To Chapter One

*****

They made their way through the tunnels at something between a trot and a run, Simon on one side, the captain on the other, able for the most part to navigate the slight slope toward the center and avoid the water. As the minutes passed and no troops burst through the ceiling, Simon’s nerves relaxed just enough for his thought process to resume.

It had been a near thing, their escape from the market. Whoever had recognized him had been shrewd enough to contact the authorities rather than raise his own hue and cry. Simon had been oblivious until the signature step-and-jingle of fast-moving soldiers had raised the hairs on his neck, and by then troops were closing in on the market stall where he was sifting through medical supplies. He had bolted for the rear, thinking to duck under the tables and into the next street, when the shooting started. A tower display of stethoscopes had crashed down to his left, and he looked to see Mal behind it, gun drawn, bellowing at him to run. And run he had, concealed in the noise and confusion of the surging crowd…

There was no noise here, no sound other than the scuff of their own footfalls, the rhythm of their breathing. Now and then the captain would pause to scan one of the wall maps, confirming that their route was still leading them to the outskirts northwest of the port. About half an hour in, he scaled a few rungs to listen at a manhole, but descended shaking his head. “Bu ha,” he whispered “Can’t hear through those things; can’t risk opening one just yet.”

Simon glanced up at the metal circle and tried to imagine what scene was playing out above their heads. Were their images being flashed around the Cortex, thrust in front of strangers rounded up on the streets? Were soldiers stationed, even now, at every tunnel exit, waiting to arrest them should they emerge?

Mal, meanwhile, moved with determination, although whether he had anything more in mind than seeing what was around the next bend, Simon couldn’t say. That was the thing about men like Mal: they rose to a challenge as to a fight, leading with a sense of purpose even when they seemed to have none. Radiating abrasiveness, daring the ‘verse to contradict them. Of course, in Simon’s experience the ‘verse nearly always took Mal up on that dare. Still, he followed, reasoning that if the captain did not effect their escape, it would at least be a brisk walk into hell; a more direct route to his inevitable arrest than racing wildly through St. Lucy’s with Jayne, or wandering on his own, escorting a cryogenic chamber…

He stumbled slightly and registered that the incline beneath his feet had changed. “We’re going downhill,” he whispered.

“Yeah,” Mal answered. “Picked up on that a ways back. Tunnel’s widened. More water, too.” He ran his fingers along the wall. “Got a theory.”

Simon waited for Mal to elaborate, knowing that he wouldn’t. Maddeningly certain, in fact, that he would simply expect Simon to acquiesce without explanation. Slogging through a sewer, on the run from trigger-happy Feds, Simon suddenly found he had no patience for the “because I’m the Captain” game.

“Were you perhaps going to enlighten me, or is it just an abstract speculation with no bearing on our little adventure here?”

Mal barely bothered with a smirk. “It’s of no worry, doc. Unless it rains...” he held his palms out in a shrug “…and you can’t swim.”

Simon looked anew at the walls and floor of the tunnel. The downward slope was more pronounced. “Flood control,” he realized. “Carrying floodwaters out of town.”

“Got to be near the end of it,” Mal confirmed. “The slope and the size, more tunnels feeding in.” He indicated a shelf cut into the tunnel wall three quarters of the way up, large enough to hold two crouching men. “Lifesaver niches. It all explains the maps. Lights show which tunnels are open, which are closed.”

Simon looked at a wall map as they passed, not wanting to dwell on the idea of tunnels being closed off, particularly tunnels filled with water. He suddenly recalled stories of children drowning in the Osirus Aqueducts. “I, uh,” he cast about for anything to clear the images from his mind, “I didn’t think this technology was being employed out here.”

Mal stiffened. “’Course not,” he said, and his voice was suddenly bitter. “No need for flood control on a rim world. Just let the natives do a dance, or burn something in effigy, that usually dries things up.”

Simon drew up in disbelief. How Mal managed to so quickly and easily twist a casual comment into an anti-Rim slur amazed him. “I wasn’t implying---”

“’Course,” Mal spoke over him as he walked away, “our solution is generally not to build where we expect it’ll flood, but the Alliance’d rather build where they want, wrestle nature into submission after the fact.”

“What?” Simon jogged to catch up. “Is it lost on you that we’re running from the Alliance, together? How did this turn into a civics discussion of growth patterns and public work---”

“Stop!” Mal’s arm was blocking his way again. Simon was about to shove him out of the way when he heard it too, farther down the corridor. The rasp of metal sliding against metal, and the peal of boots on ladder rungs. No. Simon gaped, the panic he had so recently suppressed leaping back in force. They’d found them. The Alliance had found them. Gift-wrapped, bowed, and already in a hole in the ground.

To Chapter Three