“Honor Among Thieves”

Or: “How Herbert Howard Harbatkin Got His Ship Back”

By Fish/Jiolee and RSB

* * *

Mal leaned forward, his elbows firmly planted on the thick wooden table he shared with Zoe, Wash, Kaylee and Jayne, and watched the sweat dripping from his chin splash into his lukewarm ale.  The bar was swelteringly hot, and the various lowlifes filling it were dressed in as little clothing as they could get away with without being arrested.  Kaylee in particular seemed to have embraced this trend, wearing something Mal was sure qualified as more of a handkerchief than a shirt, and he constantly had to look up from melting into his drink to scowl at the various young men that approached his scantily-clad engineer.  He was damn glad that they all were bright enough to take the hint; it was way too hot for a fight.

Summers on Semele were hotter than hell, and the places on it backwards enough to lack climate control were near uninhabitable.  The bar was a few technological centuries shy of air conditioning, with only a weak fan to stir the heavy, sweat-laden air.  It was, however, the best place to drum up business this side of Beaumonde, so here he sat with a flat ale and four miserable members of his crew.  They were all quiet, now, but the complaints had been nonstop for the hour previous; Mal figured the heat must’ve sucked all the fight right out of them, for they now merely slouched around the table in various states of stupor, and he knew none of them had managed to choke that much drink down.

“Excuse me!”  A loud, if somewhat reedy, voice rang out over the whirring of the fan, and Mal slowly directed his attention to the bar.  A thin, gangly man balanced precariously on top of a barstool, ducking his head to avoid bumping into the ceiling.  The few conversations still going died down as everyone turned to stare at the new entertainment.  “Salutations!  I am looking for the owner of the standard radion-accelerator core, class code 03-K64 Firefly mid-bulk transport berthed outside this fine establishment.  Is he available?”

Sluggishly, his crew turned to stare at him, looks ranging from amusement to horror plastered on their sweaty faces.  “Well?” Wash finally asked pointedly.

The man was still waiting patiently atop his barstool, surveying the patrons with what Mal thought was a sort of merry insanity.  With a bemused shrug, he hesitantly raised his hand, wincing as the man’s eyes alighted on their table with maniacal intensity.  “Well met, sir!  I shall be over momentarily!”  With that, he clambered down off his stool and started off in their direction.

“Are you sure we really want his job, sir?  No matter what it is?” Zoe murmured in his ear, throwing an alarmed look at the man.

“Now, now, never judge a book by its cover, Zoe,” Mal said with a generosity he wasn’t sure he felt.  “He might be rich.”

The man finally reached them, and haphazardly snagged an empty chair from another table before throwing himself into it, his watery blue gaze fixed unnervingly on Mal’s.

“Fine ship you have there,” he said without preamble, thrusting out one white-gloved hand.  “Allow me to introduce myself.  I am R. Salmanander Cuttingglass IV.  A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

Wash immediately snorted the beer he had been drinking out through his nose, and Zoe slapped her husband several times on the back as he broke into a coughing fit interspersed with choked laughter.  Mal managed a smile that wasn’t entirely a smirk and returned the handshake.  “Malcolm Reynolds, Captain of Serentiy.  You have a job for us, uh…?”

“Sir Salmanander, if you please,” he replied graciously.  “I am interested in acquiring your vessel.”

“As transport?”

“No, no, good sir, as a collectible.  The 03-K64 model is practically an antique!  I will pay you a fair price for her, that you can be assured.”

Mal crossed his arms over his chest and tried not to scowl.  “She’s not for sale.”

Cuttingglass chortled.  “Come now, Captain Reynolds, surely for the right amount…name the credits, sir, and I will gladly match them.”

“I said, Serenity’s not for sale,” Mal repeated, putting steel behind the words.  Cuttingglass held up his ridiculous white-gloved hands and stood.

“Very well, sir, I understand.”  He gave the group a small formal bow.  “Pleasure doing business with you, Captain Reynolds.”

Jayne watched the man walk away in dismay before turning on Mal.  “Gorramit, Mal, what were you thinking?!  Serenity ain’t worth anything and you just turned down a man who’d pay –“

“Serenity’s not for sale, it that clear?” Mal interrupted, fixing Jayne with a glare.  “I don’t want to hear nothing more about this, understand?”

With that, he pushed back from the table, threw a few coins next to his drink and pulled his hat down low on his forehead.  His crew followed suit, but as Wash stood he offered a complicated Cuttingglass-esqe bow to them all.

“I mean no disrespect, sir,” Zoe said as she grabbed her husband, who was grinning like his birthday had come early that year, by the arm and led him towards the exit.  “But I do think you’ll be hearing a lot of Sir R. Salmanander Cuttingglass IV over the next few days.”

* * *

It turned out that Wash’s persistence in mimicking Sir Salmanander was nothing compared to the persistence of the man himself.  While the heat on Semele continued to rise and no work was to be found, they found the strange antiquities collector difficult to avoid; he seemed to know exactly where the crew would be, and he always made a point of saying ‘Hello’ or ‘Hi-ya!’ or ‘About that lovely ship…’ whenever the crew didn’t see him in time to run away. After Mal ‘accidentally’ shot a hole in Cuttingglass’ hat, the gangly man with the white gloves and strange accent kept his distance, contenting himself to merely wave at Mal whenever he ‘just happened to be in the neighborhood’.

Nearly a week went by without work or even the prospect of it. Jayne muttered something about everyone dying from heatstroke and Mal was thinking maybe it was time to pull up stakes and look for work back somewhere else. The two best arguments for it were Sir R. Salmanander Cuttingglass IV and Wash, who had finally gone land crazy. Zoe was hinting at Mal that they might as well get off-planet soon, or Wash was just as likely to take the ship up on his lonesome.

Finally, a job came in. Simple, honest work. Smuggled goods left on a backwater moon needed to be moved to the next drop, and nobody else was closer, or more reliable. Wash was ecstatic, and Jayne and Zoe looked more than a little relieved to be getting off of Semele. Kaylee made a face and complained about leaving her adoring public.

“I can’t tell you how happy I’ll be to finally leave this mudball in our wake,” Mal said as they pushed out of the saloon and onto the dusty street. The heat of the noonday sun was staggering in its might. “Why is it always so much trouble finding work these days?”

“Could be on account of the ferocious weather, Cap’n,” Zoe said, putting a hand on Wash’s shoulder to keep him from wandering off. “Any planet’s got summer we land on it, work just dries up.”

“I’ll keep that in mind for the next few stops we make,” Mal said, shading his eyes. He heard the sound of a ship’s engines powering up over at the docks. Midday in summer was a quiet time. He probably could’ve heard the engines from the other side of the planet, way things were. Something about that didn’t sit quite right with him. “Kaylee, d’you think you might go and fetch the doctor and his sister, while we get in touch with Inara and let her know we’ll be getting ready to depart soon?”

Kaylee beamed, and twirled her paper umbrella over her shoulder. “That’d be right shiny, Cap’n. Back before you can mop your brow!”

Mal dragged his sleeve across his forehead in response. Kaylee stopped and they stared at each other for a second. Finally, Mal said, “Well? Get on with you, now.”

Kaylee spun about, and marched off down the street, drawing the attention of every man she passed.

Jayne sneezed. “Gorram dust,” he muttered. “Next time I’m staying on the ship.”

“Not ‘till after you go get Shepherd Book,” Mal said, pointing towards the church at the end of town.

Mal stopped at the Port Authority Office, sitting in the shade outside the building. That engine whine was getting louder. Shouldn’t it have managed to take off yet? Most ships just took a few seconds to get airborne. It was almost as if someone didn’t quite know how to pilot a ship.

“Think this job’ll go smooth-like,” Mal said conversationally. “Pick up cargo from point A, drop it off at point B, get paid.”

“Expect that’ll be so, sir,” Zoe replied. She turned to look up at Wash, who was tapping her on the shoulder, and looking out towards the landing field. “What is it, baby?”

“Does anybody,” Wash began, “Remember any other Firefly’s parked on this part of Semele when we landed last week? Or even… yesterday? Or this morning?”

“Think I’m like to remember something as momentous as that,” replied Mal. He stood up, and looked at where Wash was pointing. “Don’t tell me we’re not the only ship… in the ‘Verse…” He stopped. When the Union of Allied Planets decided they knew how best to govern every person’s life, Malcolm Reynolds had signed up with the Independents as a volunteer. He’d fought for independence, fought long and hard and true. And he’d seen all the horrors of war that a man could expect to see and not go crazy in the brain-pan. He’d endured the barbaric brutality of it all stoically. Even after the war, when he’d purchased a ship and gone and done as he pleased, he’d seen surprising things, terrible things, and never let his composure slip.

Standing in the light of the fiery Semele sun, he saw one of the most horrible things imaginable before him. Serenity, his ship, was taking off without him. Mal clenched his jaw and balled his hands into fists. He was going to get his ship, his ship, back, and when he did, there would be hell to pay.

“Uh, Cap’n? Was that Serenity I saw just now flying overhead a little wobbly-like?” Kaylee asked, Simon and River in tow.

“Lost little lightningbug,” River murmured sadly to herself, dark eyes fixed on the tiny speck that Serenity had shrunk to in the dusty blue sky.

Mal didn’t bother to spare his fugitive passenger a glance as he barged into the Port Authority office, drawing his pistol as he went. Zoe was right behind him, cocking her gun with a flick of her thumb.

“Good day, sir, how can I help you?!” the port attendant squealed as Mal reached across the desk, grabbed his collar and put a gun to his head. “We can extend your landing permit by another couple days - free of charge, of course!” the man offered in a small voice.

“Who the hell stole my ship, and where in the nine hells did they take her?” Mal demanded. His hands were steady, and his breathing controlled. The anger and fury boiled out of his eyes and made the attendant shrivel and cower.

“I-I-I duh-don’t know, s-s-sir! Merciful Buddha, I swear!” the man put his hands up, and continued blubbering. “B-b-but a-a-a man left the p-p-permit and codes for a sh-sh-ship in p-p-por-puh-port and s-said they were for a M-m-marvin Reynolds! Please don’t shoot me! I, I’ve always meant to have a wife… and kids! Two starving kids!”

Mal lowered his gun, but didn’t let the attendant go. He held out his hand, and the hysterical officer put a set of bound-leather documents into it. “You, you, you’re clear to l-leave whenever you’re ready to go,” the attendant said. Mal glowered. “Or you could, could stay a bit longer.”

“We’re leaving,” Mal said, turning and heading for the landing field.

Zoe fell into step beside him. “What’s the plan, sir?”

“The plan? We find the ching-wah tsao duh liou mahng who stole my ship and we get her back. Whatever it takes.”

* * *

On cursory inspection, the crew of Serenity were about as different from one another as a crew could be.  They ranged in age from River to the Shepherd, in looks from the lovely Inara right on down to Jayne, in wealth from Simon to…well, everyone else.  But all nine of them wore identical expressions of dismay as they stared at their new home.

Mal stood at the front of the group, nails digging into his palms, cheeks red from more than just sunburn.  He really wanted to hit something, and the most appropriate target seemed to be the ship lolling in front of him, but by the look of the hull he was afraid that his fist might just go right on through it.

“Well,” he managed through clenched teeth.  A stream of curses ran through his brain, but they all seemed woefully inadequate.  “Let’s get to it, then.”  With that, he reached out and slammed his palm into the button to lower the cargo bay door, admittedly with a little more force than was strictly necessary.  With a grudging whine, the door began to lurch its way to the ground, but stuttered abruptly to a halt in midair, hanging stubbornly about a meter above the dust.

Mal felt the eyes of his crew on his back, waiting for him to crack, as he planted his hands on the ramp and vaulted over its lip to stand just outside the hold.  The first thing that hit him was the heat, which was quite a surprise considering that just moments before he’d been convinced it couldn’t get any hotter than Semele in summertime.  The second thing was the humidity, which rolled out of the ship in thick waves, carrying with it a rotten, organic smell that caught in his throat and stayed there.  Behind him, he felt the tremors as the rest of his crew hopped up beside him and surveyed the dark, dank cave that was the cargo hold.

Kaylee slipped past him and fumbled blindly along the wall for a moment until she found a control panel; the lights flickered on with a protesting whine, and half of them immediately flickered back out again, leaving the hold in a murky twilight.  She glanced back at him, her eyes wide in the semi-darkness.

“I’m gonna go see about the engine room, Cap’n?” she asked hesitantly.

Mal nodded and gestured aimlessly towards the rest of the ship.  “Let’s check this shu ma nyaow out, see how spaceworthy she really is,” he ordered with as much enthusiasm as he could muster, which was definitely not much.

His crew stared at him, their eyes suggesting they didn’t need to move another step to know that the answer to that was ‘not very.’  Mal stared back.

“Go,” he growled, and for once they got, scattering towards the dripping corridors that led aft, starboard and port.  Mal stayed rooted to the spot, unwilling and perhaps unable to see what other horrors the damned ship had in store for him.  Instead, he waited, waited for the complaints and dismal reviews that would surely be coming in right about…

“Cap’n!”

…now.  Kaylee’s voice was near a wail, and Mal followed the sound towards the back of the hold and to the left.  It was even hotter back here, if that was even possible, and he felt the skin on his face tighten as he poked his head into the dilapidated engine room.  Dilapidated really wasn’t a strong enough adjective for the mass of cables, congealed metal and sparking wires that constituted the engine; Kaylee stood beside it, hands planted on her hips, looking both horrified and beyond frustrated.

“Cap’n!” she cried again, her gaze still locked on the machinery as though she half-expected it to explode at any time.  “I don’t know…I mean, I never even saw…I just…”  She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to regain some composure, and when she’d found some measure of it she fixed him with an anguished stare.

“Cap’n, this thing is a flying deathtrap!” she declared, pointing at the engine with an accusing finger.

Mal watched her, trying to resist the urge to bury his face in his hands.  A long silence stretched between them, Kaylee awaiting his reaction anxiously.  Finally, he said the only thing that came to mind.  “Well, Flying Deathtrap is a good a name as any.”

* * *

After about an hour of inspecting the Flying Deathtrap, it was decided that the ship was spaceworthy, after all, and that it would be the instrument of Mal’s vengeance upon whoever had stolen away the last, and most important, part of his livelihood. Up on the bridge, though, Wash found a clue that was more than a little obvious.

“It was sitting right there, my hand to God,” Wash explained again. He pointed at the controls, where a small pair of two inch, white-gloved plastic hands attached to a stand about four inches tall, on flexible arms. “The neat little hand things were holding this envelope. Can you believe it? It’s real paper!”

Mal snatched the envelope away from Wash and tore it open. “Thought people got smart, stopped using such flimsy material. Now, what’s this?” A piece of paper, folded into three neat sections, was tucked inside, and as it fell out, a few credit bills came with it. Mal picked up the paper money and the letter and read it aloud:

‘Dear Mr. Reynolds. I can’t tell you how disappointed I was, and remain, to hear that you would not sell the very valuable Serenity to me. I am an honest man, sir, and I have only the highest interests of galactic posterity at heart. The Firefly-class mid-bulk transport is an antique, and deserves to be in a museum, where it can be appreciated; not ferrying illegal cargo like cows and beagles from one border moon to the next.

’No sir, I’m afraid that you forced my hand. As such, I have made the decision for you. But fear not, I’ll take care of Serenity, and better care than she would have received from an Alliance patrol boat, I daresay. No sir, and I am an honest man. I have given you a ship to replace your Firefly, and even added the appraised monetary value of Serenity and your personal effects on top of that. I hope we will remain good friends. Sincerely Yours, R. Salmanander Cuttingglass IV.’

Mal crumpled the letter into a ball and tossed it over his shoulder, then opened his other fist to examine however much Cuttingglass had thought to leave them.

“At least he dealt us a fair price,” Wash said, squeezing his nose shut against the strange odors that had drifted up from below deck. “How much did we get?”

Mal put the wad of bills into Wash’s hand. Five single-note credit bills. “Can I keep this?” Wash asked, still plugging his nose.

“Is she fueled up?”

“She is, lucky enough.”

“Good, get us in the air, and after that white-handed, yellow-bellied, lily-livered…”

“Um…” Wash interrupted Mal’s tirade, wincing when the man skewered him with a very dangerous look.  “Where are we going?”

It was, unfortunately, a very good question, and Mal took several deep breaths before answering, reminding himself that while strangling his pilot might be temporarily satisfying, in the long run it would get him nowhere fast.  “Heliopolis.  It’s close, and it’s as good a place as any to start asking around.”  With that, he spun on his heel and stalked off the bridge.

Wash nodded to the thick, empty air as he tried to settle into the pilot’s chair. He reached up to flip the actuation switches, and sighed when he found that the Deathtrap didn’t have them the way Serenity did. Glumly, Wash took the controls in hand. He reached forward to inspect the toy frog perched on the console, and let out a brief yelp as the toy bounded away from his finger.

“Uhm, if anyone can hear me? I think we’ve got… frogs…? Hello?”

* * *

“What’re we supposed to do?  Just stand here?” Kaylee asked, gaping at the table indignantly.  The crew was standing in the mess, clustered around the unfinished pine table that sat alone in the middle of the tiny room.  Chairs were apparently a luxury that had slipped Cuttingglass’ mind.

Jayne rubbed his finger across the roughly hewn surface and drew back sharply, going cross-eyed as he stared at the tiny splinter now embedded in its tip.  “Not safe to eat here, anyway,” he growled, taking a step back and eyeing the table suspiciously.

“I don’t think that’s something we have to worry about, considering that we don’t have much in the way of food,” Simon reported as he emerged from the kitchen.

Mal raised his eyebrows.  “How much do we not have, exactly?”

“Canned cauliflower and three jars of pickles.”

“We could always have frog legs,” Wash pointed out.  Everyone stared at him, but he merely shrugged.  While there were definitely enough of the damned frogs to feed the entire crew, the fact that they were smaller than a fist and no doubt far less tasty was a deterrent.  Although, really, Mal mused, they didn’t have anything else to do with them.

“We can pick up supplies on Heliopolis, should be there any minute now,” he answered.  As if on cue, the proximity warning alarm started beeping from the cockpit.  Or at least, Mal hoped it was the proximity warning alarm.  For all he knew, it could simply be signaling that the ship was about to shake itself apart and they all had ten seconds to live, something he didn’t consider out of the realm of possibility.

Wash sprinted out of the room and let out a relieved whoop as he slid behind the controls.  “We won’t starve!” he announced gleefully as Mal entered the cockpit, having followed at a more sedate pace.

“Raise our contact and see if you can’t set up a meeting,” he ordered mildly.  “The sooner we find Sir Salmanander, the sooner we can eviscerate him and go home.”

* * *

At the Fourth & Final Stop, Mal ordered a local ale and waited at the bar, barely glancing left or right, spending most of his attention on his drink. Someone sat down at beside him and also ordered an ale.

“Talk of the town’s your new ship, friend,” the newcomer said, taking an experimental gulp. “One of the bookies even started drawing up odds on how long before it shakes itself to bits.”

Mal didn’t turn to look at the contact; that was their arrangement. No faces. Just talk to your alcohol. “I know the hwoon dahn what took my ship. Now I need to know where to find him.”

“Yeah, I heard a trashy-looking mid-bulk transport came through here on its way somewhere else about a day ago. Since you didn’t stop by to see me, I figured it wasn’t you at all.” The contact took a more cautious sip of the ale, while Mal grimaced. “This hwoon dahn got a name at all?”

“Calls himself ‘Sir R. Salmanander Cuttingglass IV’.”

“Not a name I’d forget too soon.”

“Where is he?” Mal hadn’t even touched his own ale; beside him, his contact drained the last of his and set the now empty glass on the thickly varnished wood with a thud.

“Scow he’s flying in, name like that…from what I hear, your next port of call is going to be Galatea, bit rimwards of here.”

“That where I’ll find my ship?”

“That’s your next stop, friend,” the contact put some coins on the bar and stood up, straightening his hat. “Didn’t say that’s where you’d find anything.”

The ship was still running hot and humid when Mal returned from the bar. He stared at unfamiliar controls for a minute before raising the loading ramp and then correctly guessing which button activated the intercom to the bridge. “Wash, take us up, and set a course for Galatea.”

There was a loud croaking, and Mal drew his pistol, pointing it at a rather large frog that had appeared from behind a crate. “Go ahead, critter. I dare you. Make one more annoying noise like that and it’ll be your last.”

“New friends. Old house. Very hard to fall in love all over again, but they’ll try.” River drifted in out of nowhere, scooped the frog up in her hands, and held it to her nose. “Frog prince needs a kiss to turn him back into a man. But the princess fell asleep. She went away. And a frog he remains.”

Mal holstered the pistol and shook his head, wiping more sweat off his brow. She was welcome to the frogs, she loved ‘em so much.

On the way to the bridge, Mal passed Book, Jayne, and Simon, all lying about on the floor of the mess. The heat and the frustration kept him from loosing a comment about lazy crewmembers not getting paid. Almost to the bridge, he ran into Inara. Her dark, curly hair was pulled back tight and gathered at the nape of her neck, the humidity making it look more wild and untamed than usual as it cascaded down her bare back.  She wore only a tank top and a short skirt, no makeup and no footwear, and sweat beaded on her forehead and around her collarbones.  Mal swallowed.

“Oh. Hey.”

“Hi, I-“

“Sorry, I almost didn’t see you-“

“No, it’s ok, I just-

“-Things are a bit cramped here-“

“These small corridors an’ all.”

They talked over each other for a few seconds then lapsed into an awkward silence. “I’m, uh, sorry, if this puts a wrinkle in your plans and schedule and everything.” Mal offered. “We’re trying to be quick about getting Serenity, and uh, your shuttle, back.”

“I’m glad.” Inara looked down. “I’ll be… around.” She shrugged and headed towards the mess. As she stepped through the hatch, she turned and said, “Mal, Serenity is my home, too. When you catch the liou coe shway duh biao-tze huh hoe-tze fuh ur-tze, make sure you hit once for me.”

Mal nodded. “Count on it.”

* * *

That night, Mal sat in the half-light of the bunkroom, his back to the wall, heels resting on the edge of the narrow bed frame, arms dangling in between his bent knees.  The rest of his crew was asleep; above him, he heard a creak of the mattress as Kayle shifted, mumbling something as she flung one arm over the side.  Mal watched her small fingers twitch as she dreamed.  Across from him, Zoe and Wash had somehow managed to squeeze into the same bunk, Wash pressed near flat against the bulkhead as he snored into his wife’s ear.  As if she felt his stare, Zoe’s eyes opened, and she blinked a few times before slipping out of her husband’s embrace.  Saying nothing, Mal merely scooted over, making room for her to sit next to him. 

“How do you sleep with that racket going on?” Mal asked after a few minutes of quiet, nodding his head at Wash, who in Zoe’s absence had flopped over onto his back, head thrown back and mouth wide open, dead to the world.

Zoe chuckled softly.  “Tonight, I don’t,” she replied.  “But, overall, the benefits outweigh the drawbacks.”

Mal held up a restraining hand.  “Okay, you can just go ahead and stop right there,” he interrupted quickly.  “You don’t want to be responsible for the defiling of my innocence, do you?”

Zoe’s only response was a derisive snort.  They lapsed into silence again, a silence continuously broken by the odd collection of hisses, creaks and whines that was the Deathtrap in space.  In the dead of night, when everyone was asleep, Mal would sometimes lay awake, hands crossed behind his head, and just listen to Serentiy; the calm, gentle thrum of her engines, barely above a whisper.  But here, in the overcrowded sauna that masqueraded as a bunkroom, as hard as he tried, he just couldn’t hear her.

“We’ll find her, sir,” Zoe said softly, as if she had been reading his thoughts.  Mal turned to look at her; she sat with her legs curled beneath her on the bare mattress (bedding was another luxury that Cuttingglass had apparently forgotten, although with the heat it didn’t matter much in the end), eyes black in the darkness, her expression caught at the in-between.

“I just have this funny feeling, like I’m never going to see her again,” he admitted.  Tiredly, Mal rubbed at his eyes.  His worst fear hung between them, heavy as the stale air.

Unexpectedly, Zoe reached over and squeezed his hand.  “We’ll get her back,” she reiterated fiercely.  “There’s nowhere in the ‘Verse far enough for that hwoon dahn to run.”

“I know,” Mal said softly.  He cleared his throat and tried again.  “I know.”

* * *

“What do you mean, she left four days ago?!” Mal growled, his fingers digging spasmodically into the flesh of the apple he was holding.  His contact, a corpulent man who went by the name of Ringer, looked up from his inspection of the ramshackle fruit stand and sighed.

“Listen, friend, I know you’re upset about losing her, but talking that way ain’t gonna help nobody,” he cautioned.

Mal drew in a shallow breath through his teeth and set the abused apple back down on the top of the stack in a very controlled manner.  Privately, he thought the past few days had been tough enough that he should be allowed to get mad at whoever he damn well wanted to, but it wouldn’t do to anger Ringer.  “You’re right,” he said, dredging up a smile that was more a grimace than anything.  “I apologize for being short with you, not your fault, of course.”

Ringer nodded his forgiveness as he reached forward to examine a couple of pears.

“I don’t suppose there’s any good news to be had?” Mal continued without hope.

“Actually, I did hear some words that might cheer you up,” Ringer replied as he fished a coin out from his pocket and paid for his pear.  “The man you’re looking for, I hear he’s got a rather extravagant place on Persephone.”

Mal’s heart leapt.  “And that’s where I’ll find my girl?”

“Dunno about that, I’ve told you all I know,” Ringer replied as he bit into his snack.  They started up the road, Mal’s step a bit lighter than when he had first set foot at this port.

When they were far away from the fruit stand and other foot traffic, Mal leaned in and shook Ringer’s hand, casually slipping him the agreed-upon amount.  “Thanks for the help, Ringer,” he said.  With a tip of his wide-brimmed hat, Ringer turned and began to walk away, still munching on the pear.  He was about two meters way when Mal remembered something.

“Hey, do you happen to know anything about frogs?”

“Frogs?” Ringer echoed, confused.

“Yeah, frogs.  My new luh-suh boat is damn near infested with them.  Know how to get rid of them?”

Ringer stared at him for a long moment, clearly unsure how to respond.  “Shoot ‘em?” he offered finally with a little shrug.

“Never mind.  We’ll handle it.  Somehow.”

* * *

“Ah, Captain Reyonds!  So pleased to finally hear from you at last.  I’ve tried to contact you several times since your arrival, but have been unable to reach you.”  Manuel Neveu beamed.  “Until now, that is.”

“So, Serenity landed on Persephone?” Mal asked with a calm he didn’t quite feel.

Manuel’s confusion was palpable even though the comm distortion.  “Of course, and since we’ve had such pleasant business associations in the past I thought I might try to –“

“Call the ship?”

“Why, yes, of course.”  Manuel’s frown deepened.  “Do you mean to suggest that you were not on Serenity when she landed?”

Mal’s face tightened into a sour expression.  Not one of his favorite admissions, to be sure, but there was no avoiding the truth.  Besides, any blow to his ego subsequent to the monumental one of losing Serenity in the first place seemed trivial by comparison.  “Yes, that’s exactly what I’m suggesting.”

Manuel’s eyes widened.  “Oh, dear.”

“Listen, a man by the name of R. Salman – “

“R. Salmanander Cuttingglass IV!  Quite an eccentric man, to be sure,” Manuel interrupted.

“I take it you know him?” Mal asked, his chest tightening with an odd mixture of relief, anticipation, guilt, and anger.

“Yes, he has a very private estate just down the road, house right under the waterfall.  Strange interests, I must say, but who am I to judge?” he explained with a little laugh.

Wash glanced up from the controls and craned his neck towards the monitor.  “Under the waterfall?” he repeated.  “Not some other preposition, like next to, or besides, or across from?”

“No, right underneath,” Manuel confirmed.  “Like I said, rather strange.”

“Well, Mr. Neveu, this strange man also happens to be the gou tsao de man who’s gone and stolen my ship,” Mal said, secretly enjoying the little gasp of shocked horror that escaped the other man’s lips.

“You have my word that I will do whatever I can to help, Captain Reynolds.  Am I to assume that you have acquired a new ship in the meantime from which you may travel here to Tethys?”

“Yes, a gift from Cuttingglass.  The Flying Deathtrap,” Mal reported.

Manuel looked a bit disconcerted by the name, but decided not to comment and forged on ahead nonetheless.  “You are welcome to set her down at my estate when you arrive.  It will be a short journey from here to Sir Salmanander’s residence.”

“That would be much appreciated, Mr. Neveu.  Me an’ my crew will owe you quite a debt after all this is said and done.”

Manuel turned away from the screen for a moment, already sending servants to ready the landing pad.  When he turned back, his face was the picture of charitable, if somewhat manic, aid.  “Do not fret, Captain Reynolds, I shall arrange everything.”

* * *

“Kaylee.”

His little engineer was standing on her tiptoes on a rather unsteady-looking overturned crate, eyeing the crack that had recently appeared in the bridge ceiling.  Mal waited for another few moments, trying to be patient and hold his tongue.

“Kaylee!”

Well, so much for his resolve.  Kaylee started and spun to face him, nearly falling off her perch.  “What?” she said, in a voice that made it quite clear what she though of the interruption.

“What, what?!  Kaylee, you’ve been staring at that damn thing for near an hour!” he exploded.

“Actually, it’s been five minutes,” Wash volunteered unhelpfully from the pilot’s seat. 

Mal shot him a glare before rounding once more on Kaylee.  “So?”  There was a long pause.

“I think,” she said slowly, absently chewing on her lower lip.  “I think that we won’t break up in atmo.”

“You think?!  Damn it, Kaylee, you take an hour – “

“Five minutes,” Wash interjected.

“ – an hour and all you can tell me is that you think we’re not gonna blow up?!”

“Actually, ‘burn up’ is a better description of what would technically happen if…”  For once, Wash had the good sense to let himself trail off into silence as Mal’s fist made clenching motions toward his throat.

Unfortunately, River did not.  “Vaporized,” she intoned merrily, making a quick, graceful movement with her closed fingers.  “Shooting stars, burning balls of plasma, never hit the dirt.”  She looked at Mal solemnly.  “Make a wish,” she advised, and with that she was gone.

Mal leaned back experimentally against the nav console, and only when it didn’t crumble beneath him did he trust it with his full weight.  Sighing, he closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.  “Kaylee…”  It wasn’t a question this time, more like a plea…a very desperate plea.

“We won’t break up in atmo,” the engineer declared confidently.  “…right?”  Mal could hear the wince in her voice.

“Wash, get our good Shepherd up here,” he ordered, giving into gravity and reality and sliding to the floor.  “Seems we might be needing a bit of prayer to get us to ground in one piece.”

* * *

Whether it was prayer, luck, determination or some combination of the three, the Flying Deathtrap managed to settle itself on Manuel’s private landing pad, although Mal suspected that it was not likely to move from that spot again under its own power.  But no matter, he consoled himself from the passenger’s seat of the vehicle he, Zoe, Wash, Jayne and Kaylee had borrowed from Manuel.  They would have Serenity back any minute now and everything would be fine.  Just fine.

In an irony that no one particularly appreciated, it was also summer in this hemisphere of Persephone, and sweat ran down Mal’s temples as Wash slowed the vehicle as it approached the automated gate that broke the three-meter-tall fence that surrounded Cuttingglass’ estate.  The man’s property was huge, amassing several acres and a small lake, and upon landing at Manuel’s, Mal had been promptly informed that stealth would get them nowhere.  Initially Mal had scoffed – him and his crew had broken into all sorts of places on the sly and never (well, rarely) gotten caught – but when he had a look at the security schematics he was forced to face the truth.  Sir Salmanander’s estate was built like a fortress, and with no resources of their own sneaking around would be high near impossible.

Besides, when it came down to it, Mal didn’t want to do any sneaking around.  What he wanted to do was walk right up to Cuttingglass’ front door, knock firmly but calmly, and, when the door had been opened in deference to his polite and nonviolent manner, then he would…

“They won’t let us in,” Wash said, breaking into Mal’s glorious thoughts of blood and vengeance.

Mal frowned.  “They won’t let us in?” he repeated blankly, his glorious thoughts slipping away into fantasy.

Seated behind him, Zoe snorted.  “Did you really expect him to?  After all, would you welcome the man whose ship you’d just stolen?”  Mal skewered her with a glare.  “Sir,” she added placatingly, but he was far beyond that now.  Far, far beyond.

The worst of it was, all of his self-righteous anger seemed to have been hollowed out by disappointment in an instant.  They had no money, no ship, no resources, nothing left.  Nothing at all.  What were they supposed to do now?  “I don’t know what else to do,” he murmured despondently, the words slipping past his lips before he could stop them.  They hung heavily with the humidity in the interior of the vehicle.

“Sir,” Zoe finally said softly, cutting through the oppressive silence.  “I have an idea.”

Mal peered around at her, afraid to hope.  “Is it a good idea?”

She considered this for a moment.  “Yes.  But you’re not gonna like it, sir.”

“Does it involve getting Serenity back?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then there’s nothing I don’t like about it,” he countered, feeling marginally better.  He and Zoe had worked together for more years than Jayne could count; if she said her plan was solid, it was solid.

Zoe smiled at him nervously.  “Oh, I’m pretty sure there are quite a few things you won’t like about it, sir.”

* * *

“Zoe.”

“Yes, sir.”

“That was a bad plan.”

“Yes, sir.”

The crew of The Flying Deathtrap was spread out across the expansive living room of Manuel Neveu’s estate in various degrees of undress. The summertime heat on Persephone was only a few degrees less than on Semele, but it didn’t help that both the Deathtrap and Neveu’s estate lacked appropriate air-conditioning and had a remarkable capacity for heat retention. It was like baking in an oven. Only Shepherd Book seemed unaffected by the heat and remained fully clothed. Inara had escaped to a client’s air-conditioned estate after exchanging a brief round of icy pleasantries with Saoirsa.  River was spinning in lazy circles outside on the patio, while Simon kept tugging at his collar. Kaylee had the assorted parts of the Deathtrap’s water reclamation unit scattered around the floor and was half-heartedly trying to wrench pieces together with one hand while nursing a beer in the other. Sprawled opposite Kaylee, Jayne was taking apart the apparatus as quickly as Kaylee could put it together. Wash lay on his back, a trio of frogs sitting on his stomach, croaking quietly. Mal was seated across from Zoe at a side table, a number of shot glasses stacked up into a pyramid on his side dwarfed by Zoe’s impressive glass fortress.

“Do you mean the shots or that other thing with the-“

Zoe cut her husband off with an idle kick. “We’re not gonna talk about that for a good long time.”

“But all the kids love that story.”

“So...” Simon began, unbuttoning his cuffs. “What do we do now?”

“I’m sure Mal’s thinking of some exciting crime we can do just lying around here,” said Jayne, hopefully. He plucked a cylinder off of Kaylee’s incomprehensible machine, but had to duck when Kaylee lobbed her wrench in his direction.

She took a gulp of her beer and let out a deep belch. “Jayne, stop taking apart the, the.” The young mechanic blinked and patted her stomach, belched again, and continued, “The, my thingy!”

“Why, it ain’t gonna matter!” Kaylee’s boot bounced off of Jayne’s arm, raised just in time to protect his face.

Zoe filled another pair of shot glasses and placed one before Mal. “Jayne, leave it alone. We need the Deathtrap in as workable a shape as can be managed.”

“Doesn’t anyone think there might be something could do about retrieving Serenity?” The crew turned to stare at Book. The frogs on Wash’s stomach ceased their amphibian chorus and leapt away under a nearby coffee table. Book took a step back from the glares and silence.

“Considering the success of that last plan-“ Wash trailed off after meekly meeting Zoe’s gaze. “Whatever it was, whoever thought of it, doesn’t seem like there’s much anybody in the ‘Verse could do. Guess we’re just gonna have to get used to our new home. I need to find a toy store.”

Zoe downed her shot, turned the glass over, and slapped it on the table. “He’s not wrong.”

“Yeah,” Mal agreed, picking his shot glass up. “It was a pretty bad plan.”

“So when are we gonna hitch up and go after that Salamander Glassblower?” Jayne grumbled. “He’s got all my guns!” He frowned. “He’s got Vera!”

“And Inara’s shuttle,” Kaylee chipped in.

“And our medical supplies.”

“Personal belongings.”

“My dinosaurs!”

“Cotton candy clouds.”

“You think I don’t know what he’s got?” Mal snapped. He threw his head back and hurled the empty shot glass against the wall. “He’s got everything! Serenity is the one thing I had in this ‘Verse gave me a reason to live. And there’s not a damn thing I can do to get her back from that white-gloved... <bastard who is humped by frogs>!” Mal slammed his fist on the table, let his shoulders sag, and looked up at Zoe. “Pour me another one.”

“Sir.”

“What?”

“You’ve had enough.”

“I’ve had enough of that Salmon Lavender pissing-glass, is what I’ve had enough of,” Jayne growled.

Mal poured himself another shot. “For once, Jayne and I are in complete agreement. I ever see that cocky, ugly, thieving, stupid!” Mal’s fingers tightened around an imaginary throat.

“How are my fine guests enjoying themselves?” Manuel inquired, dabbing his forehead with an embroidered handkerchief as he entered the room. He eyed the broken shot glass and the dwindling supply of alcohol. “Is there anything I can ask the servants to get for you?”

“Alabaster Pisses-Me-Off’s head on a platter.”

Wash supplied a translation for Jayne. “He means Salmanander Cuttingglass the Fourth.”

“Odious man!” Manuel exclaimed. He flicked his wrist sharply, making violent waves with his kerchief. “That bizarre, awkward, inhuman toad! Why, his very presence at the country club is a mockery of all that is gentlemanly and courteous in the world! I should very much like to give him a piece of my mind, in the must savage and crudely barbaric way possible!

“Just the other day, my good friend, Francesco Michomski was deliberately insulted by that blathering buffoon. Mind you, Francesco had the dignity to bear it all very ably, but I suppose that is a skill that can only be learned after years working for the ARCS. I would have done the fiend in with the famed Neveu Maneuver, passed down to all the male heirs of our family. A lethal attack that can slay a man of any size. Like so!” Manuel began demonstrating his inheritance awkwardly, stiffly, as if he couldn’t quite remember the precise movements.

“Wha’s the ‘arks’?” Kaylee asked. She put her empty beer bottle to her forehead, hoping it still retained some coolness.

“Alliance Revenue and Collection Services,” Book explained. “Tax collectors.”

“I had a cousin who wanted to be in the ARCS, once,” said Wash. “He always used to threaten my uncle with an audit if he didn’t get his allowance on time. I think he ended up working as a florist.”

“I’d be only too happy to hear Cuttingglass get audited!” Manuel agreed, stamping his heel on the living room tile sharply. “That larcenous jackal must surely be engaged in illegitimate financial schemes!”

Wash interjected, “Not that we aren’t familiar with illegitimate financial schemes.”

“Zoe.”

“Sir, you win,” Zoe said flatly. “I can’t take any more shots.” She reached for the bottle, hoping to get it out of Mal’s reach before he could pour another round.

“What? Of course I win! No, I mean,” Mal leaned forward, elbows on his knees. He wobbled for a moment, steeled his expression, and said, “What if we got Cuttingglass audited?” He giggled. “Wouldn’t that be a great trick! After all he’s put us through, it’s the least we can do.”

Zoe gave her captain and appraising look. “You’re serious?”

“As serious as any man had too much to drink can be.”

“You want to get Cuttingglass in trouble with the ARCS?”

Mal nodded, grinning. “We’ll get Manuel’s friend, Fran-, Fran-“ He turned to Manuel.

“Francesco Michomski,” Manuel supplied helpfully.

“Fran-, Manuel’s friend, to plant evidence that, that uhm,” Mal paused. “Zoe, what do people get in trouble with the ARCS for?”

“Tax fraud, tax evasion,” Wash began counting off his fingers. “Drinking at work, smuggling beagles, stealing spaceships, wearing white gloves.”

Mal snapped his fingers. “Evasion! That’s it. We’ll get him in trouble for tax evasion!”

“And then what?”

Mal lunged for the bottle, missed, and sat back in his seat, frowning at Zoe. “We laugh at him, dong ma?”

“Well, I’ve got a plan,” Jayne offered.

“We’re not shooting him in broad daylight,” Simon objected.

“Can I make a suggestion?” Wash waved his hand in the air.

Zoe reached over and pushed Wash’s arm back down. “No, honey.”

“But, I-“

“No.”

“I thought marriages were supposed to be about communication,” Wash replied, pouting.

“Dance into the lion’s den. Curtsy pretty and offer him roses. And sardines,” River said. She smiled cryptically, taking a pause from her performance before spinning away again.

Book cleared his throat. “Captain, I believe I know how to get Serenity back.”

“That a fact, shepherd?” Mal responded, still trying to get the bottle back from Zoe.

“Here’s what we do...”

* * *

“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” Inara hissed through teeth clenched in a demure smile.

“Well, I’m told that my charm and good looks form a nearly irresistible...” Mal’s voice trailed off under Inara’s oppressive glare.  “Maybe, it might have had something to do with wanting to get your shuttle back?” he conceded.

Inara gave a short, grudging nod as she leaned forward to pick up her drink, her glare darkening as she caught Mal staring at her cleavage.  With an irritated sigh, she tugged the strap of her sundress back over her bare shoulder and turned away to stare at the expansive green lawn that rose to meet the edge of the veranda on which they were sitting.  Why she had left a paying client’s climate controlled house to sit with a distinctly hung over Mal in the midday sun was beyond her, although in truth it probably had more to do with his charm and good looks than she would care to admit.  They’d been at the country club for two hours now, having gained entrance using two of Manuel’s guest passes, and Inara’s infrequent urges to rejoin high society on a permanent basis had been silenced by the pretentious and ostentatious displays surrounding her.

“Listen, Inara,” Mal began apologetically, tugging distractedly at the collar of the polo shirt he had been forced to wear.  With a small but genuine smile, Inara waved him off.

“It’s alright, Mal.  I know that we are rather short on options, and I’ll do whatever you need me to do in order to get Serenity back.”  She took a sip of her now-warm mojito and grimaced.  “I just wish it wasn’t so hot.”

Mal offered a sympathetic wink and surveyed the other guests at the club. Small clumps of women gossiped in low tones, pointing and waving their arms and sipping their drinks. The men were less subtle, yelling in loud, boisterous voices about their latest polo matches and purebreds and the expensive trips they were going to take their wives on.

A tall man with thinning, mousy, brown hair, a silver monocle over his left eye, and a lacrosse stick ambled out of the country club interior and looked about, shielding his eyes from the strong afternoon sun.

Inara straightened a little bit and nudged Mal. “Is that him over there? With the monocle?”

“Seems to be. Can’t be too many people wears a monocle in this weather and attends the club every day.” Mal put his drink down and stood up. He straightened his shirt and held out his arms for Inara’s inspection. “Do I look country?”

“The pink shirt definitely helps. Brings out your eyes,” Inara nodded. “The sweater is a bit much though.”

“Thank God,” sighed Mal, shrugging the borrowed sweater off his shoulders. “You have no idea how hot that thing was getting, just sitting on my back and all.”

“Mal.” Inara cut him off before he could continue complaining.

“What?”

“Let’s get this over with.”

Mal nodded. “Right.” He helped Inara to her feet, stuck his hands in his pockets and affected what he hoped was a jaunty step, taking his time and weaving a zig-zag pattern across the veranda to where the man in the monocle was sitting. “Excuse me, sir, but would you be Mister Francesco Michomski? I saw your, uh, match earlier and couldn’t help but notice the fine skill with which you played.”

“Why thank you sir,” the man replied. “Most kind of you, considering that I did not have opportunity to play this morning.”

“He meant earlier this week,” Inara offered quickly, covering Mal’s blunder. “Your passes were quite masterful, very smooth and professional.”

“Ah, most kind, my dear. Yes, I’m glad you were witness to Monday’s event, which was infinitely more sporting than the next day’s. Truly, I was not in the finest of form, but no matter. A true gentleman soldiers on bravely.”

“I’ve said so myself,” Mal agreed.

The man stood up and offered his hand to Mal. “Francesco Michomski, of the Alliance Revenue and Collection Services, at your service sir. And do you play lacrosse, Mister...?”

“Malcolm Reynolds, sir. Pleased to make your acquaintance. And allow me to present my companion, Inara Serra.”

Michomski kissed the back of Inara’s hand. “Charmed and delighted. Won’t the two of you join me for a drink?”

“A pleasure,” Inara smiled. At least Mal had the grace to seat her first, wait for Michomski to sit and then take his seat. “I’m afraid it’s been some time since Malcolm played lacrosse. He’s been caught up in some terrible business lately.”

“Oh yes?” Michomski leaned forward. “And what is your business, Mr. Reynolds?”

“I captain a transport ship,” Mal replied honestly. “But I was transporting some cargo and my business partner cheated me out of payment, and I’ve been meaning to be reimbursed for my efforts.”

Michomski’s eyes lit up and he waggled his bushy mustache. “Indeed? Is your business partner a man of standing? Perhaps I could have a word with him.” He tapped his lacrosse stick against his shoulder a few times.

“Perhaps you have,” Mal said. “I’ve heard he’s fairly well known in these parts. One R. Salmanander Cutting-

-glass the IV,” Michomski finished, nodding grimly. “Mmm, yes, I know of the man. The scoundrel has insulted my family, my home, my work, even my mustache! He hardly deserves to be called a gentleman. Oh the nerve of that man. Why, if I ever see him again...”

“I had no idea his impropriety knew such unlimited bounds,” gasped Mal dryly. He put a finger to his lips and looked aside, then back at Michomski, as if struck by a thought. Mal leaned forward conspiratorially. “Perhaps there is a way we could help one another in the matter of Sir Cuttingglass.”

Michomski sat back in his chair. “Perhaps there is, but I have no idea how. That cretin has a certain hard-headedness about him, an obliviousness that makes it difficult to reason with him, much less hold a decent, civilized, rational discussion.”

“I’m familiar with the sort,” Inara said, glancing askance at Mal. Mal returned her glance with a smile, then frowned. “But, didn’t you mention that you worked for the Revenue and Collection Service, Mr. Michomski?”

“Well, yes, I suppose I did.” He adjusted his monocle proudly. “Twenty-seven years, actually. I’ve been cited by my superiors for exemplary service numerous times. They hold me in the highest esteem.”

“It must be difficult to be a man of such good character in such a difficult work environment,” Inara suggested. “I’ve heard so much about the corruption, and the ridiculous lengths some people will resort to in order to evade their civic duty.”

Smoothing his mustache, Michomski said, “Yes, it is... difficult sometimes. There can be such paperwork to take care of. All in triplicate, mind you. It makes one wish he could simply pass by a few bad apples and pretend he didn’t see them at all in the first place. But that would hardly be behavior becoming a gentleman, now, would it?”

“Fear not, sir,” Mal reassured him. “I can tell at a glance that you are made of truly strong moral... fibers. I’m sure you’ve never strayed from the straight and narrow once in all your courageous years.”

“True, sir, but I must confess,” Michomski leaned forward. “In all honesty, that I have been tempted. Why just the other day, following yet another encounter with Sir Cuttlingglass, I imagined just the kind of trouble he would get in if I were to make some unscrupulous adjustments to his tax records. The very thought of it made me feel so... alive.”

“I knew it, you had an air of power about you,” Inara said, producing a fan from her handbag and snapping it open with a flick of her wrist. “A dangerous air.”

“Mmm, well I have fancied myself quite the rebel, you know. Most men wear their monocle over the right eye, for example.”

“It takes an extraordinary strength of character to be so bold, to go against the grain.”

Mal tapped the table thoughtfully. “Not that I’m suggesting anything, but if, by chance, Sir Salmanander were, by some misfortune, to suffer some tax problems, why, it would certainly solve my problems immediately!”

“Truly?” Michomski looked down at his mint julep. “I see. Well, I wish there were some way I could help you, but...”

“Oh, but couldn’t you?” Inara pleaded, batting her eyelashes. “Just this once. It would be so kind of you. An example of your power, and... rebelliousness.” She hid behind her fan, but her sultry eyes betrayed a kind of attraction.

“Well, perhaps,” Michomski stuttered. “Perhaps, if, for this... once, just once, for a good cause. A greater cause you see, and, I wouldn’t be doing it for personal gain, no sir, not at all. Why, it would almost be a kind of justice, a charity, even. Indeed, it would be the honorable, gentlemanly thing to do.” Michomski nodded proudly. “Captain Reynolds, I believe I have deduced a way that I might render aid to you in your troubles. I will alter Salmanander’s records to suggest that he has been evading his taxes. I imagine he’ll be in quite a spot of trouble next year!”

Inara leapt to her feet, and clapped her hands excitedly. “Then you’ll do it? Oh, how wonderful! Isn’t it wonderful, Malcolm? It is just wonderful.” She gave Michomski a kiss on the cheek, then stepped back, appearing to blush. “Do forgive me, I was overcome.”

Michomski blinked, his monocle having fallen from its position. “Think nothing of it, my dear.” He turned to Mal. “Captain, I’ll see to the matter in a few days. You shall have your payment and I shall have my honor satisfied.”

“I appreciate your daring in this, Mr. Michomski.”

“Oh, do please call me Francesco. And it will be my great pleasure to aid you in this way, Captain. A great pleasure indeed.”

* * *

“Can I help you?” the bored, uniformed Alliance sergeant said as the door swung shut behind them.  Mal stared at the man, who barely spared them a glance before returning his attention to whatever he was reading, his booted feet propped up comfortably on the front desk.  So this is what it’s like to hit rock bottom, he thought wearily as he approached the officer on duty at the Alliance Municipal Police Precinct, Persephone, Tethys District.

“Yes,” Mal answered, the word forced past his unwilling lips like a shot, and in that moment he knew he had lost every last shred of his pride and dignity.  Nevertheless, with a convulsive swallow he forged on ahead, and this time when he spoke his voice was less forced.  “I was cheated in a business deal and I want the authorities to help settle the matter.”

With a sigh, the guard set aside his reading material and pulled up a report form.  Mal leaned closer and squinted at the man’s nametag, which read ‘Sergeant G. Redding.’  “What sort of business deal.”

“I captain a transport ship.  I was hired by an R. Salmanander Cuttingglass the IV to bring a shipment of spices from Semele here to Tethys.  When I arrived, Cuttingglass took the cargo but refused to pay.”

Redding ignored the last and most important part of that statement and asked, “Name of vessel?” obviously droning straight off the form.

“The Calamity.”

“Name of owner?” Sergeant Redding asked, holding out one hand for identification and ownership documents.

“Herbert Harbatkin,” Mal replied, slapping the forged papers against the man’s palm.  He and Zoe had talked Ringer into make up these papers after several incidents suggested their potential importance.  It had cost them, to be sure, but the price at least gave Mal the peace of mind that they were competent fakes.

“And who are they?” Redding gestured towards Zoe and Wash.  The question was unexpected, but Mal recovered quickly enough and clasped Zoe’s hand in his.

She smiled sweetly at the officer.  “I’m his wife.”

“Brother,” Wash said enthusiastically.  It was apparently the best he could come up with on short notice, but Sergeant Redding looked understandably skeptical.

“Brother?” he repeated dubiously, glancing between the two, obviously unrelated men.

“Brother,” Wash confirmed.  “We’re really close – did you know his middle name is Howard?  Well, it is.  Herbert Howard Harbatkin.”

Redding stared at Wash for a moment, overwhelmed.  “Okay,” he said finally.

But Wash wasn’t finished.  “Sometimes we call him Herbie Harbie,” he volunteered.  Zoe covertly stepped on her husband’s foot, causing him to squeak out the last, “Or Herbie Howie Harbie.”

This was follow by awkward, horrified silence.  “He’s a little…” Mal started by way of justification, but his voice trailed off as he realized that Wash was either a little of everything or a lot of one thing in particular.  Apparently this was all Sergeant Redding required, however, for he nodded rather sympathetically to Mal and turned back to the paperwork.

“The name was R. Salmon...Sanlom...?” Redding asked finally, looking up at them.

“R. Salmanander Cuttingglass the IV,” Mal corrected politely.

 “All right.  I think we have everything that we need here.  We’ll look over his financial records and I’ll send an officer out to Mr. Cuttingglass’ residence tomorrow.  Do you have a way for us to contact you?”

Mal blinked.  “That’s it?”

The officer sighed.  “Yes, that’s it.  Contact number?” he repeated.

Zoe stepped between Mal and the Seargeant.  “It’s been a rough day,” she said softly as she took the pad that the man handed her.  “We’re staying with a friend.  You can reach us any time, day or night, here.  Thanks for your help.”

“But...”  Mal was still having a hard time getting his mind (or what was left of it after this horrific ordeal) around this unwanted turn of events.

Zoe grabbed his arm.  “Come along, Herbert,” she said firmly, and with a tug she dragged him back out into the sweltering summer afternoon.

* * *

Four more sweltering days passed on Persephone. Mal divided his time between the bars, where he and Jayne built up enough of a cash reserve playing pool to pay for drinks, and Manuel’s estate. He would have been out on the streets of the Eavesdown Docks, looking for work, or even just looking, but spotting, and almost being spotted by, several of Badger’s men made him reconsider. Zoe and Wash disappeared entirely, though Kaylee thought she heard something about a yacht. The doctor kept his sister close at hand in Manuel’s house, not daring to venture out to the country club, or beyond the grounds, but clearly enjoying the ennobled lifestyle once more. Book was sometimes here, sometimes nowhere.

On the fifth day, Mal and Kaylee went out to the docks to go over the Deathtrap.

“I think we cleared out the last of the frogs from the engine room,” Kaylee said, brushing her hands off on her coveralls. “Only, I think they might have got into the bunk-room instead.”

Mal gave her a wide smile. “That’s fine. Seeing as how I don’t intend to ever have to sleep in this flying deathtrap ever again, I don’t rightly care where those frogs end up, long as they’re not on Serenity.”

Kaylee nodded, running a hand along the bulkhead. “Cap’n? You really think we’ll get her back?”

“Sure as the worlds spinning,” Mal answered, giving her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. A chirrup came from the communicator on Mal’s belt. “Yeah.”

It was Book. “Captain, I believe we just missed a call from the authorities for one Herbert Howard Harbatkin. They said they’d call again later.”

“Good to know. Thank you, Shepherd.” Mal turned to Kaylee, grinning. “See? Sure as the world is spinning.”

Kaylee patted the bulkhead again. “An’ we were just starting to get to know each other,” she sighed, whimsically.

Everyone, it seemed, had gotten news of the call. Zoe and Wash, conspicuously sun burnt; Jayne, Book, Simon and River, even Inara had returned to the estate. They sat, and waited. Jayne started passing around a bottle. The room started to cool as night set in, but the crew continued to sweat and wait.

Finally, the call came.

“This is Sergeant Redding calling for Captain Harbatkin.”

Mal stepped up to the monitor. “This is Captain” he coughed “Harbatkin. Go ahead, sergeant. What can we do for you this fine evening?”

“The Persephone Municipal Police wanted to inform you, Captain, that we have concluded our investigation into Sir R. Sal- ah, Sir Cuttingglass. Regretfully, we are unable to given you further assistance in prosecuting a case against him,” Redding said dryly. His right eye appeared to have a slight twitch.

“I see,” Mal said slowly. “Could you be so kind as to explain why I won’t be getting my due and proper payment, sergeant?”

“Sir Cuttingglass has declared bankruptcy,” Redding responded.

Kaylee clapped her hands excitedly in the background.

“He is being held accountable for tax fraud,” Redding continued drowsily. “And we, the Persephone Municipal Police have impounded all of his property and will be auctioning it off in seven days.”

“I appreciate you telling me so, officer,” Mal said, trying hard not to grin too broadly. He doubted Redding would have noted. Redding nodded and cut the channel.

Jayne gave a whoop, which was echoed by Wash and Kaylee. Simon and Book stood, calmly excited, and River had a wide smile stretching ear to ear. Inara was thanking Manuel for all his help, and Zoe beamed back at Mal. She knew what this meant to him. Mal felt the gleeful anticipation of reuniting with Serenity rising in his chest. He grinned at no one in particular. The weather finally seemed to be turning.

 * * *

The week to the auction went by in the blink of an eye. Mal promised to take on some cargo from Manuel in gratitude for his help, and set up a job with Ryland that they could finish before another week went by. Wash and Book got supplies and kept them at Manuel’s, while Kaylee and Inara idled in town, shopping.

The day finally came.

The auction was being held at Cuttingglass’s estate, since most of his possessions were already there, and the waterfall-side estate was still much cooler than the police precinct. Manuel and Saoirsa were there, and Michomski gave Mal a sly nod of recognition. There she was, sitting on the lake, the most beautiful ship to ever sail. Serenity.

“Sir?” Zoe was standing next to him. She held out a small wad of bills.

Mal nodded appreciatively and accepted the gift, putting them into his pocket. He furrowed his brow and asked, “How much was that and where did it come from?”

Zoe just smiled and shook her head.

The auction was slow, and surprisingly vicious. Manuel got into a bidding war with a large woman with a pink shawl over the pressed moth collection, and Francesco Michomski successfully outbid a fellow country club member for a jewel-encrusted sculpture collection of the five senses. Mal gave Wash a dirty look when the pilot placed a bid on one of Cuttingglass’s shirts. Followed by twenty pairs of white gloves.

The ships that Cuttingglass had collected were up next. The Rimfire Corsair A-2 went for more credits than Mal had handled in his whole life. The Trans-U was also highly sought after.

“Next up, mid bulk transport, series model 03-K64, classification: Firefly. We’ll start the bidding at five credits. Do I have five credits? Five credits?” Mal’s hand shot into the air. “Thank you sir, five credits! Do I have ten credits? Ten credits? Ten credits, I have five credits, do I hear ten?”

A knot formed in Mal’s throat. He barely had five credits. He’d have to scrape together that loose change in his pocket. What if someone out-bid him? Like that weasel faced guy who’d bought the gall stones collection? Or the woman in the red dress, she’d bid hard for the Rimfire. What was he going to do if-

“Five credits! Going once! Twice!” A heart-pounding pause that lasted an eternity. Mal thought he was going to pass out.

“Sold! To the man with only five credits!” 

Mal gasped for air. It was ok. He had her back. She was his again, and he was never going to let her go.

Serenity.

* * *   

The ship actually had to be flown back out to the docks, while Mal paid and signed for it at the police precinct. He wasn’t sure if he felt good about buying Serenity back for a fraction of what he’d paid the first time, or if he should have been shooting up a storm for having to buy her back in the first place. He shrugged. It didn’t matter anymore.

The crew waited expectantly as the cargo ramp lowered. The arms hesitated at first, then began moving gracefully.

“I think he had her oiled,” Kaylee commented, pointing out the arms to Simon. She nodded. “Least he treated her right.”

“Better have left everything where he found it,” Jayne muttered. He was fidgeting with his knife.

“Auction manifest said it was fully and authentically decorated,” added Simon helpfully.

“Old friends,” River said.

The ramp finished lowering smoothly and Mal stepped onto the cargo deck proudly. The rest of the crew let him savor his return. A conqueror. An old lover returning home. A –

“What in the sphincter of hell is that?” Mal demanded, pointing to the half-dozen three-foot tall figures clustered in the center of the hold.

The crew cautiously joined the captain. “Look like penguins,” Simon said as Wash crept closer to them, his eyes lighting up.

“Are they… alive?” Jayne asked, puzzled.

“Taxidermy,” Book explained. “They’re stuffed.”

“Stuffed animals! I wonder what else is here!” exclaimed Wash.

Kaylee stared a challenge at River, who stared back. They took off at a sprint to see what else R. Salmanander Cuttingglass IV had left them.

“Wash, make sure supplies get loaded before you take off after them,” Mal instructed, knowing that if he didn’t, Zoe’s husband was going to be right after the two girls. “Jayne, you and Book give him a hand. Zoe, why don’t we inspect the ship.”

“Do you think we all got new friends?” Wash asked as he drove the borrowed mule into the hold, stopping short of the penguins.

* * *   

Simon stood in the doorway to his room. He wanted to go in, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He wanted to check his bag, make sure all the medicine and equipment was in there, make sure his clothes were there. But… he just… couldn’t… do it. It wasn’t that he was afraid to go into his room.

It was the enormous crocodile poised on his bed, jaws opened wide, tail curved around. The crocodile completely blocked access to the room.

Simon stared into the pink maw for a second longer, then turned and headed to the infirmary. At least he didn’t think he’d seen anything reptilian in there. He passed the parrot in the common room, thinking it was a nice addition, and opened the doors to his infirmary.

He flicked on the light switch and jumped. There was a mean looking rat that seemed to be leaping off the bed at him. Of course it wasn’t really leaping at him. And it was less than a foot long, if you ignored the tail.

Simon let his arms drop to his side. He stood in the doorway, staring at the rat. The rat stared back at him angrily.

* * *   

Inara’s shuttle was a warm, inviting, luscious place of union. A place of worship, and covenant. It was a shuttle, smallish, sure, but she had made it her own. A piece of independence. Somewhere she could escape to, but also, sometimes, a place she needed to escape from.

She considered R. Salmanander Cuttingglass IV’s gift to her. It was six feet tall, shaggy haired, and looked like a camel without a hump. A llama. There was a llama standing tall and proud, smiling a wide llama smile at her. She wouldn’t have minded it so much if it didn’t draw so much attention to itself.

Maybe she could decorate it… or use the hair to make a nice woolen blanket…

* * *   

Kaylee and River stood in River’s room looking at the fearsome raptor perched over the bed.

“You know, an owl can turn its head all the way around its body,” Kaylee said, nodding. River started turning in a tight circle to her left, keeping her gaze fixed on the owl. It was oddly comforting.

Across the hall, Shepherd Book was checking the teeth of the bobcat crouching beside his bed. “These are really some great fangs,” he said to himself. “I wonder if this old fellow still has his claws.”

River and Kaylee laughed and took off for the engine room.

* * *   

“I’m half afraid to look in my bunk,” Mal said to Zoe as they passed through the mess. They ducked to avoid the opossums hanging in the doorway, and stopped at the table to admire the family of meerkats. Some were sitting, sleeping, eating, a few were standing watch. “But I think I could get used to these little critters. Reminds me of the winter campaign.”

“Sir, much as I’m glad you find these critters to be charming, I really think we should get them off the ship.”

“You didn’t like what he got you.”

“That’s not what this is about,” Zoe insisted, folding her arms.

Mal grinned. “Hey Wash!”

“Not now, captain, I’m teaching my new friend how to count!”

Zoe rolled her eyes and followed Mal over to the crew quarters. He dropped down the ladder and laughed at the bizarre man with the orange hair, the fine white shirt and the white cotton gloves.

Wash stood up and said, “Captain, may I present to you, my friend, Salmanander the Orangutan.”

Mal turned back to Zoe, who was crouched at the top of the ladder. “I can see why you want it gone.”

“I didn’t get to see what was in your room,” Wash said to Mal hopefully.

* * *   

“Typical wingspan one meter, average male weight five hundred seventy to seven hundred and ten grams. Fastest known diving speed three hundred ninety kilometers per hour. Falco peregrinus. The peregrine falcon.”

Kaylee looked up at the falcon suspended in mid-air over the engine, its meter wingspan not as impressive as River made it out to be, but somehow elegant. Beautiful. She smiled. “Shiny.”

“It would probably eat the anteater in your room if it were still alive,” River added.

“She wouldn’t neither,” Kaylee said, giving River a playful push.

“Would, too,” insisted River, pushing back. “Soar and stoop. Big lunch. Good protein. From the ants.”

* * *   

“Alright, you and me gotta get one thing clear. This is my room, and you’re a guest. You don’t touch anything unless you ask me first. You don’t go through my stuff, and you don’t wake me in the middle of the night.” Jayne put his hat on the polar bear’s head and balanced a rifle in its paws. “Aside from that, you make yourself at home.”

* * *   

Mal and Wash were on the bridge as Serenity broke orbit. “I don’t know Wash, I kinda like that swordfish thing hanging in my room. Although I think it smells kinda funny. Maybe we oughta put it in the other shuttle.”

“No can do,” Wash said, reaching overhead to flip a trio of switches. “Inara’s already moved her llama in there.”

“She got a llama?”

“And Zoe’s putting the orangutan in the smuggling compartment by the stairs.”

“She’s moving Salmanander?”

“She said if I wanted to keep this,” Wash patted the gila monster on the head. “We had to get rid of the orangutan.”

“That orange beast was practically family. He looked just like you,” Mal said straight-faced.

Wash made a face at the captain over his shoulder then turned his attention back to the ship’s controls. “Maybe I should have named it Herbie.”

* * *   

R. Salmanander Cuttingglass IV found incarceration to be most disagreeable. Not only that, the horrible and ignoble fate of so many of his hard-won collections, his prizes! It was too awful to imagine. Those foul barbarians were probably splitting the jewel-encrusted senses up, trying to pawn them off or at least, break the diamonds out of the tongue.

The guard came in with his dinner and tipped his hat. What a polite young man, Salmanander thought to himself. Oh, look, some mail. Yes, a correspondence with a nice, youthful, lithe, heiress would be just the thing to take his mind off these ridiculous tax fraud charges.

He read:

‘To Sir R. Salmanander Cuttingglass IV. I can’t tell you how delighted I was to get my ship back from you. Now, I can appreciate that you have a fondness for pretty ships, sir, but you crossed the line when you stole Serenity from me. You’re right lucky I didn’t let my crew indulge in their more violent tendencies.

‘No sir, I’m afraid you forced my hand. Whoever knew that a man like you would make such powerful enemies in the Alliance Revenue and Collection Services? Or that a gentleman of your stature would be found guilty of tax fraud. Shame, Sir Cuttingglass. Shame. But don’t worry, that’s all air through the engine now. No harm come to mine. I’ve got Serenity, and you’ve got yours. I hope we can part ways amiably and remain good friends, lest they say there’s no honor among thieves. Yours, Captain Malcolm Reynolds.’

* * *

Fin.