SERENITY

“Sun, Stand Thou Still”
by R. John Burke

DISCLAIMER: Firefly/Serenity is a creation of Joss Whedon and a copyright of Fox & Universal. I don't own these characters, and this is just fan fiction. No money is involved, no infringement intended.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is my first attempt at writing a serious Firefly story and, much as I love the 'verse, I haven't spent much time in the fandom. So if there's weird stuff here, particularly about Book's past, that doesn't sit right with you... well, it's all wildly speculative. Please be gentle. ;-)

--

New Olympia Colony
0600 Local Time
Toward the End of the Unification War

The sun hadn't even thought about rising over New Olympia's craggy skyline, the air still reverberated with the song of crickets and, somewhere off in the distance, the howling of some settler's dog, and the air was cold enough to frost every breath out of Sergeant Malcolm Reynolds' mouth. He gazed across the landscape, taking in the stars and the flag of the 57th Overland, and grinned. Then he knelt down and started cleaning his rifle.

In a matter of moments, he could strip it down, polish it, and reassemble it in the dark. He could pick a flea off a toad's back, too, if he had any mind to waste good ammo on splattering vermin. Since he didn't, he only sighted with the rifle and left the rest to his imagination.

“If only your momma could see you now, huh, sir?” said a voice behind him, and Mal laughed.

“She'd whip me good. My mother was a Christian woman who raised me up to be a decent, well-mannered man.”

“Huh,” said Corporal Zoe Alleyne slowly. “What happened?”

Mal snapped the last piece of the rifle into place. “The Alliance, I reckon.”

“No, sir.”

He glanced up at her. “No, sir?”

“No, sir.” Zoe shook her head. “Most of us, we'd be staying out of trouble if the Alliance had kept its place. I'd probably be killing Reavers on some shiny rock. Makes me weep to think on it. But you, sir? I expect a man like you is just born to be unhappy. If there weren't any dragons to fight, you'd make one up.”

Mal considered her words, shrugged, and said, “Might be something to that. How're the troops?”

Zoe helped him to his feet and glanced back at their tattered assemblage of tents. “In good spirits, I'd say. Good spirits and skinny bodies.”

“That's as may be. How many we facing?”

“Division HQ isn't sure. Nobody's sure. Depends on the number of drop ships, and the pool's going strong anywhere from four to a million.”

Mal nodded slowly. “How'd you bet?”

“I didn't.” The corporal did some quick calculations in her head. “Reckon there's got to be ten or twelve, else they're chasing a fox with a rabbit. Been a while since the Alliance sent us a commander that -feng le.-”

“A body can dream, though.” Mal sighed. “Twice our numbers. That'll be a shindig. 'Course, I hear one Browncoat can whip a dozen of those people, so that leaves us a six to one edge.”

Zoe laughed. It was not a happy sound. She didn't comment on her sergeant's assessment of the odds, but he could imagine that, too. Mal decided to change the subject.

“Anybody run off last night?”

His corporal looked unhappy. “Two more-- Hoskins and Pardee. Whole company's buzzing. Nobody figured Hoskins for a coward. Next time I see that -hun dan-, he might have a little accident. Just telling you in advance.”

Mal waved a hand. “Let it go, Zoe.”

“Wasn't asking you, sir. Like I say, just telling.”

“Let it go.” He turned to her. “Now look... you know he's a -hun dan- and I know he's a -hun dan-, but I don't reckon this whole fight's worth anything if a man's not free to be a -hun dan- in this 'verse.”

Zoe regarded him with some amusement. “Takes one to know one... sir.”

“I don't want anybody with us who don't want to be with us,” Mal said. He took a deep breath and blew it out as a cloud of steam. “We'll fight this on our merits. That's how we'll stand or fall.”

“Ah,” said Zoe. She started walking away, tossing over her shoulder: “Ask me, we're all in -yi da tuo da bian”
Mal nodded amiably, then turned out to the skyline once more. Two hours, no more, and then those purple-bellies would start falling from the sky and crawling all over the land like so many maggots. His soldiers, he knew, were well-protected here in the foothills, with good position and high ground. They could hold for a good, long while. Once -enough- maggots showed, however, the Alliance would flank them, and then they'd have to abandon the position to find another. Then they'd try to hold that one.

Eventually, if the Alliance wanted New Olympia bad enough, they'd come in such force that the Browncoats couldn't hold the planet itself. So they'd have to find some other rock, and the Alliance would pursue them there.

Mal frowned, as Zoe's pessimism stuck to his good mood and turned it sour. And what if, just maybe, the Alliance decided it wanted the whole damn galaxy that bad? What then? What if they flanked every Independent world in the 'verse? If that happened, there'd be nothing the Browncoats could realistically do about it. It would only be a matter of time.

When the time elapsed, would there be -anyplace- left where a man like him could live free, asking nothing but his own, without some paternal government stooge looking over his shoulder? Would that kind of life be possible?

-They'll have to fight through us to take it away,- Mal decided, -and they don't have that kind of fight in 'em. They just don't.-

He told himself this not because it was true, but because on some level, Malcolm Reynolds remained a man who believed in miracles. Not as much as he had at the beginning of the war, but some. He decided it would have to be enough, and headed after Zoe to rally his troops.

--

Some distance away, on a cruiser not yet in orbit of New Olympia, a good man died. At least, he seemed like a good man; Jubal Early didn't know him well. Trouble was, the good folks of the Alliance disagreed on that point. As near as Early could figure, they meant to keep him locked up 'till they proved he was thick as thieves with the dead man. That might take a while, since Early was doing his level best to recall the man's first name, without much luck.

“Pauley?” he mumbled. “Peter? Started with a P.”

The Alliance officer who'd had the man shot stepped over his body. “Something coming back to you, Mr. Early?”

Early shook his head. “Not a damn thing.”

“Well, that's a shame. You're welcome to attempt escape, as your friend did...”

“Thank you, I like myself in this many pieces.” To prove it, Early leaned back and wrapped his arms behind his head and stared at the fellow.

The officer-- a tall, puffy captain named Jarvis whose hair was rapidly fleeing his head-- gestured to a couple of crewers, and they took the body.

“Not a brave man, then. I thought all you Browncoats were supposed to be indomitable.”

Early shrugged. “Told you already. I'm not a Browncoat. I just got caught in their net.”

“What an unfortunate turn of events. Nearly believable, too.” Jarvis peered at him. “Come on, Early. Why not end this? We'll treat you well. You've seen how we handle cooperative men... and how we handle brave men like Parker.”

Early snapped his fingers. “Parker! -That's- the -hun dan's- name! Thank you!”

“You're a bad actor, Early. We'll cure you of--”

Jarvis took one step too close while he talked, and Jubal Early -moved-. In a second, he was at the captain's throat, pounding on him with days' worth of pent-up rage, and it took both crewers to separate them. Jarvis spat out a couple of his own teeth. It did Early's heart a world of good.

“You'll pay for that,” the captain said.

“You'll just have to understand, -I'm not any damn Browncoat!- I never saw them, I never worked with them, I was in the wrong place at the wrong time!”

He trailed off into a string of Mandarin that made every veteran sailor in the room blush. That did Early's heart good, too.

Then a voice interrupted him, quiet and strong. “Captain Jarvis.”

Jarvis turned. A man stood at the back of the cell, a fellow with brown skin just a shade lighter than Early's own, careful eyes, and salt-and-pepper hair still trying to decide whether to tend toward white or dark gray. Early distrusted him instantly.

“Sir?” said Jarvis, automatically deferential although the man wore a plain shipboard uniform without military insignia.

“I don't think we have to worry about him, Captain. You can let him go.”

“But, sir, he's...”

“At your convenience, Captain,” said the man. It was not a request.

The captain made a face-- just barely perceptible, and quickly buried. With smoldering eyes, he nodded to Early... and stepped aside. Early hesitated, unable to believe this turn of luck, then slowly moved past the man, heading for open corridor. He turned to where the new arrival should have been, to nod his thanks...

The stranger wasn't there. He was between Early and the door. For the first time, Early noticed something strapped to his side... a sword? He froze.

“You gonna try to kill me?” Early asked the man.

A flicker of amusement there-- but only a flicker. “No, friend. I always keep my word. You're free to go.”

“Thank you.” Early started to step around him...

“Only...”

-Aiya,- Early thought. He forced a smile. “What?”

“I reckon we owe you a ride, since we've been so unfriendly. Someplace we can drop you?”

“Don't fret about that,” said Early. His eyes wouldn't quite leave the other man's.

“No, no, I insist. Someplace on New Olympia? Maybe you have kinfolk there?”

“Really not necessary.”

The man casually drew his sword, inspected it under the light, then sheathed it again. He never made a threatening gesture, but a chill raced up Early's spine.

“I insist,” he said. “I won't have you thinking the Alliance don't pay its debts. Jubal Early... now that's an interesting name. Goes all the way back to Earth-that-was. A general had that name. Robert E. Lee called him his 'Bad Old Man.' Tell me, Mister Early... are you a bad man?”

“Depends who's paying me,” Early said with a shrug.

The newcomer nodded. “Not a churchgoer, then?”

“Not much.”

“That's too bad. I admire a churchgoing man. It's been many years since I was one myself... but I admire it, the -belief-. Belief will take you far... if you know how to shepherd it. Do you know any shepherds, Early?”

Early swallowed hard. “Can't say I...”

-Swish-. The sword was out and at Early's throat. He'd had no more chance to react than Captain Jarvis had to his own attack. The pleasant expression never left the older man's face.

“Do you know any shepherds -now?-”

The blade rested exactly one centimeter from severing his jugular. Early felt a bead of sweat roll down his forehead and drip off his nose.

“Oh... -shepherds-. Nobody asked me about those.”

“I'm asking now,” said the man. “Must I raise my voice?”

Early shook his head. “I didn't know he was a Browncoat, I swear... if I'd known that's what all this was about...”

The man nodded slowly. “And the name of this non-Browncoat?”

Early thought for a second. This name came easier than the last. “Book, I think it was. Shepherd Book. Got a little mission, just outside of Hillview.”

Like that, the sword disappeared. The man smiled again. “Safe flight, Jubal Early. You work on that belief, now.”

Early mumbled something-- he wasn't sure just what-- and was out the door before he could think about it. He had the sense the man with the sword dismissed him from notice the moment he gave up Book's name. As for Jubal Early, it would be a long time before he forgot those careful eyes...

--

“What was that about?” Captain Jarvis muttered as he tried to stretch out his bruises.

The man with the sword, known to the captain only as an Operative of the Parliament, did him the courtesy of replying, which was more of a courtesy than one ordinarily got from an Operative:

“I have business to transact on New Olympia, Captain. Now I know where to begin. Tell me... why did you assume Early was a Browncoat?”

Jarvis shrugged. “Why else would the Parliament want him? He certainly looked the part.”

“Did he? I've never honed the talent of judging a man so quickly.”

“Bounty hunter, smuggler. Rabble. Out here, sir, you'll find they're usually easy to spot.”

“I thank you for the instruction,” said the Operative. He frowned at Jarvis' bruised face. “You might want to lead with your left next time.”

“Thank you very much. Your shuttle is already being prepped, sir, should you wish to depart.”

“Obliged,” said the Operative, and he left not a moment too soon.

--

1000 Local Time

The sun was bright, the air was clear and rapidly shifting from cold to hot, and Malcolm Reynolds was starting to key on the idea that somebody up there just didn't like him. He suspected it was the commander of the Alliance dropships, who'd thoughtfully landed about nine of them directly to his front. If there was one thing Mal hated, it was people shooting at him faster than he could shoot them back.

“ZOE!” he cried, as half a dozen purple-bellies converged on the rock he was using for cover.

No response. He hadn't seen his corporal since the firefight started. That didn't necessarily mean she was dead, but on the off chance she was, Mal was going to be upset. Seemed like it would save time if he went ahead and started being upset now.

The purple-belly on his right, for example, who had worked his way to within a few feet of Mal. He seemed like the perfect fellow to become upset with. Mal picked up a rock, turned, and threw it in the other direction. It hit with a -clack!-, causing all six Alliance soldiers to open fire. Meanwhile, Mal drew his knife and leapfrogged the rock, screaming like a wild man.

“Yeeeeeaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhh!!”

He hurled himself through the air and landed on the other soldier's back. His knife landed -in- the other soldier's back, which wasn't so much part of the plan, but it was a fortunate turn of events. Taking advantage while he could, Mal pulled a pistol out of the other man's holster and shot his nearest buddy, then used the body for a shield while he shot a third purple-belly with his own gun.

“Huh,” said Mal, impressed despite himself.

Then he remembered the other three. Staring down the barrels of their respective guns, he felt slightly less impressed.

“Ah, -ta ma de-...”

BANG!

That, fortunately, was not the sound of a dashing Browncoat getting shot, but the sound of his three mustache-twirling opponents getting converted into red mist by a grenade dropped neatly betwixt the three of them. Mal looked down at his hands-- retched a couple of times until he realized the blood wasn't his, then retched a couple more on general principles-- then rolled onto his back and started laughing.

“Zoe?”

“Here, sir,” she panted, coming up the rise behind him. “Am I late?”

“Anytime I got no holes in me is good time, Corporal.”

“Noted,” she said, and looked around. “Well, hell, sir, there were six of them, and you only killed half. Don't you owe the Cause nine more?”

In Mandarin, Mal suggested she perform several acts which were still of dubious legality on the more straitlaced colonies.

“You wish,” Zoe grunted, and scanned over the rise. “Lots more waiting. You want to say goodbye, or should I?”

“Save your ammo,” Mal said. “I aim to make some noise further up the road.”

Zoe was already fingering another grenade, but she nodded, and with a last, regretful glance down the hill, turned to rejoin the others. Mal glanced around at the body of the soldier he'd knifed, the men he'd shot, and the scattered remains of Zoe's save. It crossed his mind to wonder why it had to be this way-- why couldn't mankind put aside its petty differences, sit down at some comfy table, and talk things out like reasonable adults? He felt a sudden swell of regret that chilled his heart. Then he noticed the troops at the bottom of the hill setting up a mortar.

“Hell with it,” he said, dropped a grenade on them, and ran.

CONT'D