As the sun finally set behind the foothills, Major Jacob Fu allowed himself a sigh of relief. The scrub he lay concealed in was the only suitable cover in the area, but had left him dazzled by the low late evening sun. That was what happened when you let a suit in an in a cosy Core world plan a mission, little details might mean little to them, but to Fu it meant the difference between meeting his rendezvous after the mission or meeting his maker. Fu had reached his age and rank by not leaving things to chance – he not so much followed the book as had written it. Throughout the war he had been one of the Alliance’s foremost sharpshooters, not a man who got the headlines, but one who got the job done.

He glanced down at his terminal, it was still passive, the message ‘Awaiting Target Confirmation’ above a schematic of the area. Who they thought could intercept and decrypt an Alliance secure channel on this God forsaken rock Fu didn’t ask, it had taken him months to stop them sending him a signal via a tight beam signal that may have well put an illuminated sign above his position. Times were changing, in the war things were simple: you tracked and killed browncoats, the more stripes the better, how you did it was your problem. Fu had spent weeks behind enemy lines, living off the land, taking his chances. Now he was a relic of the past, an old man who didn’t realise times had changed, too highly decorated to be dismissed, too stubborn to take a job behind a desk or in the academy. He had been an artist, now he was just an over-ranked grunt told who to kill by a man halfway across the system who would never look the target in the eyes.

Fu shook his head in disgust at himself, letting his mind wander like some wet behind the ears rookie. It defeated the purpose of being in position hours early if you dozed off and let someone sneak up on you. He stretched his muscles under the blanket hiding his thermal signature, shaking the tension from his muscles. Fu was lithe rather than muscular, but many a young upstart had found that the older man could hold his own in a bar fight, even if they had somehow outwitted his twenty years of experience. His glaze flicked back down to his terminal, and he saw that a tracking signal had come within range. It was a typical site for a handover, a watering hole on a back route route across this dusty continent. Far away from any town, but at least one party would have a legitimate reason to be there. He placed a private bet with himself on a pick up from a cattle driver.

As darkness fell, Fu checked his night vision equipment and tested the various disposable microphones had placed around the area. Checking his terminal he guessed he had twenty minutes or so before the first target arrived – with the speed and direction he guessed they’d be the drivers. Still no sign of any other party, but there was still time until the projected strike time.

Within minutes the sound of hooves began to rumble through the valley, and in the low north sky the stars began to disappear behind a dust cloud. Fu felt the adrenaline begin to flow and his mouth become dry. He knew from experience that this would pass, as the moment came closer he would settle, and at the strike he would be calm. A hyperactive sniper was no use to anyone.

As the cattle began to drink, and the dust settled, Fu began to look round the drivers. There was only a single covered wagon and a couple of mounted outriders for a few dozen head of cattle. Looked like a family outfit, and on hard times at that: wife and two young ones in the wagon, father and another managing the herd – possibly an elder son, but a combination of the night vision and his covering of dust made him difficult to age. Fu swallowed, he wasn’t a man who took pleasure in shooting a man in front of his family. As he watched the family set up camp, Fu gave a silent prayer for a second target to appear.

About an hour later, and some half hour before the predicted strike time, a quiet beep in his headset alerted him to his terminal. A second target, moving faster than the drivers had, but still too slow for a ship. Must have landed out of range and be coming in by mule. Fu dried his hands and flipped up the cover on his rifle sight. Soon he saw the vehicle come round the edge of the water hole, heading for the drivers camp: two occupants, empty trailer. Fu allowed himself a self-congratulatory smile.

They parked at the edge of the camp, and made their way cautiously towards the fire. From his vantage point Fu could only see the father, tending the pot. He turned up his microphones.

“Good evening to you, sir. Would you be Mr. McKenzie? My name is Malcolm Reynolds, this here is Zoë.” He gestured towards his associate. “ I understand we have a mutual acquaintance who may have suggested a business opportunity.” The man looked up, but said nothing. “Zoe. We got the right night?” asked Reynolds, “Sir.” “Then we seem to be experiencing some sort of communication problem.” He swept his greatcoat back, exposing the two guns at his waist. Fu watched on with a detached amusement, and saw the father glance towards the rifle propped on the steps to the wagon. “Now I wouldn’t be doing that. We came him on an honest trade. Ain’t looking for any trouble.” Reynolds warned. At that moment the other rider appeared from the far side of the wagon, rifled aimed square at Reynolds. Should have secured the camp first, considered Fu. “Captain Reynolds?” “Boy, you’d better be mighty careful where you’re pointing that stick.” a pause, “ I’m Reynolds, and who might you be?” “Sorry I’m late sir.” he lowered his rifle, “My name's John McKenzie. This here is my father.” “You’re Mr. McKenzie…. No matter. You got the goods?” “Yes sir, you’d best come round the back here. Father says he don’t approve. Says he don’t want anything to do with it.” “I’m sure this here platinum will relax his attitude.” replied Reynolds, first glaring at the older man, then following his son round to the rear of the wagon.

Fu watched as a container was released from the underside of the wagon, and dragged into the open. That ruled out drugs, too big for that. Reynolds knelt down and released the catches. “Son, you might want to step away. Less you know ‘bout this, the better for you and yours.” The kid did what he was told, walking back round the wagon. Reynolds lifted off the container lid, and pulled out an object wrapped in cloth. It took Fu a second to recognise, but as Reynolds unwrapped it and lifted it to his shoulder he recognised the standard Alliance shoulder canon. Built in targeting computer, these things were taking out dozens of Alliance birds round the ragged edges of the system. The sort of thing that gave pilots sleepless nights, any country boy could be trained to use it in an hour, and there must be half a dozen in that crate. But these weren’t going to be a problem, take out the buyer; the kid’ll probably panic and throw the lot in the water hole. “Looks good sir.” Remarked Reynolds colleague. “That it does.” He put it back in the crate, and replaced the lid. He called McKenzie back. Fu glanced down at the terminal – still no target confirmation – what were they waiting for. “Everything’s in order.” He tossed the boy a bag of platinum, “We’ll be on our way. You know who to contact if you want to deliver again.” “There’ll be no again.” The boy’s father appeared around the wagon, rifle in hand. You’ll take your goods,” he took the bag from his son, and tossed it at Reynold’s feet, “you’ll take your money. You’ll get the hell outta my camp, and take your war that most us decent folk are trying to forget about with you.” “Father…” began the boy, “Father nothing. When you get yourself a family of your own you can put ‘em at risk. But you ain’t bringing this down on mine.” He gestured with his rifle again. Reynolds and colleague took an end of the container each, and began to walk past the wagon, “And don’t forget your money.” “Ain’t ours Mr. McKenzie. Whatever you may think ‘bout me, I’m an honourable man and I pay my debts. What you choose to do with it ain’t no business of mine. You want rid, then throw it in the hole – but that’s your choice.” He continued to walk.

Fu’s terminal beeped gently. “Finally.” He exclaimed under his breath, and looked down as the target details began to appear, “Tsai boo shr” The face of Mr. McKenzie senior starred back at him.

He returned to his gun sight, and watched the cargo being loaded onto the trailer. He knew he had seconds before they would be out of his grasp. He glanced at his terminal: no change. Up and he slid his finger onto the trigger, slowed his breathing and aimed at the back of Reynold’s chest, riding the mules bumpy motion. A moment of calm, and he relaxed, easing his finger from the trigger and watched Reynolds and cargo disappeared out of sight.

Fu silently shifted back round to watch the camp. Father and son were arguing, both trying to do the best for the family. He lay and watched, wondering what to do. He hadn’t disobeyed orders to shot those who had deserved it, but he sure wasn’t going to shot either the foolish son, nor his father who looked ready to put him over his knee and thrash him.

This wasn’t a war anymore, and Major Jacob Fu had no place in whatever had replaced it. It was time to stop doing things by the book, time to move on. He shut down his terminal, packed up his rifle and silently collected together the thermal sheet. As he began to move out, the night air filled with the scent of the broken bushes where he had lain.

The smell always reminded him of that evening, of that decision, and the path it had sent him along. Indeed, of the new person he had become. Book closed his Bible and slipped the dried sprig back within the cover and let the smell of rosemary fill his head, “ God truly works in mysterious ways.”