Mal’s skin was crawling being so close to so many Alliance supporters, people who’d never fought in the war but claimed victory over those that had. The money behind it all. The only real winners.

“Why tents?” Hank asked. “If they’re that rich, why tents?”

“They’re playing,” Zoe said quietly. “Pretending they’re at the Battle, about to wipe out the Independents.”

“And they had tents there?”

“They’re not really tents. It’s a game.” She shook her head. “Not a one of ‘em ever got close to a battlefield except like this.”

“They’re Alliance,” Mal said. “What do you expect?” He looked at his crew. “Okay. You know what you have to do.”

“Yes sir,” Zoe said, tapping Hank on the arm and heading into the rapidly descending night. Jayne had already gone.

“Where are they going?” Dillon asked, watching them vanish.

“Got work to do,” Mal answered shortly. “So where’s Wing?”

“This way.”

He led them through the tents and temporary buildings, keeping out of the light, until they came to a ship standing a ways off from the rest, the main tent more grand, more solid and imposing than the others.

“There are guards,” Harrow whispered, and indeed they could see two men by the front entrance, and a slight movement suggested there were others to the rear.

“Then we take care of them.”

Dillon nodded and went to the right, while Harrow sighed and went left. Mal stepped out from the gloom.

“Hey, there,” he said, smiling sloppily. “Kinda think I got myself lost round here. Any idea where I can find the Bilbao?”

“The what?” one of the guards asked, his rifle trained on the man walking unsteadily towards him.

“The Bilbao. My ship. Only I think I got turned somewhere.” He tried to tap his nose and missed. “Too much good stuff floating around, if you know what I mean.”

The guard exchanged amused looks with his companion before relaxing a little. “Never heard of a ship by that name, friend. What type is it?”

“Type?” Mal looked thoughtful, as if he was trying to remember.