kixxafics - farscape fan fic

Moveable Feast (Part One)

Tue, 26 Oct 2004 05:16:40 GMT

Written for whitelight's fic challenge for the Farscape Ficathon. Whitelight sent me back to school to do my homework. *damn her* *g* John teaches Sikozu a little bit about physics...and other things. Beautifully beta'd by Kernezelda. Subsequently tinkered with by my good self.

Many thanks to John G Cramer for his Alternate View column.

Moveable Feast (Part One)

The pod is incredibly small for interstellar travel. Its battered shell carries carbon trails from laser fire – the black powder flaring like whip marks on the metal skin. John trails a finger through the signs of a less than ideal getaway, noting the thinning where the hull overheated in a froth of metallic bubbles, the pressure ridges between the buckled plates. Damn thing could have...hell, should have imploded. Two tiny lives, snuffed out in the vastness of space. That Rygel and Chiana had survived at all... He sniffs with grudging admiration. Rygel had done the near impossible to get them back to the Leviathan burial ground. Well, either that, or maybe the Hynerian devil does look after his own.

The abraded bronze hull is pitted from cycles of space junk collision. If you can judge the age of a horse by the ridges on its teeth, you can judge the age of a ship by the dents in its hull. And this thing’s pitted like a cheese grater, should be the prime exhibit in a space museum or a bygone kitchen display.

John kicks at the sway-backed craft half-heartedly. Next to this pock-marked baby, his white death pod is a gleaming new Mercedes, redolent with the dusky scent of leather and polish. Cars. Ah, cars.… He smiles in reminiscence. Fast, sleek, gleaming, red. Fluffy dice hanging from rear view mirrors, a nodding dog by the back window. But most of all, the sharp tang of rubber as she burns up the road. Man, what he wouldn’t give to see the latest models...

A smiling Aeryn, draped in a purple sash (and nothing else), reclines seductively over the softly swelling curve of the Corvette of his dreams. He swallows at the long, lean lines of her...and the car. 'Sorry, babe', he mumbles. Aeryn watches him, lips pouting into a smile (must be one of her good days), and she beckons him closer with the crook of a finger and the whitest of smiles...No! He raises a hand to waft the illusion away. He’s not going there anymore.

Instead, he punches angrily at a lever, and the hatch ratchets open with a hiss of steam while a set of stairs descend to the landing bay floor. Neat! If he could only rig his module to do that. He pats the shabby craft fondly and vaults up the steps, immediately thumping his head against the low door frame.

"Frell it! Damn thing’s built for midgets..." The pain effectively keeping Aeryn at bay, he curses, then ducks inside, vigorously rubbing at his forehead while glancing around. The interior is littered with rubbish – magazines, papers, dried-up marker pens, disposable cups with bitten rims, casino tokens along with a bent tadek rod, and, in a neat pile by the pilot’s chair, small animal bones sucked to a pristine whiteness by the Hynerian in question.

Hunched over, he prods some of the rubbish with the tip of his boot. Damn things have got to be hidden somewhere. If he’s any judge of Hynerian horseflesh, the Sultana of Survival has a stash of toothsome treats hidden on this relic of the age of the dinosaur. A hoard of fortifying nibbles for the long haul of an even longer life. Now, where would they be?

Tentatively, John sniffs at the stuffy air – bad move. The small cabin has a festering kind of smell, like grungy socks left for too long in the washing basket. Chiana wouldn’t be caught dead in socks, but the sporty Hynerian...? He grins at the thought of Rygel in woollen leg-warmers while reaching into his pocket for his trusty screwdriver. Pausing to take stock, he rests it in his palm, hoping somehow that it may divine the presence of marjoules. That it may swoop down, or twist in his hand, so he can follow the sign and pry apart the sheeting to access the waiting stash.

"Oh, I know you’re here..." John threatens, waggling the screwdriver at the silent panels. He sighs and drops to his knees. Looks like he’s going to have to think like a Hynerian. Not yet though. He’s still gotta clean this dump. If he thought like a Hynerian, he’d probably end up rolling naked in the rubbish, gurgling in glee.

John plucks a discarded bag from the rubbish pile and uncrumples it. There’s an illustration...a weird alien holding aloft a shining new gizmo of some kind, the gizmo surrounded by star bursts that could take an eye out. Behind him, another alien wipes his oily tentacles on a cloth, beaming a fang-toothed smile. "Yeah, Joe’s Garage," John intones, mistranslating the scratchy text.

Bag open, he gingerly transfers some of the dubious looking litter into it. After a while, he sways back and considers. This is gonna take all solar day...why not just kick it all out of the hatch? He can clean it up later. Why didn’t I think of this before? Because you were thinking like a Hynerian, stoopid...

He bumps the majority of the mess out the hatch with a booted foot, the cups bouncing down the steps, the balled-up paper skittering in all directions, the casino tokens ringing and clattering on the landing bay floor.

"What is all this noise?" Sikozu asks, thrusting her head around the landing bay door, as Rygel’s stash of sucked-clean bones skip and cartwheel to the ground. She shakes out her ringlets and gives him the patented Sikozu stare. "Some people are trying to think."

John peers out of the hatch and regards her for a microt or two. "Newsflash, Sputnik, thinking’s not all it’s cracked up to be."

"Is that the response of an idiot?"

"Well..."

"Because only an idiot would say such a thing."

"Lady, I can’t argue with that logic." John shuffles back into the now cleaner cabin, and starts tapping the dulled panels with his screwdriver, checking to see if they’re hollow. "Nada, nada...nada."

"What are you doing?" Sikozu’s pale face gleams like a ghost’s at the hatch entrance.

"You’re asking a lot of questions. I’m the idiot...remember?"

"I can hardly forget, and your actions only serve to confirm–"

"Eat. Food. Hungry." He tips forward the pilot’s chair and prods underneath it gingerly. "Food...fooood."

Sikozu’s nose wrinkles in contempt. "I repeat, what are you doing?"

"I’m role playing. I’m a Hynerian on the run. I’ve only got a few microts..." John assumes a hunted look, crouching down and looking frenziedly around the interior. Suddenly he starts to pant, mouth agape, three fingers of each hand pawing at the air. He smiles inwardly when Sikozu steps back in alarm. "They’re gonna be here any microt.... What to do? What to do?"

"You’re insane!" Sikozu gasps, eyes wary while moving away. "Of course, I always suspected it. The indications are plain to see. The inanity...the babbling...."

John glances around him wildly. "What to do...what to do...?" he whispers urgently, three-fingered hands now cradling his face, dolorous eyes fixed to the ceiling.

Sikozu sniffs in disdain and withdraws in a flash of bouncing ringlets.

"Ah, hah!" Shuffling forward, John eases past the pilot’s chair and taps the panel beneath the flight console. The metal reverberates with a dull thud, and for all Rygel’s consummate professionalism, one screw is loose, jiggling in its hole. "Oh sweetness, come to papa...you know you want to."

It takes only a moment for the panel to shudder under the screwdriver and topple to the crusted floor. Stuffed into the tiny space is a vacuum pack of marjoule balls, herbs and spices plainly discernible under the air tight plastic wrapping. A paper gold medal shimmers as he turns the pack this way and that in the light. Gold medal. As chosen by the Hynerian himself. This must be the good stuff. I mean, the really good stuff.

"See!?" Hugging the pack to his breast with a proprietary air, he turns triumphantly to the hatchway, but Sikozu isn’t there anymore.

"Damn! Why does everyone have to go and rain on my parade?"

*

"No, you frellnik! No!" Rygel slams his cards on the table with a ripple of disgust. "Three drannits in a hole beats your budong! The rules clearly state–"

"But a budong’s bigger!" Chiana pouts.

"And they like electromagnetic candy," Rygel retorts sourly. "But that still doesn’t alter the fact–"

"Hey, Ryge..." John peeks around the door, "…guess what I found."

"A modicum of intelligence? A smattering of common sense? A brain-cell or two?" Rygel barks witheringly, gathering up the cards in his small hands.

"Nah! Something tastier than that."

Rygel blanches, the little toad’s face paling in the light, the sweep of cards forgotten in those little stubby fingers. Direct hit!

"Yeah...got you worried now, haven’t I?"

"Crichton, if you’ve found some sustenance on board this ship of the lost and dying, then bring it in so we can all share." Rygel’s voice has a cracked, throaty quality.

"Food, Crichton? Yah got food?" Chiana bounds out of her chair so quickly that she sends it flying. "Real food?"

"The real deal. Gold medal ‘n’ all." Crichton unveils the package with a flourish. "Home-baked by Mama Rygel in the Royal Kitchens."

"Marjoules?" Chiana runs her fingers over the vacuum-packed balls. "So many..."

"Good job, Crichton," Rygel says stiffly, forcing a smile on his strained features, attention focused on the cards in his hand.

"Yep! Twenty-four marjoules hidden in a transport pod beats your three drannits in a hole." John chuckles at his joke.

"Twenty-four, you say?" Rygel’s smile grows wider and he shuffles the cards with a jaunty air. "Well...well. Twenty-four..."

"Hang on..." John says warily, as he approaches the table.

"What is it, Crichton?" Rygel pauses in his shuffling, a look of innocence entering his eyes.

"You’re not upset enough. These..." John throws the marjoules down, scattering Rygel’s tokens to the floor, "these are a blind. A set-up. That screw..."

"Loose, was it?" Rygel enquires solicitously. "How fortunate..."

"You mean, there’re more?" Chiana asks, staring from Rygel to the marjoules to Crichton and back to Rygel. "And I never knew? I flew all that way, starving in that frellniked pod, and I never knew?"

"Maybe there are more, or...maybe not," Rygel replies enigmatically, gazing down fondly at the rich gravy trapped beneath the wrapping, the snippets of colourful herbs. "In all that excitement, I really can’t remember..."

"I’ll find them! I’m a master snurcher!" Chiana turns to John in appeal while flexing her fingers. "In our pod, right? The flying stink-mobile?"

"Uh huh." John nods.

"Can I have your screwdriver?" She snakes out a gloved hand, fingers still flexing.

"Uh-huh-‘n’-bring-it-back," John intones mechanically. "Oh, and Chi?"

"Yah?" Chiana turns in excitement, dark eyes gleaming at the challenge ahead.

"Think Hynerian."

"I’ll, er, keep it in mind." Chiana says disparagingly, tossing a glare at the grinning Rygel.

"I had a feeling it was too easy," John says, lifting Chiana’s chair and dragging it to the table.

"Crichton, you have not even begun to scratch the surface of my guile."

"And your duplicity?"

"Your toes are on the edge of that ocean."

"And what a cold ocean that is, Ryge, good buddy."

"Cold? Maybe.... But handy in times of crisis."

"What is handy?" Sikozu asks, striding purposefully into the room.

"What is it with you and questions? Didn’t they teach you the art of conversation at Kalish finishing school?" John twirls a card on the table-top and laughs as Rygel plucks it from his listless fingers and tucks it back in the deck.

"What is handy?" Sikozu persists.

"Duplicity. Oceans of it," Rygel says softly, eyes growing misty as his gaze falls upon the vacuum packed balls. He reaches out and lifts the package proudly. "This is the fruit of duplicity! A cornucopia of rare delights swimming in delicious gravy."

"Duplicitous delights in a gravy of guile," John adds, trying hard to suppress a snigger.

"Marjoules?" Sikozu sneers, watching the Hynerian fondly stroke the thick plastic. "I do not waste my energy on food. It slows brain synapses, dulls higher functions. The whole process is barbaric!"

"Yeah, that makes sense," John snorts, reaching for the small knife he carries in his utility belt. The packet glints in the light. "‘Whaddy’a reckon, Spanky? ‘Bout time to grease the squeaky wheels?"

"Crichton, these are the best quality marjoules," Rygel starts, "they will not just grease this squeaky wheel of yours – which I take to be your stomach – instead they will soothe and lubricate it, with best quality hyra oil."

"So sorry!" John mutters contritely, carving into the bag and sniffing at the rich odours. "Didn’t know they came with a thousand mile service."

"Marjoules are calorifically rich and have been known to revive Amnrats, even after desiccation–"

"Sikozu, I find that very interesting, and remind me to pick you for a Trivial Pursuit partner, if an’ when that terrible time ever comes." John’s voice is muffled from the marjoule and he wipes his lips with the back of a hand. Sighing through his full mouth, he turns to Rygel. "Sparky, how can we shut down this walking/talking encyclopedia? No offense, lady, but your social skills–"

"Are non-existent!" Rygel butts in, two balls disappearing into his gaping mouth, only to be smothered by a tearing belch.

"Gun it, Ryge!"

"Crichton, I have no idea what that means, but I think I like it." Rygel grins, and reaches for another marjoule.

"Barbaric!" Sikozu grumbles, taking a prim seat on a packing crate. "The loss of higher brain functioning can lead to an increase–"

"Of blissful happiness!" Rygel reminisces.

"And lazy afternoon snoozes," John adds, glaring across at Rygel as yet another marjoule is tossed into the Hynerian’s gaping maw. "Eight each, Sparky. Three eights is twenty-four."

"The human has a rudimentary grasp of mathematics," Sikozu remarks blandly, twirling her hair around her finger.

"Oh, I have a rudimentary grasp of most things," John replies slowly, taking his time with his marjoule selection. "S’what I’m good at. Grasping rudimentaries. Used to get in trouble for it."

Rygel snickers like a dirty old man, and slaps an appreciative hand on the table. "Rudimentaries…"

"What is the difference between speed and velocity?" Sikozu asks, her voice patient, non-threatening, as if John were a child.

John scratches his head and gazes at her blankly. "Jeez, lady! You’re starting me on the hard ones! Can’t you take pity on a poor ol’ backwards Earth’ner?"

"Speed and velocity are the same thing," Rygel intones blandly, fingering another marjoule while mentally counting his remaining treats. "You leave..." his fingers toss the treat into his mouth, "and you arrive! What more is there to know?" He chews with satisfaction, then runs his tongue across grinning lips.

"‘N’ some things get sucked in by black holes, never to be seen again." John smirks at the Dominar, then winces as yet another Hynerian belch resounds through the small bay.

"Concentrate on practicalities," Rygel admonishes. He waggles a stubby finger at Sikozu. "Learn how to navigate through the real world, and then remember me when you reach your hundredth cycle."

"Just name your first-born after him. 'Rygel', the Sage Hynerian of Good Advice."

Sikozu frowns and swings around to John, her tone ringing with derision. "If my question is too hard..."

"– then ask him a question about fire-sticks!" Rygel snorts, one hand resting fondly on his belly. "If there’s one thing I can say about Crichton, it’s that he can start a good fire. I remember back on Schlyxll Prime…all he had was two sticks and handful of Jool’s hair…"

"Speed and velocity, right?" John sighs. He slumps back in his chair and repeats the formula by rote. "Speed is the rate at which distance is travelled. Back on Earth we classify speed as a scalar quantity, based on distance and time. Velocity is the rate at which displacement is travelled. Velocity is what we call a vector quantity, based on displacement and time. Only displacement has a direction...yada, yada, yada. This boring the socks offa you, yet?"

"I have never worn socks."

"You too, huh?" John asks, a spark of interest enlivening his voice. "Am I the only one round here who wears socks?"

"You and every Sebacean," Rygel mutters, toying with his eighth marjoule. "It seems the more peaceful races have no use for socks."

John strokes his chin, deep in thought. "Y’know, you could have something there, Ryge. It’s all in the socks. Socks and subjugation! I see it now..."

"I suppose one must wear something under those heavy boots. I wonder if Scorpius wears socks," Rygel muses, savouring the ball in his mouth. "What other way would he keep his feet warm?"

"Maybe Lieutenant Braca could tell us." John winks and grins.

Rygel laughs so hard, he chokes on his marjoule. After a prolonged coughing bout, he wipes his eyes, and looks distractedly around the bay. "Where’s she gone, Crichton?" he wheezes. "Where did the red-haired bitch get to?"

"She and her ringlets flounced out while you were regurgitating your marjoule. Seems like the higher brain functions couldn’t stand the strain. Synapses are delicate things."

Rygel settles back in his chair and belches with a ruminative air. "I had a wife who was delicate. Didn’t like the smell of–"

"Don’t go there, Ryge. Some things should remain behind firmly closed doors." John stands and gathers the marjoule bag together. "Besides, I don’t think my synapses could stand the strain."

"Are you leaving?" Rygel whines, fingers drumming the table in distress. "You can leave the bag here, Crichton. I assure you, they’ll be perfectly safe with me."

"With you, or in you?" John asks, tying a firm knot in the plastic. "One word can make a whole lot of difference. I learnt to read Hynerian fine-print back when I was still grasping at rudimentaries. Those were the days…"

"You know me too well, Crichton. You’re a worthy adversary."

"As are you, my friend. As are you."

"What’s with the male bonding?" Chiana’s face is streaked with oil, her clothes covered in dust. She sighs in frustration as John holds out his hand, and reluctantly, she relinquishes his screwdriver.

"These are for you," John announces, handing her the bag while shooting a warning glance at an innocent looking Rygel. "Guard them with your life."

"Oh, I will, Crichton. I will..." she takes the bag and holds it up to the light. "An’ you even left me some big ones...nice of ya..."

"How did the search go? Any luck?"

"Yes...any luck?" Rygel adds, stifling a yawn.

"Nah, he’s stashed them tighter than a Jubba barnacle on a Benga rock."

"So sayeth the master snurcher," Rygel grins. "These master snurcher weanlings who know nothing of the real world. These misguided dabblers who can only dream to possess the crown of the ‘master snurcher’. Rank amateurs who would presume to–"

"Anyway, you should see what I did with your screwdriver, Crichton." Chiana bounces on the balls of her feet and pointedly ignores the preening Dominar.

"As long as you didn’t bend it..." John inspects the tool in his hand, lips quirking into a grin. "It’s the only one I’ve got."

Chiana jumps nimbly upon Sikozu’s recently vacated crate and claps her hands together, the bag audibly sloshing its gravy. "That stink pod’s seen it’s last death trip. You can’t fly a ship when she’s in pieces, and scattered around the landing bay."

"You didn’t have time!" Rygel protests, hovering closer in his sled. "Such a feat is a physical impossibility!"

"Hey, kreznot! She practically fell to bits under my hand, almost shuffled off to the burial grounds on her own." Chiana turns confidingly to John. "Yah gotta know just where to tickle ‘em."

Rygel sulks into his soft padded cushions. "I wanted that death-trap for trade! And you tickle it to death and wind up eating my marjoules. Benefiting from my foresight, my quick thinking in a dire situation." He turns to John in despair. "Is there any justice?"

"I’ll have to get back to you on that."

Chiana counts the marjoule balls nestled coyly in the bag. "Eight! How about...I make ‘em last? How’s that for a plan? Eat them oh...so...slowly..." she licks her lips seductively and jiggles the plump package, smiling as Rygel’s face morphs into naked lust.

"Keep that up, Pip, and he’ll lead us straight to the booty. It’s the withdrawal symptoms, he won’t be able to resist." John regards the dazed Rygel, large eyes still fixed to the dangling bag. "Can you hear ‘em, Ryge? Hear ‘em calling to you? They’re calling ‘Save me! Save me!’"

"Hey, Crichton. Go easy on him. He may have a heart-attack." She turns to the transfixed Hynerian. "Hey, Ryge? D’ya remember how to breathe?"

Rygel draws in a shuddering breath and his focus slowly returns to normal. "Under-estimate me, at your cost. I shall do no such thing... I’ll...I’ll die first..." Rygel’s voice trails into a whimper as Chiana rips into the bag, extracting a juicy ball.

She raises it over her mouth, catching the gravy drops upon her tongue. Suddenly, she stuffs the whole thing into her mouth. "Frell," she complains, trying to chew and talk at the same time. "These are too frelling good."

"Gold label!" John asserts, the meal finally reaching his stomach, which no longer growls in hunger. He idly draws an equation in the dust of the packing crate, no longer aware of Chiana or Rygel, but seeing instead the spiraling portal of a wormhole, wavering entrance beckoning and writhing with the dangerous attraction of a beautiful thing insane.

The touch of Chiana’s hand grounds him, and he blinks sheepishly.

"Hey, old man," she runs her fingers lightly along his chest, tracing the outline of his ribs. "Don’t overdo it, huh? The wormholes’ll always be out there. But you’re flesh ‘n’ bone. ‘N’ more bone than flesh."

"When I’m alone, I do tend to get a little obsessive," John concedes, thinking of the months he spent filling the bay with pleasantly drunk equations while dreaming of Aeryn, and fighting off the attentions of Harvey.

"Obsessive’s good! Obsessive’s good...but in small doses, hey?"

"A moderate life is a happy life," Rygel avows gravely. "My own humble example should serve as a model of fortitude and–"

"And spare me the hokey, right?" John grins at them both, before bending over to whisper in Chiana’s ear. "Don’t let him play cards for the marjoules, promise me?"

Chiana nods solemnly, glancing at the table where Rygel is already positioning his thronesled, tiny fingers reaching for the cards.

"How about another round?" the small Hynerian calls unctuously, shuffling the cards from one hand to the other, eyes drilling into the bag held loosely in Chiana’s hands. "And how about we change the stakes, this time? Make it more of a challenge."

"How about Budongs win?" Chiana says breathlessly, already making her way to the table.

"Whatever you say, dear lady. Whatever you say."

***

Moveable Feast (Part Two)

Tue, 26 Oct 2004 05:08:45 GMT

"’Cause tramps like us, baby we were born to run." John slides down Elack’s soft walls and crosses his legs beneath him. "C’mon little buddy... Dang dang dang dang..."

The small DRD stutters and stammers, eyes blinking in distress.

"So, you’re a one hit wonder?" John asks kindly, patting painted hand-marks onto 1812’s curved back. "A droid with a one-track mind?"

The DRD chirps and clicks, swivelling one eyestalk up at John’s face.

"Well, either that or you’re the only DRD in the galaxy who don’t like Springsteen..."

1812 regards John glumly.

"Never mind my joking. I don’t really mean it. You know that, don’t you, my small yellow friend?"

The DRD blinks happily.

"Why are you talking to a machine?"

John follows the curvaceous curves of Sikozu and eventually blinks up at her bemused face.

"Maybe because he don’t ask inane questions every arn, on the arn. Why are you sitting on that bench when there’s a more comfortable seat by the door? Why do you keep your tools in the cooler vegetable box? Why do you prefer the red foodcube over the green, when they all taste the same?... Lady, you got a million of ‘em."

"I merely wish to–"

"Bore the pants off anyone who happens to be in your radius. And for some strange reason, that person always happens to be me."

"Crichton, I merely wish to learn. Despite your unprepossessing appearance and strange habits, I find intercourse with you stimulating. You are truly a unique individual."

"On many levels..."

"I wouldn’t go as far as that..." Sikozu says hesitantly, corkscrew curls bobbing as she gazes down at him.

John sighs, moving his paint-pot and brush across to his other side, and clearing a space on the floor. He gestures grandly at the spot. "Then pull up a pew, and let the fun begin."

"Pew? Fun?"

"Sure, some might consider it a juxtaposition, but d’ya want intercourse, or don’tchya? Just so happens you caught me in the mood..."

"Crichton...I don’t understand. Maybe if you spoke slowly."

"Nah, I tried that already with D’Argo. He couldn’t get past Grade II, even when they kept him back a year." John pats the still empty space on the floor. "Well, c’mon, c’mon. I’m all anticipation here. I’m all a-quiver..."

Reluctantly, Sikozu takes a step forward, then throwing caution to the wind, crouches awkwardly by John’s side.

John eyes the hunched Kalish, weight balanced on the balls of her feet for a quick getaway. "Now, ain’t this nice and cosy?"

"Cosy is not a word that I would choose."

"Alright then, how about...snug?"

"I would not choose snug either," Sikozu grunts, distaste evident in her face.

"Oh, I forgot! Your words must have at least three syllables..."

"Are you implying that I am pretentious?"

"The prosecution rests its case."

"Why must you always be so facetious?"

"Four syllables, at a pinch," John whispers sadly, shaking his head in dismay. He takes the brush from the grungy pot water, and trails it idly over his hand while singing a few notes of the Springsteen song. He gazes idly at the water drops as they fall onto Elack’s golden floor. He smothers a yawn.

"And I presume that you also find me boring," Sikozu adds in a hurt tone.

"Nothing personal. I’m just digesting marjoules. I think I ate too much. Gold label, y’know."

"I would suggest that your higher brain functioning has been marginally incapacitated as the blood flow is diverted to the process of digestion."

"Has it? How fascinating." John yawns again. "How terribly, terribly, utterly fascinating..."

"Mastication begins the process of digestion where the enzymes in saliva break the food into simpler compounds. Once swallowed, the food enters the food-tube where it is conveyed to the stomach...or stomachs…by peristaltic wave action. Once it reaches the stomach...or stomachs…the stomach acids bombard–

"This intercourse isn’t as exciting as I’d envisioned. Peristaltic wave action? I was hoping for action of a different kind." John shudders. "Freakin’ food-cubes ‘n’ food-tubes..."

"If you had let me finish, I would have said that the whole process diverts the flow of blood from the peripheries to the digestee’s central core. Hence less oxygen to the brain, leading to a condition of sluggishness."

"Will you wake me up when you’re through, text-book Suzie?"

"Text-book? Why do–"

"As in parrot fashion. You’re smart, sure, but wisdom and knowledge aren’t the same thing. When you’ve knocked around a bit, seen some of the world..." John points at the painted equations on the opposite side of the corridor, "then come back and talk to me about the mysteries of the digestive system, ‘cause then it may have a patina of interesting. And by God, if you develop into any sort of conversationalist while on your travels, you may even make me enjoy it. Maybe next time, if you rigged up a slide show, with one of them laser pointers…"

"You do not enjoy learning, Crichton?"

"What is it with you, huh? Your whole conversation consists of either inane questions or boring lectures. Can’t we just talk to each other, alien to alien?"

Sikozu chews at her lower lip as if in thought. "If you wish..."

"I wish," John states firmly.

Sikozu finally relaxes a little, leaning back against the wall, then stretching out her legs.

"See? Cosy!" John peers at her still wary features, the grim turn of her mouth. "Did’ja know it takes seventeen muscles to smile, and forty-three muscles to frown? Thought you might be interested, might save you some of that precious energy."

Sikozu relents and a small smile quirks her lips. "Actually, it takes nineteen muscles for a Kalish to smile, and forty-five to frown."

"So we’re nearly alike?"

Sikozu sniffs. "In one respect...yes," she admits grudgingly.

A strained silence settles over them both, and the faint sounds of the ailing Elack echo eerily down the corridors. Suddenly John snaps his fingers, making the flighty Kalish jump and sending her curls bouncing.

"Here’s one my sister told me. If you put a raisin into a glass of champagne, it’ll keep floating to the top and sinking to the bottom. Though it seems an awful waste of good champagne, to me."

"Raisins? Champagne?"

"Dried ryll berries and pale sparkling fellip."

"Oh, I’ll have to try it."

"Of course, I can’t guarantee the results if you’re gonna use substitutes..." John’s voice trails off before he snaps his fingers again. "Here’s another one – in the course of my average human lifetime, I’ll unintentionally eat seventy assorted insects and ten spiders. And, as one who hates critters, that’s a scary proposition. I think I’ve already eaten about twenty midges. It happened when I was on school camp–"

"Your planet must be overrun with insect life if they are always crawling into your mouths!"

"Back on Earth, insects are King. They rule our planet with ruthless efficiency. Their rigid hierarchies and devotion to duty make the Peacekeepers look like teddy bears on a picnic. They also bite ‘n’ sting – the insects, that is. Good thing they’re pretty small size-wise, so we can swat at ‘em."

"A futile gesture."

"But one that’s ultimately satisfying. Have you ever squashed a mosquito?"

"Of course not. And I’ve never swallowed one either."

Sikozu’s hands wander over to the now silent DRD and she trails her fingers along its carapace. Alarmed, its eyes flash and it backs away in alacrity.

"He was sleeping," John explains. "He likes his naps. Thinks he’s a cat."

"He is merely utilising a shut-down cycle to save on energy."

"I like to think otherwise..." John taps the brush against the floor and gazes distractedly at the equations, almost forgetting Sikozu by his side. If he could just solve the mysteries of portal stability. And he’s so damn close... Almost there...

"–such strange markings."

John wakes from his reverie, and turns to her apologetically. "I’m sorry, wasn’t listening."

Sikozu sighs and enunciates each word clearly and distinctly. "I have never before seen such strange markings. Are those symbols a primitive form of art?"

"They’re equations. Mathematical symbols with ascribed values. Humans use them for problem solving. They’re our mathematical language, probably the only universal language, and our way of trying to make sense from the non-sense that surrounds us."

"As you are one who usually extracts nonsense from sense, you must find these ‘equations’ a challenge."

John ignores her, choosing to chew on the end of his brush and grimacing as he spits out a wooden splinter. Studying the wall of drying equations, he is once again far away, flying through the wormhole’s slim, silver throat. A spectral mote in the eye of a raging storm.

"Y’see, they shouldn’t exist at all, at least not on that scale. Not by the base standard of Einstein’s general relativity, they’d be too small–"

"Forgive me for asking, but what would be too small?"

"Oh, sorry. Wormholes." John lifts his knees and hugs them while taking in the sweeping canvas of equations before him. "And in the conventional sense, using equations grounded in general relativity, the wormholes would be too unstable for even a photon to pass through. The portal would snap shut before that unlucky photon could buy its duty-free. I’m convinced that viable wormholes cannot be produced by the ‘empty space’ theory…"

"Duty-free?"

"Biggest scam ever perpetrated on humankind."

"Then there’s more than one form of ‘empty space’. The human brain pan does not appear to be fully utilised–"

John raises his hand in a weary gesture. "So, if viable wormholes are not produced in ‘empty space’…"

"Explain why," Sikozu demands bluntly, unconsciously tilting her head a little to the side as she studies the equations.

"Why? Because when, for whatever reason, empty space contracts, you get a quantum foam, a random fluctuation in the topology and geometry of space itself. Quantum black holes form, fizzling out in femtoseconds. We used to think such power could be harnessed. That there may be a way of pulling out a wormhole and enlarging it to usable proportions. But the energy required to do that, and then to maintain the spatial entrances, and then to keep them stabilised, well, you’d need to harness the energy of a nearby sun. And that would be a very messy proposition. I wouldn’t wanna crack those eggs…"

"So what is your theory?" Sikozu asks, sneaking a sideways glance at John’s face.

"Well, then I thought about negative gravity. Gravity itself can produce regions of ‘squeezed vacuum’, areas of empty space rife with pairs of energy non-conserving particles. They wink into existence, live on the credit of Heisenberg’s uncertainty principle, then wipe each other from existence mere femtoseconds later. When these vacuum fluctuations are squeezed to a vacuum that has an energy less than zero, they create a region of negative energy, and that’s where natural wormholes can...may form." John shrugs, "Like I said...it’s a theory..."

"Yet you remain unconvinced?"

"Well, for all this to happen, you need the squeeze effect of a nearby black hole with a Planck mass of... Well, you need to have a sizeable black hole handy."

"Are there natural wormholes out there? Of usable size?" Sikozu’s eyes widen, her fingers straying to her hair.

"Yeah, probably remnants of what we call the ‘Big Bang’, when the universe exploded into being. I call them accidental wormholes. Don’t ever fall into one, or you may find yourself in another universe. And for all its faults, for the majority of time, I like living here."

"It has its good points," Sikozu concedes. "So, if those two theories do not satisfy you, what is left?"

"What do you think of cosmic strings?"

"Well..." Sikozu begins uncertainly, her face flushing. "I...er...."

John grins. So, the human is not so stoopid after all! "It’s theorised that cosmic strings are linear fractures in the fabric of space. Most likely formed in the inflationary phase of the Big Bang. It’s conjectured that they’re massive beasts, probably a medium-sized planet mass per meter."

"Oh those!" Sikozu adds quickly, recovering some of her former equanimity.

"Their existence is only speculation, and no-one’s actually found one, on Earth that is...or at least they hadn’t when I, er...left. But I’ve sensed them, I know they’re there. The theory is that these babies probably oscillate, dispersing their large mass-energy as gravity waves."

"But that is not possible! They would eventually disappear."

"Ah hah!" He snaps his fingers together, noting with satisfaction the wince of distaste on her pale features. "Not if the cosmic string consisted of negative mass. Then decay is not possible."

"Because negative energy gravity waves cannot be generated?"

"You got it in one, sister. Wrap one of these negative energy babies around a wormhole formed during the Big Bang and you find yourself with a stable wormhole of monumental proportions. A wormhole with a mouthful of planet-sized negative mass. There are probably huge wormholes out there, with portals as large as planets."

Sikozu's eyes spark with interest. "And these mouths would naturally gravitate towards their nearest solar systems?"

"They’d be attracted to other large planets, and have a stable orbit, yeah."

"It seems to be the best theory of the three."

"It’s the one I’m fondest of. If I can solve the problem of stabilisation, of marrying a fragment of cosmic string to an already existing wormhole...in effect creating a miniaturised wormhole from the ingredients already out there...a little pinch of this, and a little pinch of that.... It’s all in the timing." John drums his fingers on the floor like a metronome beating time. "Timing and preparation."

Sikozu regards him with a hint of admiration tinged with apprehension. "Such knowledge can be dangerous, John Crichton."

"Yeah," John concedes reluctantly. "I’ve read the warning labels, and even had them read to me."

"A wormhole is a elemental force of nature. No-one should harness or…or possess such power."

John shifts a little, and begins to flip water off the brush bristles at the blinking DRD. "I know that..."

The outraged DRD turns and trundles resolutely down the corridor, probably heading for the maintenance bay and his more unenlightened, undemanding friends. John watches him before yawning wearily.

"This 'digestee' needs to hit the sack. And yeah, that was meant to be unintelligible."

"Why do–"

John raises a hand before hauling himself to his feet, yawning and stretching. "Well, I’m gonna love ya and leave ya, and yeah, I know...unintelligible."

"Nonsensical," Sikozu says crisply.

"Yeah, but you really gotta learn to speak the language. And even mad scientists need sleep sometimes, and I’ve found it better not to sleep on the floor if ya wanna keep those brain synapses in tip-top shape." John taps his head and grins down at her.

"So, you are leaving?" Sikozu asks in dismay, eyes following his every move.

"Knew you'd cotton on eventually. It's time for my beauty sleep, Princess. Time to refresh the little grey cells, you’d appreciate that, right? Besides, those marjoules have really knocked me out. Rygel was right. Superior lubrication."

"Gold label?" Sikozu asks, laughter warming her voice.

"Hynerian home cooking! No wonder those guys are all kinda chubby." John starts down the corridor, heading for the peace and quiet of his small room and his lumpy mattress. "Come and bug me eight arns from now–"

"Like one of those unfortunate insects?"

"Not quite. But d’ya reckon you can wait that long?"

"Eight arns? Sleep is such a waste of one’s life, John Crichton."

"Maybe, but it’s worth it for the dreams."

John staggers down the dimly lit passage with a satisfied smile. It’s nice to know that for once the Kalish has nothing to say.

***

end

The Sun Sucks Up

Tue, 26 Oct 2004 04:53:12 GMT

Written for astrogirl1's Starkathon. This Stark fic is firmly based on John Quixote, and the origin of the game blob that led to the trouble. Bows in the direction of Ben Browder, I studied the JQ script for this one, and it blew me away yet again. Also bows in direction of Ivan Turgenev, who's a mad and extremely dead Russian, for the plot mechanism. Beautifully beta'd by simplystars (this wouldn't exist without her). Rating PG.

The Sun Sucks Up

"Yoti? Who remembers Yoti anymore? He was a loser. Like Stark said, ‘played one game too many’. If you want to hear it, it’s a longish kind of story – and it’ll be even longer if you interrupt."

...

‘"Listen! That’s what the Stykera said, when I opened the door. Grabbed my by the collar, head tilted to the side like there was a conversation going on. I brushed away his fingers, stepped back, and took a good look at him. First time I’d ever seen a Stykera up close. Agitated, wringing his hands, and craning his head to look past me. Asked if I was Gyan Yoti, the coder, and I told him I was Yoti’s assistant.

His face fell and he pushed past and into the workshop. Yoti was working on the Cromatycon series back then, doing the final tweaks on the second-generation delta level. Giving it the ‘Yoti magic’ he used to say. He was deep in his game helmet but he must’ve sensed something ‘cause he slipped the gamet from his head and placed his data-gloves on the benchtop before steadying himself with a series of deep breaths.

"I’m busy," he said, roughly wiping at his eyes while glancing at me irritably. Then he assessed the pacing Banik. "Not to be disturbed."

Undeterred, the Banik skittered over, mittened hands reaching idly for the gamet. "She’s talking to me, breathing in my ear...listen!"

"You touch that, I break the other half of your face," Yoti threatened, and the Stykera jumped back like he’d been burned.

"Listen!" he repeated, voice cracking with urgency. "LISTEN!"

Yoti sighed, looked the creature over, and beckoned for me to make some changka. When I left the room, the Stykera was jabbering away and Yoti was slowly nodding his head. When I came back, they were still doing the same.

"So you can recreate them?" I heard Yoti ask in that calculating tone he only uses when he smells money. "Recreate him?"

"It’s all in here." The Banik placed a hand over his mask, nodding solemnly. "There are no secrets…no secrets."

"Is this the real deal? You’re not frelling with me?" Yoti took the drinks, waving me curtly back to my work console.

"My yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death. Shakespeare! Words! It’s all in here," he repeated, fluttering hand moving away from his mask to stroke lank hair. "Real deal."

Yoti rubbed at the stubble on his chin, giving the man an assessing glance.

"You could turn me in and find out," the Banik continued, "but by then you’d be the loser. And, aren’t games for the playing, and the winning?"

Yoti smiled at that. "Yeah, especially the winning."

So, the Stykera stayed on, sleeping on a mat bundled into a corner. He irritated the frell out of me. When he wasn’t aimlessly pacing around the workshop or clustered in earnest conversation with Yoti, he was watching me work, hand upon my shoulder, breath warming my ear. "I don’t like you," he’d whisper, then give me a lop-sided grin.

Yoti never seemed to notice, but then he was always working inside the gamet. Cromatycon, so near to completion, had been pushed to the side and this new project had taken its place. Yoti left me to deal with the fallout from the company. ‘Unexpected delays…’ ‘circuitry faults…’ ‘an illness in the family…" The launch date came and went while Yoti spent every arn in the gamet , fingers endlessly tapping inside the data-gloves.

*

One day about a weeken later, I came to work as usual, and Yoti must’ve been working all night. The air in the room was thick and stale. Yoti was hunched over in the gamet, arms propped upon the table while the Stykera was smiling and pacing behind him, just as fresh as the day he arrived. Suddenly he stopped still and looked over at the door I’d left open. Raised a pale hand, all trembling fingers, like he was staring at the dead. ‘Zhaan!’ I heard him say.

Y’see, I never knew of Crichton, or Zhaan, or Stark back then, was too busy trying to make my way as a coder. ‘Work was for coding, your workbench doubled as your bed, and imagination came with the talent you hired’, that was Yoti’s creed. And that’s what it took to work for Gyan Yoti. Everyone knew he was the best. I stayed because I wanted to be better.

Yoti shivered in the breeze and drew the gamet off, rubbing at his eyes, hands clumsy in the data-gloves. He always did find it hard to focus afterwards. "The structure’s all there," he mumbled, voice hoarse. "I like to call it ‘the bare bones just waiting for the flesh’."

"Just waiting for the flesh," Stark repeated with a strange half-smile, and when he reached for the gamet, Yoti didn’t try to stop him.

Under the overhead light, Yoti looked ill, his skin had a translucent look – I mean he never got any sun as it was, but this was different. He watched the Banik slip on the gamet then waved me away to prepare more changka. On the trip in, I’d bought some grolack, ‘cause it didn’t seem that Yoti was eating much lately. I placed it in his hand before I went to the back kitchen, and he just blinked at me and nodded. When I returned, it was lying untouched on the table.

Yoti had rigged up a gamet harness, and he and Stark were in the embryonic game together – Yoti tapping in the streaming code and cursing when he miscued a dataset. This went on for a few arns while I tinkered with Cromatycon, Yoti grumbling because his fingers couldn’t keep up with the Banik’s projections.

Just before the midday meal, Yoti stopped, disconnected the harness and laid it on the workbench along with his gloves. His eyes were hollow but gleamed from their recesses, like he was keeping some important secret. Sweat moistened his stubbled face, a drop trickled unnoticed down his cheek. He blinked the room into focus, caught me staring and nodded at me almost pityingly. Then Stark sighed and slipped off the gamet, readjusting the straps on his mask. But I saw, I saw inside…and there was just light, just a dirty amber light…

Yoti stretched and reached for the cold changka, downing it like a man who’d just found out he’s thirsty. "Crichton’s memories…" He stared at the empty cup in his hand, fascinated as he watched it tremble.

Stark stood up and started to massage Yoti’s shoulders. "Runs on the board. Spin on the ball. Everything’s just a game with Crichton. You win some, you lose some."

"This man...this Crichton, is he still alive?" I asked, if only to hear the sound of my own voice.

"He’s alive. He played one game too many, and now he lives in me. Inanity, inconsequentiality, sickness, insanity..." Stark stopped kneading Yoti’s shoulders and those long pale fingers curled and recurled into fists.

Yoti yawned and reached for the stale grolack. "Truly remarkable!" he slurred, and I knew he didn’t mean the grolack.

"You should get some rest," I advised, wincing as the cup fell unheeded from Yoti’s hand.

Yoti barely had the energy to raise his head. "I will…I will…"

"No time! No time!" Stark uttered, stepping back in agitation, that one eye of his rolling. "We have yet to create the princess! I’ve waited so long…" He glanced at the door. "She’s waiting! She waits! No time!"

"Maybe, but this coder’s gotta piss sometime," Yoti answered, clambering stiffly to his feet, hands massaging the small of his back as he tried to straighten.

"Of course…" Stark said dully, but the Stykera’s eye watched Yoti all the way through the workshop and into the backroom. Then he turned to me, voice low, like he was confiding in a friend. "Yoti’s just like all the others...succumbed to the contagion. No one’s immune."

"He’s the best–" I started, ‘cause for all his faults I kinda liked Gyan Yoti. "He isn’t sick!"

"Then the ‘best’ has been infected," Stark said with a curl of his lip, retaking his chair and beginning to rock back and forth while studying me intently.

"We’ve never had a princess in a game before," I remarked in my most neutral tone. Being alone with the Stykera unsettled me.

He stopped then, brought his hands together on the tabletop. "Journey’s end in lovers meeting…"

"What does that mean?"

That same infuriating smile lit up his face as he gazed at his intertwined fingers. Then he stretched out a pale hand, and dragged the gamet to himself protectively. "Too early to tell. Amalgams. Not flesh, not the cool blue of her skin. Not a dusting of gold. Just a ‘once upon a time’ she shared with Crichton...shared with him, not me."

"Who is this Crichton?"

Stark’s voice turned cold. "Crichton’s locked away…safe from himself…safe from harming others…"

My gaze slid from Stark’s set face, and I glanced at the gamet, wondering if I should risk a peek before Yoti’s return. Although the coder was still pretty secretive about his more advanced techniques, I had learnt more than he suspected. And while Yoti had been spending arns lost in the gamet, I’d been finishing off Cromatycon, and doing a pretty fair job of it. Y’see, along with the promise of fame, I also like the promise of regular pay. I figured that by the time Yoti found out about Cromatycon, he’d be more likely to thank me for keeping the company happy than bothering to bawl me out. And if he did take it bad, then I could always leave and set up on my own.

"You want to meet her, don’t you?" Stark broke in accusingly, hugging the gamet to his chest. "But you can’t. She’s mine. She cares only for me. Not you! Not Crichton! Only me."

"What? You mean that princess?" I asked only to keep him happy. Princesses went out of fashion even before my mother was born. Stark may have had a weird kind of talent, but it was plain to me that he was more than halfway crazy. This ‘princess’ of his must’ve left him, or run off with someone else...or died. Possibly all three by the pitiful state of him.

Thankfully, Yoti shuffled back then, pasty-faced and dull-eyed, and Stark turned his attention back to him. As Stark chattered away and Yoti rubbed his night-beard and yawned, I slipped out of the workshop. If the truth be told, I was glad of the fresh air.

*

I never saw a guy waste away as quickly as Yoti did. It seemed he lived for the gamet now – he ate in it, slept in it, maybe he even dreamed in it – if Gyan Yoti still dreamed. When he did manage to stagger away – blinking myopically at the real world – it drew him back. Like Stark’s doleful eye, it pulled him in and down, until he was immersed again.

I finalised the Cromatycon tweak, sent it to the company, and started work on my own game, since there was no chance of being interrupted. The workshop was quiet without Yoti barging around, demanding endless cups of changka or haranguing the company for money, or a deadline extension. Now the only sound was the tapping of Yoti’s fingers as he worked in the data gloves.

When I did remember, I made changka anyway – the drinks cooling, skinning over by Yoti’s endlessly moving fingers. Gyan Yoti had been consumed by the gamet...maybe even consumed by something in the Stykera’s oily amber light. Stark sat patiently by Yoti’s side, hand upon the coder’s shoulder, his mask ajar under the game helmet, light blotting out the features of Yoti’s face. Part guard, part guide, and seemingly wholly insane.

*

A couple of days later, when I was tinkering with my base-game structure, Stark shook off the gamet, stood up, and walked across to open the door, readjusting his mask. He just stood there, staring up at the rectangle of sky over the low industrial units. It hurt when Yoti stretched out his hand like a blind-man, feeling to see if Stark was still there.

"Stark?" he croaked, licking his dry lips. "Stark?"

"He’s a sick man," Stark commented, turning his head again to the sky, pale finger tracing an outline of the clouds as he hummed. "All the infections the sun sucks up...the sun sucks up..."

Stark giggled as I jumped to my feet, laid a hand on Yoti’s own and gently drew off the gamet. He blinked like he always did, but this time his eyes shone opaque, sockets edged with damp red-rimmed edges. His clammy hand trembled under my own, and as he turned towards me, I could smell the sweet scent of decay on his breath. His disk-like eyes flicked past me, searching blindly for Stark, and he fumbled the gamet out of my hand like an addict already suffering withdrawal.

"Leave ...leave me alone.... Stark! Stark!"

"He hasn’t been lucky. The pain threshold’s set too low," Stark remarked, walking back and placing that reassuring hand on Yoti’s shoulder. "When you find true love, it rips the marrow right out of your bones...Crichton knows. I know...."

"What have you done to him?" I demanded, taking a step back, wiping my hands upon my jacket. Before me, Yoti crooned, fingers stroking the gamet as he waited for Stark to return.

"You can’t win my princess that easily."

Yoti sighed and relaxed under the Stykera’s touch. "Wishes..." he mumbled, managing to turn his face up to Stark’s own.

"–Are hollow. Empty. You’re going to die tomorrow," Stark predicted, turning his head to the open door, while still kneading Yoti’s shoulder. He bent over then, and whispered in Yoti’s ear, "When you die, there’s no more pain...the sun sucks you up, then drops you back as rain..."

"Get away from him!" The hand stilled on Yoti’s shoulder as the Stykera looked at me sharply. "You heard me! Get away!"

"Fleshies!" the Stykera said, turning from me to Yoti. "You’ll never understand."

Yoti managed to raise his hand to Stark’s own, thin fingers shaking.

"Leave him alone," I repeated, moving forward threateningly.

"No time! No time!" Stark giggled.

He hung loose in my hands, writhing inside his overlarge jacket. Before I could properly grab him, propel him out the door, he sighed and looked at me. "Do you want to play the game too?"

Stark’s fingers reached for his mask. "But remember...curiosity killed–"

...the cat...

In a depthless room, a ludicrously dressed man stared out from a viewer, placed a broad hand palm-flat on the screen. "Put your hand on mine, son. Can’t you just feel that power? Feel it a’flowing through your veins? It’s no good you know, new guys always die–die in the first ten minutes – get crystallised, turn inta blocks of salt. Don’t blame me, it’s a Star Trek–Trek kind of universe."

A fair-haired woman wrenched my face away, her eyes and fingers damp. "I died for unrequited love." She reached down in a practiced movement , placed a pulse pistol at my temple and grinned. "Now let’s see how you like it..."

I screamed and screwed my eyes shut.

"Hmm, fresh meat..." The voice belonged to a white-faced monstrosity, a hybrid who tilted my head this way and that. "Fresh meat, Crichton!"

"Dead meat, Scorpy."

He smiled, a mouthful of piercing teeth, tongue flicking over dark lips as looked me over. "I do so like new friends," he whispered in my ear, hand reaching for my throat.

"Hey, son, do you have what it takes–takes? You a ten minute hero wanting fifteen minutes of fame? It's three minutes and counting. You’re doing–doing well."

...so far...

"Is he?" The hybrid clenched his fist, watching on in detachment as I struggled to breathe. "Once again, you’re wrong, John. Sloppy and erroneous thinking."

"Yo! Lord Stark! Avatar of the Crazy House!" The man on the monitor complained. "Scorpy’s playing–playing for keeps, again!"

...Arbitrator...rulemaker...lord and avatar!

The crushing fingers melted from my throat, and I was enveloped in a thick amber light, a dirty light as suffocating as water. It filled my eyes, rushed in my ears, caressed my limbs with a heaviness that flowed bone-deep. I tried to surface, to see again, to breathe. My lungs shuddered as the thick flow burned my throat -– a syrupy alchemy of orange blood thumped through my veins. Death seemed as simple as falling asleep. A lifting of blood-warm covers to a head on a soft-edged pillow. My eyelids fluttered shut. My last thought dried upon my tongue.

"Not for the love of me...not for the love of me..."

...Zhaan? You’re not here...Have never been here, have you?...

"Six minutes and counting..."

...Why do you come for this boy and not for me?...

"The innocent speak with a more insistent voice. Listen, and you will hear it..."

...But all I can hear is you...

"Then believe, and let him go."

...All I can see is you...

"In this strange place none of us are as we seem. We are too perfect, or too imperfect. Both are wrong, none are right."

...But you are the Zhaan I remember...the Zhaan of my dreams...

"Where is my rage, my love? Where is the deep red well, the heart...the core of me? I am transparent without it."

...But you progressed beyond–

"If you truly loved me, you would also embrace my faults and forgive me for them. Instead you choose to pursue a lie."

...I will keep you here with me...forever...

"Forever is a very short time."

"Eight minutes and coun–counting."

She laughs. "It seems John is still prescient in his innocence. But are you, sweet Stark?"

...That John is a construct of his own scattered memory...

"Yet even now his innocence shines through you. Redeems you. As does the innocence of that child you hold in your hands."

...Just say you will stay...

"Stark, listen!"

...Listen! LISTEN!...

"The goddess, in her generosity, gifted me with a life of over 800 cycles...and still that was not time enough to finish my journey. I thought I left prepared, and yet there were so many things I had left undone. With the death I chose, came grief, then blame, and guilt was apportioned with cruel recriminations. Stark! My love! I willingly gave my life twice over, and still you will not lay the blame, the guilt, on me. It was I who tried to chase the Goddess, the last foolish act of a lowly P’au. I am not blameless. I was never pure...and I was always far from innocent."

...But journeys...But journey’s end with lovers meeting...

"Ssh, Stark...my love. Hush..."

...Zhaan...

"Sweet Stark. Is it not enough that you, with your humility, your compassion, warmed the dark heart of this soul? Is this frail shell...this torn handful of memories really worth such heartache? Stark, learn from my death, the death I chose – not once, but twice. What you see as my abandonment was my only means to fully embrace you. My life had run its course, within you I could live forever, but do not keep me as this pale shadow. Take heed and learn this. With this knowledge I bring you the peace that you desire.

...Only I shall kiss you...Not Crichton...

"Then you are not Stark. The Stark I knew, the Stark I loved is not here. You are a mirror-image, a cold reversal, as am I."

...I am AVATAR!...

"Ten–ten minutes, Scorpy! This boy’s just been elevated to a ‘special’ guest. Maybe he’ll be the love interest next week."

"It’ll make a welcome change from you, Crichton."

"Love...love ain’t all it’s cracked up to be."

"Sucks the marrow from your bones," Stark said, inspecting my face intently before letting me go. I don’t even remember hitting the floor.

*

I woke to dimness, to the door creaking in the night-breeze. I struggled to my feet, blinking away vestiges of ghostly amber light, indelible stains on my retinas. My throat was dry, raw, my head pounding.

Something was slumped across the table, an area of deeper darkness in the shadowed room. I shook my head tentatively, wincing from the pain, trying to shake the fog away. When I looked again, Yoti’s form gleamed in the dull light of the moon, opaque eyes catching the moonlight, stiffened fingers still encased in his data-gloves.

I reeled back with a cry, glanced wildly about the room. "Stark?" I called tentatively.

A tugging wind made the door creak on its hinge, and the sound of distant traffic whispered along the walls. The white light of the gamet blinked on, lighting Yoti’s face as he lay on the table, mouth agape, sightless eyes like discs.

"Stark?" I called again. But the Stykera was nowhere to be seen.

*

They buried Yoti about a weeken later. I never knew the old cuss had so much family. And the Stykera? Well, I never saw him again. He’d disappeared, leaving the gamet and that stream of gamecode behind.

When the company decided to keep me on, I downloaded the code into a game blob then erased all trace of it from the gamet. There was no way I was going to enter that game again, but I didn’t want to throw it away altogether. Instead, I put the game blob in with a pile of competitors’ soft porn games we kept for reference. Purely for reference.

And, after what the Stykera had put me through, it seemed a fitting end for his lofty kind of idealised love."

*

end

Level-Riser Fever

Fri, 10 Sep 2004 13:00:40 GMT

This fic was originally written for a farscapefriday challenge, so what's new? *g* It was a drabble that grew to nine pages. Since posting to farscapefriday I've changed some dialogue and also the ending. *eg* Humour. PG-13.

Level-Riser Fever

Arn 1

The sound of frenzied thumping pounds through the stuffy level-riser.

“This childish display of frustration will not aid the situation,” D’Argo mumbles from behind a tired and panting John.

“Won’t it?” John gives the panel another thump before drawing back, shaking the pain from his hand. “Damn! Darn thing’s stuck fast...ossified...”

There’s a sharp snick as Rygel flips open the armrest on his hoversled, and draws out a spanner. “Perhaps, if you’d try the correct tools...”

D’Argo’s eyes widen as he stares at the artlessly proferred wrench, and he sizzles with barely controlled rage. “How long have you had that–”

John grabs D’Argo by the arm. “Don’t freak, man. That corkscrew couldn’t even crack open a box of Cornflakes.” John’s voice carries just enough condescension to make Rygel frown in irritation. “We need tools that the ‘big people’ use.”

“Perhaps, but we have no option but to try...” D’Argo snatches the tiny wrench into his oversized hand and pushes John to one side.

“Fine,” John says, shrugging as he steps away. “If you wanna make a tinker toy...”

D’Argo merely nods his head, advancing upon the control housing like he’s ambushing an enemy.

“What else have you got in there?” Crichton moves across to the smirking Dominar and starts to rifle through the armrest’s contents. He inspects a minuscule screwdriver before it tossing it back in resignation. “What do you use that for? No, don’t tell me.”

“Crichton, what are you suggesting–”

“What’s this?” John holds up a small pot of cream. “What do you rub this on?”

“It all boils down to sex, doesn’t it Crichton?” Rygel states glibly, snatching the jar from John’s hand and grimly re-tightening the lid.

John blinks back at him in amusement. “Wha–?”

“This is not the time to be discussing the finer points of sex!” D’Argo grunts angrily, trying to ram the small wrench around the oversized screw.

“Well, when is the right time?” Crichton says defiantly, slumping to the floor. “Seems like the boys are all here together...in the locker-room. And it’s hot...” he removes his vest and tosses it into the corner, “...and steamy...”

“Frell!” D’Argo yells, as the wrench scrapes along the metal housing with enough fury to set everyone’s teeth on edge.

“Ouch!” John hisses, as he works his jaw. “Don’t do that again.”

“It’s too small!” D’Argo grunts irritably, flinging the mangled tool to the floor and resorting to thumping on Moya’s amber walls.

John looks confidingly at Rygel. “That’s what all the girls tell him...”

“Moya!! Pilot!! PILOT!!” D’Argo thumps against the smooth skin with his fists. “PIIIILOTTT!”

John and Rygel both grimace, the Dominar placing his small hands over his ears.

“FRELL!”

“Frustrating, ain’t it?” John remarks sardonically, folding his vest into a small pad and sliding it beneath him. “Ah, that’s better...comfort for the long-haul.”

“When should I get frightened?” Rygel asks, settling his thronesled to the floor next to Crichton and switching off the engine.

“Huh?”

“It may have slipped your notice, but I’m trapped between tiers with a pair of lunatics.”

“That’d make a good move title,” John says, suppressing a yawn. Leaning across, he retrieves the mangled remains of the wrench, and uses it to clean his fingernails.

Arn 2

D’Argo bends and plucks a small wire-cutter from the tools on the floor beside him, then eyes the metal housing venomously.

“Gonna cut your way in? Chip your way to China?” Crichton quips from his spot on the floor.

Ignoring him, D’Argo wedges the cutters behind the small housing and tries using them as a lever. There’s a resounding snap as the cutters disintegrate in his hands. “Frell!” he screams in escalating rage, face turning a darker shade of brown. “Frell! FRELL! FRELLLL!”

“Remember, we’re all friends here.” John raises his hands placatingly. “We paid to see Bambi, not Peckinpah.”

“WHAT THE FRELL!” D’Argo spins around, eyes wild, tentas swinging.

“Whoa man! Deep breaths, partner.” John closes his eyes and rests his hands palm upward on his knees, thumb and forefinger drawn together. “Deep breaths...imagine...you’re lying on a beach...the sand is warm–”

“Visualisations?” Rygel asks with asperity.

“...the waves wash in, wash out, wash in–”

“I hate beaches,” D’Argo snarls, kicking the warped and broken tools noisily into the corner.

“...seabirds wheel and screech...against the warm blue sky...the waves wash in...wash out–”

“Are there girls on this beach, Crichton?” Rygel asks, licking his lips. “Hynerian girls?”

John’s eyelids crinkle as he takes a deeper breath. “There are now, Ryge, you old sex machine. Hynerian girls...in polka dot bikinis...”

“The waves wash out...wash in...wash out...wash in,” Rygel intones gleefully, settling back on his plump cushions. “What a delightful way to pass the time!”

John chuckles. “Ooh yeah! You said it, Ryge. Delightful!”

D’Argo runs a hand across his sweating brow as he watches the grinning Hynerian and Human, their eyes closed, both sitting in meditation posture. “Are there any Luxan girls there?” he asks sheepishly.

Arn 3

“You know, I’ve been in many cells in my time here at the rear end of the galaxy, but this...” John raises his hands in a sweeping gesture, “...is like Stalag 13 and Alcatraz, rolled into one.”

“These...places?” D’Argo asks, voice steeped in boredom. “No-one ever escaped?”

“I think once someone did. Made a glider out of toilet roll cores. Ta-da! Landed in Switzerland and freedom!”

“Very interesting.” D’Argo yawns and stretches from his corner diagonally opposite John and Rygel. His feet come to rest against Rygel’s sled, earning him an angry look. “Very interesting,” he repeats.

“The Swiss make clocks,” John continues, “cuckoo chronometers...”

“Interesting...”

“And chocolate...”

“Interesting...” Rygel mimics D’Argo. “Do they also make foodcubes? My stomachs–”

John perks up. “My Three Sons! They got names, Ryge? Harpo, Chico, Groucho...Yumbo?”

Rygel’s face creases in irritation as he looks away.

“They’ve got names?” Crichton gasps in wonderment. “Fancy that...”

“All you should know is that they’re telling me they’re empty...” Rygel whines in hunger, his hand fluttering to clutch at his robe.

“Do they sing to you at night, Ryge?”

Rygel grows thoughtful. “Actually...”

D’Argo holds up a restraining hand. “Do NOT go there...”

“Is Hynerian stomach singing well known? Or is it the province of the select few?”

“I DO NOT want to hear–”

Rygel grins with pride. “Feed them marjoules, Crichton, and they can span two octaves. On feast days, they can tackle a Hynerian tricata!”

“You’re a constant source of wonder, Sparky.”

“As are you, Crichton.”

“Why, thank you!”

“No, the thanks are all mine!”

“No, no–”

“Please!” D’Argo grimaces, settling into a hard won comfort on the cold floor, before glancing up to see John and Rygel staring at him with hurt expressions. “Interesting!” he says placatingly, before yawning and closing his eyes.

Arn 4

“Are you fahrbot? I can’t fit through there!” Rygel stares up at the DRD access cum ventilation duct, then regards them stonily.

“But Rygel, you said yourself that you’re wasting away. Why, you’ve dropped two denches around that waistline in the past arn...hasn’t he, D’Argo?”

“A Hynerian with hips,” D’Argo remarks drolly.

“...can sink ships!” John continues cheerily. “C’mon Ryge! A wriggle and a shimmy...”

“Sweezerland and freedom?” Rygel adds dryly, then folds his arms across his chest. “No!”

“That’s not the right spirit...is it, Big D?” John turns in appeal to the Luxan who is already on his feet, steadying the access door’s grille which hangs enticingly from the level-riser’s ceiling.

“Er...no, John. It isn’t.”

Rygel looks quickly from the one to the other. “You aren’t scaring me...” he says hesitantly.

John stares at him dolefully. “Death from starvation...long...painful–”

“You get pretty hungry,” D’Argo adds helpfully.

“Death from your insane blathering, you mean! And that will come sooner...” The Dominar eyes the small opening and shudders.

“C’mon, Ryge. You’re the Dominar of Ducts! The King of the Crevice!” Crichton stares at the tiny opening uncertainly. “It’ll be a cakewalk in the cake shop.”

D’Argo kneels down and looks Rygel in the eye. “My friend, you’re going through that hole, either willingly or unwillingly. The choice is yours.”

“What choice?” the Dominar grumbles, but he doesn’t resist when D’Argo yanks him from the floor and holds him up the to grille, like a proud father showing a newborn child to the Gods.

“Suck in Harpo, Chico and Groucho. You can do it!” John urges, now on his feet, his hands steadying D’Argo’s outstretched arms. “Think svelte!”

Despite himself, D’Argo chuckles. “Think svelte...”

“Most amusing!” Rygel spits sourly, before his head is poked unceremoniously into the small hole. “It’s not going to work...”

“What? Speak up, Ryge! We can’t hear you...” John pushes at the dangling feet, and the Dominar moves up a dench or two.

“Deficient ship of lunatics...” Rygel’s voice grows muffled as his rotund body effectively plugs the hole, feet paddling frantically at the air.

“I had a duck used to do that,” John remarks conversationally.

D’Argo places his hand firmly on Rygel’s buttocks and hoists him up helpfully, then the Luxan freezes, grimaces and looks away.

“So what’s worn under the kilt, big D?”

“You really don’t want to know, Crichton. You really don’t want to know.”

Arn 5

“You know what hurts, D?”

The big Luxan, slumped comfortably in the corner, raises a weary hand in acknowledgement. “What?”

“We’ve been stuck here for 18 arns and no-one’s missed us.”

“They’d miss me before they miss you.” D’Argo’s hand travels to a braid, and he twirls it listlessly through his fingers.

“Them’s fighting words...” but John’s head remains firmly fixed to the pillows of Rygel’s thronesled. “This thing is comfortable. Next commerce planet I’m gonna get me one. I’m through with walking...”

“Interesting...”

John raises himself from the stuffed cushion and glances across at D’Argo. “Do you think Wonder Boy’s still alive?”

“Who? The King of the Crevice?” D’Argo snorts in derision.

“He could be stuck...a blockage...”

“Crichton. We’re the blockage!”

John sits up and yawns, rubbing his hand across his eyes. “I prefer to think that Moya’s got a blind spot. I am and never will be...a blockage.”

D’Argo shifts uncomfortably. “Do you have to mention that word?”

“‘Blockage’, you mean?”

“It’s just that I really, really need to...”

“Yeah. Same here.”

They both look around at the shiny floor before their gazes lock. As one they vigorously shake their heads.

“No, no, no, no!”

“No, nope, nada!”

Arn 6

“...and then she took off her helmet. Man, she was the most beautiful thing. Hair all tangled...wild, her eyes kinda crazy. Next thing I knew, she’d bruised a few ribs and was sitting atop of me.... It had been a weird kind of day all round, so why not fall in love?”

Arn 7

“...function for dignitaries. She asked me if I was comfortable, but that was Lo-lann, always thinking of others. She was gorgeous, John, this strange exotic creature. She could have chosen anyone in that room. And she was smiling at me....”

Arn 8

“Where the frell is Rygel?” D’Argo’s hands ball into fists as he paces the tiny level-riser. “This is intolerable...”

“Maybe we–”

D’Argo wheels around to where John is perched precariously on the thronesled’s armrest. “Intolerable!”

“You said that already–”

“Did I? DID I?” D’Argo’s roar makes John wince. “Well, frell it all the way to hezmana! Sorry if I’m repeating myself, John. I’ll try to be more...more...”

“Entertaining?” John asks in a small voice.

“Entertaining?” D’Argo’s reels in incredulity. “Entertaining...?”

“You said that already...”

Arn 9

“Oh, Holy Sweet Hezmana. For the love of Rygel...” D’Argo lurches to a corner, and crosses his legs. “I can’t...”

“Hold on, man!”

“John. There’s no more...” D’Argo licks his lips, and glances at the floor in embarrassment, “...capacity.”

“Nice word choice.” John rises stiffly to his feet and stumbles to the opposite corner. “Okay. But we’ll go together, right?”

“Right...but, er facing the corner?”

“Yeah, you really think I wanna look at you?”

“Clarification now can save untold embarrassment–”

“You are gonna do what I think you’re gonna do?” John asks, voice creaking with strain.

“Of course,” D’Argo grunts, eyes crinkling shut with effort.

With a final embarrassed glance, they both turn away, furtively sliding their hands to the fastenings on their pants. John whistles tunelessly, while D’Argo finds something interesting to look at on the ceiling. As if on cue, they both ease down their encumbering garments. It’s when their pants are just above their knees, and they’re both working on their underwear, that the level-riser shakes and glides the final few motras to the already opening doors.

“Goddamn!”

“Frell!”

Furiously, they both try to tug up their clothing as Rygel and Aeryn appear at fully open doors.

“I see you’ve missed me,” Aeryn says with a small smile.

“Babe, it’s not what you think...”

With an incoherent roar, D’Argo stumbles past them and into the maintenance bay. “We’ve been stuck ...arns...must have...release...”

“Sex. Sex, it’s all about sex,” Rygel intones with the practiced air of an expert. “The urge that can’t be suppressed.”

John brushes past him as he makes a bee-line to a handy pile of crates. “And you’d know wouldn’t you, Sparky?”

Rygel ignores him, strolls into the riser, and plops himself down on the thronesled cushions. In a twinkling the thronesled is hovering by Aeryn’s side.

“I risk life and limb, get shoved through a hole a drannit wouldn’t even look at, crawl through metras of filthy ducts, only to be insulted,” he sniffs, pretending to be busy by rearranging his few possessions. “You should see my bruises...”

John’s head pokes around the pile of crates. “Hey, D? You wanna see Rygel’s bruises?”

“Actually, John. Now you mention it. No.”

“Saved again, Sparky! I want your guardian angels.”

Rygel bristles. “A Dominar’s spiritual guides are his ancestors. They are not to be taken lightly–”

“...before meals, or on an empty stomach...or stomachs.”

John strides out from the towering crates, still fastening his pants, a relieved smile gracing his features. “So, babe, when did you miss me?”

Aeryn blinks. “Miss you?”

“You know, my manly presence, my human charm.”

Aeryn glances at him doubtfully. “Actually...”

“Tell him the truth, Aeryn. That you missed my manly presence first.” D’Argo saunters easily from the dark corner, adjusting his robe. “Sorry, Crichton, but the better Luxan won.”

“Actually, you pathetic morons, I missed Rygel first.”

“Ouch!”

“Frell!”

“Common sense and reason!”

“Missed your incessant whining!” Aeryn retorts, turning on her heel and heading for the corridor.

“Ouch!”

“Frell!”

“She means you, my precious one!” Rygel pats his thronesled fondly, and smiles.

"Poor Rygel, crawled all that way, and he's still in the dark," John remarks pityingly. "When you gonna see the light? The light! Give me more light, Pilot! I need MORE LIGHT!"

“Commander?" Pilot’s stern voice crackles over John’s comms. “Moya and I do not find amusement–”

“Sorry, Pilot, it’s just level-riser fever. Inane babblings–”

“This condition, I hope, is not contagious,” Pilot cuts in icily, the comms crackling with his indignation.

D’Argo smirks at Rygel. “Pilot, maybe it would be prudent, if the Commander were to be isolated for a short-time. This strange fever–”

“The babblings!” Rygel chimes in quickly. “Prudent!”

“Hey! Hey! Listen up, here. It’s not that kind of–”

D’Argo grabs John by the scruff of the neck and propels him, kicking and struggling, back into the level-riser.

“I’ll kill you D’Argo...you’re dead! DEAD!!” John yells, as D’Argo shoves him inside and operates the door mechanism.

He just catches a glimpse of John’s stunned face, as the door slides shut with a satisfying thump.

“It’s obvious he’s not in his right mind,” D’Argo states coolly, wincing comically at the muffled thumpings, the frantic rattlings and shakings of the level-riser doors.

“For how long should we keep the Commander isolated, Captain?” Pilot asks, a hint of humour in voice.

D’Argo can’t resist a snicker of laughter as he winks at a grinning Rygel. “Until he’s missed, Pilot. Until he’s missed.”

***

end

Five Will Get You Ten

Fri, 10 Sep 2004 12:46:47 GMT

This was written for the remix/redux II challenge. Huge thanks to Shaye for the inspiration and the original tale which sparked this fic. And, oh yeah, this one's angsty. Beta by Apathy and Kernezelda...(partners in crime). PG-13

Five Will Get You Ten

Tonight, I can write the saddest lines.
~Pablo Neruda

I can jumpstart the sun with a blink of an eye, smear day into day upon day, and hide myself among the creases. But the nights...

It's always hot when I stare up at the night of my imagination. The porch chair sags with my weight, while above, ribbons of wind furrow the moon's orange clouds. Fat and false, reflecting light like a lion's eye - this moon never wanes, and there's never no man with a half-crescent smile to scare children to sleep. This moon strokes the sky with the hand of a lover and my lover in hand. She keeps cities of dead, prayers of the dying, and secrets she has no mouth to tell.

In the long intervals between bouting sanity, I rock on my chair, which creaks like bones. A brittle grind that snaps and rends with the staccato beat of the dead. I lift my eyes to mile upon mile of prairie grass, tall as a man, dipping, shining. Seed heads sway under the thick hum of cicadas. This is not the grass I remember, and the cicadas' grind was never so insistently soft...so muted. Blood-warm, the sound asphyxiates my thoughts, and prompts Harvey to return...to remind me to breathe.

"Ah, John," he says, shaking his head sadly. He stays a while, watches the far-off flicker of soundless lightning, before placing a too-warm hand upon my own. "This is no way to live, and no way to dream."

"It's all I've got. It's all that's left."

He tuts and moves away, sits upon a broken step. Swats at the gnats attracted by the light.

"Why gnats?" he asks, grinding one to a smear between his fingers.

I look away and close my eyes, to find her waiting. Head resting against my knee, patiently watching the hush and bow of the grass. She lifts her head, shakes the hair from her eyes, and in that instant I love her again, and again, and nothing else will ever be so warm, so real. She reaches for my hand, entwines her fingers with my own, pulls me over, draws me nearer...but even she can't pull me closer.

"Why here, John?" she asks, in a voice that's softened by sadness. Her lips cool the skin of my face, and make my heart beat like fever. "Why do you always bring me here?"

Standing up, I help her to her feet, and we walk together, to where the edge of the grass ripples. Cowardice makes me hesitate, and I glance back to see Harvey's silhouette wavering in the weak lantern light. He's leaning lazily on the porch rail, the glowing tip of his cigarette floating like a firefly.

Aeryn sees him too, but she turns away, clutches my hand and doesn't ask questions. We push on and through, and the tall grass curls and bends like a wave forever breaking on a shore. Small creatures rustle and run from our crushing feet.

The grass ripples, snaps and breaks, throwing up a fresh sweet smell; and I'm anywhere but here, and those stars could be the same stars that dodge the harvest-moon-stained clouds of nights past memory. A large bird - woken from rest - flaps fearfully into the sky, wings rimed with frost. A soft feather spirals to the grass like an unanswered prayer.

It's here I pause, in this soft, breathing circle. Pause and hold her, perfect face tilted in my hands, this woman who learnt to love, and loves me. The one who promises more than I could ever want. I abandon words, just stare into those depthless eyes - eyes that soften to velvet as she smiles.

Time can stretch out forever in a beat of a moment, rip a trail through your memory to a road you'll forever tread. There's no sun, no moon, no room for Harvey, but she smiles at me, smile pushing against my hands, crinkling the skin around her eyes. Warm skin soaking into my hands, dark eyes the depths of all her oceans, as soft...as soft as the cicadas' sweep, as deep, as deep as the blackest velvet.

*

That was the time we were lost together, standing in that small circle, the top of the grass tickling the moon. That cold moon. I thought if we were small enough, quiet enough, she'd forget the two who hid beneath her in the sea of grass. Above our heads, stars plunged and were born again, black holes ground light in their gaping maws, planets revolved like clockwork machines, spinning like spun sugar candy.

Aeryn broke away, listened. But all I heard was the slip and slither of the wind, the rustle as her boot brushed the trampled grass. Then she tumbled against me, exploding like a star. Fell in a tangle of loose limbs, ungainly as a new-born colt subsiding to the ground. She shivered, drew herself in, fingers clutching burnt flesh, pushing back blood. Her eyes clawed their way to my face, and she smiled - the rest of our lives were lived in that moment...if you forgot the unfulfilled promises.

I fell to my knees and kissed her, smoothed the tangles from her hair. She lay still and cried my tears. Her open eyes reflected the quick high clouds above that were coiling into angry mountains. The air had thickened with her blood, with the intimate scent of her. I caught her hand as it fell from the gaping wound, and the blood wound through her fingers to mine.

*

They rock me back on my heels, but I'm alone. They haul me to my feet, but I'm alone. An immense white loneliness as vast as a polar sea. She isn't here. She's walking on those angry clouds. She isn't here. The night sighs and turns away, but I listen for her voice, for the soft edge of her laugh, or the steady pulse of her breath. The insects call, the moment gone, the living have forgotten her already. She lies, unmoving, lips apart, the moonlight the last to kiss her skin. She doesn't look at me. She isn't here.

When I walk, the cool blue reels from me, stars crash into running streams. My bound hands remain cold, fingers searching for the warmth of her hand. I search for her blood in my mouth and commit the taste to memory.

And then, when I close my eyes, she's already waiting for me. Falls in with an easy familiarity, walking by my side. "It's your Heaven," she says with a shrugging smile. "I just found my way here."

Between bouting sanity, they tell me I'm found, safe now, caressed by rooms within rooms, and walls around walls. Where the stroke of a symbol can become an hour or three or five, because time revolves like the wind that licks her hair, or hangs suspended from the faintest of her smiles.

And I wait for the times when I'm lost again, for the times we're lost together on that smallest of islands. For the rocking chair that creaks in the humid night, and breaks like brittle bones. For the times when Harvey reminds me to breathe, grinding the spent cigarette under the heel of his boot. For the times when she turns her face to mine, and asks, "Why do you always bring me here?"

And I wait for the time when I can give her an answer.

*

end

Scribbling in the Margins

Fri, 10 Sep 2004 12:37:12 GMT

John goes a little crazy - end of season 2 John pov fic written for Scorpy808. Thanks go to Apster and Kerne, a gal's best friends - and the beta dream team.

Scribbling in the Margins

So, have I told you that I haven't been feeling too well of late?

Dear Abby, Abilene...Pru, Prudence. Dear Dr Ruth.... To all Amorphic Goddesses of Paper-Stuffed Tripewriters, beatin' out words of gentle comfort - I just haven't been...myself.

I'm leaving on a jet-plane, don't know when I'll be back again.

The words roll up and down the corridor and when they get back to me, I laugh madly, then peek my head around Moya's gentle curve for a look-see, wonderin' if anyone out there'll take the time to listen this time. And there's this Sheyang, belching out smoke like an industrial chimney before air-pollution reforms. First time I've seen a Sheyang without it trying to kill me, second-hand smoke notwithstanding. I cough and wave the miasma away. "You ever tried going cold-turkey?" I mumble, and it's the first time I've seen a Sheyang look surprised.

...a Sheyang look surprised. And, like I said, for those whose attention spans are shrinking faster than my own...now, what was I sayin'? Oh, yeah...

Dear Abby. I have this 'admirer'. Picked him up on my travels, a trinket from a junk pile, or maybe I just turned around and there he was. What does he look like? Well, he's as creepy as a fetishist's wet-dream...try 'n' picture that. He's all shiny, shiny boots, wrapped like a crocodile with an alligator smile. What? Don't you believe me? (Abby's shaking her head, doin' the 'circling finger around the temple' routine. Should I tell her she looks sexy in those heavy-framed glasses? And that figure-hugging turtleneck sweater? But, I digress...)

This creep's the kind of 'admirer' that haunts lonely parking lots after dark. The kind that comes for you when you're fumbling for your keys under a jittery streetlight. The spectral kind that rears up from the back seat when you think you're alone. I'll be the first to admit that I'm sounding kinda lost and lonely here... Nothing new, granted...but still...but still... (Abby nods, gentle frown creasing her forehead. Perfect white teeth chewing on the end of her erasing pencil. God love her.)

Footsteps sound and I peek around the corner again. D'Argo's leading the Marlboro Man-Beast away with a hearty hand across the creature's shoulder. D catches sight of me, and that look freezes and burns at the same time. Like dry ice spewing cold and blue from a blowtorch. When Luxan eyes are definitely not smiling...

So, I eventually find myself gathering a few things together. A fresh shirt, a change of underwear, and I even remember to stuff a dentic into my pocket. Not much for a trip to oblivion, but a man who travels light, travels fast...or something. Though a man who travels with a dentic is obviously on his way to hell in a handbasket, 'n' let the devil take care of his own.

As I pull on my jacket, the voice in my head eases its incessant badgering down to more tolerable levels. Seems that I've finally accessed the volume switch. Thank God I'm making someone happy...and for my part, don't they say that a change is as good as a holiday? 'Cause for so long I've been wishing 'I was there', if you catch my meaning. (Abby smiles, adjusts those sexy glasses and places her long fingers on the typewriter keys. Dudes, I'm talking elegant long fingers here, nails with perfect half-moon curves...stroke, stroke, stroking those keys... But, to proceed with my story...) Hey, did I tell you already that I haven't been feeling well of late?

So, there I am. My bags are packed and I'm ready for the bus. There was a moment of dissent with the powers that be, when I remembered to record my goodbye message, and for awhile there, I couldn't hear myself think over the implant's jabber. Y'see, my pooka just doesn't understand sentimentality. It's beyond his purview, his scope - his area of expertise, if you will. A little fast-talking brought him 'round. I think I can safely say that black-clad pookas don't like to be kept waiting...or, so I gathered from the talk in the locker-room. (I tap my forehead here, for those who aren't getting the full picture. Abby slips me a knowing wink, and pushes across some hot coffee. Man, can that gal leer. From somewhere in the next room, a record crackles as a needle hits the vinyl. Finds a groove, hits the slot, and Abby sings that song again.)

I'm leaving on a jet-plane, don't know when I'll be back again.

My voice reverberates through the landing bay, washing over my li'l white bird, who's still perched in her corner, preening her burnt feathers. I slide a hand across her hull and she settles down. Poor kid, she wanted to be a homing pigeon, but they went and died out a long time ago. Kiss that dream goodbye, babe. Them's the breaks, I guess. To the victor, the spoils. Lucky Victor. Something's wrong, and I just can't... Something's gone rotten somewhere, and I just can't...put my finger on it. "Ah, metaphor...metaphor..." I murmur, slipping into the transport pod's seat, "the madman's friend."

You know when you're tired and you're travelling home, and the bus is all kinda cosy, 'cause it's dark past those windows, but it's so light within? Well, at some indefinable point, all those people you're travelling with...suddenly become friends. A nod or a roll of the eyes, a hundred fractured reflections come together, and there's this crystalline clarity that wasn't there before. (Abby sways from the handstrap, standing even though the bus is empty. And when the bus leans, she rides the turns, curls into the curves, breasts jiggling slightly at every bump. She's got a fixed smile like that over-rated painting, prim lips that'll keep the secrets of all her admirers.) Only...the dog...the damned dog at my feet keeps whimpering and shaking. You'd think it was taking a trip to the vets.

When Abby sighs and sashays off at the second-to-last stop, it finally clicks that my back-seat driver has been doing all the driving, and we're landing at the Depository with enough firepower pointing my way that, if worse came to worse, not even my dentic would be left alive. Not that I'd've made a different choice, but I guess it's kind of hard on the dentic.

The voices urge me out at volume setting eleven, and it's not long before Scorpius is circling 'round like a big cat at a kill that's still not quite dead. He's my rear-vision ghost made real. The flesh and blood of my fear incarnate, razor-sharp with a slickened menace that cuts effortlessly through the fucking noise. John. He croons my name and it's all I can hear. It's soft across his needle-sharp teeth. Hello, John.

When you're scraping the bottom of the barrel, watch out for the monkey crap. Strange symptoms I've been having lately, doc. Been mixin' my metaphors with the best of them. The doc tuts, slings a stethoscope over his leather-clad head. 'Do you mean, metaphorically speaking?' Then my own personal pooka draws away with an echo of my laugh, and a slam of a door. Sharp fear fills the grinning ghost's wake.

So that bastard's just circling, appraising the bargain basement goods on the remnant table. I knew I'd seen that look somewhere before. "You want the wormhole technology... I want your implant out of my head. So, finally, the rift between us is not so great. You do what you got to do... You win."

Yeah, I know it sounds a bit hackneyed, but given the circumstances, it's the best I can do. The bastard reaches out, lays a heavy hand on my shoulder that shreds my words to so much confetti. If I was in a lyrical frame of mind, I'd say I watched them blow away on the wind.

"As if there was ever any doubt."

After bestowing the patented triumphant smirk, he steps away, waves his hand like a conjuror, an AU David Copperfield with a real live captive audience. He's got the spotlight now, knows how to work the crowd like a pro, revelling in his magical powers of mystery and illusion. A wall of monitors snap into life, and like a fleeting apparition, D'Argo's kid is hustled past and onto a transport, bewildered face flickering from the bank of screens. Again and again, the kid brushes past me on his way to freedom. It's then I know it was worth it, purely from the look of astonishment on the boy's battered face.

"That was recorded earlier, to assure you of my sincerity." Scorpius turns to me, all sweet reasonableness, like he's trying to make up after an argument of the domestic kind.

"Was that really him? Was that Jothee?" I ask, to dent that smug bastard's smile, and damn me, that smile wavers then dims, like, like - hey, why am I doing all the work here?

"We have work to do," he says curtly, running his hand down my cheek, a touch that's echoed from inside. He turns with a showy flourish, disappearing into the Depository's labyrinthine corridors with the saunter of a happy shopper waiting for his home delivery. To save the remnants of my pride, I wait for the guards to give me some...encouragement...before I follow. After all, there's nothing like a little pain to clear the synapses and reveal a view to a new horizon. If I'm going to die, and die relatively young, I want to see that train a'coming.

And that's not too much to ask, is it?

...

end

Rainman

Fri, 10 Sep 2004 12:21:52 GMT

Written for farscapefriday. Thanks once again to Shaye for graciously letting me have my request of rain and/or storms. This one really did break the drought.

Rainman

You wait where she put you, a rare collectible on a shelf, hiding behind a newspaper that you’ll never read even if you had a month of Sundays. The bricks beneath you are as hard as her parting words. You lick your wounds by proxy, lick your thumb and forefinger and dutifully turn a rustling page. ‘Crichton,’ she’d said, with a flounce of her hair and a touch of asperity, ‘just stay there.’ ‘Sure thing, boss.’

The sky is that leaden colour – the colour that eats up sound and makes it hard to breathe. The market throng glance upward, heft up their purchases and calculate the time required to reach home. The canvas of the market stalls quit flapping several years ago, in the ominous silence the stall-owners scurry to secure their wares. You yawn and tap your heels against the wall. You’re gonna stay put, because you’re both stubborn. Lick finger and thumb and turn another page. From somewhere deep inside, Harvey laughs at the funnies. Ain’t evolution a wondrous thing?

A sudden squall sends the awnings flapping, merchandise crashing, ropes snapping, dog wannabes yapping. Snatches several hats from unsuspecting heads. There’re muted yells, yelled imprecations, and a cloud of kenta seeds bowling down the thoroughfare. You would’ve laughed as the unlucky owners darted, loped or scurried after their errant headwear, but you’re too busy trying to keep the overblown pages under control. Finally the paper is torn from your hands, swirls away on the wind. "Great. She’ll never believe me…"

The sky is that leaden colour – the colour that pushes the air from your lungs and brings on headaches. You sit above the emptiness like a reckless king, hold out a hand to taunt the storm. It’s just you, your defiant joke, and a merchant zipping up a plastic window, canting his head to the side until mama merchant pulls him away. It’s just you, and the kenta seeds that dip and twirl like Swan-lake ballerinas, flock and sway like birds – pretty, but hell for hay fever.

‘Babe…babe….’ You’re not gonna move until she comes. A warm drop lands on your outstretched palm and makes you jump.

The sky is the colour of an unwashed sea. An inverted dome, disorientating to one lone guy stuck atop a wall. Lightning flicks beneath the green gray waves. Not the forked kind but the whole cutlery set including the fish knives, and the angsty thunder rolls and prowls through the deserted market. It stops to sniff your proferred hand, discards you, then moves on.

"Aeryn…babe?" Thick drops star the sandy soil, splash in your hair, run down your face. "Frell it…"

Suddenly, the warm sky is lapping at your toes, filling up your mouth and eyes. It shudders like a waterfall, thumps like a hydraulic jack. The sand rises in puffs before it’s slicked back and drowned. Lightning licks the top of the stalls. Litter rises and floats, pushing out tentatively into a burgeoning sea. You lift your hands, shield your eyes and peer into the gloom. "Er…babe…?"

The tug on your boot widens your horizon. Upturned white face, drenched dark hair, eyes that cut through the rain. She nods at a deserted stall, then you nod, push yourself from the wall, splash land awkwardly and trail obediently behind. She’s all anger and relief – putty in your hands.

"Why? Why, Crichton?" "Can’t hear you…" You point upward at the crush of rain, then lift your hands to her face, thumbs stroking cheekbones, circling down to stroke the wetness from her lips. She opens her mouth, but that blessed waterfall washes away her words. She smiles, then progresses to that laugh she does with her eyes. Wraps a hand around your waist and presses into you, moulding curve into curves as supple as clay.

Outside, the sky is the colour of her promise.

And when you kiss, she tastes like honeyed rain.

Six Letters To A Friend

Mon, 06 Sep 2004 11:32:09 GMT

Thanks once again to the farscapefriday evil enablers for stoking up my imagination. This fic is a parody of Ivan Turgenev's 'Faust' with a passing nod to Woody Allen. And yep, it's also Farscapian. *g*

Six Letters To A Friend

The first letter
From J. C. to D. R.

Village of Vassily Craisovitch
1 June, 20XXX

Dear friend!

You would not recognise the old place now. The house is as bowed as Madam Zhaan's legs – and almost as old - while Starkov still wears a mask, and nankeen trousers. After a moment of hesitation, he greeted me in his usual friendly fashion, face literally beaming and his arms windmilling in that comical way of his. After knocking over a few vases, he grabbed my bags (and my arm) and led me to my room. Even now, I can hear him happily chattering away as he fries up a nice slice of budong for my supper. Actually, I think he's burning it, the smell of smoke is overwhelming…

Yes, my friend, after the travails of recent cycles, it's good to be back home. My chamber is as I left it – the books musty and untouched, and a good inch of dust bristling upon my dressing table. As I lie back on the filthy bedcover, there upon the ceiling is Aerynova's name – still picked out in pulse-blast shots. Ah, the folly of youth…but hush, there's a frantic step on the stair and an amber light beaming through the web-caked knotholes of the door. Either a fire is burning down the house, or Starkov has brought me up my meal.

Until my next letter,

Yours,

J. C.

The second letter
From J.C to D. R.

Village of Vassily Craisovitch
15 June, 20xxx

You ask if I'm still alive. Sometimes I doubt it myself. A deep feeling of ennui has settled on me, and although the weather is fine for Lxxx, it could be snowing outside, such is the melancholic nature of my inner despair.

Starkov tries his best but his merry capering cannot alleviate the sense that I have wasted my life. Yes, I admit it, your dire predictions have proved correct. As I near my forties, the dread hand of Death has settled upon me. He eats with me and drinks with me, and on top of that, he's not a very good conversationalist.

Starkov has suggested a trip to the village and I will take his advice. Anything is better than lying here in this dingy room and staring up at Aerynova's name. Before I leave at the end of summer, I will ask Starkov to paint over it.

Until my next letter,

Yours,

J. C.

The third letter
From J.C to D. R.

Village of Vassily Craisovitch
22 June, 20xxx

Dear and gentle friend!

Forgive me for not replying sooner. I have the feeblest of excuses to offer, namely that something strange and remarkable has occurred.

To shake off my lassitude you may remember that I resolved to stroll to the nearby village. Although the day was fine by the standards of Lxxx – only a little sleet and no hail at all to speak of – the spectre of Death accompanied my every step, my every glance at verge or tree or flower, his very presence throwing me ever deeper into despair.

"The bluebells are out late this year," he started hopefully, fingering his scythe with a gayness that I did not feel. "Do you think a tie in that colour would suit me?"

I was saved from reply when a carriage drew up by my side. Imagine my surprise when the door was flung open by my old school-friend, Vassily Craisovitch himself.

"J! Old friend!" he said, looking every bit like the staid and prosperous citizen he had always been.

Seizing my chance, I quickly jumped in and urged the driver to hurry. Only when we were underway, did I risk a look out of the window – Death was standing in the road, scuffing mournfully at the pebbles with a black-booted foot.

When I leant back with a heart-rending sigh, Craisovitch stared at me in surprise, then shrugging, he laughed off my ill-manners, deciding to treat my commandeering of his carriage as one of my little peculiarities.

"You have no doubt been wondering about Aerynova…" he confided, after we had passed the usual pleasantries, and we had each ascertained that the other was in good health.

Aerynova!!! Even now the name brought back bittersweet memories. I fell back on the cushions in a swoon and tried to draw deeper breaths into my shuddering lungs. "Aerynova! Aerynova!!" I whimpered, dabbing at my streaming eyes with the lace from Craisovitch's shirt.

If Vassily Craisovitch was aware of my confusion he did not remark upon it. Instead he merely said, "Aerynova Sunova…is now my wife."

And now, dear friend, I must leave you. Starkov has somehow roasted a leg of mutton without benefit of an oven and Death has offered to do the carving…and the plating-up.

Hoping this finds you in good health,

Your friend,

J. C.

The fourth letter
From J.C to D. R.

Village of Vassily Craisovitch
25 June, 20xxx

I thought I would take up my pen and write to you. How unfair your accusation that I am 'toying' with you. As you yourself have intimated on many occasions – and taking this opportunity to reiterate something that I am fully cognizant of – 'you are not a puppet'. However, I will concede that I did break off a little before the end of my story. I know you will forgive me if I say that Starkov's mutton is every bit as succulent as ever. One day I shall ask him how he makes it so tender. But, really, what Starkov can do with a sheep has to be seen to be believed.

So now, and because I have already partaken of my evening meal, I shall proceed with my story…and what a remarkable story I have to relate.

When I awoke from my swoon in Craisovitch's carriage, I found myself looking into the face of Aerynova. She was dabbing at my fevered forehead with the torn remains of Craisovitch's shirt, while the shirtless Craisovitch stared on glumly from the shade of a nearby tree.

"You tore off my husband's shirt," Aerynova said reprovingly, her cooling fingers tracing long lines across my brow.

"What will the servants think?" I asked to cover my rising embarrassment.

She got to her feet, wiped her hands on her cotton dress, then took a large rectangular package from a shifty, rather insignificant man who hovered by her elbow.

"J? This is Miklo Brachamann," she said, gesturing to the simpering man who bowed at the introduction. "A German teacher my husband met on his travels. He is staying with us."

"This gen'lmann vill be staying for luncheon?" Brachamann asked despondently, his eyes raking my disheveled state with a hint of malice.

"No! No!" I must be getting back," I said clambering to my feet with a surge of anxiety. "Starkov is baking boars knuckles–"

"You still have Starkov?" Craisovitch said, edging forward, a flush of rage and sunburn suffusing his puffy features. "You know that he wouldn't work for me," he grunted, face puckering in sourness. "I even offered him a new suit of clothes and two pigs at Christmas. Does he still wear those nankeen trousers?"

Craisovitch was looking at me so strangely that I nodded soundlessly, not trusting myself to speak.

"Starkov? Yah? Light on, yah?" Brachamann chuckled, waggling a finger by his forehead. "Light on, yah? – but no-one zey are home."

Craisovitch flashed him a malevolent stare quite striking in its intensity, then returned once more to the shade of the tree.

"You must come tomorrow," Aerynova said, her straw hat bobbing in the gale. "We are going boating on the lake."

"Yah! Tomorrow, boating ve go!"

"Tomorrow, then," I said, taking my leave.

I realised as soon as I walked through the gate what a monumental fool I'd been. The image of the half-clad Craisovitch still burned in my brain. Or was it really Aerynova that I loved…? If only I'd stayed on for luncheon… Muddled and confused, I tucked Vassily Craisovitch's lace into my shirt and trudged home to a quite excellent boars knuckle in a lovely piquant field mushroom sauce. Over dessert – which was flambe budong – Death came up with a quite hilarious account of people's last words, of which 'how the fuck did that miserable shit get into heaven?' featured quite prominently. Buoyed by the excellent meal and the good cheer, I took to my bed and slept better than I ever have before.

Hoping this finds you in a surfeit of vigour,

Your good friend,

J. C.

The fifth letter
From J.C to D. R.

Village of Vassily Craisovitch
30 June, 20xxx

Friend…

I hardly know how to put this – maybe if I just write that Aerynova Sunova, Vassily Craisovitch, and the most excellent Starkov are missing or presumed dead, you will understand the depth of my despair. You will no doubt want to know what happened, and I your humble correspondent and good friend, will endeavour to inform you. However, it is only due to my extraordinarily resilient nature – of which you have been wont to joke about so cruelly – that this gentle friend can bring himself to write, only now, a mere five days after the extraordinary series of incidents that lead to such dire consequences.

(As Miklo Brachamann is currying fat for my breakfast in the German style, I shall try to make my recollections brief.)

The next day dawned quite sunny for these parts, indeed, if I stood quite still and stared closely I could just about make out the shadow on the sundial. I pottered around the house and the stables but always my feet kept turning towards Craisovitch's house. This eventually threw my back out and necessitated Starkov fetching the nearest chiropractor. Finally, the time came, and I was able to depart. I covered the not inconsiderable distance in good measure, and soon the gates loomed up in my vision.

Aerynova glided down the tree-lined path towards me, the bulky package from yesterday still tucked under her arm, and Brachamann still close by her dainty heels. It was as if I'd never been home and sampled Starkov's tasty knuckles.

"Tell me, Aerynova Sunova," I asked with a painful rush of curiosity, "what is in that strange parcel?"

"It's a portrait of my mother," she replied in a wistful tone. "I always carry it with me. Would you like to see it?"

"No," I responded (and really, my good friend, you do remember that it was Madam Xhalaxova, Aerynova's mother, who turned down my proposal of marriage for her daughter? I had no wish to stare once again at those burning hate-filled eyes, the generally grim visage, the thin twisted lips, and that unwavering pulse pistol pointed directly at my nether regions…need I go on?)

Aerynova simply smiled in that charming, artless way. "Come," she said, "luncheon is served."

"Where's Craisovitch?" I asked, yearning once again to see that manly form, the stolid expression that had begun to awaken in me the stirrings of love, and the dappling light playing across his stocky chest that had sealed the deal and stolen my heart forever.

"He shooting go," Miklo grunted, ushering me up the stairs and into the house with a hand placed squarely on my behind. I could tell he was yearning for his pickled cabbage, and this turned out to be prescient. However…

Lunch was a dull affair. What I ever saw in Aerynova… Oh, my long-suffering friend! Maybe her mother had been right to refuse me all those years ago. Aerynova was dull, provincial, lacking in imagination and had never read an edifying book like Dostoyevsky's 'The House of the Dead'. She slurped her soup like a peasant, and spat her olive pits into the corners. Any vestiges of love died in me when one landed in my food, and whenever the door opened, I looked up hoping to see the familiar reassurance of Vassily Craisovitch's dull, sunburned face. However, it was always another servant with another steaming course of that interminable lunch.

Miklo Brachamann, however, turned out to be delightful company. In that cold atmosphere he was warm, even if I may say so, decidedly gay, relating long and extremely ribald German jokes that even a blushing Aerynova laughed at. He was generally so interesting that when the end of the meal finally rolled around with the pickled herring freshener towelettes, I was surprised to find that I was most disappointed.

"Now to the lake, ve go!" he said, winking lasciviously. "I'm thinking ve all get wet, no? Or, moist? Is zat ze vord?"

But before we could leave the table, a server rushed in with a note for her mistress. Aerynova Sunova read the note and threw it on the table in disdain. "Craisovitch has run off with 'half-a-light' Starkov!" she sneered. "They both send their best regards and want me to send down the kitchen pastry brushes," she continued, her voice now cold and toneless. Rising from her chair, she took up the portrait and strode from the room. "Come gentlemen, let us not dwell on such unpleasantness. The lake awaits."

"Vot a lady!" Brachamann exclaimed, feverishly finishing the last of his towelettes with German relish.

And speaking of German relish, Brachamann has just walked into the room. He insists I put my pen down, and the German scamp always gets his way. I will send the next letter to you at my earliest convenience my friend.

I remain your faithful correspondent,

J. C.

The sixth letter
From J.C to D. R.

Village of Krempowavania
12 December, 20xxx

Dear friend! Time has flown and I completely forgot about my unfinished story until your last letter. Yes, you have a right to be angry, my behaviour has been unconscionable, and I raise my pen to rectify what must have been for you a quite intolerable and frustrating hiatus. But, before I begin, Brachamann sends his love and asks if you can post down a Hynerian tickler.

From your angry letter, it seems I broke off before we went boating, so that is where I'll pick up the threads of my most remarkable story.

The day by then was about as good as it gets in Lxxx. The hail was steady and not driving, and the wind was about 20 kleks. We pushed off from the shore and Aerynova took the wheel, taking us out into the centre of the lake. The gusting wind flicked at the surface of the waves and before long we were all drenched as per Brachamann's earlier jocular prediction. Aerynova, though, didn't flinch – her beautiful face was stony and set, the only animation she showed was when she paused to speak to the painted canvas of her mother's portrait that was now – unfortunately - bereft of its brown paper cover. Whether it was by accident or some strange whim of the gods, that pulse pistol was still pointed at my nether regions. It seemed from the dead woman's thin-lipped grin that she was seeking vengeance from the grave. Brachamann followed the weapon to my groin with his eyes and shook his head in sympathy.

"The forces of nature have lives of zere own," he muttered mysteriously.

It was only when we out of sight of land that Aerynova let out a breath and relaxed, lashed the rudder steady, and dropped to the bottom of the boat where she looked up at the sky.

"Sing for me, Brachamann," she said.

"Do you not wish to hear a reading?" I asked, slightly miffed at her casual dismissal of one of my quite impressive talents.

"Sing...read..." she remarked, face still turned to the sky. "It makes no difference to me. I cry tragedy to the wind…"

Hoping to prove her wrong, I took out Dostoyevsky's 'The House of the Dead' and quickly found one of the more joyful passages. You know the one where Priimkov finds a weevil in his bread? But, before I could begin, Brachamann started singing in a most pleasant soprano voice.

"Das A-B-C-D- wenn ich dich seh!" And ending with "U-F-V-X- Mach'einen Knix!"

"Very nice," I said, finding myself choking with emotion.

"Zat's 'Ze ABC of Love'," he said, wringing out his jacket with wiry fingers, and giving me a significant glance.

"Do you know, 'My Tiny Hand Is Frozen?'" I asked, when a gust of wind picked up Xhalaxova's portrait and dumped it over the side. My snicker of glee turned to a cry of anguished horror as Aerynova cried out, 'I'm coming mother' and flung herself from the prow, disappearing underneath the waves.

I need hardly dwell on our desperate measures to save her. Brachamann tossed in a length of rope, while I prodded the water with a pole. I even threw in 'TheHouse of the Dead', rather stupidly hoping that Dostoyevsky would save the day, but after a minute or two of most vigorous effort, Brachamann and I both gave up and lay panting on the bottom of the boat.

That's when Brachamann sang the most perfect rendition of 'Queen of the Night'. In memory he said, of a most wonderful hostess and lady, but I wondered if there was something else lurking beneath the sentiment.

We eventually guided the boat to shore and Brachamann and I set off to see if we could locate Craisovitch to impart the sad news.

But of Craisovitch and Starkov we found nothing, and although a bloody handprint was found in the kitchen (along with a boiling pigs head) we couldn't tell how fresh either of them were. As of writing, Vassily Craisovitch and Starkov still remain missing.

And that is the end of my most singular story. Did Xhalaxova call to her daughter from her grave? I hardly dare to say – Death no doubt would know the answer, but he disappeared too, taking his tie collection with him.

Sometimes, on those hot summer nights, I lie in my bed and think on it all. What did it mean? All I can say with certainty is that there are less things on Heaven and Earth than you can find in an Hynerian one-stop shop, and that's what really matters, eh?

Brachamann is busy admiring my pulse-pistol handiwork – I have just inscribed his name upon my ceiling. Who cares what the landlord will say? Life is long but happiness is short, and Brachamann even shorter.

Yours...your ever faithful friend,

J. C.

No More Words

Mon, 26 Apr 2004 11:14:34 GMT

I've got this bad habit of posting my raw ideas to farscapefriday. In my defence, I don't think they're so raw at the time, but when I leave them for a few months and come back to them...well, distance and time can really make you see the faults. So this piece has been rewritten twice since its first unveiling on farscapefriday. It's now a story. Thanks to boofadil for the beta duties this time. Her suggestions were spot on and really improved the flow. Rated G.

No More Words

The roiling maw retracts with the violence of a fisted punch – Moya snared in its anger, its greed. It pulls away, rolls, turns, surges briefly, then explodes into shattering nothingness.

Heavy, limitless nothingness.

No horizon line to curve to tomorrow, no bright and depthless sun to consume a life of so little time.

He’s swept into the shocked pause which follows catastrophe. That long, soft moment of sinking silence where the boiling dust hangs suspended, and the survivors have not yet begun to scream.

The moment passes with a thump of shuddering breath, the stars crashing into ice black oceans. He presses a palm against the plexiglass barrier, peers through his outstretched fingers to unreality. Searching for a pulse to trigger his own scream.

Out there, past the splay of his fingers are ball-games, sunburn and hot-dogs – that one perfect wave he rode in a far-off summer. Out there it's perfect.

His lips form the word.

Perfect.

He sweeps back her hair, smiles at that resolute face, rubs his thumb across the pout of her lips. Until he’s lost in the restless shift and sway of his secretive lover. She drags him behind her – her trophy, the loser in the game. She consumes his thoughts with a hard-won smile and stars in his dreams, child-heavy, dark lashes blinking his sun from her eyes.

Her lightest touch kick starts his heart. Over his screaming body, the universe reels him into silence. Ejects him like an irritant. Abandons him to the depths of a de-oxygenated sea. No more words. Kinda fitting ain't it?

Harvey’s frantic calculations remind him of a priest on speed. An insistent mumble on the nature of time. Or lack of it. Harvey doesn't do death well, it's not in the literature. Couches it in vague terms, wraps it in euphemism. Not so superior after all. He wonders if even clones can bleed. Harvey's soft intonations accompany each shallow breath, so he breathes again, a gossamer lifeline to his dogged shadow. Keeps them alive for a long five seconds, then five seconds more, then five seconds more...

His daughter has freckles...

Sugar 'n' spice, and all things nice.

Shakes his head with a grimace, and even Harvey stops pacing and glances up with a sneer. No matter... She smiles a gap-toothed smile, long hair falling from a loose braid. There would have been a bike for Christmas, shiny presents beneath a tinsel silver tree. His son is ruddy-cheeked, sun-bleached hair, and childish trouble brewing behind his eyes. A kid of dragon-flies, and spiders. Tadpoles in muddy streams. Glass jars and cases would have lined the shelves by his bed.

His breath mists out and scrubs away their faces. Cold fingers press life into his still warm palms.

He dies a little inside, but hey, that’s nothing new. Notch another scar on his freeze-burned soul. Soon he’ll float like a warning in a becalmed sea. A carbon-scored white beacon, stars and stripes to wrap him. A letter of flesh and bone in a fragile bottle.

And as he retreats and dies, Harvey will say the last of his prayers, because when nothing's left, there’s always belief. And as Harvey lights the final candle to add to the countless others, Aeryn will call his name like she used to do before. John.

Soft and low. And he'll curl his frozen fingers into the depths of her hair. And he’ll drown in her eyes, breathe in her scent with that last frantic breath. The one who tripped the wire, who encoded her message deep within his bones.

Five seconds, then five seconds more...

He pushes aside the frost on the glass to catch a glimpse of her. She runs, then turns, and smiling, beckons him on.

**

end

An Hour, An Arn

Fri, 09 Apr 2004 12:01:10 GMT

When John encounters Grayza on Arnessk, she leaves him for an arn, while she takes care of other business. PG-13.

An Hour, An Arn

Q. What did you do today, honey?
A. I hid in the darkness of the palms of my hands.

A great green room
And a red balloon.

In the great green room, I met a guy I used to know. Goes around lapping the soles of the dirtiest boots. Hey, don’t laugh momma, it could be me.... Just give me an arn, and I’ll be your boy.

A telephone
A dog and bone
A bitch beggin’ for water.

A great green room. No windows, but time...man. Got me an hour, an arn, a pig and a farm. Pizza, beer, and pin up the cheesecake. Feet up, and watch the show. Artificial cream...whipped door-to-door, and stop to pop the cherries.

I found me an hour once...somewhere in Mippippippi. Don’t laugh...don’t laugh. She’s listening, and you know there’s such a place.... Count backwards, count your fingers and toes, and start from...now.

A green room. Lick...suck...hell-fuck the messenger. Beer’s warm in the fridge, and that dog...that dog will parade in a sawdust ring.

The dog, the bone and the telephone...go jump the picket fences.

Got me an hour
An arn
A horse in the barn.

Been there, read those one-plane maps. Paper contours you can leap by hand. Lines fallin’ off paper. Peeled and thrown away...bruised skin that’ll hurt tomorrow. Don’tchya know yet? She’s gonna get it. It’s all in the bag. A cut-lunch sickness.

In the great green room, I met a guy I used to know. His eyes don’t shine no more, but man, can he smile. Give him a ‘phone...and he’ll talk along the dotted lines...walk between those cracks. He got good at that – autopilot. But promise that you’ll never tell....

Crash ‘n’ burn
No room to turn.

Hey, momma? Momma? Are you there? An hour, an arn, before she’ll smile and make it easy....

A great green room
And a red balloon.

*

end

Trying The Narrow View

Sun, 08 Feb 2004 11:39:46 GMT

My favourite Hynerian narrows his focus, and takes his imagination for a spin. A short character piece. PG-13.

Trying the Narrow View

You’re not giving in of course. Those...considerations...can drive the rest of the crew. Their pathetic wants, their rampant flights of imagination have always been beneath you – you tsk and tut condescendingly, shaking your head. But, it’s a simple cause and effect. An experiment, if you will. So you narrow your eyes and narrow your view. After all, you’ve proved time and again, that the small things shouldn’t be discounted.

So there’s this one good woman. Beautiful, even in a good light – and you’d expect no less. She brings you a hat when the sun’s too strong, or a pitcher of something cool and quenching, when you’re resting in the shade. The easy sway of her hips when she walks make the icecubes tinkle against the frosted glass – you nod slightly to denote approval, acknowledge her presence with a vague motion of your hand.

She will keep your house clean upon small silent footsteps, and rustle up platefuls of steaming marjoules in the twinkling of your eye – your tongue licks your lips in heady anticipation. In the mornings she’ll dress you, soft hands flattening the silken folds of your robe until they fall just so – you shiver as the cool material flutters to the contours of your body. And at night she’ll undress you with those same gentle hands, plump up your pillows – you grin here – and beckon you closer with a lift of her earbrow.

Her shy smile will wipe away the unpleasant memories of your previous wives – you frown, and shift a little on the sled, nearly opening your eyes – but she’ll laugh and pull you onto the scented sheets. She’ll walk her hand up your chest with teasing fingers, and circle her thumb in the tender spot beneath your chin. She’ll rub and tweak your oh so right places, and restore a semblance of your former vigour – gently now! It won’t do to frighten her. The poor child is not used to the grandeur of majesty....

She’ll be familiar with the fifty-seven basic positions, and all their esoteric variants – you take a shuddering breath – and maybe you’ll discover a few more – a small giggle lodges in your throat, and you swallow it away. And afterwards, she’ll wipe your damp brow, and intone ‘there...there...’ because only she will understand – your hands circle in pleasure under her light caress, fingers stroking the air.

There’s a dull thud across your shoulders, and your body lurches forward. Crichton’s grin banishes your good woman to the barren edges of your imagination. Then Crichton crouches down, and washes her away forever in the bright blue flood of his concern.

“You alright, Spanky?”

“Wha...?! Cri–”

“You were making these...gurgling sounds.” He reaches across, wipes your chin and grimaces at his damp fingers. “And drooling.”

***

end

Scorpius! The Musical

Fri, 06 Feb 2004 13:39:50 GMT

I'm linking to the Leviathan file, becaue I can't be buggered doing the formatting, again. Huge thanks to fbf for her advice on how to format a musical properly, the finished product on Leviathan is as pretty darn close to perfect as html will allow.

There's an outbreak of love on the gammak base, and a certain human blue-eyed boy is the innocent cause of much heated steaminess. It's humour, it's a musical! Go. Sing. Enjoy! Rating PG-13.

Scorpius! The Musical

In Bloom

Fri, 06 Feb 2004 13:16:25 GMT

Written for farscapefriday's 'bodily fluids' challenge – it grew pretty big, and I well and truly missed the deadline. (By six weeks, I think *g*). Beta'd by Apster and Kerne – the dynamic duo. Rated R.

In Bloom

Usually, when their rough hands mark her body and their tongues and teeth consume her, she leaves herself behind and withdraws to a safer place. But tonight the kisses are wet and clumsy, the hands inexperienced and soft, fingers trailing through her hair rather than teasing her breasts. In the low light, his eyes stare into hers, pleading for forgiveness and she’s aware that it’s his guilt that won’t let her slip away. So she lies compliant until his eyes close, and he sleeps on a drift of alcohol and whatever drugs Schklimp traded earlier in the night.

When a deep breath trails into a snore, she sloughs off the clinging bed, but his fleshy hand stretches out to her, fluttering to her thigh, trying to draw her back. Then he shifts, rolls over, and drags the tangled sheet up to his chin.

Seltha stands for a moment, gazing down at his sleep-loose form while surreptitiously rubbing his touch from her body. Then she shivers and pulls on the flimsy robe she discarded earlier, the only clothing they allow her to wear on level two.

His clothes hang limply from the room’s shabby furniture, as soft and shapeless as the body that lies upon the bed. She notices a lumpen heaviness, dragging the jacket to the floor. Seltha slips her hand into the pocket, smiling as she withdraws a handful of heavy coins and credits. Stealing from clients means the collar, and the rest of a miserable lifetime servicing the more alien of Schklimp’s clientele. Her hand flies to her neck as she glances at the lax body on the bed, but his heavy lidded eyes are already flickering to the scattershot dreams of Schklimp’s cheap drugs. Opening a drawer, Seltha places the money carefully into a pillowslip, knots it tightly so the coins will make no sound, then ties the end to the sash of her robe.

Stepping across to the window, she lifts the latch and pulls the window inward. The window judders toward her in grudging increments, revealing a thickly barred grille. She stops again, breathes gently and shallowly, eyes travelling to the dim huddle on the bed. The broad rise and fall of his pallid chest takes the edge off her fear.

Her fingers fumble at the loosened bars until the entire grille teeters then topples outward, drawing her to look down. There’s a small crash, then Arnal’s white face tilts upward, like a flower seeking the sun.

She wastes no time, squeezing soundlessly through the window, bare feet searching for the narrow ledge that rims the building. Her toes find a foothold and her palms press flat against the rough wall to steady herself. There’s a long moment before she starts to overbalance and fall. Schklimp knew nothing of the depth of her resolve. If he had suspected, he would never have removed the collar, or allocated her a room on level two. She laughs defiantly and lets herself drop, feels an outcrop of wall scour her cheek and snag her robe before the ground rises to meet her and Arnal’s face is so close she can feel his panicked breaths. She lies like that for a while, staring up at the featureless moon of her lover’s face, before she blinks and sucks in a breath, and finds that he’s crying.

“Seltha...Seltha...” He whispers her name that’s not a name, and she grinds her fingertips into the grass, almost longing for pain. Then it comes, snaps her upward, pulls her awake. She discards Arnal to the periphery of the known, pushes away his restless hands, and raises herself to explore her own body. Her own possession. Hers and hers alone.

“Seltha...” His eyes indicate a waiting transport, even as his voice transmits his fear. She sighs and presses her arms around him. Helplessness is just another tool. Arnal lifts her gently, pressing a cloth to her torn cheek. It is cool, soothing, and she struggles to create the right response – a false gratitude that comes too easily. The ghost of a too bright smile. Arnal doesn’t notice the deception. That is why she chose him.

Arnal stumbles to his battered craft. He places her on the seat like a broken doll, arranging her arms and legs into what he imagines is comfort, covers her with a soft blanket. The transport shakes, then rises, while she gazes dully at the far-off city that spills away like a stain. The lights glimmer with more promise than the stars. But it’s always been that way.

When she opens her eyes again, the streetlights are flickering by, crossing her face and flooding the interior with slippery light. Greasy bags glimmer sickly, empty bottles rise and fall with the regularity of tiny suns. Fall and shine. The streetlight revolves around Arnal’s face, lending him life, animation. “We’re nearly there,” he says, and still she can’t see his eyes.

The transport stops abruptly, its comforting hum withdrawing into sullen silence. She shivers under the blanket and closes her eyes, hoping to ward off his manifestations of care, love, concern. She doesn’t know these things and doubts that they are real.

“Are you sure?” he asks, as he gazes at the nondescript building.

“You have the money?” she asks in reply.

He nods briefly and she rewards him with a smile. It’s enough, because he carries her in, almost with pride. Like she’s been lost and only he had the good fortune to find her. Listless faces pass by, shuffling steps slap against the corridor walls, reverberate and echo. The waiting room, when they get there, is small, tainted with cheap disinfectant and a sense of hopelessness.

Time and movement localise her pain, the unshaded light bruising the skin of her swelling ankle. As he sits down to wait, rearranging her on his lap, bone grinds against bone and she cries out and holds him tighter. There’s always a price to pay, and he extracts it as he hugs her close and pushes the damp hair away from her face.

“Seltha...”

When she clutches his hand in pain, Arnal thinks it’s love and he glances down and smiles. And when the ache wrenches tears from her eyes, Arnal croons to her and rocks her like the child she never was.

**

“The ankle is broken.” And he’s old and broken, burst capillaries on his cheeks imparting a joviality that dies in his eyes. He evaluates her coldly, lips moving soundlessly in assessment. “That, and the damage to your cheek, will incur an extra cost...”

Arnal is too eager as he asks the question. “How much more?”

His reply makes Arnal gasp, she can feel the inrush of air, the sharp burst of his heart as he imagines her torn from his reach. She fumbles under the blanket and unties the pillowslip from the sash. As she holds the slip up, she shakes it, and the coins and credits slither and jingle. “When you’re finished, Arnal will inspect your work. If he’s satisfied...he will pay you.”

“He is not in a position to judge my–”

She shakes the bag again, and greed cuts short the medic’s argument. Instead, he raises his hand in a weary gesture of acceptance. “I’ll have a room prepared. The procedure you have requested is relatively painful – you’ll be with us for a few days.” He speaks like an old friend now, voice wavering with concern, lips lifting to reveal crooked teeth.

“We will pay more if you perform to a high standard.” He is a servicer just like her, despite his superciliousness.

The smile stretches slowly to the rest of his face. “You can be assured of that.”

Arnal sputters to life with manufactured rage, his voice low and grating with the dangerous menace of a man in love. “Seltha will get the best treatment...” He leaves the threat there, because the medic cringes and draws away to just the right distance. The insincere humility of a disgraced professional performing a banned procedure.

“You can rest assured...the best of care...” The medic rises from his stooped position and withdraws with a slight bow.

With the preliminaries finally over, Seltha sighs and sinks gratefully into sleep.

**

Swept up, she trickles out from every pain-filled pore. Seeping from an inner source she was hardly aware of. New trails forge a pricking on her breasts, pin-pricks of blood and sweat and oil, beading like jewels, mingling, stinging, staining the loose dressings. Shivers wrack her heated skin – a crease in the bedsheet cuts like agony. Seltha groans, and someone presses a glass of water to her lips.

She can feel her body trying to expel the oil, raw conduits routing through tissue, forcing through skin. An antipathy of oil and water. Scratching from inside, she chokes on a flood of nausea. The taste of herself. The cloying smell of herself. The world begins and ends with her skin, what it holds, enfolds, contains, constrains. Skin that wraps her and engulfs her in pain.

The oil seeps and drips to its own time, each drop leaching away a part of her, implacable, ignoring her own fixated stare or the onlooker’s awe. She bites her lip to check a scream, then sighs in relief as a needle is jabbed into her leg. Sleep pushes back the waves of pain, and her breathing softens and lengthens, becomes more even.

“It’s better if they’re done younger,” someone says.

And someone laughs.

**

When she thinks it’s the second day, Arnal comes. He hunkers at the end of her bed, gazes at her rosy complexion and tells her how well she looks. He brings clothes wrapped in a parcel and turns away as she pulls them on. She moves gingerly so as not to trigger her sensitive flesh, then tentatively tests her newly repaired ankle. The medic performed well. Arnal has already paid him all of their money.

Arnal hovers just outside arms’ reach, his eyes gazing at the angry triangle of flesh that flares between her breasts. With a sudden exhilaration she realises he is afraid, and she longs to test the oil’s efficacy, to see if all she’s been told is true. Instead, she gently presses a white cloth to the area and hugs the loose coat about her. Beneath that worn camouflage, she knows she is unlike any other woman. Arnal shuffles up, shamefaced, and she leans heavily upon his arm.

Watchful, Arnal scans the road before hurrying from the building. He urges her on when she stumbles, pointing to the transport parked at the top of the street. Out of breath, she leans against the craft’s thin skin and waits for him to open the door for her. It’s a barely remembered sensation to have the breeze ruffle her hair and cool her flushed face. Underneath the coat, her skin burns and chafes. She longs for sleep, for the soaking comfort of a tepid bath, the luxury of a few days of rest.

The door slides back and Seltha almost falls onto the seat. The interior has been cleaned, though the flooring shines grittily in the slanting rays of the sun. So like Arnal. Concerned purely with surfaces and appearances. The rest he chooses not to see.

She makes herself comfortable and flashes him a smile. He smiles back and starts to whistle tunelessly as they dodge the heavy afternoon traffic. The whistling annoys her but means she won’t have to speak. And she’s so tired, too tired. A bone deep weariness that will lead to mistakes. For a while she stares out of the window, wondering how long it will take to learn all she has missed. The coarse faces speed by, or bob and weave – while waiting for a traffic signal, an old woman smiles at her kindly. As the transport plies to the rougher side of town, cheap hotels and boarding houses, a long yawn ushers her into sleep.

**

The room is tired, soft-edged, tinged with an indelible stamp of the second-rate. It reminds her of Arnal. Seedy and cloying. She rises from the water and wraps an overbleached towel gingerly about her. Crossing to a console, she pauses only to wipe her wet hands. A touch on the display tells her he’s been gone for five arns. It’s not that she misses him...it’s more a matter of control.

She moves to a full-length mirror and the towel falls stiffly to the floor. Her skin has regained its usual pallor, her cheek now fully healed. As she turns away, a fugitive gleam catches her eye. Small beads of oil are already rising on her opalescent skin, the fine drops nestling slickly between her breasts. She gathers the viscous fluid upon her tentative fingertips before she realises that there is no longer any pain. That for now she has paid enough, even though she has yet to pay with her life.

Picking up her bathrobe, she ties it loosely and settles on the worn sofa to wait. Voices echo from behind the door and she strains to make out the words. She’s reminded of other corridors and the muted sounds of one-sided arguments. She pours herself a raslak, then pushes the empty glass around the table. Inspects her almost healed ankle. Unknots and reties the sash of her robe. Finally her fingers beat on the arm of the chair as she gazes off into nothingness, recalls Schklimp’s drug-addled face, the nervous client standing awkwardly in the flickering light, the sharp click of a locking door, how the lopsided fan whined in the expectant silence.

Arnal finally shrugs into the room, offering apologies and grinning with a hollow bravado.

She can tell straight away that the fool has wrapped himself around some secret. There’s less of the vague about him as he peels off his jacket and makes his way toward her. He settles by her side, rests a warm proprietary hand upon her own. She glances curiously at him before turning partly away.

“How are you feeling...?” His eyes glitter as they take in the soft robe and linger too long on the white flesh of her neck.

“You’re keeping things from me, Arnal.” A quick glance is enough to see that his face is flushed. Drugs? Alcohol?

He’s silent for a moment before moving closer, breathing heavily, his bulk pushing her against the arm of the chair. His fingers fan through her hair and draw her around to him with a strength she’d forgotten he possessed. Alcohol fumes warm his breath. “You owe me...” he says with a strange half-smile.

She grimaces in pain as his fingers tighten, tugging her hair from her scalp, tilting her face to his.

“You owe me...”

“That hurts.”

“Everything hurts you,” he sneers in frustration, pressing her face roughly against his own. “Why can’t it be like it was before?”

It’s the work of a moment to lift her oil-coated fingers to his seeking mouth. “There never was a before.” She watches as he recoils, wiping his lips with the back of his hand, nose wrinkling as he breathes in the searing scent.

Anger flares in his eyes and she draws back in fright.

“Tralk,” he slurs, trying to retreat from her, hand still scrubbing at his face. “Tralk. You, you owe me...”

She stands unhurriedly and his grumbling trails off; instead his watery eyes are held hostage to her every move, every throwaway gesture. His face colours with lust, shines with need, and he begins to struggle out of the chair’s saggy embrace.

“Stay where you are.” Her voice is not unkind.

Arnal drops back and whimpers slightly, wrapping his arms around himself as if in substitute for her touch. At her approach, he looks up, strains forward to reach her, breathing in the scented oil on her fingers with an eagerness she finds startling. His arms encircle her and hug her close.

“Seltha...”

“Don’t do that.”

She imagines that children must act like this, yammering out their wants, their needs. As she picks off his unresisting hands, he grunts in hurt confusion.

“Seltha...”

“Shut up.”

Arnal rocks and keens in frustration, eyes begging her for release, hand moving furtively to caress his growing erection.

“Not yet,” she says, assessing him coldly before moving to sit at his side. Curling her legs underneath her, she rearranges her robe and smiles a little.

“When...?” he grunts, his voice cracking a little.

Laughing she pats him lightly on the cheek. “When you’ve told me all your secrets, Arnal.”

“You owe me...” he repeats again, breathing shallowly, his eyes fixed upon her face.

“Why do I ‘owe you’?” she asks patiently.

“Identity chip.” He stops rocking and indicates his jacket. “For you. I sold the transport. We...” his eyes flick to hers and he licks his lips, “we can start a new life now.”

“How charming,” she says unenthusiastically, stifling a yawn.

“Seltha...please.” His hand lightly strokes her face, startling her. “I want you. I need...”

“I’m only concerned with my needs now, Arnal. Your needs are no longer...a consideration.”

Arnal’s hands tear at her robe, fingers working on the careless knot.

“Arnal, you’re not behaving, are you?” she says coolly, and he watches passively as she smears more oil under his nose.

“No...I...” He jerks back, breathing heavily, eyelids fluttering.

Seltha studies his frustrated helplessness with triumphant curiosity. “Stay there,” she says, rising and crossing to where his jacket hangs from the back of a chair. Stuffed in a pocket is a white folder. She takes it out and regards it curiously.

“Open it up,” Arnal groans. “You’ll see...it’s for you...”

Seltha glances at him irritably, then withdraws the chip. “Who is this Mele-on Grayza?”

Arnal’s smile is fuelled by hope. “She...she was my sister. She died...in an accident...when I was nine.”

“Mele-on...” It’s a rich name. A good name. A solid Sebacean name. “Mele-on Grayza.”

“Seltha...” Arnal doubles over, his voice rising to a plea. “Please, let me...”

“Mele-on...Mele-on,” she whispers to herself, clutching the chip tightly in her hand.

“Seltha...”

The aching need in his voice cuts through her musings and her lavender eyes flicker their anger. “Close your eyes, Arnal. I’m coming now.”

She saunters into the small kitchen and retrieves the sharpest knife she can find. A knife that skins and cores the sweet j’ya fruit that she likes to eat in perfect segments.

Arnal, compliant to the end, makes it easy for her. He senses her presence and lunges forward, unable to restrain himself any longer. His rash impetuosity eases her conscience when his eyes widen in surprise, and his fingers slide futilely from the slick handle. His blood stains his lips, like her mouth has been stained before. His hands flutter helplessly, like hers have so many times before. She laughs when his eyes focus on something already far away, mouth forming her name...that’s not her name.

“Mele-on” she whispers, when he finally topples forward and slides to the floor. “Mele-on Grayza.”

:::

end

There Once Were Two People

Sun, 04 Jan 2004 01:38:33 GMT

Happy Birthday, shrift. John and Chi future fic. Beta'd by Kerne and Apster. Rating: sad.

There Once Were Two People

The truck jars into a rut and John groans as he’s flung toward her, his swollen face thrust into the small strip of moonlight that seeps through the coarse fabric. There’s a snapshot of puffiness, bruising, and a ghost of a reassuring smile that almost tears out her heart.

John draws back into the darkness, more to save her than himself, and she wants to hold him, to comfort him. Tell him all the usual lies, like ‘it’ll be alright’ or ‘everything’s gonna be okay’. But her hands are lashed behind her, tied to a splintered rail, and all she can do is stare at him across the thin strip of no-man’s-land. The truck bounces over the uneven road and they move in unison, unwilling participants caught in a grim dance. And it’s like it’s already too late, the sun’s starting to rise, and the musician’s are thinking fondly of home.

“There once were two people–,” he starts, before the guard grunts and moves forward threateningly.

“Haven’t you done enough?” she yells at the man’s dull face, and he thinks for a while before smiling and sliding back into his seat.

Alone again, they seek each other through the darkness, and although the gears grate and the engine whines, a silence grows between them that offers more than comfort and says more than words.

John turns painfully to the guard, the light edging the rim of his face. “There once were two people...” he waits for the guard’s unspoken assent, before tilting his head back at her, “like in all the best tales. A man and a woman. ‘Course there were other stories...other princesses, dark hair and ivory towers,” he pauses, “but that was the tale with the happy ending.”

“Hey...old man...”

“It’s alright, Chi. Been there before.... Be there again. The Good Lord likes kicking my ass.” He settles back on the hard bench and continues more slowly. “So there were these two people. One liked to act kinda stupid, pale grey with a ruff of hair like straw to gold, dark eyes that flashed with everything but anger. She was sharp, a trickster, but underneath...she was pretty wise.”

“Was she beautiful?” she whispers.

“Oh, yeah. Miss Nebari, two-thousand-whenever.”

When she laughs, it sounds as hollow as herself. “And the man?” she asks. “Wha...what about him?”

“Him?” John’s chuckle is so soft it’s almost lost in the sound of the flapping fabric. “Well, he was the usual kind of fool, thought he knew it all, could spin the ball 24/7...good looks, could charm the birds from the trees. That dumb-ass had it all. Then one day....”

“He got kissed by Rygel?”

John takes in a quick breath like he’s laughing. “And it all slipped away. Slipped down a wormhole, and when he finally woke up he wasn’t sure about anything anymore.”

The truck starts to slow before careening around a corner. They push with their feet, bracing themselves to keep upright, John cursing in pain. The guard’s gun slides from his knees and clatters to the floor. There’s a moment of relative silence before a smoother road hisses beneath the truck’s hard tires, and the struggling vehicle begins to pick up speed.

Slowly, suspiciously, as if they arranged it all for his benefit, the guard drops to his knees and retrieves the gun from the floor. As he regains his seat, the truck shifts gears and the engine wail dies to a low-level whine.

“There were two people...” she begins, licking her lips nervously, hoping that her words will reach him.

“Two, huh? Seems a good place to start...”

“Yeah,” she says, breathing heavily with relief, her words rushing to fill the space between them. “Two...a man and a woman...like before. And, and they found a planet, or...or it found them. It came toward them like a pebble skimming over water.”

“Nice...!” he breathes.

“She...er...she was always good at spinning tales.”

John chuckles and coughs a little.

“It was the third planet out from the sun. He was happy and said, ‘Close enough is near enough’.”

“I don’t like him already. So did this sorry excuse decide to land?”

“Hey!” She laughs. “Who’s telling this story?”

“I thought at first I was...”

“Yeah, well that story’s old. Been told too many times.”

There’s a long pause before John says softly, “Did I mention this girl was wise?”

“Yeah, yeah...you did, but it’s alright to mention it again.” Her smile brightens and she hurries on. “Well, they punched a hole through the clouds and found the sky was red.”

“Like blood?”

“Speak for yourself! And the grass–”

“Was greener...on the other side?”

He cants his head and she just knows that he’s smiling.

“Other side of what?” she plays along.

“He’s dumb, remember? You shouldn’t ask him questions like that. And the grass was purple. Something...something to do with tangential–”

He sounds so tired, trying too hard, so she cuts in to save his breath. “This guy liked to explain everything scientifically. Liked to pull things apart, poke around a bit, before he put stuff back together again.”

“I can’t remember him doing much poking around. But yeah...he usually didn’t do a very good job...missed out a lot of pieces.” He breathes heavily in the silence. “So, I should shut-up, right?”

“He learnt fast. So...so they were flying over this planet and they decided to land.”

“Describe it.”

“What?”

“The planet of blood.”

“Grass...hills...the usual stuff.”

“Where did Mother Goose go? I mean...what happened to the pretty pictures?” He somehow manages a small laugh.

“You don’t want much, do you? Alright,” she relents, frowning in thought for a moment. “The grass rippled and it...er...waved, waved like the gentlest ocean. Purples and pinks glowed under the red light of the sun. You remember that purple firesilk I used to have? It looked a lot like that. They...they found a safe place to land, and the grass bowed before them...”

“Ya gotta love that grass.”

“Everything was perfect. Gravity...oxygen.... The temperature was just...just right, kinda cool, so they could lie in each other’s arms and still be warm enough.”

The truck plunges into a rut on the road, the altered momentum throwing Crichton against the rough boards behind his back. He yelps in sudden pain and his breathing becomes shallow, hoarse. “Fuck,” he mutters, tentatively settling back onto the hard bench. He bends over as far as he can and hangs his head, trying to draw in deeper breaths.

She watches him sway with the truck’s motion and swallows thickly. “The sun was sinking, and a raft of stars appeared in the sky.”

“They could reach out and touch them?” he wheezes, a hint of derision carrying across to her.

“Of course not,” she says, ashamed that her voice is choked with emotion. She glances away from him and stares at the strip of night that blinks fitfully through the slapping fabric. Her words are only for herself. “They never could reach that far. I’m just...just setting a scene.”

When he speaks, his voice is so low that she has to strain forward to hear. “He was afraid. Afraid of himself, afraid of her, afraid of leaving the past behind. He was fucking up again. After all that time,” he draws in a haggard breath, “...he was the galaxy’s greatest expert on the art of fucking up.”

She tugs at the rail, until the bonds burn her wrists and her eyes weep from pain. Until John wavers in the shadows, unreal and insubstantial. She struggles to reach him, to somehow dash away her blinding tears.

A sharp creak jolts her face around, and the bench shifts under her. She gasps as the greasy heat of the guard warms her side. A hot hand presses against her thigh and slithers to her waist. He pulls her chin up, fingers stained with Crichton’s dried blood, and smears the tears from her cheek with a swipe of his thumb. She draws back, expecting savagery, and his lips follow hers, touch hers only for a moment. Thick fingers rest briefly on her hair, and then he’s gone. Crouching once more in his chair, the gleam of a gun across his knees.

Crichton still sways, rocking gently now as the truck speeds towards its destination. His nodding head almost rests upon his knees, and the thin breeze snatches his hair.

There once was a man and a woman...she thinks, stifling her sobs, willing him to move, to lift his head and warm her with those good looks. To charm birds from the trees. Because no story should end like that, or like this.

:::

end

How They Fall (Part 1)

Wed, 17 Dec 2003 12:52:06 GMT

This most recent major story is tremendously sad and angsty in a no holds barred way. It's a story about goodbyes. Beta'd by Kerne, The Apster, and Driessen. Thanks guys, I'm forever in your debt. Rated PG-17.

How They Fall

He makes noise, like he always does. Stomps down the cringing hallway, the tired floorboards ringing dully under the hard soles of his boots. Rattles the worn key in the faulty lock, and finally a meek tapping as he opens the door. It’s enough to wake the dead. And most times, Chiana.

Except this time she stands in slim silhouette by the dingy window, and doesn’t even bother to turn around.

“Did’ja remember the tarjic mustard?”

D’Argo humphs and places the groceries onto the rickety table.

“Ha! I thought so...”

“How did you know?” he says gruffly, flexing life back into his aching fingers.

“Oh, Luxan’s never change... never change...” She laughs softly to the dust grimed glass, and presses her palm flat against the pane. In the dim light, her hand is like a black-petalled flower.

D’Argo fishes in one of the sagging bags and withdraws a paper-wrapped parcel. “Your nose is almost as keen as mine,” he says, sniffing at the pungent tarjic meat and wrinkling his nose in distaste.

“My nose is cuter–”

She jumps when D’Argo slaps the slick parcel upon the table.

“Er, sorry...”

“It’s just that I kinda got used to the quiet. You were gone a long time.” There’s sadness and apology in her voice.

D’Argo shrugs off the Qualta Blade and traverses the creaking floor to the window. Her milk-glazed eyes never leave the unseen panorama before her, but something in her stance changes to accommodate him. Under her splayed fingers, the light slashing raindrops carve the fine dust into an abstract pattern. A new pattern for an old day. Further out, the tired city beckons with the tawdry earnestness of a tralk caught between afternoon and evening. Strings of vehicles weave between its thrusting towers, dull concrete gleaming rouge pink in the fugitive rays of the setting sun.

“It’s raining.” She lets her hand trail down the glass, fingers leaving tracks through the grime.

He watches her rub her fingertips together and grimace slightly. He wants to ask her how she knows–

“I can smell it. Nerri and I used to love the rain. Could’ja open the window?” She smiles with anticipation and moves away.

He can see her previous efforts. The smudge of her fingers in the greasy dirt around the lever. The old wooden sash swollen with too many wet summers. With an indignant squeak, the soft wood finally pries apart and the window slides up in reluctant surrender. The air isn’t exactly cool, but it’s fresh. The chug of the weaving transports filters into the room, followed by a soft snick and the sound of a tired motor cycling. When he turns around, she’s placing the tarjic meat into the struggling refrigeration unit.

“When do you want to eat?” Her voice is muffled as she pushes the meat into the too small space.

He shuffles his feet. “I have already eaten. But, I purchased extra grolack from Venta’s Emporium.”

She smiles and sniffs at the air. “I know...”

“Is there anything you don’t know?” he asks in banter.

Her face falls then, and he could kick himself. “Are you sure Crichton and Aeryn are still here?” It’s a question he asks at least once a day.

“I... I think so.” She moves across to the bed and flops upon the lumpy mattress. “What if... what if one day I said... no? What if I said they’d gone...”

“Chiana.” He’s almost ashamed at the longing in his voice. “Then we could stop this endless foolishness and start a life for ourselves.”

“Where we gonna go? Look at me... you need someone who can watch your back.”

“I am willing to do the watching for both of us."

Chiana grabs a tasselled cushion and clutches it to her chest. “I... I just don’t know if I’m willing to let you.”

“Why?” The question sounds sharper than he intended.

“They... they tell me, I can be a big responsibility.” Her smile is meant to wash her doubt away, instead it only highlights her vulnerability.

“So what’s changed? And who’s ‘they’?”

She screws up the cushion and hurls it at him. It bounces off his chest and lands plumply at his feet.

“Did I get ya?”

He shrugs philosophically. "A long time ago.” He steps towards her, and she smiles as the floorboards creak under his weight. Then she laughs when the bed springs slip and groan in protest as he subsides on the grubby mattress. Muffled voices can be heard through the thin walls, along with a strange tinny music.

“I’m not overly fond of the electric shilquin,” he remarks sourly. “I swear, Chiana, one sneeze would blow this place apart.”

“I’d like to see that... it’d be kinda liberating.”

Easing back, he pushes the too thin pillows against the barred headrest and leans gingerly against them. His feet hang in space. “Hezmana,” he grumbles, as he shifts uncomfortably on the bed.

“What’s this place called again?” she asks teasingly.

“Restwell Inn,” he says, and then even he starts to grin. “John would’ve appreciated that...”

Chiana snickers and stretches out, rests her head against his side. He softens and she falls into him. Snaking out an arm he hugs her close. She feels brittle under his clumsy hand. “Chiana...”

Then suddenly she’s squirming.

“I forgot! I’ve got something for you.” She pushes herself up and starts patting the wobbly table at the bedside, unintentionally switching on the reading lamp. As she turns back, her face is in shadow. He hesitates before taking the package from her hand.

“Wha...?” His heart plunges to the pit of his stomach. It’s a wallet.

“My contribution... I got bored just sitting on my eema.”

He growls at the hint of pride in her voice, at the risk she took. “Never do that again. Promise me–”

“You know I don’t do promises. Hey, look inside,” she says placatingly, “there’re notes and credit tokens. I could feel them – smell them coming from a metra away.”

“You must never do that again... Hezmana...!” Despite himself he whistles, and there’s John doing the exact same thing at the Aurellian clothes market when he finally found a pair of boots to fit. He pushes away the remembrance in a flash of frustration. All roads seem to lead to John, except the one they’re currently trudging...

She shifts and blinks her sightless eyes in excitement, slips her hand into his. “How much, bubba? Did I do good? Are we going out tonight?”

“Chiana...” He’s dumbfounded. “There’s enough here to...”

“To what?”

As she swings her head, the wan light catches her pale face. Her full lips are bowed into a smile. If not for her eyes...

“With this and the little we’ve saved... I think there’s enough to see Doctor Treesh.”

“And go out too? Say yes! Say yes!” She bounces like a flibbit and beats a quick tattoo with the flat of her palms on the bed.

D’Argo rolls his eyes in exasperation.

“I saw that,” she says in a happy voice.

Watching her, D’Argo’s small smile stretches into a grin.

“And I saw that too.”

***

Pacing the room doesn’t make it any larger. It’s still five strides, turn, five strides back, turn. The child cries weakly, its face a healthy pink in the red light of the heart-rate monitor. Five strides, turn. The monitor beeps, sometimes regularly. Most times irregularly. Five strides back.

“Aeryn?”

“You’re not there, John.” But already he’s taken the baby in his arms. He holds her easily, needs no practice. He leans down, gently kissing fragile cheeks, a lazy finger running through the fluff of her hair.

He glances over and smiles. “Hell, Aeryn... she’s beautiful.”

“We suffered so much... We suffered too much...”

“Hey!” His tone is that mock kind of grumpy. “Hey there now. This little lady was worth it.”

She watches him stretch out his finger, watches her grab in reflex, small fingers squeezing tightly.

“She’s smart. Hey! Are you as smart as mommy?” John looks across at her and winks.

She smiles back wanly, but can’t suppress her tears. She feels them streak down her cheeks, and tastes their rich saltiness.

“I think mommy’s sad.” John walks across and gently transfers the child into her arms. The baby stirs, then sighs, settling into contentment, eyes tightly closed in sleep.

John wraps his arm across her shoulder and gently leads her across to the bed.

“Mommy’s not in her right mind,” Aeryn adds, as she allows John to wipe the tears from her face.

“Now don’t go getting all hormonal on me.” John leans over the bed, fluffing up the pillows, piling them against the bed-rail.

“Thanks,” she says meekly as she lies back. “Have I told you that I love you?”

He shrugs and climbs onto the small space next to her. “Not lately.”

She feels his hand clasp hers. “Your hands are cold...” she says, and shivers slightly.

He doesn’t answer, but his eyes watch the child who lies securely in her arms. She’s waited so long for this... dreamt of this...

“Aeryn?”

Slowly, she wakes from her reverie, to see worry upon John’s face. She lifts her hand and places it on his cheek, her thumb resting on his lips. “What, John?”

He draws away, an earnest reassurance colouring his eyes. “I’ll always look after her. You know that.”

“I know.”

“That’s my promise. Now promise me that you’ll remember.”

“I’ll remember.”

He’s solid and warm against her side, her hand entwined with his. The baby hiccups, lifts a clutched fist to her mouth. John laughs and snuggles closer, a protective arm draped across them both.

“John?”

“Yeah?”

“I know now...”

“Sshh.” He moves his hand to her face. Tentative fingers brush the hair from her eyes. “You don’t have to–”

“But I have to tell you. It was worth it. All of it.”

He pushes himself up, and she moves her cheek so he can kiss her. Turns her head hungrily, seeking his lips.

“Your kiss is cold...” she murmurs drowsily.

“Yeah, well it’s cold outside...”

“I’ve missed you so much.”

John sighs and pulls back. “Get some sleep. I’ll look after her.”

“We fought so hard... for this... for her.”

“Sshh, baby. Rest now. I’ll watch over you both. Okay?”

“John...” Her voice is swamped by weariness, the residue of worry. She sighs and leans back into the pillows. The last thing she remembers is the comforting warmth of his hand around hers.

***

Chiana takes the glass in her ungloved hands. One day she woke up and said she didn’t want to wear the gloves anymore. ‘I need to feel things,’ she’d answered when he’d asked the awkward question.

The music skips and changes to a driving beat. Chiana takes a sip of the liquid, places the glass upon the table, tapping her hands upon the edge, half beat, half impatience. “I like this. I wanna dance.”

D’Argo cringes. “But you promised...”

Chiana smiles. “C’mon. Won’t kill ya.” Already her lithe body is swaying to the music, an absorbed expression on her face.

“I don’t... dance.”

“I saw you dance on LoMo! Here!” She pushes across the drink, which sploshes on the uneven wood of the tabletop. “This’ll make it easier.”

She doesn’t wait for him, just jumps from her chair and pushes out into the crowd. They sense her disability and part to let her through. After a few microts, he loses track of her bobbing hair.

He snorts in impatience. The music is too loud, the alcohol over-priced and watered down, and the strobing lights gave him a headache a long time ago. He toys with her drink. It’s too small and probably oversweet, but he gulps it down. He’ll do anything for Chiana.

The crowd surges and parts, a blue light lands on her familiar form. There’s an expectancy in her sway, something of the lost and lonely amongst the jostling crowd. She’s spun around; her arms swing out for balance. There’s fear in her smile. Her mouth forms, ‘D’Argo’.

He’s already halfway there, pushing roughly past oblivious faces. When he reaches her, she’s standing still under the sliding lights. The lights cycle until she’s bathed in white, hair shining like a halo.

“Why can’t you ever wait for me?”

She smiles with relief. “Life’s too short to wait for a Luxan to make up his mind.”

“Chiana...” Why can’t he sound as irritated as he feels?

“Can’t you feel it?” She lifts her head and listens to the pound of the music. “Life. Time. It’s slipping away.”

He grunts in surprise as she throws her arms around him, holding him tightly. He hugs her back, aware yet again of her fragility. When he looks down, her milky tears glisten in the garish light.

“Let’s go back,” he suggests, tilting her face to his.

“I want to stay. It’s... it’s just... I need to be around people. Just... just for tonight.”

Her fingers force him closer. She sniffs, hums and sways to the music.

“I don’t understand...” he says grumpily.

“Hey!” She wipes her cheeks and tips her head back. “Promise me you’ll never change... Luxan code of honour.”

“A Luxan oath is always binding.”

“Promise me...” She smiles sadly. “Just for tonight.”

“Just for tonight,” he assents.

She shivers then, and buries her face against his robe.

***

Bee’ath wheels her trolley with her usual early morning malice. The instruments shake and judder above the ancient wheels as she makes her rounds. Painkillers tumble against sedatives. Her voice is harsh with insincere enquiry as she abruptly wakes the patients to another sterile day. She checks their medical notes with a quick flick of her grubby fingers, their ailments forgotten with the turn of a page.

She pauses at the Sebacean woman’s door. This patient is high and mighty. Airs and graces. Demanding. Noisily she unlocks the door, and rams it open with the trolley.

The Sebacean woman is lying against the pillows, her dark hair in stark contrast to their bleached whiteness. She is asleep, soft and smiling in her dreams. Bee’ath steps closer to better see, then halts abruptly. The woman’s arms are wrapped around the small stiff form of her child.

Bee’ath watches for a few moments, and struggles to tamp down a sudden surge of pity.

***

“Hey, Bluto.” John’s tired whisper fills the small dormitory as he pushes away the friendly Syrinx. “Quit lickin’ my hand.”

The not quite dog whimpers as the door opens at the far end of the room, throwing a rectangle of morning light carelessly upon the dormitory floor.

“Hell... no.” John lifts a hand to make out the approaching forms. Heavy footsteps clatter uncaringly towards him. John can sense the sleepy atmosphere change to one of guarded curiosity, even though none of the workers lying on the beds have moved.

He turns over and feigns sleep, aware of the futility of the gesture. The blankets are tugged from him. He’s prodded roughly in the ribs.

Here we go – he cracks open shuttered eyes. “What’s up?”

“Get your clothes on. Remka requests your company at the game.”

“I was planning on sleeping in this morning...” but he tosses back the sheet. Searches for his clothes in the small cupboard at the side of the bed.

“Hurry up.”

Finally he laces up his boots and doesn’t quite stand. The Bn’aar are all a foot shorter, and touchy as hell about it.

“Come.”

They fall in behind him as he yawns and lurches down the corridor. The syrinx stands in silhouette at the entry, wagging its thin tail hopefully. As they pass, a quick kick sends it yelping to a scrap of tattered blanket.

John staggers on, shields his eyes from the artificial light. Maybe he’ll be lucky this time. Maybe not. Hope flares with the usual pain. Aeryn stands at the corners of his dreams, ties back her dark hair, and smiles like a Peacekeeper. For the first time, he feels a ripple of anxiety.

They move through the deserted complex and take a level riser to a higher floor. Here the paint doesn’t peel, and flooring shines slippery under his feet. The ceiling is pockmarked with pulse rifle shots, the chandelier-like lights listing dangerously. The Bn’aar are known for their excitability.

A door opens to warm stale air, heavy with ryssa smoke and a sense of expectation. John narrows his eyes and makes out the usual gamers, hunkered behind the round gambling table. It’s obvious that John is the last item on their agenda. He takes a step before a bow. Ornate, French, The Sun King of childhood midday movies. Remka smiles and beckons him closer over the sound of muffled laughter. There’s an empty chair at his side. John’s chair. He slides in on Remka’s gesture and glances nervously around the table.

“Glad you could join us, Reljic.”

“It was an offer I couldn’t refuse.” The irony is wasted as Remka nods sagely. John endeavours to make himself smaller in the seat. The Bn’aar are all so damn short. He feels like he’s on a picnic with a bunch of psychotic kids.

Remka points to a deck of playing cards glistening on the table. “A round of Djreen?”

“I have no money, Tayser Remka. Last time I played, I wasn’t lucky.”

“But your wages are due tomorrow, are they not?” His fleshy face furrows in an effort to remember. Remka’s always best when he keeps his face blank, and keeps John guessing.

“Yes.”

Remka beckons to a heavy lidded Bn’aar who blinks lugubriously, and pushes across a cascade of tokens. John watches them roll toward him, unconsciously drawing back in his chair. “You’re too generous. I already owe so much...”

Remka waves his hand in airy dismissal. “You’re a good worker. But these medical expenses... they are not cheap. Your partner’s welfare... the life of your child...” He sighs and pats his chest. “The heart. Expensive.”

“I’d like to see my daughter. I’ve never seen...” John turns away from Remka’s mottled face. He studies the fluttering cards as they land upon the table. The anxiety in his stomach threatens to become nausea.

“Ah, that too is very expensive. You wish to try your luck again?” Remka indicates John’s pile of tokens. “Six days’ wages.”

John shrugs nonchalantly, still staring at the cards. A drink appears at his side. He runs his finger through the condensation on the glass.

Conversation stalls. John glances up and flushes with a sick sense of exhilaration. All he needs is some luck and he’ll see Aeryn, and hold his daughter for the very first time. He lifts up the drink, tilts his head back and quickly swallows the rich fluid. The tension around the table dissipates. John slams the glass down and picks up the cards. They’re good. He keeps his face blank, removes a card, lays it face down on the table. The dealer offers another. John takes it. This one is good too. He pushes half the pile of tokens to the centre of the table.

“You are blessed tonight, Reljic. Fortune smiles...”

“Fortune smiles...” He blinks the ryssa smoke from his smarting eyes. Wonders why he’s so damn tired. The cards swim in his hands. He listens as the Bn’aar make bids or fold. Then it’s his turn. Pushes out the rest of the tokens, like he’s pushing out a tide.

“John?”

“Yeah...” Something’s wrong. Something he can’t put his finger on. The cards fall through his fingers and spill across the table. As he stares at them, their whiteness is almost blinding. Aeryn shakes her head, worry in her eyes. “There’s something wrong with the baby...”

“It’ll be okay...” he mumbles. “It’ll be fine...”

Remka laughs. “You win!”

There’s a harsh click, and a sharp blue light spears into his consciousness. As he shades his eyes, his hologram illuminates the forms around the table. John Crichton twisting and sliding across their amused faces. Scorpy’s cool voice intones his name.

“A beacon?” he asks dully.

“John Crichton?” Remka’s face distorts like the reflection of a carnival mirror. “John Cri–”

He’s on his feet, making for the door that grows smaller as he approaches. Alice in Wonderland... tumbling down rabbit holes. He can taste the smoky carpet, inhales dust. Harvey smirks, holds out a goldfish, gasping and jerking on his hand. Somewhere, somewhere, the syrinx yelps and whimpers.

“...a fish out of water.” He manages a small laugh.

Remka rises like an overstuffed moon. “Consider your debt paid.”

***

Aeryn moves efficiently, only pausing to wipe the blood from her fingers on the stiff washcloth that hangs from the basin. At the door she schools her face into blankness, then strides confidently through the shabby clinic.

Outside the too high windows, it’s another red, red day... in honour of Bee’ath. The blow wasn’t meant to kill. She frowns at her error, her lack of hard training. Sloppy. She will have to be more careful. The dreary corridor peters into a double door. Aeryn leans nonchalantly against the wall, and glances around before thrusting the key into the lock. Metal grinds against metal, she quickly keys in the release code and the doors slide open.

She follows Bee’ath’s instructions. Turns hamman and heads down the second side corridor. A dismal line of unmatched lockers ruffles the wall. She walks along them and stops at the one labelled ‘Winona Reljic’. She smiles again at the hastily borrowed name, at John’s pronouncement that it sounded pretty damn alien if you said it slowly enough.

The locker door is easily pried open. She drops the filthy tunic from her shoulders and kicks the shapeless mass against the wall. Still in full view, she pulls on her clothes, senses alert for approaching footsteps. Finally, she checks the chakkan oil in her pulse pistol and places it in the holster strapped around her thigh.

Jamming the locker door shut, she retraces her steps back to the main thoroughfare. At one end a yellow circle of light illuminates a small reception area. Uncomfortable chairs splayed artfully around a low-slung table. Garish plants in pots, sad wilting leaves. A pristine counter with a pretty receptionist and two milling guards. Clean uniforms. White, spotless.

Aeryn smiles as she passes. “I’d like to thank you for all your help.”

The pulse pistol slides furtively into her hand... say something, just say something. They glance up as she strides away. The receptionist yawns politely, hand over mouth, before resuming her monotone grumbling. The fawning guards laugh out bored commiserations.

After another set of doors, she’s in the main passage, a thin stream of people threading by. Aeryn walks next to a small group, unhurried, dipping her head now and then, smiling as if she’s in conversation. Finally, the entry doors swing closed behind her. Traffic noises take the place of hollow voices. A warm breeze snags her unwashed hair.

After a few steps she glances back, numbed, frozen.

She’s already said goodbye. A facsimile smile tugs back the corners of her mouth. Why is it that only the dead have time to keep their promises?

***

She’s nervous. Although she’s seated, her body is still Nebari. From the way she thrusts her shoulders against the soft chair, the ceaseless movement of her head.

“Describe this place to me... What colour are the chairs?”

“Er... orange.”

“Deep orange, fire silk orange, Earth orange orange?”

“Dark orange...”

“What colour are the walls?”

“Blue... er, Luxan sky blue.”

“Maybe it’s a good thing I am blind...”

Sitting beside him, she squirms in the chair, white fingers tapping the coarse upholstery.

“The receptionist just gave you a glance...”

“Male... or female?”

“Chiana!”

With an unrepentant shrug, she suddenly slips from the chair and sits cross-legged on the floor, sorting through the magazines on the table. Her fingers trail over their tawdry covers. Suddenly she stops and sits bolt upright.

“What is it?”

“Here, you’ve... you’ve gotta read this. It’s Crichton’s.” She holds out a much-thumbed journal, glossy paper creased and torn.

“John couldn’t read this...” The young Bn’aar model is sporting a white facemask and violent purple lipstick, a green towel draped around her ropy hair.

“Just take a look.” She flops back on the overstuffed seat and places a hand on his arm, as if to make sure that he’s turning the pages.

D’Argo sighs and dutifully flips the pages over.

Chiana relaxes but doesn’t ease her grip. “There’s something... I know there’s something.”

He glances at her, then back at the nondescript magazine. It contains nothing but ads and spurious stories of local starlets. He can see that without understanding Bn’aar script. “John wouldn’t read this... Hezmana!”

“What?”

“There’s a drawing, that... doodle. The creature with the big ears.”

She snaps her fingers in an effort at remembrance. “M. M. Mickey?”

“Mickey.”

“They were here!” She pushes off from the couch and, hands held before her, crosses to the hard-faced receptionist.

“May I help you?”

“Who’s the baby doctor round here?”

“Baby doctor?”

“Yup. Mothers, babies... who’s your specialist?”

There’s a pause. “Doctor Sran.”

D’Argo is already by her side. “Doctor Sran?”

The receptionist looks in disbelief from the Nebari to the Luxan. “Three doors down. Doctor Sran. You’ll need to make–”

“...a baby?” Chiana says with a quick laugh, as D’Argo guides her out of the room.

***

How They Fall (Part 2)

Wed, 17 Dec 2003 12:41:33 GMT

***

“Peacekeepers? Heart affliction?” Doctor Sran cowers back in his chair as D’Argo approaches. Behind him a heavily pregnant Bn’aar woman squeezes through the door to freedom. D’Argo grins manically as the door closes and Doctor Sran realises he is alone.

“This is most improper...”

“Have you heard of Luxan hyper-rage?” D’Argo’s voice is just above a growl. He laughs as the doctor’s face turns white. D’Argo tosses the patient’s still warm chair to one side, just for added effect.

“Long black hair? A stasis pregnancy?” The Doctor presses his fine-boned hand to his brow. “The child’s heart function was seriously impaired, the causes...”

“You do remember?”

“They were quite a striking couple, they were... er, most upset.”

Chiana moves to D’Argo’s side. “What happened?”

“They couldn’t afford the fees for the... procedure. I had to turn them away.”

Rage floods the room red, and propels him forward. The Doctor cries out as his data console lands heavily on the thickly carpeted floor.

“Get him away from me!” Sran wails, cringing back in his chair.

The drag of Chiana’s hand upon his arm checks the rage from escalating further. Deep breaths. Deep breaths.

“Do you know where they went?” Chiana’s voice is efficient and crisp.

“They went to see Tayser Remka. He arranges medical care and finance. He... he doesn’t ask questions.”

“Tayser Remka?” Calmer now, he bends over and places the shattered console back on the table. An apologetic pat sends a component spinning to the floor. He suddenly realises that the Doctor is breathing like a faulty hetch engine. It’s been so long since he enjoyed himself like this... Then Chiana’s at his side, tugging on the fabric of his sleeve, her milky eyes wide open.

“It’s like I said, D. It’s... it’s all slipping away.”

He grabs her too thin arms, until she grimaces in pain. “Just what can you see? Tell me!”

“I don’t want to...”

“Chiana...” His voice is pleading.

She takes a deep breath, and squeezes her eyes shut. “Nothing. There’s nothing.”

“But–”

“They’re gone,” she says with finality.

***

The door is unlocked, waving tiredly in the breeze. D’Argo slips through and locks it from within. Remka’s head office is strangely silent, loud with humming consoles and a white impersonal light. Ceiling ventilation moves the window shades and ripples paper on the counter. There’s a small door off to the side, a washroom. He can smell the blood over the heavy disinfectant before the door is half open. He shuts it quickly, takes out his Qualta Blade and moves on.

D’Argo’s footsteps echo through the empty office and into a gleaming corridor. As he glances around, a level riser snicks open, startling him. His finger hovers over the display. Tayser Remka. Level eight, in a myriad of languages.

There’s a body slumped in the riser. A surprised looking Bn’aar gazing at a fine spray of blood as if in wonder – a pulse blast wound where the stomach used to be. D’Argo kneels and sniffs the blood appreciatively. Still fresh. Then the riser shakes imperceptibly, a bell chimes three counts and the doors slide open. Level eight.

The polished floor shines in the dying rays of the sun. Overhead, ornate chandeliers tilt incongruously amongst ancient pulse pistol blasts. He moves forward cautiously – a tatter of burnt rags bundled by the wall becomes two Bn’aar bodies, sightless eyes staring at the ceiling, insects supping at their slack-jawed mouths. D’Argo whistles softly in admiration, the Bn’aar didn’t even have time to pull out their guns.

Further on, two heavy doors hang open almost listlessly. The red room is thickly carpeted. Red on red. Addictive ryssa smoke still smoulders in burners, hazing the ceiling. Spilt alcohol squelches in the fibres under his feet; his boots crush an already shattered glass.

A balding body, thickly fleshed and running to fat, lies brokenly on the round table. Low energy pulse blasts have torn through knees and elbows, before someone kindly shot the face away. A name plaque rests in the bloodied stiffening fingers that lie obediently upon the chest. Tayser Remka.

D’Argo’s lips curve into a regretful smile. He wanted to kill the fekik himself. He’s turning to leave when something on the table catches his eye. An oily black glimmer betrays a wanted beacon, almost camouflaged by Remka’s darkening blood. He curses softly and crosses behind the table to switch it on. The light flickers then strengthens. It’s an old, tired message. One he can play in his nightmares. Scorpius’s even voice chases the rotating image of a younger, fresher-faced John.

He stares at it bleakly, knows every word of its unchanging message. He erupts into a howl of sadness and frustration, before blasting the beacon into abrupt silence. The sound thumps against the close walls and startles a syrinx that’s nosing among the two Bn’aar bodies. The creature looks up for a moment, bares it’s teeth, then skitters away in panic.

D’Argo hefts his Qualta Blade and edges warily to the doorway. The syrinx glances back guiltily, its muzzle stained red in the brighter light.

He follows the creature’s skulking passage through the corridor. Time to leave, and Tayser Remka didn’t get to answer any of his questions. D’Argo smashes a fist into the level riser door, and the syrinx yelps in fear.

****

He knows he doesn’t want to wake up. Maybe it’s cold outside. Maybe it’s raining. Making pancakes on Sunday morning with his sisters. Harvey can toss pancakes so frelling high. Flip and twirl. Flip and twirl. They land fatly on the pan. Sizzling towering stacks. Maple syrup, butter. ‘Have some, have some...’

Insistent. A model airplane buzz that swoops across the sun, sounding like a hundred angry bees. The hum is the same. A marauder aum with no beginning, no middle, and never an end.

One day he’s gonna pass ‘Go’. Might even grab that $200. Not today, though. Not this time around.

“Are you awake, Crichton?”

“Braca... Braca... Braca...” John mumbles. Tongue thick and mouth dry. “You sound like you care.”

Braca draws away, and John can breathe again. One, two, three... open his eyes to amused contempt. Braca’s passed Go. Braca has $200 and a nice shiny new marauder. Maybe he also won the beauty contest...

“Once more you’re our guest, Crichton.”

“Just can’t keep away. It’s the continental breakfasts.” John pushes up from the fold-out bed. Scrubs his face with one hand. “How many rounds we gone now, Braca?”

Braca ignores him. Pours water into a glass. “Here.”

He hesitates, then takes it. “If I told you I felt like dren, would you believe me?”

“You look like dren, Crichton.”

“Then I guess it’s not much of a secret.”

Braca studies him. John looks away and finally lifts the glass. Drinking the water feels like the first step of a long surrender. When he’s finished he closes his eyes, runs the cool glass against his forehead. The pounding headache retreats a little in surprise.

“We have painkillers. The side-effects of the drug must be unpleasant.”

“Are you trying kindness now? Frell, that could just work...”

Braca reaches into his pocket, withdrawing a packet of red capsules. He breaks one from the pack before tossing the remainder to John. Braca pours himself a glass of water, places the capsule in his mouth and swallows. “It’s up to you... but they’re harmless painkillers.”

“Monkey see... monkey do....” John breaks out a capsule as Braca refills his glass. “Thanks.”

“You’re taking it very well, Crichton. I thought you’d be more upset.”

“What’s with the sympathy? If you’re trying to freak me out... you’re doing a pretty good job of it.”

“Given your history, I find your attitude surprising.”

John looks at him sharply. “What are you trying to say?”

Braca’s features are a schooled Peacekeeper blank. “You don’t know, do you?”

“Know?” John leans across and his voice hardens. “What don’t I know?”

“I thought it best to retrieve both you and Aeryn Sun. A gesture of good faith...”

“Aeryn?” Molasses in the works, synapses steeped in syrup. Harvey runs a finger round the mixing bowl, then licks the damned spoon. ‘There’s nothing for you there, John. Not even promises!’ “Aeryn?”

Braca takes a step back. Maybe prudence. John smiles dangerously. Maybe fear.

“Aeryn Sun had already left the clinic when my men arrived. She did, however, leave the child behind.”

“Aeryn... wouldn’t...” Time slows down. Harvey’s waiting impatiently for the cakes to rise, hums a song John forgot a long time ago. ‘We had joy, we had fun. We had seasons in the sun...’ Harvey ties on an apron. The one John bought with his pocket-money, and his mother didn’t wear. ‘Face facts, John – you knew from the start. It was always hopeless... have a brownie...’

Braca’s waiting for a response. He’s paid to see the show. Front row seats to see the saddest clown.

“You wanna watch me fall apart, Braca?” John swipes moisture from his cheek, glances at his wet fingers and curses.

“The child was flawed, Crichton.”

“Get out...”

Braca takes a step back; a guard appears at the door.

“Crichton...?” Braca’s voice is still thick with secrets.

“Just... just go away. I need...”

“You may want to know that Scorpius has asked for the child to be brought to the Command Carrier.”

“She’s here?” How could he not have known? Guilt slices a swathe across his guts. He should have known... should have sensed...

Braca’s still waiting, impatience edging into his cold eyes. Plead? Beg? Demand? John shifts to neutral. “I want to see her...” Thank God it’s not a question.

Braca doesn’t argue – maybe he’s glad to have something to do, maybe he’s having a good day. “I’ll make the arrangements.”

***

Crichton seems somehow smaller, as if constrained by his own secrets. Or as if he’s left too much of himself behind. Whatever the cause, Braca always experiences a jolt of surprise whenever they catch up with him. John Crichton’s flesh and bone consistently fails to measure up to that of the myth.

Braca halts as John pauses and leans a hand against a bulkhead. Braca’s fingers trail across the handle of his pulse pistol, immediately on his guard. When he glances up, John’s smile is sardonic.

“Which way? Left or right?” Crichton makes no attempt at translation.

“Treblin.”

Crichton nods and walks on. The junction lights throw staggered shadows across the curved wall, and pick out the grey in the Human’s hair.

Yes... Crichton seems smaller now. Turned in on himself. Braca’s seen him coax wormholes from nothing, navigate those treacherous blue ribbons with nothing more than a feeling, a sense...

Crichton stops. “Left? Or right?” This time he gestures tiredly, pointing one way, then the other.

“Right.”

Crichton doesn’t acknowledge Braca using his language, just turns and carries on. Braca feels a spike of irritation as he follows him down the cold passage.

“Here.” Braca indicates a door. “You’ll find it’s unlocked.”

Crichton leans on the bar release and the heavy door swings slowly inward. Cool air tumbles into the corridor and Braca can feel it pooling around his ankles. Crichton pauses before entering, glancing back at Braca and the two guards.

“The guards will remain outside,” Braca says by way of an order, and also answering Crichton’s unspoken question. Braca can pick the point when the Human’s resentment pales into resignation. After all this time, Crichton has few surprises left.

Crichton’s eyes slide from his and over to a small refrigerated unit. It rests upon a low centre table that is obviously there just for the occasion. He takes a few steps forward, enough for Braca to follow him into the room and swing shut the door. As he turns around, Crichton is still standing there, breathing deeply.

Braca shivers and pulls his jacket closer about him. “This is the hybrid child–”

“Don’t they teach you respect for the dead?” John cuts in sharply, finally walking across to the unit and staring down.

Braca allows the mild rebuke. There’ll be time enough later for retribution.

Crichton crouches and tentatively raises the cover. Through the chilled vapour the child is tiny, still wrapped in the coarse clinic blanket. Crichton cries out softly and moves in closer. “Christ, she’s beautiful,” he murmurs, reaching out to touch her face.

Braca leans back against the door and watches the volatile Human touch the pale skin of his child. Crichton hesitates then fumbles the body from the unit, cradles her in his arms, as if lending his warmth could bring her back to life. For the first time he realises that Crichton needs the physical validation of death. Needs to touch it... taste it... to know it’s real. Another part of an alien grieving ritual, and another sign of base emotion. Braca struggles to contain his contempt.

“... so beautiful,” he whispers, rocking her gently. His fingers lift the fine puff of reddish hair.

Braca is glad he granted Crichton this concession. In this small, bleak room, Crichton’s pain is almost palpable, the first notch in Braca’s simmering need for revenge. He allows himself a small smile of satisfaction. On a more pragmatic note, the Human’s acceptance of his daughter’s death will make ensuing negotiations easier. Braca had wondered at Scorpius’s insistence that they retrieve the child’s body. He’d assumed it was for medical testing, the first hybrid between the species proving a rich source of study for the eager medtechs. But watching Crichton weep over the pathetic scrap of skin and bone, he can truly see the child’s usefulness. The Human’s strange attachment to this dead child may yet provide much needed leverage.

“Leave me the fuck alone...” Braca glances up sharply. Crichton is looking to the side, to empty air, frustration making his face look old. “Not now. Just... not now.”

Braca stares a moment more, before relaxing into a thin lipped smile. The remnant of Scorpius’s neural clone. Scorpius’s gift to the reluctant Crichton. He wonders what the clone is like – this hybrid child of Crichton’s own creation – before skirting away from the slightest empathy. Crichton has rarely complained, but then he has always demonstrated depths of stoicism Braca would find admirable in a Peacekeeper, but annoying in one who is not even a soldier, let alone Sebacean.

Crichton resumes his place, places the body back in the unit, then bends and whispers something long into her ear. Childish babble, half understood words from a barbaric religion. ...though I walk in death’s dark vale, yet will I fear no ill... Braca shivers and watches his breaths mist into the chilled air. He notes with pride the shining floor, the overall cleanliness of the refrigerated storeroom. He shifts noisily and stamps his cold feet, folds cold arms across his chest, flexes cold fingers.

Crichton sighs, moves away and gently draws the cover down. He stands unsteadily and hugs himself, stiff fingers as taut as wire around his arms.

“Why does Scorpius want her?” The Human still stares at her immobile face.

“I do not know.” It’s not quite a lie. Not quite the truth. Nothing given away. Nothing wasted.

Crichton nods in grudging acceptance, but still seems loath to leave. Braca swings the door in, relieved to see the reassuring form of the guards in the relative warmth of the corridor.

When he speaks, it’s mainly for their benefit. “You’ve had more than enough time, Crichton. Don’t expect these concessions too often. Because of the circumstances... I have been lenient.” Braca exults silently in the demonstration of his power. He allows the curious guards to look past him and into the room.

Crichton wipes his face on his sleeve before turning to the door.

“Tell Scorpius, Humans don’t... violate... the bodies of their dead.” He pushes past Braca roughly enough to make the guards uneasy. Braca placates them with a wave of his hand and trails Crichton back through the corridor.

***

She brings him sangka in the covered cups he insists she use. The drink is hot, frothy, steam curling out from the raised lips. He takes both cups as she slips into her chair, then hands one back. She sips at the drink and settles her weight against the leather. Outside the viewer, the last of the satellite defenses blinks in clearance and D’Argo rotates the small craft into a deep space trajectory.

“I missed this,” she says, as the sudden increase in velocity pins her against her chair. She sniffs the air appreciatively. “Space. Can you smell it?”

“It smells cold.”

“Fresh and clean,” she laughs, taking another quick sip. “Besides, can you smell the cold?”

“I can,” D’Argo replies morosely, one hand wrapped around the warm drink, the other nudging the steering control.

She taps her fingers against the cup. “I don’t like staying in one place too long. I never did before, even with Nerri. We moved about. Moved here and there.” She moves in the chair, illustrating her point.

“We were only there two monens...”

“I don’t feel safe just sitting... just waiting. If you wait long enough, then bad stuff will find you.”

“Bad stuff?” D’Argo snorts. “Maybe if we stay in one place long enough, we will find the good things too.”

“Maybe...” Chiana says defensively.

He wonders what she knows. What she won’t tell him. The Chiana of old could never keep a secret, but this Chiana has a secret at her core, wrapped in the blanket of her blindness. She puts a hand to her face as if to deflect his stare. He sighs and gazes at the ice-crystals that rim the viewer. In the faint sunlight they prism like rainbows, but the colours mean nothing if he can’t share. His blindness is that he can’t see past her.

“Chiana, we can live a life. Settle down somewhere. Live simply. We have to try.”

She doesn’t fight. Doesn’t argue. Just draws into herself.

“This...” he waves his hand at the bleak viewer, “this is no kind of life. It’s just... more of the same.”

“You were different when you came back from Remka’s.”

D’Argo recalls the scent of blood, the broken bodies, the pistol blasts that charred the walls. He had felt alive then, felt a surge of exhilaration as he padded down those silent corridors. But that night, lying in Chiana’s sleepy embrace, he knew the feeling had come more from having a sense of purpose. “I refuse to waste any more time. John and Aeryn made a choice. They left and we were foolish enough to follow them...”

“I sensed something bad–”

“Something bad happened despite us. We cannot help them anymore. We are not part of their future. But we can still help ourselves.” He turns toward her, finds her slumped in her seat, eyes staring sightlessly at the viewer. “What do you see... in our future?”

“Don’t ask me, D’Argo.” Her voice is genuinely scared. “Don’t ask. I don’t wanna... I don’t...”

He reaches out and grabs her arm in reassurance. She jumps a little, then leans into his touch. “Then I won’t ask you to go there, Chiana. I have heard the wisest say that some things are not for us to know. We shall uncover our own surprises. Life would get tedious without them.”

She smiles up at him and rests her head against his warm touch. “I’m scared.”

He laughs. “The warrior who does not feel fear, will lose the battle.”

“You just made that up!”

“You can still see right through me.”

“You’re scared too, aren’t ya?”

D’Argo’s voice carries a hint of humour. “You have a rare gift... that annoys the frell out of me.”

“D’Argo? All that ‘you being scared’ stuff? That was just a lucky guess.”

“I ascertained that.”

“So where are we going?” She suddenly relaxes, takes another sip of sangka. “Hey, your sangka’s going cold...”

“I can’t get away with anything,” D’Argo complains good-naturedly, draining the cup before handing it to her. “We are going somewhere away from Scorpius and Grayza, somewhere away from Peacekeepers. Somewhere away from John and Aeryn.”

Chiana laughs. “Is there such a place?”

“It’s a large galaxy.”

“Still too small for us.”

“Then we’ll have to make it fit.”

“You sound more and more like Crichton.”

He turns to her and cradles her cheek in his hand. “Chiana, we have to let them go. Like we did with Pilot, Moya and Rygel.”

“They’re in my heart, D’Argo. I can’t run from that.”

She pulls away from him and curls up sleepily on the chair. A stray shaft of sunlight angles through the glare filter and lights her in white. He gently adjusts the steering and the light fades away. As the filter tries to compensate, he blinks in the sudden darkness.

“We have to try.”

***

She’s scanned the faces before she’s half-way to her table, assessed the danger before she draws a chair and slumps down. A secluded corner, facing the entrance, alcohol stale. She rests her hands on the sticky table top and glimpses the bright sunlight that washes the gas giant from its grimy shadows. John would say it was a beautiful sight. He always did make the simple complicated... and the complicated simple.

Aeryn turns away from the view port and resumes her careful study of the clientele. Most are travellers, weary yawns, and faces bloated from deep-space tiredness. Some have children. In the relative freedom of the spaceport, they run and argue and noisily kick the chairs. Aeryn’s gaze slides across them and back to her small table, to the sticky rings that adhere to its dull surface. She licks her finger and cuts a circle into a beginning and an end. She admires the symmetry and logic reminiscent of the Peacekeeper emblem. Cool and clean.

If John walked in now with those dangerous blue eyes and that generous grin, she’d change her mind even while hating herself for it. Follow him out the door and float upon the promise of something better. But John is always somewhere else – two feet placed in nowhere while he makes his choice. He’s not here now, not sitting in front of her with a frelled plan tacked together from nothing more than resolve. Tayser Remka sold him to Scorpius.

A child screams and hobbles with a skinned knee to her unconcerned mother, who slaps her for her trouble. Aeryn bites down on her guilt. That most painful of John’s gifts. Maybe this time Scorpius will make John’s choices for him, and end his hopeless spiral of self-recrimination and pain. Scorpius has done the same for her. Maybe she should thank him for it.

She cuts another circle in half as the waiter sidles up and slides a house drink on the table. She flips him a coin from the leather bag across her shoulder. Tayser Remka’s credits clink and roll as she moves the bag to the table top, and surreptitiously checks the room again. The bag is heavy, dangerous to carry in public, but she won’t leave it down, won’t hide it. It’s the price of her lover, the price of John Crichton... and the cost of surrender. As tempting as the thought is, leaving John’s bounty would be the final abandonment. Instead she’ll carry it until the last credit is spent and the past is paid for and discharged. Maybe then she can find her own kind of freedom.

The sobbing child rejoins her brother. The two of them huddle together at a uncleared table, whispering in childish collusion while glancing nervously at their inebriated mother. Their hushed voices remind her of the clinic... and of Tayser Remka. He had not even recognised her, though she had spent much time under his ‘care’. His curiosity had shone through his pain, and then through his agony. His liquid screams had gone unheeded and when the time had come, she had allowed him to die, still curious. She half-smiles, and reaches for the glass.

The drink is coarse, bitter, but it warms its way down. If John were here.... She can almost feel him, leaning across, his ready laugh and that quizzical look. His quick generosity that always borrowed more than it gave, and left her hollow and wanting. Why can she only see that now? Aeryn wipes her eyes and John moves close with that warm Earth smile, and says something only he would say. She pushes him away and he blinks in hurt surprise. Even now it would be easy to acquiesce, to become the approximation of all the women he’s left behind. Until she too is grounded in nothing. Like John.

...like attracting like...

The language is John’s, the thought unbidden. Maybe he is here. She glances at the empty chair for the first John. That elusive John. The John who demands nothing and offers just enough...

The drink makes her shiver. Makes her hand cold. She frowns down at it, irritated. Wherever she is, John’s always there before her. Tugging her to places she doesn’t want to go. She draws away, pulls back. Wipes his welcoming smile from off her face.

Maybe it’s not too late... to save herself.

***

How They Fall (Part 3)

Wed, 17 Dec 2003 12:32:57 GMT

The final part is all one scene. Grab the tissues...*g*

***

Another room. He’s led there and abandoned. Red and black walls. Did he really expect a daffodil yellow? Scorpy and Braca sit comfortably in the only two chairs. It’s not a social occasion, even though Harvey’s wearing his best suit. John’s uneasy. He never did like orchids. Harvey’s ornate corsage droops in the recycled air. The clone prods him forward, then dogs his tentative steps, making him stumble. John glances up quickly. Scorp’s got that frelling half smile, like he’s discerning all his secrets. Braca’s foot slices through the air impatiently. Funny how you notice the little things.

“What did you say?”

Scorpy’s taken off-guard, his face registering surprise. Score one for the mad Human.

“John...” Scorpy’s voice carries the same old question.

“We meet again...” Hey, may as well make it easy for poor old Scorp. Must be hard to retain your B movie credentials, even if you do have the sets. He laughs as Harvey leers, face close to his, revealing ill-fitting fangs. ‘Bela Lugosi... Bela Lugosi...’

“You seem a little distracted.” Scorpius leans forward and studies him intently.

“Oh, you know, just me and my shadow.” John stops laughing and stares down at his feet. He hopes that Harvey will go away. Instead, Harvey’s boots enter his field of vision. “Go away, Harve. Go and annoy another boyfriend.”

“Oh, it’s not Harvey. It’s me.”

John takes a step back as Scorpius places a hand on his arm. “Whatever... the advice still stands.”

“What advice was that, John?”

John tries to pull away as Scorpius drags him forward.

“I fear you’re making less sense than normal. Your friend, Harvey...?”

“Too unsubtle...too unsubtle. Don’t you know the difference between friend and acquaintance?” John wrenches from his grasp and rubs feeling back into his arm.

Scorpius’s face is bland. “It is a relatively simple procedure to extract the neural overspill...”

“Relatively simple? After all this time, you’re telling me that it’s relatively simple?”

Braca stretches out and crosses his legs at the ankles. “Our medtechs have perfected the extraction procedure.”

“How? Did you ask for volunteers?” Harvey’s giving blood, milk filling the transfusion bags. John leans to the side and whispers conspiratorially. “You got it wrong, Harvey. The milk comes after...”

“We are willing to remove the neural anomaly. As an act of good faith.” Braca almost looks saintly, shining under the light. Harvey adds a few birds, places a rabbit and squirrel by the Captain’s feet.

“Quit it!” John whispers harshly.

‘That wasn’t me... it was you!’ the clone retorts indignantly.

The pain encircles his arm again. Harvey melts away, to be replaced by Scorpius. Same thing, really. Just more of the same.

Scorpius forces his most jovial tone, claps a hand on his back. “What do you say, John?”

“I’d say that’s an offer I can’t refuse.” Remka didn’t get it. Scorpy does. He smiles in wan appreciation, brings his face close to John’s.

“I’ve actually missed you, Crichton.”

“Isn’t Braca enough for you?” Braca’s scowl is worth it. John’ll take the little things while he can get them.

“You’re under stress... As such, I make allowances. However, you should not abuse our goodwill.” Scorpy places a finger on John’s forehead like a benediction. “Captain Braca can make things easier for you.”

John turns to Braca, bats his lashes. “Can you, Captain Braca?”

Braca reddens and his eyes turn to Scorpius’s face. “Maybe we should remind Crichton of his place. He is our... guest, but he has certain obligations...”

Scorpius traces his finger lightly down John’s nose, lips and chin. “The Captain is impatient, John.”

“See, Scorp? None of us is perfect.”

“True,” Scorpy sighs as he steps away. He resumes his seat, one arm thrown casually across the chair back.

John glances back down at the floor and decides to sit there. “I think I’ll join you.” Back straight, legs crossed. Playtime at Junior Elementary.

He looks up. Scorpy’s smile is tolerant. Braca’s lips draw into a thin line. Harvey’s got the long wooden ruler. Face grim, he slaps it against his palm.

“John, we’re aware of your recent loss. Your daughter...” Scorpius breaks off, as if death is distasteful to him.

John shuts his eyes and tries to squeeze out the memory. Blue tinged skin, cold... .

“I understand Captain Braca permitted you to see the child?”

Fine hair ruffling under greedy fingers.

Braca answers for him. “I did, sir. It was purely a common courtesy to acquiesce to Crichton’s request.”

John laughs shortly. The kindness of strangers. He places his hands behind him and stretches out till he lies flat on his back. Hands behind his head, he gazes at the ceiling. Dust motes dance on air drafts and cycle through the lights, shining like fireflies. He never noticed that before.

“I don’t know if you’re aware, but Tayser Remka is dead.”

Dead? “I ain’t God. I can’t bring them back. Even Tayser Remka.”

“He was tortured then assassinated.”

“That’s my girl.” He grins up at the grey ceiling... that was my girl...

Braca’s voice is reedy when it’s disembodied from his face. “We believe the killer was Aeryn Sun.”

“Yeah, well, Aeryn can be formidable.”

Scorpius still hasn’t lost his patience. “Crichton–”

John hoists himself up on one elbow and cranks out a glare. “I don’t know where she is.”

“We wish Aeryn Sun no harm, but we can’t guarantee her safety if she should decide... to follow you.”

“Don’t worry ‘bout me, Scorpy. Aeryn’s not coming back.” John laughs harshly and rolls back on the floor again. “Someone stole the dog one too many times.”

“This display of self-pity...”

“Yeah...yeah.” Footsteps cross the floor. John opens his eyes to see Scorpius staring down at him from a great height. “What do you want?”

“Why must you make me ask?”

“‘Cause that’s how we play this game.”

Scorpius grunts, leans down and yanks John roughly from the floor.

“Don’t go changing the rules on me.” John finally finds his feet, then rubs the pain from his upper arms. Wonders how big the bruises will be.

“As far as I know, and perhaps Captain Braca will confirm this... the rules haven’t changed, Crichton.”

“Hey Braca! Got the rulebook handy? We’ve got a little dispute going on over here.”

“I’m afraid not, Crichton. But I can tell you that you’re the loser.”

Scorpius laughs then and propels John across the floor, pushes him forcibly into Scorpius’s still warm chair.

Playing for time, John pats the arm rests. “Comfy...”

Scorpius crouches down until he’s at eye level. “Why are you trying to make me lose my temper?”

“Maybe it’s because I’ve lost my mind.”

Scorpius sighs. “I didn’t want it to come to this, John.”

“That’s kind of ya, Scorp. I appreciate the sentiment.”

Braca uncrosses his legs and pushes up from the low chair, sauntering over to stand behind the crouching Scorpius.

John turns away from their eyes. “I guess it’s crunch time, guys. End of the innings and no home runs. The crowd’s gettin’ a little antsy...”

The glancing blow comes from nowhere. A sting that takes John’s breath away. Braca cradles his hand and calmly surveys his handiwork. John can feel the heat suffuse his cheek while he tastes blood in his mouth.

Scorpius leans across, barely whispers. “Centre yourself, John.”

“I can’t anymore...”

“Then let me... assist you. We are in possession of your daughter’s body. Captain Braca informs me you’ve requested a standard burial.”

John stares at Scorpius, and runs a bloodied tongue across his dry lips. “You owe me this, Scorp. You can’t–”

“Perhaps, after all this time, the rules have changed. I’m of the opinion I owe you nothing.”

“She’s my daughter. You’re not gonna cut her up like a lab rat.” John’s fingers pluck the arm rests in agitation. He notices and quickly clasps his hands together, resting them in his lap.

“She will be accorded the standard Peacekeeper burial... or she may undergo extensive testing. The choice is, for the moment, yours. She is the first Human/Sebacean hybrid. A fascinating creature. Once High Command knows of her existence...”

John looks up into Scorpius’s smirking face. “Ever thought it may happen to you one day, Scorpy? They must be pretty curious by now about what you’re hiding under all that body armour.”

John shies back as Braca steps up, clenching his fist. Scorpius raises his hand in restraint.

“Maybe Braca can tell them your fascinating secrets,” John continues tiredly. “My guess is they’d want a little verification.”

Scorpius places his hands on John’s knees and pushes himself to his feet. John draws back against the leather and watches him sullenly.

“This is childish, John.”

‘He started it!’ Harvey interrupts indignantly. It’s a hot day in New York. Harvey’s in knicker-bockers, sucking on ice and lolling on the steps of a brownstone building. A dead-end kid – Harvey flips a coin with studied indifference while gazing at the electric chair. ‘So, I wasn’t good enough for ya...’

He picks at his final meal and stares at John accusingly. A clock ticks to dawn, and the Irish priest places a reassuring hand on Harvey’s shoulder. ‘Promise me that when the time comes, you’ll be brave, lad.’

‘I got a bum deal, Father.’

“Sorry, Harve. I know it’s not fair...” The sound of John’s voice surprises him, he can’t remember forming the thoughts.

“Fair?” Scorpius laughs. “An intriguing if naive concept, is it not, Braca?”

“Yes, sir,” Braca responds dutifully.

John struggles to rise from the chair and Scorpius casually presses him back. “Fairness is having weapons that equalise the advantage the Scarrans currently have. In your terms, ‘an equal playing field’. Is that not a reasonable thing to want?”

“I can’t give you wormhole weapons.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

John can feel himself drawing inward. “That’s for me to know and you to find out.”

Harvey claps appreciatively and runs on the spot. Grey tracksuit, running shoes. ‘Fit, John. Got to get on the ball. No pain, no gain’. Harvey throws him a medicine ball, heavy enough to cut him in two. John’s eyes fly open and he grunts at the impact.

“John... centre yourself.” Scorpy’s chiding a child, and Harvey wants to know what kind of daddy Scorpy would make. John struggles for breath.

Intrigued, Scorpius steps back, allowing John to bend over reflexively. John shakily draws in air. “Sorry... zoned out,” he mutters through the dull pain.

Scorpius regards him. Cants his head to one side. “Braca?”

“Sir?”

“Make ready the procedure for the neural clone extraction. The clone is now an impediment to our research.”

“I concur, sir.”

“Now, Braca.”

Braca’s face registers surprise, then glowering anger, before he turns on his heel and strides to the door.

“Hey, Braca. Who’s running this ship?” Braca stiffens at the taunt, falters, then carries on.

“Thank you, Captain.” Scorpius’s voice is soft, casual in its dismissal.

The door slides shut with crisp efficiency. John wraps his arms protectively around his stomach and takes deeper breaths. When he looks up, Scorpius is regarding him intently.

“So, Harvey will finally be gone?”

“Yes.”

“And what about my daughter? Will you... will you promise me–”

“I have not yet made up my mind.”

“You’re not going to touch her,” John cries despairingly, almost making it out from the chair before Scorpius shoves him back again, this time holding him in place. John chokes back a yell of frustration.

“Still impetuous. Have you learned nothing? Why do you insist on hurting yourself? Hurting others?”

“Spare me the rhetorical questions,” he grunts, still struggling.

“Aeryn Sun. By your own admission, she will not come back for you. So much time and effort expended. Time your short-lived species cannot afford to waste.”

John stops struggling. Sighs. “Didn’t they tell you? Love is blind.”

“Your views on life are always so entertaining.” Scorpius continues unhurriedly. “We have received unsubstantiated reports... sightings of your friends, and of Moya. We also know that D’Argo and Chiana have left the planet we retrieved you from. They’re not coming after you. You are quite alone.”

“I’m used to that.” John jumps as Scorpius’s hand brushes his chest.

“Wormholes...”

“You know I can’t just give you what you want. You’re going to have to take it.”

Scorpius bends down, lifts John’s face to his. “Oh, I intend to, but was it worth holding onto all those secrets? All that guilt?”

Scorpius’s grip tightens as John tries to pull away.

“The needless deaths of your friends? The needless deaths of uncounted strangers? How many have died for you, John? Your child’s heart abnormality could have been easily repaired by Peacekeeper medtechs. Is this another death on your conscience?”

John wrenches his face away, ashamed of his tears. “It’s never as simple as that.”

“Perhaps not.” Scorpius pauses. “You know, John... having you sitting here with me is like old times. It’s like we’ve come full circle, back to the beginning.” Scorpius’s voice glitters with false brightness. “I’m reminded of the time we spent together on the gammak base.”

“You need to get out more, Scorpy.” He tries to suffocate the panic. Hold in the pain.

“Are you aware that this carrier has a modified Aurora Chair, modulated to your brainwave patterns? When the clone has been removed, and if I deem it necessary...”

The bastard’s already smiling in anticipation. John takes a swing at the smug face, but Scorpius catches him by the wrists. He brings John’s hands back down to the armrests and pins them there. The gesture awakens the fear that’s just under the surface. John’s almost engulfed by a wave of anxiety as he struggles to free himself.

Scorpius studies the sheen of sweat on John’s forehead, before releasing him. He pats John gently on the shoulder. “Why must you be so recalcitrant?”

John hugs himself protectively. “Haven’t you figured it out yet? It’s the way I play this frelled game.”

Scorpius looks around the room theatrically before moving across to John’s side. His hot breath warms John ear. “You are the only one left playing,” he whispers.

“Just you and me, Scorpy.”

“Your strategies have gained you nothing.”

“I don’t deal the cards. It’s how they fall.”

“Fatalism. A new aspect of your personality.”

John flinches as Scorpius rests a hand lightly on his hair. “Yeah, thanks to you, I’m a regular Sibyll.”

“I don’t understand the reference, John. I trust you will be more forthcoming in the chair.”

“You really wanna see Sally Field?” His voice is lifeless. The quips running on automatic. Scorpius places a hand on the back of his neck. The warmth makes him freeze.

“Relax.”

“My daughter... you won’t...” His voice is pleading and he flushes in shame.

Scorpius grunts in satisfaction as he lifts John’s face to his. “She means so much to you, doesn’t she?”

“Just promise me–”

“You’re in no position to ask for favours.”

“Just promise me...”

“The burial? You’re too predictable, John. Still making sacrifices for a lost cause.”

“Just this one thing.” He forces himself to look into the hybrid’s soft pale eyes.

“What are you willing to offer me?”

John’s fingers rewrap around his upper arms and press fresh bruises upon the old. “You haven’t really left me too much, Scorp.”

Scorpius moves closer. Takes that familiar pause, the in-breath before he speaks. “You can give me more than you yet realise.”

“Spell it out for me, would’ya? I’m not thinking too straight.”

“How about your... cooperation?”

An unwelcome warmth from Scorpius’s hand runs down his back like liquid panic. Scorpius breathes heavily over the faint whine of the air cycler.

“The choice is yours. Your child can have a simple burial in space – the protection of anonymity amongst the Peacekeeper dead. Or she’ll be dissected, studied and catalogued. I’ve seen what they can do...” Scorpius waits, studying John’s face intently. “The choice is yours.”

John bites his lip, then nods his head.

“So, you’ll cooperate?”

“Yes,” John whispers, flinching as the fingers once again stroke his hair.

“Fully?”

“Yes.”

“Then, that is acceptable.”

John sits up straighter and bats Scorpius’s hand away. “Is that your promise?”

“You put so much stock in promises.”

“Promise me... or it’s no deal.”

“Ah! I’ve so missed that sense of earnestness. Very well. It is my promise. Let’s begin, shall we?”

‘Be nice!’ Harvey calls, hiding in a cupboard where he’ll never be found. He’s reading a transcript, moving lips following his finger under a flickering torchlight. ‘Be nice!’ “Be nice...”

“Quite like old times,” Scorpius sighs.

***

end

Parts of a Tale

Sun, 14 Dec 2003 07:13:59 GMT

I wanted to write a story from an alien POV, and create a world steeped in myth and folklore. The narrator tells her 'parts of a story', weaving together myth and experience to better understand her world and the stranger she harbours. Originally written for the farscapefriday future fic challenge. Beta'd by apathocles and kernezelda. Rated G.

Parts of a Tale

.....

Some say Khlin don’t answer. Don’t listen to their prayers. But I know different. Those people talk too loud, and when they walk, the birds fall silent in the trees. Khlin don’t like to be woken, but he likes to be whispered to when he dreams. He likes the sound of gentle hands trailing through soil, or hushed prayers as warm as the press of the summer sun.

Khlin and Eiyth got married so long ago, no one can remember, except for the framda blooms that cry at night. Eiyth hid in those white flowers when she didn’t want to run anymore. But Khlin found her and put her in the sky so he could always see her. Now no one else can look at her face, because she is Khlin’s. She shines for him alone.

Khlin hears me when I make no sound, makes my arrows fly straight and the taith gasps and falls where it stands. The first blood is always for Khlin, the second blood for Eiyth. The rest is for their children. It’s not a secret, but most people forget. I tell them, but they forget.

Taith is warm, the cutting knife sends steam into the sky. Eiyth knows all her children, but she cries for this one. Cries grey rain that makes me slip on the slickened soil, makes me grasp the wiry trees. Rain that blinds my eyes to her secrets.

She doesn’t know that I can still hear them. Those who walk so lightly. Those who hold me up when I fall, ease the weight of the taith on my shoulders, follow me home. They came with the stranger, but he still thinks he’s alone. Only I know. And Eiyth. Eiyth knows about running, for she ran for so long. Made mountains where she stumbled, cried lakefuls of salty tears. And she knows that however much you try, you can never really hide.

*

I wait until there is no more fear – that is what a hunter does. How she catches prey. Waits until she’s nothing, and the wind blows straight through her. But this stranger carries fear with him, like the clothes on his back. Carries a wound that won’t kill, but seeps and sears, and keeps him awake at night.

I’ve heard of people who bleed from their souls. Heard the old tales as the dry sticks crack on the flames. Brin says there’s no cure. He says that no bark, root or berry can fix a hurt that deep. But that night, I twist the framda buds together and hang them on the stranger’s door, so he can sleep.

*

I want to show him where his friends watch and wait, deep in the eye of the woods. Instead, he takes a splint from the bundle, peels off the damp bark, puts it on the pile by his feet. The new arrow shafts gleam in the evening light.

Brin and the stranger sniff the air, and watch the flames lick the pot impatiently. The taith is not gone until it’s eaten – until then, its soul still lingers. Seems that nothing likes leaving even when its time has come.

Sometime in the night, Eiyth stops crying.

*

I’ve heard that to the west, there’s a lake that’s as long and wide as all you can see. I’ve heard that the sky stretches back as far as the blackest dreams. Lying in Brin’s arms, the rintha bark hazes the ceiling and wisps into the night. Only the hungriest of kyla suck my blood. To them it must seem that I am that lake. That I stretch and fall from the curve of Khlin’s arm. I wonder if the truth is written in the stranger’s blood. Maybe that’s what makes the kyla angry.

From the next room, I hear the stranger cough. Hear him move to the window. If I could, I would tell him that even the Gods must sleep.

*

There’s a story of a hunter who waited so long, he turned to stone. No one could see him anymore, though he was still there. Grass grew around his feet and curled between his toes. It was Eiyth asked him the question – she sees things the others don’t see. But by then, the hunter had forgotten what it was he was waiting for. The secret had been washed away by the sun. Torn away by the wind.

I think the stranger understands. You don’t need to speak when the thought’s the same.

*

On grey days, I can see the stranger’s friends reflected in his eyes.

*

One night, I took the stranger’s hand. As I held it, his fingers curled towards his palm like an animal slowly dying. The skin seemed too hot – a fever that didn’t know how to break.

There was a story in the lines of his palm that wasn’t written for me.

*

There always comes a day when the birds fall silent in the trees.

I left my arrows at the door and looked towards Eiyth. She hid herself behind the clouds because sometimes even the Gods are powerless. Even the Gods feel shame.

There was a new scent on the morning air. A cold scent of greed that clasped my bones and kept me from running. It was the unclean greed of the slow dull people of the far away town.

I feared them, because they shot their arrows only to wound, and laughed as their prey writhed and cried before them.

Khlin could sense them too. The God trembled in impotent rage beneath our feet. He made a hidden path for the stranger to tread, traced by the branches of the brittle trees. He sent a white mysha, lazy wings dropping feathers, for the stranger to follow.

Brin offered the stranger dried taith wrapped in a reyan leaf. I offered framda flowers so they could cry for him, at least for one night.

The stranger took me in his arms and I saw the borrowed blue of the sky in his eyes. Felt his heartbeat flutter like a short-lived bird as he pressed his lips to my face.

*

Somewhere past the blue of the sky are shiny new mountains, and uncounted lakes of salty tears.

*

Come Fly With Me (Part 1)

Sun, 07 Dec 2003 11:03:41 GMT

This was my first real action/adventure fic. Upon re-editing it, I found myself enjoying this story all over again. It's an earlier fic, written after Memento Mori. John, D'Argo and Scorpius try to retrieve Stark from a sticky situation. It's also the story of an ancient oracle called Xanthe. Beta'd by the beta queen herself, apathocles. Rating PG-17.

Come Fly With Me

It was an old gesture born of theatricality, meaningless but impressive. Practiced for so long that even she has come believe in its conclusive finality. Palms up, sinking forward onto her knees, brittle grey hair spilling over her face – Xanthe indicates that the session is over.

The sudden silence in the open-roofed chamber is overwhelming as she pauses and listens from within her womb of hair. The embarrassed questioners blink in surprise and scramble awkwardly to their feet. After allowing time for the usual stammering obeisances, Julta glides noiselessly towards them and leads them away. In the circular room their retreating voices echo with awed excitement as they begin to distil their own kind of sense from the stream of Xanthe’s inner vision.

She counts time, then smiles when their heavy coins clink and oil into her blessing tray. The weak will always pay well for the reinforcement of delusions – she is only required to provide comfort for their own pretence. They ask only that she lift the veil half-way, to assuage their half-belief. No matter that their lives, though admittedly fortunate, will be short – or the longed for child shall soon return to the Goddess.

She waits as their shuffling footsteps meld back into their stumbling lives, then lifts herself back to upright, tilting her sightless eyes into the cobalt night. She can smell the ink blue like a flooding wet stain, and count the stars as their energy rains upon her face. But tonight there is something more – she strains to hear...and there, faint but unmistakable – the strange song of unfamiliar Gods.

A scuffling noise scrapes at the edges of her concentration; the girl’s soft slippered feet as she returns with the laden tray. Xanthe frowns angrily. “Julta?”

“I am here.”

“You must cultivate the art of silence; I cannot tolerate interruption.” Julta does not reply, and she nods to herself in satisfaction – the girl is quick to learn. “Tonight, Julta, I wish to consult the Anite Stone; make the preparations.”

-------

Her arthritic hands perform the sacred movements mechanically, gnarled fingers move smoothly as if they’re not her own. Completing the sequence of esoteric symbols, her cracked voice drops with the weight of indecipherable incantation. She ends with the whisper, ‘Xerenxa kala xerenxa’.

A small bowl of beaten gold, brimming with water and petals from the Lhosa, rests by her knees. Guided by Julta, she dips her fingers in, swirls and shakes off the richly scented drops that fall to the floor like quick little pearls. Wiping her hands dry – the purification complete – she reaches reverently for the silk wrapped Anite Stone.

The heavy wand of white anite snaps apart easily in the fragile strength of her hands, revealing spidery veins of red anite, stone frozen, arching and branching in imitation life. The fossilised veins begin to throb and swell upon contact with the incense laden air.

“Xerenxa, xerenxa,” she intones as the red anite pulses and throbs from the stone to drip viscously onto the incised pattern on the ritual floor. After the final drops fall, she lays down the shell of broken stone and begins to trace the scattered drops – still catalyst warm – her fingers caressing sense from the random pattern.

Her shallow breath rises and catches in her throat. Finally, it is time. The Banik slave briefly touches her consciousness, and though sightless, she turns her head to where he lies – silent and unmoving. Banik, the one you have called has come.

She sighs and calls for Julta. It is time to contact the Peacekeeper.

+++++

Aeryn Sun, Special Peacekeeper Commando, Icarian Company, Pleisar Regiment.
Aeryn Sun...

Aeryn’s voice. Peacekeeper hard. An unyielding mantra; far off and insistent.

By the time he makes out the words, he’s been hearing them for as long as he can remember. A carousel of simmering memories, poultice warm, drawn upward, out, and around. Snicked laughter, snatches of carnival music. Closed doors, closing doors. He can glimpse her white face if he’s lucky, more often it’s a glimpse of her blue-black hair.

Someone is running. Shadows warp though flowing manes of wooden horses. Flaring nostrils, rearing legs. Someone has taken his body, wound it up, and set it down in a place too small. They watch it thump against the walls in a whirlwind of frenzy. Someone is laughing. Closed doors, closing doors. A scream starts and echoes for ever, in a voice that sounds like his, and she runs from every ambush, looks back and smiles through unseeing eyes.

Aeryn Sun, Special Peacekeeper...

“You’re too easy, you were always too easy, Crichton. Always here, always there, always around, in two places at once, and always on *my* side... Do you like me? Do you even remember me? Once, I helped you die, took away your pain. Now, do you remember?”

Sometimes, his hands hold nothing – somehow that breaks his heart. Other times, his fingers slip over the warm sticky foetus. Nothing should be this fragile. The child breaks and cries, paddling hands circling for his finger, half-formed eyes brimming with trust. He forgets to breathe and all around him someone’s screaming.

Aeryn Sun, Special Peacekeeper Commando...

The tiny child, glazed with amniotic fluid, red and pink transparent flesh, spills from his too large hands. It falls mile upon mile, small mouth frozen open in a soundless scream.

+++++

“The Banik is dreaming,” Julta says in awe, guiding Xanthe over to the frail form, sketchily outlined in the Lhosa’s twisting flames.

“He will create dreams while the Lhosa burns,” she says brusquely, her withered hand tracing the hollows and ridges of his face and coming to rest on the worn metal mask. “He will create dreams, to call the one he seeks.” A small smile flutters around her frayed lips as she leans over and whispers into his ear. “Those dreams, Banik, do they torment you too?”

“His dreams are unpleasant?” Julta asks quickly, moving forward to better see the Stykera’s pale face through the cage of Xanthe’s trembling fingers .

Xanthe sighs and turns her head towards the girl, her hand stroking the Banik’s straggly hair. “Stykera are like unruly children with scattered thoughts; only Lhosa can discipline him and provide direction for his mind.”

“What you are about to do – is it safe?” Julta enquires meekly.

Xanthe considers before laughing gently. “Child, Stykera are unknowable. Their thoughts spill out; their thoughts spill in. This Stykera directs his thoughts to only one. The Lhosa defiles this one’s mind with hate, a hate so strong that I can feel it.” She lifts her fingers from his hair and traces out the outline of his lips, bends down and kisses him softly. “Do not worry. The Stykera will not even know I am there.”

Gently, she lifts at a corner of the mask and a fierce orange glow erupts from beneath and pierces the night sky. “Describe what is happening,” Xanthe barks out tersely. “Is the light diffuse or has it direction?”

Julta licks her lips nervously. “It courses into the sky.”

“That is good ...” She pats him on the cheek and croons, “...that is good, my little one.”

Gingerly, Xanthe lowers her head into the Stykera’s light, which washes over her like warm water. She blinks in awe, unaware she is holding her breath as the room – never seen – coalesces into view. A circular room with no beginning and no end – xerenxa kala xerenxa. Bordered with carved stone pillars, its central stone seat staring mutely into the abyss of night. This is where she sits, her time eroded face turned to the stars, plucking words like fruit from the sky and bestowing them on spell-bound listeners. And all the while those cruel Gods look down and smile in amusement at the misuse of their words, which come with a built-in obsolescence. Those words that fade and die in the hard light of day.

A dust worn rug, provided for the illusion of comfort, clings to the carved stone floor, and richly stuffed cushions offer a buffer from harm. And underneath it all, stained anite red from the endless cycles of regular ritual, the carved prophecy stones.

She blinks with cool green eyes for first time in two hundred and thirty cycles, and stares at Julta, who stands blankly, watching her. With a rush of joyous shock she realises that Julta cannot see her – that the girl watches her lifeless shell, the age roughened hands stilled in mid-caress around the Stykera’s face. But her own hands are smooth, the skin clear and firm. Her long black hair coils around her shoulders. She lifts her hands to stroke it and revels in its silky thickness, feels its close warmth hugging her face. She is a child again, like the time...before. With a soaring sense of exhilaration, she can see herself dissolve, surging upward and into the Stykera’s trained energy; feels herself streaming into the cold starry night.

+++++

John tears open his eyes to find himself adrift in the vastness of space. An onrush of noise; a fat tornado of sighing wind. Deafening echoes of ten thousand still-born screams. The ice-blue noise permeates his skin, turning his bones to ice.

Rough-edged silhouettes sway and tumble around him, stretch away as far as he can see, and somewhere further. He tries to close his too cold eyes.

“Watch, Crichton...and see...

He watches, and the cold stiff figures rotate slowly, hungrily twisting to catch the fragile light of a far-off sun.

“Ten thousand of my people...ten thousand.” Stark’s voice edges into a gleeful rhyme, “One, two, three, and look at me. Four and five, I’m still alive.” His voice draws in and becomes bitter. “Ten thousand – vented into space.”

The bodies float, embrace, and gently collide. A mother extends her brittle arms to a non-existent child; a baby lies entangled in her dress.

“Stark, this was not my fault, I never wished for any of this...don’t...please don’t do this to me.” He gazes in horror at the sight, voice breaking.

“How big is your heart now, Crichton? Is it big enough to hold the souls of ten thousand? Ten thousand for one – and now only one of me. Only one can’t put it right. And for Jothee. Jothee.” He spits the name out. “Jothee. Betrayer. Child. Ten thousand...for him.”

“Stark...please, we never wanted this...we had no way of knowing...”

“Never thought...never thought. Only playing wormhole games – climb the snakes, fixing broken ladders. Baniks, Banik slaves. Spillets, spillets...remember? Who remembers them? Who grieves? Do you? Do you dream of them like I do?” He hums a snatch of song as the desiccated bodies jostle against each other. “See, they dance. Do you think they’re happy? Look, Crichton, they want to meet you. You’re the one they’ve been waiting for.”

The bodies begin to glide silently towards him, arms outstretched, pleading fingers and bones. An onslaught of black holes in the dried flesh of ten thousand faces, shrivelled mouths grinning into teeth and yellowed bone. They swarm against his body, suffocate him with their unseeing nearness. He pushes them away, beats them away, breaks them into choking dust – and screams.

.....

“You are Crichton?”

He turns his sad face to the strange child floating beside him. Pooling large green eyes drill into his. Jet black hair floats weightless, invisible against the blackness of space, and she wears the stars like jewels. Her skin is white as if she has never touched a sun.

“The Stykera calls to you. He waits for you.”

“His name...is Stark.”

“Then, Stark waits for you.”

+++++

“No! We are not going down to that planet! Why? One word, so even you will understand: Peacekeepers!”

“D’Argo, since you became Captain, I’ve hardly been allowed off Moya. I merely wish to stretch my legs.”

“Stretch your legs!” D’Argo laughs incredulously. “You never get off that thronesled, I think it’s permanently bolted to your eema. Come here...” he reaches out with both arms and grabs the portly Dominar, “...I’ll stretch your legs for you!” He allows the stunned Rygel to slip through his fingers and drop unceremoniously to the floor. “Whoops!”

“D’Argo put me back at once! The insolence...” Rygel, rising up on his toes, strains his small hand upward for the hovering thronesled that rocks just tantalisingly out of reach, even when attempting a few half-hearted jumps. His voice quavers in indignation, “Put me back at once.”

“Put you back? I don’t think so. In fact, I’m pushing that noisy piece of crespa to the maintenance bay, let the DRD’s look at it. Time it had an overhaul, the frelling thing keeps me awake at night. A few days without it will...” he bends over and grins at the Dominar in satisfaction, “...stretch your legs.”

Rygel jumps up again, his small fingers almost touching the base of the implacably droning chair. He stands for a while and considers, small chest heaving from his previous efforts. Looking up into the Luxan’s smirking face, he bestows D’Argo with one of his most imperious stares. “I demand that...” but suddenly the words cut off as he reels and chokes, his pudgy hand fluttering for his heart.

“Rygel! Rygel...?” D’Argo stands rooted to the spot in horror.

The well-rounded Dominar collapses to the floor and thrashes about, groaning loudly, froth bubbling thickly from his mouth.

“Rygel?! What in hezmana have I done?” D’Argo snatches up the convulsing form and places him gently back into his thronesled, intending to push it to the medical bay.

“Ah, got ya!” The pathetic bundle suddenly bursts into life, frantically manipulates the thronesled’s switches and hurtles out of Command at top speed, laughing in shrill triumph. At the door, he almost bumps into Crichton.

“Ha! How did Luxans ever win that frellin’ war?” Rygel shouts over his shoulder as he zooms past the startled Human.

“Whoa Sparky, keep to the speed limit. You could take someone’s head off.” But already the manic laughter is echoing down the corridor, and the thronesled is nowhere to be seen.

D’Argo, his face suffused with rage, dashes up to Crichton. Panting for breath and his tentas swinging in agitation he puffs, “I swear...I’ll kill that Hynerian. Dominar...or no Dominar.”

“What did he do this time?”

“He made me think I’d killed him.”

“Oh,” John pulls a knowing face and walks away from D’Argo to the viewing window, where the orange and blue planet has been cut into a neat quarter. As he watches, his fingers tracing the filigree of clouds, the first glimmer of sun begins to fuzz along its gentle curve. He sighs wearily and now draws an arc where the clouds are blushing in its apricot light. Slumping back, he lets his arm fall heavily to his side, and turns a tired face to D’Argo. “D, we’ve got to go down there.”

“What?” The Luxan sputters. “But I’ve just informed that royal pain in the eema–”

“Stark’s down there. He’s in...some kind of trouble.”

“How do you know?”

“Because last night he took me on a magic carpet ride, and I don’t want to repeat the experience.”

D’Argo regards John closely, his red rimmed eyes and the small lines etched around his mouth. “You are sure? It’s not a trick? Another mind-frell?”

“Oh, it’s Stark alright. My side, your side.”

“You’re really sure, John? We’re talking about risking lives here.”

“Who else manages to work ‘spillet’ into every conversation?”

D’Argo grunts in acknowledgement. “Only Stark.”

“What’s this about Stark?” Aeryn’s voice cuts into Command like a blunt knife. Both John and D’Argo turn around guiltily. Aeryn stands and eyes them quizzically from the doorway, Scorpius looking on from over her shoulder.

Great. GI Jane and The Ghost That Walks. John kicks at the floor like a schoolboy searching for an excuse. “Nothin’, ‘cept that Stark’s down there an’ we have to go an’ get him.”

“With guns blazing, I presume?” Scorpius adds sardonically.

“You been talking to Harvey?” John asks rhetorically, eyeing the hybrid with distaste.

“You are aware of the Peacekeeper presence...?”

John glances at him in irritation. “I’m aware of a lot of things.”

“Then you must be aware that this is sheer suicide, Crichton, and I must...endeavour...to restrain you from this folly.”

“Endeavour away, Scorpy, but last time I looked, Stark was family. Okay, he’s probably the loopy maiden aunt we keep locked in the attic, but nevertheless, he’s family. And we’re going down there, and we’re going to bring him back.”

Aeryn takes a half-step forward. “I want to come with you.”

John looks at D’Argo and rolls his eyes. “Tell her, D.”

“Umm, I...er think that er...Crichton is concerned about the baby.”

“Yeah, honey, why don’t you stay at home and work on that maternal instinct? Maybe crochet up some baby booties.”

Aeryn leaps over her struggling translator microbes, and rounds on John. “The child is not a hindrance,” she says coolly, “neither physically or mentally. My performance will be unimpaired.”

“Spoken like a good little Peacekeeper. When did you regress, darlin’? ‘Cause I must’ve blinked and missed it. Couldn’t handle all those nasty emotions, eh?”

“At least I don’t have to take drugs to hold on to my sanity.”

“Ouch. Direct hit, babe.” He winces comically and leans over, patting his ass invitingly. “Come on, darlin’. Come and and kick my butt, for old time’s sake.”

Aeryn glowers at him, then shrugs. “Eema.”

“I prefer butts, and but me no buts.” He stands up and gives her his most ingratiating smile. “Sorry hon’, you’re not wanted on this trip. The good Captain has spoken.”

D’Argo looks puzzled. “Have I?”

John looks at him with affection. “Oh yeah, big time!”

The hybrid’s voice cuts in with silky insistence. “If I may, I would like to accompany you. I have proven myself...worthy...on more than one occasion.”

John narrows his eyes before sighing in exasperation. “Momma wants to check I’m wearing clean underwear.”

Scorpius moves forward purposefully. “John, this is no time for childish humour.”

Standing his ground, John watches the approaching hybrid and considers, rubbing his thumb across his lips in concentration. “Okay,” he says abruptly.

“So, he’s coming too?” D’Argo asks in amazement.

John glances towards Aeryn’s still glowering face, before turning to back to D’Argo. “I don’t think we should be leavin’ him behind – if he’s with us, at least we can keep an eye on him – if he stays on Moya...well, there’s no tellin’ what he’ll get up to. I don’t trust him. We might come back to any number of nasty surprises.”

“So, we’re dumb if we do and dumb if we don’t?”

“Yeah, something like that.”

+++++

Julta pushes back Xanthe’s matted hair and wipes her bony brow. The ancient face contorts under the cool water that runs and gathers in the dark puckered sockets of her eyes. Xanthe pushes herself with difficulty to an upright position, the false tears flowing down the corrugations of her cheeks, lips grimacing from the pain of her worn out body.

Julta can restrain her curiosity no longer. “What did you see?” she asks deferentially as she props a pillow behind her back.

“I saw, Julta. I saw.”

+++++

D’Argo dances and shuffles to one side as a small hovertray, heaped with over-ripe Djelnet fruit, shudders its way past him, the ripe skin leaving sticky trails across his coat. “Frell, look at this.” He wipes at it ineffectually and lifts his hand to his nose. “And guess what? It stinks.” But already John and Scorpius are disappearing into the thronging crowd, and D’Argo has to hurry to catch up with them.

“Did you see ...?” he pants out over the battering noise, while pulling John back by the shoulder.

“See what?” Crichton shouts back at him.

Aliens from a hundred different worlds jostle and barge their way through the narrow streets edged with rickety open-fronted emporiums. Bolts of rich material spill out onto pavements, squeezed between collections of new and used mechanical parts, next to sprawling bunches of aniline coloured fruit and vegetables. ‘A bizarre bazaar’, Crichton had called it.

Every so often, throbbing music claws its way out from exotic doorways. Scantily clad tralks, their erogenous zones painted white with powdered opiates, slouch listlessly and watch the passersby with calculating eyes.

Every step envelops them in a new scent; fragrant incense, pungent smoke and rich spices from open pots of roasting meat, the warm smell of tobacco. Raised voices, haggling and arguing, spill into whatever space is left.

Through a break amongst the bustling bodies, Scorpius notices a small side alley and works his way towards it, while beckoning to John and D’Argo. Finally, they erupt from the surging crowd and into the relative peace of the small thoroughfare.

All three struggle to get their breath back, leaning heavily against the flaking stone walls. Almost immediately, a small green tinged alien with a shock of white hair sidles up to them. He holds out three brimming drinks on a wooden platter and smiles at them enquiringly.

“These guys never let an opportunity slip,” Crichton grunts with admiration, while searching for his wallet. He flips three coins on to the platter and takes a glass. “What is this stuff?” he asks, sniffing at it tentatively before holding it up to the scanty light. “It’s...uh...purple. Do you think it’s fit for Human consumption?”

“You will find it most refreshing,” Scorpius assures him, taking a glass for himself.

“It’s made from Djelnet fruit,” D’Argo grumbles, looking ruefully at the glistening streaks on his coat. “It must grow on this planet like...” He grimaces while he searches for a simile.

John can’t resist, and jumps in. “That’d be like Earth tomatoes. Can’t stop ‘em growing. We juice ‘em and drink ‘em, boil them into pastes and sauce, use them in pizza,” he flashes a look at Scorpius, “but not in margarita’s. Toss ‘em into salads, dry ‘em, fry ‘em...”

“Okay, okay – like tommytoes,” D’Argo concedes.

“Crichton, as educational and as enjoyable as this is, I suggest that we prepare some kind of plan if we are to find the Banik and get off this planet intact.”

John glances at Scorpius and scowls in irritation - the bastard’s probably right. “Yeah, maybe this time just winging it ain't gonna be enough.”

“‘Winging it’, John? Is that how you evaded me for so long?”

“Don’t be too down-hearted, Scorpy. Think of it as lateral thinking. Sorts the men from the boys.”

“John, I relish this...insight...into the workings of the Human mind. However, it only confirms my opinion that your actions are dictated more by luck and circumstance than by good planning.”

“Sorry that I’m not the criminal mastermind you wanted me to be. If I was, I’d probably still be strapped to the Aurora Chair...” his voice rises in sarcasm, “...’cause you understand the criminal mind sooo well. But I’m just a confused li’l astronaut tryin’ his best to get through another day.”

“So it would seem,” Scorpius replies sardonically.

There is a sudden awkward pause in the conversation. D’Argo drains his glass swiftly, the gulps ringing loud in the small space. Scorpius rests against the wall and closes his eyes in distaste at the Luxan’s lack of manners.

Cautiously, John takes a sip of the Djelnet liquid. “Hmm, not too bad. Hey! Er...drink guy!” He beckons to the green-skinned waiter and turns to D’Argo and Scorpius with a ‘watch this’ kind of look on his face. The short alien bustles up with an attentive smile spread from ear to ear. “Have you seen a Banik? A Stykera?” The smile wavers into bewilderment. Crichton sighs and places his free hand over the right side of his face. “Wears a mask like this. Glows in the dark.” The waiter shakes his head and shrugs.

Crichton steps over to Scorpius. “On this planet, that means no, right?”

“Precisely.”

“Oh well, one down...” he glances at the passing crowd and takes another sip, “...another hundred thousand to go.”

Scorpius pushes himself off the wall and grabs John by the arm. “It’s time to be serious. I suggest–”

John shakes off his hand and shoves him away. “You suggest nothing, Scorp. Stark brought us here, so he’ll be the one to find us.”

D’Argo crashes the glass down on the wooden platter, causing the small alien to wince. John and Scorpius both turn to face him, and he opens his mouth to speak but stops when he notices a look of acute surprise flash onto John’s face.

“Whoa, D’Argo, you ain’t gonna like this.”

“Like what?” He follows John’s gaze and looks behind him.

“Oh man, this is bad.”

“What?” he asks, a hint of anger edging into his voice.

“Your Qualta Blade – it’s gone.”

The Luxan instinctively reaches for his weapon, only to grab a handful of air. His mouth opens and closes like a goldfish out of water as the enormity of the loss sinks in. “Frell,” he stammers out finally, “that incident with the hovertray and the Djelnet fruit...” He closes his eyes and recalls the shifty look on the slim alien’s face as he barked out a terse apology.

Scorpius views the Luxan with disdain. “This is most unfortunate.”

D’Argo swings round with mounting hyper-rage etched on every feature. “Unfortunate? Unfortunate?!” he bellows, his words rising to a shrill crescendo.

“D’Argo, calm down, man ...” but John’s voice trails away as he glances at the streaming forms passing the alleyway. “Be back soon,” he mutters, flinging his glass to the ground, and diving back into the crowd.

Scorpius and D’Argo eye each other for a brief instant.

“After you,” the hybrid intones with mock politeness. D’Argo growls out a curse in ancient Luxan and ploughs into the heaving mass of disparate life-forms, the frailer figure of Scorpius riding behind in his bow wave.

+++++

Come Fly With Me (Part 2)

Sun, 07 Dec 2003 10:43:45 GMT

+++++

The lithe alien, whip thin and gangly, glances back nervously while fumbling with the heavy Qualta Blade, half-carrying, half-dragging it through the crowded winding streets. How frelling unlucky to enter that narrow alleyway and almost walk right into the huge Luxan. He should’ve gone with Lunnie, in the opposite direction, but all he could think of, was to get his stolen prize home quickly.

On glancing back, he starts noticeably and his heart begins to thump even faster in his chest. A Sebacean male, not too far behind him, is ducking and darting through the bobbing crowd with an intense look of purpose on his face. His throbbing heart sinks to his stomach as he hurries on. He never wanted to mess with Peacekeepers. The Qualta Blade strikes sparks as it clatters against the stones, and he struggles to lift it clear of the uneven cobbles. Not for the first time he wonders if the archaic weapon is worth it. Onche Vooche was always making jokes about how useless they were and he was an assiduous collector of all types of weaponry. Still...functioning Qualta Blades were rare, and this one was in excellent condition.

He risks another glance behind, still unsure if the Sebacean is following him, and is surprised to find the Peacekeeper is now only one or two people back, his arm outstretched and ready to grasp him. One look at the man’s grim face is enough to convince him to drop the weapon and scamper back into the anonymity of the throng.

Puffing a little, John bends over to pick up the Qualta Blade. “Kids,” he mutters under his breath. He inspects it briefly, noting the scratches and scrapes along the outer edge. “D ain’t gonna like this, either.”

A heavy thump resonates across his back, making him cough his breath out. Turning around in surprise, he flinches from a glancing blow that angles across his face. Staggering blindly, he somehow remains on his feet. “What the hell...?” he manages to spit out, when a pulse pistol is unceremoniously rammed against his already smarting cheek.

“On your knees. Release your weapon.”

He falls to his knees and looks up into the hard edged faces of two Peacekeepers, their uniforms shabby and worn. As he struggles to see through his watering eyes, their bland features morph into jubilant smirks.

“Well, if it ain’t PK Chip and Dale,” he mutters to himself.

“Release your weapon, Crichton.” The tone is level and insistent.

John lets the Qualta Blade drop from his fingers and clatter to the ground.

“And the other one – slowly and carefully – then put your hands behind your head.” He grinds the pistol into John’s reddened face, until he grunts with pain. “Understand?”

John looks at him sullenly, at the bubbling cruelty that floods into his dead eyes. “Oh yeah, I understand,” he says softly.

He reaches warily for Winona, and lays her gently down next to the Qualta Blade before bringing his hands back behind his head.

John fixes his gaze at the Peacekeeper he can see clearly. “Who’s this Clapton? Does he play guitar?” he asks with all the innocence he can muster.

“John Crichton.”

“John Crichton? Never heard of him. You got the wrong man – he ain’t me.”

“Ha!” the Peacekeeper snorts derisively. “The whole universe has heard of John Crichton. So how come you haven’t?”

“I don’t know. Could be because my momma brought me up never to speak to strangers.”

“Then we’ve got a learning experience just waiting for you. Aren’t you lucky?” He motions to his partner still crouching by John’s side, pulse pistol still jamming bruises into his face. “Step behind him, use the restraints.”

“Yes, sir.”

Reluctantly the soldier lifts the pistol away and steps out of John’s narrowing vision. John sways back as his hands are roughly yanked down and the restraints locked on.

An upswelling of dread floods from his stomach and out into his limbs like a general anaesthetic. He watches his own light panting breaths with a calm fascination, and his trembling body seems not to be his own. He lifts his eyes to the impervious crowd, and strains to make out their words, trying desperately to ground himself. Instead, the pressing faces tear apart with a ripple of agitation, seeming almost to throw Scorpius into the small space between John and the Peacekeepers. The crowd seamlessly join together and press even closer, murmuring with barely suppressed curiosity.

“Thank you for recapturing my prisoner.” The voice is cool and without inflection. Scorpius swaggers towards the Peacekeepers with the weary nonchalance of a man used to secrets. “Your assistance shall not go unrewarded.”

“Scorpius! But we heard...” the Peacekeepers look at each other in open-mouthed bewilderment.

“About my small disagreement with Mele-on Grayza? That matter has been amicably settled.”

“Well...sir, we thought you were...” the senior Peacekeeper’s voice shrinks in embarrassment. “We heard you were dead.”

“As you can see, Officer, I am very much alive. Communication to these...outer reaches...leaves much to be desired. I must talk to Mele-on; I would so hate undeserved incompetence to sully your performance records.”

The two Peacekeepers shuffle their feet and look at him uncertainly.

“Please...” John edges painfully toward the Peacekeepers, looking up at them imploringly. “Please, don’t give me back to Scorpy. I’ve got money...lots of money...”

Scorpius walks over and casually strikes John across the face. John yelps at the sudden sharp pain, and blood begins to drip from his nose. “Speak only when I allow you to, Crichton.”

John hunches over protectively, before glaring up angrily at the hybrid.

Scorpius, his crocodile teeth gleaming in a rare smile, steps in closer and grabs a gloved handful of John’s hair, brusquely pulling his head back and watching his face crease again in pain. He leans over, inspecting his prize slowly, his easy smile condensing into a sneer. “You have abused my trust Crichton. Will you abuse it again?”

John’s blue eyes flick away from Scorpius and his mouth sets in defiance.

Sighing as if chastising a recalcitrant child, Scorpius yanks John’s head back further, until he can’t breathe and begins to choke on his own blood. “Well?”

He gasps for breath with difficulty. “No.”

“No, what?”

“No...sir,” he spits out in resignation.

Scorpius releases John with a growl and watches him sprawl to the ground, pointedly ignoring his choking struggle for air. He turns back to the Peacekeepers with a bright smile on his face. “Humans – so frail, so deficient.” He dabs at a spot of spattered blood on his glove and rubs it thoughtfully between his thumb and forefinger. “So...unhygienic.”

Both Peacekeepers grin approvingly, the senior one coming closer and extending out his hand, face setting into an attitude of enquiry. “Sir, if I may? Have you appropriate identification?”

“Of course...?” Scorpius tilts his head forward questioningly.

“Officer Atar Sendik, sir.”

“Well, Officer Sendik,” Scorpius says softly, “I would expect nothing less.”

He searches through his body armour, eventually withdrawing a small chip and handing it with confident aplomb to Officer Sendik. “I hope that this will suffice.”

The man’s face blanches when he checks the read-out on his scanner. “You have personal authorisation from Councillor Ryko?”

Scorpius feigns a look of concern. “Is that not enough?”

“Yes, of course it is, sir,” he gulps nervously, running a finger around the collar of his jacket. He darts a venomous glace towards Crichton, who is still on his knees spitting out blood, and lays his hand over the handle of his pulse pistol. “Will you be requiring any more assistance with this...Human? He may still be unpredictable. We are able to escort you...”

“That will not be necessary, Officer.” Scorpius’s smooth voice thickens with growling menace as he looks down. “I think Crichton and I understand each other now.”

“Sir!” he salutes smartly, before bending to collect the weapons that still lie at Crichton’s side.

“If I may?” Scorpius asks sweetly.

Sendik hands over the weapons without demur, salutes, and turns to leave.

Scorpius holds up a restraining hand, “Before you depart, Officer Sendik, I will...eventually...be requiring the release to the Human’s restraints.”

Sendik shoots a withering look towards his partner, who steps forward contritely muttering apologies.

“Thank you. I can assure you both that your assistance today will not go unnoticed,” Scorpius intones, his lips lifting in the beginnings of a grin.

The hapless couple beam back at him. “Thank you, sir.”

“One more thing...I’m sorry to trouble you further...”

“Sir?”

“The Stykera...?”

Sendik relaxes and laughs conspiratorially, as if he’s just gained access to Scorpius’s high ranking boys club. “The crazy Banik? We rounded him up about five weekens ago and were going to turn him in. Then, Xanthe asked for him,” he looks at his partner and grins knowingly. “That Banik is one poor bastard. Have you seen her? You’d want to be mad before that witch works her vuju...”

Scorpius cuts him off with a curt wave of his hand, that also wipes the lewd smile from Officer Sendik’s face. “Thank you. That will be all.”

+++++

“How are you, John?” Scorpius bends over helpfully and pulls John easily to his feet.

“I was going alright until you broke my nose,” he seethes in barely contained rage, still dimly aware of the onlooking crowd.

Scorpius sweeps him a cursory glance. “Not broken, John, merely bruised.”

“Frell you...sir,” he spits out in fury. “Get these cuffs off me now.” He looks around him quickly, scanning the crowd for the tall Luxan. “Where’s D’Argo? D’Argo!” he calls out, voice rising and panicky.

In a quick motion, Scorpius grabs his arm and pulls him roughly forward, almost throwing him off balance. “You are wearing my patience thin...”

“You, Scorp? Never,” he grins manically. “D’Argo!” he calls out again, frantically searching the ring of impassive faces, his face tensing into anxiety.

The hybrid draws John’s pale face up to his. “Control yourself, Crichton. Do not provide a spectacle for these people.”

“Oh no, we can’t have a spectacle,” John laughs loudly, turning his head from the hybrid, his eyes boring into the crowd. “Hey, go home. The show’s over – the bad guy got the girl.”

The crowd murmur to each other and move in a little closer. John nestles into the half-breed and whispers coyly, “Shall we give them an encore, Scorp? Leave ‘em singing ‘n’ go out on a song?” He stops to consider and giggles, “How about ‘Fly Me To The Moon’? Oh, you wouldn’t remember that one...prob’ly memory three thousand and one. Hey! I know, why don’t you ask Harvey? He’d know the words – it was his favourite.”

Scorpius’s eyes narrow, then look away from John’s face.

“Question, Scorp. Who killed the ten thousand Baniks with the Lead Pipe in the Study? ‘Cause – Colonel Mustard – well...he wants to know. That was Stark’s little request to me...along with...other things.” His voice totters on the edge of hysteria. “Ten thousand Baniks, you ever seen that Scorp, ever seen those dead baby eyes? You ever been buried in freeze-dried limb and bone? Spillets, spillets, spillets...” he laughs now in earnest, an hysterical raking laugh that is half-relief and half-nightmare.

John wrenches himself away from Scorpius’s grasp and scans the faces of the fascinated onlookers, before announcing loudly, “Anyone got any guilt they wanna lay on me? C’mon, heap it on. I’m Mama Crichton’s boy. I can take it.”

His battered gaze falls on a small blue individual, grey rheumy eyes fluttering in alarm as Crichton unsteadily approaches. “How about you, Guido? How many bodies under your floorboards?” He sways down, his face almost touching the terrified alien’s. “What you got in your cupboard?” he grates insidiously.

A taller sallow-skinned girl draws back in fright. “‘N’ what’s in your closet, sister?”

“John, John we have no time...” Scorpius starts, struggling to make himself heard over John’s ragged laughter.

John teeters back to upright, lifts up his head and shouts, “C’mon, lay it on. Humans are just way too easy...” He starts to laugh again – long peals of too loud laughter, that leave him coughing and gasping for breath.

A tongue lashes out from the crowd, and John blinks in surprise before slumping unconscious to the ground.

+++++

“Sometimes he gets a little excited,” D’Argo says sadly, walking forward and regarding his friend.

“To think that such precious knowledge was placed in such a fragile vessel,” Scorpius complains softly, as he kneels to unlock the restraints from John’s wrists.

D’Argo barely glances at the Qualta Blade as he stows it securely in its holder. Grabbing John’s limp arm, he hauls his friend up and hoists him easily across his shoulder. “He wasn’t like this until you got your hands on him,” he says, bitterness choking his gruff voice. “He didn’t do too well with your kind of care and attention.”

“And what of your own?” Scorpius hisses quietly, before following the Luxan through the dissipating crowd.

+++++

The room is small and bright, and painted yellow. The square window looks out on a sundrenched day and grass that’s an unnatural green.

“So, you’re on your way?”

“The Cavalry’s coming. Raccoon hats, bows and arrows, pow-wows and Rin Tin Tin.”

“You really lost it back there.”

John turns to face his dead half, the twin brother who so casually ripped his heart out. The twin brother who aimed for the stars and finally reached them.

“Well, I haven’t exactly been myself lately. Stark’s messages aren’t what you’d call...subliminal.”

His dead twin leans lazily against the wall, and smiles. “Stark says he’s sorry. Says he don’t have much time.” His twin circles a finger by his temple. “You know that he’s not in his right mind.”

John laughs wearily. “Can you tell when the Doctor’s in? ‘Cause I sure as hell can’t. Or is that another of your special talents?” He pauses and sighs. “Sorry. So – should I believe him?”

“Well...it’s better than tearing yourself apart.”

John slumps tiredly to the floor, rests his back against the wall and hugs his legs. He looks up into his own face. Or a face that is now a little younger, a little less etched with lines. “Should I believe you? Are you real?” He grins wryly and mutters under his breath. “I can’t believe I just asked a dead man if he’s real.”

“If I told you I was real, would you believe me? At this moment you just might – tomorrow you won’t be so sure. It’s all in the...moment.”

John sighs and hugs his knees tighter. “You got it easy, bro’. You got Aeryn and release from the pain. I’m tired. Hell, I was tired even when I was tryin’ to get Moya’s damn doors to work.”

“Tell me something I don’t know. But here’s some advice, take it or leave it. Get used to it. The rules will change, gravity won’t hold you down anymore. Try not to focus too much, the gift is innate. Think too much and you’ll screw the pooch. Play the red and the black. Think slow and act fast. Any more questions?”

“Yeah, oh enigmatic one. Why should I trust you? You screwed me once before. Took the best year of my life.”

“Man, you would’ve done the same.” A sad smile flits across his face. “Anything else?”

“Yeah, is there a heaven? No, don’t answer that. Okay, how the hell do I get out of here?” He looks around suspiciously. “Is there a green door?”

His twin kneels down beside him and compassionately places a hand on his arm. “There’s always a green door buddy, just remember that.”

John looks into his intense blue eyes, at his open face that seems to invite trust and finds himself strangely reassured. “So, that’s how I do it,” he declares with wonder. He grins as if he’s just solved a mystery. “Damn, I’m good.”

And then the room fades to black.

++++

She found a mirror, thick with dust, silvered with age. The gilt rubs from the crumbling frame, peppering her hands with flaking gold, and she gazes on with unabashed wonder. Lifting her hands this way and that, the gold dust sparks in the dying light.

Laughing, she pulls the mirror to the centre of the room. Extending a finger and touching her dim reflection, she almost expects it to ripple lazily, like the heavy water of a long neglected pond. She stares back at herself through the lost layers of the years, the film of dust painting her faded portrait, a faint whisper of the girl long gone.

Gently, she smooths the grime away, to eyes that remembered green, her cut hair freshly black, her full lips wet and pink. The colours saturate into pulsing warmth as she rocks back and forth, her small hands wrapped around herself, testing the white firmness of her flesh – long, long before the bruises. She closes her eyes and her fingers travel over the plump roundness hidden inside. And for the first time in over 230 cycles, Xanthe cries for herself.

The tears tremble and fall across her face, their force seeming to defy gravity. She watches her rocking reflection flood and disappear before smearing the tears away with the back of her hand. Her tears are colder than she remembers.

In this room of loneliness and despair – the sum of her life – she does not have much time. Gazing around the time-worn chamber, she cringes from its impersonal embrace. Faded coverings, stained from wrapping her in so many desolate dreams, spill across her narrow bed. Floor rugs, thicker with dust than sun-washed dye, are worn into linear tracks, a tentative holding to the known. The room sighs and settles into darkness with a habit long remembered, and she reaches to feel her eyes again, to reassure herself that they are there. She wishes there were light in the chamber, but what use have the blind for candles?

The Stykera’s amber glow begins to flow and ember like a living thing, effusing through the doorway and falling across her bare arms like a promise of the sun. The mirror slips from her hands as she rises, her retreating figure growing smaller in its hard blank gaze. She drifts across to the light, into the room Zehren and her mother made the centre of her world and her life. Here is where the stars rain with cold promises, and two moons swing and beat across the sky. Where angry clouds shiver and swirl through endless reincarnations.

The insistent light throws out a dark shadow that seeks her out, falling across her face with a blanketing stealth. The black source at its centre crouches, its shrunken lips almost touching those of the Stykera, its manic eyes awash with disks of light. A shroud of grey hair tumbles and wavers in the soughing wind.

Fascinated, she is drawn closer to this living caricature of herself. Speckled skin hangs in swathes across her neck, thickened with neglect, while the skin on her hands is tissue thin from the eroding years. Leathery skin, stained dirty yellow, wraps her bones like a shrink-wrapped parcel. Hesitating, she stretches to touch the worn gleaming flesh and the shell wavers and shimmers, dancing lightly about her trembling hand. The scattered form gradually coheres, age hardened, but the camouflage has betrayed its frailty. For the first time in endless cycles, Xanthe feels a promise of hope flutter inside her heart.

Above the pervasive smell of burning Lhosa, she can sense the earthy tang of approaching rain. Above her, the stars are eaten by the black clouds like sacrificial victims, staked out and immobile. She looks away, afraid to infuse meaning into the endless stream of signs and symbols.

An aching groan brings her attention back to the thick stone table where her hated self shakes and begins to pulse, straining to pump the too thick blood back into withered veins. Her new body dims, becomes transparent, disappears into blackness. Her anguished cry of pain dies away before it even reaches the cold stone walls.

+++++

The long neon light flicks and sizzles angrily in its cradle. Carefully balancing his bulk with all the delicacy of the extremely obese, Djarbo Rastan tips his chair back and glares upward, his eyelids beating in time to its erratic death throes. Unimpressed, the light continues to flicker, prompting Djarbo to toss his book onto the filthy counter top, adding blossoming flowers of grease to its already finger-grubbed cover.

He frowns and runs soft thick fingers through his thinning hair. Changing the tube means climbing the hotel’s rickety step-ladder, and Djarbo hates heights. The small cubicle where Djarbo plies his trade, strobes into light and darkness, sending hard edged shadows jittering across the floor and walls. Djarbo decides to close his eyes, but the small explosive flashes permeate through and into his brain like the ghostly after-images of solar flares from the planet’s turbulent sun.

Djarbo looks around him, breath wheezing through his open mouth in increasing agitation. He remembers that management had placed a lamp by the hotel’s internal stairs after one particularly bad fall prompted a cash payout. Smiling happily, he works his way out of the chair and squeezes out the door. Puffing slightly, he jerks the cord from the outlet without bothering to switch off the current. He studiously ignores the resulting sparks and drags the heavy lamp into his small room. Upon his return he finds the neon light has died in his absence. Djarbo had suspected that at heart it was a coward.

Finding the outlet in the pitch black cubicle is like trying to pleasure an Outlander tralk of the cheaper variety, something which Djarbo hasn’t practiced enough to master. He grimaces at the distant memory of her disappointed face. By diligent poking and prodding, his fleshy fingers finally land on the small indents and suddenly the plug slips in easily, lighting up his small office like the annual Kyreta Street bonfire.

He places his hand on the counter and hauls his gaping body upright, panting heavily, circles of perspiration plastering his tight shirt even tighter. After catching his breath, he opens his eyes and jumps backwards with unexpected grace. Something black-clad and hideous is toying with the hotel bell, with an angry Luxan watching on – a comatose Peacekeeper slung over his shoulder. Djarbo manages to glimpse the Peacekeeper’s face and gasps in dismay. He also has a fear of blood. He dabs at his florid cheeks with a ridiculously small handkerchief.

“Can I help you, gentlemen?” he enquires in the best tones of the professional.

The hideous black clothed one, places the bell back on the counter and smiles, his small eyes disappearing into the red folds of his skin. “We’ll be requiring a room for one night only.”

Djarbo looks at all three of them in puzzlement. “One room?”

The hideous one smiles and glances toward the Luxan, while the Luxan looks down at his feet in embarrassment. “One room will suffice.”

Djarbo shrugs his shoulders and clears his throat noisily. “Our single rooms...have only one bed.”

In the ensuing silence, the Luxan looks at the leather-clad one and coughs awkwardly to cover his intense discomfort.

“We can take it in turns,” D’Argo mumbles helpfully to Scorpius, shifting John’s heavy bulk up higher on his shoulder. “I don’t trust you, and someone’s got to stay awake and watch.”

“The term...is ‘keep watch’,” Scorpius hisses back.

Djarbo perks up in sudden interest and pulls the register towards him. “Our finest room in the category you require...will cost either thirty credits, forty-five brandars or sixty-two Scarran krindars.

Scorpius rolls his eyes to the large Luxan and when he speaks, his voice is honey-edged. “He’s the one with the money. Shadow depositories...” his soft tones fall away, heavy with meaning.

D’Argo growls something unintelligible and searches frantically through his clothing for his money. As he pulls the bulging folder from his pocket, the Peacekeeper restraints clatter to the floor. He retrieves them sheepishly, his already red face blushing deep crimson.

Djarbo's eyes widen in wonder, and he looks again at the dangling Peacekeeper.

The Luxan shambles over and leans confidingly towards Djarbo, his fingers riffling through much more currency than the modest asking price of a single room. “Kritzan notes. I trust that you take them?”

Djarbo eyes the money greedily as he feels the cool breeze of the fanning notes touch his face.

“And ... there’s something else we require,” D’Argo finally grunts out with difficulty.

“Yes?” Djarbo asks eagerly, his face lighting up with hope.

“We...um...do not wish to be disturbed.”

The light leaves Djarbo’s face and dies in his eyes. “You will not be disturbed,” he says, voice flattening in disappointment, before taking the money and stuffing it in his pants pocket.

+++++

Come Fly With Me (Part 3)

Sun, 07 Dec 2003 10:35:54 GMT

+++++

Blind again, a thick black blindness that she can never blink away. Her body shakes with waxing blood, warmth suffusing her parchment face. Bright burning spots appear on her cheeks, mimicking a memory of a far-off blush, of a time she can barely remember. And as she tries, her body roughly jerks backwards, making her stumble – forcing her to release the Stykera’s head. Through the pounding in her ears, she thinks she hears him move and groan. But the emaciated face seems peaceful – if hot – under her trembling hand, as she gently replaces his metal mask.

Sputtering in their holders, the Lhosa oil burns low, sending slippery shadows running in endless circles, the sharp odour vying with the scent of something else. She sniffs the air gingerly, her tongue resting on her bottom lip. Very faint but unmistakable – the sweet, cloying scent of death. She lifts her smeared hands to her face and licks them, tastes mortality dissolving upon her tongue. The Stykera is dying.

Xanthe strokes his cheek gently. “One more time, Banik, only then shall you find release. The path is clear to me now...stay strong.” A small sound makes her spin around. “Who’s there?” she asks falteringly, while tilting her head to one side, her animal senses testing the wind.

“The Peacekeeper Lieutenant wishes an audience with you,” Julta whispers respectfully.

“I do not wish...”

“He insists,” Julta pleads.

“Very well,” Xanthe sighs. “Lead me to my chair.”

“He is already here,” Julta says, taking her hand and leading her gently to the centre of the open room.

Xanthe stiffens and pulls away from Julta’s hands. “Lieutenant Trenner?” she calls, her aged voice wasping indignantly across the evening breeze.

“I am sorry to call at this inconvenient time...”

Xanthe frowns in irritation, but allows herself to be guided to her chair. “Time is never inconvenient, Lieutenant, only the person who uses it so.”

“My apologies, then.”

“I shall cherish them,” she replies indistinctly as she settles onto the hewn stone, Julta arranging her robes with practiced ease. “Come before me, where I can sense you.”

.....

The Lieutenant saunters casually over to the consulting stones, scraping his heavy boots with evident disdain on the worn patterns in the stone floor. He sprawls into the querent’s chair with an excess of nonchalance, stretching out, then crossing his legs. Meeting Xanthe for the second time does not make it any easier; his eyes are yet to focus on her directly.

Xanthe sits with ingrained patience, her thick hair ghosting around her darkened face in the transient light, seemingly wrapped in a shroud of impenetrable mystery.

Trenner coughs delicately. “I have come because of the Human, John Crichton ...” he begins awkwardly.

“You do not have him in custody?” Xanthe asks in surprise, swivelling her face to the obsequious tones of the Lieutenant.

“Unfortunately, the Human managed to...effect an escape. My men,” his thready voice rises in frustration, “were deceived by the Scarran-Sebacean hybrid, a mistake they will not repeat. In fact, they will never make any mistakes again.” Trenner finishes on a note of complacent satisfaction, his small laugh caught by the wind and tossed around the walls.

Xanthe considers for a moment. “Do you know that two walk with you, Trenner?” Xanthe asks, with a hint of amusement warming her cold voice.

Trenner looks around him nervously.

“I sense that you have...many friends.”

Trenner laughs again defiantly. “Then, I’ll greet them when the time comes,” he says more evenly, regaining some composure.

“That time may be soon.”

Trenner’s voice hardens with derision. “You will find it hard to intimidate me, Xanthe. I am yet to be convinced of your...skills.”

“I grow weary, Lieutenant...” Xanthe’s cool voice curls into impatience. “As even you can see, I am an old woman, easily tired by Peacekeeper guessing games.”

Trenner’s hands grip the rails of the chair in irritation. “Very well. You’ve already provided information on the Human’s location. I would like you to do it again.”

“Again? Would that convince you, Trenner?”

“It would rule out coincidence.”

“Is that flash of lightning coincidence, Lieutenant?”

“What flash...? But his voice trails off as the lightning crackles above his upturned face. He grunts uneasily over the rolling thunder and shifts in his chair. “A trick, unworthy of you, Xanthe. You sensed the electricity ...”

“You are a fool, you scorn yourself, deny yourself. The Human has belief, that is why he prevails.”

“Where is he?” Trenner asks angrily. “Or do you want to become one of my ‘friends’ as well?”

Xanthe pulls back and pauses before replying. “His Gods are strong. They protect him...”

“His Gods? He has no Gods! What nonsense is this?” Trenner growls in a sudden burst of anger, vaulting easily from his chair and pressing his pulse pistol against Xanthe’s unseeing face. He takes in the depthless black of her denuded eyes, and can almost taste the sickly atrophy of her tremoring body. Julta gasps in alarm and clings to Xanthe’s furrowed hand.

“Calm yourself, Trenner,” Xanthe’s eerily soothing voice washes over Trenner and Julta. “I cannot see all. Look at my face. Look at my eyes. Peacekeeper, my own mother blinded me...gouged out my eyes, before selling me to a High Initiate. He proved to be a false priest with no power, except that which he wielded over his blind girls. He loved his helpless girls,” her voice seethes with bitterness, “loved us over and over again. If I could have seen that destiny would I be sitting here now?”

“But...you saw Crichton in the marketplace...” Trenner’s voice rises indignantly at the rawness of the memory – that they had had him in their grasp, only to allow him to go. Once again, he thinks of the reward money that will make him a rich man, and already he can hear the praise of a benevolent High Command.

“I can see the pieces, but do not possess the knowledge to play the game. The Gods create their own rules – they play with omniscience, the stakes are life and death itself. They allow this old practitioner only the briefest of glimpses, and even then, they mock me with their splendour. That is the extent of my...powers.”

Trenner snaps in frustration, “Then I shall have to take back the Banik. You said yourself that the Human would come for him. We simply hold him until he does.”

Xanthe reels slightly and grabs the arms of her chair to steady herself. “I have paid you well, Trenner. Much more than that pitiful reward.”

Trenner’s voice is light as he pretends to search his memory. “Have you, Xanthe? I can’t recall...”

“You try your hand, Peacekeeper. Greed is never a good motivation – is it really worth dying for?”

“Frelling, filthy hag,” he spits out angrily, trying to push aside the bountiful reward that haunts his thoughts. “I don’t want your money. I want Crichton. I want him to grovel at my feet for the loss of so many Peacekeeper lives, and beg me for forgiveness. Lesser species should remain so. If we have the Banik...”

“The Banik can not, must not be moved,” she hisses between her stumps of teeth. “If you attempt this, he will die.”

Trenner shrugs, the motion lost on Xanthe’s unseeing face. He backs away, unconsciously wiping the gun barrel against his pants and easing back into his seat. “We take the Banik, alive or dead. The Human won’t know.”

“He will,” Xanthe grates out sullenly.

“What if I don’t believe you?”

“Belief!” Xanthe laughs shortly, “What do Peacekeepers know of belief, except to die for the causes of others. You have killed two already...two souls who stand behind you. How many more must die?”

Trenner shifts uncomfortably and scuffs his feet across the floor. “What have you been doing to the Banik, anyway?” he says, peering through the clouds of Lhosa to the inert figure lying on the stone altar. “He doesn’t look too good, you been practising the Living Death on him? Five weekens in your care and he looks like a Trakesh corpse.”

“Crichton will come for him tomorrow morning,” Xanthe mutters in a low undertone.

“You’re sure? Did you ‘get a glimpse?’” Trenner says sarcastically.

Xanthe smiles to herself and repeats, “Tomorrow morning, even the unbeliever shall finally acknowledge truth.”

+++++

D’Argo had watched with relief as Crichton had slipped from unconsciousness into an untroubled sleep. He now lay on the bed, curled on his side, the bruised half of his face turned upwards as if searching for the cooler air to dull the spreading ache.

Ensconced in the far corner, Scorpius lies slumped in the room’s one good chair. He hasn’t moved in a few arns. D’Argo is unsure if he is asleep, and isn’t sure if he cares. He stretches and yawns, before blinking his bleary eyes in surprise when sudden lightning licks its way across the grubby walls. As he fidgets his way to a measure of comfort, the room dims and slips from view and soon his gentle snores hiss into the rain heavy air.

.....

When Crichton stirs himself awake, the worst of the storm is over and the rain has begun to fall without a purpose. He always likes waking to the rain, likes the heavy blanketing comfort of it. Lifting his head from the pillow he sees that Winona has been placed next to him, lying coquettishly on top of the gritty cover. Almost without thinking he takes her in his hand, checks the chakkan oil level and slips her into his holster.

He rolls over and sits up on the lumpy bed. He locates D’Argo easily, his ragged snoring an aural bread crumb trail through an unfamiliar forest. Scorpius is harder to find. A soft smudge of leather in a dark corner, where the hybrid hunkers with the oily complacency of an over-stuffed cockroach. As his eyes grow accustomed to the dark, the hybrid’s white face materialises like a bleached out moon. Somewhere along the line, the universe had belched and left him with this circling satellite, this self-styled companion planet whose alarming proximity keeps pulling him off centre. Winona rests comfortingly against his thigh, and he wonders again why he just doesn’t blow him the hell out of his life. But, ‘miles to go before I sleep and I have promises to keep’. Frell, he hates that damn poem.

The last of the gusty wind lifts the curtains, and he rises from the bed and makes his way soundlessly to the window seat.

The night sky is beginning to lighten, the traders already moving their fresh produce through the streets with the easy camaraderie of early risers. He watches as they swap jokes and laugh, wrapped up against the skittering rain, their words quick and spare, shared out like secrets. In the thin light of the rising sun, the black shadowed street edges with the promise of gold, and the traders disperse to their own patches of puddled ground. Already one or two customers are beginning to haggle, their thin voices reeding upward on the dying wind.

He scratches idly at the stubble on his chin and quickly stifles a yawn, wincing at the sharp pain that radiates from his face. Dipping his finger in the cool rainwater pooling along the window ledge, he lifts his hand to trace around the outline of the tender bruise. He sighs wearily, as with the direct physicality of a punch in the stomach, his own life returns to envelop him, wrapping him once again in fear and self-doubt.

The shop fronts are trundled back and quick figures dart along their unmapped rectangles of ground, piling fruit in tottering pyramids – but his eyes are unseeing, their vision consumed only by himself. He sits for a time before he becomes aware of the void, and the sound of drifting laughter draws him back to the filling street, where a clump of vendors crouch around pans of sizzling sweetcakes, and an upswelling itch from the exotic spice tickles his swollen nose.

He is suddenly hungry, and even that feels wrong.

A reassuring hand is laid lightly on his shoulder but it is enough to make him jump in alarm. He laughs to himself a little, and turns to look at the face – relieved to find it’s not Scorpius.

“Sorry D, guess it’s par for the course.”

D’Argo coughs apologetically. “You are alright? You...umm...slept well?”

“Yeah. I think Stark and I came to an understanding. And, umm, I was talking to myself.”

D’Argo looks at him uncomprehendingly but manages a hopeful smile. “So, everything is good now?”

John turns away and considers, watching as the sun floods the narrow street, lending the pyramids of fruit long triangular shadows. “No, but not as bad as yesterday, an’ probably better than tomorrow. That’s the best I can do.”

“That’s enough then,” D’Argo says comfortingly.

John notices a sudden glint from Scorpius's eye as it catches the sun. The bastard has probably been awake for hours, savouring the darkness – listening to the faint rhythm of his breath, plucking words from his wormhole dreams. He struggles to push away the haunting rush of yesterday’s memories, the claustrophobic circling crowds, inane grinning faces and the out-of-control panic of rising hysteria. And...and...and....

Scorpius rises easily from his chair and stretches a little, the creak of leather filling the room. “Good morning, John,” he yawns lightly. Totally ignoring D’Argo, he opens the pouch he’s been carrying since leaving Moya and reaches for a cooling rod.

“Mama’s gonna put in her rollers,” John sneers to D’Argo, surprising himself at the depth of hatred in his voice.

“A necessary evil,” Scorpius retorts mildly.

“Necessary evil? You always play the same song, Scorpy, an’ I’m gettin’ a little sick of it.”

Scorpius shrugs and does not bother replying.

John flares up in sudden anger and launches himself across the room, his thundering steps making the floorboards shake. D’Argo watches on with sleepy interest while settling into Crichton’s vacated window seat.

“You enjoyed that bit of play acting yesterday, didn’t you?” His blue eyes bore into the hybrid’s mild gaze. “Gotta admire your style.... An’ you never watched Peckinpah? Nothin’ like a little blood to add a little realism.”

Scorpius pauses before replying, “John...consider, I risked my own life to save yours.”

“Yeah, an’ here I am, only slightly...bruised.” He drops his gaze and runs his hands through his hair, before taking a step backwards. There had been a time when being so close to Scorpius used to fill him with revulsion. Now, it’s becoming harder to manufacture and sustain the hatred. It was something they never taught at school.

“Does this place run to hot water?”

“Only just,” D’Argo answers, dragging his gaze from the market street.

“Then I’m gonna have a shower.” He flashes a glance towards Scorpius. “Wash some of this *dirt* away.”

+++++

Scorpius raises his hands in a rare overt show of ill-humour. “We are walking into obvious danger; the probability of ambush is extremely high, and still you will not allow me to carry a weapon? Sheer lunacy! I only accompanied you to protect you and offer what assistance I could, not get myself killed in the process.”

“You can always use your abundant charm, Scorp.” John rubs tentatively at his sore nose, “I’m still under it’s spell.”

“Then I refuse to accompany you. This madness is worthy only of you, Crichton. I insist you leave me behind.”

John looks across at him and grins, happily aware of the half-breed’s discomfort. “You were the one who wanted to get ‘up close and personal’.” His voice turns flippant, “So, welcome to ‘The John and D’Argo Show’, an’ your host for this morning’s adventure will be...John Crichton.”

“I can’t protect you if I’m killed or injured.” Scorpius’ voice rises to a peevish tone. “There’s no need...”

“Don’t worry, pal,” John pats him on the arm with mock affection. “D ‘n’ I will look after you, won’t we, D?”

D’Argo glances at John and grimaces. “Do we have to?”

“Yeah...I kinda promised Aeryn...I think.”

Slightly mollified, Scorpius scowls and walks between them, still grumbling under his breath. The winding residential street rises steeply and, as they take the next corner, the high granite walls of Xanthe’s residence swing into view.

D’Argo whistles gently between his teeth. “Sweet Hezmana, that’s some home!”

“She the local Nostradamus?” John mimics a quavery old voice, “Ferocious beasts crazed from hunger shall swim across rivers...yada, yada, yada.”

Scorpius and D’Argo look at him with blank faces.

“My mom was a big fan,” John says defensively.

D’Argo finally chuckles, “Nostradamus? Is that really someone’s name?”

“Yeah,” John counters. “Doddery old dude. Famous for never telling anyone jackshit.”

“A bit like yourself,” Scorpius adds with unaccustomed feeling.

John stiffens slightly then smiles a little before looking up at the imposing building. “So D, what’s the best way in? Should we make an appointment to see Madam Blavatsky? Or should we just storm the Bastille?”

“What the frell did you just say? You lost me after, ‘best way in’.”

Scorpius watches them in mounting irritation. “There is another option – one much more discreet.” D’Argo and John swing round to face him and blink expectantly. “We simply bribe our way in. And...” he adds with a small smile of triumph, “I believe her name is Julta.”

D’Argo steps menacingly toward the smirking hybrid. “How..?”

“The hotel clerk, Djarbo, was very...forthcoming.”

D’Argo blushes a little and kicks a boot against the gutter. “So, how about discreet?” he asks John, reaching for his Qualta Blade and idly checking the charge.

John considers for a moment, rubbing his thumb over his lips as he figures out options. “Discreet sounds good, Cap’n D,” he says finally.

For once, Scorpius doesn’t know what to say.

+++++

Come Fly With Me (Part 4)

Sun, 07 Dec 2003 10:21:40 GMT

+++++

Trenner lounges behind the doorway to Xanthe’s sleeping chamber, and from its safety, watches Julta steer the old witch over to the Banik’s limp body. Once there, she raises her trembling hands to the morning sky and intones an inaudible prayer, her wizened face fixed to the soft ball of orange sun. As her words die away, she bends across the Banik and reverently removes the small half-mask. Abruptly she settles and shudders over the body, her long-fingered hands cupping the Banik’s face like a Morlian spider.

Trenner recalls the Banik: all jittery nerves, and scattershot sentences. Recalls the Stykera’s wild eye, rolling in panic upon his arrest, or brimming with unshed tears as he crouched in the corner of his cell after a particularly satisfying interrogation. Now he lies motionless under her embrace, her foul mouth almost touching his, her ragged hair spilling around his head and chest. He shivers involuntarily and his eyes start to sting and water. Whatever that witch is burning...

There’s a small scuffling sound and Trenner swings sharply to the narrow entrance, where, on favourable nights, nervous querents wait for permission to enter Xanthe’s strange realm. But now there is nothing. No sign of Crichton or the bastard half-breed – it’s only one of his men shifting uncomfortably in his narrow hiding place.

Bored, Trenner leans against the musty wall-hangings and lets his eyes trail lazily across Xanthe’s few belongings. An ancient chair, struggling against gravity, disembowelled stuffing spewing from its seat. Then, Xanthe’s bed – almost as atrophied as she is – the heavy wood splitting from neglect, unravelled covers trailing frayed lines upon the dusty floor. His thin lips curl with distaste. Not much to show for such a glowing reputation – and he knows the hag has plenty of money. She paid well for the Banik. He grins to himself maliciously – what she needs, money can’t buy.

A sudden thought strikes him, and he glances again to the far corner where Xanthe bends across the Banik like a windswept tree on a stormy shore. He searches for Julta, but she has already gone. Would that old hag’s money be hidden somewhere in this stinking room? Or perhaps, expensive gifts from *grateful* clients? With rising enthusiasm, he abandons his post and advances towards the bed, gingerly dropping to his knees and taking up the sweat-grimed cover delicately between thumb and forefinger. Crouching down, he peers underneath the stained bed where a profusion of unswept detritus presents a desolate landscape. Recoiling, he coughs on reflex, his throat closing from the clogging dust. He tries unsuccessfully to swallow the itch away.

Something soft and light brushes gently against his leg and he tips up his head in panic, reaching clumsily for his pulse pistol.

The green eyes are inquisitive in her serious face. She tilts her head to one side in a motion that is vaguely familiar to the startled Lieutenant. “Who...? Where did you come from?” he stumbles, his voice fluting through the constriction of his throat.

“You are Trenner?”

Flushing red, he rises to his feet and attempts to regain some shattered dignity. “Yes, I’m Lieutenant Trenner,” he says finally, looking down upon the strange child, her fragile beauty making his greed feel all the more shameful.

“Xanthe bestows greetings.”

“Oh, that old hag,” he snickers contemptuously, while glancing nervously towards the door. “I...er...thank her for her concern.”

Red lips smile with untainted innocence, and, in a touching manner, she reaches out her hands to him. “She keeps me...inside...I don’t like the dark.”

“Xanthe keeps you locked up?” he sputters in burning curiosity, taking a step back and examining the pale girl closely.

She nods her head in guileless simplicity, her black hair bouncing on the echoes. “The dark. She...she keeps me there.”

Abruptly he reholsters his pistol, his dull face clouding over with rage. “That old hag, did she touch you? She’ll never...” his anger subsides into rapt fascination as she takes a gliding step forward, her hands stretching toward him in a pleading gesture.

“I don’t like the dark. Don’t make me go back there.”

He watches, entranced, as her pale slim arms wrap sinuously around his legs, her hand brushing lightly against his groin, making him jolt and stumble backwards. Intense green eyes drain the pale colour from his own. “Don’t,” he gasps in in rising alarm, pushing her hands away, and glancing towards the doorway.

“Will you love me?” she asks on a sigh, her fingers coiling around his hand and drawing him down, until his face is close to hers. Soft fingers burn fiery trails through the tight leather of his pants. A blush of colour flares across her cheeks, her close warmth floods and pulses into his body. He gasps and convulses under its flow before surrendering, roughly throwing his arms around her and drawing her closer.

“Will you love me?” she recites, her quick tongue tracing the outline of his lips, her hands still fluttering and stroking with relentless insistence. Groaning slightly, he succumbs to her lightning touch, to the thick red pounding that swamps his senses.

“Yes,” he says eagerly, placing his lips to her hot pressing face, before moving his head down, tongue tasting the sweet flesh of her graceful neck, hands entangled in her tumbling hair. He steps back and falls upon the bed, pulling her slight body down on his.

She stiffens under his frantic embrace. “Love me like Zehren?” Her lilting voice drops and seethes with cycles of unavenged hate.

“Yes,” he snaps with burning frustration, grinding her closer, his searching hands reaching into the yielding warmth of her robe. “Like Zehren,” he laughs softly.

He is surprised by a guttural keening which rises from nowhere to become a high pitched screech. Sudden frail blows rain upon his heaving chest, pulling his startled eyes wide open. She scampers up to crouch above his stupefied face, her eyelashes brushing his skin, her gaze wet with hidden meaning. He blinks in confusion as she shakes herself with an animal grace and begins to sway. She shrieks again, and snakes of grey hair dart and writhe around him like silver rivulets. Fighting for breath, his eyes wide open in terror, the hair forces its way into his gasping mouth with a sickening straw-like dryness, whipping tears from his defenceless eyes.

Red lips thin into a tight smile and she coils herself around his body, her fingers burrowing into his flesh as Trenner, gagging and choking, struggles frantically to push her away. Her wail of triumph reverberates around the room until a flailing blow from the suffocating man, sends her sprawling heavily to the floor.

“You...frelling...bitch,” he gasps, heaving in great lungfuls of air as he struggles to sit up, his face suffused with blood, eyes streaming with tears.

Wrapping her arms around her knees, she rocks herself back and forth. “I don’t like the dark...don’t like the dark.”

Trenner spits the remaining grey strands from his mouth and fumbles for his pulse pistol. “Too bad, ‘cause that’s where you’re going,” he croaks in barely contained fury. He brings up the pistol and points it unsteadily at the oblivious child.

She rocks with innocent detachment, her chin resting on her knees. “Don’t send me back to the dark.” Then she tilts her head back and screams.

+++++

A bright flash and a roar fill the room, and Trenner swivels his head down to look at the upswelling blood that trickles from his shattered shoulder and down his arm. The pistol drops from his nerveless hand and he starts to shake uncontrollably. Over the pounding in his ears, he watches in mute fascination as one of his men sidles through the doorway, the man’s distant gaze fleeting from his face to a point somewhere else, his pistol swinging up to fire. Watches the pulse blast thump him against the wall, where he scrabbles madly for the wallhangings before subsiding to the ground.

Trenner brings his head up, and through the pulsing darkness, his eyes latch onto the cool blue eyes of the Human.

+++++

Standing by the hidden door, Julta stares in horror at the rocking child and at Trenner sitting limply upon the bloodstained bed. Her trembling hand muffles a scream, before she wheels about in panic, and flees from the room.

John looks from the shocked Peacekeeper to the still rocking girl, her scream having subsided to a penetrating whine. “You okay?” He crouches down beside her, and tries to still her with his hands. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches D’Argo drag the Peacekeeper’s body from the blood spattered entrance, and take up position there.

Xanthe’s whine finally stutters and dies away and she gazes intently at John. She lifts her hand and gently places it over the angry bruise, almost like a benediction. “They hurt you,” she says, simply. He tries to place her face with the one in his dream, but back then she had black hair...and stars.

“John,” D’Argo growls with low urgency, “I can see that frellnik, Stark.”

“Is he alright?” John asks, dropping the girl’s ice-cool hand and moving purposefully to the blank-eyed Lieutenant, Winona steady in his hand. John automatically kicks the Peacekeeper’s pistol under the bed.

“I can’t tell, there’s a lot of smoke but someone’s crouched over him.”

“Hey Scorp, make yourself useful,” John calls over his shoulder, where the hybrid clings to the safety of shadows. “I bet you’ve still got those nice restraints – come practice on someone else for a change,” he says sarcastically, shifting his gaze to the Peacekeeper slumped precariously on the edge of the bed.

“What’s your name?”

Trenner lifts his head up slowly, wincing from the streaking pain. “Lieutenant Trenner,” he says resignedly.

Scorpius scuttles out from the shadows and sits primly beside him, bringing Trenner’s hands around to his front, and snapping the restraints on without haste. Trenner hisses through his teeth at the pain of the forced movement.

“Looks kinda sore,” John says without pity, as Scorpius once again withdraws to the safety of the shadows. “Here’s the deal, Trenner. We want our friend back, ‘n’ we hope that your men are crazy enough to want you back kickin’ their eemas. So how about a straight swap? We get what we want, you get your life back, and it all ends happily ever after. What d’ya say?”

Trenner raises his bloodless face and considers. “Alright,” he mutters, “but the Banik’s already half-dead...”

John takes an angry step towards him and Trenner cowers back on the bed, flinching as he raises his hands in protection. “It’s Xanthe,” Trenner whimpers, “not us – it’s that frelling old hag bitch.”

John tips his head in close to the Peacekeeper’s, so close he can see his pores ooze sweat across his clammy face. “How many PK psychos are out there?” he whispers too loudly into Trenner’s ear.

“Six,” Trenner lies.

“Hey Scorpy Sue, my dark li’l wallflower.” John beckons him over with a friendly motion of his hand. “This boy lyin’?”

“Through his teeth,” Scorpius replies with weary boredom.

John grimaces at the Earth expression, proof – if he had ever needed it – that he and Scorpy have been room-mates for far too long. “My friend here,” he pats the half-breed briskly on the back, “he’s got a flair for sniffin’ out lies.”

“Three,” Trenner says sullenly, his eyes darting from John’s amused face to Scorpius’ bland scowl.

“That’s better, we like it when you play nice.” John calls over to D’Argo, “Hear that, D? There are three out there.”

D’Argo turns to say something before stopping suddenly and taking aim, the Qualta Blade swinging easily in his strong arms. “Two and a half,” he laughs derisively over his shoulder.

“Yo, Big D,” John smiles, “you’re the man!” He gently pulls Trenner from the bed and steadies him as he sways alarmingly. “No time like the present,” he grunts, as he takes the man’s sagging weight. “It’s time for walkies.”

John, puffing slightly with the exertion, pulls and drags the ashen-faced Trenner over to the chamber’s entrance, before finally depositing him against the wall – the Peacekeeper clinging to the frayed hangings like a badly scared cat.

John grins at D’Argo, “This’ll be easy. We’ll get Trenner to say a few words to his men...”

“John!” Scorpius’ voice cuts through the room.

John and D’Argo twist around in alarm to see the grey haired girl kneeling calmly on the tousled bed, levelling Trenner’s pulse pistol directly at Trenner.

“Zehren? Do you love me?” Her voice is old, hard and brittle.

Trenner lurches across to Crichton as if reaching out for sanctuary, his face stricken with horror. “She’s...she’s psychotic...”

“Zehren always hurts me.” Her full lips condense into a hard line and she fires the pistol, the slight recoil pushing her slim body backwards. Trenner convulses and slumps thickly to the floor.

+++++

“Frell,” John mutters to himself while reaching swiftly for Winona. “Why are things never easy?”
His hand wraps round her handle, but as he brings his eyes up and into the unwavering barrel of Trenner’s pistol, he sighs and lifts his hands in the air. D’Argo hesitates, then does the same, still clutching his Qualta Blade.

“Human,” her cracked voice floats towards him on the blood-stained air. “Your Gods are gentle, why do you not hear their song? Why do you want to kill me?”

“I just want my friend back, ‘n’ that’s all,” he says slowly and evenly, putting on his best non-threatening face. “I don’t want to hurt anybody.”

“You’re not like them...” she glances contemptuously at the two Peacekeepers sprawling by Crichton’s feet.

“Hell no”, he laughs earnestly, then adds under his breath, “I’m still alive.”

He spots Scorpius shuffling along the wall, hugging the shadows, and edging closer to the intractable girl with the rock-steady gun. With an effort, he focuses his direct gaze back onto her hard white face.

Her large eyes swim with unshed tears. “In the dark, he comes to hurt me...he...” the rest of her pitiful sentence is cut short as Scorpius launches himself upon her, the sideways thrust of his half-Scarran body knocking her aside. He is surprised when she rolls back onto her knees with a startling agility, her hands clawing for his unprotected eyes. Grabbing her slim arms, he throws her from the bed and onto the rug strewn floor. Stunned, she struggles for breath.

“John, look!” D’Argo urgently grabs John’s arm and points to where Stark lies on the stone table. The crouching figure, staggers and shimmers briefly, swaying backwards before bending once again into the Stykera’s diffuse amber light.

John stares into D’Argo’s steady eyes then back at the girl. “You mean they’re the same?”

A slight noise makes him spin around. Scorpius is standing directly behind him, holding out Trenner’s pulse pistol handle first. “I suspect she is using Stark to manifest as her younger self.”

John takes the gun and wonders whether to wrench out some form of thanks, but it’s easier to let his curious eyes fix wonderingly on the slowly reviving girl. “You’re really telling me they’re the same?”

“Interesting,” Scorpius continues, “I did not know a Stykera’s energy could be used that way.”

“Did you ever think of asking him nicely, instead of torturing him into madness in that damn chair?” John feels an unwelcome prick of uneasiness as the words fall from his mouth. He realises that he said them to remind himself of just why he should hate Scorpius so intensely.

Scorpius sneers in irritation and turns away.

“So? What we gonna do with Astrogirl?” John asks nobody in particular.

“She isn’t real, she is not yet fully manifest – so why not just kill her?” Scorpius pushes her over with his foot, and she falls sideways on the faded rug and lies still, panting like a cornered animal. “Losing this manifest incarnation should severely weaken the one with Stark, if not kill her.”

D’Argo eyes the prostrate girl and shuffles his feet. “John, I don’t think...”

John nods his head in agreement. “Killing her is not an option. What’s Plan B?”

“The usual plan I presume? Go in there with guns blazing...?” Scorpius drawls with disdain. “I won’t presume to stop you. I’ll wait here, you may need someone to...make your funeral arrangements.”

“It’s real cheery having you around,” John retorts, already checking the chakkan oil level in Winona. At the entrance he pauses and glances back. “Hey Scorp, I’ve got one last request.”

“What’s that?”

“Go fuck yourself.”

+++++

From the far side of the sky-filled room, D’Argo’s Qualta Blade flashes and roars. “And then there was one...” John intones to himself through gritted teeth. The sun throws his shadow forward, jauntily rippling across the floor, spoiling any chance of surprise.

He rests briefly against a sun-drenched pillar, only marginally closer to plucking Stark away from Xanthe’s clutching grasp. His eyes check ahead for signs of movement and he suddenly spies the quick shadow of the remaining Peacekeeper, fluttering tentatively across the wall. Wabbit season.

“Hey fella,” he calls to the secluded spot where the Peacekeeper crouches. “I’m feelin’ real generous today. Throw your weapon into the open and we’ll let you go, no questions asked. Final offer, one hundred percent guaranteed. Go ahead ‘n’ make my day.”

The voice is young and scared. “What about...your friend?”

“Hey D’Argo! We’re gonna let this rabbit go, comprende?”

“Yes...barely,” D’Argo calls back with asperity.

John smiles grimly. “Okay little one, the coast is clear. C’mon man, show me all Peacekeepers aren’t born stupid.”

He waits for a while, and is just about to utter a heartfelt ‘damn’, when a pulse pistol arcs past him, twirling heavily through the air and landing with a clatter next to Xanthe’s stone chair.

“Now, run rabbit run, rabbit run, run, run ...” He begins to hum the nursery rhyme to himself, before the Peacekeeper bolts from the safety of his hide and runs zig-zagging through the room, his face white with fear.

D’Argo strides across purposefully, his eyes still travelling to possible ambush sites. “Do you think we can we trust him?”

John shrugs and starts walking towards Xanthe. “He’s just a kid. Got a PK momma somewhere darning his socks with a lamp in the window.” John turns to D’Argo with a quick smile, “Hell, I never guessed that’d work!”

D’Argo hoists his Qualta Blade into the curve of his arm menacingly. “Death is always the preferable option.”

“Sometimes Death takes a holiday,” John replies enigmatically as they approach Xanthe’s shimmering form. “A long, long holiday,” he adds, as he peers into the cracked void of her eyes.

His face wrinkling in distaste, John attempts to pull her ancient form away from Stark, his hands disappearing inside the rippling shell of her body. “Yuck,” he grimaces, jumping back quickly and wiping his hands on his vest. “Lady, never on the first date.”

They stand helplessly, both staring through the swirling Lhosa smoke at their friend.

“Let’s move Stark,” D’Argo finally volunteers. They get either side of him, and lift him easily from the table – Xanthe moves and floats with his body, still gripping Stark’s emaciated form.

“Damn, we’ve got a passenger,” John says as they gently lay him on the stone floor. Xanthe sinks into the ground, but her face still hovers above the Banik’s, her hands still grip the hollows of his sunken cheeks.

“Granny’s worse than superglue.” John coughs and tries to waft the thick smoke away from his watering eyes.

“What the frell is that?” D’Argo asks, his nose crinkling like paper in a flame. He strides over to one of the flaring holders and knocks it to the ground, grinding the sparks to ashes underneath his boot. John rises and does the same. Xanthe suddenly bucks and shrieks, making them both jump in fright. Throwing back her grey framed head, the Banik’s orange energy gushes out of her open eyes and mouth and needles upwards to the sky.

“Frell,” D’Argo shouts in alarm over the scream, searching the top of the stone altar frantically. “Where’s his frelling mask?”

“I don’t frelling know,” John calls back in panic, trying to cover his ringing ears. He kneels down by the Banik’s body, tears a hand away from his ear, and pats his cheek comfortingly. “Hold on Stark, we’ve nearly gotcha.” Thinking quickly, he shrugs off his vest, bunches it up and places it over the Banik’s streaming face. Although Stark hasn’t moved, John can feel the tension ease in the Stykera’s body.

The ear splitting shriek cuts off and John sways back as far as he can as the cavernous face turns ponderously towards him. Her long tongue flicks saliva from her twisted mouth, and darts out to taste the air. A rank scent of rotting flesh fills the air and make his eyes water even more. “Stark, you’ve gotta get yourself a better girlfriend,” he chokes out, screwing his face up and searching desperately for fresh air. Xanthe reeks like a dead cat in a drain.

“Where’s his mask, D?” he gasps out urgently, trying not to heave. “We need his frellin’ mask.”

“I’m on it,” D’Argo replies, down on his hands and knees and looking underneath the stone table. “The wind must’ve blown it...”

“Cut the explanations, man. I’m dying here, this ain’t Chanel No. 5.”

.....

Working his way under the table, D’Argo finally manages to ease the mask out with his scrabbling fingers. “Got it!” he calls triumphantly, while backing out slowly. “Hold on, Crichton...” his words are cut off as something patters lightly behind him and jumps lithely onto his back. He cries out in surprise as it grabs at his arms and legs with wiry strength, and begins to wrap itself sinuously around his body.

“What the frell...?” He manages to clamber to his feet, twisting around in panic, trying to catch a glimpse of his unknown attacker. He starts in horror, as the girl’s manic face swims into close focus as she leers across his shoulder.

“Why? Why kill me?” she asks innocently, and for a moment D’Argo can’t think of an answer. She laughs lightly, her oval face thrown into relief against the dirty snow of her tangled hair, fingers drilling into his shoulders like talons.

“D’Argo! Throw me the mask!” John begs, his face a queasy shade of pale, eyes averted and desperately leaning back as far as he can from Xanthe’s blind animal snuffling.

D’Argo grunts in assent and tries to lift his arm, only to find it entangled in great ropey coils of hair, which begin to flick and ripple dementedly around his body. Reeling in rising panic, uttering a string of Luxan curses, D’Argo throws himself backwards on to the altar, landing with a heavy thump. The clinging girl cries out from the crushing pain, her steely grip loosening for a moment, the twisting hair momentarily releasing its tight hold.

“Crichton,” he manages to choke out. “For Hezmana’s sake...help me...”

John tears his eyes away from Xanthe’s putrescent gaze, to see his friend struggling helplessly against a grey web of hair. “D’Argo?!” He starts to clamber to his feet to help him, when Stark’s frail hand clutches at his arm.

“Don’t leave me, Crichton,” he gasps weakly, his eye fluttering open and looking at John.

“Damn,” John cries in frustration, staring down at the Stykera’s white face. “Scorpy!” He almost screams with urgency, “Get your black shiny ass out here, now.” Then nature takes over and he folds in two and retches on the stone floor.

D’Argo tosses and struggles on the altar, but all too soon he is trussed up like a bleating sacrificial animal. He tries once more to writhe free from the encircling hair, which licks across his face, darting into his mouth and eyes, making him gag and choke. He struggles to pull himself upright and then falls back again, trying to grind the keening monstrosity from his back. Her fierce grip falters slightly, and through the constriction of hair he manages to work one arm free, tugging his Qualta Blade jerkily through the knotted mass.

She swings around in alarm as the Qualta Blade slowly traverses past her head, and scrambles frantically to disengage herself from the Luxan’s relentlessly crushing body. Whimpering in panic, her slim fingers and coiling hair flutter along the Qualta Blade’s hilt, trying to alter the implacable pull of the Luxan’s straining arm. Finally, she wrests it from his weakening grasp and hugs the heavy weapon to her breast, her jubilant green eyes mirrored in its smoky depths.

D’Argo raises himself one last time and thumps his body down on the altar. Pain shoots like needles through his shoulders, and then, mercifully, drops away. Her shrill cry gurgles into silence. The felted mat of hair falls away from his purple face, and heaving body, as he takes a long shuddering breath. Under him, her small body sprawls across the altar, lifeless. Pushing himself up, he works his way across to the side of the table, where he slides off shakily. Only the grip of his hands on the table edge keep him on his feet.

As he looks down with bloodshot eyes, he can see his Qualta Blade, embedded in the girl’s chest, her fingers wrapped around it like an object of devotion, her dead eyes open in wide astonishment. He gasps in amazement as her body begins to dim and dissipate on the rising wind.

-------

Scorpius walks casually between the circling pillars and comes to rest elegantly against the stone table. John, still on his knees, is pressing his vest to the Banik’s face while vomiting copiously onto the unforgiving stone floor. The Luxan, his face all flushed and gulping breath, stands staring at his Qualta Blade, lying on the altar like a rejected offering. Stark’s shabby mask still dangles from his trembling fingers.

Scorpius leans back and crosses his legs, his clawed fingers drumming against the altar, before enquiring innocently, “Did I miss anything?”

+++++

The Banik takes her up. Gathers her up in his flowing orange light, drags her screaming through fields of disembodied faces, and hands that stretch for miles and hold more than just promises. They swim through eyes that blink out day and night, where ghosts of flowers tumble from black irises and die in the cold of a billion wintry suns. He drags her away, upwards and faster, until the universe of uncounted suns, form into a single cloudy blur. Then, finally he casts her adrift, the warmth of his hand the last warmth she’ll ever know. In his own private killing field, where tears float like splintered ice, he watches the remnants of his race. All stiff grey bodies. Their skeletal hands creak and skew to stroke her hair. Black hair that can wear the very stars.

+++++

“Stark?” his voice is gentle, weighed down with sadness. Too much sadness for such a frail heart. Such a blood red heart.

“Stark...” the voice seemingly powered only by a sigh, “...the Baniks, I...” and trails off into some dim interior, a landscape that will only ever be seen by one.

Stark wakes from his dream filled sleep, to the safe amber of Moya. Weakly, he lifts his hand and places it lightly over Crichton’s own. He licks his dry lips, “It’s alright, Crichton. They are beyond your kind of grief, your kind of remorse. Xanthe looks after them now.” He focuses with difficulty upon John’s stricken face, and smiles something terrible and unreadable into the too warm room.

“But...I...” John stares at Stark’s emaciated hand, and closes his eyes.

“You tried, Crichton. But it can never be enough...and I will always remember.”

+++++

end

Memento Mori (Part 1)

Thu, 04 Dec 2003 10:40:33 GMT

New, improved, and now with extra commas! Thanks Apster! The LaTP arc inspired me to explore the poignant AU. This one is rated PG-13. Lots of angst. This was the first fic that Apathy beta'd for me. fbf also did beta duty. Thanks guys!

Memento Mori

The endless faces pass, in twos and threes, smile and part and swirl around them, rejoin and wash away on a tide of congratulations. Anxious guards – looking out of place in the lush clinic garden – shepherd the curious crowd away from the new Royal Family.

She mouths soft moist words into his ear, where they tickle and brush into his consciousness like a ripple of air from butterfly wings, and smiles at his startled response. She stands waiting patiently, watching his open face turn in and grow thoughtful.

And while she waits, she remembers the arriving. Already lost and a make-ready smile. Circumstance’s playthings travel light, wound-up tight, quietly desperate, pared down to taut skin, sinew scraping across bare bone. Hard eyes that have seen too much, in faces that give nothing away.

And she remembers his brusque touch – when they had touched – fluttering and loveless but still enough to sense the pain he trapped inside.

He had brought nothing but himself and some half worked dreams-in-progress. And she had taken even these from him, because fear rode on the whispers of her people, and fate and a fiercely held destiny brimmed from her mother’s eyes. In the end, the Human – smothered by entreaties, threats, logic, reason and healthy dose of blackmail – had submitted, had complied, had learnt the steps of a new dance. But somehow, as their reasoning words faded away, and there had been nothing else left to take, and the stranger was as empty as his promises, she’d reached in and found that there was more.

The baby folded into her arms pouts bow-lipped smiles, small fists cycling, clenching chunks of sun-filled air, curled feet kicking infinity. His fingers hesitantly stroke her thin velvet skin where tiny purple veins bloom into roses on peach-down cheeks.

“Rose,” he says, his fingers now whispering through the dark wispy hair.

“Rose?”

He looks up quickly, blinks into the sun. “It’s a flower.”

“Rose.” She tastes the strange word on her tongue and kisses it to the child’s face, where half-seen eyes, dark crescents latent with promises, disappear in sleep.

+++++

Remembrance.

It was Kat who found him the first time, somehow guessed where he’d be.

He says it’s like a scene from Metropolis – an endless loop of silent film – as she follows the sweeping arm and looks down at the sepia city, and the swaying lines of scudding craft.

“Is nothing on your planet real?” she asks, as once again he explains – explains, and the tired red glare of sunset stains her white robe with borrowed blood.

“Could be Fritz Lang got it right after all,” he laughs bitterly, averting his eyes. “All we need is Brigitte Helm and the mad scientist–” he stops abruptly and shades his eyes from the slatting sun, mumbling to himself. “Maybe thoughts are enough to generate their own kind of warped reality. Morphic resonance on a universal scale. ‘Imagine all the people, living life in peace...yeah, yeah yeah’.” He sighs and turns his questioning blue eyes to her, “I know she’s dead. I watched...I saw...”

“They’re all dead,” she says sadly.

“That fucking mad scientist, that fucking wicked witch of the fucking west, that fucking Nosferatu...” his angry voice trails off and falls into the city below. He watches it fall with the red shafts of dying light, fascinated.

“Who, John?”

He lifts his eyes to hers with difficulty and whispers gratingly, “Scorpius.”

She moves over and sits beside him – wonders why he flinches as she places her hand on his arm.

Come one – come all – touch me and die.

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to join them. Not today anyway,” he says harshly. He looks at her face – wrong colour eyes, wrong colour hair but always the right apology – then continues more kindly. “It’s way too late to say you’re sorry.”

He watches her leave.

.....

Slowly the strange city subsides into night, pinpricks of light swathe into a river of other lives, other hopes, other dreams. The unceasing traffic sidles through the traffic corridors, as svelte as a cat on a full moon night.

The old familiar ache tilts his head back to the stars. Tries to join the dots, trace his way back to the known. Eventually he stops. Stars can be stubborn.

Another train of thought and the Empress, fragile now, wearing old age like regal silver, beckons him into her presence with a curt nod. She reaches for his hand and presses the vid chip to the palm with stubborn force, curls his fingers around it with unpractised kindness. She holds his hand briefly – paper thin desiccated warmth – and her distant eyes touch his with something akin to regret.

Now Aeryn can die over and over, and slice him apart with the slick cut of abandonment, and the mad scientist can smile, fulfilled.

He numbs his thoughts with practised ease and fumbles with the still unfamiliar robe, stuffing the chip deep into a pocket. Shivers and turns to leave.

At the top of the stairs Kat is asleep, cold weather curled into herself on the faded tiles. Surprised, he hesitates, before he bends down to shake her softly awake.

“They’ll be looking for you,” he admonishes gently, helping her to her feet.

“No John. They’ll be looking for us.”

His sharp smile says, too soon. Too soon.

.....

The city leaks into the barren land like most cities everywhere. The sun seems hotter here, and his companions curse and moan and gaze longingly towards their air-conditioned tourers, now mere specks on the rocky terrain. But they trail behind him, on and up the pebble strewn path. He turns and watches them, mock stumbles against a rock and play acts a sway down to rest in the shade of a overhanging ledge. They sweat smiles back at him, reassured, squinting out the sun.

The Jakensch memorials tilt all around them. The old ones crumble and totter. Flaking paint pools into ancient confetti. Here and there a Sebacean stone marks the fading of someone once remembered. Something in him lifts at these small displays of Sebacean metaphysics, scratching at the door of Sebacean practicality. He glances at his companions who swig on water, laugh, complain and chatter, but they only have eyes for themselves and the sun.

He is his grandfather, the old man as a template, pushing off the earth and climbing slowly to his feet. The two stare at him doubtfully – “Regent?” He dismisses them with a wave of his hand and they succumb to the shade, watch him move away with languid eyes.

He walks faster now he’s alone, scans the rocks as he goes. Striations of colour scurry across the rough faces like the ancient tracks of a dinosaur stampede. Where the colours swirl and blend to a rich ochre he finds the right place. The small rocks, once levered out, rest sunwarm in his hand, smooth and heavy. He tucks the chip in his makeshift niche and carefully wedges the rocks back into place.

No relics, no bones, no snippets of hair. Just keepsakes of cruelty, pain and undying death.

He wonders if they will ever sleep.

.....

Another day; the sun consumed by thickened clouds and he pauses by the Jakensch stones – there are no dates, just defiant names – incised mnemonic aids to memory. No synopsis of the lives once led, and no imprecations to Heaven.

The wind tears the fragile paint from the strange memorials. The scattered rain saturates the colours as it falls. Someone has left a raft of fresh flowers, tugging angrily from an eroded stone in the keening wind. A string of ribbon flutters in agitation.

His curiosity unassuauged, he moves on.

By the ochre rock, the air is still as the wind swirls around the stone, creating from the tumult a quiet place, an eye in the storm. The warm red stones are as he left them, but around the crumbling base tumble rose-like flowers he had once admired in the Palace Garden. Thrusting and growing in freshly laid earth.

The kindness is so unexpected that he falters. Thoughts tangle with emotions, until he reels back from the almost physical slap of a mind gone blank.

After a while he kneels down to break off a flower; a reminder as fugitive as the faint writing on the Jakensch graves.

He won’t return again.

.....

“The time for dying must be as auspicious as the time for being born,” Kat tells him. “Isn’t it the same with you?”

He grins wryly, “I guess it depends on who’s doing the dying.”

The court physician approaches them, frustration and admiration vying for dominance on his fleshy face. “It’s only her will-power keeping her alive,” he concedes grudgingly. He flicks at the monitor in his hand with all the disdain of a jilted lover, “The Empress’s death was scheduled for...”

“My mother will die tomorrow on the third day of planetary alignment,” Kat announces with calm pride. “Just as she was born on that day.”

Defeated by death, the frustrated physician turns his thoughts to life with its surplus of placations. “You must rest, Highness...” he nods significantly at her swollen stomach, “the day draws near. We must get you off your feet...”

Katralla lets the physician lead her away, their voices echoing round the silent Jakensch who stream and flow through the white Palace corridors.

John glances once more at the prone figure of the old Empress, obstinately treading her own path to death in the midst of life teeming around her.

A shift, a crepe-paper blink of recognition, and a small tilt of her head is enough to bring him to her side.

He takes hold of her parchment hand, as delicate as a Dead Sea scroll.

“How you goin’ Mama? You gonna make it?”

A faint smile crosses her lips. “Katralla...?” She lets her eyes finish the question.

“It’s ... it’s okay,” he fidgets.

“And the child?” She breathes the words.

“Our daughter.”

She settles back reassured, the words so imperceptible that he strains forward to see them. “I hoped to live long enough...to meet...”

“We can always freeze you, Mama. Bring you back for the big event.”

She coughs out a faint laugh. “Tempting,” she says.

+++++

“The two souls must’ve brushed past each other,” Lurnash intones solemnly, her already large eyes widening in poetic fright. “The old Empress dying and the new Empress giving birth on the same day. The Jakensch believe the old Empress has come back, that the new Princess has her old soul.” She frowns in mild irritation as the smile on his face widens into a grin. “And even High Councillor Rygel says so! I heard him remark on it, in the Royal Kitchens.”

“The old Empress? Nah, life can’t be that cruel,” John laughs. “Rosie is Rosie.”

Lurnash, her irritation turning to laughter, helps him with the royal robe and waves away his protestations. “It’s got to be just right, Highness.”

“I know how to do it...”

“Everyone will be there...the first public showing of a Princess is a rare event.”

“Yeah, some kind of balcony thing, right? A royal meet and greet from a discreet distance.” He practises the wave and laughs, catching sight of himself in the dressing mirror.

“It is our tradition, Highness. Is it not so for you?”

“Yeah, I guess. But we call them baby showers – it’s not...it’s not a guy type of thing.”

Lurnash ignores him and pushes away his awkward fingers from a length of pink silk. “With due respect, Highness, the knot is tied like this...”

“Alright, alright.” He holds his hands up in mock surrender.

+++++

Lurnash carefully straightens out the creases in her paper money, and folds it into small crisp rectangles. She places these into the inlaid wooden box she bought that morning from the market vendor, and with a sharp twist of finality, turns the ornate key with a solid click.

She remembers the flash of distaste that flickered across the stall-holder’s face – how the vendor’s small eyes widened to see a Jakensch with a handful of money.

“We are paid now.” Lurnash half whispers the recollected words that mean so much to her. “All Jakensch now receive an...allowance.” She says the unfamiliar word again, slowly, savouring its well rounded importance, and watches her reflection swell back at her from the bedroom mirror – smiles at the small smile on her server’s face.

“It’s all money to me,” the prudent vendor had sniffed, sealing the box into its travel wrapper with well practised hands.

“There you go,” the vendor said as she’d handed the neatly wrapped parcel to Lurnash, then, “hey, don’t forget your change!” as the excited Jakensch had scampered quickly into the crowd.

Lurnash recalls that her green-blue skin had blushed a becoming dusky pink.

+++++

“They will get hurt, they are getting hurt,” Tyno says sorrowfully.

“Gettin’ hurt is part of living, part of growing.”

“They are so trusting, so naive.”

“So am I.”

Tyno smiled, “Yes...but you have–”

“What? Good looks and a winning way?”

“Hmmm...more a refreshing outlook on life.”

“Tyno, I knew you were good but dammit – if this were a democracy I’d make you President.”

Tyno and Mikhalla’s formal flower garden ripples with saturated colour in the light dry air and John breaks from Tyno’s side, seeking the refuge of the shade, flopping onto a cool stone garden bench.

“The beginnings of heat delirium?” Tyno asks jokingly as he sits beside him.

“Too many long nights working on the Jakensch speech,” John replies, stifling a yawn. “An’ Rosie’s determined her parents aren’t going to get any sleep, ‘n’ Lurnash follows me around like my shadow, ‘n’ with that blissful expression on her face she’s starting to creep me out.”

The two men fall into friendly silence. The garden waves and shimmers in the lilting breeze. John spies the top of Rosie’s blonde head bobbing down a shrub-lined path, hears her chortling laugh filter through the glossy leaves. Watches Rygel’s thronesled idly droning into the distance as he play chases after the child.

“My regret is that your words were not heard in your own eloquent language. I fear that my translation did not do them justice.”

“You did pretty well, Tyno. You were very Churchillian. ‘We will fight them on the beaches’...and all that kind of stuff...” he breaks off with a smile. “Anyway, between the two of us we got it through.”

Tyno acknowledges the compliment with a soft nod and continues, “Our young people are demanding we be more progressive, but encumbered by the archaic language of High Council...” He shakes his head in a rare show of frustration. “It has beome an impediment that some will not let die. I’m afraid it distances us from the people.”

“Why Tyno, because the people can’t understand it? I had eighty cycles of it and learnt jack shit. Only thing I was sure of was Rygel going up three dress sizes.”

Tyno’s face creases into a grin.

John’s eyes focus on some inner distance as Tyno and the gardens melt away. “All those eighty cycles passed like I was dreaming in Polish,” John murmurs softly. “To be a stranger, excluded from your own dreams – to be a stranger...”

“We have asked a lot of you.”

John blinks the garden back into his eyes and frowns slightly, “By asked...do you mean I had a choice? Between the Empress and Scorpy?” He laughs mirthlessly. “Scorpy would’ve served my brain to High Command on a platter...and the rest of me would’ve ended up in labelled jars on some laboratory shelf – use-by date unknown.”

“I understand, but...”

“How can you understand?” He turns to Tyno in not quite anger, not quite despair. “Everyone I’ve ever cared for is dead, and not the peaceful long and happy life kind of death, but the short quick painful execution kind. And in forty cycles or thereabouts – and that's if I’m lucky – I’ll be joinin’ them. Kat will most likely spend the rest of her life alone and Rosie’ll be hard pressed to remember she ever had a dad. It’s damned hard for a man to feel useful when all the big choices have been made for him, when he’s only the sum of the viability of his DNA. It kind of dents your self-esteem. To say you understand...well, maybe you should try it someday.”

Tyno sighs and John suddenly places a hand on his arm.

“I’m not Sebacean, Tyno. This,” he waves his hand at the formal gardens, at the blooms intense with colour, at the fleshy leaves hanging pendulous and purple, “... as beautiful as it is, it’s not home. My insects bite, my sun burns.”

Tyno shrugs apologetically, “Blame my ignorance, John, or the famous Sebacean lack of imagination. I have never travelled away from the Royal Planet and can conceive of no other way of life. And you are so much like a Sebacean...it’s easy to forget.”

“I’m sorry,” John mumbles contritely, rubbing his face with his hands, “too many late nights.” His blue eyes rest briefly on Tyno’s painfully sympathetic face before he looks away, scanning the garden for a sign of Rosie.

“What’s that puddin’ up to? If she gets into trouble – and she will – Kat’ll kill me,” he says with a flash of his usual good humour, pushing off from the bench and quickly scanning the winding pathways.

Tyno follows after him. “Rygel will be watching her...”

“That’s what I’m scared of,” he says with soft affection.

“Then come, we shall find her together.”

+++++

Once again Kat finds him, another sunset lost in thought, leaning lazily against the ancient viewing platform. At his feet the city spreads and mazes, thrown down artlessly, a skewed and glittering oriental rug.

“Why do you come here?” she asks, taking his hand and pulling him away from the edge. “If you insist on coming here, I shall order the builders to make it safe.”

“I like it as it is,” he says, clasping her lithe form in his hands. He leans close, “I like it very much.”

“You like a little danger?” she asks coyly, wrapping her arms around his neck, trailing her fingers through his short soft hair.

“Southern boys like a little spice.”

She leans in for the kiss but is surprised when abruptly, gently, he pulls away.

“No... not here.” His face is suddenly apologetic in the thin amber light. “Just not here...I can’t...please, baby.”

“What is it? Why?” she asks in alarm.

He glances around, avoiding her gaze like some errant schoolboy, searching out the ghosts who stand behind him or fleet unbidden from the crazed worn tiles of the encroaching walls. “Just not here,” he beseeches again as her face wavers into darkness. He puts his hand on her arm suddenly, as if to check that her flesh is warm, that her pulse still surges through her body.

“I’m real, John,” she whispers, frightened by his sudden vulnerability.

“Kat, can you promise me...?” he stops, inarticulate and shamefaced.

“Promise what? Tell me.”

He still holds her arm, but his troubled eyes skitter from her enquiring face to the dying flares of the setting sun. “Nothing...it’s nothing.”

She takes a step forward. “I’m here. I love you.”

Once more he glances at her, before starting to pull away.

“What should I promise you John? That I won’t die too? Or Rosie won’t die? Or Tyno or Mikhalla or their children?” She sighs half angrily and pulls him back to her. “What do your ghosts whisper to you here? Do they murmur of the past? Do they show you the mirror of their own reality and grow stronger for your gaze? They are the amorphous reflections of things it may be better to forget.”

“They’re so real... almost tangible.”

“Then don’t let them go. But don’t let them eat too much of your heart, because it’s my heart too.” She looks at him sadly. “When you first arrived here, I watched as everything was taken from you – your freedom, your love, your dreams, even your very Humanity. As I came to know you better, I swore that nothing would be taken from you by force again. You can only lose something now if you choose to give it away. Keep your ghosts, your memories of a previous life; I have no right to them. I gave away that right, when I began to love you.”

She drops his arm and slowly turns to leave.

“Kat.”

She hesitates and turns to him again.

“Stay with me, Kat.” He turns his face to the darkening sky. “Stay awhile, and we can watch the stars together.”

+++++

The hank of dark hair ripples over his outstretched fingers, a fugitive shadow even now. Still running because she runs, from the silk-curtained mornings, or the closeness of his touch. The curtains rise and fall – breathing as if alive – shadows dapple the tousled bed. The ghost sighs, rises and is gone.

John watches her leave like a thousand times before, but knowing that this time she will not return.

He rolls over and strokes Kat’s alabaster body to warmth and life, cups a hand around the fullness of her breast, presses his fingers into the well muscled flesh of her stomach.

She stirs, runs her hand through her pillow tangled hair, tries unsuccessfully to blink the sun from her eyes.

“Kat.”

“Yes,” her voice still as dark as the night, as she turns and rolls into him. “Different kindling...” she murmurs drowsily...

“...makes one hell of a fire.”

She laughs herself awake.

+++++

The explosions unroll lazily, one here, one there, like time-lapse photography, exquisite slow-motion studies. Unfurling large petalled flowers, waxing and waning in a shower of glowing pollen. They hang, shimmer, and dissipate to blackness – a small hole of nothing where once a self-targeting defence cannon had glimmered solidly in the night.

The endless string of flying transports tugging through the traffic lanes brake sharply and judder to the ground. All eyes are turned to the sky. Stunned silence and nothing. Nothing but the bland glow of the endless stars. But then someone points and there the flower explodes again, slowly and silently, grotesquely beautiful. Shock morphs into terror; some of the crowd disappear as quickly as they came. The rest will stay and watch all night, and the next, and the next, and the next.

+++++

The Palace techs, weary and frustrated, turn their faces to the outer reaches of a black and furtive space, but the enemy is as vague and nebulous as the dispersed remnants of their floating defences.

“Who are they? We are not in a position to ascertain. They are firing at us from beyond our scanner range. Predictions? The attack is too random. There seems to be no discernable pattern – therefore no predictions. They must have,” the technician licks his dry lips and shrugs his shoulders hopelessly, “harnessed the power of dark energy to fire upon us from such a great distance...at a target so small...the degree of accuracy that is required...”

The techs collectively shake their heads and turn bewildered bleary eyes to their calculations, try to figure out trajectories, map out some form of defence or retaliation and try not to think of their husbands or wives or lovers. Of their children, and their homes.

John watches their blank determined faces as they fire back into the dark void of space – watches the long spears of fission generated plasma stream into nothingness. Random arrows shot by frightened children. He murmurs something about ‘pinnin’ the tail on the frelling donkey’.

And when they get a short moment to themselves, the techs look at each other and blame the isolation – blame the cloister wall bristling with self-targeting defences, that has kept the rest of the universe at bay. As unwitting prisoners they have slept long and dreamt with their idyllic planet, gently caressed it into bustling life, created a history that made them strong, until they had needed nothing. Nothing that is, until the game was over.

The Royal Planet is an anachronism the creeping virus of homogeneity has finally been drawn to. The planet writhes helplessly on its blanket of stars, as seductive as a naked Venus who cannot see her lover.

+++++

The faces that stare back at him are not so different after all. The older ones have tamped their fear deep inside, their guarded faces white with resignation. He recognises a few of them, his palace guards from so long ago, jowelly and flabby now, but he will always carry their younger images burnt on to his retina. He’s funny like that.

The younger palace guards alternate between apprehension and trembling anticipation. Their hands dart to the reassurance of their weapons, their eyes and ears already trained on the emptied silent skies.

Kedek coughs for attention. An expectant silence falls over them all. “By Royal Order, those who elect to stay, may do so. The Royal Family and the Palace Jakensch will need your protection. For those who wish to return to their families, you may leave now.”

The older ones leave slowly in murmuring groups, earnestly formulating plans to counter the unknowable. Most of the young ones remain behind. They sweep the old soldiers from the room with contemptuous eyes and snicker out mock heroisms, as their hands twitch to their weapons with every surge of adrenaline.

John decides that it’s not time for a reality check. Someone else will do that later.

+++++

The bereft planet has ploughed her way through four rotations, naked, blind and alone. Four nights since the last satellite dissipated into nothingness. No-one has answered her distress calls; she floats through space like a pariah.

The streets, broad and wide, dotted with graceful shade trees, are now littered with abandoned short-haul vehicles. Rubbish, swept freely by the wind, snags and gathers around their metal bodies like hungry crowds around a buffet table. Lost items gleam hopefully in the alien sun; a blackened kitchen pan, a bright new pocket knife, a child’s red slipper.

Those who tried to break free from the planet in spacegoing craft were impersonally shot down. The relatives who had been left behind, forgotten and angry, grieved with guilty relief. Others had taken tourers, loaded them to capacity and driven them as far from the city as possible. The rest had walked their way to the barren lands.

Here and there people still scurry about the empty buildings, casting furtive looks to the uncaring blue summer sky. Weeping mothers carry children, fathers carry as much as they can.

In the Royal Palace the silence is sudden and shocked, and screams unnaturally down the dark corridors. The memorial statue of the late Empress stands haughtily in the draping shadows, but the hard blank eyes now intimidate only a dim wall, her unwavering finger pointing to nothing. The Council Chamber reverberates to emptiness, the rows of richly upholstered chairs sag open in mute surprise.

The Jakensch mill aimlessly; purpose has been taken from their purposeful lives. The wide-eyed palace guards shepherd them from one point of safety to another as circumstances dance and shift, all the while gathering up the stragglers with macho bonhomie and an excess of zeal. The Jakensch view their protectors with growing discontent, but to the placid Jakensch there are no alternatives – at least not any that they are willing to try.

Time stammers and slows in the overheated atmosphere. It’s as if life itself has slowed down. A hushed conversation seems to take twice as long; a shy smile to a friend ripples through the thickened air. Lurnash moves towards the door, enthusiastically unguarded as some new information is relayed and digested by a young Sebacean. Chalk marks on the corridor walls scratch out a battle plan, or some boyish game, or maybe both. Lurnash, oblivious, hurries past and into the safety of the dark.

Memento Mori (Part 2)

Thu, 04 Dec 2003 10:37:46 GMT

(Part 2)
Memento Mori

Katralla stands at the Palace window, recalling the cheering crowds of five cycles ago. It had been the first public showing of the Princess. Strange how empty spaces will expand to fill a void; the forecourt looks much larger now, and the boxed-in wind tears into the lush leaved trees in restless agitation. Nature, having shaken off the collective unconscious, seems eager to exact revenge. Already the grass – peppered with dying leaves – has straggled to ankle height, and wind-broken branches litter the marble tiles.

For a split second the scene dissolves into rain, before Kat realises that she is crying. Large silent tears. Angrily she wipes them away. A small sound makes her spin around, her eyes betraying her fright.

John is standing there. John as she first knew him, that first incarnation – with wary eyes, a tight smile, worn black leathers, and his retrieved and beloved Winona in a thigh holster. But this time it’s different, because pulling from his hand, her free arm windmilling to reach her in childish excitement, is the small form of Rosie. John gently releases her and she scampers to her mother’s side.

“Where have all the people gone?” she asks, her wide eyes fixed on the outside desolation in childish awe, her small voice managing to fill the room.

“Somewhere safe,” Kat replies, cradling her gently, her hand ruffling through her red-blonde hair. She looks sadly at John, “Somewhere where daddy will soon be taking you.”

“Are you coming too?” Rosie asks worriedly, tilting her head up to catch a glimpse of her mother’s face.

Kat bends down quickly, taking her daughter’s solemn face reassuringly between her hands, “I’ll be coming later.” She traces her fingers down her rounded cheeks and gazes directly into her eyes. “Be good, Rosie. Daddy needs you to help him. Do everything he says.”

John moves over to stand behind Rosie. “Yeah, mommy will be coming later,” he says huskily, staring into Kat’s eyes with such intense regret that she has to look away. “Damn Kat, I love that ingrained pragmatism of yours. I’ll miss it.”

She stands up and a small smile crosses her lips. “Truly?” she asks.

“Yeah, truly.”

He gathers her to him and whispers urgently in her ear. “Remember if things...go bad...Kedek has organised an escape route...I’ve arranged a place for us to meet...”

“If I can I’ll be there, but why can’t you just tell me? Here? Now?”

“‘Cause this may be Scorpy, it’s got all his hallmarks, his twisted psychology, and if he still wants part of me, then it’s better for you not to know anything.”

“But...Scorpius? After all this time?”

“That bastard has infinite patience, as he took great pleasure in telling me.”

“John, this may not be – it can’t be – about you. We’ve always known that someday it would end. It’s come later rather than sooner.”

“Could be killin’ two birds with one stone.”

She leans back and looks him in the eyes. “Another of your Earth expressions? I’m going to miss them...miss you.”

“Not for long, honey.” He stretches out his hand and burrows it into her thick soft hair pulling her closer. ‘N’ there’s a million more where that one came from.”

She smiles bleakly. “Letting you go and staying behind is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.”

“Even harder than marrying a Human?”

She laughs back at him through her tears, “Yes...or maybe not now I come to think of it. The actual marrying part was much easier than the getting to know you part.”

He places his lips on hers, and talks through the kisses. “It was your damned infinite patience, wore me down, babe.” Tilting back, he looks into her eyes. “It’s been – good – Kat, you made it good. Leaving you here to face...whatever.... God, if I could only stay. I love you Kat, God, how I love you.” His voice cracks as he looks away, “If I lose you too...I...I just can’t lose you too.”

She watches as his eyes suddenly fill with pain, watches as he turns away. “You’ll never lose me John. Remember that. Never.”

“Kat – get out even if you only think it’s going to go sour, don’t hang round honey, don’t hang round. Rosie ‘n’ I will be waiting.”

“I will, John. I will,” she promises, throwing her arms around him and pulling him close.

“Ouch!” Rosie squeals from somewhere in between them.

John snatches her up with practised ease and swings her onto his hip. “Sorry puddin’. Mom’ll kiss it better.”

He leans in to Kat and she reaches over and places a kiss on her daughter’s soft cheek.

“All better!” Rosie grins and laughs.

+++++

“Crichton?”

John hears the humming gyros of Rygel’s thronesled and and turns quickly to Rosie, “Go and play, hon, but don’t go too far.” He watches as she scampers into a nearby room, her light footsteps echoing around its emptiness.

“Ryge, you’re still here? I thought you’d gone.”

The doughy Dominar, his portly frame squashed into the confines of his thronesled, glides up to him. “Well, maybe I’m not as quick as I used to be. Running doesn’t suit me anymore.”

“Yeah ...” John eyes him askance – at his velvet robe stretched tight over his sagging stomach, at the heavy gold Chain of State that spills in coils around his fleshy neck – and a small smile plays around his mouth, “... yeah, runnin’ ain’t healthy.” He sighs and rubs a hand over his eyes. “I’m tired, Sparky. Tired of saying goodbye, tired of carrying this...pain. Tired of always longing...hoping.”

Rygel’s puffy eyes narrow to slits as he fondly regards his friend. He stretches out a ring encrusted chubby hand, and Crichton wraps it in his own.

“Rygel?”

“Yes?”

“I’ve always wondered...”

“Yes?”

“How did you get so far with only three fingers on each hand?”

“It’s not how many fingers you have, but what you do with them that counts,” Rygel intones with pride. “And I’ve done...many things.”

“Whoa, Sparky! Maybe we’d better not go there...” John drops the small hand in mock alacrity, and makes a show of wiping his hands on his vest.

They both burst out laughing at the same time, the laughter loud and manic, until Rygel, still chuckling softly, shifts in his seat and fixes his gaze on John.

“Crichton...I’ve decided to stay. Katralla and I shall negotiate together.”

John’s tight face eases into relief. “You sure, Sparky?”

“No, you son of a yotz, I like living as much as anyone else...”

Rosie’s running footsteps echo happily through the hall, and both of them turn to stare at the doorway.

“...but Katralla will not be alone. It’ll be alright, you’ll see.”

John pulls Rygel to him in a hug, the thronesled shuddering uncertainly under the extra strain, “Ryge, I...umm...thanks.”

Rygel struggles for breath under John’s tight embrace. “You’re killing me you frellnik!” he sputters in feigned anger.

John finally lets him go and he hastily manoeuvres the thronesled away from the Human’s grasp.

“John?”

“Sparky?”

“We ... we didn’t do too badly, did we?”

“Nah, Ryge, we did alright.”

+++++

The wide corridors – once teeming with Sebacean and Jakensch, with life, chatter and noise from the endless day to day round – now stretch out before him with the sullen kind of silence that cuts like an unjust accusation. But underneath, he detects another noise, a mousy kind of shuffling. In one smooth motion he pushes Rosie behind him and Winona into his hand.

“Who’s there?”

A squeal, then “Highness, Highness, is it you?” Lurnash suddenly appears from the deep shadows, her large eyes even larger in the dim light.

“Elle? What’re you doin’ here? Aren’t those boys looking after you?” He shoves Winona back into the holster and reaches again for Rosie’s hand.

“Yes, Highness, yes! But I want to come with you. I want to come with you, Highness.”

“Elle, we’re goin’ to the barren lands, it won’t be like here.” He waves his hand to indicate the palace corridors with their large opulent rooms.

“Here isn’t like here anymore.”

The direct simplicity of her statement makes him blink. I can’t argue with that. He casts about for some other valid reason, but Lurnash cuts in quickly and firmly, “Who will look after the Princess? That is my job, Highness.”

He bends down and touches her hand gently, “Elle, we’ll be walking into the barren lands.”

“Walking? The others took their tourers...”

“And they’ll be traced and rounded up first. When we go, we’ll be on our own, no comms, nothing. It’ll be dangerous, you’ll be hot and thirsty...”

Lurnash listens to the reasons with a sigh of frustration, before reaching out surreptitiously and grabbing Rosie’s other free hand.

“...and I can’t guarantee your safety, let alone Rosie’s or mine.”

“Come, Highness, let us go.”

John shakes his head good naturedly. “Lord save me from Royal Planet women.”

+++++

The pall of smoke stretches into a lazy a grin against the sky. John traces it down to the angry red flare of the Royal City. He’s never seen a city on fire before. He recalls the newsreel footage – the flickering greys of World War II – grainy, distant, unreal. This is in glorious colour, black and green billowing clouds fading to purple-edged bruises that drop to a glowing ember on the horizon. For the thousandth time he wonders about Kat. About whether to use the comms. But any contact is dangerous and she’ll come when...if...she can.

From his vantage point he can see another sun beaten Sebacean family, shuffling dejectedly towards the stricken city like refugees in reverse, exchanging one horror for a hopefully lesser one with that characteristic pragmatic streak he’s learnt to love. Small shambling groups have been drifting back to the city for days.

A circling drone drops suddenly from the sky and flies low over them. They are so exhausted they barely lift their heads in fright or enquiry, their energy spent just trying to negotiate the awkward rounded stones. The drone hovers and inspects each of them before rising back to the sky, and flying deeper into the barren lands.

John has a pretty good idea who they’re looking for.

+++++

At the meeting place again, and still Kedek hasn’t come. He strains his eyes for any sign of movement, trying to filter out the distraction of the shimmering rocks, trying to ease the knot of worry in his stomach, but there’s nothing but a sough of wind kicking up the grainy sand. He sighs loudly in frustration. It’s time to move on...but what if Kat comes?

A low rock with a flat face rests tantalisingly out in the open. Glancing around cautiously, he slips out and writes quickly in English – Had to leave, too dangerous now. All fine. L is with me. He stands back and studies the cryptic message before glancing about and self-consciously adding a row of x’s as a postscript.

+++++

The fire sparks and flickers into light and heat. John deftly adds some dried grass, then the larger twigs and branches, until it burns steadily. He leans back wearily and brings Rosie into the circle of warmth, sitting her on his knee. Lurnash scrambles to his side, warming her slim fingers over the small fire’s flames.

“How was that?” he asks, like he always asks, looking down at his daughter’s excited face, painted orange in the glowing light.

Rosie returns his gaze intently, knows what he wants to hear. “Slicker ‘n snot,” she giggles.

John laughs and bundles her to him. “Don’t let your ma catch you saying that.”

The child’s laughter bubbles from their meagre shelter into the cold black night.

+++++

It’s early when he wakes up, but already Elle has gone. He curses under his breath, scratches the stubble on his chin and makes his way to the opening of the small area they call home. The thin morning sun slants into his eyes, and he strains for a sight of the green skinned Jakensch amongst the rich cream and ruddy orange of the steep walled valley.

But something’s wrong. He holds his breath and listens. It’s quiet. Too quiet. He turns about quickly and pads over to where Rosie still sleeps, and shakes her awake. She regards him in drowsy alarm.

“What’s wrong, daddy?” she asks, trying hard not to yawn.

“Shh, honey. Be very quiet.”

He deftly slings the food and water carriers onto his back, rams Winona into the holster and takes Rosie’s hand. They slip quickly from the tumbled shelter of the ancient landslip and head up onto the hazardous path that will lead them over and out of the valley. John hoists Rosie onto his shoulders; her small legs wrap around his neck, pudgy hands clutch at his forehead.

He clambers onward, up the rock strewn path as quickly as he safely can, grateful for the cool morning breeze. Suddenly he stops still and flattens himself against the jagged rock face. A metallic drone flies over the valley ridge and hovers implacably, swaying gently, scanning the rocks for any sign of abnormal heat. It shakes itself and glides forward, coming to a floating rest about a yard from the irregular crack where John has half-wedged himself.

“Hey Scorp, I’ve got a present for you,” he grunts hollowly, quickly raising Winona and firing at the silver ball. Rosie screams as the pulse blast envelopes the ssdrone which darts backwards in alarm, crashing into an overhanging ledge, before dropping heavily onto the flinty stones. As he watches, it starts to roll down the faint path, gathering momentum and bouncing a little, before thumping solidly onto the sandy valley bed.

“Chalk one up to me,” he says quietly, slipping Winona back into the holster. He turns around to Rosie, “You okay, honey?”

“Yes dad.”

“You’re not hurt?”

“No.”

He glances up at the ridge and hesitates. How many more drones are up there? “We’re going to try another way out. Just remember, quiet as a mouse.”

“Alright,” she says petulantly, remembering the pictures he drew in her drawing book.

+++++

As soon as he scrambles to the gritty valley floor, he slips Rosie from his shoulders and grabs her hand. Together they scurry through the heavy sand, only stopping wherever there is any shelter, to scan for movement; for any sign of a silver gleam in the azure sky. When Rosie starts to stumble, he lifts her onto his hip and carries her.

“I’m thirsty!” she complains.

“As soon as we get out of here Rosie, you can have all the water you want. Can you hold on a bit longer?”

“Yes.”

“That’s good, baby. It’s not much further – see that large rock over there?”

She nods solemnly.

“That’s where we have to go.”

He steps warily out and into the open, Rosie still nestling on his hip. The rock to the valley entrance beckons like the doorway to Nirvana, but as he starts walking forward, two drones fly lazily from behind the rock and float soundlessly toward him. He turns to take a step back, and is checked by a warning shot that sears into the sand near his feet. Three more drones are hovering from behind.

“Chalk one up for you,” he laughs harshly.

+++++

He’s been standing now for a good hour in the sun. Can’t go forward, can’t go back. Must be standard Sebacean torture, nothing like a touch of heat delirium to wear down the defences. It’s a fair cop, guv’ner. I’ll spill the beans. Where should I start? From the beginning?

Rosie, and the food and water packs, feel like a lead weight on his back; earlier he’d tried to slip Rosie to the ground, to stand in what little shade he made. The drones had nearly shot his toes off. Black scorch marks, melted into the sand by his feet, reflect the sun like glass. Rosie shifts and clings to him.

He reaches up cautiously to reassure her, watching the drones for any sign of movement. “Hold on, honey. Hold on tighter.” He blinks the stinging sweat from his eyes.

“Yes dad, but I’m hot.”

“Hold on, baby,” he pleads, his voice almost breaking. When is this frellin’ show going to start?

Eventually, as he starts to sway in the heat from the sun, a low rumble envelopes him from behind, and a long black shadow briefly swallows them both. Sharp sand sprays up and in his face as a Marauder lands neatly before him on the valley floor.

He struggles to stand upright as the down-draught swirls around him, and even the drones sway against the onrush of warm sour air. Rosie coughs and whimpers, and squeezes her arms tighter around his neck.

+++++

“Well, John! Aren’t you glad I remembered to look up my old friend?”

“I’m touched, Scorpy.”

“You’re looking well, John; life on the former Royal Planet must have suited you. You always did have a way of fitting in.”

John regards him wearily, still trying to blink the sand and sweat from his streaming eyes. There’re more wrinkles around that white grinning mask of a face, if that was possible, but it’s still the same ugly bastard from his nightmares, except now he sports an ornate badge with a red insignia.

“I heard you got promoted. Now they let you out to play with planets all on your own.”

“Ah, I’ve missed that razor sharp wit of yours. Such a human trait...most endearing.” Scorpius shifts his focus from John’s tired, sweat streaked face, and glances at the frightened child. “And this is your lovely daughter. What’s her name again? Rose, is it?”

Rosie buries her face into John’s neck. “Leave her alone,” he hisses fiercely. He hoists Rosie higher and staggers a little, his face strained and white from the pain.

Scorpius pauses and considers. “You’re looking a little tired, John.”

He nods at the ragged circle of Peacekeeper troops who stand a little behind him; as one they all lift their weapons. At a wave from Scorpius’s hand, the hovering drones melt soundlessly away. Scorpius looks significantly at Winona. John reaches slowly and lifts her out, hesitating slightly before throwing her at Scorpius’s feet.

Warily, his face fixed upon the line of glowering Peackeepers, John kneels down – Scorpius once again lifting his hand to prevent any random shots – and Rosie clambers awkwardly from his back onto the hot sand. Quickly John pushes her behind him, before flexing his aching shoulders and shaking off the food and water carriers. His hand shaking slightly, he indicates one of the carriers. “There’s water in there.”

“Is there?” Scorpius sighs and motions to one of the troops near him. “Check to see if it really is water.”

“What’s the matter, Grasshopper? Can’t you tell I’m not lying? You gettin’ old Scorpy? Need your glasses on for reading?”

“Such refreshing defiance – a welcome change from...” his cool glance sweeps along the troops behind him “...blind deference. In fact John, a breath of fresh air.”

“Glad I could make your day,” John scowls.

He holds Rosie protectively, still sheltering her with his body, as the soldier advances and kicks the carriers away. His face bland, he bends to inspect the flask that topples out, looks to Scorpius and nods.

“Satisfied?”

Scorpius’s face creases in a semblence of a grin. “Go ahead John, drink! What kind of a host would I be to deny my guests refreshment?”

John turns and offers the flask to Rosie but she hangs back, staring transfixed at the ragged crowd of strange men. “It’s okay, puddin’,” he whispers gently, holding the water out to her. She advances cautiously, her eyes wide, before her thirst overcomes her and she drinks eagerly. When she’s finished he pushes her behind him again and stands up.

“Preliminaries over, a nice tete-a-tete, thanks for the memories – and what do you want?”

“John, you never really understand, do you?”

+++++

Scorpius takes a few steps forward and the alarmed soldiers lift their weapons with nervous alacrity. “I finally have what I want...” he says, caressing John with his eyes.

“We got places back on Earth for sick and twisted people like you. They get locked away so they can’t annoy people any more,” John spits back, trying to wash the stare from his mind.

Scorpius smiles slightly and takes a step towards John who watches him advance. Rosie chokes back a sob and hides behind John’s legs.

Suddenly, a high pitched voice flutters into John’s consciousness and he jerks his head to the looming black shape of the marauder.

“Highness! Highness!”

“No, Elle!” John screams urgently, but already the quick green figure has darted from the safety of the marauder’s landing strut and is running toward the semi-circle of soldiers. As she runs, a water carrier jostles from her shoulder and falls heavily to the grainy sand. “Highness!”

The startled troops, so intent on watching the Human and Scorpius, turn awkwardly to deal with this new threat. Before they even begin to lift their weapons, Lurnash has broken through their line and is running towards Scorpius, but with her eyes fixed on John and Rosie.

“Highness! High–”

Scorpius raises his hand and shouts ‘No’.

But already a pulse blast has ripped through the tiny Jakensch, and she tumbles abruptly onto the sandy soil.

The blast echoes and dies to a stunned silence. For a moment no-one moves.

Dazed and blank, John picks up Rosie. “Close your eyes, honey,” he whispers to her, pressing her head against his chest, before moving slowly towards the small, broken body.

Elle looks so tiny now, almost dwarfed by the scattered blood that soaks around her into the sand. As he tentatively kneels down, he notices some folded rectangles of paper – some stained red, some burnt and tattered – flutter in the wind and cartwheel away. He reaches out gently and tears one open. It’s a paper note from Elle’s allowance. Grief catches in his throat; he reels blindly to his feet and stumbles away.

Scorpius glowers at the shocked soldiers before turning contritely to John. “I did not wish for this to happen.”

“Yeah, you’re always sorry, Scorp.” John turns to him blinking the angry tears from his eyes. “You kill by remote control, so you never get to look in their eyes, ‘cause you never want to own death, just use it.” He glances again at the tiny body sprawled in the signature of her own blood, “Her name was Lurnash... Elle...” His shaking voice trails off in remembrance.

Scorpius’s face is bland. “John, I–”

“You what, Scorp? What’re you gonna tell me?” John takes a staggering step forward and points unsteadily at the gawping line of Peacekeepers. “You program others to do your killing for you, get others to do your lying for you, torture people through your damn machines – the drones, the chair. Destroy cities, pin planets to dissecting boards, and tear lives apart. And all from the comfort of your distant armchair. But your hands are always clean aren’t they? And in the end, sorry is such an easy word to say.” His burning eyes scan the impassive faces of the soldiers; most are Peacekeeper blank, some wear sardonic smiles. He suddenly feels like one of those mad street preachers proclaiming the gospel to complete indifference.

“Where’s Katralla?” he asks, trying to ground himself in some sort of reality. “Is she alive? Or have you more excuses? Or are you sorry, Scorpius?” He takes a half-step forward his voice rising. “Is that it? Are you sorry?”

Scorpius looks away from the rimming blue eyes and says nothing.

John stands still for a moment, watching the unreadable expression on the hybrid’s face. Scorpy has never – will never – give him anything willingly, but this time he has taken what he needed to know. Abruptly, he turns, lifts Rosie to his chest and starts to walk away.

The circle of troops ready their weapons until Scorpius swings around and growls menacingly. He resumes watching the retreating figure before sighing indulgently and taking a few steps, turning briefly to beckon on the confused soldiers. Casting unsure glances between themselves, they follow behind Scorpius, the Human and his daughter.

+++++

Scorpius observes the stumbling human, his wiry body wrapped around the form of his small child, and feels grateful that he has never known the pain of love. If Crichton has a major fault, a long, long fault-line that always ends up cleaving him in two – it is the love he so foolishly invests on those he comes in contact with. “Your love is your weakness, Crichton,” he half whispers to John’s retreating back. And even though the wait has been intolerable and he has even been forced to wait a little longer, his broken quarry is in his sight and almost in his grasp.

And isn’t this so much better than the nebulous neural chip upon which he had pinned all his hopes, and which had been made useless over the long cycles of molecular freezing? “You probably don’t even know it’s there,” he mutters softly to himself. He licks his lips in anticipation. Soon now, after this permitted charade, John will be his – malleable, willing, compliant.

The sun slants almost directly down and the valley steams as hot as an oven. The sun blasted troops shamble and curse their way over the uneven ground, and even Scorpius starts to feel slightly uncomfortable. But the Human continues to veer doggedly, obstinately forward, still clutching the silent child to his chest, cradling the tousled head with his left hand. The only sound is the echoing panting of the soldiers and the ricocheting crunch of heavy boots.

Eventually the valley floor narrows to a sharp point, the slippery stones turn into large rocks and the valley walls dance and shimmer in front of them. Crichton, unable to continue, staggers to a ragged stop and stands as if frozen, his back still turned to his tired pursuers. As Scorpius watches he bends his head and whispers something soft and gentle to his daughter.

The dazed troops shuffle to a stuttering halt. One suddenly collapses to the ground and vomits noisily. All other eyes are fixed to the Human.

The enfolding silence is almost deafening. Heat rises in waves from the baking valley floor and walls. The troops shift their feet disconsolately and wipe the trickling sweat from their necks and foreheads. Only Scorpius stands tall and straight, his greedy eyes boring into the Human’s back.

Finally, the defiant shoulders droop and Crichton sighs audibly. Carefully, he sets Rosie down gently, takes her hand and turns slowly toward the sullen faced soldiers. His leaden eyes search out the hybrid’s own. “Are your promises still worth anything, Scorpius?” His eyes and voice are distant, as if he can see more than the black suited soldiers or the black-clad form of his nightmare of a nemesis.

“She will not be hurt, John,” Scorpius intones, his soft voice reverberating around the stone walls and rising on the heated air. And for the first time he sees the child’s tear-stained face clearly, with John’s direct blue gaze and that same infuriating defiance that John seems to infect into all those he touches.

“No-one higher up the food chain want a part of her?” He grunts out the words. His voice lifeless.

“She will not be hurt. In fact, we share a strange affinity, a bond if you will. No harm will come to her.”

John’s eyes bore into the hybrids – proud, appealing, begging. “No invasive tests? No medical...samples? No...trophies?” His voice breaks on the word and he looks away.

“You have my word.”

John laughs hollowly and moves forward, still holding Rosie’s hand. “‘Cause if you or anyone else so much as touches one hair on her head...you’ll get nothin’ from me.”

“She will be accorded all Peacekeeper privileges according to her rank.” Scorpius places a placatory arm around John’s shoulder and ignores the perceptible shudder – the pulling back. “It won’t be so bad, John. You’ll have your science and your daughter.” He begins to guide the subdued and beaten Human away from the radiant heat of the vertical walls, and back to the comfort of the waiting marauder.

“No, wait!” John cries suddenly. He breaks from Scorpius’s encircling arm and, once free, reaches for a small folder in his pocket. Scorpius’s turns in alarm and even the soporific soldiers quicken to alert.

“Crichton?”

“It’s nothing,” John says quickly as Scorpius advances and quickly overpowers him. Coolly, he ignores Rosie’s scream, and wrenches the slim folder from John’s hand. Regarding it with studied disinterest, he finally passes it to the nearest soldier.

“Open it.”

“It’s nothing,” John intones, his voice flat, his face betraying no emotion but his eyes fixed to the small slip of card resting in the soldier’s hand.

The startled soldier tentatively flips open the folder and takes hold of a dried red rose, crushing it between the thick leather of his gloves. The flower crumbles in the sunshine and falls into red dust around his feet.

“What was that, John?”

John glances at him sadly before looking away. “Just my way of saying...goodbye.”

++++

end

The Devil You Know

Sun, 30 Nov 2003 10:26:24 GMT

Where was all the Rygel love? I couldn't see it, so I decided to write a John/Rygel buddy fic. John has a rough ride in this and even Rygel gets buffetted by the UT's inherent racism. Rygel buffets John, then John buffets Rygel. Amongst all the buffetting, there's a story about the cost of freedom and the cost of friendship.

This fic is long. 'Bout 90 odd pages of action/adventure, give or take a page or two. The link is to the archived fic at Leviathan. Rated R, (because the UTs are a violent place), it's also heartwarming and humorous.

Big beta thanks to Apster and Kerne.

The Devil You Know