INT. PALADIN – BRIG

Captain Gibson stands before Mal’s cell, his face impassive. The troops flank him, weapons ready.

GIBSON: So, Mr. Reynolds, how are you?

MAL: Not bad, all things considered. I have a question of my own begs answerin'.

GIBSON: By all means.

MAL (genuine curiosity): How’d ya find me out?

GIBSON: Since your near future is quite certain, I feel I can answer that. Your ident scan revealed two identities. One of your wondrous contacs had apparently been damaged. From heat exposure, it would appear.

Mal’s head drops and his eyes close with chagrin.

MAL (mumbling): Gorram incinerator.

GIBSON: Your counterfeit identity was nearly perfect. My best techs were fairly impressed with its depth. May I ask where you acquired such a technological work of art?

MAL: You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.

GIBSON: Oh, I tend to keep a fairly open mind. I can, and will, find out, by your word or otherwise. You’ve been a formidable adversary, I must say. Whether leading troops or inciting insurrection via broadwave propaganda, you have a real talent for causing intracranial hemmorhage...

MAL: That don't fare bad as a compliment, though propaganda usually entails the spread o' misinformation. We did nothin' of the sort.

GIBSON: In that you are correct. But how often do the masses really need to know the truth? Millions enjoy the protection we provide for them, oblivious to the real threats lurking on their doorstep. Small measures of truth, son. Just enough to give the fabrications merit.

MAL: Truth gets hot and bright enough, eventually it’ll burn through that shroud ya'll have so carefully conjured.

GIBSON: Perhaps. Until then, whatever information stored in that troublesome mind of yours will be extracted for our use. I imagine we’ll find several names of questionable reputation.

Mal hangs his head.

Gibson accepts a transparent, vacuum sealed package from one of the troops. He shows it to Mal. It’s the device Mal had been contracted to deliver, along with