The Festival Gig

 

Chapter 1: Standard Cargo, Standard Trouble

The Big Empty

The familiar groan of Serenity’s hull was the only lullaby Captain Malcolm Reynolds had ever truly trusted. He sat in his worn leather command chair, one boot propped on the console, observing the swirling star-dust of the 'Verse drift lazily across the main viewport. It was a monotonous beauty, the kind you got used to right before it tried to kill you.

"How long till we hit the system, Wash?" Mal called out, not looking away from the stars.

Hobie "Wash" Washburne, his pilot and primary source of non-firearm-related logic, didn't turn from the controls. "Another standard cycle, Captain. We’re coming up on the edge of the Newhall system now. Nav data says we clear for atmospheric entry on schedule." Wash hit a key, and a soft chime echoed through the bridge. "And for the record, the trip has been alarmingly quiet. I’ve seen less static in a bowl of mashed potatoes."

"Quiet means the Alliance ain't nearby, and the Alliance ain't nearby means we get paid," Mal grunted. "Don't tempt the black, pilot. You'll make her spiteful."

"The 'black' is not a sentient being, Mal. It's an absence of light and atmosphere," Wash countered, though he’d been flying long enough to feel the weight of Mal’s superstition.

A small, rhythmic thudding started coming from the comms system, sounding suspiciously like something being tapped with a wrench.

"That'll be Jayne," Mal sighed, pushing himself up. "The only man I know who treats electronics like they personally offended his mama."

As Mal reached the hatch, it slid open, revealing Jayne Cobb, the mercenary, looking less than pleased and wielding an impressively large pipe wrench.

"Cap'n," Jayne greeted, his tone flat. "This cargo ain't right."

"It's three crates of protein bars and some medical supplies bound for Haven's Reach. Seems pretty 'right' to me, Jayne," Mal said, folding his arms. "Did you manage to break something before we got paid?"

"No, sir. I'm sayin' the smell ain't right." Jayne scratched his unshaven chin. "Smells like they dipped these protein bars in cheap perfume to cover up the smell of... well, not being protein."

Mal raised a sceptical eyebrow. "Jayne, you're the only person I know who can smell a bad business deal through a sealed cargo hold. Get back to your post. We’ll verify the manifest when we land."

Jayne shrugged, tucking the wrench into his waistband. "Just sayin'. If we get jumped, I ain't dyin' for five metric tonnes of what smells like old socks and dried lavender."

"You wouldn't die for a winning lottery ticket, Jayne," Mal shot back, shaking his head.

As Mal walked down the main corridor, he passed Inara Serra in her shuttle bay. She was elegantly dressed, checking her Companion papers. She offered a slight, knowing smile.

"A fragrant mystery, Captain?" she asked, her voice calm and melodic.

"Just Jayne being Jayne. Trying to work himself up into a panic so he has an excuse to shoot something." Mal leaned against the doorframe. "You ready for Haven's Reach?"

"As I’ll ever be," Inara replied, her eyes briefly flicking to the window. "It's a fringe settlement. I imagine there's very little 'Reach' and a lot of 'Haven'—as in, desperately trying to keep their supplies from running out."

"Well, that's what makes for a good payday," Mal said, giving her a small bow. "Keep flyin', Inara. We'll be setting down soon."

He paused, a flicker of genuine concern crossing his face. "If those bars are dodgy, I'll make sure Shepherd Book sees to it that we don't accidentally poison the entire settlement."

Chapter 2: The Scent of Profit

Haven's Reach

Haven's Reach was a dust-choked collection of pre-fab shacks and geodesic domes huddled against a rust-coloured cliff face. It looked exactly like the kind of place where a man could disappear, which suited Mal fine.

The landing was smooth—Wash always landed smooth—and the cargo ramp hissed down, kicking up a small cloud of red dust.

The reception party was small: a nervous-looking man in dusty trousers who clutched a datapad like a life raft, and a woman who looked sturdy, wearing a faded Union-era jacket.

"Captain Reynolds of Serenity?" the man asked, his voice reedy.

"That's me," Mal said, stepping off the ramp. "You the man who's payin'?"

"I am Mayor Elias Thorne," the man stammered, adjusting his spectacles. "And this is my Deputy, Elara Voss."

The Deputy gave a curt nod. She had the look of someone who had shot more than one person trying to steal their chickens.

"The manifest is clear, Mayor," Mal said, handing him the datapad. "Three crates of protein bars, medical supplies, and—"

"And that pungent smell," Thorne interrupted, sniffing the air. "We were told it was the—er—'new, enhanced flavouring agent' for the bars."

"Sounds like someone's trying to pass off glorified hay-bricks as food," Jayne muttered from the top of the ramp, his hands resting on his gun.

"Well, if it makes you feel any better, Jayne thinks they're poisonous, so they must be at least mostly harmless," Mal deadpanned. He turned back to Thorne. "The delivery is complete. Now, about that payment—half was upfront, and the other half is due upon delivery."

Thorne swallowed hard. "Yes, Captain, of course. The credits are already transferred to your account. However, since you're here, I—I have another proposal."

"Oh, I like proposals," Mal drawled, a calculating look in his eyes. "Just so long as they don't involve the Alliance, Reavers, or anything that's likely to bite Kaylee."

"It's nothing illegal, Captain. Quite the opposite, in fact. We need security," Mayor Thorne pleaded, glancing nervously at Deputy Voss, who just looked unimpressed. "Haven's Reach is preparing for its annual Harvest Festival. It’s the one time a year when all the surrounding homesteaders and miners bring their produce and ore into the settlement for trade. It attracts everyone. Good people... and opportunists."

"So you want us to babysit a country fair?" Mal asked, his voice dripping with amusement. "Jayne, did you hear that? We get to guard the petting zoo."

Jayne actually perked up a little. "Petting zoo? With, like, space cows?"

"It's a week-long event," Thorne pressed on. "The festival starts in three days. We need experienced, armed personnel to patrol the settlement, oversee the trade, and make sure things don't get 'opportunistic,' as you put it. We can pay five thousand credits a week, plus board and rations for your crew."

Mal considered the offer. Five thousand credits was a decent sum for glorified crowd control, and Serenity could use the downtime and the fuel credits.

"Five thousand is a bit light for my particular brand of expert trouble-shooter, Mayor," Mal countered, his smile not reaching his eyes. "Tell you what: We'll do it for seven thousand credits, and you fill our fuel tanks to the brim. Deal?"

Thorne’s face paled. "Seven thousand—"

Deputy Voss stepped forward, cutting him off with a crisp voice. "Done. Captain Reynolds, we accept your terms." She looked Mal up and down, a look of professional assessment. "I’ll assign you the patrols and give your security crew the rundown."

Mal nodded, holding her gaze. "Pleasure doin' business with a woman who knows how to cut to the chase, Deputy."

As Mal turned to walk back to the ship, he heard Thorne hiss to Voss, "Elara! We can't afford—"

"We can't afford to have that ore shipment stolen, Elias," Voss replied flatly. "And for seven thousand credits, that man will shoot someone’s eye out if they so much as sneeze on his cargo."

Mal smiled to himself. She had him pegged.

Chapter 3: An Unlikely Team

Serenity's Engine Room

The engine room, Kaylee Frye’s sanctuary, was humming contentedly. The young mechanic was wiping oil from her cheek, her face alight with professional pride.

"She’s purring like a kitten with a full tummy, Captain," Kaylee chirped as Mal entered. "The new filters did the trick. Just gotta make sure we get good fuel here."

"Well, you may get your wish, sweet thing," Mal said, leaning against a cooling pipe. He filled the crew in on the security detail.

Kaylee's brow furrowed. "Security? For a festival? That sounds... boring, Captain. Do I have to wear a little hat?"

"No, you get to stay here and keep the old girl happy. Wash is runnin' the bridge, and I'm puttin' Jayne on patrol. Zoe and I will be overseeing the high-value areas."

Mal glanced around. "Where's the good Shepherd and Simon? They need to know we're staying put for a few days."

"Shepherd Book is in the galley, probably trying to convince River to eat something that isn't made of pure sugar," Kaylee giggled. "And Dr. Tam is sorting his medical supplies in the sickbay."

Speaking of the doctor, Simon Tam appeared in the doorway, looking impeccably tidy, as always, despite the pervasive dust of the fringe settlement.

"Captain," Simon greeted with a stiff nod. "I understand we'll be here for a week or so? The Mayor mentioned a festival. Perhaps I could offer my services as a physician to the homesteaders? It might be a good chance to secure some fresh supplies for my own kits."

"That's a charitable thought, Doctor," Mal said, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "Though if you start charging them for your services, you're gonna find you ain't got many friends left. Folks out here think 'medicine' is something you mix in with your whisky."

"I am simply offering professional assistance," Simon insisted, flushing slightly.

"Sure you are," Mal drawled. "Just remember, if anyone comes in with a bullet hole, you're not allowed to ask where they got it. It's bad manners."

Later that evening, in the main cabin, Jayne was cleaning Vera, his favourite gun, meticulously laid out on the table. Zoe Washburne, Mal's first officer, was studying a large, hand-drawn map of Haven's Reach.

"The deputy wants us to focus patrols around the main Trade Dome and the ore storage silos," Zoe summarized. "Seems to be the primary target."

"I told you they should've hired a proper security team," Jayne grumbled, reassembling a component. "I ain't gonna patrol a corn-dog stand. This is a waste of my talents."

Mal poured himself a cup of lukewarm, bitter coffee. "It's seven thousand credits, Jayne. That's a week's worth of food and fuel. You got a problem with getting paid to walk in a circle?"

"Well, no, but—"

"Besides," Mal cut in, taking a slow sip. "We are the best security team they could've asked for. Because when we stand guard, we ain't just keeping out the thieves. We're keeping out the Alliance, we're keeping out the taxmen, and we're keepin' out anyone who asks too many questions."

He set down his cup, the metal clinking softly. "We're not guarding their ore. We're guarding our peace and quiet, and gettin' paid handsomely for it."

He looked at the two of them, his voice lowering to a conspiratorial tone. "Now, Jayne, you’re on the high road patrol. Zoe, you take the perimeter. And remember: if you see trouble, you deal with it quickly. The Mayor only hired us for a week. We don't want to overstay our welcome or, worse, make this job more complicated than it needs to be."

Jayne grinned, the prospect of sanctioned violence brightening his mood. "Got it, Cap'n. Quick and quiet."

"That's the spirit, son," Mal nodded. "Now, let's go make a festival safe for honest thieves and good folks alike."