Day Twelve

Restorative Equilibrium

Keeping his house in order. That’s all it’d ever been about for Malcolm Reynolds. But how could his house possibly be in order if it had been gutted by an alien organism and then sunk to the bottom of an unnamed ocean on an unnamed moon? Well…it probably had a name, but Mal hadn’t had the inclination to discover what it was. Nor did he have it as it occurred to him he might look. Because Serenity was dead, and that’s just all there was to it.

But here he was, living in a ship that was almost Serenity, but not quite. For one thing, she had a self-destruct mechanism rigged to her core in case the New Independents, who had been kind enough to grant Mal the use of the vessel, felt he was misbehaving. As he wandered through the cargo bay, holding his side delicately, his eyes turned towards the deck, it struck him that even despite the minor differences, he might allow himself to relapse into the past, and just for a few moments pretend that this ship was Serenity, and act as if the past two weeks had never happened.

Hell, if he was going to do that, he might roll back the clock all the way to before the Miranda incident. Or until before he had ever heard the name Tam. Or until before the war. If he thought like that, maybe he’d wind up thinking it’d be better if he’d never lived at all. And that was not going to happen, so he wasn’t going to let himself pretend.

He stepped around a crate, his eyes still scanning the deck intently, looking for something but not sure what it was exactly. In a way he was glad he had spent the last three days pent up in the infirmary, because it gave him a chance to collect his thoughts about what he was going to do with his crew. Each of them, with the exception of Inara and Andrews, had been working against him to some degree – collaborating with the female Operative to bring about the shadowy conclusion to the sinister Project Nightmare, the Alliance scheme that had ruined their lives, yet Mal had not managed to pick up a single clue about what its end game was exactly. Any chance of interrogating the Operative had died…well, when she had, and the Rogue – the man cut loose by the Operative, the man who used to be in the employ of Project Nightmare and the Alliance, who had returned to wreak his vengeance upon his former employers – did not appear to know much about it either.

At least, what the goal of the Project was. He seemed quite knowledgeable about its methods when he had trapped half of Mal’s crew in grimy cells and unleashed alien organisms upon them. As a result of which one of whom, Kaylee, now lay frozen in suspended animation in order to halt the growth of the creature now residing within her. Because when it came to term, it would erupt from her rib cage, killing her in a horrific and violent manner, and while Mal would not wish that fate upon many people, Kaylee would be the person on the top of his list to save from such an end. But, typically, they had discovered no clues regarding how to save her, either.

Instead they had drifted in space aimlessly, now fully aware that the Alliance would not touch them. The robotic voice Mal had encountered when they were first on the trail of what was happening to them had ordered the entire system’s military to give them a wide berth, and since that moment they had waited, anxiously, to see what would happen next. But despite the fact that their nemesis, the Rogue, who would no doubt have issue with them after Jayne killed his only child in cold blood, and the fact that he and his crew were subject to a vast, malevolent government conspiracy, the thing that worried him the most was interacting with his crew.

They had all been snapping at each other ever since they left orbit of Mithras, not only out of apprehension but because none of them wanted to address what had happened between them in the days preceding their final escape from the capital world of the Alliance. And as a result, Mal had chosen to recover quietly in the infirmary, where the only real interaction he had to suffer were the routine questions Simon asked of him regarding his health. None of the other crewmembers had sought him out, even Inara, who (as far as he was aware) had anything to avoid him for.

He reminded himself that they had all had an intense time leading up to their escape. Each had stared death straight in the face at least once, and Inara and Zoe, along with him, had watched the Rogue cold bloodedly execute the Operative. While Zoe might not have had much of an issue with this event, and not that the Companion much cared for the Operative, watching something like that was sure to change a person. More than anything he wanted to seek out the usually regal Inara and try to help her through what was happening, but that would ultimately lead to facing the others, and he wasn’t ready for that. So he carried on pacing through the cargo bay, looking for his misplaced item.

A dull clanging and a distant roar distracted Mal from his thoughts. In reality the source of the disturbance was not so far away, but a layer of fortified steel separated him from its origin, making it sound further away. Oaty, the apparently sentient alien they had brought aboard a week previously, had been increasingly violent since the escape, probably because he had been locked in the malfunctioning shuttle with nothing but candy bars to eat. But what was Mal supposed to do? Let him out for walks? He appeared to be a savage animal, and only the presence of certain technology gave Mal any impression that the creature they had named after a savoury snack had any intelligence whatsoever. And Simon swore that the organism’s race was highly developed, so who was he to argue? But once more, discussing Oaty would mean conversing with Simon and the others, and so the creature was left to bellow and hammer at the shuttle hatch sporadically.

Cullen had withdrawn into himself, which was potentially worrying. As far as they could determine, Cullen was a victim of the same institution that had made River the way she was today, and they had discovered him on the troop transport they had sequestered from the Alliance escaping from the moon Serenity was buried on, naked as the day he was born and catatonic. After several days he suddenly woke up and appeared to be a normal young man, and now, naturally, having found himself on a ship full of strangers and in hostile environments, he had locked himself away in his passenger dorm with the memory module the Rogue had given to Mal, who hoped the youngster would not go crazy like River occasionally did.

Simon’s sister still lay in her degenerative coma, and Simon had not slept much since they fled Mithras, trying to determine what might cure her of the condition forced upon her by the Operative, who had used River’s coma to blackmail Simon into assisting her. Jayne had been offered a vast sum of money and a full pardon, and Zoe had been…

Well, Wash was alive. And if for no other reason, Mal was hiding in the infirmary because of that alone. Wash was alive. Wash. Mal had watched him die alongside Zoe, yet she had travelled to the point of total betrayal of everything she had here just in case he was somehow alive. And, even more surprising to Mal was that the Serenity’s former pilot was now here, flesh and blood, alive and well.

He shook his head and stooped to look under a cargo crate. Underneath it, something small and metallic glinted in the darkness. Mal leaned forward and retrieved it, testing the weight in his hand, and realised it was the thing he had been looking for. With satisfaction he placed it in his pocket and stood back up to see Simon gazing absently down on him from the catwalk above.

“Mal,” he said. His face was gaunt, and deep shadows were set beneath his eyes. “You shouldn’t be up and about.”

Mal was almost glad Simon hadn’t had much sleep. If he had been alert, he would have had enough sense to realise Mal felt awkwardly about what happened between them all and they would have experienced deeply embarrassing moments where both recognised that they should talk about the incidents, but neither would bring it up and felt guilty about it. Now, he simply ambled, zombie-like, in and out of the infirmary and fired off basic questions that were embedded deep in his subconscious after years of medical training.

“I know,” replied the Captain. “But I had to get out here and look for something.”

“Oh,” replied Simon absently. “How does it feel?” he asked for the thousandth time since Mal had woken up.

Mal felt his side in the spot where the Rogue had shot him. His kidney had been clipped by the bullet, but the miracle-working doctor had patched him up without any complications. He was still tender, but he was healing nicely. He told Simon as much. “Good. Should be all better in a couple days. Wonders of modern medicine and all that.”

Simon snorted. “If I was in a fully equipped Core world hospital you’d be healed by now. But I did my best with what I had available.”

“How’s the cure for River comin’ along?” asked Mal. Simon shook his head, worry seeping through into his expression. “You’ll get it,” assured Mal. “Just keep at it.”

“I will,” replied Simon, and began to move away. He stopped as Mal called to him.

“Oh, and Doc? Get some sleep.”

“I will,” repeated Simon, and he walked out of the cargo bay, leaving Mal to carry on looking around for whatever it was he had lost. He felt like he was walking through smoke. He couldn’t remember the last time he had slept properly even before he had been consumed by his need to cure River – because he could recognise he had been consumed. And if he wasn’t researching a cure for River’s condition, he was poring over the data he had gathered on the thing gestating inside of Kaylee, trying to determine some way to get it out without harming her. Even though now he had the opportunity to retire to his bunk, he would not sleep with all of his worries. So he stayed busy, and hoped that he stayed sharp enough to be able to continue to work effectively. If his exhaustion got to the point where he started to make mistakes, then it might mean both River and Kaylee would…

He shook his head, banishing the thought. He simply wouldn’t allow that to happen – to either of them. He walked back inside the infirmary to find Jayne sitting on one of the examination tables waiting for him.

“Hi,” said Simon, stepping through the threshold. “Can I help you?”

Jayne pointed to his chest and winced. “Yeah. I got a pain. In my ribs. And my gut.”

Simon nodded and retrieved his basic diagnostic tools for a general check-up; a thermometer and a stethoscope. “Take off your shirt,” he told Jayne, who responded to the instruction. He gave a quick check of the man’s ribs, asking if it hurt whenever he touched them, and Jayne responded that he could feel none. Then he put the thermometer into Jayne’s mouth and placed the stethoscope over his ears, placing the contact onto Jayne’s chest.

“Take regular, deep breaths in and out,” he instructed, and Jayne complied. “How long have you been feeling like this?”

Jayne shrugged. “A couple of days I guess,” he said, mumbling through the thermometer perched at the side of his mouth. “It won’t go away so I figured I’d come and get it checked.”

“Good idea,” approved Simon. Then he frowned and replaced the contact back to where he had just moved it. “Take another breath.”

Jayne did so, worry seeping into his face. “What is it?”

Simon nodded and stepped away from the mercenary, plucking the thermometer from his lips. He checked it’s reading and nodded again. “Hmm. As I thought,” he said.

“What?” repeated Jayne as Simon replaced his tools on the workbench.

“You’re perfectly healthy,” said the doctor. “There’s nothing physically wrong with you.”

Jayne looked perplexed. “How can you tell so quickly?”

“Your breathing is normal. You don’t respond to the pain in your ribs. Your temperature is normal. There’s no visible bruising.”

Jayne grimaced. “But I got this pain, Doc,” he said almost pleadingly. “Can’t you do anything?”

Simon shook his head and sat on the stool next to the bed delicately. “I said there wasn’t anything physically wrong with you,” he said. “I think maybe what you’re feeling is…well, you said that you hurt. What are you thinking about when the pain is your ribs is at its worst?”

Jayne scowled at the doctor. “I don’t want counselling,” he growled. “I just want something for the pain.”

Simon stared at the glowering mercenary, and thought that he could determine very well what was making Jayne feel the way he did. He had killed the Rogue’s son in cold blood, taking an innocent life for the purely selfish reason of making the man who had threatened them suffer. While Simon could not argue that the Rogue had not deserved what had happened to him, and found that he could not condemn what Jayne had done, even deep in his heart of hearts, maybe now Jayne was paying the price for his action. Though the man was a seasoned killer, and he had taken many lives before Roderick Myers’, this was perhaps the first time he had killed for something more than money – and killed someone who truly did not deserve his fate.

But he could also see that Jayne was not prepared to deal with the emotional fallout of what was happening to him. The doctor nodded and stood from the stool, moving towards the drugs cabinet.

“Alright,” he conceded, removing a bottle of pills from the cupboard. “Take two of these twice a day and come back to me if the pain gets any worse.”

Jayne snatched the bottle from Simon’s hands and stormed from the room as the emotional demons he fled from snapped at his heels. Simon sighed and stared at the doorway after Jayne had made his dramatic exit. The bottle of anti-depressants would aid Jayne on his journey, but it was a short-term solution to his very long-term problem. Being the kind of person that he was, Simon could see that now he had another problem to solve in addition to curing River and Kaylee – he had to ease Jayne through his emotional and moral dilemma.

He sighed and sat back down at his terminal, fighting fatigue, and called up River’s brainwave scans.

.:-:.:-:.:-:.

Zoe had not had the best few weeks. Her husband had died, and that loss had almost torn her apart, and magnified her already intense dislike of the Alliance into hatred. Then, what started with a simple transport job had ended with the discovery that her old outfit, the Independents, had been reborn in a form she did not much like, more akin to a terrorist organisation than the army she had joined all those years ago. After that they had found themselves the subjects of a government conspiracy similar to the one her husband had fallen victim to, and her ship had been destroyed. They had spent the last week running from the Alliance, and she had been forced to betray her crew on the vague and unlikely promise that her husband was, in fact, alive.

But they had emerged through the end of their world, and Zoe found that her husband was with her again. Wash was here. Sat right next to her, in fact. He was eating to bowl of soup she had made for him, and she simply sat and watched him eat, content for the first time she could remember in a long while. While the Alliance still had designs for them, and Kaylee and River were still sick, she had faith that those problems would resolve themselves in the face of the miracle she had witnessed. Wash looked up from devouring the food and realised she was staring at him.

“What?” he asked, his brow furrowing. “Do I have…?” His hand reached to the corner of his mouth to brush away an imagined crumb, but Zoe caught it in her own grasp before he made contact.

“You have something,” she smirked. “But it ain’t on your mouth.”

He smiled then, relaxing. In the days they had spent floating in space, Zoe had effectively taken control of the ship, meaning that there were times when Wash had been left alone in their bunk. But despite the availability of his time, none of the other crewmembers had visited him, and Zoe could understand why. His return was totally unwarranted, and to treat the arrival of someone they had all said goodbye to merely weeks before completely normally would be unnatural. But Zoe didn’t care about them. Wash was back.

But sometimes it seemed as though he was not entirely there. She tried to talk to him about specific times and events, and he could not recall them. He would simply frown, look away, and change the subject. But she reminded herself that he had been through a deeply traumatic few weeks himself. Maybe memory loss would be a natural consequence of that. She felt concern swell within her, and so she voiced it.

“Are you feeling all right?” she asked. Wash smirked.

“Yeah. I have been the past hundred times you asked that, you know.”

“But that video I saw of you…you were being tortured.”

He shrugged. “I can’t remember that. Like I said, last thing I do remember is being in the pilot seat of the Serenity. Then I woke up in the back of that van when you rescued me.” He frowned. “Shame about the ship. She was a good ride.”

“It doesn’t matter,” smiled Zoe. “As long as we have each other.”

He caressed her cheek, but then realised his hand still had some soup on it and he withdrew his touch. “Sorry,” he apologised.

“Doesn’t matter. I’m used to you by now.”

He frowned again. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he demanded. Zoe snorted.

“Like you don’t know.” Wash shrugged, his face a model of perplexity. “You’ve always been the messy one.”

Wash hooted loudly with derision. “Always been the messy one?” he repeated mockingly. “I’ll have you know I’m the one who’s has suffered through abusive years at the hands of your inner slob.”

Zoe’s face twisted with outrage. “How can you even say that? What about when those rats moved into the compactor? They lived there for weeks off the food that you tried to hide…”

But the amiability had faded from Wash’s face. He looked down at his soup and started to swirl it around with his spoon. Zoe trailed away.

“So, uh…” said Wash in a quiet voice, trying to inject some of the good nature of the previous conversation into his words but failing. “This is really good,” he said of the soup.

Zoe reached forward and held his hands. “Why don’t you go to see the doctor?” she implored, but Wash sighed with disgust and snatched his hands away.

“This again? I’ve already told you a thousand times, I’m fine. I don’t need the doctor to needle and poke me over and over again. I’m fine.”

“But it’s Simon,” said Zoe, not being able to recall a previous fear or dislike of doctors in her husband. “You know he’ll treat you well.”

Wash didn’t say anything, stubbornly folding his arms and refusing to look at her. She tried a different tactic.

“Can you do it for me?” she asked. “You say you’re fine, but I worry about you, baby. We don’t know what happened to you – not even you do. I just want to make sure that you’re okay.”

He tried to remain stubborn but after several moments of silence he relented. “Okay,” he said, nodding. “I’ll go see Simon.”

Zoe smiled reassuringly. “It’ll all be okay,” she said. “You’ll see. Just a few more days and we’ll be clear of all this.” She rubbed his shoulder soothingly. “And then maybe we can take that getaway we always talked about.”

But from the look on hid face, it was obvious that Wash did not remember talking about that getaway, or any other.

.:-:.:-:.:-:.

Cullen stuck his head outside of his passenger dorm and scanned the corridor intently, assessing if he had company or not. Determining that all was quiet, the rest of his body emerged and he quickly and quietly padded along the short walkway to where the infirmary lay.

He was hungry, as boys his age always are. Yet he did not want to risk encountering any of the strange and vaguely threatening people he shared this ship with. He had no memory of how he had come to be with them, only that he had woken up in a strange room, wearing strange clothes, and certainly everything that had happened since had been very strange indeed – aliens, government conspiracies and petty crooks had been the highlights of Cullen’s adventures thus far, and things showed no sign of stopping now. Mal had been shot, Jayne had killed a man not much older than Cullen, and from what the young man could glean from the patches of conversation he was privy to, someone the group used to know had somehow returned from the dead.

He shook his head despairingly. Why couldn’t he just go back to the way things used to be?

Cullen rounded the corner and almost made it to the stairs leading up to the mess hall when a familiar voice stopped him.

“Hey, kid,” said Mal as he stepped down from the cargo bay. Cullen tensed visibly and turned to face the rogues’ Captain.

“Yes?” he asked with his refined accent. Mal frowned at him as he approached.

“Why so formal?” he asked. He nodded towards the passenger dorm. “C’mon, I need your help with something.”

Cullen cast a longing look up the stairs. But then he decided that it might be best to do what Mal said. He started back towards his room, Mal following him two paces behind. Cullen was aware that Mal was armed, his pistol holstered at his side as his hand swung nonchalantly near it.

What was so dangerous about Cullen that made everyone on this ship act nervously around him? The young man had no idea, but he was starting to lose his patience with the matter. If he received one more cautious glance, he would give them something to be nervous about.

He stepped into his room and Mal followed. The Captain tossed a small, metallic object towards the boy, and Cullen caught it with his naturally quick reflexes. He gazed at it in puzzlement.

“What’s this?” he asked. Mal shrugged.

“It’s a memory chip,” he replied, and Cullen sighed with exasperation.

“Yes I know what it is,” he said. “But what is it?”

“Kinda hopin’ you’d be able to help me with that,” said Mal. He gestured to the computer terminal that had been set up next to the bed. “Thought you could take a peek, seein’ as how you’re the resident computer genius and all.”

Cullen nodded and removed the cables that presently fed into the memory storage unit that the strange man had given him to decode. Mal had called him an Operative, and he seemed to be close to the centre of whatever was going on around here.

“You been able to crack that thing open?” asked Mal, referring to the heavily encrypted memory unit. Cullen shook his head.

“Not much, just strings of data. I’ll crack it eventually, I’m sure.”

Mal snorted, but Cullen remained oblivious to the arrogance of his tone. He replaced the cables so they plugged into the much smaller device Mal had given him, and ran the program that would allow him to read the contents.

“Where did you get this?” asked the boy.

Mal cast his mind back to three days ago, and the final minutes of the Operative’s life.

“You have to live,” she instructed them fiercely, emotion starting to show on her face fully for the first time. “You have to find a way.” She grasped Mal’s hand tightly, staring at him intently. He frowned and started to glance down at his fist, but another breach charge had been set against the door. The Operative flung herself in front of him as the explosion boomed through the room, obliterating their pitiful barricade.

She had pressed a small, metallic object into Mal’s hand just before the Alliance had stormed the room, and with the commotion that had been going on around him he’d had no chance to even glance at what it was. Then he, Zoe and Inara had been forced on their knees into a line by the Rogue, and then he had been shot. His last conscious thought had been desperately trying to maintain his grip on the mysterious object in his hand as his female companions hauled him onto the ship, and he could remember seeing the cargo bay ceiling before he passed out. When he had been well enough to get out of the bed in the infirmary, it had only been a short walk to the cargo bay, where he had spent his time scouring the deck, searching for something he had never seen, but knew it to be somewhere in the gargantuan chamber. So back to the question at hand – where did he get it?

“Someone gave it to me,” he replied ambiguously. “I reckon there’s something important on there.”

“How important?” asked Cullen.

“Enough to be worth someone’s life.”

Cullen studied the monitor for a moment, analysed what was in front of him, and then frowned. “Oh,” he said, checking the memory chip.

“Oh?”

“It’s broken,” said the boy. He looked up at Mal. “Maybe someone stood on it.”

Mal peered closer at the small device and could see where the circuit board had been crushed in certain places. He swore inwardly and then glanced at Cullen hopefully.

“Don’t suppose you can fix it?” he asked.

“I can gather some of the information,” replied Cullen. “But the damaged parts are irretrievable, I’m afraid.”

“Oh. Well, I guess that’s good. Can you do it now?” asked Mal, and Cullen nodded, starting to strip the information from the device. “It isn’t encrypted?”

Cullen shook his head. “Not this time. It should only take a moment.”

Cullen sat back as the computer took over, automatically performing its required task. The two men sat in an awkward silence, neither looking at the other for a short time. Eventually Cullen glanced at Mal.

“Where are we headed?”

“Nowhere. We’re just sorta drifting at the moment,” replied Mal.

“Because I’ve been thinking…” started Cullen, and Mal just laughed and shook his head. Cullen sat up straighter in his chair, taking offence. “What are you laughing at?”

“No,” said Mal.

“You don’t even know what I was going to…”

“You were going to suggest you get off at the next port and make your way home to Mom and Pop. And I said no.”

Cullen huffed. “But why?” he demanded.

“Two reasons. One, you’d last around five seconds on the Fringe. And two…we don’t know why you found yourself to be with us. And lately, I’m becoming a fan of tying up loose ends. They have a nasty habit of turning up later and biting you in the rear.”

“And I have to just accept that?”

Mal shrugged. “Guess you do.”

The computer beeped, indicating it had completed the transfer. Mal pushed Cullen aside, taking the seat at the terminal, leaving the boy to sit on the bed, staring at the wall sullenly. Mal pored through the data that had been lifted from the broken memory device, his face growing slacker the more he read. Finally, after ten minutes of reading, he sat back and clucked his tongue.

“…Huh,” he said. Cullen sat forward, eager to read what had piqued Mal’s interest, but the Captain quickly closed the display, deleted the files and pulled the cables from the broken device.

“But…!” exclaimed Cullen with great disappointment. Mal smirked at him.

“Sorry, kid. Sensitive information. Why don’t you get back to tryin’ to crack the code of that bigger toy?”

He left the room and left Cullen to sulk. After a few minutes of inactivity he plugged the cables back into the other toy, as Mal had put it, and he began to work on decrypting the military algorithm placed on the data placed inside it.

Mal, though he would be disappointed to learn it, shared more in common with Cullen than he realised. They had both been given similar data storage devices under ambiguous circumstances, driving each of them towards discovering what clues lay within. The words of the man the others knew as the Rogue burned through him, motivating him towards completing the task.

“I pre-empted this. The computer node I brought with me isn’t what Mal thinks it is. On it you will find the answers to all of your questions; most importantly, what you are. Now if you’ll excuse us, we must be leaving.”

He went to walk away, but Cullen placed himself in the Operative’s path. “Wait a second. You could just tell me right now the answers to all of my questions, and…”

“The knowledge most rewarding is that which is earned,” said the Operative. “I promise you, Cullen, that I am not lying to you. Unlock the computer node, and your true nature will be revealed to you.”

And so he had remained for almost four days, his entire being focussed on the conundrum of not knowing his true purpose, knowing that it lay within the device, but being unable to access the information.

Cullen sighed in frustration as the hundredth crack he had tried failed. He couldn’t understand it – everything he had tried had met with almost complete failure. The few times a file had been decrypted had revealed a mess of gibberish that couldn’t possibly be right. His brain felt like it go into meltdown at any moment, and he thought fiercely about how to resolve this dilemma.

And slowly, miraculously, a seed of thought began to ferment and grow in his mind, and the more he thought about it, the more it made sense. He was making an assumption – that the data he was trying to reveal was comprised of words. Maybe the few times he had been successful he had decoded the information properly, because the data was not meant to look like anything he would recognise.

He sat forward eagerly as another revelation visited him. Maybe each file was only useful when used in conjunction with every other one – maybe the reason it hadn’t been working was because he had been decoding each one individually. Maybe they were working, but alone they were useless.

He called up one of the decoding matrices he had been using earlier on – one of the few that had successfully revealed the information within a file – and instead of running it on one individual file, instructed the program to run on all of them simultaneously. The data on the monitor began to slow and judder as the computer struggled to run all of the processes in harmony with one another, but a few moments later it had been completed and Cullen could see the strings of data starting to join together and coalesce into a single derivative; a single, long line of code that started to execute the moment it had reformed…

The lights in the room flickered off, and before Cullen could react to the situation the computer monitor flickered and distorted, filling with static and bursting with strobes of light that sharply illuminated the room around the youngster, who could only sit and stare at the screen as the bursts hypnotised him into inaction. His pupils contracted and dilated harshly as his retinas were flooded with light. The primitive speakers built into the computer hissed with a strange melody of grating static, and the combination of light and sound drove deep into Cullen, reactivating long-dormant programming and writing some new instructions.

Less than a minute later, the process had completed and the lights of the room flickered back on. Cullen sat dazed at the terminal, and for a moment all he could do was stare ahead into space. But then he blinked and roused himself back to full consciousness, and before he could display any reaction, another sound flooded the room, and the ship at large.

“I want everyone in the mess hall,” came Mal’s voice over the intercom, and then there was silence. Cullen blinked again and rubbed his eyes, wondering what had just happened. Then he rose and left the room, purpose instilled within him.

.:-:.:-:.:-:.

Mal sat at the head of the table, waiting for everyone to file in around him. He stared at the wooden surface before him as Jayne slunk in to sit at his right; as Inara glided by and sat opposite Jayne; as Wash and Zoe cautiously stepped inside and sat at the far end of the table; as Simon wandered in and shambled to sit beside Inara; as Andrews came in from engineering, covered in grease, that same dumb look he always had in his eyes. They sat there, no one looking at the others, until Mal sat forward and began to speak.

“I guess we should talk,” he said, and he received a couple of slow nods. “And I guess that maybe I should go first.”

“Sir…” started Zoe, but Mal raised his hand, his face twisted slightly into a grimace.

“No, Zoe,” he said. “Let me…”

But he found that he did not know exactly what to say. He knew how he felt, about how his crew had betrayed his confidence, but he sought the words that would encapsulate everything he was feeling into one sentence. But when that didn’t happen, and when no one else was saying anything, he decided that maybe he should start rambling, and see where he ended up.

“I suppose that maybe all I wanted to say is that, I mean, I know everything that happened, and I know that…I mean, what I meant to say is that…” He sighed, and just decided to bite the bullet. “I don’t blame you.”

That attracted some attention. Jayne, who had been staring vacantly into space, focussed on the Captain, and Inara looked with surprise at Mal. He decided that he should go on, and stood up to start pacing around the table.

“We’d all like to think that everyone around us would walk to the grave for you, do anything for you…and it’s easy to think that when everything’s fine. But when the chips are down, and your back’s against the wall, there are some things you would compromise everything to save or salvage. I know, because I’ve had things like that in my life. And it’s easy to think that you’re a team, and that nothing can tear you apart. But if someone comes along – someone vicious enough and smart enough to know you; to get under your skin and know exactly what makes you tick – then there’s gonna be no way to defend against that. There are some things in this life,” he said, glancing at Simon and Zoe, “That you’d say anything to protect. Do anything.” He paused. “Betray anyone.”

“Mal…” said Simon in a broken voice, but the Captain put up his hand for patience.

“So like I said. I want to be angry. I want to hurt you the way you hurt me. But the fact is, the more I think about it, the less crazy I get. And there’s just no way to hold onto that kinda rage if you can understand why the other guy did what he did. And the more I think about it too, we ain’t in the clear yet. We’ve got men down, we’ve got enemies out for our blood, and we still don’t know what Project Nightmare is, or how we tie into it. So we gotta put it behind us and deal with the issue here, ‘cause it ain’t gonna resolve itself. So I guess all I want to say is this; I forgive you.” But then his tone hardened. “But do it again and we aren’t gonna be able to have this conversation again.”

The mood in the mess hall changed significantly. The tension all but evaporated, and though the scars were far from healed, Mal had done the honourable thing and put the past behind him so that they might better face the future. Andrews looked around and decided to pipe up.

“Just for the record, I didn’t betray you,” he said, and was met with scowls all around. He wisely decided to be quiet from that point on. Ignoring their interim engineer, Mal folded his arms and sat back in his chair.

“So the next thing is, welcome back, I guess,” he said with a note of disbelief in his voice, directly addressing Wash for the first time. Serenity’s pilot nodded and gave a small wave.

“Thanks, Mal,” he said lightly. “I just wanted to say how nice it is to see everybody again, and that I’m glad that this isn’t at all awkward.”

“You’re dead. So I’d say this a damn sight awkward,” said Jayne bluntly and oblivious to the sarcasm in Wash’s voice.

“I’m glad to see some of you haven’t changed much,” he said to no one in particular, and before Jayne could reply, Inara had sat forward.

“Not that it isn’t good to see you back,” she said. “But…how is it possible?”

“I watched you die,” said Mal in a subdued voice. Then he pointed at his first mate. “And you were stood right next to me, Zoe.”

Wash shrugged. “Like I keep telling Zoe, the last thing I remember is watching the front screen of the cockpit shatter and a spear coming towards me…next thing I know, I’m in the back of a van in Mithras with Zoe and Jayne pulling me out through the wreckage.” He spread his hands helplessly. “I’m as clueless as you are.”

“But we buried you,” muttered Simon. “It’s not a case of…not checking someone’s pulse, or using an instrument that isn’t correctly calibrated. We saw your body and we buried it in the ground.”

“No,” said Zoe, shaking her head. “We found a body. Not even I could tell if it was him or not. The Reavers had mutilated it too badly.” Mal noted that her hand was intertwined tightly with her husband’s.

Jayne’s face screwed up with disbelief. “So you’re telling me that the Alliance – in their infinite wisdom – saw that the pilot of a backwater piece of junk was still alive, despite being pierced through the ticker with a spear – that, by the way, found its way through the front screen of a spaceship – and decided to swipe him, switchin’ him with a torn up body that they just happened to have on hand…because, what? They liked his company so gorram much?”

Zoe glared at Jayne after his statement of denial. “I don’t know what happened,” she said in a low, dangerous voice. “All I know is what’s right in front of me. And that’s the only explanation that makes sense.”

Jayne looked to Mal and pointed at Wash. “We oughta lock him up,” he commented, and Zoe drove a fist angrily into the table.

“Everyone calm down,” advised Mal. Jayne shrugged.

“What? After everythin’ that’s just happened, you’re tellin’ me that it’s some big coincidence that Wash miraculously returns to us? And that it’s somehow completely unrelated to what’s goin’ on out there?”

“Captain…” warned Zoe, but Mal once again found himself in the position of playing peacekeeper.

“No one’s gettin’ locked up anywhere,” he stated, a statement that was accompanied by a huff from Jayne. “But I gotta agree with Jayne. I don’t believe in miracles, and this isn’t a coincidence. We have to figure this out.”

“I told you,” growled Zoe. “It’s what that bitch Operative was using against me to make me do what I did. It’s what the other one used when he made me release him.”

Inara shook her head gently. “We don’t even know why the Operative was doing what she was doing,” she said softly. “We don’t know what her plan was. Is. This could be the next stage in her scheme, being carried out from beyond her grave.”

“Well, one of us has that in common with her,” muttered Wash.

“Inara’s right,” said Mal. “If we want to figure out why you’re back with us, Wash, then we gotta figure out what she wanted with us.”

“Well good luck with that, seein’ as how she’s dead and all,” spoke Jayne.

“Not quite,” said Mal, producing the memory chip he had rediscovered in the cargo bay. Simon frowned.

“What is that?” asked the doctor.

“She gave it to me before she died,” said Mal. “The Operative, that is. She put it right in my hand, but then I got shot, and I dropped it when I got brought onto the ship. Found it in the cargo bat just now and asked our boy wonder to have a look at it. It’s been damaged, but there’s still some information on it.”

“Such as?” asked Inara.

“Lot of stuff we already knew. Some medical scans. Some stuff about Blue Sun paying for the operation while the Alliance collects the data. That there’s somethin’ more to Project Nightmare than just breeding those things, that it has an ultimate goal. Doesn’t say what it is, though. But it does say somethin’ about a cure. And it gives a location.”

Simon sat ramrod straight and stared intently at the Captain. “Kaylee?” he asked, and Mal nodded. Wash look confused.

“Wait a second, roll it back for the new guy,” he said. “A cure for what?”

“Zoe told you about what happened to Kaylee?” asked Simon, and Wash nodded.

“Well yeah, something about a…thing inside of her.” He grimaced. “You think that the Alliance isn’t great, but then you see what they did to River. Then Miranda. And just when you think you realise how bad they are, they do something like that to someone like Kaylee.”

“You’re not wrong,” said Mal. “But on this chip there’s hope of a cure for little Kaylee. Now it doesn’t say what it is, and I doubt, even if the thing was working properly, it would tell us what it is. I ain’t blind. This is her way of controlling us from beyond the grave. But I see what she threatened y’all with, or what she promised you. And if she can deliver someone from death in exchange for your help, Zoe, then I truly believe that there’s a cure out there for Kaylee. And River,” he added, looking at Simon. “All we gotta do is go out and find it.”

“Not that I’m all for finding these cures,” said Inara, “But wouldn’t that be playing right into her hands? Won’t we be doing exactly what she wants?”

Mal pursed his lips. “Yes,” he replied. When he didn’t elaborate, Inara spread her hands wide.

“And…?” she asked. “Isn’t that what we should be avoiding doing?”

Mal sat back down in his chair. “’Cause I’m tired of this,” he said almost wearily. “The waiting. We got no leads, ‘sides the ones she’s fed us. No information on the Project. And the Alliance is leavin’ us alone. And that I don’t like more than anything else. So either we follow her breadcrumbs like good little rats in her maze, or we figure out a lead of her own. I’ve spent the last days trying to think of one, and I got nothin’.” He sat forward with fire in his voice. “So I say we follow her trail. Right to the end. And then we blow this thing wide open, just like we did at Miranda.”

“Ballsy,” said Jayne, grinning. “I like it.”

“Surely there’s another way?” asked Inara.

“By all means,” said Mal generously. “I’ll even walk you through what I’ve been thinking.”

“Please, enlighten us,” said Simon. Mal stood up and started to pace around the table.

“This whole thing started with that job to shift the cargo crate across the system, right? We took the first job hauling those necklaces, the kind Kaylee wore when she was given one as a bonus, and then the second time the crate was filled with those things.” he mused. “But on our way to Beaumonde Harvey took it, and we all know how that worked out for everyone. But we went ahead and visited the guy who we were supposed to deliver the crate to anyway, to try and explain the situation.”

Jayne was frowning, trying to recall the events through the haze of what had happened since. “Yeah,” he said slowly. “He was real surprised to see us. Reckon he thought we’d be dead on the way when his crate opened up.”

“The Operative – the male one – said that’s how they made the creatures for Project Nightmare,” said Zoe, also casting her mind back. “They rope in smugglers and haulers with the promise of a quick, easy freight job, and between destinations the crate opens up, exposing the crew to the things inside. The Alliance picks up the derelict vessel, and waits for the creatures to spawn.”

“Exactly,” said Mal. “Except because of Harvey we missed our curtain call and made it to our destination. Then our contact went and started talking to a certain robotic voice that told him to kill us, and I reckon that’s the same voice that told the Alliance to leave us be just a few days ago.”

“Why the change in attitude?” asked Simon. “First wanting us dead, and now helping us?”

“Because of what the Operative said,” replied Inara. “The woman. She told me when she visited me on the New Independent’s base that it was becoming too difficult to simply kill us, so they decided to use us in another capacity. Something that ties in with what Project Nightmare is going to do. That’s why she started manipulating us all. She was trying to collectively make us do whatever it is that will bring Nightmare to its conclusion.”

“So that’s our one other lead,” said Mal. “The robotic voice. Not our best option for clues, but there it is. And I got no clue about how to go about makin’ a call to speak to it.”

Jayne sighed. “You’re tellin’ me that all of this time passed and there’s nothin’ else for us to go on?”

Mal shook his head. “No, there’s something else. But I wanted to talk that out with you all before I brought it up.” He held up the chip. “There’s an audio file on here.”

This piqued Simon’s interest. “From the Operative?”

“Guess so,” replied Mal. “Now I’m gonna play it. Anyone who doesn’t want to hear this should leave now.”

Despite the tingle running down their spines, no one left their seat. Mal moved to the wall console and plugged the small device into the appropriate socket. Then he leaned against the wall as words began to play from the speakers.

“Captain,” came forth the silky voice of the female Operative who had plagued them until her demise. “If you are hearing this message then I am dead. And that is unfortunate, because it means I have not completed my mission.

“Before I proceed, allow me to explain. You must understand that I hold no malice towards you or your crew. If any fatalities occurred during the course of my operation then I must apologise. It was my desire for you to find yourselves intact once you completed your objective, because frankly, the more of you there are, the better it is for the Project. As for your fates once my part of the Project was completed, I cannot say.

“Thus you will find on this data chip the necessary information to restore River Tam to her former condition. You will find details of a bank account with a large sum of money wired into it, for the personal use of Jayne Cobb. And you will find the location of an Alliance prisoner named Hoban Washburne. These things I promised to your crew, and I have delivered them. I do this in the knowledge that now I cannot exert control over any of you. The only thing I will say in addition is this; more than the others, Zoe, I deceived you. I would advise that you do not probe too deeply, or that deception will break.

“In truth, I am delivering these things to you for one reason. If I am dead, it means I met my end at the hands of the Rogue, and it is unacceptable for me to think that, without me there to protect you from his influence, he might commandeer my work to further his own ends. Now he cannot manipulate you in the same way I did to you.

“It is imperative that you proceed to the end of Project Nightmare with haste. The only thing I now have to use against you is that, five days after my death, the Alliance Navy will be ordered to open fire on your ship on sight. If the goal of Project Nightmare has not been fulfilled by this time, then your lives are to be forfeit.

“Good luck to you all.”

The recording hissed and crackled into silence, and Mal replaced the memory chip from the wall into his pocket.

“So?” he asked. “Anyone wanna wait for the deadline to pass? She died three days ago. Leaves us forty-eight hours to wrap everything up nicely.”

Simon stared dumbly at the table, his fatigue showing more than ever in his face. “They’ll destroy us…” he muttered. “It doesn’t…I mean, would they just throw away everything they’ve done like that…?”

“Yes they would,” said Mal. “We’re nothin’ to them, despite everything. And if anyone here was under any delusions that we might all survive the next week, then I have to shatter your fantasy now. This is the big league. We’re in too deep now to ever get out. People are gonna die. Let’s just make sure we take as many down with us as we can.”

There was a subdued silence as everyone contemplated their collective fate.

“Let’s do it,” said Zoe in a low, determined voice. “They’ve taken too much from us by now. Let’s make ‘em hurt for it.”

Mal looked to Wash, and though their pilot had just returned to them, he was nodding resolutely alongside his wife. Inara was almost smiling.

“I never thought I’d end up in a situation like this,” she said wryly. “I guess this is what happens when you associate with shady characters.”

Mal smiled lopsidedly, recognising Inara’s statement of intent to carry on with their journey.

“I guess I’ll come too,” said Jayne. This time Mal was genuinely surprised.

“You do remember the part where you have an enormous sum of money?” asked the Captain, and Jayne nodded.

“Yeah. I don’t wanna talk about it,” he said gruffly.

“Doc?” asked Mal. “How ‘bout it?”

“Of course,” said Simon simply. He stood and extended his hand. “Can I have the device?”

Mal handed the memory chip to the doctor. “Get our destination from it and put it in the main computer,” he instructed. “We leave immediately.”

They all rose from the mess table, each with their own tasks, but none as pressing as Simon’s, who moved quickly to his bunk where his sister lay in her enforced coma.

.:-:.:-:.:-:.

Some time later, Simon had analysed the contents of the memory device and extracted the cure for River from it. His younger sibling had been taken by the Alliance at a young age and kept at the mysterious ‘Academy’, where they had done God knows what to her. As a result she was, at best, mentally disturbed, and had been taught a range of skills that involved a great skill at fighting, proficiency with firearms, and computer decryption.

Everything that a covert agent would need for infiltration, in short. Perhaps even an assassin. But Simon didn’t want to think about it. Another symptom of River’s condition was that she was susceptible to various stimuli that made her behave in different ways. When the very first Operative they had encountered was hunting for River, he had encoded a common advert with a visual pulse that had made River go berserk, attacking the inhabitants of a spacer bar. However, she was also vulnerable to code words, such as the one Simon had used to incapacitate her during her rampage. He was only privy to a select few of these words, and apparently the female Operative had used another to render River completely inert, to the point that her brain had started to slowly die.

Simon didn’t know how the Alliance had done it, but they had encoded River with the programming that made her mind slowly kill itself. And the cure, amazed as he had been to learn it, was a simple cocktail of drugs that were widely available even in a Firefly’s limited infirmary. The exact combination was harmless to a human – indeed, the cocktail also had no positive effect on the human physiology that Simon could determine. But if he had to guess, River’s body had been trained to respond to visual and auditory triggers, so it was not beyond the realm of possibility to imagine that the girl had been programmed to respond to chemical stimulus, too.

He had administered the cure, and now all he could do was wait for her to rouse from her vegetative state. As he climbed the ladder leading up from his bunk he felt a mixture of terror and immense relief – the latter because he might finally have his sister back, but the former because he had no idea what the drug cocktail might do to her. He was at his wits end, and having researched frantically for the past three days, almost without sleep, and coming up empty handed, he had no other option but to trust that the slimy Operative’s miraculous cure would have the desired effect.

He rounded the corner into the stairwell that led down into the cargo bay and nearly jumped out of his skin when he came face to face with Cullen.

“Oh!” he exclaimed, steadying himself against the bulkhead. “You startled me.”

Cullen shrugged. “Sorry,” he said. “I actually came to find you. Do you have a minute?”

Simon pointed towards the stairs. “I’m just on my way down to the infirmary,” he replied. The memory device held information about Kaylee’s condition, and though his body desperately needed sleep, he couldn’t abandon his quest for knowledge. Even though River appeared to be cured, there was still a woman he cared about who was suffering from a mysterious ailment.

Cullen nodded and smiled amiably. “That’s fine.” They began to walk down the steps that fed out onto the cargo bay gangway. “Where is everyone else?” asked the teenager.

“Busy,” said Simon. It occurred to him that he had never really interacted with their mysterious passenger before now.

“But the ship is so quiet,” he was saying. “It’s like a ghost ship,” he joked.

“Ah, yes,” said Simon. “Well, everyone has their area to be getting on with. Andrews is in the engine room, Mal and Zoe and Wash are all on the bridge plotting our next course. I don’t know where Jayne is. Or Inara.”

“They were in the mess hall,” informed Cullen. “I think Jayne was cleaning the weapons.”

Simon nodded. “Yes…that sounds like Jayne.”

They started down the next set of stairs, leading down into the cargo bay.

“Is your sister cured?” asked Cullen politely. “She’s in your bunk, right?”

“Yes. I have my hopes, but I really can’t be sure,” said Simon. “Anything from the Alliance is always dubious, I find. At least recently.”

“You never used to think that?” enquired Cullen as they stepped onto the bottom deck of the ship. Simon shook his head.

“No. I supported Unification. But after everything I’ve seen…”

Cullen shrugged. “My parents also supported Unification,” he said. “I’m not sure what I think. The war happened before my time.”

“Well, you should spend a couple of years travelling with Mal,” snorted Simon. “He seems to find the worst of the Alliance and expose it for all to see. Even when he isn’t trying to do it, it happens.”

They stepped through the door separating the cargo bay from the communal area, in which was the entrance to the infirmary.

“What about…Kaylee, is it?” asked the youth.

“She’s in here,” said Simon, pointing to the infirmary. “In cryogenic suspension. It’s actually why I came down here. We might have found some information that could lead to a cure.”

The doctor stepped inside the infirmary, and after casting a long glance at either end of the room outside, Cullen followed him inside. Simon moved to one of the consoles, eager to begin his research. As he called up the relevant data on his screen, something occurred to him. “Didn’t you want something?” Simon called absently over his shoulder as Cullen silently moved to an instrument tray and removed a scalpel from the rows of equipment.

The teenager scanned the room and spotted what looked like a regular cargo crate stored underneath the right hand bed. He pointed to it as he hid the blade in his hand, holding against his inner arm.

“Is that her?” he asked.

Simon turned to face the youth. “What? Yes,” he answered, frowning. “Why do you want to know so much about where everyone is?”

Cullen flashed forward, the blade shining in his hand. Simon never had a chance. The scalpel sliced through his throat, severing his carotid artery and his larynx in one motion. Simon lurched back, his hands automatically seeking his throat in an attempt to stem the flow of blood erupting from his neck, but Cullen had caught the doctor as he fell, careful not to make any noise. Simon tried to call out, even just to give life to his mortal pain, but his severed larynx was incapable of producing any sound. Cullen gently lay Simon on the ground as the strength quickly evaporated from his body, his skin fading paler by the second as a shocking amount of blood escaped his body. It gathered in a pool beneath Simon, soaking into his clothes, and he could feel the warm, sticky substance gather and seep into his back, and the last thing he ever felt was the intense, metallic sting in his nostrils.

Within a minute, Simon gave one last lurch, and his last breath ached from his body. His lifeless eyes stared up at the ceiling, his expression locked in a mixture of shock and deep regret for all eternity.

Cullen rose emotionlessly from the corpse of the doctor and moved to the right hand table. He knelt next to the container that held the ship’s engineer and started to alter the settings located on the side with great intent. The temperature started to rise within the crate, and the dial for the sedatives was locked into its delivery position.

The teenager rose from the crate with the knowledge that soon Kaylee would either boil alive or die from an overdose of tranquillisers. He moved to the entrance of the room. The pool of Simon’s blood had seeped to cover almost the entire floor, and Cullen was covered with the substance. He cast a furtive glance outside of the infirmary, and seeing that the way was clear, removed his shirt. A second layer of clothing was revealed underneath the first, unstained by blood, and he discarded the first shirt, tossing it carelessly onto the deck. He carefully removed his left shoe, stepped outside with that foot, and then took off his right shoe. The teenager threw the bloodstained footwear inside with the shirt, and then pulled down his trousers. Except for the fact that he was barefoot, he was now blood-free and wearing a new, untainted set of clothing.

Cullen slid the door to the infirmary closed and sealed it, locking his original outfit and the two corpses inside, no emotion showing on his face. He moved towards the steps and took them two at a time, emerging at the entrance to the engine room. A glance to his right showed that Jayne and Inara could not see the compartment from where they sat, and he could hear Andrews puttering around inside. With seasoned speed, Cullen strode with purpose on catlike feet into the engine room. Andrews’ back was turned to the door. The teenager swept close to the New Independent’s body, wrapped his left arm around his neck and placed his right hand over the engineer’s ear. Before he could even make a sound, Cullen twisted brutally, severing Andrews’ neck. He caught the weight of the older man’s body and clamped his mouth tightly closed, as to contain the noise of any death throes.

Andrews went limp in Cullen’s arms, lifeless, and the youth dragged his body behind the central engine column where it would remain concealed, unless someone set out to find it with a purpose. The teenager removed the pistol from the engineer’s belt and tucked it into his trousers at the small of his back. He moved to the panel that had been set up to accept the instruction to overload the engines on command – the self-destruct mechanism the New Independents had installed onto the ship. It asked for a confirmation code, but Cullen reached into depths of his knowledge store and retrieved the skills that would easily allow him to bypass the complicated system set into place. With the command set, all that needed to be done was press the button set into the panel, which Cullen did. With the sequence primed, there were only five minutes before the engines reached critical mass and detonated, destroying the entire ship.

Just as he stepped back from the console, he heard someone approach the hatch. He quickly checked where he had stowed Andrews’ body to determine if it was visible, but he had been careful enough. Wash emerged in the threshold.

“Oh, hey,” said the recently returned pilot. “You seen Andrews? I need to talk to him about…pilot stuff.”

Cullen shrugged, easing back into his affable-teenager personality. “Not sure,” he said. “I’m looking for him myself. Maybe he went down to the infirmary?”

Wash frowned. “Why there?”

Cullen shrugged. “Why not?”

“Touché,” replied the pilot wryly. He stepped out into the stairway and Cullen joined him.

“I’ll come with you,” said the teenager as they started down the stairs.

“Sure. What do you need him for?” asked Wash as they rounded the corner and began their final descent that would lead them into the common area outside the infirmary.

Without warning Cullen forced his elbow into the side of Wash’s head, connecting firmly with the pressure point in his temple. Stunned, he almost lost his balance, but Cullen grabbed his shoulders and forced him to half stumble, half fall down the remainder of the steps.

When they reached the bottom deck, Cullen seized Wash’s head between his hands and rammed it into the metallic corner of the bulkhead, delivering a fatal amount of force to the pilot’s sensitive temple. Worry almost crossed Cullen’s now emotionless expression as he took hold of Wash’s legs and dragged his body so it sat slumped against the wall, hidden from obvious view if anyone came down the stairs from the engine room.

The teenager hurried back up the stairs and this time hung right, emerging in the mess hall. Inara and Jayne, oblivious to what was going on scant metres away from them. Jayne barely looked up from where he had disassembled almost every weapon on the ship, cleaning and maintaining the broken down components of the pistols and rifles.

Inara, however, had more time for the teenager. She looked up from where she sat reading in the small area set off to the side of the main dining table and smiled sweetly.

“Good afternoon, Cullen,” she said. He returned the smile.

“How can you even tell what time it is out here?” he asked.

“Oh, you get used to it,” said Mal as he walked into the room. “Passage of time and all that.”

“And good afternoon to you, too, Mal,” she said. He grunted.

“What’ve you got?” he asked. Inara looked down at the pages she held in her hands.

“Nothing and more nothing,” she replied. “The information the Operative gave to you is doing its job well. There’s enough interest to pique curiosity, but nothing concrete enough to pursue. You said it was damaged?” Mal nodded. “Maybe she harmed it deliberately, so it looks like there was more here originally. All of the sensitive information is conveniently located in the damaged sectors of the memory device.”

“Hmm,” said Mal, as if it was all he was expecting Inara to say. “Well, keep lookin’, I guess. She might have missed something.”

But they both knew there wasn’t much hope of finding anything new in something provided to them by the Operative. The only thing that had foiled her had been the Rogue, someone with as much training as she in her particular vocation. And little did they know that another instrument of the Rogue’s plan currently stood next to them, his hand falling idly to the pistol he had hidden at the back of his trousers. Mal walked away from Inara towards Jayne.

“How’s it going?” he asked. The big mercenary shrugged.

“How’s it look like it’s going?” he replied crossly. He pointed to the right hand side of the table. “Those are done, and the others aren’t yet.”

Mal frowned. “You’ve only done three guns?”

“What’s the rush?” asked Jayne angrily, and Mal shrugged.

“Don’t get so defensive, Jayne,” he mocked, and then the joviality faded from his expression.

“Don’t tell me what to…” started Jayne, but Mal held up a hand.

“Shh,” instructed Mal.

“Didn’t I just say not to…?” stormed Jayne, but Mal’s expression drove him into silence.

“Shut up!” snapped Mal. He listened carefully for a few moments. “Do you hear that?” he asked.

“Oh, can I speak now?” asked Jayne sarcastically. Mal glared at him.

“Listen,” the Captain instructed.

Jayne’s ears strained for several moments. “I don’t hear anything,” he said after a genuine attempt.

“The engines are out,” said Mal, still focussed on what only he could hear.

“No they ain’t,” asserted Jayne, confused. “I can hear them.”

“Not out out, I mean they’re not workin’ properly.”

“Where’s Zoe?” asked Cullen suddenly, breaking the course of the conversation. Mal scowled at the youth and pointed vaguely to his right.

“On the bridge,” he said. “Why’d you want to know, anyway?”

Without saying another word, Cullen produced the pistol he was hiding in his right hand, and without even looking, he fired three times to the side, piercing Inara twice through the heart and once in the forehead. She was dead before the first gunshot had consciously registered in her mind. As the Companion slid from her chair, lifeless to the ground, the sirens that signified the imminent overload of the engines began to sound, and the engine coolant began to escape from the pipes that fed throughout the ship. Heavy smoke started to rupture and pour from the walls, bathing the air with toxic fumes.

Mal’s eyes filled with shock and loss and pain, and Cullen’s pistol swept around to deliver lethal shots to the two men before him but Jayne’s senses proved too fast even for the augmented teenager. He pulled Mal to the ground and swept the arrayed pieces of weaponry along with him as they fell, brushing the three functioning guns with him.

Cullen fired accurately, but the cover Jayne had fallen behind shielded the two men from harm. The teenager strode purposefully towards their hiding place as Jayne frantically loaded one of the pistols and Mal heaved his own personal weapon from its holster. They both erupted from cover as one, firing wildly at the errant teenager. Cullen ducked behind the wall of the kitchen, taking shelter from their assault. Jayne worked backwards towards the bridge, but Mal, blinded by grief, moved forwards towards the fallen Inara.

“Mal!” roared Jayne from the threshold, but it was too late for the Captain. Intent on punishing the one responsible for Inara’s death, Mal moved too close to where Cullen lay in waiting, and the youth was able to grab Mal’s wrist, squeezing tightly and forcing the weapon from his grasp. His other palm Cullen jabbed into Mal’s throat, and the older man fell back gagging for air. Defenceless and defeated, he could only spit his last breath at Cullen as the boy shot him point blank in the chest. Without pausing Cullen moved forward over the Captain as Mal’s life abandoned him, through the ever increasing smog in the air as Jayne pointed his pistol around the corner from where he huddled for cover and fired blindly.

Cullen’s senses analysed the situation in a split second, and he fired expertly across the room and found his target – Jayne’s foot stuck out from around the cover he hid behind, and the bullet shredded the man’s heel. Jayne howled with pain and, his balance lost, he fell forward into the range of Cullen’s fire. His scream of pain died as he did – Cullen’s next round found its way through Jayne’s throat and the mercenary was dead before he hit the ground.

The teenager raced forward, intent on completing his mission, into the corridor leading to the bridge. He crouched and took aim at the entrance to the control hub of the ship.

“Zoe!” he cried in a scared voice, though his face betrayed no emotion. “Help us!”

The first mate, having heard the gunshots, was waiting behind cover on the bridge to assess the situation before she charged headlong into a situation she knew nothing about. But hearing a familiar voice, and because Mal and Jayne had never had time to shout a warning to her about what they now knew about Cullen, she emerged from her cover in order to give aid to her crew.

As her head came out from behind the doorway, one more shot echoed from Cullen’s weapon and it found its target with deadly accuracy – without even knowing who had killed her, Zoe had received a bullet to the brain and went to join her husband in whatever afterlife existed for them.

Cullen worked quickly along to the second hatch on the left and kicked the entry so it fell open. He deftly descended the ladder into Simon’s bunk, and with the last round in his weapon, he aimed at the prone form of River Tam.

Time seemed to slow to a halt even as the automated computer made an announcement that the ship was going to be imminently destroyed, breaking apart under the pressure of its overloading engines, and River sat up, her eyes still closed.

Expressionless, Cullen took careful aim with his weapon and squeezed the trigger. The bullet exploded out of the barrel of the gun, sped through the cabin and as it shattered through River’s skull, devastating the bone and lancing through her brain, she sat up screaming in bed, her hands trying to bat away the burning hot metal as it penetrated her thoughts.

Though she was frightened, it quickly became obvious that she was still alive, and she cast her eyes about her, trying to find some reference point to reality as she fought off sobs of terror. She was in Simon’s bunk. Quite how she knew that she didn’t know, but she did.

“There must be a hole in here,” she muttered, calming herself, feeling at the sides of her head. “It leaks in from nowhere.”

There was no voice warning of the imminent destruction of the ship. No smog in the air. No gunfire.

River had seen what was going to happen if she didn’t act, right now, to deter it. She stood up from the bed and stared resolutely at the hatch that would let her out into the rest of the ship. Let loose in the corridors of this vessel was a scrawny teenaged stranger who was going to take away the only people who had ever truly cared for River. Who had kept her safe when she was incapable of taking care of herself. Who she had defended to the death against all odds. He was going to breeze in and take it all away without even a moment of malice within him, because he had been programmed to do so.

“Not on my watch,” she said with a voice of steel.

A/N:

Sorry for the length but there was a lot to cover and it wouldn’t have worked in two smaller chapters.