Simon is sitting on his bed, one of River's books that he spent so long buying back at the hub that Mal nearly left without him, is on his lap. It's open, but his eyes have a deadened, shut-off kind of look and its clear his thoughts are elsewhere. River slips into the room unnoticed by him until she reaches out and touches his shoulder. He flinches in shock and she recoils too as if she's been burnt. “Simon?” she says. He shuts the book carefully. “Hey,” he says, with a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes, “How're you feeling?” “Like I did before,” she says, “Before all of this, when there was thought and feeling and words and they weren't all mixed together.” Simon nods. “I... That's good,” he settles for, sighing. She sits next to him. “You don't have to feel afraid, Simon,” she says. She reaches for the book and smiles. “Hamlet,” he says, “It was your favourite. Do you remember, when we read it together?” “Under the oak tree in the garden, the sun was bright. I fell asleep and you pretended to be the ghost.” He nods again. “Feel like a long time ago,” he says before he can stop himself. Her smile falters a little, but she understands. He can't quite bring himself to believe that she's what Mal would call “a reader.” It puts her outside the realm of his understanding and thus outside his help – he can't fix what he can't understand, and it scares him. He wants to make her back to the way she was, or as close as can be. On a logical level he knows its impossible, her mutilated brain will never function like it used to, and that was clearly their purpose. But the idea that the true function they were working towards is something so... so beyond the realms of sensible, moral science. It scares him. He's close to cracking and there's no one here he can turn to, except maybe Kaylee, but there's still enough pride in him not to cry on the shoulder of the pretty mechanic he'd much rather kiss instead. River puts a reassuring hand on his arm. “There are more things,” she says quietly, “In Heaven and Earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy.” She stands up once more, heading for her own bed. “Old Hamlet's in their cargo-bay,” she says softly, “When they find the warning.”

* “Captain?” Mal opens his eyes to see the ceiling of his darkened bunk, not quite sure if he imagined Wash's voice or not. “Mal, are you awake?” He hits the comm. “Am now,” he responds, voice cracked with sleep. “You might want to come on up here.” Mal is at the pilot's side in a few moments, rubbing the last vestiges of sleep out of his eyes. “What's up?” “I'm... not quite sure. Picking up a reading on the long range sensors. It's a ship, a Firefly, dead in space. Residual heat but no distress beacon. Slap bang in our path.” “Reavers?” Wash shakes his head. “I doubt it. There's no radiation readings.” “Could just be a ship on the same job as us,” Mal reasons, “Had some minor engine trouble, they don't want the boss to know. Think maybe they can fix it before they get too behind schedule, no one's ever any the wiser. We've done that ourselves.” Wash nods. “You're probably right.” He yawns. “Guess I'm just a bit twitchy after earlier.” “How long before we're on top of them?” “Forty minutes or so.” Mal nods. “Can we hail them?” Wash moves a Triceratops to one side gently so he can read the scope. “Yep,” he confirms as Mal rolls his eyes. “See if they respond,” the Captain orders. “Vessel, this is Serenity, do you read? Over.” Static crackles in response. Wash tries again. “Do you read? Over.” He shrugs. “Apparently they can't hear me.” “They've got life-support, right?” Wash frowns. “Enough for them to still all be breathing but it looks like their auxiliary systems are off-line.” Mal makes a face. “Sounds familiar. How long have they got?” “Long enough for us to get there,” Wash answers. Mal nods. “Wake up Zoe and Jayne and prep Shuttle One for launch. We're ahead of schedule. We can always go take a look, see if they need a hand.” Wash sighs. “And hope it's not a trap.” “That too.”

*

There's something very odd about seeing the dead Firefly, hanging in space. There but for the grace of God... seem to be hanging over everyone's head in the shuttle. Jayne cradles Vera in his arms as Wash pilots the shuttle close enough to dock. “There's clean air,” he says, and Mal presses the button that will allow them to enter through the airlock. Wash picks up his rifle and follows the others inside. “Ai-yah. Tyen-ah”says Jayne. Wash swallows the bile that rises in his throat and echoes the mercenary's sentiment. The cargo bay, the twin of Serenity's, is littered with bodies. Mal crosses to the nearest, a young boy of maybe seventeen whose grease-spotted overalls might just mark him out as the engineer. He's lying on his back in a pool of blood. Red tears of it, the tracks still wet, have run down his cheeks. His open mouth is full of it too. He looks like he's wearing red gloves, but its simply where his fingernails have bled and bled, until there was no more blood to lose. Everybody is the same, four more men and a woman. Jayne kneels by her body, face full of strangeness. She looks like she might have been pretty in life, athletic and muscular. He looks up at Mal with murder in his eyes. “I knew her,” he says simply, “Met her at the hub. Her name's... her name was Kirsty. She told me she was doin' the same job we were. Hauling crates for Wymann.” Mal nods. “This ship is a warning to us,” he says quietly, nodding towards the only other thing left in the 'bay. It's a box, exactly like the ones in Serenity's hold, very clearly cracked open. It's completely empty inside. “Jayne, with me,” he says heavily, “Zoe and Wash, you take the bridge and the crew quarters. We'll do the infirmary, engine-room and kitchen. Check for any survivors.” “What kind of weapon could do this to people?” Wash asks his wife as they climb the stairs. There's another body on the catwalk, dripping blood onto the deck below. It's a little girl of about seven or so. Zoe's face is impassive as she feels for a pulse. She could have been ours, she thinks, filled with a sudden bitterness at this stupid life she leads. Where children can die, drowning in their own fluids, in a war they didn't know they were fighting over boxes worth more than their lives to Hwoon dahn businessmen. “I don't know,” she answers honestly, “It can't be a pathogen or we'd have picked it up when you checked the air. Mercifully the crew quarters are empty of bodies, but there's still a horror in seeing the fragments of the lives taken swiftly and brutally. Children's drawings on the wall of one, the bed still unmade in another. It's all too easy to imagine their own bunk, suspended forever in this horrible moment. A man, presumably the pilot, is dead in the chair when they reach the bridge. Wash's chair, Zoe thinks. Wash gives the read-outs a cursory glance. “Every thing's off-line,”he says and then pauses. There's something out of place, the tiniest LED blinking at him on the console that shouldn't be. “Except... there's something in the cargo bay still drawing power.” He reaches around the pilot gently, and presses a few buttons. He blinks. “Looks like they had some kind of recording system linked to the camera feed in their airlock. It's still active.” “Mal?” Zoe says into her radio, “No survivors, but we might have found something.” “There's no-one left alive on this boat,” Mal agrees, “What have you found?” “Looks like they might have a recording of who did this to them,” Wash chips in, “Rigged up in the cargo bay. You'd miss it if you didn't know a Firefly well as we do.” “We're checking it out now,” Mal confirms, “Finish the job and let's get the hell out of here.”

*

“I'm not sure if you all want to watch this,” Mal says, looking particularly at Kaylee and River. They're all crowded on the bridge, waiting for Mal to start playing the recording they have recovered. “I've seen it before,” River says softly, “They come out of the black, they come when you call. Two-by-two. Hands of blue.” Mal presses play. The camera that normally points outwards, into the cargo-bay, had been re-rigged on the other Firefly to point inside the 'bay and wired up to a recorder. A crowd of people are standing around a wall of boxes. Simon swears softly. “I know that man,” he says pointing, “He... he helped me find River.” There's no sound, but its obvious the crew are debating the merits of opening the boxes. Kirsty is wielding a crow-bar, arguing vociferously with Simon's contact against a man who looks like he might be Captain. There's what looks like shouting, and then the Captain throws up his hands, and takes the crow-bar. He cracks open the front of one of the crates with some effort. Construction materials cascade out, and then other things, things that shouldn't be in a construction box. They look like lab supplies. “That's medical equipment,” Simon murmurs, pointing to one of the larger objects. “Restricted too. That's a genetic sequencer – banned outside of four core worlds.” There's more silent shouting. A few crew members leave, and the argument peters out after a while. The 'bay empties slowly until there's only the man Simon recognised left. He digs through the material for a while and comes out holding something in his hand. He looks straight up at the camera, walks across to it, holding out the thing he's retrieved in the palm of his hand. “It's a transmitter,” Kaylee says, “Long range.” The man says something to the camera, which none of them can lip-read. He returns to the box and after a minute or so Mal presses fast-forward. He doesn't move for over an hour of video play time and then suddenly more figures are present. Mal rewinds a few seconds and presses play so they can see them enter at normal speed. It's a blonde woman, flanked by two men. Oddly, they all seem to be wearing bright blue gloves. River groans softly. “Two-by-two,” she whispers in a sing-song voice, “Hands of blue.” Simon's eyes are wide. “That woman-” “That's Bill Wymann,” says Mal. Simon shakes his head. “No. Her name is Ysabilla King. She's the one who first contacted my family about the Academy.” His voice is as hard as stone. “She works for the people who hurt my sister.” There is shocked silence for a moment. “But she... She's Inara's friend,” Kaylee says in a small voice. Mal opens his mouth to say something, but is distracted again by the images on the screen. There are people coming into the cargo bay again now, people running and shouting. Weapon are drawn. One of the blue-gloved men holds out something, it looks as simple as a stick clenched in his fist. “What's it doing to them?” Kaylee cries out after a moment, hands flying to her mouth. “It's killin' 'em,” Jayne says, in a voice that doesn't quite sound like his own. Kirsty is clearly visible in the shot, blood filling her eyes as she claws at her throat with hands already made slippery with gore. It's over very swiftly, none left alive. Bill turns, and calls something, and more men enter the cargo bay. They collect the unopened crates and scoop up the escaped cargo until all that's left is the scene they encountered earlier. Bill claps her hands together, surveying it with an aura that clearly conveys the sentiment of a job well done. She and the Hands of Blue walk out of shot, and Mal kills the video. Utter silence reigns on his bridge. “Kitchen,” Mal says, after a moment, jerking his head. They troop out, taking their seats around the table. “Inara can't know,” Kaylee says, her voice unnaturally high, “She wouldn't have put us on to this job if she did.” Mal considers this for a moment, the painful tangle of emotions the damned Companion's name always causes to rise in his chest blunted for once. There are more important things to worry about here. He nods. “I know it.” “You said you knew the man on the video?” checks Book after another moment of deep silence. Simon nods. “Yes. He called himself Michael, I've no idea if it's his real name. He worked for the underground movement that helped me get River out of the Academy. And Isabilla... Bill, whatever she's calling herself. She was the Academy recruitment officer. I remember her coming to our house, making her yu bun duh presentation about their program,” he says roughly. “Looks like what ever's in those boxes is linked to the Academy, then,” says Zoe, “You said there were illegal medical supplies visible on that video?” “Yes,” Simon confirms, “But... we're not just talking about drugs or something small here. Those genetic sequencers are produced under strict government licence by a big company. You couldn't just steal one. They're made to order, and currently there's only four hospitals allowed to have one.” “What does it do?” Book asks, looking at the doctor over steepled fingers. “Uh... well, it looks at your DNA. Normally used for identifying abnormalities in the genome or to create better-targeted drugs for the really wealthy who can afford to pay for them. But... well, the reason they're so strictly licensed is because with other equipment you could use them for human genetic engineering, even full body cloning. And that's...” “Hugely illegal,” Book finishes his sentence for him. “This company,” says Zoe slowly, “They'd have government support?” He nods. “It's a mutually beneficial agreement,” Simon answers, “They fund research at the Alliance hospitals. Have access to the brightest minds, a pool of patients for development and clinical testing....” “They don't answer to voters, their actions aren't open to scrutiny. And the Alliance keeps it that way because they get the technologies and people the company produces first,” Book adds. “People?” asks Kaylee, confused. “Yes. BLUsers,” Simon says, “Young medics, mostly from poorer backgrounds that get sponsored through their internships. When they qualify, they go and work for the company, get good jobs in the Alliance hierarchy later on.” “Why'd you call them BLUsers?” asks Jayne, mystified. “Oh, erm. The name of the company. Ben Lusu Ltd. I met him once, he visited us on Osiris.” “Well, that's an unsettling co-incidence,” says Wash, looking uncomfortable, “Ben Lusu apparently has his fingers in quite a few pies. He offers scholarships to promising pilots too. Except we were called 'losers,' rather than BLUsers.” He can feel Zoe's eyes on him but he deliberately keeps his gaze trained on the doctor's face. “Ben Lusu is a ghost,” River murmurs, “He doesn't have to open doors, because he can walk through walls.” In her hand is an empty snack bar packet. She smooths it out so the brand label is facing upwards. “What the hell are you talkin' about?” snaps Jayne, “Your brother just said he met the damn guy!” “Ben Lusu,” River repeats, pushing the packet into the centre of the table. “Oh God,” says Simon softly after a moment, reaching out with a shaking hand to pull the packet closer. “She's right. Ben Lusu. Look.” He holds up the packet so they can all clearly see the familiar label in white and blue. “It's an anagram. Blue Sun.” “The food company?” Zoe says, incredulous. “Blue Sun are more than just food,” Book explains, “They make clothes, toys, even parts for small vehicles. Even my Bible was probably published by them.” “It's always there, if you look for it,” River says serenely, “Yet nobody sees it.” “Well, these are all very disturbing but not entirely surprising revelations about the wonderful government we all so whole-heartedly support,” Mal says, looking at each of them in turn as he lays his hands flat on the table, “But realising our politicians have been bought out by a big company doesn't really help us with our own little problem. Namely, that we've got a hold full of boxes rigged with transmitters, and the person who's paying our wages has a nifty little tool that can kill us all very messily.” There's silence as everyone digests this. “Kirsty said they'd made the run before. If we don't open the boxes and stay on schedule, we can make the drop, take her money and get the hell out,” Jayne says. Mal nods. “There's other jobs out there, and we can afford the fuel now to go and take 'em. We're going to get through this,” he states, “We're going to do the job in front of us, and keep flying.” The silence that follows his announcement is a little too long. “What are you going to do with that recording?” Simon asks after the hum of the engines grows oppressive. “I ain't rightly sure,” Mal admits, standing up to symbolise the discussion is now over. “Got more'n a week to decide, though.” He sighs. “Everyone get some rest. This journey ain't half over yet.”