," Simon commented softly, his mouth all pinched-like.

"Keep quiet 'less you want a good long time to take in the décor," Mal warned.  "Laundry," he announced loudly, hearing the rustling of stirring prisoners as they emerged into the cellblock.

Simon pressed close.  "Do you really think it was a good idea to announce our presence?" he muttered.

Mal shrugged.  "In prison, word gets around pretty fast."  Simon stared at him, and Mal grinned.  "Speaking of pretty, you might want to keep your head down, boy."  With that, he turned to the first door and lifted the keycard.

Simon's hand landed on his arm.  "What are you doing?"  Even at a whisper his voice sounded squeaky and panicked.

Mal widened his eyes in mock surprise.  "What, you don't think facilitating a prison riot is the way to go?"

Simon's eyes went wide.  "I really--"

"Relax," Mal ordered, leaning in close to avoid being overheard by the prisoners.  "We have to go in APP-whosit's cell, so we have to go in at least a couple others first.  What we outlaw types like to call a cover."

"Oh," Simon answered.  "That makes sense."

"Thank you kindly," Mal retorted.  "Now how's about you be quiet and do as you're told 'till we're safely out of here?"  Turning back to the first cell, Mal noticed the prisoner numbers fastened to the door and smiled.  "Well, ain't that convenient."

Simon made a skeptical sound, but didn't comment further.

"Against the wall," Mal ordered the two prisoners, holding up the keycard.  Reluctantly, they complied.  "Random inspection day," he explained.  "We're making sure you don't have any contraband anti-Alliance propaganda tucked underneath your mattress.  Porn we don't care about."

Mal couldn't see Simon, but he could feel the disapproving gaze.  Glancing over his shoulder, Mal said, "Why don't you stay with the cart?"  Swiping the lock, he held the keycard out for Simon before opening the heavy door and stepping inside.  Wouldn't do to get shivved and left to bleed himself dead in someone else's prison cell if some prisoner got to thinkin' 'bout a prison break.

Stepping into the dark, putrid cell, Mal couldn't quite block out memories of that hellhole where he and Zoe and the others had been held after the war.  Probably he'd decided to live in the black during those long, stifling months, penned up in 'bout four square meters for two men.  These cells were just a bit bigger, and had small, barred windows, but seein' as they were on Themis' lone moon, weren't any moonlight to help illuminate anything.  Mal made quick work of the prisoners' beds, complimenting them on their choice of girlie screens before he retreated to the hallway and slammed the door closed.

"One down," he muttered, giving Simon a cocky smirk.  Simon turned without a word and moved the cart down the aisle, staying as far away from the cells as possible without clipping the rail separating them from the common area.

As they made their way down the cellblock, Simon accepted bundles of dirty sheets and Mal handed neatly folded sets of fresh sheets through the small opening meant for food trays.  The prisoner numbers on the cells didn't seem to follow any logical order, so Mal simply entered three more cells chosen at random, ignoring the obscenity-laden comments from the prisoners.  They moved quickly, knowing their time was limited; they were nearly around the entire cellblock when Mal read the prisoner number three times and then glanced at Simon.

Simon scanned the small plaque and whispered, "APP3500658."  Reflexively, he patted his vest pocket.  Mal watched warily, hoping Simon would remember his precise duties -- weren't like he was a particular talented conman if it came down to talking their way out of this.  They couldn't take much longer than a minute in this cell, or the other prisoners would notice.  Not to mention the guards, distracted or no.

Do or die time, and Mal wasn't in the mood for any of that pesky being-killed business.  "Well," he said, brushing Simon's elbow with his arm as he moved to the bars of the cell.  "This here's your lucky day, fellows."

Only one prisoner seemed to be paying any attention to them at all, arms crossed as he glared at the intruders from the depths of the small cell.  On the lower bunk, a man lay with his face turned to the wall, either ignoring them or asleep.  Hard to tell.

The other man sneered at Mal.  "Goody."

Mal fastened the keycard to the inside of his jumpsuit and reached for a stack of clean linens.  He met Simon's gaze and tried to look reassuring and commanding, all at once.  Turning to the cell, he explained, "Random inspection day.  Move against the far wall, back to us, and place your palms against the wall."

Glancing at Simon, who took a breath and nodded, Mal reached up and swiped the key through the lock.

*****

"It was bad enough," Inara ranted, her hands on her hips, "when I thought you were just coming down here to go whoring."  Jayne opened his mouth to speak, and she flung up a hand to stay his words.  "Don't even try it.  I know all about your little chippy!"

Jayne blinked.  "My chippy?" he asked, sounding honestly confused.

"Your backplanet whore," Inara spat, moving closer to Jayne, willing him to go along with her and not endanger them both.  She'd gone all out for this, spending more coin trying to look horrid than she ever did to look beautiful.  The least he could do was keep quiet and let her play this out.  Unfortunately, Jayne was not a particularly quick study, nor did he take kindly to perceived rescue.  Male honor and all of that other gôu pì that Mal believed in too, but claimed he didn't.  

Shaking his head, Jayne said, "My what?"

Inara squeezed out another milligram of melodrama and demanded, "What does she have that I don't?"

Jayne's mouth opened and closed soundlessly as behind Inara, the guards snickered openly.  Good, she thought, letting her hips sway as she walked.  "What does she do that I won't do for you?"

Jayne shook his head a bit, then shrugged silently.  Inara sent up a silent thank you to her ancestors.  At least Jayne hadn't given them away yet.  She and Zoe hadn't been able to warn Jayne about their modification of the plan.  Since things relied heavily on Jayne keeping the guards distracted long enough for Mal and Simon to sneak a prisoner out of prison, Inara had persuaded Zoe that a shrieking fishwife would serve their purposes far better than an angry Jayne getting himself tossed in a cell for insubordination.

"Nothing!" Inara shrieked, letting tears well in her eyes as she turned away from Jayne, imploring the gathering crowd of guards with wide eyes.  "Why does he stray?" she asked them, her voice catching, her lower lip trembling.  "Is this body so repulsive?" she demanded, tugging her neckline down a bit, smoothing the rough-hewn skirt against her thigh.  "Is this face too hideous to gaze upon?"  Inara pulled her matted hair back with one hand, angling her face to the light for maximum effect as two perfect tears rolled down her cheeks.

The amassed guards shuffled their feet, avoiding her gaze now and looking ill at ease.  She certainly didn't want to scare them off, so she whirled back to Jayne, flinging her hands out.  "What more do you want me to do, Teddy Bear?  I've done everything you've asked.  I brought my sister into our bed, and I even did that thing with the--"  She made odd motions with her hands, "--the device you brought home."

"Gorram it, girl," Jayne managed, eyes still wide with shock.  "You're embarrassin' me."

"No," she accused.  "You have embarrassed yourself, Teddy Bear, while I wait at home, faithful and taking care of your children!"

"Stop callin' me that," he whispered loudly, leaning closer in a vain attempt to keep the guards from hearing.

"Oh," Inara practically shouted, "you're embarrassed by my endearments, but not by your infidelity?  What will the children think?   What will I tell little Teddy-kins?"

"Little..."  Jayne shrugged, looking utterly pole-axed.  Inara could see the exact moment he gave up trying to figure out her game and just decided to go with it.  "I don't know," he said, his tone near insolent now.

The guard in charge of Huang's section of the prison stepped forward a bit timidly.  "Excuse me, Ma'am?"

Inara lifted her chin haughtily.  "That's Mrs. Huang to you."

"Right.  Mrs. Huang," he corrected himself, seemingly unsure whether to treat her with the respect a married Alliance citizen deserved, or the contempt her muddled appearance dictated.  "Your husband is on duty right now, and we can't have--"

"But you don't understand!"  Inara interrupted before she lost control of the conversation.  She needed to keep this distraction going, not get summarily booted from the prison.  Turning on the waterworks, she implored, "Do you have a wife?"  

"Yes," the guard answered, clearly taken aback by this sudden interrogation.

"And is she kind to you?  Has she given you children?" Inara pressed, needing to keep him off balance.

"Yes."

"Would you ever treat her the way my Teddy has treated me?  Would you ever cavort with a lowly whore when you had a loving, sexually adventurous wife at home?"

Blushing, the guard shook his head and backed off.  Inara waved her hands in the air near her cheeks, sniffling loudly.  "Oh, this is so humiliating.  For my beloved husband to shame me this way, to--"

"To what?" Jayne demanded, clamping one giant hand around her wrist and turning her back to face him.  "What'd I do, honeylips?" he asked, invading her personal space.

"You took this job just to be closer to her!" Inara accused, flinging one melodramatic hand over her face.

Jayne blinked, looking honestly befuddled.  "Her who?"

"Your whore is who," Inara shouted.  "At Xi He's brothel!"

"Oh."  Jayne brightened, nodding now.  "That whore."

Zhē yĭndào năr? Inara wondered.  She narrowed her eyes at him, but Jayne had a really scary smirk playing about his lips, and she knew this was going no place good.  She couldn't allow Jayne to take this over, or he would--

"You got it all wrong," Jayne said, arrogance replacing uncertainty as he shifted his weight and cocked one hip.  "I was just doing good for those girls, tryin' to bring them to God like the good Shepherd told me to."

--screw it all up.  It was Inara's turn to stare at him in open-mouthed shock.  What was he doing?

"That whore ain't nothin' to me, baby, but a soul to save," Jayne said, moving closer.  Inara forced herself not to give ground as wrapped his arms around her waist.  

"You're saving her?" Inara spluttered, unable to keep the indignation and disbelief from her voice.  She braced her forearms against his chest and managed to hold him off a bit.

"I am," Jayne answered, letting his hands roam her backside.  "We give ourselves to the ministry of the word," he continued, mangling the quote nearly beyond recognition.  "What better place to bring the word o' God than a prison and a whorehouse?"

It was only by virtue of biting her tongue very, very hard that Inara managed to swallow her first response to his huāngmiù statement.  The guards, when she spared them a glance, were all grinning vacuously and looking proud; Inara knew that somehow Jayne had wrested control over the situation from her.  And that probably she was going to regret agreeing to this stupid plan.

Jayne patted her on the ass.  "I'm just a God-fearin' man, baby.  You know I'd never stray, 'specially since you agreed to try that--"

"Teddy!" Inara interrupted, glaring up at him.  She rushed on before he could continue, forcing herself to sound excited as she flung her arms around his neck and squeezed as hard as she could.  "I'm so relieved."

"I know," he answered, his tone patronizing.  "Now what say you give Big Teddy a kiss and we forget all about that whore?" he suggested.

Furious, Inara realized she had no choice but to go along with this reconciliation.  At the very least, it would give them a good reason to hightail it out of the prison.  Steeling herself, Inara lifted her chin and promised herself she would visit revenge upon him the likes of which he'd never known.

Jayne leaned closer, threading his hands into her hair to hold her still.

Inara jerked away from him and his infuriating smirk.  Dropping her voice to a whisper, she warned, "No tongue."

Jayne snickered.  "C'mon, baby.  They're gonna think you don't really love me."  He tugged lightly on her hair and lowered his voice.  "Gotta make it look real."

Inara took a deep breath and resigned herself to her fate.  "I'm going to repay you for this," she warned.

"Can't wait," Jayne answered, and then he kissed her.  With tongue.

*****

Inside the dim cell, Simon moved behind the prisoners as Mal went to work on the bunk beds, tossing the dirty sheets into a pile on the ground.  Simon had been nervous on Ariel, and terrified during the hellish Miranda debacle.  But this attempt to smuggle a prisoner out of prison -- well, the whole situation set his teeth on edge.  His hands were shaking, and he worried that he wouldn't be able to complete his task.  "Identify yourselves," Simon ordered quietly, one hand inside his jumpsuit scrabbling for the vials.

"To the dirty laundry xìngbiàntài," one of the prisoners answered sarcastically.  He was a tall, thin man, dark haired and bitter.  Simon wondered absently if either prisoner had killed anyone, then realized that train of thought wouldn't help him get through the next few minutes.

He really could use a smoother about now.  His breathing was too shallow and he felt a bit lightheaded.  Nerves, he knew, what with compounding the crimes to be listed on his outstanding warrant.  Simon wondered if busting a political prisoner out of jail was better or worse than rescuing his sister from Torture Academy.  Or boosting meds from an Alliance hospital.  Or any one of the other crimes he'd participated in, at least by patching up the actual participants.

Somewhere along the line, his life had taken a very strange turn.

"Uh, Simon?" Mal prompted.

Simon glanced over at Mal, who had the top bunk stripped and was watching him expectantly.

Right.  Simon turned back to the prisoners.  "Identify yourself," he demanded, his tone cool, keeping his gaze on the two prisoners as he assembled a syringe.  The sarcastic prisoner kept glancing at his cellmate, who stood silent, head bowed, seemingly unaware of the conversation going on around him.  Before they'd come into the cell, the first man had pulled his silent cellmate from his bunk and marched him to the wall; now sarcastic prisoner was reacting angrily to the intruders, drawing attention away from his silent cellmate.

"Identify this," the first prisoner answered, turning his attention back to Simon.  Without turning fully around, he made rude gestures with his hand.

Simon stepped forward, pressing one forearm against the man's back and pushing him hard against the wall.  Then Simon touched the tip of the syringe to the prisoner's neck.  "Name and number."

"Fernando Gonzalez," he answered, stiff and quiet now.  "APP3501794.  Jailed for the high political crime of calling the Alliance what they are: a collection of fascists."

"Thank you," Simon said, then plunged the syringe into Gonzalez' neck, feeling the man go rigid with surprise.

"Hey!" Gonzalez protested, already wobbly as the sedative coursed through his system.  He tried to fight anyway, flailing at Simon ineffectually.

Behind Simon, Mal said, "Ready."

Simon supported Gonzalez' considerable weight and turned, handing the unconscious man off to Mal, who lifted him with a stifled groan and tucked him into the freshly changed bunk.  Simon stepped behind the other prisoner, modulating his voice.  "What's your name?" he asked.

The silent prisoner didn't speak, simply leaned his forehead against the wall and moaned quietly.

"Please, we're not going to hurt you," Simon coaxed, whispering now as he moved to stand next to the traumatized prisoner.  "Just tell me your name."

"The roaches come in pairs," he muttered, rocking back and forth now.  "Pairs of death."  His eyes were unfocused, staring past Simon.

Simon glanced at Mal.  "He's in shock."

Mal looked undecided for a moment, then checked his watch.  "Okay," he said, clearly frustrated.  "Let's hope your sister was right about his number."

Simon glanced at the cell door and raised an eyebrow.  "Let's hope the Alliance labeled the cells correctly."

"Death in pairs," mumbled the prisoner, grinning up at the ceiling now.

Mal grimaced.  "We don't have the time to be wrong about this," he said, moving to the prisoner's other side.  Nodding, Mal ordered, "Kill him."

Taking a deep breath, Simon lifted the syringe to the man's neck and administered the drug.  Almost immediately, the prisoner's body went slack, and Mal gently lowered him to the bundle of sheets on the floor.  As Mal moved back to cover the man's body, he jerked to a halt, staring at the prisoner's face.

Simon stepped closer.  "Is something wrong?" he hissed.

Mal shook his head.  "No."  He tossed the sheet across the man's face and lifted him from the floor.

*****

Zoe eased Shuttle 2 toward its berth, flipping on the comm to break her radio silence.  "Two birds in the bush," she reported, hoping like hell her voice didn't sound as shaky as she felt.  "And I'm docking now."

Immediately, Kaylee answered with a question, "Why isn't anyone back yet?"

Zoe concentrated on flying, since she lacked her husband's easy, sure hands.  Ignoring the riptide of grief, she waited for the reassuring lock as the shuttle achieved stable docking before powering down.

"No one's checked in?" Zoe asked, unbuckling her safety harness as the shuttle began recharging.

"No one!"  Kaylee answered, throwing open the shuttle door and leaning her upper body through the portal.  "Where are they?"

"Don't rightly know," Zoe answered, checking the time.  Weren't late enough to start worrying, but the Captain's plan had too many moving parts and too many potential snags for Zoe to feel comfortable until they were all safe and sound out in the black.

Nodding, Kaylee watched Zoe approach, asking brightly, "How'd your mission go?"

Zoe's stomach lurched at the mention of what she'd been doing, but years of training allowed her to hide her unease.  "Two laundry workers duly drugged and dumped in the alley behind a bar," Zoe reported with a grim smile.  She hated subterfuge, preferring to disable her opponents with a well-placed punch or bullet.  Using her feminine wiles felt wrong, like a betrayal of her husband, but Zoe had done her job and ignored the ache in her gut.  She couldn't really remember what it was like to enjoy male attention -- Wash's death had burned that feeling right out of her.

Kaylee's hand touched Zoe's forearm as they moved out into the cargo bay.  "You okay?"

"Fine," Zoe answered with a tight smile.  She surveyed the cargo bay, where River stood, swaying gently side-to-side, head tilted up toward the ceiling, oblivious to their presence.  Zoe was used to the girl lying about in strange places -- atop cargo, tucked into secret compartments -- but standing stock still in the middle of the cargo bay?  That was new.  And worrisome.

"What if Jayne and Inara--?"

"Don't," Zoe warned.

Kaylee turned wide, worried eyes to Zoe.  "But what if the Cap'n and Simon--?"

"Kaylee," Zoe interrupted, putting a restraining hand on Kaylee's shoulder.  First lesson of war was you can't control the outcome for anyone else, and didn't do no one a lick of good to worry 'bout something out of your control.  "Really, don't.  Worrying won't do anything but drive you crazy.  Won't help Simon or Inara or the Captain."

"Or Jayne," Kaylee added, her tone resigned.  "I hate waiting."

"I'm not too fond of it myself," Zoe admitted.  "But--"

The sound of Inara's shuttle docking interrupted their conversation, and Zoe and Kaylee crossed the walkway, waiting impatiently at the foot of the staircase for the occupants to emerge.  Zoe'd been to battle with Jayne enough times to know he made something of a habit of throwing wrenches into carefully laid plans.

The door was wrenched open, and Jayne came hurtling through the portal, laughing as he stumbled down the stairs.  Inara stood in the doorway, her hands on her hips, looking furious.

Raising an eyebrow, Zoe asked, "Problems?"

"'Nara don't like my methods," Jayne answered, smirking.

Zoe bit the inside of her mouth to keep from smiling.  Inara likely had good reason to be angry.  Jayne wasn't the smartest man Zoe'd ever met, but he had a knack for figuring the best way to use any situation to his advantage.  Maybe she should've warned Inara.  

Still glaring at him, Inara swept down the staircase and moved to Kaylee and Zoe.  Pointedly ignoring Jayne, she asked, "Any word from the others?"

"Nothing yet," Zoe answered, scanning Inara's ill-fitting clothes.  "You look great."

"Tastes great, too," Jayne interjected.

"Jayne!" Inara snapped, whirling to glare at him.  "What did I tell you?"

Smirking mightily, Jayne sauntered over to them and answered, "That if I told anyone I had my hand on your--"

"Jayne!"

Eyebrows raised, Zoe looked back and forth between the two of them, wondering just where Inara's simple plan had gone off the rails.  Leaning closer to the incensed woman, Zoe asked,  "Hands, huh?"

Beside Zoe, Kaylee looked troubled, her gaze shifting between Jayne and Inara.  "You mean you two--"

"Kissed and made up," Jayne confirmed.  "Put on quite a show."

Arms crossed, Inara lifted her chin and asked haughtily, and "You haven't even a passing familiarity with the concept of discretion, do you?"

"Wouldn't have done much in the way of distracting the guards from Mal's cunning plan," Jayne answered, a bit sour.

Before the conversation veered completely off the point, Zoe held up a hand.  "So you got out without blowing your cover?"

Still glaring at Jayne, Inara nodded.  "Yes.  The guards were only too willing to let Teddy-Bear here off duty a half hour early so he could bed his wife proper."

Laughing, Kaylee turned her gaze to Jayne.  "Teddy-bear?"  She stepped closer and pretended to inspect him.  "You do look a bit cuddlier without the beard."

It was Jayne's turn to glower.  "Did I mention that my hand was--?"

"Henry!"  River's exclamation caught everyone's attention.  Zoe moved to the railing, noting that River had turned to stare intently at the cargo bay door.

Zoe opened her mouth to ask who in the 'verse Henry was when the comm beeped.  She took three quick strides to the nearest control panel and opened the connection.  "Sir?"

Mal's voice answered, "Fire her up.  We're 'bout two minutes out."

Kaylee headed for the bridge while Zoe and Jayne jogged down the stairs and across the cargo bay.  Zoe flipped on the comm and asked, "You got the mollymawk?"

"Hope so," Mal answered.  "Open up."

"Hope so?" Jayne echoed, moving to open the hatch.  "The hell does that mean?"

*****

Mal told Simon to ditch the stolen laundry craft a good distance from Serenity, while he struggled to wrap River's mollymawk in some clean sheets.  They'd left the small craft in deep cover, good 100 meters past the middle of nowhere.  Would've been nice to have the mule 'bout now, Mal thought caustically, breathing hard with the exertion.

As they approached the ship, the bay opened and Jayne met them a few meters away to help bring the shrouded body up onto the ship.  "This the guy?" Jayne asked.

Mal slapped the bay door button as they passed it, nodding at Zoe and ordering, "Let's get her in the air."  River stood stock in the middle of the bay, grinning at them as they entered, but Mal didn't have the energy for more than a puzzled look in her direction.  She spun, her skirt flaring out, and glided toward the medbay.

"Kaylee's got the bridge," Zoe answered, taking hold of the bundle and joining the procession toward the infirmary.  "Everything go okay?"

"In a manner of speaking," Mal answered, dreading what was about to come.  Inara appeared on the catwalk above, taking the stairs quickly to join them.  She looked like she was trying to look ugly, dressed in rags with her hair a mess, but he was pretty sure lookin' unappealing was a goal she'd never reach.  Still, he raised his eyebrows at her.  "Nice dress."

Inara rolled her eyes and trailed them into the infirmary.  "Nice uniform."

Mal wasn't in the mood, turning to Zoe after they deposited the prisoner's body onto the table.  "You're going to recognize him."

Simon paused in preparing the byphodine antidote.  "Wait -- you know him?"

Jayne perked up, tugging at the sheets covering the man until Mal slapped his hand.  "Well, who is it?"

Zoe covered her surprise fairly well.  "Good or bad?"

"Don't rightly know," Mal answered.  "Where's River?"  Inara touched his arm and indicated the window.  River was crouched on the landing outside, arms wrapped tight 'round her knees, looking down at them intently.  Mal looked to Inara, "Ask her to come in."  Turning back to Zoe, Mal lifted his eyebrows in question.  

Zoe dipped her chin and reached for the sheet, carefully unwrapping the dead man on the table.  The ship shook a bit breaking atmo, but Zoe's hands were steady while she pulled back enough fabric to reveal the man's face.  She stilled, then looked to Mal, who shrugged and said, "I don't know either."

"Don't know what?" Jayne demanded, brow furrowed.  "Who is it?"

"Specialist Henry Leung, Independents," Zoe answered, sounding troubled.  "I thought he got killed at Yeng-Wang-Yeh."

Jayne looked at the man, then back at Mal, trying to make sense of this turn of events.  "He's one of your soldiers?"  Head tilted a bit, Jayne reached out and poked Leung's shoulder.

"No, he wasn't one of mine," Mal answered, watching Simon inject Leung with the antidote.  Arms crossed, Mal didn't bother to look to Zoe when he added, "And he didn't get killed, he got extracted."

Zoe glanced over sharply.  "Extracted?  That explosion was cover?"

"Yeah," Mal confirmed, stepping closer and peering down at the man on the table.  "He was an Alliance spy."

"Spy!" Jayne yelped, retreating to the far side of the room.  "What the ruttin' hell you doin' bringing an Alliance spy on board?"

Mal didn't bother to answer, as River appeared in the doorway, looking worried.  Inara encouraged her to move forward, but River edged along to the counter, keeping her distance.  "Mollymawk," she sighed.

Simon was watching his sister closely.  "So this is your mollymawk, River?"

Nodding, she didn't take her gaze off Leung.  "One foot in each boot," she murmured as he jerked back to life, coughing himself sick.  Simon was prepared, deftly placing a basin in just the right spot, then taking care of its contents while a wide-eyed Leung frantically scanned his new surroundings.

"Sunburst," he muttered, squinting against the harsh overhead lights.  "Cockroaches scatter."  Simon angled the light away, but Leung brought his hands up to cover his face, whispering incomprehensible words to himself as he rocked back and forth.

"Specialist Leung," Mal said in his best captain voice, hoping some remnant of the military man he'd known remained.  "This is Sergeant Reynolds."

"Swarms.  Desert swarms," Leung answered, peering through his fingers at Mal.  He gave no indication of recognizing anyone, glancing frantically about, eyes wide and wild.

"Specialist, I want you to report," Mal ordered, trying to reach the man he'd known and disliked back at Yeng-Wang-Yeh.  "You've been AWOL, and I require a report."

"Beetles," Leung answered, sounding urgent now as he dropped his hands and wrapped surprisingly strong fingers around Mal's forearm.  "You have to warn the twenties.  That arsenal will fall.  West-north-west and on."

Mal blinked, letting the words rattle around for a bit, but even allowing for the man's trauma, nothing he said made a lick of sense.  Mal looked to Zoe, who shrugged, then turned his attention to River.  "Can you try--"  Mal stopped himself before he suggested she translate crazy-to-English, opting instead for-- "talking to him?"

The girl seemed to understand what Mal wanted, stepping closer to her mollymawk.  She placed a hand on Leung's arm, and he immediately switched his fierce grip from Mal to River.  "Hello," River said.  "We--"

"Girls in dresses," he interrupted, staring intently at River, "metal at their ankles.  Writing with knives.  Mice strike at dawn."

River tilted her head slightly, concentrating on Leung.  "You were at the Academy.  Is that why they arrested you?"

Leung began to laugh, a rusty, unsettling sound.  "Arrested," he echoed.  "All in a row, sharp and light.  But you can't tell the cockroaches."

"Okay," River soothed, patting Leung's hand until he settled down enough to release her.  She took two steps back and turned to the others, her posture strong and certain for the first time in days.

Mal gave her an expectant look, hoping she'd understood at least a little of what Leung had said and would be able to offer some sort of explanation.  "Well?"

River shrugged.  "He's crazy."

*****

Jayne marched up to the whorehouse, doin' his best impression of a tightass Alliance guard, spit-shined boots 'n all.  Air down here on Eunomia weren't warm, seein' as the rock was parked wrong side of Themis just now, and Jayne's face felt especially cold without his beard.  Frowning, Jayne used both hands to open the swinging saloon doors, pausing in the entryway to survey Xi He's.

Weren't much, truth be told, just a dank old bar stinkin' of drink and lust.  Lots of guards in their bū piādiàng purple vests, most of 'em splayed in seats with half-dressed whores gyratin' in their laps.  As he scanned the room, Jayne's gaze lingered on a couple of the prettier girls, he but didn't let himself get distracted by their wares.  A guard with an ugly overbite and an uglier girl slitherin' about on his lap nodded at Jayne as he stepped around them.

Jayne kept moving, intending on getting a drink and then getting Kaylee the hell out of this place.  Sidling up next to a guard braggin' on beating the prisoners, Jayne leaned against the bar and looked for Kaylee.  Ruttin' place was like a dozen Jayne'd patronized in the past, but the thought of Kaylee in here all painted up for show didn't set right with him.  She weren't like them whores.

'Course then he caught sight of her, sitting at the bar having a tense conversation with the proprietor, and just about fell over.  Little Kaylee was showing more of her skin than Jayne'd ever seen, wearing just a small top that held her năizi out like an offering, plus a shiny skirt barely covering her ass.  Kaylee's hair was all done up in ringlets, and she was sitting on barstool, legs crossed all proper, lookin' intimidated.

Much as the sight made Jayne uncomfortable, he had to admit little Kaylee blended in here in a way 'Nara or Zoe never would have.  Signaling the bartender over, Jayne got himself a small mug of shaoxing jui and tossed it back.  With a satisfied sigh, he sauntered toward Kaylee, who was getting a talkin'-to from an aging woman Jayne figured to be Xi He.

"Listen, little Kate," Madame said, leaning across the bar so far that Jayne wondered if she'd spill right out of her dress.  "I been pretty patient goin' on three nights, what with your injury and all--"  Kaylee flushed and folded her burned fingertips out of sight as Madame continued-- "but I can't afford to be putting up little girls won't pay their way."

"I know," Kaylee agreed, sounding nervous.  "I sure am sorry."

"Don't need apologies," Madame answered, her expression downright unfriendly under that painted-on smile.  "Need some coin."

Jayne took the opening.  "Mĕi xiăoshí duōshĭo qián?" he asked, sliding his hand 'round Kaylee's bare midsection.  Girl had nice skin, all soft-like, and he let his fingers wander a bit.  She stiffened against him.

"One silver," Madame answered, her tone sugar sweet.  "Or five for the night.  She's fresh."

"Can see that," Jayne answered pulling Kaylee closer.  "Fresh off a transport, most like."  He felt the jolt go through her when she realized whose hands were on her.  Jayne tapped her ribcage in warning, and then answered the Madame, "I'll take her."

Madame accepted Jayne's payment and gave Kaylee a hard look.  "Go on, now."

Kaylee slid off the stool, turning to face him with wide, surprised eyes.  She scanned him, from his jaunty hat all the way down to his shiny boots, her gaze pausing on his bare chin.  Impatient to be out of the saloon proper, Jayne lifted an eyebrow at her, and said, "Take me to bed, little gūniang."

Kaylee looked like she wanted to slug him, but she took his hand instead and led him across the floor, through the sagging double doors, and down the hall to her room.  Weren't much smaller than her quarters on Serenity, but at Xi He's, she had only a small trunk for her clothes and a bed.

A big bed, covered with shiny red fabric, real inviting-like, parked beneath a small, high-set window and an overhead lamp that cast a dim glow.  Jayne pushed the flimsy door shut behind him and sprawled across the mattress, leering up at her.  "C'mere, little Kaylee."

"Jayne," she whispered, smacking his leg.  "What are you doing here?"  She was still staring at him; seemed a bit gob-smacked he'd shown up here.  Gorram girl wasn't makin' the logical connections just yet.

"What's it look like?" Jayne growled, tapping a dismissive hand against his purple vest.  Ruttin' thing pinched a bit, seein' as how it was made for pansyass Alliance types 'stead of real men.  Sitting up, he struggled to pull it off, tossing it against the door with a grunt.

Kaylee leaned closer, studying his expression.  "You're infiltrating--?"

"Gorram, girl, quit using words could get us killed," he hissed, his hands clamping down on her arms.  He pulled her down to the mattress beside him and leaned real close to her ear to whisper, "Ain't like I'm wandering the prisons playin' at bein' a guard in this getup."

Kaylee frowned.  "But you're all..." she shrugged.  "Purple."

"Look closer," he instructed, pointin' at his grimy old boots all shined up and tucked under pants that weren't quite the right shade o' tightass.  "Just needed the vest to get in here to check on you."

"Check on me?" Kaylee asked, shivering a bit.

Jayne tossed his ridiculous hat into the corner and toed off his boots.  "Lucky it's me," he answered, still speakin' low enough that anyone listening at the door would hear sounds 'stead of words.  "Mal's got a burr under his saddle 'bout your little caper."

"Ain't a caper," she hissed, pushing herself off the mattress.  Reaching into her trunk, she grabbed a long robe and pulled it on.  Didn't do much to hide her body, being near see-through and all, but Kaylee tugged the tie tight 'round her waist before joining him on the bed.  She sat cross-legged, pulling her skirts and the robe across her lap and ignoring the way he kept admirin' her thighs.  "I'm gatherin' information."

"Right," Jayne scoffed, settling on his side, head propped up on one hand.  "Like how big an Alliance yīnjīng is."

"Jayne!" Kaylee admonished, some o' that familiar fire back in her eyes now that she was past the shock.

"Sssh," he countered.  "You can gather all the information you want, ain't gonna do us a bit o' good you can't get it back to us."

Narrowin' her eyes, Kayle answered sounding put out.  "I explained this all to Inara.  I was going to stay long 'nough to get information, then wave her to--"

Jayne blew out his breath in irritation.  "Ain't like you can wave us to say you found the location of that chǔndàn we're lookin' to bust out of jail.  Waves ain't necessarily secure."

"Jayne," she admonished, her cheeks a bit pink, "thought we weren't s'posed to say nothin' could get us pinched."

"Look, you ain't a professional at this," Jayne told her.  "Too easy to slip up if you're thinkin' on how to help Little Sister.  I don't want you focused on nothin' but your next trick when you're down here."

"Ain't turned any yet," Kaylee admitted.

"Good," Jayne answered 'fore he could stop himself.  Weren't his business what Kaylee did, but he was downright giddy to hear she hadn't taken strange men to her bed just yet.  "You learn anything useful yet?"

"Yeah," she answered, brightening.  "Guys do a lot of braggin' here.  Seems silly."  Off his puzzled look, Kaylee shrugged.  "Ain't like you gotta impress someone if you're payin' 'em to sex you."

Jayne grinned.  "Always knew you was a sensible girl.  We got all night to exchange information, but you'd best make it sound like you're sexin' me good."

Kaylee rolled her eyes and shifted on the mattress.

Big smile sneakin' across his face, Jayne leaned back his head and raised his voice, "Oh, yeah, gūniang.  Jus' like that!"

*****

Zoe stopped in the passageway, hovering by the captain's door.  River had the helm, and Mal was off brooding after his argument with Simon turned to grappling.  Captain was too proud to ask the man that punched him to check his injuries.  Instead, he'd limped off to his quarters after declaring victory by virtue of it bein' his ship.  Also 'cause River had taken them off Themis before Simon could do something crazy like take off after Kaylee.

Weren't like the captain didn't have the exact same impulse, come right down to it, which is probably why they ended up knockin' each other about in the cargo bay -- well, Simon had punched Mal the one time, and then Mal had knocked Simon about the cargo bay.  Either way, they'd cracked the collapsible chicken coops during the melee.  Now that Zoe and Simon had recaptured the elusive birds, she figured she might as well check on Mal, make sure he wasn't nursin' any broken bones.

Inhaling deeply, Zoe pressed the buzzer and watched, a bit surprised, as the captain's door slid open.  He'd left it unlocked.  "It's me," she called, stepping onto the ladder and climbing down 'fore he could change his mind and shut her out.

Mal sat on his bed, blinking as he came fully awake, his hair a fright.  "Zoe," he greeted, snapping into focus.  "What's wrong?"  He scrubbed a hand over his face, then hissed in pain.

"Nothing new," Zoe assured him, moving toward the small desk and swiveling the chair around to sit.  "How're your knuckles?"

Glancing down at his bruised right hand, Mal shrugged.  "Fine.  Just need to ice it again later."  He flexed his fingers with a grimace, and Zoe knew he was right -- nothing broken or seriously injured, but he'd have trouble drawing down for a few days.  Most like, they'd run into trouble on Beylix now, just 'cause that's the way things went for them lately.  Captain looked the slightest bit sheepish when he asked, "What about the good doctor?"

"Two of you have matching black eyes," she answered, as the captain reflexively reached up to touch the swelling 'round his left eye, wincing a bit.  Zoe lifted an eyebrow.  "Did it help?"

Mal frowned.  "Did what help?"

"You and Simon beating on each other," Zoe clarified, her tone overly helpful.  They'd turned their frustration on each other, but Zoe suspected they each felt just as helpless as before, 'cept now they had aches and bruises.   "Do you feel any better?"

Captain's jaw clenched.  "Ain't jolly over the situation if that's what you're asking."

"None of us are," Zoe pointed out.  "But Kaylee's decision--"

"Ain't her decision to make," Mal interrupted, his tone hard and cold.  "There are plenty of other ways to get information."

"Do we have the coin for bribing low-level Alliance types?" Zoe asked.

Mal grimaced in lieu of an answer.  Leaning back, Zoe crossed her legs and studied him for a long moment.  Mal frowned, uncomfortable as always being the focus of attention weren't all-adoring.  "What?"

"You taking me to get this prisoner off Eunomia?" she asked, steeling herself for the inevitable lashing out.  Mal didn't take kindly to being challenged, but this particular subject was worth it.

Seemingly puzzled by the change in subject matter, Mal said, "Most like.  Depends on what information we get on the prison 'fore we go in."

Zoe let pass her observation that he didn't deny his intention to break this man out of prison, just because it would tweak the Alliance.  Pretty risky, but he'd always been willing to risk everything he had for what he thought was right.  Only trouble was he drew the line there -- everything he had -- instead of the combined efforts of his people.  Only exception was when all of their backs were well and truly up against the wall.  Even then, he usually offered them an out.

Shamed her to admit it, but she sometimes wished she and Wash had stayed on Haven and buried Shepherd Book.  She'd be a coward, but Wash would still be alive, and she figured that was a tradeoff she would've been able to accept.

Zoe pushed her husband's memory away and wrapped her arms around her midsection.  "What if I choose not to go?"

Mal stared at her, lookin' equal parts concerned and skeptical.  Made sense -- in all the years they'd known each other, Zoe'd never asked out of an operation.  He narrowed his eyes, studying her.  "Why?  What's wrong?"  His gaze flicked momentarily to her abdomen, and Zoe felt the cut of his unspoken question all the way to the bone.

But she wasn't carrying Wash's baby.  She had nothing left of him but some Hawaiian shirts and a few captures that she didn't have the strength to look at just yet.  "Nothing's wrong with me," she answered, hating the way her voice shook.  She cleared her throat.  "But if I decide to sit this one out, what would you do?"

He blew out a breath, ran his good hand through his hair, then shrugged.  "Guess I'd take Jayne, then.  You thinkin' on sitting out?"

"No," Zoe answered.  "Doesn't bother you that you might be taking me to my death?"

Mal recoiled.  "What're you on about?"

"I'm asking," she said.  "You make decisions that put people in danger.  You volunteered for the Independents and ended up a sergeant, and your decisions cost people their lives, Browncoats and Alliance."  He opened his mouth to interrupt, but she pushed on, "You captain this ship and you took us to Miranda, and that trip cost people their lives."

"You think I don't know that?" he exploded, on his feet now and pacing the length of his small quarters.  "You think I don't know the names of the men I lost in battle?  You think I don't carry Book and Wash with me?"

Every time she heard his name, it sliced through her, reopening her wounds.  But this wasn't about Wash, wasn't about her grief; it was about Mal, and she couldn't afford to get sidetracked.  She pressed a hand flat against her ribcage, trying to suppress the pain.  Even so, her voice was rough when she answered, "I know you do, sir.  But a leader has to be willing to risk his people in the fight."

"Not when it's an unnecessary risk," Mal countered angrily, limping a bit, and Zoe wondered just how hard he'd slammed into the collapsible chicken coop when Simon landed that punch.  "Not when the timing is wrong and we have to abandon her to do a job she ain't got no business doing."

"Jayne's there.  She has backup."

Rolling his eyes, Mal said, "She needs more.  Kaylee ain't trained for this, and all the proof I need is that she convinced Inara that she had a plan, and then went down there alone.  You don't spy without a way out 'less you're untrained or barmy."

"I could've gone," Zoe countered.  "I'm trained."

"Not as a whore," he shot back, his tone unnecessarily cruel.

"Inara's trained," Zoe answered, carefully neutral.

The captain's expression when he turned to look at her was murderous.  "I will not whore her out for money or for information."

Frustrated, Zoe shook her head at his willful ignorance.  "You think Inara doesn't know her rent has been keeping us afloat since Miranda?"

Mal winced, his entire body tensed to take on a rival.  Problem was, Inara's job weren't a man he could challenge to a duel.  "I can't tell Inara not to do her job."

"But you can tell Kaylee not to--?"

"Kaylee's a mechanic," captain interrupted, loud and angry.  "And she's risking herself in some harebrained scheme won't work anyway."

Zoe paused, considering dropping the subject, since they were still talkin' at cross-purposes.  That and Mal had an unshakeable big brother-type protectiveness for Kaylee, born the day she brought her Daddy aboard to meet her new boss.  Zoe sighed and said, "In situations like this, it can't always be just your decision."

"I'm the gorram captain!" Mal shot back, incredulous.  "It is always just my decision."

"Ain't suggesting this is a democracy," Zoe answered, her tone placating.  "I'm just saying that this ain't your fight alone, sir.  You've got people with talents, all just want to help.  Right now, you're not letting us."

"Right now, I ain't letting my crew die for nothing," Mal countered, looking haggard.

Anger flared, low and deep in her belly.  Zoe pushed herself upright, stood toe to toe with him.  "My husband didn't die for nothing."

Shaking his head, Mal said, "Zoe--"

"He died doing right," she continued, not even hearing Mal's protests.  Couldn't stop now; words came tumbling on a stream of anguish.  "Alliance killed him, by meddling where they shouldn't.  Just like they did with River's mind.  Ain't right, what they did, and going to Miranda was our only way of protecting her."  She paused, letting her words sink in, letting herself catch her breath.  Every time she inhaled, the oxygen stung her lungs.  Hurt just talkin' about Wash, no matter how necessary.  "I don't want to die, sir, but if I'm meant to die doing right, it'll be an honorable death.  Just like we talked about at Yeng-Wang-Yeh."

Mal stared at her, stunned to hear that name. "Yeng-Wang-Yeh," he repeated softly.  "I lost seventeen men the first day."

"I know.  You lost sixty-three, all told, but we held Yeng-Wang-Yeh."

"Didn't matter, in the end," he said, still bitter over the loss.

"Wasn't your war to win or lose," Zoe answered.  "Was your battle, and you won it.  You won it by letting your soldiers do their part, even if it cost them their lives."

"I'm not sensing a point," he gritted out, unwilling as ever to talk about the war, even with her who fought it with him.

Captain looked a mite confused as he watched her head for the ladder.  She paused, her hand on a rung, and faced him.  "If those sixty-three didn't give the rest of us cover and intel, we would've been massacred.  If we'd run away 'stead of riskin' everything to go to Miranda, we would all still be in danger.  When you play it too safe, you end up riskin' all of us."

Mal's expression hardened.  "I don't take kindly to being told how to run my ship."

Zoe smiled.  "You never did," she acknowledged, "but when you decide to rescue River's mollymawk, you're risking us all.  We're all willing, but the more we know, better we can prepare.  Kaylee's just doing what she can to help," Zoe pointed out.  Then she climbed up the ladder and into the passageway, pausing to take a deep breath before she headed for the bridge to check on River.

*****

Kaylee bounced beside Jayne, ignoring the way he stared at her breasts.  The mattress creaked and squealed, and Jayne added a groan that near rattled the walls.  Sounded pretty convincing, Kaylee figured, and at the very least, it gave them cover to discuss things knowin' they wouldn't be heard over all the sex noise.

"One of the guards," Kaylee continued softly, a mite breathless from their exertions, "boasted that he handled the really tough criminals, the murderers.  Said they're held by type of crime.  There's an acronym, then the prisoner's number.  Acronym tells you what they did."

"You got the breakdown?" he asked, his arms stretched above his head to knock the ratty headboard against the wall.  Sheen of sweat covered his skin, and he was breathin' near as heavy as Kaylee even though it was his turn to rest a bit.

"ACP is Alliance Criminal Prisoner," Kaylee answered, her words chopped up by the force of hitting the mattress with her knees.  Weren't near as fun as she remembered.

Jayne stopped short, wiping a hand across his sweaty brow as he sat up, looking as pensive as he ever did.  "Criminal prisoner," he muttered.  "Not overly specific as to what kind of crime."

"Jayne," Kaylee hissed, slapping his arm, still bouncing on the mattress to keep up the pretense.  His movement threw off her balance, and she nearly toppled into his lap.  She steadied herself with a hand on his shoulder, then started bouncing again.  "Gotta make it sound convincing."

"Right."  Leaning down, Jayne scooped his discarded boot off the floor and banged it rhythmically against the wall.  "How many of them codes do you know?"

"A few, probably not all," she admitted, shifting to the edge of the bed, gettin' some leverage from the floor to keep bouncing.  "I think the numbers tell you more, though.  Like killin' or thievin' or whatnot."  Jayne's gaze dropped to her thighs, and she smacked him again.  "Quit leerin', Jayne."  She leaned back her head and let out a throaty moan.  "Yes," she gasped, "like that."

Jayne's mouth dropped open and he looked a bit dazed.  "Damn, girl," he told her, "that jiāoqìbāu doctor of yours don't deserve you."

Kaylee came to a jarring halt beside Jayne.  She'd been tryin' not to think about Simon, hadn't even asked Jayne about him.  She was scared to hear how he'd reacted to her decision, how angry he was with her.  She was more afraid that to find out he didn't much care that she'd risked herself for River and for him.

"How is he?" she asked anyway, unable to look at Jayne.  She rubbed her burnt fingers, feeling the ghost of his healing touch as she waited for Jayne's answer.  Simon'd been so sweet that night, waking up all confused and worried, thinkin' she was River having an episode, of course.  But soon as Kaylee'd explained her injury, he'd jumped out of bed and ushered her into the medbay, touching her with that same sweet reverence as always.  'Least 'til River woke up screaming.

"Doc's same as always," Jayne answered, his tone dismissive.  "Hĕn jĭnzhāng derén over Little Sister."

"Oh," Kaylee answered, turning a little on the bed, staring at the maroon walls.  She'd expected as much, but she'd wanted -- it made her feel selfish and silly, but she'd hoped that he'd be at least a little worried about her, too.  Kaylee started to bounce again, but halfheartedly.  Probably couldn't even hear the mattress squeaking from the hallway.  "Does the Cap'n have a plan?"

Jayne tossed the boot aside and moved to sit beside her, matching her rhythm and tossing in an occasional bit of graphic appreciation for her imagined talents, not appearing to feel at all embarrassed by their playactin'.  "Faster, faster," he urged loudly.  "Not a good one," he answered her question quietly.  "Suppose they'll use the trip back from Beylix to come up with something better."

"Beylix?" Kaylee repeated, no longer bouncing, all the air goin' right out of her.  "They went to Beylix?  All of 'em?"

"All but me," Jayne answered, not seeming to notice her distress.  He loudly praised her flexibility, then explained, "Needed the coin."

They needed the coin.  They left her down here on Eunomia and headed for Beylix.   Weren't a fair assessment, Kaylee knew, since she'd decided to come down here all on her own and they really did need the coin to keep Serenity in the air.  She knew firsthand, seeing as how the Captain hadn't bought provisions so's he could afford the part Kaylee needed to patch up Serenity, but that didn't change the way she felt.  

It was stupid, but she'd sort of expected them to stay on Themis until she came back.  She was surprised how much it stung to learn they'd left her, even though she'd defied Cap'n by coming here at all.  She supposed she should be grateful they left Jayne.

Kaylee sat on the edge of the bed, her head down, until Jayne stopped bouncing beside her and nudged her with his elbow.  Then she stood and moved away from him.  Wouldn't do to keep mopin' over Simon.  She was here, now, and no matter what Jayne and Mal thought of her abilities, she had managed to learn some useful information.  "I shouldn't write this down," she warned, pacin' in the small space between the bed and the door.  "You can remember this, right?"

Jayne reached out to touch her elbow.  "Kaylee."  When she looked over at him, he moved farther onto the bed, lying on his side and waving her over.  "C'mere."  She stood still, watching him all wary-like, until he grimaced and added, a little exasperated, "I ain't gonna grope you, girl."

She was a bit skeptical when she crawled onto the mattress, because Jayne would grope any girl within reach, never mind one climbin' willingly into his bed.  Were her bed, technically speaking, but she didn't think that would rally matter to him.  A little shy, Kaylee moved closer, until she could feel his breath on her face.  Laying her head on the pillow, she met his gaze and noted with some surprise that he had nice eyes up close like this.  

Kaylee blinked and asked, "Will you remember all of this?"

"'Course," Jayne answered, his voice gruff.  "Gimme everything you got."

Kaylee began to talk, half-expecting to feel his big hands on her waist, but he simply watched her, nodding his understanding as she told him what she'd heard.

Mal ignored the teeth-chatterin' wind blowing right in his face and accepted payment from Anise.  During the war, Anise had been a decent Sergeant; she and Mal had coordinated a few times and he'd thought her competent and principled.  Wrongheaded judgment if there ever was one, considering now she was the petty queen of Beylix, lording it over her starving subjects on this barren, wintry rock.

Just the kind of situation he usually tried his level best to upset.  Most days, he'd be fomenting revolution.  Today, however, he had more pressing matters weighing on his mind, so he merely accepted payment, nodded curtly, and glanced over at Zoe, who was holding flank.  "Zoe?  We set?"

Zoe kept her gaze on Anise.  "Seems so."

They weren't far from Serenity, and she'd already been fueled up, so they could head straight back to Themis soon as they got back on board.  Mal flashed a half-smile at Anise, "Enjoy the chickens."

A shriek pierced the tense calm among Mal, Zoe, Anise, and Anise's second, a burly guy by the name of Tze.  Mal saw Zoe draw down on Anise before he turned to see -- River, standing there wearing a thin summer dress, feet bare in the snow, her face turned up to the sky.

"Go back to the ship," Mal ordered, feeling a flare of panic.  Last thing he needed was River channeling her inner assassin and turning this bad situation worse.  His boots crunched in the snow as he hurried to her side, grabbing her arm to tug her along.  "Zoe--"

But River shifted her weight, twisting out of his grasp.  "There," the girl said, eyes wide, lifting her arm to point at a nearby ridge.  "They're coming."

Mal chanced a glance at the hills, but didn't immediately spot the cavalry.  He figured a hasty retreat was in order anyway, and tried to usher River toward the mule.

Meanwhile, Zoe held her ground and cocked her gun, still aiming for Anise's head.  "That right?" she asked, sugar sweet.

Anise grinned.  "We could use a transport ship 'round these parts.  Then we wouldn't have to pay petty thieves to run provisions."

Turning quickly, Mal drew his pistol to cover Tze, whose very large shotgun was aimed squarely at River.  Mal's hand was still swollen and he didn't like his chances if it came down to a precision shot.  He shifted, stepping in front of River to shield her with his body.  "I'll give you the name of a great dealer on Greenleaf," he told Anise.  "Tell him Mal sent you and he'll treat you real good."

With a sinister smile, Anise said, "Sorry, Mal.  We'd prefer something a little cheaper."

"Kāi wān xiào."  Mal shook his head, genuinely irritated now.  Do a job, get paid -- what was so gorram hard about that?  "You're not taking my ship."

"Really?"  Anise smirked, not even bothering to draw her weapon, which made Mal a mite nervous.  Anise looked around and gave an exaggerated shrug.  "What, you gonna call the Alliance for help?  Heard they weren't too fond of you and yours."

Mal glowered something fierce, fighting the impulse to take out Tze, let Zoe take Anise, and get this zāi nàn over with.  "Shoulda let Jayne have the gorram chickens," he muttered.

Zoe spoke up then, challenging Anise.  Come to think, Zoe never did take to Anise, Mal recalled, nearly missing Zoe's pointed question.  "How many of your men you willing to sacrifice for this?"

"You're surrounded," Anise answered easily, "so not many."

A twitch of Mal's fingers called the play, and Zoe's boot shifting in the snow said she'd understood.  Mal moved very subtly, readying himself for action, but River skirted around him, lightning quick, going for Anise.

"River, no!" Mal shouted, running after her.  Tze got off a shot, but River danced out of the line of fire, leaving Mal grimacing as hot buckshot tore holes in his arm.  Gritting through the flare of pain, he got a handful of River's dress before she slipped free again.

Zoe dropped back, firing rapidly, and Mal saw Tze go down, gut shot.   Anise pulled a pearl-handled six-shooter, but got winged by Zoe, and there were the others come pouring down the hillside; smell of cordite, bullets pinging the ground all around them.  Zoe backed off, giving cover fire as River reached Anise and started in with her assassin-fighting skills.  One well-placed kick sent Anise slamming into the ground, and Mal hauled the girl away, shouting, "Settle down, it's Mal," in her ear before River ceased.  Winded from a vicious elbow to his ribs, he loosened his grip and winced.  "Good, then."

"Let's go," Zoe hollered, taking out one of Anise's men, who tumbled off a beautiful stallion.  The horse skidded to a stop, whirled around, and ran in the opposite direction from the fusillade.  

Mal calculated their odds, figuring they wouldn't make it back to Serenity on the mule without taking serious fire from the cavalry.  Gorram it.

"Fall back," Zoe ordered, ducking behind the mule.  Mal caught her glance and knew she was having the same thought.  

"You take her," Mal ordered, pushing River toward Zoe.  "I'll cover."

"No," Zoe argued, pausing to get off another shot.  "I got this.  You take her."

"Zoe, gorram it, get her back to Serenity!" he shouted over the rising sound of gunfire, leaning around the tires to provide cover fire.  His sore knuckles protested the abuse, but he ignored them, pausing only to reload.

River leaned back, shielding her eyes from the glare of the wintry sun, and smiled.  "Inara's here."

Mal didn't take his eyes off the haphazard band of troops drawing closer.  He fired and fired, taking down one after another until the shuttle screamed in to cover them.  Inara held it steady a few feet above the ground as Mal boosted River inside, grimacing when he stretched his injured arm.

"Zoe," he shouted over the engine noise.

She let off a couple more shots, then vaulted herself up into the shuttle, turning back and offering a hand up to Mal.

He waved her off without looking.  "I'll take the mule."

"You'll get yourself killed," Zoe shouted back, grabbing a handful of his coat and tugging it hard.  "Forget the mule."

"Can't afford a new one."  Mal pointed out, furious with the situation.  "Go!"

"Can't afford a new captain, either," Zoe answered, tightening her grip on his coat.  "We ain't goin' without you."

"Gorram it," he shouted, aiming another quick shot before reaching up to take her hand.  His left arm screamed something fierce as he pulled himself up and into the shuttle, and he leaned back against the wall, breathing hard through the pain.  "Let's go, then."

Inara didn't bother to glance back, simply asking, "We're all here?"

"Go," Mal ordered, still tetchy as the shuttle darted up and away from the failed ambush.  He simmered, wanting nothing more than someone to take the brunt of his frustrations.  Preferably Simon.  He turned a bit, glaring at Inara's familiar curls.  "What in the gorram hell were you thinking, flying the shuttle into an ambush."

Inara glanced back at him, her expression irritated.  "You're welcome," she answered sarcastically.

Shaking his head, Mal caught Zoe's eye and said, "Know how many credits that mule cost?  Ain't like to afford a replacement."

"True enough," Zoe agreed calmly.  "Probably can reclaim one from a dumpyard somewhere, have Kaylee get it up and running."

Kaylee.  The one thing Mal wanted to think about less than losing the mule was Kaylee's current whereabouts.  Turning his attention back to Inara, Mal pushed himself up and took the seat beside her, wincing every time he moved his arm.  "Let's get the gorram hell off this rock."

Inara glanced over at him, her expression concerned as she scanned his bloody sleeve.  "You're hit?"

"I'm fine," he snapped, ignoring the cloying scent of blood.  Brought back memories he'd as soon leave undisturbed.

Inara's jaw tightened and she kept her gaze on the horizon.  "Serenity's just over that rise."

Mal nodded, letting himself relax, just a little.  Behind him, he heard Zoe ask, "You okay, River?"

When River answered, her voice was soft and tearful.  "Mollymawk's gonna die."

Mal half-turned, frowning at the girl's bowed head.  Zoe looked up at him and raised an eyebrow.  "Shiny," he muttered bitterly.

*****

Angling the light closer, Simon methodically pulled small metal pellets out of Mal's skin.  "You were lucky," he commented, putting a little muscle into it as one particularly stubborn piece of buckshot evaded his forceps.  Not that Mal could feel it at the moment, given the local anesthetic, but the captain would be sore later.  

Simon was ashamed to realize he got a little bit of satisfaction thinking about that.

Not as ashamed as he should be, but that probably could be blamed on his own collection of bruises from their tussle back on Themis.  Or Mal's complete unwillingness to apologize for said tussle, even after Simon had admitted that he may have been taking out his anger on the wrong person.

Simon wrenched another pellet free.  He wasn't trying to hurt Mal, but he wasn't exactly taking care to minimize the pain Mal would feel later.  Some days he missed the simple moral code he'd lived by back on Osiris.  First, do no harm.  Easy in the clinical atmosphere of professional medicine, but out here in the black, running with a jīz of petty criminals and borderline anarchists, his choices were much more difficult.

"Is that right?" Mal asked, jaw clenched, face averted, same as he'd been since they broke atmo.  Being Mal, he'd refused medical attention until his ship safely cleared Beylix.  Under the bright infirmary lights, Simon could see that Mal's black eye had turned the same sickly greenish-yellow as Simon's own.

"A few inches to the left and your lungs would've been compromised," Simon answered, his tone deliberately bland.  "Or the buckshot might've perforated your intestines, or, worst case, penetrated your heart."  Simon tugged the metal free with an audible pop and dropped it into the small basin next to Mal's hip.

Wincing, Mal glanced at his arm.  "Careful.  I might need that particular portion of my anatomy later."

"You're lucky it wasn't your gun arm, either," Simon mused, reaching for the betadine.  Soaking the affected areas until brown liquid dripped down Mal's numbed arm, Simon turned to the cabinets and extracted two rolls of bandages, sterile for the first layer, and pressure bandages to hold them in place.  "You should ice your knuckles every couple of hours," Simon added, ignoring the sharp look this advice earned him.  "Not like we've much else to occupy us until we get back to Themis."

Mal turned, swinging his feet off the table and glaring at Simon.  "Look, you--"

The comm crackled, and Zoe's voice asked, "Captain?  You all patched up?"

The two men stared at each other, hostility lingering, until Mal lifted his eyebrows at Simon, who activated the medbay comm.  "I've removed the shrapnel and sterilized the wounds, but I still need to bandage them," Simon explained in clipped, angry syllables.

"Ah," Zoe answered.

Mal's expression shifted from peevish to apprehensive.  "What is it, Zoe?"

For a moment, the only sound in the infirmary was the crackle of the comm.  "Jayne's waving us."

Simon and Mal collided in the doorway, fast as they were both moving toward the opposite end of the ship.  "Excuse me," Simon apologized by force of habit, even as he clambered up the stairs ahead of his patient, still wincing a bit putting weight on the knee he'd wrenched falling over the chicken coop.

"Excuse me," Mal retorted, elbowing his way past Simon in the passageway, exploding onto the bridge with betadine dripping down the arm dangling by his side.  "Zoe?"

Zoe and Inara turned matching surprised expressions toward the newcomers while River traced patterns on the copilot console.  Simon only had eyes for the display, which showed Jayne looking impatient, and more than a little strange without his facial hair.  If Simon didn't know better, he'd think Jayne looked almost respectable.  Of course, his grungy yellow t-shirt rather ruined the effect.

Clearly Jayne was back on the shuttle.  There was no sign of Kaylee, however, which suggested either Jayne'd been unsuccessful in finding her, or he'd left her in the brothel, a thought that made Simon want to kick something.

"Jayne," Mal greeted, leaning close to the camera, "how is she?"

"Shiny," Jayne answered immediately, and if Simon didn't know better, he'd think Jayne actually sounded a little relieved.  "She's all settled in at Xi He's.  I spent the night."  Jayne paused, a smirk on his face.  "Tell the doc he's a lucky man."

Simon burned, so furious he would've thrown himself at Jayne if the mercenary were actually here.  "Chùsheng xai-jiao de xiang huo--"

"Simon," Mal snapped, at the same moment Zoe leaned toward the camera and admonished, "Jayne."

Inara simply rolled her eyes at all of them and asked Jayne, "Has she been forced to work?"

Jayne shook his head, still looking nonplussed by Zoe's admonition.  "I was her first customer," he answered.  "Paid for the whole night.  'Fore that, she was using her fingers as an excuse."

Simon frowned.  "Her fingers?" he wondered, worrying anew that she hadn't taken the ointment he'd given her to Eunomia.  It was mostly a second-degree burn, and should heal fully if properly treated.

Jayne must've heard Simon's question, because his smile turned cruel.  "Can't grip a man proper if--"

"Jayne," Mal thundered.

Chastened, Jayne sniffed and shifted his weight as Simon glared at the screen with white-hot fury.  "Kaylee's fine," Jayne answered, resentful now.  "Passed along some information, even.  Sussed out the prisoner codes."

Simon glanced at River, who seemed not to be listening at all, murmuring something under her breath as she stared out at the starscape.  His chest felt funny, like someone had tightened a band around his ribcage.  River seemed to be slipping into one of her dissociative episodes, Kaylee was on the verge of selling her body for information, and Simon couldn't do a damn thing to help either one of them.

"The code River gave us was--" Mal paused, glancing at Zoe, who closed her eyes briefly, coaxing the memory forward.

"APP3500658," Zoe said.

River jerked around, staring at Zoe with wide eyes.

Simon stepped closer to his sister, touching her shoulder.  "River--"

"No!" she shrieked, vaulting from her chair and running right off the bridge and down the passageway to the cargo bay.

"River!"  Watching her flee, Simon was torn between the impulse to chase down his sister, and the need to hear every last tidbit about Kaylee.  This kind of choice was exactly what he'd been dreading, and he was ashamed of himself for resenting them both.

Glancing back at Mal, Simon realized the conversation had moved on without him.  With one last regretful look in the direction River had disappeared, Simon moved to Inara's side and listened to Mal and Jayne and Zoe speculate on where in the Eunomian prison a political prisoner would be stashed.

Inara frowned.  "I don't recall any political trials of late."

Mal, Zoe, and Jayne paused, puzzled.  "Pardon?" Mal asked.

Thinking back over the most recent newsflashes, Simon nodded.  "You're right," he told Inara, feeling the pieces starting to fall into place.  "The Alliance likes to publicize political trials -- treason, disloyalty, that sort of thing.  I don't remember a single trial since--" He paused, his gaze shifting to Zoe's stony expression-- "Miranda."

"Exactly," Inara continued, speaking quickly now.  "We can do some research, pull footage of all the trials in the past few years, see if River recognizes anyone."

"And if she doesn't," Mal finished, "we can assume her mollymawk is being held for trial in the jail, not in the regular prison population."

Onscreen, Jayne grimaced.  "Research?"

Mal glared.  "You go back and get Kaylee out of there, then--"

"Tried already," Jayne interrupted.  "She's a little hellcat when she's riled up 'bout something."

"She refused to leave?" Simon asked, leaning closer to the screen.  "Why?"

Jayne rolled his eyes.  "She's tryin' to help your moonbrain sister," he said, his tone of voice suggesting he was talking to someone with very little brain power.

Simon's stomach twisted.  "But--"

"Jayne," Mal spoke right over Simon, "go buy another night for Kaylee, then," he ordered.  "We're at max velocity, and we still won't be there for 'bout 19, 20 hours.  If there's any trouble at all, you pull Kaylee and get her to Themis.  Lock her in the shuttle if it comes to that."

"Shiny," Jayne answered, smirking before he killed the wave, leaving Simon boiling with impotent rage.

Simon poked Mal's good arm and offered up the no-longer-sterile bandages.  "Wrap your wounds," he ordered, turning to go after River.  At least she was close enough for him to try to help.

"Excuse me?" Mal retorted, hands on his hips even though the movement made him grimace.  "Ain't a doctor."

"I need to check on River," Simon answered, nearly spitting the words in his anger.

"You need to do your job," Mal shot back, advancing now.  Zoe watched carefully, but Simon knew from painful experience that she wouldn't intervene on his behalf.

Still, when she caught his gaze, she nodded.  "Go on.  Inara and I will pull the footage."

Half-wanting to disagree just to be disagreeable, Simon hesitated, then nodded once.  "Fine.  Come with me."  Mal raised his eyebrows at his insolence, then swept off the bridge heading for the infirmary.  Simon was two steps behind him when he felt a soft hand above his elbow.

"She's fine," Inara told him softly.

Simon glanced back at her.  "River?" he asked, his tone bitter.  "Or Kaylee?"

*****

Damn arm was killing him.

Mal couldn't sleep, and was too restless to sit up on the bridge all night.  Pacing brought him to the cargo bay, nearly dark, still smelling vaguely of chickens.  Stench didn't do much to help his mood, truth be told.

Whole crew gone utterly fāfēng on him, taking it upon themselves to do all manner of stupid things in the name of River's mollymawk.  Little Kaylee was down on Eunomia pretending to be a whore, with only Jayne on hand to guard her virtue.  Jayne guarding someone's virtue -- weren't a chance in the world for that to end well.

Weren't a good situation any way Mal looked at it, and despite his reservations, seemed like the rest of the crew were gearing up for a jailbreak.  Weren't the best way to stay under the Alliance radar, and Mal weren't ready to jump headlong into the warm embrace of the Alliance if it blew up in their face.  Hell, even assuming they could get this bèn dàn out of Alliance jail without getting caught, the purplebellied liúmáng would figure it out.  

Perfect way for them to retaliate for public embarrassment of Mal making their Miranda follies public.  The Alliance would make an example of them all, political trial to end all political trials.

"There's no connection."

Mal tensed in surprise, but tried to hide it when he turned to face River.  "River," he greeted.  He glanced down -- bare feet.  How she didn't end up hurtin' herself on the metal grates he really didn't know.

"Bed of nails," River said.  "Same principle."

"You suggesting the bed in your quarters ain't comfortable enough for sleep?"

"Walking on grates, lying on nails," she answered, cryptic as ever.  "I was dreaming about your P.O.W. camps.  You're brooding."

Mal was so startled by her mention of the P.O.W. camps that her accusation took a moment to sink in.  "I'm not brooding."

"There's no radar," she said, her face shadowed by long waves of hair.

"'Scuse me?" Mal asked, leaning his elbow against the catwalk railing.

"Mollymawk and Serenity," River elaborated, twisting her hands together at her waist.  "No connection in the eyes of the Alliance, no radar to fly under."

Mal probably didn't mask his surprise as well as he intended to; full sentences and a bit of comprehensible logic mixed in -- she sounded better than she had in days.

River smiled up at him, the dim light of the cargo bay barely illuminating her features.  "Sometimes, it's too crowded in my head, no time for me to find words you understand."  She looked almost sheepish when she added, "Or put them in the proper order."

Very comprehensible.  "You got something to tell me about your mollymawk, little albatross?"

"They won't know it's us," she said, nodding just a bit.  "No reason to connect mollymawk and Serenity."

Mal grimaced.  "You're assuming nothing goes wrong and no one gets caught out."  Never did go to war school like those Alliance commanders, but Mal learned an awful lot about assumptions biting you in the ass during the war.  "They bring Jayne in, there's the connection to Serenity."

They'd lost too much at Miranda for Mal to eagerly embrace any plan that resulted in more losses.  Weren't a pretty world to live in, every man for himself, but why should Mal risk his crew for someone he'd never met?  Doing the right thing might could get them all tossed in the clink, or even killed.

River looked out over the empty cargo bay.  With a muted laugh, she said, "We should try not to get caught, then."  With that, she moved away, heading for the stairs.

"It's not that simple."  Mal followed her down to the landing.  "Most of us have a lot to lose, drawing too much attention from the Alliance.  Your brother would end up back in jail.  God only knows what they'd do with you."

River turned back, meeting his gaze.  "They would kill me unless I killed for them."  She let her startling pronouncement hang in the air for a moment.  "I would kill myself first."

Such thoughts from a girl should be giggling and flirting and living without knowledge of war.  Mal rarely saw this side of her, and it always shook him to the core.  He struggled for something to say.  "River."

She didn't answer, wandering down the stairs, one hand drifting along the railing.  When she reached the floor, she stopped and looked up at Mal.  "They won't know it's us."

'Course, Mal weren't sure he could trust a word of River's, all things considered.  At best, she had an emotional stake in saving someone she felt connected to; at worse... Well, Mal didn't have any particular desire to examine that possibility too closely.

Though he didn't speak a word aloud, River watched him with a look of disappointment.  She gestured toward the starboard side of the ship.  "It was space trash."

With a quick nod, she disappeared through the archway into the guest quarters, leaving Mal alone with his dark thoughts.

*****

Most nights, when Simon went back to his bunk, Kaylee left her empty bed and retreated to the engine room.  Serenity was her constant, her confidante, and it didn't hurt she could get some maintenance work done when her girl was on slow burn.

Tonight, Serenity was a bit tetchy, complaining of congestion in one of her compressors.  Frowning, Kaylee crawled out the narrow tube toward the right thruster, searching for the obstruction.  When she saw the charred piece of metal, Kaylee swore a blue streak and tugged it carefully free, hissing as the metal seared her fingertips.  She wriggled back into the engine room and reached for the comm.

"Cap'n?" she asked, sending her message straight to the bridge, since he stayed there most nights now.

A moment, then Mal's voice, sounding a bit scratchy with sleep.  "Yeah, Kaylee?"

"We're gonna need a pit stop, sooner than later," she told him, a little embarrassed that this wasn't something she could check on the fly.  She hated letting the Cap'n down like this, but Serenity hadn't been forthcomin' with her troubles 'fore they took to the black.

"Be right there," he answered, and she knew better than to argue.  He'd want her to translate the problem into Cap'n Dummy talk because he wanted to know every last thing 'bout his ship.  She respected that, but sometimes it was hard to put into words how she knew things about Serenity.  Moments later, Mal stepped into the engine room, giving her an expectant look.  "What's the trouble, little Kaylee?"

"This," she answered, wrapping a rag around the still-cooling metal and holding it aloft.

Cap'n frowned.  "What's that?" he asked, pointing at it suspiciously.

"Dunno," she admitted.  "It was wedged up near the right thruster.  Little too barbecued for me to tell for sure what it is."  She'd examined it while she waited for him, and she still wasn't sure if it was a piece of the compressor, or scrap metal.  More important, she didn't understand how it got lodged where it did.

Arms crossed, he raised his eyebrows and leaned closer.  "You mean we accidentally burnt up a bit of the ship?" he asked, lookin' a bit dàchīyìjīng.

Kaylee shrugged, tracing the edges of the chunk.  "Hope not."

"Couldn't be we burned up metal floating out in the black?" he asked, then turned at the sound of dainty footsteps outside the engine room.

Inara paused in the entry, her gaze shifting from Mal to Kaylee to the bit of charred metal.  She looked glamorous as always, Kaylee noted, even in the middle of the night.  'Nara was naturally gorgeous, and even her nightgowns and robes were sensational, all gauzy fabric and sparkly beads and whatnot.  Sometimes Kaylee wished she could borrow some of Inara's things to wear for Simon, but she knew she weren't nearly pretty enough for such finery, and she was afraid it might remind Simon of all the fancy girls back home.

Lifting her eyebrows, Inara stepped into the engine room.  "That doesn't look good.  Is Serenity okay?"

"Mămă hūhū," Kaylee answered, absently reaching out with her free hand to pat Serenity's engine casing.  "We'll fix you right up, my girl," she promised.

"Yes, we will," Mal added, holding up a finger to Inara as he turned back to Kaylee.  "When will we be sure this is a piece of our ship?"

"I can't rule it out while the engines are burning," Kaylee admitted.  "We need to put her down somewhere so's I can crawl inside and take a look.  She's some better, with this out, but there's still something not right."

Inara brightened.  "We're not that far from Eunomia," she pointed out.  "Might be a good cover story."

"Ain't a cover story if it's true," Mal answered, still staring at the hunk of charred metal.  Then he frowned, jerking around to look at Inara.  "And how do you know about Eunomia?"

She merely lifted her eyebrows and gave him a withering look.  "I have information for you."

"You--"  Mal shook his head, then held up one finger and turned to Kaylee.  "We set down tomorrow morning, on Themis," he added with a warning glance at Inara.  "You can fix her up good?"

Kaylee glanced at Serenity's heart, nodding.  "I think so, Cap'n.  Would help if we landed somewhere with spare parts for sale."  Carefully, she laid down the charred metal, near the engine casing, just in case it was one of Serenity's parts.

"Themis," Mal noted with some irritation, "will have overpriced parts for aught-sevens and newer.  Gāisĭ core planets.  Can you make that work?"

In solemn tones, Kaylee noted, "She's got aught-eight engines now, sir."  Losing Wash and Shepherd and all the other innocents had been the worst part about that awful day, no question, but for Kaylee (and, she suspected, for the Cap'n), seeing Serenity torn apart had been near as traumatic.  Kaylee still had nightmares, and Serenity still ached, some nights, where she'd been ripped up.  They'd rebuilt her, sure, but she was still healing.  Kaylee and Serenity both.

Crossing his arms, Mal turned back to Inara.  "Now what's this about Eunomia?"

Inara gave him a haughty look.  "I contacted some people, and--"

"I don't remember asking for your help on this," Mal interrupted, flashing his best stubborn frown.

A bit belatedly, Kaylee realized her fingertips were achin' something fierce.  She held up her hand, frowning at the angry red of her skin.  "Ow," she murmured, lifting her fingers to her mouth, ignoring the sour taste of oil residue on her skin.

"No, you didn't," Inara told Mal.  "You're far too stubborn to admit that my contacts--"

"Your contacts," Mal interrupted, his tone scornful.  Kaylee rolled her eyes, knowing he was about to step in it.  Again.  Sure enough, Mal smirked at Inara and asked, "Let me guess -- he owed you a favor?"

Narrowing her eyes, Inara crossed her arms and answered haughtily, "My contact is a woman."

"Oh," Mal answered stupidly.  He blinked, glanced at Kaylee with wide, moonstruck eyes, then faced Inara once more.  "Okay, then," he answered with a shrug.

"Okay, then?" Inara repeated, incredulous.

"Yeah."  Mal nodded to emphasize the point.

"Gôushî bùrú"

"Maybe so," Mal shot back, "but that don't mean I aim to use you for your contacts."

Inara rolled her eyes.  "It's not using me if I offer my help," she argued.  "Don't be stubborn, Mal."

Mal's mouth dropped open as he stared at her.  "You think I need help?"

"Yes," Kaylee muttered, slurring a little what with her fingers in her mouth.  These two, she thought, were just as hopeless as Simon when it came to personal stuff.  Kaylee loved Inara like a sister, and Mal like a brother (once she grew out of that little crush), and she just knew they'd be perfect for each other if they'd only stop fightin'.

"'Scuse me?" Mal asked, rounding on Kaylee, eyes narrowing as she pulled her aching hand free from her mouth.  "You got something to add to the discussion, little Kaylee?"

Kaylee stood her ground, not nearly intimidated by his bluster as she once was.  "Seems you don't have much solid information on Eunomia yet, and you can't hardly do nothing without it.  If Inara can get what we need, where's the harm?"

"Where's the--?" Mal spluttered, an irritable half-smile on his face.  "She ain't a criminal, is where the harm is!"

"Gathering information on federal prisons isn't a crime, Mal," Inara interjected, arms crossed.

"Will be once your contact realizes you used that information to break someone outta jail!"  He shouted, rounding on Kaylee.  "And what the gorram hell is wrong with your hand?"

Embarrassed, Kaylee tucked her hands behind her back.  "Nothin', Cap'n."

"You hurt?" he demanded, moving closer and towering over her, trying to hide his concern behind his Exasperated Cap'n tone like always.

Inara pushed him aside and reached for Kaylee's arms, gently pulling her hands free.  "Did you grab that metal with your bare hands, mèimei?"

"It's nothin'," she demurred, flushing under their intense scrutiny.  Last thing she meant to do was trouble anyone.  Little ice and she'd be fine.

"Kaylee, you go right down and see that doctor of yours," Cap'n ordered, taking her by the shoulders and ushering her toward the hallway.

"No," Kaylee protested, feeling a flash of panic at the thought of intruding like that when he ain't ever invited her to his quarters at night.  "It's late.  He's probably 'sleep."

"He's a doctor," the Cap'n noted dryly.  "He's used to being woke."

Kaylee tried to grab the doorframe with her good hand, but the Cap'n gently pried her loose.  "I don't want to trouble him," she explained, still resisting as he ushered her out of her engine room.  "I'll see him in the morning."

"With fingers swelled up size of watermelons?" Mal asked.  "Not likely.  You can't fix Serenity if you can't use your hands."

"Cap'n--"

"Kaylee, I ain't playing with you right now.  You're hurt, you get the doctor to fix it, dong ma?"

Resigned, Kaylee nodded.  "Hâo de."  She gave Inara one last baleful look, then turned and trudged toward the guest quarters.

*****

Screams woke Zoe.  

She jerked upright in bed, and for that first, confused moment, she expected Wash to come bumbling awake beside her, hair sticking up at all angles, creases from the pillow pressed into his pale skin.  Then that brutal ache flared up, reminding her that he was gone.  She swallowed down the anguish and concentrated on the screams.

Sounded like River.  Didn't sound like she intended on stopping anytime soon, neither.

Zoe slid into her pants, shrugging out of the Hawaiian shirt she slept in and pulling on a thin blue sweater.  Her boots and thigh holster took several moments, but the war taught her the hard way that a little bit of extra time was worth it if you wanted to survive the ruckus what woke you.

Climbing her ladder, Zoe emerged into the hallway and found it deserted.  Gun in hand, she moved quickly toward the guest quarters, hearing a jumble of voices, now, in addition to River's piercing cries.  As she reached the hallway, the girl's screams subsided into whimpers, and Zoe could clearly hear Simon trying to soothe River.

Not wanting to crowd them, Zoe slowed in the hallway, stopping a few steps from the cabin entrance, beside Kaylee, who held a hand over her mouth as she peered around the doorframe.  "River have a nightmare?" Zoe asked.

"Oh!"  Kaylee startled, her entire body tensing as she turned to Zoe.  "Oh.  Zoe.  Yeah, River woke up screaming.  Simon and the Cap'n are in there with her."  With a nervous smile, Kaylee reached up and brushed her hair back from her face.

Catching sight of bandages on Kaylee's fingers, Zoe reached out, touching the girl's forearm.  "What happened?"

"Oh, ain't nothing," Kaylee answered, color rising in her cheeks.  "Just touched something I shouldn't have."

Zoe let the lie stand.  "Do you know what brought this on?" she asked, nodding her head toward River's quarters.  Zoe figured it was something to do with the prisoner she'd drawn, but with River, you never knew.

"Not sure," Kaylee answered.  "Simon and me were in the infirmary argu--" she broke off, dropping her gaze.  "Anyway, she just started screaming.  Something about Yeng-Wang-Yeh, I think."

Yeng-Wang-Yeh.  Zoe stared at Kaylee, caught off guard by the reference eight years later.  She hadn't thought of Yeng-Wang-Yeh in quite some time -- her nightmares these days centered on her husband bein' run through, plus some gratuitous war horrors tossed in for good measure.  Maybe River'd picked up on the captain's nightmares?  Zoe knew the outcome at Yeng-Wang-Yeh still haunted him.  They'd lost a lot of good soldiers in that battle, first real costly engagement the Captain'd been in charge of running.

"Is everything all right?" Inara asked, arriving near-silent on her silken slippers.  She glanced back and forth between Kaylee and Zoe, looking troubled.  "Is it River?"

Zoe pushed aside her reaction to hearing the name Yeng-Wang-Yeh and nodded.  "She woke screaming, I guess."

Inside River's cabin, Simon spoke in low, soothing tones, while Mal stepped out into the hallway, glancing over at Zoe, Inara, and Kaylee as he moved toward the infirmary.  His dark gaze locked with Zoe's for a moment.  "Just a bad nightmare," Mal explained, reappearing with a smoother.  "Help her sleep."

Mal stepped back into River's quarters, and Zoe frowned, holstering her gun.  "She hasn't needed smoothers in quite a while."

"No," Kaylee agreed, looking worried now.  "Simon will be upset."  She glanced at Zoe, her expression troubled.  "He still feels guilty that he can't fix her up proper."

"Ain't his fault the government twisted the poor girl's brain into knots," Zoe commented, leaning against the wall to wait for the captain.  Kaylee made a strangely bitter sound, but didn't answer aloud.  Zoe's gaze sharpened, and she studied the girl, taking in the nervous twist of her hands, the tense set of her shoulders, and the troubled look on her face.  Zoe knew how close Simon and Kaylee had grown, even if they tried to shield her from it.  She appreciated the sentiment, but Kaylee and Simon wĕn mŏurén in the middle of the cargo bay couldn't make her miss Wash any more than she already did.

Nothing could.

"Kaylee?" Zoe prodded.  "Everything okay?"

"Of course," Kaylee answered.  Girl was a terrible liar.  Also hated disappointing people, so Zoe kept silent until Kayleee continued, her voice low, "I'm just worried about Simon, is all.  He has River to see after, and then I go and wake him up for burnt fingers.  I told him--"  She broke off as Mal and Simon emerged, looking somber.  "Simon, is River--?"

"She's fine now," Simon answered shortly, not quite looking at Kaylee.  If she had to guess, Zoe'd say the two kids had been having a pretty significant difference of opinion before River's xiēsīdĭlĭde fāzuò interrupted.

Zoe exchanged a look with the captain, who seemed less than thrilled with the interpersonal dimensions lurking about.  "Sir?"

Running a weary hand through his hair, Mal gestured toward the common area.  "We got some things to discuss.  Might as well be now, seeing as how we're all awake already."

A year ago, Simon would've jumped in to apologize profusely for his sister raisin' a ruckus.  Now he simply nodded and followed the captain.  Inara moved to Kaylee, still lingering beside Zoe, and held out her arm.  Linking arms, Inara and Kaylee walked toward the common area, Zoe bringing up the rear.  They settled in quickly, Inara and Kaylee side-by-side on the couch, Simon stiffly upright in one chair, Mal and Zoe standing a meter or so apart.

"Way I see it," the captain began, "we got ourselves a problem."

Kaylee glanced around, unusually subdued.  She half-lifted a hand before asking, "Shouldn't we wake Jayne?"

Zoe lifted an eyebrow.  "Jayne sleeps with Vera tucked beneath his pillow.  You volunteering to go wake him?"

"Oh," Kaylee answered, slumping a bit against the pillows.  "Never mind."  She tucked her legs up under her, folding up into a ball, keeping her gaze on the floor.

"I'll talk to Jayne tomorrow," Mal said.  "But River ain't getting any better, probably because we're not far from Eunomia.  Seems to me she reads people stronger, closer they are."  He ignored the choking sound from Simon.  "This case, maybe she has a particular strong connection to this prisoner if they got similar cuts in their brains."

Zoe glanced around in the momentary silence, noting Inara's carefully schooled expression as she politely listened to Mal.  Kaylee kept shooting covert glances at Simon, who was typically oblivious.

"Wait," Simon interjected, holding up one hand, blinking rapidly as he tried to comprehend Mal's meaning.  "You can't possibly be suggesting that River and this... person are psychically linked."

"Don't know what to call it," Mal answered, "but you can't deny she seems a mite consumed with what's happening to him."  He paused, but Simon didn't offer any further protests.  "Least we can do," Mal continued, "is try to find out if this APP-whatever exists, and whether he's who River thinks he is.  Reality, bad as it was, seemed to help her a good deal with Miranda."

This silence had a very different quality, as if the others were all holding their breath, waiting for Zoe to react, to cry or scream or faint.  She ignored the flash of irritation and turned to Inara.  "Were you able to get intel on the camp-followers?"

The captain narrowed his eyes.  "So that's where Inara--"

Inara raised her voice and ignored Mal.  "Yes.  There are several whorehouses on Eunomia, and the clientele are mostly guards."

"Mostly?" Kaylee asked, hugging a pillow to her chest.  She stared at the floor, her body tense as Inara continued.

"Some of the more well-connected or..." Inara paused, apparently searching for the appropriate turn of phrase, then shrugged, "intimidating inmates are occasionally able to persuade the guards to allow conjugal visits," she answered, glaring at Mal when he offered a noise of disgust.

"But," Zoe pressed, "the camp-followers are in near-constant contact with the guards?"

Nodding, Inara agreed, "Yes.  Why?"

Taking a deep breath, Zoe straightened her spine and said, "Because I've got a plan."

*****

Eyes wide, Mal stared at his first mate in disbelief.  "Nī nēng zài shuō yībiàn ma?"  Because she had to be kidding.  Weren't a funny joke, mind, but a bad joke made more sense than an actual suggestion.  She couldn't be so addlepated as to think he'd let her do this.

Crossing her arms, Zoe turned to face him fully, and he knew he was in for a fight.  Some days, he missed the deference she'd shown during the war, but the small part of him that wasn't focused on her huāngmiù plan was relieved to see that old spark.  Zoe leveled her gaze on him.  "We need information."

"Right," Mal agreed easily.  They did need information.  Couldn't bust a figment of River's imagination out of prison.  Would be the height of stupidity to go sneakin' into a federal prison only to find out there weren't no such prisoner.  Bit tricky to explain if they were caught.

"We don't have any useful conduits of information the way things stand," Zoe continued, directing all of her arguments to him.  Mal wasn't sure if that was because he was the one in charge, or simply because her harebrained scheme had left the others speechless.  "We need hard information on Eunomia, and we can't easily send someone in as a guard," she added.

"Agreed."  All things being equal, Mal did his best to avoid contact with prisons and prisonkeepers.

"And time is of the essence," she pointed out.

Mal nodded.  "True."  Not only was River deteriorating, but they didn't have much coin and needed to get back to the border planets sooner than later for work.  Far as he was concerned, they'd pick up the gorram chickens on Themis and skeddadle for Beylix, and whatever information they got 'fore leaving would be enough.

"So," Zoe concluded, "I go in undercover and gather the information we need."

"See," Mal said, squinting a bit, "that's the part I don't get."  No way was he letting Zoe do something so wánquán yúchûn.  Gorram crazy scheme.

Zoe raised one eyebrow in challenge.  "What don't you understand?"

"You," Mal answered loudly, "volunteering to whore yourself--"

"Didn't say I was planning on whorin' myself," she interrupted, anger lacing her words now.

Shaking his head a bit, Mal said, "So you plan to go undercover as a whore, but not do any whoring?  Seems that last part would blow your cover."

"I can handle myself, sir," Zoe answered, her tone daring him to disagree.

Inara shifted, sitting forward on the couch.  "Zoe, I have to agree with Mal here.  Your idea is a good one, but it would require..." she shrugged, catching Mal's gaze for a brief moment, "active participation."

Nodding emphatically, Mal turned back to his first mate.  "And I ain't authorizing no active participatin'."

"We need information," Zoe pointed out, lifting her chin.

Mal stared at her in disbelief, wondering just when his first mate had succumbed to space dementia.  "Last time I checked, I'm still captain of this here ship, and--"

"I'm the best option, sir," Zoe interrupted, "with the least to--"  She broke off, shaking her head.  "I can do this."

And that's when Mal understood why she was so keen on this, and exactly why he couldn't let her go through with it.  Far too fatalistic for Mal's tastes.  "We'll talk later," he told Zoe, knowing she'd skin him alive were he to bring up Wash in front of the others, "but--"

"Listen," Simon broke in, lifting his hands in a peaceable gesture, "I appreciate the idea, but I'm really not comfortable with--"

"You're not doing this," Mal interrupted, ignoring Simon's protests and holding Zoe's defiant glare.  "And that's final.  'Sides," he added with a shrug, "you couldn't pull it off."

Now Zoe looked well and truly pissed.  "That so?"

"You move like a soldier," Mal answered, gesturing at the way she was standing:  tall, proud, and a mite daunting.  Wouldn't get any guards like that.  He'd seen the way soldiers watched her during the war, a whole lot of lust outweighed by intimidation.

"What does that mean?" Zoe demanded, ice forming on her words.

Cowed by her tone, Mal tried to backpedal.  "That you move like a soldier," he replied.  "Not like Inara with her," he shrugged, searching for the right word, "womanly wiles.  No one would believe you're a whore."

Zoe crossed her arms, cocking her hip.  "I'm not quite sure how to take that, sir."  

Inara, glaring at him from the couch, added, "Me, neither."

Too late, Mal realized he'd managed to offend both Zoe and Inara.  And given his luck, probably Kaylee, too, since she always sided with Inara.  "Um..."

"Since I move like a whore," Inara said in that cutting tone, "maybe I should be the one--"

"No," Mal interrupted, ignoring the red spark of rage her suggestion kindled.  "Neither one of you is going playactin' at being a whore down on Eunomia.  In case you didn't notice, Eunomia ain't the most hospitable penal moon in the galaxy, 'specially not the three weeks it spends in the shadow of Themis   People get a mite crazy going without sunshine days on end."

"I never thought about that," Simon mused.  "Seems like moons might not be the most optimal places to house potentially violent prisoners, at least not if rehabilitation is the goal."  Simon looked a bit startled by the glares he'd earned himself from Zoe and Mal both.  They'd spent a considerable amount of time in a prison nowhere near as accommodating as Eunomia after the war, and rehabilitation had never been the goal.  If the Alliance simply wanted to punish its prisoner, a cold, dark moon like Eunomia was probably just about perfect.

"Won't ever understand the aims of the Alliance," Mal said, "and I don't rightly care.  Inara?" Mal asked, turning to her.  Inara nodded, her gaze shifting to Zoe, who still looked too gorram defiant to Mal's eye.  He tilted his head.  "Zoe, we gonna have a problem?"

He could tell it chafed her, but Zoe lifted her chin and answered, "No, sir."

"I'll do it," Kaylee said in a small voice, pressing a pillow tight to her chest.

Jaw dropping, Mal turned to his tiny mechanic.  "The hell you will!"

"No," Simon chimed in all panicky-like.  "No, Kaylee, you can't possibly--"

"I can," she interrupted, chin lifting as she stared down the doctor.  "I ain't no blushing virgin, Simon.  I could probably move like a whore, like the Cap'n said--"

"Kaylee," Simon continued, his entire body leaning toward her as he pleaded with her, eyes wide.  "Please, this is ridiculous.  I don't want you to do this.  I don't want you in danger."

"But I want to help," Kaylee answered plaintively, and Mal could tell from the set of her shoulders that she was about to dig those tiny heels in.  Experience taught him long since that sunny as Kaylee was, she could be as stubborn as any woman in the 'verse when she set her mind to it.

"You want to help," Mal said, losing his patience for the entire situation, "you fix the gorram ship when we sit her down tomorrow, dong ma?"

A rebellious glint flashed in Kaylee's eyes as she met his gaze, but she lifted her chin and said, "Yes, Cap'n."

Still unsettled, Mal studied her for a long moment before gesturing toward their quarters.  "All I want to do is get some information to see if we can help River deal with this mollymawk.  That's all.  We can't get information without risk, well, then we live without information," he finished, figuring he'd work out a better plan before the morning and get the womenfolk off this whorin' idea.  But first, he wanted to have a little chat with Zoe.  "Zoe, a minute."

She stood still as the others made their way back to their respective quarters.  Mal couldn't help but notice Kaylee wouldn't listen to Simon's bleating, and he cursed shipboard romances.  Always complicated things unnecessarily, he mused, his gaze fixing on Inara as she glanced back at him before stepping out into the cargo bay.

"Yes, Captain?" Zoe prompted, hostility still in her tone.

Her anger made him uncomfortable, and that made him angry.  "You got a problem you'd like to address?" he demanded, arms crossed.

"No, sir," she answered blandly.

Mal narrowed his eyes, studying her inscrutable expression.  "You're still hurtin' over Wash," he said finally, and it was the first time he'd broached the subject of her husband.  "It's affecting your judgment.  I can't let it affect mine."

Zoe didn't answer, she simply stared at him for a long, unnerving moment before she turned and stalked off toward her quarters.  He had half a mind to go after her, but Mal knew he'd managed to cross a line.  Probably came damn close to getting himself clobbered, come to think.  "Wŏ bùzhīdào wēishénme nàyàng shuō," he muttered, heading up to the bridge.  

He'd deal with it tomorrow.

*****

Inara made her way up to the bridge in search of Mal, and found River instead.  "Good morning, River," she greeted, stepping through the hatch and moving closer to the girl.

River half-turned, and met Inara's gaze.  "I'm not crazy."

Inara blinked.  "I didn't think you were," she answered with only the slightest hesitation.  It was true; Inara considered River a girl with some serious emotional scars, but not the kind of dissociation that would keep River from healing.

"I feel things," River said, turning back to stare out at Themis, looming large as Serenity prepared for atmo.

"I know," Inara murmured, not wanting to interrupt if River were about to explain her connection to her mollymawk.

"Mice," River continued, her voice growing shrill.  "We were mice, all of us, caught in a cage.  Soft pillows and new reading screens, then mazes to run.  Push the lever, get a cookie."

Inara simply hummed a response, scarcely daring to move for fear of disturbing River's recollections.  Inara had no way of knowing how much of her time at the Academy River had been able to relay to Simon, but the least Inara could do was listen.  If River's words helped solve the mystery of the mollymawk, all the better.

But River turned wide, despairing eyes to Inara.  "He's in a new trap.  No pillows, no mazes.  Stronger.  Darker."  Abruptly, River pushed herself out of the copilot's chair and darted past Inara, disappearing through the hatch before Inara could react.

Serenity chirped a warning about atmo, and Inara looked to the control panel, a small frown on her lips.  She was quite skilled at flying shuttles; the closest she'd come to flying Serenity was standing on the bridge beside the console.  Guiding Serenity through reentry was not something she wanted to attempt.

"Did you say something to her?"

Startled, Inara whirled so fast she nearly lost her balance.  Serenity being tossed about by the heated gases of Themis's atmosphere didn't help, but she placed a hand on the pilot's console and glared at Mal as he stepped through the hatch and headed for the pilot's seat.  Irritated by his implication, Inara crossed her arms.  "I said very little to her.  River is troubled."

Mal snorted a laugh, but didn't spare her a glance.  "That's one word for it."

"She's not crazy, Mal," Inara warned.  "She's hyper-intuitive, at the very least.  If she says there's another former Academy student imprisoned unjustly, then there is."

"You think I don't know that?" Mal shot back.  The ship slowed as it pushed up against atmo.  Themis disappeared behind a curtain of flames.

"What do you plan to do about it?" Inara asked, gripping the console tighter now, as Serenity bucked and shuddered her way through the flames.

"What do I plan to--?" he exploded, shooting her a glare over his shoulder.  "I've got a ship I can barely afford to fuel, not to mention crew that prefer two squares a day.  Much as I'd love to tweak the Alliance by busting some low-level prisoner out of their jails, I don't have the resources.  Gorram it," he swore, bringing the bow down to the proper angle to ease the shuddering of the ship.  "Don't like the risk neither."

Steadying herself on the edge of the console, Inara snapped, "Are you finished?"  Serenity's flight smoothed out as the atmosphere around them cooled and allowed them entry.  Inara squinted against the bright sunshine.

"Little busy right now," Mal answered, and she could hear the smirk even though he refused to look at her.  "No time to spare for a lecture."

"I don't plan to lecture you, Mal," Inara said, suddenly tired of the conversation.  "And I wasn't suggesting you should plan a jailbreak.  I just wondered what you wanted to do for River and--"  

"I let that girl on my ship even after I found out she's lethal, and every day they're aboard, I risk the rest of my crew to keep 'em safe.  I took her word and flew through a pack o' Reavers to uncover horrors the like I can't remember seein' since the war, and I managed to get Wash and Shepherd Book and Patience and hundreds more killed in the crossfire.  That's what I do for River."

Mal stopped abruptly, breathing hard, still refusing to look at her as he steered the ship with his fingers clenched tight around the stick.

"Mal, what that man did, the people he killed, it wasn't your--"

"Enough," he snapped, his voice rough with anger.  "Just stop."

"I'm trying to help."  He didn't answer, guiding the ship toward the docks with a set jaw.  Inara sighed and turned away, "Never mind."

When she reached the hatch, she heard him sigh and curse under his breath.  With an annoyed shake of her head, Inara descended the stairs into the galley, pausing to straighten the chairs that had been jostled during reentry.  No one was in the common area, so she continued on to the cargo bay.  From her vantage point on the catwalk, she could see River curled up into a ball, tucked behind a precariously stacked row of crates.

Serenity touched down hard without Wash's light hands guiding her.  Down in the bay, Zoe stood with one hand on the cargo bay door controls, her expression grim, and Inara wondered if she was thinking of Wash, too.

"We're clear," Mal announced over the comm, anger still ringing in his voice.  Zoe opened the doors and walked off the ship to register Serenity with the dockmaster.  Jayne and Simon stood at opposite ends of the mule, with near matching expressions of impatience and irritation.

Inara watched without comment as Mal clambered down the stairs and stormed over to Simon.  He hitched a thumb toward the open cargo door.  "You're coming with me," Mal ordered.  

Simon looked surprised, glancing around for his sister and patting his pockets.  "But I--"

"River's fine," Mal interrupted, his tone downright unfriendly.  "I'm planning to get some meds this stop.  Could use that brain of yours 'less you've got something more pressing."

"That mean I'm free to find a bar?" Jayne wondered.

"No," Mal answered, rounding on him, "that means you and Zoe can go to Preethi's and get the gorram chicken back to the ship instead of drinking yourself under a table in some hellhole."

"Yessir," Jayne sneered, snapping his filthy boots together at the heel and snapping off a sarcastic salute that Mal ignored.

"Inara?"

Inara turned to find Kaylee standing behind her, bandaged hand clasped tightly in her uninjured hand.  "Kaylee.  I'm sorry, I didn't hear you."

"S'okay," Kaylee answered.  She glanced down at Simon, her expression troubled.  Then she straightened her shoulders, turned back to Inara, and tried to smile.  "Can I ask a favor?"

Simon paused in the doorway to the cargo bay, watching Jayne drag the last of the portable chicken coops up behind him.  It was early autumn on Themis, still warm enough to work up a sweat dragging crates aboard.  Simon wiped an arm across his brow as Jayne set the coop down then leaned close and gave the oblivious birds a sinister smile.  "I'll see you later, tasty little birds."

Rolling his eyes, Simon turned back to the common area, smiling when he heard Mal warn for the fourth or fifth time, "You will not be eatin' any of our cargo," followed by Jayne's inevitable protest.  

Simon retreated to the infirmary, tearing open the last box and cataloguing its contents.  River appeared in the doorway, watching him with wide eyes as he carefully stored the glass vials in their proper place.  "Do you need something, River?"

She shook her head, her long hair swaying and dancing.  She was better today, Simon decided.  Maybe the smoother had done its job.  He'd checked on her as soon as he woke, made sure she was tranquil before he offered his help with the chicken-and-supplies run.  Mal had surprised Simon by purchasing medical supplies and a sizable collection of drugs on Themis, many of them designed to help soothe psychological trauma.

River smiled at him, her expression encouraging.  "She's okay.  She's braver than you think."

River's penchant for referring to herself in the third person bothered Simon, because it suggested her schizophrenia might not be the only psychological trauma the Alliance had induced.  She'd scoffed at his suggestion that she had alternate personalities, but...

River rolled her eyes at him.  "Not River," she said, pulling back from the door into the shadows of the hallway, her face upturned.  "Knowledge of the spirit world is obtained through divination."

Simon blinked, and glanced at his sister with consternation.  "Did Shepherd Book tell you that?"

With a put-upon sigh, River turned and disappeared.  Moments later, Simon heard Mal stomp along the catwalks, with Zoe's measured steps behind him.  "Inara!" Mal hollered.  "You open up right now."

"Sir," Zoe began, "you're--"

"I'll get to you in a minute," Mal interrupted, and it was the combination of fear and anger in his voice that drew Simon out into the cargo bay, dread pooling in his stomach.  Something had happened, and on this ship, that was almost never good.

Simon stopped on the floor of the cargo bay, looking up at the others on the catwalk, huddled just outside the entrance to Inara's shuttle.  Mal stood with his arms crossed, looking murderous, with Zoe at his shoulder, stoic and nearly unreadable.  A meter or so behind them, Jayne leaned his elbows on the handrails and spectated, practically bouncing with glee when Inara swept out of her shuttle, stopping short at the Mal-and-Zoe-shaped roadblock.  

All three of 'em started shouting, and Simon watched in stunned silence.  River slipped up beside him, lacing her fingers with his.  

"Natural science is discovered through inductive reasoning," she murmured into his ear.  "The apple and the tree.  The gravdrive and the mechanic.  Be strong, Simon, she is stronger."

"Bì zui!" Mal hollered, and Inara and Zoe subsided, both still looking a bit churlish.

Simon stiffened.  Kaylee?  Were they fighting over Kaylee?  He couldn't seem to move, or to speak, couldn't make himself demand they tell him where Kaylee was, because he had a really bad feeling.  He tried to remember when he'd seen her last.  In the engine room, expression grim as she repaired Serenity's compressor, but that was hours ago, before he and Mal had left on the mule.  Where--?

"She set sail for Australia," River explained, low enough so only Simon would hear.  "To help all the mollymawks.  Bi you zhi lu."

Frozen, Simon let River's explanation sink in, his unseeing gaze still on the trio of crew above.  Australia.  Kaylee'd gone to--  He shook his head.  "No," he whispered, panic and fear and anger fighting for dominance.

"Kaylee is an adult," Inara told Mal, her voice tight with anger and defiance.  "And she simply requested that I take her to the docks on the far side of Themis."

"How did--?  Who--?  Why would--?"  Mal broke off, shaking his head.

"Kaylee made several good arguments in favor of going to Eunomia," Inara began.

"Wŏ cái bùguăn ne!  What the hell were you thinking?" Mal shouted.

Simon felt lightheaded, like the ship had lurched suddenly beneath him even though they were still docked on Themis.  River's fingers squeezed his, pulling him toward the stairs to join the others.

"Good arguments!" Mal echoed, furious now.  "She's a mechanic, Inara!  Ain't got no business playin' at being a jiàndié!  Didn't I say last night--?"

"No," Inara interrupted, arms crossed.  "You didn't.  You told her to fix the ship, which she did."

"Wŏ kònjiàn tā jiù gàosu tā!" Mal shouted.  "I flat out said no, and you gussied her up and sent her down to Eunomia to make like a whore?"

"She's an adult woman," Inara yelled back, "and she can make her own decisions about how much she's willing to risk for the rest of us, just like I can.  You have no call to forbid her from doing her part.  And Kaylee's right about this.  She can pull this off, with her combination of innocence and sensuality--"

"Kaylee?" Simon managed, his voice barely a whisper compared to their hollering.  Still, all four of them turned his way.

River guided him up the stairs and onto the landing, where Mal, Zoe, and Inara joined him.  Jayne held back, looking down on them with hooded eyes as Inara explained that this búgù hòuguŏ plan was the best way to get information; that young, innocent, border-raised Kaylee was perfect for the role; that it wasn't dangerous in a conventional sense; that she'd wave them immediately if she had a problem.  

Simon couldn't quite concentrate on the argument escalating around him.  Kaylee was in danger.  And she'd chosen it willingly.  Somehow, he knew this was his fault.  For not arguing with her last night, for not sticking to her like a burr today, for not telling her he couldn't possibly lose her--

"You can calculate the laws of the 'verse," River murmured, her fingers squeezing his until he turned his blurred gaze to her.

"River?" he asked, getting past the shock enough to feel fury seeping in. "Can you feel her, River?  Is she okay?"

"She's brave," his sister answered, a beatific smile on her face as she leaned her head back and added, her tone solemn, "The enemy is knowable through spies alone."

The word hit him hard -- spies.  His little Kaylee was playing spy down on a penal moon.  Simon's knees betrayed him, and he sat down hard on the steel stairs, letting his head hang down between his knees.  "Wŏ yŏudiăn ĕxīn," he muttered.

*****

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.

*****

āi bīng bì shèng: An army burning with righteous indignation is bound to win.

ai rén: sweetheart.

ań tú suŏ jì: Look for a steed with the aid of its picture; try to locate something by following up the clue.

băi chuān guī hăi: All rivers flow to the sea; all things tend in one direction.

băi wú yī shī: No danger of anything going wrong; no risk at all.

bèn dàn: fool; idiot.

bi you zhi lu: The road one must follow or take; the only way.

bì zui: shut up.

bĭcĭ bĭcĭ: same to you (usu. complimentary).

bié dòng: don't move.

bū piādiàng: homely.

búgù hòuguŏ: reckless.

cào nî zûxiān shí bâ dai: fuck 18 generations of your ancestors.

chǔndàn: stupid bastard.

chùsheng xai-jiao de xiang huo: animal-fucking bastard.

dă căo jīng shéi: Beat the grass to frighten the snake; serve warning.

dàchīyìjīng: stunned.

dong ma: understand.

duìbùqî: sorry; excuse me.

fāfēng: crazy.

gāisĭ: damned.

gôu pì: bullshit.

gôushî bùrú: lowest of the low.

gūniang: girl.

hâo de: Will do.

hĕn jĭnzhāng derén: nervous wreck.

hú shuō bā dào: talk nonsense (lit. talk nonsense in eight directions)

huāngmiù: ridiculous.

jiāoqìbāu: wimp.

jiàndié: spy.

jīz: crew.

juānhuàile: stir-crazy

kāi wān xiào: You've got to be kidding me.

K'uei-Hsing: Ancient Chinese god of official documents and paperwork; one-time ugly and nerdy mortal.

lìngrén shēngqì: infuriating[ly].

lìngrén zuò'ŏu: disgusting.

liúmáng: bastard.

mămă hūhū: situation's mediocre (lit. horse horse tiger tiger).

mâshàng: on the double.

mĕi xiăoshí duōshĭo qián? How much is it per hour?

mèimei: sister.

năizi: breasts (slang).

năorén: annoying.

nī nēng zài shuō yībiàn ma? Can you say that again?

qìúxī: ball[s].

shaoxing jui: rice wine.

shénjīng: screwed up, psychologically.

shél yĕ bú gāosu wŏ rènhé shìqing: No one tells me anything.

tāmāde: fuck.

tāmāde húndàn: fucking bastard[s].

wánquán yúchûn: completely stupid.

wĕn mŏurén: kissing; making out.

wŏ bùzhīdào wēishénme nàyàng shuō: I don't know why I said that.

wŏ cái bùguăn ne: I don't give a damn.

wŏ jì méi yŏu shíjìan yēméi yŏu jīnglī gēntā zhēnglùn: I have neither the time nor the energy to argue with him.

wŏ kònjiàn tā jiù gàosu tā: Don't interrupt when I'm talking.

wŏ yŏudiăn ĕxīn: I feel like vomiting.

Xi He: Ancient Chinese goddess and mother of the ten suns.

xìngbiàntài: pervert.

xiēsīdĭlĭde fāzuò: hysterics.

xièxie nî: thank you.

Yeng-Wang-Yeh: Ancient Chinese god of the dead who judges all the newly dead.

yì yān nán jìn: It's a long story.

yīnjīng: penis.

yūchŭn: stupid.

zāi nàn: disaster; catastrophe

zhē yĭndào năr? Where is this leading?

Zhuang-Lun-Wang: Ancient Chinese ruler of tenth and final court of hell who decides a person's next incarnation; rebirth.

zôugôu: yes man (pejorative).

"I've got it," she announced, her tone undeniably smug.  How had she not thought of it before?  Embarrassing lack of focus on the problem at hand.   Or more precisely, embarrassing lack of focus on anything but a certain hot guy.

Veronica shook her head, still a little freaked out to be thinking of Logan -- Logan! -- as a hot guy instead of a smug, intolerable jackass.  Kind of a open-barn-door thing, considering the arrogant-yet-hot jackass in question had just spent a good fifteen minutes parked in front of her apartment building doing his best to persuade her to skip out on dinner with her dad.  He'd nearly succeeded, but she'd summoned the willpower to come inside.  Reluctantly.

Logan was hot.  How had she never noticed?

"Got what?" her dad prompted, then stuffed his mouth full of spaghetti and watched her with such a harmless expression that Veronica wondered if she were blushing.  Any second now he would say something like, I expect Logan Echolls to come in here and apologize the next time he parks across the street with you for twenty-three minutes.  And then she would find out if you really could die of humiliation.

So she just had to keep the conversation on a safe, innocuous topic.  "No lazy, untalented super is going to keep me down," she declared wryly.  "No more cold showers for me."  Though it occurred to her that she might need a cold shower or two if she and Logan were going to keep sneaking around.  For someone who spent what little free time she had uncovering other people's secrets, Veronica had never understood the appeal of the clandestine relationship.

It was starting to make a little more sense.

God, she hoped she wasn't blushing.  Veronica pointed in the direction of the bathroom.  "Bubblebath," she explained, speaking fast now in the hopes that it would take her mind off of the way Logan's fingers had grazed the skin of her back-- "That way I can monitor the temperature of the water as I fill the tub, thus making sure that it's warm -- and," she added with a grin, "sufficiently bubbly -- before I get in.  It'll be glorious -- no shocking bursts of cold water."

She shivered a little, unsure if it was from remembering the blistering cold of some of her recent showers, or the blistering heat of Logan's hands on her skin.

Damn.  Definitely blushing this time.

"So," Veronica continued, quickly clearing her plate and turning to the sink, "guess I'll go test my theory.  

"Don't flood the place," her dad warned, his words muffled as he wiped his mouth.  Casting one last mournful look at his plate, he stood and scraped the remnants of his dinner into the trash.  "I'll probably be late," he told her, glancing at his watch, "so do your homework and all that jazz."

Veronica smiled and gave him a quick hug.  "Yes, sir."

Her dad grabbed the last of his stuff off the side table and paused to give her a particularly penetrating look.  "And please keep in mind that Logan's windows aren't as tinted as you think they are."  With a half-smirk, he turned on his heel, leaving Veronica staring, mouth agape, cheeks flushed pink.

She briefly revived her cold shower idea, but dismissed it by the time she made it to her small bathroom.  Normal people could just turn the taps on, toss in some bubblebath, and come back in a few minutes, but she perched on the lip of the tub and tested the water temperature about every five seconds as the water ran.  The scent of strawberry rose in the moist air, and even that was enough to begin to relax her muscles.

Once she was satisfied with the volume and temperature of the water -- and the sizable layer of bubbles on top -- Veronica twisted the taps off and headed for her room.  She grabbed pajamas, her bathrobe, and a OkGo CD, which she fed to the tiny sound system perched atop the counter.  "Oh, why not," she muttered, taking another moment to light a couple scented candles and place them along the edge of the counter top.  She flipped the overhead light off and stripped, stepping into the bathtub with a happy sigh.

Mmm, warm water.  What an idea.  She sank into the heated bliss until she was submerged to her chin, closing her eyes and letting her mind drift.

Inevitably, her traitorous teenaged mind drifted pretty quickly to Logan Echolls and his immensely talented--

When her Sidekick rang, Veronica sat upright in the tub, her wet skin immediately breaking into goosebumps.  Dammit, she thought, glaring at her phone, just out of reach on the counter top.  She considered letting it ring, but she'd always been the curious type.

Kneeling up on the unforgiving porcelain, she leaned as far out of the tub as she could without toppling, and just barely got her finger tips on her phone, coaxing it forward until she could snag it.  Carefully, she settled back down in the tub, retreating into the deliciously warm water before checking the number.

"Huh," Veronica said, determined to ignore the way her pulse jumped.  They were calling each other now?  That was definitely a new development.  Not that the feverish makeout sessions weren't new and interesting, but phone calls?  That might possibly imply something more than, well, feverish makeout sessions.

Of course, considering he'd dropped her off less than an hour ago, he was probably calling for something completely unrelated to -- whatever the hell they were doing.  Calm down, Veronica, she admonished herself.  He can probably bear to be without you for a whole hour.

She brought the phone to her ear, "If it isn't the man with the not-very-tinted windows."

"Excuse me?" Logan asked by way of a greeting.

"My dad," Veronica explained.  "He kindly reminded me that your windows aren't tinted."

"Ah," Logan said, and she could *hear* the smirk on his face.  "Daddy issues."

"Logan!"  She laughed, settling a little more comfortably, her elbow propped on the edge of the tub to ensure the phone stayed well away from the water.  That would be a difficult expense to explain to her dad.  Well, dad, I was talking to Logan while bathing...

"He didn't lock you up in a tower or anything?" Logan asked.  "No chastity belts?"

"Chastity belt?"  Veronica snorted, eyeing the bubbles.  Imagine a rusty chastity belt -- that would suck.  "No, not yet."

"Excellent."  There was a brief moment of silence that was on its way to growing awkward when Logan said, "So I have a mystery for you, Veronica Mars, private dick."

"Private," Veronica scoffed, "is more than I can say for you."

Logan sounded delighted when he said, "If I'm not mistaken, my sparkling reputation was just maliciously slandered."

"Your reputation is a lot of things, Logan, but sparkling ain't one of 'em." Veronica pressed her toes against the tub and sat up a bit more.  "Of course, this might just be a case of the pot calling the kettle a whore."

She spoke without thinking, her tone breezy.  After all, she'd had a year to steal herself against the insinuations.  But Logan had, of course, been a primary participant in the Veronica-for-town-slut campaign, one of many issues that complicated this -- whatever -- they were doing.

This silence? Definitely awkward.  And Veronica had no idea what to say to get them past this.

"I'm sorry."

Veronica blinked, unable to reconcile the soft apology with the brash Logan Echolls.  She swallowed her automatic "What?" response, scrabbling for something appropriate to say.  "For what?" she finally managed, her tone equally uncertain.

"I would say I'm sorry for being an asshole, but that's not nearly specific enough," he answered, sounding a little bit bitter.  "I'm sorry for not pounding the snot out of Dick when he started calling you--"  He broke off abruptly.

The warm water wasn't doing much for Veronica at the moment, but that probably had more to do with the subject matter.  She brought her legs up to her chest and wrapped her free arm around her shins, leaning her chin on her exposed knees.  "Let's not do this," she decided.

"What?" Logan asked.   "Veronica--"

"Seriously," she interrupted, her skin prickling with the sudden chill.  "I don't want to--"

"But I need to apologize," he insisted.  "I was horrible to you."

She considered brushing him off or making a joke, but he was actually being that sincere, sweet Logan she hadn't seen in a year.  In all the Lily trauma and Duncan drama, she hadn't really realized how much she missed Logan.  "I know."

"I am sorry," he repeated.

She shivered again.  "Apology accepted."  It wasn't that easy, and she figured he knew that, too, but belaboring the point probably wouldn't help either one of them, especially considering the nebulous state of their current relationship.  "Can you hang on a second?" she asked, leaning forward and reaching for the taps.

"Sure," Logan answered, still sounding chastened.  Weird.

"Thanks," she said, then dangled the Sidekick over the edge of the tub, trying to keep it from any possible water droplets as she pulled the drain.  She cranked on the hot water to warm up her bath and re-plugged the drain.  Holding her fingers under the water until she hissed with the heat, she let the water run for a few seconds more.  As she twisted off the taps, she brought the phone back to her ear.  "Sorry.  I'm back."

"Are you doing dishes?" Logan asked, sounding half-awed, half-disapproving.

"It's really not difficult, Logan," she answered, amused.  He'd never done a dish in his life, but it was hardly a difficult task.  "Water, a sponge, some detergent."

"Sounds boring."

"It is."

"And yet you'd rather do dishes than talk to me," he answered, playing at being offended.  This was the kind of conversation she was comfortable having with him.

"While doing dishes might actually be more interesting than talking to you," she answered, "I'm actually--"  She stopped abruptly, realizing how it would sound if she said--

"Wait -- that was--?" Logan asked, sounding odd.  "Are you taking a bath?"

"Yes," she answered, blushing already.  Stupid, stupid, stupid -- did she really think Logan Echolls would let her current situation go unremarked?

"So what are you doing right now?" he asked in that strange, strained voice.

Veronica's face felt very, very hot, and she wondered why she'd felt the need to freshen up the water, considering her rising body temperature.  "Sitting?" she offered.

"Sitting where?" Logan demanded, and there was an edge to his voice that she recognized from their makeout sessions in his Xterra.  

With a sigh, she capitulated.  "I'm taking a bubblebath, okay?"

He groaned.  "Veronica, believe me when I tell you that taking a bubblebath while talking to me is more than okay.  Now if you could just describe--"

"Perv."  She fought the smile tugging at her lips.

"I can't believe you're naked right now."  If she didn't know better, she'd think he sounded more awed than pervy.

"Logan!" she yelped, sinking a little lower in the tub despite the fact that he obviously couldn't see her.  Still, speaking to Logan about her nudity was probably more intimate than anything she and Duncan had ever done.  It was exhilarating and scary at the same time.

"Unless you usually take bubblebaths wearing a wetsuit," he teased.

Veronica knew a challenge when she heard one.  "Nope," she answered.  "No wetsuit.  Just me."  He groaned again, and Veronica smirked.  Maybe more exhilarating than scary.  "This water is so warm," she purred.

"God, Veronica," Logan muttered, "please tell me you need me to rush over there and scrub your back."

"Is that what the kids are calling it these days," she shot back.  "But, no," she continued before he could answer, "me and my bath puff have it covered."

"Bath puff?"  He sounded like someone was strangling him.  He really did.

"You know, those puffy things that chicks use to rub the bath gel all over--"

"Seriously, please don't say rub to me right now."

"Gonna rub something yourself, huh, Logan?" Veronica asked in her best innocent voice.

"You have no idea," he confessed.  "I can't believe you're talking to me while you're all wet and naked."

She flushed brighter.  "And bubbly.  Don't forget the bubbles."

"Believe me, the bubbles are featured prominently in the mental image I'm working on right now," Logan told her.  "Is your hair up?"

God, he really *was* trying to picture her.  She was torn between hiding under her bed and continuing this strange, exhilarating conversation.  "In a ponytail," she answered, her voice a bit unsteady now too.  "Logan--"

"You are so hot," he interrupted.  "You have no idea what you're doing to me."

"Oh, I have some idea," she admitted ruefully.  Because this particular kind of overheated had nothing to do with the temperature of her bathwater, and everything to do with the timbre of his voice.

"You, naked in a bathtub, talking to me with that -- Dammit," he groaned.  "Can you hang on a second?"

"Uh... sure," Veronica answered, feeling very uncertain.  He wasn't... you know... was he?"

"Sorry," Logan said, sounding very irritated.  "Doorbell.  Dick and Beaver."

"Ah," Veronica answered, feeling disappointed and unsatisfied.

"Yeah, piss poor timing," Logan agreed with a heartfelt sigh.  "I was just going to ask you to do a little something for me."

Veronica's cheeks flushed and she sucked in a breath.  "I probably would've refused," she answered, but her attempt at breezy and unaffected probably failed miserably, considering she was a bit breathless.

She heard a muffled, "In a minute," from his end, then rustling as he uncovered the phone.  "Sorry.  I guess I have to go."

"You have to go play with Dick and Beaver," Veronica agreed, letting her voice go all low and seductive.  "While you leave me here all alone in my bubblebath, with no one but myself to play with."

"Oh, my God," he groaned.  "You're killing me."

"It's just a little death," she answered, grinning, even though her body still hummed with the electricity of their heated conversation.

"Veronica," he muttered.

"Go play with Dick," she answered cheerfully.  "Me and my loofah sponge will make do on our own."  The wordless noise of lust and disappointment nearly set her off laughing, but Veronica managed to hold it in long enough to say, "Have fun, Logan.  I know I will."

She hung up before he could reply, her laughter echoing off the tile walls as she settled back into the warm water.  She still wasn't sure what exactly was going on with Logan, but she had no doubts that, if nothing else, he wanted to get in her pants.  Which worked out rather nicely, since when she let herself consider her strange new relationship with him, she realized she wanted to get in his pants, too.

Ahhh, teenage courtship.  So romantic, she thought acerbically.

Of course, she never had been one for roses and heart-shaped candy.  Whatever she and Logan ended up being to each other, she would deal.

END

Feedback cherished: macha |at| healthyinterest |dot| net

Josh Lyman was not the most romantic man in the world.  He knew that.  Or, more accurately, he'd been told that.  Repeatedly.

More than one woman he'd disappointed over the years had cited his single-mindedness and his tendency to miss even the most obvious signals as reasons for their inevitable departure.  He missed the signs.  All kinds of signs -- romantic signs, one-night-stand signs, I-find-you-repulsive signs, don't-bother-hitting-on-me-because-I'm-a-Republican signs.  He'd probably missed every conceivable sign over the years.

But not even Josh was stupid enough to miss this particular cue.

In fairness, the impromptu kiss and the key-left-on-the-table sign had been typically difficult for Josh to interpret:  Was the kiss a euphoric mistake?  Had Donna really meant to leave her key for him in that way?  But those two events in combination with this single-entendre-laden conversation -- well, Josh was pretty sure that Donna really had just invited him upstairs for sex.

Reasonably sure.

And as much as Josh knew he shouldn't ruin their nine-year relationship for mindless, mind-blowing, election night sex...  Well, hell, it was Donna, and when he let himself be completely honest about this particular subject, he'd wanted to have mind-blowing sex with her for nine years.

Which brought him to this moment, walking as fast as he could on oddly unsteady legs, trying to catch up to her before she got on the elevator.  He wasn't any good at this, but even he knew there was a window of opportunity here for... something, and once it closed--

Josh flung his arm into the elevator as the doors began to slide shut. The elevator bleated its protest, but the doors retreated.  Breathing unevenly now, Josh stepped in, stopping just inside the doors, which also happened to be about as far away from Donna as possible.  "Hi," he said stupidly.

Donna smiled, then reached over and pressed the button for the 7th floor.  She stood calmly against the side rail, watching him with curious eyes.

Josh couldn't seem to stand still as the elevator started its climb.  It was just the two of them in the elevator car, and his fingers ached to touch her.  He itched with the need to kiss her, to prove to himself that this was real.  But he retained just enough of his common sense to know two things: 1. the hotel was crawling with campaign workers and press; and 2. once he touched her, he wouldn't stop.  As impatient as he was, he really didn't want their first time to be in an elevator, and then splashed across the front page of the New York Post.

He fidgeted in his corner, his hands stuffed in his pockets, and tried to avoid the heated looks she was giving him.  She shifted, just enough to draw his eyes down the lines of her body.  Donna's lips curved just enough to let him know she understood exactly what she was doing to him.  He glanced up to check the elevator's progress, then started to pace in tight circles, each loop bringing him closer and closer to temptation.  Three more floors.

Donna moved closer to the door, closer to him, and turned to face forward.  If he was reading her correctly, he wasn't the only one having some trouble with patience.  Josh was close enough to smell her shampoo, and he inched closer almost against his will. Two more floors, and Josh couldn't resist any longer.  He reached out and traced his fingertips across her lower back, the same place he'd touched her countless times over the years.

This time, though, their connection sparkled.  Her soft sweater shifted beneath his fingers, and he lifted his gaze as she turned to face him.  She touched his jaw and he closed his fist around a handful of cashmere, pulling her up against his chest as their lips collided.

The elevator lurched to a halt and dinged.  Josh didn't care, didn't want to move from this particular spot until -- ever, but Donna, as always, reined him in.  She slipped from his arms just as the doors opened, stepping out into the hallway with nonchalance.  Josh could see the wrinkles he'd put in her sweater.

He didn't move until Donna turned back with a smile.  "Coming?"

Josh stumbled out of the elevator as the doors began to close.  "God, yes," he answered, unable to take his eyes off of her as they started down the hall, not even to nod to the agents standing guard in the hallway.  He hoped she remembered where his room was, because he was pretty much reduced to Donna-good, Republican-bad at this point.  He gained on her, reaching out to touch her waist.

"Josh, Donna," greeted a familiar gravelly voice.

"Leo," Donna answered, sounding a bit surprised as she stopped to talk to Leo, looking impossibly fresh in a crisp white shirt and deep blue tie.  Only two agents were with him, keeping a discreet distance since the campaign had this entire floor secured.

"Tense evening," he answered, with that impish grin, and Josh knew that Leo knew exactly what he and Donna were about to do.

"Leo," Josh sputtered.  "Uh, hi.  Leo.  Hi.  We were just--"

"Going over some numbers," Donna interrupted smoothly.  "Most of the staff is taking some personal time tonight, so it's just us left."  She gave Leo a what can you do? shrug and glanced at Josh with a tense smile, clearly willing him to keep quiet.

Leo raised an eyebrow, all but smirking as his gaze shifted between the two of them.  "You don't have to explain anything to me.  This isn't my first campaign."

Josh opened his mouth to stammer something about the importance of winning Texas when Donna casually stepped on his foot.  "Ow!"

"Sorry," she murmured, never taking her eyes off of Leo.  "Leo, have you eaten?"  She nodded toward his agents, who were doing their best to blend into the tasteful wallpaper.  "We could all go down to the grill and get something to eat.  Josh and I can go over the numbers a little later."

For a split second, Josh nearly protested this plan, because -- what about the mind-blowing sex they were supposed to be having?  But Leo was standing there in the hallway where Josh's room was and Donna's room wasn't, smirking at them about tense evenings and campaign sex, and Josh thought he might never be able to look Leo in the eye again.

"I've eaten, Donna, thank you," Leo answered, not buying what Donna was selling.  "And something tells me you two would have a better time looking over those numbers of yours than entertaining an old man like me."

Mortified, Josh shook his head a bit wildly, fixing his gaze on the subtle pattern of Leo's expensive silk tie.  "Leo, really, we--"

"Josh," Leo interrupted, as he reached out to pat Josh's shoulder.  Almost involuntarily, Josh looked up to find Leo grinning back at him.  "I'm just stretching my legs.  Now, go on."  Leo gave Josh a small push, nodding at Donna as he moved past them toward the elevator banks.

Josh half-turned, frowning a bit as he watched Leo trudged toward the elevator.  Because if that was supposed to be some sort of sign from Leo, some sort of tacit approval, well, Josh was really bad at reading signs.  Probably the smile was a good sign, though.  Maybe.  Unless it was more of a smirk.

"Josh," Donna murmured, startling him out of his confusion.

"What?" he asked stupidly.

She tilted her head towards his hotel room door.  "Key."  He pulled it out of his pants pocket, and Donna made an amused, exasperated sound and took it from him, her touch sparking along his skin.  "Hopeless."

As she worked the lock on his door, Josh glanced back at the elevator, just as the doors were sliding shut.  Leo, still smirking and flanked on either side by blank-faced Secret Service agents, dipped his chin almost imperceptibly.

Okay, that?  Definitely a sign, Josh decided.  He was almost certain that Leo had just given them his approval.

"Josh?"

He turned back to Donna, who had his door open, but hadn't stepped inside.  The sight -- the implication -- brought his lust back full force, and Josh couldn't worry about Leo's approval or the morning papers or the polling numbers or the candidate, or even what this would do to he and Donna if it went badly.

All he could think about was Donna.

Donna, who was smiling at him in that particular way of hers, blue eyes sparkling with affection and exasperation and attraction, her lips curving softly.

"Yeah?" he asked belatedly, his fingers itching to touch that soft cashmere, and the softer skin beneath.

"You okay?"  She reached out, her fingernails sliding along his cheekbone, and that was all it took to propel him into action.

They were kissing again, suddenly and aggressively, as if someone had flipped a switch.  He didn't remember moving toward her, but she was wrapped tightly in his arms, her lithe body pressed flush against his, and there were sunbursts behind his eyelids and he heard the hotel door slam shut behind them as they bumped against the wall.

"I'm fine," he told her, panting a bit as he pressed his face against the soft skin of her neck.  And it was election night, and he'd had about fourteen espresso shots in as many hours, and he was possibly throwing away years and years of this great... thing he and Donna had for one night, but... he was fine.

Better than fine.  Damn good, actually, and getting better.

And possibly, just maybe, he was figuring out how to read the signs.

THE END

Feedback (macha[at]healthyinterest.net) would be delicious, especially since I apparently can't write WW anymore.  Some days, I really miss those guys.

I'm not entirely sure how I got here.

Not the Neptune Grand, obviously because -- duh, alternaprom.  I spent quite a bit of time and energy getting dressed, getting pretty, getting over to Wallace's so Butters and Mac could pick us up in that ridiculous Rolls Royce.  I know how I got here in the literal sense.

Which is only tangentially related to how I ended up standing in the lobby, pointless little evening bag half-strangled in my hand, unable to bring myself to take that last step and leave the hotel.  Because Logan said all of those things, and he looked at me like that, and what kind of moron am I to run away from him?  Again.

"G'night, V'ronica!" slurs the female half of a tipsy, dressed up couple as they head for the door.  I don't recognize the voice, but I'm pretty sure Emily Cameron was wearing that particular shade of puce.  Unfortunate.

"Good night," I answer, shivering a bit when a draft teases across my back.  Love this dress (loved the stunned look on Logan's face when he saw it), but it certainly doesn't protect against chills.  Which is kind of besides the point.  Why am I not following Emily and her date, exactly?  Why am I not heading home, leaving tipsy temptation in his hotel suite with many, many willing bimbos?

And what in God’s name am I doing going back?  Opening the clutch, I manage to extricate my Sidekick with far more effort than should be necessary.  Wouldn't be using the purse at all if Mac let me accessorize my little black dress with my messenger bag.  You'd think someone with revolving Manic Panic streaks in her hair wouldn't be quite so rigid about eveningwear dos and don'ts.

Staring blankly at the elevator bank, I tell myself to leave, to put the phone away, to let sleeping, drunken dogs lie.  Somebody should've mentioned this to my traitorous fingers, because I already pressed "Send."

"Oh, God," I mutter, wrinkling my nose in dreadas the phone rings. Can't hang up now, and damn if I can't come up with one single, solitary lie to cover my tracks.  Me, Veronica Mars, master actor, able to charm the most unsentimental peole with the tilt of my head and a well-delivered sob story, and I'm completely stumped.

On the fourth ring, my hand shifts on the phone, because the last thing I need right now is to hear which trite inspirational quote Logan chose for alternaprom day.  Something like, dance as if no one's watching, no doubt.  I shouldn't find his ironic messages funny.  I shouldn't find him funny, and I really need to hang up--

"'Lo?  Veronica?"

I'm speechless, because how does he know–-?  Caller ID, and I am really off my game.  Probably I should say something, because running out on someone and then prank calling him -- not exactly straight out of the girl handbook.

Or so I've heard.  Obviously, no one ever bothered to give me a copy.

The music from his suite sounds tinny and overwhelming, and it kind of hurts my ears, but I can hear him breathing for a moment before he repeats my name.  "Veronica."

"I'm downstairs."  Okay, seriously.  What the hell am I doing?  Wincing, I brace myself for the inevitable cutting remark about better luck finding a john in the bar next to the Camelot.

Logan simply exhales.  "I'll be right down."

"Logan--"  But he already hung up, and he's on his way down here, and every single muscle in my body tenses for flight.  "Crap."  Turning in a tight circle, I barely notice the alarmed look from some pinched-mouth businessman his expensive hooker as they approach the elevators via a large, Veronica-avoiding arc.

I can't stop staring at the Sidekick in my hands, and it shocks me a little to realize that my hands are shaking.  I am seriously torn.  The safe course would be to run -- again, because I am really very good at it.  But I seem to be waiting here for Logan to stumble off the elevator and--

And what?  What comes next?  My stomach does a little flip-flop at the possibilities.  What can I possibly say to him after his little confession?  Sure, it was fueled by champagne and desperation, but for better or worse, I know Logan well enough to recognize when he's letting me in.  He's done it a few times now, which was a hell of a lot more than I've ever done for him.  Every single time I decide to trust him, I've found another reason to doubt him.

Shelley's party.  Lilly's murder.  Aaron's secret sex cameras.

Each time, I trusted the evidence instead of my gut, and to make things infinitely worse, I lied to him about it.

Probably the most honest I've ever been with him was the night I ended things, the night I told Logan that I couldn't stay with him and watch him self-destruct.  My throat tightens just remembering the broken look on his face that night.  I've run away from him time after time, accused him of raping me, of killing Lilly, of being hell bent on suicide-by-PCHers, but somehow in his mind that makes us an epic love story.

Epic.

I shiver just remembering the way he said the word.  Are we epic?  For months I've told myself that we were over, that we'd never been anything but a chemical reaction, an impulse born from shared trauma.

Tonight, staring at a bank of elevators with my heart in my throat, I am absolutely certain that I was wrong.  We might flame out spectacularly, but whatever this thing is between us, it's more than a reaction to Lilly's death and Aaron Echoll's betrayal.

Ding.

The elevator.  God.  I can't breathe.  I can't do anything but stare at the doors.

Logan turns sideways to get through the elevator doors before they open all the way, his eyes finding me instantly.  I only have time for one shuddering breath and then he's here, looming over me with those hands of his dancing along my bare shoulders, skimming down my arms.  "Logan--"  He cuts off whatever idiotic thing I was about to say, wrapping me tight in his arms and kissing me.

And it's not an introductory kiss or a welcome home kiss or even an apologetic kiss -- it's hot and desperate, and my fingers curl tight into his rumpled dress shirt, pulling his dangling bow tie free by accident.  His tongue tastes like champagne and his fingers trail across the exposed skin of my lower back until I shiver.  Logan makes a sound halfway between a moan and a whimper, and urges me backwards until my shoulder blades hit the wall and I gasp into his mouth.

"Veronica," he mutters, backing off just far enough to press kisses along my jaw.  "God, Veronica."

"I know," I answer, but I don't even know what I mean, can't process anything but the feel of him after months of bitterness and worry.  I wrap my arms around his neck, letting his bowtie dangle from my fingers as I bury my face in his neck and inhale.  It's amazing how much I missed this, and much I didn't know I missed it until now.  He smells the same -- expensive cologne and alcohol.

"Don't leave," he murmurs, pressing feverish kisses along my shoulder, his voice shaking just a little bit.  "Please, Veronica, don't leave me."

The plaintive note in his voice breaks something inside of me.  He might be drunk, but he means every word he said.  I lean back as much as I can with his body pinning me to the wall, reaching up to frame his face in my hands.  He's evasive, his gaze avoiding mine until I say his name.  "I won't," I tell him, and I mean it.  People suck, and they hurt you, and they leave you when you need them the most.  There are always a couple people you can trust, and I've learned to be careful who I choose to let in.  Somehow when I wasn't paying attention, Logan made his way onto my short list of trusted people, and I'm no good at declarations but I need him to understand that.  "I won't leave."

His eyes are suspiciously wet as he jerks a nod, his hands tightening on my waist.  So I kiss him again.  His knee slides between my thighs, and I'm on my tiptoes, unable to bear any space between us.

"God," Madison Sinclair's unmistakable voice cuts right into our blissful oblivion.  "Get a room.  Oh, I forgot -- you probably can't afford to entertain your boyfriends in an expensive hotel like this."

I can feel Logan's entire body tense as he begins to pull away.  My fingers dig into his back, willing him to hold still.  I kiss him sweetly.  "Don't."

Logan shakes his head, frustrated and breathing hard with a mixture of lust and anger.  "But she's--"

"A heinous bitch," I suggest, pitching my voice loud enough for the bitch in question to hear.

"Or are you making Logan pay for the hotel room, too?" Madison snarks, and I don't even have to look at her to picture the expression on her face.

Logan arms are corded steel under my hands, and I just hold on tighter, leaning my head to the side to nail Madison with a knowing look.  "Why don't you call the Sheriff, Madison? Share your insight with the law.  I'm sure he'd run right over to give you a good--"

"Whatever," Madison interrupts loudly, her face flushed pink.  "Why don't you take him to some skanky motel on your side of town?"

It takes Logan a second, and then his eyes go wide and his head whips around to watch Madison storm off.  "Wait," he says, turning back to me.  "Madison and--"

"Yes," I confirm, trying not to make a face.  Because, seriously –- eeewwww.

From Logan's grimace, he agrees.  "How did you possibly–-?"

"I know people," I remind him, brushing my fingertips down his arms.  He's still clearly pissed off, and we can't have that.  "And I don't care what she thinks."  He frowns, searching my face for... well, I'm not sure what he's looking for, but I know when he kisses my forehead that he's found it.

"Okay."  Leaning closer, Logan wraps his arms around my waist and picks me up without warning.  I can't help the surprised yelp, but he just shrugs and gives me that shit-eating smirk of his.  "You're so short."

"Did you ever think that maybe you're just freakishly tall?" I shoot back.

He leans against me, effectively pinning me to the wall with my feet dangling a couple of inches off the ground.  It feels really, really good, his body pressed tight against mine.

"So," Logan asks, his gaze dropping repeatedly to the neckline of my dress.  Curious, I chance a peak and, wow, our position is doing some impressive things for my near non-existent cleavage.  "What do you think?" Logan asks.

Since I have no earthly idea what he's talking about, I can't possibly answer.  "Think about what?"

He ducks his head, pressing kisses along my cheek.  "Me," he mumbles shyly.  "Us.  This."

I consider his question for a moment.  There are a lot of perfectly good reasons for me to leave him, to end this and never look back.  He was right when he said that we could easily drift apart this summer -– we don't, after all, run in the same circles.  Well, unless David Boreanaz suddenly starts inviting me to his Hollywood parties.  Not that I remember Logan going surfing with David Boreanaz or anything, but whatever.

Logan tenses against me and he eases back, guiding me back to the floor.  He stares down at me, his eyes begging.  "Veronica?"

No one has ever said my name with quite the same mixture of affection, lust, and uncertainty.  Logan was horrible to me for a year, he's said terrible, awful things (and slept with terrible, awful people), and he has an infuriating tendency to use his status to get his way.  But under all of that is the sweet, surprisingly sensitive guy I fell for a long time ago, the guy who would bleed himself dry if I asked him.  The depth of his devotion to me still scares me, but I'm finally starting to understand that my devotion to him?  A little scary-deep, too.

My life would probably be so much simpler if I could just walk away from him.  Unfortunately, it would also be a lot less enjoyable. Logan is irrepressible, and he makes the lows incredibly, soul-crushingly low.  But he also makes the highs exhileratingly high, and, well, no one's ever called Logan Echolls boring.  Taking a deep, unsteady breath, I step forward and twine my arms around his neck.  "I think," I answer, using my best teasing tone, "that we should get a room."

Logan's eyes widen comically, and in pretty much any other circumstance, I would be mocking him.  "What?" he splutters, even as his hands land low on my hips.

"We," I repeat, enunciating each word with precision, "should get a room."  I punctuate my suggestion by leaning in and nibbling on his neck.  I can feel his reaction and it makes me grin against his skin.

"But I have the suite," he points out, a little unsteadily.

"There are many, many drunken high school graduates in your suite right now," I counter, always the logical one.  His dazed expression just makes this more fun.  It's not as easy as you might think to leave Logan Echolls speechless.

"Veronica–-"

I cut off his feeble protest with a kiss.  "I don't think you're going to want an audience."

His eyes go dark and he sucks in a breath.  "God."

"No," I answer, shaking my head with affected disappointment.  "Veronica.  Geez."

He cracks a smile, one hand slipping along my lower back, dipping beneath the edge of my dress.  "You sure?"

God, if I wasn't before, I would be now.  The goosebumps along my skin should really be answer enough, but I know he's trying to be a gentleman.  Well, as much as it's possible to be a gentleman while discussing whether or not to get a hotel room with someone, I suppose.  Baby steps.  "It's alternaprom night.  The least we can do is live the stereotype."

He rolls his eyes.  "Dear Diary, Tonight after prom I plan to let my sweetiemuffin peel my perfectly cut designer dress from my trembling body and do all manner of sinful things–-"

Laughing, I lean up and silence him with a kiss.  "Smartass."

Logan tilts his head in smug agreement, his fingers tracing designs on my back.

"But you got one small detail wrong."  I lower my voice and push up onto my tiptoes, whispering directly into his ear.  "I plan to let my sweetiemuffin peel my dress off with his teeth and then I plan to do all manner of sinful things to his trembling body."  I lean back, extricating myself from him with some difficulty, considering the way his entire body just went rigid.  Seriously, I shouldn't be enjoying his open-mouthed shock this much, especially since I am a nervous, trembling mess on the inside.  From a safe distance, I carefully smooth my dress, then use his elbow to turn him toward the front desk.  "Now go."

He makes an inarticulate choking noise, so I smack his ass for good measure.  Seriously.  Great ass.  Plus, the look he shoots me over his shoulder is priceless.  If I'm reading him right, he's torn between laughing and tearing my dress off.  Point, me.

I move toward the elevator doors, standing demurely as I watch Logan's pathetic attempts to appear respectable as he reaches the front desk.  He apparently doesn't notice that his shirt is still partially untucked and his suspenders are dangling down his thighs.  The transaction doesn't take long, and I really do try not to grin stupidly at the back of his head the whole time he's away from me.  I'm not deluded enough to think I succeeded.

The way he struts his way back to me sets me to laughing.  I really, really missed this –- the lighthearted Logan with his sexual innuendo and his kindness. He flashes the keycard at me and waggles his eyebrows.  "We," he announces, offering his arm with an exaggerated bow, "have an incredible second-floor view of the office park next door."

"Oooh."  I lace my arm through his and step onto the waiting elevator.  "You sure do know how to treat a girl right."  Logan's playful expression falls a little at that, and I turn into his arms.  "You do," I tell him seriously.  We've done a lot of damage to each other over the past couple years, but he has to know I wouldn't be here if he wasn't a good man.  "You do treat me right."

He doesn't seem to believe me at first, but then he gives me that lopsided grin.  "I do my best," he answers breezily, leaning in for a lingering kiss.

The elevator doors slide open and I peel myself away from him, holding out my hand.  "Coming?"  As soon as the word leaves my mouth, I groan and cover my face with one hand.  My father would call that a hanging slider right over the plate.  I don't expect Logan to let it pass him by.

"Almost too easy," Logan tells me, putting a faux thoughtful finger to his chin and smirking all the while, "but I believe the proper response would be Repeatedly, I hope."

"Okay," I answer with a mock sigh, feigning resignation to my inevitable fate.  "Guess we better get started, then."  

"Guess so," Logan answers, his smile genuine and a little bit shy.  I can't quite keep up the world-weary act when Logan takes my hand and follows me off the elevator.

THE END

Feedback cherished at macha@healthyinterest.net.

THANKS: To Em, as ever, for the beta.

***

"Zoe."

His voice cuts through the stillness, through the awful silence, and jolts her from her nightmarish state.  Walking corpses, angry accusations from fallen comrades, larger-than-life purplebellies with advanced weaponry and a gun -- these are the things she dreams.

She'd rather stay awake.  Safer that way anyhow.  They're starving down here, them that are still breathin', and she doesn't trust a single person but Sarge.

"Zoe?"  He's louder now, more insistent.

Her entire body aches, screams for rest or nourishment -- or death -- but she cracks open her eyes anyway, turns her head a few centimeters to face him.  "Yeah, Sarge?"

"Reckon they'll get the surrender all taken care of soon," he answers, and his voice is nearly as weak as hers.  That realization shouldn't scare her so much, considerin' he's still giving orders, but she's fought with him goin' on five years and never seen him like this.  Probably he's thinking similar thoughts 'bout her.

Sarge struggles, pressing his shaking hands into the ground and pushing himself up a bit more.  "You figure out what comes next?"

"You mean prison, sir?"  If they weren't lying among the fallen, might've been a joke.

"Don't rightly see jail in your future, Zoe," he answers, with a flash of what sounds like amusement.  Hard to tell -- she hasn't heard much in the way of humor lately.

"Why's that, sir?"  She's honestly curious.  They lost the war, after all, and he's the one what led them to this heroic, ill-fated last stand.  Alliance probably won't look too kind on the rebels that killed thousands of purplebellies after they were ordered to lay down arms.  Months and months they held this gorram valley, all for nothing.  If she had the energy, she'd be furious.  Not at Sarge, at the rest of the Independents for giving up.

"You're career military.  Second-in-command," he explains, exhaustion more obvious in his voice now.

She's lost count of the days, with the fitful dozing, but if forced to guess, she'd say six days since the lìngrén zuò'ŏu order to lay down arms.  Six days of nothing but the smell of death, the sound of dying, and the horrid sight of no one coming to tend the wounded.  Zoe presses her heel into the ground, propelling herself onto one side.  Used to be comfortable, curling up like a baby, but she can feel her hipbone grinding against the rock floor of their shelter.

"Don't quite follow your point, sir," Zoe answers, embarrassingly out of breath.  She studies him closely, looking for signs of dehydration.  They ran out of water last night, and Zoe ain't even considering what they'll do about that when worst comes.

"Jus' following orders," Sarge answers, having trouble keeping his eyes open.

Zoe can't make sense of that.  "Sir?"

"My orders," he clarifies, blinking rapidly as he meets her gaze.  He looks determined as she's ever seen him, and after four years' wartime, she's seen him in a lot of desperate situations.

"You mean to say you'll go away and I won't?" she guesses, amazed at how angry that makes her.  She's been pretty fuzzy the past week or so, but she's enraged that he would even suggest she take the coward's way out.  If the Alliance want to lock up Sarge for doing his duty and holding their ground, she'll be in the cell right next to him.  That's the way it works and he damn well knows it.

"Makes the most sense," Sarge answers, the edge of his mouth quirking up in that infuriating smirk.  But with all the weight he's lost, the expression just draws her attention to the hollows in his cheeks.  She glances at the sky reflexively, but still no one comes for them.

"Makes *no* sense," she argues.  "And you should know better."

"Better 'n what?" he demands, shifting again so he can face her without having to hold his head off the ground.  His hands are shaking something fierce, and he groans a bit with the movement.

"Better 'n to call me stupid," she manages.  Fury is exhausting.  She closes her eyes, just for a second, just to gather the strength she'll need to argue with him.

"What?" Sarge splutters, loud enough to draw attention to them, if there was anyone left alive within a couple dozen meters.  "Ain't said you're stupid, Zoe."

"Damn straight," she answers, not bothering to open her eyes just yet.  Feels good, just drifting a bit, even though her hips are achin' and each breath she takes is an effort.  "Wouldn't follow stupid orders neither."

He doesn't answer right away, and that prompts Zoe to bring herself around enough to make sure he didn't drop dead or go into shock.  Looks more angry than anything else.  "Wouldn't give stupid orders," he says, frowning a bit.

"Never gave a one," she agrees.  What passes for silence in their little corner of hell holds for several minutes.  She's conserving her energy.  Can't do a thing for the injured ain't already been done, and so she'll try to keep strong enough to walk when the Alliance comes for them.  No stretcher for her if she can help it.

Zoe lets her mind drift, drawing on memories of home, of her parents' transport ship.  They'd taught her to be her own woman, but hadn't been thrilled when she joined up with the Independents.  Maybe they were right, Zoe thinks bitterly.  Maybe they could see the outcome beforehand.

Zoe never considered they might lose.  She opens her eyes again, scanning the horizon in vain, then doing visual recon out of force of habit.  Looks like they lost a couple more of the gravely wounded.  How much longer will the húndàn Alliance leave them here to rot while they celebrate their gorram victory?  Her gut twists.  "Never thought it would come to this," she mutters.

"Huh?"  Sarge jerks to attention beside her, automatically glancing at the empty skies.  He turns to her.  "What?"

She doesn't want to have this conversation.  "Nothing, sir."

He seems to accept this, giving her the slightest of nods.  She should've known better, 'cause he's nothing if not stubborn.  Sarge sighs.  "Didn't expect this, neither."

"Sir?"

"Losing," he explains, and this time the exhaustion in his voice is caused by more than just physical fatigue.  "Hard to take when the bad guys win."

Zoe agrees in principle, but she's never been as idealistic as Sarge.  Least not when her comrades are bleedin' to death all around her.  "We were outgunned and outnumbered," she points out.

"True," Sarge agrees, "but we had better uniforms."

It hurts to laugh, but Zoe's relieved to find she still remembers how.  She reaches over to lay one hand against his sleeve.  "Brown's a good color for you."

"Better'n gorram purple," he answers, the edge of his mouth turning up.

Zoe lets her eyes drift shut again.  "Used to like purple, too.  Had a pretty purple dress when I was a girl."

"Trying to picture that," Sarge answers, still sounding damn amused, "but somehow I don't think you carried a rifle across your back when you were a girl."

"Nah," Zoe admits.  "Bow and arrow."

It's his turn to choke on a laugh, and he reaches up, patting her hand for a moment.  "You grew up on a transport ship."

Seems like he wants an answer, so she says, "Yeah.  Middle planets."

"You going home after?" he asks.

She knows about Shadow, about his family, and she's kept this from him for over a year for good reason.  But now ain't the time for lies.  "No home left," she answers, trying not to picture the explosion, her parents' bodies spinning out into the black.  She stares at the horror on the ground around her instead.

His voice is hushed when he asks, "When?"

"Year ago last month," she answers, avoidin' his gaze.  Talkin' about this is more tiresome than arguing with him.

"I'm sorry," he says, and squeezes her shoulder.

"Thank you."  She shifts again, unable to find a position that doesn't make her ache.  Flat on her back now, she stares up at the stars.

"We'll get a ship," Sarge suggests, out of nowhere.

Zoe turns her head to give him a skeptical look.  "'Scuse me?"

"A transport," he explains, looking as animated as he has in days, which probably isn't saying much.  "After all of this."  He waves a hand in the direction of the body-strewn battlefield.  Zoe's not sure if he means the war, or the punishment that'll be coming their way.

"You're a rancher," she answers.

"Was a rancher," he agrees.  "Now I'm a soldier, but I ain't got no army."

It's the truth she's been trying to ignore.  She's been a soldier since she came of age, but she chose the losing side in this war and no army worth a damn would accept a conquered soldier into its ranks.  She's going to need to find another way to earn money.

Zoe still thinks it's far more likely they'll both end up doing hard time, considering, but maybe Sarge can use this particular fantasy to keep 'em both going throughout.  Maybe this can be his new rallying cry.

"A transport, huh?" she says eventually, shifting into a slightly less uncomfortable position against the rocks.  "And I suppose you expect me to show you the ropes."

"'Course," he agrees, sliding back down to lie flat.  "I'll use my wit and charm to get us work, and you can figure out the logistics."

"So same as it's been the last four years," Zoe surmises, smiling a little as she settles in for another nap.  She ignores his objection and says, "Just how do you plan to pay for a transport?"

As Sarge starts to spin his tale, Zoe figures at the very least, it'll get them through another long, torturous night.  And he might just be determined enough to get his hands on a transport, someday.

Assuming they get out of Serenity Valley alive.

THE END

Glossary

húndàn -- bastard.

lìngrén zuò'ŏu -- disgusting.

Feedback cherished: macha@healthyinterest.net

DISCLAIMER: These guys belong to Jabrams.

THANKS: To the usual suspects, my fabulous betas Em, Lu, and Philateley. And extra tasty crispy thanks for language assistance to sternel, riarambles, and lulabo, and random musical assistance from megwriting.

When Weiss woke, groggy, on a dirt floor, his first clear thought was, I'm not supposed to be here.  His second clear thought was, where is here?

Jerking upright, Weiss scanned his surroundings.  He was alone in the room.  In the small, dark room lit by a single light bulb hanging from an appropriately grungy string.  And he was slumped on a dirt floor.  Huh.  He could've sworn he was cheerfully minding the government's business in a pretty kickin' hotel room in Switzerland, but this wasn't his room and these certainly weren't his handcuffs.

Weiss decided it was a good time to engage in a little panicked sweating.

The door opened, and Weiss realized he hadn't been panicking nearly enough.

Irina Derevko sauntered into the room, in a black tank top and camos, and crouched gracefully in front of him.  "Is my daughter in Rome?"

Weiss reminded himself to breathe.  "I'm pretty sure revealing the location of an American agent to an escaped terrorist is a federal offense."

Her serene expression never wavered.  "I'm not a terrorist."

"Actually," Weiss began, "under 18 U.S.C.--"

"I don't seek the downfall of America," Derevko interrupted.  A ghost of a smile flitted across her lips.  "Anymore."

Weiss swallowed hard and told himself to ignore the phantom throbbing in his neck.  "As reassuring as that is, I'm going to stand by my original answer."

"Is Sydney in Rome?" Derevko interrupted.  It was a demand, not a question.

Weiss lifted his chin.  "I'm not going to prison so you can satisfy your curiosity about your daughter."

"Curiosity," Derevko echoed, almost smiling.  "Is that what you think this is?"

"I don't really care what this is," Weiss corrected her.  Yup, concentrating on his latent anger toward this woman really helped control the panic.  A little.

Derevko rose in a quick, fluid motion and glared down at him.  "Perhaps you should."  She moved to door and called out something in Russian.  The steely glance she gave Weiss as she paused in the doorway reminded Weiss of her husband.  Ex-husband.  Whatever.  Derevko could be just as freakin' scary as Jack Bristow.  "Reconsider," she ordered.

Scarier than Jack, Weiss decided.  Definitely scarier than Jack.

As Derevko stepped out, a large, ugly, Nordic-looking guy lumbered in carrying a very anachronistic club.  Weiss bit back an inappropriate Fred Flintstone joke, then swallowed an unmanly whimper when the guard let his giant club clatter to the floor.

Okay, Weiss thought, we're moving right along from the intimidation to the physical brutality.

Being captured by the enemy was bad, but Weiss had gone through rigorous training with the agency.  Being up against Irina Derevko was bad, but Weiss had lived through it a few times before.

But being captured by Irina Derevko?

So very, very bad.

***

"Are you ready to go in?" Sydney demanded, straightening her blue velvet evening gown.  It was form-fitting, but the fabric stretched enough to give her room to maneuver.

Sydney gave him a critical once over.  "Okay," she answered finally.  "Let's do this."

***

"Have you changed your mind?"

Had he fallen asleep?  Weiss blinked blearily up at Irina Derevko, who had her arms crossed and an almost amused expression on her face.  Weiss squirmed, trying to sit up straight and face her like a man.  A man with his hands tied behind his back, but still.  A man.  "Nope."

Derevko raised an eyebrow, just a millimeter or so.  "Even knowing I'll kill you if you're of no use to me?"

Weiss tried to sound just as nonchalant.  "Nope."

"You are either brave or stupid."  Derevko tilted her head, her long locks dangling over one well-muscled shoulder.  "Are you in love with my daughter?"

The question was so unexpected that Weiss spluttered, "No!" before he could stop himself.

"You're lying."

Weiss glared up at her.  "Do you just ask every single CIA agent you meet if he's in love with your daughter?"

Derevko's smile actually seemed genuine.  "Only those I know will react the way you have.  The way Agent Vaughn once did."

That barb was designed to elicit information, Weiss knew.  She wanted Weiss to justify his own feelings -- not that he had those kinds of feelings for Sydney, just hypothetically if he did -- or defend Vaughn's loyalty to her daughter.

Weiss said nothing.

"A loyal friend," Derevko observed.  "But Agent Vaughn has married."

That statement didn't require any sort of response.  Still, her expectant gaze was weighty enough to pull a reluctant "hmmmm" from Weiss.

"Interesting," Derevko said after another lengthy pause.  "I wonder whether this will persuade you to answer my question:  whoever the CIA sent after the Rambaldi artifact has been either captured or killed."

Weiss froze.  "How do you know that?"

Derevko waved an impatient hand.  "I know Arvin Sloane's methods."

Self-preservation kicked in a nanosecond before Weiss made a crack about Derevko's precise methods of acquiring such knowledge.

Still, she gave him a penetrating look before continuing.  "I've been monitoring the Covenant, just like you have."

"Pretty easy to do from the inside," Weiss observed flatly.  He shifted a little, testing the handcuffs.  Still metal.  Still securely fastened.  Still forcing him to hold his arms at a very uncomfortable angle.

"I'm not Covenant," Derevko answered, her tone betraying nothing.  "I work for myself."

"Sure," Weiss agreed, wondering if there was anyone on earth who could tell when Irina Derevko was lying.  Because he was damned if he could figure out whether she was working for the Covenant to confirm that the CIA sent agents in or whether she was actually concerned for her daughter's safety.  "Whatever."

"Consider this, Agent Weiss:  if I could simply alter events from the inside to save my daughter, why would I go to the trouble of kidnapping you?"

"My irresistible charm?"

Derevko's expression darkened a little.  "If my daughter is in Rome, I can tell you how to avert disaster.  If she's not, you're of no use to me and you know I will not simply let you leave."  Derevko stepped closer.  "Will you refuse to answer my question again, Agent Weiss?"

"Um," Weiss answered eloquently.  Think of something, he ordered himself.  Say something to stall for time.

"Is my daughter in Rome?" Derevko repeated, each word pronounced slowly and deliberately.  

Weiss considered his options and concluded they were limited.  To just the one option, really.  "Yes," he answered through gritted teeth.  Rome was a big city, he rationalized.  Syd and Vaughn wouldn't be compromised.  Not really.  Plus, she'd already guessed.

Derevko gave a curt nod.  "I presumed.  Her father designed the mission, yes?"

Weiss kept resolutely silent, refusing to divulge anything more.  

"Fine," Derevko said.  "Keep your details, but listen to me:  you can't call off your agents.  Sloane allowed you to hear the chatter about Chechnya and WMDs.  He wanted to know that the CIA would figure the Rambaldi connection and send someone."

Shaking his head slowly, Weiss commented, "But that doesn't make sense.  Why would he want the CIA--"

"To draw out the agents," Derevko interrupted with an impatient wave of her hand.  "This way, he has control over where they're sent and he can capture them easily."

Weiss scowled.  "And keep some dusty old machine for himself, am I right?"

Derevko didn't seem to care for his characterization.  "I've told you enough."

"Whoa," Weiss objected with a flash of real irritation, his lack of leverage notwithstanding.  "No way.  You haven't told me anything.  I need more information if I'm going to pull Sydney and Vaughn out."

"You can't pull her out," Derevko commanded.  "I told you, I believe they've already been captured.  Sloane can't know that his plan has been discovered or--"

"Or your plan will be foiled?" he practically spat.  Every time he started to believe Derevko might actually care more for her daughter than Rambaldi, he was proven wrong.  No wonder Jack was such a cynical bastard.

After a long, uncomfortable silence, Derevko sauntered over and stood, towering over him.  "I am losing patience with you."

Weiss told himself that he was not terrified and his voice was only the tiniest bit squeaky when he answered, "I still don't know what you expect me to do."

"It's simple," Derevko said, that mysterious half-smile making a reappearance.  "Sydney has tracked the Rambaldi artifact to a location in Rome by piecing together the intell on the Chechen WMDs.  That is where the trap has been laid.  You must find the location and disable the device."

"Device?" he echoed, already knowing just how much worse his day was about to get.

"Would you prefer 'bomb'?"

"I'd prefer a large, angry beast, I think."  Because Weiss had been shot and it had sucked, but the thought of being blown to pieces by a bomb kept him up nights.

"Just think, Agent Weiss -- my daughter might look at you differently if you save her life."  She leaned closer, her smile fading.  "And know that if you fail, I will hold you responsible for any harm that comes to Sydney."

Oh, shit.

***

"Vaughn," Syd whispered, "hand me that -- oh, no."

Sydney met Vaughn's gaze.  "We've got a problem."

***

Weiss stared at Derevko.  "You're kidding."

"Time is of the essence, Agent Weiss.  Do I have your agreement?"  She was crouched opposite him, displaying an unnerving ability to remain in the awkward position for what felt like hours without appearing to experience any discomfort.

She'd make a great catcher, Weiss thought absurdly.  Shit.  Focus.  Sydney.  "My agreement?"

"Yes," Derevko asked, her expression placid.  "You will do exactly as I've told you."

Weiss started to shake his head, "Wait, wait, wait -- I have some objections."

A frown appeared.  "I don't have time for your objections.  My daughter's life is in danger."

"Two objections," Weiss conceded, narrowing down his incredibly long list to the most important points.  "One, why should I trust an operation you've designed when you're not willing to go yourself?  And, two, this is not a one-person job.  I'll need--"

"You can't call anyone," Derevko ordered, her tone harsh.  She leaned forward a little, her gaze intense.  "If you choose to ignore any of what I've told you, don't let it be that.  You cannot contact the CIA.  You cannot contact Sydney.  You must do this yourself."

This is a nightmare, Weiss decided.  It was the opposite of those lovely dreams where he handily saved the world from some vague, undefined threat and won the love of The Girl (usually embodied by Sydney, but that was a whole 'nother can of worms).  This nightmare was setting him up for certain failure.

He closed his eyes and willed himself to wake up.

"Agent Weiss," Derevko ordered sharply.

"Shit," Weiss muttered, opening his eyes.  "Okay, why the radio silence?"

She actually smiled at him.  "You'll have to trust me."  Derevko blithely ignored his derisive snort.  "And to answer your first question, I would gladly go myself, but I have a prior engagement that requires my attendance."  Her expression hardened.  "Before you conclude that I would not willingly die for my daughter, I will tell you this much:  If I do not show up at this meeting, Arvin Sloane will know.  Do you understand?"

Weiss took a moment to evaluate all that she'd said and all that she'd implied.  He came up with this:  Sydney and Vaughn were in trouble, and Arvin Sloane had a mole inside the CIA or, alternatively, had hacked into their communications.  Tipping off Syd and Vaughn, or even Jack, would tip off Sloan, and things would not end well.

"Shit," he said again.  "Yes, I understand," he admitted grudgingly.  

"And you agree?"

Weiss glared at her.  "You haven't given me much choice."

Derevko nodded.  "There's not much time.  When I leave, you will wait fifteen minutes and then make your escape."

Wait a second -- escape?  Weiss shook his head.  "How--?"

She held up a hand for silence.  "My men believe that I captured a CIA agent to extract information."  Weiss winced, imagining how much fun that wouldn't be.  Derevko continued, "I cannot simply let you go; you will have to escape out from under the nose of my guard."

Weiss's jaw actually dropped.  "Your guard?  The one with the club?"

Derevko nodded.  "I've been looking for an excuse to..." she tilted her head, "terminate him.  Your escape will give me the reason I need."

Before Weiss could protest, before he could really process just what the hell she expected him to do, Derevko was moving.  She rose and crossed to his side, dropping down to a crouch beside him.  

Weiss followed her with wide eyes, bracing for the move that would end his life and prove that she'd been toying with him.  Up close, she was beautiful, but in a very fierce, intimidating kind of way.  Not unlike her daughter, though Derevko lacked Sydney's obvious warmth and caring.  Derevko's shining locks smelled, incongruously, like vanilla.

Weiss felt the handcuffs loosen, and a cool, rough object being pressed into his hands.

"Good luck, Agent Weiss," Derevko murmured as she stood and turned to leave.

"Wait," Weiss called.

But she didn't.  She opened the door and gestured for Fred Flintstone to resume his position, then glanced over at Weiss for the briefest of moments.

Weiss watched, frustrated, as she slipped out of his cell and disappeared.

Shit, he thought as Fred stared balefully down at him.  Shit, shit, shit.

***

"Base ops, we made it into the basement, but there's nothing here.  Over," Sydney reported, frowning.  She had a really bad feeling about this.

"Base ops, I'm not sure.  I think there might be--"  Sydney stopped when she heard the distinctive sound of a grenade rattling its way across the floor.  "Vaughn!" she shouted, tackling him seconds before the world exploded.

***

Okay, Weiss thought.  Okay.  No problem.

He had a rock, courtesy of Irina Derevko, and he had the element of surprise.  He could take Fred Flintstone.  He could.  So what if Fred was 6'7" and 250 pounds?  Weiss just needed to get Fred to turn around so he could attack, because he'd been a decent pitcher back in high school, but he wasn't about to trust his aim if he was only gonna get one shot at this.

And since he had fifteen minutes to make his escape, Weiss figured he'd dedicate ten minutes or so to doubting his abilities and cursing Derevko's name.  Maybe twelve minutes.  Because he wasn't sure he'd be able to do any single task she'd outlined for him, never mind get them all done within the time constraints she'd given.  Add to that the thought that his only way out of this dank, dirty prison was physically overcoming a bulky representative of Early Man complete with pre-Bronze Age hardware...

Well, it didn't look good.

Weiss eased his hands from the open cuffs, letting them fall to the dirt floor.  He covered the small thud with a groan of pain.  If this wasn't all an elaborate ruse leading up to his death-by-club -- and Weiss remained unconvinced about Derevko's motives -- Derevko was supposed to have been torturing him for intell.

Shifting as if he were in extreme pain, Weiss brought his legs in toward his body.  "Ow, ow, ow," he muttered, feeling Fred's disinterested gaze.  He rolled up onto his knees, letting his head droop down.  "Please," he muttered, "get her.  I'll talk."

Fred didn't make a sound.

"Oh, great," Weiss grumbled to the indifferent dirt floor, "she leaves me with some guy who doesn't speak a word of English."  Why the hell hadn't he ever taken Russian?  The Cold War wasn't that far in the past when he'd begun his training -- why hadn't the CIA insisted upon it?

Weiss lifted his head and stared up at Fred, who was still standing, immobile, by the door.  "Please.  Derevko.  Get Derevko."

Now Fred looked interested.  His heavy brow lowered and he said something unintelligible in Russian, accompanied by a finger over his lips, the universal sign for "shut up before I beat you to death with my ridiculously large club."

"Deutsch?" Weiss asked.  "Sprechen Sie Deutsch?"

"Ja," Fred answered, a little reluctantly.  He shifted on his giant feet, studying Weiss more closely now.

Weiss reminded himself he was supposed to be beaten down and in pain.  Also desperate.  He could easily do desperate.  He was desperate.  He let out another moan.  "Krieg' Sie Derevko.  Bitte."

Fred frowned, his eyes narrowing as he stared down at Weiss.

"Ich bekenn', ich bekenn'," Weiss said, trying to slump convincingly.  He was a damn good field agent, but there was a reason he didn't do the undercover assignments.  His role as Honore Lachaille in his high school's production of Gigi notwithstanding, Weiss was a horrible actor.  Especially when he didn't have a good amount of time to prepare an accent, a backstory, the whole nine.  His lowest marks in CIA training were the stupid cover improvisation classes; that grade was the reason Weiss ended up a desk jockey, instead of operating in the field.

Right now, he wished like hell he was safely in the electro-magnetically shielded, heavily protected headquarters in L.A.

He shifted again, getting ready, and tossed in a pitiful moan for good measure.

With a curt nod, Fred turned toward the door.

Weiss sent up a quick prayer and lurched to his feet, crossing the dirt floor in three quick, nearly silent steps.  With both hands, he brought the rock down on Fred's skull.  The impact jarred Weiss all the way to his shoulders, but Fred crumpled like a felled tree, landing in a heap at Weiss's feet.

"Well," he said, tossing the rock toward the corner of the room.  "Okay, then."  He rolled Fred over, trying to ignore the bloody wound on his scalp, and patted him down for a gun.  No luck.  "Jesus, what the hell kind of guard doesn't carry a gun?" Weiss muttered to no one in particular.  He did find a large wad of euros in Fred's jeans pocket.  With a shrug, Weiss tucked the bills into his pocket and kept searching for a useful weapon.  Nothing.  Reluctantly, he grabbed Fred's club and headed for the door.

He had no idea how many people were in... wherever the hell he was, so he moved slowly, straining to hear signs of other guards.  Feeling more than a little ridiculous, Weiss held the club like a baseball bat, ready to swing at the first sign of trouble.  He really, really missed his gun.

The hallway was short and led to a rickety wooden staircase, heading up.  Weiss swore under his breath, not wanting to stick his head out the small trapdoor into a roomful of Derevko's best guards.  That could end up like a really bad version of Whack-a-Mole.  Weiss shuddered.  He really resented having to entrust his life to her; if she'd left guards behind, he'd never get out of this place alive.  Holding his breath, Weiss slowly lifted the trapdoor, waiting for a hail of bullets or a shout of warning or something.

Silence.

"Huh."  Weiss flipped the door open, wincing a little at the crash it made, and vaulted out of the hole, sweeping the empty room as he clambered into the corner with his bat.  He stopped, listening.

Still nothing.

Feeling a little less exposed, Weiss moved quickly through the small, sparsely furnished flat.  No sign of anyone else.  Stepping out of the apartment, Weiss found himself in the small, interior courtyard of an old, four-story building.  He caught sight of an old hitching post and sighed.  "Well, I'm still somewhere in Europe.  Probably."

He reached the oversized double doors that led onto the street and hesitated.  Should he take the stupid club?  He'd be a little noticeable wandering the streets of Rome (assuming he was in Rome) with a club.  But if he left it, he'd be weaponless going into what was already a suicide mission.

Shit.

Weiss's jeans and maroon Henley -- not to mention his extra twenty pounds -- marked him as an American.  Carrying the club would make him more conspicuous.  Taking a deep breath, Weiss tossed the club behind him and twisted the latch, opening the small door cut into the larger doors and ducked out onto a narrow sidewalk.

Cobblestone streets.  Restaurants and tobaccoria intermixed with centuries-old apartment buildings like the one he'd just emerged from.  The signs were in Italian, so he wasn't that far from Rome.  Maybe this was Rome.

Weiss didn't see any recognizable landmarks when he glanced around, so he headed up the street, hoping high ground would help him see the top of St. Peter's, or maybe the giant white monument to Vittorio Emmanuel that looked disconcertingly like a wedding cake.

High ground didn't help.  The buildings all around Weiss were too tall for him to see anything much.  He ducked into a tobaccoria and adopted his best, oblivious American tourist persona.  This particular cover he didn't need to practice.  "Howdy!" Weiss boomed, his voice echoing around the tiny store.  "You speak English?"

"English, yes," the middle-aged shopkeeper grinned good-naturedly.  "American?"

"Yeah, I'm American," Weiss answered, puffing up his chest a little.  American tourists were supposed to be insufferable, right?  "I need to get to Piazza Venezia.  You know where that is?"

Gesturing around the store, the shopkeeper answered, "Trastevere.  You cross river."

Weiss blinked.  "Huh?"

"Map?" the shopkeeper offered, tapping a rack displaying maps of various cities.

"Yes," Weiss nodded vigorously.  "Where are we?"

"Ahhh," the shopkeeper answered with a knowing smile.  Slowly, he turned the rack, eyeing its contents before pulling one out and unfolding it.  When the map lay across the cluttered counter, he gestured Weiss closer and pointed to a spot on the map.  "Piazza Venezia."  He looked up, waiting for Weiss's nod.  He pointed to a neighborhood across the Tiber River and tapped it twice.  "You."

So he was still in Rome.  Excellent.  

This time, Weiss's grin was genuine.  "Grazie," he said, gesturing at the map.  "How much?"

After paying for the map and refolding it in some approximation of its original, neat state, Weiss emerged onto the street and checked the sun.  He angled northeast toward the river, walking calmly until he saw a cab.  He flagged the taxi down and slid into the backseat.  "Piazza Venezia."

As Weiss settled back in his seat for the short ride, he let himself breathe a small sigh of relief.  The first part was over.  Now he just had to find Syd and Vaugh, disarm a bomb, lay the groundwork for their escape, and get out without being detected.

Weiss closed his eyes and groaned.

***

Sydney woke slowly, her throat dry and burning.

Vaughn grimaced.  "In trouble."

***

Breathing hard, Weiss climbed the gazillion steps of the Vittorio Emmanuel monument.  When he was nearly at the top, he turned and looked out over Rome.  It really was a beautiful city.  Too bad he didn't have the time to really appreciate it just now.

Eyes narrowed, Weiss walked to the southwest edge of the massive monument and glanced out over the ruins of the Forum and, beyond, the crumbling Colosseum.  His eyes tracked the awkwardly rebuilt section, the part that Mussolini had haphazardly reconstructed using original stone from other portions of the structure.  Weiss closed his eyes for a moment, trying to recall with precision the intell from which Syd and Vaughn were operating.

Using the Colosseum as 12 o'clock, Weiss turned 90 degrees and stared at the green balcony Mussolini had used to pontificate to the adoring -- or possibly fearful -- crowds below.  Looking past, his gaze refocusing further down the Via Nazionale, looking for -- there.  Three story white building, strange blue roof.

Probably that was the starting point on Weiss's journey.  He sent up a small prayer that Derevko wasn't sending him on a wild goose chase -- or an elaborate setup.

At the steps of the monument, Weiss stopped at a vendor's cart and bought an incredibly overpriced disposable camera.  He clutched the bright green camera in his hand and started down the street, making a quick mental list of things he'd need for his little excursion.  Looping in and out of a series of tourist shops, he ended up with a gaudy plastic bag full of seemingly innocuous souvenirs that would have to serve as the necessary super-spy-guy-rescuing-his-captured-compadres equipment.  

Weiss's fingers tightened around the bag.  He was so totally screwed.

Concentrate, he told himself.  Think strategically.

Probably being Annoying American Tourist Guy would let him do a whole lot more than he'd be able to if he'd posed as a European.  Americans, after all, were rude and stupid.  Weiss figured he could rude-and-stupid his way right up to the door of that blue-roofed house to see what was what.

And hope they weren't expecting him.

Weiss stayed on the opposite side of the street from the target, running through every possible scenario he could come up with as he approached.  Two blocks away, Weiss stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, ignoring the streams of Italians and tourists moving past him, and aimed the camera.  He pretended to snap pictures, turning in a slow circle before digging out his new map.  It was folded wrong, and he moved to lean against the stone wall of a bank before opening it to its full size.

Bringing the map up, Weiss scanned the front of the house, looking for open windows, for a conveniently placed homeless person, for the flash of sunlight on glass that would betray surveillance.  Nothing.  On one side was another townhouse; on the other was a bank.  He didn't remember anything from the mission meeting about breaking into a bank, but the proximately couldn't be coincidence.

He stepped out into pedestrian traffic once more, straining to look back the way he'd come, then the opposite way, pasting an exaggerated frown on his face.  Yup, that's me, he thought.  Lost tourist.

Weiss scanned the buildings across from him, starting at the indigo roof and studying five buildings in either direction.  Like many European cities, the buildings sat wall-to wall, with no alleys between them, so Weiss figured lookouts could be posted several buildings down.  

Still nothing.

More concerned than relieved -- why the hell wasn't anyone guarding the house if Syd and Vaughn were being held inside? -- Weiss forced the map back into some approximation of its original shape.  He rejoined the flow of pedestrians, keeping an eye on the building as he moved past.  

Two blocks down, Weiss again stopped to peer intently at his map.  When the traffic light changed, he crossed over to the other side of the street and started moving slowly back toward the target, studying the buildings opposite for signs of surveillance.

Weiss started to wonder if the building were booby-trapped, set to explode if Syd and Vaughn tried to get out, or if anyone tried to get in.  Trust Derevko to leave out a pesky little detail like that.

Inhaling slowly, Weiss drew even with the door and stopped once more, giving his map an exaggeratedly frustrated glance.  He shoved it angrily into his plastic bag o' goodies, and stomped over to the large wooden door.  With three sharp knocks, Weiss threw caution to the wind.

If they had a file on the CIA, if they'd studied agents assigned to Rambaldi, he might be knocking on the door to his impending murder.  

After several long moments, the door inched open and a small, elderly woman peered out.  "Sì?"

"Hi," Weiss began, a little thrown off by her small stature and faded floral shirt.  She certainly didn't look like she was involved in some sort of plot involving kidnapped CIA agents.  "Do you speak English?"

"No English," she answered, her words heavily accented.  She smiled at him and pointed down the block.  "Ècco là."

Weiss tried to look non-threatening and held up one finger.  "Wait!"  He dug the crumpled map out and showed it to her.  "See?"

The door opened wider, and she reached for the map, unfolding it with gnarled fingers.  As she smoothed the heavy paper, Weiss peered over her head into the dimly lit house.  It was lovely and obviously quite expensive.  He saw no sign of guards or kidnapped CIA agents or booby-trapped explosive devices.  He did see a tabby cat stalk across the hall, sparing him a single haughty glance.

The woman tapped lightly on the map.  "Go," she said, pointing at what appeared to be a small tourist kiosk a few blocks down.  "English."

"Thank you," Weiss answered, mustering up a grin.  "Uh... Grazie."

"Ahhh," she answered with a kind smile.  "Ciao, ciao."

"Ciao," Weiss answered, accepting the map she handed him.  He moved away from the door with a jaunty wave, which she returned before closing the door.  Weiss wandered toward the kiosk, running over the intell the CIA had gathered, the information Derevko had given him, and the lack of anything resembling two tied-up CIA agents in the blue-roofed house as he walked.  

"Well, shit," Weiss muttered.  "Now what?"

***

He gestured to the door and grimaced.  "It's wired," he explained grimly.  "We're trapped."

***

Weiss turned before he reached the information kiosk and headed back down the street, weaving his way through the crowd until he reached the bank beside the blue-roofed house.  He walked inside, rude-and-stupid demeanor still in place as he scanned the place for anything suspicious, anything that would indicate a robbery or a paramilitary assault on the vaults or anything at all out of the ordinary.

An armed guard stood discreetly by the door, his placid gaze following Weiss as he gaped at the gorgeous tiled mosaic on the wall behind the teller's counters.  Pretty fancy for a bank, he thought, lifting the disposable camera.

"Excuse me, sir," the guard said, stepping to Weiss's side and placing a hand on his arm.  "No pictures inside the bank, please."

"Oh," Weiss answered, modulating his voice to something a little too loud for a bank.  "Oh, gee, I'm sorry about that."

"May I assist you with something?" the guard asked.

Weiss tugged out his wallet.  "I'm running a little low on Euros and I was looking for an ATM.  Uh, a money machine?" he tried, wondering what they called it in Italian.

"Ah, yes," the guard answered, ushering Weiss toward an alcove.  "Please, right this way."

Weiss withdrew 100 Euro and left the bank, a little disappointed that he hadn't, say, bumped into Sloane with a Rambaldi device clutched in his evil little hands.  Would've made things so much simpler.  

Instead, Weiss was left with the same lack of information as before.  Carefully counting his steps, he walked to the end of the block and turned, heading for the next street over.  He hesitated at the mouth of the alley, but he wasn't comfortable enough with the situation yet to go blundering into a narrow alley.  He couldn't do much for Sydney and Vaughn if he got himself ambushed.

Weiss crossed to the far side of the street and walked back up, counting steps until he stood directly across from the building that backed up against the blue-roofed building.  Stopping beside a streetlight, Weiss placed his bag of makeshift tools and weapons at his feet and unfolded the map once more, scanning for guards.

Just before he was about to pack it in and just walk up to the front door, he noticed a flash of light in the window of a house two doors down.  "Interesting," Weiss muttered, again wishing he had his damn gun.

He loitered a bit longer, making exaggeratedly confused faces at the map and butchering the Italian names of various plazas.  Just in case they had directional mics or video surveillance.  Eventually, he caught another flash of light in the building one door to the right of his target, which was all the confirmation he needed.

Wherever Syd and Vaughn were, Weiss had to get into the guarded house or he wouldn't get any further.  Before he drew too much attention, Weiss carelessly re-folded the map and shoved it into his plastic bag, continuing down the street until he came across a gelato shop.

Minutes later, Weiss was standing by the window of the shop, absently devouring a really damn good coneful of stracciatella and watching the target for movement.  Still nothing.  Either Weiss had managed to stumble across this place during a lull in the action, or the guards were simply on lookout.  He was fairly confident that the building was guarded on this street, and from that, he assumed that the alley would be guarded as well.

But as long as they only had guards posted in this row of buildings, he should be able to get to the target via the alley, if he stayed glued to the wall.  They couldn't see straight down unless they stuck their heads -- and guns -- out the window.

It wasn't the brightest plan Weiss had ever had, and under normal circumstances, he'd never allow another agent to head into a guarded alley alone, betting their lives on the laziness of armed guards.  But given his lack of resources and ridiculous time limit, it was about the best he could come up with.  He wondered if he should leave some dramatic, "in case I don't make it back" message for the CIA, but decided that would be a little too much like conceding defeat.  Besides, what would he say?  Tell my dog I love him?

Weiss took another bite of his gelato for good luck, then tossed the rest and headed out onto the sidewalk.

***

Sydney lay flat on the floor, her check pressed to the grimy floorboards as she eyed the hair-thin tripwire on the other side of the door.

"I could pick the lock, too," Vaughn retorted, "but that doesn't solve the problem of the bomb awaiting us when we open this door."

***

The alley was narrow and drab and reeked of trash.  Weiss heard small rustling noises more than once on his slow, arduous journey down the alley, but he told himself it must have been a cat.  Cats, not rats.  He shuddered, picturing long, skinny tails on fat ratty little bodies.  

No, cats.  Rome was famous for its cats, right?

Cats.

Weiss sidled past another window, holding his breath and waiting for the inevitable shriek in Italian.  He'd been lucky so far -- either no one was home in the houses he was slinking past, or no one had noticed some crazy American sneaking down the alley with random souvenirs sticking out of his pockets.  He'd ditched the garish plastic bag on the corner, hiding it behind a trashcan in case he needed some cover on his way out.  

Assuming he survived, of course.

Creeping forward, Weiss stepped over a large, stinky puddle and stopped.  Another bag of trash.  Weiss cursed under his breath and wondered why the hell these people couldn't move the trash just a little bit farther away from the buildings.  Thanks to the piles of trash, Weiss made torturously slow progress, since he had to stop every few feet and carefully shift a trash bag or, in some cases, a metal trash can, out of his way.

If guards were watching carefully, they'd probably be able to see the bags moving into their line of vision, and logic would dictate that they'd simply lean out the window and shoot him.  But if he skirted around the bags, darting in and out of their vision, he could very easily get shot without so much as a warning.  Pretty much either way, he'd get shot if anyone noticed him, but he was hoping to at least hear a shout or a curse in Italian before the rain of bullets.

Not that he'd be able to do anything about it, since there was absolutely no cover in this alley.  But at least he'd have a half second or so for some profound last thoughts.  (Not that he'd experienced any great revelations last time, but he was hoping maybe next time he'd see some white light or have a killer slideshow of his best moments or something.)

Weiss continued on, sweating with exertion and nerves, inching trash out of his way and keeping himself pressed as closely against the brick and the stone as he could.  He could feel the scratches and scrapes along the skin of his arms, but ignored the small bites of pain.

Nearly twenty minutes after he started down the alley, Weiss stopped two rowhouses down from his target, forcing his breathing to slow down.  No need to announce himself with asthmatic panting.  He patted the makeshift tools in his pockets:  Keychain, check.  Bottle opener, check.  Collapsible umbrella with a rendering of the Sistine Chapel on it and an unusually sturdy shaft, check.

Leaning against the wall, Weiss gave his surroundings one last, careful sweep.  Not a soul in the alleyway, though he could hear the chatter of the crowds passing by at either end.  

Okay, Weiss told himself.  Let's do this thing.  No problem.  In and out.  Sweep for captured agents, or stolen artifacts, and then get the hell out.  Simple.

As Weiss started forward again, he had the insane urge to sing something appropriately brave and foolish.  Or give a war whoop.  Maybe recite the St. Crispin's Day speech.  (Not that he knew the St. Crispin's Day speech, but whatever.)  Something to break this unbearable tension, since no one was around to appreciate some good black humor.

"Dammit, Mike," he muttered.  "You owe me."

He reached the target building and crouched beneath a window, tilting his head back, half-expecting to see someone lean out the top floor and aim a gun down at him.  No movement.  Weiss eased his kid's vanity mirror (featuring a picture of the Colosseum and a red-robe-wearing Roman Emperor) from his back pocket and lifted it toward the window, holding it loosely in case it got shot out of his hand.  At least the alley was in full shade, so he didn't have to worry about a bright beam of sunlight bouncing its way into the house and announcing his presence.

Weiss swiveled the mirror slowly, trying to make out the features of the dimly lit room.  He didn't see movement, but that didn't necessarily rule out any hostiles.  Stifling a sigh, he moved to the next window, and the next.  Same outcome.

Do or die time, he told himself.  Stealth until it doesn't work anymore, then full speed ahead.

Weiss slid the mirror back into his pocket and reached for the slender pens decorated with Italian flags.  Taking a deep breath, he moved to the back door and crouched in front of the door handle.

***

"There has to be a way out," Sydney decided, pacing the small confines of the room, stepping gracefully around Vaughn.

"You're assuming," Sydney answered balefully, "that they're planning to come back for us."

***

The door opened without sounding an audible alarm, and Weiss exhaled slowly.  He stuffed the pens back in his pocket and retrieved the umbrella, extending the collapsible metal rod to its full length.  Briefly, he considered holding it by the tip, since the handle was a nice, solid wood and would probably do some damage.  But the canvas was slick and, knowing him, he'd lose it mid-swing and send the umbrella sailing end over end, leaving him utterly defenseless.  Not that a damn umbrella was much of a weapon, anyway.

Positive thoughts, he reminded himself.  At least there aren't four guys with guns greeting me at the door.

Methodically, Weiss moved through the rooms, clearing each like he was at one of the model homes at Quantico, undergoing agent training.  Only it was much less effective holding a damn umbrella instead of a gun.  If he did stumble across a goon with a gun, probably the shock of someone coming at him with a Sistine Chapel umbrella wouldn't last long enough for Weiss to charge and knock the gun free.

Positive thoughts, dammit.

When he'd cleared the entire first floor, Weiss stood at the foot of the stairs and considered his options.  If there were guards in the house, they'd be upstairs.  But if there were prisoners, logic -- and Weiss's own experience in Derevko's clutches -- suggested that they'd be secreted downstairs, where the earth itself could absorb any possible noise they'd make.

Weiss moved back toward the kitchen, stopping when he noticed the small latched door in the side of the stairs.  Probably just a cupboard, but Weiss scanned the edges for alarms and then unlatched it, swinging it open slowly, waiting for the hinges to creak.

He'd guessed right -- a single light bulb shined down, revealing a rickety set of stairs leading down to a cellar.  Weiss swallowed the annoying little voice that told him he was walking into a dead end (or, worse, a trap) and ducked through the entryway, pulling the small door shut behind him.

The wooden stairs were old, and protested every time Weiss shifted his weight.  He forced himself to move as slowly as possible, counting to ten as he transferred his weight from one foot to the other, straining his ears all the while for telltale signs that he'd been detected.  Every minute he was in the house, his chances of being discovered (and summarily killed) grew worse and worse.

Like the small room he'd awoken in earlier, this cellar featured a dirt floor and probably once served as a wine cellar.  Now it was bleak and damp and cold and lit only by the bulb hanging at the top of the stairs.  And there were two doors, one that stood open, leading into a dark chamber that Weiss decided to explore later, time permitting, and another that was closed and locked and booby-trapped to explode if opened.

"Well," Weiss breathed, "look what we've got here."

He edged closer, wishing like hell Marshall could talk him through this from L.A.  Weiss wasn't an expert in bombs, despite the two-week "How to Disarm a Bomb without Losing an Important Limb" classes he'd taken at the academy.  He hated bombs, in fact, and had to force himself to get close enough to look at the wiring.

What if he breathed on it wrong and it blew up on him?  What if this bomb was guarding the Rambaldi artifact that Derevko wanted and he managed to destroy it?  What if he cut the wrong wire and ended up killing himself and Syd and Vaughn?  (Of course, the very tiny upside of that particular scenario was that Irina Derevko couldn't hunt him down and kill him if he was already dead.)

Swallowing hard, Weiss hunkered down in front of the small device, laying his umbrella on the floor beside him.  It was attached to the wall beside the doorknob, its incongruously cheerful display blinking green at him as he scanned it for hints.  Sliding the small Forum Flashlight out of his pocket, Weiss leaned closer, blinking sweat out of his eyes as he examined the device.

Looked pretty simple, as far as bombs went.  But he didn't trust himself to disarm it completely.  He'd be the guy in the teaser of the blockbuster action movie, the one that advocates cutting the red wire, when everyone in the audience just knows that the scruffy, troubled antihero is going to cut the blue wire and be right.  Only Weiss's scruffy, troubled antihero partner was quite possibly trapped on the other side of this door, unable to tell Weiss to cut the blue wire and not the red.

Instead, Weiss traced the air alongside the filament-thin tripwires crisscrossing the door.  Whoever had set the bomb hadn't bothered to run separate tripwires, choosing to string a single wire back and forth from the door to the doorjamb and the floor, so any movement on any portion of the door would set the bomb off.

"Ingenious," Weiss muttered.  He turned his attention to the spot where the tripwire met the trigger.  If he could just figure out a way to keep the pressure on the trigger the same, attaching it somehow to the wall while cutting the rest of it free...  well, he'd be a damn genius.

Rocking back on his heels, Weiss quickly ran through his mental checklist of "tools" he had on him.  Nothing remotely string-like, or at least nothing nearly thin enough for the job.  Okay, so back to the tripwire-cutting plan.  He located a perfectly good nail to attach the wire to, but keeping the tension on the wire steady while he somehow managed to fasten the wire... That didn't seem like anything he could do.

Of course, he didn't seem to have much of a choice.  "Why me?" he grumbled to himself.  "Why can't Syd's crazy-scary mom kidnap and threaten someone else?"

Carefully, carefully, Weiss removed the faceplate of the bomb, letting the molded plastic dangle.  He dug out his Swiss army knife (ironically, with a bad line-drawing of Caesar on the handle) and unfolded the tiny scissors.  Exhaling slowly, Weiss wrapped his free hand around the tripwire and steadied his grip, reaching several inches below to snip the wire.

No explosion.

Good.  Weiss moved the wire slowly, grimacing as he kept the same, steady tension.  He'd wrapped it around the chosen nail and was trying to figure out how to tie it without losing tension when he heard the creak of wood.  Freezing, Weiss glanced over his shoulder at the staircase, eyes widening as he registered the increasing light, and then the human-shaped shadow on the wall.

Someone was coming.  And crouched there holding a tripwire for a bomb, Weiss was a sitting duck.  Frantically, he turned his attention back to the bomb itself, scanning the multicolored wires and trying to recall anything Marshall had ever said about bombs.

Cut the power source.

The power source.  Right.  That made sense.  Weiss searched desperately for the battery, as the stairs creaked under the weight of the approaching hostile.  In about three seconds, Weiss would be within view -- and within the sights of a gun, no doubt.  

Spotting what he thought was probably the battery, Weiss sent up a quick prayer and snipped the blue wire.

***

Syd straightened up, bringing one hand up to warn Vaughn to stay quiet.  She moved closer to the door, laying her hands flat against it as she pressed her ear closer.

Vaughn's expression darkened, and he tensed, readying himself to fight.  But Syd held up one finger, telling him to wait.

***

Holy shit, he was alive.

Weiss's relief was short-lived, and he grabbed his umbrella and scooted across the floor, thankful now for the dirt that muffled the sound of his shoes.  He heard an exclamation in Italian that probably translated into something like, "Bring your big guns down here and help me kill this stupid intruder!" and then the hostile descended into view, moving quickly toward the disabled bomb.

For the second time in as many hours, Weiss lunged across a cellar and took aim at someone's head.  This time, he swung the umbrella, which bent slightly on contact, but still felled the shouting Italian.  But his fellow bad guys had probably heard him, so Weiss lunged forward and liberated the felled goon's gun.

He had to get upstairs.  He had to get to the others before they called for reinforcements.  Weiss didn't bother with stealth, taking the creaky stairs two at a time, leading with the gun.  He stepped carefully out into the small hallway, clearing his immediate surroundings even as footsteps pounded down the stairs from the second floor.

Backing toward the kitchen, Weiss listened for more.  He could hear voices upstairs, and more footsteps, too many to count.  Shit, shit, shit.  If he could reach the kitchen and clear it before they arrived, he could at least guard the cellar door, picking them off one-by-one as they tried to get downstairs.  

Just as he reached the archway to the small kitchen, the first hostile rounded the corner, headed for the cellar door.  Weiss leaned around the archway and fired, noting with grim satisfaction that he'd fallen mere steps from the entrance to the rickety old staircase.  The shouting from upstairs grew louder and more alarmed, and Weiss told himself not to panic, even as he imagined the upstairs as some sort of bad-guy clown car, disgorging more and more and more armed gunmen, until Weiss ran out of bullets.

Shit, he thought, staring wide-eyed at the gun he'd inherited from the unconscious guy in the cellar, what if the clip's not full?

Unexpectedly, the front door burst open, letting in blinding sunlight and more armed figures.  Weiss eased back behind the archway, glancing at the back door.  He could retreat entirely, and he might even make it alive out of the alleyway to call in for backup.  But that would mean leaving Syd and Vaughn -- assuming they were what was behind that armed door -- to their fate, and stupid or not, that wasn't something Weiss was prepared to do.  

Taking a deep breath, Weiss brought his gun up and leaned around the doorway, taking aim, his finger increasing tension on the trigger even as the newcomer's gun swung towards Weiss.

Weiss blinked.  "Jack?"

Jack's gun tilted slightly away from Weiss's forehead (but not nearly far enough for Weiss's comfort) and he frowned, just a little bit.  "Weiss?"

"What are you--?"  

But Jack turned to the staircase and fired, moving quickly toward Weiss as two other agents followed him into the house.  "Later," Jack ordered curtly, his gaze raking coldly over the body on the floor before the cellar door.  "Cover me."  With that, he ducked into the small passageway that led down to the cellar.

Weiss nodded to the two CIA agents, thankful he recognized them and, more importantly, that they recognized him.  "Hostiles upstairs," he said, rather unnecessarily.  "But this floor should still be clear."

They nodded and efficiently fanned on, one covering the stairs and one moving silently through the ground floor to clear it.  Weiss kept the cellar door covered, feeling more than a little useless now that the cavalry had arrived.

***

"That's gunfire," Sydney said, rather unnecessarily.  She dropped to the floor and examined the tripwire again.  They had no idea what was going on outside their small, dank prison, but there'd been a shout, then the sound of a body falling, and now gunfire.  Whatever it was, she had no desire to be trapped in here when it ended.

The door swung open, and Syd and Vaughn jerked backwards, clambering to their feet.  Then Sydney froze.  "Dad?"

***

"And then," Sydney continued, leaning toward Dixon and giving him a slightly tipsy grin, "my dad flings open the door!"

Vaughn nodded enthusiastically, a little red-cheeked himself from the beers he'd consumed.  "And there's this guy, unconscious, on the floor next to the disabled bomb.  And beside him, there's," he stopped, momentarily losing his battle with laughter, "there's an umbrella with a reproduction of the Sistine Chapel on it."

Dixon raised his eyebrows, a grin breaking out on his features.  "No!"

Laughing, Sydney slumped back into the couch's embrace.  "I swear.  It was bizarre."  She nudged Weiss with her foot.  "You were there.  Back us up."

Weiss leaned back in his armchair and nodded.  "They're right, Dixon.  It looked like someone knocked the guy out with the umbrella."

Amused, Dixon turned his attention back to Sydney.  "Are you sure your dad didn't do it?"

Sydney's skeptical expression was priceless.  "Can you picture my dad whacking somebody over the head with an umbrella?"

"Good point," Dixon conceded.  "Jack is somehow too... dignified for that."

*Just call me Eric the Clown*, Weiss thought acerbically.  Not that he had any plans on admitting -- ever -- to being the guy wielding the killer umbrella, but still.

He drained the rest of his beer, uncomfortable listening to Sydney's recounting of his Roman holiday.  Somehow, while Weiss was dumping his souvenir-weapons into a trashcan on the Via Nazionale in Rome, the story had become about Jack.  Jack had miraculously determined where his daughter was being held, and he'd led just two agents into the building to secure her safe release.  Weiss's unexpected appearance was never really questioned; everyone seemed to assume that Weiss had made the same deductions and arrived there just before Jack.

It had never seemed quite right to set everyone straight.  That would've felt too much like bragging.

"That's it for me," Weiss announced, groaning a little as he pushed himself to his feet.  Spending an hour or so at Sydney's after returning from a particularly adventuresome mission had become something of a ritual.  A ritual with wine and Chinese food or pizza.  Most times, Marshall and occasionally Dixon would join them.  Usually, Weiss enjoyed the hell out of the impromptu parties.  "I need some sleep."

Syd gave him the puppy eyes and tried to convince him to stay, but he really was exhausted.  They'd spent an extra day in Rome, dealing with the local authorities and investigating the bank.  Whoever was responsible for capturing Syd and Vaughn had also, it appeared, been digging their way into the bank vault.  Or at least trying to.

Not surprisingly, when Jack bullied his way into the targeted vault, it'd been empty.  A cursory examination of the bank's security tapes showed them Arvin Sloane -- his hair dyed jet black and sporting an ugly cashmere sweater and some serious bling -- waltzing out of the bank with an oversized briefcase at about the same time that Weiss and Jack had been pointing guns at each other the next block over.

Weiss had watched the tape very, very carefully, but he'd seen no signs of Irina Derevko.  Still, he wasn't entirely convinced that she hadn't masterminded the entire thing, just to get the CIA out of the way during Sloane's little heist.

That was another subject Weiss didn't care to examine too closely.  He gently rebuffed Sydney's pleas and said his goodbyes, trudging a few feet down the hall to his apartment.  Weiss stopped short when he saw the postcard peeking out from under his welcome mat.  Crouching down, he carefully lifted the mat to reveal a nighttime view of the Colosseum.

It could only be from one person, and Weiss instinctively scanned his hallway for her.  Nothing.  He inspected his door for tripwires or other telltale marks of impending death, but found nothing.

Lifting the postcard with two fingers, he flipped it over, holding his breath.

     Well done.

Just two words, no greeting, no sign off.  More worrisome, no postmark.  Someone had hand-delivered the postcard, but Weiss knew if he had it analyzed, it would reveal no matches with Irina Derevko -- no prints, no handwriting analysis, nothing.  He wondered if she'd paid someone to write it for her, or if, among her other talents, she was an expert forger.  Somehow, it wouldn't surprise him.

Footsteps sounded in the hall and Weiss jerked upright, the postcard clutched in his hand as he turned, expecting Irina Derevko.

Jack halted two feet from him, his inscrutable gaze dropping to the postcard.  "Agent Weiss," he greeted.  "She sent you a postcard?"

Weiss blinked, surprised that Jack could still surprise him.  "Huh?" he asked, stupidly.

"Irina Derevko," Jack clarified.  "She sent you after Sydney and Vaughn in Rome.  Am I correct?"

"Yes.  The umbrella was mine," he added unnecessarily.

Jack gave a brisk nod.  "I suspected as much.  We received intell from eastern Europe this evening," Jack continued, lowering his voice and stepping closer, even though Weiss knew he must have a bug killer in his pocket.  "Arvin Sloane is allegedly in possession of a Rambaldi device that is not authentic."

Weiss let that sink in for a moment.  "He has a fake," he surmised, "and you think that Irina Derevko--"

"Used the chaos she created to get her hands on the original and leave Arvin Sloane holding a copy," Jack interrupted smoothly.  "Yes, I do."

Weiss dropped his gaze, staring at two words written on the back of a postcard.  He wasn't sure what to make of this new information.  Had Derevko played him -- played them all -- from the start?

"Agent Weiss," Jack said, waiting until he looked up to continue.  "Remember that Irina Derevko is a very skilled actress."

Nodding slowly, Weiss offered Jack the postcard.  "Do you want to have this analyzed?"

Jack glanced at it.  "Do you honestly think it will tell us anything?"

"No."

With a curt nod, Jack said, "Precisely."

As Jack turned to leave, Weiss said, "Wait.  Jack.  Do you think she set us all up?"

Jack glanced over his shoulder, a small frown on his lips.  "I honestly don't know."

"Man," Weiss muttered, reaching for his door.  "I need a drink."

"That is a common reaction to Irina Derevko," Jack answered, and if Weiss didn't know better, he'd think he heard a note of humor in Jack's voice.

THE END

Feedback cherished: macha[at]healthyinterest.net

THANKS:  To Em, as ever, for the excellent beta, but more for the handholding and talking-me-down-from-the-ledge. Above and beyond, peaches, and you're getting yourself a Jaynehat for your troubles. ::g::

***

Feel the pain, feel the joy,
And sidestep the little bits of history repeating

***

Zoe stands at the foot of the ramp, watching him leave with a combination of resignation and anger.  Beside Zoe, Kaylee watches the captain's departure with her mouth hanging open, too stunned to say anything just yet.  Poor Kaylee didn't see this coming at all.

As for the captain, he doesn't look back once, a picture of heroism -- long brown coat swirling around him, beat up duffel bag tossed haphazardly over one shoulder, head held high and defiant in the afternoon sunlight.  If this were any other situation, Zoe would have a bit of fun at the captain's expense.

Instead, she stands between Kaylee and Jayne at the foot of the ramp, and waits for the inevitable.  She can feel the questions coming, and she has no burning desire to answer a single one of 'em.  But answer she will, now that Mal has dropped his bombshell and abdicated his duty.

Sure enough, Kaylee turns, her face drained of all color as she asks, "He's really goin', ain't he?"

Zoe can hear the plea plain as day:  Tell me the Cap'n's not really gonna abandon us to a war.  It's the one promise Zoe can't make, so she pats Kaylee's shoulder instead.

"Zoe?" Kaylee asks, a note of hysteria in her voice now.  She has always been the most emotional, the most open with her feelings, especially since the Simon-and-River incident.  "Jayne?" she pleads, glancing over at the mercenary.

Jayne just shrugs.  "Looks like," he says, because he doesn't trouble himself to lie if it don't turn a profit.  He catches Zoe's irritated look and lifts his chin in defiance.  "Well, it does."

"But he can't," Kaylee protests, tears pooling in her wide eyes.  "Zoe, you have to--"

Zoe lifts a hand, holding Kaylee's gaze.  "I'll talk to him," she promises.  She certainly can't promise she'll be able to change his mind.  Man is a stubborn fool.  Always has been.

She's felt this coming for months.  His curiosity about this rebellion, the way he monitored what little progress the rebels made against the Alliance.  Hell, he even hoodwinked the crew into running guns from middle planets to the rebels.  Crew all received their customary cut, but Zoe is almost certain the captain ran that particular operation at a loss.  Zoe is many things, but stupid ain't one of 'em -- she knew he'd join up eventually.  And she knew it would fall to her to talk him out of it.

Don't take much effort to find him.  He loves the ship too much to stand firm about leaving her when he's onboard, and Zoe knew he'd go as far away as possible, preferably get some fortification at an Independents' bar.  She simply walks to the edge of town and finds the crummiest unmarked bar she can.  Charming place -- all suspicion, fear, and secretive looks, with a trick entrance to boot.  There's a staircase that goes up five steps, past a window, and then back down, meant to reveal any newcomer's lower half to the clientele.  Presumably so they can recognize the dull, mindless thud of Alliance boots and skedaddle out the back in the event of a raid.

Zoe's entrance draws attention for an entirely different reason, even draws a wolf whistle, which she ignores.  Captain's at a small table near the back, two large clay mugs before him and his duffel bag at his feet.  He doesn't bother to look up at her when she sits across from him, just slides her drink across the battered wood planks.  "Took you longer than I expected," he observes.

Zoe takes a slow sip of her drink, swallowing down the bitter brew without comment, and keeps a close eye on him.  "Had to calm Kaylee a bit 'fore I could bolt," she answers, putting slight emphasis on the pronoun.  

It's enough; he lifts his mug and drinks a goodly amount, playing at nonchalance.  "She'll be fine," he says, trying to convince himself more than Zoe.

"When?" Zoe asks, keeping her voice low and level.  "The day you leave Serenity, or the day you come back a corpse?"

His jaw tightens.  "Both.  She's strong."

"Yes, but she's lost a lot of family already."

"I ain't her family."

"The hell you're not," Zoe shoots back, letting him feel her anger now.  He can lie to her about his motives, about the insurgency's chances, but she will not let him deny that he built himself a family on that ship, like it or not, and his leaving effects more than just him.  "You're her brother.  Serenity is her home."

"And I'm not kicking her off of Serenity!" he counters, choosing the easier point to argue.

Zoe waves off his protest.  "Gôu pì.  Ship needs a captain."

"How can I sit this out, Zoe?" he demands, anguish bleeding into his words now.  His elbows on the table, his hands splayed on the scarred planks, he leans closer.  "How can you?"

The accusation stings, but Zoe won't let him guilt her.  Not about this.  Not ever.  "We fought a war, sir," Zoe answers, repressing the brutal images from force of habit.  "It was one we could win, things broke our way."  She shrugs, her acceptance borne of long years trying to come to terms.  "But they didn't."

"Might this time."

"Ain't a war you're chompin' to go join," Zoe counters, troubled by his blind optimism.  The Captain she knows, the Sarge she met back on Shadow, was a realist.  He was a damn good fighter and a better leader because he looked at things realistically and determined how to use the situation to his advantage.  The thought of him running off to war with this unfounded conviction scares her.  "It's suicide and you know it."

"Qù tāmāde, Zoe."  He sits back, shaking his head in disgust.  "That's selling the will of these people a mite short."

"Will don't win battles, sir.  If it did, we'd be decorated war vets in the Independent Confederacy."  The loss of the war still burns her, when she lets herself think about it, and she knows it burns him, too.

He winces, but refuses to concede a thing.  "We can make it happen this time."

"No."  Zoe leans over the table, trapping her hand beneath hers, startling him.  She needs him to hear this, to understand this.  "No, we can't.  This ain't a reset button, sir.  We lost years ago.  It's over."

Mal stares at her, his mouth set in an angry line.  After a moment, he shakes his head, pulls his hand away, and takes a long swig of his drink.  "Ain't ever gonna be over.  Not when those méiyôu mûqin de xiao gôu are snatching people under my protection--"

"Sir, River and Simon weren't--"

"Save it," he interrupts in that hard, ruthless tone.  "I swore to protect 'em, and they're so far gone we can't find hide nor hair.  Can't run a proper raiding mission to rescue 'em if I can't find 'em to begin with."

"I know."  The loss of River and Simon haunts every single one of them, even Jayne, though he'd never admit it.  Kaylee grieved openly, even though she insists that they're still alive.  Inara eventually left the ship, after the Captain made one snide remark too many about the complicity of her "purple-bellied" clientele.

"Alliance," he continues grimly, "grabbed Simon for the crime of saving his kid sister; might've killed him already for treason.  Don't want to imagine what manner of things they've done to River since they got her back."  He taps his fingers against the mug clutched in one hand.  "Alliance killed Li Shen, Sanchez brothers, Mr. Universe, and they killed Shepard Book."

Zoe steels herself, silently warning him not to.  

He does anyway.  "Alliance killed Wash."

"Think that slipped my mind?"  She's caustic, now, pushed past her limits.  She knows the others miss Wash, that they loved him, even.  But he is her husband.  She is his wife, his widow, and she will not allow the captain to use Wash as a debate point.

"Zoe--"

"Think I don't spend nights aching for my husband?  Think I don't curse their arrogance?"

"Then how can you sit this out?" he demands, the question exploding out of him in a burst of honest indignation.  Eyes wide, he leans closer, crowding her, trying his damnedest to get her to follow him into madness.

Zoe composes herself, stares at a small scar in the wooden table for a moment before pinning him with her gaze.  "Because getting myself killed for nothing ain't bringing Wash back," she answers evenly.  "Or Shepard or River or Simon"

"Independence ain't nothing," Mal counters, studying her.

Leaning back, she shakes her head sadly.  "You're a fool if you think a ragtag collection of misfits with popguns are gonna win independence from the Alliance.  We had half a million troops, anti-aircraft technology, surface-to-airs, formal military training..."  She trails off, gives him half a shrug.  "We couldn't do it.  What makes you think it'll be different now the odds are worse?"

When he breaks out that cocky half-grin, Zoe knows she's lost.  He lifts the mug to his mouth and says, "Element of surprise?"

She watches him take another long drink.  "Sir," she begins, her tone sober.  "Mal, don't do this."

His smirk fades, and he's just as serious when he answers, "I have to."

"You don't," she argues.  "I don't care the new browncoats are making Mr. Universe into a martyr to the cause, rallying around you and using you as--"

"That's not a concern of mine and you know it," Mal interrupts.  "Alliance reaches out farther each year, and there ain't hardly room anymore for people like us."

She hesitates, unsure how to reach him.  "You remember what you used to say about heroes?"

"I ain't a hero," he counters with a careless shrug.

"They think you are.  Heroes get other people killed, sir, and that's exactly what you're going to do if you join up.  Every kid who admires what you did in the war or what you did with the Reavers will use your presence to justify joining up.  You will be the reason they die for a losing cause."

Mal bristles.  "I'd rather die for the right reasons than keep on living for the wrong ones," he answers slowly, and she can feel the accusation in his words.

Shaking her head slowly, Zoe knows he's talked himself into this foolishness.  Never imagined it all coming down to this, but now that it's on her, she supposes it makes sense.  Zoe pushes her half-empty cup away and makes to stand.  "If you join up, sir, I won't follow you."

Corner of his mouth twitches, but he nods.  "Didn't ask you to."

She regards him for a long moment, splayed in his seat, a show of casualness she knows he doesn't feel.  Then she reaches for him, cupping his chin and lifting his face.  She leans in and presses a kiss to his forehead.  A benediction, maybe.

When she straightens, her eyes are stinging and Mal can't quite meet her gaze.  She touches his shoulder.  "Never could tell the difference between brave and foolhardy."

He laughs, the sound a bit rusty.  "I suspect that's true."

Zoe swallows hard, unable to bring herself to say goodbye.  "I'll keep her in the air," she promises instead.

Mal nods, still not looking at her.  "I'll take that as a kindness."

With that, Zoe turns and walks out of the bar.  Partway back to Serenity, she reaches up and wipes the tears from her cheeks.  She won't mourn the living.

THE END

Glossary:

gôu pì:  bullshit.

méiyôu mûqin de xiao gôu:  motherless curs.

qù tāmāde:  fuck that.

Feedback cherished: macha@healthyinterest.net

***

Kermit the Ankylosaurus had Snuffy the Peace-Loving Stegosaurus right where he wanted him -- on the ground, about to be slashed to tiny little pieces by Kermit's giant--

"Hey, Washburne."

Wash jumped up, reflexively hiding Kermit and Snuffy behind his back as Zoe sprinted up the stairs and onto the bridge.  "What?" he yelped, glancing past her in search of the Captain.  "What's wrong?"

"Slight problem with the negotiations," Zoe answered as she topped the last step onto the bridge, not stopping until she was right beside him.

She glanced at the proximity monitors, but Wash waved off her concerns.  "We're fine.  Problem with the negotiations?" he echoed, puzzled.  He tried to get a sense of what was going on, but Zoe was pretty talented at masking her emotions.  For instance now, her brow was slightly furrowed, which could mean anything from Mal tripped over a pile of money and has a really bad papercut on his arm to Someone with a giant gun shot Mal and is on his way to the bridge to kill the rest of us and take Serenity.  Wash was hoping for something on the papercut-end of the panic spectrum.  "What kind of problem?"

"The kind of problem involving guns."

Guns?  Ai ya.  Hwai leh.  "I thought you were just delivering a few crates of provisions to a client."

"We were.  Only this particular chŭndàn took issue with the Captain's mouth, and, well," she shrugged, "things devolved from there."

"Things devolved into shooting," Wash surmised.

"Right.  Gunplay, threats, the usual."

Wash leaned a little closer.  "The usual?" he prompted.  Because he wasn't a big fan of guns.  Didn't really like them being pointed at him or anyone he liked, or anyone at all, really.  So it was a little worrisome to hear that guns might be a recurring theme of life on Serenity.

Zoe watched him closely.  "There's still quite a bit of tension out among the border planets."

"Right," Wash agreed.

"It pays to protect yourself," she noted, shifting so that the really big-ass gun at her hip drew his attention.

Much as he disliked guns, something about the confident way she wore the thing was compelling, and Wash found himself nodding his head with enthusiasm.  "Yes.  Definitely.  Protecting yourself is good.  Did you call the local law?"

"Was the local law doing the shooting," Zoe answered, the barest of smiles quirking her lips.

"Ah," Wash continued, somewhat distracted by a rare sighting of Zoe's smile, "so we are criminals."  Not that he had a problem with the concept, generally speaking.  After all, they were probably very Robin Hood about the whole thing -- stealing from the Alliance to give to the border planets had a certain appeal to it.

"We?"

Wash shrugged.  "Sounded less accusatory."

Her smile deepened into something truly breathtaking, and Wash had some difficulty paying attention to pesky things like words as she answered, "Let's just say that we don't always approve everything the law does, and the law don't always approve everything we do," Zoe answered.  She tilted her head, her gaze dropping to his hands.  "Are those dinosaurs?"

Wash glanced down at Kermit and Snuffy, still clutched in his grasp.  "Oh!  Oh, these?"  He held them up, scoffing.  "No, these are just..."

Zoe raised a single, eloquent eyebrow.  "Toy dinosaurs."

"Toys?" Wash sputtered.  "They're not toys, they're... mascots," he decided, turning to place them ceremoniously on the edge of the main console.  Kermit nearly did a header onto the floor, so Wash repositioned him, making sure they were both balanced before turning back to Zoe with a flourish.  "See?  Mascots."

Zoe coughed delicately to cover her laugh.  "This is a Firefly."

"Yes."  And a beautiful Firefly at that, despite her patchwork exterior and spit-and-a-prayer engine.

"So maybe dinosaurs as mascots ain't the most obvious choice," Zoe noted.

Crossing his arms, Wash nodded seriously.  "Ah, but a firefly would be too on the nose, don't you think?  Subtlety is very underrated in today's world."

Zoe gave a pointed glance to his mustache, then waved a dismissive hand, her entire body straightening into that unmistakable militaristic bearing.  "I need your help."

"Sure," Wash answered, eager to change the subject to anything other than Kermit and Snuffy.  He didn't really relish explaining that, sometimes, piloting a ship through the vast emptiness of space was kind of boring, especially when the rest of the crew had better things to do than entertain the pilot.  And boredom led to silliness, which almost always led to action figures, only he'd given away his prized Colonel Alliance figure (with the original plastic sword) to his bunkmate back in flight school, so he'd been forced to make do with Kermit and Snuffy.

"Hot-headed local sheriff bonded the Captain," Zoe explained, arms crossed over her chest.

It took him a moment to refocus on the conversation.  "Bonded?" he repeated stupidly.  "The Captain?"

"Yes," Zoe confirmed with exaggerated patience.  "And I need your help to get him out."

"Get him out?  Get him out of where?  Of jail?"  Wash took a step backwards, nearly toppling over the second console.

"Yes," Zoe answered.  Wash opened his mouth to reply, but she simply raised her voice and added, "Don't figure to be paying a ransom."

"So you're going to break Mal out of jail," Wash said, just to be clear, because maybe he'd misunderstood.  Maybe she needed his help getting Mal out of a well or even a steep ravine.  This was the volcano planet, right?  Maybe the Captain had fallen into a volcano.  Because that Wash could help with; a prison break, maybe not so much.  "And you want my help?"

"Yes." Zoe stared him down, using every inch of her statuesque frame to intimidate him into compliance.  In most other situations, Wash would find that incredibly hot.  Perhaps she could sense that, because Zoe shifted impatiently.  "There a problem with that?"

Wash considered his options.  He didn't really have any.  Not only was he relying on the currently incarcerated Captain for employment, but Zoe was a pretty fearsome warrior woman.  If she told him to jump, well, he would get his ass in the air.  "I'm not sure I'm the best choice for this," he warned.

"Well, that's just too bad," Zoe answered, arms crossed.

"Excuse me?"

"My choices are you or Little Mary Sunshine in the engine room," Zoe pointed out.  "I pick you."

"Aw," Wash grinned, "you shouldn't have."

"Go change and meet me in the infirmary," Zoe ordered.

"Change?  Why?"

"You need to be a little more forgettable--"

"Gee, thanks."

Zoe gave him a critical once-over, "You're not going planet-side in that shirt."

Running a protective hand over his blue-toned Hawaiian shirt, Wash gave Zoe an offended look.  "What's wrong with my shirt?"

"Nothing a small fire won't fix," Zoe answered, reaching for his arm to tug him off the bridge.  "But I'm more worried about your mustache."

"Wait!" Wash spluttered, slapping one hand over his mouth.  "Do you know how long it took me to grow this?  You're not touching my mustache."  Zoe didn't speak, but the look she gave him over her shoulder was answer enough.  "But I like my mustache," Wash said plaintively.

***

Twenty minutes later, a freshly clean-shaven Wash stood beside Zoe at the small armory near the cargo bay door.  He'd never known the stash of guns existed, but Serenity had all manner of hidden nooks and crannies, which made the "we're criminals" thing a little obvious, now that he thought about it.

"Here," Zoe said, handing him a giant gun.

The modified six-shooter was surprisingly heavy, and felt cold and a little menacing in his hand.  He must've been looking at the thing with a measure of skepticism, because Zoe sighed.  "You can shoot a gun, right?"

"Sure," Wash answered, nodding.  He tugged nervously at the non-descript khaki shirt she'd given him from the Captain's stash of non-descript clothing.  Thankfully, she hadn't forced him to wear any of the Captain's tight pants for this particular caper, but the long, dark overcoat made him feel really, really stupid, like he was playing dress up in Colonel Alliance's supercloak.  (Though probably Mal's coat wouldn't give Wash the power to disappear and reappear at will.  Which, considering they were attempting a jailbreak, wouldn't be the worst superpower in the galaxy right about now.)  Wash awkwardly stashed the gun in his holster.  "Nothing to it."

"Oh, wow!" Kaylee exclaimed, clambering down the central staircase to join them near the ramp.  "You look shiny without that mustache!"

Wash glowered at her, ignoring the snicker from Zoe.  "I feel naked," he complained, rubbing his bare upper lip with the tips of his fingers.

"In the Cap'n's big old coat?" Kaylee asked, still grinning at him, completely unaware of the smudge of dark blue coolant along her jaw.  "Brown's a good color on you."

"Very forgettable," Zoe added with a sly grin, ignoring Wash's look of death.  "Kaylee, you've got the ship while we're gone," Zoe ordered.  "No one on or off until you hear us come knocking."

"No problem, Zoe," Kaylee answered.  "Anything else I can do?"

Wash looked up, forgetting all about the gun dragging his belt down on one side.  "Oh.  Yeah.  Can you do me a favor and check the left thruster?  It's been a little tetchy of late."

"Hâo de," Kaylee answered, her smile particularly bright.  She liked nothing better than to spend a few quality hours with the ship's innards.  "Serenity's been feeling a little off-balance; maybe that's why."

"Thanks -- Hey, hey!" he squawked, turning back to Zoe, who'd reached into his coat and tugged his borrowed gun free without asking.  "Watch the hands!"

"You wish," Zoe answered, turning to the open space beyond the cargo door.  "Just a quick review.  This," she explained, thumbing a small lever on the side of the handle, "is the safety.  This is the trigger--"

"I know what the gorram trigger is."

"Thought I should start at the beginning," she commented with an amused glance in his direction.  "You point, you use the sights to line up your target, and you fire.  Aim for the chest -- bigger target -- and watch the kickback."  She did an unnecessarily flashy twirling thing with the gun so it landed harmlessly across her palm, handle pointing toward Wash.

"Right, right," Wash answered, reaching for the gun and ignoring her smug look.  "I got it."  He swept the năorēn coat aside with his free hand and began to holster the weapon.

"Hey!"  Zoe grabbed his wrist, her grip so tight it was almost painful.  Her wide brown eyes held him in place, and he was almost convinced he saw a bit of concern there.

"What?" Wash asked, his voice oddly tight and quiet.  He wondered what that was about, but couldn't seem to do much more than stare into her eyes.

"You might want to put the safety on if you're fond of your toes," Zoe answered, breaking the strange spell between them.

Beside them, Kaylee stifled a laugh in her sleeve.  Wash very deliberately lifted the gun, flipped on the safety, and then put it in its holster.  "Can we please get this over with?"

"Yeah," Zoe commented in a low voice, "that's the spirit."

Kaylee clapped him on the back.  "Good luck!"

"Thanks."  Almost against his will, Wash started to laugh.  It was absurd.  When he'd signed up for flight school, he'd figured he'd end up running some boring cargo ship on an endless, mind-numbing loop in the core somewhere, not piloting a patched-together Firefly for criminals.  Now he, Hoban Washburne, was sauntering off a gorram smuggling ship to go rescue his law-breaking captain from the long arm of the law.  And just to make things more interesting, it was entirely possible he was developing quite a dangerous crush on the gorgeous, deadly first mate.

As she emerged into the hazy sunlight, Zoe glanced over her shoulder at him.  "You gonna be okay?"

"Sure," he answered, still struggling with the remnants of what might charitably be described as nervous laughter.  As he stepped onto Hephaestus's dusty ground, he added a caveat:  "As long as I don't have to shoot anyone."

"Bye!" Kaylee called, palming the button that set Serenity's cargo door to closing.

Zoe waved at Kaylee, then swung up onto the bright yellow mule and gave him a pointed look.  Wash stopped beside her, trying to figure out how to phrase his objection.  Zoe grabbed hold of his borrowed cloak and yanked him up.  "You're not driving," she told him with a disturbing air of finality.

"But I'm the pilot.  Some would argue that it's kind of my job," Wash protested, falling awkwardly onto the seat behind her as she revved the engine and set them off toward the small outpost of Lemnos.

"Not today," she shouted over the engine noise.

"But I'm actually good at driving things," Wash protested, leaning forward so he could whine directly into her ear.  Her long locks tickled his face, and the feeling wasn't altogether unpleasant.  "Hey, maybe that can be my job -- I can drive into people instead of shooting them."

"Just hold on and shut your mouth," Zoe ordered, her amusement softening the order.

She took a corner at an unnecessarily high speed, nearly toppling him off the damn mules, since he'd ended up sidesaddle instead of seated properly.  On top of which, he was sitting on a particularly large fold of material, but every time he tried to fix the gorram coat, the mule hit a rock or a hole or a speed bump or something.  If he didn't know better, he'd think Zoe was doing it on purpose.  "Speed demon," he accused, just before she brought them to a bone-rattling stop on the side of the dirt road.  The dust that rose around them sent Wash into a coughing fit.

Zoe jumped down and watched him, her hands on her hips.  "Not going to be very good at stealth, are you?"

Eyes still watering, Wash climbed off the mule and staggered to her side, still choking a little.  "Neither are you," he argued, gesturing at the dust clouds surrounding them.  To be fair, the volcanic activity on Hephaestus made for some smoggy, dusty skies in any event, but a suspicious mind would take note of Zoe's dirt flare.

"C'mon," Zoe ordered, tugging at his sleeve.  She led him along the edge of the dingy little town, avoiding the villagers, and held up one fist when they reached the back corner of a small, poorly constructed building.  Wash obeyed the unspoken order to stop and glanced around to get his bearings, belatedly noticing the ridiculously forbidding back door and the iron bars on the small windows set high above them.

"Oh!" he brightened, gesturing upwards.  "Jail!"

When she answered, Zoe's voice was pitched so low he had to lean forward to hear her.  "Never been that excited to see a jail myself."  She tapped his holster through the thick material of the coat.  "Keep that in your pants unless there's trouble. Anyone comes by, you nod a greeting.  Anyone stops, you shout loud enough so's I can hear you from inside, and then you cover our exit."

Wash glanced over at the formidable door.  "Our exit?" he guessed, sounding a little feebler than he would have liked.

"You got it."  Zoe clapped him on the bicep so hard it hurt.  "I'll be back with the Captain."

"Great.  I'll just be here, waiting," Wash answered, feeling very, very out of place as he watched her disappear around the corner of the building.  "Yup.  Right here."

***

The Hephaestus sun didn't shine particularly bright, considering its rays had to make their way through airborne volcanic ash, but it sure was hot on this hellhole.

Or, Wash thought as he shifted uncomfortably, maybe it was the ridiculous coat he was wearing in the middle of what was apparently a lovely summer day on this gorram planet.  As tempted as he was to shrug out of the Captain's dark cloak, he didn't think loitering near the local jailhouse with a gun visible at his hip was his most brilliant idea ever.

Instead, he leaned back, propping one booted foot flat against the wall, and tried his hardest to look casual.  "Yup, that's me," he muttered, swiping a hand across his sweaty brow.  "Casual.  Just hanging out near the jail.  No particular reason why."

"'Scuse me?"

Wash jerked his head up, his gaze colliding with that of a fetching young woman in delicate white satin gloves, a complicated blue satin liànyīqún, worn ostrich skin boots, and a delicate pink parasol dangling from one wrist.  She slowed to a stop, her arms crossed, and fixed him with a dubious look.

He nodded silently, just like Zoe told him to.  The young woman glanced behind her, then moved a step closer.  "How do you do?" she asked politely.

Wash considered doing the silent-nod thing again, but didn't think it would work the way Zoe wanted it to.  Instead, he gave the girl what he hoped wasn't a shifty grin and greeted her, "I'm mighty fine, thank you.  And yourself?"

"I'll do," she replied, her bright green eyes scanning his figure.  "Nice day."

"Yes," Wash agreed.  "It certainly is."  She didn't answer immediately, and Wash had quite a time controlling the words bubbling up inside of him.  Everything from inanities like What's a nice girl like you doing on a planet like this? to damning denials like I know it looks like we're busting someone out of your lovely jail, but if we were, would I really be standing here talking about it? threatened to spill out.

"Warm," the girl noted, inadvertently saving him from himself.  She peeled off one white glove to expose her freckled hand to the sun's weak rays.

"Right."

Something shifted in her stance, and suddenly she looked less young-country-girl-out-for-a-walk and more threatening-and-suspicious. Wash swallowed a curse as the girl tilted her head and commented, "And you're standing there in a winter coat."

"Not winter," Wash countered.  "Fall.  Autumn."  He gave an exaggerated shiver.  "I'm fighting a bit of the flu."  He made a pretty pitiful attempt at coughing -- where was a good dust cloud when you needed to fake a coughing fit?  "I've been miserable these last couple days," he blathered on, "coughing, fever, chills, a touch of space dementia."

Her gaze flicked to the building behind him.  "I'm sure."

Maybe he was a hĕn jĭnzhāng derén, but she was starting to look suspicious.  Wash tried to ignore the panicky feeling in his gut and remember what Zoe'd said.  Make noise.  Make noise that she could hear.  Why the hell hadn't she specified what kind of noise to make?

"Who brought peace and prosperity, by unifying the galaxy?  Brave soldiers with purple vests, and honor deep within their breast," Wash blurted, raising his voice to make sure the song carried into the jail.  The girl's eyes narrowed, but she didn't seem to know what to make of the crazy, inappropriately dressed, warbling guy leaning against the jailhouse.  Good.  Wash turned it up another notch, sacrificing his meager musical talents for pure volume.  "So valiantly they did fly, and something, something," he fumbled, not quite able to conjure all the words, "ignorant countryside, with, something, dammit, and heads held high, these men--"

"Wash!" the Captain shouted, bursting through the back door with Zoe tumbling out after him.  "What the gorram hell are you doing singing that shé njīng song?"  He stopped, nose wrinkling in distaste.  "While you're wearing my coat?"

Shrugging, Wash opened his mouth to answer, but the girl clocked him one but good with her surprisingly sturdy parasol.  "Ouch!" he yelped, giving her an incredulous look as pain spiraled through his skull.  "What'd you have to go and do that for?"  Son of a chùsheng xai-jiao de xiang huo, but that hurt.  His teeth ached, she'd hit him so hard.

"Yeah," Zoe said, suddenly at Wash's side, one arm snaking around his waist to give him some support.  He pressed both hands to his aching head, barely noticing the gun Zoe had trained on the girl.  "What'd you have to go and do that for?" Zoe echoed.  "Hands in the air and turn around."

The girl looked like she was considering her options, but Mal stepped to her side, wrenched the pink parasol from her hand, and gave her a rakish grin.  "We can do this the easy way, or I can carry you over my shoulder an appropriate distance out of town and leave you to make your own way home."  He leaned closer, giving an exaggerated look of curiosity.  "Don't you have some trouble with tigers in the wild 'round these parts?"

"Tigers?" Wash echoed stupidly.  "Wild tigers?"  He glanced around in a bit of a panic, expecting to see giant fangs leering at him from the brush.

The girl spat in the dirt near Mal's feet, but flung her arms up in grudging compliance.  "Watch your hands," she warned in petulant tones as he reached for the modified bustle of her liànyīqún.  "My daddy's the sheriff."

"Well, then," Mal answered, flashing an amused look at Zoe, "your daddy's gonna need some ice for his head."  Before the girl could react with more than an outraged gasp, Mal yanked a small, pearl-handled six-shooter out of the folds of her dress.  "Ain't that pretty?" he mused, seemingly tickled by the tiny gun dwarfed by his hands as he tapped the girl's shoulder with the handle.  "Now walk nice and calm-like."  Mal gave Wash an exasperated look.  "All the girls in Lemnos, and you go and find yourself the sheriff's daughter?"

"She found me," Wash pointed out.  Glancing at Zoe, he added an acerbic, "Found me in my clever lookout spot."

Zoe kept her arm around Wash as they followed the Captain and his hostage toward the brush beyond the edge of town.  "You all right?" she asked, her voice pitched low.

For some reason, Wash felt it necessary to lie.  "It was nothing," he answered, straightening up and out of her grasp, wanting to prove he could walk under his own power.  Which was a bad idea, as it turned out, since he listed immediately to the right and would have toppled ass over teakettle if Zoe hadn't grabbed a handful of his stupid coat.

"C'mon, tough guy," she said, looping her arm through his.  "Let's get you back to the ship."

"Yeah," Wash muttered, willing his head to stop that incessant pounding.  His vision had cleared, which was a good thing, but he wanted nothing more than a giant dose of painkillers and a couple hours' sleep.  "I can do that."

Zoe muttered a curse under her breath, indicating the rough metal grate that served as a small cargo platform on the back of the mule.  "Got a pillow, sir?"

"He can sit on his coat," Wash volunteered, wincing as Zoe stopped his forward momentum without warning, jarring his aching head.

"My coat," Mal corrected, as he used the girl's pink parasol to wave Zoe and Wash toward the mule.  "You go ahead and get her fired up.  I'll take care of this one."

"Xiăotōu," the girl muttered, lifting her chin.

"That's Captain Xiăotōu to you," Mal answered cheerfully.

Zoe handed Wash up onto the mule, settling him in proper this time, and turned back to the Captain.  "Sir--"

"I'll catch up," he interrupted, accepting a length of cord from Zoe and testing its strength with a couple tugs.  "Promise."

For a moment, Zoe seemed poised to argue, then she glanced over at Wash.  "Fine, sir," she decided, "but we just busted you out once and as you may have noticed, it didn't go so hot.  Don't make us do it again."

Mal held up his hands, protesting his innocence.  "I will rightly be along just as soon as I hogtie the sheriff's daughter."

"Hurry along, sir," Zoe admonished, swinging herself up onto the mule.  She glanced over her shoulder.  "We're in a bit of a rush," she warned Wash.  "You might want to hold on to something."

Wash hesitated for a long, tense moment, then wrapped his arms gingerly around her waist.  Zoe touched his hand briefly, then fired up the engine.  Wash tightened his grip and closed his eyes.  And promptly snapped them open again, because mild dizziness plus careening mule equals extreme nausea.  Mercifully, the ride seemed a little smoother on the way back, and it wasn't long before Serenity came into view.  Zoe grabbed the mule's comm. device and shouted, "Knock, knock, Kaylee.  Two here, plus one on the way."

"Welcome back," Kaylee greeted, and in the distance, Serenity's ramp began its descent.  "Um, Zoe?"

Zoe held the comm. device up so Wash could hear more clearly.  "What's up?"

"I don't suppose the one on the way is on his way in a large hovercraft," she answered, sounding worried.

Zoe brought the mule to a halt thirty meters from Serenity, half-turning to Wash, but he was already jumping down.

"I'll get her going," Wash told Zoe, hooking his thumb in the general direction of the ship.  "You go rescue your man."

Zoe frowned at him for a moment.  "He ain't my man, he's my captain."  Before Wash could figure what to make of that comment, Zoe waved him toward the ship and said, "I'll be right back."

"Go," Wash said, turning to jog toward the ship, willing himself to ignore the way each step jarred his already aching head.  "Kaylee," Wash shouted, his voice echoing through Serenity's large cargo bay, "where we at?"

"Wash," she greeted, relief and worry in her voice as she appeared along the catwalk.  "What's--?"

"Zoe's getting the captain," Wash explained, taking the stairs two at a time to meet Kaylee up top.  "The hover's not ours.  Any ident?"

"Nope," Kaylee answered, trailing him down the hallway to the bridge.  "But, Wash, I need a little more time on the thruster."

Her words took a moment to register, as Wash was more concerned with the proximity monitor and the video feeds.  Definitely a large hovercraft, coming up fast from south of the town.  Might not be related to their little escapade, but he didn't like the timing.  Nothing on the vid yet, but probably--

Then he stopped, shook his head a bit, and squinted at Kaylee.  "What?"

"The left thruster?" she explained, pointing toward the engine room.  "Remember, you said--"

"I remember," Wash interrupted impatiently.  "What are you telling me?"

"That we don't got a functioning left thruster at the present," she said, visibly wincing in apprehension.

"Oh," Wash said stupidly, his headache growing exponentially worse in seconds.  "Okay.  Well.  That's a problem."

***

"C'mon, c'mon, c'mon," Wash muttered, tapping the console with impatient fingers.  He had the ramp and airlock ready to go as soon as Zoe, Mal, and the mule made it back, but they were being incomprehensibly slow and--

"Knock, knock," crackled the comm. system.  Zoe.  Xiètiānxièdì!  "We're ten seconds out."

"Welcome back," Wash answered, breathing a bit easier at the sound of her voice.  "Didn't bring any wild tigers back with you, right?"

"Not likely," Zoe answered, still shouting over the mule's roaring engine.  "We're in chuántái."

"Got it."  Wash flipped the switches, then tapped the console some more.  He stared balefully at the comm. speaker, willing it to bring him Kaylee's all-clear so he could fire up the engines.  He knew she was working as fast as she could, but he really didn't want to sit around and wait for the unidentified hovercraft to identify itself as, oh, an Alliance patrol or maybe the local sheriff's armed and angry older brothers.  That parasol to the head was about as much violence as he had the constitution for just now.

It took less time than Wash expected for the Captain to appear on the bridge, looking tousled and more than a little impatient.  "We're not moving."

"Very observant, sir," Zoe noted, joining them on the bridge.

Mal nodded at the controls in front of Wash.  "Little giddyup right about now wouldn't be out of line," he observed dryly.

"Yeah, there's a bit of a problem," Wash answered, spinning the pilot's chair around to face them.

Mal crossed his arms over his chest.  "Problem?"

"Less a problem than a slight delay," Wash parsed, folding his hands carefully and waiting for the explosion.

"Delay?" Zoe echoed, echoing the Captain's vaguely confrontational stance.  "Zĕn mele?"

"Minor tweak of the left thruster," Wash explained.

"Tweak?" Mal asked, leaning forward a bit, as if he couldn't possibly have heard what he thought he heard.  "It's broken?"

"Well, it's being adjusted," Wash dissembled.

With a pointed look at the bleating proximity alarm, the Captain ordered, "Fix it on the fly."

"Can't," Wash explained, his gaze straying to the monitor.  The craft was closing fast, but at least now there was video.  He fiddled with the tuner, focusing the exterior cam on the hovercraft, groaning when he saw the side-mounted missiles.

"You sure about that?" Mal demanded.

"We can fly in circles if you'd like," Wash shot back, exasperated, "maybe even a nice spiral pattern, amuse and entertain the locals.  But if you're thinking we can clear atmo without the left thruster, you're fāfēng."

"Okay," the Captain answered, openly frustrated, "how's about we fix the gorram thruster and get the hell out of Lemnos before there ain't no one left to bust us out of jail?"

"Good plan," Wash answered with more than a little sarcasm.  "Too bad the thruster's in about fourteen pieces right now."

Mal activated the comm.  "Kaylee, what is this about a thruster?"

"I told her to look at it," Wash explained, not wanting the mechanic to take the heat for his request.  'Course, he hadn't expected her to dismantle the yūchŭn thing while they were off breaking the Captain out of jail, but what was done was done.

Mal gave him an incredulous look.  "Nĭ shuō shénme?"

"It's been acting up," Wash answered, a touch of defensiveness creeping into his tone.

"And you thought that now would be a good time for a pit stop?" Mal demanded.

"Cap'n," Kaylee answered, sounding breathless and static-y over the comm.  "I've almost got it back together again."

"You've got ten seconds," Mal answered.  He turned his attention to Wash.  "Then we're up.  This here's where you earn your pay."

Wash began the ignition sequence.  "I haven't actually been paid yet," he noted.

"You've eaten, haven't you?"

"So I'm earning my pay in protein bar form?  Because quite frankly, they leave more than a little to be desired, taste-wise.  I'd be happy to take partial payment in, say, fresh fruit form, but those bars..."  Wash paused his diatribe to flip the comm. on and ask Kaylee, "ETD?"  He glanced at the Captain.  "Seriously, I feel like I should renegotiate--"

Zoe stepped between them.  "Fly the damn boat, Wash."

He held her gaze for a long, intense moment.  "Yes, ma'am," he answered.  "Soon as I get the green light from Kaylee, we're atmo-bound.  Quick question," he added, keeping his voice as steady as possible.  "That hover's got heat-seeking missiles, right?"

Mal and Zoe exchanged grim looks.  "Right."

"Okay," Wash answered, nodding.  "Good, then."

"That a problem?"

"Only if they catch us."  He began the ignition sequence, the familiar routine calming his nerves and bringing the Firefly into sharp focus.  Even dull ache in his head faded to something manageable.

Kaylee shouted into the comm, "Go, go, go."

"Gone," Wash answered, throttling up Serenity and easing her off the ground.  He didn't wait to level off, simply turning the engine loose and heading for the hills.  Serenity wobbled, listing a little to the left, and Wash cursed under his breath.

"Uh, Wash?" Mal asked, keeping watch on the vid feeds.

"Kaylee," Wash hollered, "I thought you fixed the thruster?"

"I reassembled it," she answered, her indignation coming through loud and clear over the comm.  "Cap'n only gave me ten seconds.  I'm good, but I'm not that good."

Wash muttered to himself, adjusting the ship despite her best efforts to slip sideways.  "Just like flying a damn cài yòng dāhuáng."  Serenity was usually much nicer than this, responding to him with alacrity.  The hesitation he'd pinpointed to the left thruster wasn't so much reluctance now as it was downright stubborn refusal to respond until she damn well felt like it.

"I hate to be the voice of negativity," Zoe said, "but that hovercraft is closing fast."

The missile lock warning began to whine, and Mal leaned over, peering at the video feed.  "Son of a píngxīong xìngbiàntài."

"No worries," Wash said, relearning Serenity on the fly, so to speak.  He edged the throttle up, increasing her speed and maneuverability.  She was starting to react more predictably to his guidance, though she still had more hesitation in her than Wash was entirely comfortable with.  "There are mountains ahead," he observed, ignoring the muttering and curses coming from Zoe and Mal.

"Yeah, there are some real big mountains coming up," Mal agreed.  "How's about we hit atmo instead?"

"No, no," Wash answered.  Without looking away from the craggy peaks they were fast approaching, he lifted one hand from the stick, reached to his right and flipped the comm on, leaving it open to the engine room.  "Kaylee needs a little more time with the thruster," he explained calmly, "don't you, Kaylee?"

"I can't fix her while we're burning, but I can steady it a bit," Kaylee answered.  "Just give me a few minutes."

"We don't have a few minutes," Mal shouted.

"Sure, we do," Wash countered, easing the ship into a slow arc, with just enough lateral movement to evade the target lock for a few moments longer.

"Wash?" Zoe asked.  "Traveling a bit low, don't you think?"

The mountain range was coming up fast, and he didn't have the time or energy to explain, so he simply gestured vaguely in their direction.  "Sit.  Hold on.  Heat-seeking missiles."

He could feel their silent confusion, but thankfully they didn't pester him with further questions.  Which was good, considering he had his hands full trying to evade a hostile ship while piloting a tetchy, unbalanced Firefly through a mountain range.  The last thing he needed was anyone damaging his calm.

"Kaylee?" Wash asked, feeling a bit of drag on the left side of Serenity now.  Grimacing, he countered, easing off on the right burner a bit.  He had to give up a bit of speed to make the adjustment, and the proximity alarm increased its frequency as the hover gained on them.

"Two minutes," Kaylee answered, breathless and stressed.

"We don't have two minutes," Mal warned.

"It's okay," Wash murmured, easing Serenity lower as they topped the foothills.  "We just need to keep them off-balance for a few more minutes."

"Is there a reason you're flying into the mountains?" the Captain asked, his voice tight.

"Yes."

A beat, then Mal demanded, "What reason?"

"I'm flying us into the mountain range," Wash answered, pausing while he adjusted the throttle, ratcheting down a bit as they squeaked through a narrow pass, "because I believe that somewhere in this mountain range," he focused on looping around a snowy peak, "I will be able to find a volcano."

It was Zoe who spoke this time.  "A volcano?"

"A volcano," Wash confirmed, glancing at the missile-lock sensor, guessing that he had about ten more seconds before they acquired Serenity.  Likely, the hover craft would fire, then peel off before they got too far into the mountain range.  They didn't really have the maneuverability for rough terrain.  "And I'd prefer to find one sooner rather than later.  Care to help?"

Zoe and Mal moved forward until they were practically pressed against the windshield, scanning the mountaintops for a telltale cup of boiling lava.  They were partially blocking Wash's view, but he was concentrating on the sensors and monitors, searching for a hot spot.

"Good thing," Wash observed in soothing tones even as he urged Serenity hard left, nearly nicking a nasty-looking jagged cliff, "the terraforming didn't take so well here on Hephaestus."

"Yeah," Zoe answered sarcastically, bracing herself against the small guardrail along the edge of the windshield, one hand wrapped tight around the free console.  "Good thing."

"There."  Mal pointed at a wispy column of smoke rising in the distance.

"Good, good," Wash answered, breaking right as the hovercraft gained missile lock.  He didn't spare a glance at the monitors, flipping off the shrieking warning before it could shatter his fierce concentration.  "Perfect timing," he noted as the hover craft fired its missiles.

"We got burners coming," Mal noted bleakly.  "Wash?"

"Just..." he said, easing the throttle up, "sit... tight."  He sent up a silent prayer to his ancestors that Serenity would maneuver well enough to keep them all from a fiery death, then banked down and to the left, heading directly for the mouth of the bubbling volcano.

"Wash!" Zoe yelled.  "What are you doing?"

"Performing..."  He jerked right, ignoring the missiles screaming their way ever closer as he secured his seat belt.  "...evasive maneuvers."

Serenity reached the lip of the volcano, and Wash pushed the stick all the way forward, ignoring their momentary weightlessness as she began to dive into the steam.  Zoe and Mal left their feet for a second, crashing into each other and the ceiling of the bridge before landing roughly back on their feet.

"Wash," Mal shouted, bracing his hands on the ceiling, "what the--?"

Easing the stick right, Wash brought Serenity around, hugging the wall as she circled the pool of boiling lava below.  It was nerve-wracking, given the ship's sluggish handling and the volcanic steam obscuring his view every couple of seconds.  Trusting his instincts and the monitors, Wash managed not to slam them into the walls of the volcano, and just as he'd intended, the two missiles were blinded by the blistering volcanic heat and plunged into the fiery pit, one after another.

A glance at the proximity monitor satisfied Wash that the hovercraft had peeled off long since, and he began angling Serenity up and out of the volcano, praying that she'd react well for just a little bit longer.  As they broke straight up, emerging from the blinding columns of steam, Serenity listed to the right, nearly clipping the lip of the volcano as they cleared it.

Wash exhaled, easing Serenity to a kinder angle, letting her recover a bit.  "Kaylee," he asked, calm as could be, "how're we doing on the thruster?"

As his focus widened to include the rest of his surroundings, Wash glanced over at Mal and Zoe, who turned twin wide-eyed looks of shock his way.  He couldn't help the smug grin that crossed his face.  "Heat-seeking missiles," he explained.  "Volcanoes are hot."

Mal blinked, still breathing hard.  "You just flew my ship into a gorram volcano."

"True enough," Wash answered.  "But I think the more important part is that I flew it back out."

Over the comm, Kaylee's satisfied voice announced, "We're good for atmo, Wash."

Wash glanced at Zoe, then Mal.  "Shall we?"

***

"Hey," said a sultry, familiar voice.  "I need you right now."  Wash grinned, reaching for her long, lean body and coming up empty.  "Get up," Zoe's voice repeated, sounding impatient now.  "We need you to land this thing."

Opening his eyes, Wash was slightly disappointed to find himself sprawled on the couch in the lounge, Zoe towering over him, her hands on her hips instead of on his--

"Māde!"  Wash sat up suddenly, wincing as his head protested.  He clapped a hand to his temple.  "Ow."

"Still hurts?" Zoe asked, sounding sympathetic.

"Uh, yeah."  He looked up at her and hoped to God he wasn't blushing as he recalled a few of the more explicit details of the dream she'd interrupted.  "Landing?  Did you say landing?"  He eased himself to his feet, hissing when his shoulder protested the position he'd slept in.  "Because maybe I should--" he gestured vaguely toward the bridge, desperate to get away from her before she figured out what had left him so damn flustered.

"Captain's waiting for you on the bridge," Zoe said.

"Right," Wash answered, nodding a bit too enthusiastically.  He took a couple steps, then turned back, not quite able to meet her eyes as he asked, "I wasn't--" he waved at the couch-- "saying anything, right?"

Zoe raised her eyebrows.  "Nightmare, huh?" she asked, but something in her tone told him she had an idea exactly what he'd been dreaming about.

"You know what?  Nothing," he stammered.  "Never mind.  So, the Captain?  Right."

"I'll get you some painkillers," she said, touching his arm as she moved past.

For a moment, Wash stood stock still, watching her retreating form.  That was new.  She'd been subtly hostile since his first day on the ship, and now she was offering to get him painkillers and touching his arm?  On purpose?  "Huh."

Wash put that observation in a small box along with his wholly inappropriate dream, and headed for the bridge.  "Cap'n," he greeted.

"Wash," Mal answered, swiveling in the pilot's chair.  "Good.  We're coming up on Olympia and that yìzhì jiānjué girl is dead set on plundering some used parts place down there to fix the gorram thruster.  Care to put her down?"

"Sure, sure," Wash agreed, stretching carefully.

Mal stood, grabbing a scrap of paper with coordinates on it, and handing it over.  "Fēijī qĭjiàng chăng's here," he explained.

Nodding, Wash took the vacated pilot's seat and eyed Olympia, coming up fast.  "Little overeager on the velocity," he noted, easing the throttle back and adjusting the stabilizer.  "Good thing you woke me."  Wash flipped a few switches and punched in the coordinates, preparing Serenity for breaking atmo, somewhat belatedly noticing that Mal was still standing there, watching him.

He glanced up, but it was Zoe beside him, not Mal.  And she was doing that half-smile thing, and holding a couple caplets and a mug of -- he sniffed -- coffee.  Wash grinned.  "Bless you, woman."  He downed the drugs and drank the coffee as fast as he dared, given its temperature and his slight preoccupation with guiding Serenity through the delicate, potentially explosive process of breaking atmo.

Kaylee popped her head in as he brought Serenity in for a petal-soft landing on Olympus, "That was some fancy flyin', Wash."

He shut down Serenity's engines and turned in the seat, clasping his hands over his abdomen.  "What, this?" he smirked.  "Landing ain't nothing, Kaylee."

She laughed, rolling her eyes at his false modesty.  "You took us on a tour of a volcano, Wash!"

"And you missed the whole thing," he pointed out with an exaggerated lift of his shoulders.  "Guess we'll have to do it again some time."

Zoe raised an eyebrow.  "I'm gonna go with no."

"Spoilsport," Wash countered, his smug smirk widening when Zoe ducked her head to hide her answering grin.  That woman had a hell of a smile; too bad she didn't seem to smile very often.

"Take it your head's feeling better," Zoe observed, gesturing for him to follow her and Kaylee down to the cargo bay.

"Not perfect," he answered, falling in behind them, "but it never was to begin with, so..."

Kaylee snorted over her shoulder.  "Y'all need anything planet-side? I'm taking the mule to the scrapheap."

"Take the Cap'n," Zoe suggested, starting down the staircase, raising her voice to be sure the Captain heard her.

Mal looked up from where he was fiddling with the mule.  "Take me where?"

"Anywhere, sir," Zoe answered, breezing past and heading down the ramp, "so long as you're far away from me."  She tossed a quick smirk over her shoulder so he would know she was kidding.

"Hey!" Mal protested, hands on his hips as he followed her.  "What'd I do?"

"No, no," Kaylee smiled and headed for the mule, shoving Wash toward the ramp as she went, "I'll take care of the mule.  Don't worry about me."

Mal halted partway down the ramp and turned back to Kaylee, "Ain't like you dislike fiddling with motors," he noted, exasperated.

"That's my Cap'n," Kaylee teased, "always thinking of his crew's happiness."

Smiling in spite of himself, Mal waved off her remark and trailed Zoe out into the sunlight.  "And I was a perfect angel today, right up until that chŭndàn pulled a gun on me!"

Wash followed the Captain and Zoe a bit uncertainly, choosing to stay near the bottom of the ramp while they wandered off a few paces, surveying the desertscape around Serenity.

"You said he was wánquán yúchûn," Zoe noted, sounding more amused than annoyed by the whole thing, even if it did end in gunplay and jailbreaks.  "And while you know I always appreciate your keen sense of humor, maybe local bigwigs," she shrugged, "don't."

"That guy was actually wánquán yúchûn."  Zoe glowered at him until the Captain threw up his hands.  "'Twas purely an observation of character."

"Considering we don't have much in the way of muscle, sir, perhaps you should keep your less flattering observations of character to yourself when dealing with small-time arrogant sheriffs."

Wash blinked.  "Hey, I have muscles!" he protested, a mite offended.  "I can stay conscious and flying in forces up to G-7, and that, my friends, requires some serious muscles!"

Zoe gave him a baleful look.  "Can you fire a gun?"

"Yes."  And he wasn't lying, either; he could fire a gun.  Just had some trouble with the hitting the target part.

"Really?" Mal asked, turning to include him fully in the conversation.

"You point and you shoot," Wash answered, intentionally echoing Zoe's earlier advice as he wandered closer to her.  "What's so hard about that?"

Zoe stared at him for a moment, a smile tugging at her lips, before turning back to Mal.  "Sir, I really think--"

"I can handle a gun," Wash interrupted, serious now.

Arms crossed, Mal studied him for a long moment, before he turned and strode back up the ramp onto Serenity.  Frowning, Wash looked back and forth between Zoe and where the Captain had disappeared.  "Um, should I follow him?" he asked her.

With a resigned sigh, Zoe shook her head.  "He'll be right back."

"You sure?"

"Trust me," she told him, and their gazes locked and held for a long, vaguely uncomfortable moment that left Wash's breathing a bit unsteady.  "It's not that I don't think you've got the heart to be out there with us," Zoe explained, stepping closer.  "But you're putting us all at risk if--"

"You say you can handle a gun," Mal interrupted, striding back down the ramp with a pistol in one hand and a coffee can in the other.  He walked several paces out into the desert, selected a particularly tall cactus, and balanced the bright blue can on its branches.  Turning back, he walked up to Wash and offered him the pistol.  "Show me."

"Sir?" Zoe asked, moving closer.

"What," Mal glanced at his first mate, "the target's too big?"

"No, sir," Zoe answered.  "There's still some coffee in the can and maybe we shouldn't waste it on target practice."

Mal lowered his voice and leaned closer to her.  "He ain't gonna hit the target, Zoe."

Offended, Wash drew himself up to his full height and proclaimed, "I could hit the target."

Mal gave an exaggerated courtly bow and moved out of the way.  Wash took a deep breath and lifted the gun, holding it in one hand.

"Wait," Zoe said, stepping right up beside him.  Wash gave her a wide-eyed look, but she reached for his free hand and brought it up to cup the handle of the gun.  Then she met his gaze.  "Steadies your gun."

"Ah," Wash answered intelligently, his gaze stuck on Zoe until she stepped back and nodded at him.  Target.  Shooting.  Right.  With a small shake of his head, Wash settled into what he thought was probably a good shooting stance, lifted the gun, squinted at the coffee can, and fired.

And missed.  Badly.  To be totally honest, he wasn't sure the bullet hit anything until it ran out of speed and hit the ground, a few hundred meters from where he stood.

"Okay," he said over Mal's raucous laughter, "but I'm not going to be shooting coffee-can-sized people, right?"

"Give me the gun," Zoe ordered, holding out her hand.

"But," Wash protested, turning to her to plead his case.  "I--"

"Until you can hit the side of a barn, no guns," she warned, tucking the pistol into the waistband of her pants.  Wash found his gaze lingered probably longer than was strictly appropriate on that particular image.  Damn, but she had a beautiful wa