Child Of The Night (R/NC-17)

[KernilCrash]

Child Of The Night

(Director's Cut 2009)

Good Afternoon Fellow Scapers!

Permit me to provide a little background before I launch into this story. 

I began writing “Child Of The Night” shortly after ‘Dog With Two Bones’ aired here in the U.S.  I wasn’t trying to resolve the cliffhanger, I just wanted to tell this particular story.  I needed a strong, loving relationship between John and Aeryn, and I chose to go forward in time instead of back.  So I made a few SWAGs (Scientific Wild Ass Guesses) about where the show would go, and started typing.  I was writing several others stories at the same time, however, and didn’t get it finished before the beginning of Season 4. 

At that point the show ‘ran over’ the assumptions of the story, they left Jool on Arnessk, and I filed the story in a sub-directory labeled ‘Road Kill’ until I could get back to rewrite it.  And there it sat until we received news that Farscape had been cancelled.  I, like many of the writers, was torn between writing letters and writing fanfic, and had trouble getting the muses to stop by.  The Youses-Muses-Gang made itself extremely scarce at that point in time.  So, in something approaching an act of desperation, I decided to pull this one out, dust it off, and slap an ‘Alternate Universe’ proviso on it.  It has Jool but not Harvey, people chasing the crew but not the Peacekeepers, Noranti didn’t stick around, the Scarrans are still a threat, and most importantly, John and Aeryn are together … and I mean together. 

I will give you a WARNING right now, I’m going to treat John worse than I have ever treated him before.  Read the rating and the warning below before proceeding. 

Some of the story is a bit self-indulgent, which accounts for the length, but I couldn’t find another part that I was willing to rip out of it.  So if I rattle on a bit, forgive me and flip the pages faster until it gets interesting again.

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DIRECTOR'S CUT 2009:  This version of Child Of The Night is the third edition of the story.  The first version was posted in 2002, and consisted of only 17 chapters instead of 20.  A second version (the first 'Director's Cut') appeared a year or two later, and reincorporated some scenes that I had deleted from the first edition because they did not move the plot forward and were therefore somewhat redundant.  In the years since then, I
continued to play with Child of the Night from time to time, improving some scenes and even adding one or two segments.  I enjoy the story too much to leave it alone entirely.

In November 2009, I began yet another edit of the story as part of a larger project.  That "Third Edition" from 2009 is now the only version available on the internet.  It incorporates the additional scenes that I have written since 2002; corrected some rather abysmal syntax, punctuation, and sentence structure; and straightened out some rapid, unnecessary, and downright dizzying shifts in point-of-view (POV).  From start to finish, it is a better story, which is why I went to the trouble to replace all the older versions of the story with the new one.  Also, since I was editing and revising anyway, I added even more spice to Chapter 20.

Hope you enjoy it,

Kernil Crash

* ~ * ~ * ~ *

First posted at Kansas:  October 7, 2002.

Printer-friendly Word 6.0 Version (380KB .zip file)

Rating: This story is rated R for scenes involving torture.  The last part is rated NC-17 because I left John and Aeryn together too long and they got frisky.   
Disclaimer:  Not mine, no profit … kind of like Sci-Fi’s claim.
Spoilers:  Minor spoilers splattered across the entire first three seasons.  This takes place somewhere vaguely after ‘Dog With Two Bones’ in what is essentially an Alternate Universe setting since there are a number of premises that do not match up with canon.
Feedback:  I’d sure appreciate it.  It’s tough to write during  these difficult times, and getting some feedback helps enormously.

Beta-Readers:  Thank you so much to ScapeArtist and Scrubschick for prying time into your already very busy schedules to take a look at this.  As usual, I got a screaming case of the dithers, and needed some reassurance before deciding to post this.  The feedback provided insights and revelations that I would not have reached on my own.  I chose not to incorporate certain suggestions, and this was a long story to beta-read, so if there are inconsistencies or discrepancies, don’t blame them. 

* * * * *

FINAL WARNING:  This story involves torture, and it isn’t particularly glossed over.  The worst of it appears in Chapter 7, although Chapters 17 and 18 aren't a walk in the park either.  If you don’t like those sorts of things, then I strongly suggest you seek out something else to read.

* * * * *

Chapter 1

Aeryn Sun looked over her shoulder, and was reassured to find D’Argo at her back.  Behind him crouched a platoon of mercenaries, ready and watching for her signal.  Every individual carried one of the heavier, shoulder slung pulse rifles, the smallest pulse weapon that would kill a scarran with any effectiveness.  They waited motionlessly despite the tension generated by the impending assault, the extent of their training obvious in their self-control and patience.  Aeryn took a deep breath and nodded.  One member of the platoon stepped out, aimed a shoulder-mounted multi-delivery weapon at the heavily armored door, and let go a rocket.  The roar of the explosion was carried back on a storm of heat and dust as the barricade disintegrated into a cloud of metal fragments.  The mass of fighters kept their heads down until the last of the shrapnel clattered down on their helmets.   

Aeryn rolled around the corner and went in low, confident that any resistance would be firing mid-chest height for a sebacean.  Presented with a forest of scaled legs beneath the haze of smoke, she fired upward into the half-hidden crowd.  The roar of weapons fire quickly accelerated into a deafening bellow, bits of ceramic raining down as errant shots and ricochets blew fragments from the hardened walls.  Yells and shouts sounded behind her, growls and roars ahead.  She ignored both sets of noises and kept moving forward, firing at anything that moved in the smoke and haze filled corridor before her. 

Once the pressure of noise eased, she dropped to one knee.  The lessening of the clamoring against her ears was the first sign that firing was dwindling, alerting her before she could actually hear a change in the noise level.  She used the time to scan for more of the enemy with her heat-vision lens, waiting impatiently for the firing around her to first drop away and then stop altogether.  Behind her, more troops moved up in a mass; reinforcements pounded into the hallways branching off to either side to take cover and wait for the advance. 

When her fast scrutiny revealed none of the rippling images of the heat-heavy scarrans before them, Aeryn moved up to the first corridor junction.  She stopped to scan again, and the hair on the back of her neck fought to stand up as the howling of some animal filled the corridor.  It was a primeval sound, the bellow of some bestial creature announcing its rage and anger to the world.  The sound faded to silence for a moment, and then returned in greater fury with a new note in it.  It was then that she realized it was not a howl of defiance; it was the sound of supreme suffering.  But this was a scarran stronghold after all.  The torment of a dumb animal was to be expected in a place like this. 

“Which way, Aeryn?” D’Argo asked from no more than three or four denches behind her shoulder. 

He was so close she could feel the heat of his body radiating against her back.  Under normal circumstances, she would have ordered him to move away.  The close proximity was unsafe in combat, putting both their lives simultaneously at risk.  But she knew he was hanging close in order to watch out for her because Crichton was not with them, found his protectiveness reassuring, and let him stay close.  She focused her attention on the job ahead of them instead, using the time it took for reinforcements to move into the building to consider the battle that lay before them.  The troops soon clogged the hallway from side to side, waiting patiently for her next signal.  Both the howling and the sporadic firing had stopped, and it was strangely quiet except for the shuffle of feet.  She motioned them forward, and the mass of fighters moved deeper into the warren of hallways.     

They came to yet another intersection of corridors, one that looked identical to all the rest.  Aeryn dropped to one knee while she considered their choices, trying to pick out some detail that would indicate which way they should turn next. 

“Any idea?” D’Argo asked behind her, still hanging protectively close.   

“I don’t know.  The information we purchased only said that they had brought him here.” 

A new noise rolled down the hallway from their right:  a scream of hair-raising, horrifying intensity.  It echoed off the walls and then wrapped itself around the entire mass of fighters before bounding on down the corridor, ricocheting off the ceramic walls.  The noise faded away almost immediately as the lungs producing it expended their supply of air.  The screeching tones fell away into a smaller, equally tortured cry of breathless agony.  Then it returned, full-throated and strong, rapidly rising into the howling they had heard several moments earlier. 

D’Argo seemed to stumble for a microt.  He started to pitch forward then caught himself by placing a hand against Aeryn’s back.  Still kneeling, Aeryn dropped her head for a moment in response to the wave of dizziness and nausea that swept over her.  It passed, leaving her chilled and sick. 

“No,” she whispered, and steadied her swaying body by leaning back against the familiar weight of D’Argo’s hand.   

“Are you two all right?” the mercenary captain asked.

“We’re fine,” D’Argo snarled, suddenly enraged without any apparent cause.  “Are your troops ready to go?” 

“Of course!” 

The officer was indignant and rightfully so.  They were one of the most expensive mercenary units available, and one of only two outfits willing to take on scarrans.  The private army made its living fighting the small or politically insignificant battles that escaped the interest of the Peacekeepers, and they had found a profitable niche for themselves by specializing in operations against the slowly advancing scarran threat.  This unit enjoyed killing scarrans, as a matter of fact, and had quoted a rock-bottom price in return for the privilege of destroying the installation once the purchased mission was completed. 

“This way.”  Aeryn motioned the troops forward with new confidence, and lunged around the corner into the hallway that led toward the source of the howling.  The pounding of the armored feet filled the corridor behind her.  The mass of troops moved up as a single cohesive unit, flankers splitting off from the main group automatically as they forayed further into the building.  She ran without hesitation to the door that hid the suffering creature, gesturing toward their goal before she actually reached it.  The lungs inside were taking a rest.  Smaller, equally agonized whimpers made their way past the sound barrier provided by the heavy door to the hallway outside.

“This one,” Aeryn said, gesturing toward the door. 

There was no hesitation.  In response to their captain’s crisp hand signals, two soldiers stepped forward with a heavy, percussion-augmented ram.  Two additional troopers slung their weapons and took hold of the rear grips while the platoon arranged itself on either side of the door, pulse rifles at the ready.  There was a flurry of clicks as chakan oil cartridges were replaced, and then the hallway was quiet.  The scream inside the room was starting up again just as the captain gave a quiet, barking command.  The mass of men surged forward behind the group with the ram.  The four men smashed through the door in a single blow, carried forward by the mass of fighters ranged around them.  They were greeted by the full power of the tortured howl, a noise seemingly too horrible for a single creature to produce even though it was obvious that only one throat was singing that song of agony.  This time even some of the experienced soldiers faltered for a microt; then their training took over and they pressed forward into the room, firing as they spread out. 

Aeryn and D’Argo were swept forward in the center of the group.  As soon as she got inside, Aeryn stepped to one side and scanned the contents of the room.  She spotted a scarran with his hands on the controls of a machine and fired without hesitation, destroying the equipment with three accurately placed shots.  The tortured sounds coming from deeper within the room ended abruptly.  The scarran turned with a snarl and D’Argo stepped forward, vaporizing its head with four shots so closed spaced they sounded like one.  The body stood on its own for a microt and then toppled to the floor.

They looked up from their task and the battle was over, leaving twelve dead scarrans scattered around the room at the cost of only one wounded soldier.  The mercenary captain scanned the room to confirm that the fighting was finished, and then motioned for most of his men to continue sweeping the enclave.  A small reserve remained in the smoke-hazed room, taking up positions near the door and around the perimeter. 

The officer scanned the scorched equipment and the headless body lying on the floor in front of it.  “Is that him?  Is that your man?” he asked, gesturing further into the room. 

“Yes, that’s him.”  Aeryn and D’Argo moved to stand next to the still figure they had risked so much to retrieve.  It was strapped spread-eagled on a gleaming metal table, lying in the center of a spattered pattern of sweat, blood, and filth.  Aeryn leaned against D’Argo for several microts, permitting him to put an arm around her, then carefully pushed free of his embrace and pulled herself rigidly upright. 

“Kelvo Fourteen,” the captain said.  He was bent over the destroyed control panels, looking at the frozen indicator.  “I’m sorry we were too late.”

Aeryn looked dry-eyed at John Crichton’s body.  Shock was keeping her unnaturally calm for the time being.  “He’s still alive.  I want to get him out of here and back to our ship.  He survived Kelvo Ten once before; he’ll make it through this.  It’s only another four levels.  He’s going to recover.” 

The mercenary officer shook his head.  “You’re better off letting us put him out of his misery right now.  I’ll do it for you, if you’d prefer not to do it yourself.”  When both D’Argo and Aeryn shook their heads he signaled to his several of his medical staff who had been waiting to one side.  The men moved forward and began releasing the straps that were holding Crichton in place on the metal table.  The only movement coming from the captive was the slow up-down movement of his diaphragm, evidence that he was at least breathing. 

The mercenary leader tried again.  “This is not the same as those induced delusions they --” 

“We are NOT LEAVING HIM!” D’Argo bellowed. 

The officer raised his hands in a placating gesture.  He had seen luxan hyperrage on two occasions in the past, and he spoke quickly in the hope that he could calm this one down before his anger had progressed too far.  “Ka D’Argo.”  He was working hard to put emphasis into his words while continuing to make an effort to placate the angry warrior.  “This was direct nerve induction, not that brainwave gadget they use, and this never leaves much of the victim intact.  I’ve never” -- he paused, trying to impress something on them --  “I have never seen anyone survive Kelvo Ten, let alone Fourteen.  Very few manage to cope with Kelvo Eight and come out in any shape resembling a sentient being.  He’s insane, crippled, or both.  You’ll be doing him a favor if you kill him.”

Aeryn turned on him this time.  “We said no!” she yelled.  “We are going to take him back to our ship, and we will get him whatever help he needs to recover.” 

He took one step away from the anger in her eyes, not understanding the vehemence in her outburst or their passionate concern over a single damaged fighter.  “In that case, my people will help you get him out of here and transport him back to your ship.”  He switched on his headset in order to issue commands to someone outside the building, and within several microts four of his men appeared carrying a stretcher.  Everyone in the room waited patiently while the medtechs finished removing the electrodes that had been fastened to Crichton’s body and released the last of the wide straps holding him down. 

The last latch was pulled loose, the strap eased away from his throat, and the tech rolled Crichton’s head to one side where it lolled without any intervention from its owner.  Aeryn moved forward just in time to see a line of spittle run from the corner of his mouth, slither across his cheek, and drip to the surface beneath him.  There was blood running from his ears and nose; the slow crimson drops added a thicker counterpoint to the delicate spray already drying on the table.  The coppery tang that belonged with it was undetectable, masked by the acrid stench of urine and vomit that she had smelled from the first moment they had burst into the room.  The combination of odors bit deep at the back of her sinuses and struck even deeper into her subconscious, telling her more about what had transpired in this room than the pale, virtually unmarked body lying before her. 

She tried to focus on something else to draw her attention away from the images springing to life in her mind, but she kept going back to the table’s finely applied patterns of flung droplets, unconsciously gauging the force it would have required to separate thickly viscous liquids into an almost vaporized state.  The straps would have made it hard to snap the blood and sweat free like that.  It would have demanded either a great deal of strength or a spastic frenzy to create that artwork.  Aside from where John had been lying, no portion of the table had gone unscathed.  Every dench of the table, as well as a wide halo of floor to either side, had been coated with a fine mist of bodily fluids. 

Aeryn started to shake, no longer capable of maintaining her rigid self-control.   

D’Argo’s voice drew her away from her fixation on the sights and smells.  “Why don’t you wait for us at the transport?  I can stay here until they bring him out.” 

She shook her head, not ungrateful but unwilling to leave John for even a microt.  Her mind strayed immediately, sauntering back to consider what it would have taken to make John vomit and urinate on himself in this manner.  The howls they had heard rang in her mind repeatedly.  The images from her subconscious merged with the sounds stored in her memory to create a detailed vision of the cherished body transported into a hideous frenzy where the physically impossible became possible. 

One of the medtechs looked toward his commander and held up a blue syringe with a long slender needle.  The simple motion and the query in the trooper’s expression tore Aeryn’s attention away from its morbid fascination a second time.  The technician received a quick nod from his superior, and the man felt for a point under Crichton’s throat, placing the needle against the pale clammy skin with delicate accuracy. 

“What are you doing?” Aeryn demanded.  She grabbed the man’s hand to stop whatever he was doing, convinced by the wordless exchange that they were going to carry out the offer of a mercy killing. 

“No, Officer Sun!”  The mercenary officer leapt forward and pulled her away.  “You do not want them to move him if he can feel anything.  This will cut him off from all sensory input for several arns.  We will leave you a supply of the drug at no extra charge.  If his consciousness is still inside there in any recognizable way, you do not want him connected to his nervous system while we’re moving him.” 

“Please listen to him, ma’am,” one of the medical techs said.  “We’ve had quite a bit of experience with this sort of thing.  The scarrans use it whenever their cognitive dislocation methods don’t work.” 

Aeryn hesitated.  She looked down at the lax figure on the gleaming metal table, comparing that sight of apparent senselessness against their claims of unseen damage.  From the neck down, Crichton’s body appeared unharmed.  The only visible evidence of his mistreatment -- the reddish welts from the straps -- were fading now that the restraints had been removed.  D’Argo was standing silently on the other side of the table, looking no more decisive than she felt.  They hung there, uncertain, for tens of microts.  Their mutual reverie was interrupted by a series of vibrations generated by a distant explosion.  The minute tremors tingled through their feet first, followed by the rippling rhythms of multiple pulse weapons firing from somewhere in the building.  The mercenary officer put his hand to his ear, listening to transmissions from his subordinates. 

“I do not have time for this,” he said in an impatient snarl.  “They’re counterattacking.”  He reached past Aeryn and ran his hand heavily down one of the unmoving arms from shoulder to elbow. 

Crichton screamed. 

The apparently inert body came alive, arching off the table its entire length, tendons and muscles standing out in tautened spasms, limbs shuddering and flailing spastically. 

Aeryn swung around and punched the officer in the side of the throat, putting all of her strength and the rotational force of her turn into the blow.  It drove him to his knees, gagging and coughing for breath.  She stood over him for a microt, struggling against the rage that urged her to kick the stunned mercenary where he knelt fighting for air.  The scream behind her was cut off abruptly and she whirled back in time to see a syringe needle buried in John’s throat, driving up toward the base of his skull.  D’Argo was still nodding his consent even as the medic delivered the relief. 

“We had to Aeryn,” he said quietly, explaining why he had given permission.

Crichton’s body slumped back onto the table.  Tranquility was restored.  Once again, he appeared completely senseless.

The commander was being helped to his feet by one of his men.  He looked at Aeryn with something resembling admiration, and whispered, “Nice punch.”  He cleared his throat several times, sounding as though each attempt was a painful struggle.  Despite his repeated efforts, his voice was no stronger when he continued.  He rasped, “My men will take him back to your ship and get him settled.  They can give you the location of several medical facilities nearby, but I doubt any of them are going to be of much help.  We have taken men there before.  None of the healers have been able to do anything for them when this happens.  The best they have been able to offer is a quick, painless death.” 

He craned his neck, massaging the spot where Aeryn had hit him.  “Best of luck.  I’m sorry you lost him.” 

“He is not dead yet!” D’Argo yelled at the departing figure. 

“Yes, he is.  If he’s capable of anything resembling a coherent thought, your man already knows it.  It’s just going to take you and the rest of your friends a little longer to accept that you’re never going to get him back.”  The voice continued to rasp but it was strong enough to make it back into the room as the group of fighters headed toward the battle in the distance. 

* * * * *

The medtechs were conscientious about getting Crichton settled comfortably in the converted maintenance bay that served as Moya’s infirmary before they left to rejoin their command.  They showed everyone how to administer the drugs that cut him off from his nervous system, making highly specific references to the readouts from the scanner in the process, and left a supply of the loaded syringes as promised.  The four men who had carried Crichton aboard insisted on washing some of the sweat, blood, and dirt off his body before they transferred him onto the medbed.  They finished the job by covering him with one of the golden thermal sheets and securing it to the underside of the bed as a soft overall restraint that would keep him from accidentally rolling off. 

Aeryn knelt with them as they sponged him clean, inexplicably bothered by having strangers bathe the intimately known body.  She ran her fingers along a darkening band spanning John’s chest, recognizing the first signs of deep bruising.  There had been no room underneath the thick straps; she had seen that for herself.  It would have taken repetitive and desperate battering against the strictures with no regard for the damage it was causing to create that sort of bruising.  One of the men lifted a leg to wash beneath Crichton, turning the limb at an angle to Moya’s muted yellowish light, and more bruises sprang into sight.   

Chiana sank to her knees across from Aeryn, crowding between two of the soldiers as they rolled John onto his side to wash his back.  “What did … how …”  She touched the wide stripes of livid flesh that were visible only when illuminated by the leviathan’s gentle, penetrating light.  Her hands drifted from ankles to knees to thighs while Chiana struggled to phrase a question.  She finally managed to ask, “What did this to him?” 

John let a breath out on an extended sigh.  Although she drew away quickly, Chiana’s hands continued to hover over the bruises as though she could comfort him without actually making contact.     

“He was strapped down,” one of the soldiers said carelessly.  “But it’s never enough to keep them from beating themselves to a pulp against that table.”  He was concentrating on helping two of his comrades wrap a towel around Crichton’s waist so he missed the effect his statement had on the small group watching and did not know to stop.  “This guy’s lucky.  Most of them manage to shatter bones or dislocate joints trying to --”

“Shut up!” the two med specialists barked simultaneously. 

The soldier looked up, too late aware of his thoughtless comments.  He glanced around at the strange group standing above them -- no two the same species, no two dressed alike -- and acknowledged for the first time that these were not soldiers and would not be familiar with the unforgiving results of torture.  “I … I’m sorry,” he stammered.  The soldier finished his awkward apology, looked down at Crichton, and then back up at the gathered crewmates.  “I wasn’t thinking about … I didn’t … I’m sorry,” he finished lamely. 

“Argelians!”  The panicked shout from John broke the silence that had fallen over the chamber once the soldier finished his stumbling apology.  Everyone froze, waiting for another outburst.  Nothing more followed. 

“What’s an Argelian?” asked Chiana. 

“No idea,” D’Argo said.  His gaze remained fixed on his friend, watching for another sign of awareness. 

The six men in uniform lifted John and placed him gently on the medbed, taking their time getting him settled in order to ensure that he was in a comfortable position.  One of the medtechs stepped across the infirmary to retrieve several small cushions from the other medbed.  He returned and tucked them under John’s knees and forearms, rearranging the bits of padding until the human lay in a more relaxed, natural posture.  Two of the soldiers finished securing a thermal sheet to the underside of the bed while the others began picking up and stowing their gear, quickly and efficiently organizing it and then rolling it into the stretcher. 

“You need to keep in mind that there is no way to know how badly he has been damaged cognitively,” the senior tech warned the worried little group.  “Even if he can hear and understand you, he may not be able to answer.  You are not going to be able to tell whether he is thinking straight and can’t move, or is moving right and has gone completely insane.  And it can change from arn to arn.” 

He looked at the rigid postures, the disbelieving faces, and tried again, speaking softly.  “He is insane inside there, you have to trust me on this.  We have pulled too many of our own men out of that frelling contraption to get this wrong, most of them before they had to cope with Kelvo Ten.  We have never rescued anyone who survived anything beyond Kelvo Twelve, and that guy eventually had to be put out of his misery, so your man is … well, he’s not lucky, but he is certainly unique.  You may see moments when he seems lucid, but it’s kind of like an echo of what he used to be.  It’s a reflex … nothing more.”  He gave them a few microts to absorb what he was telling them.  “It won’t last.”

“Surely there is something that a diagnosan or some other medical expert can do for him,” Rygel said into the gloom-filled silence.  “There is always something that can be done as long as someone is still alive.”  The throne sled floated closer to the medbed.  Rygel hovered there, watching the motionless features. 

“Crichton, we’re going to help you recover from this,” Jool said, adding her assurances to the mounting refusal to accept the medic’s pronouncement.   

The medic responded aggressively.  “No, you are not, and you need to face up to this right now.  All of you have got to face this.”  The medtech stopped what he was doing in order to face the small group.  “That scarran torture has totally frelled his nervous system from the center of his brain all the way to the ends of his fingers and toes.  That cursed machine disrupts every aspect of the victim’s physiology:  neurons, neurotransmitters, chemical balances, the chemistry that permits muscular contractions, the works.  There isn’t anything resembling a normal synaptic response left inside him, and no one around here has discovered a way of realigning or reinitializing the responses in a case like this.  We have tried, believe me.”  He knelt to finish collecting his gear.  “He is gone and he is not coming back.  I understand how difficult it is to accept your loss, but that’s the way it is.  The sooner you accept that he died the moment the scarrans strapped him onto that cursed table, the sooner you can start the process of putting this tragedy behind you.”   

The medic finished packing away the last of his instruments and looked around him to make sure he had not forgotten anything.  “Your comrade lasted through Level Fourteen.  That’s an amazing tribute to his courage.  Put a pulse blast through his head, remember him for his strength, and get on with your lives.”  He threw them a hasty salute and the six men hurried out of the chamber, headed back to the planet to rejoin their brethren. 

The chamber was silent except for small shifts and sighs.  After a dozen microts, they were all staring at Crichton.  He looked as if he was sleeping soundly.  All the damage was internal, hidden from sight.

“Should we do what he said?” Chiana asked.  Her voice squeaked and rasped from the effort of fighting back impending tears.

“No!” Aeryn and D’Argo barked together.  They looked at each other then D’Argo continued, the passion in his voice reined in but no less evident for his restraint.  “John got captured making sure the rest of us got away.  We are not abandoning him now.”  D’Argo turned toward the motionless figure.  “We are going to find a way to fix this, John.  I promise you that.”

There was a single, brief flutter of eyelids, and then Crichton was still again. 

“There’s no way of knowing.”  Rygel was almost whispering.  He seemed to come to a decision, because he suddenly sat up straighter and looked imperiously at the others.  “I choose to believe he can hear us and knows what we are trying to do.  I choose to believe he understands.” 

“Very good, Rygel,” Jool said.  Her voice held a full load of sarcasm.  “Now tell us all what we are going to do about getting him some help.  Just for the sake of argument, let us say that those military morons knew what they were talking about, and we choose not to take him to any of the medical specialists on that list.  I am willing to concede that they know we cannot get Crichton any help in this portion of the galaxy.   Where do we go to find someone who can help him?”

D’Argo was the first to list a requirement.  “We would need someone who understands synapses and synaptic responses.”   

“Someone who can get inside Crichton’s head and see if he’s sane,” Chiana chimed in, “or as sane as he’s ever been.” 

Aeryn made an effort to smile at Chiana’s attempt to lighten the conversation, but the expression felt false and unnatural on her face.  She continued to stare at John, unable to pry her eyes off his face for an instant.  For a moment, it looked though he was smiling, as though he had heard and enjoyed Chiana’s small bit of teasing.  The short-lived expression faded before she could be sure.  She glanced around to see if anyone else caught it, but everyone else was glaring at Rygel, who had just vented a generous supply of helium. 

“I’m angry,” the former Dominar said in a growl.  “I am very angry.”   

“You are very disgusting,” D’Argo countered.  Subjected to the influence of the hynerian’s emissions, the normally gruff luxan baritone had been transformed into something closer to the screeching of a vorc. 

Aeryn glanced at John.  There was no doubt this time.  He was definitely smiling. 

“Look!” she said, pointing to the light-hearted expression. 

She started to touch his cheek, intending to caress the smiling face so he would know she was there, only to snatch her hand away as four voices yelled “No, Aeryn!” in unison.  As soon as they had returned to Moya, D’Argo had described to everyone in shocking detail what had occurred on the planet, trying to impress on their shipmates the importance of not touching John unless they were certain the medication was doing its job.  They all understood the horrid consequences that might result from even the most compassionate caress.  Aeryn folded her arms and tucked her hands securely under her armpits so she would not be tempted again. 

The smile disappeared even as they all watched, to be replaced by a distressed frown.

“We’re here, John.  We’re going to find some way to put this right,” Aeryn called to him, hoping to reach the awareness that constituted John Crichton. 

The anxious expression did not alter despite her assurances, and she understood for the first time the dilemma of what the medic had described.  She had been certain for all of ten microts that he was listening, and now she could not tell what had provoked the muscles in his face into the short-lived expression of joy -- cheerful emotions, insanity, or random muscle contractions.

“Back to our discussion,” Aeryn said in a distracted manner.  She forced herself to turn away from Crichton, resorting to looking at the others in order to get herself to concentrate on finding a solution.  “Does anyone have any other input?  Any ideas?” 

“We would need to find someone who can understand the intricacies of his nervous system.  This hypothetical specialist would need to be able to differentiate between his autonomic and voluntary responses, have the capability to rebuild the synaptic connections, the capacity to determine if Crichton is sane, reinitialize his neurons, repair any muscular or organ damage that has occurred, and be sophisticated enough to cope with what may be an unknown species,” Jool said, rolling off the requirements they were seeking.  “And if he is truly insane, we would need to find a species or medical specialty that can move beyond the purely physical and reach into the psyche in order to restore a person’s mind.”

“We should be able to find someone like that on every commerce planet we come to,” Chiana said sarcastically, somehow managing to sound frivolous and depressed at the same time.  Her next comment shifted to dejection.  “Where are we going to find someone like that?”

“I think --”  Aeryn paused, reconsidering what she was about to propose.  “I think you just described a delvian.  But John is so badly injured, a single priest cannot possibly heal everything that has been damaged.  We need to find more than one priest.  What if we went all the way back to the New Moon of Delvia?” 

“Those blue butted lunatics really were crazy!” Rygel yelled.  “How can you expect to find help there?  They will only make matters worse.” 

“What’s the New Moon of Delvia?” Jool asked into the silence following Rygel’s outburst.   

D’Argo ignored her question, responding to Rygel’s observation first.  “Zhaan gave them the key to finding their way back to balance.  That is, John and Zhaan together aimed them in the correct direction,” he said, rephrasing his statement.  “Aeryn, you may be right.  They are a fully integrated delvian community.  If anyone has the healers and priests necessary to help John, it’s them … provided they aren’t all insane.”

“Pilot?” Aeryn called toward the walls of the chamber. 

Pilot’s image appeared in the clamshell hanging in the corner.  “I have been listening most intently, Officer Sun.  After consulting the charts I have been assembling in Moya’s datastores ever since our mutual escape from the Peacekeepers, Moya and I have determined that we can reach the delvian colony in just over twelve solar days.  You must advise us, however.  Will twelve solar days be soon enough considering Crichton’s current condition?” 

Aeryn looked at the supply of syringes arranged in a neat row on the work surface.  There were almost thirty of them, but they had not yet determined how often John would need the system numbing injections.  If he required their influence more than twice a day, they would be faced with the sounds of his unendurable agony throughout the last two days of the journey.

“Only twelve solar days, Pilot?” Rygel asked.  “We were there almost three cycles ago.” 

“We have not been traveling a particularly linear course, Dominar Rygel.”  Pilot stated the obvious first, his more formal manner of addressing the hynerian serving to add a bite of sarcasm to his observation.  “My calculations are based upon a maximum effort by Moya, with minimal recovery time between starbursts.” 

Aeryn wavered.  “I don’t know.”  One microt earlier she had been certain that saving John was the right course of action; now she felt as if she was only prolonging a miserable existence merely for her own benefit.  She could not bear the thought of losing him a second time.  “If we decide to do this, we will be headed right back into the middle of Peacekeeper territory.  It would be incredibly dangerous for all of us.  This is not a decision I should make on my own.  If we are going to do this, everyone has to agree.”

The small group hovered indecisively, each individual shifting slightly as they considered their limited options. 

“D’Argo?” Aeryn asked, breaking the silence.  “What do you think?”   

“Go.”  The slurred voice was quietly insistent.  The unexpected whisper cut into the silence of the group’s indecision.  A fierce battle was waged between the expressions crossing Crichton’s face and then he repeated the single, tiny word.  “Go?”  It was taken over by a whine of sorrow, not pain.  “Go we know not where.  Wait for me.  Waiting for Godot.”  He ended on an almost cheerful note, a complete transition from how he had started his brief, jumbled contribution to the conversation. 

“Take it as a sign, not a command,” Chiana suggested more brightly. 

They had all been standing silently after John’s initially lucid utterance faded into confused, untranslatable ramblings. 

“Pilot.  Set a course for the New Moon of Delvia, please.  As quickly as Moya can manage.”  D’Argo looked around the group to see if anyone disagreed with his instructions.  His shifting glare was met by nods all the way around. 

“Please prepare for starburst in … ten microts.” 

Pilot’s countdown was so short, Aeryn was sure that Pilot and Moya had been preparing for starburst even before the group had reached a decision.  She smiled at the preemptive actions of the ship and her pilot and held on to a workbench, waiting for the lurch that signified they were under way. 

“Stars in her hair were seven,” Crichton breathed, “blessed damsel of heaven.”  He twitched slightly and let out a short-lived airy cry.   

“What if we go all the way back there and they haven’t recovered from their illness?” Aeryn asked.  “We only have the one chance to take him somewhere.” 

“Does anyone have another idea?” D’Argo said to the group as a whole.  “Is there anywhere else we can take him where we might have a chance of helping him?”  The entire room lurched as they entered starburst, each person finding something to hang on to as they slid into the passage between dimensions.  They looked at each other.  No one offered a suggestion. 

“So we go there and hope we’re doing the right thing.” 

John opened his eyes and Aeryn sucked in her breath.  The blue irises appeared purple, drifting aimlessly in the center of bright red orbs, the result of what she guessed was internal hemorrhaging.  She drew her hand slowly from one side to the other above his face and there was no reaction.  John was either blind from the damage to his eyes, or cut off from his sense of sight by the widespread destruction of his nervous system.  The others watched with horror and despair.     

“Hurry, Moya,” Chiana whispered.  “Hurry.”

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

[KernilCrash]

Chapter 2

Red light, green light … red rover, red rover, let someone come over.  Who should come over?  Come on over to my place after … after what?  Raven’s wing hair.  Is that a cliché?  Soft, caring touch of someone’s fingers, sweet smell nearby, pain, pain … more pain.  Where is Aeryn?  Ahhhhh, it hurts.  Mom’s going to be ticked, he’s late again.  Title of his paper was ‘Theoretical Application of New Fuel Sources in the Pursuit of the Outlaw Josey Wales’.  That doesn’t seem quite right.  Spinning spinning spinning, cast off from gravity, darkness, light, silence spiraling in to possess him.  An image of Aeryn turning, catching her lower lip in her teeth and smiling entirely with her eyes, devious pleasure lurking there.  Grab at it, hold on to it, anchor himself to keep from spinning away.  Memory fades, slips through his fingers as quickly as he grapples to hang on to it.  Watching pinpoints wheel overhead, stars falling into his brain where they implode, dragging him with them into the crushing pain of the gravity well.  Agony demands that he cry out, but they’ve removed his mouth, a smooth expanse of skin where it once existed.  His arms and legs are gone, he’s truly disembodied … a floating wraith.  Ask her out, be courageous, after all the worst she can say is ‘Yesterday’. 

“Aeryn?” 

“She’s getting some sleep, Crichton.”  Jool watched his brow furrow.  Over the space of several microts, a look of anguish gradually appeared on John’s face.  It was a slow migration of adjustments, muscles shifting so subtly that the change occurred invisibly, creating the impression that she had hallucinated the original, placid look, and that the anxiety had been there all along.  She tried to reassure the damaged mind.  “Aeryn will be back in a few arns.  She’s been sitting with you almost the entire time over the last five solar days, Crichton.  She isn’t far away.” 

“Iscandar is burning.  Skiffy stinks.”  He tossed his head on the pillow once then was still again. 

* * * * *

“How is Moya holding up?” 

Aeryn was sitting on Pilot’s console with her legs hanging inside the island.  She knew she was in a spot where John often chose to perch when he came to talk to their alien overseer, and had copied his position deliberately.  Sitting in that specific place, she could find a tiny sense of connection to the man who no longer seemed to inhabit the shell in the infirmary.  No matter that it was a fragile tie, it was something that she could hang on to until they were in range of the delvian habitat and could find out whether Crichton would ever recover. 

Pilot raised his eyes from his controls, bestowing a sorrowful yet determined gaze on Aeryn.  “This is not my choice.  Although she is beginning to tire, Moya refuses to slow down.  Provided she can maintain this pace until we arrive at the New Moon of Delvia, we have determined that we can take an additional three arns off our original estimate.” 

Watching Pilot manipulate the controls, Aeryn recognized that he was diverting an even greater percentage of Moya’s calorics to her drive system.  The knowledge drifted out of her subconscious without conscious effort.  Knowing how Moya’s controls worked was an unthinking process; it never involved active, deliberate recall.  From there her thoughts spun back to John’s shattered intellect, as they did almost every microt she was awake, and she wondered what it would be like to exist forever in a world where organized thought was an impossibility, comparing her own instinctual but organized knowledge of leviathan systems to the chaotic and frequently indecipherable ramblings that periodically broke loose from the devastated human lying in the medical bay.  It was not a new comparison for her to ponder.  She had been questioning their decision to keep John alive ever since they slid in to starburst the first time six solar days earlier.     

“Pilot, hurting or injuring Moya is not a good trade.  We may not be able to save John, and we do not want to lose Moya as well.  She is just as important to every one on board as Crichton.”  Aeryn found herself warring between a hope that Moya would slow down to preserve her health, and a desire that she would continue at her present pace, bringing them to New Delvia as soon as possible.  As though reading her thoughts, Pilot ignored her plea and tapped another intricate pattern into the controls, once again making adjustments that would maximize their velocity. 

Aeryn leaned to one side, stretching across in front of Pilot to open a comms channel.  “Moya,” she called to their host, forcing out words that were painful to speak, “we need you more than we need Crichton.  Do not injure yourself in this attempt.” 

The great chamber reverberated with a roaring noise.  Every DRD in the Den came to a halt for the length of time it took for the last of the echoes to fade.  Aeryn had heard a lot of noises from Moya over the cycles, but never one laden with such purpose.  This had been more of a growl than one of Moya’s more familiar moans, and was completely unlike any of the rare voiceless communications Aeryn had heard the leviathan emit during the last four cycles.

“Moya and I have calculated this very carefully several times, Aeryn.  We feel that the effort is more than worthwhile.  Moya will not slow down.  She says she can rest and recover once we have reached our destination.”  Pilot closed Aeryn’s comms channel and opened another one in order to address the entire crew. 

“Please prepare for starburst in twenty microts.” 

* * * * *

Something pursuing him, chasing him, seeking him, desiring to catch kill dismember devour him.  Run.  Run quietly and quickly, don’t hide, just run.  No legs, he remains motionless, it’s getting closer.  Lash out at it, drive it away, no arms, too late, it’s here.  What was he thinking about?  There’s a poster of Clint Eastwood on his wall within his mind that keeps on truckin’ down the road to Bali dancing in the moonlight over Havana cabana, can he have a banana split?  And what if they’re out of ice cream, you scream, we all … he wanted chocolate sauce, anything chocolate because he hasn’t had any since … since when?  since where? Doesn’t matter who he is.  WHAT is he?  And it’s there again, chasing him, no time to scream, no time to run away, it has him and and and … and … Where’s Aeryn?  She runs into his quarters and grabs him, keeps him from turning his hands into mush by trying to batter a mirror into shards.  Hang on to it, grab the image, center himself with it, find a way to hang on, to stay in one place to find to find to find to find … Something pursuing him, chasing him.  

Jool hovered alongside Crichton, clutching at the edge of the bed as Moya slid into starburst once again.  He had begun mumbling more than usual and was sweating heavily.  Over the past eight solar days, they had all come to recognize that this meant he was approaching the point where he would need another injection of sensory oblivion.  Jool looked back at the carefully stored ampoules.  There were ten left.  If John continued at his current rate of needing a third injection every couple of days, they would run out before they arrived at their destination.  Jool set the syringe down next to the others and settled back to wait.  They would have to stretch each one out a little longer.  There was no method of transporting him that could be undertaken if he did not have one more dose left when they arrived. 

“Aristophanes?”  It was a querulous tone.  “Not funny.”  Insistent.  “Groucho,” he demanded, ending the brief soliloquy. 

She wondered where he was and who he was talking about.  Light, hurrying footsteps approached and a microt later Chiana entered the chamber.  The nebari hopped up to sit next to Jool on the spare bed. 

“Did he eat anything?” Chiana asked.  There was a tray with several cups and bowls on it sitting on a counter nearby, but she could not see if they were empty. 

“No dead fish … cheese whiz … not now, not now.”  Crichton licked his lips, took a deep breath, and then was quieter. 

Jool slid down from her seat and picked up a metal flask from the tray.  She tilted it carefully, holding it to Crichton’s mouth and he drank as fast as she let the water ease between his lips.  She returned to her seat when the flask was empty and finally answered Chiana’s question.   

“He drank some of the soup and all of the water.  He seems to be permanently thirsty; that was his third flask of water.  I’ll try to get some solid food into him later.” 

Jool looked at the syringe propped safely out of the way.  They had dropped two of the cartridges the first day, not knowing that the shattered ampoules represented the margin between comfort and unadulterated agony before they found someone who could provide John with permanent relief.

Chiana tucked her hands under her legs and sat on them as if it were the only way she could prevent herself from going over and touching the restless human.  Once settled, she asked, “What do you think about this delvian colony that Aeryn and D’Argo told us about?  If they’re all like Zhaan was, do you think they’ll be able to help him?” 

“Neinwannwann,” John mumbled.  A microt later, he began to cry.  Neither woman moved to dry his tears.  Unless he had just received an injection, even that light touch was impossible.  They had tried to clean or comfort him just twice without the aid of the chemical oblivion, and had learned the difficult lesson from the shocking results.  Now they sometimes had to watch the salt tears dry into crusted traces without helping him.  They knew the exact length of their window of opportunity and were prepared for a cleanup whenever he received an anesthetic booster.

“Grissom knew … Mom?  May I be excused? … rattlers.”  Crichton took a deep breath and suddenly started laughing, trailing off to another round of jumbled utterances.   

Chiana was startled by Jool’s voice cutting in over the deep-voiced ramblings, answering her question. 

“The capability of delvians to heal minds is well outside my expertise.  Their powers border on the mystical.  My people prefer to deal with measurable treatments and results.”  Jool seemed to be implying that the delvians were some sort of charlatans, and Chiana started to protest.  Jool continued her explanation, unaware that she was cutting off an objection.  “However, I have seen things more unbelievable since I was abducted, and I believe everything I have heard about Zhaan’s abilities.  I believe they are his best hope.” 

It wasn’t exactly a glowing recommendation.  Just the same, Chiana recognized it as Jool’s best effort to be positive.  “I think they’ll be able to help him, too.  Definitely.” 

She slid off the bed and went to stand beside John, for the first time hoping she would have a flash of the future.  She willed a prescient vision to visit her, to tell her if he would recover.  Nothing came of her attempts. 

By this time Crichton was mumbling a steady stream of disjointed syllables.  Now and then a few words broke out of the jumble.  “What light?  Sun breaks.”  He took a longer breath and called more loudly, “Aeryn?”     

“Aeryn’s not here now, Old Man.  You’re going to be all right.  We’re almost to that New Moon place and Zhaan’s people are going to fix you up.”  She stroked the pillow next to Crichton’s head, a fabric surrogate for his sweating forehead.

“Shark!” he cried.  “Cut it loose!”  He opened his eyes and looked at her without recognition.  They had all become somewhat inured to the blood red eyes and unfocused gaze, but this time his eyes seemed to be pointed in different directions and the blue eyes had gone black from the congested blood.  Although every one of their scans indicated that he was permanently blind, he blinked several times and his eyes came into alignment.  He stared in Chiana’s direction.   

“Where’s Casper?” he asked with a soft-voiced, childish curiosity.  “Is he with you?” 

“No, Gasper’s coming later, Crichton.  He’ll be here later.”   She thought perhaps he was asking after a childhood friend, wandering through his memories in his darkness and confusion.  “Be still and get some sleep.” 

He turned his gaze away from her, looking to the empty side of the bed.  “Mom?  MOM?!”  He started crying again.  “I’m sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry …”  His eyes closed and the single word faded into a whisper. 

* * * * *

Gentle wafting scent, quiet sounds of someone moving nearby, rustle of leather on leather and the clank of metal against some other object, familiar ring of a pulse pistol grip striking a workbench.  How many times had Winona hung up on some object or projection before each and every one of his movements had adjusted to carrying the weapon?  He needs to open his eyes and verify who is there -- to make sure it really is Aeryn.  Nothing moves, nothing happens, his dark world persists.  What is the problem?  What has happened?  Look to the past, look to the future, look back look forward look back look forward.  Nothing exists except the now, the here, the quiet voice murmuring in his ear, telling him that he will be all right.  Isn’t he all right now? 

There is only the here, the now, the sweat trickling alongside his nose, tickling slowness working its way down his cheek, fraternal streaks blossoming from the cool beads on his forehead to wander along his temple and sink into his hair.  There is only the increasing pain, sensitivity to every small touch on his skin, no ability to cry or sigh or moan as every fiber on the covering over him becomes an agonizing weight too heavy to be carried any longer.  Fingers tilt his chin, creating an inconceivable explosion from scalp to toes demanding a scream that dies unvoiced in a throat that refuses to respond.  Lancing agony strikes through his throat, sinks deep into his brain, driving shaft attempting to sever his spine … succeeding.  Sweet sobbing relief without the sob. 

The now, the here, the quiet noises around him, the scent of Aeryn nearby.  Aeryn, Aeryn, Aeryn.  Why can’t he tell her that she is his entire life, the beginning and end of his existence? 

Burst of cold air as the blanket is pulled aside, moved shifted rolled adjusted sponged toweled mopped fed, greedily gulping whatever they would let him have because he is hungry, thirsty, hungry thirsty, hungrythirsty hungrythirsty.  Whatever they were giving him is gone.  He should tell them he wants more, but there is the restrictive covering again to hold him down, denying him movement when he only wants to reach for Aeryn to tell her that he’s here, here in the now and knowing that she is near here in the now.   

Silence reigns except for the rumbles and grumbles, source unknown, rumbling and grumbling into his thoughts, head spinning, stomach isn’t grumbling anymore, stars are in his head now, shattering his thoughts, spinning him out of control.  It’s the … he’s the … Grendel never had this problem.  Broken pattern, no touchdown.  She never should have been valedictorian, voting had been … who’s there?  Knock knock.  Ten pin bowling isn’t supposed to be a contact sport … not for the bowlers.  Big cockroach with pointy teeth walks toward him after appearing out of nowhere, sinks its fangs into the back of his head and rips out his brain. 

Crichton hauled in a lungful of air and started to scream.  D’Argo jumped and then stumbled over Jool.  Both of them were trying to get around Rygel’s momentarily stalled throne sled at the same time that the hynerian was doing his best to get turned around to return to John’s side. 

“We just gave him an injection,” Aeryn yelled over the screams.  “This shouldn’t be happening.” 

Chiana was the first to make it to Crichton’s side.  She hovered, unable to help him as he sucked in another breath and continued screaming.  “He’s not moving.  He’s not fighting against anything.  I don’t think this is pain,” she called to the others.  “Crichton, it’s all right!  You’re on Moya, and you’re going to be all right!”  Her shouts went unnoticed by the frantic human.  Everyone was hovering around him now.  Everyone had gathered in the chamber to help feed and clean John while they could touch him.  “This is terror,” Chiana concluded. 

“John!  I’m here,” Aeryn yelled to him, desperately trying to penetrate to wherever he resided inside his mind.  She grabbed the sweating face, holding him by both sides of his head, and tried to reach him with her voice.  “You’re home.  You’re on board Moya and you’re going to get better.”

The screaming stopped abruptly, replaced by tears and the voice of his deepest fear.  “No.  Please.  Please don’t.  Not again … I don’t know anything about wormholes.  I don’t know anything about any damned w-w-w-wormholes!” 

“Scorpius,” D’Argo said flatly.  John was sobbing uncontrollably now.  Jool handed D’Argo a cloth and he began wiping away the steams of tears. 

* * * * *

“D’Argo!”  Aeryn ran into the Center Chamber where the luxan was getting something to eat.  “Pilot says we’re in range of the delvian colony.  He’s attempting to contact them to find out if they’re sane and willing to help Crichton.”  She did not wait for an answer but headed out of the chamber at a run, turning in the direction of Command.  D’Argo threw down the plate of food he had just taken from the warmer and went after her. 

They arrived in Command just as the image of three delvians, all of them wearing the vestments of a high-level priest, was projected on the forward portal.  The three figures floated ghostlike, appearing semi-translucent in front of the view of the stars.  Aeryn recognized Tahleen standing in the rear beside an elderly male delvian, and quickly searched her memory for the name of the third individual, a woman.  ‘Lorana,’ flicked into her mind just as the woman addressed Pilot, answering his query. 

“We have received your transmission, Pilot.  We welcome you and all aboard Moya.  How may we help you?”  Tahleen and the third priest moved forward to stand alongside her.  All three pairs of eyes were a deep, sane shade of blue. 

The immobility of a completely motionless figure was usually wrapped in some kind of muscular tension.  The delvians, however, emanated a deep tranquility, a level of comfort with their stillness seldom observed among other species.  Aeryn began to relax in a sympathetic response to their appearance.  She was also relieved to see the blue eyes and the healthy, blue and yellow mottled skin, both of which assured her that they had succeeded in overcoming the encroaching madness that had threatened the colony’s existence several cycles earlier.

Pilot’s hologram appeared in the clamshell, providing Aeryn and D’Argo with the same image he was sending to the delvians.  “Commander Crichton has been severely injured.  All who reside aboard Moya hope that you are willing and capable of helping him.  We have been unable to find anyone else who possesses the capacity for repairing his injuries.” 

Aeryn clutched at the edges of the nav console until her fingers ached, and waited for their answer; the fear that they might refuse left her momentarily chilled and sick. 

“John Crichton?” 

The blue-patterned faces all registered shock and Aeryn thought she was going to pass out, certain that their reactions were a prelude to refusal.  For two microts, she was convinced that they were going to reject the request for assistance, based on an imagined grudge or lingering resentment over the events that had occurred on the moon several cycles earlier. 

Lorana was speaking.  Aeryn had to replay the last few words inside her head in order to catch up.  “We owe him a great debt.  By all means bring him to us and we will do anything within our power to help him.  How long will it take for you to reach our sanctuary?” 

Pilot replied, “We will enter orbit in just over six arns.” 

Lorana stepped back, allowing the male delvian to take over.  He said, “We await your arrival.  Can you send us details of his injuries?”   

“The data is being transmitted … now,” Pilot said. 

Three heads bowed gracefully and the screen reverted to the darkness of space, transmission concluded. 

“Now we have to hope they can do something for him,” D’Argo said.  “I don’t know if we have done the right thing bringing him here, Aeryn.  This is a long way from any other help.  If they can’t repair the damage --” 

Aeryn cut him off before he could go any further.  “They will be able to help.  They’re delvians.  They can do the Unity thing and get inside him where he’s damaged, D’Argo.  If Zhaan could bring me back from death single-handedly, an entire colony of delvians has got to be able to bring John back.  He is not dead; he’s only trapped inside his own mind.”

She knew what D’Argo had been intending to say, and could not stand to hear the words spoken out loud.  They had only one syringe left and it had to be reserved to get Crichton down to the moon.  If the delvians could not heal John, he would never leave the sanctuary alive. 

* * * * *

“How is he holding up, Rygel?”  Aeryn entered the medical chamber and went to stand beside John.  He was sweating heavily and she recognized some of his Earth curses amongst the steady babbling. 

“It depends.  How much longer until we get there?”  Rygel had grounded his chair on the spare medbed next to Crichton and was watching him from there. 

“Pilot says a little over an arn.”  She wanted to wipe some of the sweat off John’s face before it trickled into the already soaked hair, but it had been too many arns already since the last time the remedy had disappeared into his neck, and they still had too long to wait before they could use the last one. 

“I think he’ll make it if nothing else changes.”  Rygel lifted the throne sled and came to hover beside her. 

“End run … don’t let the binars in!!  Five’s alive.”  Crichton rolled his head from side to side and sighed heavily.  “Blew up --”  He broke off and made a snorting sound of disgust. 

“John.  We’re almost there.  Try to relax.  That should help.”

He sighed and then began breathing more quickly, panting as though he was attempting to fuel an intense physical effort. 

“Try to relax.  Take slow even breaths and let your muscles go limp.  You only have to wait a little longer.” The quiet, even toned litany had no effect on his anxious ramblings. 

“Ephemeral?” he called and opened his eyes.  She could not imagine what, if anything, he could see with those damaged eyes.  The old bleeding had solidified, turning solid black and in the process creating the illusion that two holes had been bored into his skull.  “Take the fifth … Screw you, Barry!”  He seemed to be calling to someone, but nothing he said made any sense anymore.  The rare bursts of coherency had disappeared after the first six solar days of their journey, leaving only his disjointed remarks.  John took a longer breath; the exhausted panting slowed a bit.  He drew another breath in through his nose.  “Aeryn?” 

“Yes!  Yes, I’m right here, John.  I’m right beside you.”  She grabbed at the side of his bed to keep from touching him. 

“Fly safe,” he cried, “fly safe.”  He closed his eyes and for the first time since she entered the maintenance bay, lay quiet. 

Aeryn wondered for the hundredth time if they had done the right thing.  Despite her assurances to D’Argo several arns earlier, within the privacy of her own, unspoken thoughts she questioned whether the delvians had the knowledge and capability to restore his mind.  Unity would not help John if there wasn’t a consciousness for them to join with when they tried to heal him.  If he could not be made whole, she did not know which one of them was going to have the strength to put him out of his suffering. 

John moaned and shifted under the light restraint of the thermal sheet. 

“Pilot, how much longer?” she called. 

* * * * *

Esoterica, erotica, exobiotica.  Exo-biotica?  Make up rhymes, add some thyme, take the time … where was Aeryn?  Consider the plight of a twin, taking it on the chin … pantak jab would have been easier … than what?  Another hole spinning in his head, blackhole sucking his life into it, except there wasn’t a life anymore, only the pain.  If I fall in a forest … what are trees?  What is me?  Wander in an empty room, wonder in an empty tomb, there’s nothing in an empty womb … where had he put Aeryn?  He had hidden her from the Others only he had forgotten where.  Now he couldn’t find her.

“We’re almost there, Crichton, don’t cry.  We’ll be on the planet in a few more microts, and then the delvians are going to help you.” 

“How is he doing, Chiana?” 

“He’s crying for some reason, Aeryn, but aside from that he’s not any worse than usual.  Concentrate on flying.” 

Mama Bear, where did she get the porridge?  Wrong story.  There was a Papa Bear as well … oh god, where is Papa Bear now?  What’s happened to him?  Goldilocks gots nothin’ on Aeryn Sun.  Where is Aeryn?  Zhaan says she’ll stop by again later, bringing two friends so they can play bridge, bridge the gap to where?  Bridges of Toko-Ri?  Holden should have been beholden for such a role done.  He had hidden Aeryn somewhere so the Others couldn’t find her, so that if he gave them everything else … what else is there?  Is there anything else?  Was there ever?  They’ll never get Aeryn from him.  But now he can’t find her.  Where where where where where had he put her?  He will have to look for her again.  She’s in here somewhere.  Stuff his hands in the pockets of his jeans and start looking.       

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

[KernilCrash]

Chapter 3

The delvian acolyte who was guiding Aeryn through the underground warren of hallways stepped to one side and motioned for her to enter the darkened chamber ahead of him.  He was young, not fully grown, probably less than fifty cycles old, and she expended two microts wondering if the child had been somewhere in this underground habitat the last time they were here, or if the sanctuary had received more pilgrims since then.  She stopped, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the dim light, and he left her, backing silently out of the room. 

Several figures were standing in the center of the huge chamber, arranged in a rough circle, submerged to their waists in a pool of roiling water.  The surface was a maelstrom of bubbles; the entire atmosphere of the chamber was damp from the moisture being carried out of the pool on the constant burbling stream of air.

“Come, Aeryn Sun.  You must comfort him,” one of the delvians called.  They were struggling with something, but the light was too dim for her to see what they were doing in the pool.  “Let him know that a friend is near.” 

Logic and the summons told her that they had to be holding Crichton.  Little else about the situation made sense.  Then, on top of everything else, as she approached the edge of the pool, it began to rain.  The surrealism of a rainstorm this far underground added to her disorientation; it exceeded her ability to accept what was going on around her, and she stumbled, suddenly dizzy.  The solution to a minor portion of her confusion was provided when she turned her face up toward the high arching ceiling, in part to allow the rain to patter down on her face, but also in the hope that she would not actually discover rain clouds drifting about above her.  There was no rain.  The saturated atmosphere was being precipitated in a dome, providing a simple, energy efficient method for returning the water to the pool. 

When she turned her attention back to what was going on in the chamber, Aeryn saw that one of the priests was beckoning to her, gesturing for her to join them in the pool.  Aeryn started to remove her boots … and froze in shock when she finally spotted Crichton. 

They had him completely submerged. 

“He can’t survive under water!” she shouted.  “He only breathes air!” 

Her headlong plunge into the water fully clothed was prevented by the assurances delivered by a calm, mildly amused voice.  “Do not be concerned for his life, Aeryn Sun.  We are not drowning John Crichton.”

Immersed to her waist, Lorana waded toward Aeryn with the same smile of humorous understanding that Zhaan used to bestow on those around her.  It told her that her reaction was entirely normal, but that she had been silly anyway. 

There was no way to be mad or hurt at the mild, implied censure when faced with that serene expression of empathy.  Aeryn relaxed and went back to her hurried, fumbling efforts to release the buckles on her boots. 

“His species is gestated in water, the same as sebaceans,” the delvian mystic explained.  “A return to his most basic beginnings will assist in both his physical and his mental healing.  This liquid is not precisely water, but that word will suffice as a description.  Please accept my promise that there is more than sufficient oxygen being provided in order to sustain him.” 

Aeryn’s eyes had finally adjusted to the half-light, allowing her to see John more clearly.  He was struggling in their embrace, thrashing madly as they tried to restrain and soothe him.  It had been almost twenty arns since the delvians had taken custody of his drugged body, and she did not know how much of the nerve damage they could have repaired in that time.  From where she stood there was no way of telling whether his frenzy was emotional, psychosis, agony or a combination of all three.  She yanked off her boots and pants, and slid into the pool without hesitation, anxious to find out how their care was affecting him. 

The liquid was warm, hotter than she normally liked, but she knew that John’s human physiology seemed to thrive in water like this.  He liked long steaming hot showers while she used them only to get clean when she was truly filthy, and she assumed that this environment had been arranged specially for him. 

“Come,” Lorana beckoned.  “See if you can let him know that you are here.” 

The circle shifted, creating a gap so she could reach John, who was twisting and straining in a persistent but uncoordinated attempt to pull himself loose.  They were trying to calm him, combining a firm control of his body with longer stroking motions.  The blind eyes wandered frantically, no recognition or awareness in them, not focusing on any of the people surrounding him although he seemed to be searching for something. 

Drawing closer, it became obvious to Aeryn that he was breathing the oxygenated liquid.  His chest was heaving with his frantic exertions.  Before she touched him, she asked, “Is he upset or is he suffering?”

“He fights the restrictions and the strange surroundings.  The damage to his sensory nerves has received primary attention.  There is certainly great discomfort, but he is no longer in any significant amount of pain.”  A small geyser fountained to one side as Crichton managed to rip an arm loose from their hold, and the splashing increased as two of the delvians scrambled to recapture the limb. 

Aeryn waded closer and began to run her hand across his chest, imagining what she would be saying to him if he could hear her, willing him to recognize the hand that was rubbing the tensely strung muscles.  He paused for a microt, generating a short-lived hope that he knew who was touching him, and then he resumed his twisting and bucking, trying to wrench himself free, and the hope was gone.  She persevered, trusting that the delvians would not ask her to do this if there was no chance it was going to work.  She ran her hand down his ribs, across his body, and rubbed several circles over his stomach before drawing up his ribs and starting over, repeating the familiar motions again and again in the hopes that some portion of the damaged mind would recognize the caresses. 

There was huge heaving movement against the hands that held him, accompanied by a flurry of spastic twitches and jerks, and then John simply stopped struggling.  He wasn’t relaxed yet, but he was no longer fighting the multiple embraces.  Aeryn continued to rub his chest, trying to use patterns that he might identify as coming from her.  His chest moved raggedly under her palm as he fought against the drowning sensation of breathing liquid.  John would breathe normally for a short period of time then either choke or hold his breath.  His chest would start to heave against the lack of oxygen and then he would begin breathing again, only to have the sequence repeat several breaths later. 

“Is this submersion necessary?” she asked, suffering for him as he suffered in his strange environment. 

His muscles had relaxed to the point that she could feel him twitching beneath her touch.  The delvian healer had said he was not in any ‘significant amount’ of pain.  Depending on the delvians’ opinion of what constituted extreme pain, that description could have meant anything from an almost unbearable agony to a mild ache.  That there was some discomfort left went without saying.  The submerged body continued to jerk spasmodically beneath Aeryn’s hands, lacking only the frantic focus now that he was no longer fighting them.  The panting delvians stood up straighter and began to relax.  The therapy did not end though.  They continued their careful attendance to his body without pausing.   

“Thank you, Aeryn Sun,” a familiar voice said in a calm, quiet tone.  Aeryn looked up to find Tahleen standing across from her.  The priest was soaked from head to foot, and was working on one of John’s arms, repeatedly massaging it from shoulder to fingertips.  A sideward nod of Tahleen’s head directed Aeryn’s attention toward a male priest who was standing near John’s head -- the same priest who had requested the details of John’s injuries when Pilot had first contacted the colony. 

“I am Meylan Vilar, Sixteenth Level Pa’u and first among healers within our sanctuary.”  He bowed his head slightly toward Aeryn before continuing.  “It is I who will lead the efforts to heal John Crichton’s mind.  This will take much longer than these crude repairs to his physical form and we would like to request your assistance, as well as that of your companions.” 

“What can we do to help?”  The group guided Aeryn toward Meylan, passing her from one set of hands to the next until she reached a spot alongside him near John’s head.

“I will explain what is required later.  For now, I would like John Crichton to be aware that someone he knows is here with him.  Tahleen suggests that you might be the person from your crew who can offer the greatest amount of comfort to him in his current state of distress.  We understand that Zhaan is no longer with you?” 

Aeryn nodded, unable to express the loss with words. 

Meylan placed his hands against the temples of the now quiescent human.  John was floating more quietly in their hands, still looking tense but submitting to the continued massage.  “There is little understanding left in his mind.  What he does perceive confuses and worries him.  He is distraught on an instinctual level, and we must reassure him.  Are you willing to help?” 

“Of course.”  Aeryn was shocked at the question.  She forced the surprise and her own emotions to one side while examining the ring of waiting, expectant faces surrounding her.  “Of course I’ll help.  We brought him here to help him.  We all want him back the way he was.  That’s why we came here.” 

“Very good.  Our presence in his mind will not reassure him.  For that we will need the assistance of you and your friends.”  Meylan took her hands in his and together they held John’s head, fingers splayed around his ears and wrapped behind his skull.  “What you are about to experience is not Unity.  This will be no more than a Meeting of two minds, a touching and sharing of thoughts and memory but not of identity.  Focus on John Crichton and your desire to see him well again, and I will carry you to where he exists.” 

SCREAMING.

Aeryn broke the contact before she could stop herself, stepping back into the hands of someone standing behind her.  “John.”  Her one syllable was full of distress.  The echoes of the howling she had heard in the scarran compound thirteen days earlier continued to reverberate in her mind and her nerves were singing from a hint of the agony he had suffered, the sounds and sensations transferred in a split-microt from his memory to hers.   

“It is his most recent and most intense recollection.  I apologize, Aeryn Sun, I should have anticipated that.  I will be more cautious this time and guide you around that portion of his mind.”  Meylan reached for her hands as she willingly stepped forward to stand beside him again. 

“You don’t have to do that.  I have to know about what happened to him sooner or later, and I can go back there now that I know what to expect.”  After everything they had been through over the past cycles, she was not going to allow herself to be left out of any portion of John’s life, not even the worst moments. 

“Perhaps, my dear.  But this meeting is for his benefit, not ours, and must be brief.  We will accomplish our task and then leave him to begin his journey of healing.  We may need to explore this event all too thoroughly in the days ahead.  It is best left until later.”  Meylan joined their hands a second time and Aeryn slid easily into John’s consciousness, following the delvian’s mental specter through a maze of images and sensations. 

Aeryn found herself floating suspended, all sensory input muffled by waves of water that seemed to hiss and tickle against skin that was too sensitive, too reactive to the touch.  She felt the ache of muscles that had been spurred into impossible contractions, joints that had almost dislocated when assaulted by the need to escape an inescapable agony.  There were other discomforts too painful to examine, and she moved on, finding the rest of the sensations that flowed over him and engaged the full capacity of his limited awareness. 

He knew that the touches had not left.  The touches had not stopped moving across skin that alternately burned and then felt chilled, each stroke leaving a quieter sensation in its wake.  She could feel the muscles leaping of their own accord, jerking in disharmonic patterns in response to random impulses from hastily restored pathways.  It was uncomfortable and she could feel the struggle for a control that could not be achieved, the consciousness fighting unsuccessfully to move through damage-blocked passages. 

Her impression of the world around her shifted from awareness to confusion and back, one moment knowing fully what was around her, the next descending into chaos and bewilderment, and then shifting back to comprehension again.  She wandered the corridors of a destroyed mind, searching for some anchor of sanity, seeking one single thought that would offer stability and enough peace that relaxation could be restored.  She found only a maze of tangled impressions, dissociated memories, and pain. 

Aeryn staggered away from John, breathing hard as she tried to take in the order of the pool and the scene around her.  “I couldn’t find him,” she said, distraught over what she had sensed in his mind.  “There’s nothing left of him.  John is gone.”  The burning run of tears streaked down her cheeks, unstoppable now that she knew they had done the wrong thing by bringing him here.  They had subjected John to twelve solar days worth of physical and mental agony for no reason other than to soothe their own loss, and it had been in vain, just as the medtech had told them.  Aeryn turned away to hide the brimming tears, staying that way long enough to rinse her face with a double handful of water.   

Behind her, Meylan spoke, delivering a more hopeful message.  “Try again, Aeryn Sun.  He is there and he still fights, but you cannot look for the familiar personality you have come to know as John Crichton.  You began correctly.  Return and seek out the impressions of the world that surrounds him, the simpler functions of his being.  That is where you will find him.” 

Meylan waited patiently, allowing her the time necessary to regain her composure.  After several microts, Aeryn returned and wrapped her shaking hands around John’s skull again.  The third slide into his mind was even easier than the first two, and she had time to look around in order to assess her surroundings before moving deliberately toward the physical sensations she had encountered the last time.   

The hands continued to restrain limbs that jerked spasmodically in response to chaotic signals, each touch alternating between comfort and agony as synapses misinterpreted the signals and shunted them to and from the wrong receptors.  An entire nervous system sang with the violence of destruction.  It was a crashing roar in the background that made it difficult to discern the few correctly interpreted sensations.  She moved past the cacophony and sought out the feelings that seemed to make sense even though they were not familiar. 

There was the surge of the ocean inside lungs that had not felt liquid since birth, both an ache and an analgesic.  The throat was raw, and burned from the liquid that washed in and out with each breath, but it was a healing burn so she did not mind it … he did not mind it.  Aeryn followed the acceptance to its source and that was where she found John, wrapped in conflict between the soothing nature of weightless suspension, and the sensory deprivation he was experiencing by being submerged, distracted by the opposing sensations resulting from the stroking, and worried to near panic by his inability to control his environment.

Aeryn beckoned to him, urged him gently, showed him the purpose of the hands that tried to reassure, that eased the ache and took away more of the underlying agony.  She revealed the source of the flood of discomfort, led him to view the unhealed synapses throughout his system.  There had been no time for anything more than the most gross realignment of his sensory flow, but the lines were open to signals again, and the remainder of the repairs would have to wait.  She moved his awareness over these facts, showed him that it was just the beginning, and felt his fear ease, leaving him with more time to consider the touch of her presence in his mind. 

She entwined herself into him a little farther in order to lead him toward a place where she could hear Meylan chanting a delvian ritual, wanting to show him that he was safe and secure. What remained of John was like a scared animal, all jumps and quivers without coherent thought, a mass of fast impressions conveying emotions, but not actually transferring the feelings to her.  He broke away from her embrace in fear, backing away from the droning of the delvians.  She stopped to wait for him, letting his curiosity bring him closer.  He edged nearer in fits and starts, nearly bolting when someone changed their grip on one of his legs.  She had no voice with which to explain or reassure him, so she waited until he touched her again, a tentative mental prick testing to see if it was safe, then she opened up and showed him who was there. 

AERYN? 

The symbol that represented everything he knew of her came rippling toward her through their tenuous connection. 

AerynAerynAerynAeryn! 

He moved into her, not invading her but simply permitting her to surround him with security. 

AerynAerynAerynAeryn! 

The symbol continued to ring through her mind as though it were Zhaan’s chanting bell responding to her careful spiritual cadence.  Her name continued to reverberate within both their psyches as he shuddered with relief. 

I’m scared.

It was not a thought or a confession.  It was him.  It was the greatest part of what was left of John, a part of him hidden so deeply beneath what little else remained that he could scarcely admit it to himself.  But he could not prevent it from touching her when he pulled her around him.  She could feel that he wanted her to make him feel better, and did her best to show him what had happened.  But every image she presented in explanation had no meaning for him.  He battered against the blockages, trying unsuccessfully to find some connection, finally giving in to the invading panic when nothing she showed him made any sense.     

She tied his thoughts into immobility with her calm, slowing the frantic thrusting of his mind until she could get him to listen to her thoughts again.  She wanted to know if he trusted her. 

He did. 

Then he had to trust her now, and wait for her here in this warm place, this womb of safety. 

He would, he would, he would, he would wait for her.  

The others from Moya might come and visit but it would be all right. 

It would, it would, it would be all right if they visited, he would be all right here waiting for her.  Who are those people though?  WHO would come and visit?  She had to be here to tell him if it was all right to let them in because he didn’t know who she was talking about. 

He would know them when they arrived, she assured him.  He would remember. 

He would?  Aeryn said he would so he would, he would.  

He could sleep and listen to the delvians if they came to talk to him. 

He could, he would, he would wait for her here, because it was safe for him here.  He would listen to anyone Aeryn told him to listen to … but what are delvians?  

He would know them when they arrived.  She was sure he would know them because they were nice. 

Nice people.  He tried the image out in his mind.  It didn’t have any meaning.  He would trust what Aeryn told him though, because she was Aeryn.  He would wait for the ‘nice people’.  

‘I will be back.’  She managed to push the thought across to him on a rippling wave of mental energy.  ‘Aeryn will be back.’  It was easier the second time. 

John clutched at the thought, crushed it into a symbol that could be comprehended, something wordless and formless that he could enfold and understand, and then he recreated the image so that she would know he understood it.  ‘Aeryn will be back, I will wait for Aeryn.”  

She staggered back into two sets of hands, sweating and panting as though she had run ten metras with full battle gear.  The hands guided her out of the pool and set her down to sit on warm tiles.  She rested her arms on her folded knees, still working to catch her breath as she looked back into the pool to see how John had reacted to her departure.  At first she thought her vision had blurred from her mental exertion, but it was only that it had begun raining harder beneath the dome.  The downpour had simply obscured the group in the pool. 

Aeryn slid across the tiles to sit at the edge of the pool.  The rain increased in intensity, soaking into her hair until a small trickle of water streamed out of her braid non-stop.  From where she sat, she could see one of John’s hands floating laxly on the surface, fingers jostling loosely in the bubbles swirling around him.  The body beneath the surface still twitched and jerked at random as the nerve impulses continued to misfire, but he was relaxed and no longer fought their attentions in any way.  The delvians continued to work over him silently, their capacity for healing invisible except for the gradual change it was effecting on John’s nervous system.   

Meylan waded away from the group and lifted himself without effort to sit next to her on the edge of the pool.  “That was exceptional, especially for someone who has received no training.  That was exactly the level of reassurance he needed.  We can work with him now without fighting his fear.”  He looked at her carefully, spoke to her even more cautiously.  “You must be a very good friend.” 

“I love him,” Aeryn said simply and without strain.  It was the first time she had admitted that to a stranger, but it seemed so obvious after what had just transpired, she did not feel as though she were admitting anything of consequence.  Meylan smiled and moved back into the center of the pool where the others had begun to sing a quiet chanting harmony over Crichton’s healing body. 

* * * * *

He was warm and everything around him was without pressure.  The world hissed at him, slid across his skin in a symphony of mixed, random sensations.  There was a feeling like millions of bugs crawling on every inch of his skin, the firm massage that found every muscle he never knew he had, the shocking pain of every small touch, the deep abiding ache that told him he had exceeded every natural capacity of his anatomy, and over there … over near where he wouldn’t look there was …

PAIN!

He touched it by accident, tried to pull away before it consumed him, but it drew him in, devoured him in a single convulsive gulp, and began to digest the small part of him that remained.  There wasn’t a place inside him that could scream, no place to hide, no place where he could escape the savaging storm that he had inadvertently let loose upon himself.  He began to dissolve, shattering back into the pieces that they had so painstakingly reassembled into something they had told him was ‘John’.  He fled before it, seeking a place where it could not follow.

Pause. 

Wait. 

Return to the place where it hurts. 

There was a reason he had to be here, a reason he had to stay and endure the pain.  He puzzled at it, worrying away at the mystery that beckoned him back to this place.  Aeryn!  He had to endure because Aeryn told him to wait here.  This was where Aeryn said she would come back for him, so this was where he had to wait. 

And there were the touches … the touches … he had to stay in order to examine the other thing that was happening to him.  Someone was touching him.  But it wasn’t the Others.  These touches had no intention of hurt. The hands were trying to relax muscles that had suddenly gone from quiescent to suspension bridge taught.  They were working into his joints, relieving the deep abiding soreness.  They moved down his spine leaving a moment of quiet behind as they probed around each vertebrae and nerve bundle.  They stroked his stomach as he arched against the pain and the muscles sucked in of their own accord, the contracting fibers remembering better than he what they were supposed to do when it hurt like this. 

Gentle digits tested every part of his body and left a fleeting cessation of the discomfort before moving on.  The pain moved back in every time, flooding back like the water that flowed all around him, but they were building a barricade piece by piece with each touch, and the overall effect was one of a reprieve from discomfort.  The pain brought the memories that must not be remembered.  He pushed those images carefully into the place that was reserved for the unthinkable and let the hands do whatever they wanted, his trust in the touches almost absolute.

Aeryn had come, she would return, and he was safe at last. 

He hoped that when Aeryn returned, she would tell him who he was.  

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

[KernilCrash]

Chapter 4

John? 

Aeryn is back!  Aeryn is back! 

His relief and delight at her presence crashed over her, making it difficult to think for several microts.  She was forced to concentrate on something other than John in order to remember what they had asked her to teach him.  There were things both sides needed to know.  Meylan had asked her to search for certain reactions and responses, and they wanted John to understand that there were always going to be people there to help him if he desired their company.  She moved farther into him, letting the relief pass through and beyond her so she could pay attention to other details for a few microts. 

The muscle aches had eased, washed away by the lack of gravity, and the pain in his joints had quieted to a dull throb.  Other parts of his body were missing entirely:  he knew it so she knew it.  It was easier to breathe now.  She could feel that it wasn’t a choking effort each time it was necessary to draw in the suspended oxygen.  The feel of warm liquid flowing through his sinuses wasn’t unpleasant; it eased the constant headache and took the pain away from the eyes that could no longer see. 

His new world cradled him.  It wrapped comfortable liquid fingers around his entire body, sucked him in to its peace, and cloaked him in silence.  It was warm and no one came here too often; it was a nice place to dream. 

Merging more thoroughly, Aeryn determined that John was basically happy in the dreaming space, but he was disturbed by several intrusions that occasionally forced themselves into his quiet world and upset his carefully constructed safe place.  He was hovering in the place where he went to worry about the annoying details.  She asked him to show her the things that bothered him. 

He was hungry. 

Aeryn shunted the thought back behind her, wondering whether someone was there to catch it.  What else? 

He was thirsty.  

Drink. 

But it’s salty. 

It’s just right, they know about these things.  Trust them to make it just right for you. 

Aeryn?  What’s that?  Cold pressure against his lips, quickly warming in the water, coaxing him to let it find its way between his teeth, alarm closing his jaw with momentary permanence.  Aeryn, what’s that!?! 

Eat it and find out. 

Don’t remember eating this before but it’s familiar.  

I dub thee, trigapod.      

I don’t understand. 

Eat some more, John, you will understand later.  John, I have to --

John … Is that me?  

Yes, you are ‘John’.  I’m going to leave for just a few microts.  I’ll be right back. 

Aeryn will be back, she’ll be back.  I’ll wait for you here. 

Stepping away from the group surrounding John, Aeryn resorted to grabbing on to the shoulder of whoever was standing next to her.  “I had to leave for a few microts,” she said, gasping for breath.  “That’s so much harder than yesterday.”  She waded to the side of the pool and boosted herself onto the edge where she sat hunched over, staring at her floating feet while she waited for her body to stop shaking.  “Why is it so tiring today?”

“You are quite correct.  What you are doing today is far more difficult than the formless emotional reassurance you offered yesterday,” Lorana said from beside her knee.  “You are forming coherent images and helping him rebuild the first stages of language, and that is far more demanding.” 

“Rebuild language?  Aren’t we talking in there?”  Aeryn straightened, finally catching her breath.  “I know exactly what he’s telling me.”   

“Not really.  You are using something similar to a sign language.  The symbols are becoming increasingly complex with every exchange, however.  This is a very positive indication.” 

Aeryn spent several microts observing the efforts of the group that was tending to the body beneath the water.  They were using firmer touches today, bringing more pressure to bear on John’s muscles and joints without provoking as many twitches and jerks from his nervous system. 

“Why?” she asked.  “Why is that a good sign?” 

“Because it proves that there is something left of his intellect, Aeryn Sun.”  Lorana placed a wet hand on Aeryn’s knee.  “Do not read too much into that observation, however.  It will require a much deeper level of interaction to determine how much of John Crichton remains within this vessel.  We will not be able to make that determination for several days, at least.”  The priest looked at Crichton and those who surrounded him.  “Do you feel capable of continuing, or should we ask another of his friends?”

“I can go back.”  Aeryn slid into the water.  “I want to, and I promised him I’d return.” 

John, I’m back. 

Aerynaerynaerynaeryn.  Easy, pleased awareness of her presence flowed from him.  Happiness that she had returned without the explosive excitement. 

We were talking before about the things that bothered you.  What else is annoying? 

Who is John?  I don’t know who John is any more. 

He had spent his brief interval alone gnawing on the mystery.  She paused, uncertain how to show him this, waiting to see if there was something more to his dilemma. 

I’m John, you’re Aeryn, right?

You already know that, and you know you can trust me.

I know, I know.  But WHO is John?  His cry was basic, a wail of uncertainty, of a child left alone.  I don’t know anymore, he’s gone!  

He will be back soon.  He is happy and calm right now.  He knows he is going to be all right because we are taking care of him, so he can be calm and wait for more to return. 

I have to wait?          

Just for a while, then you will know who John is again.

I will wait then.

Show me what else is bothering you.

He led her to the burning discomfort, showed her how running the warm water through the sinuses behind his eyes eased the pain but would not extinguish it, leaving the raging discomfort that pounded inside his head, too close to his mind.  It rocked his thoughts into senseless foam, battered at his fragile occupation of this small peaceful dreaming place.  

She floated the thought back in turn, and could feel it when a pair of hands touched him lightly over his eyelids and took the fiery pain away.  Although it left his eyes feeling hot and swollen, the raging conflagration guttered and died out.   

Who are they?  They’re nice.  Are those the ‘nice people’?  

It was a flashing impression more than a formed thought, the first minute step toward trust.  Is there something else that’s annoying? 

NO!!  He sensed that his denial had been too vehement and tried to make it go away with one that was quieter. 

no 

John, what else?  You can show me. 

NoNoNoNo.  

You can tell me so quietly no one else will ever know. 

Can’t won’t don’t shouldn’t wouldn’t couldn’t, not that, never do that to Aeryn.  The refusal ran headlong into a wail of distress.  

It won’t bother me, you don’t have to whisper at all, just think about it and I’ll hear. 

A quick glance, a flick of the curtain so she could see what was behind it.  

It was the missing anatomy she had noticed earlier.  It wasn’t senseless; he was hiding it from her.  Show me.  Show us.  We can help if you let us find what you’re hiding. 

IT HURTS, IT HURTS.  IT HURTS SO MUCH.  

The pain smashed into her, raw and unbuffered by thought. 

Aeryn floundered back and slipped.  The water closed over her head just as she needed a breath.  She flailed her way to the surface coughing and gasping for air.  A priest named Daaren had been the one to guide her into John’s mind this morning and he lifted her up, providing critical support while she fought to catch her breath.  “Take me back,” she demanded as soon as she could speak. 

“You have done enough.”  Lorana was behind her, helping her stand and trying to move her away at the same time.  “That  is enough for one day.”   

“No, look at John.  He’s tense because I left so suddenly.  Were you able to see where the pain was coming from?”  Aeryn was already moving back to grasp John’s head.  Neither Daaren nor Lorana joined her there.  She made a fast, frustrated gesture, indicating that one of them should help her reinitiate the Meeting.  It had no effect on either of the delvians.

“There was not enough time to find the locus of the discomfort.”  Daaren continued to make coaxing motions away from Crichton.  “Aeryn Sun, I think you should take a moment to rest.” 

Daaren’s attempt at persuasion was cut short as one of Crichton’s hands clenched into a fist and he fought to sit up.  There were only four delvians in the pool with him at that point, and they were struggling to compensate for the strength generated by John’s pain and fear.  Although the efforts were poorly directed, his frenzy lent him power.  He twisted wildly in their grasp, straining and writhing.  He managed to get his head above the surface where he coughed out a torrent of water.  Before they could get him under the water, he sucked in a strained breath, the fluid gurgling and burbling in his chest and throat.  His next exhalation was a rasping, bubbling cry and more water ran out of his mouth and nose.  Daaren quickly laid his hands over Aeryn’s, easing John back into the oxygen-saturated pool at the same time that he forced them back inside the frantic mind. 

I’m here, I’m here, I’m here.  I didn’t mean to leave.  It wasn’t intentional. 

She was surrounded by panic and unbelievable levels of pain.  She was forced to push through a jungle of sounds and sensations.  Amidst the confusion, there was no way to find an individual coherent thought to trace back to its owner.  There was no way to pick out such a small detail through the sheets of yellow and red agony.  John’s panic started to overwhelm their combined intellect, and she felt herself giving in before its battering force. 

Where do I look? she asked the azure wraith over her shoulder. 

Follow the pain.  He is fighting it, which only serves to make it worse because he is embracing it. 

She saw the river and began pushing upstream.  The torrent increased in strength as she ascended.  Isn’t this backwards? she asked.  Receiving no answer, she pushed on, hoping she was headed in the right direction.  She found John immersed in it, mindless in his struggle to control the deluge washing over him.  Come with me, come with me, I’ll show you the way out, she coaxed him.  He wasn’t able to move.  He knew she was there but couldn’t do anything about it.  She tried again.  We can handle this together, come with me. 

NO-NO-NO, not you, don’t touch it, don’t come near, I won’t share this with Aeryn, not with Aeryn. 

Ignoring his protests, she moved closer to where she could help him. 

AGONY.

Somewhere someone was supporting their body as their knees collapsed but their legs couldn’t be failing beneath them because they were floating but their feet were on the bottom of the pool but their feet were kicking free of the water feeling cooler air on wet flesh but they were standing and it was making it easier to work gradually down the torrent to where the waves of pain were not as strong.  Their body shuddered as the waves receded, leaving them panting and gasping for air which came in the form of water except it was sweet clean air filled with moisture that soothed their lungs.  They walked further down the spate, a single pair of feet stumbling slightly in the unaccustomed sensations until they stepped out of the remaining stream and stood beside it, stunned at the ferocity.  They gulped warm liquid into their stomach trying to provide moisture in a dry mouth that was drowning.  The aftermath shook them and the water rushed out again, along with the contents of their stomach.  They were rapidly shifted and moved, feeling twice cold and shivering in tandem between coordinated breaths and then plunged again into warmth.

Aeryn was pulled away from John.  Some force ripped her loose despite her efforts to stay.  John collapsed by the side of the stream, exhausted by his battle against the pain that had taken over his entire existence.   She tried to go to him but the distance between them was increasing despite her attempts to move in his direction.  The force carrying her away was inexorable. 

John, I’ll be back, I’ll be back, she promised as the last touch faded into nonexistence. 

Aeryn emerged from the Meeting thoroughly confused.  The air passed too easily into her lungs, and was too cool on her bare arms and shoulders.  The light was too bright, the noises beating without mercy on her ears.  They had also moved to a different pool.  She remembered the surge from her stomach and matched it up with the memory of someone being sick.  The delvians had moved them both.  There had been a mad scramble to relocate both of them after someone had vomited into the water. 

Even as they were lifting her and wrapping her in a heated blanket, her entire existence was devoted to the body being pushed toward the bottom of the smaller pool.  The world was fading into gray indistinct shadows, but her last memory was clear.  John’s spastically moving body was once again fighting their grasp as they held him pinned face down on the pale white floor of the watery enclosure.  He was panicking inside there, and she could not do anything to help him.   

* * * * *

Aeryn was gone, Aeryn was gone. 

He was alone again with the pain, and the strangeness.  They were holding him, and making him hurt again, and no matter how hard he fought, they still had him.  He took another breath and the last of the horrible rattling went away as his lungs filled completely with water.  He closed his mouth and inhaled through his nose, running the warmth through his sinuses, using the trick he had discovered that helped sooth the horrible ache in his eyes and his head. 

The soothing hands were back; he could feel them running up and down his body and taking the agony away.  They had found the shrieking that was in his arms and his legs, and the pathways were adjusted and modified.  There was only the intermittent stabbing in his chest now, coming and going in time with his pulse.  He somehow knew this was wrong, but he couldn’t tell anyone about it.  He tried one more time to follow Aeryn, to take the route she had taken, but that way no longer existed.   

A quiet enquiry broke in on his exploration and he froze.  There was someone else here with him, but it wasn’t Aeryn or John.  It wanted to know about the remaining discomfort; it could feel it but couldn’t find it and wanted him to lead it there.

No!  Don’t trust it, don’t know it, don’t show it where it hurts.  He was restricted from moving, too close to being strapped down -- it had to be one of their hideous tricks. 

He was partially released, the hands still moving over him in a constant pattern, but not holding him with restrictive force.  The gentle enquiry nudged at him a second time, encouraging him as he moved warily in the direction of the discomfort, cautiously watching to see what the presence would do as he got closer.  Nothing else happened so he pointed to the stabbing pain in his chest, showed it that the discomfort didn’t belong there and why.  He knew why!  The realization exploded into excitement, and was answered by a shooting pain in his shoulder and chest.  The hands were leaving him and he tried to scream for them not to leave.  He KNEW what this was and he needed their help.  But they were letting go.

He was spun in the water and the hands returned in a rush, all in the same spot.  They piled on in a mass, covering the center of his chest.  The pain was easing, the rhythms returned accompanied by a weak, melting sensation of relief.  These were friends, they were kind to him and would take care of him in extremis.  These must be the ‘nice people’.  He could ask them the question now that the pain was gone, they would know.

Who is John?  Show me where he is?  They could not help him, they would if they knew, but they did not know the answer.  It was there for his finding if he chose to look for it. They seemed busy with something else, their hands continued to press hard against his chest. 

Who is John?  Who is John?  He had to find someone who could tell him.  There was a way out of this place off to one side, and he headed that way in search of his answer.  It wasn’t the way Aeryn had gone, but he was willing to try the new route if it led to his answer.  He was mulling it over as he approached the exit. 

The avenue was blocked.  He staggered back.  THEY were there.  They had been waiting for him all along.  They were coming to take him back to their room.  The pain struck again beneath the matrix of hands.  He didn’t have time for it; he had to get out of there.  He ran from the dark creatures but they grabbed him, pulled him back, strapped him down, and all he could do was scream.
     

* * * * *

There was a quiet shuffle nearby and a soft cover was drawn up under her chin.  Aeryn opened her eyes to find a familiar looking male delvian leaning over her, adjusting the coverlet.  She gave herself a microt to think by stretching and giving in to an impending yawn.  “Hasko.”  He had been one of Tahleen’s disciples, helping her with a scheme born of madness until he relented and helped save them all. 

“Yes, Aeryn Sun.  How are you feeling?”  She was trying to sit up, feeling as if she had just been through a hand-to-hand combat evaluation.  Hasko slid an arm beneath her shoulders and helped her make the transition. 

“What happened?”  Before he had a chance to answer her question, she remembered the river and the battle in John’s mind to control what he was enduring.  They had been sick from the shock of the pain.  Belatedly aware of a faint lingering aftertaste in her mouth, Aeryn realized that John was not the only one who had vomited in the pool.  “We were … at least, I was sick.  Were we both sick?”  The memory was muddled, tangled into a snarl of odd images. 

“I would like to allow Pa’u Meylan to explain what has occurred.  I can tell you that John Crichton did not suffer any ill effects from his experience.  His condition is slightly improved as a result of your last … Meeting.” 

Hasko was choosing his words too carefully; he was concealing a portion of whatever had occurred.  His expression, on the other hand, was absolutely clear and unequivocal.  It said that he was not going to answer any of her questions.  He moved to one side, allowing Aeryn to see that she had been sleeping in a small private chamber.  There were a series of vague, confused fragments of memories -- all too similar to what she had encountered in John’s mind -- of being carried there half conscious, and being encouraged to rest.  Everything after that was a blank. 

Hasko indicated some clothing draped across a bench.  “You may find these garments more comfortable for the next several days.  If you continue to assist with Crichton’s recovery, you will want something that dries quickly and provides warmth when you get out of the pool.” 

She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, sitting very still for a moment until a wave of dizziness passed.  Her body was humming to her, a low buzzing running through her bones, and she ached on a level that was almost subliminal.  She was suddenly anxious to get back to John and find out how he had fared.  Aeryn tried one more time to get some sort of information about John’s condition from the reticent priest.  “Can’t you tell me anything?”

Hasko shook his head, declined to provide any information, and left so she could get dressed. 

* * * * *

Half an arn later, Aeryn was ushered into a large room with a shallow, rippling pool in the center.  Something moved beneath the surface, flicking quickly from one side to the other, and she stepped closer to peer into the pond.  It was filled with the half-plant, half-animal food source that John had nicknamed ‘trigapod’ so long ago.  At the time, she had been annoyed by his arrogance in giving the creatures a new name when they already had one.  They had not known each other very well at that point.  She smiled, thinking that she would not have found the small moment so grating if she had known how many other habits she would come to first resent and then love. 

The hallway echoed with more noise than seemed normal for the delvian habitat, and Aeryn turned toward the door opening just as the rest of the crew entered.  With one exception, they were all wearing the same loose, light blue, quilted clothing that she had been given.  Only Rygel had retained his own clothes.  His royal robes looked absurdly out of place in the midst of the delvian garments. 

“What’s going on, Aeryn?  You’ve seen Crichton, how’s he doing?”  Chiana appeared even younger than usual.  Her slim frame was lost inside the padded tunic and pants, reminding Aeryn of a child who had been caught trying on her parent’s uniform in anticipation of rank and achievements yet to come. 

“It’s hard to explain.  They’ve done a lot for him,” Aeryn said.  She had not made sense in her own mind of everything that had happened so far. 

“Is he better?  Can they heal him?” Chiana demanded anxiously.

“He’s … different.”  Aeryn stopped, not sure how to explain what had been accomplished inside John’s mind. 

“Perhaps we can be of help.  Please sit down, and I will explain.” said a tranquil voice.

Pa’u Meylan and Tahleen walked together toward a bench.  Tahleen took up a position standing behind Meylan while he made himself comfortable on the carved seat.  The message delivered by their relative position and stances was clear.  Tahleen had taken up a subordinate role in the hierarchy since their last visit to the New Moon of Delvia.  As she stood calmly behind Meylan, every vestige of the arrogant leadership qualities that had led the sanctuary toward irreparable madness was missing, replaced with what appeared to be a serene concern for the welfare of everyone around her. 

Meylan began speaking in a slow, resonant tone.  “We have restored the more basic neurological responses.  The remainder of the synaptic resequencing will take a great deal of time and effort, and is of little use if we cannot first restore his mind.” 

Aeryn opened her mouth to say that John’s mind was intact, only to discover that she was suddenly uncertain of that fact. 

“Aeryn Sun, you were going to say that he survives, and you are correct.  But John Crichton has retreated deep into his own psyche, where he has built a peaceful and safe existence for himself.  It will not be an easy process to draw him out.  Until he agrees to resurface, we will not know the extent of any damage to his higher reasoning capabilities.”  Meylan paused, giving them time to absorb what he was telling them.  “We have provided an environment that represents the safest haven his mind has ever known --”

“For most species, that would be the womb,” Jool said, stating it in a manner that implied they had done something different. 

Aeryn looked at her impassively, watching silently until Jool’s hair turned a brighter shade of red. 

“Oh … please continue.”  It was unusual to see the interon so off balance.  Jool straightened up into a more arrogant posture.  Despite her haughty glare she looked as though she was struggling with the depth of the delvians’ spiritual capabilities and the fact that their approach was yielding a better result than what her intellectual process could have produced.     

Meylan continued, showing no sign that he was bothered by the interruption.  “Yes, he is warm and is in a water environment with all of his physical needs being attended to by others.  His only remaining concern is the workings of his own mind.  Aeryn Sun was able to discover the source of an enormous degree of discomfort and that has been mitigated.”  He turned to look at Aeryn and examined her carefully for several microts.  “That was remarkable.” 

Aeryn shook her head, both in denial and in confusion over his comment.  “I just followed John wherever he went and tried to find the source of his pain.”

“You joined him in Unity.”  It was Tahleen who spoke this time.  “Pa’u Daaren felt you move toward Crichton and tried to stop you, but you joined with him.  That is why you became ill when he did.  You experienced a sympathetic physiological reaction to the trauma suffered by his body.” 

D’Argo, Jool and Rygel stared at Aeryn in shock.  Chiana had the opposite reaction.  She laughed and rocked back on her bench.  “I’m not surprised, Aeryn!  Crichton keeps saying you can be more!  I’d say you just proved it.” 

Aeryn was examining her fragmented memories of her foray into John’s mind, trying to comprehend how it had happened.  “I don’t have any skills that would allow me to do that.  Your priest must have assisted.  Daaren did it.”  Aeryn shook her head, unwilling to believe she had initiated Unity with John.  That was the expertise of a priest or a mystic, not of a soldier.   

“Many extraordinary things can be accomplished when the need becomes great enough.  John Crichton needed you, and your need to help him transcended any potential limitations from lack of training.”  Meylan nodded several times as he considered Aeryn’s reaction to the unexpected announcement.  “This union will help enormously during his recuperation.” 

“In that case, what do you need the rest of us for?” Rygel demanded, bored with the repetitive discussion of Aeryn’s feat.  “What can we do that your healers cannot?” 

“When it comes time, we will need your assistance in convincing John Crichton to leave his mental sanctuary and come back to this harsh world full of pain and fear.  It will take time and effort on everyone’s part.  Once he has rejoined us, we will be able to assess the rest of his injuries and continue repairs.  I am quite certain there will be an extended recuperation even after that.” 

Meylan’s expression of depthless sorrow left Aeryn once again questioning whether they had done the right thing.  She considered the frightened, desperate mentality she had encountered during the last Meeting.  It was true that John was still fighting, even if it was in the small self-contained world he had built for himself.  He had not wanted her to become involved in his physical suffering to the extent that he had tried to shield her even as he lay crippled and ostensibly insane.  But that was as far as his confidence extended.  There had been a far stronger impression that he was not interested in leaving his mental sanctuary.  Within the confines of what meager rational thought remained, he was happy in his limited but otherwise safe private existence.   Aeryn turned away from the others and rubbed at her eyes with the heel of one hand. 

“But will John eventually recover?  Will he be himself?”  D’Argo’s frustrated question spoke for all of them.  “Or are we doing all this only to keep some … some kind of wreckage alive?”  He struggled and failed to find a kinder way of asking the question, suffering from the same indecision that had been haunting all of them during their journey to the sanctuary. 

Tahleen spoke slowly, gently placing each carefully chosen word before them.  “We cannot predict the outcome until we have a consciousness to examine.  I can tell you that he is particularly, shall we say … willful?” 

“Impossibly stubborn?” Aeryn suggested.

“That might be a better term,” Tahleen admitted, generating the first truly humorous laughter from everyone in the room.  “As Lorana explained to Aeryn Sun earlier, portions of Crichton’s intellect are certainly intact, and he is struggling tenaciously to retain an ordered version of the small universe he has created for himself.  These are very encouraging signs, but there is no way of determining the final outcome of our efforts until he chooses to emerge from his refuge and interact with us on a more deliberate, conscious level.”

Tahleen waited, giving everyone time to cope with her explanation.  Chiana left the small bench where she had been sitting alone, and went to sit next to D’Argo, curling up alongside him and wiping away a few tears as he put an arm around her. 

“Physically, Crichton seems to be extremely resilient and has responded well to our repairs.  However, we are having difficulty determining the extent of the damage.  Our healers have made several attempts at joining with John Crichton in Unity in order to determine the depth of his injuries.  Only one person has been able to get past his defenses, however.”  Tahleen finished explaining and turned to look at Aeryn.  “It really is quite amazing, Aeryn Sun.  I envy you.” 

Tahleen’s continued look of mild jealousy stopped Aeryn before she could argue that she had no talents of which to be envious, letting her know that the delvian had been referring to her emotional bond with John rather than her ability to join with him. 

“We were able to persuade him to reveal the source of some of his most intense physical pain,” Meylan interjected into the silence.  “Until he revealed the nature of the problem, we were not aware of some of the correct functions of his circulatory organ, and did not realize that it had been damaged.”

The room spun wildly for a microt, and Aeryn grabbed at the bench to steady herself.  John only had one heart and humans were far more susceptible to permanent damage than sebaceans.  Meylan’s voice seemed muffled, as though the sound had traveled a great distance in order to reach her.

“We have achieved a partial repair, and the remainder of the process will be completed tonight.  We are taking steps to avoid any emotional distress until we finish this process.  The level of urgency in his mind alerted us to the malfunction, and we now understand the critical design of his heart.”     

“So what do we do?  You have taken care of everything so far.” 

Jool’s voice was emanating from a location several light years closer than Meylan’s had just a few microts earlier as Aeryn slowly recovered from the shock of his announcement about John’s heart.  She told herself that she had to trust the delvians to achieve what they promised when they claimed that they could heal the injury.  She held herself very still as her mind rejoined the discussion.  The numb feeling was draining out of her body very gradually, leaving an unpleasant chill and mild nausea in its wake.  She looked around, careful not to set off the whirling sensation again.  Her gaze finally came to rest on Rygel who was staring at her with an unaccustomed look of concern. 

“We would like those of you who are willing to attempt the Meetings.  There are memories and thoughts that each of you can stimulate that will serve to draw John Crichton further away from his refuge.  When the time comes, you may all need to help him make the final transition.” 

“You want us to help Crichton be born a second time, don’t you?”  Jool was the first to recognize the depth of the parallel. 

“Yes, that is exactly what needs to be done.”

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

[KernilCrash]

Chapter 5

They had come for him earlier.  Both groups had been there, although not at the same time.  The large indistinct forms had breached the walls first, the ones with the heavy hands and cruel intentions.  He had tried to run away, only to have his flight arrested when the pain returned, leaving him gasping his new breathing medium in terror.  He had huddled into his own shadow, pressing himself into an ever smaller space and hoping they wouldn’t notice him.  They had been drawing closer when the presence of the second set of visitors had banished them. 

The patient, serene ones had eased into his quiet dreaming space, enquiring before they entered.  He had welcomed their presence and they had let him cry out his fear, not understanding entirely, but offering soothing touches anyway.  They had asked him to stretch out, to roll over on his back and straighten out, and when he could not move they had helped him.  The mass of hands had covered his chest as they had before, except for one set that remained to reassure him when the pressure and pain began. 

It had seemed to go on forever, but then again all things seemed eternal in this place. 

At the height of the pain, his left arm had tried to thrash on its own.  A single pair of hands had attended to the sharp, stabbing tightness in his shoulder, easing but not removing the radiating spikes of pain while holding his limb tight against a recurrence of the uncontrolled movement.  The pressure built until he felt as though his chest was about to explode, and he called to the one at his head, asking for it to stop. 

Almost over, it was almost over, the refrain rang in his mind. 

He felt worse than he had at any time since he had found this quiet dreaming place.  He felt as though he were dying. 

Aeryn!  He couldn’t die again because of what it would do to Aeryn.  They had to make sure he didn’t die again.

Almost over, the thought returned to his mind. 

The liquid breath stopped in his throat, the hands seemed to disappear although he knew they were still there, and all that he was faded into the darkness. 
 

* * * * *

John was in the smaller, deeper pool where the delvians had chosen to place him while making the repairs to his heart.  He had curled up into the fetal position and, without the air in his lungs to help him float, had sunk to hover halfway between the bottom of the pool and the surface.  The water continued to fizz as the excess oxygen escaped, but this enclosure was warm and dry, a pleasant change from the cool drizzle that persisted in the other chamber.  The air was being drawn out of this room from near the ceiling, driven in part by the even heat radiating from the entire floor.   

With the exception of Aeryn, it was the first time any of the crew had seen John since they had brought him to the moon, and they were all in various stages of shock.  D’Argo and Chiana joined Aeryn at the side of the pool where they all knelt down in order to get a better look at the submerged, floating Crichton.  Rygel hovered over the center of the watery enclosure, perhaps getting the best view of John and his resting place.  Jool walked around to the far side of the pool where she could watch the others.  Questions, answers, and exclamations echoed off the tiled walls for hundreds of microts.

“Can he breathe in there?” the Dominar asked.  “I did not know his species could extract oxygen from water.” 

“Isn’t he going to get all wrinkly the way Crichton does when he takes long showers?”  Chiana’s question sounded before Rygel’s could be answered. 

A delvian specialist was standing with them, explaining everything as they slowly recovered from their initial disbelief.  “The liquid is super-saturated with oxygen.  His lungs will function no differently than usual, and this is the medium in which they grew.  It is difficult for one such as John Crichton to adjust to the fluid moving through the passageways, but once that is habituated this is actually very beneficial for his breathing.  The fluid is matched to his physiology.  There is the correct balance of minerals to match his cellular structure, so his skin will remain unaffected by long submersion.” 

“They said it wasn’t really water,” Aeryn said, remembering her own shock when she had first seen John’s new environment. 

“It is close,” acknowledged their guide, “but carefully maintained to sustain John Crichton and keep him healthy.” 

D’Argo listened to the flow of questions and answers, and finally let out an angry snarl. 

“Is there some point not to your liking?”  The delvian was immediately concerned. 

“Yes,” D’Argo admitted slowly, stringing the word out in a low growl. 

Chiana laughed, as always, and said, “It’s just going to be too much like taking a bath for D’Argo.”  The look on D’Argo’s face was a wordless confirmation that Chiana had hit the target dead center.  The delvian healer opened his mouth to say something, and then closed it without responding, looking uncertainly at the tall luxan dressed in the quilted clothes.

“It does not matter,” D’Argo grumbled.  “I will participate in Meetings with John as many times as is necessary.  I simply wish it did not have to be in there.” 

Aeryn grinned at his complaint, feeling more light-hearted than she had at any time since John had been captured.  The prognosis was in question, John’s recovery was far from certain, and even if they could get him to abandon the refuge inside his mind there was no guarantee that he would ever be the man he had been before his capture.  But for the first time since she had seen him lying on the scarran’s table, she felt that there was a chance that he might recover. 

She knelt at the edge of the pool, leaning close to the water in order to watch John as he floated quietly.  Although many of the small ticks and twitches remained, most of the large, random muscle contractions had stopped, responding to the nearly constant efforts to repair his nervous system.  His eyes were open, and he was breathing more easily.  The one thing that had not changed was the complete lack of awareness or intelligence in the body beneath her.  Aeryn tried to remember a time when John had ever looked so senseless or so … empty.  Only his first night’s sleep after being rescued from the Gammak Base had come close, and that death-like coma had not been nearly as disturbing as the stillness of this apparently deserted vessel.

“Come back, John,” she implored to him in a whisper.  “Be strong.  Do not leave me.” 

Behind her, the flow of questions eased and then trickled to a stop as the expertise of their guide satisfied all of their concerns. 

“What about his heart?” she asked into the ensuing silence.  “Were you able to repair it completely?  His species is very susceptible to that type of damage.”     

“The healing was completed during the night.  We are convinced that there will be no adverse effects from the injury. His condition will be closely monitored during the remainder of his time here to ensure that his heart operates normally.” 

The delvian stripped off his robes, slid smoothly into the water, and gathered Crichton up from near the bottom.  He placed his hands opposite each other on the center of John’s back and chest, and then his eyes shifted to a solid, inward-looking blue and he went entirely still.  He smiled suddenly. 

“What is it?” asked Jool.  “What have you found?”

“I comprehend the symmetry now, and understand what was missing during the past days.  It is not a particularly well-designed organ, but there is an elegance to its construction.  Very interesting.”  He ran his hands over Crichton’s torso, neck and head in a proprietary manner then nudged him into a descent to where he had been floating.  “His physical condition is much improved.  He should have no problem coping with the psychological struggle now.” 

* * * * *

John? 

She was there, he had to answer -- he had to wake up from his dying state and answer.

John Crichton, come talk to me. 

Am I alive?  

You certainly are, and you are not leaving until I give you permission. 

AERYN!

She was thrown back by his elation, tossed almost completely out of his mind by the force of his arrival.  Daaren caught her mentally before she tumbled all of the way out, nudging her back to where she had been.  She moved forward more slowly the second time, searching cautiously, and was puzzled to discover that John was absent when she got back to where they had met only microts earlier. 

John?  She tried a gentle probe, not understanding why or how he had disappeared. 

The touch, when it wafted toward her, was meek and contrite.  I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to do it. 

She attempted a mental laugh.  You did not do anything wrong. 

Aeryn’s back!  I’m alive!  Aeryn, I don’t hurt much anymore.  

His happiness was intoxicating, rolling over both of them in waves that emanated entirely from him.  She could feel the ease in his body.  The persistent aches were almost entirely gone, and the taut feeling in his stomach that had been mistaken as hunger was missing.  Her connection with him allowed her to understand that it had been a careful tension waiting to try in vain to control the sporadic arrhythmias coming from his damaged heart.  Now there was only a relaxed feeling behind his sternum, and a pleasant emptiness that waited for food.

I did something new today! 

The simple joy was conveyed from his mind to hers, a large, easily translated symbol, encased in pride and pleasure.  He was so pleased with his new accomplishment.  She asked him to tell her about it. 

I SLEPT.  

The shock tossed her all of the way out of his mind this time.  She released her grip and turned to look first at Daaren and then up at where all four of her shipmates were waiting to see how her Meeting progressed.  They were hoping to learn something, but the only outward manifestation they had observed so far was her motionless position at John’s head. 

“He hasn’t slept?  This was the first time?  The first time in … how many days?”  She kept her voice low, trying to control her disbelief as she counted back, trying to remember how long they had been on the moon. 

Daaren nodded.  “His mental state has been one very close to dreaming, but he has not experienced the complete surcease of consciousness since the injuries occurred.  This is a very encouraging step in his recovery, and dreaming will provide him with an avenue of healing unlike no other.”

“Just dreaming?” Chiana asked.  The shipmates glanced at each other.  A complex waltz of unspoken thoughts shifted from one person to another, ricocheting around the group as they all considered Crichton’s long history with emotionally charged nightmares. 

“We will monitor him to forestall any nightmares, at least until we feel he will benefit from the catharsis sometimes offered by frightening visions.”  The blue-skinned mystic still had not moved away from Crichton, patiently waiting until Aeryn was ready to resume the Meeting.  She willingly placed her hands inside his and slid back into Crichton’s mind.   

She had to go looking for him again.  He had withdrawn into another ball of inexplicable guilt.  His reaction was the same as the first time. 

I didn’t mean to do it.  

What did you do? 

I made you leave.  I’m sorry. 

You did not do anything wrong; nothing is your fault. 

She eased around him, trying to envelope him in reassurance as she had the first time she had visited him inside his mind.  John seemed to melt into her, letting every guard down, exposing everything that he was and knew.  She faltered and he started to bolt again. 

Get back here, John Crichton! 

He stopped and eased back.  Is it all right?  Can I be here?  You don’t mind?  

No, I don’t mind.  She wondered how a person managed to sigh mentally. 

Aeryn surrounded the mental touch that she knew she could never live without, and let all of her tension and worry flow away from them both.  Just as she thought her own reservoir of concern was empty, the flood was doubled, tripled, turning into a torrent of anxiety that coursed out of him, swept past her, and disappeared.  They sighed on the same breath, not because they were joined, but because they were designated to be together always. 

That felt so good.  There was so little left inside him now that all of that stuff was gone.  He was tired.  He was so very tired now. 

Should I go?  Should I leave you in your tiredness so you can try this new ‘sleep’ thing again? 

No.  Please don’t go yet.  Because … because … because … Aeryn?  Who is this? 

He showed her a memory he had found, a memory of a lean figure with silvery gray hair, dressed in a bulky white apparatus and carrying a large helmet.  She was lucky.  She knew who it was.  She sent the answer sailing, a gestalt of who and what it meant. 

Dad?  A father?  I don’t remember.  

You will.  It will all come back, don’t worry. 

She felt someone beckoning and knew she had been here longer than she had thought. 

They’re going to make you leave aren’t they? 

Yes, it’s time for me to go.  Does that bother you? 

I know them.  They’re the Nice People you told me about.  You can go, I’ll wait here. 

She felt him settle down into a relaxed position, lacking any inclination to accompany her.  It was too soon to expect anything else.  She gave him a mental caress, sent a symbol sailing toward him that conveyed an assurance that she would return very soon, and then, once she felt that John had captured the image and understood it, she let herself be pulled away. 

* * * * *

Aeryn tugged her tunic down into place, welcoming the warmth that lingered there from the heated tiles.  “There’s so little of him left,” she said to everyone waiting by the side of the pool.  She had been close to tears as she had climbed out of the water and had described the revelation that had almost driven her out of John’s mind for a third time.  “He opened up completely, showed me everything that he knew of himself.  There’s --”  Her voice cracked into silence, forcing her to start over.  “There’s almost nothing left.  Too much of him has been destroyed.”  She felt the burning sting develop behind her eyes, and looked away from the others, trying to prevent the tears that promised to breach her control.   

“This was a mistake.”  Chiana’s subdued remark seemed to speak for them all.  Aeryn nodded, her face hidden behind her hands. 

“You are wrong.” 

The flatly delivered statement jolted them out of their depressed reveries. 

“What he showed you was everything he has access to right now.  More exists but has been cut off from his ability to find it by damage.”  Meylan moved into their midst, displacing Daaren who slowly backed out of the group.  “He is fighting hard to survive; you must do at least as much.”  He was chastising them in the kindest of terms.  “I know this is not easy for any of you, but you need to consider that this is the first day in quite some time that he has been comfortable physically.  Now that his psyche is no longer focused on the corporeal, he should begin to make greater strides with the mental and spiritual.  Give him time and --”

“Patience!” 

Meylan jumped as five voices chanted the last word at him.  They were all smiling now, even if a bit weakly.  They had hope. 

* * * * *

D’Argo volunteered to try a Meeting with John next.  Chiana accompanied him to watch how it was done.  They stood together, waiting while two of the healers who specialized in physical injuries slid into the pool and gradually pulled John out of his tightly curled position.  His body resisted at first, but they repeatedly eased his limbs straight until he finally floated stretched out on his back.  They brought him closer to the surface in order to examine him, performing the inspection entirely by touch.  Crichton twitched and jerked under their hands, his nervous system spurred into more random signals by their handling.  They ignored the reaction, persisting until they had run their fingers over his entire body and seemed satisfied with his condition. 

“John.  Why couldn’t we have gotten there sooner, John?” D’Argo breathed, watching the spastic responses to the delvians’ examination. 

“It’s not your fault, D’Argo.”  Chiana rubbed his shoulder, sympathizing with the distraught luxan.  “He was doing what he wanted to … what he really, really wanted to be doing when he got caught.  Crichton was making sure that Aeryn and the rest of us got away safely before he followed.  You know you could not have stopped him from doing that.”

D’Argo did not bother to answer.  He pulled off the quilted shirt and pants, leaving only a pair of tight fitting shorts, and slid into the water to stand next to the Pa’u who had joined the other two delvians.  He let them guide his hands to John’s head and focused all of his attention on his desire to have his friend restored to him, a technique that Aeryn had suggested.  He allowed that single desire to consume him.   

It was quiet.  The stillness was complete except for a hissing that increased and faded in time with the waves of bubbles that washed across his skin, stroking it into the painful random responses that had become a constant in this existence.  The sensations shifted and mutated endlessly, changing from one equally uncomfortable feeling to the next, each set of signals as confused as the one before.  He was supposed to feel wet, but he itched, ached, burned, felt as though he had been flayed raw, went back to a horrible nameless discomfort, and began the random cycle again.

Pulses from the waves rocked him, urging him to allow his attention to drift away from the migration of sensations.  He swallowed warm water and was surrounded by warmth, making the vibrations in his nervous system bearable.  The warm flood was in his chest, his throat, his stomach and had worked its way into his ears and sinuses.  It was an all-encompassing heat creating complete lassitude.  He tried to curl up, but whoever had disturbed him was insisting that he lie flat, and he had not managed to find the place where his muscles obeyed his desires. 

The hiss of the bubbles was broken by a double cadence, twin heartbeats sounding near his head.  D’Argo knew that it was his own hearts he was hearing, sensed through the ears of another.  He caught himself on the sound and followed it back to the person who was really hearing it.  He found him lying lazily on his back, enjoying the way the steady double whump-thump echoed inside his head.  D‘Argo hung there, just shy of making contact, not wanting to move any closer because he was so pleased to find John in this quiet place and he did not want to cause the tranquil moment to end. 

Long enough, a mentality told him, showing him that time did not flow the same way in this floating place, and he moved carefully toward the mesmerized personality. 

Hello John. 

Do I know you?  The fear-laden concern blossomed in a chest that had room for another kind of ache now that the stabbing pain was gone.  

I am Ka D’Argo and we are friends. 

Aeryn didn’t tell me you were coming, I’m not sure, I don’t know, I don’t think this is right.  Large figures, huge figures, non-human figures doing something, something he refused to remember.  He would NOT remember that. This was not human, this was a large lurking presence with aggression in its soul.

D’Argo felt him skitter away, on the verge of bolting completely, and sought a way of remaining calm despite a burst of frustration.  He envisioned Jothee as a young child, sampled that protective love, and then reached out with paternal concern and indulgence.  The frightened mentality hesitated, stopped its retreat. 

Let me show you, John.  Come back one step, and let me show you how we know each other. 

One step?  ONE step? 

There was a timid reconnoiter. 

I can take just one step.  

One more, John, I can’t show you if you stay where you are now.  Just one more. 

One, one, one … I can take one more step.  He eased closer, wary to the point of explosion. 

D’Argo showed him.   

He turned from his stance on Command and saw the hated Peacekeeper standing uncertain, looking inexplicably afraid, dressed in a strange orange garment.  The snared sebacean gave a queer smile and waved slightly, uttered odd words, all Peacekeeper arrogance quenched by his capture.  The rage against his captors welled up inside his two hearts and in three long strides he had the figure by the throat, lifting him up with the intention of either getting the desired information out of him or killing him, not necessarily in that order.  His bellowed question brought no answer, and he prepared himself to snap the soldier’s neck.  There was a whine and the yellow flash of a DRD near his feet, and the unit injected the captive with something.  Translator microbes?  It was the only thing possible, but what kind of Peacekeeper lacked them, he asked himself.  Frustration and anger threatened to rule him, but a choking answer was being uttered. 

Flip over, tuck yourself inside your own body and turn inside out, and that might be what it felt like.  Queasy, momentarily nauseous, and he was the one hanging from an unbelievably strong hand.  Reality had deserted him long before the module had been drawn into this ship.  Nothing made any sense at this point.  He struggled for air and listened to garbled noises, ridiculous thoughts running through his head even as he fought against the grip that was slowly strangling him.  ‘Whoa, Rastafarian octopus got that guy by the head!’  There was a figure of blue elegance standing serenely in the midst of chaotic insanity, a look of stressed amusement and suspicion on her face.  He felt love blossom immediately, without any understanding of why it had happened.  A sharp pain in his foot, and his world shook itself and gave hearing back.  The deep barking garble separated itself into words -- the first step toward understanding a new life that could not be understood.   

Reverse flip, turn outside in, and D’Argo found himself drifting with John again, a joyous shout full of new symbols and images ringing inside his mind. 

D’ARGO!  I know D’Argo, Big Dee, Heavy Dee, Big Guy, Rasta-man, my friend!! 

For the first time, he understood the terms and what each one meant to John. 

Not confidence yet, but some trust, the double heartbeats bringing more serenity to the jumbled collection that raced around chaotically in his mind. 

I’m here, John, I will be here whenever you need me.  All you will need to do is reach out and ask, and I will come to help you. 

D’Argo, D’Argo, D’Argo will come.  He cast about wildly -- excitement, hope, and fear tangling into an emotional mess.  D’Argo!  You’ll help when I need you? 

The fear was back, the tiny remaining molecule instantaneously expanding into an enveloping miasma that invaded every portion of his mind as it moved in to possess the thoughts that had once been John. 

Yes, I will help you whenever you need me, he assured the mind. 

D’Argo … they’re there, you have to help me now, they’re there and they want to hurt me.  Please, D’Argo, you have to stop them.  Please don’t let them hurt me any more. 

Show me, John, show me where they are and I’ll keep you safe. 

It was the wrong thing to suggest, driving the wary touch into full flight.  D’Argo sighed and straightened up from his stooped position.  “I frelled that up,” he growled.  He looked at his submerged friend and wondered if they would let him try again right away. 

“What happened, D’Argo?  What went wrong?”  Chiana was wearing just the shorts and insulated top, sitting with her legs dangling in the water while she waited for him to finish his Meeting with Crichton.  “You must have found him; you were there for more than an arn.” 

D’Argo shook his head, braids and tanktas swinging wildly, wordlessly expressing his disgust with himself for frightening Crichton at the end. 

“Ka D’Argo, you established trust.  That is a significant accomplishment.  The fear he experienced was not directed toward you.  You will be able to build on this base the next time.”  The Pa’u had reestablished physical contact with Crichton, eyes half closed as he explored their results while he explained.  “It is rare for laypersons such as yourselves to be able to establish a Meeting on the first attempt.  That, in and of itself, is a tribute to your concern for his welfare.  There will be more opportunities soon.” 

“Could I go back now?” D’Argo asked.  “I want him to know that I did not mean to scare him.” 

The priest smiled tolerantly.  “I believe he knows that, but his awareness is not quite as ordered as the images you experienced might suggest.  He is calm now, but he is also quite tired.  There will be adequate time to try again over the next days.” 

* * * * *

Chiana was lecturing herself as she moved slowly into the quiet realm.  Calm, calm, calm, calm and easy.  This was like creeping up on a flibisk that knows it’s being hunted.  D’Argo and Aeryn had described their experiences to her, and warned her of Crichton’s new suspicious nature. 

She found him drifting in the encompassing warmth they had tried without success to explain to her. 

It was beyond warmth, beyond buoyancy.  It was life itself, peace without qualification, a deep and abiding security, an anodyne against the memories that he was fighting not to remember.  She found him drifting in the heat, feeling like he was napping in a hammock on a hot summer day.  He was annoyed that they would not let him curl up into the position that felt so right, that made him feel so secure, but the displeasure was so minor, it was almost non-existent.  He wanted to stretch, to feel the pleasant tug of muscles against the underlying skeleton, but movement was forbidden, and every small motion set off the crawling discomfort anyway.  He basked in the heat, satisfied that it was his entire world.  That was where she found him, her greeting bursting out of her on a wave of excitement. 

Hey, Old Man!! 

“Frell.”  Chiana slid her hands out from under Lorana’s and started to move away.  “I scared him away.” 

“Try again,” Lorana coaxed. 

Chiana looked up at Aeryn and Rygel, who were watching from the tiled expanse next to the pool.  Aeryn nodded encouragement. 

“He took off like a scalded drannit,” Chiana said morosely.  “He was moving so fast, I don’t think I’m going to be able to find him.” 

Lorana took her more firmly by the hands and led her back to the floating patient.  “He is still relaxed.  You startled him, but he was not frightened.  I think you may be able to locate him more easily than you expect.”  Aeryn thought she heard the beginning of laughter in the priest’s quiet words, but Lorana’s back was turned so she could not be sure. 

Chiana let her hands be guided into place and looked down at the dark hair ruffling in the currents.  “Calm and easy, calm and easy,” she chanted to herself, and then concentrated on the image of having Crichton back aboard Moya with them, healthy and whole. 

OLD MAN!! 

It was his yell this time, and it startled her to the point that she almost bolted from his mind.  There was delvian laughter in her mind as she was steadied and pushed back toward the bright spark of excitement. 

I’m Old Man, I remember, but who are you? … uh, you’re gray.  Wait!  You’re supposed to be gray.  I know, I know, I know you! … Who are you? 

She waited for his confused exhilaration to die down.  I’m Chiana.  She felt the thought run around in circles without finding an anchor in his mind.  Can I show you, Crichton?  Will you let me show you? 

He skittered away, bounded back, took another step away, and stopped.  Did they send you?  Did THEY send you? 

Who, Old Man? 

The Nice People.  The people who make the pain go away, and scare away the Others. 

Yes, that’s who brought me here. 

Scuttle closer, retreat, bounce further away, ease back, closer, closer.  A whisper of a touch, curiosity overcoming fright, investigating what it meant to have gray skin. 

Show me? 

She showed him. 

Abiding despair that she had been captured and was facing a personal destruction too terrible to contemplate.  A heartless machine on two legs forcing her forward into strange surroundings to stand next to one of the mindless corpses they had created, a reminder of her fate, the promised destruction of all that she was and ever had been.  Her hands bound, every movement controlled by the collar that ensured she had no volition, no choice to be a person.  She looked up and saw the curiosity, concern for the bound and restrained stranger showing plainly in his face.  Broad shoulders, blue eyes, muscles showing plainly beneath the gray shirt, his body telling her that he understood the degradation of bondage and wanted to see her released.  She was towed away, looking back to plead silently for her salvation. 

Upside down, turn around, a contortionist’s trick.  He looked at the collar and bound hands and fought to keep from lunging forward to attack the gray skinned minder.  Black eyes burrowing into his, seeking forgiveness, release, sexual affirmation of life.  The image of his sister that had sprung into his mind without summons vanished under that gaze.  Temptation to go after them to discover who this criminal was, to see if she was as wrongfully accused as he had been, pursued in innocence, hounded across the stars because of a misconception.  He worried about what the others would think, these beings he depended on for continued survival.  They were his only hope for life, so he pondered and watched her disappear into the passageway.

Turn around, upside down, turned right side out.  We’re a fine pair of refugees, aren’t we Crichton? 

Chiana, I’m sorry that you’re alone. 

Loneliness isn’t necessary anymore, Old Man, we’re here and we love you.

I know, I know, I know … what else do I know? 

He was sad and plaintive, searching for something more, seeking something else for her to show him so that she wouldn’t leave him here alone.  She had been told about this, warned what to do, so she bound herself up in the concern for his long-term welfare and sent the thought they had all rehearsed.  It wasn’t a big symbol, but it was complex and she had to get it right. 

I’ll be nearby, Crichton.  I’ll be just over there and you can come visit me soon.  Someone will be here to visit you later, but you can come to see us if you want. 

NoNoNo.  I’ll stay here, and you can stay here too.  You don’t have to leave?  Do you? 

You can come any time you are ready.  She moved away.  He held his ground, not tempted to follow. 

Don’t go, please stay. 

I’ll be back. 

Chiana was lifted clear of the water, embraced in a warm towel and hard muscled arms.  Her vision cleared, sharpening as she wiped tears from her eyes.  She was leaning against Aeryn, something she never would have expected.  The former soldier did not ask her what had happened, just held her until the crying stopped and then let her sit up on her own. 

Chiana turned to look at Aeryn and Rygel.  “He’s so lonely and scared.” 

“Did you do what we discussed?” Aeryn asked, both elated that they had found their first opportunity to urge John away from his refuge and heartbroken that he was still frightened.   

“Yes.  It was hard, but I told him he could come out whenever he wanted and then I left.”  She wanted to say more, but the lump in her throat clogged the words.  Crichton had been released and hovered alone in the pool, curled up tightly seeking the security of his most basic memory.  Their view of him cleared for a microt as a mass of warm water billowed to the surface, acting like a lens to reveal the curled hands resting alongside both sides of his head, mouth open as he tried to breathe something thicker than air. 

“Let’s go talk with the others,” Aeryn suggested.  Each person had pledged to reveal everything they had learned while Meeting with John, putting aside their individual concerns about privacy in the interest of making each trip more productive. 

“Aeryn.”  Chiana stared at the lean ex-Peacekeeper, wondering if she should ask the question now or later.  The enquiring look encouraged her to ask it now.  “What is that thought about ‘Others’ that has him so worried?”  Aeryn’s blank look told her that they had something else to find out. 

* * * * *

Jool tried next and was abruptly tossed out of his mind three times in a row.  Her hair turned an iridescent shade of red at the rejection, but Tahleen assured her that it was almost certainly Crichton’s fatigue and not her personality causing the problem.  Aeryn caught a delvian smile of devious amusement as Jool disappeared through the doorway leading from the chamber. 

“John’s not tired?” 

“He is quite well rested.  Desire to help and an ability to subordinate one’s own ego tend to be the keys to a joining of this type.”  Tahleen watched as Rygel floated into the chamber on his throne sled and dropped into the larger pool with almost no splash, leaving his chair floating near one of the benches.  “It is a wasted opportunity, however.  He is not resisting.  He merely could not establish any sort of communication with her and became frustrated enough to close her out.”   

The dark green form popped to the surface and Rygel smiled in delight.  “This is the correct size of a dominar’s bath.  It is simply too bad that there aren’t the correct number of attendants.”  He looked from Tahleen to Aeryn and his untroubled expression shifted to one of concern.  “Why are you both looking at me like that?”

* * * * *

Crichton, where the yotz are you? 

Who are YOU?  Do you belong here? 

Of course I belong here, I am … 

Wait! I remember you, I remember, I know who you are!  You’re KERMIT! 

I am not.  I am Dominar Rygel the Sixteenth.  I am a hynerian of the highest royal house, and I have no idea who this Kermit person is. 

Oh. 

The chastised mentality retreated, returned to see what he was like, and backed away timidly.  You’re kind of like the Others only smaller.  Did they send you?  He backed away, anxiety pushing him away faster and faster. 

Fear.  An emotion with which he was all too familiar.  It did not seem to go well with the huge ugly personality. 

I’m ugly? 

More anxiety washed over Rygel, a product of his own carelessness with his thoughts.  No, you are said to be very good looking for your species. 

The bundle of randomized thoughts plonked itself down a small distance away to consider this new problem.  What was ugly?  What was he that was ugly?  What part of him was this ugly part? 

Crichton, you are not ugly.  I should not have made that thought about you.  I’m sorry. 

Sorrysorrysorry.  Regret, remorse, disappointment, grief.  A new set of symbols were discovered, but they had to be considered carefully, turned over and over until he could determine where they fit in the flow of symbols that sailed around him now. 

Crichton … Crichton, pay attention.  John? 

I’m John … right? 

Perhaps I should leave now. 

Aren’t you going to show me anything?  The others showed me things. 

Do you want me to show you something? 

That would be okay.  The others showed me when we met, is that what I get to see?  When we met?  The enthusiasm was building again, the anxious mental wandering falling back before the wonder. 

No, this day is more appropriate.  He showed him a day when his actions had doomed Crichton and D’Argo to a heroic sacrifice like none other he had ever seen, when Crichton’s compassion had taught him a lesson and bonded his loyalty to the gangling human forever.  “Rygel, I believe doing the right thing begins at the start of the day.”  There had been a quick pressure on his head, one of the human embraces they used in place of a proper kiss, and he had known that he had been forgiven.  He braced himself for the flip, the change in viewpoint they had warned him about, but it did not happen. 

I remember that now.  I was angry with you but it didn’t matter anymore.  And there was something wrong inside my head.  Something terrible had happened recently … what was it?  What had happened before that? 

Rygel thought of the mental rape that Crichton had suffered in the Aurora Chair and compared it to his present condition.  That had been almost gentle compared to this.  He bound those images up and kept them obscured. 

There had been a battle and you were wounded, he told the inquisitive mind. 

I was … I was wounded … Who is I?  Who is John?  Where is he and what is he like?  Can you tell me?  Will you stay here and show me? 

Rygel saw his chance to do what he had been told.  I can’t stay right now, Crichton.  But you can come with me if you like, any time you wish to depart you are welcome to accompany me. 

I don’t think so.  I think it’s better if I stay here.  You can go though, I’ll understand. 

Rygel let himself be drawn away, feeling the warm water washing around his appropriately dimensioned body even as he looked back to see the hunched figure sitting alone. 

“Rygel?  What happened?” 

He looked at Aeryn in confusion; he was having trouble adjusting to the light and noise around him.  “What do you mean what happened?  I found him, I talked to him, I left.  Are you questioning my capacity to complete such a simple task?”  He floated easily, overly buoyant in the abnormally salty fluid, glaring his challenge at her.  “Why do you ask?” 

“Because a few microts ago you looked like you were about to cry, and I’ve never seen that happen before.”  Aeryn turned away and lifted herself out of the pool, leaving the hynerian to duck under the water where he could hide the evidence of his compassion. 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

[KernilCrash]

Chapter 6

Aeryn claimed the next turn in the pool, convinced that John would need her reassurance by that time.  She was also intent on finding out who the ‘Others’ were that had John both worried and secretive.  The assembled crew had discussed it several times and had come to the conclusion that the symbol was what John was using to cover up his terror of the scarrans.  The thought of him continuing his battle inside his mind day and night had driven her from the bed provided by their hosts, and she spent the arns sitting at the side of the pool watching him drift.  

The delvians continued to make cautious forays into his mind almost constantly, only withdrawing in order to let him sleep.  Their gentle probing sought signs of physical and neural damage as part of the slow, tedious repairs to his physiology.  Aeryn had not been able to sleep much of the previous night either, and had spent the arns sitting silently beside the pool, watching as two of the priests took turns easing into the fringes of his shattered mind.  She had heard him crying several times, an echo of his distress ringing in her mind without the customary filter of passing through her ears.  She’d had to exert the most rigid self-control possible in order to prevent herself from sliding into the water and going to soothe him.

‘Aeryn!’ he had cried out at last, scared by the strangers who insisted on testing the walls that surrounded the quiet dreaming place.  

‘It’s all right, John,’ she had sent back, not even sure she could reach him without the help of a Pa’u or the proximity of touching him.  ‘They’re the Nice People.  Don’t be afraid.’  For over an arn, she had stared at the motionless, submerged body, concentrating on those three small sentences, and the mental distress had slowly eased to the point that it was no longer detectable.      

The slow exploration of his body and the constant surveying of his neural pathways had continued for arns.  By morning, both the healers and the gradually healing were exhausted.  Meylan had warned them that each improvement would set off a cascade of signals illuminating other injuries.  It would be a long and laborious process, and John would be subjected to new and random sensations as they restored his systems one by one.  He had been allowed to sleep most of the morning, but it had been a fitful and restless sleep broken by twitches, spasms, and flurries of what looked like slaps and punches.  D’Argo’s attempt at a Meeting in the afternoon had located a bewildered, exhausted mentality that had done little more than huddle against his presence, seeking comfort and reassurances.  

This latest session had yielded an extended case of the hiccups, painful enough when each spasm tried to suck in something thicker than air.  They had let it go on for three arns, hoping it would resolve itself, but had finally adjusted the oxygen mix being provided in the watery fluid until the tiny convulsions stopped.  Even after six arns of undisturbed sleep, John looked tired, and they let him float without hindrance for an extra two arns before they began again.  Her guide this morning was Daaren, and they moved in without difficulty.  It was when she got inside that she began to experience a problem.  She could not find him.

John, where are you?  

It was peaceful and the light was dim.  There was no answer, and she tried to decide if she would be able to tell the difference between his normal drifting mental state and sleep.  There wasn’t anything to give her direction, so she continued moving in what she hoped was a straight line, waiting to see if anything changed.  As far as she could tell, John was not there.  She sent out an inquiry and received a quiet delvian assurance that John was present, but they could not provide any guidance as to where to look for him.  Aeryn put mental hands on her hips, and looked around in disgust.  

John, where are you?  She demanded an answer this time, and received only silence for her efforts.  Pulling away from the unobtrusive presence leading her into John’s mind, Aeryn reached out on her own, questing, finding, and she was abruptly inside him, entering without volition or effort.  

Sorrow and loneliness.  He/she looked down at Aeryn’s still body, pale face framed by the loose dark hair.  He/she had found a memory and was trapped within it.  No, she/he commanded, you/I don’t have to remember this, we can go somewhere else.  Where else would we go, they asked themselves.  This is our soul lying before us, dead by our actions.  It wasn’t us, she/he screamed, trying to break through.  This wasn’t us; it was Scorpius.

She/he took him/her to the cockpit of the module, to remind them of what it had felt like to sit trapped and helpless within their own body, unable to stop, unable to speak, unable to warn her what the twisted mentality intended to do.  She/he saw for the first time that Scorpius hadn’t been trying to kill Aeryn, he had been trying to destroy the remaining resistance that was John, to take away the thing that would allow him/her to continue to resist.  They relived the moment, the impact, then the release from the neurochip’s control so he/she could watch helplessly without the buffering of someone else’s intellect, maximizing the guilt and loss.  

They forced them away from the memory.  We are here now; we are alive and whole and we love us.  

Yes, yes, yes, yes, we are here and we love us.  

Now we must do something for us instead, we must come back, we must fight and return the same way that we returned with Zhaan’s help.  

Now?  Do we fight to return now?  We are confused and we hurt.  We want to stay here longer where it is safe.  Do we have to return now?  So soon?  They were filled with foreboding and fear, wanting to fulfill their expectations and love, but holding back because of the unknown visions that lurked along the edges of their memory.  

They tried to ease toward that corner, taking them toward the shadowy figures that waited there so they could see what it was that scared them.  

John broke away, startling her with his vehemence.  Don’t be afraid!  Aeryn tried to catch him.  It was too late; he was gone.  She tried to move closer to the shadows, but without his help to control the images the figures remained indistinct.  She tried reaching out toward John with the blanket of calm reassurance, hoping that if she could simply make contact with him, it would be enough to bring the shadowy, poorly formed images into focus.  But John had put up a block and she could not get near him.  She could feel him next to her, rock hard and rigid with tension, so she gave up and moved further away from the dark corner where he had hidden the ‘Others’.    

She did not withdraw.  She remained next to the quivering figure until he began to relax, then she tried to rebuild the agreement she was afraid she had just shattered in her pursuit of the answer about the ‘Others’.  

Do you still trust me?  

Of course!  You are Aeryn.  

Will you still agree to fight and return?  For me?  

For you?  Yes, for you … but … do I have to fight against Them?  …  Please say ‘no’.  

The last thought was almost hidden, a tiny image that she suspected he had not intended to project.  Aeryn paused, trying to decide what was correct.  

Not yet, please not yet.  I’ll come later.  Later is good.  Later is better.

You do not have to come until you’re ready, but you have to agree to be ready some day.  The answer when it came was so fragile and tenuous she almost missed it.  The symbol eased away from him the way a single thread-thin fragment of a feather floats on still air.  

I promise.  

That’s good enough for me, John.  

She moved into him again, a firmer melding that stopped short of Unity, and let him know what her heart was feeling just then.  There was an image she did not understand, something formless and indistinct.  She allowed herself another self-indulgent release of love and concern, and the response came again.  It was a quiet whimper of relief, the first mental break in the wall he had put up around the trauma that had driven him in here.  

Come here, she summoned him.  

He moved closer, the ragged fragments of his damaged consciousness rasping against the smooth torrent of her own thoughts to remind her of the extensive injuries that remained to be healed.  The progress they had made so far was a small portion of what would be required to restore John Crichton to what he had once been.  

Can I? he asked, creeping closer. Is it okay?  

Yes, she sent back, finding a small amount of amusement in his trepidation.  

John sighed, curled into a mental ball, and tucked himself in against her, sinking into her protectiveness until there was nothing of him left outside her enveloping calm.  

Aeryn?  

What?

Will you … Please? … Will you make sure they don’t hurt me again?  

It was the first time he had sent a thought that came close to mentioning what had been done to him.  Aeryn tightened her grip on him, holding him so close that the boundary layer began to thin and merge, the first disorienting mélange of Unity combining their thoughts.  In that pre-joining state, he knew beyond any doubt that she would protect him with her life.  The relief unleashed more of the pent-up trauma.  

They floated in that manner for what felt like arns; spending the time in much the same way that D’Argo had spent his session reassuring John.  There was not enough knowledge and reasoning power available for him to be strong on his own.  Too much of his quiet dreaming place consisted of unconnected fragments, none of which would have fit together into a larger piece even if he possessed the ability for rational thought.  John burrowed in deeper, allowing Aeryn to provide the structure that brought moments of sanity to his confused universe.  She could feel when her presence helped him retain some semblance of order.  It was not a return of sanity so much as an easing of the perpetual chaos, allowing him a few moments of relative peace.  In those moments, when the mental whirlwind left him alone for a few microts, he could almost reassemble what it felt like to be able to think.  

You have to go, he knew, feeling the summons as soon as she did.  

Yes.  Would you like to come with me?  

NO!  NoNoNoNoNo.  No.  

Panic returned, transforming what little remained of him into nothing more than an attempt not to remember certain things.  The peace was shattered, thoughts fragmented into millions of parts, and he reverted into an unassembled puzzle of runaway emotions.  Aeryn cursed at herself for having frightened him into a senseless frenzy for the second time in a single session.  

Do not be afraid.  You do not have to come.  You can stay here.  His response was so muddled, she had to ask him to repeat the images a second time in order to make some sense of the flow.  

Good, good.  Stay.  I’ll stay.  Wait for Aeryn.  I’ll wait for Aeryn here.  

He scuttled away from her and huddled a short distance to one side, quivering in fear.  Aeryn eased toward him, crossing the gap with infinite care.  He let her touch him, submitting to her assurances until he finally relaxed, eventually trusting her when she said that she would not force him to leave the quiet dreaming place.  

Are you tired?  

yes  

Can you rest?  

yes  

Someone else will be here to visit later, he’ll keep you company so you’re not as lonely.

all right  

Rest, John.  

yes  

* * * * *

D’Argo stripped off his tunic as he entered the pool chamber and dropped into the water without bothering to remove the quilted pants.  Crichton’s gradual recovery had given him more strength and his desperation was overwhelming the group trying to restrain him.  His struggles were no more focused than before, muscles reacting randomly to the signals from his brain, but that seemed to make it more difficult for them to maintain a grip instead of less.  

He had been summoned in the middle of the night by a wide-eyed acolyte who hurriedly asked him to come help the team in the pool because Crichton was in an emotional frenzy.  He looked at the foaming water around the thrashing human and shook his head.  Frenzy had been an extreme understatement.  It did not look as though there was going to be a pause or a predictable break in the movements, so he waded into the fray without hesitating and slid his hands into place, helping the exhausted priest hold John’s head below water.  Together, they slid into Crichton’s mind with an ease born of too much practice.  

Crichton was yelling incoherently.  Symbols that resembled profanity mixed with disjointed syllables that flowed from his mind in a chaotic torrent.  

JOHN!  I am here.  I have come to help.  

D’Argo, D’Argo!  

The mentality latched on to him in desperation.  The warrior did his best to project a comforting embrace.  Crichton clung to him, frantic beyond the ability to produce recognizable symbols, and jabbered out a nearly senseless rendition of what had frightened him.  One symbol made its way through the swirling images with suffering any distortion:  desperation.  Using every dench of his limited intellectual resources, John was doing everything possible to keep a certain collection of images from taking over his existence … and it was not enough.  Desperation barely began to describe how fiercely he was fighting to prevent the memories from breaking free.  

They’re here.  Aeryn wanted me to … She asked me to promise … I tried, I looked … they were there all along … help me.  Keep them away from me.  

The level of distress flooding from John was heartbreaking.  D’Argo turned his back on the frantic thoughts and tried to find the source of his anxiety.  Where are they?  You have to at least show me which direction they came from if I’m to help you.  

Over there, over there.  Oh God, they’re still there.  

He tore loose from D’Argo and scrabbled away from the dark corner of his memory he had indicated, mindless in his complete panic.  

D’Argo positioned himself between John and the unseen threat, trying to emit an air of confidence and calm but finding his capacity for this mental projection severely taxed.  He continued trying to soothe the frightened mind at the same time that he probed for the remembered menace.  

I will not let them touch you.  You don’t have to show me, just tell me who they are.  

The Others, the other ones.  THEM.  The ones who come whenever I’m alone.  They hide whenever you’re here.  They come out when everyone else leaves.  Only when I’m alone, when I’m alone.  

The level of panic was not diminishing.  D’Argo was baffled, at a loss as to how to proceed.  He remembered Aeryn’s reminder that the delvians were always there with experience and support.  He wafted the query toward his minder.  

He was told to do whatever came naturally.  

Stay here, John.  I am going to kill them.  

NO!!  They’re too strong, D’Argo.  I don’t want to lose you.  

D’Argo bellowed in rage and defiance and charged into the shadows.  There was a brief impression of several huge lurking forms, then the darkness lifted and they were gone.  He returned to stand next to the curled, whimpering remains of his friend.  

They’re gone now.  They’ve left and they know we will protect you.  

For good?  Are they gone for good?  

I do not know.  John, we are always here if you need our help.  You do not have to fight them alone.  I will come whenever you need me.  

Don’t leave me here, take me with you.  They scare me.  

Despite the plaintive tone, John was not stirring from his huddled position.  Come with me then, you have to get up to come with me.  D’Argo felt himself being pulled away.  Everyone was tired; they could not sustain this much longer.  

Now, John, you have to come now because I have to leave.  

No, not now, not yet.  I don’t think I can.  I can’t  come yet.  

Yes, you can.  

There’s something I’m supposed to do first.  Don’t leave me!  

D’Argo tried to touch the lonely figure one more time, only to be drawn out of the quiet before he could make the connection.    

* * * * *

Aeryn looked at the tightly curled body below her.  Somehow the delvians had known that she was far more exhausted than she ever would have admitted even to herself, and it had been D’Argo who had been summoned during the night.  He had done a better job of banishing the phantoms from John’s realm than she might have done, but despite D’Argo’s success the nightmare had set John back almost to the beginning.  She rolled over on her back and floated, letting the heat and weightless suspension relax tired muscles.  

After four attempts at a Meeting, she had not been able to locate anything more substantial than a tightly compacted ball of anxiety.  John would respond to every attempt at communication with the symbol that stood for her name, repeating ‘Aeryn’ no matter what her question or comment.   None of the others could get even that much out of him.  Meylan had tried a multiple joining along with Lorana and Tahleen, hoping that their combined strength would allow them to reach John in the depths of his catatonia.  They’d had no more success than she had, and in the end had withdrawn hastily when they sensed that their presence was about to drive him even farther into his own mind.  

His emotional state was being reflected by his physical position.  Despite a constant effort by the delvians, he continued to wrap himself into the tightest ball possible.  

There was a double splash nearby.  Aeryn opened her eyes to find Chiana and Jool in the water with her.  D’Argo and Rygel were hovering on the tiles above them, waiting outside the pool.    

“Let’s try one more time, Aeryn,” Jool said.  “Not a Meeting.  Let’s just see if we can get him to relax a bit.”  The red ringlets floated in a mass as the interon ducked under the surface and pulled on John’s arm, lifting him from where his body was resting on the bottom.  Once they had him up and made a little room, D’Argo and Rygel slid in and they started to copy the slow easy massage they had seen the delvians use so often.

They had him again; he had been grabbed and lifted.  He couldn’t look, couldn’t face it, wouldn’t look at the Others he knew were surrounding him.  He cried in despair and waited for them to begin again, waited for the clank of the buckles against the table as they prepared it for his body and lifted him into place.  He tried to scream for help, but there was only the silence of this place, and he was alone.    

The harsh grabbing never started.  There wasn’t the feel of cold metal against his back.  

Something different happened, something he didn’t expect.  

A slow stroking by an assortment of hands began; no two quite alike.  One pair seemed familiar and never left his neck or shoulders.  Strong, unhurtful fingers worked into the muscles at the base of his neck, rocking his skull where it connected to his spine.  He took a longer breath and couldn’t shift his attention away from that wonderful sensation.  Those hands moved on to work at his shoulders and he was aware of the other touches again, working at the tense muscles in his arms, and where his legs had begun to cramp.  They didn’t talk to him or coax him to do anything; he was left in his quiet dreaming place with nothing to focus on except the heavy strokes and the gentle pulls to straighten him out.  

“He’s easing a bit,” D’Argo whispered.  He caught himself and tried to talk normally.  John could not hear them.  “Should we turn him on his back?”  

Aeryn started to agree, then changed her mind when something occurred to her.  “No, that might be too much like being strapped to that table, even though he’s floating.  Let’s try face down instead.”  

He was still being pulled at, rubbed and manipulated.  Nothing terrible was happening.  They started to roll him over and he took a deep breath to fight.  But they weren’t putting him back THERE after all; they had him face down and were starting on his back.  It felt wonderful and he was aware that his body was relaxing.  He remembered the warm water and the touch of the bubbles that no longer stung.  A variety of fingers quested for tight muscles, working down his spine and across his shoulders.  One set reached under him and stroked his stomach, easing the cramps that had started there.  It felt so good, so safe; all he could do was cry.

“That’s better, that’s good, John.”  Aeryn spoke to him even though she knew he could not hear.  “We’re going to turn you over now, do not get upset.  It’s just us and it won’t hurt when we do this.”  She nodded to the others, and they slowly flipped him over.  He stayed relaxed and they started down his body again.  She worked her fingers in at the base of his skull, supporting his head in her hands as she worked the muscles he used to like having massaged so much.  John opened his eyes.  The blind gaze staring in Aeryn’s direction without recognition and then, for a brief instant, he seemed to smile.    

* * * * *

Aeryn stood beside Meylan while he examined John, impatiently waiting for him to guide her into another Meeting.  No one had been able to locate anything substantial since D’Argo had banished the Others two days earlier and it was beginning to worry her.  It had been the promise she had extracted from John that had lured him into exploring the portions of his memory that he had deliberately hidden, which in turn had led to the panic attack.  Any lost progress was her responsibility.  

Meylan straightened up, let go of Crichton, and shook his head.  “I was not able to get any further into his mind than usual.  Still, I am not reassured by what I sensed within.  I would like you to wait before trying another Meeting.”    

“It’s been two full planetary days,” she said.  “If he’s upset, shouldn’t we try to help him?”  

“I do not sense anxiety,” Meylan said pensively.  “You know he has not allowed any of us into his mind unless we are accompanying one of you.  That is making this very difficult.  I am not receiving any sense of specific emotions.  What is occurring is something far more … I believe the best word might be ‘random’.  I fear for your well-being if you venture into another Meeting at this time.”  

Aeryn thought about his caution for almost fifty microts, her eyes fixed on Crichton’s expressionless features the entire time.  She was worried about him, more worried than she had been since the first day they had brought him here.  D’Argo had banished the demons, so why was he unreachable, she kept asking herself.  Why wouldn’t John answer any of them?

“We have to know what’s going on in there,” she said.  “I’m asking you to take me into his mind.  John would never hurt me.”  She placed her hands firmly on John’s skull and waited to see what Meylan would do.  

“He would never hurt you deliberately, Aeryn Sun.  You must consider that not all of the injuries to John Crichton’s mind are psychic in nature.  There has been a great deal of damage to the physical.  Whatever is happening may be something that he is powerless to control.”  The priest stroked the dark stubbled jaw, his thumb working at a taut muscle near John’s right ear.  

“He won’t hurt me,” she repeated, waiting for Meylan’s final decision.  Warm fingers, damp from the not-quite-water of the pool, grasped her hands, and the familiar mental shove carried her forward.  

… five, six, pick up Tom Mix?  Not really right, not really bright.  Sun is bright, where is my Sun?  Change the plugs, adjust the timing, timing is everything.  Wish he had the time to … all the time in the world really, which world?  Sykar, sky car, sly car, side bar, here come da’ Judge.  Lawsy me, what dat be?  I tawt I saw a puddy cat.  --  JOHN!  Help me I can’t exist in this!  --  Who dat?  Boogats.  Who’s on first, what’s on second.  Nyuck, yuck, yuck.  Freshman dorm assignments, wound up in the smallest room on campus, no chance of sneaking Alex in there without his roommate knowing about it.  Alexandra the great … Aeryn was great, greatest thing that ever happened to him.  --  Fragmenting personality, force of the destruction of his mind pulling her apart, complete dissolution ripping every construct into its most basic pieces and scattering them into the melee.  --  Where had he put Aeryn?  She was hidden safely from the Others, but where where where?  Werewolves shouldn’t stay out after eleven, seven eleven, kill for a cherry Slurpee right now.  If he couldn’t then he wouldn’t, come again?  --  John!  --  Who’s there?  --  JOHN!!  You have got to help me.  --  AERYN?  Hang on to it, grab on to it, it’s an anchor, cling like Saran Wrap, tooth and nail, she says she needs my help.  Aeryn?  

Help me.  I can’t stay, but I can’t leave if you don’t help me.  --  Aeryn?  Error, do not bend, fold … concentrate on Aeryn, Aeryn, Aeryn.  What do I do?  --  Show me where it is, show me where I go to leave, I can’t find it in the middle of all this.  --  Order, organize, lobotomize … NO!  Order, ranks and files, clean your room, John Crich … NO!  Order, order, order … THERE!  THERE, THERE, THERE, THERE.  Goodbye, Aeryn.  I love you.  

She was shoved violently in one particular direction.  

* * * * *

She was lying on the heated tiles, wrapped in several towels with her head propped in Chiana’s lap.  Every cell in her body seemed to throbbing at a different tempo, with the exception of her head, which was merely exploding with the power of an entire star.  

“Let me sit up,” she croaked.  “I need something to drink.”  

“Are you in pain, Aeryn Sun?”  

Daaren was kneeling beside her.  Aeryn stared at him, confused by his presence.  He hadn’t been in the pool room several microts earlier.  

“I was summoned to treat you, Aeryn Sun,” he explained, and handed her a flask of water.  

She reached for the container and missed, tried and missed a second time.  “My head is killing me,” she admitted.  Daaren wrapped her fingers around the flask, hovering until it was clear that she had a grip on it.  She sipped slowly, flinching when his fingers touched her temples.  The pain slid away, leaving her feeling ill and sweating all over.  

“What happened, Aeryn?  What went wrong?”  Chiana was supporting her, the pale hands shaking against her shoulders even as they held her upright.  

“He’s gone,” she told them in a strained whisper.  

“What do you mean gone?” Chiana demanded.  “He’s going to be fine.  He knows who we are and he’s been getting better.  Gone how?”  

“I mean he’s --”  Fighting back the tears required that she stop for a microt, swallowing with difficulty before trying again.  “John is gone.  There’s nothing organized inside there.  That’s --”  She lost the battle.  Tears began flooding down her cheeks.  

“Do something!” Chiana said, aiming her anxiety directly at Meylan.  “Fix what went wrong.  Find what changed and repair it.”  

“John Crichton has stopped fighting,” the sixteenth level Pa’u confessed.  “He has given in to the disorder resulting from the torture.  There is nothing we can do to bring him back.”  

“He’s gone,” Aeryn repeated on a sob.  She buried her head in her folded arms and gave in to the grief.    

* * * * *

The pool chamber was silent except for the quiet lap of water against the edge and the occasional slurp and suck of the circulation system.  Rygel, Jool and D’Argo had been summoned and had been told of Aeryn’s devastating discovery, leaving all five shipmates brooding in a depressed silence while their hosts quietly discussed their remaining options.  

Aeryn watched the small huddle of delvians near the doorway without interest, merely noting the lack of energy and the slump of their shoulders.  Their discussion was pointless.  She had been the one to experience the complete lack of direction in John’s mind, the total chaos that had fallen over him.  He had been so lucid, so aware of her the last time she’d had a Meeting with him.  His emotional control had been non-existent, but every other portion of his psyche had felt exactly like the John Crichton she had come to love.  No one had been able to adequately explain how he had regressed from that frightened but directed mentality to this gleeful destruction of coherent thought.  

“We might as well change our clothes,” she said.  “We’ll be able to leave soon.”  The tears were there again, unwanted and unbidden.  

D’Argo started to ask a question.  “What about --?”  He knelt by the side of the pool, watching John coast toward the wall.  

“What?” Chiana asked him.  

“Who’s going to --”  D’Argo gestured toward John’s body, unable to finish his query.  “I won’t leave him here like this.”  

Aeryn had already asked the same question of the delvians.  She passed on the answer she had received.  “Meylan said they would take care of it.  It will be painless.”  

She took a deep breath, searching for and finding the rigid self-control that had kept her going after the other Crichton had died.  She knew that she would not be able to maintain the façade for as long this time.  She was too close to the brink, too close to complete dissolution to be able to hang on for much longer than a few arns after they finished the necessary task.  

“He’s in there,” Chiana objected.  “We all felt him.  We talked to him.  He knows who I am.  We can’t just … kill him.”  

“He doesn’t know anything at all anymore, Chiana.”  Aeryn joined D’Argo by the side of the pool, kneeling down to get one last look at the unique human who had changed their lives.  “John Crichton died two days ago.  He’s gone and he is not coming back.”  Beside her, D’Argo was silently crying, tears running steadily down into his braids.  

“No,” Chiana wailed.  “Look at him.  He’s right there!”  

“I am looking at him!” Aeryn snapped angrily at her.  “Don’t you think I want him to recover?  You don’t know what it was like in there.  It was like … like being insane.  There wasn’t a coherent thought left.  I couldn’t even find my way out of his mind.  The medtech was right.  We should have let them put a pulse blast through his head and gotten on with our lives.  We could have saved ourselves all this time and anguish.”  

“Aeryn,” D’Argo admonished.  

She shook her head, trying to take back the harsh words.  “No, that’s not true.  It was worth the effort.  We tried.  John tried, but he was too badly damaged.  He would have come back to us if he could.  The injuries were too severe.”  

She pushed herself to her feet, the normally effortless action a strenuous process.  She was exhausted from her brief mental battle to break loose from John’s shattered reality.  Each and every movement had to fight through stiffening muscles and her deepening grief.  She stared at John’s unblemished body floating near the bottom of the pool.  He even seemed relaxed and happy now, all sign of the inner destruction hidden from sight.  

D’Argo leaned down to dip his fingers into the water, then touched them to his lips and bid his friend farewell.  “Goodbye, John Crichton.  I will miss you for the rest of my life.”  He rose to his feet and gathered Chiana under his arm.  “We’ll go get changed.”  He put his hand on Aeryn’s shoulder for a microt, stared into her eyes with sympathy, then turned and headed for the door, leaving her alone to say her goodbyes.  

“Why did you stop fighting, John?” she asked the submerged figure.  Grief turned to rage in an instant, the repressed emotions finding a single outlet.  “You promised!” she yelled at the senseless man floating beneath the water.  “You promised me you would fight and you would come back!  Frell you, John Crichton!  You promised.”  Tears flowed, making it impossible to yell again.  “You promised you would fight.”  

And then D’Argo was beside her, holding her, hugging with all of his might as the anger cooled, leaving only pain and misery.  “He promised me he would come back, D’Argo.  He promised.  John promised me he would make the effort to come back, D’Argo.  He promised.”  

“I know, Aeryn,” D’Argo whispered, his voice rasping with his own tightly controlled emotions.  “He would have kept his promise if it were possible.  You know that.”  

“I don’t understand something,” Chiana interjected into the ensuing silence.  Dark tears continued to streak down the gray skin.  

“What?” Aeryn asked without lifting her face from D’Argo’s chest.  

“You said you couldn’t survive in his mind, that it was too confusing.  How did you find your way out?”  

Aeryn froze.  Even her breathing stopped for the length of time it took to replay that chaotic journey in her mind, separating out her thoughts from the whirlwind of images she had picked up from John.  Then she lifted her head and looked toward the group of delvians with something resembling hope in her eyes.  

Drive your car, go to Iscandar, it’s last call at the bar … they never had last call at Sykar.  White nights, nights in white satin, Aeryn in satin and lace.  Where did Aeryn go?  There’s that anchor again.  Woohooo, sail on by.  Goobye.  She said, nope, he said goodbye.  Goodbye to Aeryn.  Aeryn.  He’d lobbed her right on out of here, yep, centerfielder’s arm.  What a long bomb, hail mary pass the gravy and grits you teeth, grin and bear it.  Barely heard it.  Herd the stock, wind the clock … Aeryn had to leave.  Aeryn couldn’t stay.  Hang on, hang on, hang on.  There’s that anchor again, snag that bad boy with a boat hook, Captain Hook, tick tock … NO!!  Aeryn.  Anchor.  Take up the stillness, silliness … be still.  The water is warm, the river is wide I cannot get o’er … the water is warm, it’s all around.  Breathe.  She’s gone.  She had to leave.  She’s gone.  Forever?  Because of him?  He said goodbye, she left, hang on to Aeryn, grasp it hard, order everything else around that one fact, that one need.  Take a deep breath and hang on to it.  

Aeryn left because …

Aeryn …

Aeryn …

AERYN!

The water in the pool slapped hard against the tiled sides, vigorous wavelets slopping over the edge as John suddenly spun underwater, turning over and grabbing at something.  He opened his eyes for the first time since D’Argo’s rescue two nights earlier, suddenly appearing anxious.  It was more motion than they had seen at any time since he had been rescued, and the first appearance of anything resembling emotion.  He grabbed at the water, both fists clutching spastically, fingers clamping into uncoordinated balls, and gulped at the water as though he were panting.  

‘AERYYYYYYYNNNNN!’

She jumped as the mental yell blossomed inside her head.  “Did you hear that?” she asked, pulling out of D’Argo’s embrace.  She looked toward the doorway.  Meylan was walking very slowly around the edge of the pool, moving in their direction looking both astonished and perplexed.  “Did you hear that?” she asked him in a rush.  

“He should not be capable of projecting like that,” Meylan said with a moderate degree of disbelief in his voice.    

“Take me back in.”  Aeryn was already stripping off her quilted clothing.  D’Argo took her tunic and pants from her in a daze, not understanding any of the disjointed conversation bouncing between the two suddenly energized people.  “I know,” Aeryn cut Meylan off before he could warn her.  “I know it’s dangerous, but I’m not giving up if there’s still a chance.”  

“Aeryn, what is going on?” D’Argo finally insisted.  

She continued to ignore him, plunging into the pool to pull John off the bottom while she waited for Meylan to join her.  She had him floating on his back with her hands wrapped around his head by the time the priest pulled off his vestments and joined her.  The transition was instantaneous.  

Aeryn.  He slid into her with a rush.  AerynAerynAeryn.  I thought, I thought, I thought I’d driven you away forever.  

Random images tumbled about them, swooping and diving at them.  John batted them away, refusing to let them touch him again.  She could feel the constant, tiring battle against their urge to chaos.  

I’m sorry, I’m sorry.  Are you all right?  Did I hurt you?  

You did not hurt me.  I’m all right.  Can you maintain this?  Do we need to help you?  

No, I can do it on my own now.  I just forgot for a little bit.  I won’t forget again.  

You won’t forget what?  There was no answer.  She asked it again.  You won’t forget what, John?

You.  

They floated together for what felt like several arns, doing very little beyond being with each other, sometimes sharing images and the small fragments of memories that John would show her and ask her about.  

What’s this?  

I’m not sure.  It looks like you when you were very young.  

Me?  

Yes, you.  John Crichton.  

What’s this?  

That’s called a tavlek.  You call them tavloids.  

I do?  Why do I call them that?  

No one knows.  We have never been able to figure that out about you.  

Aeryn, what’s THIS?  He let a wave of something flow outward so she could experience what he was feeling.  

That’s an easy one, she told him.  She caught it, added her own version to the emotion and sent it rolling back, steadying him when the intensity threatened to overwhelm him.  

That’s nice, he sighed, letting it rebound toward her.  What’s that called?

You already know.  It brought you back to me.  It’s called love.  

* * * * *

Aeryn drifted across the larger pool, letting the gravity reducing effect of the water ease the cramped muscles in her neck and shoulders.  She was beginning to understand Crichton’s love of hot water, although she would have preferred the temperature somewhat lower if it had been for herself.  Standing half-submerged during the Meetings never triggered the onset of heat delirium, but the pools were too warm to allow her more than an occasional brief immersion to relax.  If it had been cooler, she would have welcomed a long relaxing swim.  

Jool and Chiana were arguing again, their voices bouncing off the walls of the chamber in a non-stop percussive rattle.  They had been sitting immersed up to their necks when she first floated by, and it sounded as though they were still resting in the shallow area of the pool, scrapping about something of little or no consequence.  

A dark flash streaked across the bottom of the pool.  A moment later Rygel popped to the surface.  The hynerian had been surprisingly willing to participate in the Meetings with John … provided he was allowed to wallow in the water to his heart’s content afterward.  He had spent as much time in the water as out of it over the last twelve planetary days.  

Aeryn looked back across the pool to the benches where they had all left their clothes.  D’Argo was sleeping on the warm tiles beside the pool.  He was taking advantage of a break in the nearly constant attempts to get John to interact with them outside his quiet dreaming place.  They were all showing signs of fatigue.  The repeated Meetings were taking more out of them than some of their most violent physical encounters.  No one had made the slightest complaint, though, and it had become commonplace for one or two of them to be watching from the side when someone attempted to reach John in his secluded world.  Even Jool had learned to subdue her arrogance long enough to find John, initiating one of the longest Meetings so far as she shared her accurate recall, showing John many of the things he had left behind when he retreated into his mind.  

She turned over on her stomach and slid smoothly underwater, taking her time as she swam to the far side of the larger pool.  She surfaced at the wall that separated the larger pool from the smaller enclosure that held Crichton whenever he was resting.  Both pools held the same not-quite-water mix, but John was kept in a separate area where the fluid was constantly filtered and treated to keep him healthy.  Aeryn leaned her forearms on the wall, pulled her upper body out of the heat, and watched him.  The only motion was his hair lifting and wafting in the occasional current.  Some days there was a lot of activity in there, rolls and stretches, random grabs or blows at nothing, followed by day-long stretches of death-like stillness.  

She reached over the partition and held her hand just above the surface of the water, feeling the barely seen vapor striking her palm, driven by the fizzing streams of oxygen.  Below her John stretched slightly, batted in watery slow motion against something invisible near his head, then turned and looked up at the surface.  The misaimed eyes continued to shock her, as did the look he sometimes wore that seemed to indicate some awareness of his surroundings.  But there wasn’t any sight, any more than there was awareness.  

There had not been a relapse since the devastating event three days earlier.  Unfortunately there had not been much progress either.  John’s memories remained trapped somewhere in the damaged portions of his brain, his reasoning remained a hit-or-miss capability at best, and his unwillingness to leave his private universe had not eased even a micro-dench.  He greeted each of them happily when they arrived, reveled in their company during the Meeting, and steadfastly refused to get anywhere near the exit when they invited him to leave with them.  

“He’s going to recover, Aeryn.”  

Chiana floated next to her.  Aeryn had not heard her approach.  She had been too deeply immersed in her thoughts about the past few solar days and what lay ahead.  

“You have to believe it,” Chiana said, breaking into her reverie for the second time.  

Chiana’s assurances could not have come at a worse moment.  Aeryn had spent the preceding day and most of this one deliberately avoiding the portion of her mind that held the possibility of failure.  It was too difficult to maintain a positive outlook as the days went by with little change in John’s condition.  She could not afford to spend even a few microts considering what would happen if they could not draw John away from his quiet dreaming place.  Not this soon after the near-calamity three nights earlier.  Not ever.  

“How much of their resources do you think the delvians are putting into maintaining this environment for him?” she asked instead.

“Very little, Aeryn Sun.”  They turned together, startled by Tahleen’s quiet answer.  “And any drain on our capacity would be too small to repay our gratitude.”  

Chiana’s curiosity got the better of her, and she asked the question that no one on board Moya had answered to her satisfaction.  “What do you owe them for?”

“Crichton and Pa’u Zotoh Zhaan risked themselves -- risked their identity and their sanity to ensure that our madness spread no further.  It was Zhaan’s wisdom that turned us back from a path that would have led to our destruction.”  Tahleen sank gracefully into a seated position with her legs tucked under her.  “Our community is stronger, more powerful than we ever could have hoped, and we have begun building a new home here instead of the temporary sanctuary we once envisioned.”  She dipped her hand into the water, watched the drops trail off her fingers.  “We would give a great deal more than we are currently providing in order to restore John Crichton to health.”  

“Can you do it?  Can you heal him completely?”  Aeryn felt a resurgence of hope.  

“We can heal his body and guide his mind along the route to recovery,” Tahleen said, “but it will be up to him to decide to make the journey back to rejoin you.”  She paused for a microt, considering her words.  “We have seen only small portions of his ordeal.  It will not be an easy process, and there is --”  She paused again.  “You should maintain the most positive mental outlook possible if you are to be of the greatest help to him.”

“Finish what you were going to say,” Chiana demanded.  “Our strong suit is deception.  Don’t try to beat us at our own game.”  

Aeryn agreed with the request.  “Finish it.  Tell us the whole truth.”  

Tahleen stared at her hands and remained silent for almost fifteen microts.  “There is the possibility that he will not choose to make the effort to return the rest of the way to you,” she said at last.  “The level of trauma is much greater than anything we have ever experienced, and the physical damage is extensive.  If John Crichton rejoins this realm his body can be restored, but he must make the effort first.  His recovery three days ago would be a very positive sign, except that he has become even more resistant to the idea of leaving since then.”

Below them the eyes closed and the subject of the conversation coasted in the current until he bumped lightly against a wall, then began a slow traverse back across the short distance to the other side.  Aeryn slid over the barrier and ducked under water to grab him.  She floated him toward the surface until his shoulders were against her stomach, allowing him to remain curled up.  She stroked his cheek a few times then began gently rubbing her thumbs against the tendons at the back of his neck.  

“Come back, John.  You can make it.”  She whispered it to him, pitching her voice was so low that she was sure the two women sitting less than two motras away would not be able to hear her over the sibilant hiss of oxygen fizzing from the surface of the pool.  “It’s just a little farther, you can make it.”

Gentle stroking against the back of his neck, a sensation from a different life, belonging to someone else.  Deep breath of contentment, the tide’s ebb and flow moving deeper to somehow enter his soul.  His head ached as always, but he took another deep breath through his nose and the warmth eased the pain.  The rhythm was entering his mind, lulling him into a place of peace and security.  He tried stretching a little, but it brought the ever-present ache back without managing to actually move any of his muscles.  His body answered its own agenda:  moving when he least expected it and remaining dormant when he commanded it.  

He had found a new memory, one consisting of blue skies, warm air, and a yellow light in the sky.  He wanted to ask Aeryn about it and the place that John was supposed to fill in this vision.  There weren’t any hulking creatures in the remembered place, but something else was missing as well.  

The rubbing moved to his chest, stroking him up and down, gradually migrating to the base of his throat where it somehow convinced the body around him to relax and straighten out.  

This was enough.  Small touches and warmth.  No need to go anywhere else.  This quiet dreaming place and Aeryn was all he needed to sustain him.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

[KernilCrash]

Chapter 7

“We believe it is time.  There is nothing more to be accomplished by letting him remain locked away.  You have all tried repeatedly to lure him the rest of the way across the boundary, and he is resisting as fiercely as the first day.  It must be done with caring, but he will have to be forced to come back.  He is not going to do it on his own.”  Meylan faced the assembled group and waited patiently for their reaction.  

John had been immersed for just over sixteen planetary days and they had all made dozens of Meetings with him.  He had come close to emerging with Aeryn one evening two days earlier, but he had turned back forcefully before the transition and had not been willing to attempt it since.  No one had been able to get him to reveal any portion of what had happened during the time he was imprisoned, other than when they caught an echo of his screams.  Only D’Argo had gotten the one glimpse of the ‘Others’, and they were convinced from his quick impression that it was the scarrans.  

“Do we need to take him through what did this to him?  Or can we get him out without doing that?”  Aeryn addressed her question to the entire group of delvians gathered in the pool room.  It was going to take five of the priests to get the entire group into John’s mind.  She smiled at the image of the five of them jammed into tight quarters along with John.  That alone would drive her insane.  

“You will have to determine that as you try to draw him out.  We will be riding along and will offer our advice if we believe you are handling a situation incorrectly.  You have all shown a deep insight into his needs, however.  We believe you are well equipped to handle this journey.  Our capacity to coax him out is no greater than yours, and it would be the work of strangers, which might worsen any damage.”

“What if we are unable to convince John to come with us?”  D’Argo asked in a low grumble.

“We will continue trying as long as you wish.  If you are not successful on this attempt, however, then I suspect that his withdrawal will be permanent.  Be compassionate, but you must not give up until you are absolutely certain that you cannot get him to emerge.”  

“How the frell are we supposed to figure that out?” said Chiana.  “Is there going to be a big sign posted saying ‘Give The Frell Up’?”  She was stalking back and forth behind the others, giving action to the tension that was manifest in all of them.  

Lorana answered the question, eyeing the quintet gravely.  “If you convince him to move away from his refuge and he manages, despite your efforts, to retreat all the way back to where you started, that would indicate a decision on his part that he intends to stay.  If he stops but does not retreat then you should continue trying.”  She looked around the nervous group.  “You have all displayed a keen understanding of John Crichton.  I do not believe you will misjudge him this time.  Your compassion will guide you correctly.”

“What will happen to Crichton if we cannot get him to come out with us?”  Rygel seemed grumpy as he asked the question.  His tone of voice was belied by his next statement.  “If he won’t come out, we can’t just leave him like this.  He’s in there, we can’t abandon him.”  He looked quickly at Aeryn before turning back toward the priests.  “It wouldn’t be like he was insane.  He’s acting as rationally as Crichton ever gets.”    

“That may be a decision you never have to make.”  Tahleen’s voice was like a cold breeze, barely touching them but leaving a chill behind as they contemplated the cost of not succeeding.  “Do not think about failure.  Remain positive and supportive, and do not yield easily if he resists.”  

There was no break between Tahleen’s last word and the sound of Meylan’s voice.  “Remember that you are not attempting to persuade him.  The last several days have made it clear that you will have to force him to abandon his refuge.”

“Crichton is going to resist,” Rygel said.

“Yes,” Meylan said.  “Undoubtedly.”

The room remained quiet for several microts while everyone considered that pronouncement.  

“You do not mean resist,” D’Argo said once Meylan’s words had sunk in.  “You mean John is actually going to fight us.”

“I believe so.  He is happy where he is.  There is always the possibility that he will accompany you without a struggle, but --”

“But he is too frelling stubborn for that to come true,” Chiana said.  

“I believe so,” Meylan said again, this time with a mournful smile and a nod in the young nebari’s direction.

“And we should force him to come with us anyway,” Aeryn said, confirming that their strategy had just shifted.  

“With compassion,” Lorana said.  “He knows you care for him.  That is what separates what you are about to do to him from cruelty.”  

“Does anyone want to skip this Meeting?” Aeryn asked the others.  There was no hesitation in her own mind, but in light of the revelation about what lay ahead, she did not want any of the others to feel they were being forced into taking part.  She looked at each of her crewmates in turn, finding the firm determination she had anticipated from D’Argo and Chiana, and an equal degree of commitment from Jool and Rygel.  

“We may have to take John back through what the scarrans did to him,” she warned one more time.  “He has said several times that there is something he has to do before he can leave.  That is what is stopping him.”  

“We’re in on this,” Chiana said firmly, speaking for the entire group.  
 

* * * * *

Crichton had been moved back to the larger pool where the delvians had begun forcing more oxygen into the already saturated water.  Meylan had explained that they expected John’s impending ordeal to upset him, which meant that he would be using more oxygen than normal even if his struggle was entirely mental.  

Aeryn slid into the pool to take her place at his head.  John had been left completely undisturbed overnight, allowing him to rest as deeply as possible, and he looked healthier than he had at any time since his rescue.  Tahleen was supporting his head, gently stroking his jaw as she waited patiently for everyone to prepare for the upcoming battle.  John opened his eyes just as Aeryn came to a stop alongside the delvian priest.  His gaze continued to wander in random directions, looking at nothing in particular.  Nothing had changed in that respect.    

“Can he see?  Will he be able to see?” Aeryn asked while they waited for the others to get ready.  

“All of our tests show that the nerves are intact and there has been no other permanent damage.  He should be able to see when he is ready to look.”  Tahleen let him float freely, shifting to a position near his shoulder as the rest of the group arrived.  All of them looked apprehensive but were moving with deliberate assurance.  

Meylan joined Aeryn at John’s head and she slid into his mind for what she prayed would be the last time.  

Aeryn!  I’m glad you’re back.  

It was the first time that he was actually waiting for her.  Is anything wrong?  

No. I just missed you.  I was lonely.  

You do not have to be lonely, John.  You could come with me today.  

There was no answering thrust from him, only an impression of reluctance.  John, please come with me, come with me now.  She tried to move closer, not to join with him, but to entangle her desires more deeply into his senses.  He put up a flimsy mental barrier, wary because of her request but not shutting her out with any significant force.  

You made a promise to me that you would be ready some day.  

Yes, yes, yes, someday but not today, not yet, not yet.  

He reverted nervously into the anxious rounds of repetition that he had given up several days earlier, sending the same images again and again.  Aeryn broke into his stream.  Yes.  Today.  Now.  Come with me.  She whispered it, spoke it, sent the commands floating to him through the warm embrace of the water.  He faltered, recovered, became more anxious.  

Not yet, Aeryn, please not yet.  I like it here. This is a good place to be.  I want to stay here longer.  

How much longer?  

I don’t know.  Longer.  A bit longer.  

John, you promised.  You promised me that you would be ready, and I think today is the day that you have to be ready.  

I know I promised, he wailed, trapped in his vow.  But not yet, not yet, not yet.  Please … not that … I don’t want to, not yet.    

Why not?  

NoNoNoNoNo.  

Then his name washed over him in a chorus, the symbol for his name swelling on a four part wave of caring.  They were all there, invading his quiet dreaming place.  His fear and suspicion grew.  He tried to back away.  Rygel and Chiana teamed up to block him, forming a determined restriction to any movement deeper into the tangled labyrinth of his own mind.  They wound themselves around him and pulled him forward, seeking a balance between supporting him and providing an implacable force to carry him into the area of his mind he refused to visit.  Jool and D’Argo joined in, providing a coordinated aura of emotional assurance, doing their best to bolster Crichton’s confidence while forcing him forward.  Together, as a single entity, they began to carry John away from his quiet dreaming place.  

Aeryn tried to guide the entire group straight back the way they had all arrived, along the well-known route toward the pool where the delvian priests were waiting.  Their way was blocked.  More than blocked.  The pathway simply did not exist any more.  She sent out an inquiry, wafting it toward the place where warm water and gentle hands waited for them.  The delvians were there.  They heard, understood, and could respond, but they could not find the route either.    

See?  SEE?  That’s not the way out!  I can’t go that way; they won’t let me.  

It was a wail of despair.  

Who won’t let you?  

THEY won’t.  The Others.  The ones over there.  

Then we will all go together, John.  D’Argo’s reassuring tone took the edge off the mounting panic.  We will go with you, and we will force the others to let you come with us.  

And then they were all telling him the same thing all together.  A single intertwined voice told him that they would not abandon him.  They would stay with him.  They would share whatever horrors he was trying to avoid.  He could trust them.  He had to come with them now.  

No!  I don’t want you to go there but I can’t go there without you … you can’t come with me but you must come with me … you can’t, I can’t, not without you, not with you, not with me, not without you, not …  He wound down and stood in their midst, confused and unable to go in any direction at all.  

You are John Crichton, Aeryn told him.  You must come with me now.  

No.  

The confused mind refused to move, rediscovering resolve, and Aeryn experienced the shared mass of five times her own despair.  She tried one more time, wielding the one tool that no one else possessed, deliberately ignoring the fact that the others could hear and feel the complex symbols she was about to show him.  Getting John to abandon his dreaming place was more important than the brief surrender of her privacy.  

John, I need you back.  You have to come with me because I need you.  

He continued to back away, putting every bit of his limited mental energy into fighting the restriction created by Chiana and Rygel, and the despair was like nothing she had ever felt.  It was worse than when the other one had died.  

JOHN!!  I cannot go on if you do not come with me.  I can’t lose you, not again.  

He stopped, irresolute, frightened out of the capacity to form coherent images.  She could feel the confusion building in his mind, battering any remaining intellect into mindless chaos.  A small cluster of fragments orbiting a single idea -- more a suggestion of a concept rather than a true symbol -- managed to make its way out of the destruction.    

Aeryn.  Aeryn needs John.  

Yes, Aeryn needs you.  Please come with me.  

Aeryn needs me to come.  

She felt him looking forward and back -- the closest John could come to weighing his different options -- and sent the thought one more time, backed up by every micro-dench of dependency she could muster.  

I need you, John.  

He sobbed and struggled again Rygel’s and Chiana’s embrace, trying to avoid the deluge of unformed memories that were breaking free from where he had hidden them.  The images tumbled loose, reminding everyone of the agony he had survived, forcing John to finally contemplate what had happened to him.  

What he feared most and had worked hardest to prevent was happening.  He was starting to remember.  

No.  Aeryn, please.

John, I need you.  Do it for me.  

Aeryn needs …

John … I LOVE you, and I need you.

Aeryn loves John.  John loves Aeryn.

I love you.  You love me.  

The others stood frozen, avoiding any thought that might distract John from what she was showing him, waiting, hoping that she could make him understand.

John loves Aeryn.  Aeryn loves John.  He repeated the images several times, turning them over and over, examining each one as carefully as his limited intellect would allow.

You love me.  I love you, Aeryn sent back, then gave him a new image to consider.  We want to be together.

Together …

Together.  Not like this John.  Not here.  We want to be together for real.  You want to be together with me.  I want to be together with you.  I cannot survive if we are not together.  I love you too much.

Together with Aeryn.  John wants to be together with Aeryn.

Yes.

I MUST DO IT FOR AERYN …  

He leapt into the void separating him from where they stood around his body, and they were all carried with him as he fell into the darkness.  

* * * * *

They had given up on the standard technique of mental dislocation once they had determined his identity.  He had not revealed anything about who he was so he assumed they must have had something about him stashed in their datastores.  One of their leaders, larger and brawnier than the others, had come into the room and he had been released from the projector.  The hallucinations had been as bad as before, but knowing what was happening had allowed him to fight it, clinging tenaciously to the knowledge that every bizarre set of events was nothing more than an induced illusion.  

It had actually been a lot of fun through the first stages.  He was starving now, but he could clearly remember the taste of the pizza and beer.  They had used Aeryn again, and he had taken enormous liberties with that little delusion and gotten something far better than a meal out of it.  He lay on the floor where he had collapsed and smiled at the implanted memory.  He considered suggesting they start over again, deciding microts later that humor was not in the make up of a scarran and that provoking them was a bad idea.  

There was humor in his mind though, laughing at how he had used their torture to enjoy himself, amusement and bemusement at his forays into a forced fantasy world.  There was admiration, and a smirk, and someone humorously disgusted, and outright laughter, and someone who was indulgently pleased that he had found solace in her imagined company.  They made him feel safe, nudged him to continue, clung to him on all sides as the past was relived.  

One of them grabbed him by the back of the vest and he was slung into the hallway, crashing into the wall to slide down to the floor with another heavy impact.  

‘Bruise number four thousand and eighty two,’ he thought fuzzily.  

Their progress back to the cell was a series of such battering tosses.  Grab, sling, smash, thud.  Sounded a bit like a commercial for some piece of kitchen equipment … or maybe alka-seltzer.  Plop, plop, smash, fizz.  The second and longest throw down the hallway left him dazed and limp, which might have explained why he made it through the last bodily heave without getting hurt.  

‘Bad aim,’ was his last thought as his scarran jailer missed the doorway entirely and flung him at short range into the wall beside the entrance.  

Crichton woke in a tangled heap in the corner of the cell, feeling sore and battered.  He spent a few microts assessing his own condition, considering himself lucky since he was basically intact and his thinking was clear despite a mild headache.  He extricated himself from the knot he had formed, and got unsteadily to his feet.  He could see yellowish sunlight streaming through a small window set high in the wall, and tottered to the opposite side of the cell to get an angle to look out.  It was morning; soft early sunlight illuminated a clear sky.  He did some mental calculations and decided that two days might have passed since his capture.  His stomach chose that moment to let out an extended growl, confirming his estimate.  

Crichton walked to the door, which looked like it was made of hydrosteel, and tried to haul himself up to look out of the small grated window.  It was set at the height of a scarran, and he got no more than halfway up before dropping back to the floor, too sore and tired to lift his own bodyweight.  He was about to try the bang-on-the-door-and-sing-the-blues routine, but chose discretion over impudence.  Scarrans were the wrong captors to piss off.  

He did not have to wait long for attention.  Less than half an arn had passed when he heard the heavy clomping of several scarrans approaching his cell.  He moved to the back wall and leaned against it, trying to look nonchalant.  He was scared enough that his mouth was dry and his skin was tightening along the back of his neck as he considered what they might try next.  He was not inclined to underestimate the savagery of this species.

The door crashed open, and four scarrans crowded into the cell.  Within microts, he began to sweat.  

“Nice sauna here, guys.  Can I get a clean towel?”  It popped out of his mouth even as he tried to tell himself he should not say it, and got the expected reaction.  Not a sling … more like a slap from a bucket loader.  Grab, SLAP, smash, thud.  Makes for an interesting change, the thought rattled through his rattling head.  He pushed himself up onto his hands and knees, choosing to stay closer to the hard floor until his senses cleared.  

“Bring him.”  The largest one was doing the talking again.  One guard grabbed the back of his vest while another crushed both of his ankles in one huge hand and they carried him between them to a room he had not visited yet.  He was placed upright before the leader, ringed by five or six others.  The heat was getting oppressive.  Sweat trickled down his chest under his shirt.  The waist of his leather pants slid greasily against his dripping skin as he shifted from one foot to the other, fighting the fear that welled out of his stomach in nausea inducing floods.  Wiping his forehead on the sleeve of his already soaked shirt only succeeded in smearing around the additional sweat.  

“Who are you?” one of them snarled.  “Tell us your name.”  

They had been asking the same question since the first moment they had captured him.  Crichton figured they knew who he was by now.  This was simply their way of testing his resistance to their unrefined hospitality.  Giving them his name meant he would have to make up his mind about answering every subsequent demand.  He decided to draw the line right here.  Once the door to answering their questions was open, he would find it harder and harder to resist.  It was easier to stick with straight-out refusal.  

“Dirty Harry,” he answered, trying to sound confident.  “Or maybe that’s dirty and hairy.  Go ahead, make my day, Wally Gator.”  He braced himself for another slap.  Both his shirt and his vest disappeared instead.  Long claws ripped them to shreds with only a whisper of noise as they were sliced off his body.  “Didn’t like the color?  I thought basic black went with anything.”  

One scaled hand reached toward him.  He managed one step back before the heat washed over him.  The extra distance did not help.  A tiny part of his psyche screamed that this was the scarran mind-probing capability, relying on the victim’s body breaking down under the extreme temperatures.  He shut his eyes, closed his mind to the pain, and rode it out, ignoring the repeated questions.  He was released to fall to his knees, gasping for air.  A stream of sweat ran down his face and splashed off his chin.  He was really feeling very tired.  

Energy flowed into him from an external source, willingly lent by others -- those who surrounded him in another time and place.  They buoyed his spirit, eased his fatigue, urged him to go on despite the daunting distance that remained to be traveled.  

“Very well, then.  You leave us no choice.”  The grating, growling voice did not sound particularly disappointed about the turn of events.  

He was flipped onto his back and a sharp claw slit the laces on his boots.  His pants were quickly shredded and pulled away.  Within microts, he was standing naked before them, sweat streaming down his entire body.  Several more scarrans had joined the crowd, pushing the temperature up even higher.  There were almost a dozen in the room now, and it seemed to be overflowing with scales and sharp teeth.

Several circled around him, peering at his anatomy.  It was beginning to feel like a “Nightmare in the Locker Room” movie and the sick feeling in his stomach was approaching the level of true nausea.  One of them went so far as to run a finger between his legs, examining him in more detail and John forced himself to stand still, struggling to look impassive.  

The inspection ended and he was shoved further into the room.  They lifted him to lie face down on a metal table, pinning his arms and legs as several of them began attaching droves of electrodes to his body.  A majority seemed to be concentrated along his spine, and the nausea increased.  

When the scaled fingers began working their way over his skull he started to shake, fighting to control it so they would not know how afraid he was now.  The application stopped and he was flipped over onto his back.  He tried struggling as they moved him.  Their strength made a farce of his efforts.  They began strapping him to the table and more tangles of wires were separated and attached.  Crichton tried to divorce his screaming anxiety from what was being done to him, redirecting his attention by searching for a place in his mind where he could hide from whatever was coming.

Intrusion on his memories.  Comfort, love, warmth.  He would survive, he would be all right.  Warmth, floating sensation.  Aeryn was there.  They would protect him.  Warrior D’Argo was by his side.  Jool’s intellect said he could live through this, Chiana showed him how a survivor survives, and the resolute dignity of a deposed royal give him the strength to continue.  They told him more.  He didn’t hurt, he didn’t have to be worried, he would survive this.

Aeryn, I don’t want to do this.  Let me go back.  

Move forward.  Move on.  He could come to them now.  

He tried.  He heard the voices and tried to go with them, but the Others had him completely bound to the table now and the sticky attachments had crossed his groin and were crawling up his chest.  He struggled wildly, doing his utmost to break free so he could follow his friends.  He didn’t want to stay here.  It was too awful.  

Take me with you, please, oh God please.  

The answer came back that he could come with them whenever he was ready, but he had to be the one who came to them.  They would stay with him and help him until he was able, but he had to be the one to travel the distance.  They could not do it for him.  

He pulled desperately at the hands that held him down, tried to believe that he could just leave and go with his friends, but he was still on the table and nothing he did made a difference.

AERYN?

I am here.  I will not leave you.

The straps were wide and cut into him too frequently.  Ankles, knees, thighs, hips, chest, his arms in three places, and then the thickly padded one across his throat, pulling up on his chin.  He could not budge a single dench.  They finished securing the last wires onto his cheekbones, and stepped away, admiring their work.  There was jostling as they fought for a vantage point to watch, avidly waiting for the next moment.  Their enthusiastic pleasure frightened him more than anything else that had happened so far.  Logic and bravado dissolved in the face of their delight.  These were scarrans; nothing they enjoyed could be good.  Crichton did not want to admit to himself what was about to happen, but he exhaled as deeply as he could, emptying his lungs of the fuel that drove screams.

Stronger voices were chanting to him, filling him with peace and tranquility.  There were harmonies winding around it and capturing his attention.  Wordless, it calmed him, steadied him for what was inevitable.  It gave him the strength to see that no one had left him.  They were worried and they wanted to leave, but not if it meant abandoning him.  They would not leave without him.  He touched them for a moment, drawing strength from their presence, then tried to pull away so they wouldn’t have to do what he had done.  He tried to buffer their experience, intending to cut them off and protect them even if it meant being alone.  They wouldn’t let him carry through with his plan.  They entwined themselves into him and they waited together for the horrors to begin.  

“Kelvo One.”  Starburst in his chest, but not a bad one, just a baby leviathan ripping out through his sternum.  Mucus ran down his cheek from where the remaining vestiges of air were driven out while he was trying to breathe in through his mouth at the same time.  In and out at the same time didn’t work, but his throat needed air to make the noises.  He panted for a moment and tried to exhale again.  He would not give them the noises unless he was forced into it.  He had nothing left but his stubbornness; he would not give them what they wanted until he had no other choice but to yield to the increasing levels of agony.

“Kelvo Two.”  Body on fire.  Raging explosion in his head.  Cramps in his forearms and legs from straining against the straps, but only a gagging noise because he started with no air.  

“Kelvo Three.”  First cry into the night, coughing and gagging because he tried the simultaneous inhale-exhale thing again.  Strain against the chest strap and hear his bad shoulder pop out and back in.  Minor sting compared to everything else.  

He remained warm and supported, but the hands holding on to him were shaking.  He had to draw back, go away from this place.  They would let him if he had to, but they encouraged him to continue.  The voices called for him to go forward.  Life lay before him, nothing lay behind.  They would understand retreat but they would prefer he continued.  They were ready, they could stand it, he could stand it, it wouldn’t hurt him this time.  

He paused, considering their assurances.  It was the wrong thing to do, because while he pondered his choices, there was …

“Kelvo Four.”  

Throat burning, rictus of muscles pressing against the padding there.  Shoulder popped out completely that time, arm twitching from the injury but no sensation really, anything the body thinks it is feeling is lost in the encompassing fury they’ve stuffed into his nerves.  A scarran leans on the joint and the noise reverberates through the bones in his ear as it goes in.  No other way to tell it ever happened, just a quiet whisper against the symphony of pain they’ve given him.  Every instrument is playing at full volume and they are not even leaning on the switch now.  

Arching against the next hit, impossible position to achieve when there was no room beneath the restraints just microts ago but it seems there is now.  Lungs aching for air.  Suck in overheated oxygen and give vent to the agony again and again.  An interrogatory nearby.  It registers but isn’t truly heard; don’t know what they want him to tell them.  He would tell if he knew what they wanted.  Let it loose, let it flow out with the full contents of his lungs.  Release the energy being stuffed into every cell in his body in a long chorus of dissonant sounds.  

Turn back, go back, I’ll go back now, I want to go back.  

They wouldn’t let him, they pulled at him, called to him, pleaded as he pleaded, begging him to continue forward.

 I don’t want to, I want to go back.  

It was too late …

They hit him again with Kelvo Four and the noise was no longer a release.  It was forced out, ripped out without volition, brutally extracted from his lungs and throat.  Released from the force that was tearing him apart, flopping back, hearing some crippled animal in the corner crying out its suffering, waves of cold water slapping his body, sluicing away the sweat.  Trying to service burning lungs and getting a throat full of water instead, coughing and spitting up water and mucus together.  

Was that six or seven?

“Kelvo Five.”  Not possible to feel every cell in his body separately.  Not possible.  Another bucket of water over his head, choking and fighting for air.  Finally find the right way to breathe, take a huge breath and another deluge hits.  It’s deliberate.  Trying to cough an ocean out of his throat while strapped prone so he can’t breathe.  They hit him again with the power of a nova stuffed into every cell in his body and he’s choking and spitting up water, trying to scream but sucking fluid into his lungs instead.  Hit him one more time, and it all comes out on a wave of sound that he never would have guessed could have been produced by one pair of lungs.  

We’re here, you’re not alone, his friends sang to him.  

I want to leave.  Let me leave.  

Come with us, come forward, follow us.  

Don’t you see?  They won’t let me go yet.  Struggling and pleading but then there’s …

“Kelvo Six.”  Moving deeper inside now, invading his bone marrow, his intestines, running down the insides of his lungs.  Hit him again and again and again.  Scream, scream and let it all run out.  No need to hang on to it, there’ll be more.  Don’t savor it, there’s plenty more where that came from.  Scream.  It’s a good thing.  

Turning back, pulling loose and heading back where he had been, but they were blocking him, urging him forward, surrounding him with their calm determination.  They force him back toward where the nightmares await.

I don’t want to … don’t make me … please.

Come with us, come forward, don’t stop here.  

One strong voice leading the singing encouragement, the single voice that held his life out to him, offered him everything that he needed to continue.  

Aeryn needs me …

“Kelvo Seven.”  

Loud crack and maybe he’s broken his arm, but his hand is flailing loose.  Turns out he has managed to snap through a restraint and everything comes to a stop.  Heat closes in as several work to replace the missing piece.  Can’t have him thrashing around, he might cause himself some pain.  Hearing his own laughter, which is sounding a bit hysterical.  They’re attaching the new part now, getting ready to start again.  Wishing Harvey was still with him to kill him.  Harvey could put an end to it.  There’s an argument starting having to do with a bet.  Start over or continue.  The heat wave billows over him, and even tightly ratcheted down he’s sliding on the slick surface of the table.  

Come forward with us, you’ve done enough now, you don’t have to finish.

Crying and trying, but he’s bound and can’t move.  They won’t allow him to go with his friends.  Tugging at the straps, don’t leave me, don’t leave me here, I don’t want to stay.  

We will NOT leave you, John.  We all leave or we all stay.

“Kelvo Four.”  Compromise for those with wagers.  Not a good compromise for him.  

“Kelvo Five … Six … Seven.”  No escape by breaking loose this time.  

“Kelvo Eight … Nine … Ten.”  They’re paying off bets.  He’s still alive.  A new round of laughter and more betting.  Why is he still conscious?  Direct nerve induction, the words ring in his memory.  Direct and immediate stimulation of the synaptic processes.  Stick a frog, stick a Crichton.  Straps are being released, but not all of them.  Wrists and ankles remain, pulled tighter than ever.  

They’re going to … they’re going to … He couldn’t say it, couldn’t show it.  

COME WITH US NOW, JOHN!!  They were all saying the same thing.  There was a chorus chanting to him to leave this now and go with them.  

He pulled at the straps, pulled frantically at his ankles and wrists, desperate because he knew what was about to happen, and they wouldn’t come free.  

AERYN!!  Make it stop!!!

“Kelvo Ten.”  No fair, they did that one already.  One nano-microt to consider.  There is a choice to make, scream first or turn inside out.  Bullseye, stick the Crichton.  Scream, scream, scream.  No relief this time, they hit him again and again.  Released from the pain because he’s vomiting but they’re ready for that.  Hit that button again and once more.  Laughter and more bets paid off as they strap him down tightly.  They had been measuring how high off the table he would get.  

Refastening the rest of the straps, yanking them tighter than before because the Others know how bad it is about to become.  Back to the business at hand.  

How high does the dial go?  

“Kelvo Eleven …”  

They’re not asking questions anymore.  This is just for fun.  

Oh God no.    

NO!!  No! No! No! No!  

The hands were grasping him more tightly now, telling him it was over, it was all right, he was all right, he would be well again.  The straps were gone even though he knew there was more to follow, his limbs were free of the sweat slick table and their arms were around him everywhere instead, telling him it was over and he could come home now.  He let them take him with them, but it wasn’t over.  He knew better.  He knew there was more waiting for him.

The fury was singing in his body again for the first time in days, every neuron jacked up to an impossible level.  There were no straps to stop him, so he could arch over backward, every muscle pulling him into a folded rictus in the wrong direction, seeking to snap his own spine to stop the pain.  But the star had been stuffed into his skull as well, and only a bullet between the eyes would ever stop it.  There was more coming, much more, but he couldn’t begin to remember it.  It was inconceivable, more than one brain could ever remember and yet he remembered.

The arms holding him were fading and there was only the shattering of his mind, the running before that which could not be handled, the diaspora of his identity.  He was breaking into his component parts, floating out onto the ocean of sensations upon which no sailor would ever choose to embark.  

Confusion, dissolution, dissipation; neurosis, psychosis; mania, shattered cranium.

He was gone.  All that he ever had been was gone, and there was only the next fusion of body and the energy that had destroyed him.

He was jerked out of his reminiscence of insanity by a voice in his mind.

It’s a phantom, John.  It doesn’t exist.  

The hands were soothing him again, and he could feel them now, real and substantial, invading his world.  

It’s over and the pain is gone.  Say it with me.  

It’s over and the pain is gone.  He said it and it was.

It’s over and you can open your eyes and come out now.  Feel us, we’re here and we are waiting for you.  Open your eyes, and follow me out into the water.  

The chorus of voices commanded and coaxed, teased and persuaded, urged and nudged, asked and demanded.  And there were more voices joining in, singing a single complex tune that lacked any notes.  

Follow us, open your eyes, you’re safe, follow us, look at us, come with us, see us, be with us.  Come home.  

Aeryn’s voice ordering him.  

Follow me, John.  Come with me.  

He did.  

Open your eyes.  

He did.  

John Crichton looked up as he was told to, and saw the distorted images of his friends hovering above the surface of the water.  He drew in another liquid breath, not fighting it although it seemed new, and looked left and right, trying to make sense of his surroundings.  Blue skin alternated with the variety of figures around him, each pair of hands supporting him and holding him securely:  D’Argo’s tattooed stomach, Chiana’s lean gray ribs and taut belly, Jool’s familiar midriff and Rygel floating as if he had been born there.  

He ached all over, every nerve in his body singing in the aftermath of remembered agony; but the pain was measurable and he could handle it.  His head was empty of the reassurances; the silence that existed in that space was more agonizing than the physical sensations.  He tried to recall who had been there, who had been talking to him, who had ordered him to obey.  He remembered.  He remembered who it was just as he noticed the steady massaging at the base of his skull.  He let his head fall back and looked up at Aeryn.  His view of her was distorted by ripples from tears falling into the water.  

‘Don’t cry, Aeryn Sun.  I’m here, don’t cry.’  He couldn’t use the contents of his lungs to make the noises he knew she would understand.  Somehow she heard him anyway.  

‘I’ll cry if I want to, John Crichton.  You shut up and relax.’  The single tune reentered the void inside his head, a clear unblemished note that filled the hollow spaces to overflowing.  His head ached unmercifully, but that one tone made it possible to ignore the light and heat of the discomfort.

‘Did I do it?’  He was worried, she had been insistent and he had refused several times to do what he was told.  There might have been an argument.

‘Do what?’  

They had not let go; the hands were still there to protect him.  His mind existed in solitude now, but they were all maintaining contact, letting him know he was not alone.  Why was Aeryn the only one who would talk to him though?  

‘Did I keep my promise?  Did I do what I was supposed to?’  His body was still singing a high pitched aria of discomfort, muscles twitching a discordant percussion to go along with it.  Focusing on Aeryn and his friends allowed him to shunt the rising sensation of sickness to a place where it could be ignored.  

Her answer did not come right away.  Aeryn rubbed his skull harder, moving her fingers to work behind his ears.  ‘Yes, you did.  You did everything you promised and more.’  She rubbed the tired muscles along his jaw, the ones that had bunched into tight knots and now ached as though they would never stop.  ‘You need to relax now.  Try to relax.’    

Her fingers returned to the back of his neck, and worked into the tendons at the base of his skull.  When she hit a particular spot she seemed to be seeking, he did not really have a choice about relaxing.  He sighed, enjoying the warm rush in his chest.  He had forgotten to miss how good it felt when she rubbed that spot.  The other hands were leaving him slowly, until he was floating, eyes half closed, in Aeryn’s solitary grasp.  

‘Don’t leave?’ he tried calling to them.  ‘Don’t go yet?’  

After a delay of four microts they returned, but he still could not hear them.  There were the careful touches, completely unlike those he had been feeling for so long, but more reassuring.  They held and caressed him until Aeryn told him they had to leave so everyone could get some rest.  He rocked in the currents from their departure.  

‘You too?  You need some rest too, don’t you?’ he asked her.  ‘You sound tired.’  

‘I will leave to get some rest so long as you promise me that you will get some sleep, too.  But you have to be ready to talk to me here, in this pool, in the morning.  Agreed?’  

He nodded.  

‘Don’t just nod.  Tell me that you will meet me right here in the morning.”

‘I promise.’  

“Not in the quiet dreaming place,” Aeryn said, rubbing both sides of his jaw with her thumbs.  “I want you here, in the water.  No going back.  Promise me.’

‘I promise,’ he agreed again, and then considered a portion of what she had just said.  Thinking was hard work, requiring energy that he did not seem to have.  ‘Aeryn?  How can I hear you when I’m underwater?’

‘Special equipment.  We’re with a group of delvians, and they are taking good care of all of us.  Now go to sleep, John Crichton.  I will be here, waiting for you when you wake up.’

* * * * *

Aeryn waited until she felt his mind slide into an exhausted rhythm, easy waves of sleep carrying him up and down through the natural, healthy cycle.  She broke away then, both mentally and physically, staggering back into D’Argo’s strong, waiting hands.  He guided her to the edge of the pool and, without asking, lifted her to sit on the edge.  Someone dropped a warm towel around her shoulders and she sat for long moments feeling tired and depressed.  She had expected that this moment would leave her feeling elated, but every trembling quiver of her exhausted body took her one step closer to weeping instead.  

She roused herself to look at who was around her.  Chiana and D’Argo were sitting shoulder to shoulder to her left.  Jool was on the far side of D’Argo, also making physical contact.  Aeryn looked for Rygel and found the aquatic hynerian floating quietly by her right foot.  Everyone’s attention was focused on the figure stretched out near the bottom of the pool.  

For the first time since they had brought him to the New Moon of Delvia, John had not curled into a ball.  He was floating stretched out almost straight, arms tucked along his ribs with his hands curled against his chest.  Some remaining bit of inertia or a stray current had started him rolling, slowly revolving from face up to face down and around again.  His hair stood out straight from his scalp all over, a puffy sort of look except that it was waving slightly as he drifted.  

“Yotz,” said Rygel with very little expression in his voice.  

“Frell me,” Chiana added in an equally flat tone.  

“That was …”  Jool paused and everyone turned to look at her, waiting for her pronouncement.  She shook her head, for once at a loss for words.

“Why isn’t he dead?” Chiana asked.  “He should be dead.”  No one mistook what she was trying to say.  They all wondered how he had survived.    

“He’s back,” Aeryn said, forcing the words past the lump in her throat.  “He did it.”  She found a smile forming somewhere inside her, easing outward until it tugged at the corners of her mouth.  “We did it.  We all did it.  He came back.”  

“Long way to go,” D’Argo cautioned her, but his features were brightening as well.  

“Crichton can be a complete pain when he isn’t feeling well,” Chiana agreed.  “He’ll be a miserable son of a frellnik until he’s fully recovered.”  She laughed and nudged D’Argo with her shoulder.  And suddenly they were all laughing, banging gently against each other as they sat shoulder to shoulder on the warm tiles, watching the sleeping Crichton coast slowly from one side of the pool to the other.  

Aeryn thought about the long way to go that D’Argo had mentioned.  John’s injuries were severe; his body was the prison now, instead of his mind.  The delvians had already warned them that he had suffered extensive damage to the motor neurons that controlled most voluntarily movement, as well as those responsible for some of his autonomic reactions.  He would require endless arns of their healing sessions to restore those portions of his nervous system.  But she alone had felt John’s mind in the last few microts after the others had broken their contact.  She knew the firm feel to his thoughts, and the returning steadiness of his emotions.  She had also felt the huge holes in his memory, the blank spots where information might have been lost forever.  The intrinsic nature of him was there, however, and she was certain that the John Crichton she knew was back.  

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

[KernilCrash]

Chapter 8

Wake missing Aeryn.  Longing for her before he leaves sleep behind.  He was floating, but where?  There was a light mental touch and he opened his eyes to discover that he was surrounded by blue.  He remembered that there were people called delvians. 

I am John Crichton, an astronaut.  Aeryn and the others are here. 

Where is here?  What was there before Aeryn?  There should be more.  There was someone called Mom.  Who was Mom, where was Mom, what was Mom?  Where did she belong in the vast empty spaces within his mind? 

There was plenty of time to consider these things.  He was … underwater.  That was supposed to be strange.  He tried to stretch, hurting intensely.  His body ignored him and went on feeling tight and cramped.  He went back to considering the underwater situation.  A deep breath worked, although he didn’t know why it did … or why he thought it shouldn’t, for that matter.  He tried a small sniff.  It didn’t feel particularly different from when he wasn’t underwater, except a bit thicker.  The flood in his chest was soothing.  He floated and waited, considering the small group of things that made sense.  This wasn’t quite as peaceful as the quiet dreaming place, but it felt safe and somehow he knew that Aeryn would come to see him here.   

The wafting reverie was broken by someone grasping him firmly about the sides of his head.  He started to open his eyes to investigate this event, but there was a sensation like someone knocking at a door in his mind and he veered away from the physical embrace to examine this latest experience. 

Good morning, John.  Are you awake? 

No. I’m sleeping. 

Is that supposed to be funny? 

Guess not. 

How do you feel? 

Like crap, but I’m alive.  I found out something interesting that you forgot to tell me yesterday, Aeryn. 

What’s that? 

I appear to have drowned. 

Can a wraith laugh?  Can a mental ghost be filled with joy at a returning peculiar sense of humor and laugh with relief even if the joke was pretty stupid?  Yes, it could.  It was not the rebirth of happiness, but gestation had begun, the sprouting of something within him that promised to blossom into the cheerful way he went through life.  He shared his view of the laughing figure bending over him, rubbing his chest to reassure him that he was not drowned, he was alive, and that this very weird spot to sleep was not going to kill him, and for the first time -- for a discernable moment -- there wasn’t any fear. 

Aeryn? 

She felt the overwhelming mass of anxiety in his single gentle touch.   

Who is John?  I can’t remember.  You said I would … but I don’t. 

She thought about this problem for several microts then, instead of answering his question, asked him something else.  Who is Aeryn Sun? 

She faltered as he showed her everything he knew of her. 

“Aeryn, are you all right?” 

The deep voice drew her out of her dazed shock and she turned to look at D’Argo.  The luxan had been sitting patiently at the side of the pool.  He was standing now, tense muscles shouting out his concern.  Aeryn looked between him and Meylan several times, struggling with the familiar disorientation that they all encountered for a few microts every time they exited John’s psyche. 

“What is the matter, Aeryn?  Is John all right?” 

“Everything.  He remembers everything about me,” she said, her voice cracking under the strain of containing her emotions.  “Everything.  How is that possible?”  She crossed her arms and shivered, distraught at the discovery that John had retained those memories when his own identity had been obliterated.   

“It was his refuge, the place where he went to escape what was being done to him.  He preserved it to the last, Aeryn Sun.”  Meylan touched her lightly on the arm.  “It was not sacrifice, it was survival.”  He looked down at the submerged figure.  “He needs you; he is concerned about your departure.  Do you have the energy to return?”

Aeryn nodded and allowed him to guide her back into John’s mind.  The entry was far more difficult this morning, pushing in against his own rapidly expanding consciousness instead of the easy entry into a place where he barely existed.  The symbols were far more complex as well, sometimes exceeding her ability to interpret what he was trying to convey.  She felt Meylan increase the pressure, and she was suddenly with John. 

The fear was back; the rare moment of tranquility lost.  If she had been alone and embodied, she would have punched something to alleviate her anger over what her unplanned departure had done to him.  She bound up her frustration in hopes that he would not notice it and consoled him instead. 

I’m here.  It’s all right.  I only wandered off for a microt.  You know I’m here this morning, you can see me standing alongside you.   

Why … I didn’t mean … I don’t … I thought … I don’t know why you left. 

Were you scared? 

No. Yes.  No.  I don’t know.  I’m confused. 

And scared? 

I’m scared, Aeryn.  And I hurt, and I’m tired of hurting.  I don’t want to hurt anymore, and I’m scared.  Who is John? 

He is the person who is standing next to Aeryn every time you think of Aeryn. 

She could feel him considering that, comparing it against his memories of her.  They want to help you with that, John.  Will you let them?  You have to let them into your mind in order for them to help. 

Will you stay with me? 

I can’t … not for this. 

I don’t know, I don’t know.  I’m confused, Aeryn.  I don’t understand.

I would like you to let them do this, John.  Please?  For me? 

An odd, complicated symbol that involved reluctance and loathing floated back to her first, followed by a quieter image. 

All right. 

Aeryn withdrew gradually, taking the time to let him know she would be nearby if he needed her.  Even after she left his mind, she continued to rub lightly behind his ears until his neck relaxed and his head dropped back.  He looked up and gave her a small smile, looking every bit as apprehensive as his mind had felt. 

“Take his hand, Aeryn Sun,” Meylan said.  “We will let you know if you need to leave him completely.” 

She did as he suggested, holding John’s hand tightly as Meylan and one other priest moved to his head and began a quiet chant.  John’s eyes closed and a quiver ran through his body, a long shuddering complaint that seemed to originate somewhere other than in his physical existence.  Aeryn squeezed his hand more tightly, rubbing her thumb across his knuckles, and suddenly she knew that they were in his mind.  She felt his muscles go rigid for an instant and then he relaxed completely except for a strange sort of hum coming from his body, reverberating through his hand.  She let go and eased toward the edge of the pool. 

The ones she had told him about arrived, pressing against his thoughts, asking him to let them enter his consciousness.  Aeryn had asked him to let this happen and he had agreed.  He tried to let them in, but he didn’t know how to remove the barriers. 

Just do it! he called to them.  Force your way in. 

There was an agonizing thrust against his mind and then they were there, inside with him.  But he was still fighting them despite his best intentions not to resist.  They showed him something about lifting the confusion and showing him who John was and where he belonged, and he took one more deep breath, thought of Aeryn, and finally managed to lower the barriers he had erected. 

It started as a tickle, a tiny prickling inside his mind.  A small flood of images spooled out before him too fast to be understood.  Psychic fingers delved further into his consciousness, coaxing the tangle into more sense, pulling the knots of damage free and loosing the flow of mental energy.  The pain was increasing though, from a mild discomfort to a pounding explosion that seemed to double with every passing microt. 

It hurts! he called to them.  It hurts!

He was told that it would be just a little longer, and then they would make it go away, but they opened another floodgate of images and the agony rolled over him, spreading out in all directions. 

Aeryn jumped to her feet as Crichton wrenched himself completely out of the grasp of the delvians.  D’Argo and the others were beside her instantly as the explosion of spray in the pool obscured his convulsing body.  The four delvians scrambled about trying to grab him, but he was throwing himself about too violently, defeating their attempts to restrain him.  D’Argo jumped into the pool without bothering to remove his clothes, and threw himself over the spastically thrashing human, carrying him deeper into the water.  Aeryn followed a microt later followed closely by Jool and Chiana. 

D’Argo came up for air.  He was clutching John tightly around the head and shoulders, fighting to keep him submerged.  Aeryn forced herself between Meylan and one of the other healers and captured Crichton’s arms, hanging on tight as the straining muscles gained leverage, thus increasing their ability to apply force. 

“I thought this wasn’t supposed to hurt him!” she said to Meylan.  Some of the fierce bucking died down as the others managed to snare his legs. 

“We underestimated his response.”  Meylan released an ankle into the grasp of one of the other priests and moved around to stand by John’s head.  “I am truly sorry.  We were about to address his discomfort when he broke free.” 

He grasped Crichton’s head and closed his eyes.  The frantic surges from the patient continued.  Meylan took a deep breath and ducked under water in order to place his forehead against John’s.  Aeryn watched, fighting to hold both arms, and knew that he was having trouble getting into John’s mind.  He came up for air and shook his head.     

“Make this stop now,” D’Argo said.  “John is going to damage himself if this continues much longer.”

Aeryn glanced first to where Chiana and Jool were doing what they could to restrain the wild movements, and then checked to see how D’Argo was coping.  “Can you hang on to him alone?” she asked him, and shifted to one side to make room.  D’Argo looped one arm around John’s chest and snared his arms with the other. 

Aeryn waded to his head just as Meylan came up for air a second time.  “Take me in, he’ll trust me.” 

“He is in a great deal of distress,” he began. 

“Take me in!”  She placed her hands over Meylan’s, not bothering to rearrange their grasp.  “D’Argo is right.  If we don’t stop this, he’ll injure himself.” 

Aeryn closed her eyes and tried to concentrate on firmness of thought, making herself into an arrow that could pierce any defenses John might have put up.  Meylan thrust hard, pushing her before him, and she was suddenly inside, but without the backup of the delvian.  She was tossed back out just as abruptly as she arrived. 

“Hezmana, he’s frantic.  Try again.  Hold on tight this time.  I won’t be able to maintain contact if you aren’t there to help me.”  She looked at Meylan and he nodded. 

MAKE IT STOP! 

It was ripping him apart, shredding each and every nerve bundle and neuron in his brain into fragments, which then grew into larger chunks of pain, only to fracture and grow again, the blinding white light of his agony growing exponentially.  Worse than the pain was the fact that he was being held down, the clue that told him that something much worse was going to follow.  He poured every ounce of his anguish into the attempt to break free. 

John!  Stop what you’re doing and listen to me. 

Aeryn?  It came out on a scream that he couldn’t prevent.  Please, please … oh God it hurts.  They’re going to make it hurt worse.  Don’t let them, don’t let them, don’t let -- 

No, they’re not.  Stop fighting us. 

They’re holding me down.  That’s how it always starts. You promised, you promised you wouldn’t let them do this to me again.  I can’t survive this another time, Aeryn! 

John!  This is not the Others.  Let us fix this.  Let them inside.

I’ll try, but--

Don’t try … DO IT! 

He focused on Aeryn, thought of his trust, and did his best to cooperate. 

Aeryn felt herself being gathered, bound into a projectile, and then she was tossed like a lance into John’s small mental breach, Meylan hanging on for the ride.  She staggered back out immediately, out of the inner recesses that hid the last of the pain-filled secrets, leaving Meylan behind. 

Hang on, John, it’ll be over in a microt, hang on.  Don’t fight Meylan.  He’s trying to help. 

Oh Goddddddd. 

The pain was suddenly gone. 

Meylan appeared in the mental space again, looking haggard and tired.  Aeryn pulled out of the Meeting and looked down at John’s face between her hands.  He was gulping in water, that and his heaving chest the only moving parts of his body now that the crisis was over.  She rubbed both sides of his jaw, and he opened his eyes and looked at her, the emotional hurt as obvious as his physical distress. 

‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry.  I didn’t know that was going to happen.  Neither did they.’  She could only hope that he would receive and understand the silently transmitted thought.  He closed his eyes and shook his head in watery slow motion.  She could not tell whether he was trying to deny what had just happened in response to her message, or if it was a purposeless motion to relieve the muscular strain. 

‘Aeryn?’  

The thought was as clear as if he had spoken it aloud.  John stopped and she rubbed his neck, feeling the overwrought muscles spasming beneath her fingers.  He still did not continue and she nudged him, a wordless encouragement to continue. 

‘I don’t ever want to do that again.  Can we make a promise?  Please say I don’t have to do that again.  Please?’ 

He was wheedling, as though he knew she could not assure him and was hoping for a miracle anyway.   

‘We’ll see, John.  I’ll do my best.’ 

She looked up at Meylan, who had straightened up and was staggering a little himself.  It was the first time she had seen the sixteenth level Pa’u this badly affected by something that occurred on a mental level, and it spoke legions about the level of pain and distress John had been experiencing.  John’s plea that it never be allowed to happen again took on more meaning. 

“Will it be necessary for him to go through anything like that again?” she asked

“It should not have hurt that much.  We will have to delve more deeply to discover the source, and that may result in a recurrence, but we will do our best to avoid it.” 

Meylan shiftted his grasp to include John’s temples, and closed his eyes.  “There is … an injury … a trauma, deeper inside; one that I could not fully examine.  We will evaluate it in a few more days.  For now, he needs some rest, and then we will see about getting him out of the water.”

“But he just woke up!” 

She could not accept that Meylan and the delvians thought they should wait any longer to take John out of the pool.  She wanted him sitting beside her, dry and looking like a human being again, no matter how badly injured, not floating like some sort of refugee from a water world.  She wanted John Crichton back, and as long as he was submerged, there was a barrier between them that suggested he would never be the same ever again. 

Meylan looked around at the nods of agreement coming from the entire crew, and took the time to explain, speaking to Aeryn but talking to the entire group.  “John Crichton possesses very little in the way of energy reserves and stamina, Aeryn Sun.  His current surroundings require almost no expenditure of effort, which creates a façade of health.  As soon as he is out of the pool and subject to the whims of gravity, you will see that he is very weak and very badly injured.  We had planned to remove him from the pool this morning, but the events of the last few microts will have drained him.  He needs to rest before we ask him to make the physical effort necessary to return the rest of the way to rejoin you.”

It was the longest she had ever heard Meylan talk.  The priest normally confined his explanations to one or two short sentences heavily laden with meaning.  Going to the trouble of laying out all of the details could only mean that she and the others needed to heed his advice.  She checked quickly on the others, received four gestures indicating that they were in agreement, and then nodded to Meylan. 

“Let him rest.  We can wait a few more arns,” she said, acquiescing to the delvian’s superior knowledge and wisdom. 

Everyone gradually released Crichton, watching to make sure the frenzy was truly over.  He stretched slightly, something similar to a whole body quiver and then started to curl up again, sinking to hover just above the bottom of the pool.  Meylan ducked under to check on him, stroking his head lightly with both hands, then surfaced to face the assembly of concerned faces.  “He is sleeping,” he announced.  “We will have someone stay with him for the next few arns to make sure he remains calm and comfortable.  After that, we will wake him and get him out of the pool.”

* * * * *

He dreamed.  He dreamed of a place where he didn’t hurt, and no one came to hurt him.  A place where he was safe and Aeryn was with him, and no one threatened them or tried to kill them.  A place where he wasn’t afraid, and he didn’t get injured, and they could live happily together.  But he didn’t know where it was, and didn’t recognize any of the blank misty walls around him.  And Aeryn wasn’t with him.  He curled up, lonely and exhausted, and cried himself to sleep.

* * * * *

John, can you hear me? 

Aeryn? 

Yes, I’m right here.  Open your eyes and look at me.  How are you feeling now? 

I … I’m okay.  I’m glad you’re here. 

His relief swept over her, once again stunning her with its intensity.  Why are you glad? 

The other place was calling to me – the quiet dreaming place.  It wanted me to come back.  I kept saying no.  I promised to say no, but -- 

But it was getting harder to resist. 

Yes.  What should I do, Aeryn? 

How about you come out of here, out of the water, and come back to me.  Are you ready to come out? 

I don’t know how to.  Is it possible?  How do I go from here to there?   

Some delvians are going to help you and I’ll be nearby in case you need mouth to mouth. 

He knew that her final remark had significance, but the event wouldn’t come to mind.  He chased it and it eluded him, always moving faster than his pursuit.  He abandoned the quest so he could answer her.  All right. 

Aeryn left.  She was replaced by something blue.  He waited, wondering. 

A suggestion in his head asked him to take three breaths to get ready, and then to exhale as hard as he could, to keep exhaling until it hurt.  John did his best to obey, struggling with muscles that refused to answer most of his commands.  The three breaths operated on their own without difficulty.  It was the second part that refused to come off as planned.  He tried anyway, fighting to control his own body.  As he struggled to exhale, several hands descended on his diaphragm and helped push until his stomach and lungs began to ache.  He was wordlessly exhorted to keep going, encouraged to evacuate every square dench of his lungs.  That was when a set of arms slid around him from behind and forced even more water out of his lungs; firm hands continued to push on his diaphragm.  The watery scenery around him began to go gray and then black, and he wondered if they intended to kill him.  His ribs were compressed even further, more liquid eased from his throat, and the pool and everyone in it seemed to move very far away. 

Just as he was convinced that he was dying, and ached to say goodbye to Aeryn before it happened, John was pulled vigorously out of the water in a burst of spray and his chest was released. 

He whooped, sucked air into starved lungs, coughed, and sucked in another breath, feeling an uncomfortable gurgle down deep.  The world came back in a bound:  loud, uncomfortable, too bright, and above all else, cold.  Water trickled into the back of his throat, setting off a bout of coughing, followed by a racking string of sneezes.  He got two good breaths in before more water streamed out of his sinuses and he began coughing again, spraying moisture back into the water.  Each and every movement was agonizing, and he could do nothing to get it to stop.  The draining and coughing went on for almost thirty microts.  Then he sneezed three more times, snapping a fine spray of water out of his hair with each of the nasal based convulsions, and it was over. 

He lay in someone’s grasp, his lower body floating freely while the person behind him held his head and shoulders clear of the water.  A familiar delvian face smiled down at him, prompting an attempt at greeting one of the Nice People.  His mouth and throat refused to make the appropriate noises.  All that came out was a garbled squawk. 

“John?” 

Aeryn appeared at his side like a hallucination.  He could hardly believe she was right there before his eyes.  It felt like it had been … a length of time he could not remember the term for … since he had last seen her.  He tried to reach for her hand, but his arm did not work any better than his voice.  Coming out of the water was beginning to have some distinct drawbacks.  No matter how furiously he glared at his offending hand and tried to will it to reach toward Aeryn, it continued to float uselessly in the water. 

Aeryn picked up his hand as though drawn to it by his thoughts and held his palm against her cheek. 

He couldn’t feel her.

There were prickles, and a burning sensation, and pain, but there wasn’t the soft, warm surface beneath his fingers that he was sure he was supposed to be feeling at that moment.  In spite of having her right there beside him, he suddenly missed Aeryn more intensely than before.  “Gnn,” came out of his throat when he tried to say her name.  He wanted to tell her there was something terribly wrong with his body. 

“Nnn?”  The second attempt at her name was no better than the first. 

“Give it time,” she told him.  “Remember that you were drowned.”

An attempt to answer her turned into an extended bout of coughing.  When it was over, he was so tired he could barely breathe and he was desperately worried because no part of his body seemed to work right.  To make matters worse, he couldn’t tell anyone about the problem.   

“John.”  Her voice drew his attention away from the growing panic and back to the intensely caring gray-blue eyes.  “Listen carefully.  You’re injured.  We know that.  We know that you can’t move, and we know that certain things don’t feel the way they’re supposed to.  Everyone here is going to take care of you for a while, and they are going to help you get better.  Do you understand?” 

Aeryn’s voice sounded different from the one he had been listening to for the last several days, something to be pondered later.  The important thing was that the sounds Aeryn was making slowly sorted themselves out into some concepts he could understand, and he was not as scared any longer.  Instead of trying to speak, which had already proven futile, he tried a nod for an answer.  His body cooperated long enough to provide a small one. 

“They’re going to take you out of the pool now,” Aeryn said.  “Relax.” 

He was towed to the side of the pool where he was lifted into a mass of towels wielded by a small crowd of the Nice People.  Once they had him thoroughly mummified, they started to carry him away, only to be brought to an abrupt halt by a quiet request from somewhere behind him.  They set him down straddling a bench.  Two of the strangers remained, sitting behind him and holding him upright. 

He was tired and cold, and sitting up was uncomfortable.  Nothing made any sense, there was no clue to explain what they were waiting for, and he fervently wished they would take him some place warm and comfortable where he could go back to sleep.  Before he could sort out some sounds that might transmit his wishes, one of the people behind him grasped him gently by the chin and raised his head so he could see what was going on. 

Aeryn was walking toward him, her head tilted to one side with an expression that looked like she did not know whether to laugh or cry.  Presented with the most beautiful sight he could remember ever seeing, all his concerns about fatigue and pain and cold dropped away in an instant.  The only remaining regret was that he could not tell her how much he enjoyed looking at her.  He wanted to ask her to remove the towel she had wrapped around her waist so he could see what she had on underneath.  It gapped open with every other step, showing the long, unencumbered line of her leg and the hint of light blue trunk-like shorts.  There was a thin boundary of midriff showing above the rolled edge of the towel, and then a tight-fitting sleeveless top that left her arms bare.

He tried to tell her anyway, knowing ahead of time that it was unlikely she would understand.  It came out sounding like “Noo-ga-fuh.” 

Aeryn stopped half a motra away and smiled at him.  “Beautiful,” she interpreted. 

“Eh,” he agreed. 

She crossed the remaining distance between them and sat down in front of him.  Her hand passed through his water-soaked hair several times as she simply stared into his eyes. 

“Welcome back,” she greeted him at last, and pulled him into a hug. 

A second set of hands guided his head forward so it rested on Aeryn’s shoulder, there was one more small adjustment to make sure he would not fall over, and then he was alone with her.  Most of the sensations did not feel right.  There were bits and pieces of memories about what it was supposed to feel like to have Aeryn’s arms around him, and none of it was supposed to hurt.  He could barely make out the firm pressure of her body against his, and the touch of her hand moving up and down his back left a stream of pain in its wake.  It was supposed to feel much nicer than this. 

But in the end, it was Aeryn, and she was holding him, and that was enough. 

“Give it time,” she whispered in his ear, somehow knowing that he was upset.  “It will get better, and then we will do this again.” 

“Geyh,” his mouth said instead of ‘okay’. 

They stayed that way -- with him helpless to do anything but lean his full body weight against her, and with Aeryn’s strong, supple arms keeping him safe -- long enough for him to discover that it was easier to breathe with her arms around him.  Everything was easier with her arms around him, as a matter of fact.  Coping with the lights and the loud sounds and the cold and the fatigue were all bearable as long as Aeryn had her arms around him and her fingers were brushing through the hair at the back of his head.  It didn’t matter that it hurt, or that each sensation was like a feeling that had been borrowed from someone who experienced the universe differently than he did.  All that mattered was that he was there, and Aeryn was there, and she was talking to him and stroking his back.   

He spent several microts working to loosen his throat, tried clearing it a little, and then attempted the talking trick another time.  “Lo’ you,” emerged on a strangled cough and a trickle of water coming from his nose. 

“I know you do.”  Aeryn shifted to one side so she could wipe his face with an edge of a towel, and then she pulled him tightly against her.  “You showed me that yesterday.  Thank you.”

“Th’ng f’wha?”  Aeryn continued to rub his back through the towels.  It was worth every bit of effort he had put into surviving long enough to arrive at this moment.  He was close to a breakdown. 

“For coming back to me.  For not quitting yesterday.  I understand how hard that was for you.”  She finished by kissing the side of his neck, still holding him tightly. 

The breakdown arrived and he was incapable of doing anything to hide that he was crying.  But Aeryn was talking to someone else, and a pair of hands lifted his head and rolled it to the side.  When he came to rest, his nose was tucked into the hollow of Aeryn’s neck where he could smell her, the smooth skin of her shoulder was pressing against his cheek, and best of all, his face was hidden from view. 

“Go ahead,” she encouraged him in a thick voice that he thought might mean she was crying too.  “That’s good.”

Aeryn shifted her hug to a spot higher on his shoulders, cradled the back of his head with one hand, and rocked them together.  Sometimes she whispered small encouragements to him, and sometimes she rubbed his back, but most of all she simply held him and did her best to merge their two bodies into one, making up for his inability to move.  He wanted to tell her some things about how wonderful this felt, and how glad he was that they were there together.  But the only two words that ever came out sounding anything like the way they were supposed to were “Lof you”.  He said them several times, hoping she would understand that he wanted to say more.  It seemed to be more than enough for Aeryn.     

“I think you’re probably cold and tired,” she said eventually. 

“Heh,” he said into the side of her neck.  He had meant to say ‘Yeah’. 

“They’re going to take care of that.  Relax and trust them, John.” 

“Geyh.” 

Aeryn released him and he was tilted back into a flurry of firm but gentle hands.  They were passing through a doorway when he noticed that Aeryn wasn’t with him anymore. 

‘AERYN!?’ he called, frightened by her absence.  Being carried through a doorway meant bad things were going to happen to him.  The people carrying him took no notice of his scream.  Aeryn must have heard him though because she reappeared by his side at a run.  Everyone stopped moving so she could talk to him. 

“I need to dry off and get dressed.  I want you to trust them, John.  Listen carefully.  They will not hurt you.   I will come find you in an arn or two.” 

He looked around at the host of calm blue faces, remembered something Aeryn had told him once about ‘Nice People’, and began to calm down. 

“Geyh.” 

“I will catch up to you soon.  Remember one thing for me, John.  You need to remember that you can trust them.” 

“Geyh.”

“Trust them.  Trust the Nice People,” she repeated.  “If they want to do something to you, trust them.  They won’t hurt you.  Remember that for me.”

“Geyh.” 

He kept his eyes on Aeryn until they turned a corner and she was out of sight.  After that there was little to look at except the ceiling and walls moving past him and the look-alike Nice People who were carrying him, none of which was very interesting.  And he was tired to the point of exhaustion, so he let himself drift off, and at some point fell asleep, still thinking of having Aeryn’s arms around him and her quiet whispers filling his ears.

* * * * *

[KernilCrash]

Chapter 8 (continued)

John was awakened soon after by a vigorous toweling, accomplishing something more than drying him off.  It went on too long, scrubbing hard at skin that responded viciously to the harsh motion.  He jabbered a complaint at them, trying hard to turn the sounds into something that made sense and failing miserably. The longer he talked, the worse it got, until even he had no idea what he was saying.  Somehow the message got across anyway, because someone using a language he did not recognize provided an explanation that had to do with how long he had been submerged and the need to remove the sloughing, waterlogged skin.  He tried again to explain that it hurt.  This time he got a response in the form of gentle fingers pressing against his temples.  When the brisk massage set off another cascade of pain, the discomfort was magically drawn away.  They finished the all-over scouring, rafts of skin coming away in fragments, then they moved him to a depression filled with warm water and bathed him one more time, removing the detritus of their efforts.

This was better.  This was almost like being back in the pool only nicer.  They propped his head up on something soft and squashy so he could watch, and proceeded to bury his body in sloppy lather.  It was warm and slippery and barely hurt at all, and he spent several microts futilely wishing that Aeryn could join him in the tub. 

A pile of lather crept up his chest.  He puffed a lungful of air at it.  The effort set off a round of deep, spine-shuddering coughs, but the results were worth the pain.  Bubbles went sailing in every direction. 

“Thank you for your assistance, John Crichton,” one of the Nice People said. 

He laughed, accepting the coughing consequences.  The speaker had bubbles sprinkled through her hair and a glob spattered across one cheek.

“Here, play with this instead,” she said.  Someone dug his hand out of the soapy water and placed a sponge in it, curling his fingers around it when he could not. 

“Boah,” he requested. 

“Both?” 

“Heh.” 
His second hand was located and wrapped around the bubbly sponge.  He could feel it correctly.  The discovery nearly overwhelmed his scant ability to control his emotions.  His hands were okay.  The bubbles oozed around his fingers normally, and then crawled up his wrists where they shifted into an abrasive sandpaper scratching sensation.  But the scrub was pleasantly forgiving against the palms of his hands, and the hot water streaming out of it seemed to enter his soul from his fingers and spread out in all directions.  He relaxed, beginning to think that some day his entire body might relearn the correct responses to various types of touch. 

“Niegh,” he said, trying to tell them it felt nice.  A pair of hands trailing water and soap suds tugged the sponge loose, dunked it in the tub to recharge it with bubbles, and tucked it back into his grasp.  “Ganss.”  He had meant to say ‘thanks’.  John decided to give up talking for a while. 

“Aren’t you tired?” someone asked. 

It was like a magical incantation that sapped him of strength and the ability to stay awake.  Reminded that he had already had a long stressful day, he was suddenly too tired to pay attention to what was going on around him.  John closed his eyes and let the gushes of hot water flooding over his body carry away both the bubbles and his ability to think or respond.  The sponge was drawn out of his hands, he was shifted onto first one side and then the other to finish rinsing him off, and then he floated through the air to land on another comfortably curved surface. This one was filled with soft padding that received his body as though it had been grown to accept him.  He was covered with several layers of thick insulating fabric that kept him wondrously warm, and then the real challenges began. 

They started by asking him a strange question consisting entirely of images.  It had something to do with whether he would mind breathing heated air, which would help his lungs revert to their normal function.  Half asleep, barely aware of how many Nice People were there or what they were doing to him, he struggled to put the wordless request into a form he could analyze.  Thinking had become an impossible task, making a decision was virtually inconceivable.  He took another breath, setting off the irritating gurgling deep inside his chest, and the images came again:  a query about taking care of the last puddles in his lungs. 

These were the Nice People.  That much he could remember.  But that did not help him formulate an answer.  Thinking was too hard.  None of the images cooperated when he tried to organize them into some form of pattern that would lead to a decision.  He was confused and that made him frightened.  He did not like being this confused over such a simple question.   

“N’yn,” he told them, hoping they would bring the one person he could count on to dispel the disorder in his mind. 

“Aeryn Sun is changing into dry clothes right now, John Crichton.  She will come to see you very soon.  May I help you right now?  Would that be all right?” 

He roused himself enough to look at the strange and familiar woman, one small piece of his mind telling him that he should know who she was, and only felt more confused.  “Huu?” he asked. 

“Who am I?”  She waited until he nodded.  “My name is Tahleen, and I am a friend.  I was not always a friend, but you and Zotah Zhaan turned me into one of your friends.” 

“Z’n?”  The horrible gurgling made it difficult to breathe, even more difficult to talk. 

“Do you remember Zhaan?”  Tahleen placed a hand on his forehead.   A portion of the headache that had been making it hard to think disappeared. 

“Unh.” 

Triggered by the repeated efforts to talk, he began coughing.  It hurt.  He was tired and confused, the quiet dreaming place was too close, and the persistent coughing hurt more with every spasm.  He wanted Aeryn.  He wanted the one person who could make the dreaming place stay away and who would tell him what to do.  Tahleen and another one of the Nice People turned him on his side so that the next time he coughed the fluid in his chest could escape.  Torrents streamed out of him on the waves of pain produced by the coughing.  They wiped his mouth, and waited patiently until he could breathe without difficulty. 

“Let me help you with this one decision, John Crichton.  Let us do what is necessary to make this better.  Aeryn Sun asked you to trust us.  Trust me on this issue.”

He had forgotten that request.  Aeryn had even said it several times, and he had forgotten it anyway.  John gave up trying to think.  It was useless.  He nodded, not knowing whether it was the right decision and not caring either way, relying entirely on Aeryn’s command that he trust the Nice People. 

Tahleen spoke to someone behind him, and a thick, fibrous mask slid into place over his mouth and nose, warm air providing immediate relief as the moisture in his chest began dissipating.  After that there was little to do but sigh in relief when they pulled the blankets higher around his neck, closing out the last of the cold drafts.   He was about to go back to sleep when Tahleen appeared by the cradle-like bed with several other blue people and asked if he would talk to them for a short time.  This time he remembered that he was supposed to trust them, and he nodded his willingness to try.   

A long conversation followed, conducted without words.  They wanted to know things; there were all sorts of baffling questions.  He showed them what little he could, and they did not seem to mind that he knew next to nothing about everything.  He tried to be helpful, but they were asking him things he was sure he had never known.  When confusion threatened, they assured him it was acceptable to not know anything, and the muddled mess in his mind no longer seemed to be a problem. 

They wanted to touch him next, and that was better.  By this time it was all he could do just to stay awake, but being touched he could do without exerting any effort.  They pulled away the covers one section at a time, retaining the most warmth possible, and went about learning him by fingertips.  Not a scrap of skin went unexplored, not a piece of physiology was passed over.  They sometimes stopped and held a conference, dozens of fingers lightly brushing against one spot or another.  It made very little sense, but it did not hurt very much, so he did not mind.  When they finished there was a series of ideas that meant something about getting some sleep, and he agreed to that with a sigh of relief.  He breathed the warm air that was easy to suck into his lungs, and let them do whatever they wanted as he slid away into a new quiet, dreaming place where he did not have to do anything but lie in the cocoon of blankets and try not to make the whining noises when the pain got too bad.

“John Crichton, does something hurt?” one of the Nice People asked in a near whisper. 

“Uh huh,” he answered, his voice muffled by the mask. 

“We will take care of the pain in a few microts.  If you can relax, that will help.” 

He was picked up, and toweled off, and dressed.  They finished drying his hair, and then they put him to bed.  Someone, someone, someone.  Someone used to do that a long time ago.  A face with light colored hair, safety and love.  He couldn’t remember. 

He was lifted, which was excruciating, carried to a quiet, dimly lit room, and laid on his side in another wondrously soft bed.  Pillows and covers were tugged into place, and he was finally left alone with the exception of a single Nice People who sat down at the foot of the bed.  A silent voice spoke, giving him an anchor for his thoughts, a hand touched his ankle and the pounding unpleasantness was pulled away, drawn from his body like someone was pulling a string.  He would have sobbed with relief if he had the energy left to make a noise, but he simply sighed instead and went to sleep. 

* * * * *

Aeryn followed the others as they approached the room where they were told they could find Crichton, searching through her emotions to determine why she was suddenly so hesitant to see him.  There was a breath-catching tightness in her chest wrapped around a fear that the remaining damage could not be repaired.  She had known it was a possibility from the first day they had brought him here, but she had not expected that concern to slow her footsteps to an amble at this moment.  Not when they had accomplished so much.  It was clear that Chiana did not have that problem.  The nebari was eagerly leading the way, showing no indecision about the next few moments.  She was bounding ahead to where Meylan waited for them beside a doorway. 

He waited until Aeryn moved into the small huddle and then began to speak softly even though the door was closed.  “We have finished our assessment, and have begun further repairs to Crichton’s nervous system.  You must keep in mind that there is still a great deal of damage to be addressed.”  Meylan let them absorb his information bit by bit.  “His capacity for language is severely restricted.  He understands far more than he can convey, but his access to his memory has been badly affected.”

“Crichton was talking before we got here,” Chiana objected, cocking her head as she watched Meylan’s reaction to her accusing tone.  “He was saying all sorts of things.  Is he worse than that now?  Why is he worse?”  She pulled her arm away from D’Argo, who was trying to calm her long enough for Meylan to explain. 

“His utterances before you arrived demonstrate what we have already determined -- that the knowledge is still there.  It is his access to that information that has suffered extensive degradation over the past days,” he said gently, focusing his gaze on Chiana.  “Most of the restrictions are due to physical injury.  Some of the regression, however, is due to deliberate sequestering.  John Crichton has used his free time to shut off certain memories that he does not wish to recall.”

“Explain the new losses,” D’Argo demanded.  “Why has his ability to speak gotten worse?” 

Meylan nodded in the luxan’s direction, acknowledging the need for further explanations.  “Each time we repair some of the injuries, other areas will be adversely affected.  Opening one door may result in another being closed in compensation.  All will be restored eventually.  It will, however, take a great deal of effort to complete the healing process.”     

This time it was D’Argo who broke away from the group, letting out a long growl as he stalked several paces to on side to kick at a wall.  The entire passageway seemed to undulate with the power of his blow.  His back remained turned, his head hanging, as Meylan continued. 

“We believe he will eventually make a full recovery, but you must be very patient.  He has already shown some small degree of improvement.  Take heart in that.  We will explain all of this in greater detail over the following days.  For now, he is anxious and it would help him to see all of you.” 

Meylan surveyed the silent group and the woeful expressions.  “It will not benefit him if he senses any distress or hesitation on your part.  I believe that all of his memory will return in time.  Now you must believe that before you go in to talk to him.  If you cannot provide that level of assurance, then I would ask that you wait here.”

Aeryn shouldered her way between Chiana and Rygel’s throne sled, freed from her moment of reluctance.  “I believe Crichton will recover fully.” 

D’Argo moved to Aeryn’s side in two long steps, his raised head and direct stare telling of his confidence in the future outcome. 

“I haven’t seen it, but I believe it.”  Although Chiana’s remark clearly puzzled Meylan, she continued to pace back and forth behind Aeryn and D’Argo without offering any further explanation. 

“I am confident that he will return to his annoying, loud, ugly, stubborn self,” Rygel said. 

There was silence from the remaining member of the group.  They all turned to look at Jool:  the intellectual, the educated pragmatist.  She shook her head.  “I want to see him restored to normal as badly as the rest of you, but he is so badly injured … I believe I would better serve his recovery if I do not go in with you.”  She looked directly at the assembled group, her icy reserve firmly in place, the apparent confidence betrayed by her fingers, which wandered untended to pick at the edge of her stiff garment.  “If he remembers me long enough to ask, you can tell him I went back to Moya in order to let her and Pilot know how he is doing.”

Aeryn was pleased that Jool had been honest about her reservations.  She had put John’s well-being above her own self-interest, risking the irritation of her companions in order to do what was right.  She reached toward the interon in thanks and understanding.  Jool’s head came back up, reinforcing her cool demeanor, and Aeryn settled for nodding her appreciation. 

“We are taking steps to alleviate some of John Crichton’s discomfort.  Do not permit his symptoms to discourage you.  He is in exceptional condition considering what he has been through.  Come.”  Meylan slid the door open and led the way into a dimly lit room. 

Aeryn followed first, carefully picking her way around a number of objects that looked a cross between medical instruments and odd fungal growths.  Her bare feet made no sound as she crossed the floor, which was warm and springy under her step and felt like the fibrous innards of a large plant.  This part of the sanctuary was well beyond the boundaries of the original ship that they had sunk here, and looked like it had been grown more than burrowed into the earth. 

She did not see John at first and as a result, she nearly bumped into Meylan when he stopped before she expected him to come to a halt. 

Crichton was lying on his side in a semi-spherical bunk suspended from a wall at about waist level.  His head rested on a large pillow, sinking in deeply enough that it was clear he had no control over his neck muscles, and the remainder of his body was buried under blankets.  Aside from his head, only one foot and ankle showed, and that was almost completely obscured by the hand of a priest who sat silently near the end of the bunk.  When Meylan had mentioned that they were alleviating John’s pain, she had not expected someone to be assuming this particular burden for arns at a time. 

Turning her attention away from that selflessness, her first glance in John’s direction was met by a pair of focused, alert eyes.  His delight at seeing them was immediate, only slightly diminished by the fact that he looked tired and mildly disoriented. 

“Heh!”  John’s typical greeting went a little wrong at the end. 

An instant later everyone was talking to him at once.  At first he looked pleased to have the excited group beside him, but under the barrage of greetings and comments his expression gradually reverted to the confused fretful look that was rapidly becoming a familiar sight.  Aeryn dropped out of the chaos first, and put her hand lightly on his cheek to reassure him.  Behind her, the others quieted down.  John let out a sigh and gave them all a mild, wan-looking smile. 

Aeryn looked at Meylan.  “Will it hurt him if we touch him now?” 

Although he shook his head, something in his expression suggested that there would be pain and that any physical hurt would be more than offset by a benefit. 

Aeryn turned her attention back to John and ran her thumb along his jaw.  “You look pretty good for someone who drowned.” 

He smiled more widely, sighed, and didn’t say anything.  She moved away from his head so the others could move into his line of sight, letting her hand slide down his body as she went, maintaining a light contact so he would know she had not left completely.  John watched her until she came to a stop near his feet, then returned to smile at the rest of his friends.

“Deh,” he greeted the person standing closest. 

“How are you feeling, John?”  D’Argo’s hand brushed a quick hello against his hair in time with the quiet inquiry. 

“Beh-er.”  The body under the blankets shook slightly, belying his short assurance, but the smile on his face did not waver for a microt.  Another shudder hit him and he almost grunted, letting out a small unvoiced exhalation.  His stare remained locked on the luxan next to him.  “Yuh?” 

“He’s a lot cleaner than he’s been since you’ve known him, Crichton.  It’s good to see you awake.”  Chiana slid in front of D’Argo, crouching down to get face to face with the bundled astronaut.  “I’m really glad to see you.” 

“Me. Too. Pi’.” 

Although he continued to look pleased to have his friends by his bedside, Aeryn noticed that the lines around his eyes were starting to get deeper and he was sweating. 

“Who … ‘ere?”  He was trying to see more of the figure that was hidden behind everyone else. 

“Crichton.”  Rygel moved into the space created by D’Argo and Chiana moving to the sides.  “I suppose you will be back on Moya with your incessant chatter all too soon.”  His earbrows arched upwards as he waited for a reply. 

John struggled with something, sweating harder with each passing microt.  “’pardnie,” he finally produced on a small burst of air, and then he grinned at the hynerian.

“Sparky,” Aeryn deciphered, and got a tiny nod of confirmation from John.

“Absolutely no change at all,” Rygel grumbled, but the earbrows had not drooped.  If anything they had lifted even higher. 

John shifted slightly under the blankets and squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, suddenly pale.  He was still smiling when he looked at them, but it was requiring more effort with every passing microt, and he was starting to look as though he felt ill. 

D’Argo noticed the change and moved to cut the visit short.  He squatted down to meet Crichton face to face the way Chiana had done.  “You need to get some more rest, and it looks like they’re taking excellent care of you, John.  Get some sleep, and we’ll be nearby if you need anything.”

“Geyh.  Buyh.”  He watched as they began leaving.  “A’yn.  D’n go?”  She returned to crouch next to him, balancing on her toes, resting her forearm on the side of the bed and then placing her chin on top.  Chiana glanced back at where they faced each other, nose to nose, smiled broadly, and then followed the others out of the room. 

“What?” Aeryn asked him.  She began a motion that would have led to stroking his cheek, driven by a deep desire to maintain some form of physical contact with him.  John watched the fingers approach without a complaint, but his eyes narrowed just before she would have touched him.  It was an involuntary flinch in preparation for anticipated discomfort.  She made a detour and brushed against his hair instead, repeatedly flipping one or two damp tufts.  John relaxed.  Tension settled out of his shoulders, and he suddenly looked exhausted. 

“Wha’s … M’ya?” he said, struggling through the small syllables.     

She thought about the answer for a few microts, comparing the obvious answer to the types of images she had encountered during the Meetings.  “She’s huge.  A gleaming, bronze beast of burden shining in the starlight.  She has long golden hallways, and she makes rumbling noises all the time.  She does this amazing thing called starburst when we are in a hurry.”  She saw the relief on his face and stopped. 

“Shi’ … S’bace ship.”  He thought about it a bit longer.  “Arms.  Who’s … arms?”  She watched with growing concern as it took more and more effort for him to form words.  Crichton coughed deeply several times, eyes closing as the spasms set off an obviously vicious reaction throughout his body.  A trickle of fluid ran across the pillow from the corner of his mouth, followed by more as another bout of coughing shook him. 

“Hold on, I’ll get --” 

A hand touched her hip, startling Aeryn to the point that she jumped and lost her balance.  She clutched at the edge of the bunk, hauling herself back to her precarious position sitting on her heels.  She took the proffered towel out of the hand of the priest, dividing her attention between the person at the foot of the bunk who was assuming much of John’s pain, and the patient himself who was snuffling into the pillow, laughing at her. 

“Think that’s funny?” she asked him, wanting to laugh herself just because he was recovered to the point where he could find humor in such a small event. 

“Tid nuffer,” he snickered.

She could not turn it into anything recognizable.  “Can you say it again?  Slower?”

“Ti’d ofer,” he said on the second try, still laughing at her. 

“I tipped over?  You’re laughing because I lost my balance?”

John nodded.   

She didn’t respond to his goading as she mopped away the small puddle, using the microts to search for some trivial, lighthearted comment that might not challenge his faulty memory.  “You’ll get yours later,” she threatened finally, blotting away the sweat that rolled down his face.  “You’ve done enough for one day.  Go to sleep.”

“Nuh.  ‘rms?  Whoss …” 

She laid a finger on his lips to silence him.  “I’ll tell you.  Save your energy.” 

John made another attempt to say something, setting off another bout of coughing. 

“Will you shut up, Crichton?” she said, reprimanding him.  She settled forward onto her knees and stared into the blue eyes, immersing herself in the awareness present there.  “I can’t believe how nice it is to be able to say that to you.”  He stared back, making no further attempt to talk.  “Arms,” she confirmed.  He nodded almost entirely with his eyes, barely moving his head.  “That’s Pilot.  He’s part of Moya now.  They exist together.”

John looked puzzled.  Aeryn leaned back from the bunk and gesticulated.  “Huge shell like this” -- her hands waved to either side of her head, describing an object wider than her shoulders -- “and eyes like this.  Only when he gets excited, his eyes bulge out.” 

As her hands made another wild gesture his face finally cleared, understanding achieved.  “Ca’s … me … ”  He got stuck on the next syllable.

“He calls you Commander Crichton,” Aeryn filled in for him.  “Can you not worry about this anymore and get some rest?”  She touched his cheek lightly.  “Or would you like me to stay for a little longer?”  The Pa’u at his feet stopped chanting, pulled the blankets down and left the room without speaking.  John showed no sign that the healer’s absence was affecting him.

“C’n go.  I … s’eep.”  As if to prove himself right, his eyes closed and he was suddenly gone.  Aeryn remained kneeling nose to nose with him, playing lightly with one errant tuft of hair, tugging at it repeatedly.  She stopped when his expression shifted slightly, waiting until he settled down again.  She pulled the one lock down into place and watched as it sprang back up.  The motion was repeated several more times with the same results, then she got to her feet and stretched, feeling exhausted all of a sudden.

“Sleep well, John Crichton.”  The corners of his mouth might have twitched, tugging it into a hint of a smile, but other than that, he did not stir.

* * * * *

Aeryn walked into the quarters that had been provided for them to find Chiana and Jool already stretched out and half asleep.  It was the equivalent of early afternoon in the delvian habitat and they all seemed to be headed for bed rather early.  She sat down on the edge of the bunk she had been using and tried to summon the energy to pull off her clothes.

“It’s the relief,” said Jool, after she had been sitting there for more than twenty microts.  “Release of the tension.” 

“It’s ridiculous,” Aeryn countered, knowing she did not have the energy to stay awake, and feeling as if she was being weak anyway.  “I got up late this morning.” 

Chiana rolled over to look at her, white hair already a mess from burrowing into the pillow.  “We’ve all been awake for almost thirty five solar days, Aeryn.  Ever since he got captured.  Face it and get some sleep.  He’ll still be here in the morning.” 

‘He’ll still be here.’  It sounded so nice.  Aeryn lay down fully clothed and went to sleep. 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

[KernilCrash]

Chapter 9 

He slept, but he heard and knew at the same time.  He slept, but he knew when they came and carried him back to the pool.  He was not expected to breathe the water this time.  He was submerged just far enough so his face was the only part of his body left out of the water, allowing him to breathe the air that slid into his lungs with less effort than the soothing, warm liquid.  He slept but he heard the gurgle and wash of the waves filling his ears, and felt the laying on of more than a dozen hands to begin the gradual rebuilding of destroyed pathways.  Each success led to a small shudder of sensation as his body rediscovered something other than pain.  The small successes began to add up, followed by the uncomfortable twitches and jerks that could not be controlled.  They swelled, multiplying, until he needed to yell and found that he couldn’t.  It stopped anyway. 

They let him float for what seemed like ages, stroking and quieting the newly awakened synapses.  Then they let him rest, body tingling, giving him time to relearn what each nervous response was supposed to mean.  For the first time since his destruction, there were brief moments when the blankets and clothes felt soft against his skin, a dimly remembered pleasure.  He got to lie on his side again, a position he really liked.  They were all leaving when one of them returned and reached under the covers to find his arm.  She brought his fist up to lie tucked near his chin, smiled and left.  How could she know he liked that?  He hadn’t known it himself. 

A small noise near the bed woke him.  He expended the effort to lift one eyelid in order to take a look.  Easy softening in his stomach and the last of the pain was forgotten, lost on the wind of passionate love.  Sleep would have to wait. 

“A’yn.”  Pronunciation remained a hit-or-miss venture, assuming he could remember the correct word in the first place. 

“Close your eyes, John, I’m not supposed to be in here disturbing you.” 

She knelt down, resuming the familiar nose-to-nose position.  Her breath drifted gentle and warm on his cheek.  It was very nice. 

“I’m only going to stay a few microts.  Everyone is worried about you, but we didn’t think we could slip more than one person past the delvians.  How are you feeling?” 

“Bedder.”  He wanted to tell her not to leave, not to go, to stay with him forever.  The symbols were there; the appropriate sounds eluded him.   

“Really?  You’re not just saying that?” 

She was tugging on his hair.  He was in danger of a complete emotional meltdown. 

“Uh huh.  Loogk.”  He did not have the energy to explain that the disgusting gurgling in his chest had gone away, or about relearning that blankets were soft, so he did the trick he had discovered while they had been dressing him.  He concentrated on the hand nearest his chin and waved two fingers at her, the only portions of his body that he seemed to have any control over at this point.  His reward was her finger tracing a path down his cheek, her touch so light and tender it was barely stronger than the feathery caress of her breath.  It was enough to set off a huge shudder throughout his body and a hot burning behind his eyes.  He was so glad to have her here. 

“If you’re better, then what’s this?”  She wiped away the tears.

He stared at her for a long time, knowing every wrinkle and line on her face, the shape of her jaw, the line of her nose, the strange radiating pattern in the irises of her eyes.  So much inside his head seemed to be missing, but all of this was there for the asking day or night, every detail clearly imprinted in his memory.  Another shudder ran through him accompanied by a wave of pain.  He barely noticed it, caught up in the beauty of the woman gazing at him as though he were something rare and precious.  He watched her eyes narrow in concern and it was as if every moment of pain and fear had been erased, removed by the love of one person. 

“Love you … so musch.”  That did it, Einstein, he thought to himself, now she’s crying.  It made two of them.  “Ae’yn?” 

“Mush?” she asked him through her tears.  Her gentle mocking of his slurred speech left him feeling faint -- as though someone had removed all of the oxygen from the room.  He wanted her to continue until he passed out.   

“Much,” he said with deliberate care.  It was easier to put the sounds together correctly when someone else said them first.  He could copy the noises more easily than he could dream them up himself. 

“I kind of liked the mush,” she continued to tease him.

Laughter bubbled up amidst the tears.  It hurt more than anything that had happened to him since they took him out of the pool, even more than coughing, but it was worth each and every shudder and jolt of pain.  “Aeryn?” he asked again when he could catch his breath. 

“Yes?”  Her voice was thick with tears now, sniffles mixing with the laughter; it wasn’t just him.  He laughed again, shuddering from the pain.  “What is it?” she asked when they both calmed down. 

“Wha’s an … Eins’ein?”   

* * * * *

They sat comfortably in a tight little group.  Aeryn had chosen the floor, long since having discovered that the slightly springy feel and the warmth that flowed out of it was relaxing as well as reassuring.  D’Argo was sitting on a bench behind her.  His knee was providing a brace for her to lean against.  Everyone except Rygel was making some form of physical contact, and the hynerian had gone so far as to set his throne sled down on the bench next to Jool.  They all seemed to be seeking reassurance from each other in a manner they did not resort to very often.  Aeryn wondered if it was their own psyches at work, or if the delvians were influencing them in some manner. 

Meylan, Daaren and Tahleen sat on separate benches facing them, preparing to teach them what would be needed in the days ahead.  Over the eight planetary days since John had been removed from the pool, every priest in the habitat had been working around the clock to restore his nervous system to normal.  Everyone involved looked exhausted.  Aeryn was intensely aware of how many times John had been taken to the pool in order for the teams of priests to coax his malfunctioning body back into working order.  Time of day did not matter.  As soon as they deemed John sufficiently rested to withstand another session, he was returned to the pool.  Sometimes he was allowed to sleep for eight or ten arns, if that was what it took to recoup his stamina.  Other times he was given only an arn or two -- just enough time for the pain to recede -- before he was hustled back into the water. 

Daaren, the healer who specialized in physical maladies, had been summoned to John’s bedside so many times they finally moved healer and healing into a larger room and Daaren had taken up residence alongside his patient.  It was Daaren’s extensive knowledge of what the delvians termed ‘animal’ physiology that everyone turned to whenever they encountered a problem that affected John’s electrochemical and neurotransmitter levels.  It was taking an around the clock, non-stop effort to maintain an acceptable balance as John’s body underwent its own internal struggle to adjust to the reawakening impulses. 

John was never left alone.  Night or day, awake or asleep, it made no difference.  There was always a delvian sitting with him, watching for the malfunctions that threatened his recovery and sometimes even his life.  The list of problems plaguing him was endless.  Over the past six days, he had suffered numerous bouts of respiratory arrest, convulsions, seizures, cramps, agonizing muscle spasms, vomiting, several episodes of total or partial paralysis, headaches, and a daylong bout of blindness when his optic nerves had mysteriously ceased to function.  Each repair seemed to set off an avalanche of other problems until Daaren and his team finally made a decision to stop chasing the cascades and work from the most basic responses outward to the smaller reactions. 

The new approach was working, but it meant that John had to endure some of the symptoms longer, suffering for arns or in one case for more than a day until the team addressed the affected system in its proper sequence.  He did not have the memory or the emotional stability to cope with the problems in a balanced manner.  Aeryn and the rest of the crew had set up their own rotation to ensure that someone was always with him, sitting alongside a Pa’u to make sure that John had a familiar face beside him in case he was assaulted by another attack from his own body. 

He was trying.  Enough of his personality had been restored for him to realize that he was supposed to control his fear and anxiety.  He would fight to keep his emotions in check, but he did not have the tools to complete the job on his own.  In each case, the confusion ultimately overcame his tenacity and he would descend into anger, tears, panic, or a combination of all three. 

And this was only the beginning of his recovery.

It wasn’t any easier for the rest of them.  Sitting beside him for interminable arns when he had lost his sight had been a test of her ability to keep her emotions in check.  Watching the familiar eyes gazing into space without focusing on anything had been a too familiar reminder of the twelve days it had taken to reach the New Moon of Delvia.  Watching him search for something he could not see and start to panic had been many times worse.  As with everything else, John had done his best to stay in control of his reactions, and had come up short.  After enduring several arns of anxious calls to make sure someone was there, they had discovered that if two of the crew held a hushed conversation beside his bed, John would go to sleep.  Hearing their voices whenever he approached a semi-waking state was enough to remind him that he was safe.  He would mumble out a contented-sounding jumble of syllables, perhaps shift a little under the covers, and drift off again.

It was all paying off though.  There was an easily detected improvement after each session in the pool.   Speech, memory, and the ability to reason were all slowly gaining ground; physical healing was more difficult to discern since John was rarely given any time to work on gaining control of his voluntary motor functions.

“Thank you for what you’ve been doing for John,” D’Argo was saying.  “We had no idea it would take this much effort on your part when we made the request.  We are --” 

Aeryn watched him struggle to find the right words, equally appreciative and equally at a loss how to express her gratitude.   

“We are in your debt now,” Chiana tried. 

“Let us say that all debts have been repaid,” Meylan offered.  “The process of restoring John Crichton’s health has been a beneficial process for our community, perhaps more than we can ever explain.  We have discovered talents and capabilities within ourselves that we would not have uncovered if it were not for this effort.  We have benefited from the experience.” 

“That still doesn’t begin to offset how much you’ve done for him … and for us,” Aeryn protested.  “We … I can’t begin to …”

A languid motion of Tahleen’s hand stilled her awkward attempt to express her relief at having John restored to her, albeit badly injured.  “We already know, Aeryn Sun.  Be assured that we fully understand.  But now let us discuss what still lies ahead for John Crichton.”

“All but the last of the neurons and sensory pathways have been restored,” Daaren began.  “We are letting him rest now, after which we intend to finish this last process.  It should begin in about six arns, depending on Crichton’s condition.”  He waited for a few nods before continuing.  “This last portion will be the most difficult both for him and for us, because it involves reestablishing connections that were most affected by the mistreatment.  We expect that he will sleep for a solar day minimum after we have finished, and then we would like to discuss what lies ahead a second time.  The second discussion will be a bit different, and will be entirely for his benefit.” 

Tahleen took over.  “John Crichton is basically intact.  All of our methods of determining function indicate that his memories are still in place, and are ostensibly undamaged.  The connections to those memories will have to be reestablished, and that will take time and a significant amount of patience.  This will not be easy for any of you.” 

‘Time and patience,’ thought Aeryn.  How many times had she heard Zhaan say those words?  She wondered if it was a Delvian thing, or a phrase Tahleen had picked up when she had shared Unity with Zhaan and ripped knowledge out of her mind. 

“How is Crichton supposed to do that?” asked Rygel. 

“He won’t do it.  You will,” Tahleen said.  “His memories will gradually become accessible to him over time without any intervention.  However, the more often you prompt him with ideas and tales from his past, the faster the connections will be reopened.  At some point, all of the remaining barriers will be forced aside by the weight of returning recall, and that moment may be somewhat traumatic for him.  You need to be prepared for it.” 

“Prepared how?” 

D’Argo’s hand gripped Aeryn’s shoulder as she asked the question, transmitting as much nervousness as she felt. 

Meylan smiled.  “You already know how to support him when he needs you.  You have been doing exactly what is needed since before you arrived at our sanctuary.” 

“What about his physical debilities?”  Jool inquired.   

Daaren took over again.  “His physical condition resembles his mental state.  All of the connections will be reestablished before you depart our refuge, but it will take time for him to learn how to use them again.  He will not be ready to leave for another six or seven planetary days at the very earliest.  You must stay here at least as long as it takes for his body to adapt to the repairs we have been making.  The longer you remain, the easier the process will proceed for Crichton.  We encourage you to stay here the greatest length of time possible without putting you or your ship in peril.” 

“It is only a matter of time before the Peacekeepers discover that we are here,” D’Argo said. 

“We understand the dangers involved,” Meylan said.  “Your presence here is not without risk to us.  Just the same, we have discussed it at length and agree without exception that you must remain here as long as is feasible.  Each additional day will hasten John Crichton’s recovery.”

“It may not be up to us,” D’Argo said evenly. 

Meylan made a slow bow with his head.  “Understood.”

“Anything else?” Aeryn asked when it appeared that the small debate was completed.

Daaren took the lead, drawing everyone’s attention to him with a graceful movement of his hand and a smile.  “This interval, however long it may be, will also allow us all to begin teaching him how to use his body again.”  The Pa’u healer smiled more widely.  “I do not believe that John Crichton will need to be encouraged to regain the use of his muscles.  I would suspect that you will need to restrain him from exceeding his own capabilities.” 

Chiana laughed.  “They do understand Crichton!” 

“The strain on his reserves of energy will be extreme at first.  When you return to your ship, he must be encouraged to eat and rest frequently, and do not be upset if you find him asleep in strange places.  If he expends the last of his stamina at a time when he does not recognize his surroundings, the most natural action will be for him to simply go to sleep until he can figure it out.”  Daaren’s indulgent smile seemed to indicate that there were some humorous sights in store for them. 

“You must keep in mind the level of debility that has been created by the scarran torture.  It goes well beyond his inability to control his muscles.  Although a time will come when you will not be able to detect any further improvements in his condition, his body will still be healing and that is going to exact an enormous toll on his supply of energy.  Until he is fully recovered, John Crichton may spend up to half or even three quarters of his time sleeping.  If he pushes himself too hard, he will appear to pass out, but it will simply be a case of going to sleep despite any of his efforts to stay awake.  This will continue even after he appears to be otherwise fully recovered.  ”   

“We might need to address that as soon as we get back on board Moya,” Aeryn said.  “There are some places where it would be dangerous for him to take a nap.” 

“The DRDs.”  D’Argo’s quiet recommendation was answered by quiet mumbles of agreement from the others. 

“What else?” Aeryn asked after the delvians were quiet for several microts. 

“The degree of simplicity that will exist in his mind at first may be much greater than you anticipate,” Meylan cautioned them.  “A number of days ago the comparison was made to being reborn.  This will remain very true for quite some time.  Higher levels of reasoning are not present yet.  He has access to very little of his knowledge, and it will not return in any order.  John Crichton will be able to do some complex tasks one moment, and not remember how to get dressed or open a door the next.  As he transitions back to the person he used to be, you must expect a rising level of frustration.  He will begin to sense that he should know how to do something, and not be able to find the memory.”

“Anger, verbal outbursts, physical violence?” asked D’Argo. 

All three priests nodded. 

“Crichton at his best,” Rygel pronounced imperiously. 

Everyone laughed. 

Aeryn nodded, smiling.  “Rygel is correct.  I think we are well prepared to handle that aspect.”  She turned back to their three tutors.  “Anything else?”

“He will not remember his childhood and adolescence at first.  His emotional reactions will therefore be somewhat --” Tahleen was searching for a word again. 

“Erratic,” suggested Aeryn.

“Unpredictable.” 

“Immature.” 

“Unstable.” 

“Incendiary.” 

“Puerile.” 

“Childish.” 

The voices chimed in from all five of the crewmates, leaving the three delvians simultaneously shocked and laughing. 

“No change at all,” suggested Rygel at the end. 

Meylan nodded, his laughter dying, and then he went silent as the chuckles around him slowly died out.  He appeared to be considering his words very carefully.  When he began to speak it was with deliberation.  “We have not been able to explain the reaction that occurred in the pool several days ago.  When I relieved his pain, I received an impression of something hidden very deeply within his mind; something that John Crichton is unwilling to examine or even admit exists.  He has gone to great lengths to bury it as thoroughly as possible.  We are convinced that his pain is a method of insuring that the memories remain sequestered.”  Meylan surveyed the silent group.  “This may have nothing to do with his torture, and may never surface.” 

“But if it does?” D’Argo asked.

“His physical response was extreme; the mental response may be equally severe.”

“What kind of severe?” Chiana demanded.  “Like going nuts or going back into his own skull like he did before?  Or would it be something different this time?” 

“That cannot be predicted.  It depends upon John Crichton’s ability to cope with whatever he is fighting to keep hidden.”  Meylan waited through the depressed silence, finally resuming when no one had anything to say.  “The possibility exists that his need for restoration may exceed your capacity to cope.  If that occurs, or if you need anything at all to assist in John Crichton’s recovery, please return immediately.  If it were not for his strength and commitment to Zhaan’s well-being, our community would have descended into irreparable insanity.  We exist as a spiritual haven only because he risked himself to save Pa’u Zotah Zhaan, and by extension all of us.”  Meylan made the familiar gesture of acceptance and reverence, passing his hands over his face and head. 
   

* * * * *

Crichton did his best to relax as he was carried from the dimly lit room where his dreams had been comforting him.  He wasn’t especially worried about where they were taking him; he simply wanted to try getting around on his own.  When he had tried to say something to them about it, the words had come out in a garbled mess.  His second attempt had been worse and he had started to feel frustrated.  A hand had rested on his forehead for a microt and he had been told that it was all natural and correct that he could not talk, so he had done his best to put the incident out of his mind and settled down to watch the pale walls move by.

They passed through a doorway into an abrupt rise in humidity and temperature, which meant that they were back in the chamber with the pool.  He remembered how this had felt every other time they had brought him here, and felt the first stomach-squirming hint of concern.  His life was filled with discomfort.  Every breath and every waking moment involved at least some level of pain.  The pool, however, meant that the intensity was going to be pushed as high as he could stand it without resorting to screams.  They always kept him in the water until he was drawing in his first deep breath in preparation for putting a voice to his pain.  Only then would they finally relent, stop the session, and take him back to his room to recover. 

The pool meant another round of agony.   

John wondered if there was some way he could make them understand and put it off for a few more arns.  He was tired of the constant pain.  The idea of an arn or two of thorough relief was like thinking of paradise.  There was, of course, always a small chance that this time it might not feel so horrible.  Maybe this time it would not make him feel as though his body had been smashed into tiny bits and then set on fire, all while he was still alive. 

There was some quiet talking going on as they set him down on warm tiles.  Little of it made any sense.  They pulled the heavy quilted top over his head, helpfully extracting his arms from the sleeves. 

“Is hurt?” he asked a slim figure who was loosening the waist of his quilted pants.  The blue eyes looked away, seeking some guidance from someone he could not see, but another voice cut in loudly with an answer he understood. 

“Yes, this is going to hurt.” 

It was Aeryn! 

They frequently would not allow her in the room during his sessions with the Nice People because he had trouble paying attention to anyone but her and it disrupted the process.  He looked to his left and she was standing there, hovering over the group, looking truly radiant in the filtered light.  She was wearing the padded garments that concealed the contours of her body, but the dark hair falling freely over her shoulders was a bonus sight that left him breathlessly ecstatic.   

“Hey,” he greeted her.  There was an objection to Aeryn’s blunt answer from somewhere near his feet just as his pants were pulled off, leaving him dressed in nothing more than the stretchy, tight-fitting trunks he had seen D’Argo wearing several times.  They left absolutely nothing to the imagination.  He grinned at her and waggled his eyebrows.  “You too?”   He wanted to know if she was wearing something equally revealing beneath the loose delvian pants and tunic. 

She moved closer to look down at him, her eyes fixed on his.  “Later, I promise.”  Then she turned toward the hidden speaker.  “He does not need you to try to protect him from the truth about this.  Don’t you think he knows about that by now?”  She knelt next to him and put her hand on the top of his head.  “Look at what he’s been through, what he’s been able to endure.”  He looked up at her as she ran her thumb through his hair, rubbing his scalp at the top of his forehead.  “Don’t tell him anything other than the truth.  Not now.” 

An older priest appeared, the two of them hovering above him as he lay on the warm tiles.  “I am Meylan Vilar, John Crichton.  Do you remember me from the past days?” 

John shook his head, forgoing any attempt at communication.  Speech continued to elude him; even the smallest words insisted on mutating into random noises no matter how strenuous his efforts to get them to come out correctly.   

“Aeryn Sun is correct.  This will hurt somewhat, but I think we can help you withstand it.”  He smiled at Aeryn.  “It seems that we still have some things to learn about honesty and assessing the mental states of other beings.”  He gave Aeryn a light pat on the shoulder, and disappeared from John’s view. 

“Ayn?”

“What?”  She relaxed into a cross-legged sitting position beside him, elbows resting on her knees so she could lean forward to talk to him. 

“I … don’ wanna … go pool.” 

She watched him for a long time, her thoughts and emotions hidden behind an impassive look of mild curiosity.  He wasn’t sure how many microts had passed by the time she sighed and looked down at her hands; he only knew it was longer than Aeryn usually contemplated things.  He waited.  When she still did not answer him, he began to wonder if the sounds had come out even worse than he thought.  Maybe she hadn’t understood him. 

“Ayn?”  He wanted to explain to her about the pain.  It wasn’t that he didn’t ever want to go in the pool again; it was just that he needed a break from the unrelenting stream of discomfort.  From what Aeryn and the Nice People had been talking about he had decided that this session might be worse than all the rest.  The only problem he faced was that he was sure he would disappoint Aeryn if he said he didn’t want to do it without explaining why.   

“It hurts, doesn’t it?” she said before he could figure out how to transmit his concern.  “All the time, more than we think.  Doesn’t it?”

“I’n tire of ih, Ayn.” 

“Meylan says this will be the last one, John.  You won’t have to do this again after today.”

He considered that, trying to set up a comparison between what Aeryn told him and … something else that he could no longer remember.  “Duh no,” he told her, hoping she might guess that he couldn’t remember what decision he was supposed to be making.

“You don’t know what you want to do?”

“Duh no … wha’ I be …”  He looked away from her, trying to remember the word he needed.”

“You don’t know what your choices are,” she said with more confidence.

“Yeh.”

Aeryn leaned back, looked away from him, and made a gesture.  Symbols he could figure out.  She was telling someone they needed to wait.  She turned back to him and leaned in close, running a single finger up and down his upper arm.  “You can wait until tomorrow, but that means you have to think about it all night tonight, and it means it may hurt more and take longer tomorrow.  Or you can go in the pool right now, and it will be over.  You’ll be able to sleep until you don’t want to sleep any more, and the pain will start to fade tonight.” 

Closing his eyes helped a little.  He tried to shuffle all the bits from Aeryn’s first sentence to one side of his brain, and the remainder to the other side, because he knew that was the way people made decisions.  Somewhere in the middle, all the parts got mixed together.  It was beyond annoying.  It was absolutely infuriating. 

He resorted to the usual solution.  “You ‘cide.” 

Aeryn smiled at him, which created the fluttery weak feeling in his stomach that he enjoyed so much.  “I say we do this right now, and afterwards you can sleep, and sleep, and sleep until you feel better.” 

“’kay.” 
      

* * * * *

[KernilCrash]

Chapter 9 (continued)

Aeryn watched from her perch on the tiles as the session wore on into its third arn.  The first two arns had elicited little response from John; he had even looked blissful at first.  She had been uneasy when they first started because of the number of healers surrounding him; but they had laid their hands on him, and begun without any sign of trouble, and she had gradually relaxed.  Meylan and Lorana were side by side at John’s head with the other six priests arranged in a rough circle around his floating body.  John had seemed familiar with the arrangement.  Despite his initial reluctance to go in the water and the number of times he had checked to make sure she was still in the chamber, he had quickly settled down and had fallen asleep within microts of being placed in the water.  He had twitched from time to time, but the process had continued in silence except for the quiet chanting rhythms. 

It was toward the end of the second arn that he had taken his first deep breath and let it out with the softest hint of a cry, letting loose a long airy note of discomfort.  The chanting had become louder as they took a firmer hold on his body, and their manipulations had continued without interruption despite the change in intensity.  Now he was starting to fight their grasp and his breathing was becoming strained and irregular. 

Aeryn sat up straighter, alarmed by the arrival of two delvians wearing vestments.  The two young men moved quickly through the lapping waves to join the group, securing Crichton’s legs mere microts before he began to fight the multiple embraces.  Aeryn got to her feet, increasingly concerned by the combination of changes. 

The waves generated by the struggle began slopping over the edge of the pool.  Small rivers were running in all directions across the tiles, quickly evaporating from the heat.  A single wail echoed about the large chamber as John twisted and arched forcefully within their firm grasp.  Ignoring his obvious distress, the stroking rehabilitation continued, generating another huge lunge against their embrace.  Arriving at a decision, Aeryn slid out of her pants and shirt, dropped into the pool, and surged toward the group. 

“Let me help him,” she demanded. 

Meylan and Lorana moved apart without answering.  Lorana took a quick break to warn her, “You may not be able to get into his mind,” then joined back in with Meylan, her higher voice a counterpoint to his deep chant.   

Aeryn closed her eyes, preparing for the increasingly difficult process of entering John’s mind … and was violently ripped loose from her body.

We hurt, we hurt. 

They gasped with the sudden shock of what they had been fighting.  They had not known how bad it would be.  They had tried to tell them, and they had not understood.  They had been so arrogant to think that they could withstand this without trouble after all they had been through. 

No, don’t think that.  We were right, we can stand it … but we are tired of hurting.

For the first time they became aware of how long they had been in pain, how many days and arns of agony they had suffered through, and how badly they desired surcease. 

This isn’t as bad as before, we were right about that.  We are just so tired, so tired, so terribly tired of hurting. 

Their mind wandered out of control, driven before the discomfort like a fugitive, and they touched something for a split microt, something they had not noticed during the past days. 

NO!!  We can’t go there, that’s where it’s hidden! 

Too late, they tried to turn back.   

“Kelvo Fourteen.” 

They heard the voice, tried to get clear of the memory before it had time to possess them, and were light-years too late.  Insanity struck.  They had a split microt to hope it would rip the two pieces apart.  One portion of them struggled to spare the part that had already been forced to experience this horror, trying to shield the damaged half.  It was futile.  The memory tore into them and fused them with its ferocity, a singularity’s compression, a nova of pain, more than any minds could comprehend. 

They were awed, confused, and overwhelmed.  No one could survive this.  It was impossible.

Their song of strength rose out of the howling of the storm, love and the memory of one woman giving them everything necessary to hang on.  They pulled them away, took them into their arms and dragged them clear of the memory.  Their strength was unbelievable, unfaltering now before the unimaginable.   

They looked at themselves with new understanding and love.  They could not have known what had been endured and could not begin to imagine how they had survived it the first time. 

They huddled together in the aftermath, apologizing for not warning them that the place existed, that the unimaginable was stored there, hidden from everyone. 

It was not their fault, not their fault. 

They should not have learned what it had been like; they should not have had to bear that.  That was supposed to stay forever in their mind without them or the others ever discovering what it had been like. 

They will never tell, they will never reveal to the others what they had just seen and felt.  Only, why would they hide it?  Why wouldn’t they want their friends to know what it was like? 

Explain it to us, they urged.  Tell us what we experienced. 

They searched for the words that could describe the horror of Kelvo Fourteen, and it lashed out again, curling around them, enveloping them and hurling them toward insanity. 

We understand now, they gasped in the aftermath. 

It can’t be considered, remembered, or acknowledged.  It is there and always will be, but it must be kept hidden, locked away forever even from themselves. 

Yes, yes, we understand. 

But now they needed to go somewhere else to escape this small hurt while it lasted.  They couldn’t remember, couldn’t find somewhere else to exist.  It was all blank.  Would they help them remember a place? 

Yes.  Of course.  Why would they think otherwise?  They considered for a microt, thought taking more effort as their senses were attacked from outside. 

Where, where, where?  Hurry.  Please hurry, it’s getting worse.  

They realized that they were trying to keep more of the discomfort for themselves, to protect this portion of themselves.  Stop it, they ordered.  It can’t be done. 

We will take this on ourselves, so that we may think quickly and find a place.  Just for this moment, think quickly.  We can stand it while we think of a place if it means finding one sooner.  We can, we can, we can withstand it. 

They thought of a time of joy and passion …

… and they dove for it in desperation, seeking relief …

… but that had been on board Talyn. 

It was their turn to pull them roughly away from a memory, desperately pulling them in any direction except that one.  Not us, not us.  We are sorry; we did not mean to go there.  They were so much like the other, their current passion greater for the trials they had both endured, and yet so much the same. 

We do not mind, we know now that we love us without comparison.  Try again. 

Here, we will go all the way back to the first moments.  We will share our first memories. 

And then the pain was gone as …

She/he regained consciousness still wearing her/his atmospheric rig, helmet locked securely onto the breastplate.  She/he was feeling confused and dazed as she/he lifted her/his head and looked around the room.  She/he was on a leviathan, obviously captured after her/his Prowler had been sucked through starburst behind the escaping beast.  She/he was not worried, these were lower mentality prisoners, and she/he would be able to overcome them easily and escape.  There was a commendation in this somewhere if she/he could return them all to custody.  Perhaps a promotion, but she/he would have to be careful not to get promoted out of Prowler Command.

Gloved fingers tripped the catch without conscious direction, a motion completed instinctually, and she/he tipped the helmet forward to examine her/his surroundings more closely.  She/he was still a little dazed, so she was not ready for a male officer to suddenly be in her/his face.  His words had no meaning at first, and she/he was angry for being in this cell so she/he lashed out physically.  He was heavy but he did not fight back as she/he slammed him to the floor and pinned him.  He was handsome though, with strange blue eyes, and she/he felt something odd curl within when he spoke, his voice traveling up her/his spine to ignite something unknown in her/his head and heart. 

We never knew it started then.  We thought it took longer. 

We aren’t really sure that it did. 

When did we know for sure? 

We have to see our side first, do we remember this moment? 

No, they sobbed, filled with grief at the loss of the memory.  They remembered her, but they couldn’t find …

Wait!  What is that there?  Look!  It is the memory, safe and intact.  It has not been damaged.  We will examine it together. 

Yesssss, they remembered now, they remembered!  They felt the soft pleasure in their stomach, the tingle running up their chest.  How could we have forgotten that day? 

It was all so confusing, mind-altering, unbelievable.  He/she stood at the cell door, listening to strange explanations from a green slug.  Nothing made sense although the words were familiar now, due in some way to the bugs they said they had put in his/her brain.  Microbes in his head, that was scary.  He/she turned to look at the other figure that the slug had referred to, suddenly concerned by the appearance of the black bug-like figure.  He/she relaxed when he/she saw it was wearing a helmet.  It was moving!  He/she wondered what was inside.  This had already been a very long, very bad dream.  What could possibly happen next? 

The helmet fell clear and he/she saw another human.  Thank the Lord, an ally.  And a beautiful one at that.  She was gorgeous.  The introduction did not go quite as planned though, and he/she was suddenly lying on the floor, ribs hurting, breath gone, with her legs -- what fantastic legs -- pinning him/her down.  She was practically sitting on his/her face, and if this weren’t so bizarre and if she weren’t choking him/her, he/she would be excited to have this happening.  He/she looked up as she demanded information and he/she heard her name for the first time.  Aeryn Sun.  Beautiful woman, beautiful name.  Too bad she had just kicked the crap out of him/her. 

They were laughing at them. 

They did not think it was that funny, they sulked. 

Now that they knew what had been going on in their mind while they flung them around the cell, they thought it was incredibly funny. 

They hung suspended together for a time, enjoying what they had just learned about themselves, then they led them to the first moment they thought they might have known they loved them.  They examined the found moment together, re-experiencing the growing thrill as a new emotion was discovered within themselves, sharing the sensations, allowing the feelings to compound until the emotions took over their entire awareness for an unknown length of time. 

That felt good, they sighed when it eventually faded away.  We should have a similar memory, where is it? 

It will return soon, don’t worry. 

They thought for a while, trying to choose something they both knew, yet didn’t.  Something they could share with themselves from a double perspective. 

Do we remember hanging in space above a burning moon? 

A ring on a chain floating away, and … waiting for something, waiting for … nothing was there anymore. 

Yes, it is.  It is there.  All we have to do is find it. 

Something dark, something very, very important to us. 

Where is Moya? they prompted, trying to get the memory to work itself loose. 

We can’t remember that either.  Wait!  Moya is gone!  Are we right?  

Yes.  Now, what were we waiting for?

There was a gentle interjection, a calm directive from a third source telling them that it was time to go. 

We don’t want to leave, this is nice.

We’re going.  I promise that there will be time for this later.  Follow me, John. 

The sudden rush of new sensations, endured alone, was almost more than he could stand.  Crichton closed his lips tightly against the cry of loneliness that rose in his throat.  Hands were holding him harshly, increasing the level of discomfort, and he wanted them to stop the new form of torture.  He was twisting helplessly in their grasp, his body out of control, and he was having trouble understanding why they were treating him so brutally.  These were supposed to be the Nice People.  They weren’t supposed to hurt him like this. 

A wave of energy rolled through newly awakened nerves, goading his body into another series of frantic movements that wrenched harder against the restriction to movement.  Nothing he tried could control the battering coming from his own body.  He was an involuntary passenger being taken along on an out of control ride. 

One wet arm twisted out of the tired clutches of the person on that side, flailing out of the water as the figure moved out of the way to avoid getting hit.  Crichton reveled in the momentary relief that came from letting overwrought muscles expend their packed energy in a wild dance of discomfort. He wanted to throw himself across the pool in a frenzy of release, twisting and thrashing until all of the torment went away.  Instead, he took in a deep breath, held it, and willed the free arm to be still.  Miraculously, it stopped moving and the priest who had moved out of range returned, took it up in a light grasp and began stroking the tense muscles as if in thanks. 

John tried to focus on the similar massaging going on all over his body, using the anchor of the rhythmic patterns to gradually get himself under control.  Nothing hurt any less, but by ignoring the urges to give into it, the situation became more bearable.  The waves washing over him died down, and the hands eased their grip, reducing the amount of discomfort. 

A towel wiped his face, blotting carefully at his mouth, nose, eye sockets.  John opened his eyes to see who was there.  There were two of the Nice People … and Aeryn. 

“W’ing … for …”  He took another breath.  “… YOU!  Right?”  Her smile was all he needed for an answer.

* * * * *

Aeryn pushed her exhaustion aside to where she could ignore it.  She was not willing to accept that she had done anything to warrant the level of physical fatigue she was experiencing.  John was the one who had done all the hard work, if only by coping with the pain.  She toweled herself dry then pulled her clothing on.  She had left them lying on the heated tiles as she usually did, and was once again grateful for the warmth stored in the quilting.  The priests still had John in the pool, working to relax taut muscles.  There were only Lorana and two other priests with him, conducting a systematic massage to remove as much discomfort as possible now that he had stopped thrashing. 

Some of the pain had been the result of his shoulder dislocating.  As far as anyone could tell, he had wrenched it right out of its socket at some point during his initial struggles before Aeryn had joined him in Unity.  They had recognized the problem long before the session had ended, and had summoned Daaren immediately.  He had spent more than an arn assessing the injury, trying to determine how to get the joint back into the correct position without risking greater injury.  It was the first thing they had asked John when they lifted his head out of the water, barely giving him enough time to greet her before inquiring about how to resolve the problem. 

That was when Aeryn had been given the first example of the irrational frustration the delvians had warned them about.  Exhausted, crippled, and in enormous pain, there was no reason why John should have remembered how to get the joint back in place.  But when his memory had come up empty, he had gone into an impotent, splashing rage, capable of little else than wordless screeches of anger and uncoordinated thrashing within the careful grasp of the group surrounding him. 

“John!” she had barked in the end, appalled at his continued fury.  “Stop it!”

“Ih’s noh dere!  Ih … shoo … be dere!” he had yelled, getting some volume behind the mangled words for the first time. 

“We know you don’t have the answer.  It doesn’t matter.  You’re not supposed to remember at this point.  Calm down!”  It had taken forty microts or more to get him under control, after which she had discussed the problem with Daaren, relating as much as she could remember about the repetitive injury, dredging her memory for every small tidbit John had ever related about the phenomenon.  It had been enough.  Meylan and Lorana had worked in tandem to draw away the agony as Daaren manipulated the joint, finding the magic combination of angle and force after less than twenty microts.  John had made a long gargling sound of relief in the back of his throat and almost half of the tension drained out of his body -- in contrast to the nausea she had experienced upon hearing the horrid crunch when his shoulder slid into place. 

They began moving John to the side of the pool where four acolytes were waiting towels in hand.  He turned to look at her as lifted him out of the water, and kept his eyes fixed on her for the length of time it took for them to bundle him into a cocoon of heated towels.  He looked gray and exhausted. 

“I’ll be along in a few microts,” she assured him as they finished wrapping him up.  One eyebrow twitched upward in an acknowledgement, and then he closed his eyes.  There was no further sign of awareness from Crichton as they carried him away. 

Aeryn sat cross-legged trying to finish her braid, soothed by the silence that had stolen over the chamber, broken only by the soft lapping of the water as the last of the ripples died down.  It was peaceful, a vacuum of sound that drained away the last of her energy until she felt too exhausted to follow everyone else out of the room.  After three tries she managed to fasten the end of the braid, flipped it over her shoulder to hang down her back, and then waited for the inner strength to get up and go after John. 

Meylan appeared at the door with Hasko at his side.  “We thought you might be able to use a little support.”  When she didn’t respond they reached down and helped her to her feet.  “You will need as much rest as John Crichton this time,” said Meylan. 

Without warning Hasko swung her up and started to carry her. 

“This is ridiculous.  You can put me down.  I didn’t do anything.” 

They ignored her demand.

“Your efforts made this a much easier process for John Crichton,” Hasko told her.  “Do not underestimate the physical demands of your contribution.  Let us do what is necessary to restore your energy.”
Aeryn shook her head and pushed against him, forcing herself out of his embrace.  Hasko lowered her to the floor, and settled for cupping one hand under her elbow to steady her as they continued more slowly through the hallways. 

“How long were John and I in Unity?” 

Meylan gave her a very peculiar look. 

“What?” she asked, baffled by the look and their silence.   

“You don’t know,” he said.  It was halfway between a statement and a question.   

His response didn’t provide an answer and irritation scratched at the back of her breastbone, goading her to a more violent response.  “No,” she said shortly, trying to contain her impatience. 

They turned into a different chamber than the one where John had been sleeping.  Her initial objection died away as soon as she saw that it was a larger room with several of the bunks arranged on the walls.  John was already in one of the cradle-like beds, sound asleep even though they were in the process of turning him on his side and getting him settled.  Hasko steered her toward a bed across from Crichton’s, directing her to a spot where she would be able to lie down and still see him. 

Aeryn was about to repeat her question about the length of time they had spent in Unity when Chiana burst through the door, followed closely by the remainder of the crew.  The nebari’s trajectory, initially aimed at Crichton, realigned itself when she saw Aeryn sitting up. 

“It’s about time!  We were starting to get worried.” 

Aeryn shook her head, puzzled by both the comment and Chiana’s level of anxiety. 

“Aeryn, it’s been five frelling arns.” 

“Five arns?” 

Chiana nodded vigorously. 

“Five arns,” she repeated looking at Hasko and Meylan.  They both looked smug.  She was stunned.  They had explored a lot of things while they were together, but almost three arns in Unity?  No wonder she was so tired, she realized.  Just standing there holding John’s head for three arns would be enough to do that.

“It was exceptional,” said Meylan.  “We have never seen anything like it, not from two untrained individuals.  There is one thing you should know before you leave, but right now you require rest more than you require explanations.” 

Aeryn looked across at where John was sleeping.  Buried under a heap of thermal covers, little more than a shock of dark hair and half of his face were showing.  He may have been mentally shielded for most of the five arns, but whether he had been aware of it or not, his body had been subjected to an extended assault.  Aeryn slid to the floor and accepted D’Argo’s support in the form of a hand beneath her arm as she walked unsteadily across the room to look at Crichton more closely. 

He had his face half buried in the pillow, mouth open slightly as he slept, emptied of all expression by the combination of injury and exhaustion.  Whoever had arranged him in the bed had tucked one hand close to his chin again, and his hair was standing up in damp tufts.  The two features gave him a disheveled, childish appearance.  She passed a hand over the side of his head, smoothing down several of the tufts of hair, and the simple gesture generated a full body tremor strong enough that it could be seen through the thick layer of covers.  Aeryn yanked her hand away, remembering too late that it would take several arns before the over-stimulated nerves calmed down enough that every touch did not generate a burst of pain. 

Just as she was about to turn away she saw that the one visible eye was watching her.  It was a close run contest against fatigue, however.  He was barely able to keep the single eyelid open.   

“I’m sorry,” she said.  She hadn’t meant to wake him.  He mumbled something, defeating her microbes.  “Try it again.”  She leaned closer to hear his slow whisper.  “You are incorrigible,” she said, shaking her head.  He smiled at her, the single visible eyelid closing for a long moment and then struggling open to watch her again.  “Soon,” she told him.  He went back to sleep. 

Her knees buckled, abandoning her at last.  D’Argo was waiting beside her though, stalwart and attentive, and she was scooped up before she could try to regain her balance.  The next thing she knew she was in her own bunk, lying on her side so she could still see Crichton, and they were pulling the blankets over her. 

Hasko ushered everyone out of the room, and the lights were dimmed.  She checked on the room’s other occupant.  John had not moved so much as a finger, but he was still smiling and as she watched, the one eye opened again, stared at her drowsily for a microt, and then closed. 

Chiana lingered beside her as the others left.  “What did he say, Aeryn?”   

“He wanted a larger bunk so I could get in with him.”

She listened as the laughter moved out into the hallway, and shortly after heard several other voices joining in as well.  It was dark in the room, but she could still see the gleaming eye checking on her from time to time right up until she fell asleep.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

[KernilCrash]

Chapter 10 

He had been dreaming about rough hands grabbing him, holding him down, hurting him repeatedly, and woke with an almost-scream stuck in his throat.  John struggled to swallow the unvoiced shriek.  Every muscle in his body froze with the exception of those in his stomach, which tossed in rebellion against the pain washing over him.  He did his best to ignore the nausea.  Focusing on the rest of his environment seemed like a good way to distract himself.  There was a delightfully squashy surface beneath him, soft smooth fabric against most of him, and warm fuzzy blankets lying lightly against any remaining bare skin.  It was all pleasant and very comfortable.  The only problem was that he had no idea where he was.  He was enveloped, free to go back to sleep … and felt unbelievably sick to his stomach, not to mention scared to the point that he was starting to shake.   

The trembling set off an entirely different set of sensations from his body.  Pain, sharp and sour, replaced any suggestion of comfort.  He could not remember where he was, and it was too dark to make out any details.  John cast about inside his mind trying to dredge up some memory of where he was or what was happening, and located only emptiness where his memories should have been stored.  The fear compounded, increasing with every additional microt that he could not remember where he was or what was going on. 

Things kept getting worse.  His stomach heaved, very nearly managing to eject its contents.  He gagged for several microts, which made it impossible to swallow fast enough to contain the wet rush of saliva that always seemed to precede vomiting, and the pillow beneath his head was soon soggy with a combination of spit and tears.  He desperately wanted someone to come explain everything to him, and to make the sick feeling and the pain go away, but he could not remember whose name he was supposed to call out in order to make that happen.  He could not stop the tears either, and could not remember why he was supposed to try in the first place.  The universe devolved into a tightly constricted bubble containing little more than his confusion and his fear, and he sobbed into his increasingly wet pillow as the pain and nausea took over his entire existence.

The lights came on, startling him, and a moment later someone touched him, running their hand lightly over his head and continuing onward down his shoulder.  The pressure was familiar and overwhelmingly welcome.   

“Aeryn,” he cried.  Relief managed to make his stomach feel worse instead of better. 

“What’s the matter, John?  What’s wrong?”  She knelt down so she was looking at him eye to eye, rubbing a series of small circles against the back of his shoulder in an attempt to calm him. 

“Wher’ we are?” he asked. 

“The New Moon of Delvia.  We brought you here so they could heal you.”

“Is … I hur’?”  He could not remember anything about what had happened. 

“Yes.”  Aeryn smiled at him, tilting her head to one side to match his gaze.  Her hair sheeted thick and dark along her shoulder, falling to that side in heavy waves.  “You were very badly hurt, but they’re fixing you and you’re going to get better.”  A tear trickled to one side of Aeryn’s face, and that scared him more than not knowing what was going on.  Aeryn never cried unless things were approaching disaster status.   

A fragment of recall snapped into place, and he was nearly sick right then and there. 

“I … I …”  He swallowed against the rising pressure, fighting not to throw up.  The one memory he had managed to locate was a hideous one.  “I geh caugh’ by …”  He could not remember the word that belonged on the frightening creatures.  “By big lizards?” 

Aeryn smiled again, nodding.  She did not look like she wanted to smile though; she looked as though she would have preferred to start crying.  “Yes,” she said in a near-whisper.  “They’re called scarrans, John.  The scarrans caught you, and they did something terrible to you.  But you do not have to worry about that.  It’s over, you’re healing, and we’re going to make sure nothing like that ever happens to you again.”

“Aer’n?” he asked, whining despite his best effort to sound mature. 

“Yes?”  She palmed away a few of his tears, stroked the hair on the side of his head, and waited without any sign of impatience. 

“I’n gonna be … sigk.”  His stomach had already won the battle.  He was going to puke, and it was going to happen very soon.  There was no stopping it.  The only thing in question at this point was the exact time of his final capitulation. 

Aeryn got to her feet and spun around, surveying the chamber, then turned back and smiled down at him.  “Then I guess you’ll be sick.”  She pulled the blankets down to his waist, cradled his shoulders in a two-armed embrace, and shifted him closer to the edge of the bunk in a series of small jerks, grunting with the effort of moving his inert mass.  One more adjustment rolled him nearly onto his stomach and brought his head right to the very edge of the structure.  “If you get sick, you get sick,” she said.  “Don’t worry about it.” 

“Doan … wanna be sigk,” he complained slickly through a mouthful of saliva.  A long rope of drool slid loose and dropped to the floor, the first sign that he was losing the battle to contain the increasing nausea.  “Doan wan’ barf.” 

Aeryn laughed.  The quiet vibrations had the unexpected benefit of lessening the anxious feeling in his chest.  It was an odd reaction since he was sure she was laughing at him. 

“Wha’s funny?”

“You don’t have any choice about this, John.  It doesn’t matter what you want.”  She went on rubbing his back as he panted and belched and gagged.  His stomach went on doing its best to crawl out of his body by way of his throat. 

“I doan feel goo’,” he moaned. 

“I know.” 

Aeryn switched to rubbing the small of his back.  It made him feel a little better, but it also hurt enormously.  The shudders of pain added to the discomfort in his stomach and brought him just that much closer to the point where he would not be able to contain it any more.  Aeryn stayed close, murmuring small reassurances and switching to small touches as he gasped and gulped.  The crescendo of nausea was rapidly approaching its pinnacle.

“We have him, Aeryn Sun,” a male voice said, breaking into the brief silence. 

John did not bother looking up to see who was there; he was too close to puking.  There were at least four pairs of feet aside from Aeryn’s moving around below him, accompanied by louder noises, an increase in the light levels, and the confusion of several voices talking at once.  The covers were stripped away completely, and his head and shoulders were levitated clear off the edge of bunk.  Firm hands grasped him carefully by the forehead and the base of his throat.  Other hands steadied him so he would not slip off the bunk.  Someone slid a pillow under his stomach and encouraged him to curl around it.  This last adjustment puzzled him, since it did not relieve any of the churning inside.  All it did was create pressure against the muscles. 

“Relax, John,” Aeryn ordered.  “Let go.  You do not have to fight it any longer.” 

A container appeared beneath his head, and at last his major concern was resolved.  John abandoned his battle, giving the rushing warmth in his throat its victory.  Gagging, mucus flooding from his nose in response to the unnatural act, he heaved out the contents of his stomach, three pairs of hands holding him in place as he arched into the spasms.  The purpose of the wadded pillow became clear when the external pressure against his stomach muscles aided the internal ones to produce the force necessary to eject the surge of fluids. 

“Breathe,” someone ordered as the first onslaught ended. 

He spent several microts coughing, finally managed to take in a good-sized breath, and then vomited again.  Tears streamed down his face, adding to the wet mess.  Ears burning, jaws aching, he retched, coughed, gagged, and retched again, struggling to find time to service his empty lungs.  His stomach took a break, providing a lull in the storm of misery.  They raised his head and wiped his face with a wet cloth, cleaning away the streams of tears and snot. 

“Relax, we have you,” the deep, calm voice told him. 

“I sigk,” he told them. 

“That is rather apparent,” an amused female voice laughed. 

The simple comment hurt for some reason.  He thought he was telling them something important and she was laughing at him.  This time the tears were from humiliation. 

“Ay’n!” he called. 

The strong, familiar fingers rubbed the back of his head, scrubbing at his hair before moving down his skull to massage the straining tendons and muscles at the base of his skull.  “I haven’t left.  I’m right beside you.  I’m not leaving, so don’t worry about that.” 

It happened again.  His stomach convulsed wildly, forcing out the last trickles of bile and the small amounts of saliva he had swallowed in the preceding few microts.  He gasped for air, waiting while his face was wiped clean by the strangers standing around him. 

Several hands worked at the middle of his body, lifting him long enough to work another pillow underneath his aching stomach.  They let him down at an angle so he could curl around the hummock of padding, easing the strain on the overworked muscles. 

“Better?” someone asked. 

“Uh huh.” 

These had to be the Nice People from before.  ‘Delvians’, Aeryn had called them.  But he didn’t really know anything about them, and he waited forlornly as they helped him, hoping that someone he knew would come to comfort him instead.   They wiped away the cold sweat creeping down his neck, then pulled the blankets up to keep him warm until he was finished being sick.  This time when he started crying, it was because they were being so kind to him. 

Another attack hit, bringing up less than before, and it took the rest of his body along for the ride.  Starting at his toes, a wave of fire traveled up his body, every nerve ending insisting that he was burning alive.  He cried out, squirming against the surge of pain, and retched again, straining to eject something from his already empty stomach. 

“Spit,” someone commanded softly.  He panted, found some air and obeyed, the hands still holding his head so that he did not have to support it himself.  They wiped his chin, and the container was taken away.  “Done?” the same voice asked. 

“Un unh.”  He hurt all over.  Every touch was painful, his stomach ached, and he was shivering from the shock of being sick.  And underneath it all was another swelling mass of nausea beginning its slow rise to the surface.  He retched again, his body arching as it tried to eject something that was already gone, tightly clenched fists aching as he tried to control the internal spasms.  Then it was over.  The hands guided him back onto the bunk as he sagged into their grasp, continuing to support his head throughout the transition.  He watched dully as the last strings of spit and mucus slid slowly into the container, feeling miserable and exhausted.   

“Done?” the voice asked again. 

“Yuh,” was all he could manage.

He obeyed their instructions as they brought him something to rinse out his mouth, spitting into the basin when they ordered him to, and cooperated the best he could when they wiped his face one more time, cleaning away the last of the tears, snot and spit.  They rolled him into his bunk, and stripped away every bit of sweat-soaked coverings -- clothes and bedcovers alike.  Moving him about gently, doing their best not to set off more of the ever-present pain, they washed away his sweating reaction to being ill.  Warm water soaked the sweat out of his hair, sponges worked up and down his body wiping away the sticky residue, and they slid him into clean pants and then threaded his arms and head into a clean top.  He was lifted bodily, the surface beneath him pulled into order, then he was replaced in the bunk and fresh, dry covers were pulled into place.   

He lay for ten microts with his face pressed into the pillow, and then, before he knew what was happening or why, began to cry.  The sobs tumbled out of him without control, the recent efforts by the delvians to clean him up defeated by the latest streams of tears.  It seemed like arns since he’d been asleep.  Waking up scared and sick was a dimly remembered event, buried under fatigue, aching muscles, and confusion. 

“John.”  Aeryn appeared beside him.  She knelt down in the habitual position so she was face-to-face with him, and ran the backs of her fingers slowly across his cheek.  “I’m sorry,” she apologized softly.

“F’r what?” he asked, hiccupping.  They had placed him on his stomach again, his face half buried in the pillow.  He was warm, almost comfortable although he hurt all over, and the slow, warm drift of Aeryn’s fingers across his cheek was like a visit from heaven. 

“For this happening to you.”  She watched him for a few microts.  “For knowing that you’re feeling miserable and not being able to help you.” 

“I’s okay now.  Really.”  She caught a trickle of water where it escaped from his hair and wiped it away with her thumb.  He started to cry again, feeling every bit as miserable as her apology suggested he might be feeling. 

“You’re all right, John.  You don’t need to cry, you’re fine now.”  He knew she was right, but that did not do anything to stop the flood of tears.  “Do you still feel sick?” she asked, finding the hand that was tucked near his chest and pulling it out from under the covers. 

“Nuh.”  He looked at his hand inside Aeryn’s and the need to cry disappeared all at once, vanishing as mysteriously as it had arrived. 

She began rubbing his cheek again, her thumb stroking the contours in a slow migration from jaw to temple and back again.  “Do you hurt?” 

He nodded. 

“John Crichton.”  Someone moved into sight alongside Aeryn, dropping down gracefully onto one knee so he could look at her without strain.  “Do you remember me?” 

A name drifted out of the tangled mess that passed for his brain.  “T’leen,” he answered. 

“No, my name is Lorana.  I’m going to remove the pain.  It will help if you can relax.  Can you do that?” 

“You blue,” he observed.  “T’leen’s blue.” 

She laughed, unbothered by his confusion, and got to her feet, moving toward the bottom of the bunk.  “I want you to concentrate on Aeryn Sun, and try to relax.  That will reduce the level of discomfort that needs to be resolved.”  A hand burrowed in under the blankets and touched his ankle.  He closed his eyes, and promptly forgot what not-Tahleen had asked him to do. 

“Relax,” Aeryn said low and quiet near his ear.  She rubbed the side of his head, working intricate patterns into his wet hair with her fingertips.  “Slow breaths, keep your eyes closed, relax.”  A woman’s voice start to hum and a microt later all of the pain flowed out of him, emptying out from his head to his toes as though someone had pulled a plug at the bottom of his foot.  He let out an extended sigh of relief, which only served to bring a portion of the pain back, and a moment later the unwanted tears returned. 

“What’s wrong?  Why are you crying?” Aeryn asked.

“I dunno.  Can’d geh it t’ s’op.”  It was as though all the emotions of the past days were leaking out of him all at once, unfocussed and unstoppable.   

Aeryn’s voice hummed nearby.  The individual words were unintelligible.  She received a murmured answer from a deep voice, and then someone lifted his upper body, cradling his shoulders and head as he was raised off the soft mattress. 

Aeryn slid onto the bunk, curling her legs beneath her, and he was lowered so that his head lay in her lap.  A queasy feeling ran through his stomach that had nothing to do with his recent bout of vomiting.  They pulled the insulated covers securely around his shoulders, added one more layer to dispel any chill, and then he was alone with her except for the person at the foot of the bed. 

“Better?” Aeryn asked, her fingers moving in his hair.  He nodded, thinking of all the questions that had been in his head when he had first awakened.  Every quandary had disappeared.  He was here and Aeryn was here.  That was all that mattered.  He would deal with anything else later.  Her hand moved down to rub his back, a slow even movement between his shoulder blades, and it set off a long sigh. 

“Try to go to sleep, John.  You need the rest.” 

* * * * *

Aeryn pulled her sleeve down over the heel of her hand and used it to wipe away more of John tears, blotting at the creeping streams as he continued to cry.  When she first slid under him, he had been shaking, with emotion it seemed, rather than from cold.  The quivering had died away quickly once she had started rubbing his back, leaving only the uncharacteristic tears.  She had to give him time, she reminded herself.  Expecting John to revert immediately to the strong, self-controlled person he had always been was unreasonable.  This was exactly the kind of reaction that Meylan and the others had been trying to tell them about when they had met the preceding day.  It was going to be a long time before John was himself again. 

The shaking ended and the traumatized body let out yet another long sigh, and started to relax. 

“Feel better?” she asked. 

He nodded, then frowned and bit his lower lip.  In the past, that habit had always meant he was concentrating on something to the exclusion of everything else.  Aeryn waited to see what would happen, giving him time to sort out whatever he was working on.  Dench by agonizingly slow dench, his hand crawled out from beneath the blankets, headed toward her own, a demonstration of willpower winning out over injury. 

Aeryn met him halfway, placing her hand palm to palm with his and interlacing their fingers, curling his around her palm for him when they would not do it on their own.  “You’re going to be fine,” she whispered, hugging his shoulders with her free arm.  “Just fine.” 

Her own alarm was subsiding as gradually as John’s trauma.  Meylan had seemed to think that this breakdown was completely normal.  Unwilling to worry her in the event that it did not come to pass, they had not warned her that they had been anticipating the entire situation including the vomiting.  They had been monitoring John for exactly this sort of reaction. They considered John’s being ill a natural result of the psychological and physical battering he had suffered over the past several days.  But the unstable behavior was so different from John’s recently restored tenacious personality that she had been overwhelmed from the microt she had increased the light levels right up until Meylan had pulled her aside so the delvians could tend to him. 

A tremor passed through the body resting on her legs, and the memory of everything he had endured so far banished the last of her concerns.  John had earned more moments like this one.  He was staring blankly across the room, eyes closing drowsily from time to time, still crying but not as intensely as before. 

“How are you doing?” she asked, stroking his cheek.  He turned to look up at her, and another small flood ran across his face.  “You’re not sad, are you?  This is relief.”  He turned his face away from her, and rubbed his head against her thigh.  He was wiping his tears on her pants, she realized, unable to do it any other way. 

“Come here,” she said, trying hard to sound disgusted.  “I’ll do that.”  He turned his head back with a grin, and let her wipe away the last of the moisture. 

“Love you,” he whispered. 

“And I love you,” she answered. 

“A’n?” 

This was one of his new habits, one that had appeared since they had taken him out of the pool.  Some part of him needed to check to make sure she was listening before he asked a question, even when he knew she was paying attention. 

“What?”  It was easy to be tolerant of his illogical behaviors.  Only one thing mattered at this point.  He was alive. 

“Lizards catch me?” 

“They’re called scarrans.  And yes, they captured you.” 

Concern about his emotional outburst was replaced by a far stronger fear that something very wrong had just happened.  John had remembered every single detail while he’d been in the quiet dreaming place.  The memories had been carefully and deliberately hidden, but they had been intact.  His question suggested that there had been an unexpected regression.  Aeryn looked toward Lorana, worried that there had been some sort of additional damage.  The delvian raised a hand, indicating that she should wait for something. 

“Wha’ was I …”  John stopped.  “Word not dere!” he complained angrily, squirming against her as he vented his frustration with the greatest physical outburst he could manage at that moment.

“What were you doing?” Aeryn prompted, taking a wild guess at what he’d meant to ask. 

“Uh huh.” 

“You were providing cover fire for the rest of us so we could get away safely.”  Aeryn bent over him, watching for his reaction as she provided the missing information.  “You were right behind us -- no more than three motras.  D’Argo and I turned around to give you cover, and you were gone.” 

John stared at their joined hands for several microts, a small furrow appearing between his eyes as he considered her explanation. 

“You don’ get hurt?  They don’ catch you any?”  His speech was deteriorating, a signal that he was nearing complete exhaustion. 

“No.  I got away.  They only caught you.” 

John nodded twice, suddenly looking irretrievably sleepy.  “Tha’s okay den.  S’okay as long as you not hurt.” 

“John,” Aeryn breathed.  She had not anticipated what was concerning him.  The normally vibrant, muscular body lay against her incapable of all but the smallest movements, his recall fragmented, every small sentence demonstrating the extensive damage that he had suffered, and his first concern was that she had not been injured.  “You’re insane.” 

“Nope.  Was.  Not now.” 

He was joking, she realized, shocked beyond the point of offering a witty answer.  And she had John Crichton back for an instant, the irrepressible sense of humor surfacing when she least expected it. 

“Word missing,” he complained again. 

“Can you get me close to it?”  She could not provide the English version, but they had already discovered that if they could guess what he was trying to say, his microbes would faithfully translate their term into the missing word. 

“Wha’ dey did to me.  Ih’s bad thing.” 

“Why do you want to know the word for that?”  Aeryn had to wait almost ten microts for an answer.  John blinked several times, his body sagging more forcefully against her as he began to succumb to his fatigue. 

“Dunno.  Jus’ missing.” 

“It’s called …”  Aeryn’s voice failed her, fading into whispering silence for a moment.  “It’s called ‘torture’, John.  And you’re right.  It’s a bad thing.” 

For a moment it was as if she had been the one strapped to that gleaming metal table, helpless to do anything but scream out her agony as the surges of energy destroyed her one pulse at a time.  The multi-person Meeting had been the only way to force John out of his quiet dreaming place, but it had left the experience indelibly imprinted on the minds of everyone involved, delvians included.  All ten of the participants knew precisely what John had endured.  The word ‘torture’ barely began to describe it. 

If she closed her eyes, she could feel it all:  the cold smoothness of the table beneath her shoulders, warming gradually as she lay on it; the pinching grasp of the straps that forced her joints into an unnatural position against the slab; the heat of the scarrans as they leaned over her, preparing another wave of unbearable sensations; and worst of all, the small, sticky adhesions where the electrodes were attached, promising that there was more to come than she could bear. 

It was her turn to shudder, the memories more real than most of her own.  Aeryn hugged John again, concentrating on the breadth of his shoulders and the weight of his chest on her legs to banish the other set of recalled tactile sensations. 

“You survived it.  I don’t know how you managed to hang on, but you did.” 

John nodded several times, each small movement taking longer to complete.   

“Go to sleep,” she urged, certain that John was at the limits of his small supply of stamina.  “It’s been a long day for you.” 

She rubbed his chest and arm through the blankets as she watched the blue eyes disappear behind drooping lids.  He was fighting it, struggling to keep his eyes open so he could watch her.  She bent down over him, bringing her head closer to his as she tugged the blankets up around his chin, enveloping his head and shoulders in a whole body embrace. 

“I love you, John,” her quiet words drifted the short distance to him.  She rubbed his chest again, then moved down to rub his stomach.  “You don’t need to think about these things tonight.  Get some rest.” 

The eyes closed, his body settling against her, convincing her that he was sleeping at last, but he hummed in the back of his throat and smiled slightly, letting her know he was still awake.

“Feel good?” she asked, continuing to rub his stomach.  He nodded against her legs, another long hum of satisfaction vibrating through both of them.  She smoothed the damp hair back from his forehead with her free hand, rolled his head upward and kissed him lightly on the forehead.

“Mizz’d me,” he complained with a smile, eyes still closed. 

“You have just been sick.  My aim was perfect.”  Aeryn continued the slow circular motions against his stomach and chest, watching carefully as he looked up at her one more time, his eyes almost completely unfocused as he lost the battle to stay awake.  “Sleep, John,” she whispered, trying to coax him into letting go.  “I’ll be here, go to sleep.”  A quiet wandering hum rumbled for an instant in his chest, and then he was finally gone. 

Only then, when Aeryn was absolutely certain that John was asleep, did she turn to look at Lorana.  The priest was sitting at the foot of the bed with her hand resting on Crichton’s ankle despite the fact that she had stopped chanting long before he had fallen asleep.  She helped Aeryn slide out from under the sleeping human. 

“He loves you very much,” Lorana said.   

“More than I ever suspected.”  Aeryn looked at the lax features one more time, and then crossed the short distance to her own bunk.  “Will he recover completely?  Will he make it all the way back?” 

“I am more convinced of it than ever before.”  Lorana touched Aeryn lightly on the arm and pointed across the room.  John opened one eye to watch Aeryn for a microt, blinked drowsily several times, and then went back to sleep.  “It may be a struggle, but I believe he will not give up until he is fully recovered.”

* * * * *

[KernilCrash]

Chapter 10 (continued)

Aeryn dropped her legs over the side of the bunk and slid carefully to the floor.  Every muscle in her body was stiff, which meant that she had slept much longer than normal, and the light in the room was set low so she had no idea what time of day or night it was.  For all she knew, she could have been sleeping for several arns or several days.  Stretching her upper body, arms, and shoulders in all possible directions, striving to loosen some of the locked muscles, Aeryn looked across the room to see if John was awake.  The only portion of his body in sight was his hair, leading her to assume that he had his face buried in the pillow, something she had seen him do occasionally on board Moya.  It was not until she walked over to check on him that she discovered she had been looking at the back of his head.  Quiet rumbling snores made their way from the pillow, testifying that he was still asleep, and she crossed the final few denches with every bit of stealth that her training provided, making sure she did not disturb him. 

In this peaceful moment, he almost looked uninjured.  With random tufts of hair standing on end, his mouth gaping slightly to let the airy grumbles of his snoring escape, John looked no different from any of the other times she had spied on him while he was sleeping.  The clues were there if she chose to search for them.  His jaw hung a micro-dench too slackly, missing some of the firmness that gave his face strength and character; a tiny crawl of spittle glistened along his lip, unnoticed by the mind that struggled simply to breathe and maintain a small semblance of order; and his hand, where it lay tucked near his chin, was curled into an awkward fist, fingers wrapped around the thumb instead of the other way around.  It was John, but pieces were missing. 

“Don’t you quit on me, John Crichton,” she whispered.  “You fight until you’re all the way back.”  Aeryn watched the slow rise and fall of four more breaths, using the time to admit that she would love him no matter how complete or incomplete his recovery.  With or without his entire store of memories, this was John Crichton and her feelings were not going to change.  She tugged the blankets around his neck where they had started to gap, and left him so he could get some more rest.   

She was certain that their hosts must have had him out of bed again in the middle of the night.  John was incapable of rolling over on his own, and they would not have disturbed his sleep for something as trivial as a simple position change.  Something must have happened that required moving John.  It also meant that her own level of exhaustion must be far greater than she had estimated if they had been able to get him out of the room and back in without waking her.  Aeryn finished dressing -- a quicker process when it did not require socks, boots, or strapping on a pulse pistol -- and checked on John one more time.  He was still sleeping soundly. 

Aeryn folded her arms and tucked her hand under her armpits to keep from touching him, no different from what she had done dozens of times over the interminable twelve days that it had taken to get to this sanctuary.  The relief that it was to keep from waking him, rather than to avoid causing him untold agony, was enough to make her lightheaded. 

Those endless arns of uncertainty seemed like a bad dream now, something that had been experienced by someone else.  A portion of her mind insisted that Aeryn Sun had not stood over an empty shell that muttered strings of unintelligible syllables flooding from a damaged brain; Officer Sun had not spent twelve impossibly long solar days wandering from Command to Pilot’s Den to the infirmary, eating only enough to keep herself alive because she was sick every time she considered that John Crichton might be injured beyond recovery.  That person was not her.

John took a deeper breath, muttered “Nar’nyn” on a sigh, and was still again.  She had come to recognize the sleep-slurred sound as her name.  He spoke to her constantly in his sleep, rarely offering anything more than the unintelligible version of her name.  It was enough to tell her that he was thinking of her all the time, showing the same single-minded devotion that had allowed him to survive what the scarrans had done to him. 

The desire to touch him grew into a physical need.  Aeryn knelt down alongside the bunk, rested her cheek on the edge of the mattress and cautiously ran her fingers along the humped contours of where his body lay beneath the covers, barely bringing any pressure to bear.  “Sleep,” she mouthed to him.  “Heal.  Get well.” 

Forty microts of delicate touches was enough to restore her control.  She fingered the tousled brown hair, traced the curve where the broad shoulders lay without the capacity for movement, and finally laid a kiss against the back of his head, feeling the first return of the furnace-like body heat that John normally put out.  The immobility resulting from the damage to his nervous system had so reduced his metabolism that Daaren and the delvians were having trouble keeping him warm.  On more than one occasion, they had taken him from his bunk in the middle of the night and immersed him in the pool for no other reason than to warm him. 

“Nar’nyn?” John called more loudly just as she reached the door.  Aeryn froze, waiting to see if this was another of his dream-generated calls or if he was awake.  “Gorfla neg fik,” he added to the conversation, coming close to making her laugh, and then he was quiet again. 

She shook her head, trying to memorize the syllables so she could tease him about it some day when he was capable of a comeback, and then left the room.  Her first step into the corridor turned into a faltering stumble as she almost bumped into Daaren.  Aeryn cursed mentally, disgusted that she could be taken off guard like that so easily.  It meant that she was not only tired, she was distracted as well. 

He was apologizing before she could recover.  “Aeryn Sun, I did not mean to startle you.  How are you feeling?  Well rested, I hope.” 

“I’m fine, thank you.  How late is it?  How long have I been sleeping?”  She stretched her neck as she spoke, listened to the soft crackle of loosening vertebrae, and revised her assessment of how long she had been asleep by several arns. 

“About fourteen arns.” 

Aeryn shuddered. 

“Are you ill?” Daaren inquired quickly, placing a hand on her elbow. 

“No.  I’m … I’m fine.”  There was no way to describe to Daaren what she had experienced when he had said the word ‘fourteen’.  Nausea, fear, remembered agony, and worst of all, the overwhelming despair that she would not live long enough to say goodbye to someone she loved.  John had hidden the indescribable horror of Kelvo Fourteen from the rest of them for a good reason.  Just thinking about the words ‘Kelvo Fourteen’ was enough to dredge up the memories.  But she was concerned now.  If the word fourteen had that much of an effect on her, there was no telling what it would do to John.  She wondered if hearing it in a language other than Scarran would lessen the impact. 

Daaren continued to watch her with concern.  “I really am fine,” she protested, then tried to redirect his focus.  “How is John?  You moved him last night.  Was there another problem?” 

“He was experiencing some random muscle contractions while he slept.  He was given some therapy to resolve the effects.  He is progressing slightly better than we expected.” 

“Better,” Aeryn repeated in shock.  John’s night had consisted of vomiting, tears, muscle cramps, and whatever the delvians had done to help him through the painful contractions.  It was doubtful that he’d had more than four or five arns of unbroken sleep over the past fourteen arns.  “You expected him to be worse off than this?” 

“Problems are to be expected.  He has been through a great deal.” 

Aeryn looked at him intently, checking to see if he was making some kind of joke.  John had been through a great deal more than a great deal. 

Once again she was mentally transported back to the room with the metal table, this time to experience the sharp, burning pain as her ligaments tore, joints grinding and separating as she strained against the straps, the discomfort nearly lost behind the all-encompassing agony.  Muscles bunched, cramped, seized, and eventually tore as the frenzied attempts to escape continued, battering against strictures that would never give way.   

“Would you like to get something to eat?” 

Daaren was looking at her peculiarly.  Aeryn thought for a microt, replaying the question in her mind, and realized that he had asked the question twice.

“Yes,” she began, meaning to ask if it was time for First Meal, or Midday Meal.  Something began to bother her, starting as a peculiar itching at the base of her skull and developing into a suspicion rather than any sort of coherent thought.  Puzzled, she turned and headed back to the room where John was sleeping, remembering Daaren at the last moment.  “I think … I think maybe you should come with me,” she told him, beckoning for him to follow.   

“John?” she called.  Somehow she knew that she did not need to be quiet. 

“Ar’nyn,” he croaked, barely managing the small greeting.  “Hur’s.”  His entire body shook, racked by a massive shudder. 

Daaren nudged her out of the way, discarding manners in favor of getting to John quickly, and flipped the covers back in one fast motion.  John was curled into a tight ball, mimicking the position he had maintained for so many days in the pool.  This was not a pursuit of comfort or security, however.  Before the priest could touch him, another spasm shook John and his arms hitched convulsively, clamping in close to his chest. 

“Do not be alarmed.  This is to be expected at first,” Daaren explained as he rolled John onto his back.  “The muscles are receiving random signals from the restored neurons and they’re responding with uncontrolled contractions.  It will pass.” 

Aeryn moved to the head of the bunk, standing impotently as wave after wave of spasms hammered the helpless body.  Daaren went about his work calmly, as though none of what was happening was serious.  John’s right leg was pulled out straight, generating a muffled yowl of pain, and massaged until it stayed in place.  The process was repeated on the left leg, by which time his right had contracted again. 

“What should I do?” Aeryn asked. 

“Help will be here shortly.  Although this is admittedly painful, it is not debilitating.”  Daaren pulled John’s right leg out for the fourth time, and directed his next statement toward the suffering human.  “Breathe slowly, John Crichton.  Relax.  We will resolve this shortly.”  The left leg was drawn out, barely straightening by the time John’s right knee had pulled in again. 

“Ar’nyn?” he called in his mangled speech, looking up at her. 

“Slow breaths.  Not much longer, John.  They’ll make it better.” 

He nodded several times, bit his lip, and managed not to cry out when Daaren moved up the bed and pulled one of his arms out for the first time.  “Hur’s,” he complained again between the efforts to release his arms. 

“I know.”  There was nothing more to say.  She could not assure him that it would not happen again, could not tell him when it would be over, and had no idea how they were going to resolve the problem. 

“Loogk.”  John drew her attention away from the sense of helplessness that was urging her to lash out physically.  “Toes goes.” 

He was right.  In the depth of discomfort, when he had every right to be fixated on Daaren’s painful attempts to treat his malfunctioning body, and with so much of his personality as inaccessible as his memories, John had found a positive side to his dilemma.  He let out a quiet cry as one of his heels skittered six denches across the mattress, drawn inexorably toward his buttocks by the contracting muscles.  His foot jerked to a stop, and a microt later the toes flexed up and then down, voluntary movement found in the midst of erroneous signals from his nervous system.  Aeryn smiled, all of her anxiety relieved by the small bit of optimism, and leaned down to kiss him.  This was the John Crichton she had been waiting for -- the one who was full of hope and did not know how to give up.

“Nice.”  John grunted as another wave of spasms hit him.  “More?” 

“Make more toes goes, and you’ll get another.”     

His attempt at an answer was interrupted by the arrival of Lorana and several acolytes.  They entered the room moving quickly but without any unseemly haste, managing to look relaxed even as they hurried to help Daaren.  With five of them working simultaneously, they managed to get him lying flat.  John was quickly wrapped in several blankets, lifted, and carried toward the door. 

“You gor … geous,” he said to Aeryn as they moved past her. 

“And you are the love of my life,” she replied.  The look in his eyes was more reward than she ever could have hoped to receive.  Two microts later, he was out of sight, headed for wherever they were going to treat the muscle spasms. 

“How will you get it to stop?” she asked Lorana.  The delvian was waiting by her side as though she had anticipated the question. 

“We will take away some of the discomfort, which will allow him to relax.  That should reduce the flow of neural signals to the point that he experiences some relief.  There is nothing we can do about the underlying cause, so we will attempt to treat the symptoms.  Hot water and massage should relieve the contractions long enough for him to get back to sleep.  Rest will give his body time to heal.”  Lorana gave Aeryn one of the calm, patient smiles that Zhaan used to bestow on someone to let them know that she understood their concerns. 

Aeryn looked into the corridor in the direction where John had been taken, slowly picking at a single loose thread on her tunic.  “I want him to be comfortable.” 

“You want him back the way he was before,” the delvian suggested, her tone implying that Aeryn might be denying her own feelings. 

“I do not care about that.  There’s enough of him there already for me to live with the rest of my life.  I saw what --”  Aeryn gestured toward her head, searching for the right words to express what they had experienced in the final Meeting that had brought John out of his quiet dreaming place.  “He deserves to be comfortable.  He deserves to be happy.” 

“He will be comfortable very soon.  And he already is happy.  He is happy to be with you, Aeryn Sun.”

“That’s not --” 

“I have felt it,” Lorana insisted, interrupting Aeryn’s protest.  “Most of his feelings are kept securely hidden from everyone but you and your crewmates, but of this I am quite sure.  It does not require that you are in the room, or nearby.  As long as he knows that you are a part of his life, he is happy.  The images are exceptionally clear.  It is the single element that he requires in order to be happy.” 

Aeryn took three stumbling steps to the bunk where she had been sleeping, and boosted herself up to sit on the edge, feeling too weak to continue standing. 

“You were not aware of this?” Lorana asked. 

“I wasn’t sure.  I thought so, but I wasn’t positive.  I hurt him so badly a short time ago.” 

“But surely, you had to know.  Meylan revealed to the rest of us that John Crichton had retained all memories of you when everything else in his mind had been randomized by the torture.  This must have told you how important you were to him.” 

Aeryn nodded slowly, careful not to upset her balance.  She was hot and shivering at the same time, sweating and yet chilled.  Her stomach churned, feeling loose and uncontrolled, and there was a quite buzzing in her ears and her fingertips, divorcing her from her environment.  She had trouble convincing her mouth to form words. 

“I know I’m important to him.  That’s not the same thing as making him happy when I’m around.  There were some … very bad times.”

Lorana gave her another of the serene smiles.  “Then be assured.  There is no doubt in any of our minds, or in his.”  The priest tilted her head to one side, considering something.  After several microts of the mysterious contemplation, she reported, “Daaren says that John Crichton is somewhat anxious.  It is interfering with the treatment.  You have not had an opportunity to eat, but we --”

“Yes,” Aeryn replied before the delvian could complete her sentence.  She slid off the bunk and headed for the door.  “Show me where.” 

* * * * *

An arn later she was sitting on one end of a padded table, John’s head propped on a pillow in her lap as a team of delvians resumed the therapeutic massage that would ease the cramps. 

“Better?” she asked, looking down into his eyes. 

“Much bedder,” he agreed, smiling up at her in return. 

When she had arrived, John had been more than anxious; he had actually been fighting Daaren and his apprentices.  In the short span of time since he had been carried from his bed, he had forgotten why they had him back in the pool room, and why they wanted to undress him and put him in the warm water.  His emotional distress and his futile attempts to push the delvians away had increased the number of signals flowing through the damaged junctions of his nervous system, and he had gone into convulsions just as she arrived.  Linked in Unity to increase their strength, Lorana and Daaren had bullied their way into John’s mind and put an artificial damper on his emotions, forcing him to calm down.  Microts later, the convulsions stopped, leaving only the muscle spasms to be resolved.   

“Slow breaths,” she said as he blinked sleepily at her.  Aeryn ran the back of a knuckle across his cheek, continuing the slow petting that was keeping him calm. 

“Gwa shay duh ga mey?” he asked. 

Aeryn repressed a strong desire to laugh, settling for a smile that she hoped was small enough that it would not upset him.  On one level, his damaged speech was heartbreaking; on another, the clipped, babbling syllables sounded funny enough that it was often difficult not to be amused when one of his sentences went completely awry. 

“That wasn’t anything that my microbes could translate, John.  Slow down and try it again.”  A frown threatened, the crease above his eyebrows giving it away before he could rearrange the rest of his features.  “Don’t get mad.  Just try it again.” 

“Wha’ dey do to me?” he produced one laborious sound at a time. 

Aeryn watched for several microts as the blue-hued hands worked up and down the oil-slick surfaces of his body.  Despite the extended length of time he had spent lying in Moya’s infirmary and then floating in the pool, his muscles were well-toned and resilient, offering a significant degree of resistance against the firm pressure being applied.  It was the spastic battles his body had been fighting that had kept him physically fit; the visible symptoms of his injuries having the unexpected benefit of providing movement and exercise. 

Daaren was working his way across John’s midsection, trying to relieve some of the rippling seizures that were visibly knotting his abdominal muscles.   His apprentices were tending to John’s arms and legs, taking away the discomfort at the same time that they soothed the twitching fibers.  Crichton’s entire body dripped with the lubricant they were using, gleaming in the soft lights of the chamber. 

“Despite all of your efforts to make it difficult, they are attempting to get your muscles to relax,” she said.  “If you could concentrate on that goal for a few microts, you’d feel better.” 

John laughed.  Aeryn sat up straighter at the bubbling giggle, trying to remember if she had heard him laugh since they had brought him out of his quiet dreaming place.  There had been lots of smiles and a few quiet snickers, but no laughs until this moment.  Daaren paused long enough to pour some more oil across John’s stomach, glanced down to make sure the patient was not watching, and then nodded at Aeryn, indicating that the laughter was aiding their efforts. 

Aeryn bent over John, leaning in close to the cheerful eyes, and put her forehead against his, wanting nothing more than to make physical contact.  She got much more.  A flood of emotions washed over her, dissociated images rippling by faster than she could comprehend, and under it all was the emotion that Lorana had assured her was there.  He was happy.  In that instant, she knew that he hurt intensely, that he was rarely free of pain, that he was exhausted most of the time, confused, worried by his inability to form rational thoughts, and he did not care about any of it because she was there. 

“I know this,” he whispered.  “We do dis a’fore.” 

Aeryn pulled away.  The flood of stolen thoughts stopped.  “You remember everything about me,” she confirmed, stroking the bottom of his jaw.  “You should have saved a little of yourself, you lunatic.”  And then, before the worried look in his eyes could progress to full-blown anxiety, she kissed him and pulled his head closer to her stomach, hugging as much of him as she could while the team continued their efforts.  “Relax,” she began urging him again.  “Everything is going to be fine.  Relax.” 

“Ever’think go be fine,” he repeated, practicing the words.  It was becoming a habit.  He was constantly mimicking everyone around him, trying out words in an effort to increase his vocabulary.  “Ever’think is goin’ be fine.  Go-ink.  Goink.”  He grinned up at her.  “Goink?  I think I make new word.” 

“It’s a nice word.  What does it mean?” 

Her question triggered another rolling laugh, and they continued that way for two more arns, until he was cramp-free, bathed to remove the layers of oil, and returned to the warmth and comfort of his bed where he could continue the healing.

* * * * *

Aeryn boosted herself out of the water to sit at the side of the pool, resting for a few microts while she indulged herself by watching John from a distance.  He was trying to stand and laugh at the same time, supported by D’Argo but pretending to lean on Rygel, who was floating alongside him.  Any exercise John was getting was being done in the pool, now filled with normal water.  The buoyancy relieved his legs of most of his weight while his limbs relearned the motions they were supposed to perform.  John glanced down at the hynerian beside him, looked at Aeryn, and then deliberately pushed Rygel under water, feigning surprise when he sank.  Rygel came up sputtering, but his earbrows were at full height and he wasn’t making any complaints about his mistreatment as he paddled way from his laughing tormentor.

The delvians had included them in his rehabilitation right from the beginning, insisting that they take part in the slow process of teaching his brain how to control his body again.  This was far more difficult that it was for a child.  There was too much mass for him to contend with and his healing nervous system was resisting the new signals.  Only a fraction of the retraining would take place on the New Moon of Delvia.  The remainder would by necessity take place aboard Moya, and they needed to know the techniques that would help John recover most rapidly. 

Daaren and his team continued to check John several times a day interspersed with the exercises, ensuring that everything possible was repaired.  Constant adjustments were needed as his body continued to make small, complex repairs on its own, restoring intricacies that even the delvians could not heal from the outside.  The worst of the cramps and seizures had disappeared within two or three solar days, revealing the extent of the smaller twitches and tics that were equally uncomfortable.  There was only so much the priests could do to resolve the erroneous signals.  It was up to John’s body to complete the final stage of the repairs on its own. 

The laughing stopped as Crichton struggled to full height, preparing for another attempt to hold the stance when D’Argo eased his grasp. 

“Ready?” the dripping luxan asked. 

“Nuh.  Right knee no good,” John reported. 

Chiana ducked in under D’Argo’s grasp long enough to straightened the bent joint. 

“H’kay.  Bedder.” 

“Deep breath,” D’Argo coached, easing his grip. 

John inhaled and scowled down at his legs.

“Head up!” Aeryn yelled at him.  Looking down pitched him forward every time.

“Reh-dy,” he announced, and D’Argo let go. 

Aeryn thought there might have been a split-microt of a delay before he collapsed this time, but it also could have been her imagination.  Despite three days worth of round the clock sessions dedicated entirely to the task of standing up, he still could not support even a portion of his weight.  They had a long road ahead of them, and if they ran into trouble, as they usually did, John’s condition would instantaneously become a liability. 

Aeryn looked at the latent strength of his arms and torso, permitting herself to enjoy the sight of the matting of hair across his chest dripping with water from his repeated dunkings.  His stomach muscles showed clearly as he tensed them in preparation for another attempt.  His hands were clenched into fists, a carry-over from the amount of effort he was putting into the rest of his muscles, but at least he could open and close his fingers now.  His face carried a shadow of heavy stubble.  He had claimed that he had wanted to grow a beard, but she knew he was concerned about not being able to remove the daily growth on his own.  He had not even understood the concept at first, and there had been a long conversation with D’Argo before the memory emerged to create the newest dilemma.

John looked up at her and grinned again, watching her watching him.  He had progressed to the point where he could raise his head for brief periods, but even those muscles remained unreliable.  One moment he could lift his head; the next moment no amount of effort could goad them into functioning.  He looked down at his submerged feet, raised his head as he was supposed to, and gave D’Argo a small nod.  The brawny arms released him, easing away carefully so as not to upset his balance, and in a feat that resembled defiance of gravity, John was still upright. 

“You’re up!” she yelled, elated.  Two microts later he disappeared from sight in a geyser of water.  Aeryn slid into the pool, surging through the waist deep water to help the others pull him up.  “You did it!” she greeted him as he came up sputtering. 

Everyone was congratulating him, their voices echoing off the dome high overhead.  She helped D’Argo hoist him up and wiped the water out of his eyes for him.  It was such a small thing, a tiny success.  Grief lurked behind the triumph, something that happened whenever she watched him fight to regain some small fragment of control over his life. 

The answer to her momentary depression was the same every time.  All she had to do was recall the sense of hopelessness that had ruled her when they had burst into the scarran stronghold and she had seen him lying on that spattered table.  They had taken a huge gamble by bringing him here, and it had paid off in full. 

“Noh-der?” John asked as his friends quieted down. 

“You’ve been at this for almost two arns, John,” D’Argo said from behind him.  “You need to rest.  I need to rest.”  When he felt the chest in his grasp start to fill with air for a protest, D’Argo cut him off.  “Get used to it now.  It’s going to take …”

“Time and patience!”  Everyone yelled it together. 

John shook his head at the chorus, and then nodded.  He gave in so quickly, Aeryn suspected that he was avoiding a confession that he was too tired to continue. 

John looked down at the water next to him, frowned with concentration, and then Aeryn jumped as he grabbed her hand.  “Yay,” he said quietly.  “Look at I got.”  It was another first.  A deliberate movement and a firm, if somewhat awkward grasp. 

“What are you going to do with it now that you have it?” she asked calmly. 

He just laughed, using the wild bubbling laugh that appeared whenever he found something inexplicably funny.  This was the new John, the one they all enjoyed but hoped was temporary.  Small things would suddenly delight him, but when asked, he often could not explain the source of his humor.  He was easily amused, quick to anger, subject to fits of depression; his moods swooping and diving as erratically as the trigapods he enjoyed watching for arns on end. 

The others seemed to understand it better than she did.  They remembered a childhood of incandescent moments and emotions.  They had the memories of bright flashing experiences interspersed with glum depression at the unfairness of life.  Life lessons, D’Argo had called it.  Her childhood had been regimented and ordered, without the explosions of uncontrolled feelings.  She watched and tried to learn fast, hoping that her capacity to adjust would meet his changing personality before the promised frustration arrived. 

Hope, tenacity, humor. 

Aeryn gazed at the sturdy body, damp hair, thick stubble, and could barely breathe for the relief that he was going to recover.  This one had fought tenaciously to come back to her, had survived when he was not supposed to live, and had clawed his way back to this world with their encouragement.  This one was different from the one who had given his life in exchange for millions of others, but had left her alone.   

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

[KernilCrash]

Chapter 11

John was sleeping so peacefully Aeryn almost did not have the resolve to wake him.  Despite the constant improvement in his condition, much of his rest continued to be disturbed by muscle cramps, pain, or the delvians’ frequent adjustments to his healing nervous system.  It did not seem right to wake him deliberately.  This particular morning he was burrowed into the pillow with a small lingering smile on his face, sleeping soundly even after a full night’s undisturbed rest.  Her quiet movements around the room as she changed into her own clothes did not break into his slumber, leaving Aeryn with the unpleasant task of waking him up in order to tell him what they had all agreed had to be done … whether they liked it or not. 

“John,” she said softly. 

He took in a breath, let it out on the sort of sigh that only came from someone who was asleep, and then squirmed further into the blankets, burying his face deeper into the pillow. 

“John, I need to talk to you.” 

“’ryn?”  His head came up, eyes half open as he struggled up from the depths.  He devoted several microts to clearing his throat.  “Sure.  Whaddya need?”  He wriggled a bit, struggling to shift his upper body so he could look at her.  She helped him turn onto his side, and then tugged another pillow under his head, taking some of the strain off the recalcitrant muscles. 

“We need to leave this moon for a little while.  Moya and Pilot are concerned about some scans that have been sweeping this part of the solar system.  We are going to go back aboard and make sure everything is all right.”  Aeryn waited for any type of response, either verbal or physical, giving him time to first make sense of what she had told him and then let her know he understood.  Anything but short statements strained his recovering storehouse of terms. 

After several microts, John said, “H’okay.  Tha’s good.  I get t’ see M’ya.” 

“John.”  Aeryn took a deep breath, bracing herself for what had to be done.  “We have been discussing this ever since Pilot commed us.  This sounds like real trouble, the type of trouble that always seems to find us.”  She waited for comprehension to show on his face, mentally lecturing herself to be direct in order to get it over with quickly.  “We think it would be best if you stay here with Meylan and the delvians until you’ve had more time to get better.” 

“I want go wih you.  Won’ get in way,” he said, immediately resorting to lopping words out of his sentences in an effort to get the thoughts out more quickly. 

“We are not worried about you getting in the way.  We know you won’t do that.  We are worried that you might get hurt.”  She clipped off the word ‘again’ at the last instant.

“So I got stay wid Nice People?” 

“We think this would be best; it would be safest for all of us.”  Despite the reassurance, he did not look happy.  Aeryn ran a thumb across the one eyebrow she could reach, shifting back to his temple to smooth his hair back repeatedly, hoping it would calm him.  “We promise we will be back for you.  By then you will be able to walk and take care of yourself.” 

John buried his face in the pillow, scrubbing down into the padding long enough that she suspected he was crying. 

“Do you want the others to come say goodbye before we leave?” Aeryn asked.

He shook his head, mumbling into the pillow. 

“I couldn’t understand that,” she said.  “Come here and talk to me.” 

“I wan’ go wid you.”  Although John reappeared dry-eyed, the low-pitched guttural tone of his voice suggested that his emotions were getting the best of him.  It quickly became apparent that his efforts to stay in control were succumbing to his growing depression.  A look of mere anxiety shifted into sorrow, and from there it transformed into a fully evolved version of the look he got when he was battling the type of fear generated by a comprehensive lack of understanding.  He was about to say something more when Lorana entered the room.  The priest glided forward with the distinctive delvian gait that was so smooth she seemed to float across the short distance from the door to the bunk.  John looked up at her, face wiped clean of emotion. 

“We have promised your friends that you will be able to leap tall buildings at a single bounce by the time they return.”  Lorana glanced at Aeryn, verifying that she had delivered the prepared phrase correctly.   

“I don’ need jump over houses.  Tha’s stupid.”  John rocked to one side, struggling to roll on to his back.  Aeryn started to help him.  “Don’t!” he said angrily.  He continued his solitary battle, eventually giving up when his body refused to cooperate.  “Fine.  I can’t care m’self.  Go.”  He let his muscles relax, allowing his body to sag back onto the bunk so he was on his stomach again, and turned his head away from her.  “I be here.” 

“John --”  Aeryn wanted to hug him goodbye.  She wanted to find out if he remembered the gentle, spine tingling kisses yet, wanted to feel the warmth of his body against hers before she left, and felt completely incapable of asking him to let her turn him over as long as Lorana was standing there.  “We will be back soon.  I promise.” 

She stopped at the door, close to relenting.  She looked back at the slender delvian standing over the motionless figure buried under the thermal covers, discouraged that this would be the last memory she had of him until they could return to the colony.  So many of their planned rendezvous’ had gone awry during the past cycles; she could not rule out that it would not happen this time as well.  Her thoughts spiraled inward, devolving into the single fear that they might not be able to get back to retrieve John as quickly as they had vowed.  He would be stranded here until they returned, cut off from everything and everyone he had ever known, his mind a perpetual blank without the reminders that would allow him to put his memories back together.

It was possible that she would return to find an entirely different person who was not interested in resuming his life as John Crichton, mislaid astronaut.  There was no telling what the effect of being stranded in a delvian community would have on the predominantly blank psyche.  If his memories were overwritten until they consisted of little more than meditation and pursuit of the Delvian Seek, would he find Unity with like-minded souls a more attractive future than being hounded across the galaxy by a variety of heartless, power-hungry species?  That John loved her with ever fiber of his soul could never be called into question, but that might not be enough to lure him away from an existence that enticed him with peace. 

Aeryn continued to hesitate, standing half in and half out of the door to his room.  In the end however, it was John himself who convinced her to stick with her original decision.  It was the unnaturally still body, incapable of getting out of bed or even rolling over on his own that convinced her that the decision to leave him behind was the correct one.  He had survived an exceptional amount of abuse over the past several cycles.  This last experience had very nearly been too much, and not just physically.  His grip on sanity was as yet too tenuous to put him at risk of more violence.  It was during the first of what had become daily visits in the pool -- where John could communicate with her without the hindrance of language getting in the way -- that she had come across a highly unwelcome set of thoughts buried deep in John’s psyche. 

The quiet dreaming place continued to beckon to him.

He had done an admirable job of burying the longing.  It was only because they had inadvertently slipped into Unity one afternoon that she had discovered the lingering desire to resume that senseless and yet relaxing destruction of all rational thought.  The quiet dreaming place represented a new kind of freedom to him, one that no instrument of torture could usurp.  Once enraptured in the blizzard of disorganized thoughts, there was nothing to do except let the images flow around him and occasionally sleep.  There was no heartache, no pain, no fear, and no confusion in the quiet dreaming place.  There was only a whirlwind of disjointed memories, and the single requirement that he do absolutely nothing.  At this point he had no true desire to go back, that much was clear.  But Aeryn feared that it might take something as little as knowing that Scorpius or the Peacekeepers had located them to drive John into the arms of that unqualified safety.  John had to be protected long enough for him to rebuild the strength to resist not only life’s tragedies, but the lure of the quiet dreaming place as well.   

Lorana watched the silent, internal debate without commenting.  It was not until Aeryn gave a little nod, reaffirming her original decision, that the Pa’u spoke.  “We will take very good care of John Crichton,” the priest assured her. 

Aeryn gave a second nod, this time in response to Lorana’s reassuring smile, and hurried out the door before she changed her mind.

* * * * *

John listened to the footsteps fading down the hallway and remembered the clatter of a currency chip hitting the floor.  His mind replayed the wobbling vibrations as a coin spun down and rattled to a stop.  He could not remember when he had heard the noise before, but his depression swelled to fill his entire chest, increasing to the point that he thought he might throw up.  Lorana was asking him if he needed anything.  The only thing he needed was walking away from him wrapped in a promise he was not sure she could keep.   

“C’n I be ‘lone for while?” he asked. 

He was on the verge of crying again, feeling completely abandoned.  An isolated memory of hanging alone in space rocketed into his mind, but even that did not carry the same feeling of desolation that was overwhelming him now.  He turned his head, checking on the delvian.  She had left him alone as he had asked.  John squirmed in the bunk, grunting with the effort that it took to get his torso rocked up on one side, panting harder as he jerked one shoulder and arm repeatedly until the useless limb shifted across his ribs to slump onto the mattress behind him.  His shoulders went with it, pulling him over on his back at last.  He did not care that it left his legs and hips twisted uncomfortably.  He had rolled over on his own, and aside from being progress, it made it easier to breathe. 

He considered his situation, free of the light-headedness that sometimes occurred when his anxiety demanded more air than his lungs could normally provide.  He knew that the delvians would take care of him.  They smiled and were kind to him, but they were strangers, not family.  There were no memories of them in the void that his past had become.  When Aeryn and D’Argo and the others were around he could feel the connection to his missing history, small bits of information swirling around in the muddled mess of his mind, touching him with the promise that he would eventually remember his life. 

He would have to feel the empty confusion all the time if he stayed here -- day and night.  He would have to rely on his own faulty recall to keep his friends in his life until they returned. 

If they returned. 

The memory of what had happened after that ratting coin had settled to the floor attached itself to the incident like another car coupling onto the end of a freight train, and the sense of dread was complete.  The final outcome was missing, but the events of the subsequent arn were as clear as if it had just happened to him.  John wriggled sideways until his head dropped off the pillow.  The new position made it even easier to breathe than simply lying on his back.  It took several fast breaths to work enough air into his lungs, building up to the sound he desperately needed to make. 

* * * * *

Aeryn walked slowly to join the others where they waited at the end of the corridor.  She slid down the wall to sit at their feet when she reached them, staring at the smooth surface on the far side of the hallway, feeling like a traitor for the first time since she left the Peacekeepers. 

“This was almost the worst thing I’ve ever had to do,” she said.  She thought about John’s fragile grip on his own behavior, his perpetual confusion that never eased unless someone was helping him with his recall, and reconsidered her statement.  “No, that was absolutely the worst thing I’ve ever had to do.” 

“We agreed that this was safer for all of us, Aeryn.  And safer for John, too.”  The warrior stared morosely back up the corridor toward the door to Crichton’s room.   

“He didn’t care about that, D’Argo.  All he heard was that he was getting left behind.  Why don’t you go in there and try to explain it to him?”  She gestured angrily toward the door at the end of the hallway.  “Door’s still open.  Help yourself.” 

“That is not what I meant and I do not like this any better than you do.  I’m not happy about leaving him, and I don’t envy you having to tell him.”  He squatted next to her.  “I’m sorry you had to be the one to tell him, Aeryn, but you know he would not have listened to the rest of us without checking with you anyway.”   

“None of us are happy about it,” Chiana added.  “But we all agreed that if we ran into trouble this would be safer for Crichton.  He’s been through enough already.”  She watched Rygel start to open his mouth, his stubby body relaxing back in his chair with an arrogant demeanor.  “Shut up, Rygel,” she commanded before he could speak. 

Aeryn got to her feet, moving slowly past the others.  “I hate this.  Let’s get out of here before we change …” 

“AERRYYYYNNNN!”  The panic in the scream bursting out of the open doorway was complete, lacking any hint of emotional control.  “DON’ LEAVE ME HERE!”

D’Argo was forced to move fast in order to get out of Aeryn’s way.  She had spun around and started toward John’s room before the first notes of his desperate plea had begun to fade.  She completed five fast steps toward the doorway before pulling up short.  Everyone watched sympathetically as she turned from one end of the hallway to the other several times in conflict, and then looked back at the assembled group, her feet still easing slowly toward the room.  After several additional microts of indecision she finally returned to her spot sitting on the floor, her arms wrapped tightly around her ribs, holding herself as securely as she wanted to be holding John at that moment. 

“Now what do I do?” she asked the others as she started to shake.  Aeryn looked toward the open door and added the part that was generating the greatest portion of her agony.  “I cannot walk away from him.  Not again.”

“We cannot take him into another situation where he might get hurt,” D’Argo insisted.  “John has been through too much already.” 

Chiana nodded. 

“AERYYYYYYNNNNNNN!!!!”  The second scream managed to pack even more panic into the drawn out syllables.  “P’EEEEEEASE.  Don’d leave me here!!!”  A sob echoed down the hallway.  The group remained silent, waiting as one to see if the desperate pleas had ended. 

“I left him before,” Aeryn whispered.  “I know he is going to remember that.  It is unavoidable.  I cannot do that again.”  She lowered her forehead to rest against her knees.  “I cannot do that to John a second time.  I can’t.  Not the way he is now.  He needs us too much.”   

“Aeryn?!!” the tear-thickened voice called, testing to see if she was there.  “AERYN?!!” he screamed again, this time with the anguish that comes with the knowledge that the summons will go unanswered. 

She shook her head, rocking it against her knees, refusing to look up at the others where they stood around her.  “He will get killed this time,” she said, contradicting her earlier statement.  “If we run into trouble before he has recovered more fully, he is going to get killed.”

They waited as Aeryn worked her way through her dilemma, weighing the possibility of physical injury against the certainty of emotional damage.  “Let’s go get him,” she conceded.  “We can’t leave him here.” 

“Yes!”  Chiana bounded away from them, headed back to the open door at a run.  “We’re coming back for you, Old Man!” she shouted.  “You’re coming with us.”

“PIH?” he yelled back.  “You come ged me?” 

“We’re coming, Crichton.  You’re going to come with us.”  She sprinted the final motra and barged into his room where she was greeted by a wordless yell of pure relief. 

Aeryn looked at the collection of smiles ranged around her.  “We know this is the wrong decision.  Why are we so pleased?” 

“I don’t know and I don’t care,” Jool admitted.  “It might make an interesting study to examine how we talked ourselves into thinking we should leave him in the first place though.” 

“I’ll comm Pilot and let him know that it will be a little longer before we come back on board,” D’Argo suggested.  “And I’ll find out if there has been any change in those scans.” 

Aeryn nodded and went light-heartedly to apologize to John for scaring him. 

* * * * *

“You’re sure you’re not mad at me anymore?” she asked an arn later.  John nodded vigorously.  “I don’t mind if you’re mad at me.  You can still come with us even if you’re angry.” 

Nothing she had coped with over the past days had prepared her to handle his huge mood swings.  The mercurial changes were testing her ability to react to a gamut of emotions in a short time span.  D’Argo continued to assure her that no one was ever ready to be a parent until they actually had children, ignoring her objections that she was not a mother and John was not a child.  D’Argo had insisted that she was wrong about that, at least until Crichton had recovered more fully.  She looked into the smiling eyes and knew for certain that D’Argo was wrong, seeing only the man and none of the temporary immaturity.   

“Don’t care ‘bout what you say a‘fore.  I get go wid you guys.”  He was on his back, a position he normally did not like, and it seemed to be allowing him to breathe and talk more easily than when he was on his stomach.  “Le’s go!” 

Aeryn slid a hip on to his bunk and lay down beside him, thinking of the embrace she had wanted before leaving his room earlier.  “I want something first,” she told him.  She eased over his chest, trying not to put too much weight on the overworked muscles, laid her head on his shoulder and hugged him fiercely.  He snuggled his nose into the hollow of her shoulder and sighed contentedly.  A microt later, Aeryn jumped as something touched the back of her shoulder.  She started to turn around to see who was behind her, expecting to see one of the delvians.  But it was John’s hand resting against her back, requiring that he lift his entire arm to get it there. 


“Come back ‘ere,” John told her in a tone so like his old self she found herself of the verge of tears.  “I like tha’.  We done tha’ ‘fore?”  His laugh originated somewhere near the back of his throat, a sound from the familiar John Crichton that she missed so much, overriding the dismay she felt every time she listened to his clipped, damaged speech.

“Look at you,” she whispered enthusiastically into his shoulder, “you’re doing great.”  She hugged him again, worming her way closer to his body.  A single thumb rubbed the back of her shoulder; a small stroking that represented a huge step forward in his recovery. 

“Rather look a’ you.” 

* * * * *

The door to John’s room opened halfway.  The gap was just large enough for a slim gray hand to pass a pile of clothes through, followed by a gleaming, pristinely new pair of boots.  Aeryn took the collection, juggling the unwieldy bundle, and then dropped the entire collection on the floor when she tried to grab the black jacket that came through last.  “Thank you, Chiana,” she said, annoyed enough at both Chiana and her own clumsiness that she was unable to keep the irritation out of her voice.  “That should do it.” 

“You’re welcome!”  The reply floated in on a laugh.  Aeryn chose to assume that it was something other than her own fumbling reception of the clothing causing the nebari’s good humor.  Everyone seemed to be in particularly good spirits as a result of their revised decision to take John back to Moya with them. 

The delvians had agreed that there was little left that they could do for John that could not be accomplished on board the leviathan.  Daaren and his apprentices had checked him over one last time, declaring that they could find no more adjustments to make for the ninth inspection in a row.  Crichton was ‘repaired’ to the best of their abilities.  The rest of his recovery was up to him and his crewmates.   

Aeryn tried to pick up everything all at once, rather than ferrying it to the bunk in stages, and only succeeded in scattering socks, boots and clothes farther around the room.  She looked up, the first itch of irritation tightening the muscles in the back of her neck, to find that John was laughing at her.  Two delvians had him sitting up, providing balance and support while they worked him out of his quilted tunic.  The position gave him the perfect vantage point from which to watch the entire clothing debacle from the start.  His chuckle was muffled as the tunic was pulled over his head, then it disappeared completely as they lost their grip on him and he almost fell forward off the bunk. 

“Oops,” he said once they had caught him and levered him upright.

“Tipped over?” she asked as she tossed a black t-shirt to the delvians who were dressing him.  He emerged from the collar laughing.  This was more of the new Crichton, the one that found everything funny and left everyone around him grinning like Keljac kittens. 

The grin faded when he tried to do some of the work himself. 

“I can,” he said to the person next to him.  “I can,” he said a second time, more emphatically.  “Me do.”  They fed his hand through the first sleeve, then let go of his arm, waiting to see if he could carry through on his assurance.  His brow furrowed as he watched his own arm.  “Go, you bas’ard,” he said, grunting with the effort.  His hand and arm slid through the opening.  “Ne’st,” he said.  The struggle to move his arm was repeated on the other side, and they tugged the shirt neatly into place.

“Doing good,” Aeryn said.  “Let’s see if you can get into these on your own.”  She tossed them his shorts, and then wheeled and headed for the door.. 

“You do dese,” he called after her.  “No!  Her do dis part!” she heard him insisting to his two helpers, followed by a long peal of laughter.     

* * * * *

Aeryn watched the trigapods swooping back and forth through the water in the shallow pool taking up most of the room.  She was waiting for D’Argo and Chiana, who were bringing Crichton to meet with the delvians for the last time.  Jool and Rygel were on the other side of the room sampling some of the strange plant-animal food, discussing the possible nutritional value.  They were all dressed in their normal clothes in preparation for a return to Moya, and Aeryn shifted on the bench, debating whether her leather pants were as comfortable as she had always thought.  She had been wandering around in the quilted delvian garments for more than forty solar days, and had become accustomed to their loose comfort.  They would never hold up against the kind of abuse her life demanded however, so she shifted to settle the heavy layers to a more comfortable position, and concentrated on the familiar smooth warmth of the leather instead of the restrictive weight. 

“Where are they?” Rygel said in an impatient grumble. 

Aeryn was about to answer when she heard laughter in the passageway.  She could pick out Chiana and D’Argo easily, as well as John’s new breathless laugh.  Aeryn walked into the corridor to investigate the source of the hilarity.   

D’Argo was supporting John from behind -- brawny arms under his armpits and clasping him around the chest -- while Chiana walked in front of them, moving in reverse.  She had John’s boot laces in her hands and was pulling one foot forward at a time, creating a jerking parody of a walk.  John lifted his head and looked at her, still laughing at his own predicament.  Aeryn shook her head.  It was funny, but she also knew that lifting his head was the only thing he was doing on his own at that moment, and that the small motion was probably an exhausting effort. 

“Coming, honey.”  He seemed to think that was even funnier than what was already going on, and started to laugh harder.  A microt later, he went pale and started to gasp for breath.

“D’Argo!” Aeryn said, recognizing that John had exceeded his limited capacity for physical effort.   

“That’s enough,” D’Argo said at the same moment, and Chiana immediately released the laces.  D’Argo moved faster, turning sideways so he would not kick John’s legs, and swung him into the room.  He set John down on a bench, holding him upright but in a position where John could let his head hang forward and gasp for air. 

“Liddle … ‘head of … self.”  John wagged his head from side to side several times.  “No good.  Need … lie down.”  D’Argo eased him on to his side.  “Whoa.  Gah nuch,” he said once he was breathing more easily. 

“Gah nuch?” Aeryn asked, using the calm, dispassionate tone they had discovered would not set off the mercurial temper.  After consulting with Meylan, they had decided that each and every indecipherable comment would be handled this way.  The more frequently he was required to find the right words, the faster John would recover his ability to express himself. 

“Too much,” John said, getting it right on the second try.  He closed his eyes and concentrated on breathing for several microts. 

Meylan, Lorana, and Daaren entered the room just as Crichton motioned that he wanted to sit up.  Aeryn started to move toward the bench to sit with him, but D’Argo shook his head, stopping her before she had taken a step.  “This may take a little while, Aeryn, and he’s heavy.” 

“Me?” Crichton said, feigning innocence. 

“Yes, you.  How much do you weigh?  A sakmar?” 

“No muh laughs.  No air.” 

D’Argo had John upright, holding him against his chest as he straddled the bench behind the crippled astronaut.  The luxan rubbed John’s chest for a microt, a silent apology for encouraging his laughter to the point of asphyxiation.  “Wha’s a sakmar?” Crichton asked over his shoulder.

“Later, John.”  D’Argo shifted backward several denches.  The new position allowed John to lean more of his body weight against him with his head resting on D’Argo’s shoulder. 

Aeryn crossed the short distance to stand alongside the pair.  She wiped several trickles of sweat from John’s temples, watching him carefully until his labored breathing finally slowed and settled into a steadier rhythm.  “Are you all right?” she asked. 

“I’m fine, Aeryn.” 

It was the clearest sentence he had managed to utter so far, delivered in the familiar confident tones of John Crichton.  For a single microt, she had him back the way he had been before his capture.  He tried to look up at her, could not raise his head far enough, and the moment was gone.  She bent down, kissed him lightly, then moved to take her place on a seat where she could watch both the delvians and John at the same time.   

Meylan led a repeat of the discussion they had held several days earlier.  He explained the recovery period that lay before John, using far more simple terms than he had during the first conversation, and waiting for John’s reaction after each small piece of information.  The center of attention seemed happy with the long explanation concerning his defective memory, surprising only the delvians with his reaction. 

“Worried.  Begin thought I’s stupid.”  He grinned. 

Rygel jumped into the opening.  “You are.”

“Chi.  Hit for me.” 

The nebari leaned over and took a light swing at Rygel, missing by no less than a full motra. 

The discussion of his physical condition disturbed Crichton more than the one about his memory.  “How long?”  He was forced to look down his nose at them due to the way his head was leaning against D’Argo’s shoulder.  “Up, D?” he asked.

D’Argo leaned forward and levered him upright.  John made the effort to hold his head up in order to look at the delvians levelly.  “H’long b‘fore normal?” he asked again, struggling through the syllables.

“That will be up to you.  You will find that over-exertion will lead to setbacks.  If you can maintain a steady but not excessive progress, then possibly a quarter cycle to achieve a full recovery.” 

“Frell.”  John’s chin dropped onto his chest with a thump.  He pulled it back up, clearly struggling to accomplish the small physical effort.  “A’ right,” he said, followed by a long sigh.  “Time and …”  His head dropped again and he let out a growl of frustration.   

Aeryn finished the sentence for him.  “Patience.  Time and patience, John.  Start here.”   

“Uh huh.”  He was leaning back against D’Argo again, his head lolling to one side.  “Wha’ else?” 

The delvians were silent for a microt, considering their next topic.  Aeryn remembered something that had been skipped over a number of days earlier, and decided to take advantage of their momentary silence to get the answer to a question that had been nagging at her ever since.   

“Before you continue, I would like to ask you to explain something that got dropped a number of nights ago.”  She paused long enough for them to redirect their attention toward her.  “You said there was something I needed to know before we left.  What were you referring to?” 

Meylan turned in her direction and bestowed an enigmatic smile on her.  “The first time you entered Unity with John Crichton …”

“Unity?  That’s wha’ was?”  John managed to pull his head forward long enough to look at squarely Aeryn for several microts.  “That’s wha’ we did?”  His head fell back again. 

“Yes.”  Her smile was embarrassed but pleased, due in part to his delight in their combined achievement, but also because he remembered what Unity was without any memory jogging. 

“Aeryn did it, Crichton.  She joined with you the first day you were here,” Chiana said. 

“No!” Meylan said, cutting in before anyone else could speak.  “That is precisely what we wanted to explain before you left.  It was not Aeryn Sun who initiated the joining.” 

“I knew I hadn’t done it!” Aeryn said.  “I knew I did not have the ability to join us.” 

“Do not underestimate your abilities, Aeryn Sun.  It is no small feat for two uninitiated individuals to achieve Unity, even after allowing for our participation in bringing your minds together.  It could not have been achieved without your strong involvement.” 

“Then it was Daaren after all.  He joined us,” she said. 

“He only guided you to where Crichton existed.  He misunderstood what happened afterwards.  Daaren is a healer of the physical realm and did not recognize the intricacies of the joining.  It was not until the two of you joined with both myself and Lorana present that we realized that it was John Crichton who had initiated the merging of your minds.”

“Hunh?”  John lifted his head without any apparent struggle.  “No!  Not me!” 

“Crichton?”  Rygel’s yell of disbelief echoed around the room. 

Aeryn looked at John with a thoughtful expression while D’Argo rubbed the top of his head in enthusiasm. 

“Un unh.  Was no me.”  John was trying to shake his head, but D’Argo’s rubbing was turning every one of his attempts at a side to side motion into a nod.  “’nough, D,” he said with a hint of force in his voice. 

“That makes more sense,” Aeryn said into a break in the ruckus.  She looked across at Crichton, replaying each experience with Unity in her mind.  “That makes a lot more sense.  When I tried to help on the last day they had you in the pool, I felt like I got sucked into you.  I assumed it was a product of having both Meylan and Lorana helping me get there, but it felt like a grab, not a push like the Meetings.”  She smiled at him.  “Humans are not superior, but they do tend to be surprising.” 

“Get out o’ town,” John said.  He was allowed to lay back, the vibrations from D’Argo’s almost silent laughter reverberating through his body, providing a wordless tale of good humor, acceptance, and approval.   

“The need was great, and the bond was already strong.  Do not expect to be able to do this again unless there is equal need.”  Meylan gazed serenely first at Aeryn and then at Crichton.  “However, if you ever require it again, the capacity is there.  You have joined.  The tie exists and can never be broken.” 

Aeryn was overwhelmed by the enormity of the revelation, and by the implications inherent in their accomplishment.  John had not been told how long they had shared Unity during John’s last ordeal in the pool.  Aeryn had overheard the delvians talking about the event on several occasions, and from their comments she knew that the length and extent of the joining would enhance their ability to achieve Unity in the future.  Her eyes followed the movements of her fingers as they picked at a small scuff on her pants.  Several microts passed in silence before she had the courage to glance at John to check on his reaction to the news.  The look on his face forced her to smile.  He was trying to contain his elation, but the mixture of joy and caution was making such a mess of his expression it was comical. 

“I suppose I can live with that,” she said after several more microts worth of contemplation. 

His face cleared.  A single expression settled into place:  the happiness that Lorana had assured her John felt whenever Aeryn was near.  “We go now?” 

“We would like to discuss one more thing before you leave, John Crichton.”  Meylan had become very serious. 

John tried to look at him directly, but his chin sank to his chest one more time.   This time it stayed there.  Fatigue was winning out over tenacity.  “G’head,” he said.  It emerged as a guttural mumble.

D’Argo shifted back on the bench even further, taking on more dead weight, and lifted John’s head so it rested on his shoulder, compensating for the failing muscles.  Daaren rose, wove his way between the benches until he was standing next to the pair, and then placed one hand on Crichton’s forehead.  Aeryn watched with wonder as John became more alert, understanding immediately that he was receiving a transfer of living energy from the delvian.  John rolled his head on D’Argo’s shoulder, still too weak to lift it, and gazed up at Daaren in awe.  The healer smiled back, placed his hand on Crichton’s shoulder for a moment, and then resumed his seat. 

Meylan waited until John turned his attention back to the unfinished discussion.  “Do you recall the first time I entered your mind in the pool, John Crichton?” 

“Hard t’ forget.”  John was doing his best to pay attention, but he was struggling inside a body that had already done too much for one day.  Daaren’s gift of energy, which might have sustained a healthy person for several arns, was not going to last for more than a few microts.  D’Argo slid his second arm around John’s chest to help hold him up, supporting more of his weight as his body continued to shut down despite the infusion of energy.

“That should not have happened.  We have tried several times since then to determine the origin of your pain, which was psychic in nature, but were unable to break through a block that you have built to hide the source.”  He waited to make sure that Crichton understood his explanation, continuing only after he received a tiny nod.  “We do not know what you have hidden, but if it emerges during your recovery, you should expect that it will be highly traumatic.”  He watched the slumped figure carefully.  “Do you understand what I am telling you, John Crichton?” 

John nodded and then tried to say something.  The best he could manage was an inaudible whisper.  D’Argo ducked his head to listen.  “Stupid and a block head,” he repeated. 

Chiana laughed.  Aeryn and the delvians all smiled. 

D’Argo was listening again.  “He asked if the block was from what the scarrans did.”  D’Argo exchanged glances with Aeryn, both of them thinking about the mental beatings Crichton had already suffered, and then he asked his own question.  “Could it have come from something else in his past?” 

“It is conceivable that it originated from something else,” Meylan said slowly.

“Buh.” John had mustered enough energy to issue his own prompt for the priest to continue. 

“But the damage from this torture was extensive and severe.  It is unlikely that an existing block would have remained in place under those circumstances.  It is much more likely that you are hiding something that even your own mind is unwilling to consider.” 

“Wha’s mean?”  John’s eyes started to close.  He yanked himself back awake, expending the last of the energy he had received from Daaren. 

“Rely on your friends, John Crichton.  If the memories reveal themselves, do not try to handle them yourself.  These people have proven themselves to be dedicated to your well-being, allow your friends to continue helping you.” 

John whispered something and D’Argo looked hurt.  “What do you mean ‘not friends’?”  He was about to say more when he caught John’s look of panic.  He stopped and leaned in to catch the rest of the phrase.  The luxan smiled at the four appalled faces, nodding at the addition.  “He said ‘Family’.”  Crichton returned Aeryn’s pleased smile and promptly fell asleep. 

“Anything else?” Aeryn asked in his stead. 

Lorana stood up.  “Make sure he gives himself time.  It has been less than fifty solar days since the damage was inflicted.  That is very little time considering the magnitude of the injuries.”  She moved to stand next to D’Argo who continued to prop up the unconscious astronaut.  “Good luck in your travels, John Crichton.  I hope to see you again when you are fully restored.”  She laid her hand on his forehead much as Daaren had earlier, then moved away to one corner of the room. 

Daaren came over next, touching each of the group lightly and ending with Crichton.  “Take care of him,” he said to no one in particular.  “He is a unique individual.” 

Meylan repeated the light touches, bestowing a small phrase on each of them, touched his forehead to Aeryn’s briefly, and then stood next to John.  He looked down at the expressionless face for several microts, an expression of deep sorrow appearing for a single microt before being replaced by his usual serene smile.  He placed both hands on John’s forehead, said, “Be well,” and released him. 

Aeryn helped D’Argo cradle the limp body, swinging the long legs to one side so he could get his arm under John’s knees, and then helping the luxan to his feet.  John woke up during the process, looked around in confusion, and then spotted the three priests standing to one side. 

“Leavin’?” he asked sleepily.  “Time go home?” 

Aeryn touched his cheek to get his attention.  “Yes, we are leaving.  Where’s home?  Do you remember?” 

“Course!”  He turned away from her, looked back at the delvians and spoke deliberately, forcing each word out correctly.  “Thank you for my life.” 

“Be well, John Crichton,” Meylan repeated his farewell.  “Take care of yourself, but come back if you ever need our help again.” 

“’kay.  I promise … no more scarrans.”  His new laugh bubbled out of him, infecting everyone in the room.  He looked up at D’Argo, “Le’s go home.” 

“Where’s home, John?”  D’Argo repeated Aeryn’s question. 

The human snorted.  “Not tha’ stupid!  Moya!”  He laughed lightly and fell asleep. 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

[KernilCrash]

Chapter 12

“Nuh!  Get nee hilough … frell!” 

“Try it again,” D’Argo said.  “Take your time.  Don’t rush.” 

“Go … see … Pi’ot … firs’,” came the revised attempt, one laborious effort at a time.

D’Argo was standing in a junction of two corridors with John hanging over his shoulders.  When they had landed the transport pod in the hangar, he had been about to pick the drowsy human up in his arms as usual when John had begun objecting to the maximum degree he was capable of producing.  The others had bounded down the steps, glad to be back on board the leviathan, leaving the two men behind to argue for as long as they liked.

“Hate da’ way, D.  Feel like … liddle kid.” 

John had struggled to be emphatic, giving off unmistakable signs that he knew his helplessness was destroying any semblance of strength faster than he could produce it.  His body was transmitting another tale at the same time, however.  Glee.  D’Argo watched and listened, and decided that John’s distaste at being carried in someone’s arms like a child was being overridden by the excitement that he had rediscovered a tiny fragment of his life. 

“Fling me over your shoulders,” he had said, and then had beamed up at D’Argo because he had gotten an entire sentence out without mangling a word. 

It had taken three attempts before they found a position that allowed John to breathe comfortably, and now their progress was stalled by yet another disagreement.  The squabble was generating a secretive smile of delight from D’Argo, who was rejoicing that his friend was bickering with him before he had relearned how to walk.  He shook his head and took two steps away from the Den, deliberately provoking Crichton because he was enjoying the argument.

“No!”  John’s next statement descended into complete chaos, communication short-circuited by frustration. 

D’Argo realized he had pushed his friend too far.  He relented long enough to explain why he felt that his course was the better one.  “John, you need to eat and get some rest.  This way first.”  He pointed toward the Center Chamber for emphasis as well as to provide Crichton with a nudge to his memory. 

“No!  Too … too …”  John went silent while he searched for a missing word.  “Big number of days,” he improvised, “since see Pilot.  Go dere!” 

“Too many days?” D’Argo said, prompting him. 

“Yes.  Too many.  Go see Pi’ot!”  John made a vague gesture that encompassed all four of the corridors leading away from where they were standing, suggesting that he wanted to gesticulate toward where the pilot was located and did not know which way to point.  “Not long, jus’ hi.” 

“I think I’m right.”  D’Argo turned in the direction of the Center Chamber.  The first tones of exhaustion had reentered Crichton’s voice, convincing him that he should get the recovering invalid back to his quarters as soon as possible. 

“Da … Da … D’Argo.” 

He stopped walking, motion arrested by John’s laborious effort to struggle through his name, a battle to get past the first syllable that was all too reminiscent of another time that his friend had struggled to speak.   

“Puh down for mi’rot?  P’ease?”  John banged a fist gently against his hip, trying to put more emphasis into his halting words.   

D’Argo lowered him to sit against the wall, admitting only to himself that carrying John this way was easier in that respect also.  He straightened John’s legs and tilted his head so it rested against the wall.  “What’s wrong, John?  Is it your breathing?” 

“Nuh.”  Crichton wagged his head from side to side.  “Breath ‘kay.  Don’t able to see Pi’ot in head.”

“You don’t remember him,” D’Argo said, rephrasing the sentence. 

“Re … Say word ‘gain?”  It was a frequent request.  Longer words challenged John’s ability to retain the translated version long enough for to reproduce the sounds in English.   

“Remember,” he repeated slowly in Luxan.  The translator microbes would have to do the rest. 

John had already learned the word several times, and in each case had forgotten it within the space of a few microts.  Giving him the words did not seem to work as well as forcing him to dig them out of his faulty memory.  They were beginning to suspect that it had something to do with the fact that he was hearing one version through his ears, and a different version from his translator microbes.  Short words or fragments he could retain.  Longer ones never lasted more than a few arns.

John considered D’Argo’s contribution for several microts, then continued his plea without trying the new word.  “Pi’ot.  Want go see.  See him den know him.”  John worked at breathing for a few moments.  “Kay?”  Crichton watched D’Argo intently. 

“Very well, John.”  D’Argo started to pick up one of Crichton’s arms, the first step in slinging what was basically a helpless body over his shoulder. 

“Wait.”  John sat very still for several microts, not even looking around as he concentrated on getting more air into his lungs.  “Why are you … so sad?”  He made the effort to use all the words, avoiding even his usual short cuts. 

D’Argo sat back on his heels, gazing at the slumped figure before him as he debated how to answer the question.  Despite their bickering microts earlier, this person was so far from the brawling, confident human he had come to respect and love that it felt as though both of his hearts would stop simultaneously when he had to watch him struggle to talk or to simply breathe.

He was reminded of the mentally crippled man who had twice begged for death to cease the torture caused by the neural chip and the actions of the clone.  The man sitting in front of him was mentally balanced and recovering rapidly, but the physical damage was no less significant.  He wanted his friend back again, healthy and ready for trouble. 

“I was thinking about a friend I used to know.  Let’s go see Pilot.  I will introduce you to him.”  The grin of unadulterated delight that he received in response to his change of heart was almost identical to Jothee’s bursts of ecstatic happiness over the simplest things in life.  He hauled John off the floor and slung him over his shoulders. 

“Jess like a sakmar of taters,” Crichton said, laughing into his side. 

D’Argo had already noticed how little it took to amuse John.  His humor was infectious no matter how heartbreaking.  “Whatever that is, John,” he said, deliberately seeking another response from his passenger.  One of John’s hands fumbled at his waist for a few moments.  Several fingers slowly wrapped themselves around his belt as Crichton did his best to help hold himself in place as they headed quickly through the tiers toward Pilot’s chamber.   

“D, wha’s a sakmar?”  John watched the pattern of the floor flow by beneath them, the golden panels flashing into a blur that resembled shining scales.  Scales.  He shuddered and was swamped by a sudden, unexplainable flood of fear.  He fought the emotion, reminding himself that D’Argo had promised to keep him safe.   

“A measure of weight.  You’re about a hundredth of a sakmar, although you feel like you’ve gained a sakmar or two.”  D’Argo felt a heavy tremor run through John, affecting his entire body.  “Are you all right?  Do I need to stop, John?”   

“No, I’n fine.” 

The tone worked almost too hard to sound confident; an undertone of concern or fear in the brief phrase leached through despite Crichton’s effort to hide it.  D’Argo kept moving toward the Den, debating whether to set John down a second time so he could see what was going on.  His deliberations were cut short by a cheerier comment. 

“Hey, D?  Wha’s taters?” 

* * * * *

D’Argo crossed the span to Pilot’s center island and then turned around to give John his first look at Moya’s partner.  “Whoa, lobster!” was muttered quietly from somewhere near his waist, and he made a mental note to ask John later to explain about ‘lobster’.  “Hi, Pi’ot!” came next, louder and more cheerfully.  But John had managed to get his second hand latched on to D’Argo’s arm, and his grip tightened spasmodically as the pair approached Pilot’s consoles, transmitting something far less assured through the contact. 

“Pilot, you have a visitor.” 

D’Argo turned around to ease Crichton down onto Pilot’s consoles.  “John, is it all right if Pilot steadies you for a microt while I get behind you?” 

When he did not get a response, he craned his neck to see what John was doing.  Crichton’s full attention was focused on his hand, which was still firmly latched onto D’Argo’s sleeve.  He was biting his lip in concentration and glaring furiously at the curled fingers. 

“Lehgo … f’elling bas’ards!”  His fist ignored the command, prompting a low-pitched growl of frustration.  “Wai’ mi’rot.  Is s’uck,” he said to D’Argo, enunciation suffering from his fixation on the frozen hand.  There was another angry noise from the inverted figure, but the hand was still fastened securely around his arm.  D’Argo eased a single finger under each of John’s, providing the additional pressure necessary to get the grip to release one finger at a time but allowing John to do most of the work. 

“Bas’ards,” John growled a second time. 

“I’m going to put you down next to Pilot now,” D’Argo warned him once the hand had swung free.  “He’s going to steady you until I can get you turned around.” 

There was a brief hesitation preceding the confident response, “Tha’s fine.”  When D’Argo straightened up, John was looking nervously at the arms that were holding him upright. 

“It is good to see you again, Commander Crichton.”  Pilot had enveloped him with two of his arms while he used a third to steady his head.  “I have missed our conversations.”  Pilot surveyed the uncertain smile and anxious expression, and added, “I have missed you.”

D’Argo swung John around so his legs dropped inside the enclosure and his body was facing Pilot completely.  He waited, hovering, until he was sure that Pilot had John supported securely, and then backed away, watching the conflicting emotions flicker across Crichton’s face.  He was obviously battling a lack of memory while trying to be friendly with a very large creature.  Pilot shifted one claw to rest on his leg, and then John surprised D’Argo by managing to lift one hand high enough to place it on top of the armored appendage.  He was serious for several long moments as he ran his fingers across the dark mottled claw several times, then looked up at the serious face and eyed the wide cranial shell and the wide, sympathetic eyes. 

“Miss you too, Pi’ot.  Still miss you.” 

Pilot looked at D’Argo and then back at Crichton.  “You do not remember us.  I am sorry, Crichton.”

John shook his head.  “I one who sorry.  I think Moya a little, but mos’ is miss.”  His chin dropped to his chest for a moment.  After several microts there, it climbed back up in agonizing slow stages so he was looking into Pilot’s eyes again.  D’Argo watched the battle, comparing it to the other times he had watched John wage this particular war, and trying to judge how much longer Crichton could hold out before his body shut down despite his best efforts.  He concluded that it was time to leave. 

Before he could move forward or suggest that it was time to go, Pilot slowly lowered his head until the front edge of his shell touched Crichton’s forehead.  “I am sure you will remember us eventually, Crichton.  Perhaps tomorrow Moya and I can show you some images that will help you remember us.”  He straightened up and looked at the human eye to eye. 

John’s face lightened and he broke into a large grin.  “Sid here and say bye one time?”  When he receive a ponderous nod he reverted to the more serious expression.  “We were sad then, but I know this.”  He let his head tilt back to look at D’Argo, hanging almost upside down in Pilot’s embrace.  “I have Pi’ot in my head!  We go lunch now.”  He lurched forward and looked at the big creature who was holding him upright.  “I gonn’ know you now, Pi’ot.  Ih’ll get bedder.”
 

* * * * *

“Dis sucks.”  John tried to remain sitting upright only to flop back the microt Aeryn let go of him.  “One more time?” he asked.  She patiently boosted him upright and waited while he arranged his hands so they were braced on his thighs.  She eased him back until she felt him find his balance point, then slowly released him.  If there was any delay between letting go and the loss of control, she couldn’t detect it.  He hit his bunk with a thump.  “Frell.” 

“It’s only your second day, John.  Give yourself a chance.”  Aeryn unlaced his boots, and pulled his footwear and socks free with an economy of movement.  His pants followed rapidly and then she swung his legs onto the bed.  He submitted patiently while she tugged him into a position lying on his side, and then bolstered him with several pillows against his shoulders, hips, and back in order to keep him that way. 

“Is that going to be comfortable?” she asked one she had finished.  He nodded and she pulled the blankets over him. 

A comms had been fastened to his pillow near his head, and there was the quiet whine of a DRD coming from the ceiling somewhere above where he lay, which completed the monitoring system his friends had arranged for him.  The only thing he had to remember was that if he had a problem during the night, all he had to do to get help was to ask for it.  Someone would appear.  He repeated it silently to himself several times, trying to get his brain to keep the information in storage, instead of losing it like it usually did.

He had remembered the DRDs the instant he had spotted one of the yellow drones; that was not a problem.  But Aeryn and the others had needed to explain the comms to him several times.  He had been confused by a memory of something called a communicator, and had become angry and frustrated when no one else recognized either the term or his description of the object.  They did not understand that until he made sense of the conflicting information, he could not be certain that he would recognize the small bit of metal if he woke up and needed it. 

He would remember the DRD, he told himself.  That was enough.

Aeryn was sitting on the edge of the bed, watching him.  He gazed back at her, expecting her to say something.  The silence lengthened.  The jumble inside his head shifted from an awareness of the pleasant, normal level of fatigue invading his body, to pleasure at the sight of Aeryn sitting so close beside him, to mild curiosity, and finally to a degree of confusion that bordered on the total chaos that he was learning to dread. 

It had been a long, confusing day, his first full day back aboard Moya, and he missed the peace and relaxation of the water.  Every word was turning into an insurmountable obstacle, keeping his eyes open was becoming a problem, and he did not want to go to sleep until he found out why she was smiling at him that way. 

“Wha’?” he asked. 

Aeryn smiled, pushed his hair back from his forehead, cupped his cheek in her hand, and did not say anything.  The chaos descended, just as he had feared.  There was little reason left inside his head.  He wanted it to stop.

“Wha’ is it?” he asked again, hoping that Aeryn’s explanation would restore some order. 

Aeryn tilted his head on the pillow, took one more look at him, and then kissed him, longer and with more force than she had kissed him at any time since they had taken him out of the pool.  Order returned, spiraling around a single overwhelming compounded sensation.  He had believed that he remembered everything there was to know about Aeryn.  He had been mistaken.  There was no memory of the way her tongue quested deep into his mouth, intertwining with his; or how it felt when her fingers stroked him lightly beneath his ear as she kissed him, generating a chill that burst from the pit of his stomach to his extremities and raised the hair on the back of his neck. 

“Don’ … knowed that,” he said.  “Again?” 

She smiled and repeated the caress, lingering long enough that he could attempt to return it.  Gentle tango of tongues, exploration of smooth surfaces, her breath against his cheek.  A flurry of images flooded into his mind and he pulled at her more fiercely, suddenly knowing what it was supposed to be like.  She pulled away and looked at him more seriously. 

“Don’ knowed that,” he lied.  He grinned at her to let her know he was joking.  “’gain?” 

“Get some sleep.  It’s been a long day for all of us.” 

“Wai’, Aeryn.  Why you looking like that?”  There was something about the serious look -- a piece of it that he thought was unusual -- that he needed to understand.  Aeryn hesitated, and he decided she was not going to answer, but she finally turned back and looked at him again, the same way as before. 

She ran her hand across his temple several times, smoothing the hair against his head, then answered in a near whisper.  “I didn’t think I was going to get you back this time.  Some of you was back on board, but I had lost you anyway.  I was thinking how lucky I am to be sitting here with you.”  She kissed him one more time, more briefly than before.

John responded to her in a rush, eager to convey an important message.  As usual with anything that matter, the syllables emerged in a hopeless tangle. 

Aeryn sat very still for several microts, with her eyes closed, which meant that she was trying to make sense of what he had said.  Sometimes it worked.  Sometimes their translator microbes could work through the jumble.  He assumed that everyone’s microbes were getting better at translating nonsense.  But tonight Aeryn shook her head.  “Try it again more slowly, John.  I couldn’t understand that.”   

He took a deep breath and said it again, more slowly, concentrating on not allowing the sounds to go flying off in strange directions, as they so often did. 

“Had t’ come back.  I made a promise.” 

* * * * *

Aeryn stood inside the bulwarks of Pilot’s station, helping him pick out images that might trigger John’s memories.  She watched the recordings stream across the primary display while using her peripheral vision to keep track of which images Pilot was shunting to the newly created datastore, breaking in only when she disagreed with his selection. 

“Not that one, Pilot,” she said, flicking a finger in the direction of the secondary display.  It held an image of Gilina from when she had helped them install the pile of junk that had passed as a defense shield for a short time.  “If he remembers her, he might remember the Chair.” 

“That is part of his memory, Aeryn.”  Pilot arrested the flow of the recordings, made the necessary adjustments to remove the image, and looked at her all at the same time, complying with her request despite questioning her decision.  “Do you not want him to remember that occurrence?”   

“John will remember soon enough.”  Aeryn stared off into the dark of the enormous chamber, depressed that Crichton had to endure his present debilities while he unknowingly faced the return of so many traumatic memories.  “He has enough to worry about right now.  He does not need the added burden of those memories.” 

“Aeryn” -- Pilot resumed the download -- “I have wanted to ask you something about Crichton’s current condition.”  He paused at an image of Varla, waited for Aeryn’s decision, and then continued.  “His choice of words does not always seem entirely appropriate to the circumstances he is attempting to comment upon.” 

“When do they ever?”  She laughed briefly, thinking of John’s history of impenetrable comments.  Pilot responded with one of his rare smiles.  “How do you mean, Pilot?” 

“Crichton is no longer making complete sentences.  His comments are disjointed, even for him.  Over the past several cycles, I have become familiar with many of his untranslatable terms, but many of his words are currently coming through without an equivalent in my own language.  It is very confusing.” 

“We know, Pilot.  The delvians warned us that it might take some time for his capacity for language returns.  We are all having trouble understanding him.”  She ran her hand across his cranial shell.  “Try to place the sentences in context and concentrate on the words that are coming through.  His speech should improve soon.” 

The large symbiote sighed and gave her a single slow, depressed looking nod.  “I could prepare some recordings if that would help him recover.” 

“We discussed that possibility with the delvians before we left their moon, Pilot.  John remembers the symbols for most of the words he is trying to use.  That’s not the problem.  He just can’t produce them correctly, and he’s the only one who really knows how to pronounce them.  We think pushing him any harder would only make him more frustrated than he already is, and would probably only make his speech worse.  We need to give him time, Pilot.  He’s improving already.” 

Pilot arrested the flow of images.  “I miss him a great deal, Aeryn.  I miss Crichton.” 

“John is back aboard Moya, Pilot, and he is going to get better.”  She forced a smile through the desire to cry, disarmed by Pilot’s unexpected empathy.  “John will be himself again.  All we have to do is give him enough time.”

Pilot’s arms resumed their perpetual motions across his controls, attending to the constant intricacies of maintaining all of Moya’s mechanical functions at the same time he continued assembling a collection of images.  “I miss him,” he repeated slowly. 

* * * * *

Crichton was belly-down, lying on his stomach, every bit of his attention trained on the recordings Pilot had prepared for him.  He was sprawled on the strategy table in Command with Rygel and D’Argo sitting alongside him to answer questions as the images set off memories.  They had been at it for two arns and he was getting tired; fewer and fewer bursts of recall were breaking loose as he came closer to the point where he had to put every bit of energy into the fight to stay awake. 

“Wait!  Go back, Pilot.”  The series flicked backward one by one.  “Stop.  Who’s dat?”  John struggled to boost himself up on his elbows so he could look at the view screen straight on instead of at an upward angle.  The person in the image seemed devastatingly familiar, someone incredibly important to him.  The frustration of not being able to knock the memory free was approaching the level of physical discomfort.     

“That is an alien who took the form of …”

“My father.  Dat’s my father!”  It felt like he had been hit by a hammer; the single memory knocked others loose, creating a cascade of flickering images, each one too indistinct to make out but helping to create a larger sense of who the gray-haired person had been and what his place was in his life.  One elbow slid out from under him and John did a belly-flop back onto the table.  He struggled back up. 

“Not really, but this individual did take on the appearance of your father.”  D’Argo was trying to be careful.  John had not remembered the Ancients’ knowledge or his experience in the Aurora Chair yet, and they had all agreed to avoid dredging up that memory until Crichton was further along in his recovery.  “Do you remember your father?” 

John gave up his attempt to prop himself up and settled for rubbing his head.  “No.  I know it him, but it’s not mean something.”  He banged his head against the table.  “Stupid.” 

“You are not stupid, Crichton,” Rygel offered generously.  “A bit limited as far as species go, but not stupid.” 

John looked up with a speculative expression on his face.  “Humans be superior?  What’s mean that?” 

“Oh no.”  D’Argo said, groaning with dismay.  “You had to remember that!” 

* * * * *

“Whasis?”  John prodded at the food with his finger. 

Aeryn turned to watch as he examined the plate sitting in front of him.  He had not regained the use of most of the muscles in his torso yet, but with the help of the DRDs they had managed to create a form-fitting chair with a harness that held him upright for meals. 

The first time he had seen it, Crichton had flatly refused to sit in it.  He had not been able to explain why he did not like it, so they had been forced to assume that he was troubled by his disability, and that his irrational distaste would fade at the same rate that he regained his strength and ability to do things for himself.  After half an arn of arguing about the chair, they had issued an ultimatum.  They had given him the option of using the seat and its attached seatbelt and shoulder straps, or eating his meals on his bed in his quarters.  John had grudgingly agreed that this would create less work for his friends, and had not fought them when they placed him in it for the first time. 

Aeryn continued to watch him out of the corner of her eye; he was peering suspiciously at the pronga sinew, melvak beans, and steamed Forlarian barley.  They were some of his favorites, and she had hoped that he would recognize the choices.  His expression slowly turned to one of anxiety, and then into something that she thought looked like grief. 

“Whasis?” he asked again.

“Try the green things, you like those,” she said without actually answering the question he had begun asking at most meals.  She continued preparing her own meal during the thirty microts it took for him to pick up his utensil.  It was an extended struggle that he insisted on completing on his own.  At least today he had allowed her to place his hands on the table.  Getting them from his lap to table height was one of the most strenuous achievements he had managed to master so far, but it normally took several tries, and often left him too exhausted to feed himself. 

She turned to check on him just in time to watch as his hand approached the metal implement that was commanding his entire attention.  He came close to getting his fingers curled around it only to have them spring open before he could get a grip.  She watched, silent and motionless, as he scowled at his hand and tried again, finally capturing the utensil in an awkward grasp.  He used his other hand to rearrange the metal implement so he held it more naturally, then took a long breath and shifted his attention so it was focused on the food in front of him. 

Aeryn knew that every moment like this was a testimony to John’s most basic personality, the portions of his character that frequently were not visible to the people around him, but that had allowed him to survive the scarran torture.  While she had always known he could be stubborn, she had never suspected that he could be this obstinate.  Under normal circumstances, the trait was tempered by the more complex facets of his persona -- the facets that were, for the time being, missing.  Without the mask of mature behavior, and heightened by his frustration and anxiety, he became nearly unmanageable when he made up his mind that he was not going to do something. 

That was both good and bad, and Aeryn was all too aware of both sides of it.  Another man might have let her help him pick up the utensil, but another man would have died in the scarran stronghold.

Aeryn turned back to the warmer to get her own meal and to set aside some of the pronga for the others, then checked to see whether he had finally gotten some of the melvak beans speared.  He had, but he was staring at them as if they were a dreaded enemy.  The utensil dropped to the tray with a clang, thrown down with a moderate amount of force.  He rubbed at his eyes and forehead with the heel of his other hand, appearing tired, and stared unhappily at his plate.  He had started chopping his sentences down to the minimum necessary to make himself understood, a sure sign that he was approaching the limit of his stamina. 

Aeryn set her tray down, choosing a seat that faced him from across the table.  “What’s wrong with that?”  They were having a terrible time getting him to eat anything. 

John turned his head to gaze off into the corridor.  He finally sighed, and then looked back at her with all the anxiety still in place.  “Don’ know.”  It was close to a whine.  “Don’ want any.  All seem so … strange.”  He shoved the utensil with a loose fist, his hand shaking with fatigue.  “I like this really?”

“That’s what you have been telling us all these cycles.”  Aeryn watched his head start to drop, the muscles standing out rigidly in his neck as he fought to lift it back up.  He had only fallen asleep four times since First Meal, and was long overdue for a blackout.  She concentrated on reassuring him, convinced that getting him to eat was not going to be an issue for much longer.  “You eat them all the time.  Is there something else you’d rather have?” 

“Don’ know!” he yelled in frustration.  “No things look right,” he said more quietly as he got himself back under control.  “Don’t know what look right.  Want a thing else, but don’t know what.” 

He rubbed his eyes again; the motion turned into an attempt to hold his head up as it started to sag forward.  His hand gave out as well, and she waited patiently while he battled against a type of fatigue that could win out over any effort to stay awake.  It was over in eight microts, inexorable exhaustion winning out over even the most stubborn tenacity.  John’s chin dropped onto his chest, his body tilted forward, and then he slumped against the shoulder straps as his body insisted that it needed more rest. 

Aeryn had pulled the uneaten meal away, released the straps, and was lowering him to lie on the table when Chiana and Jool came into the chamber.  The two women hurried forward to help her, and between the three of them, they managed to shift him forward onto the table until he looked fairly comfortable.  John did not stir as they settled him, not even when they had to heave together to move his body weight far enough forward that he would not slide off the table.  The exhausted blackouts they had been warned about had begun, amusing everyone with their intensity.  Chiana rubbed the back of the sleeper’s head, deliberately jostling him as he lay senselessly with one cheek resting on his forearms.  There was not the slightest flicker of a response; not a sigh, not a twitch, not a change in his expression.  The shutdown was absolute. 

“Did he eat anything before he went out?” Jool asked. 

Aeryn pointed to the undisturbed meal. 

It was Chiana who finally sighed and said, “I thought it was Crichton who was supposed to be patient.  I didn’t think it was going to be us.” 

* * * * *

When he had insisted that walking should be the first priority in his rehabilitation, he had not expected it to hurt this much.  He wanted to be able to take care of himself, and that meant being able to get to and from his bunk at night without calling anyone to help him, and not being forced to allow D’Argo to carry him around Moya.  Crichton clamped his teeth together and tried to take another step.  He could remember what his legs were supposed to do; the muscles refused to follow his directions.  Every attempt to move his foot forward only succeeded in generating discomfort from his toes to the top of his skull. 

“F’elling bas’ards,” he said, panting.  John glared at his boots.  His abdominal muscles were trembling from the strain of being upright, and his shoulders were starting to burn.  D’Argo and Aeryn waited patiently, supporting his full weight as he tried again to bring his right foot forward.  “Move!” he yelled at it in frustration.  His foot continued to ignore him.

“I need to set you down, John,” Aeryn said after two more vigorous outbursts at his uncooperative feet. 

He nodded, continuing his policy of never arguing when the others got tired.  They shuffled together to the strategy table and maneuvered him onto a seat, lowering him so that his upper body rested safely on the table.  He turned his head so his forehead rested against the cool surface and waited for the pain to subside, watching as the occasional drop of sweat from his soaked hair spattered onto the table next to him.  His shirt clung to his back, drenched with perspiration from over two arns of effort that had yielded only eight faltering steps.  He banged his forehead against the table, treating himself to a screech of frustration. 

“Stop it,” Aeryn said.  Everyone knew what his screech meant.  He had been using it often enough over the past several days that he would not have been surprised if they told him the translator microbes were converting it into profanity. 

“Don’t make us say it again,” Aeryn said, interrupting his thoughts about pain, helplessness, and whether his own language had a word that meant the same thing as ‘frell’.

Aeryn was referring to “time and patience”.  They had been chanting those three words at him practically non-stop for the past several days, but he found it difficult to be patient when he could not get around the ship on his own or even feed himself.  He tried lifting his head to look at her, intending to apologize for his outburst, and the effort sent another sparking explosion of pain ripping through his body.  He settled for rolling his head to the side to peer up at Aeryn, pressing his cheek against the refreshingly cool surface of the strategy table. 

She drew a thumb down his cheek, wiping away a torrent of sweat that had been threatening to trickle into his eye.  He appreciated her concern, but for the moment that light touch hurt more than the mild sting of salt in his eye.  John rolled his head face down again, and waited for the discomfort to subside.

He considered mentioning the pain, deciding in the end that there wasn’t anything that could be done about it.  Whenever he pushed himself beyond some point physically, his entire nervous system seemed to go into starburst, every inch of his body singing with discomfort.  It varied from day to day and depending on how tired he was, sometimes manifesting itself as a burning sensation, and other times as a shocking ache almost too close to the original injury.  He assumed it would get better as he continued to heal. 

“Give it time, John.  It’s only been seven solar days.”  He rocked his head further to the side so he could look up at Aeryn.  She was standing next to him, stretching her neck, trying to relieve some of the muscle strain that was the result of supporting at least half his body weight for several arns.  “You are expecting too much out of yourself.”   

He gathered his arms under his shoulders and pushed himself upright.  It was an extremely hazardous process since he did not have the strength to catch himself if he started to tip over backwards.  He got himself propped into a half-raised position on his elbows, ignored the flood of discomfort generated by even that small bit of effort, and gazed at her. 

“Look a’ you.  You’re sore cuz you have t’ carry me.  I’s gotta stop.  I gotta walk now.  I’s there!  I can feel them doing the work, they juss won’ move.”  An elbow started to slip and he struggled back into position. 

D’Argo’s voice cut into the brief silence.  “John, three days ago you could not do what you did just then.” 

“What’d I do?” 

“You managed to catch yourself and sit up again after you started to fall over.  You could not do that three solar days ago.  John, you have got to give yourself more time.  The delvians told you that if you pushed too hard, you would wind up going backwards instead of improving.  You have to find balance.” 

Just as the last word came out of his mouth, John tried to sit up straighter and started to topple to the side instead.  He scrabbled desperately at the table with both hands and somehow managed keep from falling over, but the recovery meant that he wound up slumping back onto the surface of the table, face down, with a thump. 

“That wasn’ the ba’ance you meant, was it?”  His face was flat against the table, cheek pressed against the cool surface.  It made his already slurred speech even less intelligible.  John rocked his head to one side, in part to make it easier to talk but also so he could look at Aeryn.  “’kay, no’ so much every day.  I say it.  Time and patience.” 

She smiled at him and rubbed his back several times. 

“So how ‘bout one more try?” he said, thinking that he might be able to get one more session in before he collapsed.

This time it was Aeryn who let out a quiet screech of frustration. 

“Never mind,” he said quickly, realizing that he was pushing the limits of her patience.  The hand returned to his back, easing tired muscles and conveying both reassurance and understanding.  The touches told him that Aeryn knew how difficult this was for him, and that no matter how annoyed she got with his behavior, it would not last. 

John sighed and felt the numbing effects of exhaustion moving in, warning him that he was about to run out of energy.  He closed his eyes, trying to gauge how much time he had left before his body shut down on him, thinking that they might have enough time to go through some more memory jogging images since he was in Command anyway.  The decision was stripped from him when two pairs of hands tipped him away from the table and into D’Argo’s arms. 

“Oh, no,” he complained weakly.  He thought they had settled this thing about being carried like a little kid.  D’Argo shifted his weight effortlessly, boosting his head onto the muscular shoulder and settling his weight more comfortably into the arms that never seemed to get tired.  John tried to remember when and where they had argued this matter out, but his memory was at its most annoying just then, full of disconnected images that refused to settle into any pattern.  There were too many gaps, not enough facts, and he could not make any sense of the jumble inside his head.  “I don’t --”

“Shut up, John,” Aeryn ordered, cutting off his protest. 

He smiled, reassured by her fast retort.  This was obviously familiar territory to Aeryn.  Her response told him that he was treading well-known ground.  Another small piece of his life was there for him to consider and commit to memory.  He wanted to tell them something about how secure it made him feel when they knew things about him that he could not remember, and how it let him know that his past was here, waiting for him even though he could not grasp it yet; but the exhaustion had taken over and he could not summon the correct words.  He concentrated on the sound of their footsteps instead, the quiet thud of two pairs of feet striking Moya’s metalloid floors and echoing quietly as they moved through the tiers.  He let the sound work at his recall, coaxing at the lost moments when he’d heard it in the past.  Nothing substantial sprang loose.  The echoing tones were fading, making it difficult to use them as a lever, and then they were gone.     

“He’s asleep,” D’Argo said.  The body in his arms had suddenly gone limp.  He stopped, unable to maintain a good grip on John’s unwieldy body once all the muscle tension had disappeared.  Aeryn helped him as he first lowered Crichton’s feet to the floor, and then lifted him again, this time slung over his shoulder. 

“He’s pushing too hard,” D’Argo said as they resumed their journey toward Quarters.  “He’s not moving as well as he was three solar days ago.” 

“I know.  His speech has lapsed, too.  I can barely figure out what he’s saying some of the time.” 

Aeryn watched one limp hand swing back and forth as D’Argo walked in front of her.  They made the turn into Crichton’s quarters, and she helped D’Argo ease his burden down onto the bunk.  While she pulled John’s boots, D’Argo opened a thermal sheet and floated it over the still body. 

“How do we get him to slow down, D’Argo?” 

A long hiss preceded his answer.  “He is Crichton.  Even under all these injuries, he is as stubborn as ever.  I have no idea how to get him to take it easier.” 

Aeryn sat on the edge of the bed next to John, turning one of this boots over and over in her hands, no longer part of the conversation. 

“Is there something wrong?” D’Argo asked when she continued to silently examine the footwear as thought it held some cosmological secret.

Aeryn held the boot up for him to see.  “No wear.  They’re brand new.”  She placed it on the floor next to its mate and watched John instead.  “Whenever we’re holding him up, I wind up watching his feet and those new boots.  Every piece of his clothing had to be replaced.  His jacket is so new it creaks every time he shifts.  There’s something about having him back without any of his old clothing that leaves me feeling …”   Her words trailed off into silence. 

“Unbelievably lucky,” D’Argo finished for her. 

Aeryn nodded, her gaze still fixated on the relaxed features lying against the pillow.  “Sometimes Chiana and Jool, and even Rygel, have good ideas.  Let’s talk it over at Last Meal tonight and see if we can come up with some way to get him to slow down.”  She tugged the cover more securely around John’s shoulders and they left the chamber. 

“Let’s make sure we don’t forget Pilot.  He and Moya often see situations from a unique perspective.”  D’Argo’s voice floated through the corridor as the two headed back toward Command.  Two DRDs working on a conduit near the ceiling watched the biologics disappear, swiveling their eyestalks to observe the interaction as long as possible, and then shunted the signals to Moya’s massive data stores. 

* * * * *

[KernilCrash]

Chapter 12 (continued)

Aeryn caught up to D’Argo and John three junctions prior to the turning for the Center Chamber.  She could hear them before she could see them, and based on the conversation floating back through the tier she knew what she would find when she turned the final corner separating them.  John was counting, which meant that D’Argo had John slung over his shoulders and Crichton was entertaining himself -- head down and facing backwards -- while he waited for the journey to come to an end.  Half of the numbers were emerging in Luxan; the rest were in English.  The bilingual delivery was the result of D’Argo having done most of the work that resulted in the restoration of John’s more rudimentary understanding of mathematics.

There had been no tidal-wave release of damage-imprisoned knowledge this time.  No matter how many times they reviewed the basic mathematical functions with John -- counting, addition, subtraction, multiplication, and division -- the original understanding, gained during his childhood, remained sequestered in a damaged portion of his brain.  They had resorted to teaching him the principles from scratch, always hoping that at some point during the lessons the barriers would come down and he would suddenly recover the full extent of his mathematical expertise.  Splinters and bits of higher mathematics had begun to emerge.  The sorts of intricate functions that John had used more recently in his life were working their way loose on their own.  But John’s ability to count from one to ten and to combine small one-digit integers into a larger sum remained a confusing endeavor.

“What’s after thir’deen?” John was asking D’Argo. 

There was an extended pause before D’Argo answered, “Why don’t you save your energy for feeding yourself.  We’re all getting tired of spooning food into your mouth.”  His attempt to skirt the correct answer did not have the desired effect.

“I got ten fingers an’ ten toes.  That’s …”  The inaudible murmuring that was John counting under his breath went on for several microts.  “I always comin’ up wid twen’y one, D’Argo.  Tha’s not right, is it?”

The number 14 had gone missing from John’s understanding of numbers.  He had regained extensive but unconnected chunks of his former expertise, and could in some cases perform incredibly complex calculations that left everyone else on board reeling, Pilot included.  But seven plus seven was an unfathomable bit of addition, and if he had to resort to counting to compensate for a missing segment of knowledge, any result larger than thirteen was always off by one.  For the time being, as far as John was concerned, it was logical for thirteen to be followed by fifteen, and twenty minus six was an irresolvable mystery.

He was counting again, more thoughtfully this time.  “Three an’ ten is thir’deen,” he said slowly.  “An’ five plus ten is fif’deen.”

Accelerating to a full-out run, Aeryn managed to catch up to the pair before Crichton could reason out that he was missing ‘four plus ten’ and ponder out the inevitable answer.  He was too close to solving the puzzle, and she was convinced that it was still too soon for him to cope with that degree of trauma, even if it was part of his recall that he had deliberately hidden from himself.

“Hey, there!” she greeted him.  As she had expected, he was hanging head down over D’Argo’s shoulders.  From that position and at this stage in his recovery, it was impossible for John to raise his head to look at her.  “What have the two of you been up to for the last few arns?”

“Hey, Aeryn!”  John’s free hand swung in her direction, searching for her. 

She darted forward to catch it, and then trailed along as though being towed by the tenuous grasp.  “Have you been having fun today?”

“We wen’ a see Pilot, and den hago a grake n’yee fromak … Aw, frell!” 

That sort of descent into incomprehensible gibberish was happening less frequently with each passing solar day.  Fortunately, as the symptom diminished Crichton was able to handle his occasional lapses with more humor.  They had begun deliberately teasing him whenever it occurred, working on rebuilding his ability to cope with jokes as well as his limited capacity to recognize when they were not being serious.  It was no surprise to anyone that his peculiar sense of humor was recovering faster than any other part of his body or mind. 

“Very nice, Crichton,” D’Argo said in an exaggerated mocking growl.  “Have you been taking language lessons from Pilot?”

“Id was perfec’ly clear.  It must have been you ears,” John said, sacrificing some of his enunciation in the interest of getting it out faster.  “Whad’nt it, Aeryn?” 

She could not help but smile.  It was the first time he had managed a comeback, and although it had been a little unsophisticated, both his tone and his timing had been excellent.

The trio turned the corner to the Center Chamber, cutting off the remainder of the gentle repartee.  “We’re at the Center Chamber,” Aeryn warned John.  “From here on, you save your strength for eating.  No fighting us, no movements unless it’s absolutely necessary.  Do you understand?” 

The final question had little to do with verifying that John understood her words.  It was actually a firmly issued demand for him to heed and obey each of her instructions for the next arn or so.  Getting him settled for a meal had become a thrice-daily battle -- one that frequently left him too exhausted to stay awake, let alone feed himself.  John’s initial reluctance to use the chair with the harness had turned into full-blown loathing.  Coupled with the Crichton stubbornness, it was turning mealtimes into wars. 

“Hate it,” he grumbled into D’Argo’s ribs.

“We have been through this too many times already,” Aeryn said sternly.  “Stop fighting us.  There is no other way we can do this other than to have someone hold you up, and no one is volunteering for that chore.  You either sit in the chair, or we are going to let you starve.”

“Hate it,” he repeated, sulking.

“Stop it.  Behave yourself!” 

D’Argo shuffled into place, and between the two of them they slid John off his shoulders, and tipped him into the seat.  Aeryn noticed that the seat, which had originally been molded to accept John’s body, now had room to spare.  In the solar days since they had returned to Moya, John had already lost a considerable amount of weight.  Between falling asleep mid-meal, his refusal to eat any food he did not recognize, which was almost everything, and the exertion of trying to feed himself, John often expended more calories during the course of a meal than he managed to take in.

The resistance began.  It started with him arching his head back in an effort to push the rest of his body forward out of the chair.  Aeryn caught him by the chin and the back of the head and forced it back down.  That was when he started squirming to the side:  another effort to work himself loose.  With a speed gained from repetition, D’Argo snared the two ends of the lap belt, buckled it, and yanked it tight.  John got a hand on the edge of the table and shoved, still fighting the restrictions. 

Aeryn leaned in close to his ear, and yelled, “Stop it!”  It was the only way to get through to him when he was operating on nothing more than stubbornness. 

“Hate … it,” he pushed out between panting breaths.  “Don’t do it t’ me.  Hate … hate … hate.” 

D’Argo paused with the first of the shoulder straps in his hands.  He fingered it for several microts then bent down to look at it more closely.  “Aeryn, where did these come from?”

“I don’t know.  Tier One somewhere.  Why does it matter?”

“These are leather.”

“Why does that matter?” she repeated.  John continued to struggle, making it difficult for her to concentrate on whatever D’Argo was finding so fascinating about the harness they had fashioned. 

“None of the safety harnesses used by the Peacekeepers are made of leather.  John’s module uses a woven material for the straps, as does Lo’La.  Your Prowler uses synthetic webbing even on the secondary restraints.”

“Of course they do.  It’s stronger.  No one uses leather because it ages and weakens, and micro-tears are undetectable until it’s too late.”  She shifted her grip to John’s shoulders and pressed down, pinning him into the detested chair.  He ignored the conversation going on around him and kept fighting to get loose.  The fact that it was futile did not seem to matter to him.  Just as he had every other day, he was expending every last bit of available energy on his bid to get free.  Aeryn bent over him and tried a request instead of an order.  Some days it worked.  “Will you please stop fighting?”

“No.  Want out.  Get out.  Out, out, out, out.”  John continued to fight them.  For the first time he managed to get an arm into the fray.  Not only was he writhing to get loose, now he could hit, even if only weakly and without aim. 

Aeryn resorted to a strangle hold that was just short of choking him, and turned her attention back to D’Argo.  The luxan had not moved to fasten the shoulder straps.  “No one uses leather anymore.  Your point?” she asked.

“No one uses it except the scarrans,” D’Argo said slowly.  “The scarrans use either leather or metal.”

Aeryn stared at him in a combination of shock and disbelief:  shock that the answer might be so simple, and disbelief that they had been forcing this unintentional torture on John without considering that there might be another reason for his resistance.  They had been assuming that John’s failure to communicate what he disliked was a matter of obstinacy instead of an inability to figure it out, let alone tell Aeryn or the others.  It was several microts before she could say anything.  “Dren.”

One microt later the lap belt was released and they had Crichton out of the chair. 

“What’s goin’ on?” he asked.

“Why don’t you like the chair, John?” Aeryn said.  They had asked him this question dozens of times over the past few days in a quest to make sure he did not associate the crudely built seat with the Aurora Chair, and he had never been able to explain what it was that bothered him so much about it.  But his memory and ability to reason were improving with every passing day.  This time it might provide a clue.  “What bothers you about it?” 

“Is kiddie chair.  High chair.  And is …”  He looked back at the seat and shuddered.  “Is wrong bad.” 

‘Wrong bad’ was John’s latest addition to a lengthening list of phrases he used whenever his supply of words and memories could not formulate a more coherent explanation. 

They had quickly learned that ‘yuck bad’ was applied to anything having to do with his inability to control his body.  Drinks spilled down his front, inadvertently spat out food, drooling, a runny nose, and the highly infrequent but humiliating accident in the middle of the night were all classified under the heading of ‘yuck bad’. 

‘Bad feel’ was his code phrase whenever his nervous system misfired, the source of increasingly rare seizures, random muscle contractions, levels of pain that were decreasing with each passing solar day, and the odd cross between a hiccup and a burp that always preceded a short-lived but potentially fatal respiratory arrest.  They had only been forced to resort to artificial breathing on two occasions, and that was more than enough to convince everyone of the threat posed by this latest problem.  If John announced that he was experiencing a ‘bad feel’, it was all the explanation they needed to put an around-the-clock watch on him until it went away. 

‘Ick bad’ involved a far simpler concept.  This was never used except when John disliked a food to the point that he would consider spitting it out.  ‘Ick bad’ was ignored at each person’s own peril.  They had a choice of switching quickly to a food he liked, or they were expected suffer the consequences without complaint … including cleaning up the resultant mess.

There were nearly a dozen more such phrases, all painstakingly deciphered and classified over the past several days, and then shared so that everyone would know what he meant. 

‘Wrong bad’ was a new one that had appeared only two days earlier.  From its usage, they were beginning to suspect that John resorted to this whenever he subconsciously associated something with his torture, and did not recognize the cause behind his apparently illogical reaction.  The crippled consciousness could progress to the point of knowing that something generated any one of several distressing emotions, and that was as far as it usually got.  The new experience was classified as ‘wrong bad’, and John would go to absurd lengths to avoid whatever triggered the reaction. 

Aeryn and D’Argo hauled him to one side of the chamber and let him down to sit on the floor. 

“We do a picnic?” John asked. 

“There are some spares in Maintenance Bay Two,” Aeryn said to D’Argo.  “Left over from when Moya was enslaved.”  He nodded and disappeared into the corridor at a jog.  Aeryn turned her attention back to the figure sitting with his back against the wall.  “John?  Explain kiddie chair, high chair to me.  Why is that bad?”   

He looked from her to the chair and back several times, during which his forehead gradually creased its way into a commentary concerning his level of confusion. 

“Do you know why that is bad?” she asked, rephrasing the question.

The furrows above his eyebrows deepened.  “No.” 

“But it is bad.  Right?”

“Yes.”  He was calmer now, and was putting more thought into her questions.  “Aeryn, I still don’t wanna sit in it.  Not high or low.  I can’t ex … ex …”  There was a deep breath and a slow swallow before he could pronounce the word.  “I can’t explain it.  I don’t know why.  Just don’t.” 

“D’Argo has an idea why that might be happening.  I want you to stop worrying about not wanting to sit in the chair for a few microts and concentrate on the height.  Do you want it lower?” 

John stared at the reviled piece of construction for nearly ten microts before giving her a slow nod.  “Yes, please,” he whispered.

“All right.  We’ll see what we can do.  Are you tired?  Do you need to sleep for a while?”  The sort of effort he had put into getting free normally sapped his strength to the point of a total blackout.  He nodded.  Aeryn eased him to one side until he was lying down, and then helped him roll onto his stomach.  Four microts later he was dead to the world.

* * * * *

   
He woke feeling as though he could leap up and run through the tiers.  Just before waking he was visited by a memory of striding about one of the larger chambers aboard Moya, gesticulating wildly with both hands, his long overcoat swinging and slithering about his hips and legs with comfortable familiarity.  In that transitional moment between dream and reality he could feel it all:  the way his feet flexed and pushed from one side to the other, the way his abdominal muscles tautened and relaxed as he moved and shouted, the pleasant stretch of his shoulder muscles and the way the movement of his arms could be felt all the way to his spine.  It was so realistic he woke thinking he could walk.   

The sensation faded in a matter of moments, leaving behind a far more limited reality.  When he opened his eyes, John discovered that he was in what was becoming a habitual position:  face down on the floor with his head cradled on his arms.  After three tries, he managed to get his arms tucked in under his body, and then heaved himself up onto his forearms.  With his head now six denches off the floor, he had achieved the tallest stature he could manage on his own.  From that vantage point, he surveyed his surroundings. 

“John, save your strength,” Aeryn’s voice called to him.  “Lie down.”

Although he could hear the voices of most of his friends, he could not actually see any of them.  D’Argo and Aeryn were somewhere close by, as were Chiana, Rygel, and Jool.  He could hear several DRDs whining about as well.  From his spot on the floor, however, he could see nothing of any of them.  “Wha’s goin’ on?” he called.

Aeryn’s calm explanation floated back to him.  From the last part of her answer, he decided that she could see him even if he could not see her.  “We’re getting ready for Last Meal.  You’ve only been asleep for half an arn or so.  D’Argo and I are going to come get you in about one hundred microts so lie down and save your strength.”

John followed orders.  He let his muscles relax and slumped belly-down on the floor.  Waiting for Aeryn and D’Argo to come get him gave him some time to think about what might be going on.  As usual, his efforts yielded very little in the way of conclusions. 

It was time for Last Meal, Aeryn had said.  That meant the chair they forced him to sit in whenever it was time to eat, and the chair meant the sick feeling in his stomach, the shaking he tried so hard to hide from the others, and the confusing sense that something horrible was about to happen to him.  There was no reason for his reaction.  He was aboard Moya, and they continued to assure him he was safe.  At least once a day someone went out of their way to remind him that they were nowhere near the section of space where the Others resided.  On top of that, sitting in the Center Chamber during meals was a return to normalcy that felt ‘right’.  The others joked with him, teased him, and on very rare occasions they all threw food at each other, encouraging him to join in.

And every time he faced the ugly chunk of furniture that his friends had gone to so much trouble to assemble for him, he came close to puking with fright. 

Aeryn knelt down next to his shoulders.  “We’re done.  Are you ready?”

“I don’t want to, Aeryn.  Put ih down here.  I eat here.”  John pointed to a spot on the floor located several denches from the tip of his nose. 

Aeryn’s headshake had all its usual forcefulness, but for some reason her expression was far more tolerant than most of the times she ordered him to do something he disliked.  Despite the softer look in her eyes, her answer confirmed his worst fears.  “No.  You’re going to sit at the table with the rest of us.” 

“Please,” he whispered.  “I don’t wan’ to, Aeryn.  Don’t make me.” 

This time she actually smiled at him.  “If you still don’t like it after tonight, we won’t make you use the chair anymore.” 

John considered that.  Struggling up on his elbows, he strained to look toward the table.  He and Aeryn had picked up an audience.  Everyone was waiting for them.  Jool, Chiana, and Rygel were sitting in their usual seats ranged around the table, and D’Argo was poised a motra away, ready to help lift him up once he was finished talking with Aeryn.  Even the DRDs had not departed.  Several of the brightly-colored drones were motoring around beneath the table, picking up bits of litter and just generally policing the large chamber. 

“Time to go,” Aeryn said.  Without waiting for an answer, she and D’Argo levered John up to his knees, and then hauled him upright.  Between them, they manhandled him to the far end of the table until he stood facing the chair.

He noticed that there was something different about it.  “Is not a high chair,” he said.   

“That’s right.  We lowered it, just the way you asked,” Aeryn said. 

The three of them stood there like that, waiting for something.  John contemplated the ugly bit of construction, reserving all of his energy for controlling the fear when it hit.  Nothing happened except that his shoulders started to ache.

“Can we sit you down and eat, please?” D’Argo grumbled to his right. 

“Okay.”  They shuffled around and let him down into the seat.  Ten microts later he was securely strapped in, similar to … something he could not remember. 

Aeryn gave one of the shoulder restraints a last tug, brushed a quick kiss across his lips, and stepped back.  “How’s that?”

“Is okay.”  John looked down at where the thick, red webbing seat belt lay across his waist.  It was comfortable, not frightening.  He could not remember why the chair had scared him so badly.  The emotions were vividly etched in his memory; it was the cause behind it that was not so clear.  Whatever had triggered the unbalanced reaction had evaporated.  Aeryn continued to stand in front of him, obviously waiting for something. 

“What?” he asked.

She shook her head and smiled at him.  “Nothing.  You’re all set for Last Meal?  Do you need anything before we get the food out of the warmer?”

“Nuh.  Is fine.  Is okay now.”

“The chair isn’t wrong bad?” she asked, continuing to dig for something he did not understand. 

“Nuh.  Did I say it was wrong bad?”  He did not remember making that claim.  The seat was not wrong.  It fit his body perfectly, it was padded so nothing rubbed uncomfortably against his back or his hips, and the restraint system was comfortably familiar even though he could not remember why it made him feel that way.  “Is good.”

Aeryn leaned down and kissed him again.  This one lasted longer.  Twice before Last Meal was a treat beyond anything he could remember.  “Can I get three?” he asked breathlessly when he could talk.

“Save your strength for eating.  If you’re still awake when Last Meal is over, I’ll give you a third.”

It was the best motivation possible.  John kept his eyes on her until someone set his plate in front of him, and then, with one last glance at Aeryn, turned his full attention to getting the food inside his mouth instead of all down his shirt.  He did his best to earn his third kiss.  Sleep’s onslaught was denied repeatedly throughout the meal, even though it left him feeling dizzy and in the end sapped him of the strength necessary to lift his utensil.  More than once, Chiana came to help him get his hands from his lap to the table, and when he could not lift the drinking flask, D’Argo agreed to lend some assistance.  But somewhere between the dark, semi-liquid mess that Chiana said was stew and the overly sweet pudding that he liked more for how it felt on his fingers than for its taste, he fell asleep.     

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

[KernilCrash]

Chapter 13

“John, wake up.  Quick, wake up.” 

Aeryn shook him vigorously, allowing herself a microt to issue a prayer that he would come out of his coma-like sleep quickly despite the fact that he had been dumped onto his bunk by D’Argo only an arn earlier.  Crichton muttered in his sleep and burrowed further into his pillow.  She let out a sigh of frustration and shook him harder, his entire body jostling from her effort. 

“John!  Wake up!”   

“What?” he mumbled groggily, raising his head at last.  His eyes focused as he rubbed at them with one fumbling, half controlled hand.  “What’s the matter?”

“Do you remember when we left the New Moon of Delvia, I told you about some scans that had Pilot worried?”  Aeryn helped him roll from his stomach onto his side so he could look at her more easily. 

“Uh huh.”  His response was positive, but he looked only half-awake and he did not seem to be paying complete attention. 

“Whoever they are, they’ve caught up with us, and they’ve snared Moya in some sort of stasis field.  Pilot’s either unconscious or cut off from all sensory input; we haven’t had time to get to the Den to find out which.”  Aeryn shook him again, trying to keep him awake long enough to listen to what she needed to tell him.  “Do you understand, John?  Repeat what I just told you.”  It was the only way to be sure he was really paying attention when his body was shutting down on him. 

“Moya’s caught in a stay-put field.”  Aeryn grimaced when he paraphrased her news.  He tried a different summary.  “We’re in trouble again.” 

“Good.  We think we’re going to get boarded and without …”  Her rapid explanation stopped as his eyes became less focused.  “John!”  His head came up but his gaze was no clearer.  Aeryn sucked in a deep breath, clenched her jaw and slapped him.

“Okay, I’m awake.”  This time his attention had sharpened. 

“I’m sorry, John, but there isn’t much time.”  He shook his head at her, forgiving her the aggressive method of bringing him back to full alertness.  “Without help from Moya or Pilot, there’s little chance that we can prevent them from getting aboard.”  She waited for John to nod before continuing.  “We don’t know who or what they are, but we’re assuming they’re hostile.  We’re getting ready for a fight.  If we don’t succeed, John …”

“I come to the rescue,” he said in a disgusted sounding grumble.  He shook his head then continued in a more unemotional manner.  “What can I do?”   

“Nothing.  I wanted you to know what was going on.  If they capture us, we are going to tell them you’re sick, that whatever you’ve got is catching.  We will attempt to scare them with that, so do your best to act …”

“Helpless?”  His grin lacked its usual humor. 

“Pathetic.  You have always been very good at that,” she said, gently teasing him.  Aeryn kissed him quickly, picked up her pulse rifle from where she had laid it next to his bunk, then continued to kneel next to him for a few more microts.  “If they take over the ship, don’t say anything to make them angry, John.  You have to keep them from thinking you’re any kind of threat.”

“Are they going to win the fight, Aeryn?” he asked, watching her get to her feet. 

She watched the too-familiar anxiety reappear, an expression that she had seen less often since they had brought him back to Moya.  “We don’t know, John.  I want you to be ready to do whatever they want though.  Do nothing to make them angry or want to hurt you.  Do you understand?”   

“I understand.  Aeryn?”  She stopped at the door to his cell and looked back.  “Be careful.”  She smiled at him and hurried away, the rapid footsteps echoing off the metalloid walls as she ran back through the tier to join the others. 

John rolled onto his stomach and stared blindly at his close-up view of his pillow.  “Pathetic,” he mumbled.  “About all I can manage at this point.”  It was not a foregone conclusion that he was going to have to play the part yet, but Aeryn had not sounded very optimistic. 

He listened to the rhythmic rumbles coming from the walls around him, trying to discern a change that might have resulted from the weapon the invaders had used.  As far as he could tell, Moya sounded normal.  He tried to think of something he could do, some suggestion he could offer that would help his friends resolve their current dilemma, and found very little except the gaping holes where there were supposed to be memories concerning this sort of situation. 

The too-frequent exhaustion was beating at him, making it difficult to get his brain to turn loose anything productive, leaving him nearly devoid of any logical thought.  He kept trying anyway, working his way through the bits and scraps that he could dredge up about stasis fields and trying to access some memory about who might be after them.  It was hard work.  He had to replay Aeryn’s conversation repeatedly inside his head, stopping at each small fact or theory, and then dig through what little remained of his memory to see if anything popped out.  The process took too long and burned through too much energy.  At some point during his futile deliberations, he closed his eyes just once to let them rest, and in that instant sleep claimed him.   

* * * * *

Something prodded painfully into his ribs.  John filled his lungs in preparation for the complaint he intended to bestow on whoever had decided to use such an inconsiderate method of waking him up, and then, at the last moment, remembered Aeryn’s hasty visit.  He eased one eye open to check on who was there.  Unfamiliar boots and pants stood alongside his bunk.  He used the stored air to let out a long whining moan, trying hard to achieve ‘pathetic’.

“Get up,” said a growling voice with an unfamiliar accent.

“I told you!” Jool’s voice said.  “He is dying.  He contracted an incurable illness.  He cannot move on his own.” 

“Get up!” the deep voice bellowed next to John’s ear. 

He produced another long whimper, let his mouth sag open, and wondered if he could get himself to drool on the pillow.  That would be pretty pathetic, he reasoned. 

“What is this disease?” the voice demanded, hot breath flowing across the back of John’s neck as the speaker leaned over him. 

“I doubt anyone from your species has heard of it,” Jool said haughtily.  “It is --” 

There was a loud crack, followed by a brief scream from the interon.  Another cautious look through a barely opened eyelid revealed Jool sprawled on the floor, blood trickling from one corner of her mouth. 

“Do not assume me fool, screeching woman.  What is this illness?”  Two large boots moved to stand over the dazed woman.  “Tell me or I will shoot you.” 

“He has the --” 

John listened in admiration to the intricate babbling of syllables that followed.  His translator microbes were incapable of transforming even one word of whatever she was saying. 

“It is transmitted by --”

She had been talking fast, hurrying to finish, but she was still chattering when a large hand fastened onto the back of John’s shirt and flung him on to the floor.  He let himself go limp as he was yanked off the bunk, and hit the deck hard enough to rebound slightly before coming to rest with a groan.  ‘Fling, thud,’ John reflected wearily.  It was too much like the battering tosses by the scarrans, one of the few clear memories he possessed, and it set off an intense emotional response.  This time the wordless complaint was genuine -- a long deep exhalation giving voice to the pain that reverberated through his body.  John let the emotional distress combine with the physical shock, relaxed all self-control, and before he was sure it would work, tears began to creep down his cheeks.  ‘Pathetic,’ he told himself, trying hard to comply with Aeryn’s request. 

“It is transmitted by skin to skin contact!” Jool finished too late.  “He should not be touched without protection!” 

The deep voice snarled behind John, clearly displeased.  The speaker growled yet another word that his microbes could not handle, probably profanity, there was another loud smack and Jool collapsed across his legs.  Crichton struggled to keep himself from moving or yelling something as the intruder pulled Jool up and hit her again.  Fury and aggression -- a combination he had not felt in so long that he had almost forgotten it existed -- welled up inside him until he could barely restrain himself.  His emotions took over his debilitated body, leaving him shaking as violently as if he were chilled to the core. 

“What is that?” the growl demanded.  A cautious foot dug under Crichton’s ribs and drove him a motra across the floor, flipping him over in the process.  “What is happening to it?” 

“This is the last stage of the disease.  He is dying,” Jool said, adding to the lies.  Her voice had become indistinct.  John wondered if it was his hearing that had suffered a change, Jool’s voice, or if Jool and her captor were leaving.  He wanted to open his eyes to see what was going on, but he knew that if he did, there was a good chance he would squander her efforts to mislead her captor.  So he lay still and relaxed his muscles, allowing the shudders and tears to continue. 

A frustrated snarl came from directly above him.  “Is this the creature named Crichton?” the voice asked.  Jool’s confirmation was a wordless mumble.  “We cannot get reward without proof of its death.  We will have to take the body back with us.  Or a piece of it.”  The feet moved even closer, brushing up against his ribs, and John prepared himself for what little physical retaliation he could muster.  He could not just lie there and let what was obviously a bounty hunter hack off some portion of his anatomy. 

“No!” Jool cried.  “He’s … he is infectious.  You will kill every one on board if you dismember him before he is dead.”

John took another careful peek as the boots stopped next to his head.  Soles ground against the floor, making an unpleasant rasping squeal as their owner pivoted back and forth several times.  The intruder was hesitating, considering Jool’s warning.  “How long?  How long before it dies?” 

“I … I don’t know.  A few arns, I think.  I have never observed anyone during the last stages of this affliction.” 

The owner of the boots growled in frustration.  “You!  You will remain here with this” -- he kicked Crichton in the ribs -- “until it dies.  You will inform us when it is dead.” 

Lighter feet collided with his body; Jool’s feet, Crichton concluded when she tripped and fell on top of him.  Deep bellowing laughter allowed John to follow the intruder’s progress toward the door of the cell.  “I will presume that your fate is now determined, noisy woman.  If you do not die before that does, you let us know when it is dead or we will not bring food.” 

The cell doors slid closed, followed by the quiet chirping tone that indicated their jailer had locked the mechanism.  John did not open his eyes until the footsteps, echoing slightly in Moya’s deserted corridor, faded into the distance.  Jool remained sprawled across him with most of her weight lying across his chest, which made it hard to breathe.  He put all his effort into breathing and waited until the last sounds disappeared entirely, concentrating on preserving the tiny opportunity she had created. 

“Jool, you can get off now,” John called to her weakly once the corridor had been silent for several microts.  He had to fight to draw in enough air to speak.  “Yo, Red.  You can let me up.  I’m not a danger to you.” 

He craned his neck to look at her.  Jool was lying unconscious with her head against the hard base of his bunk, knocked senseless by her fall across him and the resulting collision with the bed.  “Jool?  Hey, Red?”  She did not move.  “Frell me.”  He surveyed the body lying across his chest and hips, considered his last comment, and then added, “On second thought, don’t.” 

John squirmed madly, twisting his body and shoving against her with both hands, trying to work out from beneath his latest form of imprisonment.  After several microts worth of frantic effort, he was forced to admit that she was too heavy for his limited strength.  He would have to find a different way to get her off of him.  Only one solution came to mind.   

“You’re going to scream.  I just know you’re going to scream.”  He put a finger in one ear and pinched her arm.  He could not get his second ear plugged in time.  The expected shriek had him wincing with a new kind of pain, watching with fascination as the edges of her comms began to melt and run.  The memory of tiny projectiles melted to blunt uselessness popped loose from wherever it had been hiding, unhelpfully divorced from any relevant context.  The disconnected image of Jool inadvertently saving his life took its place in the grid work of his slowly returning recall. 

“Ow,” Jool whined after taking in a new lungful of air.  She glared at him.  “You did not need to do that, Crichton.  But I suppose asking politely is beyond your limited capacity for civilized behavior.”  She rolled off him, rubbing her arm and pouting, and then turned back and helped him sit up against the bunk. 

“Are you all right, Jool?” he asked, looking at the bleeding lip and darkening bruises on her face.  “Did they hurt you?”  An all too familiar knotted sensation settled into place in the center of his chest; anxiety making an unwelcome visit.  The marks from the physical battering she had received left him feeling insecure and unsettled just at the moment when he needed those emotions the least.  John swallowed against the tight feeling several times, trying to force it back down into his stomach where he could ignore it. 

“I will be fine, Crichton.”  Jool’s voice dragged his attention away from the physical sensations inside his body and back to the matter at hand.  “We have to do something!  They have taken Moya and everyone on board prisoner.  They’re --”

“-- bounty hunters,” he finished.  He tried to concentrate on their predicament.  “Wasn’t that kind of quick?  How long have I been asleep since Aeryn came to talk to me?” 

“Not long.  They used some sort of stasis or paralysis weapon.  The field is temporary but it does not wear off on its own.  They have to release it.  We were waiting for them in the hangar bay when they landed, so they got everyone at the same time.  It was a stunningly brilliant strategy on our part.” 

“Couldn’t be helped,” John said with a small grunt of emphasis.  He tried to get to his feet.  The attempt was as futile as every other time he had tried it on his own.  He motioned for her to help him up. 

“Can you walk if I support you?” she asked. 

“No,” he said, slumping back down in dejection.  “I still need both D’Argo and Aeryn holding me up.”  John looked around at their surroundings, surveying his quarters for anything that would allow them to get loose and help his friends.  “We need some sort of plan.  Get me --”  He slapped the side of his head several times in frustration when he could not find the name of the object, then pointed to the pulse pistol hanging in the corner.  “Get me that thing.”   

“Winona,” Jool said, providing the prompt automatically as she stepped across the cell to retrieve the weapon.  “Some sort of plan.  How about I lure them in here, and you bite them on the ankles,” she said.  “What do you think you can do with this?  You can’t even hold things yet.”  Despite the mocking tone that suggested it was a waste of time, she knelt beside him and helped him strap the holstered weapon into place. 

“I can do more than that.”

“Such as?” she said, throwing it back as a challenge.

“I can at least bite them on the kneecaps.” 

Jool had a point though.  Between the two of them, the sum total of the threat they posed was virtually nonexistent.  Crichton let his upper body tip over to one side.  He flopped chest first onto the floor, twisted to get his hips turned so he was belly-down, and then began crawling toward the door, pulling himself laboriously along on his forearms.  “How about we start with getting out of here?  Any idea how to get this door open?” 

“Rygel knows how to override the locks,” Jool said.  She was sitting on his bunk rubbing her bruised cheek, watching his slow progress away from her.

“Don’t have Rygel.”  He reached the door, and used the bars to pull himself close alongside the locked grate.  From there, he craned his neck to look up at the mechanism.  He suspected that his pistol would blow the lock, but he could not remember whether it would release the door or seal them inside the cell.  His frustration mounted, fueled by his concern for Aeryn, Pilot, Moya, and everyone else on board.  As usual, the runaway emotions made organizing his thoughts even more difficult than usual. 

He was still pondering the probable outcome of shooting the lock when a quiet multi-toned whine approached from one end of the corridor.  Three DRDs swept toward the chamber and came to a jerking halt outside the grate across from where he lay on the floor.  Six eyestalks peered at him through the gaps.   

“Hi guys.  What’s up?”  One of the drones had blue tape on its eyestalk.  The sight triggered the suggestion that he should have a memory of the little robot without actually unleashing anything useful. 

“Have we met?”  The blue-tape unit blinked at him once. 

“Stop wasting time,” Jool said behind him.  “We need to figure out how to keep those barbarians from killing us … or worse.” 

There was another quiet whine as a fourth DRD made its way down the ceiling, headed in the direction of the door mechanism on the corridor wall.  “Hang on a microt,” John said to Jool.  “These little guys seem to have a plan.” 

The DRD with the tape blinked once. 

“Is that a signal?” he asked it.  It blinked once.  John stared at it, bewildered.  It blinked at him again.  It was a signal, he realized, but his damaged recall was not providing help figuring out the system.  It blinked at him again and something broke loose inside his head, solving the mystery.  “That means yes?” he asked eagerly. 

One blink. 

“I hope you don’t just have a short circuit.”   

It blinked twice. 

“You’re pretty smart.  Smarter than me anyway,” he said to the DRD.   

“Crichton, you worked this system out with them once before.  You taught it to one of the DRDs, and it taught the rest.  What is the plan?”  Jool had joined him at the bars to the cell, standing over him as he faced the DRD eye to eyestalk. 

“Do I look like I understand ‘DRD’?  I don’t understand much of anything these days let alone squeaks and chirps.  That one up there is working on the lock, and this one down here is the house speaker.”  The phrase popped out of his mouth without his knowing what it meant.  He considered asking Jool what a ‘house speaker’ was, then decided that it could wait until after they had resolved their dilemma.  The doors swung open, revealing three more DRDs waiting a short distance up the corridor. 

“You guys here to rescue us?” 

He received a single blink from the tagged drone.  The three DRDs across from him backed out of the way, and Crichton began his slow progress into the hallway, followed closely by Jool. 

“Hold on.”  Something about the situation began to bother him.  John squirmed around to look back into his chamber, knowing the problem was back there even if he could not identify the source of his uneasiness.  A momentary flashing image of sneaking out of … a room somewhere … sometime when he was younger … fooling someone.  He banged his head on the floor, trying to knock the memory loose. 

“Don’t do that!  Crichton, getting out is not enough.  We have to come up with some sort of plan.  We do not know how long it will be before that sub-educated excuse for a sentient lifeform comes back to check on us.” 

“Got it!” he said.  Jool’s diatribe had provided enough of a hint that he was able to snare the elusive memory.  “You have to stay here, Jool.” 

“I certainly will not!  Those retrograde criminals subjected Pilot and Moya to a different version of the stasis weapon, and they are proposing to take us all to some base where they can get a reward for us.  I will not stay here while they are preparing to haul us off to the Peacekeepers.” 

John dropped his forehead to the floor, breathing slowly and deliberately.  The thought of Moya and Pilot being captured was generating a resurgence of the painfully tight knot in his chest.  It was more than uncomfortable.  It threatened to take over his entire, limited supply of intelligence.  He tried to steer his thoughts away from that prospect.  It worked for a moment, and then ran headlong into an imagined vision of Aeryn in captivity.  That in turn resulted in a nausea inducing sensation that was ten times worse that the clenched fist inside his chest. 

There was not enough information available inside his head to gauge his chances of getting them all free, and the prospect of failure was making him lightheaded with fear.  He took another deep breath and tried to get his thoughts and emotions under control.

“Crichton, are you all right?”

“Yeah.  Look, you have to stay here, Jool.  What if that guard guy comes back?  He’ll notice that we’re both missing.  Put a bunch of pillows and some of my junk under the covers so it looks like I’m in my bunk, and tell him I haven’t died yet.”  He twisted his upper body so he could look up at her, anticipating another argument.  “It’s not going to work the other way around.  If I stay, they’ll notice that you’re gone.” 

Jool took two steps along the corridor, her stiff-legged gait and rigid stance stating clearly that she did not agree with him.  A DRD swept in from one side, stopping directly in her path to stare up at her.  It chirped twice.  John grinned at the impudence of the unit, smothering the smile before she had an opportunity to turn around and spot his reaction.

“Very well,” she agreed.  “I suppose you have a point.” 

“Is that DRD still up by the lock mechanism?  It has to close you in.”

“Yes, it’s waiting there.  Let me get your jacket.  You may slide on the floor better with that on.”  John waited impatiently as she retrieved the leather jacket and awkwardly slid it into place.  She fastened the buckles for him, and then tugged at the waist and shoulders several times, shifting it into place so it sat more comfortably. 

“Jool, are these little guys smart enough to come up with a plan on their own?”  John remained on his back with his hips and legs twisted uncomfortably. 

“That’s a good point.”  Jool was kneeling beside him, considering the question.  “I do not believe the DRDs could do this on their own.  Either Pilot or Moya or both must have recovered enough to direct them.”  She rolled him onto his stomach, releasing the strain generated by his unnatural position.  “Be careful, Crichton.” 

“Uh huh.  Right.  Crichton the Crab is off to save the day.”  He started his struggle down the corridor.  “Can’t walk, can’t hold a weapon, but I’ll be careful.”  He stopped long enough to shake his head at the irony of their situation then he followed the cluster of yellow drones as they motored slowly ahead of him. 

* * * * *

John slithered along the corridor as quickly as his body would allow, struggling to keep up with the scurrying little drones.  Another pair of DRDs appeared from his right and fell in alongside him, bringing the squadron around him to more than twenty.  He had discovered that if he did not try to use his legs, they would operate spastically on their own, providing an occasional burst of momentum whenever a boot sole caught on some small ridge in Moya’s floor patterns.  Attempting to kick himself along faster only produced useless twitches from his lower extremities; when left alone they worked reflexively. 

“Hold on guys,” John said to the DRDs.  He was in desperate need of a rest.  His forearms were getting sore despite the added protection of his jacket, and although the leather slid easily along the floor, the buckles had a habit of catching on seams in the floor, slowing his progress. 

The head DRD banged into his hip, nudging him forcefully. 

This was something new.  He had stopped to catch his breath several times since he left his chamber; his mechanized companions had never complained before. 

“I’m pooped,” he said to it.  “Give me a microt.” 

It chirped at him, spun around twice and rammed his hip again, finding bone this time. 

“Hey!  That hurt.”  John bit his lip and scanned the corridor, searching for the purpose behind the new behavior.  “I don’t …”  He stopped talking as he heard the footsteps approaching.  A large portion of the DRDs had already peeled off from the pack and had disappeared into corners, hatches, and other corridors, leaving him lying in plain sight with the remainder of the squadron surrounding him.  “Frell,” he muttered quietly.  The nearest open door was across a junction.  It would take him far too long to crawl past the intersection. 

Crichton pushed himself up on his elbows in order to look back the way he had come.  There was no cover in that direction either.  Panic began to take over, strangling his thoughts.  “Damn it!” he whispered.  Aeryn’s life might depend on him, and he had screwed it up by not paying attention to the DRDs.  The futile urge to cry chose to make another visit, adding to his misery.  “I screwed up.  I’m sorry,” he said to the blue-tape DRD.  The lump in his throat expanded to aching dimensions as he thought of Aeryn and the others, and he scrubbed at his eyes, trying to prevent the threatening tears.

Five of the DRDs banged into him all at the same time, targeting their attack along the right side of his body.  They backed up and did it again.  John rocked away from them in irritation, giving way before their repeated collisions.  They shot forward and began burrowing in under him, circuits screaming as they attempted to force themselves beneath him.  Three more slammed into his right side, nudging deeper.  Their struggle suddenly made sense, and he rocked to the left, letting them get underneath his body. 

“Nice idea but lumpy,” he whispered.  The footsteps were drawing closer.  He rolled onto the eight robots, straining to lift the left side of his body off the floor.  Six more DRDs scurried in under him.  Two more abandoned their attempts to get underneath his left leg and positioned themselves to push against his dragging foot instead.  “Where to?” he asked, trying to balance as he was carried forward on his whining yellow raft. 

They were headed straight for one of the DRD hatches.  John stared at the hole in shock for a moment, then ducked, letting his forehead brush the floor as they carried him through the opening at maximum speed.  His shoulders caught for a microt, and he pulled his arms in toward his sides.  He popped free and the entire phalanx shot into the maintenance opening inside Moya’s inner hull. 

Boots squealed on Moya’s floors, turning the corner of the intersection where he had been laying microts earlier.  The clumping steps strolled past his heels, never suspecting that he lay less than a motra away with several DRDs digging painfully into his ribs.  Eyestalks waggled excitedly beneath his body, squirming like a bed of hyperactive snakes, minus the usual squeaks or clicks that always emerged from the units when they were behaving like living creatures.   

“Nice job,” John whispered as the footsteps faded.  “Should we try to kill him?” 

The idea of shooting someone in cold blood made him shudder with revulsion.  He knew from talking with Aeryn and D’Argo that he had killed people in the past though.  There was no choice except to do it again.  Several DRDs clicked happily beneath him, and the mass began backing slowly out of the access tunnel.  The intruder was halfway down the corridor by the time the DRDs got him out and turned him around.  John rolled off the shifting metal bodies, scrambling to get his pistol out of the holster before the lumbering figure disappeared. 

His hand crawled up alongside his prone body, weighed down by the heavy weapon, which waved wildly from side to side in his weak grip.  “Get over here,” John whispered to a drone, pointing with his free hand to a spot on the floor in front of him.  Resting his wrist on the yellow hemisphere steadied his aim and elevated the pistol so that the sights were centered on the bounty hunter’s back. 

“Hey!” he yelled once, tracking the figure as it whirled around.  It took almost his entire reserve of strength to pull the trigger.  There was little left to keep the entire weapon steady as he snatched at the action, but the pulse blast flew true, taking the surprised invader in the center of the chest. 

“We did it!”  John looked around at his mechanical companions.  He was not sure how they were managing it with nothing but a pair of lightstalks to convey what they were thinking, but they all looked happy.  “One down, a bunch to go.  Lead on.”  He rolled halfway onto his side, holstered Winona after four missed attempts, and then began the laborious slither down the corridor, trailing the midget warriors as they sped toward their mysterious destination. 

Half an arn later John dragged himself toward the side of the corridor, pulling himself tiredly across the last body length so he was lying alongside one of Moya’s thick internal ribs.  There was no bulkhead along this stretch of passageway, and he could look down over the edge of the floor to the tier below.  His recall of Moya’s labyrinthine tiers had failed shortly after he had crawled away from the corpse of the bounty hunter, and it was not until he saw the diagonal support struts silhouetted alongside the ribs with vacant space behind them that he began to form an idea why the DRDs had led him to this particular spot. 

His fleet of DRDs had continued to grow as he squirmed along through the corridors until there were almost forty of the units traveling with him.  Now, as he hauled himself toward where the blue-tape drone waited, he saw that there were almost twenty more of the DRDs waiting for them, each one carrying a silvery sphere. 

“What’s the plan?” he whispered to the leader.  He got the three words out just in time.  A massive yawn wracked his body, consuming every bit of available energy, coordination, and concentration. 

One of the sphere-toting units motored over to him.  It parked itself in front of his nose.  John examined the metallic object, knowing that he should recognize it.  He turned it over and over in his hands, searching his sparse memory, praying that the information would crawl out of the vast voids that took up most of the inside of his head.  The DRDs waited patiently, some of the collection of drones examining the prone human while he, in turn, puzzled out the purpose of the object. 

There was a seam running around its circumference. 

“Can I open this thing?” he asked the unit sitting in front of his nose.  One blink.  John spun the two halves apart, exposing the innards.  He pulled each element free of its casing to inspect it, taking extra care to allow for the trembling that had begun to infect his hands.  Chemicals, crystals, a mechanical mechanism:  it all fell into place. 

“Grenades.  These are grenades.” 

He received one blink.  Yes. 

The DRD leader chirped several times.  When Crichton looked to see what the noise was all about, the chirping was replaced by non-stop blinking.  John reassembled the round explosive and placed it aboard the appropriate DRD, then crawled forward to where the leader waited for him at the edge of the floor.  They had a perfect view of both the maintenance bay as well as the strange ship that was squatting in the cavernous hangar just outside the massive doors.  Three of the intruders were wandering around the maintenance area, rummaging through storage lockers and parts bins.  A fourth had the upper half of his body inside an access hatch of the ship. 

“That thing isn’t working,” he whispered, pointing at the space craft.  He received a one-blink answer. 

“They’re repairing it.”  One blink. 

“We’re going to attack them.”  Yes. 

“How?” 

A grenade-equipped DRD scooted in front of him, spun around twice, and then raced away down the corridor.  It was the last one to leave; every other unit carrying the explosives had disappeared while he was looking at the layout beneath him. 

“Gonna blow them up.”  Yes. 

“How are you going to time it?”  John rubbed his forehead, noticing the trickles of sweat for the first time.  He was running out of energy.  The lead DRD ran around to his side and butted him twice in the hip, ramming against Winona. 

“I’m supposed to shoot them?” he asked incredulously, his voice rising with surprise.  Yes. 

“Listen Pilot …”  Two blinks.  He stared at it, baffled by the response.  John started over, still confused by the blinks. 

“Pilot …”  Two blinks again. 

“Moya?” he asked.  Yes. 

“Moya, I’m not sure I can hit one of these things from this distance, and on top of that I’m about to crap out here.  How long do I need to wait before the fireworks start?”  The unit stared at him, blinkless. 

“Moya, do you know when the attack needs to start?”  No. 

“Frell.” 

The exhaustion was beating at him now.  It was simply a matter of time before his body shut down on him whether he wanted it to or not.  Crichton pulled himself to the edge of the overhang, surveying the scenery beneath him.  Two more mercenaries had joined their comrades, bringing the total to six.  He scanned the hangar bay, looking for anything that would give him a greater advantage in the upcoming, lopsided battle.  He spotted most of the kamikaze DRDs sitting unobtrusively in corners and beneath work surfaces.  As he watched, more DRDs began filtering into the hangar, each one with its maintenance laser unshipped and ready for action.  John looked over his shoulder to find that only three of the drones remained by his side, his personal guard standing watch over him. 

“Almost time?”  Yes, they blinked. 

“Too late.  I’m losing it here, guys.  I need some help.”  An elbow slid out from beneath him and his forehead bounced off the floor as his body demanded that he surrender to his fatigue.  John struggled to lift his head.  The blue-tape unit was by his side, coasting from his feet to his head, surveying him with what looked like mechanical concern.  The darkness moved into the edges of his vision. 

“There has got to be some way to finish this,” John told the robot.  “I don’t need to stay awake much longer, do I?”  It blinked twice.  No, he didn’t have to hang on long.  “Need a wake up call,” he murmured.  “Need a wake up jolt.”  A memory attempted to break loose from its imprisonment; it teased him with the possibility that he might be on the verge of remembering something important. 

“Chemical that would give me a jolt,” he told the unit.  “There’s got to be something on board that will do that.”  It blinked twice. 

“No?  There’s nothing on board?” he asked in disbelief.  Two blinks.  John stared at the unit, trying to decipher its latest response. 

“No, not nothing on board.”  He tried the double negative solely to see what response it provoked.  The DRD squeaked once but remained blinkless.  Crichton gazed at it, tired and befuddled. 

“Something on board, but …”  He gave up, too exhausted to play the game any longer.  One blink greeted his truncated sentence, inviting him to try one more time. 

“But … there’s something but I can’t have it.”  One blink. 

All the uncertainty and frustration welled up inside him at once, transforming into anger.  He grabbed the DRD by its undamaged eyestalk, peering into the light as he hissed to the unit and, by extension, Moya.  “We are all toast if you don’t keep me awake.  If I go out it’ll be arns before I wake up again, and that will be too late.  You went to all the trouble to get me here so why are you throwing it all away?  Go get me the … the drexim!  That’s what that stuff was called.  Not a Moya sized dose, just a little human size blast.” 

He received two blinks for an answer. 

“No because you can’t?”  No. 

“No because you won’t,” he verified.  Yes.

There was a burst of voices beneath them.  Querulous tones drifted up to where John lay arguing with the robot.  He released the unit and dragged himself to the edge of the floor, pulling himself across the last body length with ultimate caution.  His friends were being herded into the maintenance bay at gunpoint, surrounded by five more of the enemy.  D’Argo was already inside the chamber, half way to the doors to the hangar.  He was down on one knee, hands cuffed behind his back, looking dazed.  As John watched, a bounty hunter reversed his rifle and hit the luxan across the back of the head, driving him to the floor.  Even then the warrior continued to strain at the metal binders on his wrists, although in a fumbling, disoriented manner. 

Aeryn and Chiana were cuffed together back to back, which was forcing them to move along in an awkward sideward scramble, and an intruder who looked sebacean was carrying a sack with a Rygel-shaped lump in it.   

John pushed himself away from the edge, back toward where the DRD continued to wait for him.  “Time’s up.  Get the frelling stuff to keep me awake, or give up now.”  The unit clicked several times and ran in a circle.

“Moya, we have to do this,” John pleaded.  His elbows slid out from underneath him and he slumped tiredly to the floor.  The darkness was closing in, shutting down his vision and taking over his brain despite his best efforts.  “Night guys,” he mumbled, “I’m sorry.  It’s over.” 

John sighed.  The despair that had taken over his world a moment earlier was barely detectable against his exhaustion; the remaining dregs, however, were sufficient to generate an all-encompassing grief that threatened to accompany him into his personal twilight.  He had failed.  Aeryn would be turned over to the Peacekeepers and face execution; the rest of his friends would be imprisoned; Moya and Pilot would be enslaved.  Death and ruin lay on every side of him, all because he could not stay awake.  Tears forced themselves out from under his eyelids and trickled down his cheek.  Two of the remaining DRDs were nudging at him, but he was drifting away faster than they could summon him back.  Their efforts faded until he could barely feel them. 

“Aeryn,” he whispered as his universe went dark.  He had failed her.  “Aeryn.”   

Color and sound returned in a rush.  John looked up just as a unit backed away from him, an injector grasped in its claw. 

“Changed your mind, Moya?”  The DRD blinked once.  John hiccupped several times, and wiped the back of a hand across his face.  “Let’s get this over with before this stuff wears off.” 

The unit clicked and chirped several times, blinking madly.  John watched the excited display, trying to make some sense of it, but the drone finished its frenzied announcement and scurried away without waiting for a response from him.  “What the frell was that all about?” he asked, speaking to the empty space in front of him.   

A heart-pounding burst of energy distracted him from the puzzle.  One microt later sweat was soaking into his shirt and the lining of his jacket, and the skin on his legs began to crawl, insisting that his pants were full of insects.  John scratched at the uncomfortable feeling, trying to rub away the itching annoyance.  One of his DRD minders nudged at one elbow, chirping at him as he continued scrubbing at his legs. 

“What?” he asked it, then remembered what he was supposed to be doing.  “Sorry,” he said, “but this feels terrible.”  It chirped at him and spun away.   

John scrambled to the edge of the floor and reached up for one of the metal braces running from the ceiling to Moya’s rib.  Grunting quietly, he dragged himself upward, resorting to looping his elbow over the metalloid strut when his hands would not squeeze tightly enough to maintain a grip.  By the time he was upright and hanging off the strut by one arm, Aeryn and Chiana were standing near the hatch to the intruder’s ship, dangerously close to being herded inside.  Rygel’s sack was at their feet and a half-conscious D’Argo was standing beside them, swaying drunkenly. 

The battle to get Winona out of the holster took him to the verge of screaming with frustration.  His entire body was suddenly conspiring against him, as if in protest against his decision to use drexim to force it to stay awake. 

His efforts at rehabilitation had reached the point where he could sometimes stand up on his own, provided he had something to hang on to; but just as he needed them the most, his legs decided they were not going to support carry any of his bodyweight.  John cursed at the useless limbs, and scrabbled at the catch securing his pulse pistol with his free hand.  His left shoulder and arm were screaming at him, complaining of the unaccustomed burden.  That was when the fingers of his right hand decided to not to cooperate either.  He scowled down at his hand.  Under the weight of the glare it tripped the catch … and then nearly dropped Winona as she tilted loose. 

“Grab it!” he ordered his fingers.  For once they obeyed the spoken command.  Four of his fingers wrapped themselves securely around the grip.  The pinky remained on strike.  He did not care.  Three plus the thumb was enough for what he needed to do. 

The yammering of a heated discussion drifted up from below.  The mass of bounty hunters was breaking up.  He had to hurry.  The pulse pistol wobbled erratically upward.  He got it up to his left hand and steadied it in a double grip.  His right leg finally decided it wanted to partake of the heroism; it shoved him upright, dragging its useless partner along for the ride. 

John lined up on the grenade-carrying DRD closest to the largest mass of mercenaries.  The group shifted and the suicidal DRD scuttled along with it, staying close.  The change in positions placed it directly behind where Aeryn and Chiana were standing. 

“Dren!” he hissed in frustration.  Nothing was going right, which meant that his life was starting to show signs of returning to normal.  “Hold on,” he said to the DRD waiting near his feet.  “I can’t fire yet.” 

Three of the boarders split off from the main group, headed for the doorway beneath where he stood.  Their voices drifted up to him, becoming cleared as they approached.  John held his breath, stilling his own panting long enough to hear what they were talking about. 

They were headed for his cell to find out if he was dead yet. 

He thought about the two groups splitting up, and the cramping queasy feeling deep in his stomach told him that if some of them left the hangar bay, his chances of pulling off this rescue were going to diminish to less than nothing.  It had to be now.  He had to keep the three invaders from leaving the maintenance bay, and that meant he had to shoot.

“Aeryn, get down,” he whispered, willing her to move.  “Get down.” 

The two women remained directly in his line of fire.  He looked around the hangar for a better target, and could not find one.  He needed to start with the DRD immediately behind the two women.  It would take out the largest number of the enemy -- assuming he could hit it.  If he chose another grenade and this group scattered, he doubted he could kill them all before they arranged a counterattack.  He needed to disable one or more on the first shot, and keep them clumped together in the center of the maintenance bay where he could see them. 

John closed his eyes and concentrated on his need for Aeryn to be safe.  He envisioned the aching desire clearly and then wrapped that one emotion around him like a blanket, immersing himself in the single focus. 

“Aeryn, get down,” he repeated aloud.  There was nothing in his mind except the clear image of her lying on the hangar floor.  “Get down,” he mouthed silently one more time.

He opened his eyes.  Aeryn was still on her feet, an angry scowl firmly in place, but she had begun scanning the huge chamber, searching for something.  Her gaze locked onto a DRD sitting motionless in a corner, its maintenance laser unshipped and pointed in the general direction of the intruders.  An instant later Aeryn spun around, tripping Chiana and banging into D’Argo.  All three fell to the floor in a tangle of arms and legs.  John steadied his shaking body against the vertical pillar next to him, aimed and fired. 

He missed. 

“Crap!”  He fired again.  Both the grenade and the DRD went up in a huge explosion, knocking five of the bounty hunters halfway across the bay.  The chamber below was instantly transformed into a smoke-filled arena laced with streaks of red as the DRDs opened fire.  The tangle of his friends’ arms and legs writhed wildly as they struggled to extricate themselves from the confused knot, moving in frantic haste as the firing escalated around them.  Pulse weapons and lasers illuminated the thickening smog, turning the entire massive chamber into a lightning-illuminated battlefield nightmare. 

A fast flickering motion to John’s right, dimly seen through the thickening smoke, drew his attention.  One of the bounty hunters was taking aim at Chiana and Aeryn.  They were unaware that they had been targeted; they were too busy trying to squirm out from underneath D’Argo. 

“Over my dead body,” he said in an out of control stammer.  Both his voice and his entire body were starting to shake from the effects of the adrenalin-like drug.  His right leg chose that moment to give out and he nearly dropped Winona over the edge in his mad scramble to catch himself.  The strut cut heavily into his left armpit as every bit of his weight sagged onto it in a single instant.  He ignored the discomfort, pressed his right forearm against the vertical rib to steady it, and took careful aim at a suicide DRD that had just positioned itself next to the man who was taking aim at Aeryn and Chiana.

John’s target went up in a thunderous explosion on the first try this time, blowing the threat across the hangar. 

“Eat my yellow bolts of light,” John yelled over the escalating din. 

His tenuous upright position failed him; his left arm slipped free, and he crashed to the floor.  John pulled himself to the edge of the upper deck and began searching for more targets.  There were still eight of the bounty hunters scattered around the hangar bay, trying to find cover.  The DRDs carrying grenades were valiantly repositioning themselves close to the intruders, and John set off each of the explosive balls as they approached their intended victims.  He had eliminated three of the eight by the time they figured out where he was hiding, what he was doing, and how he was causing the explosions.  They began firing at the DRDs.  The remaining suicide drones scampered for cover.  Several dumped their grenades onto the floor, nudged the spheres toward their attackers, and then fled.  John managed to take out one more of the bounty hunters that way, and then the maintenance bay went silent.  It was empty of both DRDs and grenades, leaving him to face seven well-armed opponents, and not a lot of hope for reinforcements.

“Uh oh, I think we’re going to need some help here in another microt,” John said, addressing his single remaining yellow companion.  “Can you guys do anything about getting the others loose?” 

He received a single chirp for an answer. 

John wriggled closer to a pillar, seeking its protection, and searched for another target.  A rapid glance through the smoke haze confirmed that the only member of Moya’s crew still in the open was the sack with the Rygel-shaped bump in it.  The others had disappeared.  A DRD shot out from where it had been hiding, aimed straight toward where John had last seen Aeryn and Chiana.  Weapons blasts converged on it from several directions, and it exploded in a mushrooming cloud of smoke and debris.  John swung his pistol toward one source of the firing, and yanked at the trigger. 

He was lucky.  Another bounty hunter crumpled to the floor, this one with a smoking hole where his chest had been. 

“Gotcha!”  John began searching for something else to shoot.   

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

[KernilCrash]

Chapter 14

Aeryn let out a long growl of frustration.  She was on top of Chiana, who was wriggling just as vigorously as she was; none of which was doing anything helpful in terms of either of them getting free.  D’Argo had fallen across her legs and seemed to be unconscious again.  He had regained consciousness just long enough for the trio to scramble and stagger behind cover, but his subsequent collapse had trapped both women beneath his heavy body.  Since their captors had used metal binders, she was not sure how or whether she was going to be able to get loose once she was on her feet, but her training dictated that she solve one problem at a time. 

The battle continued to rage on the far side of the cargo containers that were shielding them from the weapons fire, and she could occasionally spot the yellow flash of a DRD zipping about beneath the smoke overcast.  A pulse weapon spat from a location somewhere above them, and she wondered for the tenth time how Jool had managed to free herself and get her hands on a weapon.  Getting captured in under two hundred microts had convinced her that there was no way they were going to get out of their latest predicament, which in turn generated an overwhelming sense of despair every time she thought of John being taken captive in his current condition.

The arns they had spent locked in one of the empty cells on Tier Six had provided ample time for her mind to create an endless variety of hideous possibilities, each one revolving around the image of a helpless Crichton being tortured for information that he was incapable of accessing from his mind.  It would be like abusing a child, playing off his uncontrollable fears and frequent confusion, perhaps driving him back into the peaceful portion of his psyche that he had been so loath to leave the first time.  If he was captured, interrogated, and took refuge in his quiet dreaming place, she doubted that they would ever be able to coax him out a second time.   

That was assuming that he wasn’t killed in the process.  If they were turned over to the Peacekeepers, John would be taken apart piece by piece, unable to resist in any useful way as they gradually destroyed him.  His death would be slow, painful, and even worse, it would be frightening for the befuddled person who had difficulty getting dressed or finding his way around Moya.  It was the anxious, confused look that she kept seeing when she imagined them being hauled aboard a Command Carrier, the one that left her sick to her stomach with worry, and convinced that he would not survive mentally even if he endured the physical abuse. 

“Frell it all!” she snarled.  She glared at D’Argo’s inert body as if it were the enemy.  “I never should have changed my mind.” 

If she had left John on New Delvia as they had originally agreed, he would not be in such peril.  He was every bit as helpless locked away in his cell as she was at that moment.  Aeryn ground her teeth together, focused all of her strength on her lower body, and strained to get a single leg out from beneath D’Argo.  She had to concentrate on getting free, she told herself.  Her concern for John had to be set aside long enough to resolve this problem first.  At least for the next half an arn or so, John and his welfare had to come last. 

“Aeryn!”  Chiana’s hissing, whispered demand broke in on her musings, drawing her attention back to the noise and chaos in the hangar bay.  “Lean to the right … my right, your left.” 

Aeryn looked around at where the nebari was lying, equally trapped behind her, searching for the reason behind the request.  A DRD was sitting next to their linked bodies, blinking and chirping at them, laser at the ready.  She followed the instructions and a pinpoint of heat developed near her wrists as the unit began cutting the binders apart. 

Another DRD exploded somewhere to their right, showering them with shrapnel.  “They’re shooting the DRDs.  We have to hurry before they …”  A larger explosion rocked them and this time a bounty hunter’s scorched body slid into sight.  “Frell!  I never knew Jool could shoot that well,” she said, awed by the accuracy of the shots. 

The first binder snapped apart, freeing her right arm from Chiana’s left.  The DRD whipped around to the other side of their bodies where it immediately attacked the second binder.  “Can you move toward me, Chiana?  I can almost reach D’Argo’s Qualta blade.”  The pressure against her back increased, the nebari swearing and complaining the entire time as they wormed their way to one side, still joined by one arm.  Aeryn stretched to one side, wrapped her fingers carefully around the hilt, and pulled the blade loose just as the second binder clanked to the floor. 

“Now what?” Chiana asked.  She tugged at the unconscious luxan’s arm, pulling him off Aeryn’s legs, and they crouched together behind the containers, trying to make some sense of the confusion in the hangar bay.  “How many left?” 

“One in the corner.”  Aeryn gestured with her chin; both hands were occupied with converting the luxan weapon into a rifle.  “Another to your left.”  A stream of weapons fire lit up the underside of the upper tier.  “A third behind that workbench.  Jool must be up above.” 

“Jool?  No way.  She couldn’t hit the side of a budong if she was inside it.”  Chiana peeked around the side of a container, eyeing a rifle lying in the middle of the floor. 

“Who else could it be?  Everyone else is here except Crichton.”  Aeryn took aim at the invader crouched in the corner, then eased her finger off the trigger when he suddenly scrambled to one side, out of her line of fire.  “What are they doing?” 

Two of the strange intruders began a rapid-fire attack on the source of the pulse weapon fire, giving the third man covering fire.  The leader of the group ran out into the center of the hangar bay, and his subordinates stopped firing.  He took aim at the upper level, and waited.  A head popped up and Aeryn started to yell for Jool to stay down.  She recognized the short brown hair, and her intended shout was choked by surprise for a critical split-microt. 

“JOHN!  NO!  Get down!”  Her warning scream came too late. 

The bounty hunter fired.  It was a direct hit.  The head disappeared.  One lax hand flopped over the edge of the platform, releasing a pulse pistol as it did.  Aeryn watched in shock as Winona twisted and tumbled to the floor of the hangar bay, bounced once, and clattered into a corner. 

“NO!” 

Her second scream held none of the despair and anguish that she felt at that moment.  There was nothing but anger in that instant:  anger at herself because she had allowed John to come with them when they returned to Moya; anger that fate and coincidence had put them in the bounty hunters’ path at this particular moment in time; anger that John had ignored her repeated demands that he not do anything to anger their attackers, and had somehow managed to get out of his cell and put himself in the way of harm.  Aeryn steadied the heavy Qualta rifle on the packing container, took aim, and a microt later the leader was no longer a threat.

The two remaining fighters had bolted from cover as soon their leader fired, both headed for the upright stanchions leading up to the next tier.  They spun around as their superior hit the floor, searching for the new threat.  Aeryn smiled thinly as they hesitated in confusion, and two microts later the invasion of the leviathan was over.  The silence pressed on her as she eased out from behind the barricade, cradling the weapon in her left arm.  Chiana slid off to one side, cocked elbows transmitting caution as she peered at a body and then nudged it to make sure the man was dead.  Aeryn chose to kick the leader, her way of ensuring that her shot had done its work.   

She walked to where the pulse pistol lay on the floor, stared down at it for several microts in grief and disbelief, and then leaned over to pick it up.  Resting the Qualta rifle in the crook of her elbow, Aeryn clutched Winona in both hands, feeling the warmth stored in the grip from where someone else’s hand had held it only microts earlier.  The hand that had released the weapon in death was directly above her head, fingers curled under in final defeat.  She knew it was there, knew she would eventually have to look at it and acknowledge the loss, and could not bring herself to look up. 

John had fought back from such devastating injuries.  He had even managed to make it to the maintenance bay in order to save the rest of them.  The idea that he had fallen for such a simple ruse was somehow inconceivable to her, in the end attributable to his loss of memory.  She had seen the energy charge take him squarely though, knew that he was dead, and had to accept the fact that it was her fault.  He would not have been here if it were not for her lapse of willpower when they were on the New Moon of Delvia.   

“John,” she whispered.  A cold, dead knot took up residence in the pit of her stomach.  She had felt that icy lump spring to life the first time when she was aboard Talyn, a second time when John had not shown up after their frantic retreat from the scarrans.  It was making itself at home in her guts once again, this time with a permanence that suggested she would have to live with the dull, sick feeling for the rest of her life. 

“I never should have let you come with us.  It’s my fault.” 

Her thoughts spiraled inward, circling around the same few facts again and again, until there was nothing left but grief, guilt, and the sequence of events that had led her to this moment.  The panicked scream from the room in the delvian sanctuary had lured her into making the worst decision of her life, and she knew that sooner or later she would have to climb up to the overhead corridor and face the empty stare from those blue eyes once again.  “I’m sorry,” she mouthed silently to Winona, seeing only the dead owner.  There weren’t any tears yet.  Those would come later when the shock wore off. 

“Aeryn?”  Chiana’s shouted inquiry was full of excitement.  “Look!” she yelled again.  Aeryn turned slowly, tucking the ownerless pistol into her belt.  Chiana was kneeling next to the dead leader, holding his weapon aloft for her to see.  “This is what he fired!” she screamed, waving the weapon wildly and pointing toward the upper level.   

Hope and fear tangled into a queasy feeling conglomeration that had the strength to banish the cold knot from her stomach, replacing it with an equally uncomfortable cold sweat.  Aeryn stared at the pistol in Chiana’s hands.  It was the paralysis weapon that had resulted in their embarrassingly fast capture.  She looked up at the hand hanging over the edge of the flooring. 

“Take care of D’Argo and Rygel,” she said, shoving the Qualta rifle into the nebari’s spindly arms.  Then she spun around and sprinted toward the ladder leading to John’s ambush spot. 

* * * * *

He felt like he was dying.  The energy surge from the paralysis weapon had frozen every muscle in his body with the exception of his heart.  That single remaining outlet for all of the excess drug-induced energy was pounding ferociously against the inside of his chest.  He knew that the drexim was causing the problem, and if it had not been for the stasis field he could have done something to work off the overload of stimulant.  But right now the only muscle able to react to the go-juice was his heart, and it was doing its best to expend the entire supply.  It felt as though if it went on long enough, it would batter its way out of his body through his sternum.  And just to make matter worse, he was feeling increasingly sick to his stomach.  If the nausea became too severe, he was not going to be able to do anything about that either.

The shooting had ended.  He knew that much from the lack of noise coming from the maintenance bay.  He had seen Aeryn get loose, so he thought maybe his rescue had succeeded.  None of that was doing anything to solve his current problem, however.  No one had appeared to see if he had been injured or to help him.  John began to worry that they had somehow the fight, and the he would have to cope with being captured again.  That idea frightened him to the verge of panic and he could not do anything more about that than he could about anything else. 

‘Aeryn!’ he screamed inside his mind, unable to voice the shout.  His condition was similar to the quiet dreaming place in several respects, only this time he knew what was going on around him and he had not chosen to reside in this place of helplessness.

A DRD whirred into sight.  It nudged at his shoulder several times, then moved so it was sitting next to his head and peered down at him.  It blinked once, waited several microts, and then offered another single blink. 

‘Moya,’ he thought in its direction.  ‘Go get help, girl.’ 

The memory of a shaggy, light-colored animal with four feet and a tail escaped from the prison of his damaged recall.  He examined the image, trying to determine why it had popped loose at that particular moment, and then shoved it to one side, convinced that the memory was of no help.  The drone scuttled out of sight.  The sound working its way past his feet and along the other side of his body until it stopped near the back of his head.  It chirped several times, nudging at his shoulder in an attempt to rouse him. 

‘I’m trying,’ he said mentally. 

His lungs were still working.  The rhythm of his breathing was slow and steady, and nowhere near fast enough to service the rush of his circulation.  It seemed that the bounty hunters’ weapon affected only voluntary motor control, not autonomic reflexes.  That knowledge did nothing to resolve the sweating discomfort or to relieve the twinge he had felt several times in his left arm.   

“John.”  Aeryn dropped into sight beside him.  She crouched over to look into his eyes.  “You’re alive.”   

He could not look directly at her, and he still could not say anything.  He could not tell her to release the paralysis field, could not tell her he was dying inside his own body, could not tell her how happy he was that she was unharmed.  Worst of all, he could not tell her how much he loved her. 

“What did you think you were doing?”

He was lying immobilized on the floor, possibly dying, and she was scolding him.  His brain instructed his face to look hurt at her harsh comment.  Nothing happened except that Aeryn leaned into his field of vision in order to look into his eyes, and then she smiled at him.  “Insane since birth was right,” she said on a sigh. 

John assumed the phrase was something he had told her at some point; the history surrounding the comment, which might have helped him make some sense of it, was missing from his personal datastores … just like everything else.  He went on breathing at a steady, measured pace, the sound of his pounding heart filling his ears and making it difficult to hear what she was saying, and tried to reconcile her two conflicting comments.  He was not making much headway until Aeryn set about making him more comfortable. 

Her motions were as fast and deft as ever, emotions tucked securely out of sight, but when she pulled his right arm back onto the flooring of the tier, her hands were shaking to the point that she almost dropped the limb.  It was the trembling hands that he needed to pay attention to, he decided, not the initial angry words or the second, apparently frustrated comment.  It was the deep sighs and the gentle hands repeatedly checking him for injuries that he needed to focus on.   

‘I’m okay, Aeryn,’ he wanted to tell her.  ‘I’m not hurt or dead … yet.’ 

The shaking fingers were in his hair and under his chin next, turning his head to lie more naturally and making sure he could breathe easily.  Breathing easier was not enough.  He was becoming lightheaded from lack of oxygen; his body was burning through more of it than his slow breaths could provide.   

“It doesn’t look like you’ve been hit anywhere.”  She sounded as thought she was talking to herself as much as to him.  Aeryn ran her hands under his torso, searching the areas she could not see.  “No bleeding.  You’re all right.  You’re not hurt.”  She went on to check his legs and lower body, obsessively adjusting his position once she was done with the initial fast inspection, making sure he was lying naturally and doing as much as possible to make sure he was comfortable.   

Her trembling hands rubbed his shoulder, turning into another wandering check for damage before she crouched down to look into his eyes again.  “We’ll release this in a few microts, John.  I left the weapon in the maintenance bay.  I’ll have Chiana bring it up here as soon as she has D’Argo back on his feet.”  She wiped a trickle of sweat off his face, her hands moving more steadily now.  “You saved us.”

‘Now save me,’ he thought.  He couldn’t even blink in order to make signals.  Even a frelling DRD was allowed to blink.  His eyes had been open when the energy field had enveloped him, and they were starting to dry out.  The itching sensation quickly turned into a horrible burning as the air circulation in the hangar bay carried some of the dust and smoke up to where he lay with Aeryn watching over him.  The stench of burned circuits from the destroyed DRDs reached his spot on the floor, and a moment later his eyes started to water.  Robbed of the ability to blink, his tears wept slowly out of the corners of his eyes, pooled for a moment, and then began to ease down his nose and cheek. 

“Oh frell, you can’t blink, can you?”  Aeryn rocked his head to one side and closed one eye.  The discomfort on that side eased immediately.  She gently drew the other lid down, holding it in place until the frozen muscles ceased their efforts to reopen it. 

On one hand, it was an enormous relief; on the other, he could no longer see what Aeryn was doing, and none of the other horrible sensations had gone away.  If anything, his heart was pounding harder.  He was beginning to think it really would be able to burst out through his sternum.  At least that was the way it felt. 

Pilot’s anxious voice burst over the comms.  “Officer Sun!”

“Yes, Pilot.  Are you and Moya all right?” 

“Moya is fine and I am recovering, thank you.  Moya has just informed me that Crichton was injected with drexim in order to stay awake long enough to effect your release.” 

There was a racket of whines, clicks and chirps as what sounded like dozens of DRDs went into a mad celebration all around him:  the crowd was roaring its relief that someone had finally identified the nature of the emergency.   

“Drexim!” Aeryn shouted in alarm.  “Who thought up that stupid idea?  Never mind, I have my suspicions.” 

John listened to her footsteps hurrying away from him and tried to scream at her not to leave.  The pressure in his chest was building, and he was starting to worry about having a heart attack.  Frustration added to the stress, compounding the sensation of nausea.  He prayed that the paralysis field would keep his knotted stomach in check until the rest of his body could react as well.

* * * * *

Aeryn crossed the short distance to the ladder.  She leaned over the lip of the vertical shaft, taking in the current condition of everyone in the maintenance bay in one fast sweep.  D’Argo was on his feet … just barely.  Chiana was doing what she could to keep him upright, trying to guide the swaying figure toward one of the smaller cargo containers that they sometimes used as a seat.  Rygel was still in his sack.   

“Chiana, we need to release John from the paralysis field immediately,” Aeryn yelled down to the nebari.  “He has been injected with drexim.  I forgot to grab the stasis pistol.  Get it up here quick.” 

The weapon was lying on a workbench and she was tempted to have Chiana throw it to her.  The chance that she might miss the catch, however, resulting in even minimal damage to the weapon, was too great.  Without the added problem of the drexim, John could wait while they repaired the device.  With the leviathan stimulant flowing through his veins, they could not risk delaying his release from the paralysis field.   

Chiana towed a staggering D’Argo to where he could lean against one of Moya’s vertical pillars and then abandoned him.  She scooped the weapon off a workbench and heading for a ladder at a dead run.  Aeryn returned to kneel next to John, listening impatiently for Chiana’s light footsteps.  His breathing remained slow and regular; for the first time, that fact worried her.  In the few microts it had taken to call to Chiana, he had turned an odd grayish color and his lips were tinged with purple.  It occurred to Aeryn that she could use his archaic method of providing air to his lungs by breathing for him, augmenting his own slow inhalations to provide the oxygen the drexim would be robbing from his system. 

“Chiana!  Hurry!” she yelled, then began turning John onto his back. 

“How is he?”  Chiana skidded to a stop beside them, and thrust the stasis gun into her hands. 

Aeryn examined the pistol, searching for the control setting that would reverse its effects.  Chiana dropped to her knees half a motra from Crichton, her attention shifting back and forth between Aeryn’s efforts with the weapon and John’s slow breathing.  “Hurry up,” she said, bouncing with anxiety. 

“I’m trying,” Aeryn snapped, inexplicably angry.  She knew that it was her concern for John that was making her irritable, and didn’t bother taking the time to apologize.  She found the setting and flipped it over, checking the energy reserves before stepping forward to stand over John.  “Drexim and stasis.  Hold on to something, John.  This is not going to be pleasant.” 

She centered the sights on his chest and fired.

“Ahhhhh!”  John let out a long cry, and then began panting, hauling in one huge breath after another.  “Aeryn!  That’s awful,” he said as she knelt alongside him.  He squirmed, let out another cry, and went back to his fast panting. 

“Feel sick?” she asked.  He nodded, devoting all his efforts to getting more air, even to the exclusion of speech.  “Muscle cramps?”  He nodded again.  “Chills, sweating, headache?” she asked, taking his hand in hers. 

John nodded.  Even for him it was a jerky, erratic attempt, suggesting that his muscles were working more poorly than usual.  “I don’t feel very good,” he moaned, looking extremely unhappy.  “It hurts.  I’m tired of hurting.”

She tried to comfort him, rubbing his chest and the back of his neck as he squirmed against the nausea and discomfort.  “I know.  The drexim is causing the problem.”  She wiped several trickles of sweat away from his eyes with the palm of her hand, and when he made a fumbling, ill-directed effort to change his position, she helped him roll onto his side.   “John, only an idiot would take drexim in the first place, and I can think of only one person who would take it before going into a fight against a stasis weapon of any sort.” 

D’Argo joined them, moving slowly and keeping one hand on the wall at all times for guidance.  His eyes were bleary and he continued to look critically befuddled, but he was steadier on his feet than he had been when Chiana had abandoned him in the maintenance bay. 

John’s gasping voice drew her attention back to the suffering human lying on the floor.  “Had to, Aeryn,” he said. 

His breathing had eased, but now he was taking long, deep breaths and swallowing convulsively between each breath, as though he were trying to keep something in his stomach that wanted to get out.  He drew his knees toward his chest, attempting to curl his body around a discomfort that Aeryn knew might not ease for arns.  She sat down next to him and pulled his head into her lap, freeing him from the strain of holding it up. 

“Hurts,” he cried quietly into her leg, and she pulled him in closer.

D’Argo wobbled the short distance from the internal bulkhead to where Chiana hovered beside them, and then dropped down onto one knee.  “Pilot said it was drexim?” he asked.

“Yes.  John needed it to stay awake long enough to do all this, and I can’t think of anything else on board the DRDs could have gotten up here in time,” Aeryn said.  “Pilot?  How much did he get?”  She flinched at the answer. 

“How long?” John asked her.  His entire body was starting to shake.  Huge shudders had begun hammering the helpless body now that the muscles were free to expend the stimulant.

“Don’t think about it,” she said.  “Try to relax; that will help a little.” 

“Oh god,” Crichton said.  He curled up even tighter, folding his body in around a source of misery that he had inflicted on himself.  “I forgot?”

“No, I don’t think you knew about this to start with.  There’s no reason why you would have known not to put the two together.” 

“Frell.”  John’s legs kicked out.  Boot heals squealed across the floor.  “Won’t … next time,” he gasped, and then belched. 

“Hang on, old man.”  Chiana knelt down alongside the couple, and took one of his hands in her slim gray fingers. 

“PIP!”  The greeting emerged on an uncontrolled cry, the product of muscles spasms rather than excitement.  “You ‘kay?” 

“Better than you are.”

John nodded, squeezed his eyes shut as he fought against the pain, and then an involuntary cry was ripped out of him.  It trailed off into a quiet whine that lingered for several microts before disappearing altogether. 

“Let’s get him back to his quarters,” Aeryn said.  She slid out from under John.  “He’ll be more comfortable there until this passes.”  She leaned over the quivering body, urging him to sit up.  “Come on, John.  I know you don’t feel well, but you’ll feel a little better if you’re in bed.” 

He uncurled and let them sit him up, sweating and shivering at the same time.  “How long?” he asked again, wrapping his arms around his midsection. 

D’Argo’s voice was an emotionally loaded whisper.  “Arns, John.  They gave you hardly any at all, but drexim is meant for leviathans so even the smallest amount is going to stay in your system for arns.”  D’Argo reached to push some of the sweat soaked hair off John’s forehead.

“I think I’m going to puke,” Crichton moaned. 

D’Argo moved one long hurried step away from the weaving, gasping human.  “I was about to offer to carry him, but I think we’ll find another way to get him back to Quarters,” he growled.  Aeryn looked up at him, a mixture of concern and anger on her face.  D’Argo held up a hand to forestall the obvious objection.  “I was trying to make a joke, Aeryn.  I’ll need some help getting him up this time though.” 

“Don’t have to carry me,” John said.  “I can wa--”  He belched again, suddenly even paler than he had been microts earlier.  “I can --”

“Shut up, John,” Aeryn said, cutting him off.  “We know all that dren about not being carried this way.  Live with it.”  She continued to prop him up, bracing his shaking body against her legs while her hands steadied his shoulders.  A thought occurred to her.  Something had gone overlooked, smothered beneath the need to release the stasis field and tend to John’s more immediate needs.  She asked, “How did you get down here?” 

“C-c-c-crawled.”  He worked the word out over the space of two microts.  Every bit of his body was shuddering against the onslaught of the drug.  “That guy showed me the way.”  He pointed clumsily at where the blue-taped DRD sat watching the proceedings.  “I think it was Moya.”  He took two long breaths and added more steadily, “Aeryn, I’m tired of hurting.” 

“I know,” she tried to soothe him.  “We’ll do our best to make you comfortable, but there’s nothing to do except wait for the drexim to wear off.” 

She gestured to the others and between the three of them they pulled Crichton to his feet, supporting him completely once they had him upright. 

“Uh oh,” he said once they had him up, and looked panicked.  He swallowed hard several times then hiccupped.   

“That’s it.  I am not carrying him.”

Aeryn looked across at D’Argo, checking to see if he was still joking.  He wasn’t; he was serious this time.  He had one of John’s arms slung across his shoulders, and was waiting for Aeryn to take the other side. 

“If I put him over my shoulder now, he will spew,” he said, explaining his change of heart. 

“Def’nitely,” John said.  “Tech’color burp.”

Aeryn slid in under John’s other arm, they wheeled around until they were facing in the direction of Quarters, and together they began the long trip back through Moya’s tiers.

“Might want to hurry,” John said in a slurred mumble.  He was doing his best to help despite the constant muscle spasms that were shaking his entire body.  “I don’t feel very good.” 

* * * * *

D’Argo walked into Crichton’s quarters one slow cautious step at a time, exerting a maximum effort to move silently.  He moved past the bunk and eased himself down to sit next to Aeryn and Chiana.  “Is he asleep?” he whispered. 

The trio turned as one to look at the dark-haired head visible above the golden thermal sheet, listening to the tiny sighs and quiet hiccupping yelps drifting from the pillow periodically. 

“I think so,” said Aeryn.  “I think he finally drifted off about half an arn ago.”  The body on the bunk opposite them continued to twitch and jerk from time to time, expending the last of the drexim.  “How are Jool and Rygel?”

“Jool continues to whine about her bruises despite the fact that she did not get hit with a pulse rifle,” he whispered in disgust.  “But she did agree to go check on Pilot one more time to make sure he is completely recovered from the weapon’s effects.” 

“And Rygel?” Aeryn prompted.

“He is recovered enough that I would prefer to put him back in a sack,” D’Argo said in a whispered snarl.  Across the cell Crichton lurched under the covers, let out a sound that might have been a cross between a burp and a yelp and was still again.     

“How long has it been?” Chiana hissed.  “It feels like frelling days.” 

“It’s been six and a half arns since we got him down here.” 

And it had been another arn before that.  They had not managed to get him to his quarters before the stimulant had triggered an extended bout of vomiting.  What should have been a short easy trip from the maintenance bay had been interrupted by a series of stops along the way to let John retch his way through one set of dry heaves after another while Aeryn, D’Argo, Chiana and a fleet of cleaning DRDs looked on.  He had refused to let them help him at first, curling into a spasming ball on his side while he gagged out the contents of his stomach.  The second round of vomiting had put an end to his self-sufficiency when the uncontrollable shudders nearly tipped him into the small puddle of slime he had brought up.  After that he had allowed someone hold him, sometimes steadying his head, sometimes doing nothing more than keeping him upright while he arched and coughed his way through another bout of unproductive retching.

Sitting on Moya’s warm corridor floors with John’s shoulders in her lap, or standing behind him and holding his upper body as he struggled against seizing muscles to eject what was long gone from his stomach, Aeryn had felt like she was holding the Crichton of pre-torture days.  Grousing but with humor, complaining about the situation while acknowledging that he had created it himself, he was as tenacious as ever.

They had finally managed to haul John into his chamber an arn after they set out.  They had arrived on the run and dumped him hastily in front of the waste funnel just in time for his last and most violent session of vomiting.  D’Argo and Chiana had abandoned the alcove in a hurry the moment he had begun coughing out tiny streams of bile and dregs of saliva.  Aeryn had stayed, reflecting with surprise on the discovery that she did not mind wiping his face, cleaning the tears and mucus away with a wet rag, and steadying his convulsing body.  She did not mind doing anything as long as it was John Crichton who was alive and leaning helplessly against her lower legs.

“Finished?” she had asked when there hadn’t been any vomiting for several hundred microts.  At the time, he had been sitting with his legs beneath him, the drug-induced tremors creating a staccato impact where his back was leaning against her knees. 

“God, I … hope so,” he had panted. 

With help from D’Argo and Chiana, they had boosted him to his feet, pulled off most of his clothes, and had gotten him into bed where he would be most comfortable while his body worked out the load of drexim.  There had not been any more vomiting, but there had been arns of muscles cramps eerily similar to what he had suffered through on the New Moon of Delvia, chills, and several seizures that had scared her to the point that she had been on the verge of asking Pilot to find a medical facility.  Nearly eight arns after he had been injected, Crichton was sleeping at last, so exhausted by the battle against his body that he could barely form words, let alone conjure up memories.  He had sunk into the same befuddled daze that had marked his first days of awareness in the delvian sanctuary, placing total trust in her custody when she told him that everything was all right and he could go to sleep.

D’Argo got up and crept across the chamber to look at John.  He stood for several microts watching the restless movements, then shook his head and returned to where the two women were sitting. 

“What?” Aeryn whispered.  When D’Argo raised his eyebrows to ask her to clarify, she imitated his headshake.

“He can’t walk, he can’t hold things, he can’t remember anything, but together with a leviathan that can’t communicate and a gang of DRDs, he manages to save us all from a squad of bounty hunters that captured the rest of us in three microts flat.”  He began laughing quietly.   

“And we wanted to leave him behind on New Delvia,” Chiana agreed. 

She placed her hand over her mouth to keep herself from laughing out loud then turned to look at Aeryn.  The ex-soldier was laughing as hard as her two companions.  The stray tears crawling slowly down her face suggested that she was consumed by a level of mirth never witnessed before, and an instant later Chiana was suddenly unsure about the source of those tears.  She started to ask Aeryn if she was all right.  The sound of a fourth voice interrupted her, and the question was gone forever.

“Humans’s superior,” drifted quietly from the bunk.     

“Oh, you didn’t tell him about that!”  Aeryn threw the accusation back at D’Argo as she went to sit on the edge of the bed.  The relief that John was awake and coherent was overwhelming.  She had spent most of the last seven arns worrying that the stress put on his body might have triggered a relapse or even permanent damage.  His comment proved that at least some portion of his memory was intact, as well as his bizarre sense of humor.  She felt giddy.  An absurd need to giggle pushed against each and every breath, attempting to goad her into a ridiculous display of happiness.   

Aeryn fought the impulses down.  “Did we wake you?” 

“It is not my fault.  He remembered himself!” D’Argo continued to protest behind her.   

“Nuh.  In and out fer a while,” John said.  He stretched.  It was an aimless, mildly disoriented movement during which each of his arms and legs seemed to work on their own agenda.  “Liddle cold.  Blanket?” 

Chiana was already headed for the before Aeryn could rise to her feet.  “Stay there,” the nebari said.  “I have a couple extras in my chamber.” 

D’Argo moved closer to the bunk and watched the slow rise and fall of eyelids as Crichton fought to stay awake.  “Can we get you anything else?” 

“Nuh.  Id’s better now.  Mos’ly gone.”  He yawned.  The small movement set off a shuddering response throughout his body.  John ground his teeth together, grunting slightly as his muscles spasmed their way through another release of the drug overload.  “I just tired now,” he said once the reaction had died away. 

“You’ve been asleep no more than an arn,” she said. 

Chiana hurried in carrying two thick fleecy covers, which they quickly spread over John, tucking them in around his body and tugging the top edge up around his neck.  He smiled and sighed, then his body seemed to flatten and melt into the bunk. 

“Gone again,” Aeryn said.  “Thank Cholak that’s over.” 

“At least this way we can stop worrying about Crichton taking care of himself if we get into trouble, and can concentrate on helping him regain his memory.”  Chiana grinned impishly and left the chamber. 

“Get some sleep, Aeryn.”  D’Argo touched her lightly on the shoulder before leaving the chamber as well.  He waved a palm over the door sensor on the way out, in apparent contradiction to his final instructions. 

“Get some sleep, Aeryn,” John mumbled.  He opened one eye just long enough to look at her.  “Come on in.” 

She stared at him for several microts after the single eye had closed, waiting to see what else he might have to say, then smiled and sighed.  She sat down with her back to him long enough to pull off her boots, followed quickly by her pants and vest.  “Front or back?” she asked over her shoulder as she finished. 

“Fronovme,” John said.

Aeryn sat for several microts, her head cocked to one side, then shook her head slightly.  She turned to look at John, pushing one lock of hair away from his forehead with a finger.  “My microbes could not decipher that, John.  Behind you?”  She was guessing he would prefer to curl up and have her warmth enveloping his back.  He surprised her by shaking his head.  “Front?”  The single word inquiry elicited a slow, exhausted nod.  Aeryn slid under the blankets and wriggled back against him, helping him lift and move his arms until she was snuggled in with her back against his chest, his arm over her shoulder. 

“Who’s dose guys?” he mumbled once she had gotten settled. 

“Bounty hunters.” 

“Thanks, I figure that out … for m’self.  Where they from and … who pay them?” 

“We’re not sure on either count.  It was a mixture of species and it sounded like maybe Special Directorate was offering the reward.”  She turned her head and kissed his arm where it lay across her shoulder.  “I thought I told you to work on pathetic,” she murmured into his skin. 

“Differ’nt plan,” he mumbled, sounding half asleep.  “M’ya’s plan … How’s Moya and Pilot?  They h’okay?”

“They’re fine now.  Thanks to you crawling to the rescue,” she said.  “I thought I’d begun to figure out how your mind works, but I will never … ”  A memory struck.  Aeryn went silent. 

“Whatsa matter?” John asked, drowsily attentive when her body remained absolutely still for several microts. 

“Unity,” she said on a long exhalation.  “You used Unity to tell me to get out of the way today.  You did it, John!”  She shifted in his embrace, craning her neck to look around at him.  Even in the half-light of the darkened chamber she could see that he was blushing.  “On your own.  Without touching me and without the delvians to help get our minds together to start.” 

“Un huh,” he agreed, still looking embarrassed at his accomplishment.  “Needed to.  I couldn’t fire … you in the way.”  They stared at each other for several microts, then he gave her the rest of his confession.  “I need for you t’ be safe.  Once I find that need, id’s not all tha’ difficult.” 

Aeryn turned her back to him, tugging at his arms to pull his embrace more tightly around her.   

“I love you.” 

The three small words words could not begin convey the flood of emotions that threatened to overwhelm her.  Their first encounter with Unity had been possible only because of the extent of both John’s and her desperation and the isolation John had been experiencing while trapped inside his own wrecked psyche.  His accomplishment in the hangar bay told her of the depth of his love, and that insight was challenging her confidence that she could return it in full measure.  She had never been loved like this.  No one had treasured her in this manner, not even the other John, who had not been forced to wait and endure life without her. 

John laid his cheek against the back of her shoulder and sighed.  “Love you,” he said.  He sighed once more, a long drawn-out inhale and exhale, and then was suddenly asleep again. 

* * * * *

“… I don’t want to hurt anymore …”

Aeryn woke with a start, the voice of the other John ringing in her ears.  She stared across the darkened chamber, the details of her current where and when eluding her for several microts as the nightmare’s last vestiges faded.  It had not been one of the heart-pounding, scream-inducing nightmares that she had suffered through after the other Crichton’s death.  Instead, this dream had possessed such an intense degree of reality that she was having trouble shaking the grief that had flooded over her upon waking. 

She turned over slowly, careful not to wake John now that she remembered where she was and what had happened earlier that day.  He had rolled on to his stomach at some point, leaving one arm flung across her shoulders even though he had turned partly away from her.  His fingers were still twitching as the last residue of drexim was metabolized, resulting in a soft pattering against her shoulder.  She watched him sleep, allowing the familiar features to drive away the dregs of grief. 

He was tired of hurting. 

John had said it while they were in Unity, he had said it before leaving the New Moon of Delvia, and he had said it today.  But he continued to persevere despite agonies that no other sentient being had ever survived.  He continued to fight because of her.  Aeryn worked herself closer to him, trying to move further under his arm without waking him.  John’s breath caught for a microt, then released on a long sigh. 

“You all right?” he asked.

“I’m fine.” 

He started to tug at her, trying to pull her closer; his returning strength was inadequate to complete the motion. 

“Roll over,” she said.  He started to roll away so he would wind up facing her.  “Other way,” Aeryn said, arresting the motion.  She sat up long enough to help him tug his arm underneath his body, then pulled his shoulders around while he concentrated on his hips and legs. 

“Ask me for something difficult the next time.”   

Aeryn reached under the covers to pull one of his legs back into a better position, which allowed his hips and lower back to relax.  Her effort was greeted by an unintelligible mumble of appreciation.  Then she lay down behind him and insinuated her arms and legs around him; she pushed one leg between his, and then completed the envelopment by looping the other leg over both of his. 

“Wha’s goin’ on?”   

“Nothing.  Go back to sleep.”  A part of her had known ahead of time that wrapping herself around him might alert him to the fact that something was bothering her, but her need to feel him against her had been stronger than her concern about worrying him.  She hugged him more tightly, and kissed the back of his neck, smelling the mildly sour tang that testified to the degree of stress his body had recently endured.

“Aeryn?”  He sounded more awake despite the short sentences.  He also sounded exhausted.  But his speech had improved, which told her that he was recovering despite the enduring fatigue.   

“I love you.”  John started to roll over to face her and she held him still, her strength easily overpowering his limited capacity.  “That’s all.  I promise.” 

“Dream?”  He tugged her arm further around him, encouraging her to pull herself closer. 

“Um hmm.”  She snugged her hips in tight against him.  She decided to change the subject.  “How do you feel?” 

“Just tired now.”  He paused.  “That was awful.  And I did it to myself.”  He was laughing. 

“You could not have known.”  She propped her head up on her hand so she could look down at him.  “How can you laugh about it?” 

“It’s over.  It was kind of an accident and it was for a good reason.  It wasn’t” -- he took a deep breath and let it out -- “it wasn’t someone else doing it to me intentionally.”  A tear slid down his nose and fell to the pillow.  “I’m a mess.”  She started to argue; he continued before she could say anything.  “Emotionally, I mean.”  John laughed again, sounding amused rather than upset, his moods taking another of the huge swings they had been warned about.

He was more like himself in this moment than he had been at any moment since they had rescued him.  Aeryn laid back down and hugged him again, feeling the new strength in his arms and shoulders, the growing power in the body that was fighting day and night to return to normal. 

“No more hurts,” he said. 

“Not for a while.  We’ll do our best.” 

“I don’t want to hurt anymore.”     

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

[KernilCrash]

Chapter 15

“All set?” 

Aeryn backed away gradually, waiting to see if John had himself braced well enough to continue sitting on his own.  He leaned heavily on his forearms and nodded, saving every bit of energy for the exhausting effort of sitting up and feeding himself.  She walked to the warmer, keeping him in her peripheral vision, and tried to think of something that he might agree to eat.  He continued to refuse to eat most of the foods they had on board with the singular exception of dried food cubes. 

As she turned to check on him, he started to slip.  She froze, ready to cross the short distance in a rush if it looked as if he was going to topple over, and waited to see if he could catch it before it went too far.  Crichton scrabbled desperately at the table for several microts, stopped the dangerous tilt, and pushed himself upright again.  It looked as if it was taking every bit of his strength and concentration to stay there.  After waiting several more microts to make sure he was stable, she returned to the problem of finding something he would eat.  John had always liked krawlak well enough, but that would take too long to cook.  She decided to try some Vantass broth.  Soaking some of the crackly food cubes in it would provide a small change in his diet. 

Aeryn turned around to get his approval of the menu only to discover that he had once again fallen asleep mid-activity.  He had dropped his head onto his folded arms and was slumped over on the table.  She would never be able to get him up on her own, and until he had slept for a while, it was unlikely that he would respond to any attempt to rouse him.  It was worth a try anyway, she decided. 

“John.”  She shook him carefully by the back of the neck.  There was no response other than his head rocking laxly on his forearms.  “Can you wake up and come back to your quarters with me?  John, wake up.”  She pulled one of his hands out from under his forehead.  There was no sign that the adjustment registered on his awareness.  She picked his hand up and dropped it back to the table with a thump.  It started to slide off the surface.  The shut down was complete.  Aeryn caught the hand and laid it more securely beside him. 

“Unbelievable,” she said, amazed at the depth of his slumber. 

“Again?” Rygel asked.  The hynerian was hovering just inside the doorway.  “Isn’t that the sixth time today?” 

“Seventh.  But he’s only been back on board fourteen solar days, and look at how much progress he’s made.  I think he deserves as many naps as he wants.”  John had made enormous progress, especially since his single-handed rescue of the entire ship and crew, and was very close to being able to walk on his own, but his rehabilitation was exacting an equally enormous toll on his energy reserves.

“Aeryn.”  Rygel stopped, looking uncomfortable.  She waited, raising her eyebrows in a silent invitation to continue whatever he was going to say.  “After what we saw on New Delvia, I believe Crichton could fall asleep twenty times a day and would deserve it.”  Rygel turned his throne sled and floated out of sight without delivering any of his customary derogatory comments. 

Aeryn looked at the hunched body next to her, listened to the small rasping snores that were the result of his hunched over position.  “He’s right you know.  You sleep whenever and wherever you want, John Crichton.”  She leaned against him, careful not to upset his precarious position, her head on the back of his shoulder, and let him sleep. 

After several microts of sitting that way, deriving a measure of peace from the physical contact, she got herself something to eat and waited.  Just over an arn had passed before he sighed, raised his head, and looked around him dully.  “What’s goin’ on?” 

He said it in the quiet wistful voice that had the capacity to break her heart every time she heard it.  The small question, a frequent query after many of his abrupt naps, embodied all the confusion and insecurity that she had lived through during the sessions with the delvians.  It sounded as though he was asking much more than what had transpired while he was sleeping; as though he needed to be told who he was, where he was, or even what epoch they inhabited.     

Aeryn answered with a far simpler concept.  “It’s time for you to go to bed.  Can you walk back there if I help you?”  She was already pulling on his arm, coaxing him to stand up. 

“Uh huh.”  He struggled to get to his feet.  His legs refused to make the transition on their own.  Aeryn slid under his arm and waited for his next uncoordinated effort to pull him upright.  “I’m okay, I can do it.”  His words were stumbling as badly as his feet.   

“I know.  I’ll just guide you a little.  You look tired.” 

She had learned not to contradict his claims head on, choosing gentler excuses for providing assistance when he was attempting something beyond his current capabilities.  Both John’s confidence and his frustration had increased since his solitary venture against the bounty hunters, making his mood swings even more difficult to deal with at times.  When he encountered a task he could not complete, John’s aggravation reached new, incredibly violent limits.  Only D’Argo and Rygel, the father and the monarch, could cope with his wilder outbursts, and even they were sometimes forced to expend more than an arn getting him to calm down. 

“Okay.” 

The simple, disjointed phrases told her he was not totally awake, so she tried to hurry him along, urging him to move a little faster in order to get him to his quarters before he passed out again.  They just made it.  Crichton started to stagger and his head dropped in fatigue as they turned in through the doors to his cell.  His arrival on his bed was a cross between lying down and a complete collapse. 

She pulled his boots loose and shifted his legs onto the bed, but otherwise left him almost as he had landed, belly down with his head cradled on one arm.  She pulled the thermal sheet over him and then sat down beside him, rubbing him between the shoulders for a few microts.  She could feel new resilience in the muscles there, the first return of his strength and vitality.  So much of his physiology had been altered by the devastation of his nervous system that he sometimes looked like another person.  Each day yielded another small return of the man that had been destroyed in the scarran stronghold. 

John’s hands clenched into fists.  A furrow appeared across his forehead, a tightening of his features into anxiety.  This was something new.  Normally all expression was extinguished when he collapsed in exhaustion.  The tension lasted for no more than five microts before he sagged back into complete relaxation.  She watched over him for another quarter arn.  Nothing similar happened again. 

Aeryn got to her feet and started to leave the chamber, then paused to look back in concern.  There were still portions of his ordeal locked up in John’s head that no one knew anything about.  She felt the first touch of apprehension about what those secreted moments might do to him in the future.  She looked at the sleeping body though, and compared it to how he had looked when they had rescued him.  Tahleen’s assurance that he would fight all the way back drifted into her mind, and she clutched that image to her, using it to restore her momentarily shaken confidence. 

John grumbled unintelligibly in his sleep, something else that was new.  Aeryn looked uncertainly between him and the empty corridor, debating whether to leave him to his dreams or stay.  There was little that needed to be done.  Moya was taking her time zig-zagging away from the New Moon of Delvia and with it, Peacekeeper controlled territory. Pilot had plotted a course that would avoid the areas of space they knew posed the greatest danger.  The extra distance had increased the length of their trip by dozens of solar days; days that they could use to concentrate on John’s recovery.  Everyone on board was aware that if they ran into more trouble before he was able to take care of himself, they were unlikely to be as lucky as the last time.  John needed to regain his strength and mobility, and he needed to do it quickly. 

Aeryn considered the quiet arns with little to do, worried her lower lip between her teeth for a microt while considering her options, then waved the doors shut and went back to stay with John.   

“Wha’?”  He woke as she slid under the covers. 

“Go back to sleep,” she ordered.  “Everything is fine.”  She snuggled in against his back, working an arm around him to hold them together. 

“’Snice,” he commented and went back to sleep. 

Aeryn watched him for a half arn, concerned about the frown and the grumbles, but there were no more signs of anxiety, and at some point she dozed off herself. 

* * * * *

A small tug woke her.  Aeryn opened her eyes to find John playing with a lock of her hair, wrapping it laboriously around a finger then pulling loose, creating the light yanking sensation that had awakened her.  He froze mid-wrap when he noticed her watching him. 

“Sorry,” he said.  “I didn’t mean to wake you.” 

“I don’t mind.  Any idea how long we’ve been asleep?” 

John shook his head, lowering it to brush his lips across the tendril of hair.  “I remember this,” he whispered.  She waited, not sure exactly what he was referring to.  “The smell, the feel.  I remember being in my ship with you and your hair.” 

“You remember everything about me.”

“Not everything.”  He was looking at her with something resembling hunger.  “I’d forgotten a few things until I woke up a little while ago.”  John pushed himself up on one elbow so he could look down at her. 

“What did you remember?” she asked eagerly, pleased that he discovered another fragment of his past. 

John leaned down and kissed her.  It was not one of the gentle caresses that he had rediscovered while on the New Moon of Delvia.  It was something more urgent, more needful … more demanding.

“No.”  She pushed him away.  “Not yet, John.” 

“Why not?” he demanded.  The tone and inflection were entirely John Crichton; the hurt look belonged to the person she still did not know how to handle, to the partially restored psyche that left her longing for the body’s original owner.  He reached for her again, an ill-directed grab that emphasized how much of his recovery still lay ahead of him. 

“I think we should wait.”  She slid out of bed and looked around for her pants.  She had not expected him to make this demand so soon.  He had caught her unprepared.  She was not ready for yet another argument about the physical relationship they had resolved less than a half-cycle earlier. 

“Why not?” 

She didn’t answer him. 

“Because I’m a dunce?  Because I don’t remember?”  He sounded intensely wounded. 

“You’re not a dunce, and you will remember,” she insisted, sitting back down on the edge of the bed.  “John, you’re still recovering, and … and I don’t know.  This simply should not be happening.  Give it some more time.”  He was childlike in so many respects; even his quick temper lacked the mature stability of adult behavior.  Somehow kissing him felt acceptable, but anything more had the taste of immorality about it. 

When she turned to look at him, John was laboriously arranging the covers, looking angry as he concentrated on getting his hands to function correctly.  She reached to help him and he barked at her.  “DON’T!!” 

“I think I had better go,” she said as calmly as possible, reaching for her pants.  He did not answer.  She watched as he got a firm grasp on the thermal sheet and yanked it up over his head, reinforcing the image of immaturity.  Aeryn looked at the pants in her hands and then pulled them on, not happy with the way their brief argument had ended.  John remained motionless and silent while she finished dressing and walked to the door.   

“You make me feel like I’m not me,” he mumbled under the covers just as the heavy bars slid open.  “Everyone else, it’s like I’m me but I’m sick.  You’re the only one who really knows, and you’re the one who treats me like I’m defective.”  John reappeared, flipping the sheet aside.  “I’m still the same HERE!”  He banged himself against the side of the head with a half-closed fist.  “I’m here, here, here!!”  He continued hitting himself.  “I can’t get it to work.  It’s in there but I can’t get it to work right!” 

Aeryn hurried back, caught the flailing hand and waited for him to calm down.  John yanked his hand out of her grasp. 

“I don’t think you’re defective,” she said.  “You’re misreading me.”  She smiled when he rolled away from her and shook his head, stubbornly refusing to accept that his interpretation was wrong.  His recalcitrant behaviors were the ones most like the Crichton they were accustomed to having aboard Moya.  Dealing with him when he got stubborn might be frustrating, but it was also reassuring.  John Crichton was alive and well and hiding inside this temporarily immature person. 

Aeryn took the strongest grip possible on her emotional control before continuing.  “John, I was the first one through that door when we rescued you.  I had to listen …”  Aeryn broke off and took another deep breath, overwhelmed by the memory of the howling she had heard that day.  “D’Argo and I were in the corridor with the mercenaries.  We heard what was happening, and we saw what they had done.”  She was forced to talk to his back which meant that she did not know if she was getting through to him.  “You know I saw more about that than anyone else.  I’m the only one you have allowed to see the whole truth.” 

His fist was rubbing his head now, and his entire body had gone rigid.  Her explanation was forcing him to remember his hideous mistreatment.  She decided to approach the problem from another direction, hoping to avoid any further reminders of what had caused the extensive damage to his nervous system. 

“I could never think of you as defective.  Every microt that I spend with you I can think of only one thing -- how lucky I am to have you back here with me.  No one … NO ONE should have been able to survive that.  Do you understand?” 

He was taking long deep breaths now, on the verge of crying.  John nodded anyway.   

“I did not say I wouldn’t, and I did not say never.  I said not now.”  When she tried giving him a hug, intending something more than a sisterly squeeze and less than a passionate clench, he pulled away from her. 

“All right.  Get some more sleep.”  He still would not face her.  “Give this time, John,” she urged, and walked toward the door again. 

“I don’t want to do this any more,” he said behind her, once again waiting until she had reached the door before responding. 

“You don’t want to do what?  Sleep?”  She smiled at the idea that he might try to resist the frequent comas. 

“No.  I want my memory back.  I hate this.”  When she turned around it was the angry, frustrated adult who greeted her.  Aeryn took a deep breath, tried to realign her reactions to the new personality, and went back to perch next to him.  John had managed to sit up and was thumping his fist repeatedly into one of the pillows, venting some of his aggravation.  “I hate this,” he repeated, and threw the pillow across the cell.     

Aeryn sat silently for several microts, uncertain how to deal with this latest problem.  He had frequently expressed frustration with not being able to access his recall, but he had never voiced this particular complaint.  “I know you do,” she started, still searching for an adequate response. 

“John.”  The deep voice from the doorway startled her.  She had been so absorbed with her attempt to formulate an answer, she had not heard D’Argo approach.  Despite his bulk, D’Argo moved into the chamber with only the slightest whisper of noise, settling on the other side of the bunk from Aeryn.  He placed a hand on Crichton’s shoulder.  “What were you doing when you got caught?” 

“Don’t remember,” John sulked, staring at his feet.

“You do remember.  I know you have gotten that part of your memory back,” D’Argo said.  “I want you to tell me what you were doing that day.” 

Aeryn watched with admiration as the father in her crewmate emerged, making mental notes so she could reproduce the firm but calm attitude later. 

“Tell me out loud,” D’Argo urged one more time.

“Covering for you guys so we could escape.  Only I didn’t.”  John lay down on his stomach, turned away from both of them, and dragged the covers up over his head for the second time. 

Aeryn let out a long sigh and rolled her eyes.  D’Argo raised his eyebrows, silently asking her for an explanation.  She used one hand to trace a series of vertical waves in the air, indicating John’s erratic behavior and abrupt mood changes.  They smiled at each other, remembering the delvians’ warning and the need for patience, and then D’Argo pulled the covers away from John’s head and shoulders.  He had his face buried in a pillow.   

“Would you prefer that one of us got caught instead of you?” D’Argo asked.  It seemed like such a simple process, but Aeryn had not considered forcing John to recount his life-altering decision out loud.

“No,” the muffled voice said unhappily.

“The rest of us got away safely.  Was that worth the cost?” 

“I guess.  But D’Argo,” John protested in something approaching a whine, “I’m just so tired of --”  John looked at D’Argo, swiveled his head to check Aeryn’s expression, and then buried his head in his pillow again.  “Never mind.” 

D’Argo pulled the covers away from the prone body, his tender movements somehow appearing condescending once the mature body was revealed.  Aeryn tried to concentrate on John’s quivering signals of insecurity rather than the outer shell that was trying to convince her he was an adult.  The parent pulled at the shaking shoulders, turned him over and pulled him into a hug.  “Say it.  We don’t mind.” 

“I’m tired of being scared and confused, D’Argo.  I’m confused all the time and I never know what’s going on.”  John buried his face in his friend’s chest.  D’Argo jerked his head at Aeryn and she slid across the bunk to join them. 

“I’m scared,” John repeated.  “I don’t like being scared.” 

“What else do you not like?” Aeryn prompted, suddenly understanding what John needed most at that particular moment. 

“I don’t like waking up in the middle of the night and not knowing where I am, and I don’t like getting lost inside Moya.  There’s supposed to be more of my life in my head that’s comfortable, and all of that is missing, and I don’t like that either.  I can’t remember the food, or Jool, or Pilot.  Everything is strange and I’m tired of it all being strange.  I want something familiar,” he wailed at last.  “And there’s someone else in my head, and he scares me, too.” 

“Who else, John?” Aeryn asked, suddenly frightened beyond logical thought that the clone had somehow survived, returning when John was totally incapable of fighting him.  “Who’s in your mind?” 

“I don’t know,” he yelled into D’Argo’s chest, his body rigid with distress.  “I’m sitting down going in circles, and he’s asking me questions.  He scares me, Aeryn.  He scares me a lot.  I’m tired of being frightened.”  Aeryn realized that they had made a mistake in not telling him about his entire past.  She had known that Scorpius was loose in his memory -- she was the one who had shown him the half-breed when they had been in Unity, after all -- and without any surrounding details to put him into context he had become a constant, frightening specter for the otherwise defenseless Crichton. 

“He’s real,” D’Argo was telling him, “but he’s not a threat any more.  His name is Scorpius and we all made sure he could not hurt you ever again.  You were the one who figured out how to do that, and then we helped you, John.”

“I’m still frightened,” came the repeated complaint.  “I don’t know how to be not scared.” 

“We’ll teach you,” Aeryn said softly, although she was not sure they could accomplish that.  Some of the tension flowed out of John’s body.  It was replaced by a mild trembling, evidence of his growing fatigue.  Less than an arn had passed since his last nap.  The emotional distress was sapping him of energy faster than the most strenuous physical exercise he was currently capable of producing.

John pushed himself away from them, rolled to the side of the bunk, and sat up.  It was an accomplishment that had been impossible just three solar days earlier.  He was making enormous strides in some areas, while lagging in others. 

“I want to remember,” he repeated more forcefully, “I don’t like this.”  He reached behind him for a pillow and threw it across the cell to join the other flung cushion, reverting to the anger that had started the wild cycle of emotions. 

D’Argo laid a hand on the t-shirted shoulder for a microt.  “You’ll remember soon.  Be patient.” 

John swung his foot in frustration, kicking over one of his boots.  He reached down for it.  The boot sailed across the chamber next, smashed into a wall, and joined the discarded pillows. 

“Crichton, calm down!” D’Argo commanded.  John reached for the second boot.  “I said calm down,” D’Argo repeated more menacingly.  The hand retreated without picking up the footwear. 

Aeryn took a deep breath and let it out slowly.  John dropped his head onto one hand, shaking from exhaustion.  This had been the wildest swing of emotions any of them had encountered so far, and they had barely begun the long recovery that the delvians had promised them.  She wondered if it was a positive development, signaling a return of more memories and responses, or a warning sign that Meylan’s hidden trauma was at work. 

“I’m tired,” John announced without preamble. 

D’Argo swung his legs onto the bed and flipped the thermal sheet over his lower body.  The luxan ran his hand reassuringly down Aeryn’s upper arm, detoured to the corner long enough to toss the pillows toward the bunk, and then left them alone in the cell. 

“Aeryn?” John called. 

“Mm hmm?” she answered.  She had only stepped as far as the doorway to dim the lights. 

“Would you … hold me?” he asked hesitantly.  “Just hold me for a while?”   

She thought about his request for several microts, tapping into every memory she could recall when she had observed a mother comforting a child.  John was too big for most of those embraces, so she settled for pulling his head and shoulders into her lap.  Settling him against her stomach, she pulled the covers up to his ears.  “Is that all right?”  She tucked a pillow under his head.  John nodded and began rocking slightly, both arms wrapped tightly around his body.  Aeryn slid one arm under his head, wrapped the other around his shoulders, and hugged him tightly, kissing him several times on the temple as she huddled over him.  “Is that better?” 

“Yes,” he whispered.  “I’m sorry.” 

“For what?” 

“For being so scared.” 

“Don’t apologize.  You need to tell us more often when you’re scared, John.  Tell us when you’re frightened so we can find ways to make it less frightening.”  His body relaxed against her.  “Promise me you’ll tell from now on.”  He lay motionless, his eyes barely open.  “Promise me?” 

“I promise, Aeryn.  I’ll tell you when I’m scared.”  He sighed one more time and went to sleep. 

Aeryn eased her embrace, but continued to hold him for almost an entire arn as he trembled in his sleep, letting out small cries from time to time.  Her initial concern when he had frowned in his sleep earlier had multiplied.  His fear, although justified, seemed out of proportion when compared to his progress toward recovery.  She watched the twitching fingers and leaping muscles as another dream assaulted John, and each time was led back to Meylan’s caution about the hidden trauma. 

“You’ve promised now, John,” she whispered to him.  “You’ve promised to tell.” 

John muttered in his sleep and finally lay still. 

* * * * *

“So we have twice in the Center Chamber, once in Pilot’s Den, three times in the corridors, twice when he made it back to his own bed --”  D’Argo paused, thinking. 

“Once in the shower, once in the maintenance bay, and I think you missed the one on Tier Six this afternoon,” Aeryn finished.  “That’s eleven in one day.”  She turned around and looked at where John had fallen asleep on the table next to his meal.  “And this, of course, makes twelve.” 

“I know they said he would need a lot of rest and would fall asleep anywhere,” Chiana laughed, “but this is amazing.” 

“I’m not sure this one isn’t just an excuse not to eat his meal.  He won’t eat anything he doesn’t remember.”  Aeryn slid closer, picked up one of Crichton’s hands and let it drop.  He did not stir.  “Or maybe it’s for real.” 

The others laughed.  No one seemed to mind.  Aeryn continued to sit next to him, one hand on his shoulder.  Crichton started to snore. 

* * * * *

Two motras shy of her quarters, Aeryn heard a shriek of frustration and a boot sailed into the passageway.  She walked toward it with caution, concerned that its mate might follow.  When no other projectiles appeared, she picked it up and walked into Crichton’s cell.  He was sitting on the edge of his bed, the second boot in his hand, looking at it like it was a hated enemy. 

“What’s the matter, John?”  She sat down beside him and put the rejected footwear on the floor. 

“I learned how to do this once, I remember someone teaching me.  I should be able to do this.”  He flung the second boot away, ignoring the damage when it smashed into some of his possessions sitting on a shelf. 

Aeryn recognized more of the frustration that had begun to appear more frequently as he continued to recover, and did not know how to handle this particular problem.  He had begun to exhibit a nearly deranged level of violence at certain times. 

“Do you want me to show you how?” she said quietly, trying to defuse his anger.  She had shown him how to tie the laces more than a dozen times already.  He would remember one day and forget the next, providing more evidence that his brain remained incapable of making certain permanent connections.   

Aeryn retrieved the spurned boot from where it had eventually fallen to the floor, resuming her place next to Crichton as he pulled it on.  He pulled the laces tight and then waited for her, handing the long tails to her when she moved closer.  He watched closely as she tied them, pulled the knot loose and did it again.  She pulled the ends out a second time and handed them back to him.  She was careful not to look at his face as he worked through the process on the first boot, then the second.  He did not seem happy with the small achievement. 

“You know how to do it now.  What’s the matter?” 

She sat without moving, trying to make sure that all of his reactions had to do with what was on his mind, not with her.  She was also concerned because he was not forming the memory necessary to complete this simple task.  There were several such holes that refused to be filled, including several of the routes through Moya.  The frequency at which he was getting lost was actually increasing, due to a combination of his increased confidence coupled with his faulty recall.     

Crichton slapped himself on the side of the head; it was a hard blow of anger.  “I can see a pair of hands showing me, it’s an important memory.  There are dirty white shoes of some sort, and whoever is showing me is behind me and they mean something special to me.  I CAN’T GET IT!”  His voice rose to a roar.  Aeryn froze and waited, knowing that this was a problem he would have to resolve himself. 

John levered himself to his feet, took a moment to make sure he had his balance, and then worked his way to one of the shelves that had suffered from the impact of the thrown boot.  He flicked fragments from a broken flask onto the floor, in the process picking up a whole one to sweep beneath it.  When he began staring at the ceramic cup for several microts, Aeryn got up and moved to stand beside one of Moya’s protruding ribs, anticipating another outburst and the need for cover.  A moment later, as she had expected, John whirled and flung the held cup against the far wall, almost tipping over in the process.  Once again, the frustration driven anger took over his entire persona with little forewarning.   

“Stop it!” she barked at him in her best parade ground voice. 

Crichton steadied himself against the wall and looked at her in surprise. 

“Calm down,” she ordered evenly, using the tones that D’Argo had coached her on.  “Get control of yourself, Crichton.”  She used his family name deliberately, something that never failed to make him pause no matter how irrational his outburst at the time. 

John started to answer her, looking as hurt as he always did when she called him ‘Crichton’ in that particular manner, closed his mouth, and then simply nodded.  “I’m okay now,” he said more meekly.  “Back in control.”

“Good.  Let’s go get something to eat.”  She stepped away from her spot behind cover and took him firmly by the elbow.  It was all the help he needed in order to walk these days, just some borrowed balance and the knowledge that if he started to fall, someone was there to help him recover.  Together, moving at a cautious pace, they headed for the Center Chamber.

Behind them several eyestalks peered cautiously around the corner, verifying that the rampaging biologic was gone.  Two DRDs emerged from where they had been hiding and began cleaning up the scattered debris.   

* * * * *

“Thank you, Pilot.”  Aeryn, Chiana and D’Argo hurried into the Den together.

“I would not have bothered you except that he fell asleep while we were talking and I was concerned for his safety.”  Pilot looked at the human sleeping in the middle of one of the bridges leading to his station.  Crichton was a scant four denches from the edge of the long drop to the bottom of Moya’s central neural cluster.  Six DRDs surrounded him, all trying to wake him up.  He was in one of his exhausted states, however, and nothing they did could penetrate to where his awareness was buried. 

“This was the right thing to do, Pilot.  He rarely moves when he’s like this, but there’s no telling what might have happened when he woke up.”  Aeryn and Chiana helped D’Argo roll John away from the edge and then stood by to help as he slung the astronaut over his shoulder and carried him out of the Den.  Chiana trailed along after him, following them to Quarters to make sure he got settled without difficulty.  Aeryn lingered, drifting toward the center of the enormous chamber. 

Pilot’s attention remained fixed on Crichton until he disappeared from sight.  “Aeryn, Commander Crichton has been back on board for more than forty solar days.  How long should we expect this behavior to continue?” 

Aeryn leaned forward against the half-height wall surrounding Pilot, rested her chin on her forearm, and peered up at the creature towering above her.  “I don’t know, Pilot.  It could take another half cycle, perhaps longer if there are any setbacks.  I wish there was some way to share with you how much John has been through.  I wouldn’t mind if this took over a cycle, not after what he survived.” 

“You misunderstand me, Aeryn.  Moya and I have been discussing ways of preventing Crichton from coming to harm.  Some require more effort on Moya’s part and would be considered a long-term resolution.  She could, for instance, grow railings along these walkways.”

“I don’t believe anything like that is necessary, Pilot.  John is improving every day.  You’ve been more than helpful by providing DRDs to keep an eye on him.  Moya doesn’t need to do anything more.”  Aeryn stared at Pilot silently, noticing for the first time in almost a cycle some of the smallest details of the markings on his shell, intricate crenellations and overlapping plates that she often did not have time to appreciate. 

“Is there something wrong, Aeryn?” he asked as she continued to stare at him. 

“No, Pilot.  I was just thinking how lucky we are to have you and Moya taking care of us.  No one could ask for better hosts.”  Aeryn knew that Pilot did not have the capacity to blush, but she could have sworn he changed colors as his expression shifted to one of embarrassed pleasure.  “John has been falling asleep fewer than ten times a day lately, and physically he’s almost back to normal.  I think we may see an end to this before too long.  Moya doesn’t need to go to such extreme measures.” 

“It would not be any trouble, Aeryn, but I will convey your sentiments to Moya, and we will continue to maintain a watch over Commander Crichton whenever possible.”   

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

[KernilCrash]

Chapter 16

Aeryn walked into Command, stopped two motras inside the door, and looked around.  Chiana was sitting at the strategy table, ostensibly standing watch despite the fact that they were passing through a fairly empty region of space.  Watching over their progress under those circumstances required little more than the ability to stay awake through several arns of unrelenting tedium. 

“What’s up, Aeryn?” she asked. 

“I’m looking for John.  He wanted to learn more about the transport pod today.  Has he been up here?” 

“Not for about four arns.  He stopped in to ask me what tier the Den was on, and then he left.”  She got up and started for the door, following Aeryn.  “Do you want me to help look?” 

“Not yet.  Pilot?” Aeryn called over her comms.  “Is Crichton with you?” 

“No, Officer Sun.  He has not visited the Den today.” 

“Oh, frell,” Chiana said.  “He’s gotten lost again.” 

“What about the DRDs, Pilot?  Do any of them know where he is right now?”  Aeryn and Chiana waited patiently, knowing that unless Pilot was actively tracking Crichton, it would take him a microt or two of multitasking to check the input from all of Moya’s DRDs. 

“He is on Tier Seven, two junctions aft of the ion backwash chamber, and one corridor to treblin side.  There are two DRDs there at this time.  They will monitor him until you arrive.” 

Approaching the location designated by Pilot, Aeryn could see John lying face down near the edge of the corridor, sound asleep on the hard floor.  For perhaps the hundredth time, she was reminded of Daaren’s look of quiet amusement when he warned them of this sort of thing, and wished there was some way the delvian could learn how true his predictions had been. 

Two DRDs were examining John, circling around and peering at him with their flexible eyestalks.  One unit extended a maintenance claw and nudged the sleeper.  The two midget robots backed off, chirped to each other several times -- perhaps discussing the strange place this being had chosen to go to sleep -- then moved in a second time and bumped against him more vigorously.  There was no response. 

Aeryn crossed the last two motras and knelt down beside the small group.  The DRDs winked at her and then scooted away, apparently satisfied that someone was attending to the malfunctioning human. 

“John, wake up.”  He did not stir.  “John, come on, there are better places for you to sleep.”  Aeryn straddled him, grabbed him under the arms and pulled him up.  “Let’s go, you’ll sleep better in your own quarters.  A little frelling help here, please.” 

He came slowly to his knees, not saying anything, and staggered to his feet as she continued to exhort him to wake up.  She looped one arm over her shoulders and guided him back through the corridors to his chamber.  He did not reply to anything she said during the journey, and when she pushed him toward his bunk he crawled on to it and was immediately asleep again.  Aeryn tugged the cover out from under him and floated it over his body.  She sat next to him and watched him sleep for a while. 

“Come back, John,” she pleaded, not caring if her voice woke him.  For once, she was the one who was tired and scared.  She was tired of waiting for the John Crichton she knew to put in an appearance, and she was scared that he might never recover completely.  This would be enough, if that was all she could have, but she wanted all of him back, for his sake as well as hers.  He had willingly given up his health and sanity to keep her safe.  It was only fair that he should be able to reclaim his life.  In addition, she wanted a full and equal partner accompanying her through the cycles, not a half-recovered, sometimes childlike person who would always be at risk of being killed, captured, or injured.  It was selfish, and when the worry kept her awake at night, it was also the one overriding concern that she could never banish entirely from her thoughts. 

She wanted John Crichton back, and even after allowing for the warnings and lectures by Meylan and the other delvians, it was beginning to feel as if it was taking too long. 

“Aeryn?” he called.  It was one of his quiet, sleep-generated inquiries. 

“Right here,” she answered, as always.  “Get some more sleep.” 

“I’m scared.”  He rubbed his eye and then lay still again. 

“So am I, John.”  Aeryn slid under the covers and curled herself around his back, tucking her chin in against his shoulder.  “We can be scared together.” 

* * * * *

He was lost again.  The corridors all looked so much alike, and the junctions never seemed to make any sense.  He knew he could comm Pilot for help, but since he did not know where he was, they would have to send a DRD or one of the others to find him first.  Crichton wandered farther along, hoping to spot some chamber that looked familiar.  The corridor was lined with the cells and the regularly spaced maintenance areas common to every other tier aboard Moya; there was nothing to distinguish this spot from dozens of others just like it.  He kicked at a closed cell door, deriving a small measure of satisfaction out of the bashing rattle of the heavy grate, then looked around him again trying to get his bearings. 

On top of everything else he was tired, which meant his body was probably going to shut down on him soon, very likely before he got himself un-lost.  Frustration began to take over -- not the first time that had happened since his friends had brought him back to Moya -- and for once he remembered just enough of what the delvians had warned him about to know what was happening.  Knowing didn’t make it any better.  He was still lost and about to pass out. 

“God DAMN it!!”  He could not even get from his quarters to the hangar bay to meet Aeryn.  It was the third time he had gotten lost trying to travel this route.  Or it was the third time that he remembered getting lost.  There was no telling how many similar incidents he had forgotten. 

The anger was rising to the surface, fighting to take control.  It was trying to provoke him into another of his increasingly frequent psychotic outbursts.  “No,” he told himself.  Clamping down on the anger did not make him feel any more in control of his life, but it did leave him feeling more like an adult for the moment. 

There was a whine from an adjacent corridor and a DRD whipped around the corner.  It came to a stop the moment it spotted him.  It had its laser tool unshipped, which meant that it was likely headed for a repair, but it paused in its duties and moved forward to sit by his foot, eyestalks staring up at him.  It was the unit that had blue tape on one of its eyestalks, the one that had seemed to be a leader when they had taken on the bounty hunters together.  It even had a name, but that bit of information had been sucked into the void in the middle of his head along with so much else. 

“Hi, little guy.  Here to help me again?”  He crouched down and tapped the top of its casing. 

The DRD blinked twice.  No. 

“Thanks a bunch.” 

He was about to ask the DRD to lead him back to Quarters when he was swamped under an immense wave of exhaustion.  One moment the solution to his dilemma was sitting by his feet; the next moment he was so tired he could not think.  John sat down on the floor and stared at the waiting unit.  It was coming.  He could feel it.  He was almost too tired to breathe and that was the last signal his body ever gave him before he blacked out. 

He stretched out on the floor, cradled his head on his arms, and peered sideways at the waiting drone.  “Tell Pilot, would you?”  And then he fell asleep.

They were coming for him.  He could hear the heavy steps in the corridor.  He lay naked on the filthy floor and rubbed away the tears so they wouldn’t see his fright.  His nervous system was singing to him without respite.  There was no relief from the itching discomfort that the machine left behind.  It began the microt that he was released from the screaming agony of the energy stream and continued arn after endless arn until the next time they wired him up and pushed the button.  Whenever the pain faded, the grating feeling was there, waiting to make every breath a misery.  It was a cross between a sunburn, poison ivy, and the aches of the flu, a horrible sensitivity to every small touch that left him sick and shaking. 

The door crashed open and the hands began grabbing at him, pulling him up to take him back to the room with the table.  He screamed out his anger, using the fear and rage to find enough strength to fight back.  He managed to break loose and rolled away, only to come up against the wall with a crash. 

“CRICHTON!  John, calm down …” 

They were grabbing at his wrists, which meant a bruising fling down the hallway ending in a smash against the ceramic walls, leaving him too stunned to resist.  He rolled away, lashing out without caring what their claws did to him.  They had sewn him up before, they could do it again.

“John, you’re on Moya.  WAKE UP!”

“D’Argo?”  He woke to discover that he was already on his feet, jammed into the crevice between one of Moya’s support ribs and an inner bulkhead, slapping at the hands that were trying to help him break free of his nightmare.  “D’Argo?”  He slid to the floor gasping for breath and spent several microts watching the drips of sweat form a small puddle between his feet.  “Sorry … I’m sorry, man.”  The luxan reached for him again and John’s hands jittered crazily, caught between the dream instinct to slap the grasping hands away and the waking knowledge that his friend was only trying to help him.  “Didn’t mean to hit,” he added in the way of an apology.   

D’Argo moved away, powerless to help Crichton battle free of the last of his nightmare.  “Come on, John.  I’ll take you back to your quarters so you can get some more rest.  Can you stand up?” 

Crichton shook his head and after a few more microts stretched out a hand, finally able to accept the offered assistance.  D’Argo grabbed him firmly and hung on tight as John started to panic again.  He pulled Crichton to his feet, moving quickly to scoop him up as the human’s knees buckled. 

“D’Argo, I --”

“You hate being carried this way, I know.  Shut up and go back to sleep, John.” 

John tried to hang on to D’Argo’s shoulder in an attempt to make it easier for his friend to carry him, but the fatigue was back worse than ever.  He had been about to thank D’Argo for rescuing him from his nightmare when breathing once again became an insurmountable obstacle, and he felt himself sliding away from the steady rhythm of D’Argo’s stride.  The cold and pain of his dream clung to him like a second skin, only partially offset by the warmth and security of D’Argo’s embrace.  He let himself get pulled in for once, willingly resting his head on the heavily muscled shoulder and telling himself that this was an exception.  He would never do it again … until the next time.

“You’re safe, John,” D’Argo said. 

“I know.”  He knew it, and yet he did not.  He was safely aboard Moya, and yet a portion of his psyche insisted that the unbearable agony could begin again at any moment.  He could not stand going through anything like that again.  Death would be a far more pleasant alternative.  Never again, he swore to himself in the privacy of his own mind.  Not even for Aeryn. 

“Bad dream?” D’Argo asked.  His tone was gentle, leaving John the option of denying it. 

“I … I don’t remember it.”  He tried to laugh.  It came out a sob instead.  “Must have been pretty awful since I was trying to clobber you.” 

“It’s all right.”  D’Argo maneuvered him through a doorway and pounded down a steep ramp to the next lower tier.

“All I remember is that whatever I was dreaming about hurt like hell.” 

“That’s not surprising.  Go back to sleep, John.” 

D’Argo’s voice rumbled through his bones, the same way … someone else’s … someone he had known when he was … somewhere else, sometime when he was younger.  He could not remember whose voice had rumbled like that when he was being carried.  John turned awkwardly inside D’Argo’s powerful grasp, wrapped his arms around his friend’s neck and shoulders and held on tightly. 

“You’re all right.  You’re safe now, John,” the deep voice crooned to him.   

Tears stung, brimmed over, and broke loose before he could stop them.  He tried to wipe them away before D’Argo noticed and thought him weak, but his body was already asleep.  He knew when he was settled on his own bunk, and could not even manage to rouse himself enough to thank his friend.  A moist cloth cleaned his tears away, a rough hand passed lightly through his hair, and then he was alone. 

The pulses and rumbles of Moya worked their way into his skull and carried him the rest of the way into sleep, for the moment erasing the hideous memories. 

* * * * *

D’Argo could hear yelling and the ringing tones of smashing metal while he was still twenty motras from the hangar bay.  Three DRDs scurried out of the huge chamber, fleeing into the corridors.  Aeryn’s frantic summons had caught him in the middle of changing into his sleepwear; he pulled the loose black top around him more tightly and fastened the waist as he ran around the corner.  His first sight was that of Crichton winding up for a throw, a huge piece of scrap metal in his hand.  The raging human flung it furiously into the midst of a chaotic mess in one corner, smashing a crystalline scanning lens into microscopic shards. 

“What the frell is going on?” D’Argo bellowed, ducking flying shrapnel. 

“Get down!” Aeryn yelled at him. 

The warning came just in time.  John grabbed a piece of wood and flung it at the new intruder.  D’Argo dove for cover, searching for the source of Aeryn’s voice at the same time that he squirmed behind one of the massive upright pillars.  He spotted her huddled behind a cargo container, her pulse pistol drawn but pointed uselessly at the floor. 

“What happened?” he called to her over the din. 

“He wanted me to show him more about the module.  There were parts marked in English.  I couldn’t read them and he couldn’t remember even one word.  He got frustrated and then this started.”  She flinched, ducking down further as another lens shattered. 

Crichton began yelling incoherently, venting his emotions in a stream of untranslatable syllables. 

“Aeryn, you commed me almost a quarter arn ago.  This has been going on since then?” 

She nodded, looking worried. 

“How much sleep has he gotten today?” 

“Hardly any.  I think that’s part of what set it off.  The only good news is that he hasn’t found a weapon yet.” 

A DRD ventured into the hangar bay, surveyed the scene and retreated in reverse, apparently unwilling to waste the time to turn around.  It bumped into the edge of the door, spun around and zipped out of sight.  A lump of twisted metal followed it into the corridor, flung with frightening accuracy and force.  An unarticulated bellow of frustration rang through the chamber, followed by another loud crash.   

“He can’t continue this much longer,” D’Argo said.  “John will run out of energy and collapse.” 

“Before or after he hurts himself?” Aeryn said.  A chunk of metal smashed into the side of the container above her head.  “Or someone else.”

“He cannot keep this up.”  Another ringing impact from the other side of the maintenance bay seemed to contradict his statement.  “I’ll have to tongue him.” 

“Let me distract him so you can get closer,” Aeryn called quietly.  Another chunk of debris, larger than the first one, ricocheted off the container protecting her, suggesting that the raging human had overheard their conversation.  A microt later a heavier impact sounded from another direction, followed by a bellow of pain. 

“Frell!”  Frustrated by her helplessness, Aeryn resorted to smashing the butt of her weapon against the container protecting her.  She jammed the pistol into its holster and scrambled out from behind the barricade.  D’Argo jumped to his feet, intending to warn her to be careful.  He was too late.  Aeryn was already darting toward the source of John’s anger-laden yells of pain, all caution abandoned.

Crichton was down but far from rational.  From the items strewn around the hangar, D’Argo concluded that he had managed to damage a container on the bottom of a stack, which had then collapsed under the weight of the pile above it.  John was pinned beneath one of the undamaged units, still struggling, beating at the imprisoning weight with both hands. 

“John!” Aeryn yelled at him, trying to get close enough to help him.  “Stop it.  Calm down and let us help.” 

She was answered by another string of untranslatable invective.  Crichton would not wait for assistance.  He pushed against the nearest edge of the reinforced drum lying across his lower body and managed to rock it part way off his legs.  Before he could get free, his hands slipped and it rolled back even further, generating another rending cry of pain. 

“Crichton, for frell’s sake, stop struggling and wait for us to lift this off you.” 

John’s struggles became less frantic and the profanity tapered off.  Aeryn waved to D’Argo and together they strained to lift the cask. 

“Get him out,” D’Argo hissed when the edge came up far enough to release John.  “I’ve got it.”  Aeryn hurried around him and dragged John clear of the weight.  At her barked command, D’Argo released his grip and the container smashed back to the floor. 

“I’m all right.  I can do this by myself,” John said, pulling out of her hands when she tried to help him to his feet.  He limped several paces away, glaring around him at the mess.  “Leave me alone.” 

“You’re bleeding,” she said, following him. 

“I’m fine!” he bellowed, suddenly as angry as before.  “I can take care of myself for once!”  Another metal fragment whanged off into the distance.  Aeryn took three quick steps away from him, recognizing the beginning of another crazed rampage. 

“Stop this John,” D’Argo said, concentrating on sounding strict.  “You’re not behaving …” 

Crichton rushed him, striking out with far more strength than accuracy, and D’Argo shuffled back out of range.  One wild punch landed on his shoulder, and he parried the next four or five blows with his forearms.  “Do not do this, John.  Do not make me fight you.” 

He continued to move away.  It did not make a difference.  Crichton was fixated on the retreating luxan.  The flurry of punches and counters moved gradually around the hangar bay, Crichton pursuing as D’Argo continued to retreat. 

“Tongue him!” Aeryn yelled from a safe distance. 

“I’m trying!  I can’t get a clear shot.”

John moved in more aggressively and he resorted to hitting the human with both hands clenched together, sending him flying to one side.  John staggered into a jumble of wreckage, tripped and disappeared for a microt amidst the various rattling components.  D’Argo went after him in a rush, seeing the momentarily dazed form lying with his neck exposed.  The long tongue lashed out, moving too fast to be seen, and John sighed once and lay still. 

“Hezmana.  That was insane.” 

“That was not John,” Aeryn said beside him.  “He never acts like that, D’Argo.  What’s going on?” 

“Is it safe now?” Rygel’s voice broke in on their depressed reverie.  The throne sled drifted into the hangar, tracing a wandering path that allowed the Dominar to survey the destruction beneath him.  “I always knew Crichton was fahrbots but this is beyond his customary level of dementia.” 

D’Argo hissed at the hynerian, venting his aggravation. 

Aeryn did bother looking up.  She was crouched over John’s inert body, checking him for injuries.  “His legs are going to be badly bruised.  That’s all though.  Nothing seems to be broken.  You did a good job not hurting him, D’Argo.” 

“He did not make it easy.”  D’Argo began tossing debris aside, clearing a path to get to John.  “All this because he couldn’t read some piece of information in his module?” 

Aeryn nodded. 

“This doesn’t make sense.  I have never seen John this upset about anything.”  He knelt next to the conscious figure and began straightening his limbs in preparation for picking him up.

“I believe it makes complete sense,” Rygel drawled from his location above them.  The pair on the floor looked up, waiting for more of an explanation.  “His life has been taken away from him, albeit temporarily.  His life was taken away from him once already when he wound up here, now it’s been taken away from him again.  Before this happened, he at least had his hideous excuse for a spacecraft, and his own language and his memories.  Now he has nothing.  I would be equally upset if the only way I could regain my life was to be reminded of my loss every waking moment.”  The monarch looked down at Crichton with something resembling sympathy, spun his chair around, and left the chamber. 

“I hate it when Rygel is right,” D’Argo grumbled, gathering John into his arms.  Aeryn took some of the weight initially, helped him stagger to his feet, and then settled John’s lolling head against his shoulder.  “His quarters or Jool’s infirmary?  He usually wakes up in about half an arn,” D’Argo asked.   

“His quarters I think.  Let’s give him some place familiar to wake up.”  She followed D’Argo’s route through the battlefield. 

Several sets of eyestalks peered around the edge of the doorway, checking to see if it was safe yet. 

“Sorry about the mess.”

* * * * *

Aeryn strode into the maintenance bay they used for an exercise area and glared around her, examining the punching dummy and padded targets she had set up for her training regimen.  A flurry of memories swirled around her, reminiscent of the disjointed images she had shared with John during the Meetings:  punching her hands into bleeding tatters when she had discovered it had been Moya’s first pilot that she had helped kill, until John appeared to grab her and pull her away; lying shivering on the floor telling him she was dying, John crouched over her with a look on his face that she had not understood; the endless arns of teaching him how to fight, how to protect himself, none of which had helped when he needed it the most. 

“Bad idea,” she said to herself, kicked the dummy once and turned to leave. 

“What’s a bad idea?” Rygel demanded from just outside the doorway. 

She had not heard him coming, which meant that she had been more deeply mired in her thoughts than she suspected.  “Mind your own business,” she snapped and hurried away from him. 

The Dominar watched Aeryn disappear, considering the inexplicable anger and how quickly it had followed the events in the hangar.  Then he turned his throne sled and went in search of the rest of the crew.  He would have to be very careful, he reflected.  His comments would have to appear careless and unpremeditated if he were to hide his concern for Aeryn while pointing someone else in her direction. 

* * * * *

D’Argo slowed from a rush to a meandering wander four motras before he reached the doorway to the hangar bay.  He stopped, watching from the corridor as Aeryn moved around the cluttered maintenance bay, slowly picking up the debris from Crichton’s earlier rampage.  She put several splicers back in their niches, then gathered up a handful of scraps from the floor.  D’Argo watched with admiration as she lobbed one piece of damaged circuitry after another accurately into a waste bin located on the far side of the bay.  He turned away, relieved that Rygel’s griping had been unfounded. 

“Frell it all!” Aeryn screamed behind him, followed by the sharp crack of a piece of debris ricocheting off a wall.  D’Argo spun around in time to see another piece of metal disappear into Moya’s hangar bay, thrown with more force than John had been able to muster earlier in the day.  Tools, waste metal, and bits of damage equipment followed. 

“Frell, frell, frell, frell,” she screamed as she heaved each blameless object into the dimly lit distance of Moya’s internal cavern.  Several dozen chunks of waste disappeared into the gloom in time with a chorus of Sebacean profanity before she came to a stop. 

“Aeryn.”  D’Argo’s single quiet word jerked a startled exclamation out of her.  She spun around, right hand dropping to the butt of her pulse pistol.  “I’m sorry,” he said quickly, holding both hands up in a placating gesture.  “Aeryn, what is bothering you?” 

Aeryn slapped the pistol back under the catch of the holster and turned away from him, shoulders squared and rigid, back straight, head held high.  “Nothing.”  She hammered the short denial out through clenched teeth. 

“Aeryn,” D’Argo repeated her name gently as he moved to stand alongside her.  “Look.”  He pointed to a corner where two sets of eyestalks were peering cautiously around the corner.  “Even the DRDs know that this is not ‘nothing’.” 

When her shoulders slumped and she dropped her head in resignation he allowed himself a small inward smile.  The DRDs crept out from their hastily sought refuges all around the chamber.  The work gang of robots resumed their task of cleaning up as much of the destruction as they could handle without assistance. 

“You do not have to confide in me, but I would be happy to listen if you want to talk about it,” he said carefully, mindful of the recent spate of violence against inanimate objects.  “It might help.”

“I can’t do this anymore, D’Argo,” she said after several microts of silence.  “I don’t have the strength.” 

“You have the strength to do anything you want to do, Aeryn.  What is it that you think you cannot do?”  He took her by the arm and steered her toward a workbench near John’s module. 

“Any of this.”  Aeryn pulled away and went to look into the cockpit of the module.  “He gets better but he gets worse.  He remembers certain things, and then acts more erratic.  I try to be patient, but -- ”

D’Argo folded his arms and leaned a hip against the workbench, watching her.  Aeryn wandered around the module, fingers trailing over its battered surfaces.  “But what?” he prompted when she did not continue.   

“Look at what happened today.  D’Argo, that was not John Crichton.  John has never acted like that before.  Never.  Not even when the chip took over.  When that happened, he was murderous, not insane.”  Aeryn leaned both elbows on the stubby wing and dropped her head into her hands, staring blindly. 

In a flash he understood the anguish she was keeping hidden inside.  His own question to the delvians sometimes haunted him as the solar days passed and still his friend did not reemerge from the midst of the compounded physiological damage. 

“Are we doing this just to keep some sort of wreckage alive?”

Crichton was far from the wreckage he had been concerned about that day, but he had spent countless arns wondering if they would have to reconcile themselves to the fact that their friend would never be the same.  He shared Aeryn’s nightmare of uncertainty.  Although the oft repeated solution of ‘time and patience’ had brought them a long way, there was no way of knowing if it would be enough to complete John’s hard fought journey.  D’Argo watched Aeryn’s shoulders rise and fall, watched her fight to contain her impending tears, and knew that he could not voice his own fears.  As much as it would help him to say it out loud, it was not fair to heap that added concern on top of her existing distress.  He gave voice to his hopes instead.   

“He is going to recover, Aeryn.  Look how far John has come.  You are strong enough to see this through, and you do not have to do this alone.  Not one of us is going to give up until the John Crichton we all know and would like to jettison out a pressure hatch is back among us, making up his horrible plans and driving us all insane with his never ending Earth words.” 

She did not answer.  Aeryn’s deep, shaking breaths said that she was close to the rare crisis of tears. 

An idea began to take shape, one that would offer both of them some relief and reassurance that John might return to his old self some day soon.  “Aeryn, will you wait here for half an arn?”

She looked up, her face pale and strained, glanced around the empty chamber, and nodded.  D’Argo hurried out of the maintenance bay, somehow sure that the privacy would give her time to vent more of the pent-up anxiety.  He turned into the corridor and almost ran over Chiana, who was hurrying in the opposite direction. 

“Chiana!” he said, steadying her as they veered to avoid the collision and both nearly fell over.  “What are you doing here?” 

“I live here, remember?” she said aggressively.  “I can’t take a walk to the hangar bay if I feel like it?  Who died and made you god?”

D’Argo recognized one of Crichton’s phrases, one of the many they had all picked up over the past cycles.  “My demand came out wrong,” he said.  “You have every right to be here.”

“Yeah, so did mine.  I’m sorry.  Rygel was going on and on about Aeryn acting fahrbots, and I thought I’d see if there was anything I could do to help since the little toad had not stuck around to find out what the problem was.”  She leaned toward the open doorway, peering in toward where Aeryn remained alone.  “Have you talked to her?” 

“A little.”  D’Argo caught her shoulder and pulled her away from the opening, hearing the first quiet noises of Aeryn’s much-needed emotional release.  He knew that the ex-Peacekeeper would not want anyone to know that she was crying.  “I have an idea how to take care of this, but I need you to stay here.  Just make sure Aeryn remains in the maintenance bay as I asked her.”  He looked down at the flashing black eyes, noted the energy bursting out of the slim body, and interpreted the signals being transmitted.  “Leave her alone, Chiana.  She needs some time by herself.  Just make sure she doesn’t leave.”  He watched the body language, familiar with the jerks, twitches, and spiky angles that would expose any deceit. 

“All right.  But what are you going to do?  What’s wrong?”  She hung onto his sleeve, trailing along as he moved down the corridor, and started to smile as he told her what he was going to do. 

* * * * *

“Aeryn?”  Crichton limped into the maintenance bay, looking around for her.  He swallowed hard against a tight feeling in his chest, amazed at the level of destruction he had managed to achieve in such a brief length of time.  He shunted the embarrassment off to one side, trying to remember everything D’Argo had told him to do, and walked toward the enormous doors to the hangar bay.  “Aeryn?” he called again. 

“Over here,” she answered.  The low voice carried easily in the silence. 

Aeryn was sitting on one of the workbenches, looking out at the stars.  A memory concerning both her position and the location teased at him.  He shoved it aside, trying to stay focused on the task at hand.  It was too easy to get derailed, which usually resulted in forgetting every last detail of what he was supposed to be doing.  He had to remember what D’Argo told him to do.

“What’s wrong, John?”   

“Nothing’s wrong.  I thought we could just sit together for a while.”  He wanted to apologize about what had happened earlier.  But D’Argo had told him not to mention that bit of insanity, so he bit down on the impulse and concentrated on D’Argo’s plan.  “Can we do that?” 

Aeryn gestured to the workbench next to her, inviting him up. 

John gnawed on his lower lip for a microt, strangely attracted to that particular spot facing the portal.  D’Argo had told him to do something else though, something that would reassure Aeryn.  ‘Guilt’ had been a shockingly familiar yet almost forgotten sensation when D’Argo had explained that he needed to do something for her for a change.  She had been holding him together for so long, and he had somehow managed to overlook the fact that she needed some support from time to time.  The requirement was clear in his mind now, easily remembered now that someone else had told him what needed to be done.     

“Would it be all right if we sat somewhere else?” he asked.  “Over there?”  He pointed to a spot on the floor near the wall, one where they would still be able to look out at the stars. 

Aeryn slid off the workbench and came willingly to join him, standing for the extra microts it took for him to convince his body to fold up in order to sit on to the floor.  He wondered about that, curious why she was waiting to sit down, but then she lowered herself into place so she was sitting in front of him, and he realized that once again both Aeryn and D’Argo knew something about him that he could not recall.  He wrapped his arms around her, feeling the long sigh of satisfaction as she leaned back into his embrace.  A memory of a similar situation teased at him, frustrating him when it retreated without emerging.  He closed his eyes for a microt and managed to beat the frustration into submission.

“Is this okay?” he asked into her ear.  “Would you be willing to sit like this for a while and do nothing except talk if we feel like it?”   

“Yes.”  Aeryn leaned into him with more force.  “Yes, this is fine, John.”  She sighed deeply, letting her breath out in a series of small exhalations, and worked her way closer to his body.  “Thank you,” she whispered, pulling his arms around her more tightly. 

She was warm where their bodies met, both soft and firm at the same time, her hair sweet-smelling as he laid his cheek against her head.  The errant memory came home, slamming into place with an impact that was almost physical:  Sitting on the floor in Pilot’s Den with Aeryn in his arms, happy that they were together and sad about something else.  The something else portion of the memory was buried deeper; it refused to be teased loose. 

He did not care that a piece of the memory was missing.  He understood why D’Argo had told him to sit this way.  It was part of his forgotten history with Aeryn.  He rested his cheek against her head.  “I’m glad you’re here,” he said. 

“I’m glad you’re here, John Crichton.”   Aeryn intertwined her fingers into his and leaned down to kiss his knuckles. 

Having her in his arms was a wonderful feeling.  D’Argo was right.  He would have to do this with Aeryn more often.  Daily, if she would let him.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

[KernilCrash]

Chapter 17

Aeryn watched John out of the corner of his eye as he poked listlessly at his meal.  He had been eating anything they put in front of him for nearly twenty solar days, and she had heard his stomach growling when they had been working in the access shaft earlier, so she was having difficulty figuring out why he was not eating.  He looked more dispirited than he had during any of the preceding sixty solar days, despite the fact that he was almost back to normal with the exception of some large gaps in his long-term memory. 

His progress over the last six ten-days had been almost miraculous.  He could perform most of the repairs he used to know how to do, and the module was familiar territory again.  They had taken him on a tour of Moya’s lesser-used spaces, and although he did not remember many of the things that had occurred in each of the chambers, he had recognized and correctly identified each one.  There had been none of his curious questions for almost ten solar days, he had finally learned how to tie his boot laces, and the happy childlike demeanor had been replaced by his usual humorous confidence, interspersed only occasionally with the now familiar outbursts of frustration.  The violent explosions of anger had disappeared completely after his rampage in the hangar bay, and he hadn’t kicked even a single DRD since that day … although there had been a few close calls that had sent one or more of the drones diving into maintenance spaces for cover.   

He was, in most respects, John Crichton again.

But tonight he looked confused and disoriented, shoving the alien delicacies around on his plate, and even going so far as to shake his head when D’Argo offered him some more raslak. 

“Do you want something else?” Aeryn asked.  The conversation on the other side of John continued without interruption but at a lower volume, a sign that the others were listening for his answer.

“Hunh?  No, this is fine Aeryn.  Thanks.”  He speared some melvak beans, gazed at them for several microts, then let his utensil drop and stared off into space.  He finally turned to look at her, the familiar look of confusion back in place for the first time in tens of days.  “Does something called T-bird mean anything to you?”  When she shook her head, he went back to poking at his food, his chin resting on his free hand. 

“John” -- D’Argo waited until he had Crichton’s attention -- “I don’t know if it is the same object, but you once described some sort of ground transportation that you used to own.  You took a lot of pride in it, and liked to work on the engine.  I think you called it a Dee Bird.” 

“Yes!  That’s it!”  John struck his forehead with the palm of his hand.  “How could I not remember it?  Blue sixty-two T-bird, rag top!  And before that there was a pickup DK and I owned together, only we totalled it and the insurance wasn’t right so the company wouldn’t pay up.”  He was on his feet and striding excitedly across the chamber.  All chatter had stopped; everyone was watching the energized figure.  “I remember!  The bike I trashed when I dislocated my shoulder, I remember what it was now.  And that corridor outside the ion backwash chamber, that’s where I cut through to Quarters that time Moya got stuck between dimensions.”  His voice was climbing as the memories came back to him. 

“I’ve got it!”  He turned to Aeryn with excitement, “I’ve got it, Aeryn!  It’s all there!  Everything is there!  All of it.  I remember first grade, and playing in the brook, graduating from college, my first driving lesson.  It’s all there.  Star Trek, Star Wars, Tom Swift, Milton, Shakespeare, Looney Tunes, pancakes on the weekends, mowing the lawn, everything!  It’s all breaking loose.  Everything!” 

He put a hand to his head and started to look off balance.  His eyes crossed and his next words were a slurred mumble.  “Whoa, that’s a rush.  Cranial overload.  Someone call 9-1-1.” 

“John?” Aeryn called, alarmed at the increasingly disjointed comments. 

He staggered and she moved fast, catching him as he toppled.  Aeryn struggled to keep them both from hitting the floor, overwhelmed by his slack weight, and then D’Argo and Chiana were suddenly there, lowering him to lie on his back.  Crichton was half-conscious, closed eyes twitching madly under their lids.  His breathing became erratic, transformed into a fast, rough cadence by the barrage of memories being dumped on him all at once. 

It got worse.  His breath caught in his throat, painful sounding shriekings making their way out past spasming muscles, and he began to jerk, defying all attempts to hold him still. 

“He’s having a seizure,” called Jool, moving around the table to join them.  “He may be going into shock.” 

“What do we do?  How do we get this to stop?” D’Argo asked.  He was fighting to hold Crichton’s shoulders still, concentrating on preventing John from hitting his head on the floor. 

“Do I look like a medician to you?  I don’t know.  I have never seen this sort of mentally induced reaction before.” 

The seizure increased in severity, goading the helpless body into a wild frenzy of movement all too reminiscent of the first days at the delvian colony when every touch set off the uncontrollable twitching reactions.  Aeryn slid an arm around his neck and carefully snugged it up under his chin, then clasped his head against her body, stilling the wild motions in the only manner she could think of that would not choke or injure him. 

“John, fight it,” she said.  “I know it’s a lot to cope with, but you’ve been through much worse.  Fight it.” 

Whether it was a coincidence of timing or an unparalleled example of self-control on John’s part, the exhortation seemed to work.  Crichton stopped breathing, arched back into their combined grip for nearly ten microts, and then sagged into the multi-person embrace and began breathing normally.  Whatever had caused the excessive physical reaction was over. 

They waited through nearly forty microts of motionless silence.  D’Argo was the first one to give in to his concern.  “John, open your eyes and look at us.  Tell us you’re all right.” 

“They never warned us about anything like this,” Rygel said.  The hynerian was hovering above the group huddled together on the floor, veering from side to side in an attempt to get a better view of Crichton.  “Those blue-assed lunatics did not mention that he might keel over like a stun-shot flibisk and nearly die.”

Jool, the intellectual, unleashed a wild punch at the airborne Dominar.  She missed by no less than half a motra.  “Shut up, you foul-smelling slug!  Crichton is not dying.  That was a seizure from the shock, nothing more.  Give him a few microts.”   

As if on cue, John opened his eyes and grinned weakly at the ring of worried faces.  “That was a trip and a half.  I’m better now.  Let me sit up.” 

They helped him into a sitting position, staying close in case it happened again. 

“That’s incredible.  Talk about your major data dump.  Everything is there; I just have to remember how to use it again.”  He turned toward Aeryn with a look of near ecstasy, the excited grin serving to accentuate his pallor and shaking hands.  “Sneakers!  Those were white sneakers I was trying to learn how to tie.  And it was my Mom … she was behind … it was … my Mom died.  She’s dead.”

He staggered to his feet, cheerfully accepting their help, still distracted by his new load of information.  He looked around him, seeming to find more memories in the corners and shadows of the Center Chamber, locating all the information that they had worked so hard to shield him from until it was necessary to remember.  The return of his store of unpleasant memories did not check his excitement. 

“Larraq and Hassan.  And the Chair.  You were avoiding those, weren’t you?” 

Aeryn nodded silently. 

“And Scorpius.”  He put his hand to his head, pressing hard against his skull as though he was having head pains.  “Some of what I was remembering wasn’t Scorpius; it was Harvey.  Oh crap.” 

“John?”  Aeryn reached for him, concerned by the depression in his voice. 

“I forgot Zhaan entirely,” he said, explaining his mild outburst.  “How could I have been around the delvians and not remember Zhaan?  And I forgot the Command Carrier.”   

“We knew you would remember soon enough, John,” D’Argo said, explaining their decision to avoid certain topics.  “We thought you had enough to cope with already without adding those things on top.”

Crichton sat down slowly, propped one elbow on the table and rubbed his skull.  “Man, there is so much crap in there.  Up until a couple hundred microts ago, I thought I had recovered most of my memories.  It wasn’t more than a fraction of what was heaped in there.  Who the heck put all this trash inside my head?”  He smiled back at the grins around him, and went on rubbing his head.  “Believe it or not, I have the Grand Canyon of all headaches.” 

Aeryn stepped behind him and rubbed his neck at the base of his skull, driving her thumbs into the tense muscles there.  “I have some zeccan leaf in my quarters.” 

“Thanks, but no.  It’s easing a bit already.  It’s nothing more than the aftermath of having the Library of Congress dropped on my head.  Just keep rubbing my neck.  That feels fan--”  John broke off into a series of coughing gulps that sounded as though he was about to be sick. 

“John!  Are you all right?”  D’Argo was out of his seat and moving toward him before Aeryn realized there was a problem occurring in front of her. 

“What’s wrong?”  Everyone was on their feet, looking and sounding increasingly alarmed.  Aeryn moved to where she could kneel beside him and discovered a bleak panicked stare fixed in place on a face that had gone white.  “What is it?” 

His whole body began shaking uncontrollably.  “I --” 

He looked around at the concerned faces, mouth opening and closing several times without any sound emerging.  John reached up and wiped away the first hint of tears, rubbing his eyes to work away any moisture before it could get loose.  Pushing himself unsteadily to his feet, he backed away from them as though he were afraid of his friends.  Aeryn rose and started after him, reaching for him in concern, forced to accelerate as he picked up speed, fleeing before her advance. 

“John, let us help …”  Aeryn bolted forward, trying to catch him as he tripped and went over backward.  He hit hard before she could break his fall.  His head snapped back and bounced off the floor, accompanied by a crack that promised a severe headache within an arn or two.  John’s eyes seemed to cross for a microt, then refocused on Aeryn, who was approaching him.  He scrabbled back away from her on his hands and feet until he ran into the wall.  Each attempt by his friends to calm him only seemed to add more fuel to his wild, inexplicable reactions. 

“No, no, no.”  The syllable poured out of him repetitively. 

His hands came up protectively, slapping at her when she tried to help him.  Aeryn backed away, giving him the time and space he seemed to need to deal with whatever emerging memory had possessed him.  She began to straighten up and ran into D’Argo and Chiana, who were hanging over her, intent on helping John as well. 

“John,” she called to him. 

He kept his eyes tightly shut, hands held blindly in front of him to fend off anyone who tried to approach. 

“John!  Look at me.”

He opened his eyes and lowered the shaking hands. 

“Stop.” 

Her single word order helped.  The hands dropped to a less defensive spot near his knees and he focused on her for the first time since his mad scramble across the floor. 

“Think about everything we’ve been through together … all of us.”  She raised her eyebrows, waiting for a response.  He nodded.  “You know you can trust us.” 

He began shaking his head, but the motion didn’t seem to be directed at them or an answer to her statement.  It resembled an oversized reflexive twitch or a refusal to accept some portion of an unseen harsh reality. 

“Yes.  You have to trust us and tell us what just happened,” she insisted.  “You have to.  Whatever just happened, you know you are not going to be able to get through this on your own.”

He lowered his head into his hands and sat huddled against the wall.  Aeryn moved forward slowly and carefully until she was kneeling alongside him, waiting for some sort of sign to indicate whether he would allow himself to be touched.  The other four members of the crew waited in a tense huddle, anxious to come closer, but prudently staying further away from John until she got him under control.   

“Can you tell us?” she asked. 

He shook his head. 

“I’m going to touch you,” she warned him. 

Muscles leapt and quivered, small snarls of movement rippling beneath his skin, but aside from that migrating evidence of his tension, John did not move.  He froze in place and waited.  Aeryn edged closer and began the slow massage at the base of his skull that had always relaxed him, the two of them hanging in a suspended world for several long microts until much of the tension suddenly drained out of John and he sagged forward, leaning his head more heavily into his hands. 

“How does your head feel?  The outside, I mean, from hitting it on the floor?” 

“It’s all right.”  His voice was muffled by his hands.

Aeryn looked up at the others and nodded.  They moved forward until they were all gathered around him, and then each person made contact.  Just a single touch, one lightly placed hand each until they were all holding the traumatized human.  Aeryn continued to rub the back of his neck throughout the process, both in an attempt to keep him relaxed and also to gauge his level of tension. 

D’Argo tried again, seeking an explanation for Crichton’s behavior.  “What just happened, John?  What did you remember?” 

John refused to answer, resorting to a vigorous shake of his head to convey his unwillingness to confide in them. 

“Crichton, there isn’t anything you can’t tell us.  We all saw what happened,” Jool said, adding her urging to the swelling demand that he confess. 

“Old Man,” prodded Chiana.  “Come on, Old Man.” 

“John.”  Aeryn stopped her massage and slid a hand past his shoulder to pull his chin up.  She forced him to raise his head to look at them.  “Meylan warned you that there might be something else.  Something you would not be able to cope with on your own.  You have to tell us.  Now.” 

He shook his head. 

“You promised me.” 

He shook it again, looking just as confused and uncertain as he had in the earliest days of his recovery. 

“You promised me you would tell me when something scared you.  You promised.” 

He looked around at the concerned faces, his face pale and strained, and started to shake again.  “You all saw what … what they … what happened.”  His voice was little more than a whisper.  Five voices agreed.  “But that was the first day they did … that to … me and … and they …”  He fumbled to a stop.   

“Oh Hezmana, John,” D’Argo breathed out quietly, moving closer to grip his friend’s arm tightly.  “They had you six solar days.  How many?” 

“Four.  You got there on the fourth day that they did that to me.” 

“How bad?” Aeryn asked.  “How bad?” she repeated with more force when there was no response, using her tone of voice to insist that he answer.  “How bad was it, John?  You have got to tell us.” 

“Worse.  A lot worse.” 
 

* * * * *

It was early morning by Moya’s cycle of day and night when they finally pulled several layers of thermal covers over Crichton and left his chamber.  The night had been one of blurted bits of recall, hesitation, anger, and coldly unemotional descriptions.  He had swung between denial and breakdown more times than Aeryn cared to count, but in the end he had finally related most of what had been done to him during the time that everyone had always assumed had not involved any torture.  The mental block he had put up around the missing three days had been complete, so thorough that not even Aeryn or Meylan had caught the smallest inkling of what he had been hiding.  But the barricade had been swept aside in the rush of his returning recall, just as Meylan had feared, inundating John with even the smallest details of the missing three-day ordeal.  Selective memory of certain portions had not been an option once the barriers had dissolved; the entire mass of memory had tumbled out all at once, very nearly exceeding his ability to cope.     

The first five hundred microts after his initial confession had been deceptively peaceful.  John had stopped shaking, gotten quietly to his feet, and said that he felt like going to his cell to get some sleep.  Waving away the concern of his friends, he had allowed only Aeryn to accompany him on his unnaturally calm walk through the tiers to Quarters.

“Talk to me,” she had said as they walked through the open doors. 

She had been ready for tears, for a flood of untranslatable English, possibly a sullen retreat into a corner to work it out on his own, or even an emotion-driven bout of vomiting.  What she had not been ready for was the wild, insanely out-of-control explosion of violence.  Screaming profanity at the top of his lungs, throwing whatever he could lay his hands on, he had poured every bit of available energy into a display of unparalleled destruction.  Even after several arns of everyone pitching in to clean up, his quarters remained a shambles.  Only D’Argo’s on-the-run arrival had prevented John from hurting himself or destroying some of his most valued possessions.  Together, with Chiana diving in to lend her slender weight to the melee, they had wrestled him to the floor and pinned him there until he calmed down. 

After letting him up, it had taken two solid arns of hammering away at him to get John to offer up the first description of what had been done to him.  It might have been easier to share the experience in a Meeting than to sit across from him and listen to what he had endured, alone and desperately afraid that he would break and cause the deaths of his friends.  In the Meeting, they had been able to support him when he needed it most.  This time John had sat rigid and quivering in the middle of his bed, and had not allowed anyone, not even Aeryn, to touch him until the final, whispered description was offered up.  Only then would he let her sit beside him, put her arms around him, and try in vain to make up for what he had suffered at the hands of his captors. 

One reluctant word at a time, they had learned that the last day had been the only one when he’d had to endure anything above Kelvo Eleven.  But the sessions prior to that had been more brutal in length and in the tricks the scarrans had delighted in playing on him; in the mental despair as he felt his intellect being irreparably damaged, control slipping away, the ability to resist torn from him one scream at a time.  There were almost certainly details that he was holding back, but by the time he allowed Aeryn to tilt him sideways into the pillows and cover him with a thermal sheet, it was obvious they had pushed John as far as he was willing to go. 

Aeryn looked back to where Chiana sat next to him.  The nebari had insisted on staying with him while he slept, concerned about nightmares.  John was already twitching in his sleep, and she suspected that Chiana was right, that there would be shouts and screams in the night from his chamber for many solar days to come.  Jool was in the medical chamber preparing a sedative in case they needed to put him to sleep, but they had all talked it over briefly and agreed that his subconscious needed to cope with the freshly recovered memories before his recovery would be complete.  The sleep-shot would be a last resort.  They would all have to cope with John’s screams in the night if they wanted him back, fully recovered and as he was before the torture.

D’Argo stopped beside her, similarly looking back into the darkened cell.  “How could we have missed this?  I was blind not to realize that they would not have left him alone during those days,” he said, accusing himself for the oversight.

Aeryn shook her head.  “We were focused on the things we already knew about.  Those parts seemed so hideous, I don’t know if we ever would have gone searching for even more.”     

“Why is it always John who seems to suffer these things?” D’Argo continued mournfully. 

“This time it’s because he’s the one who could survive.  Any one of the rest of us would be dead and it would not be a problem.” 

* * * * *

John heard Aeryn taking over for Chiana, and waited until the doors closed before rolling over to look at her.  The skin on his face was tight where his tears had dried, but for the first time in a very long time, he did not care that he had been crying in front of the others. 

“I’m sorry,” he said. 

Aeryn turned in surprise.  “Sorry?  Sorry for what?”  She sat down next to him and rubbed his arm through the multiple layers of covers.  “You didn’t do anything wrong.”   

“I just feel like … I don’t know.  Like I didn’t measure up somehow, like I’m being weak.”  He was tired of having to deal with aftermath of his capture.  When his memory had returned earlier that evening, accompanied by a skull-splitting headache, he had thought it was over.  There had been a brief, two-hundred microt interval when he had believed he was ‘well’ at last, only to discover that a daunting distance remained to be traveled before he could claim that prize.  More than anything else in the universe, he wanted the memories and the emotions to simply go away so he could resume his life.  And he wanted it to happen immediately, not over a span of dozens of days. 

“Did not measure up,” Aeryn was repeating slowly.  She gathered his hand from where it lay on the covers and examined it front and back.  He did not resist when she curled the fingers into a loose fist, waiting with the first hint of humor to see what was going to happen next.  Aeryn guided it up toward his head and began to bang him in the forehead with his own knuckles.  “Are you out of your mind?” she asked in time with the light blows. 

“Since birth.” 

“John, do you realize that no one else has ever survived what happened to you?”  When he shook his head she continued, describing the solution that the mercenaries had so strongly recommended.  “You were not supposed to come back from that.  Not ever.” 

John turned around without sitting up and wriggled forward until his head and shoulders lay in Aeryn’s lap, in the familiar position that had lent him so much security and peace during his first days out of the pool in the delvian sanctuary.  She pulled him close, welcoming him into her embrace, and tugged the covers over his shoulders. 

“No one else survived it?” 

“Not that they know of.  Their captain said they had tried a number of different medical facilities, and that no one had ever recovered.  No one except you.” 

The unpleasant sting of impending tears prevented him from answering for several microts.  John stared into the half-dark of his quarters and concentrated on the feel of Aeryn’s body holding him in place, trying to banish the need to cry. 

“What are you thinking?” she asked.  Aeryn bent over him and rested her chin on his shoulder, peering down at his evading gaze. 

“I don’t feel like I survived.  I feel like …”  The word did not exist for how miserable he felt at that moment.  Debased, used, torn to pieces, the invisible scars hindering his return to what he had come to consider a normal life, new horrors assaulting him at the very moment when he had thought the final hurdle had been cleared.  “I’m tired, Aeryn.  I’m tired of feeling like this.  I want my life back.”     

“Give it time, John.  You will.  You’re almost there.” 

He shook his head, turned into her leg so she could not see that he was crying, and let the depression swallow him whole. 

“No person should have to go through what you have.  Time and patience, John.”  Her fingers moved slowly through his hair, venturing down his skull from time to time to rub beneath his ears, giving him something to hang on to for a few arns. 

“Aeryn, don’t leave me.” 

“I won’t.  I’ll be here.” 

* * * * *

It’s the second day they’ve treated him to this particular variation, and his throat is raw after only the first kelvo level; he doesn’t know how his lungs and vocal cords are going to last through the next nine.  They’ve wired him up as usual, but they’re firing the entire energy surge into one lead at a time, treating each pinpoint in his body to the full power of the machine. 

“Kelvo Two.” 

A single point on his spine bursts into screeching alarm, the pain spreading out until his entire back is rippling with muscle spasms, and his lungs burn as he sings out his aria of suffering.  It stops and he feels the warm metal of the table reaching to connect with him as he sags back.  The cutting pressure of the straps fades.  Panting, sucking in overheated air and feeling the burning of dry, raw tissue in his throat as his body demands more oxygen in return for making the noises that still reverberate in the hot air.

He hears the snick of the button being pressed and has a nano-microt to anticipate before a point beneath his left ear explodes, a starburst of energy driving into his ear and spreading through his brain. They don’t release him from the grasp of the machine this time; they add an electrode on his right foot and the route between the two opens up, splitting him from end to end, a fissioning of his body down the middle, right through his heart, laying him open on the warm metal.

Release him from the pain, then hit him again with Kelvo Two.  Hit him again, and again, and again, again, again, again, again …

“John, wake up!” 

Hands yanked him out of his nightmare:  kind hands, strong but gentle hands pulling him away from the memories, pulling him back into his own chamber, his own home, the place where he was safe and he belonged.  He sat up, gasping for breath, cool, clean air flowing into lungs that wanted a little more air, but were not burning from excessive demand.  A cold, wet towel was passed over his face several times, wiping away the streams of sweat, and he woke the rest of the way, staring at Aeryn’s dimly lit face as she helped him break free of the visions. 

“How many times was that?”  His voice rasped through a throat that ached from unvoiced screams.  It was merely sore, not stripped raw.

“That was your second tonight.  Do you want to keep going?”  She passed the towel over his hair a few times, and then wrapped the coolness around the back of his neck.

He looked around his quarters, thought about letting Jool drug him into insensibility for the third night in a row, and shook his head.  “One more, then I’ll give up.  I have to work through these somehow.”  He looked at Aeryn’s gaunt face, and knew that she was getting as little sleep as he was these days.  “Is that all right with you?  Can you stand one more?” 

“I can if you can.”  She kissed him lightly, rubbed his damp hair and pulled the thermal cover over him when he lay back down.  “Remember that I’m right here, I’ll be here when you need me.”

He nodded and let his exhaustion pull him back into captivity. 

* * * * *

He tries to lick his lips, but his mouth’s dry, parched from the screaming and the heat.  He explores his upper lip and finds the expected blood there, remnants of a nosebleed.  But it is crusted and dry, no relief for a mouth where no moisture remains.  Joints aching from laying flat on the table for so many arns, and the heat is beyond oppressive, making his thirst a small additional torture that lies in wait to move in whenever the larger agonies are no longer present.  Normally he doesn’t have a chance to notice such subtleties, but they’ve left him lying here for what seemed like arns without pushing the button, and all but the residual itching sensation have died away.  They are standing around, wandering in and out, and from time to time one of them turns the dial with its quiet snickety clicks, just to see how high he’ll jump.  This is their new game.  See how violent a reaction they can get out of him using nothing more than the promise of agony.

Body torn apart by the power of a star before he has a chance to take in a breath, every neuron exposed and jerked to full burning, explosive force, exceeding the capacity of every individual nerve ending.  He hadn’t heard that one approaching the machine.  They win this round.  They win every round. 

They release the button, but it’s too much.  His body’s convulsing, a familiar treat.  Vomiting and bleeding at the same time, thick coppery flood trying to make its way down the back of his throat meets the rush of acid on its way up and out.  He doesn’t mind puking with pain.  At least this way they will stop long enough to make sure he doesn’t choke.  He’ll take the break no matter how he gets it. 

Lay back panting in the brief respite.  What was the score on that last one?  Kelvo Eight? Nine?  Might have been a Ten.  Each level has its own flavor.  He knows each one all too well now.  This tasted like a nine:  unbearable with the sting of permanent neural damage, stopping short of the insanity that strips away his ability to reason. 

Bellowing in his ear.  They ask the question afterward instead of before so there’s no warning.  Wouldn’t want to spoil the game by giving him notice of what is about to follow.

Your mother’s a space heater.  Fucking oversized iguanas. 

It’s false bravado.  They turn the dial and he nearly shits himself, muscles trying to release in conditioned panic.  Lizard laughter, buckets of water, always at least one down his throat if they can catch him inhaling.  Coughing, spitting up water mixed with blood, trying to catch some on the way out to ease his parched mouth. 

Bastard over there twisting the dial non-stop, watching the twitches of anticipation.  Breath catching in his chest as he waits, wondering when they’ll hit him again.  Bam.  Lunge against the straps, feel the yanking cut digging into his flesh as he tries to escape from the single pinpoint they had ignited at the base of his spine.  All the power into a single lead this time.  Good projection, good sound ringing off the walls, eager faces watching as he screams himself into insensibility.   Flop back like a beached fish, crying like a baby.  Finding dozens of metaphors for himself, he’s everything except a man. 

“Kelvo Ten.” 

Jesus, just about jumped off the table that time, and the bastard didn’t even push the frelling button … snickety click. 

Scream, scream, scream.  Let it all out.  They get him good this time.  Scream again, they’ve added a second lead, and a third, and a fourth, and a fifth, and a sixth … Long blossoming explosion of pain as they increase the number of sources until they’ve got every electrode running at full blast.  Scream.  It won’t help but it’s something to do while he prays for it to end. 

“CRICHTON!” 

Scream. 

“CRICHTON!!  Wake up.” 

Scream.  

Slender hands, not harsh clawed ones, grab his wrists; the slim ones cannot control him as he thrashes and slaps at the grasping fingers. 

“Crichton!”

“Chiana.”  He grabbed at her wrists to stop himself from hitting her.  Sweat was streaming from his temples back into his hair and the bed covers were soaked.  He had to clear his throat before he could try again.  He had been screaming in real life this time.  “Sorry, Chi.  Did I hit you?” 

“No, I’m learning how to stay out of the way.  That’s three.  Time to give up for the night and get some sleep.” 

John swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat quivering for several microts, waiting for the aftermath of his nightmare to drain away. 

“What day was that?” Chiana asked from next to his shoulder, light fingers resting on his thigh as a tactile reassurance. 

He knew she was trying to draw him back, giving him something in this world to focus on even if it was just a question that had to be answered.  They were all getting too good at knowing what would help him cast off the residual, body-shaking images.  His subconscious had been operating in overdrive for more than twelve nights without showing any sign that it was ever going to let up.  He tried to imagine what it would mean if he had to spend the rest of his life like this … and couldn’t.  He would rather die first.

“Crichton?” Chiana asked, reminding him that there was a question to be answered.   

“Second day, I think.  Hardly matters.”  He looked at her out of the corners of his eyes, noting the fatigue that had infected everyone aboard Moya.  “Screaming pretty good, was I?” 

“You made a noise or two.  Come on, let’s get you some sleep.”  She reached for the injector that was beside his bed every night. 

* * * * *

“What is your name?” 

Same question, different agony.  Your mother is a komodo dragon. 

“What is your name?” 

Your daddy’s a crocodile handbag.  Not very funny, but it’s all he has left.  Quiet snickety click and he stops breathing out of nothing more than anticipation of what lies in wait for him.  Big, brave astronaut with an attitude.  He can’t control even the most basic functions of his body when they make the knob go click.  Make a noise, sphincters release. 

Click, slam, hit that button.  Caught him with no air, gagging as he tries to scream and inhale at the same time, no longer an unfamiliar trick.  Mucus running, tears streaming, finally get some air in …

“John!” 

“D’Argo?  Oh God, D’Argo.  How many is that?”

“Enough.”  He heard the quiet hiss of the injector and he dove into the darkness, looking for the oblivion that was so similar to the quiet dreaming place he had voluntarily left behind.  His last conscious thought was that he wished he had stayed there.   

* * * * *

End of the day, he can tell because they’re taking him to where they hose him off before they toss him into his cell.  Today he’s a filthy mess, worse than usual and they have to scrub him to remove some of the blood and excrement, and then dump buckets of ice-cold water over him.  Nice change from the heat.  Pick him up because he hasn’t been able to walk since the first day they put him on the table, drag him down the corridor to his cell.  Must get his beauty sleep so they can play with him again tomorrow.  Drag him unresisting into his cell, only it’s full of scarrans, a smelter’s blast of heat as they carry him through the door and he’s not back in his cell.  It’s a trick and the table is in front of him, and they’re lifting him into place again, laughing as he screams and tries to fight back. 

“Aeryn?” 

“Yes.  I’m here.  You’re all right, John.” 

“Aeryn?” 

“You’re all right.  That’s the first tonight.” 

* * * * *

“What is your name?”

 Fuck you and your little dog Toto, too. 

But he doesn’t say it aloud because he’s too afraid they’ll come up with a new idea, something worse than what they’ve done to him so far.  So he huddles inside himself, trying to clutch some small piece of bravado around him, but so scared of what they’ll do next that he has to fight to keep from puking while they hook him up.  Dragged out of his cell in the middle of the night; the night crew wants to play. It barely matters.  They rarely let him sleep more than an arn or two anyway. 

He can’t hold out much longer.  In the rare moments when he gets to think of something other than the pain and not giving in to their question, it’s the single thought that occupies his mind.  He can’t do this much longer.  He’ll give in and then he’ll give them Aeryn and the others. 

Aeryn.  He remembers dark hair swinging to one side, gray eyes alight with something more than humor, something that weakens his knees and simultaneously turns his stomach and brain to jelly.  He clutches that image to him, tries to wrap himself in it like a shield, and waits, vowing to hang on just a little longer.  For Aeryn.   

“Kelvo Ten.” 

Time’s a wasting, they get right to the point without all those boring levels in between.  There is supposed to be something after the scream.  A breath, an inhale, more air, something.  There isn’t.  Choking, lungs burning, and his chest is paralyzed.  They’re frantic, they’ve gone too far.  His damaged, exhausted body can’t cope any longer.  The world fades into black, there still isn’t any breathing going on and he’s happy because it’s finally over.  Since he’s dying before they could get him to talk, Aeryn will be safe.  He greets death cheerfully, incapable of sobbing with relief.

World comes back in an orange haze of agony.  They’ve tubed him to make sure he keeps breathing, but of course that means no screams.  Everyone knows the fun is in the screams.  They pull the airway out, punching him in the stomach to get the exhalation they need to blow the tube loose.  It’s gone and he’s alive and breathing.  That’s too bad.  Tears streaming because it’s not over after all, and the knob is going snickety click again. 

“Kelvo Six.” 

Less is more.  Every muscle in his body releases, except his stomach, which heaves.  Can a human scream and vomit at the same time?  Yes.  Scream, gag, scream, gag, scream, scream, scream.

“Grab him!  Grab him!” 

They’re holding him again, dragging him back for more.  Defiance is all he has left.  He throws what little remaining energy he can produce into fighting back.  Muscles have long since ceased to function correctly, but he can try. 

“Look out, he bites.”

No rules.  Bite, kick, scratch, try to find scarran mivonks with his knee.  If he’s lucky, maybe they’ll kill him by accident. 

“Chiana, get in there and inject him.”

“Frell you, D’Argo.  You want him injected, you get past those fists and inject him yourself.” 

“Frell the injector.” 

D’Argo, Chiana, the firm practiced grasp that he recognizes as Aeryn’s.  Realization that portions of this nightmare are his real life intruding on his dreams comes too late. 

Hiss, snapping sting against his neck, and he’s gone.  No dark visions, no scarrans, no friends, no pain, no comfort, no waking, no sleep … just gone. 

* * * * *

“Here he comes, get ready.  John?”

Why does sound always come back first, he wondered lazily.  He was warm and comfortable, floating, secure, happy in the whole-body pervading grip of something that reminded him of safety and security. 

“John?” 

He opened his eyes to the sight of Aeryn crouched over him, looking more anxious than he had seen her at any time since they had met.  “Hey.”  The multi-purpose, one-size-fits-all greeting that worked even when he could not remember what had happened.  They were in the sluice trough, and he was naked except for a towel sarong wrapped around his waist to preserve some vestige of modesty.  Undressed and wet was becoming a way of life. 

She ran her hand gently along his cheek, her gaze burrowing deep into his stare, seeking something there.  “How are you feeling?” 

“Wet.”  That earned him a more relaxed smile. 

“That will do.  You’re back with us?” 

“Yeah.  Bad one, huh?” 

She nodded.  There was splashing and dripping, and he was alone with Aeryn.  He glanced over his shoulder in time to see the others headed out the door, leaving the two of them alone in the large chamber. 

“How bad?” he asked, seeking a reason for waking up in the sluice trough.  One choice was that they had been trying to reproduce the warm, floating sensation that the delvians had used.  The other choice was not so attractive.  “I … uh … what did I …?” 

“You vomited and you were dripping with sweat.  We needed to clean you off and decided not to wait until you regained consciousness,” she explained.  “We couldn’t get near you, so D’Argo finally had to tongue you.  You haven’t been out long.”   

“Frell.  I’m sorry.” 

Aeryn moved around to crouch in front of him.  She stared unwaveringly into his eyes.  “Listen to me.” 

He dropped his eyes, unable to face her so directly when his friends had been forced to resort to such extreme measures to compensate for his nightmares. 

“LISTEN to me,” she insisted, placing one hand under his chin to tilt his head upward.  “You got caught because you were covering for us as we retreated.  This never would have happened if you had not volunteered to bring up the rear.”  Aeryn settled her weight slowly onto his thighs, sitting on his legs facing him.  “If it had not been you, it would have been one of us who got captured instead.” 

“Maybe --” he started to argue, intending to say that perhaps Aeryn or D’Argo would have been better at holding off the scarrans, and would not have managed to get themselves captured. 

Aeryn cut him off before he could get beyond the first word.  “No.  Be quiet and listen to me, John.  I was keeping an eye on you right up until the last few microts.  You did everything right.  There weren’t any mistakes or flaws in what you were doing.  There were simply too many of them, and we let you fall too far behind.  If it’s anyone’s fault that you got taken prisoner, it’s mine.” 

“No.  You didn’t --”

Aeryn clapped one wet hand across his mouth.  It seemed that she had no intention of letting him argue with her.  “No blame, no fault.  Not yours, not mine.  It just happened.  Right?” 

He nodded, willing to concede that part. 

“Listen carefully.  If it had been any one of the rest of us who was captured, we would have died from what they put you through.  I told you that before, John, and now you have to start believing it.”

“I do believe it.”

“No, you do not.  Not deep inside where it counts.  You have to learn to accept that what happened to you happened because you are strong, not because you are weak.  This is no different than an especially severe case of battle stress.”

“We call it post traumatic stress disorder,” he tried to interrupt. 

Aeryn placed a single finger on his lips this time, stilling him so she could continue.  “Accept that you have been through the worst that Cholak’s realm has to offer, and that you not only have the strength to survive but also to give up your dreaming place and come back to us.  Accept that down deep inside where you are still denying it.” 

He watched her for several microts, finally returning the direct stare, using the time to compare her gentle accusations with the way he felt.  There was a need, an overwhelming desire, to deny it, to argue with her and say that she was wrong.  But deep inside in that place that Aeryn was talking about, halfway between the ache in his chest that rarely eased and the permanent snarl that had taken over his stomach, was the self-loathing that she was describing.  It was hurt and fear and need and doubt, all tangled into a complex emotion that insisted he was not worthy of Aeryn or the life that had been given back to him through the combined efforts of his friends and the delvians. 

“Okay.  I’ll try.”  It was easier to look down at the slow surge of the water swirling around their bodies than to face that intent gray-eyed gaze.

“That was not very convincing.”  Aeryn cocked her head to one side so she could duck down far enough to look at his lowered face.  “Promise.  Promise me you’ll work at believing it.” 

“I promise.”  It came out in something quieter than a whisper, forced out past the tight spot in his throat. 

“John --”  She waited until he looked up at her again.  “I love you.  I would go through this every solar day of every cycle if that’s what it took to have you back.” 

He had to settle for a nod to answer her, unable to speak because of the rapidly expanding lump in his throat that was threatening to choke more than his voice. 

“I love you,” she repeated in a whisper. 

“I love you, Aeryn.” 

She reached past him and grabbed a wash ball off the edge of the trough.  “Here, finish washing yourself, then we’re going to put you to sleep for a while.  You haven’t had more than an arn or two over the past three solar days.  Jool says she knows how to concoct a sedative that will knock you out for arns.”  She slid off his legs and waded to the edge of the trough, leaving him alone to finish washing and to consider her insistence that he stop feeling guilty that he had lived.   

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

[KernilCrash]

Chapter 18

It might be the third day.  He has trouble remembering much beyond the last few arns.  To make matters worse, his vision is blurred and he can’t tell if the light being cast into the cell is from a rising or a setting sun.  He tries to remember what side of the building it has been rising on since they brought him here, but he can’t find the correct way of accessing his memory.  The knowledge should be there.  If it is, it’s hiding from him.  The dirty floor in front of his nose is his entire world now, little else matters. 

A bolt of residual agony blossoms in his stomach and traces a leisurely route around his body, wandering into his brain to leave him more dazed and confused than just microts before, then continues its tour of his nervous system.  It’s mild.  Barely rates a Kelvo Three.  It’s remarkable only for the fact that he isn’t on their table and yet the torture continues.

It has been occurring more frequently since the last session:  the random spikes of sensation, the strange fragmenting of his thoughts.  He had tasted what insanity felt like last night when they had left him at Kelvo Ten for almost two arns in an attempt to break him.  He had been so exhausted by that time, his body had entered something akin to sleep, leaving his mind alone with the impulses from his nervous system.  They had finally released him from the pain when he had succumbed to convulsions, ensuring that he would survive for another session.

Aeryn drops to one knee beside him, leather garments gleaming in the half-light, hair pulled back in the ponytail that he prefers over her tight braid.  He wants her to set it free, to let her hair fall loose so it drifts in thick glossy sheets around her throat and shoulders, softening the lines of her face, and he can’t remember how to make the appropriate noises. 

“A’rn,” he manages to croak after several tries.  She smiles at him and disappears. 

More hallucinations.

He misses Aeryn. 

Why is he still alive?  Why hasn’t he died, or fallen into the darkness of permanent insanity? 

His thoughts have begun to fracture, breaking down under the constant abuse, but the small snatches of sleep restore his grip on reality each time, ensuring that he is aware of every microt of the next round of torture.  The Others seem baffled by his continued refusal to give them any information.  They had run out of new patterns of pain yesterday, and had resorted to the more direct approach of Kelvo Ten over and over again until there was nothing left but his sobbing whimpers, the ability to scream expended.

There are gaps and holes in his mind.  He doesn’t know what is missing; he only knows that certain parts refuse to link up.  He had forgotten why he was here for a while yesterday.  His fear and confusion had nearly given them what they had been trying to get all along.  Regaining consciousness after one particularly nasty jolt, he hadn’t remembered anything about the Others or Moya or wormholes or who he was or why he is here, and in his terror and confusion had resorted to tears.  Kelvo Ten had fixed that right up.  Just dandy.  Zapped him right back to the here and now.  Trust the big ugly critters to set things right so they can continue tormenting him.   

Aeryn is back.  Sitting cross-legged in the corner, cradling her pulse rifle.  She has chosen the black t-shirt today, covering up more of her upper body than he would prefer.  It doesn’t matter.  She always disappears if he tries to touch her.     

“I’m trying,” he whispers.  “I’m trying to …”  To something that he can’t remember the word for, that has to do with her staying … something.  “I love you beyond …”  Beyond something. 

She smiles and nods, satisfied with whatever it is he can no longer tell her. 

“Touch me?  Please?” he begs through the crawling tickle of tears.  He wants a final caress from her.  He can feel the vibrations through the floor.  They are coming to get him.

“Aeryn?” 

She’s gone. 

They’re here.

It’s going to start again. 

* * * * *

Aeryn snapped awake with a small start, then froze, listening.  Behind her, John sighed in his sleep, blowing an extended gust of warm air against the back of her neck.  It was one of those deep breaths that had woken her, she decided.  Carefully, she wormed her way further into his relaxed embrace, working her way back until she could feel him along the full length of her body, and then closed her eyes and tried to go back to sleep. 

As of three nights ago, John’s nightmares had subsided to the point that she had decided she could sleep with him without being at risk of getting attacked in the middle of the night.  He had refused at first, concerned that he might hurt her by accident, but had finally agreed to her company the night before.  For the first time in just under thirty solar days, he had made it through the night without a single nightmare.  As far as anyone could tell, he was getting better. 

It had been a long and arduous process for everyone on board the leviathan.  It had been nothing short of another round of torture for John, who was helpless to prevent his subconscious from reliving those three missing days over and over again.  Aeryn stared into the dark and wondered what else he might be keeping hidden from her.  He claimed that he had told them everything, and she wanted to believe him, but four cycles of living together had provided ample proof that John would not confess certain things unless he was forced into it. 

“No,” an anguished voice breathed behind her. 

Aeryn eased out from under his arm and turned over to check on him. 

“John, wake up.” 

There had been nights when she had chosen to let him battle his way through his dreams, reasoning that his subconscious needed to come to terms with the contents of his nightmares before he would be truly healed.  Her decision to wake him tonight was part instinct and part shock.  John was crying in his sleep.  There had been screams and profanity, sweating, bellowed cries of remembered pain, physical attacks, and vomiting, but there had never been tears.  This was something new.   

“Wake up.  You’re dreaming,” she tried again, jostling him. 

“Aeryn?”  He wiped away his tears with one hand, and grabbed her one of her hands with the other, calm and frantic at the same time. 

The grip on her hand was so strong it was painful.  She did not try to pull away.  “Are you okay?” 

“Yeah.  Just a dream.  I’ll be fine.” 

“Bulldren.”  She lay down facing him and tucked her free arm under her head.  “What was it about?  Tell me,” she insisted when he started to shake his head.  “Tell me.”

“I knew I was losing my mind,” he said reluctantly after a twenty-microt silence.  “I could feel that pieces were missing and … I couldn’t figure out what I had lost and I couldn’t stop it from happening.”  More tears were roughly brushed away before they could trickle free. 

“And?” she prompted.

“And I was starting to hallucinate.  It made things worse.” 

“Me?”  John nodded.  “What did I do?”

“Nothing.  Just disappeared after a while.”   

She pulled her hand free, wrapped both arms around him, and pulled herself in tight against his chest, hoping that it would be enough to let him know that she had no intention of ever disappearing again.  John sighed deeply several times, quivered for a while in what she thought might be a bout of crying, and finally began to relax. 

“What else?” she asked. 

“Let’s go back to sleep.” 

“What else?”  He tried to pull free of her embrace.  Aeryn held him tight and asked again.  “That’s not everything.  The fact that you are avoiding my question proves it.  What else did you dream?”

“For a while, I couldn’t remember why I was there or where I was from.  I lost everything about my life here, and that scared the crap out of me.  All I knew is that a bunch of oversized scaly salamanders were beating the shit out of me, and I had no idea why or even how I had gotten into that mess.”  John disentangled himself from her, rolled out of bed, and disappeared into the waste alcove. 

Aeryn stayed where she was and listened to him moving around, sorting out the sounds of him shucking off his shirt and shorts and then starting the shower.  She turned on her back and stared at the ceiling while she waited for him to come back to bed.  He would be freezing by the time he returned, chilled to the touch by the cold shower that he claimed helped him banish the phantom images from his dreams.  If he went right back to sleep, he would pick up where he left off … or so he said. 

She thought about the day they had been boarded by the bounty hunters and her anguish over the idea of John being captured by the Peacekeepers when he did not have his memory to help him cope with being interrogated.  Then she compared it with his brief summary of his dream:  Stripped of the awareness and knowledge that gave him strength, confused, incapable of stringing coherent thoughts together, and brutalized by an unknown species.  It must have been terrifying.  It was exactly the sort of moment she had been afraid of, and he had already experienced it.  And he also had not mentioned it the first night they had found out about the extra three days of torture he had hidden away. 

John had been keeping secrets after all, just as she had suspected.  She wondered what else he had not told her. 

* * * * *

He’s insane, so it must be the fourth day. He thinks it might be daytime, but his blurred vision has darkened to a shifting pattern of gray tones, all color leached from his world.  The Others left him lying on his stomach, and it has been … he can’t remember … since he could move, so he can’t check the … something in the wall … to see if it is light or dark outside.  Movement generates agony.  He lies still and tries not to breathe.   

He had heard his mother singing several arns ago, smelled the bacon frying in the kitchen.  It had made his mouth water, but he couldn’t swallow afterward, and the saliva had slithered down his cheek and dripped to the surface beneath his head.  A little later Moya had sent entertainment.  He had watched an intricate dance of miniature DRDs weaving before him, each one with a Groucho Marx nose and glasses.  Then he had blinked and they had disappeared in a flash.

It’s Day Four, so he must be insane. 

“What is your name?”  Always the same question to start.  The noise is harsh against his ears, but he can’t remember what the sounds mean.  The knowledge of disentangling noises has been damaged at some point during the past days.  It comes and goes in time with the pulses of energy, a game of mental Red Light, Green Light, switching reason on and off at a whim of the machine that is controlled by the Others. 

Aeryn had stopped by; knelt down beside him, cradling her rifle in the crook of her arm and gently fingered his hair.  For once he had been able to feel it.  He had closed his eyes, trying to linger in the moment of that light, unhurtful touch, had heard her say, “We never say goodbye” and when he opened his eyes she was gone.  He wishes she would come back and keep him company while the Others kill him.  He’s certain that today is going to be the day.  It’s Day Four, and he knows he is going insane. 

Yesterday, they had cranked him right up to Kelvo Ten and left him there, playing patterns across his body by varying the input through different electrodes.  He had started out strong, his screams echoing nicely against the walls, but hadn’t been able to keep it up very long.  His throat had shredded itself, and the silent attempts at shrieking hadn’t excited them. They had stopped, disappointed, and taken him to a lab where a flinching little alien had treated him, restoring his voice.

Now it is Day Four.  Time to go, time to play, they have come for him, come to let him join in their games.  It must be Day Four because he has already gone quite insane.   

“Kelvo Four.”  An anniversary present, it runs around his body, exploring every cell and fiber, and he feels the restraints beating at his body, but doesn’t understand why.  It doesn’t hurt, why is his body fighting?  He isn’t even screaming -- can’t be bothered for such a small sensation -- why is the rest of his body so upset? 

“Kelvo Eight.”  No sense wasting time, head for the big prizes.  That’s better, screams ringing against the walls, echoing nicely because the repaired vocal cords are getting good projection behind the noises. 

“Kelvo Nine.”  It is a familiar taste, a well-known friend with a hint of something new about it today.  It’s the flavor of permanent damage.  They hit him again, and he loses something important; he can’t remember what.  There is a hole there, beside a place where there should have been knowledge. 

Who would have guessed that having his nervous system ripped apart would feel like this?  Lungs still work though, plenty of screams left, they’re happy now.  Let him sag back, need more air for the songs they love so much, then hit him again. 

“What is your name?”  Might have been a person with a name at one time, now he is just a scream, a shriek, a cry, a howl, a moan, a whimper, small noises between the surges through his own personal electrical system.  Lines are down, storm damage, call a repair man, wrong number, hit him again, still no answer. 

He takes a last grip on himself, drags out the small remaining piece of his intellect and screams a new sound at them.  “I was John Crichton!”  He knows who he was, and they can’t take that from him.  Astronaut, human, receptacle of agony.  I love Aeryn Sun.  Goodbye, Dad, I loved you, I will miss you, I am leaving.  I am already gone. 

I once was John Crichton, and I love Aeryn Sun.

“Who are you?”  The demand has changed.  He knows the answer and won’t give it to them.  The answer is the only thing left to him, he can’t give that away or there’ll be nothing left.

I am the one who loves Aeryn Sun. 

“Kelvo Ten.”

Convulsions, vomiting, screaming, blood flowing across his face, a cry in the night.   Vision gone.  Hit him again.

I love Aeryn Sun.

“Kelvo Eleven.”

No more hearing, screams no longer sounding in his ears despite the raging vibrations in his throat and lungs, no more sight, no more smell, the world receding to leave him alone with the pain until there is nothing else.  Hit him again and his hearing returns, traded for with every bit of … he can’t remember what. 

A break in the action.  Misty, gray-toned forms move around him.  They touch him, making adjustments, and he screams.  It doesn’t take the machine anymore.  He exists in a single state known as agony.  Everything else is gone. 

Everything except I love Aeryn Sun.

“Ar’n,” someone croaks with a damaged travesty of a voice.  He has to keep her … something.  Don’t tell them where she is.  “Ar’n.”  The Others must not find her. 

I  love Aeryn Sun.  The Others will not find her. 

“Kelvo Twelve.” 

Something is broken, something in his mind, shattered images swirling, touching and leaving, no connection, no sense.  There had been someone screaming and the other person here, the person who had loved Aeryn Sun. 

“Kelvo Thirteen.”

 I loved Aeryn Sun.

“Kelvo Fourteen.” 

“NO!”  Aeryn spun off the bed, tripped over a portion of the thermal sheet, and crashed to the floor.  She scrambled away from the bed on all fours, trying to get away from whoever was there, whoever had been next to her.  Whoever had been … doing something to her.  “No.” 

“Aeryn!”  John was suddenly beside her, warm hands pulling her up, leading her back to the bed.  “What’s the matter?” 

She sat down and let him pull the thermal sheet around her shoulders against the cool air in the cell. 

“What the frell happened?  I’m supposed to be the one bolting out of bed in the middle of the night, acting like a lunatic.  Not you.”   

She had to think about it for a few microts, separating out dream from true memories.  The last thing she remembered clearly was falling asleep lying half across his chest and shoulder, John’s thumb slowly stroking her upper arm, with his cheek resting against the top of her head.  That clear memory was buried under a tingling reminiscence of pain, confusion, and insanity.

“What were you dreaming about?” she asked instead of answering his question. 

“Nothing.  I wasn’t.” 

“Do not lie to me!”  She had not felt the anger coming.  There had not been any build up or warning.  It was simply there, uncontrollable and without reason.  Aeryn took a deep breath and fought it down.  “You were.  I know you were dreaming.  I felt it.  You do not have to give me the gory details, just tell me what it was so I’m sure.  Please.” 

“The fourth day,” he said flatly.

“The last few moments,” she added, and started to shake. 

She had not understood.  Not really.  She had shared his memory of Kelvo Fourteen when they had been in Unity, and had gotten a small taste of what insanity felt like, but she had not really understood what he had gone through.  She still did not, but the arrogance of thinking she knew the depths John had battled back from was gone at last. 

“What did … how did you …”  John shook his head, looked around the cell for several microts, then looked at her again.  “Unity.” 

“The tie exists and can never be broken,” she said, quoting Meylan’s combined warning and promise.

“It’s not supposed to work like that.”  John got to his feet and strode to the far side of the cell where he began moving some of his possessions around.  Nothing went very far, it was an aimless shuffle that ended with everything back where it started. 

“Not supposed to be like what?”  Aeryn was worried by his reaction.  If she had to choose an emotion at that moment, she would have said that John looked angry. 

“Like just picking up my thoughts.”  He examined a piece of circuitry then snapped it in half and lobbed the two pieces toward the waste funnel.

It was anger, she decided, without a target.  Or perhaps it was fear. 

“What are you afraid of?” she asked.  It was a mindless question, blurted out without considering the dream she had just eavesdropped on, or how he might feel about having someone listen and watch as he lost the battle to remain a functioning person.  So much of John’s self-esteem was bound up in his own perception of his intellect; it should have been easy for her to predict his reaction. 

“I’m not afraid!” he yelled at her.  A chess piece sailed across the chamber, ricocheted off one of the vertical supports and clattered into the corridor.  The entire chess set followed close behind, pieces bouncing and spinning like shrapnel.  “I am not frightened.” 

But he had been.  Aside from her name, it was the first symbol she had encountered the first time she had entered his mind in the delvian sanctuary. 

I’m scared. 

She had attributed it to the damage he had sustained, and the loss of every bit of awareness normally necessary to cope with life in general.  John was always so strong.  She knew he was afraid at times, he had admitted it more than once, but he always controlled his fear, sometimes to the point of recklessness.  The John Crichton she knew was bold, rash, brazen, stubborn, and humorous, so she had assumed that the terror they had all felt and shared in the Meetings had been the result of injury. 

Now she knew that she had been wrong.  The injuries had deprived him of the ability to hide it.  It was the façade that had been stripped away.  She replayed the shared dream and felt the fears compounding:  fear that he would break and give the scarrans what they wanted, fear that he would die, fear that he would not die, fear that he would survive to live out his life mentally and physically crippled.  John was far from being a coward.  Nothing could be further from the truth.  This was a different variety of fear, one that had grown out of the stripping away of strength rather than the presence of weakness.  Over the space of four days, he had been forced to consider that he was not strong enough to withstand every bit of hardship that life could throw at him, that his mind was not enough to get him out of every situation, and that stubbornness might not be the strength he had always considered it to be.  She knew it the way she knew her own hopes and fears.  She had felt it more than once and had not truly understood.  Tonight’s installment had arranged the pieces into a new pattern. 

Aeryn opened her eyes and shook herself to help make the transition from the remembered dream-images back to the reality of a cell aboard Moya.  She watched John circle the chamber, his body shouting out his uncertainty and frustration, and could not think what to say.  Anything she had to offer was certain to make things worse. 

“Say something!” he shouted after forty microts of silence. 

“I don’t know what to say,” she admitted.  “This is something you are going to have to work out on your own.”

He finished his latest circuit of the room and flopped down on the bunk with an impact worthy of a fainting budong.  “What would you have done, Aeryn?  How would you have handled it?” 

She tried to put herself ‘in his shoes’, as John had put it so long ago.  Once again closing her eyes in order to focus, she tried to imagine that it was her on that table instead of John, and tried to project what the outcome might have been if their roles had been reversed.  It was inconceivable.  She had not figured out how John had held on for so long in the face of that much physical abuse coupled to his compounding fears, so she could not begin to overlay that knowledge on top of her own reactions. 

“I don’t know.  I truly do not know what I would have done, John.  I doubt that my training would have held up, and I don’t know if I have learned enough since leaving the Peacekeepers to have survived once they broke through that first layer of defense.  What I do know is that despite what you think you were feeling, you have more strength and bravery than you are willing to admit.” 

“Strength and bravery doesn’t help when they’re pureeing your brain cells one neuron at a time.” 

There wasn’t anything to say to that either, because it was true.  “Helpless,” she said, gaining another minute piece of understanding. 

“Completely.”

“What else?”

“That about covers it.”  John rolled on his back and gazed up at her.  “It’ll pass, Aeryn.  I’ll get over it.  Let’s get some sleep.” 

The light of wary obstinacy was in his eyes, the look that warned her that he would do almost anything, possibly even lie to her, to avoid talking about it anymore.   If she pushed him, she would have to accept that she was partly to blame if he chose the route involving deliberate deceit, so she left her questions unasked, and did as he suggested. 

Two arns later, his nightmares were back, every bit as violent and realistic as they had been the first night he had come awake screaming, undiminished in their intensity despite having been replayed dozens of times. 

* * * * *

Crichton walked into Command, clean and neat but looking haggard.  He eased down on a seat at the strategy table and dropped his head onto his folded arms.  “I’m here to take over for a while, Chiana,” he mumbled, and then sat up straighter so he could look at the view screen. 

Three long sliding steps took her from the navigational console to his side.  She leaned her hips against the table and looked down at him in concern.  “You look awful, Crichton.  Go get some sleep and I’ll take your turn for you.”  She ran a gloved hand through his hair front to back, then reversed direction and smoothed it back down. 

“Sleep?  What’s that?”  He slumped forward again, forehead resting on his arms. 

The nightmares had eased but had not disappeared completely.  The harrowingly realistic replays of his torture had passed, only to be replaced by something that brought him out of sleep every bit as distressed, but that he could never remember after he woke up.  One night out of four, on average, he woke up either yelling unintelligibly or to find himself huddled in a corner of his cell, ready to lash out at anyone who tried to approach him. 

“Crichton, go find Jool, have her make up some more of that stuff to knock you out, and sleep for a solar day or two.”  She dropped her hand onto the back of his neck, rubbing her fingers lightly across the tense muscles.  He shook his head without bothering to look up.  “You need some sleep -- real, undisturbed sleep.”  He shook his head again.  “How many days has it been since you last used that stuff of Jool’s?” 

“Only four, Chi.  I have to get through this sooner or later.  I’ll give it another shot without drugs tonight, and if that doesn’t work, I’ll consider either letting her put me out or a complete lobotomy.”  He straightened up and pulled her down on to the seat next to him.  “But thank you for trying.” 

Chiana gave him a hug, and then slid away to sit on another seat, one further away from him.  “I’m glad you see it that way, Crichton.” 

He raised his eyebrows, querying her comment. 

“I’m glad you understand that I did try first.” 

She smiled seductively, Chiana’s slyest expression, and John was filled with foreboding.  He started to turn toward the doorway, saw Aeryn to one side with a smirk on her face, and felt the snap against the back of his neck.  He turned quickly, knowing he only had a microt at best, opened his mouth to tell D’Argo he was a traitor, and collapsed into Chiana’s grasp.  He had just enough time to know that they tumbled to the floor together, his head coming to rest on her stomach, and then there was nothing. 

* * * * *

“Mmmphf?” 

Aeryn watched John with secretive pleasure as he stretched for several moments, then buried his face in his pillow and slumped back into a relaxed sprawl.  She walked two of her fingers up his back, stopped when she reached the top of his shoulders and massaged lightly along his spine and the base of his skull.  He shifted, dropping his head forward so it was easier to rub between the thick tendons there.  She pulled away at that point, and received a mumbled complaint.

“Get up, John.”  Her order was answered by another unintelligible mutter.  “Get up.” 

He froze.  All motion on the bed stopped.  “Bastards,” he said suddenly, then turned his head and repeated it.  The word came out more clearly on the second try since it was not delivered into his pillow.  “Devious, rotten, miserable plotting finks.”  He pushed himself up on his elbows and turned to look at her.  “How long have I been out?”

“Six arns.” 

“Six arns?”  He gazed around his quarters.  The all too familiar look of bewildered confusion made a brief encore.  “A tonguing doesn’t last six arns.  You must have drugged me.” 

“Nine arns,” Aeryn said. 

John turned to look at her.  “Which is it?  Six, or nine?” 

“Both,” she said. 

“As in six hours drugged and then three of sleep?  That’s not bad.  Three arns of sleep without nightmares is better than I usually manage.”  He checked to make sure the sheet was over him, then rolled over, wrapped it around his waist, and sat up. 

“No.”  Aeryn shook her head.  “I mean both.  Six arns from what Jool gave you, then nine more without a single nightmare.” 

“Fifteen?”  Between the first syllable and the second, his voice rose in pitch to an incredulous squeak.  “I slept fifteen arns?”

“Nine without nightmares,” Aeryn repeated.  She watched him work out that he had gotten more than an average night’s sleep without a single nightmare, waited until she saw the grin start to form, then pounced on him, carrying him back onto the bed in a hug. 

John stiffened beneath her, then squirmed madly to work his way out from under her even before they settled onto the bunk.  Aeryn stopped her momentum with both arms, pushed herself off him, and sat up in time to see panic on his face.  He got the facial expression under control almost immediately, but could not hide the rest of his body’s reaction to her attack.  He sat at the head of the bed looking embarrassed at his reaction, arms and bent knees entangled to form a protective barrier. 

“I don’t know what happened,” he said.  “You startled me.”  The apology sounded sincere, but he was not doing anything to unwind from the tightly wound bundle of tense muscles.  If anything, he pulled even farther away from her.

Aeryn forced herself to smile, falling back on her cycles of enforced absence of emotion in order to cover up her dismay.  The defense mechanism slammed into place too fast, telling her that it was the product shock rather than her years of Peacekeeper training.  Finding something to say took longer.  She had spent the arns envisioning a jubilant celebration on John’s part, with exclamations about his recovery and the possibility that it was almost over; not a complete transformation into yet another person she did not recognize.  She did not know how to respond to this latest alteration.

Since the first moment she had met John Crichton, he had never pulled away from her.  Not physically.  Not even during their worst moments.  There had never been a single moment -- sick, injured, happy, healthy, sad, crippled, crazy, or nearly dying -- when he had not wanted her to touch him.  This was such an enormous change in behavior, she could only conclude that something equally monumental was causing it.  In light of what they had been through so far, she felt sick at the thought of what horrors John might possibly be hiding. 

John edged a microt-dench toward her.  He also pulled the thermal sheet more tightly around his shoulders.  He was doing his best; she had to think of something to say that would reassure him. 

“I’m the one who should be apologizing,” she said.  “I woke you up and then attacked before you had a chance to know what was going on.  It was my fault.”  She got to her feet and moved away from him, curious to see if it would ease the tension. 

John started to relax.  He looked around the chamber, a normal level of thought and inquisitiveness replacing the mixture of embarrassment and fear in his expression.  “What time of day is it?” 

“Morning.  It’s time for First Meal.” 

“How about I take a shower and meet you in the Center Chamber for something to eat?” 

“I’ll see you there in a little while,” she said, and moved farther away.

John nodded, rolled across the bed so he was on the side away from her, and headed for the waste alcove, thermal sheet still securely wrapped around him.  Aeryn compared that furtive retreat to the early days of his recovery, when the damaged personality inside a crippled body had delighted in the lingering kisses that were the only portion of their physical passion he could produce.   Just a single day earlier, he would have dropped the sheet on the bed, strode across the cell naked, and stopped at the entrance to the alcove in the hope that she would join him. 

Something had gone horribly wrong with the last stages of his recovery.  The fifteen arns worth of what she had wrongly assumed was healthy healing sleep had turned into something entirely different.  And the only thing she had learned so far was that John was going to be the last person she could rely on for help. 

* * * * *

“John, we need to talk.”  She had her lips against his shoulder, one arm around his chest.  It had taken ten solar days for her to work up to the point where he would allow this much contact, and she still had not been able to find out what was causing his withdrawal. 

“Mmmhmm.”  He sounded tired.  “What’s up?”

“I want to know what’s bothering you.”  She rubbed his stomach a little, knowing it usually calmed him. 

He caught her hand and held it in both of his, preventing her from completing the motion.   He ducked his head to kiss the knuckles, then held her hand to his chest, preventing another attempt at caressing him.  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Aeryn.” 

“You have been avoiding all of us.  I asked Pilot for a list of all of the maintenance tasks you’ve done over the past ten solar days, and it looks like a schematic of every unused, unknown corner of Moya.  You have spent the last several days in places that even the DRDs never visit.  And then there’s what happened today.  What’s going on?” 

They had been chatting with Pilot, laughing over some small, acerbic remark from the big symbiote, and she had stepped behind John in order to move closer to Pilot’s central station.  She had wanted to make sure he did not step back into her, so she had placed her hand on his back to warn him that she was there.  John had bolted nearly two motras trying to get away from the unexpected touch.  That would not have been a problem except that in his panic he had nearly gone off the edge, teetering for a long microt while she stood frozen in shock at his initial reaction.  Trained reflexes had prevailed; her hands had grabbed his flailing wrist just as he started to topple over the edge and jerked him back to safety.  It had been too close to risk a repeat. 

“You have been after my body for as long as I’ve known you.”  She pulled her hand loose and propped herself up on her other elbow.  “And now you don’t even want me here next to you.” 

“That’s not true.” 

He was arguing the small point, avoiding the larger issue.  Aeryn saw the evasion for what it was.  “Your body does not want me here.”

“Aeryn --” 

“It started the morning after we had D’Argo tongue you.  This is not like you at all.  What’s going on?” 

John pulled himself into a ball with his arms wrapped tightly aound his ribs, and shook his head.  Aeryn smoothed the hair at the side of his head back, waiting for an answer. 

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he whispered.  “I don’t want to think about it any more.  I’m tired of dealing with this.  I just want it to all go away and leave me alone.” 

Crichton turned further into the pillow, away from her.  She kissed him one more time on the shoulder, felt the quiver run through him that meant he detested the light tough, and then she lay down behind him with the taste of defeat and loneliness in her mouth. 

He was here, but he wasn’t.  John had come almost the entire way back from the brink of insanity and death only to stop just shy of the goal.  They had been so close to making it all the way.  One by one, he had managed to cope with the endless series of physical and psychological problems, from frustration to sequestered memories, through the endless nightmares and eventually the more formless but equally frightening dreams that had gradually faded in intensity and then stopped altogether. 

When he had begun sleeping soundly again, she had thought it was over, that she had him back, whole and restored to the person he had been a half cycle earlier.  That had changed abruptly and even after ten solar days of careful probing, she had no idea why. 

Aeryn pulled her arms away from him, giving him the space he so obviously desired, and watched the rigidly tense muscles relax.  Tears welled up and stung, hovering short of breaking loose.  She took a deep breath to get them under control, waited for the urge to dissipate, and then pulled the covers over them, carefully tucking them in around John’s neck without actually touching him. 

“It doesn’t matter.  We can leave it alone.”  She could live with it if this was all she could have, but seeing him damaged like this -- a permanent reminder of what he had endured -- was nearly as painful as watching him die. 

John rolled over and peered at her in the half-light.  He reached out and wiped the few errant tears off her cheeks.  “You don’t really want to leave it alone, do you?”

“I want you to be happy, and I want you to feel like you’re completely healed, John.  You haven’t reached that point yet.”  She kept her hands away from him, knowing that he would endure her caresses out of love for her, but that he would not enjoy them.  She knew from ten days of experience that it took his full supply of self-discipline to keep from leaping out of the bed whenever she touched him. 

“I want you to be happy,” she repeated. 

He turned away from her and curled up again, this time yanking a pillow down and clutching it to his chest.  He shook his head, dark hair visible in the half-lit gloom of the chamber.  “Sometimes I think I’ll never be happy again,” he said quietly.

Aeryn waited, unsure whether he was finished.  She knew that if she said anything, giving him even the smallest excuse not to continue, he would avoid talking about the problem.  So she lay quietly beside him, letting the silence work on his reticence.   

Close to half an arn had passed when his voice came out of the dark.  “Every time someone touches me, I swear I can feel them grabbing me.” 

You can feel who grabbing you?”  She knew the answer, but it was the only question she could think of at that moment, and she wanted to keep him talking. 

“Them.  The Others.” 

She propped herself up again, trying to see his face.  This was the first time he had used that term outside of the Meetings that had taken place inside his own mind.  What little psychology she had been taught during her training had revolved around either interrogation techniques or gaining a tactical advantage over the enemy, but she had studied enough to recognize that he was sidestepping the trauma by depersonalizing his captors. 

“They are called scarrans,” she corrected him.  It was brutally direct, aimed at goading him into another response.

“Scarrans,” he repeated quietly. 

“Go on.” 

The wait was so long this time, she had dozed off several times, and eventually resorted to biting her lip until it hurt to keep herself awake.   

John moved restlessly, producing something akin to a squirm, as though crawling away from a detested object.  “I feel their hands, no matter who touches me or why.  You, Chiana, Jool, Big D, even Fluffy; it doesn’t make any difference.  Someone puts their hand on me and I only feel one thing and every single muscle in my body says I’ve got to get the frell out of there before it starts all over again.”  John shifted onto his back, staring up at the dimly visible ceiling. 

“This didn’t start when your memory came back, did it?” 

John shook his head. 

“You were fine at first.  It only began after your nightmares ended.” 

He limited his response to a quick nod.  She was beginning to feel as though she was conversing with one of the DRDs. 

“Do you actually sense that it’s their hands you’re feeling?” she asked, unsure whether he was being literal. 

John shook his head.  “No, I feel you, but my brain insists that it’s something else.  I can’t stop it.  I thought if I gave it enough time it would go away.  I think it’s getting worse instead.” 

He turned his head to look at her, examined the one-dench space separating their bodies, then wrapped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close.  She could feel what the simple gesture cost him:  the tremors that wracked his body, the shudders and lurches that continued for more than one hundred microts while he conducted a silent battle against the instinct that said he had to get away from the contact.  It was a deeply seated instinct.  She understood that.  This was an urge that went back to the beginning of John’s species.  Survival depended on flight, and his body was doing its best to protect itself from a threat that had been carved into the very essence of John’s being one impulse of energy at a time. 

Anyone who loved her less than John did would not have been willing to put the effort into overriding that kind of instinctive reaction.  It was just one more example of how much he loved her.

Aeryn held herself very still until it stopped.  She shifted to a more comfortable position inside his embrace only after warning him first.  He barely flinched as she rearranged herself alongside him. 

“I love you very much,” she said.  The reassurance -- meant as repayment for the hell he was putting himself through because he loved her -- backfired.  John looked guilty. 

“I do love you, Aeryn.  I just can’t --”

She put a finger on his lips.  “It’s all right.  I understand.  I understand why this is happening.”

“Okay,” he said in a whisper.  “Glad you understand it, because I don’t.  I don’t understand why this is happening.”

“When you feel their hands … it doesn’t feel that way now, does it?” she asked, deliberately propping her chin on his chest. 

John held her tightly until the tremors generated by her touch died away.  “No.  It wears off after a while, but anything can set it off again.  I can’t control it, Aeryn.  It hits when I least expect it; doesn’t happen when I’m ready for it.  I’ve tried.  God knows I’ve tried.” 

Aeryn listened to the flat, emotionless timbre of his voice, a tone telling her as clearly as words that John had himself under the most rigid emotional control he was capable of maintaining, and knew that she had to be careful.  John was on the brink of emotional dissolution.  If she pushed too hard, or handled this the wrong way, odds were that he would either disappear into the gloomily lit corridors of Moya’s version of nighttime, or unleash one of his irrational, emotional explosions.

She stayed silent, giving him time to relax. 

“You still awake?” he asked after a while. 

“Yes.”

“Thinking?”

“Yes.”  She was thinking that if she waited for John to ask about the problem that it would, at least in part, restore his sense of control.  It would also let her know when he was ready to move forward. 

“About?” he said after another delay of several hundred microts.

“I was thinking that since the reaction wears off if I have been touching you long enough, that it means your brain can be convinced that it’s all right to be touched.” 

He shrugged, neither agreeing nor denying.  “Your point?”

“If that’s case, then we’ll just have to teach it this part as well.”

“You’re going to teach me how to get touched,” he rephrased slowly, considering her proposal. 

She gave him time to think it over, knowing that the process would be agonizing for him.  He would be forced to wage a constant battle against his own subconscious, with little or no outside help from anyone else.  She and the others would be in charge of detonations.  Their role would be the equivalent of periodically lobbing emotional bombs into the middle of a cease fire, triggering a series of carefully timed deliberate altercations.  His job would be the hard part.  She was not sure she would have agreed to the idea if their roles had been reversed. 

“Okay,” he said much sooner than she had expected.  “I don’t know if this is going to work, Aeryn, but I’m willing to give it a try.  I’ll try almost anything if there’s a chance of getting this to stop.”  He looked at her more carefully, peering down his nose at where she was lying alongside him.  “You’re laughing.  What’s so amusing?” 

“The idea that we can teach John Crichton, the higher reasoning deficient human from the planet Erp, anything at all,” she said with her lips pressed against his shoulder, teasing him with a very old accusation. 

“Come here, funny person.”  He pulled her on top of him, so she was lying on his chest.  They ignored the latest set of violent tremors coming from his body, behaving as though nothing unusual had occurred, and then they talked into the night, deciding how they might finish his journey.       

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

[KernilCrash]

Chapter 19

There had been progress, Aeryn reflected.  They had played a slow and gentle game of touching John without warning over the past sixty solar days, and it was finally paying off.  She watched Chiana ease in next to Crichton and bump him out of the way with her hip.  He laughed and nudged her back, pushing against her with both his hip and his shoulder until he could return to his survey of the navigational display.  If that had happened even twenty days earlier, John would have been halfway across the chamber, arms wrapped defensively around his ribs. 

Once again, it had taken time and patience.  Everyone had agreed to be careful about making physical contact with John until he was ready to accept it, and they had embarked on the gradual process of teaching his subconscious that it was all right to be touched.  John’s nightmares had returned at first, but they lacked the ferocity of his earlier visions, and had faded away in a matter of days.  Since then there had been a slow, carefully plotted escalation of light touches, nudges and finally embraces.  Crichton had started the process a tangled bundle of jumps and starts, but had slowly learned to trust the caring hands again. 

Aeryn left her seat at the strategy table and went to stand behind him.  She flung one arm across his shoulders and leaned against him as he bent over the console, deliberately making full body contact.  He slid an arm around her waist and pulled her closer, not a tense muscle or shudder in evidence.

“You’re looking pretty good,” she said into his ear. 

He glanced at her.  The grin that she had always thought looked so silly appeared.  It did not look silly any longer.  It was a welcome sight. 

“I’m feeling pretty good for a change.”  He watched Chiana leave the room.  Once the nebari was gone, he looked back at Aeryn.  “Come with me tonight?” 

It was only the third time he had asked her that in the past thirty solar days, and the first two invitations had only resulted in a bad night’s sleep as his subconscious kept telling him that she was a danger to him. 

“Are you sure?” 

“Yes.  This is not a test.  I’d really like you to sleep with me tonight.”  He straightened and turned, concern on his face.  “But I don’t want to … I mean, if you don’t want to just … it’s okay.  But I don’t want to …”  John blushed.  “Oh crap.  I mean …”

“I understand, John,” she assured him, stemming his confused explanation.  “Just sleeping will be fine.  That’s enough.”

“Thanks, Aeryn.” 

“At least for now.” 

Her addition caught him by surprise, generating a flashing glimmer of panic.  It was quickly replaced by something closer to avarice, and he pulled her against him more firmly.   

* * * * *

They had located a mixed-industry commerce planet where they were told they could pick up a variety of supplies, meeting all their needs, and everyone was eager to get off Moya for a few arns worth of fresh air.  Aeryn waited by the steps to the transport pod.  Chiana, Jool, and Rygel were already inside.  She could hear their bickering all the way from her spot at the bottom of the stairs.  They were waiting for D’Argo and John, and she was beginning to wonder if there had been a last minute retreat by Crichton.

More than two hundred solar days had passed since they had brought John’s senseless body back from the scarran stronghold, and Aeryn could no longer detect any differences in his behavior or physical condition other than his futile struggle to regain interest in their private physical relationship.

Aeryn suspected that there were still one or two hidden details that John would never reveal to anyone -- not even to her -- and that meant they would always face the occasional illogical reaction that would occur without any apparent reason or warning.  She wondered if she was about to see one of them now.  She paced back and forth from the stairs of the transport to the hangar doors, using the movement to burn off nervous energy.  When she had proposed this trip off Moya, she had hoped that John had regained enough of his old confidence that he would show up. 

She was about to go looking for him when the two men hurried into the hangar bay, arguing vigorously.  John was gesticulating wildly, yelling at D’Argo as he strode across the chamber.  The skirts of his black overcoat swirled around his legs as he rushed to get ahead of the luxan, all the while yelling loudly in an attempt to drown out D’Argo’s deeper voice.  He was wearing his pulse pistol for only the second time since that horrible day when she had picked it out of the dirt.  They had found Winona at the spot where he had been overwhelmed by the rush of scarrans, the weapon lying abandoned, a lonely commentary concerning the fate of its owner.  Aeryn had stood in the long slanting rays of a setting sun, turning the weapon over in her hands, and she had felt as bleak as when the other one had lay dying before her.

Aeryn was yanked away from those despair-laden memories by the sound of John’s voice.  “We’re ready,” he shouted ahead.  “Sorry we took so long.  It was D’Argo’s fault.”  His casual gesture made it clear that his accusation was not entirely true, and he wore a mischievous grin that she had not seen in more than half a cycle.     

“What are the two of you arguing about now?” 

They both started accusing each other at the same time, a tangle of voices backed up by aggressive postures and more wild gestures from both of them.  She watched John’s energetic movements, the enthusiastic participation in the pointless squabble and saw all the strength and confidence that had been missing for so long.  He turned toward her, leaving D’Argo still bellowing his point of view, and came toward where she waited at the bottom of the steps. 

“What are you looking so happy about?” he asked.

She climbed the first two steps leading into the transport pods, then turned and looked down at him.  “You.” 

She did not wait for a reply.  Aeryn ran lightly up the steps, noted the way they bounced and jerked out of time with her own weight, and knew that John was right behind her.  She anticipated his next move.  When he tried to get past her the first time, she dodged from one side of the narrow hatch to the other and cut him off.  When he tried to slide past her second time, heading for the pilot’s seat, she checked him hard with her hip, sending him stumbling across the cabin. 

“Five minute penalty for boarding!” he yelled, and vaulted into the second seat. 

Energy, vitality, enthusiasm, and joy sat beside her, concentrating on waking up the power cells and bringing up the first of the cockpit displays.  There was only one thing missing that he needed in order to become John Crichton again.  Aeryn wondered if it would take a process as painstakingly tedious as the one that had allowed him to be touched again; or if there was some way to shorten this final stage of his recovery.  While there was a certain attraction to the idea of spending thirty, fifty, or even one hundred solar days convincing his body that it was interested in sex, she was not certain she was prepared to cope with another round of anger, depression, and frustration. 

The outer hatch clanged shut behind them, D’Argo dropped onto the seat beside Chiana, and then John was calling off the first item on the checklist to start the engines and there was no time left to think of such things. 

* * * * *

They had trouble receiving permission to land at any of the larger commercial centers because the planet they had chosen to visit was swarming with military troops.  Every medium or large sized city was overflowing with uniformed personnel.  They stayed in wide orbit for almost an arn, discussing the potential risks of continuing down to the planet without knowing whose troops had taken over the planet or why.  After an extended debate, Jool -- the only person aboard the transport pod who was not being actively sought by the Peacekeepers -- took over at the comms.  She managed to contact an official from the orbital control facility, and proceeded to bicker and argue with him for more than a quarter arn in an attempt to wheedle more information out of him about the troops and why they were there. 

“Give up,” D’Argo said quietly when yet another of Jool’s oblique questions failed to draw out any useful information.  “Let’s go back to Moya.” 

“Two words, big guy,” John whispered over Jool’s chatter.  “Cabin fever.  If I don’t get off Cecil the Spacegoing Sea Serpent for a few arns, I am going to go stark raving bonkers.  We’re already here.  Give her a few more microts.  We’ve got nothing to lose but our time.”

“That and our freedom if those troops are mercenaries contracted to the Peacekeepers,” D’Argo said more loudly.

Jool spun around to face them.  “Could you two show the slightest comprehension of good manners by not making it thoroughly impossible to hear this officer’s responses?” she said in a petulant whine.  “Don’t either of your species possess the concept of etiquette … or intelligent, polite behavior?”

It turned out to be the key that unlocked the orbital officer’s cooperation.  His last transmission had been just as evasive, just as unhelpful as all the rest.  The one following Jool’s outburst provided most of the information they had been seeking.  The troops on the planet had nothing to do with Peacekeepers, and they were there on leave.  There was no war.

Aeryn turned toward John, raised her eyebrows in both inquiry and astonishment, and whispered, “What just happened?”

He spread his hands, shrugged and shook his head. 

“Trap, maybe?” Chiana asked from behind them. 

“Don’t know.  Something sure changed,” John said.  He gestured toward the pod’s controls arranged beside Aeryn’s elbow.  “Power up, just in case we need to boogie.”

Aeryn held up a hand, signaling that they should wait.  “Listen.”

Jool and the official were engaged in fast, literate repartee.  Veiled references to literary and scientific sources, quotations, and word play fired back and forth; she laughed, fended off a light-hearted attack from the person on the far end of the transmission, and launched a verbal salvo of her own.  He threw it back at her, along more information about the soldiers swarming the planet. 

“He’s flirting with her,” John whispered in disbelief.  “That’s why --”

“Yes, John.  I get it,” Aeryn said.  “I understand the concept of flirting.”

The troops, it turned out, were mercenaries seeking nothing more than rest and recreation between campaigns.  The entire force of one of the largest privately run armies in the sector had been gathered there in order to reorganize in preparation for a large-scale deployment.  According to the orbital control officer, the only threat created by their presence was the danger of being crushed between a mass of thirsty troops and the bar. 

“Jool,” D’Argo began.

The interon turned and skewered D’Argo with a furious green-eyed glare that seemed to say that if he interrupted her again, it would be at the risk of his own life.  He closed his mouth, and subsided onto his seat. 

“But you are interested in landing here, not in my prattle” the official’s voice said.  “If you care to accept my suggestion, there is a smaller enclave on the northern continent that has not been entirely overrun by troops.  The town has been reserved for the command ranks and their support staff.  Their officers and technical specialists have gathered there for meetings, to make decisions about pay and promotions, and for briefings.  Since there are not as many rank and file soldiers, there is a little room left at the landing port, and the refreshment houses have not been completely dismantled by brawling enlisted morons.”  A familiar level of distain for the intellectually non-elite flooded from the communications equipment. 

“Send us the entry vectors for that landing site,” Aeryn said, raising her voice in order to drown out Jool’s answer.  The data appeared on the transport’s holographic readouts.  Before she could reach to do it herself, John’s fingers flowed over the nav panel next to him, converting the information into a projected flight path and adjusting the displays in preparation for a descent.

“Finish up, Jool,” John said. 

“I don’t suppose you could join us,” Jool began in a wheedling tone. 

A long laugh flowed from the speaker.  “I regret, sweet lady, that joining you is impossible.  I am a planetary orbital control officer.  Ask someone about my profession once you have landed, and you will understand why I cannot meet you in person … as pleasurable as that experience undoubtedly would have been.  It has been a rare delight conversing with you, and I hope we stumble across each other’s transmissions some time in the future.”  He chuckled again, and the comms channel went silent. 

“What the heck was that all about?” Crichton asked.  “He seemed way too amused by something at the end.”

“Trap?” Chiana suggested for the second time.

“It doesn’t look that way,” Aeryn said.  “Every scan indicates exactly what he was describing.  There are no signs of fighting, other than what might be the occasional brawl, no clusters of weapons energy, no sensor scans coming from their ships, and the personnel are not dispersed in tactical formations.”

“Good to go, then,” John said, making it a question.

“Good to go,” Aeryn agreed.  “Beginning descent.”

Jool pouted and flounced toward one of the bench seats along the sides of the transport pod’s cockpit.

“Cheer up, Red,” John said.  “I sure there will be someone just as nice down there, even if not as brainy and literate as Victor Vector back there.  Have a few drinks, let your hair dow-- … uh, let yourself relax for a few arns, and rub elbows with us less intelligent types.  We’re not so bad once you get to know us.”

Jool’s green eyes seemed to glow with anger for a microt, threatening a screaming metal-melting outburst, but in the end she turned away from Crichton, stared out the forward view portal, and sank into a silent sulk. 

They were directed to a landing spot at a small port outside the town the officer had recommended.  Aeryn flew a fast, aggressive approach through the swarms of airborne craft, setting the pod down a little faster than usual, but with all of her usual finesse.  The ground flashed by, details reduced to a blur as they arced in on a smooth carefully planned vector; she yanked the craft level at the last microt, and used the residual energy instead of the braking jets to finish the deceleration.  The pod settled onto the designated pad with none of the usual billows of dirt and dust. 

“That was showing off,” John said. 

An emotion that Aeryn had not felt in close to a cycle sprang to renewed life:  Irritation resulting from one of John’s typically thoughtless comments.  She knew he hadn’t meant anything by it.  That knowledge did not do anything to smother the instinctive reaction.

He flicked a glance in her direction, did a double take, and hastily added, “But it was an exceptional way of showing off, and an appropriate way for us to arrive.  Good job.  Could not have done it better myself … ever.  Never ever.  Not in a month of Sundays.”

The tension that had begun to build between her shoulder blades faded away.  Her jaw unclenched.  “Better,” she said.

“Better than getting shot,” Chiana said on a laugh. 

“You betcha,” John said.  “Let’s go.  I could use a drink more than ever.  A near death experience always does that to me.”

He stepped aside to let Aeryn go first, waving her past him when they approached the hatch at the same time, and then followed closely behind, one hand resting lightly on her shoulder.  There wasn’t any anger:  no resentment, no lingering hurt feelings.  There was her and there was John’s hovering presence, and that was all that mattered.   

A transport system whisked them into the center of the township.  They stepped out of the ground effect vehicle to find themselves in the midst of an ocean of military personnel.  Every street and building was seething with gray uniforms. 

“He calls this not totally overrun?” Jool exclaimed in dismay. 

“Someone forgot to tell us that today is Monochrome Mardi Gras.  If I had known, I would have dressed up,” John said. 

“We’ll never find a place to get a drink!” Chiana said. 

Aeryn surveyed the mass of soldiers clogging the thoroughfare, and said, “Split up into pairs, stay on this street, and check every refreshment house.  If we can’t find one here, we can join up at the far end, move over one sector, and try again.” 

They responded to Aeryn’s suggestion by breaking up into the familiar, expected pairings.  John took a step around D’Argo to join Aeryn, Chiana and Jool battled wordlessly for a microt to see who would go with D’Argo, the loser moved over beside Rygel’s throne sled, and then each pair moved off in a different direction. 

Aeryn set off along one side of the broad thoroughfare, glancing into one establishment after another, only to realize that she had already lost John.  She turned back, half expecting him to be gone in the same way he had disappeared earlier that cycle.  He wasn’t.  He was ten steps behind her, peering into the open door of one of the refreshment houses. 

She waited, trying to be patient.

“What did I miss?” she asked when he caught up to her.

“Nothing.  I was just looking at some of the critters.”

“What creatures?” she asked. 

“Some of these guys,” he said, indicating the uniformed personnel all around them.  “Like that one.”  He jerked his head at an eight-limbed being wearing a breathing rig.  “I was trying to imagine what it would be like to go through the rest of my life wearing a mask or a helmet, and thanking my lucky stars that I wound up aboard Moya.” 

It was the type of insight that she seldom stopped to consider.  It was perfect example of how John’s mind worked.  Aeryn devoted several microts to examining the individuals within the mobs of soldiers flowing around them, noting that a dominant proportion were bipedal anthropoids.  She shrugged once, assuming that it had something to do with mobility, the ability to handle standardized weapons, and intelligence, and then motioned to John that they should move on. 

They were two refreshment houses from the end of the street before she spotted a break in the otherwise solidly packed buildings.  She paused, giving the crowd inside time to shift, which eventually provided a better view.

“How we doin’?”  John moved closer, looking over her shoulder. 

“I can see a table with only three people at it.  Go get the others while I convince them to move on.” 

“How are you going to --” 

She turned to look at him. 

“Never mind, never mind.  Forget I even started to ask.  You’re going to glare them off.”

“One of these days, if you work hard enough at it, you might start to catch on.  Find the others,” she said.

She kept her eye on him as he started back the way they had come.  Only when he spotted D’Argo entering a building and went after him, moving deeper into the crowds of soldiers, did she turn her attention back to the partially occupied table and the task of making room for herself and her five crewmates.  Aeryn moved into the establishment cautiously at first, scanning the interior to make sure she had not overlooked any details that might indicate the presence of a threat; then began shoving her way through the crowd, moving steadily toward where she had seen some empty seats. 

Three officers were sitting at a large table.  They were huddled together over an array of flimsy transparent schematics and holographic readout devices that took up most of the table’s surface.  As she got closer, she could see that the two officers sitting to either side were deferring to the man in the center as they consulted the mass of information.  This was a senior officer with two subordinates.  She needed to concentrate on the officer in the center.  He would be the least likely to give way to an implied threat.

Aeryn rested her hand on the butt of her pulse pistol and started to tap into her years of Peacekeeper training, seeking the arrogant aggressiveness that she had learned unsettled most individuals to the point of choosing retreat over all other options. 

The middle officer glanced up, flicked a look of bored indifference toward the figure in black leather standing nearby, and went back to what he was doing. 

“Sir,” one of the other officers said.  This one was fidgeting under her stare. 

The commander looked up.  This time he spent more time examining the person who was attempting to herd him away from his table with nothing more than a fierce look.  His jaw dropped.  “Officer Sun!”  He slid off his seat and moved around the table to greet her.  The other two officers got to their feet as well, following their commander’s example. 

“What are you doing here?” he said.  His eyes narrowed slightly. “I hope you’re not here to work out a contract.  We’re on a mandatory stand-down for at least another ten planetary days.”

Aeryn recovered from her surprise, hurriedly smothering the haughtiness she had just summoned up.  “No, we’re only going to be here for a few arns.”  She could not remember the mercenary officer’s name; she had been too focused on other things the last time they had met.  He motioned for her to join him, and waited until she was seated before taking his place again.  One jerk of his head was enough for the two subordinates, who gathered up the sheaves of data transparencies and holograph emitters, and disappeared into the crowd.  Aeryn used the microts to run through her memories of the contract negotiations with the mercenary hierarchy, desperately searching for the officer’s name. 

“Commander Tellart,” he said, sensing her lack of recall.  “Of course it was captain the last time we saw each other.  I think you should know that your engagement got me my promotion.  I owe you a drink for that alone.”  He waved at someone behind her, beckoning. 

“I would like to wait.  The rest of my --”  She tried to pick a more military sounding term for their group, envisioning the odd collection that her companions always presented, and gave up.  “The rest of my friends should be here in a microt.”  She turned to see who had come to a stop next to her.  A summoned trooper stood at attention, waiting patiently for his orders. 

Tellart motioned him away.  “Stay close.”  The soldier nodded and drifted off to a table nearby, standing and chatting with his comrades while keeping his commander in sight.

Aeryn heard them coming before they entered the building.  Chiana and Jool were bickering again, the shrill duet rising stridently above the uproar inside the building, and she could hear John’s voice as if it was on a private channel.  His deeper tones could not cut through the background noise the way Jool’s high-pitched shriek always did, but she could still make out his voice whenever he responded to D’Argo’s bass rumble.  As soon as the quintet stepped through the door, Rygel’s steady griping became audible as well.  She turned and watched the strange little group approach, a colorful cluster wading through the surging tides of gray. 

Aeryn looked around at the soldiers, each of them standing with the same confident bearing that she had known as a Peacekeeper, their superiority tested and confirmed in battle.  That was the life she had been born to pursue:  one among many, a single element in a larger whole.  Then she watched the five individuals laugh and argue their way toward her, and felt strangely proud of them.  They looked in her direction, saw her companion, and were instantly wary.  She realized that they, too, had been tested in battle, and had shown more courage and tenacity than most of the soldiers around her would ever experience or demonstrate. 

John’s grin faded to a thinner, more reserved smile.  He was watching the officer sitting across from Aeryn carefully as he crossed the last two motras separating him from the table and slid onto the seat beside her with a proprietary air.  His gaze never left Tellart -- the unknown factor -- and yet Aeryn could feel that his attention was focused on her.  He was being protective but was also waiting for some sort of signal from her to direct his reactions.  John’s body shrieked of caution, but also of confidence.  He was moving with assurance, giving off none of the signs of insecurity that had ruled him for so long. 

She caught his hand under the table, and squeezed tight, hoping he would know that her need for contact was the result of pride in him, not an attempt at reassurance. 

D’Argo finished snarling a luxan curse at Rygel and finally turned his attention to the face above the uniform.  He fumbled for something to say, just as surprised as Aeryn had been. 

She provided the information she had not been able to recall on her own.  “Formerly Captain Tellart, since promoted to commander.” 

D’Argo inclined his head in greeting and sank onto a seat. 

“Ka D’Argo, good to see that you are still well,” Tellart said.  He looked at the rest of the group.  “I never had the chance to meet the rest of your --”  He hesitated over the last word, not sure what to call them. 

“Mob,” John filled in for him.  “Gaggle, pack, herd, horde.  Pick one.”

Aeryn gestured at each of them and offered their names, watching Tellart as he nodded in time with the introductions.  She knew he was evaluating their appearance, possible talents and abilities as fighters, and was categorizing them in his memory.  She knew because it was what she would be doing if she were meeting them for the first time.  She saved John for last, watching the officer’s reaction even more closely as she directed his attention toward what he would assume was another sebacean.  He inspected Crichton the same way he had the other four, his gaze lingering for an extra moment on the pulse pistol strapped to John’s thigh, and then simply gave him the same nodded greeting as all the others. 

Aeryn turned toward John.  “Commander Tellart was the officer in charge of the force we hired to break into the scarran facility.”  She watched him carefully in case he had one of his more violent reactions to the overly simplified explanation.  John’s gaze focused more sharply on her for a microt; then he turned back toward Tellart, examining the officer with more interest, and waited.  Everyone at the table seemed to be waiting for something. 

Tellart became wary, uncomfortable with the expressions facing him.  He studied Crichton a second time, focusing on the person that Aeryn had saved for last in the introductions and who had required an explanation, however brief, of their history together.  “You joined Officer Sun’s force recently?” he asked, searching for a clue. 

“No, we’ve been working together for almost four cycles now,” John replied. 

Tellart’s gaze flicked between John and Aeryn.  “I’m surprised you didn’t bring all of your fighters with you that day.  Your captured man seemed important to you.”  He paused, still looking uncomfortable.  “I’ve always regretted the way that worked out.  We completed the mission we contracted to perform, but I don’t like that we weren’t successful in rescuing the person we went after.”

John plunked an elbow on the table and rested his chin on his hand, staring at Tellart.  He was grinning openly now, which disconcerted the officer even more. 

“John was there that day, and it did not turn out as badly as you might think, Commander.”  Aeryn stifled a start as John’s hand pulled loose of hers and then settled on her leg under the table, rubbing her thigh near her knee.  She grabbed his hand with both of hers, and hung on, trying to concentrate on the slow sparring with the man who had so strongly recommended killing John to put him out of his misery. 

Tellart finally shook his head, giving up.  “I do not understand, Officer Sun.  Only you and Ka D’Argo fought with us that day.  I would have noticed if anyone else was with my troops.” 

“He was not with your troops, Commander,” D’Argo said.  “He was already there.” 

“You had advance intelligence?  You did not make any of that available to us.”  Tellart was instantly angry.  “I lost good soldiers that day!”

John looked at Aeryn and raised his eyebrows.  “Give him a break, Aeryn.  This is cruel.” 

“What was cruel was that he would not listen to us and wanted to give up on you.” 

Tellart finally got it.  “For the love of  … You’re him?”  He considered for a minute, recovering his composure, then shook his head.  “No, Officer Sun.  You should not have attempted to fool me.  No one survives that machine of theirs.  No one.”

“Someone does, Captain Tell-tale.”  John was still grinning.  “And I’ve got the nightmares to prove it.”  The mercenary officer continued to shake his head.  “Fine.  I don’t need to prove it to you.  Can we get some drinks?  I’m dying for one of those fruity jobs that come in the coconut with the little parasols sticking out of it.”   

“I want to prove it, John.”  D’Argo’s rumble arrested Crichton’s move to get up.  “He wanted to put a pulse blast through your head --”

“Might have been an improvement,” Rygel said, and then yelped and ducked a swat from Chiana. 

“-- and would have if we hadn’t insisted on bringing you back to Moya,” D’Argo finished as though he had not been interrupted.   

“I’d love to have you prove it, Big Guy, but there are no marks this time.”  John held his hands out in front of him, looking down his body as he quickly reviewed his ordeal.  “No visible scars, no burns, no eviscerations.  Sorry, I can’t give you any proof other than the fact that I tend to puke at the sight of a lizard.”  He looked around at the group sitting at the table, and grinned.  “Anyone got an iguana handy?  We could give it a try.” 

“Wait!” Aeryn and Jool spoke simultaneously. 

“There is a scar,” Jool said, “but it’s not from what the scarrans did to you, Crichton.  It’s from afterwards.  We never told you about that.” 

Crichton looked mildly ill.  Aeryn tugged lightly on his hand under the table to get his attention and shook her head.  “It’s nothing bad, I promise.  “Near the door?” she asked Jool. 

Jool nodded. 

“Come with us,” Aeryn said to Tellart.  She tugged John to his feet.  “We need better light.” 

She led the way to the open door where the late afternoon sunlight spilled into the room and turned John so one side of his body was facing out the door.  He resisted for a single instant when she placed her fingers on the underside of his chin and nudged upward, then allowed her to guide his movements.  Even with the late day light illuminating every small detail of his throat, it took several tries to find what she was seeking. 

“There!”  She left one finger on his neck to mark the spot and stepped aside so Tellart could move forward.  John waited patiently as the officer peered closely at his neck and throat.

“What are you looking at?” he finally asked. 

“Needle marks,” Tellart said.  “A lot of tiny needle scars all in the same spot.  Drinks are on me!” he finished, bellowing over the roar of voices.  The entire crowd turned to look at him.  Several of the soldiers cheered.  “Oh, for the love of Cholak!  Not you, you mass of hyperactive, sub-intelligenced, overly trained excuses for fighters!  I’m buying these people drinks!”  There was a wave of groans and jeers as his men cheerfully turned away from him, and he moved toward the bar through an alley that opened before him as if by magic. 

“What needles, Aeryn?”  John had not moved.  He was standing patiently by the door, waiting for her.   

“You were so badly damaged, we couldn’t touch you unless you were cut off from your own nervous system.  Tellart’s medtechs gave us a supply of drugs that took care of that until we could get you to the delvians.” 

“And you had to skewer me in the throat?  Ick.”  He stroked the skin there several times, then shivered slightly. 

Aeryn started to turn away, thinking that the conversation was over and that it was long past time they both had a drink.  John didn’t move.  He snagged her vest with a single finger, and tugged.  He was giving her a choice, she realized.  If she truly did not wish to discuss it any further, all she had to do was pull away.  If she allowed the tenuous restraint to pull her back to the doorway, it would be her choice.  She took the single step that returned her to John’s side.

“What haven’t you told me?” he asked. 

She shook her head, not certain how to explain what was generating the snarl of remembered anguish in her stomach, or whether she could make John understand what it had been like for her. 

He stared at her for more than ten microts.  “A supply,” he said.  “How big a supply?”

“Enough.”

“Enough,” he repeated, and thought about it some more.  “How many did you have left when we got to the delvian’s moon, Aeryn?” 

She stared out the door, her eyes turned away from him but not seeing the flood of traffic in the sunlight either.  The memories were so clearly etched into her memory; it felt like it had taken place just one day earlier.  Watching John sweat, mutter, and suffer, not knowing whether she had made the correct decision, the uncertainty over whether they had enough of the drugs to last until they reached the delvians:  it felt as though it had all happened just that morning. 

“Aeryn?”

“One,” she said.  “We had one left, and we used that one to get you from Moya down to the sanctuary.”

He let out a quick breath, a gusty statement of understanding and sympathy.  “What would have happened if you had run out?”

She could not look at him right away.  It took several microts to tear her gaze away from the past and refocus on John. 

“Aeryn?” he asked again.

“We would have been forced to listen to you screaming for however long it took.  Arns, solar days.”     

John cupped her cheek in his hand, and stared into her eyes.  There was understanding in that unwavering gaze, comprehension of the strength it had required and what it cost her to take the greatest risk of their combined lives.  “Kiss?” he asked in a whisper.

He was asking if she minded the ultimate public expression of their love for each other.  She wanted to say yes.  She wanted to let him know that there wasn’t anything she would not do with him, be it in private or in front of hundreds or even thousands of people … and could not bring herself to give him permission.  It made her feel too vulnerable.  Revealing that much of what mattered most to her in front of so many people ran contrary to everything she had been taught while growing up.  She could not turn it off. 

“It’s okay,” John said.  “I know.”  He caught one of her hands in his and brushed a kiss across her palm.

“You know what?” she asked, wondering how much of what she had been thinking he had been able to read in her eyes. 

“That you want to and can’t.  Not yet.” 

“Not yet,” she said, confirming that the day would come when she would be able to do what he had just asked. 

“That’s good enough for me.  Come on.  I’m dying for a brewski.”

As they approached the table, a rising shriek of indignation began to drown out every other noise in the building. 

“Jool,” Aeryn said, identifying the source of the ear-splitting whine.

“Can’t be trouble.  It’s not melting the fixtures,” John added. 

It was not danger.  Based on the iridescent hue of her hair and the level of hilarity at the table, this was embarrassment.  Tellart was laughing hard.  The other three at the table were in complete hysterics. 

“What’s going on?”  Aeryn asked.

“What did we miss?” John said at the same time.

“Jool’s friend,” Chiana gasped, “the one on the comms channel --” She dissolved into more giggles, very nearly falling out of her chair and leaving the explanation unfinished in the process. 

D’Argo had one hand clasped to his chest, suggesting that he was not getting enough air, while the other one pounded steadily on the table.  The furniture was crackling under the assault, threatening imminent failure.  Rygel was no more help than the other two.  He was wheezing through an attack of the intons, possibly getting worse with each additional microt. 

“Feeling a little left out?” John asked.

“Yes.  You?”

“Clueless.  But that’s normal for me.”

They turned toward Tellart, looking to the stranger in the group for a coherent answer.   

“She asked why the orbital control officers couldn’t come out here.  She explained that she wanted to meet the guy she had talked to on the communications channel,” he said. 

Jool’s screamed objections began to rise again.   

“The control officers aren’t people.  The control facilities are run by artificial intelligence computers.”  Tellart began laughing almost as hard as the rest of the group.  This time, the laughter managed to drown out Jool’s wail of embarrassment. 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

[KernilCrash]

Rating:  This section is rated NC-17 for hot and bothered (another way of saying “smut”).  If you’re under the age of 17 just turn around right now and get out of … ohhh, who am I kidding?  That’s just going to make you want to come in even more.  All right, you’ve been warned.   

   * * * * *

Chapter 20

Aeryn nudged the bottom corner of the curtain into place with the toe of her boot then stepped back to survey the flimsy partition, wishing it provided more of a barrier.  While the crew had spread out somewhat since their first cycle together aboard the leviathan, migrating to new quarters in search of privacy, it was interesting to note that they never moved very far from each other.  She had shifted into a cell on a completely different tier from John for too long, only to move back into the one next to his over a cycle ago.  Her absent-minded survey of the curtains continued while she considered asking Pilot if Moya would agree to have the wall between the two chambers removed by the DRDs.  If they were going to live together, she and John would need more space than a single cell could provide.

She shook herself out of her reverie, and turned toward the sound of a dull thump behind her.  John tossed his second boot into a corner, and then flung his socks carelessly to land on top of the boots.  The itch of irritation generated by the habit disappeared when she watched him move across the cell to close the second set of doors.  There was no apparent thought or effort involved when he balanced on one foot and leaned to the full extent of his reach, playfully waving at the sensor with one outstretched hand.  John hopped to the other side of the door and poked the curtains loose from their hook with a single finger.  Then he hustled backward, watching to make sure they closed completely.

It was a cheerful ballet of coordination and balance, the muscles in his arms and back moving smoothly beneath the thin shirt, flexing effortlessly as he stooped to tug one fold of the curtain into place.  He turned to look at her, a half-smile already in place, and then bounded across the cell toward her, taking a leaping shortcut directly across the bed.  Energy, exuberance, and happiness radiated out of him as he landed in front of her with a hushed barefooted slap. 

“Hi there!” he said brightly, as though she’d just arrived.  “How you doin’?”   

She played along.  “I’m doing good.  How are you doing?” 

“Grrrreat!”  He pulled her into a hug.  “I had a good time today.  That was fun.” 

Aeryn hummed an agreement into his shoulder, thinking more about how his cheek was resting comfortably against the top of her head than about his mood or their afternoon on the planet. 

“You certainly took your time letting Tellart in on the secret.” 

“He deserved it,” she said, instantaneously irritated.  She caught herself, reminded herself that she was happy to be here with John, and continued with less fervor.  “He wanted to kill you while you were still lying on that table.  He refused to consider that there was a chance that you could survive what they had done to you.”  Aeryn shuddered against his body, reliving the moment.

“It’s over.  Do not go back there, Aeryn.  That’s my special trick.”  He was rubbing her back with long, firm strokes.  He went lower on the next pass, and the next journey up her spine was conducted inside her shirt.  He bent down long enough to kiss the side of her neck.  “We’ve come too far; we need to stop going back to that.” 

“I can’t help it.  When we broke in there, and I saw you like that, it was --”  She left the sentence unfinished, incapable of finding the words to describe that moment. 

“Don’t think about it.  You held yourself together, did what was necessary, made a choice I’m not sure I could have made.  You … are … incredible.”  He punctuated his last three words with more kisses along the side of her neck, using the hand that was not otherwise employed underneath her shirt to pull her hair to one side.   

Aeryn snuggled further into his embrace, using his warmth as a tool to help her discard the memories that no longer served a purpose in their lives.  They stayed that way for several microts. 

A long sigh from Aeryn brought the brief interlude to an end.  “What do you think?” she murmured into his neck.   

“About what?”  He rocked gently from side to side, both arms wrapped around her, carrying her body along with his. 

“What do you think about tonight?  You haven’t tried to jump into the neural plexus in ages.  I think you’re ready to try again.” 

John took a deeper breath; his chest expanded and contracted inside her grasp.  “I don’t think so, Aeryn.  Not yet.” 

She pulled her head back to look at him, discouraged that he would not consider renewing their intimate physical relationship.  They had made several attempts at recreating since the night he had invited her to share nothing more than his bed.  No matter what they tried, the lingering traces of his aversion to being touched had banished arousal faster than it could be achieved. 

John gazed directly into her eyes without any of the shifts that signaled he was avoiding a difficult subject, unknowingly informing her that he was comfortable with the topic despite his unwillingness to recreate with her. 

He said, “I don’t want you to be disappointed.  I’d rather wait until I’m sure something will happen.”

“You won’t disappoint me.  That’s not possible,” she said quietly.  “I’m not worried about that.”

“I am.”

“I think you should at least try.”

“Guys don’t like to try and fail.  Not when it comes to this.  We get neurotic when that happens.”

“How would that be different from every other day of your life?”

“Oh, funny.”  He kissed the side of her neck again, and hugged her more tightly. 

That enthusiastic envelopment told her more about his mental status than his words ever could.  He was comfortable with the firm pressure of her body against his; he was seeking it out, finding either peace or solace in her presence.  There were no quivers or jerks coming from his body; no hesitation or deeply repressed revulsion.  Whatever was preventing him from wanting to recreate, it had nothing to do with an aversion to being touched. 

Aeryn pulled free of his embrace and tugged at his shirt.  With John’s cooperation, she pulled it off over his head, then wrapped her arms around him again, standing chest to bare chest.  She rested her lips against warm skin at the base of his throat, establishing a light, undemanding contact.  “Who does that feel like?” she asked, falling back into a repetition they’d used during the first difficult stages when he had struggled to allow anyone to touch him.   

“It feels like Aeryn,” he answered automatically, picking up the habitual response. 

“That’s a good start,” she murmured.  She bumped his chin upwards with her nose, and kissed the underside of his throat several times before continuing.  “How about this?”  She ran her hands from his ribs up his chest to his shoulders, trickled her fingertips outward along his collarbones, caressed him briefly below his ears, and then pulled him down for a kiss. 

“Feels like Aeryn,” he replied into her lips, resting his hands on her shoulders.  He ran his hands into the hair at the back of her head, fingering the warm mass, and encouraged her to raise her head to meet him.  “Definitely Aeryn,” he sighed, kissing her again. 

She rubbed the heels of her hands across his nipples several times, using the firm pressure that she had discovered excited him more than when she used her fingers.  He preferred something closer to a massage than a tickle.

“Yup, feels like Aeryn,” he confirmed on a exhale and kissed her again as the backs of her fingers ran down his chest to flutter against his stomach. 

“This?”  Aeryn took his hands in hers and led him beneath her shirt.  John stroked her ribs, her sides, the firm muscles of her belly, and made his first foray toward her breasts.  He encountered cloth.  There was one more garment underneath her shirt.

“Feels like … clothing.  Too much clothing.” 

“We can do something about that.” 

Aeryn’s fingers were at the front of his pants then, taking an agonizing long time to unfasten buckle, snap, and zipper.  His belt and pulse pistol dropped to the floor and were nudged under the bed by a boot.  Then her fingers pressed against his stomach for several moments, teasing him with their light presence.  The snap on his pants was released with a quiet pop.  His body responded to that small percussion as though it had set something free other than the waistband of his pants.  She must have noticed, because she looked down with a small smile, and rubbed a hand over the leather from navel to crotch.  The pressure increased, becoming more insistent. 

His zipper was released next, crawling downward with painful slowness, tooth by tooth.  Each tiny click reverberated though his groin, increasing the compounding sensation of warmth and engorgement.  The fact that Aeryn was unfastening his pants, instead of leaving the task up to him, threatened to detach his brain from the inside of his head. 

“Who does this feel like?”  Her hand snuck inside the loosened pants, found the beginnings of his erection and fingered the semi-hardened bulge through the thin fabric of his shorts. 

“That doesn’t exactly feel like Aeryn,” he said.  It came out sounding more breathless than he had intended.  Her second hand joined the first, stroking and fondling, delving deeper, filling the crotch of his loosened pants with an insistent massaging two-handed investigation.  “And, uh … oh god … Aeryn, this is not the clothing I was referring to when I said …” 

One moment he could scarcely think.  The next moment Aeryn’s hands were gone.  He had an instant to wonder what he had said wrong, and then she was yanking hard at the waistband of his shorts, tugging at where his pants clung to his hips, guiding them both past various obstructions, and then pants and shorts together slithered down around his ankles.  He was suddenly, finally naked, standing undressed and aroused with a triumphant-looking Aeryn poised in front of him. 

She reached for him again.

“No, no, no!” he said, scuffling back out of reach.  He was hobbled by his pants, which were still around his ankles.  “Your turn,” he said, reaching for the zipper on her vest.  “If I’m naked, you have to get naked.  Fair’s fair.”

Aeryn stood without moving for a microt, then gently pushed him toward the bed.  “Sit down,” was all she said. 

He stepped out of the rumpled heap of leather, kicked his pants and shorts into a corner, and did as he was told.   

Aeryn unzipped her vest, slid out of it, and handed it to him.  John took it, puzzled by the offering, and waited.  She pulled her shirt over her head next, and held that out as well.  He glanced between the choices and tossed the vest over his shoulder, indifferent to its eventual landing spot.  Shirt, boots, pants, and undergarments followed in random trajectories until she stood naked before him.

It was not a strip-tease.  This was something better.  This was Aeryn disrobing with deliberation, inviting him to stare at her body and to enjoy the increasing expanses of skin.  If it was intended to arouse him, it was working.  He had time to admire the slide and stretch of her muscles moving under her skin, the coordinated, elegant movements of a finely tuned body, and to imagine how all the various pieces would behave once the two of them were locked together in the throes of physical love.  There would be sweat and the sweet smell of an aroused woman, slick surfaces, coordinated ecstatic movements, effort, exuberance, and the unique compilation that was Aeryn.   

“Everything seems to be going well.”  She moved closer, so she was looking down at him.   

John ran his hands up the outside of her legs, brushed his fingers through the dark mat of hair waiting at close to eye level, and then reached up to trace the contours of her breasts.  “You are beautiful,” he breathed.  He looked up at her in concern.  “As long as you know this may not work.  I can’t guarantee anything.  You know what happens when --” 

He looked down at his groin.  The errant thought, skittering willfully through his mind, had done its damage.  “Damn.”     

“Don’t panic,” she said.  “I’m not done with you yet.  And it’s not the end of the universe if it doesn’t work out tonight.”  Aeryn pushed him over backwards.  She gave him time to make himself comfortable on his back before sitting down beside him.  A series of kisses began at his throat, making their way slowly down the center of his body.   

“It may not be the end of the universe for you,” he said, watching the dark hair move away from his chin, “but my entire future emotional stability is hanging in the balance here.”

“At least it’s nothing important.” 

John searched for a comeback.  He was distracted by a return of the aching interest between his legs.  Aeryn kissed him on the stomach and then held that position, trying to hide her snickers.  Her breath puffed against his belly, ticklish warmth flooding over his bare skin in time with each of her exhalations.

“You’re a real comedian tonight,” he said, trying hard to sound disgusted.  “Who supercharged your sense of humor?” 

“You did,” she whispered against his stomach and resumed her journey.  “Shush,” she ordered as he started to reply.  “Pay attention.  Who does this feel like?”  She kissed him just below his navel at the same time that her fingers delved into his crotch and stroked the skin at the joint of his leg, knuckles nudging against his balls. 

“God.  It feels like god,” he groaned in response to the immediate expansion. 

And then she touched him in earnest.  He discovered that everything up until that moment had been teasing or foreplay.  This was Officer Aeryn Sun on a mission. 

The strong fingers grasped the rigid focus of too much of his attention and coaxed him into a painful level of pleasure.  Fingers, teeth, lips, and tongue were put into play, employing every nerve ending from the top of his head to his toes.  She eased her efforts when he began to pant, played his body to its limits when he regained his breath.  She was the musician finding his harmonies, creating the complex symphony of sensations that was driving him toward the final crescendo, bending over him lovingly to sound out the limits of his possibilities.  John closed his eyes and submitted willingly to the slow torture, never knowing where she would touch him next, fingers and toes tightly clenched as she moved from throat to ribs, chest to belly, taking a careful inventory of his body, always spiraling back to the thrusting pressure that threatened to overwhelm him.   

“Wait,” he pleaded.  A climax was rushing toward him unchecked, breath raging in his lungs in response to the physical provocation, his body shaking and sweating.  “Not yet, not yet.”  Aeryn ran her tongue carefully across one of his nipples, trailed the liquid warmth downward across his stomach, and he fastened his shaking hands into the pillows and arched over backwards, fighting for control.

Arched, naked and spread out on a flat surface. 

The stray thought did its work.  “Shit,” he said in dismay, and started to sit up. 

“Who does this feel like?” she whispered, and kissed the inside of his thigh close to the scene of the disaster.

“Oh my god.”  Interest returned in a rush, almost stopping his heart with its intensity. 

“Wrong answer.”  She ran her tongue up his length, circled the head several times, and then lowered her mouth over him, engulfing him in warmth, moisture, and suction.  One hand gripped the base of his erection, the fingertips of the other stroked him lower, tickling the underside of his balls.  Hard and soft, warm and cold, light touches and a firmer grasp:  his universe devolved into a series of opposites, each sensation heightened by contrast.  He was conscious of little beyond the brush of cool air across his chest, stomach, and thighs, the hot liquid pressure of Aeryn’s mouth yanking hard on every pass, the tickle of her hair trailing across his belly and thighs, and the firm grip of her hand around the base of his shaft.  When he attempted to add in the caress of two fingers running forward and back across his balls, the combined total left him with so little brainpower remaining available for thought, he could barely function.  The unwelcome memories fled before the sensations, taking every bit of self control with them.

“Aeryn --” he pleaded again, feeling the disaster of a solo performance approaching at high speed. 

“Right answer.”  She treated him to several fast strokes with her hand, and then relented, moving up his body so she could hover over him, looking into his sweating face.  “How are you doing?” 

“You’re going to give me a heart attack.”  He reached up with one hand, cupping it alongside her face and urged her down for a kiss, breathing hard through his nose.  Her tongue met his, sparred, sought him out, reaffirmed that she loved him. 

“I love you,” he breathed against her cheek, nearly mindless with joy that they were together at last after everything they had been through during the last cycle.

The past snared him once more, turning desire into revulsion. 

“This?” Aeryn asked as a tremor shook him. 

The distraction wasn’t enough.  He couldn’t answer, caught between desire, dismay, and the memories that refused to be banished without putting up a fight.

“Look at me!  Look at me, John.” 

He did.  Aeryn straightened up, and held her arms out to her sides, presenting her body to him in all its naked beauty.  He let his eyes roam from her knees to her thighs to her breasts to the dark hair and back down again to where her legs joined her body.  Desire returned in a surge that was so intense it was painful. 

“That’s better,” she said.  Aeryn swung a leg over his body, turning her back to him, and settled her weight slowly onto his stomach so he could not see what she was doing.  He was treated to the sight of her back and her buttocks, and of the long dark hair spilling over her shoulders.  It was more than enough.  He rubbed her back, exulting in the variety of textures:  in the knobby humps of her spine, the firm muscles of the narrow waist, and the softer surfaces of her buttocks.  She leaned back, which allowed his hands to travel further.  He caressed the taut stomach, used his fingertips to explore higher, and found her breasts.  Aeryn took his hands in hers, guiding and encouraging him, silently letting him know that this was as pleasurable for her as it was for him. 

It didn’t last.  After what felt like several arns worth of exploration and mutual enjoyment, she leaned away from him, taking most of her upper body out of reach.  John waited, wondering what she had in mind for him.  She tugged at his legs, asking him to bend his knees.  He ran his hands up her back, rubbed her shoulders several times, and then did what she was requesting.  She guided his legs out to the sides, positioning his feet wider apart in the process, and then both hands delved between his legs and he lost track of anything other than what Aeryn was doing.  There was little left in his life other than the sight of her sitting on his body, and the wondrous touch of her fingers.

It seemed to go on for arns.  For the second time that night, Aeryn jacked him up to a level of tension that he never would have claimed he could sustain, and then allowed him to spiral back down.  Again and again, until there was nothing but Aeryn, the pleasure, and an ever-mounting demand for release.  At some point she must have turned around so she was bent over him again, because her mouth was doing most of the work.  He couldn’t remember when that had happened. 

“Who does this feel like?” she asked again after an eternity’s worth of tension.

“Aeryn, Aeryn, Aeryn,” he babbled.  He was sweating and shaking, on the verge of a complete physical breakdown.  This time it was for a wonderful reason.

Once again, the errant thought did its damage. 

“Crap!”

“This?” she asked right away.  Her tongue brushed against the base of his cock, and then the hot gusts of her breath moved lower.  She sucked his balls into her mouth, treating them to a careful, gentle moist massage while one of her hands tended to the remains of his erection. 

The hard aching pressure returned, this time accompanied by the squirming energy in his ass that foretold of an impending orgasm.  “Aeryn!” he said, straining to get the word out, trying to warn her to stop.

Whether she understood his meaning or not, she straightened up, which was all that he wanted.  “Good answer,” she said, and smiled.  “How is your heart attack coming along?”

“Stupendous,” he gasped out.  It took several microts to get himself under control and for the urge to die away until it was something that he could manage.  Aeryn spend the time rubbing his stomach. 

“Good god,” he said at last.  “You could damage a man by doing that too many times.” 

Damage. 

He sighed.  It took so little to destroy what Aeryn had worked so hard to accomplish. 

She did not seem to care.  She kissed his stomach, and set to work again, bringing him back to full aching hardness in less time that he would have thought possible.  She did not relent until his toes curled under, threatening to make his feet cramp, and he started to surge upward into her touch, seeking the last bit of provocation required for the exquisite internal explosion.  Only then did Aeryn straighten up, rub his belly several times, and look at him.  One hand remained between his legs, devoted to maintaining his concentration. 

“You know” she said, “this evening is turning out like a trainee’s first Prowler flight.” 

“How’s that?”

“A lot of ups and downs.” 

John froze in shock.  Aeryn released him and doubled over to rest her body on his chest, shaking with poorly contained laughter.  He couldn’t remember ever watching her laugh this hard.  Aeryn never dissolved into giggles.  Worse yet, she was laughing at him, and at his inability to maintain a hard on.

“That’s not a lot of help!” he said.     

But somehow it turned out to be the magical incantation that dispelled the last of his demons.  As he watched and felt Aeryn struggle to contain an unsoldierly level of laughter, it was as though someone had opened a window into his soul, allowing a breeze to air out the musty detritus of everything he had been through, and he was finally free of the damaging remnants.  There was only a wonderful emptiness left, a singular longing that said he had to be with her at that very moment, without any further hesitation or delay. 

“Come here.”  He pulled her onto his body, one hand traveling down her buttocks to reach between her legs.  She straddled him for the second time, this time facing him with her knees alongside his hips, and the symphony began again.  This time he was the musician.  He found the warmth between her legs, thumbs first exploring the soft skin at the joint of her hips then rubbing harder, working into the muscles and nerves that could start the excitement, pressing deep, encouraging her to spread her legs wider.  Then reaching farther between her legs, this time with his fingers, to caress the moist tissues, to coax and encourage.  This time it was her breath that shuddered with desire and excitement, her hands that grasped his shoulders and hung on as she started to shake. 

 He sat up with her, holding her hips hard against his, trapping his erection between their bodies, and nuzzled her gently between her breasts.  “You are so beautiful,” he admired her, and took one tautened breast into his mouth. 

Her fingers pressed against the back of his shoulders, grasped wildly at his hair as he sucked at her, ran the flat of his tongue across the hardened nipple, and nipped carefully at the sensitive skin.  She squirmed against him, small noises beginning deep in her throat, her pelvis rubbing hard against his trapped hardness, sharing her moisture as she moved within his embrace.  He took a deep breath and switched sides, attending to her other breast with equal care and devotion.  Aeryn twisted to one side, and he did what he knew she liked, nibbling along the side of her breast with his teeth, bestowing a series of unhurtful little pinches and lighter touches with his tongue. 

She squirmed, rubbed her pelvis hard against him, and turned the other way, presenting the other breast.  He complied, massaging the first breast with his free hand, pressing hard against her chest to provide the contrast of hard and soft, using the combination of light tickles and a nearly painful degree of pressure that would confuse her mind and light up her body.  He kept it up until she let out a quiet moan and arched away from him, presenting every inch of naked beauty from crotch to throat.   

John let his hands roam freely, exploring, touching, stroking the warm surfaces, finding each and every one of Aeryn’s favorite places and subjecting her to a slow, torturous rise to a climax.  There was the side of her neck, the base of her throat, the hollow of her shoulder, and working back, there was the spot beneath her ear where she did not mind a gentle pinch from his teeth.  There were elbows and wrists, the spot on the inside of her ankle, and a firmer stroking with both hands at the small of her back, until her entire body started to vibrate.   

“Please,” she whispered, leaning into him as he stroked her back from the nape of her neck to her buttocks.  “No more frelling around.”

He reached between their hips, and sought out the deeply hidden portions of the cherished form, squirming back away from her to give himself more room, pushing aside his own rigid flesh in the quest to locate her special spot.  He kissed the underside of her throat as his fingers moved inside her for the first time.  He explored gently, easing her open until he encountered slick moisture, working carefully until his fingers slid easily, pushing, coaxing, pressing harder, until he knew she was ready for him to touch the exquisite bundle of nerves. 

“No,” Aeryn cried quietly into his ear and clutched frantically at his shoulders.  A fist thumped at the muscles of his back several times, and she bit his shoulder. 

John buried his face in the side of her neck, breathed deep, taking in the scent of Aeryn, and rubbed the swollen knob carefully, gauging how much she could withstand.  She pushed against him, and he pressed harder, using two fingers, feeling the surge and spasm that said he had gotten it right.  Her legs performed a wild dance of confusion, trying to close around his hips and spread wider at the same time.  He spared one hand for several moments to push her legs farther apart, exposing her to his continuing attentions.  Then he explored her depths, rubbing the internal spaces until she clung to him shivering and starting to buck and whimper, her body succumbing to a sensation that was denied him by genetics. 

She was almost there.  He rubbed harder, settling into the insistent rhythm that was the only touch she could endure when she was this close to an orgasm. 

“Stop, stop, stop.” 

She pushed him over backward, then crouched over him, eyes closed, lips pressed together as she came back from the edge of where he had driven her.  He continued to caress her body, enjoying the smooth textures, elegant padding over firm muscles, warm silken surfaces.  Her breasts fit neatly into his hands, resilient and soft, hardened nipples thrusting against his palms, and she dropped her head, her hair falling to teasing at his shoulders as she rounded her back and shuddered again.

His world was her softness and his hardness, her quiet sighs of desire and his own long breaths as he tried to ignore the demand for release, excitement mounting with every light touch.  As though reading his mind, Aeryn opened her eyes, and watched him as she worked her hips back until she was poised over his pelvis, hovering less than a dench from the tip of his cock.  He grasped her hips to draw her down, urging her to complete the union.  Aeryn lowered herself a small distance, until they touched, then stopped and smiled at him in devious amusement.  He tugged again, and she sank down another dench, imbedding just the head of his cock inside her warmth.  He let out an exaggerated whimper of frustration, and then Aeryn sank down the rest of the way.

An all-encompassing warmth and the special grasp of uniquely female internal muscles engulfed him.  For a moment, it might have been his entire body sinking into a place of safety and love, not just the one bit of his anatomy.  His entire self was inside the woman he loved, and the rest of the universe did not exist. 

“Aeryn,” he breathed out over several microts, providing the answer without the question. 

She hummed and rocked against him, stroking his shoulders in time with her motions.  He wanted to tell her something about this moment, about love and remembrance, and about compounding memories and joy and relief and life itself.  There was a message he needed to share that had to do with her commitment to him and how hard he had fought to earn her love; about pain, endurance, stubbornness, and the relief that all their effort had paid off.  He could not find the words to explain it to her.  Most of all, he wanted to tell Aeryn that it was over at last, that he was whole again, and that he loved her more than life itself.  He let go of her arms all at once, and rubbed his eyes with the heels of both hands, scrubbing at them.  Aeryn’s strong fingers grabbed him by the wrists before he could finish, drawing his hands away from his face. 

“Tears?  Now?” 

She was studying him, considering his outburst and the cause. “I think I understand,” she crooned, and wiped the tears away for him. 

She rocked on him, settling into the insistent rhythm that would carry them to the evening’s finale, driving hard against his pelvis with each stroke.  A ball of warmth sprang to life just below his sterum, rose from his chest to his throat and set his ears on fire.  Aeryn smiled.  The flush that followed the progress of that internal ignition was a sight that made her smile every time, indulging in a secretive smirk as her actions controlled his every breath, every heartbeat.  His tears dissipated, the relief-driven need to cry was banished by the warm tug of her internal muscles.  Aeryn rocked forward and took his head in both hands, fingers splayed around his ears in a familiar grasp, studying him for several microts before lowering herself down to kiss him. 

It was a full-bodied kiss, the type that managed to get inside his throat and his skull and his stomach.  It was a long-lived kiss, consisting of tongues and teeth, and of Aeryn’s hips continuing to thrust against his; of suction and hot breath and fingers digging deep into her waist.  It drew in their legs, their stomachs, their backs, and their arms, demanded effort out of every bit of their combined bodies from fingers to toes.  It might have gone on forever if they hadn’t run out of air.  She broke away, brushed a lighter caress across his lips, and remained where she was, hunched over him, holding him just below the ears. 

“I love you,” he willingly recited the precious words.  Aeryn rocked back onto his hips, internal muscles massaging him, and stared into his eyes as though attempting to fix the moment in her mind forever.

“I need you so much,” he whispered.  He reached up and gently took her head in his hands, pulling her down to him.  “I need you so much,” he chanted again. 

Aeryn bent over him willingly, preparing for another kiss.

“I need you so much,” he said one more time, trying to make that thought his entire existence.  “I need you.” 

“John?” 

“Hang on,” he whispered, and touched her forehead to his.

She could never have been ready for it.  No warning could ever have been enough. 

Aaaaahhhhh, they sighed together …

… and it was …

… John who led the way as they struggled together for control, neither one wanting the joining of their sensations to overwhelm them so soon.  He showed her how it was done:  resisting the release, denying the pleasure with every breath, ignoring the call to ejaculation.  And for the first time in her life, she understood the agony involved in the pleasure, how waiting made every touch, every moment sweeter still when it was finally time to surrender to the drive.  He felt himself inside her, the stiff yet yielding intrusion filling the most private of all places, envelopment given freely, muscles allowing him inside, to be engulfed in her love.  The sweet pang of stretching tissues that were designed for this, meant to be stretched and pressured. 

She rocked on him, letting out small cries as she felt her own strong internal muscles yanking at his entire length, rippling over the sensitive head.  She stopped all motion, poised in panic, overwhelmed by his need to respond, not understanding that there was still time, that a measure of control remained within him, feeling his laughter in her laughter as he let her see that it could be done, they could wait.  He ran his fingers lightly across her breasts and found the circuitry that sent those sensations through her entire body, connecting the light touches to every cell, every nerve ending from head to foot.  He pulled her down and sucked lightly at her, nipped at her to see what she felt when she asked him to do that, and then fell away gasping when the excited tissues sent their message through their shared body, from hair follicles to toe nails. 

“Oh my GOD!” he yelled into the shared space, finally understanding.  She laughed.  And gasped and panted as her muscles clenched around the eager, engorged organ.  She tried another small chuckle, needing to know more, and cried out at the feel of the internal grip tightening around the rigidity of his erection.  “Too much, too much,” she cried into his mind.

“Having a heart attack, Aeryn?”   

“Yes, yes, yes.” 

He pulled her down, sucking at her nipples again, feeling the fast arousal, the pleasure building within her, knowing when and where to touch, feeling it as if it were his own body.  Every caress, every kiss was exactly right, his hands and mouth following the trail across the body that was his own, the two of them lost in the rightness of it as her crescendo built and crashed over them in a matter of microts.  She was clenching and grabbing around the hardness that was her own, the muscles urging it toward release, inviting his body to join in climax, but she knew why he was showing her how to hold back.  She knew what he wanted to feel, his desire becoming her desire and letting them wait together through her frenzy. 

He devoted only as much of himself as absolutely necessary to restraint, throwing the rest of his senses into the orgasm that gripped them both from head to toe, felt the full-body electrical jolt that was her special gift.  He arched his back as she arched away from him, consumed by the explosion, every muscle singing of pleasure, his nipples hardening as hers did, his stomach rippling with the combined tension and release, his internal spaces filling with the energy and ecstasy that he had never fully understood.  They began to relax, fusion and fission gradually releasing them, tense muscles simultaneously easing, letting her sit up straight, allowing him to sag back into the mattress. 

His inquiry was wordless, affirming that it wasn’t too soon, and she let him feel the resurgence, the readiness, leading him to the waiting need that needed only a thumb on her breast, a touch on her neck, a kiss, a gentle caress and they rode the wave up together, just as exquisite, just as explosive as before, so he could know what it was like to have it happen again and again.

He whimpered and squirmed, unable to cope with the extended muscular frenzy of her orgasm.  Give it voice, sing the ecstasy, she commanded, and she threw her head back and led the song of release.  His cry joined hers, a coordinated baritone wail of exploding synapses, urged on and on because he knew exactly what would keep the orgasm alive.  Muscles finally cramping, objecting to the extended tension, the weight on his hips, the new position of pleasure, and he sagged back into the cushions again.

Again, she told him, feeling the fast rising need rebound from her to him and back again, building at a speed she had never thought possible.  This one was sweeter, an aching finale, painful in its intensity, harder to endure, and more ecstatic all rolled into a nervous frenzy that was impossible to bear.  He caught it, sustained it, kissed her hard while they both struggled for breath, and kept it going long after it would have otherwise died. 

They panted together, breaths raging simultaneously in the quiet chamber, two nervous systems fused into one.  She was warm and wet around him, sliding more slickly against the head of his cock, and they ached with the waiting.  It was his turn at last.  Slowly, slowly, slowly.  He showed her how it could be done.  She felt the rightness of it, the pleasurable friction, the yank and tug, the sliding ecstasy, the rhythm that reduced him to insensibility.  She could use his vision to look past the taut flat muscular belly and see where he entered her, see where his hands supported her hips so it would be as comfortable for her as it was for him.  And he felt the wonderful thrust inside, the hard friction, used her sight to look down into his own face to see the look of blissful concentration that always made her smile. The moment approached, tension building until it could not be denied, reaching the pinnacle for the third time that night, and he showed her how to let go, embracing the moment he’d been waiting for from the first moment she had touched him that evening.   

She yelled in surprise as he came, and his voice joined hers as he felt the shock of ejaculation run through a body that had never experienced this moment.  The wondrous feeling deep inside as it started, the cock beginning its pulsing, the hard shoving that increased his pleasure, and he cried out again with her enjoyment of his ecstasy, heard her voice harmonizing with his.  She felt his sweet explosion that turned all thoughts to random signals, the hot rush pulsing firing flowing bursting through their hips.

Thrusting more deeply, the thick pressure pushing hard, crying out from the joint orgasms, thought short circuited, their entire being centered in a collection of erectile tissue.  Her climax was a spreading explosion, his was an implosion, drawing their awareness inward toward the union of their bodies. 

He took her in, led her to the center of his existence.  The pride, the joy, the ecstasy, the need.  One opportunity, one moment preciously saved, nothing spared when it came, demanding that every small bit of energy be expended before collapse. They groaned as one, almost weeping with the intensity, the sweet relaxation, exhausted ache, stretched abused muscles, tired internal spaces, burning legs and lungs.  And somewhere deep inside, he felt that she was almost ready again, but he was spent.  His one gift had been given and the death-like exhaustion spread through them both and they were suddenly apart, unable to maintain the union any longer.

“Oh … my … god.” 

John lay with Aeryn collapsed on his chest and fought for air.  The sweat was dripping off both their bodies, adding moisture to the already soaked sheet beneath them.  Aeryn muttered into his shoulder, her words the ones that were almost unintelligible for a change. 

“Was that something about a heart attack?” he rasped, still trying to catch his breath.  She simply nodded, her forehead rocking up and down against his shoulder. 

John eased her legs from their cramped position alongside his hips, straightening them out alongside his own shaking limbs, and then pulled the covers over their clammy bodies.  He gently stroked her back, and finally felt her stir.  Aeryn lifted her head and stared at him, the loose black hair swinging down to brush against his chest.  “I will never joke about giving you a heart attack ever again.”  She let her head drop.  It hit his chest with a thump.

“Mmmmm.” 

She peered up at him.  “What are you thinking about?” she asked suspiciously. 

He gathered her hair, pulling it away from her face so he could see her, twisting it into a thick tail and laying it to one side.  “About having it happen more than once.  That’s a nice feature.”

Aeryn shook her head again, rocking it slowly from side to side where her forehead still rested against his shoulder.  “Not this time. That was almost too much.”  She turned her head to one side, resting her cheek against him and staring off into space.  “How do you even move after that?”  Her eyelids began to droop; she yawned and stretched against him. 

John let his fingers tips wander up her back, walking their way up her spine.  “Sometimes we don’t.  We die happy.  It’s every guy’s dream.”  He shifted slightly, feeling the pleasurable tug where he remained inside her, a remaining vestige to remind them both of the thorough joining of bodies and souls they had recently enjoyed. 

Aeryn hummed against his chest. 

“You okay?” he asked.

“That feels good,” she whispered.  “Is it nice?” 

“Mmhmm.”  He was falling asleep.  He ached.  For the first time in a very long time, the discomfort was a quiet echo of sensations he had willingly and ecstatically endured.  Aeryn kissed his chest.  He drifted, half awake, enjoying the warmth that seeped from her body into his, replaying the experience in his mind so he would not forget what it had felt like. 

Aeryn shifted slightly; her breathing quickened as she woke from a brief nap.  “I don’t think I could stand to do that again any time soon,” she said seriously.  One hand slid up from the mattress and began a slow wandering through the hair on his chest. 

“Don’t worry.  I think that was a one-shot deal.  I didn’t actually expect it to work.”  He was still working his way through the deluge of sensations that had rolled over him during their union.  He started to laugh. 

“What?”  Aeryn raised her head to look at him. 

“Do you recall yelling?” he asked.  Her eyes got vague, then she nodded, smiling sleepily.  “Do you think there’s anyone aboard Moya who doesn’t know what we were doing in here tonight?” 

She propped her chin on her hand, and continued to watch him from her vantage point, an odd half-smile appearing. 

“What?”  It was his turn to ask the single word question, puzzled by her stare. 

Aeryn lowered her head back onto his chest and snuggled closer, closing her eyes and relaxing into his body.  John began to wonder if he was going to get an answer to his short question, but sleep was reaching out for him as well and he decided it probably did not matter.  The pleasant and familiar exhaustion rolled over him, and everything seem to recede, even Aeryn’s weight was fading as he began the slide into unconsciousness. 

“Welcome back, John Crichton,” she whispered.  “I love you.” 

He smiled, hugged her tightly and for the first time in a very long time, they fell asleep together, a contented and comfortably exhausted couple. 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

fini

Thanks for reading,

Kernil Crash

Purveyor of Hallucinations