The docks on Three Hills were a patch of busy in a bustling town – the only one –set in the middle of a large patchwork of green that looked like a spot of mold on the large, otherwise dusty moon. The one largish town was divided into unequal thirds: one small, clean and shiny part for the wealthy; one medium cluttered and gritty part for the regular and not-so-well-off; and the docks and adjacent marketplace. Most people though lived out of it, scattered through the green. It was one of the less populated moons, intended to be given over almost completely to agriculture in the long run.

The docks, where currently the captain of Serenity was waiting on his buyers, seemed a fairly decent size. They looked a bit like Persphone’s, but without the great variety of folks looking for passage off-world. People who came to Three Hills, stuck on Three Hills by all accounts. He had a feeling that mostly it was not by choice when it came to the farmers.

It looked to Malcolm Reynolds like the Alliance’s tanglely octopus arms – now just from where did that image come into mind?—were spreading. Three Hills farmland was parceled out to sharecroppers, who broke ground, tilled, planted, broke their backs bringing in the much-in-demand harvest, while all of the profits went to the landowners. Those-that-had looked to the surety of climbing profits, hence the parceling out of more and more acreage every year to the poor and hopeful, hence the healthy market for quality manure. Equitable or not, it hopefully added up to a profit for him and his. If all went according to plan. For once.

“How the wealthy leave you waiting,” Zoe commented, coming up beside him.

“Someone doesn’t come soon to get the gorramn stuff out of my cargo bay, I’m about ready to take off and dump it out the airlock.”

“Might agree with that plan if I thought it was possible.”

He tossed Zoe an eloquent “huh?” then looked over to where she was nodding .

“But the starboard thruster seemed fine on the landing,” Wash said.