The Treasure of Lei Fong Wu

Chapter Fifteen

Wash just stared at the beast. He’d been doing that for ten minutes, ever since he returned from paying their docking fees and buying a temporary merchant permit from the port master. It was huge. Four tons of furry prehistoric pachyderm, its ancestors raised from extinction from the arctic steppes of Earth-That-Was in a feat of Twenty-First Century gee-whiz genetics. A lot of glacially frozen animals had been brought back, before the Exodus, as scientific curiosities or playthings for the rich. When humans abandoned Earth-That-Was they had been included in the gene bank with everything else – but this one was notable. Tusks of pure ivory, the size of a hickory tree. A thick, wooly matte of hair that stank the way no other animal stank. Big, soulful eyes, that were nonetheless tiny in its – his, he suddenly noted as the beast turned around – face. Feet the size of fuel cells. Ears like shaggy sails. A trunk like . . . a convenient simile eluded him. There was nothing else like that in the ‘verse. He had seen a giant sloth, once, at the Boros Metropolitan Zoological Gardens, from a hundred feet and an electric barrier away, but this was the first time that he had ever seen a mastodon. Or smelled one. Zoe studied him as he stared, intrigued. She had rarely seen Wash pay this much attention to anything that wasn’t flight- , dinosaur- , or sex-related. “Johnny says they raise them here,” she said, watching him with interest. “He schooled himself in them growin’ up, seein’ as how they were so important to the old country. Wuhan’s greatest export. Biggest source o’ natural ivory in the ‘verse. Whole herds of them, wrangled like sheep with horses and hovercraft out on the plains to the west. Bunch o’ Mongols and Manchus and Tibetans herd ‘em. Use ‘em as transport, construction equipment, meat, hide, everythin’. Very big in their culture. Even got a big temple to Ganesh in town.” “That’s . . .” Wash said, at a loss for words. The mastodon trumpeted, a loud, ear-splitting bellow. It then took a mammoth dump into the street, doing nothing positive for the ambiance of the area. It was apparently a Mongol family’s transport. The family had a small tent nearby, out of which it sold bamboo shoots, medicinal herbs and hand-woven mastodon-hair textiles. A few people studied their wares, ignoring the eight-thousand pound mammoth next to them. “Impressive, ain’t he?” Zoe asked, glancing at the mastodon and then back at her husband, who had his hands thrust deeply into his hand-kitted sweater against the chill. “Yeah,” he finally agreed. “For a mammal,” he added with a hint of disdain. “A mammal?” Zoe asked, confused. “Well, yeah, Pleistocene was impressive in a furry sort of way, but . . . well, it’s nothing on the Jurassic. Some Diplodocids were over a hundred and thirty feet long and massed a hefty fifty tons,” he explained. She stared at him. “That’s it? ‘Impressive . . . for a mammal?’ It’s the biggest land creature alive today, I’d wager.” “I’m just saying,” muttered Wash. “You amaze me,” she said, shaking her head in disbelief. “I guess Mal was right. We really should be able to unload our cargo here,” he admitted, impressed and surprised. “Mal had a good, legitimate idea that didn’t involve guns or blunt objects.” “It was bound to happen eventually.” “Law of averages,” Wash agreed. He looked at Zoe, shrugging. “Of course I credit this amazing development to the constant, inspired influence of my lovely and exceedingly wise wife,” he said with a straight face. “Your judgment is commendable, husband.” “That’s why you married me,” he agreed, pulling her to him for a below-the belt hug and a kiss. “Y’all wanna do a might less smoochin’ and a might more haulin’, I promise not to vomit on your boots at the sight o’ you next time I witness somethin’ that gorram sickenin’ sweet,” Jayne grumbled as he helped Johnny move the first cargo out to the ramp for display. Johnny just grinned as they dumped their load. Of all the things Duncan had to offer Mal, this one was uniquely suited. Hand-made, highly ornate elephant harnesses in a traditional Old Dravidian style. The quality leather had been hand-tooled, the embroidered inlay on the saddles and tack was colorful – and like nothing that Wash had seen for sale this morning. True, the adjustable straps probably wouldn’t fit the girth of the largest specimens, but a Mongol herder who took his family to Temple on one of these beauties would likely be the envy of every yurt in the village. When the Washbornes pitched in the work went quickly, and it wasn’t long before the ten harnesses crowded the entrance to the cargo bay. They had attracted their first browser long before they finished. Kaylee gladly took the lead in sales, being unofficial ship’s barker and a girl it was hard for anyone to say no to, and within an hour she had sold her first one at a very good price. Wash hung back after that, allowing her to make the pitch, and then if anyone seemed to balk he would jump in with a fast-paced spiel that took them by surprise. During a break between pitches, Wash was trying to enjoy (without much success) some of the fermented mare’s milk that passed for a refreshing beverage here when Jayne quietly asked him a question. “Flyboy, how long does it take you to look at a rug?” “Depends on how much of this . . . gou sao I drank,” he acknowledged, swallowing with a grimace. “Ai ya, it makes me think back fondly to Mudder’s Milk. At least that didn’t have real milk in it.” “Longer than an hour?” “Not unless it was a really interesting rug.” “Well, that fella over there’s been studyin’ that brown and orange rug since we landed. He ain’t bought it yet, he ain’t asked no questions, and he ain’t moved on.” “In my artistic opinion, that rug ain’t that interesting,” Wash agreed, softly. The more he thought about it, the more he realized that the man had been there a while – he wouldn’t have noticed in all the street traffic, but he had stared at that mastodon so long the man had become part of the peripheral scenery. He never quite moved along, but was never in one spot long enough to attract real notice. “I’m ponderin’ the significance o’ that,” Jayne murmured, as he adjusted his yellow-orange knit hat against the cold. “Perhaps the Captain should be informed.” “He’s getting’ tickets for him an’ his new bride,” Jayne grunted. “Next tour out to the place is tomorrow. A six-hour mammoth-ride to the middle-o’-gorram-nowhere sounds like a pleasant honeymoon, don’tcha think?” “All the cave-men are doing it,” Wash said absently, trying to look at the man without looking like he was looking at him. He used a convenient mirror embedded as decoration in one of the harnesses to study him, and sure enough, the man was definitely watching Serenity. “So what’s your professional opinion?” Wash asked Jayne as he straightened the tack. “Tong, or Feds?” “Hmm. I’d have t’ say . . . nah, that can’t be right.” “What?” “The way the guy is lurkin’, I’d be most inclined to say military. Tongs are all cocky – even little Prince Johnny in there. Cops, they have a hard time actin’ casual. This guy, he’s good. I think I wanna second opinion, though,” he said, going inside. Wash talked to two more customers before Jayne returned, Book in tow. “Mornin’ Shepherd,” Wash acknowledged. Book was dressed snugly in a dark woolen coat and hat, the nub of his pony-tail peaking out the back. “Jayne says we got us a fan club,” he nodded. “Looks like. I think it’s a cop, Jayne says military. I’d be interested in your spiritual guidance on this.” Everyone knew Book had a past, and though no one could rightly claim to have more than a few tantalizing hints about it, his familiarity with firearms, tactics, and all manner of knowledge not ordinarily associated with spreading the Gospel suggested that past had had a violent component. Without ever looking at him (that Wash could see) Book nodded, and sat down next to Wash on the harness. “Yep. Boy was right. He’s military intellegence.” “Crap,” Wash moaned. “What the hell does the Alliance want with us?” “Didn’t say Alliance. I said ‘military’.” “Browncoat?” “That wasn’t the prevalent faction here, remember,” Book reminded him. “And no telling who he works for now. But he holds himself like a man trained by the military – a real casual buyer would slouch more. It’s possible that he isn’t even watching us.” “And it’s possible that my ass smells like fresh-baked pumpkin pie, but it ain’t ‘zactly likely, now is it?” “No, that ain’t likely,” Book agreed, softly. “And a little disturbing to think about,” Wash added. “So what do we do?” “You chase him off, you might not see the next one,” Book pointed out. "Get a capture on him, I’d say, and see who he talks to, what he does.” “And keep one in the chamber?” Jayne asked, wolfishly. “Might be prudent,” Book agreed. “Not that I’m advocating violence, mind.” “We’re supposed to be being sneaky, remember?” Wash reminded. “A firefight is bound to cause gossip.” “It surely is interesting, though,” Book commented. “No one in the ‘verse knows we were headed here. But we attract a stakeout the first day in the world? That bespeaks of shenanigans.” “Read my mind, Shepherd,” agreed Jayne. “Maybe he just wants to be our friend,” suggested Wash. “Why does everyone we meet have to be a bad guy?” The other two looked at him pointedly. “Okay, okay, that’s the kind of crowd we run with, I know. But still, we ain’t been here long enough to piss anyone off.” “’Zactly,” agreed Jayne. “Which is why this is so gorram interestin’.” “Must be one of Serenity’s previous acquaintances. But who?” “Well, that ain’t a short list, Preach,” Jayne said, shaking his head. “Lessee, we got Niska wantin’ our blood runnin’, Constance ain’t real thrilled ‘bout us, Red Rock Tong would like to see us all barbecued, Julio wouldn’t mind seein’ the end o’ Zoe and Mal, Kaylee’s got that hauler she knocked the teeth out of on Sophia anxious for a tussle, we got crazy-ass Badger who could turn on us for four bits and a half-eaten doughnut, Wing Min who’d like to see Zoe spend a few painful hours beggin’ for her life, that prick Mal stabbed with a sword on Persephone, the Gorrey Mountain boys, a couple o’ score o’ folk who ain’t properly happy with my continued existence, and the first girl Wash ever kissed – oh, and did I mention the gorram Alliance, who places enough of a substantial monetary value on the Tam’s collective ass to inspire every gorram bounty-hunter in the ‘verse?” He blinked. “Did I leave no one out?” “The first girl I kissed ain’t fair,” protested Wash. “She got lots of therapy. And medication. She’s expected to recover in just a few more years. Apart from that . . .” “Yes, enemies are about the only thing this crew collects faster than scars,” Book noted. “Best we keep an eye or three on this one.” “I’ll set up a capture,” Wash agreed. “I can do it from the bridge, he won’t suspect anything from that angle.” “Good thinking,” Book said. “And while you’re doing that, I’m going to get my street clothes on,” he said, noting he was still in the comfortable ship-board clothing that wasn’t remotely adequate against the brisk Wuhan air. “I got a sudden craving to look at a rug.”

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“She’s lovely, Heflin,” Inara said, smiling over her saki cup. “A real delight. You did very well for yourself.” “Thanks, sweets, love her to death,” the flamboyant billionaire said, sprawled out on a couch that likely cost more than her shuttle. He was a handsome man, except for a chin three sizes too small and a slightly receding hairline. He was also brilliant in all things economic, having turned a sizeable inherited fortune into an embarrassing mountain of money in only a few decades. His net worth was more than the total economic output on most of the frontier moons. Inara had met and contracted with him on Sinhon, during his ascendancy. If anyone would know what was going on among the movers and shakers in the Alliance, he would. “As soon as she gets back from her workout, we can have some lunch and plan our . . . evening activities.” “That would be nice,” Inara agreed. “I hate to intrude, but may I ask you something about your work?” Heflin smiled. “Inara, there isn’t a man alive who doesn’t want to talk about how brilliant he is at his work. But why?” “Macroeconomics is a hobby of mine?” she offered with an embarrassed grin. “You are such a terrible liar, bao bei, you really shouldn’t try.” “I’ve just heard some things. I’ve been out in the wilderness for a few years, now. I hear rumors, I get curious. It would be nice to know which way the wind is blowing.” “I see,” he nodded, sagely. “Thinking about investing some of your earnings?” “Something like that. What do you know about Epiphany?” “Epiphany? Oh, that! Yes, I’ve been getting sales brochures for years, now. Might even take a glance, once they’re finished. That might be a good place for you in a few years, actually. You could settle down into semi-retirement, take just a few special clients a month, enjoy life for a while.” “I’ve been there, it’s lovely,” she agreed. “But I’m curious as to why it was built in the first place.” “Oh, to get away from the hassles of Core life, I suppose,” Heflin said. “A controlled world – completely controlled, mind – with a dedicated servile class and no chance of . . . unpleasantness. Little chance of the peasants revolting. Heavy security. A place where the ‘verse comes to you.” “Isn’t that already where the central planets are?” “Well . . . for the moment. But have you considered the future, lately?” “It’s crossed my mind,” she said, cautiously. “Then consider these facts that may not be apparent. Ready for a history lesson? The Core planets have been the bastion of civilization since the end of the Exodus, correct?” “Oh, yes, wise master,” she said with a mocking bow and warm smile. He returned it. “For a hundred years we terraformed and colonized the main Core worlds – call it the ‘Inner Core’. Sihnon, Londinium first, of course, and then Osiris, Merovingia, Xian, etc. etc. Then we went on and did the ‘Peripheral Core’, the moons in and around the local worlds, places like the Vajra system, Athens, Ariel, Angel, Rhinemark, Yuan. They were pretty wild at first, but the close proximity of the Solid Core made taming their populations – bringing them into a post-industrial level of civilization – a relatively simple affair. We could control our colonies, because unrest on Osiris, for example, could be quelled quite easily by a few gunboats from Londinium. Political control was easy. The economic development also made a lot of people in the solid core very, very wealthy, my ancestors included.” “This much I remember.” “About two centuries ago, we started moving beyond the Peripheral Core – had to, ran out of conveniently terraformable moons. And it’s not like we really needed the room – the central planets still had plenty of space for growth, despite their booming populations. But the desire for profits like the ones we made in the Peripheral Core was just too strong. So we pushed out into the inner Rim. Boros, Hathor, Shadow, Verbena, Santos, Persephone -- and within another century they were livable, and started to develop. A little more crudely than the Core, of course – they were spread out more. Harder to share resources. But they got established, and largely under local authority.” “Completely under local authority, if you ask the Independents.” “Yes, well, they did suffer under that illusion. The local movers and shakers saw all that profit flowing back to the Core, and damn little returning. They were the ones with the real investments in the Rim. They were on the ground, living there, investing their sweat and blood. They were building the world, while the Companies cut costs and squeezed every penny out of the operations. When we colonized the Inner Rim, we really cut corners. Held back on investing in the economies of the worlds – well, we needed markets for the industries of the Peripheral Core to further its development.” “Blue Sun,” she noted. “They’re all over, out there. And others.” “Exactly, Blue Sun is an excellent example. Consumer products conglom. They sell . . . let’s say they sell something, hammers. They mass produce them by the hundred thousands on Xian for almost nothing, distribute them among their wholesalers in the Rim, and make a huge profit. “Meanwhile, someone on Boros gets the idea that maybe they should make their own hammers, sell them for half as much locally. Blue Sun loses market share. Blue Sun isn’t happy with that. So Blue Sun uses its influence to interfere with the local government to protect their hammer franchise. A minor thing, really – unless you’re the guy making hammers. “And this sort of thing is going on all over the Inner Rim. The Company owns everything in sight, you or your parents paid a huge premium to settle this raw world, which is likely killing your family in some horrible manner, where food is short, and if you get behind on your debts you suddenly find yourself with a six-year indenture contract to the Company. Meanwhile, some local magistrate is telling you to stop making hammers, because they compete with the mass-produced items from the Core.” “You’re right, that’s how it is out there. Much struggle and suffering.” “So the Inner Rim worlds get upset. Why should they send back four bits in every eight to some sweet-smelling sissy in the Core, when they were building their new world brick by brick? And body by body? Our short shrift in investing caused some serious resentments to boil over, into violence. That violence was turned towards symbols of the Alliance – which the new worlds were not, technically signatories to, legally speaking. A technicality, but one that they tried to exploit. And, of course, the Alliance couldn’t have its authority symbols destroyed by gangs of angry locals. So it fought back.” “Which led to the inevitable and classic struggle between centralized and decentralized authority structures,” she supplied. Heflin raised his eyebrows. “You’ve studied,” he nodded, admiringly. “I told you it was a hobby,” she dismissed. “I find it fascinating.” Heflin studied her. “You’re serious. Most Companions would rather just nod their head politely while a man goes on about his business, but you are seriously interested. I find that fascinating. Where were we?” “The assertion of independence from central authority on the Rim.” “Oh, yes. Sorry. Distracted by your eyes, they’re splendid! The Independents and the other factions all had grievances against the Alliance and the corporations – all justified in their eyes. And things were getting worse, because in pursuit of maximizing profits, they sold off each new world as quick as they could to move on to the promising worlds in the Outer Rim. If that meant diverting investment to the Inner Rim, well, that was just too bad. And if things got violent? The Military could deal with them, as long as the flow of money continued.” “And that caused the Unification War,” noted Inara. “No.” “No? I thought the Independents started the war when they blew up the Churchill over Boros?” “That was the obvious start of the war, of course, but it was going on a while before the first act of violence. Wars almost always start that way. Rarely is there a conflict that doesn’t have a clear economic instigator. The Yuan-Xian wars, two hundred years ago? Started over the control of the shipping revenues between T’ien, Ita, and Sihnon. The famous war between Merovingia and Osiris started because a significant number of Merovingian investors were cut out of the windfall profits of the Hera terraformation, so they hired the Merovingian military and tried to topple the Osirin government. But when you read history, it says that war was over the Merovingian king’s insult to the president of Osiris at a state dinner, or something like that.” “I stand corrected. So what started the Unification War?” “Simple: the Inner Rim worlds, when they became sustainable, were far enough away from the Core to make if difficult for the Core to enforce its will on them. Notably the Terraformation Companies. When Shadow repudiated the Chartered Shadow Company, basically throwing them out in a revolution and installing local administrators, the stockholders in the Core were unhappy with the loss of that investment. “Similar sorts of things happened on the other Inner Core worlds, although the economics were usually different each time – fissionable mining on Boros, slavery on Hera and Verbena, land taxes on Santos, and . . . I think it was fishing rights on Hathor. Whatever. “But the underlying reason was that the Inner Rim worlds were just starting to pay off for the off-world investors. When the locals saw development stifled because Core world companies wanted to continue to sell them expensive manufactured goods that they could now produce locally, or when they resisted contributing indentured labor to the Outer Rim projects, or when they saw year after gloomy year of trade imbalance and debt, well, it didn’t take much prodding by the local politicians to get them up in arms.” “Why did they succeed? In launching the war? Why didn’t the Alliance stop them?” “Oh, they tried! Most people weren’t paying attention at the time, but there were hundreds of incidents that required Alliance interventions. And damn few cruisers to handle it. Osiris is about nine hours from Londinium. It’s twenty hours from Ariel. But it’s six days between Osiris and Boros – and that’s the Inner Rim. Boros’ next closest neighbor is Whitehall, and that’s five days away. And one of the flyspeck moons on the frontier, they’re something like twenty days away from Osiris, and at least nine days away from their closest neighbor.” “Things got spread out,” Inara realized. “Indeed. When we went to the Inner Rim, the volume of space the Alliance was responsible for went up exponentially. But the size of the military did not. So the Inner Rim worlds were a lot better at resisting centralized authority, for a time. Recruit a bunch of straight-shooting farmboys with more bravery than sense, convert a few ships to military use, and you can do a lot of damage . . . for a while.” Inara thought of Mal. Wondered how he looked, back then, when all of this was going on. He couldn’t have been more than a kid, she realized, young and idealistic. Growing up knowing that no matter how hard he worked, much of what he made would go to the Core, which did precious little for him. She thought of thousands of young settlers like Mal. A few wiley politicians giving passionate speeches, appeal to the patriotism and fighting spirit of the young and stupid, mix in a little religious extremism for flavor, add guns, stir: Instant Browncoats. “But they never had a chance,” Inara said, shaking her head. “They had . . . nothing. No shipyards, no heavy industry, no orbital defenses . . .” “Exactly. It took the Alliance a few years to get geared up to a war fitting, recruit a real military, build a new fleet, and assign competent leadership. But the result was almost inevitable.” “Almost?” “There was a slight, very slight chance that they would have succeeded. I was working on long-range forecasting at the time, so I got to see the numbers – the real numbers, not the comic fantasy they put out on the cortex – and my projections showed that the Independents had about an 11% chance of making it. But that was assuming they could link up with the Imperials and tap into their industrial base for material, strike the Alliance shipyards hard enough to deprive us of them, link up with the Hispanocatolicos on Santos and Santa Maria for shock troops, and press the advantage using brilliant leadership, surprise, and inspired diplomacy to end the war quickly at the beginning. Every day the war went on, their chances dropped. But they could have done it.” “So what does all of this have to do with Epiphany?” “My darling, that eleven percent is a huge number to a corporation – especially the multi-planetary conglomerates like our friends at Blue Sun. Eleven percent is staggeringly huge. They threw everything they could into the war to knock down that number. They got Parliament to authorize using bioweapons and nukes. They sped up war production. They propagated the political ideal of Universal Sovereignty, because you can’t run a war with ‘Increased Dividends in the Third Quarter!’ as a battle cry. They were scared shitless.” “But why?” Inara wanted desperately to know. She had been one of the people pushing for Universal Sovereignty herself – had she been a willing dupe of a corporate scheme? “Because, my dear, ‘faceless corporations’ are run by real people like me. And we, as an institutional class, are scared. “I told you I ran forecasts. Well, those forecasts have shown us that the technological paradise we enjoy here in the Core is a transitory thing. There are just too many people, and there won’t be enough resources to go around. Population pressures and internal power struggles will start to come to bear in another two generations, and we could see a repeat of the Unification War – only this time with most of the factions coming from the Core,” he said, sadly. Inara was horrified. The thought of the stately civilization of Sihnon, wracked by riots and bloodshed . . . “But. . . but why?” “Because we fought the War for Universal Sovereignty, but what we created, like it or not, was Empire. And every Empire falls.” Inara was even more aghast at Heflin’s suggestion than she had been about the prospects of riots in her homworld. “The Alliance is not an Empire!” “My dear, I hate to contradict you, but it is. An oligarchical empire, clothed in the trappings of a republic, but an Empire is actually an economic term here, not a political one. We don’t have an emperor – we don’t need one. But we have complete control over our export markets now, thanks to the War. But it, too, is transitory. This Empire will fall, eventually. And us wealthy people stand to lose the most in the chaos. Fortunes built up over generations – it must be protected, as surely as a man on Sophia protects his simple wooden cabin with his pistol. “That’s what led to Epiphany. And other places like it. They are our escape route, the planetary countryside that will protect us from the coming plague, whatever form it might be in. Riots, revolutions, warfare – as long as we have an escape route, we can be comfortable dealing with the crisis, and damn the consequences.” He was smiling sadly. “Don’t you have . . . a responsibility to the people?” she asked, her brain working frantically to phrase the question politely, instead of using the irredeemably vile Chinese curse that was struggling to come out. “What if there are riots in Sihnon? If things got that bad, shouldn’t you try to work it out? You have the power, after all.” “Responsibility?” Heflin asked, almost whispering. “That’s just a word. I’m no more ‘responsible’ for the coming crisis – and it will come, it’s inevitable – than anyone else. It’s a natural law, darling. People in large numbers can get unruly unless there is some mechanism for controlling them. And we’re working on that – and I mean really working on it. I’ve seen proposals for some truly innovative thinking on the subject. If we can keep the mobs of Sihnon and Londinium and the others at bay – pacify them, somehow, before the fact, then we can save millions of lives. Every major corporation, and a lot of secret government programs, are focused on that very thing, right now: keeping populations peaceful and . . .” “Docile?” Inara offered, amazed at what Heflin was saying. He snapped his fingers. “Exactly! Keep them going to work and doing what needs to be done, instead of engaging in foolish and ineffective political activity that might lead to riots. Or revolution.” “Mal will love to hear that,” she muttered to herself. “And when it does . . . well, let’s just say the next big war puts the spiritual descendents of the Independents at twenty-four percent chance of success – and rising. “That can’t be right,” Inara said, shaking her head and clutching herself in a hug. “Oh, it is, I assure you. Eventually, the Inner Core will implode, and the center of power will drift outward. I’m guessing Ariel or Angel, first, or Yuan. In another few generations, about the time that the Core really starts to show the cracks, I believe it will move again, towards Boros or Persephone – the very worlds we fought against in the last War. The Core will be just another unattractive suburb. Eventually, the power will be on the Rim.” “And that’s where Epiphany is,” Inara added. “Exactly. And it is terribly attractive to many of my peers. Gorgeous weather, excellent amenities, and eventually a good location. And not a damn resource on it to covet or steal. By the time the Core becomes politically unlivable, like Rome did in the late Empire, as it folded in favor of Constantinople, Epiphany will become a power center, with no real other purpose than control. And the elite can rule the Empire, or what remains of it, through the Parliament, from the safety of this fortress moon.” “You may not like your neighbors,” she warned. “The Rim is hardly an elitist society.” “No, you may be right. But,” he started, rubbing his chin, “The Independent worlds may not wait for the riots; there are pressures already gathering out there. After the Reconciliation Act and the Rim Redevelopment Act and all those factories we’re starting to build out there – the short-sighted look at them as necessary to appease the losing worlds. To me, they’re just munitions factories we built for the next time the Rim wants to stab the Core in the back. But the people – they don’t seem terribly impressed by the Alliance. I expect another war, or a series of skirmishes, within the next decade. Especially with these ‘Reaver’ bogeymen making people nervous.” He glanced up. “Oh, her workout must be over – here she comes!” He stood and looked around nervously, and Inara followed suit, as protocol dictated. “There’s this thing she wants to try, something she saw. She’s always been curious. Perhaps you could discuss it in the Greeting ceremony, and help her get over her nervousness.” He looked sheepish. “I’ll just . . . sit over there and watch, for a while,” he said. Inara nodded, furiously shifting her mental gears from economist to sexually adventurous professional. It was a little more difficult than she had anticipated, though Heflin’s wife was gorgeous, young, eager, and equally adventurous. Inara allowed a serene feeling of calm pass through her, and tried to concentrate on the tasks at hand. But a tiny piece of her brain was thinking about riots. Riots on Sihnon. Her homeworld, and cradle to half of humanity. And the bastard on the couch, sipping his drink and watching with lurid interest his new bride’s performance, he was one of the ones who would bring it about. He would buy and sell and make deals, a thousand or more in his lifetime, and grow wealthier. And he never, ever, would feel a shred of empathy. Never would he face up to the responsibility for what he did. Her mind flew back, unbidden, to Mal. Criminal and Rogue or not, the man had honor. If he ever screwed up the ‘verse, he’d at least have the good grace to own up to it. Usually.

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“Just came in from the field,” Lt. Hua said, pushing a report over to his Captain. Hua was a local boy, bright and friendly, and a champion marksman in the Interpol Justice Academy, besides. He did have a tendency for overzealousness that endeared him to his superiors – but made him a difficult liaison with the public he was supposed to be policing. “Another interstellar fugitive?” Captain Lo asked, whimsically. Last month, Hua had assured him that an international jewel thief had made her way to Wuhan, but she turned out to be a dancer at one of the city’s cabarets. Despite a careful watch – one of the more enjoyable assignments the police force had ever handed out – the anticipated spate of larceny reports never materialized. “Well . . . yes, technically. But one of significant interest.” “How so?” Lu asked, though his voice trailed off as he scanned the report. “See what I mean?” the young lieutenant asked, a note of vindication in his voice. “How positive is this informant?” “He’s a freelancer. But he captured the images himself. Compare the facial biometrics.” Lu did just that. 99% match. You couldn’t ask for a better match. The informant, Lowell “Lefty” Callahan, was a petty thief who supplemented his income (and occasionally his legal fees) by selling intel to the department – he usually hung out around the port, keeping an eye open for tourists who would be easy marks. He had never been grossly wrong before. “Give your man a bonus. And get both tactical squads on alert. Then slip into civvies and check this out, yourself. If it matches, we can move on him. The Feds want this one bad. Look at that reward! This is a career-maker – if we don’t screw it up.” “Not planning on it, Sir,” Hua beamed, as he hurried off to carry out his orders. Lo rubbed his chin and thought as he stared at the report. Why would he come here, of all the places in the ‘verse? Why would he risk the Core, when half the lawmen in the Alliance were now on the lookout for him? It didn’t make sense. Unless he had a plan, in which case anything was possible. The man’s war record was clear: you gave him an impossible job, he did it. Take that hill, hold that valley, attack that fort, he had commanded a fanatical devotion from his men. His post-war petty crime was low-key, with flashes of inspiration that left him suspected but unprosecuted in a number of crimes. Deadly gunfighter. Brilliant tactician, by all accounts. Figured as a hero in many places. But why was he here? Shaking his head, he turned to wave the local airbase. They were the largest military installation on the moon – they would have the equipment he needed. Regular police hovers wouldn’t be sufficient for this, he knew. Not against a man like that. Now all he had to do was just figure out where he was going, who he was meeting, and what that might mean. And why.