A ship soared on through the night of space, the broad blue expanse of a planet beneath it. It was neither a large ship nor a small one, a transport of a model that had recently ceased production, but kept in fine condition, except for the large number of dings and scrapes on the hull, and the faint vestiges of red paint streaking the sides. An observer might at first glance think it one of the many small freighters that plyed the spaceways, until he realized that it was approaching Persephone from the far side, with almost a whole planet between it and the spaceport. If the observer also saw the Alliance dreadnought Magellan in high orbit above the spaceport, he would become aware that the ship he was viewing was a smuggler, willing to go the long way to avoid the Alliance. Even—especially--after the Miranda Tapes had aired, the Alliance was a force to be reckoned with.

On the bridge of the ship, a lone figure stood, gazing up at the stars. The figure was female, of middle height, with long wavy black hair, a few strands of which she twirled around one finger. Her face was pale, not only with the reflected planetlight, with dark eyes and full lips held in a distracted grimace. She wore, incongruously, a long, dark red dress, cut just below her neck, embroidered with intricate patterns running down the front. The figure spoke as the door to the bridge opened. “Captain,” she said, not turning around.

“River,” Mal said as he stepped through the door. “How are we doing?”

“Well,” she said distractedly. “There doesn't seem to be anything wrong on the surface. We should land on schedule, even with the detour through the upper atmosphere.”

“Good, good,” Mal replied, stepping around the pilot's chair to stand beside her.

As he did, River added “I'm doing well myself, too. Looking at the stars helps...They're peaceful, they don't change. And...sometimes I think Shepherd Book is looking back at me.” She paused. “I know you think that's just go taso de superstition, but it does help.”

“I often