The dust cakes her boots as she strides down the street, just outside the main docklands area of New Dunsmuir. There's less bustle here; fewer tourists but plenty of nondescript company uniforms. Most of the buildings here are warehouses of one sort or another and the people who pass who are on their way to or from shifts, quietly absorbed in their own comings and goings. Units 9-11 unsurprisingly turn out to be a boxy grey building, absolutely nothing to distinguish it from all the others in this part of town. There's a door, brightly painted under a layer of the clinging yellowish dust. It bears a discreet plaque, telling her she's at the right address. She's tempted to head round the back, to the big bay doors. Assuming this offer is on the level, there'd be the business of loading and unloading going on. She could slip in relatively unnoticed, get the feel of the place... Legitimate business enterprise, she reminds herself. Tax-payers and everything, all legit. Even got its own small and typically clichéd article on the cortex. Wymann Inc, Transport Solutions – “We Get It Done.” Probably not going to be too impressed with a crew-member who takes it on her own initiative to spy out their operation. No Jayne, no (visible) guns, no sneaking around – on Inara's request. Zoe steels herself - You trust Inara, don't you? - and presses the intercom button next to the dusty blue door. “Wymann Industries,” says a slightly bored female voice. “Captain Reynolds,” she replies, “Here to see a Bill Wymann.” “One moment.” The door is opened by a slight girl with mousey hair, dressed neatly in a blue suit. “Please come in, Captain Reynolds,” she says, and it's the same voice that spoke over the intercom. Zoe follows her inside. To her surprise, she finds herself in what it obviously a waiting room. Blue chairs line the cream walls, several of them occupied. A receptionist's station occupies most of the central space, three more girls sitting behind screens. There's a look about most of the men seated that suggests they live on boats, like herself. Old-cut jackets and more than a couple are brown. She might even fond she's fought alongside some of the people hiding behind their beards or unnecessary sunglasses, if she decides to look more closely. Instead, Zoe takes the seat indicated by girl, trying not to show how wrong-footed the set-up has left her. It's mere moments before the receptionist calls Mal's name. “Captain Reynolds? Door on the right, thank you.” She pushes open the door carefully, shocked to find another woman seated at another desk. This one is blonde though, all smiles as she stands. Her teeth gleam, bright and white, beautifully blue eyes creasing slightly as she crosses to Zoe and extends her hand. “Bill Wymann,” she says. Zoe hides her surprise and takes the proffered limb; feels the soft skin under her own callused palm. “I was under the impression Captain Reynolds was male.” “I'm his first mate,” Zoe replies carefully, “He's indisposed at the moment.” Bill's smile remains steady. “Of course. So you must be Zoe?” “Yes.” “Inara's spoken of you in her letters. She seems to have enjoyed her time on your ship immensely. I confess, I can't quite understand why she chose to leave you.” “I believe she felt it was time to return to the Academy to pursue her ambitions there,” Zoe answers, face carefully blank. “Of course. I won't beat around the bush. We're an out-source transport chain for an Alliance supported company. Is that going to be a problem for your crew?” “We take work on the job, not who pays the wages,” Zoe says evenly, “What's the cargo?” Bill's smile quirks a little. “I want you to understand, whilst nothing is technically illegal it's something... Well, we'd rather the Alliance didn't have to know about it. The equipment we're moving in such quantities would be... damaging for our company client to be associated with and given the government funding... Awkward questions would be asked, that sort of thing. We're keen to avoid that. The cargo itself is mostly building material, some mildly hazardous products although nothing higher than Grade II listed. We've some staff that need passage too, if your crew is willing to take them on board.” “Where's the drop?” “It's a newly terra-formed moon, right on the rim,” Bill replies, “Out of the way. As I said, the facility being constructed is.... hush-hush. We specify a particular route for you to take.” She passes a piece of tele-paper over to Zoe, who gives it a cursory glance. “This ain't an easy journey,” Zoe responds, frown creasing her forehead, “Near to Reaver territory, passes mighty close to an asteroid belt too.” Bill nods in amiable agreement. “Which is why the payment we're offering is substantial. We're not expecting you to take these kind of risks for nothing.” “What is the payment?” “Five thousand credits upon delivery. Plus the costs of any repairs or modifications we both agree are necessary to Serenity to get her ready for the journey, and unlimited use of the company facilities at both pick-up and drop-off points.” Zoe swallows her initial response, keeping the flicker of shock off her face. “Well, I'll have to discuss it with my Captain.” “Of course. Keep the paper, it has all the details. We'll need a decision within seventy-two hours. As you can appreciate we have a lot of crews wanting this job.” Bill hesitates a moment and then adds, “Inara's recommendation wasn't the only one I received about Serenity. I know you're a good boat. If things work out, this could become a long-term contract. I hope Captain Reynolds feels we can do business.” Zoe studies the woman's sincere expression for a moment, finding no trace of falsity in her blue eyes. “I do too,” she says simply, before taking her leave.

*

Mal turns the paper over and over in his hands, sitting upright now in his infirmary bed though still not healed enough to move far. “I say we take the job,” Wash says, sitting on the other bed. Mal frowns. “This ain't a committee. I asked you here to make sure you could fly the route, not to tell me your feelings on the issue.” Wash's shoulder's drop as his eyes roll. “Sure thing, Captain.” “How does Inara know Bill?” Zoe asks, before an argument can ensue. “Old Academy friends. Bill didn't quite make the grade, got into public relations then founded her own business, apparently,” Mal answers, “Inara trusts her.” “It's just such a crazy huge payment, it makes me nervous,” Zoe says slowly, ignoring Wash's sceptical expression. “And Kaylee ain't gonna like having to agree on 'necessary upgrades' with their engineers, most likely.” Mal sighs. “I ain't exactly happy about it myself. There's nothing else on the cortex?” “Not a peep,” Wash responds. “They're using us to do Alliance dirty work.” Mal taps his fingers on the paper thoughtfully. “Only crews like ours, desperate enough to take that kind of money going to risk their boats. Also, we ain't going to be cryin' to any authorities if whatever pitches up in the crates is somethin' we don't like. That makes me kinda nervous about what in the name of hell it is we're going to be carrying. But... I got nine people on this boat all needin' to eat. Kaylee tells me there's a list of engine parts as long as my leg that need replacin', and there's only so much we can raid from junk yards. I don't see we have much choice if we want to keep flying.” “You're gonna to take the job?” Zoe's expressive eyebrows express her shock as much as her voice does. “If in three day's time nothing else has turned up. Yes.”