Chapter Three

Several days after their stop at Dawes’ cafe, Mal stepped onto the bridge. “How’re we doin’, Wash?” he asked.

“We have about 52 hours till Bedford. The fuel is holding,” the pilot reported. “We should get there with a bit to spare. Just a bit though. We have to hope that their refueling station actually has some fuel. And that we do the job without any incident and that we actually get paid for it.”

“Hao le ma,” Mal replied, silencing the litany of problems. The captain knew it was a dark day indeed when Hoban Washburne was worrying himself over every possible hitch. He didn’t know if the change in the pilot was due more to the grave circumstances in the ‘verse or Wash’s fears about taking care of a child. He didn’t much care right now either.

Serenity’s instrument panel beeped, and a communication from a nearby moon was transmitted to the bridge.

“Is that the Serenity? Captain Reynolds, you here?” asked the voice on the other end.

Mal and Wash exchanged irritated groans. The person contacting them was a fellow named Richard Loster. The crew had dealt with him twice before, and both times felt as if they desperately needed a shower afterwards. Even Jayne. Reynolds and crew often found themselves dealing with unsavory characters, but Loster made even Badger look like a knight.

“Well hey there, Loster,” Mal replied.

“So it is you! You stoppin’ down on my moon?” Loster’s voice was casual and breezy, as if the man had not a care in the ‘verse and was immune to its struggles.

“No. We got a job elsewhere – just passin’ through.” And then, against his better judgment but because he was one paycheck away from desperate, “You got any work for us when we’re done?”

“I don’t have a job for you. But I would like to propose a trade.”

“A trade?” Mal asked, a feeling of trepidation welling up.

“A trade. I got plenty of provisions. How’d you like a whole crate of genuine, A-grade food stuffs? Fully intact and sealed.”

A crate could feel the entire crew more than adequately for