When mankind swept out from the Core-worlds to the Rim, there was a land rush the likes of which had never been seen. More than two-dozen wildcat terraforming companies plied their trade in the world-rich reaches of the Rim. Every system that had a moon or planet that was enough like the Earth That Was was attacked by a small army of men and machines who toiled endlessly to transform barren, skyless chunks of rock into green, green hills – or as close as they could get. It took anywhere from twenty-five to seventy years or more to work their magic, using the titanic forces of the systems themselves to bring air, water, and heat to those small spinning rocks. After throwing comets and asteroids around, trying to slow down or speed up rotation, heating or cooling to a comfortable range, introducing atmo and aqua, introducing flora and fauna, and then spending a decade tweaking the details, a new world would come that a man might stand under its sky without a helmet or protective suit – naked, under the sun, as he once did on Earth That Was. Once a man could live on the surface of a world naked, for one year, then the world was deemed ready for Colonial Inspection. After a ten-year independent survey period, during which the world was measured and scrutinized in detail, from astral mechanics to genetic minutiae, and it was found to be a sound habitat for humanity for at least five thousand years, it was eligible for Certification. That meant that the Terraforming company could turn into a Colonization company and start selling real estate. Lots of real estate. Usually, that initial rush of sales to speculators and investors was enough or more to pay for the immense costs of terraforming. But it didn’t end there. According to individual charter and applicable Colonial law, the Colonial company got to charge a 1% fee on the land, every time it changed hands. In perpetuity. That means Forever. That made the Terraforming companies among the richest of all corporations, in a ‘verse dominated by rich corporations. A century after Colonization a world that had been successfully exploited would annually generate vast sums of revenue. And all that money must go somewhere. The shareholders and executives and vested employee aristocracy spent as much as they could, of course, some becoming lords in name as well as in practice, but there were limits to what any single human being can spend. Sums of money that large had to be invested, and there were only so many other companies to buy. Some went to buying into planetary and Alliance securities – tax free, of course – but there was still more to go and more coming in all the time. Figure an acre of property changes hands five times in twenty years, doubling in value each time as the planetary economy expands. Take one percent of that each time, multiply it by tens of millions of acres – plus those the Colonial company held back until the market rose – and there was more money than could be wasted in a thousand lifetimes of aimless wandering and prolific spending. So they did the only reasonable thing they could: they ploughed it back into the terraforming business. They pushed the area of human expansion further into the Black, out to the Rim of the galaxy, forming new subsidiaries to tackle each new moonlet they found. With refinements in technology and economies of scale that drove down the costs, the number and rate of the expansion increased until there were three worlds on the Rim for every one in the Core. Colonists flocked outward from the crowded Core, paying dearly for passage and entry fees; they paid dearly for the virgin hardscrabble land they had to farm in order to eat; they paid dearly with years of their lives in servile bondage to the Company, part of their contracts. They paid with their families, as strange new diseases attacked them, their stock, and their crops. They paid with blood, as opportunistic thieves and local warlords used commercial feuds to create brutal despotic fiefdoms. The Colonists became Settlers. If they were lucky or rich they could buy their way into the local stockholder aristocracy or set up in business reselling Company stock locally. If they were unlucky or poor they just scraped by, wresting subsistence crops from soils never meant to bear life, or sometimes selling their service to the Company years in advance. If settler could, somehow, get a stake, stay out of bondage, and turn his land into something worthy, then he could acquire more land, buy stock or seed from a Company store at Company set-prices. And pay the Company a 1% fee for the privilege. That had been one of the Independent’s claims of grievance before the War: Core-world companies being shipped millions of credits of revenue, while Company services on the colonies themselves were weak tea for anyone who wasn’t a stockholder. People on the Rim were frequently starving, plague ridden, and desperate. That just gave the Company a reason to institute “austerity measures” in the face of the crisis – a politly bureaucratic way to say to the colonist: It’s been fun! You’re on your own. But sometimes things didn’t work out. Sometimes a Terraformer would spend trillions of credits on a promising project, just to have it tank before it could be Inspected or Certified. There were easily a dozen half-finished worlds. Rejects, the moonlets with flaws deemed too fatal to entrust the fate of human civilization to them. If a world was rejected, the terraformer could not be issued a Certificate of Colonization. That meant no one could legally buy land on the world. Usually, that devastating news item meant the bankruptcy of the terraformer and the break-up of the company assets to pay creditors. Occasionally, some enterprising entrepreneur would take these lemon planets and make lemon-aid by redeveloping them somehow. That’s what Kim Chou-yin had done with the planetary abortion now known as Set. When the terraformers couldn’t maintain a below-freezing temperature long enough for Terran crops to grow to fruit anywhere on the planet, the Hsien-Starco Corp went into receivership. Kim bought the place cheap, at auction. He brought in cheap labor and began stripping the system of every major resource he could scrape up. Minerals, petroleum, other hydrocarbons, water, whatever anyone on the Rim needed, Kim could get it for you, cheap. He made the old HSC Orbiting Industrial Complex a tax and data haven, put in a bunch of ritzy restaurants, brothels, casinos and hotels, and eventually started running spectacular entertainment for the traders, the Rim-lords, and the touring corporate executives. He called this sky-palace Axis, and he built his little empire into a virtual paradise for the rich –and a hopeless and miserable hell for the poor and service-bound. When the War came, Kim declared Axis neutral, and continued to sell raw materials to both sides of the dispute. The Alliance honored Kim’s neutrality only as long as there wasn’t an Alliance fleet convenient enough to press the matter. When it became clear that Kim had become one of the Independent faction’s last main suppliers of raw material, the Alliance Military acted: Axis was nuked without warning, and the industrial city on the planet, Onyx, was occupied by Alliance troops. Since there was no legal settlement there, the Alliance used the world as a free-form dump. It also made a convenient and very unpleasant POW camp. Many former bondsmen, the inhabitants of Set, were drafted into the Military. Many others were sent off-world to more secure locations and better jobs. As brutal as the repression was, the Alliance occupation was the hey-day of culture and economics for Onyx. After the War the Alliance left the starving, freezing sinkhole behind. Trade in materials all but ceased, since the Core-world corporations discouraged local trade in such things in favor of Core corporations. The people that were left there were, technically, illegal squatters on an inconvenient planet the Alliance wanted to forget about. Local strongmen and warlords settled into a ruling oligarchy, one that encouraged trade in “hard-to-find” materials and highly taxed manufactured and luxury goods. So Set became a natural meeting place of rogues and outlaws and fugitives from all over the ‘verse. It became a wealthy, gritty suburb of the interstellar black market. Anything you wanted, you could find at Onyx. And right now, Mal Reynolds had a laundry list. Several of them, actually. Once Serenity landed in a seedy but serviceable spaceport, he divided the crew up in teams, gave them money, and sent them out into the free-market jungle to find what they needed. Zoe was put in charge of securing new IDs for the entire crew – not permanent ones, but fakes that would be good enough on a casual inspection and could even withstand the cursory attention of law-enforcement. They were expensive, but the forger who did them guaranteed their efficacy for at least three months. After that, the cortex would catch up with them and they would be tagged as fraudulent. Kaylee and Wash were to buy a new transponder, some spare parts, some salvaged items – it kept them running around the old Alliance scrapyard in parkas for days, using the mule to haul back what they needed. Kaylee also took the time to stock up on a few key spare parts – stuff she didn’t need, but might want later. Book and Jayne were assigned to finding the hack they needed to stage the first part of the plan. While Onyx was mostly a haven for mercenaries, smugglers and slave brokers, there were a few hacks that had gotten too “hot” in the Core, and clung to this flyspeck as a safe harbor from which to ply their trade. Onyx had a major cortex connection – a legacy from the Alliance occupation – and while it was not in the Core, proper, it had strong ties there. Close enough ties so that the few hacks worthy of the name could manipulate data fields and alter records from here just as easily as they could in Ariel City or Memphis or Chang An. Finding them was easy – they advertised. There services were not cheap, however. For something like what the plan called for, it was very expensive indeed. But with Book’s adept negotiation skills – and Jayne’s blatant intimidation – they got what they needed at a decent price. Inara and Simon, meanwhile, were tasked with acquiring the costumes they would need. Above the innate squalor of the largely underground city, an inner secure complex housed the rich and elite of the pirate outpost. And where there are rich people, there are high-end shops and tailors and seamstresses to cater to their every horrible fashion whim. A pirate outpost was no exception. Inara took the opportunity to buy some new clothes – always a necessity in her profession – and Simon was able to indulge his own fetish for fine men’s wear in a way he hadn’t been able to since Persephone – a year ago. Inara also took the opportunity to get to know Simon a little better. In light of the Kaylee situation, it seemed wise to know what the man was thinking. As they found the entrance to a shop called Magnifique, Inara began her subtle interrogation. “Simon, are you enjoying all of this?” “The shopping? Yes, I must admit. I know it’s not the most manly of pursuits—” “You don’t have to explain it to me,” she assured. “I appreciate a man who knows how to dress. You do quite well for yourself, considering your gender.” “Yes, well, if you knew my mother, you’d understand why. She had great fashion sense; dressed everyone in my family. River was the only one who really objected – she didn’t see the practical use of clothing, believe it or not. She’d dress in a grain sack and think nothing of it – and that was before the Academy.” “Actually, I think the combat boots are quite charming,” Inara smiled. “An improvement, actually, on what she wore when she was eleven. It was . . . ghastly.” He laughed at the memory, then turned a little sad as he recalled how far he was from those days. “Do you ever wonder whether you’ll have a normal life again?” Inara asked. “I mean, live someplace . . . firm? Have a career again? Be able to shop again?” Simon laughed ruefully. “Not in my cards, I’m afraid. Plums standing, right now. Until I can fix my sister – or Uncle Al catches up—” “Uncle Al” was Serenity’s crew’s public code-word for the Alliance. One of the ways to avoid Alliance attention, wisdom dictated, was to not call its name too often. “Well, if you did – what would you do? Where would you go?” “All of this gone, you mean? No one trying to kill me every couple of days?” He pondered as they headed for the counter. “Hard to say,” he admitted. “I haven’t let myself think about it, for fear I’d succumb to doubt – or homesickness. But I suppose I’d go back into practice. I dare say I’ve removed more bullets from people in the last year than I did my entire official career as a trauma surgeon.” “You’d have a lot of good experience to that. Ever consider research?” Before the doctor could answer, an obsequious looking clerk came up, and in a thick Merovengian accent inquired what they desired. He was a sparse man, sly, to Inara’s practiced eye. A professional, used to rich idiots and their slatternly girlfriends. He was practiced at the art of subtle manipulation, used to concealing his true feelings behind a mask of service and respectability. And she could read him like a comic book. “Gentlefolk, welcome to my humble shop. I am Mon. Francois Gonlead, the proprietor of the boutique. How may Magnifique be of service to you today? A gown for the lady? A new suit, perhaps, for the gentlemen? I have some stunning raw silk in from Yuan, and some exquisite dark wool from New Sydney, just in today.” “You can skip the act, Francois. If you’re really from Merovingia, I’m the ruttin’ princess of Londinium. We need help, and it will be in both our interests if you dispense with the act. Dong fa?” Inara had both eyebrows raised, and her tone was one Simon had never heard her use before. Imperious, but matter-of-fact.. “Thanks,” the clothier said, after a moment’s deliberation. His entire mannerism, not just his accent, changed. “That crap irritates me, but when I was plain Frank Gonnely, no one came to my shop. I changed my name and raised my prices thirty percent. Took me six months to master the accent.” “’Master’ may be overstating it,” Inarra said wryly. “You need to work on your vowels.” Frank shrugged uncaringly. “It’s good enough for the wealthy filth who come in here. Which you obviously aren’t – you dress too well. Although I’ve never met a poor Companion.” “True. And I’ll definitely be spending some money here – if you can help us out with something a little . . . unusual.” “Does ‘unusual’ mean ‘illegal’?” “Not here. And not yet. Nothing that can ever concern you. But I’m more than willing to pay a ten-percent discretion fee, if that helps.” “Depends on what you need.” “Give him the list, Simon.” The doctor handed over the data, impressed with Inara’s ability to cut to the essential heart of the situation in less than two minutes. His own mother would just be introducing herself about now. Francois – Frank – took the list and scanned it. He pursed his lips and his eyes flashed back and forth. “I’ll need three days,” he said, at last. “At least that. And I’ll need fittings for everyone.” “Is that really necessary?” asked Simon. “For our purposes—” “Enough, dear,” Inara said, harshly. “We needn’t trouble the man with our purposes. We want the best job you can do. We can wait about three days – but no longer.” “Shouldn’t be a problem. Already have the fabric on hand – though I’d never thought I’d be using it for this. I can dig the patterns out of the cortex. I won’t ask of course – but I can’t help but be curious.” “How terrible for you. I’ll send my people over – discreetly, one at a time – and I want to see the result before I pay for it. Agreed?” “Agreed.” When Frank had left the front of the shop, Inara dropped back into her less-regal, more relaxed self. Simon was impressed. “How did you do that? Tell he wasn’t really . . . enchanted by your charms?” Inara smiled. “A large part of being a good Companion is knowing how to project confidence – confidence is attractive and sexy. If you project confidence, people naturally want to listen to you, and trust you enough to do what you say. You do much the same thing,” she added, as she began towards the racks and dummies wearing ‘Francois’’ creations. Simon followed her, entranced. She moved with the grace of a cat. “How do you mean?” he asked, confused. “I’m a complete idiot when I talk to people,” he said, moving towards the men’s clothing racks. “Normally, yes,” she conceded. “Especially if they have breasts – and pretty eyes.” She grinned warmly, blinking her eyelashes just a little too much. “But those aside, when you are dealing with a patient, I’ve noticed you project your confidence quite naturally. You make them feel as if you are in complete control, as if nothing bad will happen as long as you’re near. It’s an uncommon skill. I wish more doctors had developed that skill – most are thinking about their cricket match, or their dinner plans, or paperwork and not about their patient at all. At least, that’s what it feels like.” Simon grinned wryly. “Oh, that’s just (bullshit) to cover the fact that usually I don’t have the faintest idea what’s going to happen.” “Same basic thing. Act confident, and you’ll be perceived as confident. ‘Fake it ‘till you make it’ – one of the things they drilled into our head at the Academy. Ooh, this is pretty!” She held up a flowing red diaphanous gown. Simon raised his eyebrows appraisingly. “Too dark for you,” he decided. “But I like the texture.” “Hmm. So, speaking of pretty eyes, how’s your . . . how are you and Kaylee getting along?” “You know, now that you mention it, she’s been avoiding me lately. I can’t honestly say that I’ve spent more than a moment with her in, oh, at least a week.” His brow furrowed. “Actually, now that I think about it, she’s been very . . . distant, I suppose. Did I say something again? I mean, things were going so well there for a while.” He shrugged his shoulders. “I guess she’s grown tired of dealing with my idiocy. I was really starting to like her. Oh, I like this,” he said, holding up a dark green silk vest. “I wonder if comes a size smaller? I suppose he could take it in.” Inara studied the doctor intently for just a few moments, then moved to the next rack. “Simon, if you permit me an observation about women . . .?” “Who better?” he said with a sigh. “I’ve always had a blind spot there. I suppose it’s River’s fault, actually. Growing up with her – my younger sister – constantly surpassing me in nearly everything we did – it made me a little intimidated by women, I suppose. I never seem to say the right thing.” “I’ve noticed,” Inara said dryly. “I’ve also noticed that she keeps coming back, despite your obvious deficiencies.” “Maybe she’s just a masochist?” Simon offered sheepishly. “You want my professional opinion?” “Um, no, not really.” “Perhaps she finds your utter lack of sensitivity and coherent conversation . . . endearing?” “Comical, perhaps. Oh, I like that for you.” “Thanks, I was thinking it looked too . . . matronly.” “You would appear more regal than matronly. Don’t tell me Companions worry about that sort of thing.” “Aging? We are women, you know, and women for whom our appearance is a vital part of our business. While a mature, experienced Companion is often highly sought after, that doesn’t mean she doesn’t wish to appear youthful. We use clothing and cosmetics to project different personae for our clients. But don’t change the subject. Somehow I don’t think Kaylee is attracted to wit – otherwise she would be hanging all over Wash.” “She’s probably just interested in me because I’m the only . . . available man on board. And a ‘wealthy young doctor.’” “You do her – and yourself – a disservice by thinking that, Simon. Firstly, there have been other available men on Firefly – Jayne, for one, if you want to be technical – that she hasn’t displayed any appreciable interest in. And as far as you being a marriageable ‘catch’, need I remind you that you aren’t exactly ‘in practice’ right now? I’d say without too much fear of contradiction that your current earning potential and prospects as a trophy husband are . . . limited.” “So that leaves pure, brazen hormones and simple insanity,” Simon concluded. “While I would never underestimate the power of pure, brazen hormones,” Inara said, “trust me when I say that they aren’t likely to fuel a persistent interest – a temporary infatuation, perhaps, but you can’t sustain a level of erotic fascination indefinitely by hormones alone. Unless, of course, your name is Jayne Cobb. There needs to be something more, there. So I’d advise you to respect my professional opinion on this. She has interest, and it isn’t motivated by simple lust. As far as being insane -- have you any evidence to support that hypothesis?” “Well,” Simon said, after a moment’s consideration, “there is the fact that she’s part of Malcolm Reynolds’s crew. And she talks to Serenity like it’s a prized stallion.” “We all have our professional idiosyncrasies. That hardly makes us insane.” “I concede the point,” admitted Simon, who had moved over to evening wear, and was examining a long, heavily embroidered Chinese gentleman’s evening-gown in dark gray. “This is exquisite,” he marveled. “And it comes with a matching evening cap!” “Notice the onyx button? Quite witty, for a clothier. So, we’ve eliminated golddigging, desperation, insanity, and – mostly – hormones. What does that leave you, doctor?” “Terribly perplexed,” answered Simon. “No doubt. I’ll let you ponder the implications of that, but I would also point out that when a woman has closed herself off and remains incommunicative, it is often a call for emotional help.” “Doesn’t it mean she wants to be left alone?” “If she were a man, that might well be the case. Men sulk and brood when they have problems, and usually resent any attempt to interrupt them. By Kaylee is a woman, Simon. When she ‘sulks’ she is deeply troubled about something, and is actually inviting intervention.” Simon wrinkled his brow. “So how should I proceed, oh goddess of love and romance?” “That depends entirely on what your own feelings are.” “If I had the slightest idea about that, I wouldn’t be having this conversation.” “Then perhaps that is where you should start. How do you feel about Kaylee? Independent of your own situation? If there was no River problem, no ‘Uncle Al’ problem, how would you feel about her? Don’t worry, I assure you of complete confidence; it’s part of being a Companion. Say what you will. From the heart? How do you feel?” “How do I feel? How do I feel?” “About her. Yes.” “About her?” “Yes, and don’t overthink it. What does your heart say?” Inara fixed him with an intense stare, compelling him with her eyes to tell the truth of his heart. “Well, she really is the most amazing person,” Simon said after a moment of thought. “I’ve never met someone who was so warm and friendly. She treats everything around her like a personal work of art. As if it were her job to bring just a little bit of fresh air and sunshine into their lives. Make sure they’re comfortable. The flowers in the kitchen – I’d wager she took months painting those in her spare time. The gorram engine room looks more warm and inviting than any apartment I’ve ever lived in, let alone our estate.” “Good start, keep it going,” encouraged Inara. “She’sgenerous. She gave River plenty of stuff when she came on board, and she’s a good cook, and—” “More from the heart, less from the stomach,” Inara corrected. Simon smiled. “Well, she’s loyal. She’s compassionate. Very empathetic, I like that – she would have made a good nurse. She has been very kind to my sister. I like it when they play together. Spunky. A little timid, perhaps, but willing to be assertive, at need.” “You have no idea,” whispered Inara under her breath. Then, “These are all sounding like pretty good indicators. Do you admire her?” “You know, I do! The way she cares for the engines, it’s a weird type of professionalism. I admire that. And she’s funny. Great sense of humor.” “That should be sufficient. I think it’s clear you have an affection for her.” “Yes, I suppose I do. She really isn’t like anyone I’ve met before.” “So, act like it.” “What?” “Don’t take on the heavy load. Quit thinking about the big picture, the possibilities and consequences. Take this one issue at a time, and build on it. Regardless of any other factor, you have an affection for her, and she obviously has an affection for you.” “Well, yes, but it’s more complicated than that.” “Of course it is. But your heart tells you that you admire and like her. That should be worth at least some consideration in all of your grand schemes. You like her. Act like it.” “But, how—” Simon began, confused. “Do I have to show you an instructional video? Girls like presents. They like being told their pretty. They like being told . . . all that stuff that you just so eloquently told me. They like—” “Madame?” Frank interrupted. “I have an estimate for you now.” The shop keeper glided forward and gave Inara a slip of data. She glanced at it, showed it to Simon, then smiled. “Very good, Frank, I’ll have everyone come by for fittings, and we’ll pick up the order in three days. And if you would be so kind,” she said, heaping a small pile of her selections across Frank’s arm. “I’ll want these done, as well. And the gentleman . . .” She took the elegant dark grey coat and laid it over the top of the pile. “Why, thank you , madame,” Frank said, slipping back into the Francois accent. “Magnifique is pleased to be of service.” As they were walking out the door into the mall, Simon offered Inara his arm. “You know that price he quoted you seemed a little extravagant.” “He over-inflated the estimate so he can shave off a little at the end, appear generous – unless I’m a bitch, in which case he’ll jack it up another ten percent, call it ‘unanticipated costs’.” “I always just handed them my credit chit.” “Which is why you got truly excellent service. They know a sucker when they see one. But this one is good. I did some research. If he delivers, it will be well worth the price not to end up in an Alliance prison.” “Inara, why are you agreeing to help us with this? This isn’t even ‘petty-theft’ – this is big time crime. I’d hate to see you get caught up with this sort of thing. I know the Captain is.” “Simon, I choose my clients – and I choose to do this, too. I don’t want a cut of the take – though I might negotiate a few rent-free months with Mal. I am doing this for two reasons. First, I think it’s a noble thing to do, bringing low-cost medicine to the Rim. Even if you make a profit, this is something that actually could make a difference in a lot of people’s lives. Secondly,” she said, slightly wrinkling her brow, “I’m concerned that you will all hump it up.” “Well, speaking of confidence . . .” “No, I have every confidence in your plan, Simon. I examined it most carefully. It’s a good, elegant plan. If nothing goes wrong. If you can pull it off. And I feel like my involvement will improve that chance. Plus, this is fun. It’s kind of nice to take a week off from clients and be a . . . gangster’s moll.” She burst out laughing at the thought, attracting attention from several shoppers. Simon grabbed her elbow and laughed too, looking around after a moment, just to see if anyone had continued watching. As far as anyone knew, they were merely a couple out on a shopping spree. “Thank you,” Simon said, as Inarra regained her composure. “For discussing Kaylee with me. What you said made a lot of sense. I’d like to get her something, I think, a, a symbol of my . . . affection. I actually saw a lovely scarf back at the boutique—” “Have you ever seen her wear something like that? Keep your gifts simple, Simon. A gift of clothing is laden with meaning for a woman. More than most men realize. Get her something nice, thoughtful.” “A book, perhaps?” he mused. “Maybe a candle?” Inara offered, gesturing towards a shop where many pretty and useful things were on display. “Because she can’t keep the lights on? Kaylee’s sensitive about that. After my birthday . . .” “How about a tool? That seems a little more like her.” “Wouldn’t know where to begin. A picture?” “Art can be difficult. Not everyone’s tastes are . . . congruent” she said, thinking of how Kaylee’s taste in decorative ceramics didn’t match Simon’s. “But what would she like, then . . .? I can’t think of anything.” “I’ve got it,” Simon said, spying something in a nearby shop. “It’s perfect. I only wish River was here to concede how brilliant I am. I hope she and Mal are having fun.” * * * Mal crouched behind a thick tabletop, pistol drawn, carefully taking aim at the next thug who dared to pop his head out. On the floor at the other end of the room a man lay with three of his bullets in him, breathing what was, no doubt, his last breath. Gunsmoke and cries of pain and rage filled the air. The bartender had bolted the moment the gunfire had begun. Broken glass littered the floor, and the occasional stray bullet only added to the mess. Crouched down behind the all-too-small table with him was River, who was curled up in a sitting fetal position, rocking back and forth, chanting “the onions, the onions, little babies in jars. The onion . . .” Mal shot three times, then ejected the empty cartridge and slammed another in with the heel of his hand. As he returned to his crouching position, he spared a moment to look at River. “Next time,” he hissed at the girl, “you go before we leave the ship!”