sail3695

Firefly - Second 'Verse

Never Know Who You’ll Meet…

“It’s not pretty,” Yuri agreed with McKenna’s estimation. “But it’ll do the job. How soon can you deliver?”

The truss before him was stacked onto three pallets. Each joint bore the dents and scars of many uses before. McKenna hadn’t bothered sprucing it up; bonding plates were scarred by the ragged traces of old welds, and the last two coats of sealer paint were chipping away. But Yuri didn’t care. If the job went according to plan, the blemished structure wouldn’t be seen by anyone but China Doll’s crew. With luck, he’d be right back here to sell it to McKenna for half what he paid…unless they could scare up another buyer.

“What’s your berth?” the merchant asked.

“Three-Oh-Nine.”

“Eh,” the old man’s lips twisted in displeasure. “You’re right on the main drag. Way too much foot traffic for my haulers to run it down there while all them businesses are open. Twenty-one hundred’s about as early as we can come without squashing folk. That gonna work?”

The first mate tossed a short nod. “That’s fair.” His eyes trailed over the rest of the equipment order. Hinge plates all stacked and strapped to a pallet. Another held his chain hoists, their housings dented and careworn from use…yet each bore a fresh inspection tag proclaiming its’ fitness. The final pallet held a pilot’s chair…a very large pilot’s chair. Though the dyed leather of the seat and armrests had seen better days, Yuri gauged them durable enough to bear up under Boone’s weight. The two slider tracks were a welcome surprise. “Didn’t think about those,” he chuckled.

“Part and parcel,” McKenna replied. “I threw in a bag of ten millimeter bolts for the deck mount.”

“All looking good,” Yuri agreed. “Can you walk me through those EB7’s?”

********************************

Little Moriah Skyplex was identical to all of her sisters, differing only by name and the types of merchants lining storefronts on the main thoroughfare. Yet, even those differences were illusory. There was always a bakery pumping out somebody’s trademark cookie, umpteen sandwich shops, places for pho and noodles, and usually three choices in saloon ranging from high toned to downright disreputable. Add to that the hundreds of street vendors pushing their own recipes and brik-a-brak, and you had a proper hullabaloo to echo throughout the station’s pressurized hull.

But, as he wove a path among the swelling humanity, Yuri found honest surprise in the sound of a piano.

He couldn’t see it; the place was simply too crowded for that. Instead, he let his ears suss out a bearing. Like a hound trailing a scent, the first mate nudged through knots of oblivious shoppers and gawkers. For the cacophony around him, Yuri could not recognize the tune, but only the presence of one, hanging above the teeming mass like an old ghost struck funny. In the distance lay an open court, an intersection sprouting vendor kiosks, some distractions for children, and the ubiquitous ‘YOU ARE HERE’ locator screens. As he stepped into the plaza, the piano’s voice became clear.

“Garner,” he muttered to himself. “Errol Garner.”

The piano, an old upright model, had seen better days. Though marred by graffiti and years of coarse paint to cover its’ blemishes, the instrument seemed in reasonable tune. Propped before it on an equally rough looking bench was an old man. As he came near, Yuri studied the man. He wore a charcoal suit jacket, its’ wrinkled sleeves having long ago found congruence with those upon his face. Given the midnight hue of his flesh, one might assume that man and suit were one and the same, had it not been for the thin sliver of shirt collar which peeked out above the jacket’s lapels.

He knew that profile. Despite the ravages of age and poverty, the razor straight jaw cut down toward ivory keys, an aqualine nose bending in perfect time as one hand managed the work of two. Eldrich Bernard, in the flesh, and right before him.

No one but the first mate took notice of the master in their presence. Awestruck as he was, Yuri had lost all sense of the crowd. Here was a man who’d managed to reach through time itself, not only to strike a series of recorded notes on the page, but to revive the spirits of men like Garner, Duke Ellington, Art Blakey, and Thelonius Monk. For a time, Eldrich Bernard took his place in the epicenter of a Jazz Rennaissance born out of a handful of seedy bars in the Eavesdown district of Persephone. As their notoriety took hold across the ‘verse, growing fame and wealth soon carried him and his chosen cohorts on the sound stages of Pacquin and other major destinations. His music, both renditions of the greats and original works, found their way across the black and into the ear of a disaffected young teenager.

Yuri idolized the jazz musician, dreamed of learning the piano. When news came of the fiery shuttle crash that cost Bernard both his wife and his left arm, the boy wept and grieved as so many avid listeners did. His parents were befuddled at this; his older brother openly scoffed. But Yuri kept the music, absorbed each subtle touch of the keys into unfailing memory that would immediately recognize “the Bernard method.” And now, here sat the man himself, his left sleeve pinned up, the right hand magnificent upon a rough old barrelhouse upright, playing unnoticed in the middle of a gorram merchants’ bazaar. It was insulting…yet, as he allowed his own temper to cool, he realized that the old musician had no more concern than the need to play. There was a slight upward curve to the narrow lips. Despite his station, despite all that Yuri could see the ‘verse had brought down upon him, Eldrich Bernard was enjoying himself.

As the song wound to a close, the young man might’ve made a gushing fool of himself, were it not for an aptly timed cortex message from the captain.

Sister’s hired us on a couple extra mouths to feed. You might want to head back and rethink our provisions for the run.

Yuri blinked. There was quite a bit to blink at. Then again, Captain’s sense of humor seemed to walk the edge at times. Two extra crew aboard meant quite a bit more than just provisions, and he knew his first mate now had a “whole passel” of rethinking to do on the matter. He tapped out a reply. On my way.

“Thanks,” the old man said to the ten credit coin dropped into his up ended bowler hat.

“My pleasure, Mr. Bernard.”

Dark eyes lifted from the keys to meet the younger man. “You know me? What’s your name?”

“Yuri Antonov,” he smiled. “Been a fan of yours since I was fourteen.”

Eldrich nodded, a hint of satisfaction on his features as he offered a handshake. “Fourteen,” he repeated, savoring the word. “Don’t hear that one a lot. What brings you ‘round here, Yuri Antonov?”

The first mate shook his head. “I heard your album “Monk Meets Garner,” and I was hooked. Bought everything I could get my hands on after that…’Blue Midnight, ‘Uptime Uptown’, ‘Songs For Loretta.” He paused, cursing himself for a fool. “I’m sorry, Mr. Bernard. So sorry.”

The old jazz man met this with a slow smile. “I still play her music ev’ry night, son. Keeps her right here with me. She’d be please to hear a young man like yourself speaking well of her music.” He cast an eye toward the bowler hat. “You dropped coin. Got a request?”

“I would,” Yuri shrugged, “but my boat’s calling me back as it is. Sir, is there any chance you’re playing a show here on the skyplex?”

Bernard stood up. “See down that alley?” He pointed out a narrow corridor lined with vendors’ stalls. “Little spot down there called Bert’s. You can’t miss it. We got a little trio plays in there at night for drinks and tips. Come on around ‘bout ten and you’ll find us.”

“That,” the young man nodded enthusiastically, “is a plan. See you tonight, sir!” With a wave toward an idol he never thought he’d meet, Yuri turned to set off through the milling crowds of the skyplex. From behind him, the old piano spoke again, the recognizable chords of “Misty” carrying over the unceasing murmur of an oblivious crowd. Doesn’t matter he told himself as he threaded his way beck to China Doll. Tonight…Eldrich Bernard…I’ll be right there! He’d let Edina know they were headed out. Maybe even Elias, given his own piano talents. But first, he had to see about these two new crewpeople.

Firefly - Second 'Verse

Seein’ A Man About A…

OOC: Pardon me while I try to crank up the rusty old writing machine…

“She’s a beaut.” The sniper scope felt good, weighty and firm in her hand. The metal was smooth and precisely machined to the touch. Abby couldn’t help herself. Once more, the fine ocular came up to eye level, just far enough removed to avoid her lash touching the polished glass. The index finger of her left hand steadied the far end as she sighted down the length of the narrow shop. “Mmmm,” the girl hummed a quiet appreciation as she dialed the optics upon one of the myriad target bull’s eyes littering the back wall. “That is some kinda smooth. Could sight on targets ‘o’ diff’rent ranges without missin’ a beat.”

The shopkeeper’s study of her backside abruptly ceased. This little girley might just walk the walk after all. “Whatcha thinking to mount it on?”

“Mosin-Nagant,” Abby replied as she drew a tight bead on the target. “M-91.”

“What series?” Now he really was interested.

“R-3.”

“That’s a fine shootin’ iron you got there, little lady,” the gunsmith leaned over the counter. “Wouldja consider sellin’ ‘er? I’ll pay top coin. Best coin this end of the ‘verse.”

She didn’t bother with an answer, just a careful placement of the scope back into its’ package. “How much fer this?”

Caleb Brummy, Proprietor of Brummy’s Firearms and Munitions, clasped both hands in reverence as he spoke. “This is a precision instrument,” his voice nearly quivered with pride. “Got Kraut glass in ‘er. Don’t get no better optics than what them Krauts grind out. Four hundred.”

“Four hunnerd.” Abby fixed him with a dead eyed stare.

“Yes, ma’am. For that, I’ll even throw in a high quality no-drill mount.”

The deckhand folded her arms. While she was sure that Kraut glass was something mighty fine, no way was she about to drop what she conjured to be Hank Aaron money for a piece of hardware she knew damned well she could pick up on planet for two C’s, Kraut or not. “Box is powerful dusty,” she observed. “Cain’t be good holdin’ stock fer so long. How ‘bout I take it off yer hands fer two fifty?”

Brummy’s eyes narrowed. “How’s about you just walk your pretty little pi gu right out that door?”

Hot Tempered Abby woulda showed metal for that. Even Uncle Bob counseled to let her gun hand drift near the Colt when a man come crossways with her. But she had a new take on this. Lotsa voices, tellin’ her little bits ‘o’ wisdom all at once.

”Whole lotta ways folk horse trade, kid. Not all of ‘em good.”

Cap’n. Always Cap’n. One thing she’s just beginning to learn these past couple years was that there’s a whole lotta grey in the black. Cal Strand had a way of putting sense to it for her. As such, Abby now conjured this man’s slight toward her person, no matter how belittling, weren’t nothing more’n a move for the high ground to cover his counter offer. The next move was hers. “Shiny,” the teenager replied. With a decisive whirl on one bootheel, she made for the exit.

As Abby’s fingers twisted the knob, Brummy called out, “three seventy-five!”

“Still walkin’!”

“You stupid, kid?” he demanded. “That’s Kraut glass! You got any idea how good that is?”

She paused to toss back a wry smile. “Good ‘nuff to gather dust on that shelf another few years, I conjure.”

Brummy’s face was flushing red. “Three twenty-five. There…I metcha halfway. We gonna do this or not?”

”He’s a wannabe. Makes his living selling bullets and an occasional low end pea shooter. You would make his week.”

Mr. Eleanor, him as she suspected was some sorta confidence man…still teachin’ her to read the room.

“You heard muh price,” Abby said as the door shut behind her. He could stew. Odds were mighty long a man treated womenfolk like Brummy’d stoop to come runnin’ after her. If he did, she might just let herself get sweet talked up to two seventy-five…provided said talk was actually sweet. After all, it was Kraut glass…

”He got one thing right. You do got a pretty pi gu.”

“Shut up, Rex,” Abby giggled to herself as two passersby traded glances.

Firefly - Second 'Verse

Happy Saturday from the cargo bay!

I want to start with an apology. It's been a month since I last engaged with any sort of writing, and I've left FF2V hanging out to dry during that time. Sometimes the commitments of the real world drain more then one's energy and time. Suffice to say, I've been somewhat bereft of my personal muse since mid June, but that's not your fault. I am so sorry to have left our story dangling in mid air.

Now, like a person who gave up regular exercise in favor of daily cheeseburgers and couch time, I need to get back at flexing the writing muscle. To that end I'll step up posting activity in the next couple weeks to help get our current story back on track. Thanks, FF2V, for all your patience and kindness.

Firefly - Second 'Verse

Taking The Measure

OOC: JP from @wanderingwolf and @sail3695

To Cal, any skyplex had that sort of half-way, cooped up feeling. The way kiosks lined up against one another, people shouting across the sound of food stalls and the whir of engines. Cryers calling folk over to see what they’re peddling and more. He wasn’t exactly looking forward to the sojourn, but there was one thing that Cal treasured about the skyplex: the postmaster.

On Earth-that-was there was such a thing as little, cardboard rectangles sporting the names and triumphant faces of athletes from seemingly made-up competitive games. All manner of folk used to engage in games called hockey, basketball, football, and–Cal’s favorite–baseball. Now baseball had all the hallmarks of a game he himself might like to learn to play, someday. From the wood bats, to the leather gloves and striped outfits, he reckoned he cottoned that sport most of all.

Strand had been a member of a group across the ‘Verse for the last decade or so, of fellas and gals who liked to trade cards across the cortex. From skyplex to skyplex, Cal had sprinkled forwarding addresses around so as to always have a little something waiting, should he be headed that way on a haul. Little Moriah had a veritable trove of traded cards awaiting, from his counting.

On the heels of his chat with Imani, he reckoned he was due for some one-on-one time with Abigail, and let Yuri know as much. She’d make a good sidekick for the occasion, and he’d get to lay eyes on that limp he’d heard about. Though his reasons for spending time with the young woman were serious, he couldn’t help his upbeat attitude concerning the treasures awaiting him. So it was that he waited for the deckhand in the cargo bay, sat on a pallet. Spacer that she was, he knew she wouldn’t waste an opportunity to see what Little Moriah had on offer.

Soon’s her physical was all done, Abby got ‘erself to work. Shorts an’ tee shirt was swapped for denims, boots, an’ one ‘o’ her fav’rite work shirts what had the name Earl monogrammed over its’ left breast pocket. Her hair’s tied back to a single ponytail, the way she liked when she’s scrubbin’ and cleanin’ out passenger rooms. Her boots felt good, the right laced up tight over the bruise Imani’s first lesson done give ‘er. It hurt; it was sore and all, but she didn’t pay it no heed as she hauled all the beddin’ to the boat’s washin’ machine.

The lav still needed her, but fer now it’d wait til she could run a load ‘o’ towels.

She’d just tossed sheets an’ blankets into tha dryer when word come down that Cap’n wanted to see ‘er. Yuri ain’t said much…somethin’ ‘bout her goin’ along tah tha skyplex postmaster’s office. Meet him at the cargo ramp…easy peasy, she conjured afore slippin’ down tha aft reactor room ladder among the passenger cabins..

She knew Little Moriah. Uncle Bob sorta liked the skyplex. Fact was it’s one of the few places he’d let young Abby go wandrin’ off, mayhaps ‘cause there weren’t too much trouble she might git herself inta. Child Abby could traipse about, lookin’ fer toys an’ sweets. Growed up Abby remembered the food stalls an’ open market. Seein’ how they’s about tah be gone fer a powerful spell, she reckoned it’d be worth her coin tah search out a few books an’ supplies.

Soon’s she hit the cargo bay she seen ‘im. Cap’n was lounged atop an upended pallet, long legs crossed an’ a curl ‘o’ smoke risin’ from a fresh cigarette. She picked up ‘er pace, givin’ fight tah the urge tah favor her right leg. “Hey,” the deckhand greeted Cal. “Heard we got a run to make?”

“Hey yourself,” he said, rising, “That’s right kid,” cigarette tucked in the corner of his mouth, he slid into his duster. She looked the picture of a budding woman, a transformation he seemed to have taken for granted. From the tight pony tail to the no nonsense boots, Abigail looked every bit the eighteen year old she was. Crazy how a woman can completely change her look with a hairdo, he thought. The aside gave him pause, jiving the label for ‘kid’ and ‘girl’ he was apt to use to describe the woman before him. For a moment he wondered if he weren’t inserting himself into a body’s business he had no right to.

“Walk with me.”

The entrance through the bay lock was flanked by stalls for money exchangers and last minute trinkets of the garbage variety. The main thoroughfare of shops and things to see was a walk through corridors leading to the heart of Little Moriah. The flow of traffic through the bay entrance was a throng which Cal heel-toed into with ease, Abigail in tow. With a sideways glance he watched her gate to see if she was feeling her dose from the Doc earlier today. Sure enough, he saw her hesitate when placing her right leg after a few steps.

“Don’t remember you havin’ that limp before you went to see Imani,” he said, keeping pace but not rushing along with traffic.

“Ain’t nothin’ to it,” she shrugged as they walked together. Damn if he didn’t spot that in an all fired hurry, Abby pondered. One thing she knowed ‘bout Cap’n…once he asked, it was ‘the better part of wisdom’ to give up a real answer. “Imani can handle ‘erself real good in a tussle,” the deckhand continued. “Me…not so much. She taught me a purty sharp move, an’ then Ah asked ‘er tah try it on me, is all.”

Cal pursed his lips, cigarette between his fingertips, “What are you tusslin’ for?” He wagered he’d level with her soon, since he wasn’t one to beat around the bush. Strand told himself he was respecting Imani’s wishes not to be outed as his source for Abigail’s abiding struggles after her abduction, but the truth was feelings talk felt like a foreign language.

A small boy, no older than seven or so, bumped into Cal, and without breaking stride, Strand grabbed his wrist and wrest the wad of credits he’d been relieved of from the boy’s hand before letting him go. Cal fixed the boy with a look and he pulled a face filled with fear before disappearing into the crowd behind them.

To Abigail he continued, pulling on his smoke, “Got an iron on your hip; pretty good deterrent if you ask me.”

“Didn’t stop them Headhunters,” she answered, plain and simple.

And there was the rub. “That it didn’t. I been meanin’ to ask you, how’d you end up with their colors on your back?” It was an easier segue than, ‘so you got PTSD now or what?’

Cap’n or no, she knew what Cal asked was fair, ‘specially so after the way he put spurs to China Doll an’ stared down a whole passel of gun barrels to get her back. She owed him. She owed the whole gorram crew. “I puzzled on that mah own self,” Abby said as they picked their way among the teaming crowds. “Turns out they got themselves a code. After beatin’ on me fer however many days, they tole me they liked I didn’t rat on Hook or our crew. When they gimme that cut,” she added, “I conjured it’s jest tah cover muhself, seein’s how muh shirt an’ bra was ripped asunder.” She stopped. Hadn’t meant tah rattle off that part, an’ she sure didn’t feel like tellin’ nothin’ about it. “Weren’t til they all started makin’ a big fuss, givin’ me hugs an’ muh own biker name that I caught wise.”

He did his best to face away, but if she’d been watching as she wound her yarn, Abigail would have seen the darkest hoods of his brows dissolve into a twist that left him biting his lip to bleed. Why had it taken him so long to ask what she’d been through? Had he expected the gang of thugs to serve her tea and crumpets while the China Doll was hightailing it? And they’d beaten on her... And–his face resumed that darkness, teeth grinding–they’d probably had their way. He recalled her wearing not a thing under that leather, when she was traded to the Doll. In the heat of it all, he hadn’t paused to ponder the implications. Stuck on that, he almost missed the end of her tale. He had paused too long after she’d said her piece. The crowds diverged into two streams, and Strand led them starboard, toward the heart of Little Moriah. “So they treated you like one of their own, at the end? Did they tell you why?”

It was nigh on a relief when she conjured Cap’n wasn’t goin’ down the darkest road with his questions. She knowed…knew...from his tone and a sense of his stiffness that what she said touched off distress in his thoughts. Abby regretted that; she truly did. With Alana’s passin’ and starin’ a major job in the face, she reasoned takin’ some pointers from Imani was a right move. After all, what them Headhunters done…what those Headhunters did...was all stuck in a past had no bearing but what she ran in her own head. She never woulda guessed that such a move might bring disquiet to Cal.

“All about their code,” the girl finally replied. “You ‘member their chief, Root? One ‘o’ his lieutenants was a woman they called Nips.” Abby stepped around a street merchant whose arms were draped in all manner ‘o’ gaudy necklaces. Her nine year old self woulda been right entranced. Eighteen year old Abigail had other thoughts. “Anyhow,” she continued, “Nips was keepin’ score ever’ time I fought back. If I got it right, any newbie had tah take some beatin’s and dish out a little in return.” She offered a shrug. “That, an’ like Ah said, not givin’ ‘em squat on Hook or the rest of us. Seemed tah check all her boxes.”

“Lucky, you’re tough as nails. Your Uncle Bob taught you right, no doubt.” He knew she held her Uncle in high regard. Way he saw it, she’d clung to that ship she’d rode into Persephone like it were the last torch in the dark.

“Ah loved mah uncle,” Abby agreed as they walked on. “He had some good lessons in ‘im…even after he give inta tha whiskey.” She came to conjure over time that them as he’d taught ‘er after Aunt Lupe died…watchin’ him crawl into a bottle and leavin’ her to tend the boat and its’ affairs, might just have been the most important schoolin’ she’d had.

But her couple years with China Doll opened up a whole new lesson book. Doin’ her job here was one thing. But livin’ her life, decidin’ on the sort ‘o’ person she’s to become, was a whole new thing altogether. And her shipmates were lettin’ her make those calls, whether fair or foul. “Lernt lots here as well, too,” she admitted. “Weren’t all good, but…”

“Look,” he pulled them out of the flow of traffic and stamped out his cigarette. “Abby,” a moniker he’d never used when speaking to, or of, the woman before him, “Them takin’ you; that happened on my watch, on my ship, and I take the blame. I want you to know I ain’t sweepin’ the la shi under the rug. You been through ruttin’ hell, and I’m glad to lay eyes on the other side, but you’re a Gorram kid–least you was. I know I can be ornery, but you ain’t alone here. I got your back. And if I ever meet that Root again, I’m liable to leave a holey impression, Rex or no Rex.”

Abby felt all surprised, like her pins was knocked out from underneath. Cap’n had her by the arms, but there was no harshness to his grip. When she took it into account with what she read in Cal’s eyes, her heart felt liable to break over the man’s sudden anguish. “Uncle Bob always told me tah fall in with good folk, ‘cuz when bad times come they’d look out for yah.” Her eyes fixed his in solemn regard. “That yew did. Can’t always stop bad things from happenin’, sir, but one thing Ah know sure an’ sure is Ah can always count on yew tah pull me out tha fire.”

He felt compelled by something deeper than he’d rather reckon, by the look in Abigail’s eye, by the pulling in his gut, to use that hand on her shoulder to pull her into an embrace. It was hard to ken the root of what Cal was feeling in that moment. He’d felt it before when he’d brought her supper after they’d caught her up again from the Headhunters. In truth it’d been growing for some time; maybe since he fell in step with the plucky girl who took up the clipboard on Persephone. Kin. Abigail–Abby was kin as kin could be to a spacer who’d lived life in the black and watched a body embrace the same ideals.

Cal Strand gave in, pulling Abby into that hug which might quiet the buzzing need to respond to the solemn look in her eye. She knew how he felt. He saw it in her gaze. “That I will,” she smelled like that comforting clean left on knuckles stained by honest work. He steeled himself for a moment and added, “I know you’d do the same.”

Some folk was huggers. Pen, what used to be their pilot. Lorraine, back on Pelorum. Edina was a hugger who’d just as soon wrap ‘er arms about you than say howdy do. Them Headhunters, once they patched her in an’ got lickered up. Abby’d took ‘em all with a good humor, but when it come tah givin’ hugs found ‘erself a touch more miserly, dealin’ ‘em out when her natchurly mistrustful spirit felt so moved. An’ that happened precious little. They’s that time with Hook, when she’s all loopy from Alana cuttin’ a bullet out ‘er butt. An’ Cap’n. She ‘membered givin’ him a real happy one awhile back. That’s when she learnt that like herself, Cal Strand was a might selective with ‘is own affections.

But now, here he was, foldin’ her up in his arms. Abby’s face was buried in Cap’’n’s duster coat. Swaddled as she was in his embrace reminded her what it was tah be a tiny child again, all covered up in warmth an’ care like no trouble in the ‘verse could ever touch ‘er. She done ‘er best, huggin’ back with hands couldn’t reach no higher’n his shoulder blades, but spoke their intent with a cub’s devotion for its’ elder.

She sensed his burden of pain, a deeply held sorrow for both Alana and herself. Abby wished such a witchcraft existed might take that hurt away. Mr. Eleanoir helped her with her words an’ diction, but what she conjured needed sayin’ was right beyond her. And so, as was her way, Abby went for simple.

“Ever’ day,” she answered, voice a touch raw an’ muffled by his coat. “Ever’ single day.”

Cal nodded, still clasped; her words rung true. Wasn’t a doubting bone in his body of Abby’s claim, and somehow that reassurance caught his breath a might. The reciprocity of deep feeling was a release to which he wasn’t accustomed, though welcome it was.

The Captain cleared his throat and finally released the deckhand to arm’s length. Drawing a hand over his face, Cal exhaled the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, and patted Abby on the shoulder. There was a look in her eye now, something piercing but true. Truth be told he felt it in his own sight, too. Fresh eyes, fresh understanding: loyalty and trust. He reckoned she was right when she said he couldn’t stop bad things from happening, but damned if he wouldn’t try.

Throngs around the pair had continued to flow with scarce glances from passersby. “C’mon kid, I got an errand to run.”

And that was it. Once more, they were The Captain and his Deckhand, back to business. As she fell in at his side again, Abby knew it was true and right. They squared it, tested the measures and found they still held. “Yes, sir,” she replied, a contented little smile touchin’ her face as they threaded their way toward the postmaster.

Firefly - Second 'Verse

History Lesson 4 - “We Know The Way”

OOC: This episode will include a few interspersed history briefs to set the stage for China Doll’s adventures at Asteroid AN-3872.

Average flight time from Earth to 34Tauri(2020): one hundred twenty-five years.

Even the most casual student of history can understand the rapid pace of societal change. Time and again, the power of one idea had altered the course of human history, often for better, frequently for worse. Alliance sociologists had planned for these inevitable eruptions by implementing strict codes of conduct aboard the arks. All occupants would follow them without exception, for fear of a ‘three strike’ policy whose culmination resulted in the immediate death and recycling of the perpetrator. Severe infractions, such as murder, sexual assault, or endangering the vessel, could be, and were, dealt with much more swiftly.

In accordance with the accepted psychological benefits of employment, all passengers were obligated to perform daily tasks. A regular work schedule, coupled to frequent ‘information’ transmissions broadcast throughout the ark fleet network, served not only the purpose of keeping the population desirably informed, but also staved off the impression of isolation. “Let’s get there together” became a popular slogan for Alliance broadcasts. This brand of social engineering proved mostly successful, though dissidents would occasionally make themselves known. Their histories can be deduced from vessel logs whose closing entries to these cases frequently read “consigned to reclamation.”

The following Independent vessels had no such structure. Each became its’ own microcosm, a closed community either disciplined by reason or succumbed to the will of a charismatic leader. Little societies flourished, corrupted, and collapsed aboard these ships. Ideologies took hold, and frequently buckled under the crushing weight of space travel. Some vessels resorted to piracy for their sustenance. One such miscreant, SV Tempest, made a career of her predations until one day in 2165 when a mistimed approach resulted in a collision with her intended victim, venting the hull to space and instantly killing both crews.

C/V Gossamer was more fortunate. Owing to her considerable size and tightly regimented passenger count she sailed on, her course heading one-three-seven lateral, three-zero-nine vertical. On this heading, she’d soar into the heart of 34Tauri(2020), with enough fuel to navigate and land upon whichever of the terraformed worlds the Alliance would dictate.

137L. 309V.

Years passed. More vessels failed along the way, with maintenance of aging systems and brittle hulls breached now coming to the forefront. Many of these ships, like their unfortunate forbears, would spend eternity in a lifeless glide toward a new home never realized. C/V Gossamer had all the challenges of a ship growing old while in service. The sight of her engineering/maintenance crew, busy outside in their power assist exoskeletal suits, had become commonplace, as had early rationing and power conservation. The Captain and her descendants had no intention to follow the ghost ships to their catastrophic fates, imposing a firm discipline among the souls in her charge.

Families were permitted two children…eventual replacements for the parents. As passengers died, their bodies were recycled to provide nutrients for both the hydroponic garden and the cricket farming center. Reports from the Arks…occasional scraps of errant transmissions… included innovations for use by the trailing ships. One such development was the blending of crickets and plant matter into a protein rich paste that proved vital to the dwindling food reserves of the ad hoc generation ships.

People died. People were born. The world of C/V Gossamer carried on. She’d been on her journey for eighty-five years when her second captain died. It was during this year, 2186, that a thirteen year old girl sparked their greatest controversy.

Shaniqua Tyler was a fragile child, her undersized physique displaying many of the perceived effects of lifetime space travel. Her bone density was roughly eighty-seven percent of Terran normal. When her reduced muscle mass was added to the equation, the result was a less than encouraging prognosis for a healthy life, let alone the ability to bear children. Under the somewhat draconian methods adopted for Gossamer’s management, the child was a prime candidate for the recycler.

Her mother, LaShonna, a member of the ship’s engineering crew, developed a method that not only spared her daughter’s life, but provided benefits to the entire ship for the remainder of their voyage. One day, while working off her frustrations on an exercise bike in Gossamer’s gymnasium, she realized that not only were the bikes’ onboard displays powered by the simple act of pedaling, but that an astonishing amount of generated electricity was being permitted to simply drain away. Thus, a new passenger work assignment, ‘pedal power,’ was born. Even little Shaniqua could participate and make her contribution to a grateful vessel.

The girl excelled, frequently volunteering for an average eight hours of pedal power per day. As her body strengthened from prolonged activity, so did her mind. She exhausted Gossamer’s video library, in addition to making deep inroads into the ship’s digital text database. Her mind sharpened, her inquisitive nature its’ blade edge as she tackled subjects of interest. Art, history, music, literature…all would soon have her name registered as a heavy user of their selected categories.

Then, her curiosity turned outward, toward the stars themselves.
Astronomy was the first step, though she quickly became dissatisfied with the earthbound star charts when compared to the observations made through a viewport. It was this sense of disquiet that would launch a deeper interest, and ultimately expose a crucial flaw.

At first, celestial navigation was little more than a romantic topic. She loved the tales of sailors on the sea, judging their positions by reading the stars in the night sky. A favorite was a movie called ‘Moana,’ story of a young Pacific Island girl who took observations with thumb and forefinger. Curiosity thus piqued, Shaniqua devoured books, learning to master the sextant and azimuth ring. She understood from her readings that spaceflight navigation was a matter of point to point. Yet, with a viewport full of the same useful stars spread out before her, she reckoned that there was still a way to rely upon the stories they told.

Enter mathematics. “I don’t understand,” her mother shook her head over the family’s ‘Taco Tuesday’ protein paste dinner. “You have the coordinates for Earth. You have them for 34Tauri. It’s A to B,” she gave a “back me up here” glance toward Shaniqua’s father. “It’s point to point, Shani. What more do you need?”

The girl set her taco down; dad had over seasoned the food to mask the taste. “Yeah, mom, I know,” she agreed, “but if I know the velocities and headings of points C, D, and E, I should be able to track them too, right?”

“Theoretically,” her father joined in. “I bumped into Professor Berghauer in the market. He told me all about how you’re pestering him…no no!” He lifted a hand to quiet her rising protest. “He likes it. You’ve got him fixating on this thing as well. I have to admit that most of what he told me went right over my head, especially when he talked about how gravity can bend light and distort your reading.”

Shaniqua folded her arms. “Yeah,” she huffed, “but the more I think about that, the more I wonder if it even matters? I mean, ancient sailors still relied on those sightings, and they proved pretty accurate. Even Pacific Islanders…”

“Moana,” LaShonna smiled. “I knew it.”

The child stood her ground. “I can’t help if it actually worked,” she bristled. “I can’t use a sextant because there’s no horizon, but this?” Her hand waved, thumb and forefinger spread to form a distinctive ‘L’ shape. “I can plot the positions of two points relative to our course and speed. Been doing it for almost a year, and…” She stopped herself before the words might tumble out.

LaShonna Tyler wasn’t going to let that one just lay. “And what?”

She might be thirteen, but growing up in the Tyler family all these years taught her that crazy talk wouldn’t survive LaShonna Tyler’s ingrown analytics. With renewed interest, Shaniqua attacked the neglected taco.

“CHILD!” The daughter withered under her mother’s glare. ‘You will speak.”

The sudden mouthful bought her time, though seconds only. She could come up with something. But mom would see right through her. Shaniqua made a show of chewing her food, grinding it down to mush as her mind abandoned her. No crazy talk, no crazy talk…
“I think we’re going off course,” she blurted, doing her best to avoid wincing at the sound of her own stupidity.

Mom’s reaction was…’Classic Mom.’ LaShonna didn’t glare, nor did her voice lift from its’ dinner table norm. She dabbed at her lips with a napkin, then asked, “Do you know what I did last week?”

“No,” the girl’s eyes swept her plate. Here it came, the irrefutable logic, sidling up in a relatable commonplace tale.

“I had to replace LED’s in some of our displays,” LaShonna reached for the pitcher. As iced tea splashed into her tumbler, she continued, “LED’s are hardy little buggers. Very low voltage. They’ll run forever…well, in this case, more like eighty-some-odd years. But they do eventually burn out.” She plucked another taco onto her plate, a move Shaniqua thought more an act of kindness toward her father’s cooking than prompted by appetite. “Which LED displays do you think I had to replace?”

“I don’t know,” said a glum Shaniqua.

Mom took a bite, her teeth slicing through the somewhat limp tortilla and its’ underlying filling. She chewed, swallowing the morsel which was quickly washed down by the tea, “Our course heading displays,” she replied. “It sems they’ve burned the same LED’s for so many years that they were eventually burning out. Can you imagine? The same numbers, one-three-seven lateral and three-zero-nine vertical. They haven’t changed, those little LED’s haven’t stopped burning, ever since we settled on our course back in 2101.” She paused for another bite. “Our NAV systems undergo scheduled maintenance and diagnostics. They have for years, Shani.”

“But,” Shaniqua’s arguments were being systematically dismantled. Her right hand lifted instinctively, thumb stretched to create her celestial ‘L’ tool. “The readings I’ve taken. Almost a year now. They’re not adding up…”

“Could it be,” LaShonna asked her daughter, “that your instrument has changed? Can you wear the same clothes that you did last year? The same shoes?” She smiled. “Shani, you’re growing up. Smart as you are, we’ve no doubt that you’ll be essential to this ship when we land in our new home. I’m not telling you to stop observing and trying to learn about the stars, but you have to understand that what you just said could frighten folk. With forty years left to our journey, a ship full of misinformed, frightened people could be a very bad thing. Don’t you agree?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” LaShonna traded glances with her husband. “Now, I know you’ve got some homework to finish? Get it done early and we’ll lay out a game. Sound good?”

“Yes. mom.” A defeated Shaniqua Tyler took her dishes to the kitchen, before the unseen ‘whoosh’ of a door signaled the retreat to her bedroom.

LaShonna ate in silence. Sensing her husband’s eyes upon her, she lifted her gaze. “What?”

“Professor Berghauer,” he whispered.

“What about him?”

Shaniqua’s father leaned toward his wife. “He thinks she’s onto something. He followed up with his own observations, ran a second set of calculations. According to him, Shani’s numbers check out…” The instant stormclouds on her brow, coupled with an angry crook of his wife’s finger, bade him follow her in to their bedroom.

Once sealed behind their door, she whirled upon him. “Do you remember how close we came to losing Shani to the recycler?” LaShonna demanded. “No one will take her seriously,” she jabbed a finger in the direction of their daughter’s bedroom. “But an old academic? If this thing gets out, Disciplinary Services won’t bat an eye about recycling them both!”

“So how do we handle this?”

“I can’t,” she shook her head. “If this thing comes out, we’ll all be under scrutiny. I’ll lose my job. We’ll lose everything. Dan,” LaShonna took her husband’s hand, “You’ve got to get word to Berghauer…remind him of the danger.”

<To be continued>

Firefly - Second 'Verse

”Read The Room”

Thing she come tah like most ‘bout Mr. Eleanor was he didn’t cut ‘er no slack in his teachin’. Diff’rence was after he done whupped her ass, he’d take time tah show ‘er how he done it. Abby watched as fer the last time, he snatched ‘er queen from tha board.

“So,” the old man peered above horn rimmed glasses. “How did I take your queen?”

She studied an’ studied afore answerin’. One thing he taught ‘er ‘bout chess was how important it was tah keep relationships with all yer pieces. And now, without the black queen fer an anchor, what she put tahgether weren’t gon’ hold off his attack fer long. “I’s too busy chasin’ yer bishop,” she said.

“It’s ‘I was…too busy chasing your bishop.’ Ever heard of diction, Squirt?”

Matter ‘o’ fact, she had. The mem’ry took ‘er right back tah her first days on China Doll, when ole Rex come struttin’ up like he done owned tha boat. Weren’t but a tick afore they’s thowin’ barbs like squabblin’ kids when he taught ‘er that word. “Ah have,” Abby’s eyes come up from tha board. “Why Ah need tah sound like ever’body else?”

“Ah!” Cyrus Eleanor gave her a rare smile. “Do you know the old phrase ‘Read The Room?’ Do you understand the meaning?”

“Sure’n Ah do,” the deckhand give a quick nod. “It’s like knowin’ all tha exits, never sittin’ with yer back tah tha door…sizin’ up them as like tah come at yah.”

Her response wasn’t quite what he had in mind, but it was nonetheless correct. “True,” replied with a nod. “Now, change the scene from that dingy barroom. Head uptown to a really fine establishment.”

Abby shook ‘er head. “Ah never go tah places like that. Don’t aim tah start now.”

“But that,” he lifted an index finger, “is where you can find the really big coin. Read the room,” he waved her attention to the chessboard, “and you’ll always come out ahead.” Without preamble, he reached across, plucking one of her a black pawns from the line to make a two space initial move.

“But why’dja…” She went silent. Abby always tried keepin’ as solid a wall ‘o’ pawns as she could tah protect ‘er king, but Mr. Eleanor done made an opening. She then looked on that pawn, try’na figger out his meanin’. He sat quiet as she conjured. Fer true they’s now a lane tah her back line, but that pawn just saved ‘er knight…and, she come tah see, give ‘er a whole new advantage. He’d have tah back ‘is queen, and that meant all the white queen protected would have tah back up too. “Ohhhhh,” the girl give a slow nod. “Ah see it now…but how’s that connect tah muh speakin’?”

“Read…the…room.” Cyrus retreated, his queen taking a diagonal path out of danger. “It’s the little things,” he offered with a touch upon her pawn, “that will win the day. Diction, Squirt. If you find yourself in a room with kings and queens, dialing that twang down and the skill to play at their parlance can help give you power.” He flipped his palm upward, gesturing as he continued. “Under all that rough and tumble, you’re a pretty girl, Abigail. That’s an advantage. Your move.”

Tha whole board done changed afore her eyes. Inwardly, she thought tah bristle at his boldness. Ever’ time in her life a man come tellin’ her she’s perty ended up with tha Colt persuadin’ him tah keep his hands tah hisself. But Mr. Eleanor weren’t makin’ no move tah touch ‘er. Hell, from what she could see in ‘is eyes he’s jest tellin’ somethin’ he felt was true, alot like somebody’d speak about tha weather. “Ain’t no whore,” Abby finally said as she pushed a knight two left, one forward.

He nodded his satisfaction. “Good…good. You see it. You don’t have to be a concubine, Squirt. But when the times demand, proper diction, a little charm, and some upgrades to your appearance can transform you from Abby to Abigail…and the marks will be eating out of your hand.” He pushed a pawn up to cover the queen’s retreat.

“Yah mean like a Companion?” Quill Cassidy come tah mind. Abby never conjured no taste fer girls, but Quill…she’s just so gorram beautiful an’...elegant. “Seems a mighty high mountain fer such as me tah climb.”

“Somewhat,” Cyrus’ hands rested on the tabletop. “But what if you only had to act the part for a few hours? Suddenly it becomes manageable. Do you follow?”

“Like a caper…runnin’ a job?”

“Exactly!” His queen broke left, a last ditch effort to protect an exposed king.

Abby’s eyes narrowed. “What’dja say yer line ‘o’ work was, Mr. Eleanor?” She could take that queen with her knight…wait. Then he’d kill tha knight with his king. But if her bishop done the deed, with tha knight guardin’...

Cyrus offered a contented smile in return. “I don’t believe that I did.” He watched as Abby removed his queen from the board, her bishop/knight combination posing an intractable threat to his king. “But, my dear Ms. Travis, I accomplish much of my task through reading the room…” He fell to silence as China Doll’s intercom squawked to life.

“Attention all crew and passengers, this is your pilot speaking. We've got about five minutes before we begin docking at Little Moriah Skyplex, please prepare for arrival and ensure all cargo is strapped down and all passengers are prepared for entering atmo. Thank you kindly!"

Abby took to her feet. “Ah got work,” she said. “Need a hand gittin’...getting…your steamer trunk off?”

Cyrus dismissed her with a casual wave. “I’m shiny,” he quipped as his threatened king was laid to rest on the board. “Good game, Squirt.”

“Didn’t think Ah was gon’...excuse me…I didn’t think I was going to like you,” she admitted.

He offered his hand, and they shook. “I don’t suffer fools unless there’s coin to be had. And you, Abigail, are no fool.” Cyrus Eleanor hoisted his steamer trunk onto a pair of inset casters. “Please take care of the chessboard for me. We will be playing again.”

*********************************************************************************

Docking Berth Three-Oh-Nine.

China Doll was secure, pulling power and vitals from Skyplex umbilicals. Abby lowered the cargo ramp, then watched as one by one, the passengers disappeared into moving sea of humanity. “Read tha room,” she whispered, afore Yuri’s voice come over the com.

”Attention all hands, this is the first mate. Due to the length of time and remote location of our next job, Captain’s ordered everyone to report to Medbay for a complete physical exam. Abby, you’re up first. Imani will be ready for you in thirty ticks….”

The deckhand shrugged. “Guess them rooms...I suppose cleaning those guest rooms will have to wait."

Firefly - Second 'Verse

Happy St. Patrick's Day from the Cargo Bay!

So, after a protracted bout of real life struck several of our members, not to mention your humble hosts, China Doll appears to be getting her feet under her once more.

We're just a couple hours shy of docking at Little Moriah Skyplex. Once there, we'll say goodbye to our passengers and then pick up all the supplies and hardware we need to complete our current job, heading outside the 'verse to intercept an asteroid in its' 300 year elliptical orbit.

Cap'n and Boone are putting the finishing touches to a JP that'll get us docked. Imani and Abby are completing a JP that'll drop after we're hitched to the skyplex. But for now, the crew are all getting ready. Feel free to write your char going about their business. What would they be doing a couple hours out? And just what are Edina and Yuri up to?

I hope everybody has a great finish to the weekend. I'm headed out, as my beloved Atlanta United are facing rivals Orlando City SC for the first time this season. I won't be wearing green, but I'll def. have a taste of whiskey in honor of the day. Slainte!

Write When It's Fun,

Sail

Firefly - Second 'Verse

Prepare for Docking, and Other Double Entendres

“Lesson Number One. If it can move, it will.” During their time together in China Doll’s galley, Hook made double certain that if she learned nothing else, Edina had that one down pat. On a boat in space, loose objects weren’t just a nuisance; they could be downright catastrophic. And the galley, with its’ heavy pots and pans, not to mention all manner of things with pointy ends and stuff that would make even more pointy ends if it broke, was a whole passel of catastrophes just waiting to happen.

And so, Edina was careful. During his tenure as cook, Joe Hooker had meticulously organized the galley, his vision taking not only the sense of utility, but also an abiding respect for safety. Each pan and utensil had an outline drawn to indicate its’ place in the cabinets. He had taken pains to secure these objects by means of bungee loops anchored into shelves and trays. His pupil was only too glad to continue the practice.

“This is your friendly galley girl,” Edina piped up on the shipwide comm. “The galley is officially closed until after we’ve docked at Little Moriah Skyplex. There are sodas and bottled water in the cooler. If you’re jonesing for just one more cup of coffee…I’m looking at you, Captain…you’ll find a fresh pot in the thermos, next to some paper cups. And maybe, if you ask me real nice, you might just get a cookie or two. Thank you for flying China Doll!” she quipped before cutting the mic.

“Hey, Galley Girl!” Yuri stood across the serving counter, fixing Edina with a good humored smile. “I take it I missed lunch?”

She lifted an eyebrow. “You take that right. Where’ve you been?”

“With Elias,” he set the clipboard down. “Giving him the lowdown on the truss cage.”

Ah, the infamous truss cage, Edina recalled silently. She was nigh on certain he’d managed to successfully talk everyone’s ear off about that little piece of engineering. Especially hers. Edina wouldn’t ever say that Yuri had become insufferable, but when she found herself kissing him just to shut him up, she had to admit that she was more than a little worn out with the topic. After making a silent promise to thank Elias for his service, she replied, “Sorry, but we’re all scrubbed and buttoned up for docking. If I’m honest, I think Boone ate your portion, anyway.”

“Makes sense,” the First Mate observed. “Seein’s he’s still a growing boy and such.” He then met her eyes once again. “You said there were cookies?” he asked hopefully.

China Doll’s Galley Chief folded her arms. “I said there might be cookies.” Her eyes sparkled mischievously. “Boys who can’t remember to make it for lunch usually don’t qualify.”

Yuri chuckled, “I see,” he gave a nod and a lift of an index finger. “The punishment for not eating is…not eating some more? That about sum it up?”

“Perfectly,” she answered, flashing her ‘this is me picking on you’ grin.

He appeared to think on that. Presently, Yuri turned. “Can we work out something? Favor for favor? A barter, maybe?”

Edina crooked her finger. “Follow me,” she smiled, before stepping inside the pantry. “Get the door.”

“Uhhhh,” Yuri hesitated. “What are we doing?”

“You want my cookies,” Edina teased, “you gotta give me your cookies.”

“I am totally lost here,”

She heaved a sigh which lifted a stray wisp of hair. “If Abby was here, she’d say something like, “That thar was one ‘o’ them double entendrees, yah dumbass!”

“Oh…OH!” Yuri finally caught wise. “Thank Buddha she’s not here!”

Edina’s hand shot out of the pantry, grabbing Yuri by the collar. “Come here,” she ordered, before yanking the First Mate inside.

Firefly - Second 'Verse

”The Courtesy of a Reply…"

“Gorram it.”

The draw weren’t feelin’ right, like her whole body done fergot how. Truth be told, Abby ain’t had practice in a coon’s age, and brother, did it show. She’s still fast, leastways to her own thinkin’, but with each draw before her mirror the deckhand conjured just how much she’d left the muscle to atrophy. Her right shoulder’s dippin’, one of the worst tells to anyone might choose to square up with her some day. Gotta calm that la shi right down, she pondered as Daddy’s Colt slipped back inside the holster.

”Ye gotta be loose, Chick Pea.” Uncle Bob told her that a thousand times. ”It’s like what them monks an’ nuns call meditation. Ye gotta clear yer head til they’s nothin’ left but yew, yer pistol, and the fella done been stupid enough to call ye out.”

She waved her arms a spell, slippin’ ‘em out like she’s balancin’ on a tightrope. Abby crooked her neck, tryna summon the sort of limber she knowed she had. ‘Cept it weren’t comin’. Meditation…maybe I should ask Sister Lyen about that, Way she figgered, gettin’ ‘er head right was tha whole sitchiation. And it weren’t no mystery what had her nickers in a twist.

<TJinks>:
Hey, can we talk?

After so long silent, seein’ his message at first robbed all common sense outta her. She opened it soon’s her cortex pinged its’ arrival…before remembrin’ he’d git word she done seen it. Abby’s still cringin’ over herself when Thomas’ next wave hit.

<TJinks>:
I miss you.

She let two days pass with no reply. Not that she ain't wrote one…or three…or six, afore deletin’ each. She wanted to rage, tear inta him with a buzzsaw of harsh words. She wanted ta hear him apologize, tell ‘er how wrong he was fer goin’ silent so gorram long. She wanted tah remind him that she’s a growed woman and she’d make ‘er own choices, thank yew very much. But underneath it all, Abby wanted most to hear his feelin’s. He said he missed ‘er. Well, that was kinda goin’ the direction she hoped.

But no way was she just gon’ go runnin’ back now he had a mind tah pallaver.

First she thought was tah make him wait a spell. Seemed only fair, after all tha weeks an’ weeks he done left her waves hangin’. But as days went by, she come tah conjure she couldn’t know how her silence measured on him, but it sure as hell was playin’ Merry Hob with her equilibrium.

That, and Alana, the girl reasoned as she slipped outta her gunbelt. China Doll just seemed all dumbstruck by the doc’s passin’. Nobody talked about ‘er, leastways not in sense of some kinda memorial. It’s jest like she’s never a part of tha crew tah begin with, and deep down, that weren’t sittin’ right with Abby. Folk come an’ go in tha ‘verse. How many times had she held ‘er own feelin’s in check with that old sayin’? She weren’t thinkin’ tah argue tha wisdom of it, seein’s how she could count plenty folk left China Doll over the two and a half years she worked aboard. Pen left tah reunite with ‘er pa. Rex joined the bikers what had kidnapped her. Hook? Man had demons tah smoke out.

But they’re all alive, she mused. Alana’s gone forever…and it’s like nobody’s allowed to say goodbye or feel sad about it. It was then that one of them connections snapped home in Abby’s head. So I’m not talking, she realized, about Alana, or to Thomas…and all I’m doing is hurting me.

The truth of that couldn’t be denied. She sat down on ‘er bunk, beside tha pistol and gunbelt, her mind connecting the dots between issue and resolution. As she thought on it, her eye traced them captures of ‘er fam’ly taped onta tha bulkhead. They was all there, tha folk she loved, mem’reis and bonds explained through a rainbow of colorful chalk connections. It was then she got her idea. Don’t need to talk about Alana, the girl’s expression brightened, not when there’s a better way to remember her.

With a freshening resolve, Abby took on her next vexation. The cortex reader slipped into her hands. Her thumbs went to work on a fresh response. This time, she sent it.

<Abn8r>:
What do you want to talk about?

This time, Thomas didn’t make her wait. Weren’t more’n a minute before he banged out a fresh wave.

<TJinks>:
About how I’m a real idiot for puffing up and trying to tell you how to manage. When you shared the pic of all your bruises I just went all ‘male gorilla.’ I’m really sorry, Abby.

“Puffin’ up.” Seemed like the first time in forever that Abby smiled. She dashed off a response.

<Abn8r>:
I conjure you were feeling protective. Next time, let me tell you when I need a hero?

<TJinks>:
Shiny. My sister said the same thing while she was whacking me with a dead mackerel.

That got Abby gigglin’. The Jinks fam’ly must be out on another fishin’ run.

<Abn8r>:
Tell her to hit you one for me.

<TJinks>:
How about we save future assault and battery for the next time you’re back on New Melbourne?

<Abn8r>:
Deal.

She checked the time. ‘Bout three hours left til they docked at tha Skyplex. Her chores was all done, an’ the passengers was just fed, so Abby had some time tah kill. Judgin’ by tha way he’s tryin’ tah catch up, so did Thomas. As she traded wits an’ stories with him, Abby come tah realize that her world was brightenin’ right up.

Firefly - Second 'Verse

History Lesson 3: “Survivors’ Guilt”

OOC: This episode will include a few interspersed history briefs to set the stage for China Doll’s adventures at Asteroid AN-3872.

From Let’s Learn History! Grade 3

…”The arks carried all the people from Earth-That-Was for a long, long time, over 100 years! If you were a new baby when the journey began, your grandchildren would be very old when they arrived in our new home.”

From Foundations in Alliance History - Grade 12

…”While the arks carried a substantial portion of Earth’s population to the new system, there were other vessels that followed in the journey. Conditions aboard those ships could be harsh. Some didn’t survive the rigors of a 125 year spaceflight.”

From The Eternal Voyage: The Lost Generation Fleet - Banned

…”Due to the physics of inertia in spaceflight, these ‘ships of the dead’ kept pace with their living counterparts, a vast, traveling graveyard that over time hindered navigation and forced the use of precious fuel in collision avoidance burns. When the time came for the designated course correction burn to intercept the terraformed worlds of Londinium and Osiris, many ships of the following fleet lacked sufficient fuel. Some fared well, choosing pre terraformed worlds on which to land and await possible rescue. Others lost the gamble, and were subsequently doomed to join their counterparts of the ‘Graveyard Fleet’ for an unending journey.”

…………………………

For a humanity now spaceborne, the first few years were dreadful. Year One of The Migration saw an astonishing death toll. Most casualties were those whose only choice to escape their fate on Earth was a berth aboard one of the thousands of vessels ill suited for a 1.25 century voyage. The first ‘Mayday’ calls came after only a week, mechanical and structural failures outweighing the wishful thinking of those who cast their lots in the ragtag flotilla. As weeks became months, once optimistic supply manifests were reduced to ever more draconian rationing. When a vessel’s food, water, or oxygen reached critical levels, their fate was broadcast via the now customary SOS call.

The cruel truth not taught in history classes was that none of these cries for help was ever answered.

This willful ignorance was based in sound reasoning. In space, the old adage about “turning the battleship” is made exponentially more costly and difficult. The first challenge to a would-be rescuer would be their own fuel consumption. The acts of changing course and implementing acceleration/deceleration burns would greedily consume resources sorely needed for the final maneuvers at voyage’s end. The actual rescue itself was fraught with danger, from two vessels maneuvering in close quarters at speeds beyond 20,000kph to the crewmembers who’d be forced to traverse the void between them. Of course, supply was the most insidious hurdle. Those rescued and their eventual progeny would spend the rest of the voyage consuming their savior vessel’s food, water, and oxygen. Long story short, a rescue attempt could very well be a death sentence for the rescuer.

Many bridge crew personnel suffered neurological trauma, relative to the ongoing litany of exceedingly desperate distress calls. For those tortured souls, relief did not come when a ship would eventually fall silent. One had only to glance at the radar screen, or in some cases, look through a viewport to witness the fate of their fellow travelers. The corpse ships would glide along their course headings, a ghostly reminder of unanswered distress calls that drove many a conscientious survivor to madness.

Most of those afflicted fell into deep bouts of depression. More serious cases retreated into delusional thought, manic judgment, or suicidal tendencies. Some lapsed into a wanton depravity that present day Alliance officials are quick to point toward as counterpoint to the assertion that their Miranda experiments might have created Reavers.

Though it is rumored that some records of the Graveyard Fleet exist, the Alliance firmly refutes this claim.