Author's Note: I mentioned in a comment I posted on chapter... eight, I think, that this was a fic set post series, going into AU rather than setting up for the movie. Sorry if it surprised a few people! I'm a Wash fangirl, so as much as I love Serenity.... Oh, and for those who are wondering about Inara... she will be appearing in this fic again, towards the end... Thanks to everyone who's commented on this fic. I've never had such a response to my work, and I'm very grateful! =) *************************************************** Mal sits in the co-pilot’s seat of the shuttle, supremely uncomfortable as Bill pilots with serene confidence. Zone Two drops away beneath them, and silence reigns as they head from the city. “You’re not stupid, Captain,” Bill says after a while, not looking at him. Mal smiles thinly. “Clearly you ain’t been reading those letters from Inara closely,” he replies, “I don’t think she’d agree with your assessment.” She laughs, compressing her lips together to dissolve her amused smile before speaking again. “You and I are both well aware that the crew of the Hugo weren’t killed by Reavers,” she continues, “It’s a shame you had to come across them at all, I was hoping you might already have passed by…” Mal remains silent at her words, not quite sure how to react to what appears to be a casual confession to the brutal murder of an entire ship’s crew. Bill’s attention is apparently almost entirely focussed on her flying and it doesn’t feel like she’s about to kill him. He was forced to leave his gun in her office before boarding her shuttle, but he’s confident he can take her in a one-on-one fight if it comes to it. Fly the shuttle back to Serenity and… And condemn his crew to death, too, with no fuel to get them off this moon. He sits tight, and waits for her to continue, choice less. “They opened the boxes,” she continues, “And the people I represent don’t do complications. Lives don’t mean much to them. Not smuggler’s lives, anyway. I’m not saying what they did was right, but... well, I warned everyone not to open the boxes.” She glances over at him, and he nods, wondering idly if –had they not found the recording – he might have been buying this act of self-justification for working with murderers. He saw the look of satisfaction on Bill’s pretty face with his own eyes and though she’s carrying off her apparent moral unease at working with such folks with aplomb; he knows smuggler’s lives don’t mean much to her either. “So they found out something they shouldn’t have, and the people you work for killed them. Hate to say it, but this ain’t exactly reassuring me any,” he says honestly. She nods. “I know. You’re a good man and you don’t like to risk your crew’s lives. A moral man. Inara was very clear about that. I need men like you working for me. Redressing the balance a bit. What we’re doing here is good work. Just… if it got out, before we’re ready to tell people…. a lot more than just the crew of the Hugo could die.” Mal tries to appear politely unconvinced, and manages just plan sceptical. Bill sighs. “I’m making rather a mess of this. I’m going to tell you the truth Mal. Show you what’s really going on here, because I know I can trust you – if you still decide not to take the job – to keep your mouth shut. But you’re going to have to trust me. I understand I’ve given you no reason to. In fact, mostly I’ve handed you some pretty good reasons not to. But Inara trusts me. I hope that means something to you.” Mal nods. He’s been trying to avoid thinking about Inara’s involvement in all of this. Not that he thinks for one moment the Companion would have deliberately lead them into this mess. She might not care for him, but Kaylee certainly… there’s no way Inara would want to see the little mechanic in trouble. Which leaves one of two options. Maybe Inara’s had the wool pulled over her eyes too, which is perfectly plausible. If it weren’t for the recording there’s no guarantee he wouldn’t be sitting here a mite more mollified himself right now. Or, worse, she’s been manipulated into recommending this job. He’s gone over their last conversation in his head a few times, wracking his brain in an attempt to pick out some significant clue, some minor change in her way of holding herself, her tone… anything to suggest… The boxy buildings loom very suddenly out of the green, incongruous gun-metal grey against the thriving forest background. Bill lands the shuttle with a practise ease and he follows her mutely, across the landing pad and inside. There’s a fairly standard reception area. A central terminal staffed by bored looking men and women in suits, a few plastic chairs. More surprisingly, a few men milling about – men that look about as out of place as he does in this clinical entrance hall. One of them is sporting a luxuriant moustache and Mal blinks in surprise. “Yanni?” The taller man gives him a grin. “Reynolds. Good to see you again.” He claps Mal on the shoulder. “These other fellers here are Mikey, Smiler and Henderson.” The other Captains mutter their hellos, shaking Mal’s hand and glancing occasionally at Bill, who watches the somewhat awkward introductions like a mother hen watching her chicks. “If you would all like to follow me,” she says, tour-guide’s smile blazoned across her face. They do so with a little difficulty, all the sort of men who like to skulk at the back of a group in situations such as this. They result is movement by means of a sort of elongated huddle. It might almost be comical if Mal still wasn’t somewhat fearful for his life. He ends up at the front of the group with Yanni, trailing after Bill down corridors that put him in mind of Core hospitals. Maybe it’s the smell of disinfectant, combined with the hush broken only by the squeak of soles on the shiny floor. She stops outside a door, apparently no different from several others they have walked straight past. She uses a key card to unlock it and holds it open for them, the indication that they should step inside clear. Mal is the first to do so, and his jaw drops. Behind him, Yanni gives a grunt of surprise. They’ve entered a huge laboratory – factory floor sized. There are maybe twenty workstations arranged in two rows of ten with a central walkway clear between them. Bill leads them down this path, and Mal stares at the stations as they pass. Six desks are arranged hexagonally around a central tank, tall as a person. They look like giant aquariums, but tinted green and there sure as Hell aren’t any fish swimming in them “I’m sure you men are all aware that wet-ware smuggling is a fast growing industry. The technology of growing viable human organs is still in its immaturity, and unscrupulous people have taken to transporting them in human vessels; people that act as incubators as well as couriers.” Mal sees the other men nod, and can’t help but think of Tracey. “As I’m sure you’ve already guessed from looking at the tanks, what we’re doing here is cloning human organs. More than that, we’re growing them successfully in this lab. Without human incubators. Once the technology is fully tested and governmentally approved, we aim to be able to finally supply our hospitals with the transplant materials they so desperately need. We’re in the business of saving lives here, prolonging human health and happiness. There’d be no rejection risks, no need for donors… we estimate widespread use of this technology could increase the average human life span by up to fifty years. Maybe more. “The equipment you see in this lab is all unlicensed and thus, entirely illegal. Given the current composition of Parliament, it would be impossible to pass through any Bill that would render our work legal. However, what we’re accomplishing here is not unknown to all of our political masters. The hope is that in four years time, when the next elections take place, a significant gain will be made by politicians more sensitive to our cause. Certainly we aim to go public within the next fifteen years. Thus, the work carried out here is under the strict condition that only those who need to know are aware of the true nature of our operation. The tide of public opinion will turn, and we want to be ready when it does. Not waiting for the twenty years of research that will be required to play catch-up.” “All well and good,” says Yanni, squinting past Bill for a moment at the organ tank, “But why’re you tellin’ us? We ain’t politicians.” “No,” Bill agrees with a smile, “But you are Captains of reliable shipping vessels. To supply the anticipated demand, we’re building labs like this in seven separate zones. Along with all the other facilities that go with them for our workers, and space for other business ventures I’m not qualified to speak about being undertaken by our parent industry at the moment. Currently, only Zone Two is complete. It’s taken us seven years. We need to move faster. Some of you we’d be asking to captain transport ships currently under construction. Large vessels, capable of moving the quantities of material we need out here. Others we’d be asking to become personnel couriers – getting workers and important visitors here in one piece. We’re aiming to move away from recruiting stray ships from small companies, to our own dedicated haulage force. You men, and others like you… Your crews… you’re to be the backbone of that force.” She gives this a moment to sink in, the soft chatter of the lab workers and the noises of their machines underscoring the silence. “You don’t have to decide right now if you want to come onboard with us. If you’ll follow me next door, there’s a buffet set up for you and a chance for you to meet some of the people behind this project. Ask them any questions you have about what we do here. Then we can talk about payment.”

*

It’s a young wood, none of the trees here are much older than she is. And it’s quiet. Very few birds singing in those trees. Only animals here are those needed as part of the terra-forming process, she knows. She can feel the presence of the earthworms, churning the soil beneath her feet. Blind and slow, she almost envies them. The weight of the earth pressing in all around them; isolation complete. Dirt, eat, dig. Simple lives. No time to stop and think, no time. Mission to complete. The lab is ahead, through the trees, less than a mile away. Got to get in, blow the power so Danny can bring in the shuttles. Plant his bombs. She understands what she has to do. She just doesn’t comprehend. It’s just a game. “Time to play.” That’s what Danny said. Time to play, and she’s playing the game. Hide and seek, in the woods. Rough and tumble with the guards. There are two of them, and they seem surprised to see her. “Miss?” calls the first; sensible enough to raise his gun all the same. “Are you… lost?” She feels his confusion. She’s barefoot, a young girl miles from where she should be. “We all are,” she tells him, kicking the gun from his hand. Just a game, she tells herself, as she catches the gun and shoots the other guard in the leg. He’s only playing, screaming on the ground like that. It’s not real blood. Just ketchup, red sauce. She brings the handle of the pistol down on the first man’s skull. Just pretend, she knows. None of it’s real. She climbs over a fence, dropping lightly to the ground. Ahead of her there’s a shuttle landing-pad: a huge and open expanse of concrete. Too open, no cover. Can’t play hide and seek with no cover. She sticks close to the fence, breaks into a run. Quickly, Danny said, quickly. Hurry before playtime is over. More guards, more pistols. More shouting. Her arm moves as if it’s divorced from her body and she screws her eyes shut. Bang-bang you’re dead… She feels the recoil after her finger –is it even her finger? She can’t be sure who’s in control of it, the finger, at this moment – pulls the trigger. Three times. Three shots, three guards. Three bodies, a part of her thinks as she climbs over the next fence, landing with a feline grace. No, no. Just a game. Just a gorram game. Not what you think. A control panel. Basic electronics. “It’s easier to pull a thing to pieces than it is to fix it,” she murmurs. And it is easy. There are back-up generators and security codes, and those that designed the sub-station probably think they’re oh-so-clever. But it’s so easy for her, like every intellectual challenge they ever set her. So easy to bypass the security codes and cause a feedback loop that scrambles the sensors and transmits the power surge to ever other sub-station, rather than isolating the faulty unit like it’s supposed to. There’s nothing very obvious to suggest she’s just knocked out most of the power on the planet, overloading the main computer controlling reactor of the nearest (and only currently operational) power plant, and causing it the emergency core-containment systems to kick in. Lock-down, shutdown. Kind of mess it will take them weeks to fix. But there’s no sparks, no noises. The screen she’s working at just goes blank and the landing lights on the shuttle pad blink off. They weren’t even very noticeable anyway, it’s not really dark yet. Will be soon. Sun’s setting. When darkness falls proper, they’ll be panic. Panic, confusion, chaos and… blood? It’s too distant, she can’t see it yet. But she can feel it, coming closer, like dark clouds massing on the horizon that promise thunder and lightning. The shuttle flies in over her head, Serenity’s shuttle. It lands next to the others on the pad and doesn’t look out of place. Danny-boy comes out, followed by three other men. They’re dressed in black and they make her think of crows on the lawn, squawking back and forth to one another, harsh cries. Danny-boy is calling for her. She opens the gate in the fence, the electro-magnetic lock no longer working, and runs to him. He’s wildly excited. “You done good, kiddo,” he says, squeezing her arm with a leather-gloved hand. “You done good. Now, I want you to go and sit in the shuttle, okay? Время игры сверх теперь.” Playtime is over now. She nods, the creeping confusion rising as soon as he says those words. If the game is finished, why is Danny still wearing his costume? And the guards, the guards on the ground. She can see them, and they’re not standing up. They’re not laughing about losing the game. They’re still as stones. She nods again, uncertain, and crosses to the shuttle. It reminds her of home, of Serenity, of Simon. She tries to push away the rising fear, the stillness of the bodies. It was just a game, she tells herself, sitting in the pilot’s seat. We were only playing. Playing at soldiers. She looks for a connection. Playing at being a princess, she comes up with. Her favourite game when she was a little girl. Princess. The word means something. Not what you think. She remembers, gasps at the horror of it, breathing as hard as if she’s been running. “Simon,” she says, fingers moving compulsively, neurotically over the control panel to make sure it’s really real, that she’s here and this isn’t some new and terrible nightmare. It’s real. She tells herself. No more games. Playtime is over. They hurt Simon, and they made her hurt Zoe and Wash. People she likes, people she cares about. People she loves. They crawled inside her head and flicked one of the switches built inside her brain and they made her do things, things she didn’t want to, never wants to do. She can’t quite hold back the choking sob, curling into a ball in the chair. “I'm sorry,” she whispers, “I'm sorry.” They can't hear her, but she repeats the words anyway, over and over.