Unfinished Business

Chapter Eighteen

Amphora Station was named with great optimism, a few decades back before the War. Nearly every terraformation project used some sort of orbiting platform as a staging ground for the first grueling steps in the process, and later as a conduit for equipment, men and supplies from off-world. But after nearly forty years, those hopes were long dashed, and the station was a tangible stain of the dashing. Its form was perhaps more graceful than similar stations elsewhere, as it was designed to look like the ancient wine vessel of the Greeks. The serene curves that had become the hallmark of Achaean civilization and earliest symbol of international trade had not been chosen for their sublime aesthetics, however. It was a marketing gimmick, pure and simple. The moon it orbited, Bacchus, had looked like a perfect candidate for terraformation and colonization – over 9000 miles wide, comfortably within the important “Cinderella Zone” (that critically important distance from the primary where water was naturally a liquid – not too hot, not too cold). It had a robust magnetosphere to shield it from cosmic rays, and it had a period of twenty-five hours. A local ring system had adequate frozen hydro to provide the seas and basic atmo. The heat radiating from the jovian planet would keep its eventual temperature balmy. It looked perfect . . . on paper. In fact the early computer projections indicated that the lifeless orb would eventually have a warm, Mediterranean-style climate, perfect for vinoculture and similar agriculture. The announcement of the terrasayers’ findings was hot on the heels of the first hugely popular vintages of Athenian wines hitting the Londinium markets to rave reviews. The investing public had been enthusiastic about the prospect of another wine producing moon on par with the finest of the Central planets wineries. It became a hot investment tip, fueled by romanticism, an economy as yet unblemished by war, and a top-rate marketing firm. The first few heady rounds of speculation had given the Bacchus Development and Exploitation Company, Ltd. enough cash to spring for an extensive survey, with plenty left over to construct a local station to act as a staging area for further exploration and, eventually, terraforming efforts. To that end, Amphora was built, its two graceful docking arms embracing the hopes, dreams, and investment capital of millions.. Alas, Bacchus had a drinking problem. The soil chemistry was wacky – and while that wasn’t an insurmountable issue on its own, the particular nature of its wackiness made any potential colony impractical, if not impossible. Bacchus was hollow. Not in the sense that the core of the moon was missing – it had a fairly standard nickel-iron liquid core, hence the healthy magnetosphere. The world was hollow on the surface. The first hundred miles of its crust was like Swiss cheese, dense bedrock mixed with much lighter mass “soft” minerals, liquids and gasses. Apparently, as best as could be established by the company xenoplanetologists, Bacchus had started out just as most jovian moons did in the early stages of formation. However, due to some quirk of fate or whim of chemistry, the layers of rock, soil and minerals had pocketed the entire crust of the planet with an extensive and ubiquitous honeycomb of hollow spaces, crevasses, cracks, soft spots, sink holes – none of which enjoyed anything remotely close to geological stability. The first two survey teams had to withdraw due to earthquake or sinkholes as the geological “bubbles” shifted. But they had stayed long enough to get some good data on the world. They came to the sad conclusion that any oceans permitted to form on the surface were sure to be absorbed by the crust like a titanic sponge. Any atmo would have to encompass not just the surface of the world, but all the sub-surface areas as well. And arranging sufficient grav for habitation was likewise challenging. Habitable land created on the surface, in the light of the life-giving star, would have a perpetual danger of collapse into a sinkhole at any time. Remedial steps were proposed – impacting the surface with kinetic missiles, for example, to get the crust to “settle” – but they were all based on shaky engineering and bore a prohibitive cost. Getting a valuable Alliance Certification for Colonization under the circumstances would be impossible. Despite the geologically fascinating nature of the world, it had little in the way of exotic minerals to develop. So the shareholders of the Company took a loss and gave up their dreams of fruity little numbers from Bikavar, the proposed colonial capital and sole lunar base. The Company had nearly gone in receivership when the news hit, of course. It held exploitation rights on a useless moon and an aesthetically attractive but strategically unimportant space station. The assets were sold, the residue taken over by new, less visionary management. Amphora went through five owners before the War came, managing to re-invent itself as a low-rent transfer point. There were two other moons in the system much more suited for habitation, Kerry and Pythos, and Amphora had the best transfer facilities in place for both. It took a stock swap with both terraforming enterprises and prayed for something better. Then the War happened, and Amphora found itself deep in Independent territory. Most of the indentured labor at Pythos rebelled early on in the war, slaughtering the Company people before establishing a militaristic “republic” and joining the Independents. The folk of Kerry, which had barely established proper atmo when the Black Star Banner flew the first time on Boros, were naturally anxious to put their lives on the line, strike a blow for liberty, and in the process erase all of their off-world debt to the big corporations in the Core that had funded the terraformation. The last of the Kerry Company execs scurried back to the Central worlds just in time to see the seminal incident at Boros enflame system after system, leaving middle-management behind to keep the lights under the new rebel government. Amphora was garrisoned by the Second Kerry Republican Marines and armed, after a fashion. Eventually a small ship-fitting facility was installed, which allowed Independent commerce raiders to use it as a base for resupply. They plied the route between the Core and the Alliance stalwarts near the Rim looking for Alliance corporation-owned merchantmen. For three prosperous years it was a hub of privateers and procurers, a transfer point to the rest of the system. That made it a reasonably interesting target, too. Twice the Browncoats had fought off direct assaults by Alliance gunboats, though it cost the station its starboard docking arm in the process. But when the Second Marines were ordered to reinforce Verbena, a skeleton garrison and a few intelligence offices were all that remained for the duration of the war. Then, in the last few months before Serenity Valley and the armistice, the station was quarantined due to a wildfire epidemic widely believed to be the work of Purplebelly saboteurs. By the time an Alliance destroyer entered the system, three months after the end of the war, there weren’t more than thirty Independent military left to surrender to them. After the war some small prosperity was restored as the terraforming and colonization efforts continued; Highgate, Suliman, and Bernadette were all within shouting distance, and for another few short years Amphora Station had become a transfer point of some significance for reconstruction and occupation efforts. The Company people came back to Kerry from the Core. Pythos was put under Martial Law and ruled by decree until the Purplebellies turned the government over to an Alliance-style executive council. And then Kerry’s Harp Station, thirty years newer and three times as large, opened up a few years after the War. A small Fed base was established on Harp, and Amphora became a galactic backroad overnight. It was still useful for smaller ships and cheaper cargos, and of course it picked up the usual sheen of disrepute such places do. It had plenty of smugglers, slavers, and other ‘local color’ to keep the black market thriving. Which was why it made a darn good location to develop a clandestine operation. Mal surveyed the station from the cockpit as they approached, his eyes narrowed. “Stupid lookin’ thing,” he muttered. “I think it’s pretty,” River said sullenly. “Looks like a gorram Sabbath hat for a crone.” “Amphorae were highly sophisticated beverage transport containers at the dawn of human international trade,” River said, matter-of-factly. “Their aesthetic has been considered an ideal form across artistic disciplines for millennia.” “It’s a hat,” Mal repeated. “An’ not a particularly pretty one.” “The hat is hailing us,” River said, nodding towards the board in front of her. She picked up the headset and pushed it over her hair, half of which was in her eyes. “Amphora Station, this is Firefly-class transport Serenity, nav-des T2188, requesting inbound guidance and clearance to dock, over.” “You’re gettin’ pretty good at that,” Mal said, quietly impressed at River’s confident-sounding voice. Her first interactions with traffic control had been nearly as disastrous as it was hilarious. Now she spoke with the casual, almost bored manner of a seasoned pilot. She stuck her tongue out in response to Mal. “I’m still mad at you,” she muttered. “You had it comin’,” Mal replied, unapologetically. “You don’t hump with an engineer’s ship. You ask. Simple courtesy.” “She didn’t have to pull my hair,” River said, pouting. “It was just—” “—T2188 Serenity, this is Amphora Control, confirm nav-lock for inbound. Should have a dock open in a moment. Got a query on your cargo.” River raised her eyebrows and looked at Mal questioningly. He shrugged. “Tell him it’s protein.” “Amphora Control, T2188 Serenity reports cargo is protein base, basic foodstuffs.” “Crap, why can’t any of you people be cartin’ steaks or lobster?” complained the control man. “Ain’t even worth takin’ a bribe on. Maintain course until D minus four four, then change course to one eleven mark seventeen. Keep ‘er below twenty kph until we get a lock on. Turn to E Twenty One for further instructions.” “Roger, Amphora Control, Emergency Twenty One.” River changed over the radio frequency. “Serenity T2188, on station,” she said absently into the mike, and then started to take off the headphones when a voice unexpectedly announced itself. Usually, a switch to an ‘emergency’ channel in a busy port was merely a precaution, allowing a control officer to turn the guidance of the ship over to one of his subordinates without tying up the bandwidth on the main frequency. Control would do a voice check when it took navigational control of the ship, but apart from that there was little in the way of chit-chat. “Serenity, this is Amphora Control Supplementary. Is Malcolm Reynolds about?” “Who wants to know?” River asked suspiciously. “Commercial jobber, for Coda Transport Carriers. My name’s Randolf. Callin’ ‘bout that big job,” he said casually. Mal nodded to himself and picked up the mike. “That would be me, Mr. Randolf. Captain Malcolm Reynolds.” “Captain, I heard you made the pickup on that protein base.” It was a statement, not a question. “Yessir, that I did. Isn’t the client happy about it?” “Oh, plenty happy. You’re the third hauler what’s come through this week. Nice t’see some business in this corner of the Black again. Any difficulties?” “None to speak of,” Mal said, his eyes narrow. “Tell the client we’ll be offloading as soon as we have a port clear.” “Change of plan, Reynolds. Follow waypoint beacon Delta Four Niner Four. Control, you have that?” “Roger,” the controlman answered, bored. “Uh . . . Captain?” River asked, hesitantly. “Grown ups talkin’, darlin’,” Mal murmured. “Delta Four Niner Four. Copy.” “I think—” River said, a hint of disdain in her eye. “In a minute, hon,” Mal dismissed. “Will we have clearance soon?” he asked into the mike. “That’s a yes and a no,” Randolf replied. “From Delta Four Niner Four you are to proceed to waypoint Sigma Negative Six Zero Six, and wait for further instructions.” “Mal—” “Do I need to spank you?” the Captain asked, annoyed. “I’ll be done in a minute.” “Fine,” River said, slumping back in her chair and pulling her knees up under her chin in a sullen gesture known throughout the ‘verse as particular to teenagers. “Sigma Neg Six Oh Six, Roger. Will wait for instructions there. Anything else?” “That’s about it,” Randolf said. “See you at the party.” “Serenity out,” Mal said with a quiet sigh, and hung up the mike. “Now what was so flaming important that you had to . . . and so rudely, I might add . . . interrupt a superior officer, much less an honored and respected elder, in the conduct of official criminal business?” “Sorry, Captain,” River said, staring out into the Black. “It’s just that I got so impatient, you see, being merely a teenaged girl and all. So I ran the coordinates for the nav waypoints given to calculate optimum fuel versus delta vee, and I—” “You didn’t touch the navcomputer,” Mal said, challengingly. “I ran them in my head,” River said, with exaggerated patience. “Oh. You memorized the nav waypoints for the entire system?” “I was bored. Remember?” “So you said,” Mal replied, quietly amazed at his pilot’s ability. “Any point to this little digression?” “Oh, I don’t know. Just thought the Captain, a superior officer,” she said, putting especial emphasis on the adjective to the point of clear sarcasm, “not to mention an honored and respected elder, might want his junior assistant temporary pilot to inform him that the initial waypoint puts us twenty gorram meters inside the listed surface of the moon?” Mal’s eyebrows raised precipitously. “What did you say?” “And the secondary waypoint, if my tiny and addled mind can conjure the figure with its customary precision . . . puts us roughly a mile and a quarter below that?” “A mile?” “And a quarter. I can write it out in meters if you go get me a crayon.” “That’s—” “An inevitable collision course? Why Captain, you’re absolutely correct!” River said with scorn. “On paper, if we follow this course we’ll be a debris field approximately five klicks in diameter in about twelve minutes, twenty five seconds. That is, assuming that the gorram grav figures for this moon haven’t been fudged, like, apparently, the gorram surface level has!” “That’s not good.” Mal agreed. “And . . . ?” River asked expectantly. “And . . . mayhap I should go ask Rachel about her people trying to kill us?” “Mayhap,” agreed River. “I’ll just stay here and plot our course to doom.” “Carry on, little Albatross,” Mal said, taking a deep breath and patting her on the shoulder. He picked up the mike and switched it to intercom. “Oh, bite me,” River complained bitterly. “Rachel, please join me on the bridge,” he said, in confident, authoritative tones that told everyone on the ship that something was seriously amiss. As if to underscore that fact, he added, “Everyone else, brace for impact.” Rachel joined him in short order, and after a brief and heated exchange she contacted control herself and, through a series of passwords and codes, became convinced that there was nothing sinister about the instructions. “True, I’ve only been here myself the once,” she admitted. “But everythin’ checks on my end. If we crack up, it’ll be pilot error, not bad directions.” “Ha!” River scoffed. As it turned out, they were not, indeed, in danger. The coordinates took them to the center of a crater which extended close to five thousand meters below the reported surface. From there, they were led to a chasm in the side of the crater only five or six times the width of Serenity. “This . . . is going to be . . . fun,” River said, eyes wide as she flicked on the exterior lights and steered them in. The hole in the rock face got narrower, quickly, like a mouth closing in. “I’m not too keen on this m’self,” Mal agreed quietly. “You did say you were here before?” Rachel nodded. “Here, or a place enough like it as to make no never mind.” “There’s more than one o’ these hidey-holes?” “Need-to-know, Reynolds,” Rachel said. “But you’re kinda smart . . . for an infantryman. What do you think?” “I’m thinkin’ that the Brigadier and his pals were a foreward thinkin’ bunch, back during the War.” “Attention Serenity Transport!” a hail came through, as they were in the narrow tunnel about a hundred meters. “Proceed to waypoint and hold position! Do not seek to vary from a direct-plotted course! You will crack up!” As if to emphasize the point, the outside light played across a widely scattered pile of debris, near a dark matte black area of scorched rock. “Just stick to the course,” muttered Mal. “Aye, aye,” River said absently. They reached the waypoint, a spot just under a thousand meters away from the entrance, which looked no different than the rest of the rocky tube. River brought the ship to an uneasy stop, pulling the grav drive around to hover. “Well, we’re here,” River said. “Wherever that is.” “It’s actually pretty impressive,” Rachel said in a hushed tone. “Especially considering what we had to work with back then. The moon’s structure helped, o’course – no end o’ tunnels an’ caverns an’ such. Just had to find one big enough, deep enough, an’ stable enough to wall off.” “Makes sense,” Mal concurred. “Probably a million different ways to come to a bad end down here. Unless you know which way to go.” “They said a battery of nukes could take it out,” Rachel said. “Or a big enough meteor. Less than that, there’s always a way out.” “Hey, are we still bracin’ for impact out here?” Jayne asked, gruffly, from the hatchway. “’Cause I’m tired of bracin’ and I done caught up with my regrettin’. So we either get along to the life flashin’ afore my eyes or I’m gonna take a leak.” “Tell everyone to stand down,” agreed Mal. “Wouldn’t do ‘em no good, anyway.” “Why?” demanded Jayne, concerned. “Hey, where’s the sky—Ai ya wo men wan le!” he shouted as he spotted the ominous looking caverns outside. “Where the hell are we?” “We’re about to find out,” Mal related. “We in a planet?” “Moon.” “Oh.” Jayne considered. “Is that better?” “’Bout the same,” Mal conceded. “Maybe not as prestigious, as these things go . . . but at least it ain’t an asteroid.” “I’m . . . gonna go back and take a leak. Lemme know if I need to go ahead with the flashin’ life thing.” “Will do,” Mal said, absently. “Are they ever going to give us those—” “Serenity Transport, this is Thermopyle Control,” a crisp, cool female voice said over the comm. “Change course to minus two two mark fifty five. Do not increase delta vee.” “Uh . . . okay,” River said, moving to make the change. When the ship settled on the new heading, still motionless, it faced yet another non-descript stretch of bare wall. “Give code sign for entrance, please,” the voice said, firmly. Rachel picked up the mike. “Code is: Coda Darkstar seven seven two Alpha. Countersign?” “Omega Rabbit nine nine.” “Check that, Control.” “Proceed on this heading until you trigger the proximity beacon. Then slave the controls to us, we’ll bring you in.” “Huh?” River asked. “Bare rock. Too dense to go through. Unless you shift the phase of the—” “I think there’s a simpler way,” Rachel said with a smirk. “Take a look.” The entire stone wall melted away, with nary a trace behind. “Hologram. Big gorram hologram,” Mal said, grinning. “Keeps the revenuers out,” Rachel nodded. “Go ahead, River.” Serenity crawled forward into the new tunnel, parts of which had clearly been excavated, and into an irregular portion streaked with large black cables. Suddenly lights flared from all corners, and the crew could see dozens of gun emplacements built into the sides of the cavern. The weapons, large enough to damage a ship much larger than Serenity, tracked the little Firefly’s every move. “In case the hologram fails,” Rachel explained. “You’ll turn over control at that yellow beacon, there. After that, everything’s on automatic.” “Good,” River said, anxiously. “My palms are sweating.” There was a shudder and a lurch as the automatic docking programs took over, and suddenly the wheel moved of its own accord as the ship was pushed towards a large docking hatch. Across the front of the hatch was painted a gigantic rendition of the Independent Battle Flag. “Welcome to the Gopher Hole, folks” Rachel said as the doors slid aside slowly. “This is Boomerang Base.” The com crackled to life again with an automated recording of a hearty all-male chorus singing “Rally ‘Round The Banner” to a clearly martial beat. Despite himself, Mal felt his body start to snap to attention out of reflex. “ ‘Boomerang’ Base?” River asked. “Because the Independent Cause will come back, someday,” explained Rachel. “And this place was supposed to be the weapon to do it.” “Sounds a little dramatic to me,” River muttered to herself. “Don’t it just?” Mal agreed. “Rachel, War’s been over. A while now.” “The War is over,” she agreed, “but the Cause isn’t lost. Not ‘till we say it is.” “Fine, we can skip the political discussion for now,” sighed Mal. “Just how many of you are down here?” “There are about . . . well, the precise figure is a secret, but there are at least ten thousand Browncoats and their families in the Gopher Hole. An’ this is only one of five or six bases on Bacchus – the biggest one, o’course, but there’s others. And a few more tucked away here an’ there all across the ‘verse.” “That’s a lot o’ people to keep secret,” Mal observed. “Not really,” River disagreed. “Standard military intelligence doctrine for such an occurrence would include infiltration of local criminal gangs and interface with the local civilian population through dedicated agents. Insinuate strategic intelligence personnel into low-level bureaucratic positions and built a network of mutually-protecting cells capable of both independent and coordinated action and support. Keep general operations low-key, in order to avoid attention and build strength and information networks.” “That’s . . . pretty much it, yeah,” Rachel said, reluctantly. “Gosh, you’re a smart little girl.” “I read a lot,” River said, unconvincingly. “So you guys are the remnant of the Independents,” Mal said. “We are the Independents, for all practical purposes. What’s left. All those who couldn’t or wouldn’t accept amnesty at the end of the war. Lot of alleged ‘war criminals’ in the Gopher Hole. Lots o’ men who just couldn’t bear to serve under the purplebellies. Die-hards, romantics, radicals, folks who just got nowhere else to go. And a whole bunch who ain’t done fightin’, yet, not until we kick ‘em back to the central planets.” “Yeah, that worked out so well last time,” observed Mal, wryly. “I didn’t say it would be easy,” Rachel said, sullenly. “It’s damn hard. This whole life has been damn hard. But what the hell else am I supposed to do, Mal? Rot in a Fed jail? Get shot trying to escape? Indenture myself? Not much call for spies these days, and I wouldn’t even make a decent whore. No, I gotta do this. We all do. We might fail, but we’re too proud not to let all that spilled blood be in vain.” “Mighty noble of you,” Mal grunted. “You used to be just like us, Mal,” Rachel observed. “I got over it.”

*

*

*

“You’re Serenity, right?” the weasely little man with the ear-protecting headset asked, glancing at a flexiboard. He was standing at the bottom of the ramp after they had set down in a surprisingly busy hanger bay. “Reynold’s crew?” “Yep,” Mal said, nodding, “That’s us. I’m Captain Reynolds.” “Great,” nodded the weasel. “Your liaison officer is . . .” he hesitated, looking at the board again, “. . . Lt. Sumana, right over there. Sumana! This lot is yours! I’ll have your ship refueled while you’re here . . . any critical maintenance needs to be done?” “Talk to my engineer,” Mal grunted, gesturing over his shoulder with his thumb towards a wide-eyed Kaylee. “Y’all got a mechanics’ shop here?” The weasel shrugged. “With five fighter wings in the next hanger, we’d better.” Mal’s eyebrows rose of their own accord. Five fighter wings was more than he had seen in one place during the whole war. Before he could comment further, a slight young woman in the olive drab fatigues of the Independent military came forward and saluted him sharply. She had dusky skin, a bright smile, pretty eyes, and was busty in ways the uniform she wore was not designed for. Mal was almost taken aback – he’d never been one for saluting when he was in uniform himself – not only did it go against his anti-authoritarian grain, but it attracted the attention of snipers in the field. To have it done now, by a pretty young woman in the uniform of a cause he had left for dead was just downright creepifying. He chose to nod, once, instead of returning the salute. “I’m a civilian now, Lieutenant. Captain Malcolm Reynolds. Pleasure.” “Ni how,” she said, breaking the salute and bowing. “Welcome to the Gopher Hole, Captain Reynolds. I’m Lt. Sumana Vadapreshna, but everyone calls me Sumana. I’ll be your liaison to Command, here. Is there anything your ship or crew requires?” she asked, brightly. Mal suddenly felt the presence of Jayne at his back. “Yeah, I got some needs,” the mercenary said, in a low, growly voice. “Lock it down, Jayne,” Mal said casually, but warningly. “We’re guests here.” “She asked,” Jayne complained. “That’s all right, Captain, I’m used to it,” Sumana said, easily. “I was trained in Special Operations and can kill a man seven different ways by batting my eyelashes. Your crew has been assigned quarters on . . .” she glanced at her own flexiboard, “Level B – Boros Level, we call it, all of the areas in the Hole are named after prominent Independent worlds – and I have you down for six rooms.” Mal counted in his head. “Close enough,” he agreed. “I ‘spect the Doc and Kaylee will want to bunk together, but there’s Rachel, too.” “Oh, she has her own quarters in Shadow Level already,” Sumana said, frowning. “But that’s a minor point. Chow is served every four hours in the dining hall at the end of your level, and each level has a lounge, as well. But most of the fun happens in the Commons. I’ll show that to you later.” “When is our debriefing?” Mal asked, postponing a hundred burning questions he had about the base. “Not for another day,” Sumana assured him. “We’re still waiting on some laggards. And one op didn’t go . . . as planned.” “They never do,” Mal agreed grimly. “So I’ll show you to your quarters, get you settled in, and show you the facilities.” “That would be a kindness,” agreed Mal. “But I’m confounded – I expected something a little more . . .” “ ‘Primitive’?” Sumana finished. “Most newcomers do. This facility was planned from the early days of the war, as a fall-back point for the civilian and military leadership, and a redoubt against Alliance aggression. We fortified the space against quakes with a carbon-60 superstructure and built it as comfortable as possible. Tunnel farms provide produce, we have our own bioreactors for protein generation, plenty of geothermal power, we have factories, we have . . . well, we have everything anyone on the Rim has, and better than most.” “Must’ve cost a shiny penny,” Mal nodded, impressed. “Oh, it did. But this was one of the secret commerce raiding bases, and we collected a fair amount of loot from the Alliance before the war. As it ended, a lot of portable wealth from the Independent worlds arrived with the refugees we took in. And we have three or four criminal gangs out in the ‘verse that help keep us properly supplied.” “And the Alliance doesn’t know you’re here?” “Oh, they’ve suspected that there have been . . . they call them ‘recalcitrants’ in this system, based on the local criminal gang we control, but they have no idea this base is here. Or the others. It would take a fair-size fleet to dislodge us, and any fleet that did would find itself getting harassed from its flanks and some very . . . unexpected areas. No, we’re as safe from the Alliance here as we could possible be.” “Good to know.” “Mal,” Rachel said, her AWOL bag slung over her shoulder, “I need to check in. I’ll see you at the briefing. Great working with you again,” and she was gone before he could reply. Sumana escorted the crew (all but Kaylee, who was nearly orgasmic of the prospect of having trained engineers and a fully-functional machine-shop look after Serenity for a change, and wanted to remain behind) down the lift to Boros section, which looked like any other residential dormitory Mal had seen. The rooms were small, but tidy and clean, and the dining facilities weren’t fancy but were more than adequate. The friendly young lieutenant also showed them the firing range, in case they wanted to brush up on their skills, the gymnasium, and the library. She also showed them to the Commons. While most of the Gopher Hole was tunneled out of rock and honeycombed with rooms and facilities until it resembled any massive building or space station, the Commons was built inside the biggest cavern. Nearly three miles across and two wide at its widest point, the bubble had been sealed and essentially terraformed. Grav generators kept things in their place, and atmo and aqua had been added. Introducing a select number of flora and fauna had been easy enough, once the lights had been installed, and now the floor of the cavern was covered with topsoil, trees, grass, bugs and bunny rabbits, among other things. Around the edges were small vegetable plots. In the center was a huge aqua reservoir Sumana mentioned was an aquaculture facility that also made an enchanting lake. At the far end of the cave was a robust forest grove. The whole chamber had the fresh, clean smell of a parkland. But nearest to the subterranean section of the base was a small open-air commercial center, with taverns and brothels and all manner of entertainment, just as you would expect to see outside any military base. Gopher Town, it had been named. And everywhere he looked, Malcolm Reynolds saw the Black Star Banner, and olive drab uniforms, and brown-coated officers. He was back in Independent territory for the first time in eight years. It felt wrong. He had left the Cause behind with his religious faith, on the blood-soaked soil of Serenity Valley. The Independents had been beaten. Humiliated, even. Their heroic defiance of Alliance forces had been rewarded with paternalistic bureaucracy and incessant legalism, and the hope of anything better was long, long dead. But not here. The Battle Anthem played regularly in public spaces, Independent soldiers drilled in fields and practiced in the ranges, the black, green, and gold banner hung from every high ceiling. He could feel Zoë’s sense of wonder as each new feature was revealed. “It’s like I’m dreaming,” she whispered as a squad of rugged-looking young recruits jogged by them in a corridor. “You are dreaming,” Mal whispered back. “This is all just someone’s desperate fantasy.” “You’re such a romantic,” she said, sourly. “It’d be different if this was on a real world, somewhere. But this . . . this is the part of the chicken that don’t know it’s ended, yet. That’s all.” “What happened to all that guff about ‘we shall rise again’?” she shot back, wryly. “That was the drink talkin’,” Mal confessed. “The base is not only passively defended by the hidden gun and missile emplacements,” Suman lectured, “but it can be actively defended by the large number of Angel, Tornado, and Sky Devil fighters that were salvaged or captured at the end of the First War.” “ ‘First War’?” Inara asked, suspiciously. “Yes, that’s what we call it. Officially, it’s the ‘First Rimworld Independence War’. We fully expect there to be another one. Maybe soon.” “Ain’t y’all bitin’ off quite a bit, for one little base on th’ ass-end o’ nowheres?” Jayne asked. “Don’t think that this is the only base the Cause still runs. The biggest, sure. But while we may have lacked numbers and hardware in the First War, we didn’t lack brainpower. Independent Military Intelligence planned for every contingency, including the surrender at Hera and the collapse of the civilian leadership. The Cause lives on.” “Ten miles underground,” River said softly. “So . . . you’re actually preparing for another Independence war?” Simon asked, skeptically. “Preparing for it?” Sumana asked, puzzled. “Hell. We’re like to start it, when the time comes. And this time, we lick ‘em.” There was a long pause as the implications of that statement sunk in. This one base against the massed might of the Alliance military. “I mean this with the utmost respect for your femininity. For a lady with some big ol’ hooters,” Jayne said, reverently, “you got one hell of a pair o’ stones.”