Fate's Gamble (R)

[ScaperRed]

Fate's Gamble was originally posted in its entirety at Kansas.


Authors' Notes

ScaperRed's Note:

In February, a Scaper named Jule27 posted that she had a story idea and was looking for a collaborator.  I emailed her, as did Kaz and a few others, all strangers.  Jule sent back a longish paragraph summary of this dynamic plot.  Emails were exchanged.  The one paragraph summary turned into a five-page single-spaced outline.  We started to write, following the outline.  Mostly.  It got a little out of hand after that, like from snowball to avalanche.  The timeframe exploded from covering six monens to over one cycle, and I stopped counting pages at 300.  

The collaborative process really made this fic come together.  Kaz contributed some significant work in two chapters; she had the nerve to go where we didn't want to, and she dragged us along kicking and screaming.  Jule27 and I wrote sections out of order, spliced them together, rewrote each other's work, and rewrote again until it seemed to blend and develop its own voice.

It got substantially darker along the way, and the final draft is not what I'd envisioned in February.  It's not quite like anything any of us have ever written before, and I won't blame it on Kaz.  <snerk>  Or sarahjane.  (They're both grinning at this, though.) Actually, at this point, it's hard for me to say how dark it really is; I'm just glad it's done.

So here it is: long, brutal, violent, and, according to some, dark.  If you have a gentle nature, the exits are clearly marked on the Hammond side.  You've been warned.  Just remember that we're all shippers to the nth degree, and please withhold all pointy objects or rotten fruit until the last word of the epilogue.  That should give us time enough to run.

I have to acknowledge my husband's endless supply of patience and good cheer.  I tend to go "border collie" when I work on something, and he never complained about late, burnt or strange dinners; he listened to one-sided plot conversations that made little or no sense;  he gave encouragement when needed and made me laugh more than once when I was ready to pitch the laptop into the pool.   Thanks, Jan, for putting up with a six-month writing obsession.

Jule27's Note:  I would like to start out by saying...PHEW.  I can't believe we are finally finished!  I had this idea sometime in the middle/ending of season 4.  I tried so many times to write it down, to start the fic, but I could never get the words out right.  I needed help, desperately.  I had never co-authored, or even tried to work out a plot scenario with anyone before, so asking for a partner and some help was a huge leap into the uncharted territories for me.  Fate, however, works in mysterious ways.  

I want to say a huge thank you to ScaperRed for being my mentor and partner in this story.  I have learned so much on this adventure.  It may have been my idea, but this is her baby.  Kazbaby, thank you so much for your contributions.  You took us exactly where we needed to be.  I also want to thank all of Red's betas, you guys are unbelievable!  You put in a good share of your own blood, sweat, and tears reading this baby.  

I am a true conspiracy theorist, as DK would say, and I like to think about the "what-ifs" of story telling.  So, this is a "what-if" tale.  AU, if you prefer, and I suggest you hold on to your seats, it's a bumpy ride.      


Rating: R  overall for violence, dark adult themes, angst, language

POV: This is Aeryn's story, although it's John's, too

Timeframe: Begins at end of DWTB; cuts back and forth across the next cycle or so

Disclaimer: We don't own any of the creative property known as Farscape.  We're just borrowing the characters to amuse ourselves during the hiatus. We do claim any original characters that appear in this fanfic as well as the overall plot line; don't borrow without asking, because they do bite. No action figures were harmed during the making of this fic.  They're all still hiding.  And plotting revenge.

Spoilers: Everything, just to be safe

Special thanks to uber-betas for their invaluable contributions, dogged determination, and stamina.  They went through the whole thing twice.  As usual, scrubschick kept us honest about the characters.  Auna nitpicked details and inconsistencies and asked dreaded questions.  sarahjane made copious notes, cross-checked references like crazy, and provided a layer of polish.  All of them gave us the push to post. You jirls absolutely rock!  Any remaining errors are strictly our own.

We did lose some betas along the way.  Kerlin hung in there for the first half on the initial run-through, then went MIA.  FBF and SETI_fan vanished also.  We hope they're all right, and we've got gift certificates for Nebari mental cleansing for them along with a nice virtual fruit basket.  


Prologue:
Flipping Fate  


   
Gently, he traps my mouth with his own.  The kiss is brief, seeking, tentative, breathless. Don't respond, I tell myself, but I do. And then I'm caught in that moment, caught in all the other moments, lost. Everything lost.   I'm lost again in him, his heat a pulse blast against my cold resolve.

"What does that taste like?" he whispers, but he's smiling just slightly, because he already knows, has always known.

I swallow hard, hands clenching at my sides.  "Like you," I say, unshed tears choking me.  Encouraged, his hands rise, cupping my face gently as he leans toward me again.

I have to break away from him, and I do, my fists slamming into his chest, shoving him away hard.  Spinning, I lean both hands against the cold black side of my Prowler as I fight back tears.  I'm tired of tears, this unending tide for Crichton, for myself, for us, for everything that was and can't be. It's all I have left. "But I can't go through this again.  I'm sorry, but I can't."

"And I can't let the one thing I love fly away in a crappy little ship!" he explodes.

 I wince as one of my packing crates crashes to the deck behind me.  I start to shake as he walks up close behind me, his hand resting next to mine on the side of the Prowler cockpit; I can feel his heat although we don't quite touch.  "Fate, Aeryn," he says, his breath warm, desperate in my ear.  "Our fate."

I shake my head, and my body goes rigid as his fingers dig into my shoulder roughly.  I try to tear from his grasp, but I am so exhausted, the taste of him sweetly bitter still on my lips, that a simple maneuver becomes impossible, and I find myself pinned effortlessly against the Prowler, my hands locked behind me in his tight grip.  He's remembered some of what I taught him,  I think dimly.  I want to smile grimly at that, but I can't.  All I can do is close my eyes to keep from looking into his and seeing a pain equaling my own.

"Fate," he says, and his voice has that insane edge to it now, the one that sends fear spiking along my spine.  The edge that means he's close to spinning out of control, and there's no frelling way to predict what might come next.  The edge that means he's going to do something really stupid for some unfathomable human reason.

He jams his hand into his pocket and brings out a large gold coin.  "Fate, fine.  Here's fate.  Right here."

I stare, uncomprehending, before a bitter laugh escapes.  "Fate?  What, this side up you stay, that side up you go?"

He nods, that insane gleam still shining in his blue eyes.  

As if it could ever be that simple.  Frell, he will never understand. Anger smashes through my weariness suddenly, and I not only break his grip, I slam my hands against his chest and rock him back a few paces.  "Just make a frelling wormhole and go home," I bite out, and in that moment, that's what I want, him gone, me gone, the pain gone, everything gone.

"What? You chicken?  Come on, Aeryn.  So sure this is right?  Fate."  

He's taunting me now, trying to anger me into joining him in insanity, and my resolve, softened by the kiss, snaps.   Fine.  Fate took one John Crichton from me.  It will take this one as well.  Fate is frelled, and so are we, so why should it matter?

"So do it," I say, glaring at him.  "But you're sticking to it, whatever comes up.  If you've got the mivonks for it."

He doesn't even hesitate.  The coin sails high in the air, spinning slowly, and for a moment I wonder what I will do if it comes up heads, if I will really let him join me; and I wonder if I will be able to fly away without him if it comes up tails.

With a tinkling thud, the coin strikes the deck, flips a couple more times, rolls on an edge until it topples.

Closing my eyes, I force a long breath into my tight chest.  I can see John's grimly triumphant grin without looking his way.

I don't know how I feel as he snatches the coin up, holds it out as evidence briefly, and then starts throwing his gear into the back of my Prowler.  Frozen, I stand with my arms tightly folded across my chest, and in that moment, I feel caught between two currents, two feelings, two tides far larger than myself, than either one of us.

He shouldn't come.  He can't come.

He's waiting for an argument, but he's not wasting time as he waits.  He's stowing the rest of my supplies-our supplies-in the Prowler while I stand there like a statue, doing my best to keep my face neutral even as my hands clench into fists that want to pound the skin of the Prowler.  

I can tell him no, and we can go at it again-argue, fight, shove, finish tearing the frell out of each other emotionally until there is truly nothing left.  Then I can make my way back to the only life I can even consider, and he can make a wormhole and go back to his.  That's what it would take.  

And I can't do it.

Somewhere between the imploding carrier and destroying the rogue leviathan and this last fight with Crichton, I've used the last of my strength.  For the first time in my life, I have no fight left in me. I have nothing but emptiness ringed with pain.

He can't see it, and he still persists.  Well, at least he's consistent.  He's Crichton.

He pauses in his loading, comes to lay his hands on my slumping shoulders.  Rocking me back against his chest, he puts his arms around me and hugs me hard.  I let him, let myself collapse against him briefly.  "It'll be all right, Aeryn," he whispers.  "As long as we're together, it'll be all right.  We can make it work.  Anywhere in the galaxy, you pick."

I feel myself nod once, so tired that I can't hold the tears back any longer.  All I know is that I still taste him, although I can't be certain whose flavor graces my lips, and that it is my fate to love John Crichton.



I can still taste him as I stare at the words scrawled hastily across the pages of his journal.  

It's been more than a cycle now. How much more, I'm not sure.  Haven't wanted to know, really.  

John spoke of fate so many times, but I never really understood what he meant. Human concept.   Never could grasp it until that coin spun in the air.   That was fate, and I knew it somehow then, even if I still didn't understand it.

I understand it now.

A hundred times, a thousand times, maybe more, I've seen that coin spin in the back of my mind.  At times the image made me smile, at times it made me curse.  Now I feel nothing.

I understand now.

I know my fate.  I know so much more now than I did a mere cycle ago.  Not that the knowledge, gained at such an immensely high cost, will do anyone good now, least of all myself.  Or John.

Sighing, I rub my tired eyes and realize belatedly that they are dry, despite the pain that sears through me as I cradle his journal against my chest with my good arm.  It is as if it hurts more than I am able to feel. And I finally have no more tears.

Glancing up, I try to smile at the concerned look on Pilot's face.  My heart swells inside my chest with my love for Moya and my anguish at the possibility-probability-of losing her.  Pilot's breathing remains heavy and labored.  The remnants of what Zhaan would call my soul seem to contract with each rasping breath he takes.  I place my hand on top of one of his claws, and again I feel invisible tears.  

My grief is almost comical, the fact that I hurt so much when only cycles ago I was nothing more than a simple soldier, never feeling pain at the loss of a crewmate or lover-at least not on the surface.  I thought losing John the first time was unbearable. I had shut myself down,  trying to become the Peacekeeper soldier that I once was.  Ironic how only now, as my pain reaches new heights, can I maintain a feeling of numbness.  Or perhaps even grief has its tolerances, just as a Prowler wing in a high-velocity turn does.

Swallowing hard, I direct my attention to the words on the page before me, forcing myself to concentrate on the journal once more.  It's the first time I've really looked at it, really tried to read it.  It's not my duty to read it.  But then, I don't exactly have a lot to do right now, besides remember a frelling coin toss.  And all of my own frelling mistakes.

The dates, apparently an Earth standard, are meaningless to me.  But I know when he wrote this entry from its content; it had to have been written after our departure from Moya, during the five-solar-day trip to  Bireth's Landing.

She's too exhausted to fight me anymore.  And she doesn't really want to.  It must mean that a part of her still holds on to the hope that we are meant to be together.  I have to believe that.  

Always consistent.  Always Crichton.

This is how it was meant to be; the two of us together.  I don't care how much time it takes.  We'll find each other again.  

Should've left.  No regrets then.  Frelling coin toss.  Frelling idiot.  Frelling fate.

It's only now, more than a cycle too late, that I can see the scope of my actions.   Should have been stronger.

All that has happened, it falls on my shoulders now.

"Officer Sun?"

I am hardly surprised any longer at the comfort I find in that voice, my last comrade, my last captain.  He's my only hope now, the only hope left at all.

I clear my throat and reply, "Yes, Scorpius?"

[ScaperRed]

Chapter 1:   
Cutting the Cards   




It's wormholes, of course.  Always wormholes.

I half listen to Scorpius' excited rant as I assist Pilot in taking the readings that are required.  Strange that after all else has been burned away-honor, loyalty, pride, sacrifice-some sense of duty remains.  Duty, an impulse strong enough to force my exhausted limbs into motion when action is requested. 

I relay the readings to Scorpius, and he is quiet again, making more circuits of the stable wormhole he's located nearby.

Sighing, I touch Pilot's cheek gently.  The brief activity has tired him, and he slumps behind his console, his breathing even more labored now.  Painfully, I hoist myself onto the console again and balance the journal on my knees, my right hand stroking its cover, my left closed around one of Pilot's pincers.  It's all the comfort I can give him, but it's also a selfish gesture. 

It's all the comfort I can take, too.

"Is that...Commander Crichton's journal?" Pilot says, his voice rasping with the effort of speaking.

I nod, my fingers tracing its edge.  "Yes, Pilot.  It was returned with his-our things.  Chiana-" I swallow hard, my throat closing for a moment.  "Chiana made sure it got into my hands."

She cried more that day than I did, as she helped me sort through the last of John's possessions.  The book was the one thing I kept.  Carefully, we refolded his clothes and placed them back into his bag.  Her face buried in the long leather coat he loved so well, Chiana sobbed brokenly, like the child she still was in so many ways.  I wrapped my arms around her, hugging her tightly, the leather crushed between us.  And suddenly his smell flooded my senses, that wonderful clean human male musk mixed with the leather he had made his own.  One breath, and the last of my strength evaporated, the tears shattering from me, until at last it was Chiana who was holding me; holding what little there was left of me together. 

Finally, eyes drying, together we folded the coat and put it into the bag as well.  Chiana took it away to store with the other things he had left behind, when like a fool he'd followed his heart and a coin toss, never knowing what the cost would be.  For any of us.

It was the last time I cried.

"Would you...read some of it...to Moya and me, Aeryn?" Pilot whispered, his claw gently closing on my hand.  "We...miss him, too."

I swallow the heat at the back of my throat and manage a nod.  It's a simple enough request; it's one that duty compels me to fulfill.  Duty, to my remaining friends.

Carefully, I open the cover and turn the thin pages until I find my place.  I clear my throat, and, gripping Pilot's claw tightly, I laboriously read the English words rendered in John's characteristic scrawl.

   "It's been three solar days now on this road trip to hell, and Aeryn's still not talking.  About anything.  I can understand why, but the silence doesn't make things any easier between us.  I know she is hurting, and I want to give her the space she needs-but I'm hurting, too, and she can't see it.  Or won't.

"This Prowler is too damn small!  Why can't she just talk to me?  Would that be so hard?" [/b]   

Yes, I think, pausing a moment. Yes, it was, John.  Although now I wish I had.  I wish so many things.

Swallowing hard, I continue reading aloud to Pilot, whose eyes are drifting shut once again.  But even though I say the words, I scarcely see them on the page as I fall into the memories they evoke.





         

It's easy to find the contact for the assassins' group. 

He's a Peacekeeper by his stance, by the pulse pistol strapped casually to his thigh.  It doesn't matter that he's dressed in the loose dust-colored clothing of the natives on Bireth's Landing and has one hand on the hip of a rusty-skinned native girl.  It doesn't matter how long he's been away without leave. Still a Peacekeeper and always will be.

His apparently idle gaze finds us as soon as we walk through the door of the bar, a microt before my eyes adjust to the gloom and lock on him.  My hand automatically moves a fingerwidth closer to my weapon; his moves as if in tandem. We stand for a moment, regarding each other, his dark eyes suddenly sharp within his tanned, broad face, until I deliberately look away.

I nudge Crichton with my left elbow toward a table, and I move a chair slightly so that I can sit and still see both doors and the contact.  Besla is his name, I had been told on the command carrier, and he spends a good deal of time leaning on the counter of a dirty little tavern on this sparsely-populated world in the edge of Tormented Space.

Crichton moves restlessly in the periphery of my vision.  The distraction irritates me, but what bothers me more is the sudden cold fear clenching my stomach at his random motion.  Can't frell this up.  One of us does, and neither one of us will be walking out that door.  

My deepest fear is that I will be the last one to draw breath.

I order a specific kind of raslak, the code I'd been told on the command carrier.  We have a round, Crichton choking a bit on the hot bitterness, but my attention is on Besla.  As I start pouring second glasses, he kisses the native girl on the ear and sends her away. 

Under the table, I nudge Crichton's boot with my own.  He nods, and I realize he's been watching too, and his eyes are cold metallic blue as he observes Besla cross the nearly empty tavern towards us.  I glance down and see his hand resting on Winona, and the cold fear in my stomach loosens a bit.  He'll be all right.  He can handle this.

Just as long as he doesn't talk.

Besla smiles slightly at me as he hooks his thumb into his belt, just above his pulse pistol's grip.  "You're a little late," he says, "Officer Sun."


Besla takes me into the back room, alone.  Crichton swallows his protest as I glare at him. My world, Crichton. You'll follow my lead, or you go back to Moya.  You can get us both killed.

The group is well-organized and well-equipped.  My Prowler had been noted on its approach, and by the time Crichton and I had walked to the tavern, an operative had scanned my ship, noted its identicode, tracked it to Crais' command carrier, and relayed the information to Besla.  Likewise, my image had been matched to a database and my identity tentatively established.

In the back room is a genetic scanner, among other items unusual for a tavern-armor, weaponry, communications equipment.  I let my gaze wander while my hand rests in the humming machine.

"Were you expecting us?"

"Yes.  Word came from mutual-friends-that you had inquired as to options beyond the standard Peacekeeper assignment," Besla says, passing another scanner over my body.  "We know who you are, but not your partner.  He's not Peacekeeper; he's not in the database."

"No," I say.

Besla snaps off the scanner.  "So who is he?" he repeats, his voice hardening, and I can feel rather than see how his hand drifts toward the weapon holstered at his hip.  Probably other weapons hidden, too, in his belt, his shirt, his boot.  I'll only find out one way, a microt before my blood spills across the dusty boards of the floor.  My pulse pistol won't even clear my holster before he makes his move.  Not fast enough or good enough to take him.  Frell.  Have to talk my way through this.

My story, such as it is, is ready, and I hope it's enough to buy us a few more microts until we can see the ones in charge.  Crichton and I had discussed this part, at least, one of the few topics I'd wanted to address during the five solar days we'd spent in the small Prowler.    "He's not a Peacekeeper.  He's more of a tech.  His name is John."

Besla's snort is not thoroughly disgusted, as most soldiers' would be, but his superior tone irritates me more than it should.  "Tech.  What's an officer doing with a tech?"

I withdraw my hand from the machine, scan complete, and look at him coldly.  If he does not recognize Crichton's first name, does not make the connection between the infamous John Crichton and the irreversibly contaminated Aeryn Sun, all the better.  I'll deal with that aspect with the ones in charge, not a contact officer on a backwards planet.

He verifies the scan and tosses a data chip to me.  "Your Prowler is a little distinctive in this part of space, so it's being taken aboard a freighter right now.  The entrance code is on this chip.  You're in luck today; some of our officers are training here.  They'll discuss your-recruitment-with you.  Last opportunity, Officer Sun, if you're having doubts."

If I have any doubts, he will kill us both. 

I shake my head, my pulse quickening at his tight little smile as he leads me back into the tavern.  Whatever is coming next, he thinks he will enjoy it, and I am instantly sure that I frelling won't. 

It was easy to find the contact.  It will be a lot harder to earn our way into the group.



The sunlight is bright but not hot in the training ring. There are a half dozen commandos sparring in pairs, one leaning on the fence to watch. They don't cease their activity, don't appear to even look our way, but I know that they have assessed every detail about Crichton and me in one quick glance. 

I know what they see. I can put myself back in time three cycles and use the same arrogant eyes.  Tall Peacekeeper female wearing the castoffs of a uniform. Tall broad-shouldered Sebacean-looking male dressed likewise. A couple of ragtags stupid enough, bold enough, to approach this integrated unit and want to be a part of it.

Three years ago, I would have put extra swagger in my step, a more disdainful look on my face as I approach the group.  Today, I take any semblance of swagger from my stride, make my face carefully neutral, square my shoulders under my long coat; but my right thumb hooks into my low-slung belt just above the grip of my holster.

Slightly behind and to my left, Crichton mirrors me, following my lead.  I know this without looking; the realization is bitterly comforting, and I bite out the words before I know what I am saying: "Don't say a frelling word, no matter what."

"Aeryn-"

I shoot him a harsh glance, and he swallows his words, his jaw set hard. Twice now that he's done as I've told him.  A record for Crichton.  Maybe he'll even stay alive until sundown.

Besla introduces me to Senior Officer Teyn Nava, the dark-haired older woman who is leaning on the fence.  Crichton remains behind me, ignored, and undoubtedly chafing.

"Aeryn Sun," Teyn repeats, folding her thick arms across her chest.  Like the others, she is dressed in black tank top, leather pants, boots; her weapon in its holster hangs on the fence of the training ring, within quick reach should it be needed.  I meet her dark-eyed gaze, which lasts long enough for me to become slightly uncomfortable.  She is definitely a superior officer, she carries that in every movement, and I am suddenly reminded of what I am:  irreversibly contaminated, a notorious traitor to the Peacekeepers, a renegade, betrayer of every oath I'd ever sworn as a child.

At the same time, I realize that she is giving me an exceptionally long glance, and I have no idea what she's looking for.

"Right, then," she says at last.  "Let's go."

She moves into the training ring, and I follow, pausing only to strip off my long coat and holster.  I hang both items on the fence, and now I match the other seven on the field.

Teyn assumes the ready position, which I mirror.  I try to focus only on her expressionless face, but I am aware that the activity around us has ceased, that the others are taking a rest break during this unexpected entertainment, that John and Besla have both leaned on the fence of the ring, Besla grinning slightly, John not at all.

Teyn swings first, and we trade several blows in quick succession, punch and block and counter-punch.  I am beginning to enjoy this exercise, even the bursts of pain as bones grind against each other, when Teyn grins slightly, her dark eyes narrowing speculatively.  A split microt later, she slips inside my guard and smashes a fist into my left ear, and I drop like a felled keedva.

Instantly, I roll to my feet, fighting to keep my balance, my head ringing.  I can feel blood pouring from my ear, and I dimly hear Crichton shouting, but I try to focus on Teyn, only Teyn, because this is not just practice sparring, and what I do in the next few microts will determine what happens to Crichton and me.

Ironic.  This time I decide our fate.

Teyn is circling slowly, fists up.  She's giving me time to recover a bit, although I have no idea why.  I'd step in and finish the frelling hingemot with a Pantak jab and then break her neck for her trouble.

Teyn's gaze shifts over my shoulder, and she scowls, jabbing one finger.  At Crichton, of course, and I curse as I risk a glance over my shoulder, the motion making my head spin.  Two of the commandos have him on his knees, his arms pinned back, and he's still shouting my name, alternating it with, "Let go of me, you bastards!"  I can barely hear him over the aching ring in my head.

I chance another glance at him, and this time my look is pure venom, I am so frelling angry at him.  Instantly, he shuts up, but the commandos maintain their grip.

Of course, I am more angry at myself than Crichton at having been partially disabled by a blow I should have avoided.  And I'm close to panicking because I realize how out of practice I have become training with Crichton, who I can easily defend against even at his most aggressive on the mat. Not that I could ever get him to attack me very hard.  Nothing like this.

Calm.  Center.  Use your training.  You're a special commando, Ikarian Company, Pleisar Regiment, the best of the best, trained from birth.  This is who you are at your core, and this is the person you've come here to claim.  The blood spilling onto your shoulder is of no consequence, merely-

I sense motion and spin, wobbling only a bit, and Teyn swings hard at my head. I block and step in, my hand curving in a Pantak jab.  Teyn moves to block, and I feint left, then move to strike.  Teyn blocks and counters, I block, and we break on mutual consent, circling slowly as we face each other.

This time, I meet Teyn's measuring look with my own.  Teyn is in excellent shape for her age, her arms solid muscle; her body is thickening with age, but that only gives her more mass.  She also doesn't fight fair, I think, as my ear continues to drip blood and throb. Not a sparring blow.  She did it just to see if she could take me down hard and fast.

This isn't a command carrier, and these people play by their own rules.

I step in hard and fast, right hand curving for a Pantak jab again.  Teyn turns slightly to block, and I feint to the left, bringing my elbow in for a strike to the face.  The impact shatters up my arm, and I feel something snap under my elbow.

Teyn staggers back, reeling to her left, and I press my advantage ruthlessly.  Blood from Teyn's face flies as we trade blows, grunting with effort, for a microt or two, feint and block and punch, before she gets inside my guard again with a Pantak jab and I find myself writhing on the ground, trying desperately to stay conscious and roll to my feet.

"Enough," Teyn says, breathing hard, and wipes blood from her upper lip.  "You're a bit out of practice, Officer, but we'll work on that."  Extending her hand, she helps me to my feet, even steadies me for a moment with her grip until I regain my tenuous balance.

Someone throws a couple towels to Teyn, and she hands one to me before tentatively pressing one to her face and walking to the back of the training ring. I hold the cloth against my hot, swelling ear, and follow.
It's a few microts before Teyn speaks, and I'm not sure if she's giving me the time to collect myself, or if she needs to recover a bit herself.  I hope it's the latter, but my wounded pride thinks otherwise.
She asks about Crichton, and I tell her he's a tech with limited fighting skills.  She looks at him for thirty microts or so, that same measuring look she'd given me just before punching me in the ear, and for a moment I am afraid that it will be Crichton's turn in the ring next.

"A tech we can use," she says at last, "but I don't think the name John Crichton can bring us anything but trouble."

I bite back unexpected anger.  "I was told that this group is dedicated to helping the helpless.  That the squad aims to stop terrorism and protect people.  If this is true, then this is exactly where John Crichton should be-for protection."

I don't tell Teyn everything, of course.  She wouldn't believe it anyway.  I merely tell her most of it, which is that within his mind is knowledge to break the balance of power between Scarrans and Peacekeepers, a knowledge that is so dangerous that he does not want to use it even for peaceful means. A knowledge that has made him a hunted man for cycles, a threat to everyone should that knowledge be ripped from his mind.

Teyn listens expressionlessly, and I can't fault her.  I would not believe it myself had I not lived through the past three cycles. 

"I can't guarantee anything," she says at last.  "I don't have that authority. I'll take it before our council." 
She nods across the training ring, and the commandos release John.  Face flushed with anger, he staggers to his feet, cursing and shaking his coat back into place.  Teyn smiles slightly and sniffs, patting her face again with the towel.  "I'll see you later, Aeryn.  Welcome, comrade.  I think you broke my nose."
John glares at her as she passes him. Teyn still has that slight, amused smile as she looks at him, and I feel a similar one curl the corners of my mouth as he strides indignantly forward, hands clenched.

"You all right?" he says, and raises his hand to touch my ear. Instantly, I knock his hand away, and he stiffens slightly, his feelings clearly hurt.  I'm sorry for that, but my whole head is starting to pound, and all I want is a shower and a bed to sleep a few arns in instead of a Prowler cockpit.

"So who do I have to fight?" he says, glancing around, and I hope he's got the sense to be at least a little afraid as the other commandos begin sparring again.

"No one," I say, buckling my holster back on.  Besla beckons us away from the ring, so I pick up my coat to follow him.  "You're just a tech."

He stops short behind me, but I don't stop, don't even turn.  This wasn't in the plan, as he saw it, his being only a tech.

It had always been in my plan, the moment the coin turned up on the floor.



It's our first night on Bireth's Landing, and I can't sleep.

John lies sprawled on the bunk, one arm flung over his face, snoring slightly.  I look at his form tangled in the covers, and one half of me wants to smile and smooth the blankets, and one half wants to knock the frell out of him.

I lean in the small open window and crane my neck, looking for stars.  Idly, I wonder where Moya is, around which bright dot Luxan Prime orbits, which Hyneria, which Nebari Prime or wherever Nerri and Chiana are, which Arnessk.  Having arrived at my destination, in this moment, I miss my friends more than I had ever expected.
The snoring eases into breathing, and I know he's awake before he speaks.  Had enough time to learn those changes in his breathing on Talyn-and not enough time.  And with a different John Crichton.
Frell, no wonder my head hurts, my heart, everything. Every frelling thing.

"Aeryn," he calls softly. "You OK?"

I nod, keeping my back to him.  I tense a little as I hear him rise, pad softly toward me, place a light hand on my shoulder.

"Head still hurts?"

I nod again, because it does hurt, and because it is an easy explanation.  "I'm fine, John, go back to sleep."

His hand trails across my shoulder, up my neck, gently caresses my swollen ear.  My breath catches in my throat, and I force it out. 

We're sharing quarters for the next two solar days, until Teyn's squad returns to the main compound.  There are no spare quarters, but Ced offered to give up his.  There was much snickering at this, and it's obvious that he spends most of his time with Desa anyway, so we are not inconveniencing anyone.  Crichton, at least, is obviously happy about the arrangement.

I...long for simpler times, for clearer rules, for a sense of purpose.  Everything that I thought I would find here, with the squad.  Everything that is now complicated by Crichton's presence.

John-that's the only name he will give, being slightly less recognizable than Crichton, and I must remember this-John brings another coldpack and places it gently against my ear and head. 

"Lie down," he says, and I must be tired, because I allow him to lead me to the narrow bunk. I curl up on my side, and John eases down behind me, one hand holding the coldpack in place, the other gently massaging my sore shoulder.

"Aeryn," he says, and pauses, and I curl more tightly into myself.  His fingers stroke hard knots in my shoulder.  "I could sleep on the floor."

"Don't be ridiculous," I snap.  "There's room, and we've shared quarters before."

His body tenses, springlike.  Only then do I realize what I've said, and I should apologize, but I don't know how.  "Ahh-John-I meant-"

"It's all right, Aeryn," he says quietly, but his hands move away. We're both in our underwear, a handspan of bunk separating us, and suddenly the bed feels vast, all intimacy gone.

Unexpectedly, I feel sad.  I don't know what to do, how to fix it, how to return to the uneasy peace the coin toss had established between us.  All I know is that I feel the heat emanating from his body, and desire and fear are blasting through mine in equal amounts. 

I can still taste him.

All I can give him at this moment is my body, and I know that that is not what he wants most.

"I'm sorry, John," I say, and I'm not sure what I'm apologizing for, maybe everything.  Every frelling thing that's happened to him, every frelling thing I've done consciously or unconsciously to him.

He shifts on the bed, and I feel his lips brush my jaw, just below my abused ear.  "We've got time, Aeryn," he says softly.  He rolls over onto his side so that we lie back to back, not quite touching, listening to each other's quiet breathing until sleep claims us.



I hardly see John the next two days.  Every waking arn is an evaluation of some kind, but I expect this, and my focus is crystalline.

This is apparently a sort of training facility as well as a contact point.  Groups come in periodically before missions to practice scenarios, or after missions to debrief.  Consequently, there is an impressive array of weaponry and equipment for use.  At the end of the first day, my arms sore from arns of qualifying with dozens of weapons at the firing range, I begin to think that I will have to demonstrate my expertise with them all before Teyn makes her decision.

I haven't spoken with her since sparring, but she is constantly nearby, her expression unreadable as she watches my performance.  I don't know what she's looking for, so I try to show her what I would expect from a new recruit to my unit: discipline, control, skill.  I feel like I'm back in commando training, except that the stakes are even higher.  Like a raw cadet, I want to impress her, I want to become part of her team, and I don't know if it's because of her quiet, competent authority or the fact that my pride is still smarting from the way she knocked me on my frelling eema in front of everyone.

Or if it's because John is a little afraid of her, although he doesn't admit it.  I can see it in his body language, the way he stiffens slightly, his eyes becoming guarded, whenever she walks near.

There are ten soldiers under Teyn's command at the training facility, two teams of five.  They are interchangeable; teams are assembled based on the skills needed for a particular task.  They are reserved with me and even more so with Crichton; we have to earn our way into the group, and I'm comfortable with that concept.  Unlike Crichton, I don't try to chat with them.  I let my skills speak for me, knowing that when it comes to a mission, talk is not worth a damn, and it's a steady hand that will get everyone safely home.

At night I am so tired that I fall into bed after a quick shower, asleep before John can massage the knots out of my sore muscles.

I don't know how John spends the time.  I see him on the periphery at times, watching me, watching the other commandos, but I don't let myself think about him.  I can't.

I also can't think about what I learned on the command carrier.

Occasionally, as my body and most of my mind is occupied with performing a familiar task-cleaning a weapon, firing at targets, examining grenades-an idle thought will drift through the possible candidates.  The possible fathers.

There's not that many within the last seven cycles.  A few before Velorek, a few after.  And John.  Only John for the last three cycles.

Once in awhile, that thought will coalesce into an image of what the baby could look like.  Always a girl, with John's blue eyes and my dark hair, his easy smile and my hands but gripping a toy instead of a pulse pistol.  At that point, my own hands begin to shake and sweat, because this is a wish, and a hope, that still tastes metallically of fear.

I have so much fear.  If Teyn knew, she would snap my neck and leave my body to rot in disgust.  Or that's what I would do if I were her.  A soldier cannot have fear. 

But then, when I was a soldier, I had so little to lose, and I expected to lose that little bit in a relatively short time.  I told D'Argo once that I had never expected to live as long as I had.  Some days I am startled when I open my eyes on a new morning.

The fear never leaves.

So I ignore Crichton as much as I can.  No one asks me about him, about why we arrived together, about how he looks at me when he thinks no one is watching. 

He doesn't know I watch him sleep.

That's what I'm doing as the sun rises on the last day we will spend at the training facility.  Within arns we will be aboard the freighter and bound for the main base.

I wake early. I can't seem to sleep long at a stretch any more, not since one Crichton died in my arms while another went on a galaxy away.  So I lie for a while, the light spilling through the narrow window gradually fading the night shadows from his face.

He has moved closer to me in the night's chill; his hand rests on my stomach, his thigh against my hip.  At that moment, in the dim light, he looks content, and the feeling is contagious. 

His hand moves on my abdomen, stroking it lightly; a slight smile curves his lips.  Although I know by his breathing that he is still asleep, panic surges through me.  Does he know?  Could he sense what is in stasis beneath his hand?

Unbidden, possible expressions that could cross his face at the revelation flit through my mind: incredulous, happy, sad, angry.  No matter how he feels, though, I know he would want to be a father to this child in whatever way he could, even if it is not of his flesh.  He would want-

He would not want me to do what I know I have to do, become who I need to be now.

So I can't tell him, along with so many other things.  Not because I do not trust him-I always will-but because I know him so very well, know what he can never understand.  It's what makes him Crichton.

It would have been so easy to solve this problem on the command carrier.  A simple procedure.  The tech had even asked. 

I'm not sure why I didn't have the fetus removed.  Crichton is likely to be the father; Crichton before he was twinned, or the Crichton that I lost.  But it could be another man, one to whom I never had an emotional tie.  I didn't dare have a DNA scan run.  If it is Crichton's child, then it, and I, would become something else for the Peacekeepers to use to barter for the wormhole technology.

I don't know when, if ever, I will have the stasis released.  I carry a possibility within me, a possibility that is the source of yet more fear.

Xhalax's scarred, bitter face flashes across my restless mind, jarring me from the momentary contentment, the hazy half-thoughts of waking.  Carefully, I ease out of bed.  John rolls into the warm hollow my body has left on the mattress but does not rouse.  Quietly I dress, all the while my gaze tracing him.

I could leave him here.

We're leaving less than two arns from now.  I could leave my Prowler for him and simply vanish with the others.  It would be better for him, perhaps, better for me.  Safer, certainly, for him.  I am determined that he will remain a tech, not become what I will, but even being a tech within this new world of mine will change him, destroy what is left of that sweetly soft man who fell out of a wormhole and ruined the orderliness of my life.

He stirs, his hand feeling along the blanket for a moment.  Reaching for me.  Sighing, his face smoothes again, and I quietly collect my boots and step noiselessly through the door and down the hall.

Sitting on the steps of the barracks, I buckle my boots and watch the sun creep higher into the paling orange-blue sky.

I feel watching eyes and look over my shoulder.  Teyn stands in the doorway, a cup of tea in her hand.  We regard each other silently for a moment, and for the first time I don't flinch inwardly under her measuring gaze.  She shifts her eyes first, back to the sunrise spreading over the low dun-colored hills.  I do the same, savoring this moment of utter quiet, trying to soak it into my uneasy self. 

When I look back over my shoulder, Teyn is gone.






Pilot's grip on my hand has loosened, his labored breathing easing a bit as he passes into sleep.  At some point, I stop reading aloud, lost in the memories induced by John's sparse prose. 

So much he didn't know.  So much I never shared, could never share, with him. However, despite everything, he still had hope in those first few days.  Maybe I did too, no matter how ill-placed it obviously was.

He thought that I was so cold to him.  He didn't understand that I was trying to protect him, to save him, and I couldn't tell him.  Ironic that I know enough of his language to painstakingly read his journal after his death, but I had no words for him while he was living.

Careful not to wake him, I slip my hand from Pilot's claw and flip back through this section of the journal, rereading it carefully, John's voice echoing with painful clarity in my mind.

Just a tech, she called me.  That's all I am, all she'll let me be.  The only way I can fit into this world of hers.  The last three years don't matter.  Or maybe they do, and that's why.  I don't know any more.  I don't know what to do.

I don't know how to reach her.  She is in her element now, and it seems like she's getting farther away all the time.  Right now we sleep in the same bed, but that's all; we don't have the same bond, not even the way it was a cycle or two ago. 

I know it's going to get worse.  The longer she's with her own people like this, the more PK she'll become.   It scares the hell out of me.  But she is Aeryn...and so I stay, even though she's already so different from the woman I knew on Moya.

She'd say that she's different because the situation is different, and maybe she's right.  Hell, I know she's right.  I understand that. But knowing that didn't make it any easier to watch her get the shit beaten out of her yesterday by the "senior officer" in what these ex-PKs call "sparring."  Teyn damn near took her head off-and there wasn't a fucking thing I could do about it.  I could only watch as Aeryn pulled herself back together, reached back through the cycles, and yanked out all her old training.  It was like the blood pouring from her ear was a baptism, and she was being reborn Peacekeeper.  God, I hated to see that.  I hate to see her going back to that.

Even though she damn near took Teyn out.  Busted her nose flat, and I had to choke back a cheer at the sight.  The old bitch recovered, of course, and took Aeryn out with a Pantak jab.

I don't like her, I don't trust her, I don't want Aeryn anywhere near her-but as usual, I won't get what I want.  There's something about Teyn that draws Aeryn.  Maybe it's rank and "earned privileges."  Maybe she needs to impress Teyn in order to be accepted into the group. Teyn is definitely the alpha female in this dog pack.  Maybe Teyn reminds her of someone else, although I can't imagine who.  Hell, it's not like Aeryn spent hours telling me about her life on the command carrier, her friends, her duties.  She listened to my stories, but it was difficult to draw anything out of her. 

I only thought it was difficult then.  Now it's impossible.

Back then, those first months on Moya, we worked together, bitched together, watched out for each other.  Now she won't even let me take care of her injuries.  She pulls away into herself each time I get close, and she doesn't even realize it.  It's automatic, like pulling your hand back from fire.  I understand why, but dammit, it still hurts.

She's hurting, too.  I know that.  And she can't keep us straight, me and him.  I wonder if she ever could.

I can see it in her eyes, that weird flicker of confusion, at times.  It's in what she says without thinking, too.  Like last night.  I offered to sleep on the floor, and she snapped at me, calling the idea stupid.  "We've shared quarters before."

Well...this John Crichton has never shared quarters with Aeryn Sun, unless you count one brief night on a false Earth.

In that moment, I wondered why I even try to do this, try to stay close by while she heals inside.  She may never get over him; she may never see me as anything other than the other guy, a replacement.

Maybe this is a mistake.  Maybe I shouldn't have come.

But then there are the other moments, those times when no one is looking at us and I can watch her.  Watch her training, face set in chiseled concentration.  Watch her trade insults with the other commandos.  Watch her sit quietly for a moment, her face softening in that brief second.  Watch her fade into sleep beside me, her body finally loosening, her dark hair across the pillow.  Watch the lines of pain in her face smooth away.  Watch her become Aeryn again, the Aeryn I know, even if it's only for an instant.

It's not hope that keeps me waiting here.  It's not fate.  She's Aeryn...so I stay. [/b]

It's run through my head infinitely, what I should have done, how I should have treated him.  If I had known what little time we would have had-maybe things would have been different.  Or perhaps not.  It doesn't matter now.

I still for a microt and listen carefully to Pilot's breathing.  Still struggling, but still alive...for now.

I shift my position slightly, absently trying to ease the constant ache in my shoulder and back, and settle again on Pilot's console.  At the moment, I have no duties other than my deathwatch for my friends, and so I allow myself this small indulgence.  Opening the journal once more, I carefully trace the words on the page and let them draw my hazy memories and sharpen them. 

[ScaperRed]

Chapter 2:
Dealing


 

The training doesn’t stop during the two solar days we travel to the main base. Teyn has me sparring with the others in a rotation twice daily in the empty cargo bay of the freighter, and I am shown a few new ways to kill with my bare hands.  I’ve never been much good with a knife, but it becomes quickly apparent that the others are fond of their blades, and I will be too after a thousand throws and slashing cuts in practice.   Cleaning and learning to assemble by touch weapons far sleeker and lighter than any I used as a Peacekeeper take up most of my time. 

The other commandos don’t exactly welcome me.  The four that make up Teyn’s core group aren’t very friendly, and I know that they’re taking my measure each day.  I take theirs in turn.

Jax appears to be Teyn’s second in command.  He’s one of the biggest Sebaceans I’ve ever seen, heavily muscled, dark-skinned.  He’s quick to laugh, but I sense that he’s just as quick with a knife.  He also has some degree of intelligence and self-discipline, because he does exactly what Teyn says without question, despite his commando arrogance.  I spar with him on the second day.  He charges me, I sidestep and catch his arm, and use his own momentum to pitch him off the mat.  He crashes and rolls into the wall, and over the others’ laughter, for the first time I hear Teyn’s low chuckle.  After that, he doesn’t overtly try to intimidate me.  In spite of myself, I am impressed later by his ease with weapons.  He’s the best shot I’ve ever seen, but there’s a darkness to him that makes me cautious.

Ced is good friends with Jax, which is amazing, considering how opposite they are.  Ced is shorter and slighter in build than Jax, about John’s size, with blond hair and light blue eyes and a carefully trimmed moustache.  Although he has a ready smile, his technique on the mat is thorough, and he is a more than competent marksman. 

Desa is about half a handspan shorter than I am and slighter in build. She wears her blond hair in the same tight, regulation braid that Teyn does, that I do.  Like Ced, she is quick to smile.  Her hand-to-hand skills are adequate, her marksmanship acceptable, but she’s primarily a pilot, and a frelling good one, according to Teyn.  She and Ced tend to pair up frequently off duty, and I close my mind to the looks I see them exchange, the subtle positionings as they stand together, not quite touching.  It hurts too much to remember a similar time with John.

Darek is older than the rest of us, perhaps as old as Teyn, gray starting to streak his dark hair.  He’s not quite gone to fat yet, but he’s slower on the mat, and I actually find myself pulling punches on more than one occasion.  I don’t know that this is the right thing to do, but Teyn says nothing, merely watches how I interact with the others.  He is a frelling good shot, however, and when I see how he handles weaponry, I understand his purpose on Teyn’s team.

They are all pilots as well as commandos, and I look forward fiercely to matching my skills against theirs in Prowler combat simulations.

Teyn, of course, is better than anyone else at everything, and I wonder if she was a Black Ghost before leaving the Peacekeepers.

I am a little surprised that she takes the time, but Teyn herself gives me initial instruction using the sophisticated surveillance and communications equipment.  It will take time for me to become skilled at using it, as it is nearly as complicated as some of Pilot’s controls.  Thoughts of him and Moya interrupt my concentration as I try to remember the command sequences; a loud beep jars me back to my task, and I can feel Teyn’s disapproval at my error, even though I quickly correct it.

It’s not until we have landed and are gathering our gear that Teyn tells me her decision.

“Aeryn, Desa will show you to your quarters.  My unit bunks together at the end of E block.  You’ll be working with Desa the next two weekens; the two of you will be flying cover for our next mission.”

I almost smile. Maybe I can have a place here.

Teyn is silent for a moment, however, and I realize that she has not mentioned Crichton.

She must read the slight stiffening of my shoulder, the tightening of my jaw; small tells, but uncontrollable.  Something flickers in her dark eyes, and the speculative look returns.

“John...is a problem with which I have no authority to deal.  I want you on my team, Aeryn.  I think you’ll integrate well, and you have good skills.  No matter what the council decides, I hope you’ll stay.”

I swallow anger and fear and manage a docile nod, sliding my gaze away from hers.

Teyn swings her bag over her shoulder.  “John can of course remain on the base until the council decides.  He can either bunk with you or take quarters with the techs.”

Her tone is bland, but a question underscores it.  Another test, and I hesitate, wondering if the answer I give could swing John’s fate either way.  I meet Teyn’s cool gaze, hoping for clues, but find nothing but a detached curiosity.

I hoist my own heavy bag over my shoulder and nod briskly.  “Techs,” I say, and turn to the door. 

I don’t dare look at Teyn to see if I answered correctly.  I can’t hear her reply over the hammering of my heart anyway.



It takes over a weeken for the council to convene; they are unit leaders, like Teyn, and it’s rare for them to all reside on the base concurrently. 

While John waits for his fate to be decided by yet another group of Peacekeepers, he is kept busy with the tech unit.  He falls in with them quickly, that commonality of wires and tools creating a fast bond even though he has much to learn. 

I train constantly, running simulations with Desa, but I see him occasionally in the hangars.  Sometimes he’s working by himself.  Sometimes he’s trading an easy laugh with another tech as he is instructed on how to use a scanner or install a component.  I want to stop and watch him from a distance, observe him earning his own way into this new life, this life he has chosen because of me.  I feel...proud of him, in a way, for having the mivonks to do this. I know it isn’t easy on him, and it isn’t what he wants. 

At the same time, the fear swells until, panicking, I turn my attention back to whatever Desa is saying as we walk along.  At times I find she has stopped speaking and is looking at me the same way Teyn does, a slight furrow between her eyes as if puzzled.  Yet she always smiles a bit. Other times she is still speaking, and I quickly gather the threads of conversation and go on, trying to slow my pounding heart.

John always finds me either at last meal or right after.  Sometimes we sit alone, speaking of small things that had happened during the day. Sometimes he drinks with my companions and tries to talk to them.  They are usually polite, particularly Desa and Ced.  Sometimes more than I am.

Truthfully, he frequently embarrasses me.

He doesn’t understand rank, never has.  He doesn’t understand that his place is at another table or at the barracks with the techs who are becoming his friends.  He is not like the soldiers with whom I sit, and he never will be. 

I would never want him to be.

But that’s yet something else I cannot tell him.

He dislikes Teyn deeply, and he won’t tell me why, just shrugs it off by admitting that she intimidates him.  Frell, she intimidates all of us.  That’s why she is in charge.

We’re sitting alone at a table in the mess one night when Teyn decides to have a drink with us.  We talk about weapons, strategy; we discuss my latest simulator scores; we speak as pilots of combat flying and Prowlers.  At this point, regaining some of my own confidence, I am less intimidated than awed by the senior officer. I enjoy the talk so much that it’s only as she moves onto another table that I realize that John has said nothing for half an arn.  Unbelievable.

His eyes narrowed, he watches Teyn walk away and sighs softly.

“What?”

He shakes his head and reaches for the bottle of raslak.  I grab it first and keep it out of his grasp.  “What don’t you like about Teyn?” I demand, annoyed because I think he’s remembering Teyn injuring me while sparring.  Or he still does not understand rank and earned privileges.

Frowning, he starts to shake his head but stops as I glare at him.  We’ve both had enough to drink tonight that we should be careful of what we say, but caution has never been a part of us, has it? 

His gaze travels from Teyn, leaning casually on a table edge and laughing at some joke Jax made, to me and back again.  “I don’t like anything about her.”

“Well, you should.  She’s the only reason you’re still here.  She cleared it temporarily until the council decides—“

“I don’t like—the way she is.  You could be her, Aeryn, you are becoming more like her, and I don’t want you to be a compassionless bitch.  You’re more than that.”

I jerk as if he has slapped me. “Well, that’s hardly your decision, is it?”

“No, it’s not,” he lashes back, and we are yelling in whispers, heedless of anyone around us, angry eyes locked.  “That’s the deal, isn’t it, Aeryn?  You make the decisions for both of us.  That’s the price I pay, for following you here, for being the wrong—“ He swallows the rest and looks away.   The damage has been done, though.  Hot pain courses through me, numbing any emotion other than flat fury.

“You won the coin toss,” I bite out, and I don’t recognize my own voice; in that moment I do sound like Teyn, gravelly, controlled.  “This is your prize.  You don’t like it, leave.”

He pales and then flushes.  His hand clenches the table edge so hard that it trembles, his glass rolling off and falling onto the floor.

“Your rules,” he says softly into the silence.  “Always your rules, Aeryn, and I always choose to play, and you never understand why.”

“You’re right, I don’t understand, I’ll never understand anything you do, you frelling—“  I catch myself before I slip and say human and ruin his scant cover.  But he knows, and his lips whiten. “Frelling tech,” I say into the charged silence, suddenly aware that our little argument is being avidly observed, and my voice is rich with arrogance.  “That’s what you are.  Assume to be anything else, and you’re likely to get yourself killed.”

“Fine,” he says, shoving his chair backwards.  “Thanks for letting me know where I stand with you, Aeryn.  It’s a first.”

He isn’t even to the door when I hear Jax’s deep chuckle at my elbow.  “Problems?”

I shake my head, forcing a smile as I look up at him.  “No.  Techs,” I say, and the others behind me chuckle a little, nodding.

Emptying my glass, I rise and go to join the other commandos at their table.  Even Teyn is smiling slightly, but as usual I can’t read her expression.

My blood is pounding throughout my body.  At the same time, it’s as if a bubble of numbness surrounds me, the anger at Crichton made null by an equal amount of regret at my own harsh words.

Dimly I’m aware of some jest that Jax makes, largely because the others laugh, and I make myself smile.  His hand rests on the back of my chair, but it takes microts for that to register.  In fact, I think I only notice because I feel eyes staring at my back. 

I glance over my shoulder just in time to see John slam out the door.

Frell.



 

Four words scrawl, large and stark, across the page.

She’s made her choice.[/b]

It takes me a moment to understand his meaning.  To understand what he failed to comprehend.

She’s made her choice. [/b]

He never understood that my choice was always the same.  Him.

Sighing, I slip from the console and onto the floor, stretching my aching leg out carefully.  A soft moan echoes through Moya’s frame. I become motionless, holding my breath unconsciously, trying to gauge her pain.  Her walls creak once, and then she is as still as I am, as still as Pilot.

Vaguely, I wonder if Scorpius is still monitoring the wormhole or if he has returned.  I engineered a remote release for the hangar bay door and installed it in the module.  The irony of my doing such work still strikes me as grimly amusing.  Lost in my own thoughts, I may not have noticed his return.

Stifling a yawn, I open the journal on my knees again.  I should slip away from the den and sleep for a few arns; I can’t remember when last I slept.  However, Pilot will waken soon enough, and as my presence is his only comfort now, I will not deny him that small mercy. 

I scarcely sleep, anyway. I toss and turn, caught between fevered dreams and half-recalled memories and crushing regrets.  I’d rather sit here, drawing selfish comfort from Pilot’s slow breathing and Moya’s living hum.

And remember it.  Remember living.
   


 



The morning after I argue with John in the mess hall, I spar with Teyn again.

I block her first blow, and instantly I know that today is not training.  I block a second blow, and I realize that the first time I fought with her was play; she’d been measuring my skills and initial resolve.  Today I have to show what I’ve learned.  If she gets inside my guard this time, I’ll have a concussion or worse instead of a bloody ear.

I’m still furious at Crichton and at myself as well.  I put that fury into each motion, and I actually score the first blood, slipping Teyn’s punch to smash my right fist into her jaw.  She staggers a bit, recovers in time to block my follow-through left elbow, and shoves me hard away.  She’s smiling a little as she spits a bit of blood into the dust, but it’s a feral grin. Got about thirty microts to take her out before she beats the dren out of me.

A few cycles ago, I would have rushed in, assuming I had the advantage.  Now, I circle a bit, waiting, letting her think I have the confidence to let her recover a bit before continuing.  In actuality, I have studied her as she worked out with the others, and I think I can predict her next move.  Otherwise, I am frelled, already running short of breath, sweat soaking my tank top, arms aching from shoulders to fingertips.

She charges, throwing a short hard right, which I block.  She slides inside my guard, like she did before, but this time I step with it, shifting my weight slightly, and lock her wrist.  She grunts with pain and surprise before adjusting.  Her left fist glances off my jaw with enough force to rock me back on my feet, loosening my grip on her wrist, and we mutually break to circle slowly.  Teyn is gasping for breath as well, and her feral grin is at odds with the flatness of her dark brown eyes. 

We trade more blows.  Dimly I feel sweat stinging the raw spots on my hands and forearms.  I think Teyn is panting as well, but I can’t hear over my own throbbing gasps.  I am almost done for, and Teyn should certainly be, twice my age or more as she is, but she pursues me doggedly.

I try a spinning kick; Teyn rarely kicks, and I hope it will surprise her.  My boot catches her solidly on her shoulder, knocking her back, but she locks a hand around my heel and yanks, taking me down with her, and we both crash to the dirt.  Wearily, I roll to my feet a microt or two before Teyn, and I charge blindly with the last reserves of my strength.  I feel cartilage compress under my fist, and I wonder if I have broken her nose again, a split microt before her fist drives into my stomach.  My lungs spasming for air, I stagger back, almost blind with pain and exhaustion, and I don’t even get one arm up to defend against the Pantak jab that flattens me into the dust.

All I remember after that is struggling to breathe, my entire body a ball of pain.

“Aeryn?”

I force myself to focus.  Desa and Jax kneel by me, one on each side.  Why do they look so worried?  Did I frell up? What did I frell up?

“Just breathe,” Jax says, and his large hand feels cool on my hot face. 

The microts drag by until I can finally sit up with their assistance, breathing air in small sips, my chest a wall of pain.  “Did I pass?” I wheeze, and try to smile.

“You should,” Desa says darkly, and she and Jax share that puzzled, worried gaze again.

They try to help me stand.  I wave them off at first, but I have to accept Jax’s strong grip to pull me to my feet.  Desa’s hand on my elbow steadies me.

“Tell me that was normal,” I say, still gasping.  “Tell me that she did the same thing to you.  Or tell me exactly how I frelled up so I won’t do it again.”

Shaking their heads, they shrug.  “Teyn always has a reason,” Jax says.  “She might even tell you some time.”

I look around warily for our senior officer. Teyn stands at the opening to the training ring, frowning as she talks to another commando.  Absently, she wipes blood and sweat from her face with a towel and nods.  She beckons impatiently to us, and we instantly stride forward.

“Our mission has been moved up.  We’re leaving in an arn.  Aeryn, can you be ready by then?”

What she’s really saying is, Can you pull yourself together by then? I nod, focusing on controlling my heaving breath.  For a moment, I think that Teyn is going to smile, but she doesn’t, just gives me a comradely slap on the shoulder that sends jarring pain through me.  “You did well,” she said.  “Almost had me there.  Almost.”

Turning, she strides away, and I think that it’s frelling wonderful that she is limping a bit, considering I still can’t breathe.

I walk unassisted to my quarters, Desa and Jax bracketing me, and I am grateful for their concern. 

“You should really go to the medical unit,” Desa says.  “Get checked.  You could have fractures.”

I shrug and shake my head.  “I’m fine,” I say, “just need to catch my breath.”  What I want is for them to leave so I can collapse onto the bed and coil into a fetal position until the pain in my hand and chest abates somewhat.

Desa trades a glance with Jax.  I should have seen it coming, but I don’t.  Her fist shoots out, lightly prodding my chest in exactly the same place Teyn’s fist had connected in the Pantak jab, and I fall into a heap on the floor, gasping.

“You are no good to us with untreated injuries,” Desa states.  “I’ll pack for you.”

Jax waits until I get my breath back and then helps me to my feet.  I walk the distance on my own, but his hand on my elbow steadies me from time to time. 

It’s almost an arn before I am released, with several hairline fractures in my right hand mended.  My ribs are all right, just bruised to hezmana and back.

Jax carries both of our bags to the disguised freighter, which will serve as transport for the six of us and four Prowlers.  He tries a few small jokes but stops when I don’t respond. 

“Don’t worry about Teyn,” he says, suddenly serious.

“Right.  What did I do wrong?”

He shakes his head.  “Nothing I saw.  Frell, nothing like I did.”

The first time he’d sparred with Teyn, he tells me, he had actually landed a lucky blow that had taken her off her feet.  It wasn’t a sparring move, it was something he had acquired from a Luxan acquaintance. With true commando arrogance, he had then relaxed and dropped his guard.  In a microt, she had rolled to her feet and charged at him.  He’d dropped slightly to one side to fend off the Pantak jab curving toward his chest; she’d feinted instead and planted her boot squarely in his groin.

“Lifted me at least a motra off my feet, although it felt like my mivonks were flying up around my neck,” he says, laughing ruefully.  She’d grabbed him before he could tumble to the ground and headbutted him into unconsciousness.  “When I came to, she was standing over me, her boot on my throat.  Didn’t say a word, just looked at me, and let me up.  But I knew if I frelled up again, she’d have my mivonks served up for last meal.”

“And the point is...”

“Teyn could have killed you.”

A wispy chuckle escapes my sore chest, but Jax does not smile in return.  “Teyn is the best soldier I’ve ever seen, Aeryn.  She’s also insane, but it’s usually in a good way.  You need to know that, and respect that.”

Figured that out the first thirty microts, I want to say, but I don’t.  I nod, and we continue in silence.  Jax does not elaborate, nor do I ask him to.  He probably thinks I am in pain, and I am, but oddly enough my main concern at the moment is Crichton.  I would like to see him before I go off for a more than a weeken.

Frell, I would like to apologize, my anger at him finally spent.

Teyn is the last one aboard. I am still standing on the ramp, covertly scanning for John, but the hangar seems oddly devoid of techs. 

I am coldly gratified that she has a pressure bandage on one forearm.  Stress fracture, undoubtedly.  She sports other scrapes and bruises, no fewer than I do, and for the first time I meet her gaze without feeling like an untested cadet. 

“This particular political situation in which we’re intervening has become very volatile. Situations change, and our timelines have to reflect that,” she says.  “You’ll get used to it.  Oh, by the way.  I was just informed that the council met.  I abstained from this vote because you are part of my unit.  It was close, but John can stay.” 

Apparently, I don’t have the right expression on my face, because she pauses and looks more closely at me.  “Aeryn, that’s what you wanted, right?  What you both wanted?”

I manage a nod, frozen between emotions.  Always conflicted where John is concerned. 

“Good.  From what you’ve said, and what I’ve heard, he’s safer with us.  And our lead technician feels his skills can benefit our group as well.  It’s a good deal.”

I nod again, and I take Teyn’s bag with my left hand, which is sore but unbandaged.  She looks a little surprised as I carry the bag for her, but she is the senior officer, and I am being careful to show respect.  I obviously did something to offend, and that was why I received such a beating in the training ring.  I don’t necessarily need to know the details, but I’m going to try to avoid such offenses in the future.

I focus on the mission ahead, on my recent training, on my unit.  I don’t think about John, and for the first time in monens I don’t worry about him as Desa and I pilot the ship away from the base.  He’s in a relatively safe place for perhaps the first time since he came through the wormhole, and that knowledge eases one small bit of the fear coiled inside me.

For the next two weekens, I would be concerned only with myself and doing well on my first mission.



 

He wrote little during the time I was away on my mission.  A few mentions of his friends, his duties.  Mixed within those references were a few disjointed sentences that I know were about me, although my name was not mentioned.  Perhaps it was too painful for him to write.

Choices.  Fate.  Fucking fate. 

Born again Peacekeeper, and all that entails.

Fate.  Fate.  Fate.

When will I learn?  Dog with two bones, hell.  Stupid damn dog with no bone.

I should just leave.

Fate.  FATE.   FATE.

So much pain.  So much he never understood about me.  So much I could never tell him.

It’s just before I return from my mission that his handwriting eases a bit, becomes more like his usual scrawl and less like black anger flowing across the pages.

She doesn’t want me here.  I’m the wrong one.  She made that quite clear the other night, before she left.  I have no claim on her.  That’s the second thing she made quite clear to me.  She’s gone.  Aeryn’s gone.  And I have nothing, and she has nothing, and nothing matters any more.

And still, here I am, like an idiot.. 

I’d like to say that it’s because I have nowhere to go. I can’t go home; Peacekeepers or worse would follow me.  I could go back to Moya.  Aeryn told me to do that.  “You don’t like it, leave.”  And the minute I was through the door—Jax.  Son of a bitch.  Still, I have no right to be angry.  Hell, I have no right to even be here...

Fucking idiot.  She’ll be back in three days, and your heart is like a metronome, counting down the beats until you can see her.  And if seeing her is all you get, you’ll still call it a good day, you poor fucking bastard...

Two days.  That goddamn bastard had better have kept her safe.  Teyn, too...

One day, and all I ask is that she walk off the transport alive and unhurt...

Four arns.  Just let her be all right.  There’s casualties aboard, but Tass said it couldn’t be her; she transmitted the information.  He doesn’t know her. Hell, she’d die before she gave up her post, especially if others were wounded. Please, god, let her be all right. That’s all I’m asking.  Not another chance.  Nothing for me. For her. Always for her.

It all comes back to me so clearly, rolling through my mind as I read his scant words on paper.  It breathes for me again, this life I lived, caught in the words of a man who now only exists in my memory and this fragile journal.

I don’t know how much time has passed.  I rouse stiffly as Pilot makes a small noise, and my hips and knees creak as I rise.  Pilot makes no other sound, his breathing barely audible, and I lightly trail my hand across his cheek.  He does not move.

I rub my aching eyes and stretch, dimly registering the assorted pains that shoot through me from the motion.  Nothing but a shell now.  Ironic.  The person that I was half a cycle ago is merely a memory, just as John Crichton is.

I look at Pilot again, and I feel the urge to do something, to make something happen.  It’s a ridiculous notion, a faint resonance of who I once was.  There is nothing left to do but wait for Pilot and Moya to die, and to offer what little comfort I can as they pass.  As John would say, it’s the end of the road for all of us.

And so I settle once more against his console, in the exact same spot where John had held me after Crais had taken control of Talyn the first time and sent me back to Moya under gunfire.  The journal opens on my lap again, and I let myself be drawn back into the past.

It’s all I have left.



 

Tirth is a small agricultural colony on the edge of Tormented Space.  Its government was overthrown in a coup funded by a nearby world.  Ultimately martial law prevailed, and many colonists were slaughtered for relatively minor offenses.  The resistance effort that resulted labored for years, carefully arranging a replacement government as it waited for the right moment to stage its revolution and take control of its world. During a trade conference between the two agricultural worlds, all the principal leaders would gather, maneuvering for power, and would be vulnerable.  Take out a few of the major players, and the rest would fall upon each other in the scramble for power.  In the midst of the savagery, the resistance would break forth and regain control.

Teyn would lead the assassination strike team: Jax, Ced, and Darek.  Ced and Desa would use their security skills to tap into the flight control computers of the main port and provide a narrow sensor-blocked vector for the Prowlers to follow.  The strike team would land their Prowlers in a field outside the city and camouflage them; their contact would provide transport into and out of the city.  They would storm into the Parliamentary offices disguised as security officers, complete the assassinations, and merge with the crowd in the panic, meeting back at the Prowlers. At the assigned time, Desa and I would fly the freighter to the pickup point just outside the planet’s orbit, the Prowlers would dock in the landing bay, and we would be on our way back to the base.

This is my training mission, and I expect only to learn the team’s procedure.  I don’t expect things to go wrong.  Ironic, considering how I’ve spent my last three cycles.

As far as we can tell, the plan is proceeding as expected.  Desa monitors the comm frequencies, while I keep watch on the long and short range scans.    We are both relatively bored until our four Prowlers light up the scans, and Teyn curses into the comm.

“We have pursuit, repeat, pursuit by at least six snubfighters, short range, class—“

I quickly refine the scans, picking up nothing new at first.  Atmospheric fighters, I think, and then the first one blips onto my screen.  Scarran single-soldier snubfighters, Raptors actually, nearly as old as I am, but still fairly nimble and possibly a match for a Prowler in atmosphere.  Once in space, however—

They almost make it, but a random shot from the pursuers hits the trailing Prowler.  It cartwheels, wing over wing, pieces shelling off, but it does not explode.

Instantly, the three Prowlers peel off and reverse, engaging the six Raptors.  If they cannot drive off or destroy the six, we will have to abandon our wounded comrade.

“Teyn,” I say into my comms as my scans light up.  “Looks like a full squadron coming five or six hundred microts behind you.”

Teyn swears extensively and profoundly in Sebacean, Luxan, and Scarran, and the combination is rather poetic.

“Cockpit extraction,” she says, “in two hundred microts.  We’ll meet at the other pickup point.”

I stare at Desa, who shrugs.  “Teyn doesn’t leave anyone behind,” she says.  “Never has.”

And within two hundred microts, the Prowlers destroy four Raptors; the remaining pair retreat.  Desa positions the freighter, and I deploy the docking web.  As soon as the shattered remnants of the Prowler is are aboard, the Prowlers streak away from us, and Desa sets the course for the new pickup point.



Darek survives with a serious concussion and some internal bruising.  He’ll be off the rotation for a few weekens, but he is one lucky probakto to have even survived.

We meet the three Prowlers at the pickup point and begin the three-solar-day journey back to base.

“Teyn doesn’t leave anyone behind.”

I’d come on this mission hoping for a chance to impress my team.  Instead, I was the one impressed by Teyn.



An unusual amount of activity greets our freighter upon landing: the medical team carries Darek away swiftly and the techs swarm over the Prowlers to do maintenance and to strip useful parts from the damaged ship.

John is waiting for me.

He stands by the ramp as the rest of his crew enter the hangar bay of the freighter, his blue eyes flicking nervously from person to person.  I feel his gaze lock onto me as I walk out of the hatch, my bag over my shoulder, following Desa and Ced.  His face softens a bit in relief, and then firms into a terrible attempt at a neutral expression that makes me want to laugh. Our eyes meet briefly, and I can’t keep a smile from curving my lips slightly.

“John!” one of his team members calls, and he turns to go into the hangar bay.

I don’t see him again until after last meal.  Hair still damp and tousled from the shower, he walks into the mess hall with a couple other techs.  Although he is carefully not looking at me, at seeing him I feel a surge of pure pleasure charge through my entire body.

I’ve missed him.

I’m drinking with my team in our usual corner.  I continue laughing with them, but out of the corners of my eyes I watch John and his companions get plates of food.  They walk to a table and set their food down, and then he hesitates, turning to look at me finally.  Guardedly.  He doesn’t know what to do.  Frell, I don’t either.

“Aeryn?  You in for tadek?” Desa says, and I realize she’s repeating the question.

“Later,” I say, rising.  Behind me, I hear her chuckle quietly before beginning the game, but my eyes are filled with only John.

He meets me halfway, smiling tentatively.  I can’t smile back, can’t let the control over my emotions slip even that much.  Still, I am drawn to him, a strange kind of gravity interrupting the calm orbit of my life.

“Buy you a drink?” he says, a quick nervous burst of words.  “Or is that against a rule, for a tech to buy an officer a drink?”

Wincing, I shake my head.  “No.  There’s no rule like that here.  But you can’t buy me that drink.  Not until I buy one for you first.  John, I’m—“

“—sorry,” he says, our awkward apologies tumbling out together, and we share a painful smile before I go to collect bottles of fellip nectar.

We sit at a table by ourselves and I struggle with small talk, at which I’ve never been much good.  At the back of my mind is burned the image of Darek, as I pulled his unconscious body from his broken cockpit.  Lucky probakto. Most Prowler pilots shattered with their ships, and his near miss, as part of my team, has made me remember the inherent danger of being pilots and soldiers.  A split microt and you’re gone, and everything you meant to say or do is gone as well.

I don’t tell John any of this.  I give the occasional smile and comment, and I do manage to tell him that I’ve missed him, at which he flushes with pleasure, grinning like a boy.  It’s all I can give him right now, and I feel a warm rush of joy that it means so much to him.

[ScaperRed]

 

Sometimes prayers do get answered.

I have to read the words twice to comprehend them.

Only sometimes, John, I think bitterly, listening to Pilot’s slow breathing. Only sometimes.


   

I go on more missions, flying cover in a Prowler now; I’ve taken Darek’s place on the team until he recovers, and maybe beyond.  Desa tells me that his latest near miss made him think about transferring  to the surveillance unit.

In actuality, my duties currently are not that different from when I was assigned to Crais’ command carrier.  I feel more like a commando than an assassin, and the knowledge that our actions help to free oppressed peoples is liberating to my spirit as well.  My comrades call themselves the “true” Peacekeeper unit, and I rapidly begin to feel that way also.

No matter what time I return, John is always waiting for me.

We’ve fallen back into the easy camaraderie that we shared the first couple of cycles on Moya.  We eat together, talk together, play tadek together or this strange game from his home called poh-ker.  I still think he changes the rules when it suits him, though, and the terms are so strange.  Ante up, fold, full house, check.

But that’s just on the surface, whether we sit with his group or mine or by ourselves.

It’s hard to unring the bell, John says at one point, and I eventually figure out that he means that it’s difficult to undo something, or even to pretend that it didn’t happen.  It’s especially difficult when our feelings, even unspoken, appear to spiral between us tangibly.

I try to tell myself that it’s purely physical, a lack of recreation on both our parts.  Yet any attraction I might feel for my male comrades evaporates instantly the moment John walks into the same room. I think they can sense it, because they never approach me directly, relying on suggestive comments and looks, which I usually ignore or occasionally return.  They stop when John appears, or perhaps I stop noticing.

It’s the same for him, I know.  I observe the smiles the female techs—and some commandos, even Desa, who spends almost all her time with Ced—give him.  I listen to his light, easy talk.  He doesn’t quite flirt with them, but it’s close.  At times I feel a little uneasy, but I would not be angry with him if he chose to recreate with one of them.  If one of them hurt him in any way, though—well, that would certainly be dealt with.

Teyn observes everything and says nothing, and that unnerves me a bit.  She’s a very competent leader, generous with praise for her team’s work.  After our last mission, she told me that I now have third ranking on the team, and I’m not far behind Jax, number two, in terms of competence.  In fact, I would fill Ced’s slot as backup on the next assassination mission, and no one has ever risen that quickly in the group.

Something about her changes, quiets, though, when John enters the room.  I don’t know if she thinks that he is a liability despite the council’s vote, or if she has some residual elitism from her Peacekeeper training that makes her see him as a lesser species.  I would simply ask, but I have finally reached a point of being comfortable within myself here.  I’m not the Aeryn Sun I was just a few short cycles ago.  While I no longer grieve for that lost life, I can’t risk this new sense of self.  Not yet.

Monens pass, and then it all frells up, of course.  The bell cannot be unrung, and we can only ignore its echoes for so long.

John works late on some project one night.  By the time he arrives, we’ve been drinking and playing tadek for arns.  Jax and Ced have been trading jokes and insults for most of the evening, and my sides hurt from laughing so hard.  I’ve only had a couple bottles of fellip nectar, but it’s more than enough alcohol when emotions run high.

At some point, Jax has dropped an arm around my shoulders.  I am quite aware of its casual, warm weight, although neither of us say anything. 

He’s the biggest man on the base, and the darkest Peacekeeper I’ve ever seen.  Bluntly handsome, every muscle perfectly toned, he’s quite popular with the female contingent on the base, but he tends to be selective, or so Desa told me.

“You do understand why I’m telling you this?” she asked.

“I’m not quite sure,” I said guardedly.

She’d laughed and rolled her brown eyes.  “Well, you’ll figure it out,” was all she said before we returned to training.

It’s been so long since I’ve played by these rules that they have become unfamiliar to me.  Jax is an attractive man, and three cycles ago I would have pursued him.  But everything is different now, and I only dimly start figuring out what Desa had meant when Jax drapes an arm around my shoulders.

I don’t know that John will be coming through the door shortly, or else I would react differently. Shrug his arm off with a light comment or make an excuse to move away.  But I have to be honest: it feels good to have that weight around my shoulders only and not my heart, because what Jax wants is something simple and uncomplicated that I fully understand.  I like him; he’s a comrade, and comrades take care of each other in matters both large and small, but with no thoughts as to the future.

Roaring with laughter at some jest Ced has made, I don’t notice John standing behind me.  Desa does.  “John!  You’re late tonight.  Working?”  She prods Ced and moves over so that John can sit between her and me, but I freeze, stomach roiling, at the blank hurt in John’s eyes.

He starts to sit down mechanically.  I twitch my shoulder under Jax’s hand, a suggestion that he let go, but he closes his fingers more firmly.  I look up at him sharply, and he’s smiling just a little down at me. Frell. 

“Tadek?” Desa is asking brightly, but John shakes his head and rises again.

“Thanks, but I have to eat and get back to work,” he says shortly, and goes to sit at a table across the room.

Jax chuckles softly, and I drive my elbow into his ribs.  Gasping, he withdraws his arm, and Desa laughs.  It’s contagious, and even I have to smile a little.  “Tadek?” Desa says again, politely ignoring what has happened, and begins to deal.

John’s face is still set hard, and I realize that he can’t have seen my elbow jab from where he sits.  He hunches over the table with his back half to me, but his eyes keep darting over, crossing over me, glaring at Jax.  I remember how hurt and jealous the John on Talyn had been when he’d thought I’d recreated with Crais.  Honesty had healed that rift, and it would probably do the same here, but I am paralyzed with fear over what will follow. I can’t do this again.  I can’t let him any closer only to lose him again.  I’m not ready, but frell I may never be—

“Well, I’m done for the night,” Desa says a few rounds later.  “Aeryn?”

“Hm?  Yeah,” I say, tearing my gaze from John.  I’ve played far worse than usual, and I rise with Desa to leave.

Smiling, Jax catches my wrist.  “One more drink?”

I shake my head and turn to go.  John is dumping his dishes into the sink and striding angrily out, and I realize he’s seen Jax take my arm.

I’m angry as I shake off Jax’s hand, because I realize he’s deliberately taunting John now because I rejected him earlier.  “Frelling drannit,” I swear under my breath, the comment directed at both of them, and I swing around short when someone touches my shoulder.

Desa backs up a step, hands spread wide in a placating gesture. “Let’s go, Aeryn.”

“Walk it off,” Teyn says, and begins to deal another hand of tadek to the others.  She’s annoyed, I can tell by the narrowness of her eyes, but not at me.  She glares at Jax, and he wilts visibly, his big shoulders rolling down a bit, his hands tightening on his thighs.

I let Desa steer me out of the mess hall.  I breathe in cool night air and try to figure out what to do.

“Aeryn,” Desa begins, and pauses.  We’re not exactly friends yet, and I’m just drunk enough and angry enough to not want any advice, no matter how well intentioned.  “No one here cares what you do on your own time, or who you spend it with.  But—“

“Personal indulgences can fracture a small crew,” I say wearily.  “I know this, Desa.”

“We depend on each other for our lives,” she says.  “We have to trust each other and know where we each stand.  That’s what’s holding you back, Aeryn.”

I nod shortly and turn away, fists clenched.  I don’t want to hear more.  I don’t want to hear what I already know, which is that I have made a place for myself here but I have not claimed it. 

Vaguely, I hear her call after me, ”Teyn will deal with Jax.  Do you want me to talk to John?”

I don’t answer, because I can’t, caught between the person I once was and the person I am becoming.  I want to go to John, yet at the same time I want to use this latest rift to keep him farther from me.  I’m terrified of how guilty I feel for something that was actually nothing at all.

My boots have their own quest, however, and eventually I find him, alone, in one of the maintenance bays.  I watch him for a moment, because it actually looks as if he is beating some piece of machinery into submission with a blunt tool.

He puts a large dent into it and throws the tool aside.  “What?” he barks, and I actually back up a step, startled.  He glares at me, and I don’t have any idea of what to say.

Sighing, he scrubs his hands over his face, smearing fresh grime over his forehead and into his short hair.  “Aeryn, I’m not your husband, I’m not your boyfriend, I’m not your anything.  You can do what you want.”

Another time, another place, another situation but the same words, and they cut through me, shatter what little control I have.  I can’t breathe, I can’t think, I can only be overwhelmed by it all, the sense that I’m on an eternal loop with John Crichton, and that I know how this will end.

He finally meets my eyes, and dimly I am aware that the anger is draining from him.  Briefly I wonder what he sees in my face before I start my verbal attack.  It’s what I know best, it’s my training, and that’s what we all fall back on ultimately.  But my training fails me at the last moment, as it has so often with John Crichton, and I say nothing, just turn and stride from the hangar.  He calls my name, but he doesn’t come after me.  It’s just as well.

I don’t sleep that night.  I pound training bags until sunlight breaks through the windows and it’s time to meet my team.



I don’t know if he’s avoiding me as much as I’m avoiding him, but we don’t see each other except at a distance for over two weekens.  Most of the regiment is in training, as we will assist the ground forces that plan to take back control of their planet.  I spend almost every waking arn in the simulator or in my Prowler flying formations, learning new attack vectors, familiarizing myself with the habits and strengths of the squadron I will be flying with.

Teyn has spent most of her life as a Prowler pilot, and she lives for these missions, in which she is a squadron commander again.  She’s one of the best pilots I have ever had the privilege to fly with, and she trains alongside us every microt.  I fall quickly into the rhythm of the group.  I concentrate so hard on my training that I almost don’t notice that Teyn has allowed me into the inner circle of pilots.  It’s the four of us together—Teyn, Jax, Desa, me—that map out training exercises, critique performances (including our own) and set strategy for the upcoming conflict.

I don’t know what Teyn said to Jax.  I don’t ask.  He remains smoothly professional when we’re training, as we all are, and he perhaps keeps a slight amount of distance from me physically.  His teasing and bantering remain the same, but it irritates me far more than it should.  I do feel Teyn watching, and I have a sense that she is waiting for something, although I am not sure what. 

At night, we still squeeze in a couple arns of sparring.  We may be flying air cover, but we can quickly become ground troops as needed, and we must be ready.  It’s when I draw Jax as a partner that I understand there is unfinished business between us.  But it’s only when I break his wrist that I realize how angry I still am at him for precipitating this latest rift between me and John.

It’s partly his fault. I’m practicing a restraint hold Teyn has taught me, and Jax knows he should yield at a certain point.  He doesn’t, using his weight to try to break my grip and spin free.  I simply step inside and alter my leverage slightly.  I bear down harder than I should as I twist because I want him to feel enough pain to submit instantly, and I hear and feel the bones snap as I force him down to his knees.

“Frell!” he grunts, and I let go instantly and start to kneel beside him.  He backfists me, and I hit the ground on my back with a split lip.

Teyn is instantly between us, forcing Jax to allow her to examine his arm.  “Both bones, I’d say.  To the medical unit with you, you hingemot.  For the love of Cholak, when are you going to learn you can’t force things?  And a mission in four days.”  She glares at me. “And you.  You need a little control.  Work on it.  If my wingman is incapacitated for this next sortie, you’re taking his place, and if I get so much as a scratch on my Prowler from your inattention, Sun, Hezmana will seem like a vacation spot.”

My ears burn like a cadet’s with the reprimand, yet Desa is almost laughing as she walks up to me.  “So does that settle things between you?” she says, and Ced tries to cover a chuckle with a cough. 

Feeling as clueless as Crichton, I wipe blood from my lip and turn to get some water from my flask. 

John is leaning on the fence of the training ring, his arms draped on the bars just above my gear bag.  Faintly, he smiles, and I return it before I can stop myself, realizing he must have seen the aborted sparring session. 

Before I reach my gear, he pushes off from the fence and heads toward the hangars, and I watch his easy stride for a few microts, until Ced slaps my shoulder.

“Please don’t hurt me,” he mocks, and ducks as I swing at him half-heartedly.



Although he never speaks to me, John returns each evening after his shift is done and watches the sparring.  I am not really surprised when he strikes up a conversation with Ced, who is taking a water break. But I am caught off guard in more ways than one when he walks into the training ring and assumes the initial stance.  Desa’s fist clips the side of my head, and I reel from the glancing blow, barely getting my guard up to block her follow-through.

Desa stops, frowning.  In all the time we’ve sparred, she’s only landed perhaps a half dozen blows.  She’s really best as a pilot, she is comfortable with that knowledge, and we are both surprised that she has actually knocked me off balance.

Blinking, I hold up my hands to signal a break and walk a bit, as if to shake the blow off, but I want to see what John means to do.

It appears harmless enough at first. Ced is a good-natured, easy-going soldier, and he is amused at a tech wanting to spar with a commando. 

Desa taps my shoulder and hands me my water flask, and we go to sit on the fence and watch, as do most of the others nearby.

John does fine at first. His movements are similar to my own, and Desa asks if I taught him.  I nod, and I feel pride in him for having the mivonks to cross this line between tech and commando and hold his own.  At the same time, I am waiting for something to go wrong, and when it does, I am instantly off the fence and racing to him.

The sparring has become more aggressive, both men testing the other’s skill levels and finding the shared rhythm.  My hands white-knuckle my water flask as John misses a block and Ced’s elbow smashes into his jaw.  He staggers back and recovers enough to get his guard up, but I can tell he’s a little disoriented, although I doubt that Ced can.  Ced closes, and I see the perfect opportunity for a kick to the shoulder to take him down, but John rarely kicks, and he doesn’t even see his only chance for success.  Instead, he manages to block part of the next blow, and the fist to the face almost takes him off his feet.  Ced closes, grabbing him, and I am off the fence and running instantly, yelling, because this is a favorite move of both Ced and Jax, and they don’t know that John is not Sebacean.

Ced is already in motion, hauling John’s dazed form over.  His knee shoots up, and a blow to the upper abdomen that would simply knock the air out of Jax or me breaks four fragile human ribs.

John simply collapses, sliding limply to the ground at Ced’s feet.  Puzzled, Ced stands over him for a microt and is just starting to kneel when I ram my shoulder into the commando and knock him flying.  I don’t want him near John, I don’t want anyone near him.  I am in a full panic bordering on tears as I gently roll him over, my hands probing for damage.  He gasps painfully; his breath has that labored, slightly whistling sound indicative of a collapsed lung.  He tries to speak, and I shake my head, covering his mouth, but I feel the words as much as hear them: “Guess I should stop trying to be what I’m not.”

“Shut up and breathe, you drannit,” I choke out, and he smiles a little before wheezing, “What’s a drannit?”

And suddenly I’m the one who cannot breathe, cannot think, cannot see through a blur of tears.  I’m in two places at one time, caught between amusement at his ignorance and regret at everything lost between us.

Teyn takes charge, directing six of us to lift and carry him to the medical unit.  She and I cradle his shoulders, and she speaks soothingly to him as we hustle the hundred motras through the camp.  I can’t speak; I’m doing well to keep from crying.  The rushed trip is both too short and too long abruptly as John is placed on a gurney and taken into an examination room. I stand at the closed door, my hands suddenly, frighteningly empty.

“Aeryn, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—“

My hands strike on their own, a blow to Ced’s jaw that causes three fractures in my right hand, followed with a Pantak jab that drops him neatly at Desa’s feet.  Shocked, Desa nevertheless steps forward, over his body, hands up and ready.  I’ll never know if I would’ve actually swung on her or not, because Teyn grabs me from behind and locks me up, one forearm choking me.  I nearly rip free, but she shifts with me, increasing the pressure, and slams me into the wall, holding me there until my knees buckle.

“Get another medic,” she orders, and lets me, coughing, drop to the floor.  “Make that two.”



The medics are sworn to secrecy as to John not being Sebacean.  They find his physiology interesting and not terribly complex, fortunately.

He’s still in the medical unit the night before I leave on my mission.  I spend most of that evening there, sitting by him, instead of sleeping as I should.

“Shouldn’t you be training?” he asks, his voice still a little hoarse, the small tear in his lung healing. Reconstructors have healed the ribs, but he will be stiff and sore for a few days.  He pats my right hand, covered with a pressure bandage to minimize the residual swelling.  “PE excuse?”

I laugh a little, although I don’t have any frelling idea what he means.  “Excused from sparring, yes.”

I don’t tell him it’s not my hand, which the medics had largely mended; it’s my attitude, as Teyn had bluntly told me.  My ears still burn as I think about what she said.

“I can’t afford to lose any more members of my team,” she said.  “Frell, I’d train with you, but you might get lucky and give me a concussion, and then who would be left to keep you in line?”

Embarrassed, I had stood at attention and listened to the quiet chuckles around me.  Teyn waited until the others had drifted off, and then I braced myself for the real reprimand.

Instead, she had said, “Walk with me,” and turned to walk out of the compound.  I dropped in a half step behind and to her right, and we strode out past the hangars and the landing strip.  There was a squadron of Prowlers doing one more set of maneuvers in the waning light, and we silently watched their feint and play.  Prowlers are not made for extended atmospheric flight; they dance only in space and can be difficult to control in air combat, as I once had the chance to realize.  I mentally winced as I recalled that wild flight above the frozen planet.  I had not responded as a Peacekeeper, and it had resulted in first my death, and later Zhaan’s, in her sacrifice for us all. A waste, Zhaan.  A total waste.

Softly, Teyn sighed, her eyes still on the Prowlers. “You remind me of someone, Aeryn.”

“Who?”

Teyn smiled slightly, tucking her thumbs in her utility belt.  “A little of myself, actually, a very long time ago.  And even more like someone I once knew.  That’s one reason why I’m going to give you another chance.

“You’re a fine pilot, one of the best I’ve seen, and a good soldier.  I’m proud to have you as part of my unit because of your skills.  But you’re unpredictable at times, and that means you can be an unacceptable risk for all of us.

“Aeryn, I’m not going to ask about what’s between you and John.  I’m not sure you even know, and even if you do, I’m not sure I’d understand it.  But if it’s what keeps breaking your concentration, your control, then you’ve got to do whatever it is you need to fix it.  Otherwise, one or both of you will have to go.  Am I making myself clear?”

“Yes, Senior Officer,” I said immediately, swallowing hard.  One more frell-up, one more loss of control on my part, and John would lose his safe haven. Because of me, the disciplined Peacekeeper who always followed the rules.  Who can’t seem to even find the rules now.

Teyn nodded. “I’m going to start working with you more, Aeryn, because I think you have the potential to be a leader within this group.  Should’ve been working more closely with you since you came, but—“  Breaking off, she shook her head and started walking briskly back to the base.

You remind me of someone...from a long time ago.

“Teyn, I’ve been wanting to ask you something.  You’re about the same age as my mother, I think.  Xhalax Sun.”

Teyn’s stride faltered just slightly.  “I know the name,” she said, her voice carefully neutral.  “I know your father’s name, too.  Talyn Lyczak.”

We walked for many microts, each seeming to wait for the other to speak.  My throat abruptly closed, a thousand questions wanting to break through, but none able to be expressed.

“Get some rest, Officer Sun.  We leave at dawn tomorrow, and you’ve got a lot to prove this mission.”

“Thank you, Senior Officer,” I said, and watched her powerful stride take her back to the training ring before I went to see Crichton.


I replay that conversation over and over as I sit with John now.  He’s unusually quiet, sedated, and seems content to have me hold his hand.  Second chances.  I wonder if I will have another one to ask Teyn about my parents, and if I do, I wonder what I really want to know.

A few hours before dawn, I still have no answers. I lightly kiss John’s forehead and smooth the covers over his deeply sleeping form before making my way to the barracks. 

Desa is waiting for me, sitting against the door to my quarters.  She scrambles up to stretch as I walk up.

“How’s John?”

“Well, he’s—“

The Pantak jab is completely unexpected.  I slam back into the wall opposite my own door and slide slowly to the floor, struggling to breathe.

“That should about even the score,” Desa says mildly.  “Aeryn, I told you once that because we depend on each other for our lives, we have to trust each other and know where we each stand.  That’s what’s still holding you back, Aeryn. You don’t really trust any of us, and you don’t know where you stand on anything.  Make a choice.  Before you get someone killed.”

I struggle to my feet, and Desa steps back a little, fists ready.  “We could be friends, Aeryn.  We all could be.  But it’s up to you.”

“Thank you so much for the advice,” I say between clenched teeth.  “I know you all only have my best interests at heart.”

Desa chuckles once.  “You all right?  Did I hit you too hard?”

I throw a quick punch at her in response, which she blocks, startled.  “You’re getting better,” I say, and go into my quarters to pack.

As my hands perform the routine tasks, my mind is considering what Desa did not say, which is, Get any of my friends hurt or killed, and I’ll kill you. 

I seem to have a real gift for making friends in new places.



 

I rouse from my memories, stifling a yawn, and glance up at Pilot.  His eyes are still closed, his breathing as steady and labored as ever.  I think it must be deep in the night cycle now, although I can’t be sure.  Once, as any good Peacekeeper, I could estimate the time within a few microts, holding myself to a silent count, feeling the  passage of time as it slid across my skin, through my bones.  Now I’m not even sure if it’s day cycle or night cycle.  It hardly matters.

I sigh deeply as I turn the pages.  I’ve flipped through the entire journal before, my eyes darting for any mention of my name, desperate to find evidence of a life lived with him, however shallow it might have been.  I know almost all of the events of which he writes, for I lived them as well, or lived on the periphery of them.  But that only serves to heighten my puzzlement as I stare at the fragile pages.

I am coming to the most troubling part, the most painful part, the part that I have looked through over and over again, trying to make sense of it all.

The words he wrote in the beginning echo in my head as I reluctantly turn the pages.

The longer she is with her own people like this, the more PK she’ll become. It scares the hell out of me...But she is Aeryn…and so I stay.

He had been right. Pushed him farther and farther away. Made him stay with the techs in his unit.  Friendship?  Hardly. I gave him nothing. He had played along, always playing the game I thought I’d wanted to play.     

He talks about Corla and Dennisson, fellow techs.  A few words, enough down on paper to show that they were slowly becoming a part of his life, his routine.  For a few pages my name is not mentioned, and my heart aches at the absence, at the fact that he had tried to let me go, in mind if not in spirit. 

And then come the equations.  Pages and pages of them.  John’s writing is hurried; I can almost sense his frantic movements, his need to get them down on paper.  I stare at the meaningless numbers and symbols and flash back to right after we destroyed the command carrier. 

I sit near him, needing to be close, disgusted at what he is, what I am, afraid of what is to come.  He is covered in the symbols, the blue staining his smooth skin.  I can’t even look at him, lost in the pain of memory and reality, at the horror of wormholes.

And then the equations stop, for a while.

I can’t stop thinking about what that old woman said to me that last day on Moya. “If the dog could have had only one bone, which would it have wanted?" 

Here I am, trying to go after the bone, the thing that I want most in the world, and again I start trying to go after the other bone as well.  Aeryn’s gone.  She’s drifting farther and farther from me, and the farther away she feels, the closer wormhole equations come to the surface of my mind.  They’re coming so fast now, I can hardly get them down on paper.  And now I don’t want them.  I don’t want to “make a wormhole and go home.”  My home is here now, with her…but she’s not--FUCK. I don’t know what to do.  I feel crazy with wormholes, crazy with Aeryn. Or maybe I’m just crazy.

“Is this dog smart enough to learn?” 

I don’t think it is.  I can’t have both, yet I keep trying…

Maybe the choice has been made for me.  Maybe the equations are coming because Aeryn’s lost to me forever. If she is—I don’t want to stay here, live with ex-Peacekeepers, restricted to being a tech, forced to do the council’s bidding.

I find myself trying to be what I’m not, who I’m not.  I feel like

The words stop abruptly, and I remember what he’d said as he lay gasping in my arms: “Guess I should stop trying to be what I’m not.”

There is nothing written for a few days, not even an equation. 

Haltingly, his words begin again. The base is practically empty by the time my team boards the transport.  Corla and Dennison both think I should stay, but I’ve cleared medical and I’d have nothing to do here—Fuck. I don’t know what I want anymore.  I only know what I’m not.

But Aeryn’s the same way.  She’s caught between—everything.  I’d like to say I understand, but she doesn’t talk to me.  I don’t think she really talks to anyone.  I watch her with her “team,” and she’s—different.  She works well with them, she laughs in the right places, she does everything expected of her, but she’s not there.  And I don’t want to know where she is when she’s like that, when her eyes go far away. Hell, I DO know where, and when, and that’s half our damn problem. How do I compete with that?

It’s easier to get pissed about Jax hanging on her.  There’s something irrational about being jealous of a dead man, but since when has anything in my head been rational? Harvey says..

Thick lines cross out the mention of the neural clone.  I wonder what thoughts that evil specter whispered to John, and I feel yet another weight added to my burden of guilt.  After all, who did he have to talk to?  Not me.  I was far too busy trying to—

She’s trying to be like Teyn.  It surprises me, but I suppose I can understand it.  She doesn’t know who she is anymore, what she is.  At the same time, Teyn scares the crap out of her.  She scares the crap out of me, too, but I don’t flinch when she looks at me.  Aeryn does, and she doesn’t even realize it.

And all I realize now is that I’m not losing her. I’ve already lost her, months ago. I was just too damned stupid to realize it.  I tried giving her time, giving us time.  But I still wanted things to get fixed, to start again from the moment she left on Talyn.  I wanted her to be at the same point that I was then.  The same point I am now. 

That’s not going to happen, and I’m all out of ideas.  Besides, my plans never work, right? 

In a few hours, we’ll land on some godforsaken unnamed planet that has hired this group to regain control of its government.  By the time we arrive, the battle will be over, the cities secured.  I may be dressed in my usual leathers with Winona strapped to my thigh, but I’ll have a tool belt slung over my shoulder.  After all, I am just a tech, and I should not presume to be anything else. 

I don’t know what the hell else to do. But then, neither does she.  It’s like we’re both stuck in this game, and no one knows the rules.  But someone’s cut the cards, and this is the hand that’s been dealt.  Play or fold.  In or out.  Play the odds.  Or hang it all out.

Time, I keep telling myself.  There’s plenty of time.  I even told her that, at the beginning of this mess.  But how much time do we have before she misses a shot on a mission, or banks a second too late in her Prowler, or follows Teyn blindly into a pulse blast? How much time do we have to waste?

We didn’t waste time. I wasted so much frelling time.

[ScaperRed]

Chapter 3:
Discarding

   


It’s a five day journey, deeper into Tormented Space, from our base to Sarath. During that time, we continue our preparations: cross-checking the latest intel, running flight simulations, sparring, inspecting equipment, cleaning and assembling personal weapons and gear.

It’s a small ship, and I find myself shoulder-to-shoulder with at least one of my teammates constantly.  After initial questions about John, they don’t mention him, nor do I.  I avoid Ced whenever possible, even making up excuses to keep from training with him when he asks.  Frell, I can hardly even look at him. I’m ashamed I lost control and hit him, and that shame courses hotly through me each time I see him rub his jaw or chew carefully at a meal. 

Desa tries to talk to me once.  I just shake my head and keep pounding the training bag, welcoming the fiery pain in my hand as my knuckles swell again.

Jax is terse with me, his wrist undoubtedly still sore, and I suspect he is spending his off-duty time with Lara, a commando from Teyn’s other team.  Good for him.

Oddly enough, it’s Teyn’s presence that upsets me the least.  It’s Teyn who silently comes into the compact gym during the sleep cycle when I’m restlessly hitting the bag or trying to exercise myself into exhaustion so that I can sleep.  Sometimes she works out with me; sometimes we spar or she teaches me new throws or holds.  She doesn’t talk much, but more importantly, she doesn’t expect me to talk.  I don’t know why she’s there, unless she’s another insomniac, but I do draw some small comfort from her presence. 

I count the arns until our mission begins.  Until I can make some effort to redeem myself in their eyes.



We encounter little effective resistance and quickly take out our ground targets.  After that, we provide continuous air and space coverage for our assault troops, who, combined with the area’s rebel forces, are simultaneously regaining control of four cities.

Although Jax’s wrist is healed enough for him to return to duty, Teyn decides to put him in charge of another assault group.  I fill in Jax’s spot on her wing, and I don’t frell up.  I do precisely as I’m told, when I’m told.  I fly perfect patterns, scoring two kills myself.  None of our unit sustain so much as a scorch mark during the brief space combat.

Our unit is ecstatic about our performance, and the mood is infectious as we land at our target city and take temporary quarters with the citizens until the mopping-up is complete. Finally, I feel as if I can stand down, the tension of the last weeken easing. When a group decides to visit the newly liberated taverns downtown, I quickly change out of my flight suit and join them.

It’s nearly evening, and the temperature is a bit below optimum.  I take my long coat with me, still unused to planetary conditions and their variations although I’ve been living on one for monens now. 

The freed locals form an impromptu parade around us as we stride through the streets.  I am overwhelmed by their gratitude, their eagerness to shake our hands, touch our sleeves, or simply say a heartfelt thank you.

I feel Teyn’s hand on my shoulder.  “Get used to it, Aeryn.  This is how it should be, how Peacekeepers should be.  This is what you are now.”

What I’ve wanted to be.

None of us needs to buy drinks in the tavern.  The citizens keep a steady stream of libations flowing, and it’s not long before it seems that every person who lives in town and every member of our regiment is crammed into one of the three taverns that make up the central square.

Including John.

I don’t see him at first. I sit with Teyn, half deafened by the pounding music to which most of my unit and all of the townspeople are dancing.  We collect drinks for the others, have a few rounds ourselves, and generally enjoy the spectacle.  Occasionally I see Desa and Ced dancing, sometimes with each other, sometimes with a local person; I spot the others from time to time.  Jax and Darek comm Teyn that they’re going to go tavern hopping, and she approves, provided they check in with each location change.

A half dozen local men ask me to dance, and I always say no politely, content to merely watch.  Ced finally grabs my wrist and drags me out onto the floor, squeezing us both into a tiny space.  From the corner of my eye, I see Desa dancing with a local boy hardly old enough to drink.  She grins back at me, so I reluctantly let Ced lead me through simple steps.  I don’t have any idea what I’m doing other than trying to follow the rhythm, but it doesn’t seem to matter, and I’m laughing and breathless by the time the music ends.  Ced throws an arm over my shoulders and hugs me.  His way of saying it’s all right, all’s forgiven.  My eyes stinging, I hug him back and make my way through the crowd back to our table.

John is sitting in my chair, but he rises as I break through the crowd.
It’s all right.  Everything’s all right now.  My smile at seeing him must be huge judging by his surprised expression.

“John was well enough to come with the last of the techs,” Teyn explained, shouting to be heard over the music.  “Their skills will be needed for rebuilding the security network, not to mention some of the infrastructure.”

“When do you go on duty?” I shout back.

“Tomorrow.  Tonight I guess we all party hearty.”

I gesture toward the excellent bottle of raslak Teyn’s been guarding.  “Have a drink with us, then. Everyone’s here, Desa, Ced—“

“Dance with me,” he says quickly, and swallows hard. 

I stammer.  “I, uh, let’s have a drink or two instead—“

“Go,” Teyn says, cracking the seal on the bottle of raslak.  She gestures toward the gyrating mass of bodies filling the tavern.  There is so much noise, I can’t have heard her right.  Impatiently, she shouts, waving first at John and then at me.  “Go.  Dance.  Him.  You.  Now.”

John is grinning, and I want to, but I hesitate, partly because I am still so startled to see him standing with me, healthy and whole and ready to par-tee hart-ee or whatever he said. 

“Is that an order?”

Teyn drinks directly from the bottle of raslak, a long swallow, and grimaces only slightly.  “Now it is.  Go.  I’m guarding the raslak and the table.”

“Next dance is with you,” John tells her, grinning hugely. Turning on that “southern charm.”  Frell, it even works on Teyn.

Teyn waves a finger at him, her eyes bright.  “Done.  And there’s no way in hezmana you’re getting out of it!”

It takes a while to thread our way through the crowd.  We actually end up near the entrance, in a small oasis of open space. 

“I’m terrible at this,” John shouts in my ear, and I start laughing and don’t stop until the music does.  We’re both terrible at this.  Neither of us knows any of the steps for this music, but no one notices and it doesn’t matter in the general good humor.  Gasping for breath, we enjoy the relative silence between songs and the slight evening breeze filtering through the open door.  Should’ve left my coat with Teyn.  Ought to go do that.  Before I can move, the music starts again, a slower tune, and John takes my hand.

“Now this I can do,” he says, and I let him guide me into position, my  hands on his shoulders, his on my waist.  “Just follow me.”

I try, I really do, but I feel ridiculously awkward, and I think he’s not on time with the music either.  It takes forty or fifty microts for us to adjust.  Just when I think we’re getting the hang of it and I’m not tripping over his feet as much, he pulls me closer.  The heat pouring from his body breaks my concentration, and I stumble.  His hands steady me, his lips on my ear.  “Easy, Aeryn.  It’s getting crowded out here.  We don’t want to take up all the room.”

Lying bastard.  Not more crowded.  I still have to smile.  His arms tighten around me, his chin against my forehead, and I’m not sure who’s shivering. 

“You’re all right?  Fully recovered?”

I feel him nod.  “All but my pride.”

“Why did you do it?”

His sigh rumbles through his chest.  “I wanted to be part of your world.”

“And now?”

The music ends, but we sway anyway, still connected.  “I still do, but I know what I’m not.  I don’t know what I’m doing, Aeryn,” John says at last, his breath warm on my ear.  “I know what I want, but for the first time in my life I’ve got no idea how to get it.”  He pulls back slightly to look at me.  Lost, so uncertain, just as scared as I am at the moment of losing what little remains.  We’re not so far apart. Tentatively I reach up to touch his cheek.  His eyes darken at the contact, and he leans forward a bit, resting his face in my hand.  “Help me, Aeryn.  Help me figure it out,” he whispers.   I nod, raising my face to his as—

Flash of movement in my peripheral vision.  What the— Automatically, I snap my head to the left, looking out the door and up to the rooftop of the building opposite, where the slight glint of light on a metal barrel has caught my eye.  Instinct makes me grab onto John and shove him backwards hard, covering his body with my own.  Displaced air blows the tail of my long coat against my body before I even hit the ground in a tangle with John.

The explosion deafens all of us.

I can see people screaming, but nothing penetrates the ringing in my ears for microts.  Instantly, I grab the nearest people and start shoving them toward the back of the tavern, away from the windows and doors, and John helps, both of us screaming warnings that no one can hear.

I don’t see any of the other commandos now, and I hope they are getting the crowd out the back way. 

A second explosion rattles to my left; that tavern has received the same treatment.  Frell.  Not a malcontent or someone a little drunk and playing with weaponry.  We are under attack.

Using the doorframe for cover, I peer outside, just as the ringing in my ears abates enough for me to hear my comm buzz around my neck.  I slip the headset on, and I can barely hear Teyn’s voice demanding reports.  “Teyn, it’s Aeryn, and I have John with me by the door.  It appears that there are three people on the roof of the building directly across from this tavern; they appear to be armed with an A-52 grenade launcher—“

Pulse fire sprays the street, striking down a half dozen people who are scrambling for cover.

“—and a hand cannon and pulse rifles,” I finish, cursing under my breath.

Teyn swears eloquently.  “Hold your position, Aeryn, and be our eyes.  Ced and Desa and Miklos are getting people out through the big frelling hole in the back of the building.  I’m gonna call in an air strike on the bastards, because we are all pinned down on this side of the square.”

More pulse rifle fire sprays the square, and I sink back a bit more from the doorway.  I am filled with disgust; the snipers appear to be riddling the bodies.

John crouches behind me, Winona drawn.  He has no battle comm, so I explain Teyn’s plan, my eyes searching the street constantly, my other senses straining to pick up more information.  He says something in response, but I don’t pay any attention, because above the ringing in my ears, above the harried voices on the battle comm, above the occasional burst of pulse fire, I hear the cry of a child.

She staggers out of the shambles of the next tavern, a sooty-faced child with blond hair, crying for all she is worth.  “Ma!  Ma!  Ma!  Ma!”

“Teyn—“ I croak into my comms.

“I see her, I see her,” Jax shouts, and I hear him start to lay down suppression fire from wherever he is, hoping to distract the snipers.

“Cover me,” I tell John, and throw myself forward.

“Aeryn, no!” he shouts, and his weight slams me into the ground, his arms locking around my waist.  I struggle with him, cursing, but he doesn’t let go, dragging me back inside the doorframe. I realize why as pulse weapon fire lights its way across the square, and suddenly the cry is silenced forever.

“You couldn’t have gotten her,” he says in my ear, his voice shaking, but I twist out from under him.  He comes up on his knees, and I hit him as hard as I can, knocking him flat on his back, the force of my blow tumbling me to the ground as well.

“Never again,” I shout at him.  “Don’t you ever—do that again.  I could’ve—frell.  Frell, frell, frell...”

I resume my position at the doorframe, blinking back tears.  She’s a limp bundle of rags now, a curl of smoke rising from her tiny body, and I choke back grief for a child I do not even know.  Should’ve moved faster, should’ve—

“Bad news, people,” Teyn says heavily.  “Reinforcements are arriving, and actions such as these are going on in all major cities.  They probably want to keep us busy and pinned down until the main troops arrive.”

She crawls up next to me, peering over my shoulder.  John has warily taken up position on the other side of the door, but I don’t let myself look at him, I am still so frelling angry.  “We’ve got to take those guys out so we can mobilize before the reinforcements arrive, or we’re frelled.”

I nod, and this time I do make eye contact with John.  He shakes his head a bit.  “Insane,” he says incredulously.  I nod.  “So I should be the one.”

“I’m faster.  And I’m a better shot.”

“So what should I do, sit and knit?” he snaps.  I have no idea what that means, but I have an idea of what he can do to cover me. 

“Anyone have any grenades?” I ask Teyn, who looks at me slack-jawed.



“I don’t like this,” John says.  Again.

“Shut up,” I say, carefully priming two of the thumb-sized grenades that are standard-issue in our packs.   “Listen.  Squeeze, throw, and dive.  Simple.  Got it?”

“Simple enough even for a tech,” he says, and I close his hand over the grenades gently.  He grabs my coat tightly in his free hand, his face denches from my own.  “Be careful,” he says, his voice shaking, and for the first time I realize that I’m not the only one who is afraid of losing someone.

My hands cup his face and hold it for one hard, quick kiss, and then I spin around on my knees, break open the battle stim pack that is also standard issue, and inhale it sharply.

Instantly, the world whites out, my senses momentarily numb, and then they return with crushing clarity.  I can smell chakkan oil, leather, sweat, the old wood of the board floor, the individual odors of all the different liquors in the tavern, John’s unique human male scent.  I look out the door, and I can see the three snipers on the rooftop sending pulse fire into the square again, but it’s as if they are moving in slow motion, one third normal speed. 

“Aim high,” I tell John.  “Don’t blow me up.”

“I will,” he says, in that last agonizing microt before Teyn shoves my shoulder, and I break from the doorway, running straight for the sniper’s building.  I can hear the suppression fire Jax and the others are laying down, and I am running, my hand rock steady as I fire.  I watch one pulse blast strike a sniper in the chest,  forming a blossom of yellow light before he jerks back and then forward, collapsing on the retaining wall that lines the roof edge.  One down. I’m already halfway across the exposed ground of the square.

I hear Teyn shout. John’s broken cover. I split to my left a half dozen steps, still firing, and then the force of two explosions in quick succession from above and in front to my right knock me staggering.  He’s pegged the far corner of the building with the grenades perfectly and then hopefully jumped back into cover.  I can imagine the snipers scrambling around in a panic as they try to target one farboht Peacekeeper running across the square and another lobbing small grenades from all the way across the square, while everyone else pours suppression fire onto the rooftop.

Not such a bad plan after all.  And then of course it all goes wrong. 

“Grenade!  Aeryn!” Jax shouts, and I instinctively throw myself forward toward the only cover, that of the building itself.  The snipers must have thrown one off the roof toward me.  I barely have time to get an arm in front of my face before I crash through the window, sliding on my stomach across a desk, the shock wave of the grenade exploding behind me propelling me into the far wall.  I bounce off it and hit the floor limply, and for a microt or two no sensations register, I can’t even breathe.  That’s it then.  Bad plan after all.  Sorry, John, so sorry that—

It hurts to draw a breath, but my lungs demand it, and the pain assures me that I am not dead after all. 

“Teyn,” I say, and pause, swallowing.  “I’m in the building.”

“Are you mobile?” Teyn says crisply.

I make it to my knees before the stim’s effect ebbs and real pain hits, slicing through the right side of my body.  It’s then that I realize there’s a thin trail of blood through the room, and it’s mine.

There are fist-sized holes torn in my lightly-armored coat, and I peel it gingerly away from my hip to discover two mangled but fortunately superficial wounds, one on my hip just above my tied-down holster, the other on the back of my hip.  Frelling wonderful.  I caught shrapnel in the eema.

I fumble my med pouch open and flick the tops off the injectors, one for pain, one to reduce blood loss.  I stab them through the leather into the top of my thigh, and the burning sensation of the medication is worse than the pain from my injuries for a moment. 

I reassess the situation as I wait for the drugs to start working.  Teyn is calling my name, but I am biting my lip too hard to speak.  I am not bleeding too badly, but I have three flights of stairs to climb, and the wounds, although shallow, will slow me down.

“Teyn, I’m mobile, but I have minor injuries.  Give me a few microts.”

“How minor?”

I flex my leg gingerly and watch blood pool out of the wound.  “Just a scratch or two.”

“Change in plan, then,” Teyn says.  “The hatch that opens onto the roof is at the back of the building.  Flip it open and throw all your crackers onto the roof.  Drop the hatch closed, and we’ll use the explosions to cross the square and get to you.”

“Right,” I say, and heave myself to my feet.   I debate using the second stim in my pouch, but I already feel shaky, and I need to make it to the roof.  My companions are depending on it.

“John is with Jax,” Teyn says, and I feel a rush of relief.  “They’ve got a supply of grenades—“

I grab onto the handrail to steady myself as the building quakes.  Well, that will keep them occupied for awhile.  I grin at the thought of Jax and John taking turns lobbing grenades at the building. Trying to out-throw each other. John might actually do well at this; he was good at throwing things, all those cycles he spent playing with his balls as a child—football, baseball—

I  try to focus on that image instead of how flimsy my throbbing leg feels, how much it hurts to draw a deep breath, how my pulse pistol wavers unsteadily in front of me.  Finally I find myself at the top of the ladder leading to the roof, one hand squeezing the standard six-pack of crackers, the other gripping my pulse pistol.  “In position, Teyn.”

“Go.”

Taking as deep a breath as I possibly can, I shove the hatch open with my left arm and bounce upward on my good leg.  I fling the handful of crackers at the two men I see crouched on the rooftop. The crackers explode, a distraction of flash and smoke and noise, drawing the snipers’ attention to me as I try to balance long enough to bring my pulse pistol up to bear on them. I can’t quite get my gun hand high enough, though, pain knifing through my ribs, and I lose my balance, crashing down the ladder to the floor. 

Frell.

I scrabble back against the wall and hold my pulse pistol with both hands, covering the hatch.  All it will take is a grenade dropped through, and all my team will find of me will be a few scraps of leather and flesh.

Jax is the first one in, and he grabs the ladder just as the hatch does open.  Instantly, we both fire, and the hatch drops back in place.

“Frell,” he says, panting, and starts up anyway as John pounds in, Teyn and Desa and Ced right behind him.  Teyn uses hand signals to direct Desa and John to me, and then she and Ced are clambering up the ladder as well.

Jax pushes the hatch up, but a barrage of pulse fire forces him to drop it again.  He hunches at the top of the ladder, shaking his head.

“Hey!” John hisses, and pantomimes throwing a grenade.  He points to the ceiling and acts as if he is sticking something to it, and he and Jax break into silent laughter before Jax motions everyone off the ladder. 

“What?” I whisper to John as Desa checks my wounds.

“If the mountain doesn’t come to Mohammad...blow it up,” he murmurs cryptically, and strokes my cheek as I grunt in pain.

“Frell, that’s gonna have to come out, and I’ve got no way to seal the wounds sufficiently,” Desa says.  “We’ll have to find a medical facility.”

An explosion rocks the building, and John throws his arms around me, shielding me from the loose bits that rain down on us.  Quick pulse fire echoes in the next room, and then there is sweet silence, followed by Jax’s whoop of triumph.  “Got ‘em!  All clear now!”

“All right then, let’s get mobile.  Double time it to the field, have the Prowlers in the air in about five hundred microts—how’s Aeryn?” Teyn asks, leading the others through the door.  I wave as nonchalantly as I can, considering that both Desa and John are prodding my injuries.

“Oh, she’s doing great for someone who just got shot in the ass,” John says cheerfully.  “Baby, that’s gonna scar!”

I’d strangle him if I had enough strength in my hands.

“Scar,” Jax says blandly.  “I’d like to see that some time.”

“Yeah, so would I,” Ced chimes in grinning, and Desa throws a pebble at him.

“All right, all right,” Teyn says severely.  “We have a job to do.  John, take Aeryn to the medical facility to get patched up.  It may take awhile; there were a lot of civilian casualties, and getting shot in the ‘ass’ is probably a low priority.”

I grimace as the others have a good laugh over my situation.

“We don’t know how heavy the reinforcements are,” Jax says, turning serious, and hands the  A-52 grenade launcher and a bandolier of ammunition to John.  “You may end up protecting the medical facility.  You know how to use this?”

John takes it, fumbling a little, but at least he doesn’t drop it.  “Sure.  Semi-auto with re-loader, right?  Every tech has one of these.”

Teyn rolls her eyes slightly.  “Aeryn will show you.  Don’t blow up anything useful, and don’t kill each other.”

“Not unless we can watch, of course,” Desa says, and slaps my shoulder before racing out the door with the others.



I can walk, leaning on John, but he gets concerned about blood loss and insists on carrying me the last few blocks.  I feel extremely ridiculous at first, and then extremely lucky as I see the steady stream of injured citizens making their way painfully from their destroyed homes and businesses.  I hear the Prowlers launch and watch them cut through the darkening sky. I long to be with them, eliminating the threat that has caused yet more harm to these war-torn people.

John’s constant teasing ends abruptly, and he hugs me a little tighter as he threads his way through the ragged line of wounded people.

Teyn’s right; my injuries, although annoying, are not life-threatening, and I end up lying on my side on a narrow gurney in a hallway, John standing sentinel.  My first priority is showing John how to use the grenade launcher, and he seems to grasp the concept, although a crowded hospital would scarcely be the place for him to practice.

After that, all I have to do is wait and ignore the pain.  Ignoring the pain is far easier.

Listening to the comms, I can picture much of the action, and I relay anything of significance to John.  Basically, we’re trapped.  Our main force is groundside, and some of our pilots don’t make it back into the air before the enemy fighters enter the atmosphere.

John asks how this could have happened, and I can only shrug.  I don’t know that much about intel, other than our regiment is extremely careful about the details.  I can only surmise that the local evaluation of the situation had underestimated enemy forces, or that we had been sabotaged in some way.  Teyn would sort that out.  Our objective is to take back the city and stay alive.

About a half arn after we arrive at the medical facility, we hear the first faint crackling explosions. 

John and I trade looks.  Two pulse pistols, a grenade launcher. And I can hardly stand up.  Frell.

“I’ll get a doctor,” he says and starts to sprint off. 

“Weapons!” I yell after him. 

I fidget uneasily during the next fifty or sixty microts, until John actually drags a medic to me by his collar.

“There are priority cases—“

I grab him by the throat and yank him down to my eye level.  “There are a hundred or so Yesni troops coming to retake this city within the arn.  I need to be mobile, or all you’ll have between them and this medical facility is him.”

Surprised, John scowls, but the medic takes a long look at him and then at me.  Sighing, he yells over his shoulder for his assistant.

A quarter arn later, John helps me strap my holster back onto my numb leg.  He’s trying not to laugh because I can’t quite fasten my pants all the way; the medic had cleaned my wounds out quickly and stopped the blood flow with a synth patch, and the bulk of the bandage holding it in place made it difficult to pull my pants over my hips, let alone fasten them.  He has to fasten my holster because, with three cracked ribs supported by a pressure bandage, I can’t lean over far enough to reach the clasps.

“Frell you,” I tell him, adjusting my belt.  “Next time you get shot in the ass and see how you like it.”

He chuckles and pats my leg as he finishes with the straps.  “Pretty good English.  How many more naughty words do you know?”

I run through the half-dozen or so that I remember as we walk awkwardly down the hall, John supporting my right side. 

He chuckles again.  “My mom would wash your mouth out with the big bar of soap.” He pauses, and I look up to see a pained shadow cross his face.  “And his.”

“John, I learned those words from you.”

“Yeah.  I know.  Him.  Me.  The same.”

I stop walking, but I have to grab his shoulder to halt him and swing him around so I can look in his eyes.  I don’t know why this is so important to him right now, and I don’t know why it’s important enough to me to use up precious microts in a battle situation, but I do it.  “John, I learned those words from you during the first six monens I was on Moya.  Or perhaps you don’t know what you say when you’re working on that bucket of dren you call a module?”

He blinks, the shadow fading, and I want to reach up, touch his cheek gently, but it’s not the right time, not with the world about to fall in around us.

Never seem to find the right time.

“Bucket of dren, huh?” he says, and we begin walking briskly toward the entrance again.  “My module, my baby, my ride, and you call it—“

“Fucking bucket of dren,” I say, carefully emphasizing each English word, and the reward of his laughter is more than the remark deserves.

So many people are still trying to get into the medical facility that we have a difficult time pushing our way out.  They’re not all injured, either; they’re looking for a safe place, as the explosions draw closer.

Above, the stars embedded in the blue-black sky are made hazy by curls of smoke, the occasional burst of bright red explosions, the singe of yellow pulse fire.  I stand transfixed for a moment, watching the swift conversion of lights, an aerial battle in the upper atmosphere.  Should be there.  Not here.  There.
   
“Teyn, it’s Aeryn.  John and I are mobile.”

“Good.  Now get your frelling eema up here!  Have John find the techs and get the security sensors working, and—Frell!  Aeryn, you’ve got incoming, and we can’t get there, we’re all engaged.  It’s a T70 Sunbird—“

Teyn is rattling off vectors, but I can already see the point of light streaking toward us.

John fumbles with the grenade launcher, and I take it from him, grunting with the effort and the pain from my ribs.  I can’t even get it onto my shoulder.

“I’ve got it—“

“You’ve got me.  Lift it onto my shoulder.  Brace me.  Now!”

We’re perhaps fifty motras from the medical facility, which is the only structure lit by something other than fire.  The Sunbird can have no other target than the helpless within it.

With one hand, John helps balance the heavy launcher on my shoulder, leaning it partially against his bicep.  His other arm is tight around my waist, and I lean against him as I peer through the sight, watching the dot of light grow into a Prowler-sized ship headed directly for us.

“Uh, Aeryn...any time,” John says nervously.

“Shut up!” I snap, trying to remember standard strafing speeds for a Sunbird, the velocity and range of the grenade launcher. Frell the math.  Guess.  A crunch, John would call it.

 “Aeryn, fire the damn thing—“

“Wait for it,” I say, absently noting his stress.  My concentration is fully in this moment, my finger tensed on the trigger, watching the nose of the Sunbird expand as it barrels toward us on its strafing run.  I fire twice, one grenade aimed at the cockpit canopy, the other for the sensor package just below it within a scrim of metal.  I’d like a third shot, but instinct throws me against John, pushing him back and down, and he takes me with him, both us rolling away from the Sunbird as it drops out of the sky.  Exploding pieces of wreckage shoot past within motras of us, and the main cockpit slides to a flaming halt at the hospital entrance.

“Wait for it, huh?”  John says thinly, gasping for breath as we separate.  He pulls me to my feet, and I drop the butt of the grenade launcher to the ground and lean against it shakily as we watch the Sunbird burn.

“Frell,” he says as I say, ”Fuck,” and caught in the confusion of the moment, we must look like fools as we laugh in the roasting light.

[ScaperRed]

Within an arn, I am cruising low atmosphere in my Prowler and exercising my considerable vocabulary of curses.  I hate atmospheric flying.  I was trained in space, and atmosphere is merely annoying currents and weather anomalies.  Not to mention the fact that getting shot down in it tends to really color one’s opinion.

But I really hate gravity more at the moment, because I can find no painless position.  Gravity presses against my fractured ribs at every turn, and as the local anesthetic wears off, my hip aches and the wounds start to tear open again and bleed.

Very little gets through the Prowlers’ net now. I dispatch one wounded Sunbird easily and watch its flaming descent for a microt before performing a strafing run on a line of Yesni setting up small arms on the outside edge of the city.  Otherwise, my main foe is gravity, and two arns later as we land the Prowlers near the hospital on the only open ground that remains fairly level, I’m not sure who’s won.

Ced half lifts me out of the cockpit; my muscles have cramped, and my clothing has stiffened with fresh blood.  I almost fall off the access ladder, but Desa and Teyn steady me and make sure I reach the ground.

I’ve never been so grateful to be out of my Prowler.

Teyn reprimands me even as she and Ced help me walk to the medical facility entrance.  A little curtly, I remind her that I was only following orders.  She blinks, and Desa quickly covers her smile with her hand and hurries past to open the door.

“Well, you’re grounded now,” Teyn said sharply.  “Get patched up—again!—and find the security team.  I want advance warning next frelling time.  Any questions about how to set it up, comm me or Desa or Jax directly. We’re all going to be busier than a one-armed fire-juggler for the next two solar days.”

This time, I don’t protest when I’m told I’m low priority. I instantly fall asleep on the gurney, and I manage to doze through the medic’s lecture about staying off my feet for at least twelve arns so that the tissue can start regenerating. 

Desa wakes me some time later.  “They’re having problems with the security grid,” she says, “and Teyn wants you on it if you can manage it.”  I nod, grimacing as I push half upright, blinking in the low light.  The medical facility has finally quieted, everyone attended and tucked away for the moment, and I suppress a yawn as I scrub the sleep from my eyes.

Desa sets my bag on the edge of the gurney.  “Brought your gear. Security is bunking near here, and I thought you could use some clean clothes.  John’s on his way up here; he’ll take you to the team.  Get some sleep when you can, you look like dren.”

Feel like it too, I think, but what I say is thanks, and I’m grateful for the small thoughtfulness.

I find an unused shower to quickly scrub off the grime and blood, and I manage to get my clean leather pants partially fastened, my belt helping to hide the gap.  I feel ridiculous, but it hurts far too much to zip them all the way up.

The medic had time to mend the fractures in my ribs, but it’s still hard for me to fasten my holster in place and buckle my boots.

John finds me in the hallway as I’m finishing with both.  He gives me the “Readers Digested Condensed Version” of what’s going on with the security grid, whatever that means.  All I understand is that the system is frelled, and there’s not enough techs on the planet or tea in Chi-nah to fix it.

Feels like we’re back on Moya.

It feels more like that as John and I end up working on circuits together, rerouting power supplies.  The security sensor grid is similar in structure to the defense screen we’d salvaged from the Zelbinion, and we certainly had enough experience patching that piece of dren together.  I comm Teyn and Desa a few times for their systems integration data, while John works with his lead technician. 

At some point, wedged in a small access closet, I sit down for a microt and fall asleep.  Arns later, John nudges me awake, and we watch the programming screen flicker to life, shoulder to shoulder, grinning tiredly.

“Good work, people,” Teyn says over the comms.

“Permission for the tech team to be relieved?” I ask.

“Do it in shifts, four arns each.  Good job, Aeryn.  Keep them working.  You’re the officer in charge.”

“Well, this day has just gone from bad to worse,” John drawls.  “Now you’re my damn boss?”

“Yes, and on your feet, tech.  We’ve got a city to put back together.”



The next two days go by in a blur.  John and I work together frequently, and we find that same old unspoken rhythm that we’d shared for so long.  After the first twelve arns, when we’re no longer worried about being attacked, the mood relaxes slightly. It feels good to be helping these people start to rebuild, good to help them secure their own freedom and the means to keep it.

I’d always thought that liberation was achieved with the use of weapons.  I’d never thought about the infrastructure necessary to maintain it.

I get to know some of John’s tech companions, and, unsurprisingly, they remind me of John and sometimes of Velorek.  They are very competent, and it’s easy to like them; they have none of the arrogance of the commandos.  It’s harder for them to be comfortable with me.  The lines are blurred within our regiment, but the castes still exist.

None of us sleep much in the next forty arns.  We cadge a nap here or there, tucked out of the way of our companions for an arn or two.  When we’re finally relieved for twelve arns, we’re all staggering as we walk through the square.

John and I lag behind the others. Every part of my body aches, and I can hardly imagine sleeping in an actual bed in the makeshift barracks we’ve been assigned.

We walk through the square, where it had all begun for us less than fifty arns before.  John and I both become abruptly quiet, looking around at the damaged buildings, the blast marks on the road, the distinctive carbon scorches that indicate a person had died there, although the bodies had already been removed. 

My eyes stray to the street in front of the taverns.  There is a notably small reddish scorch mark on the dusty street where the little girl had died.

Suddenly, I can’t breathe, can’t move forward, can’t swallow the tears that rise to my eyes.  All I can do is stand and stare at the spot, my body rigid.

John tries to comfort me, putting his arm around my stiff shoulders, but I shake him off, refusing to hear him.  He does not understand, and my only gratitude is that the square is still empty, few people being allowed back in as of yet because of safety considerations.

I sense motion out of the corner of my eye, and I see a blond woman cross the street slowly.  She kneels by the small reddish mark, her hands hovering over it but not quite touching, and then the silence of the square is split with her keening grief.

John starts to go to her, but I grab his arm roughly, swinging him around, and tug hard away.  He wants to comfort the comfortless.  That is Crichton.  He doesn’t understand how deeply some wounds can cut, and how, when that happens, the best that a person can hope for is that it not be on public display.

A block later, I am struggling for breath but still pressing determinedly on. I don’t realize there are tears running down my cheeks until John grabs me by the shoulders and gives me a shake, calling my name.  He stares at me, and I try to jerk away, but I end up stumbling into his arms, which close solid and wonderfully warm around me.

He holds me upright as sobs break from my throat, and I dig my fingers into his shirt, clutching him.  From the comforting noises he makes, I know that he thinks I am crying over the lost girl, but that is only one part of the terrible whole that has crashed onto me abruptly, my defenses weakened by fatigue.

“It’s not your fault, Aeryn,” he whispers in my ear over and over.  “Nothing you could have done—“

I shake my head, because I know that I hesitated, that if I had moved when I heard the first cry, I could have scooped up the small body and dived behind cover.  A few microts’ hesitation, and a mother’s grief would continue for a lifetime.

That’s what I feel guilt for.  But that’s not why I weep.

I weep at the futility of it all.  And the fear.  The fear that one day I would kneel in a destroyed square and mourn a child, the last vestige of love.

Not again, not again, never again...



John never asks me directly about why I cried in the square, and I never tell him.  He surmises that it’s a combination of fatigue, guilt at not saving the child, and an elevated sense of responsibility.  He’s partially right.  But as the days blend together, the images of the little girl dying, of her mother grieving, remain constantly on the edge of my consciousness. 

During this time, I am tempted to tell him about the stasis pregnancy. More than once I consider it.

It would be for purely selfish reasons, however.  I feel a strong need for comfort, for reassurance, for the insane amount of hope that John always seems to carry within him.  After all, I can’t even tell him if it is his or not, and I’m not even sure how I would like for him to react.  So, of course, I don’t tell him.  I concentrate on my duties.

I’m the officer in charge of the tech squad for nearly another weeken, until my unit is rotated back to the base for training before our next mission.  The techs will return later.  The plan is for us all to meet at Cassino for shore leave, for which everyone is more than ready.

John walks me to my Prowler.  Although I haven’t actively tried to avoid him—it would be futile working with our small crew—I haven’t been very accessible.  Still, I don’t want to leave him here alone.  Can’t tell him that, though, can you? Coward.

I walk quietly, responding mechanically to his inane chatter.  He insists on carrying my bag, which is balanced on his shoulder, so I hook my restless hands into my belt and try not to think about how much I enjoyed the last weeken.  With him.

The others are preparing their Prowlers for flight.  Mine is the last in the row, and I don’t see it until I pass Desa’s.

“Frell!”

John stops short, glancing around curiously.

Behind me, I hear my comrades jump to the ground and gather, chuckling.  Closing my eyes, I wish the image away, only to open them to find it unchanged.

A tool belt hangs from one wing cannon.  Green coveralls drape from the cockpit.  Wire is spooled from wing to landing gear and back in a tangle. Sensors and bits of junk are scattered across each wing, and coiled around the rear stabilizer is a power cable.  Tech gear, all of it.

“We wanted to make sure you felt comfortable coming back,” Jax said, laughing heartily behind me.

He ducks back as I advance on him, and he cowers in mock fear as I punch his shoulder hard.  Ced and Desa and Teyn are bent double with laughter.

Even John is grinning as I look back at him. 

“We’ll wait for you at the freighter,” Teyn says, and they continue their preflight checks, still laughing.

I have to grin.  Clever, yes, and I don’t mind bearing the brunt of a friendly joke.  In fact, it’s a sign of acceptance.

John helps me clear my ship off.  We both pause and watch as the other four blast skyward in tight formation, and I feel that persistent ache at watching Prowlers pass when I am groundside. 

“Well, I’ll see you in a weeken or so,” John says at last, when there is nothing more to do.

I shake my head.  “I’ll be gone by the time you get back.  You’ll be at Cassino?”

“Shore leave with Peacekeepers?  Wouldn’t miss it.  It’ll be just like Sturgis, partying with the Hell’s Angels.”

John is the only being who can make translator microbes totally ineffective.

We link hands, our fingers lacing together.  We don’t say goodbye, we never do.  I want to touch his cheek, lean in to kiss him, something. 

“Be careful,” is all he says.

“Careful?  I’ll be fine.  I’m not you,” I say with mock arrogance. We both smile a little, trapped in the same frelling pantomime as always, and all I take away with me is the remembrance of his fingers tightly clasped in mine and the worried glint of his deep blue eyes.

He walks away before I finish my preflight, and that’s just as well.  I climb into the cockpit, and drop into the seat, only to tumble onto a—pillow.  A very large, very plush pillow.

Frelling idiots, I think with a smile, pitching the pillow out of the cockpit and strapping in.

Microts later I am in the air, watching the sky change colors as I climb toward space.  A certain shade of blue makes me think of John’s eyes, and I know instinctively that he has paused whatever he is doing below and is looking skyward, watching my Prowler vanish into the clouds.





 


I run my hands across the smooth surface of the notebook and wonder absently where Scorpius is.  I am afraid to open the book again, to read on where it is hardest to understand, hardest to see.  Things were so erratic for us then.  I know how the situation frelled with me, but I hadn’t considered how it frelled with John, the eternal optimist.

He hated it there, hated the life I had chosen for us.  It changed him. And I let it happen.

I do open the journal after a time.  It’s as if I am compelled to do so, a duty of some strange sort.  I read each line very carefully.  The English is harder for me here, in the parts that I don’t know about, but I work my way through it.  I owe it to him.  To do this, to try to understand, even now, what he went through. It’s the last thing I can do for him.

He wrote about finding Teyn in the bar, about how he almost walked out when he saw her sitting alone.  She’d seen him and motioned him over. 

“Ced dragged her out for a dance,” Teyn said, which surprised the hell out of me. I didn’t think Aeryn danced.  “But she’ll be back soon, I’m sure.  Why don’t you wait?  We can...talk.”

By the number of glasses on the table, she and Aeryn should’ve been three sheets to the wind already.  But her dark eyes were steady, and she looked like she was trying to hold back a smile.

She had a glass of raslak in my hand before I even sat down.  “Strength,” she said simply as a toast, and I had to chuckle through the burn of raslak down my throat.  At least it was decently cold.

She asked if I wanted advice.  Of course I didn’t, but I was smart enough not to say so.  Hell, she scares the crap out of me, and she knows it.  So I drank raslak and listened, playing the good soldier—the good tech again.

She said that right now she knew Aeryn better than I did, and although it hurt like hell, I have to admit she’s right.  She told me what I already knew, that what I’m trying to do isn’t working, that I’m only making things harder for myself as well as Aeryn.   The next part was really weird, though.

“You two, you think no one can see anything.  It’s always that way, isn’t it?  You think you have this secret, but other people can see it in your eyes, in everything you don’t say, and hardly anyone actually gives a frell what’s between you.  But there’s a price, there’s always a price at the end, but you take that gamble, and you roll the long odds, until—“ She shook her head, and she wasn’t looking at me, she was looking through me.  Through time, maybe.  [/b]

Teyn, I think, and I can hardly swallow for the tightness in my throat.  You knew so much more than you ever told either one of us.

She threw back the rest of the raslak in one smooth swallow and slammed the glass onto the table.  That seemed to jar her out of—whatever it was—and she changed the subject, telling me Aeryn had busted Ced’s jaw for injuring me, that Teyn had had to restrain her to keep her from getting into a fight with Desa as well.  She’d been completely out of control, to the point that Teyn had seriously considered removing her from the team.  When I asked why she hadn’t, she didn’t answer.  Instead, she said that Aeryn had spent just about every moment she could at the hospital with me, even though it was clear that I would be fine.  She’d settled down by the time the transport had left, but Teyn had been watching her closely for signs of stress.  She’d been fine today in battle, but—

“What are you telling me, Senior Officer?” I asked bluntly, bracing myself for what I knew I’d hear.

Teyn looked at me for a long moment, and then she reached over to grasp my hand, her grip surprisingly gentle for its strength. “Fix it,” she said simply.

“Why?  Wouldn’t it be easier on everyone if I just left?”

“Yes.  But you won’t do that.  Too simple.  Neither will she.  So fix it.  Advice?  Your current strategy is not working.  Try another assault vector.”

Before I could say anything else, she nodded, and I realized Aeryn was making her way through the crowd. She hadn’t seen me yet, and Teyn gripped my wrist once more.  “Strength,” she said again, and let go, grinning up at Aeryn, who had broken through the crowd. God, she still takes my breath away.  It’s like there’s no one else in the whole damn room, just the two of us, because she smiled at me.  Smiled at me, for the first time in ages, and nothing mattered. 

And so, I took Teyn’s advice.  I tried another tactic.  I asked her to dance, something we’ve never done...and just as I thought we were working through it, we were working our way back to each other, all hell, of course, broke loose...

...So here I am on the ship, returning to base.  I think things are better between us, in that we’ve regained some lost ground.  We’re still not where I want us to be, of course.  I still feel that strange split when apart from Aeryn, as if I should be in two places at once.  I still see the equations, feel them, taste them...[/b]

Taking a deep breath, I flip slowly through the journal.  More equations, so many, taking up so many pages.  And… the most confusing entry, the one that still haunts me.  The one made while I was on my first assassination mission, just before Cassino.

The more these equations make sense to me, the stranger I feel here.  Like I’m in the wrong place, or the wrong time, or the wrong… I don’t know.  It’s like a strange ringing in my head, pointing me in a direction I can’t go.  It’s like I feel myself on a path, but I can feel another path, close by.  One that’s very powerful.  It draws me, but I can’t go there.

It sounds crazy.  Or maybe I’m crazy.   And this damn poem by Robert Frost, it keeps popping in my head.  It’s like the ringing and the poem go together somehow.  The only time I don’t hear both is when I’m with Aeryn, which isn’t often anymore, and so it’s driving me nuts.  I can’t even remember the whole fucking thing, just these parts, the beginning and the end.  It doesn’t make any sense.

“Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both

Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.” [/b]

He stopped there, no more explanation.  There are more equations but my eyes keep wandering over the poem.  My English is not perfect, and maybe I am losing something in the translation.  Either way, I just can’t understand what it means. I want to know. Need to know it, know what he was going through.[/b]   

Reluctantly, my eyes burning with exhaustion, I turn the page.  I think I know what’s next.  What little I remember, anyway. Cassino.  Frell.

[ScaperRed]

Chapter 4:
Drawing to an Inside Straight

     

 



I volunteer to secure the freighter at Cassino. The others would scatter quickly to their entertainments and I could be last off the ship. And get lost in the crowd.  Least I can do for them after the last few days.  I sit for a few hundred microts after Jax, the last commando, leaves, and I try to soak in the silent peace of a ship at rest.

It doesn’t work.

I keep hearing my mother’s voice.  The words she said to me on Valldon. The plea in her tone as she stood near the window of that ghastly hotel room: I was a pilot.  I was bred to be a pilot.  I wasn’t an assassin until I killed your father...and they made me kill again and again...I was a pilot...

It’s been echoing in my mind for three solar days now.

When I try to sleep, images of our latest mission flash before my eyes. Disguised as soldiers, we infiltrated the parliamentary buildings of a world that had bought a tenuous and unjust peace between two warring factions by hiring a regiment of Peacekeepers.  Teyn and Jax performed the political assassinations, while I created a distraction from my post on the fifth floor of a building across the square.  I don’t know exactly how many I killed, but it was at least a dozen. All soldiers, commandos such as I had been, such as my comrades from that part of my life had been. 

During my escape, I slit the throat of another who had started to realize that I was in the wrong place during the shooting. 

It was easy at the time. I was focused, I had my mission, and I was under the influence of battle stimulants, as needed to speed my reactions.  It was afterward, during that dark spiral as the stim wore off, that I started hearing Xhalax’s voice. Seeing flashes of what I had done as I tried to sleep.  Seeing John’s stricken, angry face on the inside of my eyelids.  He’ll never understand what I’ve done, never understand the necessity of it, never—

Avoiding my comrades as much as possible as I sorted out my reactions—which were completely different from their euphoric response to the successful completion of our assignment—I found myself sitting alone, late into the sleep cycle after our mission.

Caught up in my own swirl of emotions, I barely noticed that Jax had joined me in the galley of our freighter.  He touched me on the arm, concerned because I was so quiet.  I reacted without thinking, drawing my weapon.  He pinned me out on the table and disarmed me, nearly breaking my wrist in the process.  I didn’t even know what I’d done until I saw my pulse pistol in his hand.

He blamed it on the battle stim, on himself for surprising me.  Teyn, hearing the commotion, came in while we were stumbling through apologies at each other. She didn’t press for an explanation, and Jax didn’t give her one. 

I don’t know what he might have said later. The next day, Teyn did tell me that I needed to sort out my priorities and decide the capacity in which I was willing to serve.

“You’d make a fine assassin, Aeryn.  But you have to decide that’s the sort of tool you want to be.”

When I look at Teyn, I see the positives that have been waged by our group.  I want to be a part of that force for good.

But I look in the mirror, and already I see a person I scarcely recognize.  I hear my mother’s voice, and I am so afraid of what I can become.  I think of John, and I feel nothing but despair.

And so, now I sit in an empty ship, with the same restless thoughts that have been running through my head for three days now.  Still no solution.

Sighing, I collect my bag and exit the ship, coding the security sequence.  I am not sure what I will do during the five days we will spend here on Cassino, an artificial station the size of a small moon. I think I would like to spend a good bit of it by myself, in part because I do not want to face my comrades.  Especially Teyn and Jax.

But as I go through the airlock into the station, they are waiting for me.  Desa and Ced bracket me, grabbing my arms and locking them before I can twist away.

“What the frell are you doing?” I snap, angry at myself for being taken by surprise.  And confused by Desa’s triumphant grin, Teyn’s usual inscrutable scowl, Ced’s low chuckle.

“Getting you drunk,” Teyn says, and she leads the way to the nearest tavern, where Jax has already secured a table.



I’m not sure how long John has been on the station before he finds me.  Frell, I’m not sure how long I’ve been there.  My friends have not let me go off on my own, and after enough raslak and fellip nectar and some liquors I can’t readily identify, getting drunk seems to be a really good idea.  At least my thoughts are more manageable, and the noise in the taverns drowns out any errant voices I might hear.

It turns into a three-solar-day binge.  Or more.  I can’t remember.

John has been drinking too, and I’m sure we make quite the pair.  When I look up from some complicated gambling game Teyn is trying to teach me, I see his slightly unfocused smile, and I grab him in a hug.  He joins us, and Jax and Teyn challenge him to a few drinking games.  He does pretty well, as I recall.  I abstain for the moment because I’ve reached the Hynerian Projectile Vomiting Stage, as John calls it.  Desa and Ced are elsewhere and have been for quite some time, likely frelling like bunnies, John says, and it’s hilarious although we haven’t any idea what he’s just said.  We wish them a good time with a toast, and order more raslak.

The details, from here, get very confused.

I recall a succession of loudly-decorated taverns, various forms of ear-shattering music, gaming tables of every persuasion, an endless stream of libations.  The four of us stagger through the station, and John seems to have lost most of his fear of Teyn, because at one point she’s holding him up on one side and I’m on the other, while Jax is finding a corner to vomit in.

I wake up in a bed that is far larger, softer, and sweeter-smelling than my bunk on the freighter or at the base.  The sheets are tangled around me, and my clothes are scattered across the floor.

My first priority is to find my weapon, the second to not vomit all over myself.  My pulse pistol is on the nightstand within easy reach, precisely where I would place it, but I have no memory of anything past drinking with the others.

I stumble to the lavatory in time to vomit, and I kneel on the cool floor for a moment, my head feeling as if it’s a punching bag for Luxans with hyper rage.  I haven’t drunk this much in cycles.  I feel totally disoriented because although I can’t remember what has happened, my body tells me that something surely has.

Some thoughtful person has left a hangover remedy waiting on the counter.  I swallow it and debate trying to clean up or going back to bed and waiting to detoxify.  My stomach heaves again, with little reward this time, and I decide that a shower would be best; easiest to clean up should my system decide to purge further.

I spend a long time in the shower, trying to wash away the grogginess and pain in my head, before toweling off and mixing a second dose.  It still doesn’t help, so I pull on a clean t-shirt and crawl back in bed.

A little while later, Desa knocks softly and enters, and I see the wisdom of the team having adjoining rooms opening onto a central chamber.

“Thought I’d better check on you,” she says, laughing.  “John said you were, what, three sheets to the wind?  What does that mean, anyway?”

It means that I think I might know who had rumpled the sheets with me, and I feel mixed relief that it was John.  “He speaks in riddles...when did you see him?”

“Four or five arns ago.  He knocked on the door and asked me to look in on you a little later.  Still frelled?”

“Completely.”

“Here.”  Desa carefully closes my limp hand around some pills.  “Nashtin.  You know how to take them?”

“Yes.  And thank you.”  Gratefully, I swallow one and force my eyes open a bit.  “Where is everyone?”

“Well, Ced’s down in the bar.  You all came crashing back in about the same time.  Teyn said she was taking a nap and heading down to the tadek tables, and she’s probably still there. Jax, who knows, but probably he’s got a looma in each hand.  John?  I thought maybe he was going to get something to eat.  Hasn’t been back yet, though?”

I shake my head slightly and regret it.

“Want me to find him?”

I shake my head again and wince, the pounding livening in my skull.  “So John brought me in?  Frell, last I remember, Teyn and I were holding him up.”  [i[Thank Zhaan’s goddess it was him and not�am sure they’re involved, but I have my own concerns at the moment.  He saw John with some of his tech friends, but he’s not sure when that was.  Jax is just as drunk now as he was the last time I’d seen him, so I remain a bit skeptical as to his accuracy.  “Hey!” he calls as I leave.  “Who is Superman and what is a woody?”

I don’t even want to think about how he heard those words, or from whom, because I have a faint, nagging ghost of a memory of that particular conversation.  I pretend I don’t hear him and fade into the crowd, looking for techs.

I talk to seven or eight techs before finding Rehner, who is a member of John’s crew.  He is not as drunk as Jax but still inebriated enough to grab my shoulder in greeting and almost fall off his boots.  Impatiently, my head beginning to pound again, I steady him and shout my question into his ear over the noise of the tavern.  It takes a microt or two to process before he nods, smiling.  “Climbing.  There’s an artificial wall, quite pretty, in sector 15.  He said he wanted to see some stars.  Stars, they’re all around us, but he—“

I thank Rehner and move on, grateful that he doesn’t have a potentially embarrassing idiom about which to query me.

The operator of the climbing environment remembers John and directs me to the particular simulation.  It’s pretty good, actually—a tall, winding path up the synthetic mountain, the rocks realistic enough to scrape my hands when I’m careless.  As I climb, the artificial day draws to a close and twilight begins.  It’s on a four-arn cycle, enabling the climber to experience the environmental changes in approximately one-fifth the time. 

It takes me over half an arn to climb it, and although it’s rated as easy, I am puffing and feeling queasy by the time I grab the last handhold and pull myself up enough to see him. So I wait a moment, catching my breath and watching for a sign of recognition from the man sprawled on the artificial grass topping the narrow summit.  Finally, I haul myself over the top.

“Hey.”

His eyes slant toward me for a moment before they return to the sky above.  “Hey yourself,” he says softly.  But his arms flex suddenly under his head, the muscles straining against the sleeves of his black shirt.

I sit cross-legged by him, not quite touching, and let my gaze travel around the simulation.  There is a slightly cool “evening breeze” blowing across us, and the stars in the “sky” are brightening gradually.  Across from us is a valley in which some four-legged creatures graze.  “Nice view,” I say, and he nods.  “I woke up and you were gone,” I continue carefully.

He shifts slightly, locking his hands behind his head now.  “Isn’t that what I was supposed to do?  I mean, isn’t that the way it’s done?”

I look at him in confusion, but his gaze is only on the stars, his jaw set so hard that a muscle along it quivers.  I want to touch it, stroke the tension away.  But I don’t know what he will do if I touch him--he’s a coiled spring ready to fly. What the frell happened?  What did I do? I’m afraid to ask.

“Have you slept at all?”

“For awhile before I left you.  Do you know how thrashed you were?  Do you always drink that much on shore leave?”

I shrug.  “Not in many cycles.  You?”

“Freshman year of college.  How you feeling?  You got pretty sick.”

“Did I—“

“Puke?  All over the place.  But this little adventure did prove something.  You Peacekeepers really are superior, Aeryn,” he says a little bitterly, then grins just slightly.  “I’ve never seen anyone puke as much as you did last night.  Sure you’re not part Hynerian?”

We laugh quietly together, and I drop my still-aching head into my hands. He starts to reach up to me, I can see the motion from the corner of my eye, but he hesitates.  His hand drops back and laces more tightly with the other one, and now more than my head hurts.

“Look, John,” I say softly. “I don’t remember what happened, what I said or did.  Whatever it was, it seems to have upset you, and I apologize for that.”

“Don’t,” he says tightly.  “Your rules, and I chose to play by them.  You were...very clear about what you wanted, Aeryn.”

Now I really want to apologize, because that was never the way he’d wanted it to be between us.

“You really don’t remember?” he asks, mildly surprised.  “Well, you were pretty drunk, and I doubt if it was that memorable anyway.”

I can say nothing to that.  I sit silently, ashamed of myself, that sense of a dark, desperate spiral again overtaking me.

I feel John looking at me, but I can’t meet his gaze.

“Hey, it wasn’t bad, it just wasn’t...the way I’d thought it would be.”

“Well, it seems like nothing ever is between us,” I say tightly, and I find myself hugging my knees as I stare unseeing at the artificial valley below.

He touches my back, and I flinch at the contact. He doesn’t remove his hand.  Instead, he strokes my back gently, his hand warm through my vest.

“You talked to me,” he says after a few microts, but there is such sadness in his voice that I stiffen, folding into myself even more tightly.

“What did I say?” I finally ask, dreading the answer, snatches of conversations drifting through my aching mind.

“You talked a little about your last mission and how you felt about it, about having to—do what you did.  You talked about some place called—Valldon?  Where you went after the other Crichton died.  Where your mother hunted you down.  You’re sure you don’t remember any of this?  You were so upset, you were—“

I shake my head.  I feel fragments of conversations echoing, but none can connect, and none form the story that he is telling me.

“Fascinating,” he murmurs, and sits up so that he can stroke between my shoulder blades, a gesture apparently natural to humans.  As peculiar as it seems, it is comforting, and I steal a quick look at him.  He still looks a little sad, but his eyes are soft as he regards me, and I wonder again what I had said to make him feel this way.

“Was this before or after we—uh—“

“After,” he said, and smiled a little.  “Between incidents of major spewage.”

“Spewage?” I repeat, and recoil a little as my translator microbes process the word.  “Oh, John, I—“

He’s actually laughing, and I smile uncertainly back.  That must have encouraged him, because his arms lock around me, and he pulls me against his chest.  I resist at first, simply because I think I should, but he doesn’t let go, and I don’t want him to, and then I don’t know who’s clinging to who.

“Aeryn,” he says softly against my hair, “the last few monens have been really hard for me.  Not because of how we live now; I’m adjusting to that, and I’m making my own place, just as you are.  Not because of the distance you seem to want to keep between us. After last night, I think I understand that a little better.  It’s hard because you don’t talk to me anymore, not the way you used to, and I miss that.  We were friends first, Aeryn, before we fell in love, and I’ve been missing my friend for a long time.

“I think I can wait for all of you, if I can have a little bit each day.  If you can talk to me, like you did last night.”

Choking back tears, I nod against his chest.

“You can leave out the puking, though,” he adds, and I feel his chuckle rumble through his chest.

He pulls me across his lap.  We sit there for a long time in silence, his strong arms cradling me, and I feel the dark spiral trying to overtake me recede a little.

“I didn’t realize I was shutting you out so much,” I say at last, and a sigh shudders through me.  “Frell, John, why do you stay?  Why do you put up with this?  Why don’t you go home, or go back to Moya?  This is no life for you, waiting for me like this, when I don’t even know who I am any more or what I want to be—“

“I know who you are,” he says, his lips brushing my temple.  “And you are not the person you’re trying to be, Aeryn.  You are not your job, and you’re not Teyn.  And you’re not your mother.  You are, and you always will be to me, the Radiant Aeryn Sun.  And that is why I stay.”

I exhale raggedly, and it is as if the darkness within me spirals out and away over the artificial valley below.

“I love you, John,” I say softly, quickly, before I can stop myself.  “I know I don’t show it, but I do, and I have for so long.”

He stiffens, pulling back from me a bit.  Unsure of what I’ve done now to upset him, I twist around to find the hard glint of tears in his blue eyes.

“What?”

He swallows, looking away to the artificial dawn breaking.  “That’s the one thing you didn’t want me to say last night.”

A fragment of memory jars loose from the painful cloud in my head, and I recall John putting me on the bed, almost falling himself. My hands grabbing his shirt, pulling him to me, telling him we could both use a quick frell, Peacekeeper style...

Abruptly I remember, or my imagination supplies the details all too clearly: John, murmuring endearments along my skin, pulls back enough to look in my eyes; his hands frame my face as he softly says, ”I love you, baby, so much.” 

My hands hit his bare chest, pushing him back hard, as I say harshly, ”Don’t tell me that, John.  Don’t tell me that, because you’ve already died in my arms once, and it’ll never be like that again, never—“

There is no way I can ever apologize enough to him for that, no way that I can ever explain.

He’s not looking at me now, and I wonder what else happened, what he said, because he looks as ashamed as I feel.  I blink, and another piece clicks into place.

“All you want is a Peacekeeper fuck?” he snaps back angrily, his fingers digging into my arms.  “I can do that.  I learned from the best about being cold and uncaring.”

I don’t want to remember the rest, but the memories are like a wave now, breaking over me.  I can hardly recognize John as himself, the way he acts. I uncomfortably recognize myself, but it’s a part of me that hasn’t surfaced in cycles.

It’s a fast, hard frell that’s physically satisfying, yet hollow somehow.  Afterward, we lie apart on the bed, the sheets wildly rumpled around us.  In a moment of clarity, I swallow hard and force back tears, because this isn’t what I wanted either, but it is all I can give, all I can take, and it’s not enough, for me or for John.

My stomach heaves the next moment, and I barely make it to the lavatory sink in time.  I vomit endlessly, clinging to the cool edge of the basin, and suddenly John is there, steadying me, his warm hand holding my forehead.

“We were both pretty drunk,” he says at last, and I nod, not trusting myself to speak.

Inside my vest, my comms buzz to life as the false dawn breaks fully on a new “day.”

“Two arns left, people.  Enjoy them, and be back at the ship on time,” Teyn says, her voice hoarse with raslak and lack of sleep.  I add my acknowledgement to the others.

We watch the “morning” progress for awhile before rising and climbing back down the hill.  Perhaps we’ve talked enough, because no words pass between us until we reach the bottom.  I wait until John has scrambled down, and then I turn to walk down the trail to the entrance.

John’s gentle grip on my arm stops me.

“There was one thing you said last night, Aeryn,” he says slowly, his eyes searching mine, and I wait, dreading to learn more.  “You told me, ‘This is more than you had yesterday.  Take it, even it it’s not the gift you wanted.’”

Sighing, I turn into his arms.  He rests his forehead on mine for a microt, and a sort of relief floods through both of us, so great that I can taste it.

Deliberately, I cup my hands around his face and bring his lips down to mine.  The kiss is unhurried, thorough, gentle, my tongue sliding over his slowly, and we pull back, breathless, at the same time.  I want to tell him I love him, but my throat is too tight, and I can only hope he can see it in my eyes.  It burns brightly in his.

Lacing our hands together, we start down the trail and back to our new lives.



Teyn is the first one back to the ship; I am the second.  Grinning a little, she watches me walk up the ramp, my bag slung over my shoulder, and I wonder if she sees a difference in me or if it’s only something that I feel but does not show.

“Ready to go so soon?”

I nod.  “Made some decisions.  First, to never go drinking with you and Jax again.”  Teyn hoots with laughter.  I take a deep breath before I plunge on.  “Second, to be whatever tool this organization needs.  I’m ready for that, Teyn.”

“I think you are,” she says, slapping my shoulder, her eyes bright.  “We’ve got a lot to discuss.”


 


I shake off the wash of memories and return my attention to the journal.  There may be answers here, things that I still don’t remember.  Yet I am reluctant to discover exactly what happened, and how it affected John.

He doesn’t write until he’s on the ship headed back to base.  But his words surprise me, as John himself so often has.

It shouldn’t have happened.  I shouldn’t have let it.  The minute she grabbed my shirt, I should’ve walked away.  She was beyond drunk—and I’ve never seen Aeryn falling down drunk before—to the point that I’m not even sure she knew what she was doing the whole time, or who she was with.  But I didn’t stop her; hell, didn’t stop myself.   I’d like to say it was because I was drunk too, not horny, not frustrated, not fucking angry at her, so angry that I didn’t even realize until afterwards—but I wasn’t that drunk.  In fact, I was starting to sober up, which is why Teyn had me carry Aeryn to her room, while Teyn dragged Jax, who was puking everywhere, to his.

At least I have a better idea of what Peacekeeper sex is like now. 

It was purely mutual use.  But that wasn’t what either one of us really wanted, or needed.  That became pretty obvious later when Aeryn totally fell apart.  She doesn’t remember this; I’ll never forget it.  How one moment everything was cool, we were all over each other, until I told her I loved her, and she nearly knocked me off the bed, telling me she never wanted to hear that from me again, that it would never be that way again, ever.  John Crichton had already died in her arms once, and he’d taken most of her with him.  That there was nothing left to give.

 “So what’s this all about?  This means nothing?” I made the mistake of saying, and she said it was just a frell, just tension release, just—

God.  And that’s when I lost it.  I don’t even want to think about what I said, the names I called her.  How rough we were with each other.  Or how good it felt to touch her, even under those circumstances.  I am such an asshole.

She pulled away from me right after, rolled up into a ball with her back to me.  And I was thinking, Fine, you got what you wanted, and maybe this time I got something out of it too.  Until I heard that little hitch in her breathing.  She was crying.  And I was pissed, totally, insanely pissed, because she must be crying about the other guy, right?  Because I’m NOT him, will never be him, things will never be that way again—

When she got out of bed, I figured she was going to take a shower, get dressed, and leave, and that just made me more pissed, that I meant that little to her.  Instead, she started throwing up in the bathroom, and I actually started to laugh a little.  Served her right after tonight.  But she kept puking for so long that I actually got worried, and she was still heaving her guts out when I went into the bathroom.  There’s nothing more pathetic than someone who’s drunk and puking, desperately trying to keep from falling to the floor, and buck naked besides.  And it was so opposite of Aeryn, of anything I’ve ever known about Aeryn, to see her like that. So, even as pissed off as I was, I held her head and steadied her until her stomach stopped heaving.  I helped her wash her face and rinse out her mouth.

She turned and buried her face in my chest, shivers tearing through her.  “I’m sorry, John,” she said, her voice choked.  “I’m sorry I can’t give you enough. I’m sorry I can’t be what you want me to be. Frell, I don’t even know who I am anymore, who I should be, what I am—“

She was sobbing now, her tears slicking my chest, and that did me in completely.  I picked her up, and she sort of folded into me; she felt so small, almost like a child, as I carried her back to bed and tucked her in. Gradually, everything began pouring out of her, and I began to understand why she was already so drunk by the time I’d found her. Why it had been her objective to stay drunk as long as possible.

She told me a little about the mission she’d just completed; far more than she would’ve sober.  Guilt was tearing her up.  Guilt over killing PK commandos.  Mixed in with that was some stuff about her mother, who had apparently hunted them down on Talyn. And later hunted Aeryn down on Valldon, some ghost planet she had gone to after the other Crichton had died.  I remembered the story Aeryn had told me so long ago, that single cherished memory of her mother coming to see her as a child, and I winced at the pain in her voice as she tried to put into words how that image had been totally destroyed in moments. 

But what she was afraid of is exactly what I’m afraid of, for her.  That she could actually become like Teyn, like her mother.  That she’s taken steps in that direction already.   And I don’t know how to help her.

She kept apologizing throughout, for not being what I wanted, for not being there for me, for being weak. 

She also told me far too much about losing the other Crichton. 

Still, for the first time, I began to understand just how far her life had gone off the rails within a few short weeks.  And how desperate she’d become to grab onto anything safe, familiar. Anything to give her a sense of purpose, of belonging.  Everything that she, still wrapped in grief, couldn’t reach out to me for.  And she still can’t, this time because she doesn’t have a damn clue of who she really is beyond the Peacekeeper mold she no longer fits into.

All this time, I’d been thinking it was all about him, about her having him and losing him and my being nothing more than a copy, a spare.  I am officially a selfish son-of-a-bitch.

At least she let me hold her, comfort her, watch her sleep. 

This was all, of course, in between bouts of puking. But then, it’s a wonder she doesn’t have alcohol poisoning after the last few days.  Or maybe Sebaceans—Peacekeepers—don’t get that.

And this time, I was the one who couldn’t stay.

I woke up after a few hours with Aeryn’s head on my shoulder, her tangled hair tickling my chest.  Despite the pounding that was beginning in my skull, signaling the start of a hell of a hangover, for a moment I lay there with my arms wrapped around her, and everything was absolutely perfect.

Then I realized that in a few hours she’d wake, and in a few more hours we’d be heading back to the base, and this moment would be gone.

It wasn’t enough.

So I eased Aeryn over onto her side, smoothed the sheets over her the best I could without waking her, dressed, and left.  Play by her PK rules, I told myself, but I was running, doing the same damn thing I’ve accused her of doing. 

She found me later.  She hardly recalls a damn thing that happened last night, and I don’t know if I should be relieved or not. 

Whether she remembers everything or not, something has changed between us.  Even though she didn’t recall why, she apologized for upsetting me.  We talked, really talked, for the first time in months.  And she told me she loved me, even though she doesn’t show it. 

I hadn’t realized how fragile she is until now.  After all, fragile isn’t exactly a word I’d associate with Aeryn.  I have this sense that I’m fighting for every damn thing—every bit of respect at the base, every glance or smile from Aeryn—and now I realize that she’s doing the same thing.  Nothing is easy for her, and she’s sure as hell not comfortable in this life she’s—we’ve chosen. 

Everything’s different now, and yet it’s still the same.  I don’t expect a repeat of what happened on Cassino—in fact, I don’t want one, not like that, drunk or sober.  I know that when I see her again at the base, that cool distance will be between us once more.  At the same time, I’m glad that it happened, because I feel that in some way, it’s helped put us on the right path again. 

I’m not going to push her again.  Hate to admit it, but he’s right. She does take time.  Jealous bastard that I’ve been, I never understood the depth of her grief or her need to recover from it.  Or maybe I just didn’t want to see it.

Likewise, although it kills me to admit it, she really fell in love with him on Talyn.  She didn’t fall in love with me that way.  I believe that she loves me, but I know it’s different.  Has to be, because he and I were two different men. 

Likewise—I didn’t get the chance to fall in love with her the way he did.  I went through an entirely different experience, definitely not the better one.

It’s simple, really.  I think that’s what he was trying to tell me with that message: “She takes time.”  It actually applies to me as well.  I’ve got to work through all this anger I’ve got at being left behind, at losing any chance of going home to Earth, at the hand I’ve been dealt here in the Uncharted Territories with everyone after my ass.

We need time.  Time to figure out who we are separately.  And time to fall in love again.

I shake my head slowly, one hand caressing the pages, overwhelmed.  Blamed himself for everything.  But it was my fault.  All of it.

I do feel a faint relief that no more memories are stirred by his words. I’d rather keep only what I remember now about Cassino, and let the dark spaces remain so.

Actually, after all that has happened, it’s a wonder I can remember anything at all. 

He was so right about most things.  The only thing he was wrong about was time.  John Crichton never had enough of it, and I never needed as much of it as he thought I did.

The pages blur before my eyes, but I read on, reluctant to end the whispering echo of his voice in my mind.  Cassino was such a turning for both of us, separately and together.  It was right after that that we both committed to our very different lives, even as we struggled to keep some sort of tie between us.

Her training is different now.  I see Aeryn with Teyn and Jax, running endless drills, examining plans, evaluating weaponry, doing other things, which I can only watch from a distance.   But I’m busy, too.  We techs began a complete upgrade of the security systems at the base right after Cassino. 

We manage to find a little time in the evenings to talk, either in the mess hall after last meal or at the training ring, after Aeryn has finished working out.  We talk about what we’ve done that day, or we laugh over some small thing that we remember from our days on Moya.  Sometimes we wonder about our friends.  It’s nothing really important that we discuss, but I take what I can get, despite what I feel from her.  It’s like she’s trying too hard to make the effort to talk and to listen. 

The hope I’ve been holding on to this entire time waxes and wanes, and sometimes seems just about gone.  And that damn poem keeps running through my mind.  I can’t shake it now, even when I’m with Aeryn.  And I don’t want to know what it means.

…Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference

I stop reading for a moment, working through the words of the poem again.  Something there, meant something to him... Maybe I could’ve figured out the significance at one time.  Now, they’re just words on the page. I’m sorry, John. Again. Sighing, I turn the page to the next entry, a few days later.

Sometimes we take a late night walk, and she lets me take her hand.   Occasionally she’ll even reach for mine.  Once in awhile, like tonight, there’s a brief, sweet kiss.  I don’t press for more, though, and neither does she, although sometimes I wish one of us would.  I keep reminding myself that we have what we really need.  We have time.

We don’t talk about how we feel about each other, and it frustrates the hell out of me, to be so close, to have to hold back.  To go on about my business, laughing with Corla or Dennisson but thinking about Aeryn.  Knowing that what we have right now could be all that we ever have, that one day she could leave on a mission and not return.

Next entry, a few days later.

It’s more than you had yesterday… yeah, it definitely is.  I feel my sanity returning to normal.  Now that’s scary.

We’re kinda comfortable now with each other.  I want more, and I think she does too, but at the same time, I’m grateful for her companionship, for our friendship. It makes me happy, and it keeps me going, even when she’s not here.  I know that we’re finding our way back to each other.  It’s just a long trip.

I think I understand now what Teyn was trying to tell me.  Aeryn’s changed, and so have I.  We can’t act as if that’s not happened.  We have to find another way to fit our lives together.  “Try another assault vector.”  Well, Dear Abby Teyn ain’t, but I can appreciate the advice, although I like Frost’s wording better.  We are definitely heading down the less traveled path.  I may be rolling long odds, like Teyn said, or I may be trying to draw to an inside straight, but it’s the cards we’ve been dealt, and all we can do is place our bets and see what the next round will bring.

Oh, John.  If you’d only known how high the stakes would become.

I can scarcely see the words on the page anymore.  Exhausted, I lean my head back against Pilot’s console and count his breaths. I don’t need to read the journal to recall the next part.  I remember most of what comes next, and the events that I don’t—I don’t want to.  Instead, I’d rather dwell on the aspects that even now drift through my mind.  After all, it was the happiest time of my life.  I just didn’t know it.

[ScaperRed]

Chapter 5:
Ante Up



 

“Officer Sun?”

His voice cuts through my half-dream of the past.  Training kicks in and makes me straighten my posture and struggle to my feet, my cramped muscles aching. You can’t afford to be this careless.

“You must rest,” Scorpius says, grasping my elbow to steady me.  He stoops to pick up the journal, which has slid off my lap at some point during my doze, but I grasp it first, stifling a grimace as pain shoots through my shoulder at the sudden motion.  He says nothing, merely watches me cradle the journal against my chest with my good arm.  For a moment, I think—or imagine—that there’s a glint of sympathy in his blue eyes before the clinical assessment returns to them.  I don’t like what I see in his eyes, the calculation of how much longer before John’s journal falls into his eager hands. 

“I’m fine,” I say automatically, my scowl daring him to say otherwise.

He smiles slightly.  “Of course you are.”  His gaze travels to Pilot, who slumps in weary sleep.  “I admire your devotion to your comrade, but you cannot help him if you have collapsed yourself.”

Carefully, I stretch over the console and stroke Pilot’s cheek lightly.  He moves slightly in response, but his labored breathing remains steady. 

“There is food in your quarters.  I will tend to your wound.”

“I’ll take care of it myself.”  I give Pilot’s cheek a final pat and turn to the walkway.  Scorpius lets me pass, but I know from the slight twitch of his hand that he’s ready to steady me if necessary.  “Not that it will make much difference, anyway.  And why should you care?  The sooner I die, the sooner you get what you’ve always wanted from John.”

He shakes his head and follows my slow progress across the walkway.  I’ve never been afraid of heights; hardly noticed them, really.  I am, however, suddenly conscious of exactly how far I will fall if I falter and Scorpius doesn’t catch my arm.

The realization doesn’t bother me until I hear Pilot give a half-strangled cough.

My last duty, to my last friends.

And so I follow the orders of my captain.


Scorpius follows me to my quarters before vanishing, to rest, to work on wormhole theory, to do whatever it is that he does.  Exhaustion hits me suddenly, and it’s all I can do to eat some of the food cubes he has left on my worktable.   I force myself to shower, the chill water giving some small measure of relief from the constant fever, and I dutifully clean the oozing wound on my shoulder and apply the salve Jool made.  I secure a clumsy bandage over it before pulling on John’s old black t-shirt.  It’s been washed several times since he wore it last. It no longer has his scent, but its softness is still strangely comforting, as if it has retained a tiny bit of him within its threads.

For a moment, as its folds fall over my skin, I wonder which John it belonged to.  After all that has happened, it has become so difficult for me to differentiate between them.  I have to smile a bit at that realization, for it is one that would have made either one of them very angry.

I crawl into bed, but I am reluctant to sleep.  There are enough nightmares inhabiting my waking mind, and it’s best not to unleash the ones that lie below the surface.

I lie in my narrow bed, listening to the rumblings of a Leviathan desperately trying to stay alive.  But there is something beyond those noises that I know so well.  Something that cuts through them.

It’s the silence.

Silence should not bother me.  It, like heights, is something to be noted and then dismissed unless it interferes with a mission objective. 

But that was another Aeryn Sun who could do that.

I lie there, listening to the silence, until it coats me, suffocates me.  I long for the trill of a DRD, for Pilot’s cheerful rasp, for D’Argo’s booming laugh or Chiana’s breathy whisper.  Frell, I would even welcome Jool’s metal-melting scream or Noranti’s gibberish.  Anything that would indicate that I am not the only living being on this tier.

Ironic that I wanted to leave John in part because I feared being left alone, and that is exactly what has happened, despite all that I tried to do.  I am indeed left with nothing; nothing save a fetus still in stasis that will never be born, that will die with me.  And a book filled with him, the essence of his wonderful, maddening, complex mind, the last tangible remnant of John Crichton.

It’s all I have left.  And at the same time, it’s more than I had a few days ago.

And so I open it again, find my place, sound out the foreign words.  I try to fill the silence with him.  His words take me back into that time.


   



I train for missions, I go on missions.  I assassinate bad leaders whose decisions have caused misery for thousands or millions of their people.  That’s my job, that’s what I do, but that’s not who I am.  It’s an important distinction, and I am grateful to John for making it.  It keeps me sane and able to sleep at night, and I am sure that the lack of that distinction was part of the true cause for Xhalax Sun’s misery.

When I return, John is always waiting. 

It’s the same each time.  I walk off the ship, and he’s there to take my bag.  I don’t know why he insists on carrying it, but he does, and I let him.  He tells me bits of gossip as we walk toward my quarters.  As soon as we are out of everyone’s sight, between buildings or in my room, he drops the bag and pulls me to him, and I hold on tightly to his body as he shakes with relief that I’ve returned.  I comfort him as much as I know how, because I understand his fear; I live it too.  After awhile, we walk to the mess hall to eat or drink.  Sometimes we take a walk, and John will point out the new constellations he has created in my absence.  I don’t understand why he does it, but I listen.  It’s what I’m learning to do.

It’s taking me so long to find my way back to him, so long for the emotional scars to heal.  There are still moments when I look at him and see the John I knew on Talyn.  There are moments when I confuse the two.  There are moments when I see John’s smile, but I feel the twisting pain inside as he slipped from me on Talyn.  There are moments of sheer panic, and I tell myself that I could never survive such a loss twice.

Yet he is here, and I am drawn into his orbit as inescapably as a satellite around a planetary body.

Teyn and Jax are puzzled as they watch this dance.  Teyn asks no questions, just observes.  Jax asks me once, “You spend all this time together, but you don’t frell him or anyone else?”

“That’s none of your concern.”

“Well, it could be,” he says, raising one eyebrow, and I laugh at him and shove him.  He’s Jax, and I’ve either ignored him or told him to go frell himself enough times that I think he would fall over dead if I actually accepted his advance.  We’re good friends now, he’s pleasant to John, and I can rely on his steady hand to get us all through a mission safely.  What more could I want from him?

Desa and Ced are busy with their own lovers’ dance. 

Others in my regiment filter through my core group as needed, and I don’t know or care what they see.

This is, if not the happiest, oddly enough the most peaceful time I’ve had in cycles.  I have a purpose; I have good friends; I have good teammates.  John and I have reached a state that is comfortable if not entirely satisfying.  We are friends and perhaps a little more, although I wouldn’t qualify it as a relationship.  I don’t ask him what he thinks it is.

Of course, it ends abruptly.

Three days before we leave on a mission, Teyn is called to the council.  There is some sort of large decision to be made, and her presence will be required. 

She almost reschedules the mission.  But all is prepared—documents, training, floor plans—and the timing is crucial.  The strike will be made during a large convention, and the crowds of people will serve to be our protection both in and out.

“I think we have to go anyway,” she says finally, looking from me to Jax.  “The question is, should we pull someone from another team in or work it one person short.  And who should lead.”

It takes her a long time to decide, and Jax and I both stand at attention in her office, breathless as cadets.  Ultimately, she names Jax as the mission leader, but I am on point; I will be the primary shooter. 

Another soldier is brought in for the fifth spot on the team.  We train with him for two days before Jax realizes that he won’t mesh as the third shooter going into the building.  Jax and I move within the same rhythm; we’ve worked together so much that we are left and right extensions of the whole, with Teyn leading.  Switch the positions, and Jax is my left hand as I take point, but Reccan is a fraction behind us on shots, a fraction late in reactions, and a fraction of a microt can doom this mission.

We talk it over, and there is no other option than using Ced.  He’s usually been transport or backup since I joined the team, and he’s good at that.  Having Desa fill in is out of the question; she’s best as pilot, and we all know that, including her.  It has to be Ced.

We train hard and late that last day.  Ced performs well, meshing with us every step of the way.  Reccan takes Ced’s place as transport driver.

Yet I feel uneasy that night as I pack, and I am nearly silent despite John’s attempts at conversation.

“Don’t go,” he says immediately when I tell him how I feel.  “Trust your gut, Aeryn.”

I shrug it off.  “It’s just nerves because I’m on point, and I’ve never done that job before.  And it’s the first time without Teyn.  Jax and I are like a couple of cadets with our first command, that’s all.  It’ll be fine.”

The worry in my eyes still reflects in his, however, and I am so tempted to break the rules again and take him to bed.  Biological need, I try to tell myself, but what I want is the warmth and comfort of his body afterwards next to mine more than I want a quick frell.  And it wouldn’t be fair to John, to expect him to reset our—relationship—again afterwards, to go back to being friends, and I am not sure that I am ready for anything more than that.

But what if you don’t come back?  What if this is the last time you see each other?  You want to waste that?

The thought comes out of nowhere, sharp as a pulse blast, and it jars me so much that I rather brusquely tell John good night and get him to leave.

I scarcely sleep that night.  Up before dawn, I skip first meal and immediately start running the preflight checks of the ship and equipment before any of my team are even awake.  I hope that John will go on to his shift when he doesn’t see me in the mess hall, but he appears as Desa fires the engines in final preflight check.

Jax notes his presence first and turns his head to tease me.  The comment freezes on his lips as I glare at him and pass by, and he actually backs up a step.

“You were gonna leave without saying goodbye?” John asks, his mild tone at odds with the fierceness of his blue eyes.  He’s in his tech coverall, tool belt slung over his shoulder, and I fight a surge of pure love for him, for his having the courage and fortitude to follow me here and make his own space.  At the same time, what I want most to do is to push that feeling away, push him away.

“We don’t say goodbye,” I say shortly, my hands tightening on my belt.  I don’t want him here, I don’t want the concern etched into every line of his body, because it makes my own more tangible.

He looks at me very carefully and forces a smile.  “Then how about good luck, godspeed, be careful, take care of yourself, bring me back a souvenir t-shirt—“

“Don’t worry, comrade,” Jax says cheerfully, lumbering up behind me.  He drapes an arm around my shoulders, and, fuming, I can picture the grin on his broad face.  “I’ll take care of her for you—“

He doubles over when my elbow drives into his ribs, but he’s laughing all the same as he backs up.  He did it purely to provoke John and me, and by John’s narrow-eyed gaze, it’s worked wonderfully well.

“Seriously, John, we’ll be all right,” Jax says confidently.  “We’ve got a fine team, and we’ll be back in a weeken.”

John nods stiffly, and Jax disappears into the ship.

“I have to go,” I say. He nods, hands tucked in his pockets, and I turn quickly to go up the ramp.

Abruptly, I spin back around, and before I can talk myself out of it, I march to him and slip my arms around him, hugging him hard.  His arms close around me and squeeze tightly, and we hold that position for a few microts before I press a quick kiss to his lips and pull away.  Reluctantly, he lets me go, and I can feel his eyes follow me as I stride up the ramp into the ship.  I don’t look back, and although I’ve never been superstitious, the click as the ramp closes sounds loud and final in the silence.




The mission starts smoothly.  We infiltrate the convention buildings easily with our forged identification passes; our Peacekeeper armor is indistinguishable from the regular guards’ under our long black raincoats.  The three of us shoulder through the crowds and into the main hall.  At Jax’s signal, we begin firing at the dignitaries gathered on the dais for speeches.  My focus is absolute, every shot clean, and in my peripheral vision I note that Jax and Ced are doing the same.  The mission is proceeding exactly as we practiced in the sims. 

It’s our retreat that frells up.  And it starts with Ced.

We are backing up smoothly, targeting slow-moving guards who are a second wave coming to confront us, when out of the corner of my eye I see Ced jerk and go down, writhing.  Instantly I shoot the guard who has injured my comrade, the guard that Ced has not seen and dispatched. Still firing, covering his remaining targets as well as my own, I move to him and see that he has taken hits to his left leg and arm, and he’s bleeding profusely; these locals use high velocity projectile ammunition instead of pulse weapons, and the shells explode when impacting, the shrapnel shredding the armor and imbedding in the flesh.  He’s fighting to stay conscious as I grab his armor and lever him up, and I shout to Jax to cover us both as I get Ced’s good arm over my shoulders and start dragging him toward the exit.

We’re almost there when I take four shots in my right side.

The force knocks me and Ced both tumbling to the ground; the pain cuts through the battle stim like acid, and I can scarcely draw a breath.  Training makes me track the shooter and dispatch him with two shots from my rifle, but I collapse immediately after.  I’m afraid to even look at the wound.  It feels as if a huge hole has been blown into my side, and I’ve seen enough battlefield casualties to visualize damaged internal organs leaking out through tattered flesh.

I am frelled.

Jax grabs the back of my raincoat and Ced’s and drags us back through the foyer doors.  He shoots the two guards who had hesitated there before they can even get their weapons up.  A couple quick blasts seal each set of doors shut temporarily, and then he kneels beside me, his hands fumbling under my raincoat for my med pouch.  He doesn’t have time to unfasten my armor, so he jams all the injectors directly into the edge of the wound, and I can’t hold back an agonized cry.  I lose consciousness for a microt as Jax does the same for Ced.  The next thing I know, Jax has lifted my visor and is slapping my face roughly to rouse me.

“Aeryn, I can’t carry both of you. You have got to be able to walk out of here, or we’re all frelled.”

I shake my head, start to mouth the words, Leave me, and Jax slaps me harder and shakes me by the shoulders.  He is shouting something that I can’t understand, about Teyn and how no one gets left behind, and then he is hauling me to my feet.  I waver there, my head swimming from blood loss and pain and injections and stim, and then Jax is rising, Ced over one shoulder, his rifle slung over the other.  He looks at me, and then he fires two quick blasts at the exit doors and kicks them open.

I stagger next to him, firing blindly at anything that might be a uniformed threat. Fortunately, there are few; the crowds dispersed instantly at the sound of pulse fire. 

I hear the interior doors slam open, and I stumble around, firing to cover our retreat, until Jax grabs me and pulls me into the ground transport.  Reccan pulls into traffic and begins making a series of maneuvers to throw off pursuit.

Jax does what he can for our injuries as Reccan drives, which isn’t much.  “A scratch,” he scoffs, but his lips are white as he gently wedges a wad of synth-pad against the wound.  I nod, gasping for breath, and hold it against the hole in my armor as Jax wraps pressure bandages around Ced’s thigh and arm.

We arrive at the port as it is going into lockdown mode, and we barely make it through before the security gates slam shut around the perimeter.  It won’t be long before a ship-to-ship search will be called, however. Reccan drives directly up the ramp and into the cargo bay, and Jax orders Desa to break dock without warning.

Jax and I lock gazes grimly.  There will be a pursuit, and Desa will need assistance in the cockpit.  However, she is our best medic, Reccan our second, and Ced is unconscious and perhaps bleeding internally.  I nod, and Jax smiles sadly and pats my shoulder.

Reccan helps Jax carry Ced to the small med area while I try to gather what’s left of my strength.  Jax comes back for me, and he gently unfastens the bulky armor on my upper body and lifts it off.  Blood drips from it, a red stream.  I don’t look at the wound as he peels my torn shirt back and packs more synth in the opening.  This time, he jabs the injectors into my bare arm, which hurts marginally less.

“Inhale,” he says as he breaks open a fresh tab of stim, and I suck in my breath as hard as I can.  It’s not much of an inhale, but even so, I feel the chemicals slam into my system, and I struggle to stay conscious as the edges of my vision white-out.  Jax slaps my face, and I try to focus on the sting.

He carries me to the cockpit, staggering as Desa performs evasive maneuvers.

“This is insane!” Desa shouts, darting a quick glance at me.  I nod as Jax straps me into the copilot’s seat, and my hands are almost steady as I grasp the controls.  Everything is hazy, the searing pain in my side diminished somewhat, but I am a pilot, and it’s my original training that I fall back on even now.

Jax takes Desa’s place and passes control of the ship to me. Raising the cannons from their hidden recesses, he starts laying down heavy covering fire.  Fortunately, pursuit is lighter than we expected, and Jax dispatches any ship that comes within range.

I begin to fade in and out of consciousness, and the next thing I know, the cockpit is quiet for the first time since our hurried departure from the port.  Jax is unstrapping me, and he doesn’t bother taking me to the med area, he just lays me down on the floor at the back of the cockpit, calling for Desa.

“Are we—“

“We’re clear, so shut up, save your strength. Desa!”

I blink, and then I see Desa’s tear-streaked face above mine.  “Ced—“ I gasp, dreading the answer.

She shakes her head angrily.  “Frelled, just like you.  But that second dose of stim—what the frell were you trying to do, Jax, kill her, you hingemot—“

“What the frell else was I supposed to do—“

It’s quieter when I become aware again.  I’m lying on a narrow bunk, and I feel cold despite the sheet covering me.  It hurts to even breathe, but I can’t understand why.

“She’s lost too much blood, and there’s some internal damage, too.  I don’t know what else to do, Jax, but—“

“Do it, then,” Jax says roughly, and I hear a booming thud, like a fist into the wall.

Desa comes into my range of vision. It’s hard for me to focus on her face, but I know from her shaking voice that I’m in bad shape.  “Aeryn, I’ve got to give you a kill shot.  We’re too far out from base or anywhere else safe to wait.”

“Ced?”

She nods, her eyes glinting with tears.  “He’ll be fine.  You and Jax saved him, Aeryn.”

I see the syringe in her hand, and I remember the last time I’d seen one like it, cycles ago when John and I were trapped in a damaged transport pod.  John.  Frell.

“John—tell John—“

“Tell him yourself,” Desa says, choking, and slides the needle into my neck. 

I think, Frell, Crichton was right, it hurts like hezmana! and I’ve been dead before, and then the blackness swallows me.



 

[ScaperRed]

I force my eyes open again, a huge yawn cracking my jaw.  I’m torn between exhaustion and the comfort of John’s voice, even imagined; between the desire to know and the fear.  Of course, I could have known all this; it would only have taken a simple inquiry or two.  But during that time, I did have...things to consider other than filling blank spaces within my own confused mind.

My shoulder aches fiercely, and I absently shift, trying vainly to ease the discomfort.  At the same time, I can feel echoes of other wounds, pains flaring under the remembered touch of—

Swallowing hard, I push those memories away.  And find more surprises awaiting me within John’s journal. 

It was Teyn who came to tell me, and I knew exactly how bad it must be by the still look in her eyes, the way her hands folded tightly over her utility belt.  Same gesture Aeryn has, I realized for the first time, wanting to focus on that detail rather than on the inevitable.  Because I knew.  I knew Aeryn had to be dead.  She’d had a bad feeling about this mission, and she never should have gone on it.

Teyn was actually good about it.  She took me outside, and her voice was completely calm and matter-of-fact.  “John, I’ve just received word that the team is twelve arns from base.  Unfortunately, though, they’ve taken casualties.”  She paused a moment, one of her hands closing around my shoulder.  I braced myself, shaking my head slowly, as Teyn’s soft voice recounted what had happened: Ced being injured, Aeryn pulling him clear until she took several hits herself, Jax getting them back to the ship.

So I made myself ask her which it was: casualties or fatalities.

Teyn asked me instead if I knew what a kill shot was used for.  Battlefield trauma, I said, my body aching at the memory of how much that had hurt.  That was the one time Aeryn had completely lied to me, lied like a dog.  But—if a kill shot had been administered, that meant that she was injured but not dead.  I clung to that, even as part of my mind was afraid of the look in Teyn’s eyes.  If I didn’t know better, I’d have thought the old soldier was near tears.

And then she explained why.  Kill shots were short-term measures.  By the time the ship arrived at base, Aeryn would be under for 30 arns. 

“You have to prepare yourself,” Teyn said, her fingers digging into my shoulder, ”for the possibility that she might not make it.”

There was something else in her face, too, something that said things might even be worse, but I couldn’t ask.  I won’t, even now.

It’s ten hours later, and I’m in my quarters because that’s where Teyn told me to wait.  She promised she’d bring me any news, and I trust her to do so.

Desa managed to shave off nearly an hour of flight time.  True to her word, Teyn came and got me.  She had Corla and Dennisson with her, and now, a few hours later, I am able to be surprised by her concern for me.  It’s also a measure of how worried she is about Aeryn.

Aeryn has to be all right.  She has to be.  Please, God.  I’ll make any deal.  Just let her wake up.

The moment the ship landed, the med-team went aboard.  I wanted to go too, but Teyn held me back.  Not enough room, she said.

I wanted to go to Aeryn as soon as the medchambers were wheeled out, but Teyn wouldn’t let me.  “You don’t want to see her like this,” she said.  But the medchambers look like coffins, like the cryo-chamber she was in for her funeral, and I guess I lost it a little.  Teyn somehow held me back until Corla and Dennisson got me calmed down a little.

She was in surgery for more than two arns.  I lost track of the time, caught in that numb space of waiting.  Corla and Dennisson stayed with me the whole time.  I was surprised to see that Teyn remained also, and that Jax kept coming in and out, as did several other commandos, ones that I know Aeryn has trained with, gone on missions with.  Ced was in surgery too for part of that time, and Desa was waiting as well, although his condition was not as serious as Aeryn’s.  She sat by me for at least an arn, holding my hand.  We have a new bond now, caught in the same fear.  She also feels guilt, that she should have been able to do more for Aeryn’s injuries, despite everyone’s reassurances, including mine.  It’s more than that, though.  For the first time, I realized that these people are not just assassins, not just hard-core commandos that Aeryn works with.  They’re her friends, and mine as well. 

It’s small comfort, but it’s all I’ve got right now...

Teyn went in first to see her after surgery, which pissed me off at first.  She wasn’t gone long.  She said that Aeryn is still unconscious and likely to stay that way for several arns at least, but that the surgeon had said it would be all right for people to go in for a few microts.  Desa, who had gone to check on Ced a bit before when he went into recovery, offered to go with me.  I was surprised that Teyn took me instead.  I realize now why she went in there first; she was scoping things out, and she briefed me on what to expect as we walked down the corridor.  But still...god, there is no way to prepare for a thing like that.

She looked like she was dead.  Like she had looked in her coffin on the ice planet.

In a way, it would have been more comforting for me to see a bunch of equipment clustered around her, tubes, beeping monitors.  The medbed is much more streamlined than any Earth equivalent, of course; I saw only a couple of tubes, and the monitoring equipment must be built into the walls or the bed itself. 

She looked...not like she was sleeping.  She was so pale that her hair seemed even darker in contrast.  Someone—probably Desa, on the ship—had unbraided her hair, and it spilled across the pillow.  There was no change in expression, no twitch of limbs, no movement at all.  There was a slackness to her body that scared the hell out of me.  She was barely breathing, and I tried to focus on the slight rise and fall of her chest under the sheet, that one sign of life.  Because she sure as hell looked like she was dead.

I guess that fear showed in my face, because Teyn kept repeating quietly to me that she’s not dead, that the surgery was successful, that she was strong, a fighter.  All the things I knew myself.  All the things that don’t mean a damn at a time like this.

I tried to think of something to say, just in case she could hear me somehow, but all I could do was stand there and hold her hand until Teyn told me it was time to go, that the others wanted to come in too. Then Teyn surprised me again.  She patted Aeryn’s cheek gently and said, ”Strength,” before she took my arm and guided me out of the room.

Jax was the last one out. He slammed through both sets of doors, not talking to anyone.  Teyn had gone somewhere, and Corla and Dennisson had finally left; they have to work tomorrow, and there’s nothing they can do here.  There’s nothing I can do, either, really, but I am staying, for as long as it takes.

Desa asked if I wanted her to sit awhile with me.  I told her no, because I knew she’d like to be with Ced when he woke from the anesthesia. She promised to come look in on me, and then she left, and I was the only one in the small waiting room.  I figured the medical staff wouldn’t care if I just sat quietly with Aeryn, so I went to her small room. 

Through the open door, I could see Teyn sitting in a chair next to Aeryn’s bed.  She had a data pad balanced on her knee, but she looked up as I approached.

“Get some rest,” she whispered.  “I’ll get you if there’s any change.”

I shook my head, prepared to argue.  Teyn smiled slightly and nodded at a second chair, next to her own.  She didn’t say anything else for a long time, and neither did I, but she put a hand on my arm, and I drew strength from her grip.

I keep telling myself that Aeryn’s been dead before, I can handle this.  It’s only a kill shot.  Who am I trying to kid?  I’m talking to myself, and even I don’t believe me.

At some point, I must have dozed off.  Teyn was nudging my shoulder as I awoke, and I immediately straightened, my gaze on Aeryn, hoping—but she hadn’t moved a muscle, still unconscious, but still breathing.

Teyn told me to go to my quarters and get some rest, and we had a brief, hot argument, all in whispers, although it wouldn’t have made a damn if we’d shouted.  Teyn promised to stay, and if she had to leave, she’d get Desa.  Whoever was with Aeryn would come get me if there was any change.  “She’s going to need your strength, John,” Teyn said.  “You can’t give it to her if you’ve got none left.”

So I followed orders.  I was exhausted, my head reeling.  I ate something at the mess hall and went to my quarters.  But I couldn’t even take my boots off.  I had to be there, whatever happened.  How can I sleep?  I’ve lost so much time with her, and it’s like there’s none left. 

I grabbed a few things—a data pad, a manual I had been reading, my journal and pen, my deck of cards, a packet of food cubes—and threw them into my IASA bag.  At least, like Teyn, I could look busy.

Teyn was still sitting there when I came up.  She hadn’t heard me, I could tell, and so I stopped in the doorway, just watching.  She’d set the datapad aside and was leaning forward, elbows resting on her knees, her gaze intent on Aeryn.  She was saying something, but her voice was so soft that I couldn’t quite make out the words.  After a few moments, she paused, lifting her head a little, and asked me what I was doing there instead of getting some rest.  Instead of answering, I asked her what she was saying.  I thought she was going to ignore my question, and that’d be fine as long as she didn’t kick my ass out of there.  Instead, she said that Aeryn had asked her something once, and they hadn’t finished the conversation.  I said that it was an odd thing to do, talking to someone who was unconscious and wouldn’t remember it anyway.  She shot back that it was an odd thing to do to sit with someone who was unconscious anyway.  Can’t argue with that.  I sat down, and there was a weird sort of equality between us.

So I watched Aeryn breathe for awhile, and then I took out my journal and started writing.  It passes the time, and I don’t know what else to do.  I am choked with fear, too choked to even speak, although I think that Teyn, oddly enough, would be willing to listen.  I do wonder what Teyn was saying, and what conversation it was.  It must have had some value to them both.  Not knowing does make me feel more like an outsider than ever, though.  But was there ever a time that I would have known what Aeryn spoke of with anyone else, even our friends?  I always thought that I knew her so well—yet I find that I don’t, not these parts of her, in this setting.  For the first time since I saw that chip of her and Velorek, in which Moya’s first pilot was killed, I realize how harsh her life as a Peacekeeper must have been.  Boundaries.  Rules, rules for everything, every possible behavior, every possible situation.  Similar unspoken rules here. 

Yet Teyn sits watch with me, and I know that had I followed orders and stayed in my quarters, she would still be here, futile though this might be.  It’s strangely touching, though, her having this one-sided conversation with Aeryn.  At the same time, I am totally confused, because this is not PK behavior, not even commanding officer to grunt behavior.  She’s gone to check on Ced a couple times, but she’s not gone long.  Her self-assigned post appears to be here, and I would like to ask her why, but I don’t have the nerve yet. 

So we sit in silence for hours, until the sky outside the narrow window begins to lighten.  Teyn is dozing a bit then, arms folded across her chest, but her posture is still ramrod straight in the chair. Probably the result of years of training, of sitting long watches.  She wakes instantly the moment a medtech comes in to adjust something.  The tech reassures us that although Aeryn’s condition has not changed, that’s not unexpected at this stage.  She’s holding her own.

The medtech leaves, and Teyn and I silently watch the sunrise bring color to the day. Teyn gets up and stretches, saying she’ll be back soon.  She rests her hand on Aeryn’s cheek for a moment, and then turns to me.  “There’s a lot left unsaid between the two of you,” she says bluntly.  “Now might be a good time to say it.”

I think about her words for a long time.  Teyn probably is telling me that Aeryn’s not going to make it, that I need to make my peace with her now, even if she can’t really hear me.  I can’t accept that, though, and I can’t accept that Teyn is probably sitting a death watch.  Because Aeryn is exactly like Teyn in this regard: neither one of them gives up.  Ever. 

At the same time, I have to, however reluctantly, realize that—

I can’t even think the words, let alone write them.  And I can’t talk to Aeryn, tell her what I feel, what I want, when she’s in a coma.  I need to tell her, but not like this.  If I do, then I feel I’m opening another possibility.  The possibility that I might lose her forever.

So I sit, holding her hand, writing in this journal the words I can’t say, the words she’ll probably never read, the words she might never hear from me. 

Aeryn, I love you.  I’m also damned mad at you.  You pushed me away because you were afraid I’d go play the hero and get myself killed—and you do this.  You’ve left me how many times—and now—

Hell, I can’t even write how I feel, because it makes it too real.  Please, God, if you even hang around in this part of Tormented Space, grant one small prayer, and I won’t ask for anything else, not another chance, nothing.  Just let her come out of this.  Just let her be all right.[/b]


I don’t want to read any more.  I don’t want to see his prayers, his pain; I’ve lived it myself, twice, with him.

John would think this was ghastly amusing, the universe, frelling fate, playing this game with us.  I just think it’s ghastly that he had to go through this.  I was dead, in essence, and he had to go through my death twice.  How ironic it is now, that what I had tried so hard to avoid, he had to live through.  How typical of me not to notice the parallel, the fact that I had died on him twice, while so desperate not to let the reverse happen to me.  I was so concerned with my pain. 

And I don’t understand how it could happen, that I could return from the dead twice, and he didn’t. 

I force myself to read on, through these parts I don’t know.  It’s my self-imposed penalty for being selfish, for wasting time, for everything.  It’s added to my other duties.  But even in this I am selfish, for it’s the only way I can touch him now.  By sifting through the memories he’s left behind.

[ScaperRed]

Teyn brings me breakfast when she returns, and I eat it as ordered.  She leaves for a meeting, and Desa comes in for awhile, then Reccan, Derek, others.  They don’t stay long, and I know they will pass word to the others. They’re uncomfortable here in ways that I’m not.  I guess I really am a tech rather than a soldier.  They’re so used to dealing out death that they actually shy away from it coming so close to one of their own.

Ced is stable, but he’s being kept sedated to expedite the healing process, Desa says.  She stays longer than the rest.  She looks tired, at least as tired as I feel, but she makes an effort at cheerful talk. 

Teyn’s back by midmorning, which, I suppose, Aeryn, makes you the favored child in this Jerry Springer family.  She’s half-ass working on something on her data pad, but she seems more distracted.  I won’t let myself wonder why, or wonder where she’s been.  She finally gives up working, and we play cards until midday meal.  She routinely accuses me of cheating, but I know she does it to try to make me smile.  We play poker for pocket change, and I think she lets me win.  That alone scares the hell out of me, because Teyn is one hard-assed gambler, and if she’s letting me win to distract me, then—

She makes me go pick up lunch from the mess hall, and all I can think of as I walk across the base is that it is so strange for the sun to be shining so brightly when my whole world is flipped upside down.

It’s evening when Jax comes again. He asks how Aeryn is, if there’s any change, and my last nerve snaps.  I ask him what the fuck does it matter to him, he says frell you, and the fight is on.  He probably would have kicked my ass, but I’d have gotten a piece of him first.

Teyn returns just as I lunge toward Jax, and she rams into me instantly, no Pantak Jab, no fancy wristlock, just a shoulder hit that would have done a right tackle proud.  She’s stockier than Aeryn, and she knocks me into the wall just outside the door as she yells for Desa, who comes to reason with Jax.

We’re still cussing at each other, until Teyn slams me back against the wall and sticks her elbow into my windpipe, right on my carotid artery.  She lets me go when I start to sag.  Desa is leading Jax away, and I get one last shot in.  “You were supposed to take care of her, you bastard.  Good fucking job.”

Teyn instantly grabs me by the throat with one hand, the other one held out to block Jax, who has turned almost white.

“You want to blame someone, John,” she says, her grip loosening a bit,  “blame me.  I sent the team, and I wasn’t there to keep this from happening.  If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s mine.”

“That why you keep hanging around? Guilt?”

She hits me then, right cross to the jaw, so fast I don’t even see it.  My knees buckle, but she holds me up by her grip on my throat, and I blurrily sense her fist coming back in.  It skates past my cheek and thuds into the wall instead, and I focus on Teyn’s grim face.  “Don’t frell with me again, John,” she hisses, her hand tightening on my throat for a moment before opening.  “Deal with your own dren.”

She orders me back to quarters, and Desa walks me.  Mechanically, I take a shower, find clean clothes, make my way to the mess hall to get a meal I only pick at.  It’s these minute details that seem so painful.  The ordinary requirements of life going on, even while mine is in a total tailspin. 

I’m still thinking of what Teyn said as I make my way back to the medical facility.  Jax is nowhere in sight, and Teyn meets me at the door to Aeryn’s room to lay out the ground rules.  Basically, they’re the same: fuck up, misbehave in any way, and Teyn will kick my ass.  Jax is a comrade, she tells me, and he has a right to be here.  Fuck that, is what I want to say, but I swallow it.  And I know she’s right, that Jax would not have done anything intentionally that would have gotten Aeryn hurt—he was just a convenient target for my own anger.  And God, I’ve got a lot of it.

Deal with your own dren.



I don’t know if Teyn is still pissed at me or if she’s wrapped in her own thoughts, but we rarely speak that second long night.  Teyn catnaps or works on her data pad.  I try to read, but my mind wanders, and it keeps coming back to what Teyn had said.  It’s not easy, but I make some realizations. 

Like it’s not all Aeryn’s fault, what is or is not between us.  I’ve never forgiven her for leaving on Talyn with the other guy, and I am so damn jealous of what he had with her that I think he was the lucky one for dying. 

I’m pissed off for being here, on this base, because it was her choice, not mine, and this isn’t the life I wanted to lead.  But most of all, I am fucking furious that she got herself shot. That after her speech about not being able to watch me die—again—she got herself into a position in which I may have to watch her die—again.  I don’t need any specific details to know exactly what occurred.  I know Aeryn well enough to fill in the blanks, to know exactly the look of concentration she would’ve had on her face as she went after Ced, the narrow focus of her eyes as she dragged him toward safety while still laying down covering fire.  When I close my eyes, I see her still firing as she goes down, still fighting all the way.

I actually try to take comfort in that.  Teyn has told me repeatedly what I already know, that she is a fighter, that she does not give up easily.  So fight, Aeryn.  Fight.



I must’ve dozed at some point, because the room is slightly lighter when I open my eyes.  Teyn is still sitting next to me, elbows propped squarely on her knees, her dark eyes on Aeryn.  Maybe it’s the predawn light filtering through the window, maybe it’s exhaustion, maybe she just doesn’t know she’s being observed. Whatever it is, Teyn suddenly looks a lot older today, and I abruptly wonder how old she is, how many years it takes to reach Sebacean middle age, how much shit she’s seen over the course of her life as a soldier. 

She glances at me, and her face settles into its familiar hard lines, jaw squaring, lips compressing.  It’s the bleakness in her eyes that worries me, though.  I couldn’t see it before; I can’t stop seeing it now that I’ve had that glimpse through her mask.

I tell her to go get some sleep, that I’ll come get her if there’s any change.  She smiles faintly at that, at this sudden reversal of offers, and of course she shakes her head.  She says that she has a meeting in a few arns and picks up her data pad, but she’s just paging through it aimlessly, her eyes flickering from it to Aeryn every couple minutes.  For whatever reason, Teyn’s having a hard time of it this morning, and whether it’s my own fears or a strange sense of compassion for my new compadre here, I finally ask her what the deal is, why she’s staying. 

She shrugs.  I don’t think she’s going to answer, so I push her a little, ask if this isn’t a little unusual for a Senior Officer to be so concerned about a single soldier.  I brace myself in case she takes a swing at me, but she actually laughs a little as she says, “We’re a long way from the command carrier, John.”

I nod, and I wait.  Hell, it’s something I’ve gotten good at here.

At first Teyn ignores me, but in a few minutes she sighs softly and sets the data pad on the floor beside her chair.  Rising, she stretches the kinks from her back, and she walks over to look out the window.  The sky is starting to lighten, and the pale light deepens the lines in her face.  “I hate losing people,” she says softly, her back half to me as she looks out the window, toward the landing strip with its neat rows of Prowlers.  “I don’t deal well with loss.”

“Well, that is something you and Aeryn have in common,” I say, in the same quiet tone.

Teyn actually smiles at that, her gaze still on the Prowlers beyond.  “More than you know,” she says.  She nods a bit, as if making a decision, and comes back to sit on the edge of her chair, back ramrod straight.  “John...what I’m about to say doesn’t go beyond this room, because it’s no one else’s business.  And you need to remember it, to tell Aeryn someday, in case I never have the opportunity to do so.  Should’ve had this talk with her a while ago, but it was never the right time.  She needed to figure some things out—figure out who she is first.  She’s close to that stage now; she’s built a life here and settled into it, as you have.  And it wouldn’t be fair for—the past—to influence her at this point.”

Teyn said that she didn’t know Xhalax Sun that well at first.  Carrier-born Peacekeepers only associated with conscripts if they had to, and she was a few cycles older than Xhalax anyway.  She described Xhalax as one of the kids, one of the new cadets assigned to the regiment, just a little more arrogant than most.  And ambitious, which Teyn was not.  Like Xhalax, Teyn lived to fly, but she liked hand-to-hand combat almost as much.  Xhalax hated that, acted like she was better than that.  That’s probably why Teyn enjoyed sparring with her on the mat.  “Much to the amusement of our comrades, I believe I did knock a bit of that arrogance out of her on the mat,” Teyn said with a smile.  “She did get better, though.  Later.”

And now I think I understand what was going on the first few times Aeryn sparred with Teyn.  It was more of a test than either of us knew.

Teyn said that she and Xhalax weren’t friends at all at first.  She probably wouldn’t have even remembered the name except for one thing.  “Xhalax was a really good pilot.  Frelling awesome, in fact.  As good as I am.  Aeryn’s got that gift as well, and it’s the best thing that Xhalax passed on to her.  Maybe the only good thing.”

Although they were in different squadrons, Teyn and Xhalax would sometimes be in the same training maneuvers, battle formations, sorties, sims.  Unlike Teyn, Xhalax stayed by herself, rarely sitting with a group, or drinking with them, although she would sometimes be invited.  Teyn just thought Xhalax was arrogant, and they were all too busy raising hell and having fun to care about one pilot who chose to sit alone.

Once in awhile, one of the men would approach Xhalax for recreation, and she’d send him away more often than she’d leave with him. That was the only time they’d see her with anyone, and it was never the same man twice. 

“Until Talyn,” Teyn said, smiling fondly.  “Talyn Lyczak.  The last man anyone imagined would intrigue the coldly perfect Prowler pilot, Xhalax Sun.”

I said that Aeryn had named Moya’s child after her father. Teyn laughed softly, saying that she knew, and that there was a certain irony in that.  Talyn was a good pilot but not great, and Teyn had wondered how he made it through the sieving process to become a pilot instead of a tech.  “Might have been better for him, in the long run—but then our comrade here never would have been conceived.”

Teyn didn’t know what it was, but something about Xhalax made him pursue her.  Xhalax wouldn’t even have known he existed otherwise, because his flight sim scores were always near the bottom, and he was a lot older.  Teyn herself knew who he was but hadn’t paid much attention to him until he hit on Xhalax one night.  Xhalax was sitting by herself, as usual, and Talyn walked across the common room in front of everyone and sat down with her.

“You have to understand, John, exactly how utterly boring our routine on the carrier could get, especially when we were young like that.  We were playing tadek, again, and drinking, again. Talyn broke the routine.  And we all stopped what we were doing, laughing a little, wondering how much ice Xhalax was doing to turn on the poor bastard.  Expecting some entertainment.  At the same time, we were all frelling shocked that he’d chosen to approach her.”

But Talyn didn’t crash and burn as expected.  They had a couple drinks and left together, which also caused some amusement.  “It would have been forgotten just as quickly, except for one thing.  After that, it was always Talyn that she’d leave with, only ever him.”

After that, Teyn noticed a slight change in Xhalax.  She started sitting with the others for drinks and tadek occasionally.  Sometimes she’d talk with Teyn after sims or a flight drill.  All she’d ever talk about was flying.  Once in awhile, they’d spar on the mat.  And, of course, Teyn would beat the crap out of her.  Teyn justified it by calling it training.  “Make a mistake on the mat, that’s one thing.  Make a mistake in combat, and the price is far higher than a split lip or a bloody ear.  But yeah, I was teaching her a few things about pride as well as technique.  I am who I am, John, and Xhalax—was who she was.”

Teyn said that Xhalax didn’t mention Talyn then, and the fact that she didn’t made Teyn think that it was different than just recreation.  “That, and the way she’d stop whatever she was doing and just—know when he walked into the room.  Her attention would just be—elsewhere.  She’d keep going through the motions and maybe not everyone noticed it, but I watched this dance from the beginning, and I saw it.  Every frelling time.  Like you and Aeryn.”

Teyn, meanwhile, was spending as much time with her sister as she was allowed, her one connection to family. Rani had been conscripted at a young age, and Teyn hadn’t even known she existed until she’d come across a new recruit with a name similar to her mother’s.  She obviously loved her sister very much, and maybe that’s why she was able to see what was going on with Talyn and Xhalax.  “You don’t show any affection, any connection, outside certain parameters,” Teyn said.  “Peacekeepers can have comrades, but not best friends.  You can work well together, admire each other’s skills, but that’s it.  No one is more important than anyone else.”

Think I understand that after the last few years, Teyn. 

Talyn and Xhalax tried to hide how they felt.  They didn’t show any physical signs of affection.  According to Teyn, though, anyone who knew them could see it.  “We didn’t understand it, but we wished them well.”

They were also smart enough to know they needed to not draw attention to how much time they spent together.  Xhalax began spending more time with Teyn’s group, and so did Talyn.  Teyn said it was hard to think of a person as being a joke, or incompetent, when she was playing tadek with him a few times a monen, and that she got to know Talyn pretty well over the next couple of cycles. 

She said that Talyn was good for Xhalax.  He brought out some warmth in her and made it easier for her to connect with people.  “Not that she was that different,” Teyn said, grinning.  “She was still a frelling arrogant Prowler pilot, but then, so am I.  For good reason.”

She described Talyn as a good man, easy to be around, a good soldier but not great.  Good at fixing things.  Talyn often fixed things for Teyn so she wouldn’t have to yell for a tech.  “But I still didn’t think much of him as a soldier.  Not until he saved my life.”

The regiment was split, and Teyn’s squadron, along with Talyn’s, were among those chosen to go into active combat along the Scarran border.  It was a bad front, with a huge body count, both pilots and infantry.  Teyn had passed commando training and looked forward to getting into the ground fight.  She got her chance when some pilots were pulled from Prowler duty to fill in on ground support.  The infantry troops had been pretty much wiped out.  She was being sent in as a commando, but Talyn was cannon fodder.

By this time, Talyn was older than the others, not as effective in combat.  He’d already been wounded a couple times but not badly enough to be sent back to the command carrier.  “He was a body to fill the ranks on the ground, an expendable target,” Teyn said.  She tried to watch out for him when she could, but she was usually on point while he was rearguard.  Except for this one day.

The Charrids were fighting for the Scarrans, and they’d dug into a network of caves.  Teyn’s squad was clearing tunnels of the last holdouts. They couldn’t use grenades or gas because of the rock composition, so they had to take it one cave at a time.  In some areas, they had to use knives or hand to hand combat.

Teyn was on point, following the mine sweepers.  The senior officer had rotated the squad’s positions, so Talyn was on her right and just behind.  Everything was fine until Teyn stepped on a pressure mine that the sweeper had missed.  She held her position, and Talyn came over to try to deactivate it.  She heard the delay click just before it exploded, and she tried to knock Talyn clear, but they both got hit with shrapnel.  The explosion nearly collapsed the tunnel and shredded both of Teyn’s legs.  The senior officer didn’t expect her to last long enough for medical attention.  Talyn was also wounded enough to be a liability, so they were both left behind.  A medtech did what she could and then ran to rejoin the squad.  Talyn and Teyn could either wait for extraction, or get themselves out to the surface and find help.

“Talyn was not a big man, not as big as you, John. And he was getting older.  I could’ve probably carried him far more easily than he carried me.  But carry me he did, despite his own injuries, at least two metras until we found help.”

Talyn talked to Teyn the whole time.  “He wouldn’t let me give up.  Frell, he wouldn’t even let me pass out.”

At one point, Teyn asked him to take a message to her sister if she didn’t survive.  She asked Talyn if he had a message for Xhalax.  He was quiet for awhile, and then just said, “No. She knows.”

“Just those two words,” Teyn said, “spoken in his usual soft voice, and they covered everything—everything that could be between them.”

Eventually, they did make it to the surface and found help.  Talyn was off duty for a week or so as he recovered.  It took Teyn months to return to service.  Talyn still came by to visit her as she was recovering, even on the command carrier.  He’d sit quietly with her if she was in a bad mood, and he’d take off if anyone else came by.  “He understood, you see, what most people thought of him.  That was one reason why he tried to be so discreet with Xhalax.  Discreet...Frelling idiot he was to think that they both could stay discreet.”

When they returned to the command carrier, everyone was reassigned to lighter duties.  The males ran drills, and the females went on breeding rotation.  Teyn missed that particular assignment because of her injuries, and she was glad of it, as she’d never had the desire to produce children for service.  Most Prowler pilots don’t like being pulled from active duty, even for the two monens. 

Two monens!  Apparently, after two monens the fetus is viable and able to be transferred to an artificial womb.  The ultimate in PK efficiency, I guess.  Get those soldiers back on the line. 

Xhalax visited Teyn not long after she found out she was pregnant.  Teyn was having a hard time recuperating, and Xhalax joked with her about how she’d have an even chance on the mat with Teyn now.  They talked about the inconvenience of breeding rotation, and Xhalax said that at least it didn’t leave scars.  They both laughed at that.

Teyn didn’t ask if Xhalax was pregnant or if the child was Talyn’s.  Xhalax told her later.  Teyn said that she knew something was different about Xhalax—she was happier than Teyn had ever seen her, and that should’ve been a warning.  “But no one saw it except maybe Talyn, and by that time, he could deny her nothing.”

They never talked directly about the baby again, but occasionally the topic would drift up over the cycles as they sat drinking.  They were in the same squadron then.  Teyn had put her request for transfer to a Marauder on hold because Rani was starting flight training, and Teyn wanted to be there to talk about escape velocities and vectors and maneuvers.  She told Xhalax once how she hoped that she and Rani would be in the same squadron someday and that she could teach Rani some techniques. Although she didn’t say anything, Teyn knew Xhalax was thinking about her daughter.  Dangerous thoughts.  Teyn didn’t know how to tell her to let them go, and it wouldn’t have mattered anyway.

“This is the part I didn’t want to tell Aeryn, but I think she already knows.  The part she never should have had to carry, but Xhalax put on her when she was only five cycles old.”

Teyn put it together over the cycles, out of what she’d heard or read in reports or knew.  Xhalax became obsessed with seeing her daughter, even if it was only once.  Teyn didn’t know this at the time, just that Xhalax was acting erratically, and she tried to talk to Xhalax about it once.  “All Xhalax would say was, ‘Is this all there is, Teyn?  Flying Prowlers and fighting and dying?’  And I said, being who I am, what more there could be.  She walked away without another word, and that was the last conversation I had with her for cycles.  It was too late already.”

Xhalax had found out where Aeryn was and went to see her one night, just as Aeryn remembered.  She didn’t even try to avoid the security cameras.  She woke Aeryn up and told her that she was special, that her parents loved her, that they’d loved each other.  Love.  The great Peacekeeper sin.

Although what Xhalax had said was true, according to Teyn it was a heavy burden to place on a kid that age, a kid who had to be exactly like everyone else, and that it’d shaped Aeryn tremendously.

And there was a price to be paid.  When Xhalax’s visit to her daughter was discovered, she was given a choice: Talyn’s life or Aeryn’s.  If she refused, then all three would die.

Xhalax’s perfect service record saved her.  With her genes, Aeryn was likely to be a good pilot.  But Talyn was older, a bit of a nonconformist, and had been written up for small infractions.  He had once been a good pilot, but his ratings had slipped.  “And they knew, from the chip, what Xhalax would choose when the life of her lover and the life of her child were balanced on the point of a knife,” Teyn said. “And it’s always better to lose one life instead of three.  It’s logical, and sometimes it’s all you can do.”

To prove that her loyalty to the Peacekeepers was greater than anything else, Xhalax ambushed Talyn in his quarters and put a knife in his heart.

Teyn said that she didn’t fault Xhalax for the decision she’d made, that there’s a sort of a balance within it.  That the worth of Aeryn’s life-to-be outweighed the worth of Talyn’s life that was soon to be over.  It was just a matter of time before he was killed in battle.  Teyn just hoped that Xhalax was quick about it, and that Talyn knew what was being traded.  But in killing Talyn, Xhalax killed herself as well.  She became an assassin for High Command, what Teyn termed “an abomination of what a Peacekeeper should be.”

But she did have a choice later, and Teyn gave it to her.

After losing her last best comrade in battle, Teyn heard of a group forming that would be based on the ideals the Peacekeepers originally had.  She was planning her desertion when Xhalax returned to the command carrier to recover from injuries on her last mission.  It was the first time in cycles that Teyn had seen her.

They sat in the medbay and talked.  Teyn told her what she knew of Aeryn, that she was a fine pilot, part of Pleisars, that she flew like her mother.  Xhalax wanted to know who Aeryn looked like,  so Teyn described her.  Tall and thin like Talyn, his gray eyes with a bit of blue; a little like Xhalax in the face.    Teyn was hoping that what little sanity Xhalax might have left could anchor on her daughter and give her the strength to break the rules one more time.  Obviously, that didn’t happen.

Teyn told Xhalax about the group forming.  Xhalax said it was treason.  Teyn agreed, but also said it was the right thing to do, to be a part of a change for the better.  Teyn saw this as Xhalax’s last shot at redemption.  And Teyn was terrified of taking off on her own, and had no one left she could trust.  She was really hoping Xhalax would come with her.

Xhalax said that it was still Aeryn’s life in the balance, and when Teyn told her to stop making excuses, she finally said it was too late for her.  And that if Teyn went, she should know that Xhalax would report everything said to High Command.  A retrieval squad would be sent out, and Xhalax could be on it.  Teyn immediately challenged Xhalax to take her then, if she could.  But Xhalax just told her, “Teyn, you haven’t changed.  I have.  Don’t let me find you.”

Xhalax didn’t report anything immediately, and in a few days when Teyn went on long range recon, she simply didn’t come back.  “Ten cycles later, you two walked into my camp and wanted to join.  I find the parallels simply blinding.  And not entirely unexpected,” Teyn said.

I hope I get this next part right for Aeryn.  And for Teyn.

Teyn said that Xhalax had had a second chance, a chance at redemption, but she’d either refused it or been unable to take it.  “She could have made it all so meaningful—her fall from grace, Talyn’s death, everything.  She could have known her daughter, as I know her.  She could be sitting in this chair right now, trying to lend Aeryn the strength to survive.”

Instead, Xhalax hunted her down and almost killed her, twice.

I told Teyn that Aeryn’s afraid of becoming like her mother.  Teyn’s answer surprised me.

“She should be.  She has a harsh legacy to bear.  And that’s why I’ve not told her this story.  She needs to know who she is, the person she wants to be, before she deals with this.  It’s shaped her enough already, and not for the better, in some ways.”

Teyn’s talked nearly an arn now, and the dawn light is bright through the window.  Our second sunrise on this watch together.

I have so much to think about—to try to remember and write down—that I don’t realize I’m asking Teyn a question until I do.  “So that’s why you’re sitting here?  Duty to your comrades?”

Teyn was quiet for a moment, and I thought she wasn’t going to answer at first.  Maybe she’d already talked enough.  Finally, she said, “Duty?  No.  I stopped doing things for the sake of doing them a long time ago.  I make rules, and follow rules, that are as reasonable and fair as possible.  Redemption?  Maybe.  I’ve got a lot to atone for.

”I sit here because my comrades, her parents, cannot.  I sit here because she is my comrade as well.  I sit here because the worst thing for a Peacekeeper is to be alone, and the only time they are truly permitted to be alone is when they die, the very moment when they want least to be by themselves. 

“But she’s not going to die, John, is she,” Teyn finished, her jaw setting hard.  The fierce conviction in her dark eyes warms me, and I reach out to take her hand.  She blinks and then squeezes my hand in return.  I take Aeryn’s cool, limp hand in my free one, and, linked together, we watch the sun edge higher into the sky. [/b]


It takes me a long time to work through the words; longer to think about them.  So much I never knew, and should have.  Although I don’t know that I would have understood it all as well then as I do now.

I wish you’d told me, Teyn. 

I read the part about my parents again, and I think of Xhalax, as she was that night she visited me when I was a child.  I’ve never seen an image of my father; all I have is Teyn’s brief description of him, of how I look like him.  But for the first time, I can imagine them together, see them during that brief time of happiness as Teyn recalled them.
They at least had that much.

And so did we. Just took us awhile to get there.




 
 


I open my eyes slowly, disoriented, and my training immediately surfaces.  Identify location.  Find weapons.  Assess the situation.

I smell antiseptic and relax a little, realizing I am in the base’s medical facility.  Groggily, I draw a slow shallow breath and turn my head to one side.  It’s a small room, and I am the only occupant.

Faintly, I hear voices. One of them sounds like Teyn, another Jax, and that’s comforting, although there’s another voice I want to hear, should hear...

Quick steps move toward the bed, and someone takes my hand gently.  “Aeryn,” I think I hear John say, as I drift off again.



 


Aeryn woke up today.

It was only for a few seconds, so brief I might have imagined it, but the scans confirm increased brain activity.  It was definitely more than a reflex action, although she’s having those as well. Right now, I’m writing with one hand, because she’s holding the other.  It’s not much of a grip, but she’s not letting go.

She’s turned the corner finally, and I am so grateful, although I’m sure I’ve used up more than my lifetime quota of prayers in the last three days.

At the same time, Teyn and Jax and Desa aren’t as elated as they should be.  They look worried, especially Teyn, and I wonder what they’re not telling me, how bad this can be in the long run.  I’m not asking, because right now it doesn’t matter.  I’ll take this gift of another day with her, and we’ll handle whatever comes next.


   



I drift in and out of consciousness for the next three solar days as my body starts to heal.  Whenever I open my eyes, day or night, John is there, holding my hand or stroking my face.  Sometimes my other friends are there as well, usually Teyn or Jax, and they invariably have a quick comment or joke to say, something overly bright and cheery, for the one or two hundred microts I remain awake.

During the fourth solar day, when I awaken, Teyn is sitting in the chair next to my bed.  Absorbed in reading the information on her data pad, she doesn’t realize I’m conscious until I move slightly and manage a croaked greeting.

“Welcome back,” she says, setting the data pad aside.  “How do you feel?  Any pain?”

It takes me a microt to process the question.  “No,” I say groggily.  “What the frell happened?  An accident?  Is my Prowler all right?”

Teyn laughs heartily and squeezes my hand.  “Spoken like a true pilot!  Your Prowler is fine.  What’s the last thing you remember?”

It’s so hard for me to think, to link two things together.  “John?” I ask, realizing he’s not in the room.  “Where’s John, is he—“

“He’s fine; I just sent him off to take a shower and eat.  He won’t leave your side unless one of us is with you.  I’ve never seen anything like it,” Teyn says, and even in my confused state I notice the amazement in her voice. 

I want to see John, is the single clear thought in my mind as Teyn gives me the abbreviated version of how I ended up in the medical facility.  I remember the events as she speaks, and I nod in the right places, but my desire to see John is like an ache that the medication can’t dispel. 

Teyn’s voice tapers off.  I realize she’s looking at me, and I automatically try to neutralize whatever expression she sees.  I can’t, though; I don’t have the strength. 

“Ced’s all right?” I say into the silence, and Teyn nods.

“Desa’s looking after him.  She’s been in to see you, too, but you weren’t awake.”  Teyn gets to her feet and pats my shoulder.  “I’ll be back in a microt,” she says, and I am a little startled at the amount of kindness that is in her eyes.

She steps into the hall. I stare at the ceiling and try to take physical inventory of myself, as an injured soldier should.  All limbs seem to be attached.  The bandage around my midsection seems huge, and I am still having a hard time drawing a deep breath.   That could be after effects of the kill shot.  I was down for thirty arns, Teyn said, and comatose another three solar days after the surgery was complete.   It was only the last three days that I’ve been responsive at all.  Almost a weeken after I’d been shot, I mused, forcing myself to do the math.  They probably thought you were dead. 

John probably thought you were dead—again.

Frell, where is he, I want to see him, to see—

Faintly I hear Teyn call to someone.  “Find John.  Tell him Aeryn’s awake and she’s asking for him.  But make sure he’s showered at least; he looked like dren when I kicked his eema out of here.”

Someone chuckles in response.  “Yeah, last I saw him, he was looking worse than she did.  I’ll bring him back.”

“Bring him back?  He’ll fly on his own!”

“Thank you,” I tell Teyn as she returns.

She shrugs, but still looks pleased.  “Whatever it takes to get you on the mend.  I need my team back at full strength.”  She talks on about inconsequential things, and although I nod, I’m not really listening to her voice.  I’m waiting to hear his boot steps come through the door.

She must understand that, because when he does come skidding in, she simply vanishes without a word.  Or perhaps she does say something that I don’t hear or remember, because John fills my vision as, panting, he beams down at me.  “Good morning, sunshine,” he says, one hand curling around mine, the other cupping my cheek.

“Afternoon, I think,” I respond, but I can’t hold back the smile that floods my face. 

 


She’s waking up every few hours now.  She doesn’t stay conscious long, but she smiles at me, and sometimes she even laughs at whatever ridiculous thing Jax is saying, if he’s in the room too.  Teyn always gives her an order, to get well or regain her strength, and it’s the last thing that Aeryn acknowledges as she slips away again, that response so deeply ingrained even now.

I had thought Teyn would abandon her post now that Aeryn’s getting better, but she hasn’t.  She goes down the hall to harass Ced—I can hear them from here sometimes—she goes to her office and to brief meetings, she leaves for a couple arns for a nap, but it’s always me and Teyn on the night shift, with Desa dropping by periodically when she needs a change of scenery as well. 

I never thought I’d feel this comfortable with Teyn, but I do, to the point that I don’t know how I’d get through those long hours by myself, when my brain won’t shut off and all I can think of are the might-have-beens and the might-someday-bes.  I think that’s one reason she stays.

She doesn’t bullshit me, and I’m grateful for that.  And now I know why she’s so worried.

Kill shots are short term measures, designed to put the body into a sort of suspended animation temporarily until proper medical attention can be given.  Aeryn had lost so much blood, and was continuing to lose more, that Desa had had to make the decision to administer the kill shot, knowing that Aeryn would be under for approximately twice the maximum recommended time. 

The medics explained that the organ shutdown is reversible, or, at worst, damaged organs are replaceable.  The problem is the brain.  Like human brains, Sebacean ones don’t regenerate.  The amount of time Aeryn had been out was such that some brain cells had to have died.  The question was, how many and in which areas?  Most likely the greatest effects would be on short term memory, but there could also be gaps created in long term memory, logic...everything.  The only human analogy I can think of is a drowning victim, but I don’t know how accurate that is, because, as Diagnosan Tocot said when he sliced my head open, there is no neural map for humans.  So I don’t even know how to compare them, or to even know myself just how serious this is.

And I’m rambling here, rambling because I’d give anything to not have to think about—hell.  I know there’s a certain amount of short term memory impairment, because the last time she woke she was asking about Talyn, about the retrieval squad.

And I know from the look in her eye who she thought I was.

Teyn stepped right in with reassurances.  “Talyn is fine.  The retrieval squad has been recalled.”  Aeryn accepted her words, but she was frowning a little, unable to place Teyn in that context.  She slipped back into sleep, and Teyn didn’t say anything to me, didn’t ask me questions I didn’t want to answer.  She just patted my cheek, the same way I’d seen her pat Aeryn’s, and quietly gripped my shoulder until I could get my breathing under control.

“Doesn’t mean anything,” she said later, “except that everything’s mixed up right now.  Frell, I got hit in the head once, didn’t even recognize my best comrades for a weeken.  Not to mention that they got me to pay the fellip nectar tab for three nights.  Oh, but there was a reckoning as soon as I could recall what had happened—“

I focus on what she’s said.  That Aeryn’s confused right now doesn’t mean that she’s lost the last several months.  It doesn’t mean she’s forgotten me, or what we’ve shared.

I watch Aeryn sleep, her hand tucked in mine, and I am so damned grateful for the silent strength pouring through me from Teyn’s grip on my shoulder.

[ScaperRed]

Chapter 6: Bluffing


   


Now that I’m awake, and it appears that I might live, I become the frelling patient from hezmana. 

I should be grateful to the medics who patched up the minor damage to my internal organs and replaced half my blood.  I should be appreciative that they have the technology available to reconstruct my shattered ribs and start regenerating the damaged tissues. 

I’m not. 

I’ll be off duty at least a monen, and that frustrates me beyond tolerance.  I can’t help it. I’ve never been good at being sick, and the few times I have been in a medical facility, I was discharged early.  I hate feeling weak, I hate feeling disoriented from medication, I hate being confined, and I really hate being taken care of.  It’s the way I’ve always been.  What little good humor I have completely disintegrates when I’m ill or injured.

My comrades understand this; it’s a trait they share.  In fact, I occasionally hear Ced cursing from his room down the hall.  We are both so ill-tempered that we aren’t even allowed to visit each other, nor do we really want to.

But part of it is that I’m afraid.

At first, I spend a lot of time sleeping, and every time I wake up, I’m totally disoriented.  A snatch of conversation drifts to my ears at some point, the medic telling Teyn or John or someone that thirty arns was too long for a person to be under.  That there may well be some slight brain damage and short-term memory losses, personality changes. That such things could be temporary as the brain remaps or permanent.

I remember that.

I don’t remember yelling at the medic or cursing at John until someone tells me.  I don’t remember what I’ve said to him a few arns before, but it must be bad by the tightness around his mouth.  It makes me angry that I can’t remember, and angrier that I’ve hurt him.

John’s seen me sick and injured before, and he knows how I get.  But he stays for four days, and he bears the brunt of my frustration patiently.  If it had been reversed, I would have knocked him out with a Pantak jab by the third arn of the first day, no matter his injuries.

It’s not that I don’t appreciate his company, or the books he brings me to read, or the stories he tells me to try to amuse me, or the games he devises.  It’s that I don’t know how to be this way, and I am aware enough to see fear in his eyes as well.


 


I drift from my memories and refocus on the journal.  I’m reluctant to read the next parts, to fill in what I know are some pretty large gaps in my memory, but if I don’t read, I don’t hear John’s voice, and that’s all I have to cling to right now; all I have to keep the nightmares circling on the edges of my perception rather than diving in with teeth and claws.

Yet his perception of that time is so radically different from mine that I can scarcely focus on the words.

I think about it for a microt, and I’m tempted to stop this insanity, put the book away, put it all behind me.  At the same time, I wonder how much I’ve lost.  What I’ve lost.  And I don’t know why it’s important to me now, when it won’t mean a frelling thing in another weeken.

Finally, I do turn the page, find my place, focus on the words.  Between what I remember and what John wrote, maybe I can get some of it back.  Understand it.  Duty. It’s the last thing I can do for you, John.  Sorry it’s too late.  Sorry it’s not enough.



Her wounds are starting to heal now, the med-techs tell me.  Tissue regeneration is not a pleasant experience, however, particularly when it involves bone and connective tissue.  I don’t know what they’re giving Aeryn for the pain, but it seems to be the Sebacean equivalent to morphine, by her reaction to it. 

At least, that’s what I prefer to think is causing her current state.

Aeryn’s always had a temper.  She’d be the last one to deny it.  But the times I’ve seen her go off, she’s always had a good fucking reason, at least for herself.  There are moments when I see her look confused, and then she blows her stack over nothing.  Like yesterday.  She knocked a tray of food clear across the room. But that instant before she did it, she had a totally lost look, a look of total panic. I wonder if she’s realizing she’s having memory lapses, and the anger stems from that. 

Fuck.  The medtechs warned that there could also be personality changes due to brain damage.  I can hardly sleep at night worrying about that.  That this might be permanent, that the Aeryn I know is gone forever.

Yet at other times she is so damn sweet and loving—wanting me near, wanting to hold onto my hand, wanting me to read to her.  This side of her is so bittersweet to me, because I always wonder who she thinks I am.  Which John she thinks I am. 

And there are still other times when she’s the Aeryn I know, cranky at being an invalid, cussing a blue streak out of frustration—hell, she could have given Teyn lessons yesterday!—not wanting to tell me she wants me nearby, but always looking for me if I should step out for a few moments.  Giving me that rare, absolutely brilliant smile when I do return.  The smile that I know is for me, and me alone.  She doesn’t reach for me physically, but I can feel that connection between us so strongly.

I don’t know what else to do, so I just hang in there.  I wait.  That seems to be my lesson during these times.  Maybe that’s the price I have to pay for this chance—because as long as we both live, there is always a chance.  I have to believe that.[/b]



 
   


John decides to go back to work on the fifth day. He’s reached his breaking point when he tells me I’m worse than Rygel was when he had the Klendian flu.  It’s a relief to both of us that he goes, yet I’m looking for him for part of the day until Desa comes by and reminds me where he is.  At least I’m a bit nicer to him that evening. I only call him a drannit three or four times.  At this point, I don’t think he even wants to know what a drannit is; he’s stopped asking.  He’s not a total fool.  Or maybe he did ask, and I just don’t remember, and we are both total frelling fools.


 


Well, now I know what a drannit is. I shouldn’t have asked. But after Aeryn called me one a half dozen times, I hit my limit of tolerance.  I can blame it on not sleeping well, although I’ve taken to going back to my quarters during the night cycle.  I can blame it on stress, because God knows I’ve had a bit of that the last couple weeks.  That still doesn’t excuse me for getting into a shouting match with Aeryn.  Shouting match? Hell, she would’ve tried to kick my ass if she hadn’t still been so weak she can hardly even get out of bed.

I don’t know if Teyn was making her rounds or if someone sent for her, but she showed up just when I was really making an ass out of myself, and she hauled me outside.  I was pissed enough to take her on, too—partly because I am so damned worried about Aeryn.  She must’ve known that, because all she did was give my shoulders a hard shake and tell me to walk around the building until I cooled off.  “Strength, John,” she said, and cuffed my cheek.

So I made three circuits of the building until I could breathe evenly again, and when I went back to Aeryn’s room, Teyn slipped into the background quietly.  Aeryn had that oh-shit look that I’m beginning to associate with her memory losses, as if she knows something has happened but isn’t sure how to piece it together.  And what good would it do to bring it up, make her realize that she doesn’t have it all together right now?  How would that help her?

So I sat and talked with her about small things until she fell asleep.  Teyn met me outside the building.  She punched my shoulder hard, in a way I’ve only seen her do with Jax, and she said, “You’re a good man, John Crichton.”  Somehow, oddly enough, that was enough to make it worthwhile, and I was actually able to sleep the night through with no nightmares about Aeryn dying, Aeryn brain dead, Aeryn—not being Aeryn, but a sort of zombie who stumbled along.

God, I am so tired, but I’m not going to ask for another favor.  You’ve granted all I can ever ask of you.  She’s alive, and I’d better be damned grateful for that.[/b]




 
   


On the sixth day, I decide I’m well enough to go back to my quarters, although I can hardly walk the length of my small room.  Teyn denies my request after consulting with the medics.  Afterward, I am not proud of the fit I throw, but I have to admit that the cursing is very creative, and it includes a couple Luxan words that Teyn herself does not know, that I’d learned from D’Argo.  Although she’s impressed by my use of language, the senior officer promises that she will personally break every third bone in my body after I heal enough to go back into the training ring if I don’t frelling behave.  I do have enough sense then to shut up, for a few arns at least, before I forget and do the same thing again.  Or so they tell me.  I can’t remember a frelling thing.

 



Today I did one of the hardest things I’ve ever been asked to do.

I’ve been back to work a couple days now.  Teyn caught me just as I was coming off shift, before I went to see Aeryn.  My heart just wrenched when I saw the senior officer, because I’ve never seen Teyn look so distressed, not even when we both thought that Aeryn might die. 

She asked to talk to me, but it took several minutes of walking before she could actually bring up the topic.  When she did, though, I was able to understand a little more about Aeryn, about Teyn, about these Peacekeepers with whom I live now.

Teyn said that Aeryn wouldn’t stay in the medical facility much longer, although she should. It would probably be better to let her return to quarters at that point rather than order her to remain.  And maybe a return to regular surroundings would be good, Teyn said, and didn’t add what I know we were both thinking, that maybe familiarity would help stabilize her memory.

“There’s a problem, though, John,” Teyn said, and she choked up so hard that she couldn’t speak for a moment.  When she did, I almost laughed.  I’m glad I didn’t, though, because when I thought about it, it sure wouldn’t have been funny to Teyn.  Or to Aeryn.  And it’s not to me now, either.

“You know that Aeryn is not herself.  She’s behaving erratically.  Possibly because of the medication, possibly because of—physical factors. We all hope this is temporary.  But the fact remains—I don’t think she should be around a weapon at this point.”

Teyn bit her lip hard, and I thought for a moment that tough old bitch was going to cry.  It was funny—it was just about weapons, and it was a temporary measure—and then it wasn’t.  Aeryn was a soldier and a pilot.  That was her training, her life, her skills; it was part of what she was.  I’d never seen her pick up a weapon she couldn’t use instantly and with great dexterity, and that had been a source of her pride.

And I realized what Teyn couldn’t bring herself to do, what she couldn’t even bring herself to ask me to do.

“You want me to clear her quarters of weapons,” I said.

Teyn nodded briefly.  “Look, I’ll do it if you’re not comfortable with it.  But—it’s a pretty personal thing to do to a soldier.  I thought—it would be appropriate for you to do it, John.”

I have no doubt that if I’d declined, Teyn would have done the job without batting an eye.  And then she’d have gotten roaring drunk afterward at committing the act, however necessary, that resulted in stripping away the essence of one of her soldiers.

At the same time, the fact that she asked me, when any of Aeryn’s team would have done it for her—Desa, even Jax—spoke volumes of the journey Teyn and I had taken together over the last several days.  And I couldn’t let her go through the anguish it would cause her to take Aeryn’s weapons away.

I told Teyn I’d do it, and I gripped her shoulder hard, trying to give her back some of the strength she’d given me lately, as she blinked back uncommon tears.


Desa had returned all of Aeryn’s gear and had stowed it neatly, just as Aeryn herself would have done.  Maybe it was a Peacekeeper universal system, or maybe it was Desa’s attempt to bring order to the chaos that fringed Aeryn’s life now.  I know I’ll never ask.

My task was harder than I’d thought, though.  I mean, I remember when Aeryn acquired some of these weapons.  The big pulse rifle she carried through so many adventures, including the crew’s rescue of me at the shadow depository.  The smaller pulse rifle she’s had since our first months on Moya; I think it’s the same one she took aboard the Zelbinion.  A box of those grenades she prefers.  The small pulse pistol she had tucked in the back of her belt when we met Zhaan’s lost people.  Two knives she’s acquired while here.  The tak launcher she used to secure a line to the transport pod and effect Rygel’s rescue—the tak launcher that had come from Talyn, rest his biomechanoid soul.  A couple spare pistols, the disruptors she’d acquired on that same space station where D’Argo had found his ship.  A LOT of chakkan oil cartridges.

Her pulse pistol and holster.

I cradled her holster and belt in my hands for a moment, because that’s when I really choked up myself.  I remember when Aeryn got this outfit, not long after we’d blown up the Gammak base and finally had been reunited with Moya.  It was a nice piece of leatherwork, matching the one I wore less often now as I masqueraded as a tech.  It had never spent this much time off Aeryn’s hips.  The leather had softened, molding to her shape, and my shaking hands traced the well-worn belt for a moment before I drew the pulse pistol.  Same one that she’d carried for cycles; despite a few extra dings and nicks from hard service, it was well cared for, as was all her equipment.  I sighted along its barrel, and the thought that Aeryn might never be able to hold this weapon, this extension of herself, again actually brought me to tears.

After a few moments, I rolled the belt and holster up neatly, the way Aeryn had taught me, and stowed it in her bag along with the rest of her weapons.  I didn’t look at the empty peg by her bed where it should be hanging.  I didn’t dare.  I just took it all directly to Teyn.

Teyn nodded briskly and took the bag from me, slinging it over her shoulder.  “Thank you,” was all she said, before she began a brief inventory of the contents.  Her hand lingered on Aeryn’s holstered pulse pistol for a moment.  It was the removal of that personal weapon that did Teyn in, I think, that removal of something so integral to Aeryn, because the old gal’s face twisted up, and she turned away from me quickly, still trying to play the tough dog. 

I didn’t say anything, just put my hand on her shoulder.  After a moment, she covered my hand with hers and squeezed until her knuckles were white. She didn’t say another word to me, just walked away to secure Aeryn’s stuff.

It was a long time before I could go see Aeryn that night; long enough that she was slightly pissed at me, although she’d forgotten that by morning.  Removing Aeryn’s weapons from her quarters was like saying that she really was damaged, that she really might not recover, might never be the same again, and I can’t help but grieve for losing a part of her.  I know I should be grateful that she survived her injuries, but at the moment, I only feel sad. It’s like part of her has died, and knowing that, I just couldn’t face her for awhile.  I’d call myself a coward, but Teyn didn’t come back that night either.  I just hope she had a couple raslaks for me.[/b]

I close the book for a moment, stunned.  I wait for a memory to tear loose and coalesce, but there’s nothing.  No one ever told me any of this.  Or maybe they did and I don’t recall.  And maybe that’s the best. Maybe I don’t want to remember the things that were perhaps too bad for John to remember,  to write.

And I do remember some things.



 
   


On the seventh day, in exasperation, Teyn approves my release as well as Ced’s after he starts target-shooting out his window with a pulse pistol someone’s brought him.  The bottle of raslak under his pillow is, of course, about half gone at this point, and he is having a frelling good time. 

I’m getting dressed when I hear the first shots. I figure that if I just quietly walk out, everyone will assume that I’m discharged and the orders are frelled up somewhere.  Once I’m out, no one will make me come back.  Simple plan.

I should know better by now.

Instantly, I drop to the floor when I hear the first shots. The sudden motion and impact jars my healing ribs, and it’s microts before I’m able to lever myself to my feet, still doubled over with pain.

My thigh feels naked without my holster strapped to it, and my hand craves the solid heft of my pulse pistol as I stagger barefoot toward the pulse fire down the hall.  A white-faced medic is coming toward me, but I wave her off and put myself through the doorway as quickly as I can, just as Ced aims and fires again at the twisted tree outside his window.

I manage three fast steps and grab his wrist before he notices I’m there.  We have a small struggle before I can get him in a wrist lock and pry the pistol from his fingers. I would’ve just given him a Pantak jab or a fist to the jaw—I can smell the raslak fumes pouring off him, and he’s laughing like a fiend—but I simply don’t have the strength.  And Ced, he’s enjoying this.

“You frelling drannit,” I snarl, trying to get my breath back, clutching his pistol in both hands well away from him. 

“Oh, you’re just as bad as Teyn—“

By the time Teyn does arrive, with Desa behind her, we are alternately yelling at each other and gasping for air.  We both quiet instantly as Teyn’s furious gaze immolates us both.

Wordlessly, I hand the pulse pistol to Teyn and stand at attention, or as close to it as I can with pain ripping through my side.

“Dismissed,” Teyn said frigidly.  “And discharged.  Get the frell out of here.”

“Teyn, all I—“

“Out!” she roars, and I trip over my feet getting through the doorway.

“Teyn, it wasn’t Aeryn’s fault, I was shooting, she took the weapon away from me—“ Ced begins, his voice shaking, and I feel a marginal relief at his honesty.

Teyn yells at him for the next two hundred microts.  I know that, because that is how long it takes for me to sit and rest in my room before I can gather the strength to pull on my boots and fasten them. Now that I’m being released, I can feel gratitude to John or Desa or whoever brought me fresh clothes for this eventual occasion.

The medic brings me instructions and vials of medicine, mostly painkillers, to take with me.  I stuff them in my pocket, and I walk out of the hospital and into the bright sunshine.

My progress is slow, but at last I’m opening the door to my sparse quarters.  It’s blessedly quiet and cool inside, and it smells of chakkan oil and leather, not antiseptic.

I am so grateful to be free and so tired from the short walk that I immediately collapse on the bed and take a three-arn nap.
When I wake, late afternoon sunlight is spilling through the one narrow window, and I have a moment of panic before I realize where I am.

I feel frelling terrible, pain radiating through my body to the point of nausea.  Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all, I think, and slowly move my hand over to the table by the bed.  It takes several microts for me to grasp the bottle of pain medication and get the top off.  It even hurts to swallow the geltab. I lie there, breathing shallowly, enduring until the medication starts to have an effect.

There is a knock on my door.

“Go away!” I yell.

The door opens slowly, and John’s smiling face appears.  “I hear you went over the wall,” he says.

“Do you ever make any sense at all?  Go away, I’m trying to get some rest,” I snap, but my voice isn’t as angry as before.  I tell myself it’s because I don’t have the strength.

Of course, he doesn’t listen.  He comes in, shutting the door behind him, and carefully sits on the edge of the bed, still with that idiotic smile on his face.  “How you feeling?” he asks warmly, but his eyes are calculating, and I realize he’s trying to determine if, in his opinion, I am well enough to be out of the medical unit.

Well, that’s hardly his decision to make.  “I’m fine,” I say, and my jaw clenches only a little against the pain.  It’s abating somewhat, but the nausea has not.  Serve him right if I vomited all over him...

And then he’d pack me right back to the medical unit. Frell.

I start to sit up, and John helps me as a grimace of pain ripples across my composed face.  “I’m fine,” I say impatiently.  “I just want to clean up.”

I walk to the lavatory by sheer force of will and close the door.  Instantly, I am clinging to the sink, only because it would hurt far more to slide down to the floor and have to get back up.

“You sure you’re all right in there?” John calls through the door.

“Fine,” I say between clenched teeth, and force myself to move on shaky legs. 

The next thing I know, he’s calling through the door again, and I find myself sitting on the floor of the shower, the water pouring over me.  I don’t know if I blacked out for a microt or if I’ve simply lost time, as I’ve started to think of it.  I don’t remember turning on the water or undressing, or, at the moment, even where I am.  For a disconcerting moment, I’m not sure which John it is or why it matters, and the resultant flicker of panic makes me snap at him.  “Leave me the frell alone for five microts!  I don’t need you here!”

“Right,” he says, unconvinced, his voice now just on the other side of the opaque shower door.  He opens the door and comes in with me, sliding behind me to sit, his bare thighs grazing my hips.  “You’re fine.  I know that.  That’s what you always tell me.  So shut the frell up and lean back.”

It’s an order, and I automatically respond.  He hugs me tightly for a moment, and his warm bare chest against my back makes me shiver.

He washes my hair first.  His touch is thorough but soothing, and it somehow melts away all my fierce ill-temper. 

He scrubs my back with a washcloth, and the sensation is exquisite.  Gently, he settles me back against his chest and soaps my body, his hands lingering over scars. I feel questions in his touch, the same questions he had not asked the one night on the false Earth, the questions he had asked on Talyn.

He helps me stand and rinse off under the warm water spray, and his hands carefully explore the waterproof synth-pad covering my wounded ribs. 

“Can you stand for a few microts?” he asks, and I nod.  He turns his back and quickly lathers his body, and I want to run my hands over his shoulders, scrub his back, return the favor he’s done me.

He starts a bit when I touch his shoulders, and then he goes completely still.  “Wash your back,” I say, and my voice is almost steady.

“Next time,” he says, but he doesn’t move.

“No, now,” I say, and without a word he hands the washcloth to me.  I try to be as thorough as he was, but I’m not very steady on my feet, and when the washcloth slips from my fingers, he doesn’t pick it up to hand it to me.

“That’s good,” he says, his voice thin, and swallows hard.  “Let me rinse off and we’ll get out.”

He is uncharacteristically silent as we towel off.  His fingers shake slightly as he wraps a towel around me and tucks in the end. I shiver a little as his hand brushes my chest.  “Cold?”

“No,” I say, and his eyes slide away from mine quickly.  I  have to smile slightly.  It’s as if he’s suddenly a shy cadet, or the John Crichton of that first half cycle on Moya, when he was unsure if I would dismember him or not if he kissed me. 

I’m still not sure as he guides me to the bed.  Abruptly exhausted again, I sit on the edge and watch as he opens the built-in drawers.  My gaze travels over him, from the towel wrapped around his waist to his broad shoulders; I can’t help it.  But there’s not much for him to search through, and it’s just a few microts before he turns around and I flick my gaze away, feigning interest in a far corner of the room.  Neither of us is in any condition—-in any way—-for the activity that has just come to my mind, but the thought is persistent.

He helps me into a t-shirt and the now-ragged pair of his Calvins that I appropriated during our first monens on Moya.  We both smile a little in recognition, and he snaps the waistband lightly against my stomach.  “I always thought you looked cute in my underwear,” he said.

Cute is hardly a word I would recognize as applying to myself. I bite back my response because of the wistful note in his voice.  “You speak.  I thought perhaps you’d lost your voice, you’ve been so oddly quiet.”

“You usually tell me I talk too much.  Now you want me to talk more?  Which is it?”

“I don’t know,” I say, puzzled. I can’t read his tone, and I don’t know if it’s because he is John or if my mind is unclear.

He sighs softly and turns away.  “Well, that I do believe.  You don’t really know what you want, do you?”

It’s only when he kneels down and starts rummaging through it that I notice his bag on my floor.

“You’re not staying.”

“Yes, I am.  Aeryn, you can’t even stand up long enough to take a shower.  I’m here if you need me.  Now shut up.”

I curse under my breath, but it’s only half-hearted.  It’s a lot harder to argue with him when he’s wearing a towel—-or less.

He doesn’t have a tech’s body.  He’s always been trim, but he’s put on a thicker layer of muscle in our monens here.  He doesn’t have the heavy, cut musculature that Jax does, but his form is well-defined and powerful, and I have the sudden impulse to map those changes with my hands.

He turns as he’s slipping on his shirt, and that’s the image that remains in my mind, the stark blackness of his shirt against the tanned wall of his stomach, his damp hair spiking in all directions, blue eyes fiercely determined—-

I open my eyes in near darkness.  The disorientation is becoming almost familiar. 

John is kneeling on the floor, unrolling a sleeping mat.

“What the frell are you doing?”

We argue again, and I shut up when he reminds me that we’ve already discussed this.  Twice.  Once after we got cleaned up, once after we ate last meal, which Desa had brought.  I have to believe him, because I have only the faintest wisps of memory of any of what he describes; the last thing I remember is watching him dress after we showered.

Vaguely I notice that he looks tired and a little sad, but my concern at the moment is that my pulse pistol in its holster is not hanging from the peg by the bed where it should be.

“Teyn’s got it,” he says after a moment.  “I’ll get it for you in the morning.”

“Teyn?  Why the frell would Teyn have it?  Look, I want it where it belongs—“

“Aeryn, please,” he says, exasperated, and I choke back my words, afraid that he’s going to say we’ve had this discussion, too.  It occurs to me that Teyn would not have my weapon without a reason, and at this moment I really don’t want to know what that reason might be.  Abruptly, I can’t look at him, and I turn my head away, fighting back tears.

He rises from the floor and sits on the edge of the bed for a moment, his fingers resting lightly on my cheek.  “You’re just tired,” he says softly, and the love in his voice chips at what little restraint I have left.  “You should really still be in the medical unit, Aeryn.”

“You sleeping on the floor is really stupid,” I say hoarsely as his fingers gently wipe moisture from my cheek.  He starts to sigh wearily, but his hand keeps the same light, soothing stroke.  “We’ve shared quarters before, and there’s enough room,” I finish, and his hand stills.

“You’re sure?”

I snort, rolling painfully onto my left side, making room on the bunk.  “One thing, though.  Before you move in next time, ask.”

He laughs softly and leans down to kiss my forehead.  I drift to sleep as he slides under the covers, his hand resting on my hip.

Arns later, I wake from some frelled dream, his arm heavy around my chest, his warm body folded around mine.  I don’t know where I am or who is with me; the body is familiar, the pressure, the warmth, the scent, but I don’t know where I am, on Talyn or Valldon or a false Earth, and how could he be so warm, when I remember his body cooling next to mine—-

“Easy,” he says drowsily, tightening his arm as I jerk away.  It hurts, and he wakes more fully as I gasp, still pulling away from him. “Aeryn?  Baby, you’re soaked!”

I struggle to sit up, shaking, the air cooling the sweat on my skin.  John murmurs soothingly behind me, his hands rubbing my hunched shoulders gently.  He thinks it’s pain that’s awakened me, and I don’t disagree.  Even though the nightmare’s claws still grip me, I have the presence of mind to realize that it would hurt him to know the truth. 

He brings me a painkiller, a glass of water, a dry shirt.  He soothes me, and I try to smile as he settles me back against the pillow, tucking the sheets loosely around me. 

“You want to talk about it?” he asks quietly, and I blink.  “The bad dream.  Sometimes it helps to talk.”  I stare at him, and he brushes his thumb gently across each of my cheeks.  “Physical pain never makes you cry,” he explains, and it must be the medication, because the tears pour out of me, silent sobs, and he doesn’t ask anything, just gathers me into his arms and strokes my hair until, exhausted, I fade into sleep once more.


 


After a few microts, bracing myself, I open the journal again, to compare what John wrote to what I remember.  And, as usual, I am totally blindsided by John Crichton.

I was hardly surprised when Teyn called for me and told me that Aeryn was out of the hospital.  She was starting to regain some strength and was getting increasingly restless.  I did have to laugh, though, at the pissed off and yet sheepish look on Teyn’s face as she told me how she’d misread the situation and thought both Aeryn and Ced were fooling around with a pulse pistol and a bottle of raslak, when in reality it was Aeryn trying to take it away from him.  I don’t know exactly what Teyn said to Aeryn, but I can tell by her hangdog expression that she’s really hoping that Aeryn doesn’t remember it.  Man, I’d have liked to have been a fly on the wall for that one.

Ced got kicked loose too, and Desa looked in on Aeryn while she was prepping his quarters.  She was out like a light for then.

I asked if there was a plan, and Teyn grinned just a little, crossing her arms, before she asked me what I wanted to do.  It shocked me so much that I almost missed what she said next, about how, in her opinion, I’d gone above and beyond the call of duty the last couple weekens, but that everyone had a breaking point. 

I don’t know how much she’s observed or been told, and we’ve skirted the issue of Aeryn’s memory lapses as much as possible.  I haven’t told her how much it breaks me when Aeryn thinks I’m the other guy, or how my heart freezes when she doesn’t remember something we talked about five minutes ago.  How scared I am when I see her looking so lost, so vulnerable, in those seconds before she pulls herself back together enough to lash out verbally, usually at me.

Of course, I insist that I’m in for the long haul, and I am, but I guess she’s gotten good at reading me, too.  Because although she asks what I need, when I stumble over the words, she has a plan ready for me.  Ced is about to drive Desa crazy, so she will be more than happy to stay with Aeryn periodically during the day, while I’m at work.  “You need to keep some semblance of normality, John,” Teyn gently advised, and I know that’s true.  “The rest of us, we’ll drop by to visit her, bring meals, the whole bit. Night shift is your call.  You’ve been back in your quarters a few nights, and you look like you’re getting some sleep.  That’s good.”

I actually thought about it.  My nerves are frayed from being verbally filleted and mistaken for someone else.  But in the end, there was only one choice for me, and Teyn was not surprised when I told her.  “Just remember, you’re not alone,” she said, and gave me the medication schedule list.  “And, John—it’s your call, and I’ll back you all the way, if you think she needs to go back to the medical unit.”

I almost called Teyn on that.  Aeryn was just waking when I got there, and she was just as charming as I’d expected, threatening to kick my ass out of her quarters.  I nearly laughed,  but that might have provoked her into actually trying.  She looked fucking terrible; she was in a lot of pain but wouldn’t admit it, and she did not want anyone’s help, especially mine.  Not until she collapsed trying to take a shower.

I don’t know if she just passed out or if she had a memory lapse and then passed out, or—hell, it doesn’t matter.  She didn’t have any choice but to accept my help then, and I’d like to think that she backed down right away because she knows how much I care about her, but I’m afraid there may be—other reasons, and I’m not going to speculate about them.  I’m just going to be grateful that I won this round, and that she’s letting me take care of her this much.

She’s sleeping now, and there’s something so right about our sharing a bed again, something that soothes me, makes me certain that I’m not just pretending everything will be all right. Of course, it was a couple more fights to get to this stage, fights she doesn’t even remember. I think she was really aware of that, because she broke down and cried tonight, the first time I’ve seen her cry since Cassino.  And all I had the heart to tell her was that she was just tired, that she should still be in the medical unit. 

And then there was the nightmare.  I don’t even want to know what it was about—hell, I think I do know—and god, it’s almost more than I can take.  I mean, how fucked is that, to finally have her in my arms, and she cries herself back to sleep after a nightmare over him?  Selfish, I know.  But dammit, when does this end?  When do I get a turn to be the real guy?  Because I am the real John Crichton.  I am.  Even if she can’t see it.[/b]


I can’t read any more.

I close the book and rest my cheek on its cool cover, my head spinning.  What I remember...is very different, and I’m not sure if it’s because John’s perceptions colored his version so much, or if my memory is just so full of holes that it is now totally unreliable.
In a few microts, though, I realize that the details, in this case, are not particularly important.  I am amazed at the depth of care my comrades had for me.  And John.  John was perfect, so frelling perfect.  And he could never see it, could never see that I saw that perfection in him.  That perfection that only ever was John Crichton.

That was my fault.  He always needed words; more words than I ever possessed. I tried to give him actions, to show him how I felt, and it was never enough.  Never.

I close my eyes; there aren’t that many more pages now to read, and I do remember why.  Or at least I think I do.  And, for the moment, I want to drift in my own version of those times.




 
   


The light tap on the door wakens me.

Barefoot, John stands in the partially open door and speaks softly.  I recognize Desa’s quiet laugh, and I flick one hand in greeting as she looks past John’s shoulder.

“Glad to see you’re behaving better than Ced,” she says.  “Teyn’s assigned me to be his keeper the next few days.  I’m on my way to get some tie-down straps and cables to keep him contained.”

“Good idea,” John says brightly.  “Could you get some extras-—“

It hurts, but it’s worth it as my pillow slams into the back of his head.  Roaring, Desa leaves us to our own devices. 

“I need to go to work for awhile,” John says, walking back with my pillow and a bowl of something Desa has brought.  “Desa’ll look in on you, and she’s just a couple doors down with Ced.”

“Go to work.  I don’t need anyone to—what the frell is that?”

John chuckles, stirring the gooey paste.  It looks like Prowler skin patch.  “Grits. It’s the same stuff you’ve been eating.  It’s good for you.  Now shut up and eat it so you can grow back up into a big strong Peacekeeper.”

He matches my glare with his own stubborn look.  It’s hard for me to concede, but I know I won’t win this argument either, and it will be a waste of energy to try, just as it is a waste of energy to try to figure out what he said.

“I know, I know, you’ll get even with me for this,” he says, just a bit wearily, and I look at him sharply, because that is exactly what I’m thinking.  “You’ve been telling me that for days.  I’ve got bad karma stacked up for six lifetimes at least.”

But when I concede silently and reluctantly and begin to eat the dren—which at least has no particular taste and is no worse than food cubes—

“What?” I demand, noticing that he’s staring at me.

He turns his attention quickly back to lacing up his boots.  “Nothing.  You just did what I told you to, without an argument.”

“Yeah, well, I’ll make it up to you later,” I snap, and he smiles a little, but he still looks—worried.  Worried, because I’m not arguing?  Frell, I’ll never understand this man.

He kisses my forehead and leaves, and my room becomes unaccountably empty.

I think I sleep, or maybe I just phase in and out of consciousness or lose time, because I become aware that it’s afternoon, and Desa’s setting up the tadek board on a small table she’s brought.

“How’s Ced?” I ask.

“I came over to see you so I wouldn’t strangle him while he’s sleeping.  It’ll be much more satisfying when he’s awake,” she says lightly, but her dark eyes are sharp and thoughtful as she looks at me.  Although I can’t quite remember it, I have the feeling that this is something we’ve already discussed, and I struggle to keep my face neutral.  Neither one of us says anything about it; we just play tadek for a couple of arns.  Desa tells me what the others are doing, the training, the planning, and my whole body aches to be with them.

She leaves when John returns.  He’s obviously tired, his face and tech coverall smeared with grime, and he stretches out on the floor with a sigh.  “Hi, honey, I’m home,” he says, and he laughs inexplicably.


A sort of routine establishes over the next couple of days.  John goes on duty during the day, a medic comes by to check on me, Desa comes by to play tadek and talk when Ced irritates her beyond tolerance or is sleeping, my other friends come by, John comes back, we eat a meal delivered from the mess hall, we take a shower and go to bed.  Sometimes John writes in his journal; what, I don’t ask.  I don’t think it’s wormhole equations from his posture, but I allow him that much personal space.  It’s the least I can do, because I am grateful for his company and care, although I can’t bring myself to say so.

Each night, I am amazed by him. 

He restrains himself in every way, so much so that he doesn’t notice that I’m noticing his slight responses; the trembling of his hands against my waist as he steadies me in the shower; his lingering touch as he dries my back; his quick glances at my body and then away. 

He has far more restraint than I do.

On the third night he stays with me, I scrub his back again, and he gives a small groan of pleasure as I rub his sore muscles.  I trace each vertebrae, and then my hands slip around his waist, slowly working downward.

He sucks in his breath, holding absolutely still as my hands pass over the flat planes and ridges of his stomach.  My name is a gasp on his lips, half protest, half desire, before he catches my wrists firmly.

“Don’t think you’re up to this yet,” he says, as lightly as he can, but his grip on my wrists hurts, far more than the constant ache in my side.

I push into him hard, up against the wall of the shower, and, startled, he lets go of my wrists and turns.  I shove against his chest, back against the wall again, and I catch his surprised mouth with my own, the water cascading over us, half drowning us when we attempt to breathe sometime later.

He shifts his weight, and my back is against the opposite wall now, his body pressed against mine, his face buried in my wet hair.  I run my hands over his water-slicked hips, pulling him closer, feeling his erection against my abdomen.  He shudders and his arms tighten around me, squeezing the breath out of me, and I choke back a cry of pain.

“You gonna remember this time?” he whispers.  “Or is this because you’re high on painkillers?”

“One way to find out,” I murmur into his neck, and this time I can’t hold back a gasp of pain as his hands crush me against his body.

Instantly, he lets go, whispering apologies, one hand steadying me, the other stroking my face.  He doesn’t say anything else, just shuts off the water, and we towel ourselves dry in silence.

“I should apologize to you,” I finally say, as I sit on the edge of the bed, drying my hair with another towel.  “For everything.”

He shrugs and sits next to me; I can feel the heat of his thigh through the damp towels between us.  “I chose to play.  You’re injured, for god’s sake, and I know it.  It’s just...It’s not the way I thought it would be.”

I swallow hard at the longing in his voice.  He still has expectations.  I rarely did, and I buried the last of them long ago.  One of the many huge differences between us.

He brushes my hair, and those microts give me time to think, time for the pain in my side to abate.  I’m not good with words, and now I have to say the right ones and not frell things up worse.

Lightly, I trace the line of his jaw and turn his face to mine. “Take what you can.  It’s more than you had this morning, or yesterday, or last weeken.”

Same words as on Cassino, different context.

He rests his forehead against mine, and I hold very still.  I know that one touch of my hand can make up his mind, that I can take control of this situation so easily. I have before.

I don’t want to.

He leans past me to put my brush on the table by the bunk.  Slowly, his fingers slide through my damp hair, and he places a light kiss on my forehead.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he says hesitantly.

I smile a little, and he lays me back on the bunk.  “You won’t.”



Afterward, I roll onto my side, and our bodies automatically shift, folding together, his breath warm on my neck, his chest touching my back, his thighs propping mine.  His arm is flung over my shoulder, and I raise his hand to my lips.  By his breathing, I think he’s asleep, so I whisper the words against his fingers.

But his hand moves against my lips, and he shifts slightly to kiss the side of my neck.  “I love you, too, Aeryn,” he says softly, and kisses me again, and in the rightness of that moment, I fall asleep.




The next day I walk to the training ring and watch my comrades work out.  I get a lot of good-natured teasing about being lazy from everyone but Jax.  Jax, after giving me a small welcoming smile, actually stays as far away from me as possible, and he is the first one to leave when the training session is over.  Tight-lipped, Teyn scowls after him and shakes her head.

“I’ll talk to him.”

“Won’t do any good,” she says, and smiles slightly.  “Wouldn’t do you any good if the situation was reversed, either, would it?”

I sit with Ced for awhile to give Desa a chance to go for a run.  His shattered leg is knitting together even more slowly than my reconstructed ribs, and he is chafing far more at the confinement.  He is tired of tadek, he is tired of card games, he is tired of reading, he is tired of vid entertainments.  “Let’s go target shooting,” he suggests, but I dissuade him, mostly because I would be tempted to shoot him.  After an hour, I promise myself that I will indeed be much kinder to John from now on.

I need a nap myself after that, and when I awaken, I realize that my memory of the last two days seems to be pretty intact.  I am still reveling in that sense of relief when John comes through the door.

“Good day?” he asks, smiling, noting my pants and vest neatly folded on the chair by the bed, evidence that I’ve been dressed and out for the first time since I was released from the medical unit.

“Could be better,” I say, and hold out my hand.  His dirty coveralls hit the floor in record speed.

[ScaperRed]

Teyn allows me half an arn of target practice the next morning with my team.  The feel of my holster strapped again to my thigh and the weight of my pulse pistol makes me feel as if I really am getting back to normal.  I don’t ask Teyn why she had taken my weapons, and she doesn’t volunteer information.  Some things I’d rather not remember.

I don’t do as well as I normally do, but Jax earns such a poor score that Desa, momentarily escaping from caring for Ced, rebukes him sharply.  He doesn’t say anything, just holsters his weapon and walks out of the range, and Teyn lets him go.

“Was that necessary?” I ask Desa.

Her jaw tightens.  “You have to ask?”

“He saved both our lives, Desa.  He carried Ced out of there—“

“He almost killed you, Aeryn.  That second shot of stim is why you bled so much, and he knew that could happen, knew that we were too far from base for decent medical attention.  He was bringing back the bodies, because we don’t leave anyone behind!”

“Enough,” Teyn says sharply.

“Has he been by to see you?  Sure as frell hasn’t come to see Ced, and they’re best friends.  He was in charge, how the frell could he have missed that shooter—“

“He—“ didn’t, I choke back, suddenly realizing the details that Jax hadn’t said, that Ced likely had not remembered, that Desa was assuming.

“Enough!” Teyn roars, stepping between us, and I force my hands to uncurl from fists.

“It’s not his fault,” I grit out between my teeth, my blood pounding in my ears, and make myself step back.

Teyn has Desa by the shoulders.  “It’s no one’s fault.  It just happened, and everyone did the best they could.  Ced’s all right, Aeryn’s all right, everyone will be fine.”

Desa’s sobbing now, Teyn hugging her tightly, and I stare for a moment.  Desa has always seemed so calm, at the most mildly irritated at Ced when he gets on her nerves, that I’ve never considered how much of strain his injury has been on her.  And Teyn, the hard- bitten senior officer, offers no recriminations for the emotion displayed, just comfort, more comfort than I know how to give.

Teyn’s eyes lock with mine over Desa’s shoulder, and she nods slightly, patting Desa’s back and then motioning toward Jax’s retreating figure.  I nod in return, squeeze Desa’s shaking shoulder once, and start after our comrade.

I can’t walk as fast as Jax, but I think I know where he’s going.  I find him exactly where I’d be, standing by his Prowler, one hand running along a wingtip, the other holding a forgotten scanner.

He actually jumps a bit when I walk up, and he pretends to be busy with the scanner while I catch my breath.

“I may not remember everything that happened three days ago, but my memory of the mission is very clear,” I say at last, still gasping a bit.  “Did you tell Teyn?”

“Tell what?” he says, turning his back to me to duck under the wing.

“You didn’t miss your targets, I didn’t miss,” I say, placing my hands on the edge of the wing to steady myself.  “It was Ced.”

Jax shrugs, his gaze darting up to touch mine briefly.  “Doesn’t matter.  I was in charge-—“

“And Ced was on my side.  If anyone should have noticed he missed a target, it should have been me.”

 “You did, and you took the target out.  You did your job.” He shakes his head, blinking quickly.  “If you had been in charge, would you feel any less responsible?”

“Of course,” I say sarcastically, ducking under the wing.  “If I had been in charge, Ced wouldn’t have missed.  Frell, Jax, stop playing these games with yourself.  It happened, it’s done, move on.  Ced and I are already angry enough at you.”  I pause, and I actually see the big man stiffen, as if steeling himself for a blow.  “You haven’t been by to see either one of us, and we’re bored frelling silly.”

He blinks, and then slowly we share a small smile.

“Thanks,” he says hoarsely, and I shake my head.

“Thank you for saving my life. I told you to leave me, and you wouldn’t listen.  You did exactly what a leader should do: you got all your people back to the base safely.”

We stand quietly, looking at our boots for a moment, before I feel his hand drop onto my shoulder and squeeze. 

Abruptly, he withdraws his hand.  “John,” he says, and I look over my shoulder to see John, face set hard, approaching, one hand clenched around a tool.

“Jax,” he says, and stops just behind me.  “Taking a walk, Aeryn?  You must be feeling a lot better.”

I nod and turn to smile at him, but his eyes are flat and focused on Jax.

“Yeah,” Jax says, tossing the scanner into the open cockpit of his Prowler.  “Glad to see you’re feeling better, Aeryn.  I’d better get back.”

I watch him turn to go, hoping the rift between our team members would start healing.  John’s hand closes on my shoulder; he lets go instantly when I twitch, startled at the way his fingers dig into my flesh.

“What?” I say, twisting to look at him.

He swallows, looking away.  “You look a little flushed.  Don’t overdo it your first day out with the guys.”

“I won’t.  I’m fine.”  I tell him about target practice, and he nods at the appropriate times, but the tension never leaves his shoulders.  Like Desa, he probably blames Jax for our injuries.  I want to explain to him, but I am abruptly caught in that chasm between commando and tech.  It’s the business of my team, and Jax apparently is willing to take the blame rather than reveal Ced’s error.  I don’t have the right to tell what happened to John, who is not part of our team.  So I say nothing.  After all, we seem to communicate best nonverbally; it’s the spoken language that gets us in trouble.

“Maybe you should go rest,” he says at last, and I nod into his hand as it cups my cheek.  His eyes soften, and he walks me back to my quarters before he returns to work.

That took care of itself.  He’ll get over it if I just don’t say anything.  Everything will be fine.



Within a couple weeks, I am running laps with Desa around the landing field.  My wound has healed into a smooth swirling scar that remains sensitive to the touch.  Teyn won’t let me spar or fly because the newly regenerated ribs are still soft.  She assigns me to the surveillance unit temporarily, which initially bores me to frustration.  I am not an analyst.  Give me the information and the coordinates and the mission, and I’ll do the job.  That’s my training.

Jax has the same duty on a different shift.  Teyn wants us to have some different training, and I think I know why.  Teyn is looking to expand her unit within the next cycle or two, and she’ll need two new team leaders.

It turns out that we are both working on the same project, from different perspectives.  Once we know that, we naturally become competitive, trying to provide the best summary of intelligence, the best means of infiltration, the best plan for entry and exit of the building.

I want to go on this mission, and I increase my physical training, rebuilding my endurance and strength.  I’ve lost some weight during my convalescence, and I try to replace it with sinew.

At night, John rubs my sore muscles, and his hands map the changes in my body as they gradually appear. 

He usually meets me at last meal, joining my comrades.  The rift between Jax and Desa and Ced has smoothed over, and we are all friends again.  I don’t notice it at first, but John never speaks directly to Jax unless he has to.  By the time I do notice, it’s too late.

After we eat, John and I usually go for a walk or directly to my quarters.  We spend arns in bed; far more time is spent making love than talking, and that’s fine with me.  Too much talking, and I would have to admit openly that I’m falling back in love with John Crichton, deeply, impossibly, insanely.  I’d rather write the admission on his body with my hands, my lips, my breath.

I think I don’t show it while on duty.  It’s not in my lightened step, my tendency to laugh more freely, the ease that I fall in with my comrades.  I am at heart a Peacekeeper, of course.

Teyn notices it; occasionally she gives me an enigmatic grin or a little amused shake of the head for no reason I can see.  Teyn notices everything.  Desa suspects, too, but that’s because she’s well into her own dance with Ced.  Although we don’t talk about it directly, we talk about our men with affectionate irritation as we work or train or run laps around the field.

A monen passes swiftly, and when I have time to reflect, it seems that it is the happiest time in my life so far.  Perhaps even happier than my time on Talyn.  It is certainly less complicated—no retrieval squad, no Crais or Stark or Rygel—and more fulfilling in terms of truly believing in the goals of my squad.

I almost tell John about the stasis pregnancy several times.  I’d asked the medtech, and he’d said the scan showed that the stasis was intact, and no harm could have come to the fetus.  I don’t tell John any of this.  It remains another secret, interwoven with the clandestine knowledge of being in love with him, which even I realize is quite different from simply loving him.  If I only loved him, I could survive losing him again.


 
][imghttp://home.comcast.net/~scaperred/wsb/media/201670/site1042.jpg[/img]http://That’s all I remember. 

There’s more.  I can feel it.  Just can’t get to it. 

John remembers.

We've finally found our way to each other.  But it's been a hell of a cost, and sometimes I wonder if we've finally used up our quota of luck in getting to this point.

She's getting better every day.  The medics say that one of the after effects of the kill shot is this slow healing.  The last brain scan did show some permanent damage, localized in the parts that handle short term memory.  The neural pathways can remap with time; otherwise, it's like a short circuit, sometimes firing correctly, sometimes not.  There's already some evidence that the remapping is occurring, and the sheer resiliency of Sebacean physiology just amazes me.  Of course, that's undoubtedly part of Peacekeepers’ genetic enhancement.

Aeryn, of course, only tells me she's fine.  As usual, my stomach just knots up over the uncertainty of whether she didn't tell me because she didn't remember, or because she deliberately does not want to deal with it.

Teyn told me the rest.  I did ask, because Aeryn seemed particularly cranky and restless the night after she went in for a checkup.  She wants to go back on full duty, and I don't know if she is totally unaware that she's still having memory lapses a few times a day, or if it's just Aeryn's usual grit.

Teyn knows Aeryn wants to go back to work.  I can tell it's killing Teyn, too, because although she's returned Aeryn's pulse pistol and other gear, she's not allowing Aeryn to do much, not even spar. The excuse she uses is the slow-healing ribs, but the reality is, as Teyn says, the last thing Aeryn needs is a hard shot to the head right now.  It may be weeks or months before she can fully rejoin the team.  Or maybe never, Teyn finally admits, and there's nothing either of us can say to that.  It would absolutely kill Aeryn to be totally sidelined, but I know Teyn will do it in a heartbeat if it's the best thing for everyone.

In the meantime, Aeryn’s been reassigned to the surveillance section and is working on some sort of special project for Teyn.  She really wants to go on this mission, and that’s good; she’s focusing on getting herself into physical condition, and that has to help her recovery.  At the same time, I wonder what will happen if her request is denied, if Teyn doesn’t think she’s ready.

It was hard enough on her a few days ago, when the others left on a mission.  Ced is still recovering, so he and Aeryn were the ones to give last minute advice and help check equipment.  And then stand there and say good-bye.  Ced went and got drunk right after.  Aeryn was in silent mode again, and she went to work out for a long time by herself.  When she came back, I was trying to get a very drunk Ced back to quarters, and she helped me, being none too gentle with our inebriated friend.  Afterwards, she said she was going to do some maintenance on her Prowler, but when I went to check on her later, she was just sitting in the cockpit, staring at the darkening sky.  It was late when she came back to quarters, and she didn’t say anything, just slipped into bed beside me.  When I put my arm around her, she didn’t say anything, just gave this shaky sigh and held onto my hand tightly with both of hers until we fell asleep.  I just held her; what could I say to make it better?  Not a fucking thing. 

I've been thinking about home a lot lately, and home has meant Moya.  If Aeryn can't be a soldier here, maybe at least she'll agree to go back to Moya.  I know she misses Pilot; we've talked about him and our other friends a lot lately.  But if it comes to that--man, what irony, to have come the full circle and return, to throw in this losing hand at last and concede. 


After all this time, you’d think Aeryn wouldn’t be able to surprise me any more.  But she did today.  Scared the crap out of me, too, but then, that’s more like Aeryn.

She was off duty today, and I would’ve been too if the surveillance server hadn’t developed a hiccup.  Six hours later, I finished the repair with my crew, and damned if it wasn’t starting to storm.  Great.  Just great.  My day off was shot, and now I got to walk clear across the compound in the rain.  So, by the time I got back to our quarters, I wasn’t in the best of moods.

Aeryn was standing in the open area by the barracks. She must’ve been there for awhile, because she was soaked, her loose hair plastered to her head, rain streaming from her tank top and leathers.  Hands tucked in her belt, she was squinting up at the sky while the rain pelted her face.

I froze in mid-step.  She’d snapped.  She’d finally snapped.  After all this, and I wondered what had happened to cause it.

When I walked up to her, though, she was grinning broadly.  “Rain,” she said, in perfect English, and I felt a jolt, remembering when I’d taught her that word, on the false Earth.  It had been her first experience with rain, and she’d loved it.

She hadn’t been around to see it rain here; she’d either been gone on missions or in the medical unit when storms had come through.  This planet is in such stable orbit that there is practically no changing of the seasons, not like on Earth.  It’s like perpetual spring, and this was a slightly cold April shower.

I vividly remembered the rainstorm on the false Earth, and what had happened during it, and I thought she must be thinking the same thing by the wicked glint in her eyes.  “I’ve been waiting for you,” she said, and laughed when I swept her off her feet and carried her into our quarters.

We made a hell of a mess that afternoon, water dripping everywhere, wet clothing slung across the floor, boots left standing in puddles, muddy tracks leading directly to the bed.  Aeryn teased me about it later during the half arn it took to clean up.

But before that, we lay in tangled, damp sheets and listened to the storm break overhead, while we were creating our own climate indoors.  I was still getting my breath back when Aeryn propped her elbows on my chest and stared down at me, grinning a little.

“What?” I said, brushing her wet hair back with my fingers. 

She shook her head slightly, still smiling, her blue-gray eyes absolutely clear.  “Just looking at you,” she said, but the feeling that pulsed through me was electric.  Maybe it was my imagination, maybe it was just hope, but it felt like she really was just looking at me—not thinking about anything else, anyone else.  No confusion.  She was looking at me, and she loved me.  Me, John Crichton.[/b]


I don’t remember this, and I wish I did.  I only remember one night of rain, on a false Earth, with the Ancients who had started this frelling wormhole dren.  I don’t remember the rain, I don’t remember making love with him that afternoon, I don’t remember looking into his eyes.  And if there was just one memory that I could regain, this would be the one, because I don’t have nearly enough recollections of being in John Crichton’s arms.

I read it again, hoping for at least a wisp of memory, but there is nothing.

I do remember the others going on a mission; I remember that feeling of being left behind, that sense of isolation.  The pure comfort of being held in his arms that night.  The silent reassurance that everything would be fine.

It wasn’t.  And nothing will ever be again.  And I wonder if he had some instinct that that would be so, as I read through the rest of his words chronicling this best of times between us.


I shouldn’t play this game, but I can’t help but wonder if this was the kind of love they had.  Jealous bastard that I am, I hope not.  I want to think this is between only us.  I should be happy, she has finally come back to me.  When I’m with her, I feel like I’m home, but when I’m not … I don't know what I feel.

While I’m confessing, Dear Diary, I might as well go all the way.  Jax.  That son of a bitch.  I know there’s nothing going on between them.  I see how Aeryn looks at him, and it’s the way she looked at D’Argo.  Nothing but friendship.  But when I see him near her, I feel so...

It’s totally irrational, but I can’t help thinking he doesn’t deserve to stand there next to her, talk to her, drink with her.  I know Teyn insists on shouldering the blame, but the fact is, she got injured under his command.  It happened on his watch.  And I also can’t help but think that if I’d been there, she might not have gotten hurt.  We’ve been through a lot of scrapes together, and we’ve almost always come out of them all right.  So maybe I’m blaming Jax because I’m also blaming myself. 

Hell.  As usual, I don’t know what I’m thinking or doing where Aeryn’s concerned.  All I know is how I feel, and how I think she feels, although we don’t talk about it.  She only said the words once, but then, Aeryn’s never been that vocal about emotions, unless she’s really pissed.  It’s in how she smiles all the way across the room when I walk in.  How she holds my hand under the table in the mess hall.  How she relaxes into my arms at night, her fingers twined with mine.   And, of course, the fact that she hasn’t kicked me out.  She hasn’t needed my help for weeks, and she’s said nothing about how more of my stuff keeps migrating to her quarters, except to tell me to clean it up on occasion.

We spend almost all our free time together now, to the point where Ced is now teasing me.  And I certainly can’t complain about how much time we spend in bed.  Yet I can’t shake this sense that the other shoe is going to drop any time now, that something else will happen.  I guess that’s natural.  So much has happened the last few months, good and bad.  I am grateful for the fact that it’s all brought Aeryn and me together again, and I want to focus on that.  I want to focus on how I’m falling in love with her all over again, and how she’s falling in love with me.  ME. 

And, for the first time, I have to say that it feels like we’ve both thrown ourselves fully into this game, that we’ve covered our bets and accepted the hand that we’ve been dealt, as far as this relationship goes.  As my dad would’ve said, it was time to ante up and stop bluffing.  Dad, you’d like Aeryn a lot--

Speaking of somebody, she just walked in the door.  She’s been having a drink with the newly returned team, and I guess she’s heard enough of their adventures.  By the look in her eye right now, I’d say she—[/b]

The writing smears into a faint line.

It takes a moment for the piece to click into place, for me to realize the timing involved and for the memory to surface.  When it does, though, it is electric.



   


I kick the door to our quarters open with a flourish.  He’s sitting at the small desk in the corner, writing in his journal.  He doesn’t look up, but I see the corners of his lips start to quirk, and I realize he is deliberately ignoring me as he continues guiding the pen over the page.

I’ve had a couple raslaks with Teyn and Jax; Desa and Ced vanished pretty quickly, to no one’s surprise.  Teyn and Jax are still swapping war stories and drinking, but I want to be somewhere else.

I’ve got two cold bottles of fellip nectar in my left hand, and I deliberately let some of the condensation drip onto the back of John’s neck.  He twitches reflexively, and I yank the journal from under his hand.  He protests as his pen skids across the page, but I close the book and toss it onto the far corner of the desk.  I throw the pen after it and grab his arm, pulling him to his feet. “Not tonight,” I tell him, steering him toward the door, and I try hard to hide a smile.

 “Aeryn, what the hell—“

I scold and push him along, knowing that he’ll pay more attention to our bickering than his surroundings.  The compound lights have dimmed for the night cycle, but I don’t want him to notice the occasional streaks in the sky yet.

He stumbles in the dark after we get past the Prowlers and the landing field, and I finally slow down, remembering his vision is not as acute as my own.  I loosen my grip on his arm, guiding him now until his eyes adjust.

There’s a little fringe of low trees nearby, forming almost a ring around a clearing.  I lead John into the center of it, where there’s a couple big flat rocks.  I can feel the quizzical looks he’s giving me, but at least he’s quiet for now.  “Lie back,” I tell him, and he does, lacing his hands behind his head.  I settle next to him, mimicking his posture on the rough warm stone, and for a few moments the only sounds are insects in the trees and our own breathing.  I’m silently counting, though, and I smile as John exclaims softly, right on cue, as a brilliant streak of light crosses the sky directly above us.

“Make a wish,” he says rapidly, and elbows me when I just stare uncomprehendingly. 

I can’t think of anything I’d want, for I seem to have everything right here.  John, however, has closed his eyes, and in the dim moonlight I can see the lines of concentration in his face.

“What did you wish for?”

He shakes his head as he opens his eyes, but he’s got such a silly grin on his face that I suspect it has something to do with me.  And sex.  “Can’t tell you.  It won’t come true if I do.  Honest.  That’s the way it works.”

Well, that makes no less sense than anything else he’s said.

I point to the sky, which is filling with large and small streaks of light as meteors strike the planet’s atmosphere and burn away.  John calls it a “meteor shower,” and I guess it is sort of like the sky is raining meteorites.  We both lie quietly and watch for awhile, before he asks how I knew about the meteor shower.

I shrug.  “I read the planetary meteorology reports daily, as well as the local system scans.  It’s necessary to coordinate activities.”

“So why?” he asks, gesturing at large, and I realize he means, why did I bring him here.  I shrug again and remind him that he’s told me countless tales of his childhood on Earth, and at least one of them focused on a camping trip with his father during such a phenomenon.

“The Pleiades,” he says, nodding.  “The summer we went to California.  Dad used his influence and got us in to watch one of the first shuttle launches, too.”

Eventually I open the bottles of fellip nectar.  John makes some silly toast, we clink bottles, and just as he’s starting to swallow, I remember that one drinking saying from Earth.  “Bottoms up,” I say, enunciating carefully, and either I’ve mispronounced it, or it’s just struck him as humorous, because he chokes and spews a mouthful of fellip nectar all over himself.  And me.

It takes him a few microts to get his breath back and stop coughing.  “Bottoms up.  Great idea,” he says, which makes no sense to me as he takes the bottle from my hand and sets it aside with his.  He rolls onto his back and pulls me on top of him, and just as I lean in to kiss him, I see a meteor flash reflected in his eyes.



The meteors are still streaking across the sky arns later.  It’s not long until dawn now, and we’re both a little cold and very sleepy.  If I’d been better prepared, I’d have thought to bring a blanket.  But then, staying out so late had been John’s addition to the idea.

He can’t seem to stop laughing when I can’t find my shirt in the darkness, although he’s one sock short himself.  I start running through my litany of curses half-heartedly as I search, and when I glance up at him, I stop speaking at the soft smile on his face.  I forget to curse, I forget to be annoyed, frell, I forget to breathe.  He’s sitting on the edge of the rock, his shirt forgotten in his hands, and the moonlight throws the planes and edges of his body into sharp relief, while, at the same time, somehow softening his face.  Or perhaps its just his expression as he looks at me.

“I love you, Aeryn,” he says, his voice a quiet whisper in the predawn stillness.

“I know,” I say in the same tone.  “I love you, too.”


 


I’m not sure how much time has passed when the memory fades.  It’s Pilot’s unsteady voice that rouses me, asking if I am all right.  I can’t answer him, my chest locked in a spasm of grief that can’t even be released by tears.  Even if I had any tears left.

John didn’t write about the next part, what happened just two weekens later.  So much of it he never even knew.  Everything fell apart so suddenly, and yet the waves of its destruction are still being felt even today, thousands of metras away.

It was the best time of my life, although I did not know it then, and I remember it all as if has just happened.  It ended in a flash of memory, a flash of anger, a flash of painful insight.  It ended because of me and what I cannot do and cannot be, and even as it happened, I knew that one moment would mark the rest of my life, and his, forever.

[ScaperRed]

Chapter 7:
Raising the Stakes


Pilot calls my name again, more urgently.  Forcing myself to unclench my hands from the journal, I lay it aside and reach for my vest, which I’d dropped carelessly on the foot of the bed.  I try to clear my throat enough to speak, but I can’t, still caught in that paroxysm of grief. 

A creaking groan rumbles through the leviathan, followed quickly by another.  Automatically, I rise, trying to discern this new noise from the others in an effort to gauge Moya’s pain.  The sound intensifies as the ship rolls slightly to hammond side.  I put my hand on the wall to steady myself, and the sound vibrates through me, the harmonic a tingling warmth that starts in my hand.  Instinctively, I know what it is.  Moya is trying to gauge my own pain.  And give what comfort she can.

The warmth spreads slowly through my arm, my chest.  It radiates through me, and it eases me, the aches from the fever, even the throbbing in my shoulder, for a few microts. 

Pilot has stopped calling for me.  It takes me awhile to gather my strength and steady my voice.  When I comm him, I don’t ask how he is feeling or if there is anything I can do for him.  We’ve passed beyond that in the last few arns, and although I won’t admit it even to myself, I do realize that he and Moya will die soon.  I ask him, instead, if he wants me to join him in his den.

He is reluctant to answer at first, asking if I’d gotten any rest.  I ignore his question, because it matters so little at this point.  I can tell by his wavering voice that he is frightened and would like my presence, so I dress, strap on my well-worn holster, check the chakkan oil cartridge before sliding the pistol into place.  The gesture is automatic, but the irony is not; the only threat that might visit us would render a pulse pistol quite useless. 

I am still thinking about that particular futility when I glance up to see Scorpius in the doorway.

“Ah, good,” he says, his blue eyes gleaming.  “You are awake.  I’ll be running some more tests shortly, and your assistance will be most appreciated.”

I nod, picking up John’s journal, and fall into step with him.  He doesn’t ask if I’ve slept or how I feel, and I am grateful that he no longer even bothers with the “small talk.”  Instead, he outlines the plan for the next few arns, the data he hopes to gather. I listen closely enough to understand what he expects me to do. 

As we near Pilot’s den, Scorpius explains further his new theory for tracking and stabilizing wormholes.  He speaks of using wormholes as a means for troop transport, for surprise attacks upon the Scarrans.  He talks of moving large forces to strategic positions, and I say nothing, although I know that by now the Peacekeeper forces have been decimated, that at best there are small groups holding out, scattered through the Uncharted Territories and in Tormented Space.

I don't allow myself to wonder if my group still exists, and although I do feel the lingering ties to those people I fought alongside—those who are left now—I have no compulsion to try to join them.  I can't do them any good now, and my actions have already harmed them enough.  To bring Scorpius and his plans to them would ensure their deaths, or his, and my unrelenting sense of duty will not allow either.

He continues to speak of wormholes, of great ships being transported, of missiles being sent on exact trajectories, of being able to fix what has gone wrong in so many ways.

I think of wormholes, and John's steady hands constructing a displacement engine, of the bright flash in the sky over Dam Ba Da as John Crichton used his unique knowledge as a weapon just once.  My grip tightens on the journal, the last depository of that knowledge.  I fight to keep my breathing steady, my emotions under control, for I know Scorpius' true agenda just as surely as he knows that I am lying about giving him the book before I die. 

Pehaps he does sense my reluctance, or perhaps he merely realizes the growing disorderliness of my mind.  For whatever reason, Scorpius accompanies me to Pilot's den.  He even endures microts of pleasantries as I greet Pilot and check his vital signs, which are no lower than they were when I left him.  It's only when I settle myself next to Pilot behind the console that Scorpius repeats his instructions and leaves to prepare the module for launch.

I set the scans as requested, and I lean against Pilot’s side for a moment, holding one of his claws in both of my hands.

“What will he do?” Pilot asks, and it takes me a few microts to realize what he’s asking.

“He claims to want to use it for strategic transport, not as a weapon.”

“Surely he has...enough data on it as a transport device...by now?”

I nod.  Of course, there is more to it than that.  Not that I believe he will be successful.  By my standards, anyway.

“So...he will use wormhole technology as a weapon...against Scarrans?”

I nod again, automatically, but my mind has fled once more.  There’s a wisp of memory tugging at me, stirred by the talk of wormholes and weapons and Scarrans.  Abruptly, I can feel the cool smoothness of the strategy table beneath my hand, breathe in the warm, damp, planetary air of the base, hear the brisk rumble of Teyn’s voice.  I blink, and the den fades from around me as the wisp strengthens into visceral memory.


   
 

“Aeryn?”

I blink, realizing belatedly that Pilot has called my name several times, and as I breathe in the cool, slightly musty air of Moya, the visual aspect of the memory fades.  Oddly enough, I can still feel the pull of my sweat-soaked shirt against my shoulders; hear the creak of my holster and the clack of my boot steps as I walk away from John; smell the earth and the plants surrounding the base; taste the salt of unshed tears and the bitter tang of regret.

I inhale Moya’s air again.  It’s with a certain amount of reluctance that I feel the last remnants of memory fade away.

“Yes, Pilot?” I say, loosening my white-knuckled grip on his claw.

It’s actually Scorpius who wants assistance.  I relay the readings he requests, and I idly listen to his excited chatter about the structure of wormholes.  I know little about the science of which he speaks, but I have listened enough to John’s speculations and explanations to realize the cause of Scorpius’ excitement today.  He’s close to discovering the final piece, the requirements of the displacement engine. 

I am running out of time.

I chance a look at Pilot’s sagging head.  We are all running out of time.

Scorpius is silent again, satisfied with the numbers recorded.  I hoist myself up onto the console, wanting to be as close to Pilot as possible, and unable to stand any longer.  My mind remains on the memories the journal has stirred, however, my regrets like the taste of burned chakkan oil choking my throat.  Strange how clearly I can only understand what happened after I’ve lost everything twice.

The one thought that continues to echo through me is that I never should have let him go with me.  That was the key to so many things.

I couldn’t see that then, of course.  I could see nothing past the moment, feel nothing past the fear of losing everything again.  Of losing him, of course, but along with that loss would be death of the person I had become with him.  The identity I had made for myself, even among my group, was indelibly influenced and connected to his, and I didn’t realize how true that was until I did try to break away from him.  What was left was a shell filled with nothing but anger, and pain, and fear—all the things I had to hide from my comrades under a guise of training, of duty, of commitment. 

Frell, I’ve never really gotten over losing John Crichton the first time, that first long fall from grace, although I’d told myself I had.  And now that I’ve lost him again—

Now I’m not even trying.

Pilot’s voice pulls me from my thoughts.  He wants me to read to him again, but I hesitate.  I don’t have the strength in any way to go back through the journal again, even for Pilot.  Or the time.  And there is so much that he would not understand, that would require explanation.  I don’t think he’s asking out of curiosity, anyway. I think he merely wants to hear a voice other than his own.  I understand that all too well now.

There’s not much written in the journal about the next few weekens, the last of John Crichton’s life.  I’ll have to rely upon my own faulty memories to piece together a tale for Pilot, and goddess knows I won’t tell him all of it, even though I will remember every microt that I can. 

Clearing my throat, I open the journal near the back and start with the brief passage there. 

God, I hope this is the right thing to do. The stakes are a lot higher now.  I hope I’m doing this for the right reasons.  And I hope I have the strength to see this through, whatever the cost...

[ScaperRed]

Chapter 8:
Call and Raise
       


Jax and I are going over our latest intel reports, waiting for Teyn, when she walks into the strategy room.  With John.

I glance at Jax, who lifts one eyebrow slightly and shakes his head.

Teyn remains standing by the head of the table instead of dropping into her chair as she usually does.  She looks at me and Jax in turn, and we automatically shift our expressions to neutral in response to her tight-lipped, don’t-frell-around frown.  We all ignore John, leaning against the wall behind her, for the moment.

“It’s time to start finalizing our plans,” Teyn says, and drops several sheets onto the desk, sliding a set to each of us.  “First, the mission will include both teams.  One team will maintain the outer perimeter and provide backup.  The strike team will infiltrate the inner chambers of the Hokothian ministry, where we are told the Hokothians will meet with Furlow and several Scarran representatives. I will lead the strike team; Jax, you’re my second in command.  Aeryn, you’re third.  Ced and Darek will follow us.

“The Council, after much deliberation, has decided that our goal is not only to prevent the acquisition of the wormhole technology by the Scarrans and Hokothians.  As the Peacekeepers have been working on similar technology for some cycles as well, the threat of developing such a weapon has created a balance of power.  In fact, the Scarrans believe that we actually do have wormhole weapons very close to being battle ready.  Therefore, our primary task is to prevent any information from falling into Scarran hands.  Our secondary task is to retrieve the information ourselves, in order to know exactly how far along in development both the Scarrans and this Furlow have come.

“Consequently,” and Teyn’s voice hitches a bit as she looks away from me, “we will be taking along a tech who will be able to access the information, verify it, and copy it before we blow the place to hezmana.”

I’m not looking at Teyn now; I’m staring at John, who can’t meet my eyes. 

“John has knowledge of wormhole technology and will be able to recognize the formulas and symbols.  He has volunteered to go with us.”

Under the table, Jax kicks my boot, but I don’t react.  I stare at John, who has finally met my eyes guardedly, and I can’t think, I can’t breathe, I can only see, superimposed over his image, the bright streak across the sky of Dam Ba Da as an entire Scarran dreadnaught was consumed; the light leaving his eyes; the weary image captured in Stark’s mask saying, “Don’t let Scorpius crack this...whatever it takes”; arguing with John on the command carrier when he seemed reluctant to destroy the wormhole tech—

“Aeryn?”

Blinking, I look at Teyn and shake my head slightly.  I have no idea what she’s just asked me; I can’t hear anything over the Prowler engine that has begun screaming in my head again.

“We’ve only got a weeken to prepare,” Teyn continues.  “John needs to be integrated into the strike team.  We also have to figure out how to get to the information itself.  More intel is forthcoming, but we need to start running logistical simulations immediately.”  Pushing her chair back, she rises.  “Unfortunately, I have more meetings with the council regarding this and other matters.  Jax, start giving John background.  Aeryn.”  She jerks her head toward the door, and I automatically rise and follow her into the bright afternoon light.

“I would’ve told you sooner, but I just found out an arn ago myself.  Council convened at dawn with the new intel, and we argued about it until I came in just now.”

“He’d already volunteered, though.”

Teyn nodded.  “As soon as he found out Furlow was involved, he offered whatever services we needed.  He’s been giving us background information, as much as he can.  He’s been very helpful.”  She stops, arms folded across her chest, and her dark brown eyes reflect nothing but cold duty as she looks at me.  I respond to that in kind, stiffening my posture, making my expression neutral.  “Aeryn, he’s the best tech to go.  He’s familiar with the technology, and he’s a decent shot.  This is going to be a very difficult mission, and we’ll need everyone working at full capacity.”

I nod.

Teyn looks away, setting her jaw hard, and her discomfort is unusual enough that I notice it, despite my own churning emotions.  “Aeryn...on this particular mission, we’re all interchangeable, including myself.  The only one who is not, is John.  He’s the only one who can analyze the data quickly enough to determine if it is real.”

“So just say it, Teyn,” I say, and I’m surprised my voice is so steady.

“I’ve placed you third on the team because this has worked well, the three of us going in together.  It feels solid, Jax on my left, you on my right.  But it doesn’t have to be that way.  You could lead the perimeter team.  Or you could fly the marauder.  Or you could stay here.  You don’t have to go on this one, Aeryn.  That’s always the option open to any of us.  But whatever you do, you’ve got to give it your full concentration.  Got to focus on the job, not on anyone or anything else.”

I nod.  “Furlow?”

Teyn exhales slowly.  “My primary target is the Scarran, Jax’s the Prime Hokothian, yours Furlow.  This is also an unfunded mission, Aeryn.  This one we all do for free, simply because it’s the right thing to do.  And if it goes down the way it should...we literally save the galaxy, although no one will ever know beyond this base.”



 


And if it doesn’t...we’re all frelled was the part that Teyn knew she didn’t need to say.  I’d already lived it.

I didn’t realize, at the time, that John had too, in a way.

Teyn hates this plan and really wants no part of it.  She didn’t have to tell me that; I could see it in her eyes when I spoke before the council.  She doesn’t do tech missions.  But it’s more than that, in all fairness; she thinks it’s totally screwed and she doesn’t like to lose.  I have to admit, I don’t know how the hell we’re going to get in and out without losing someone.

As we were walking out of the council room, she did tell me flat out that it’s a bad combination, me and Aeryn together on the team right now, and of course I had to shoot back at her that we’d gotten out of plenty of scrapes together with no commandos to help.  Teyn backed me into the wall then and gave me an ass-chewing about heroes and jobs and doing the right thing.  And I stood there thinking about—the other guy—and how more than a few people ended up knowing what he’d done.  And how no one knew it was really him, not me, who had done it. 

For the first time, I thought of him as a person, not a rival for Aeryn’s affection, not a copy of me.  He lived.  And he died doing the right thing.  He’d played the hero and paid the cost, and he hadn’t blinked an eye while doing it.

I don’t know how to tell Teyn this, or if Aeryn already has.  I doubt it; Aeryn’s not talking to anyone these days.  I know better than Teyn what we’re up against, what’s hanging in the balance, and I would’ve been pissed off at the lecture, except that I realized one reason that Teyn is so wound up over this mission.  Her team isn’t at full strength, and she needs al of them for this one.

It’s Aeryn.  She hasn’t cleared medical yet, and Teyn hasn’t slated her for full duty either.  But she’s hellbent on going on this mission, and there’s no reasoning with her.  Not that she’d remember it, anyway.  She still has trouble remembering long strings of numbers, new sequences of control codes or commands, conversations.  She doesn’t even realize it half the time, or she acts like she doesn’t.  Hell, maybe she doesn’t remember not remembering.

She can still field strip and reassemble a weapon in record time; she can target shoot with the best of them; hell, she damn near whooped Teyn’s ass in the training ring the other day.  But those are all skills she had before.  It’s the acquisition of new information that’s difficult now, the recall of it.  There’s been improvement, Teyn says, but what goes unspoken is the senior officer’s concern that Aeryn might blank out in the middle of battle, that she might have a lapse at a crucial point. 

Ironic, isn’t it, that Aeryn may be more of a liability than me, the tech-turned-commando.  And more ironic that out of all the things she’s forgotten, he isn’t one of them.  The guy who gave his life to save the universe, unknown to everyone else now except for her and a handful of people who were there or who heard the story. 

So yeah, Teyn, I think I got a grip on how crucial this is.  John Crichton gets to help save the galaxy again, unrecognized by anyone except a small circle of friends, but this time he doesn’t even get kissed.

It takes me a few microts to process the information and summarize it sufficiently for Pilot, to blend it with what I do remember.  I’d like to deny that I had any gaps in memory, that Teyn had any concerns about my going on the mission.  But there are blank spots in my recollection that I can’t ignore even now.

Haltingly, I read on, wondering what else I don’t remember.

Teyn told me that I would be integrated into the team in some way; the exact role I would play would be determined by Aeryn, who was dealing with the logistics of the entry and exit.  Part of her job is to see how I will fit with the team.  I can tell by Teyn’s expression that she thinks the best spot for me would be in the back, surrounded by guards.  She may be right; I’ve watched these guys train often enough to know that I’m out of my league here.  But I have to go, I have to do this.  I’m the only one who can. 

Teyn also gave me some advice.  It doesn’t matter that we’re all friends.  The team’s already long established, and I need to do something to earn my way in, to show that I have some skills. Well, I think I took a step in that direction today—

I break off in mid-sentence, and Pilot looks at me strangely.  I’d forgotten this, and I ruefully chuckle as I turn to Pilot to explain.  It was such a typically Crichton thing he had done to prove himself, and I hadn’t seen it coming at all.



   




After Teyn talks to me, I go back to the strategy room as ordered, to do my job.  Jax and I spend the next several arns going over the initial plans with John.  We’d anticipated a single assassination strike team dropped by Marauder entering and leaving in a short period of time; it was actually pretty much a straight shot in and out, cutting a wide swath of destruction with our weapons as needed.  Now, we have a secondary mission, a tech one that will require some time.  And there is no way to estimate how much time would be needed.

“Well, the meeting will be in the inner chamber,” Jax says, running his finger around the floor plan.  “They’d have to view it there—“

“Grab the chip, stick it in a viewer, authenticate it—thirty, forty microts?” John says innocently, and Jax and I look at each other and shake our heads.  Even if it took no more than thirty microts, that would be thirty microts for additional guards to arrive; thirty microts that might mean none of us got out alive, or that the Marauder returning for us faces heavy opposition, or any of a thousand scenarios that John cannot even comprehend, simply because of his background.  Or lack of background.

“The real problem,” Jax says bluntly, “is where to put you, John.  If we have you in the rear with the perimeter team—“

“He’ll still need someone to bring him up to us,” I finish, nodding, and grab the team lists.  “We take primary targets, secure the area, and then, say, Marik and Tace escort him—“

“Hey!” John tries to interrupt.

“Or at least Traver.  Traver could probably do it alone, if John can shoot at all, and we’ll have taken out the guards already—“

“Hey!” John yells, thrusting between us.  “I don’t need no stinkin’ escort!  I am not without skills, you know, I’m a decent shot—Aeryn, tell him, for god’s sake you’re the one who taught me—“

Jax looks at me questioningly; I shake my head slightly and we turn back to the list.  It doesn’t matter that John can handle a gun.  If he has to come on this frelled-up mission, then I want him to be rearguard, where he’s marginally safer.

I’m trying so hard to ignore John standing next to me that at first I don’t realize his hand has brushed my thigh.  It’s the click as he hits the release on my holster that registers, and I make a grab for him as he draws my weapon and steps back.  Off balance, I miss, and he backs to the end of the room, waving the pulse pistol triumphantly.

“What the frell—“  Jax and I say together.

“Well, she’s not Winona—you really ought to name your pistol, Aeryn—but I think she’ll work,” he says, in that drawn-out slur of sounds that he calls Southern charm, and that I call Farboht Level Maximum.

In the next instant, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a coin; probably the same frelling one he used in the toss that got us into this insane situation.  He flips the coin high in the air, and for a moment I think he’s simply going to call it.  I focus on the coin, and for a moment I feel as if I am back on Moya watching this replayed, even while I am standing here next to Jax—

I hear Jax shout, and then he hits me, knocking me to the floor, as John levels my pulse pistol and fires.

“You frelling hingemot!” Jax bellows.  In less than a microt, he has scrambled to his feet and launched himself at John, who is laughing like a fiend even as he holds the pistol out to Jax, grip first.

“I hit it!  I hit the fuckin’ thing!  Wild Bill Hickok, top that!”

While Jax yells at John, I pick up the coin, which has landed less than a half motra from me.  It’s no longer legal currency; nearly half of it has been blasted away.  While it’s not a perfect center shot, it is close enough to make my jaw drop.  I’ve never seen anyone do anything like that before, and I don’t even know how John could have thought of it.

“Jax,” I say, and he swings around.  He’s got John’s throat in one hand, my pulse pistol in the other.  I hold up the coin and through the hole in it, I see his eyes widen.

“Does that mean I get to play with the big kids now?” John wheezes, and Jax abruptly lets him go.  Jax hands me my pulse pistol, which I holster automatically, and gives me a questioning look, which I ignore.

“John,” I say, and pause, and for a microt there’s the slightest chance I might be able to get a grip on my temper.  The foolish, proud grin on his face blows that chance to hezmana.  “Don’t touch my weapon again.  Ever.”  I hit him hard in the jaw, so fast that he doesn’t have any idea it’s happening, and he slumps to the floor.

“Feel better?” Jax asks.

“No.”

Jax looks around.  “You have time to hit him again before Teyn gets here.  Frell, I would.”

Instead, I stand there, rubbing my knuckles, wondering what the frell we’d gotten ourselves into while the room fills with curious people and one very angry senior officer.


 


Pilot doesn’t see the humor, but he tries to smile as I read the single line John has written about the incident.  I chuckle slightly and read it again.  Wild John Hickok rides again. [/b] I haven’t got a frelling clue what it means, but the image of John’s proud grin seen through the hole blown in the coin makes me smile.  I have that coin still in a box in my quarters.  I’ve never been one to collect possessions that are not practical, yet I was compelled to hold onto that one, perhaps drawn to its simple symbolism: fate, caught by a pulse blast in midair. 

I stir at last, glancing at Pilot, who is patiently waiting for me to continue.  His eyelids are starting to droop, and I hasten to sift through my scattered memories, seeking—

I draw a slow, aching breath and glance cautiously at Pilot.  He’s sliding into sleep.  Good.  This is one of the parts that he doesn’t really need to know.

And that I need to remember.



   


“Want me to do it?” Jax asks again.  He waves off my glare, shaking his head, and backs off.  “It’s just—“

“Do I tell you how to do security system overrides?” I snap back.  “Do your job, and I’ll do mine.”

He leaves the strategy room this time instead of just going back to his station, and I return to my particular problem of how to fit John in with the rest of the team.

It doesn’t work.

If we had enough time—a few weekens—then perhaps it would.  John does have skills.  Just not the ones I need right now for the strike team. 

I’ve got this particular duty because I do know his strengths and weaknesses best.  And my own.

Just for an instant, I wonder if perhaps I should go with the perimeter team or fly one of the Marauders.  But, if anything should go wrong—

I’ll blame myself either way.

My focus has abruptly shifted, from merely killing Furlow and destroying the wormhole tech data, to killing Furlow and destroying the wormhole tech data and keeping John safe, and I’m not sure which one is my highest priority.  John’s always had a way of doing that, though, mixing up my priorities.

He walks in just as, frustrated, I snap a writing stylus in half.

“This is the plan?” he asks, looking at the collection of dots on the viewscreen as if he could actually know what they meant.

“This is the frelled plan,” I say. 

“Well, I do have a habit of messing up your neat little plans,” he says quietly, his eyes on the viewscreen.

He’s wearing his leathers again, and Winona, after a few monens’ absence, is again strapped to his thigh.  I look at him, and I have to force myself to breathe, emotions surging through me.

“Yes, you do,” I say, very softly, and snap off the screen.  “You know, originally, the plan was get in, blow the place up, get out.  No data retrieval.  No verification.  Straight job.  Not particularly easy, but considerably less—complicated than it is now.  Not to mention that Peacekeepers will have a head start on Scarrans in building wormhole weapons, or have you forgotten that?  Forgotten that this knowledge is too dangerous for anyone to have?”

“I can hardly forget that, Aeryn. I live with that every day,” he bites back at me.  “But these are your people.  You really want Scarrans to get there first?  You want to take that chance?”

“I’ve seen what it can do, John.  You haven’t.”

He recoils slightly, and I would regret my words, but I’m too frelling angry. 

“I know—that I haven’t seen what you have,” he says slowly, his hands curling into fists on the edge of the strategy table.  “I haven’t been where you have.  Every time you look at me, Aeryn, I know that.  It was nice pretending for awhile, but we’re back to the truth—“

“The truth is, you’re a tech who wants to go play commando, and you’re likely to get us all killed doing it—“

“Stop it, Aeryn!  Just stop it!  Stop treating me like—“  He breaks off, and I realize we’re both standing in an offensive stance, the strategy table between us.

“Like what?” I dare him to say it, to finally have the mivonks to throw it out in the open, but I am utterly surprised when he actually does.

“Less.  Less than—him.  Less of a fighter, less of a person, less of a man.  You wouldn’t even have had this argument with him—“

“No, because he was too frelling busy getting himself killed!” I yell back.  “Just had to go play the hero, and now you’re doing the same frelling thing, just like I knew you would, just another frelling fool—“

“No, I’m not!  I’m me, not just some replacement part!”

 “You don’t understand a frelling thing, John, and you never will.  You are not a Peacekeeper, you are not a commando, you are not a soldier. You think that by wearing those clothes, wearing that weapon, you’re something you can never be, should never be.  Tell me, John, how you are so different from him.”

“I have to do this.”

“No, you don’t!” I shout at him, slamming my fists on the table, and I’m seeing it all again, Furlow, the sand, the flash in the sky, one last desperate kiss before he draws his final breath.  I see it happening, and I feel the wheel spinning under me, and it always ends up in the same place.

He’s quieted for a moment, staring at me, and I realize how futile it all is, how it’s all tied to frelling fate, to that coin toss even, and there’s nothing I can do, nothing I can say.

“You don’t understand,” I say, and I hardly recognize my own rasping voice.  “You don’t understand, and you never will.”

“I have to do this, Aeryn.  I’m the only one left to do it.”

No, you’re not, and that’s not why you’re doing it, either. You think you’re trying to prove yourself to me, to fit into my world, but you’re not.  You’re doing this for you, to prove who you are, and you can’t see past that, past your own fears.

But I suppose the same could be said of me.

Abruptly the anger is burned from me again, and I have no strength left.  I drop back into my chair and turn my back to him, and, after enough long microts of silence, I hear him walk away.


 


I pause and sip water from a flask Scorpius brought for me earlier.  He returned from his first survey of the wormhole today, analyzed data briefly, and departed to collect more.  Idly, I watch his progress on the scans.  I don’t think he’s collecting data so much as collecting his thoughts, and I wonder how much time I—we—have left.

“And so you went on...the mission?” Pilot asks, rousing a little.  I’d ended up telling him most of it after all.  He may have dozed a bit, but his great golden eyes would open each time I stopped speaking, as if needing confirmation that he was not alone.

I nod and cap the flask carefully one handed, as I sift for more memories.  I can see the gaps plainly now; I know there were more planning sessions, drills with the team, discussions of weaponry.  Frell, there were some brief conversations, too, even though I didn’t want to have them, with Desa, with Teyn, with John.  There were evenings spent in a raslak haze, and there were mornings pounding my knuckles raw on the training bag and nights waited through with no sleep.  I know all this happened; it had to have happened, during the two weekens or so of preparation between my recognizing Furlow and our leaving for the mission.  I just can’t remember any of it.  Frell, I’m not even sure how long it was. 

Ironically, I do remember the medics performing tests, and their reports saying my short term recall was improving. So perhaps it’s not that I can’t remember, exactly.  There was certainly enough stress during that time to obstruct memory.  Or perhaps those things simply weren’t important enough to burn into my neural pathways.

Automatically, I perform my duties as I think. I check the scans for Scorpius’s data; I monitor Pilot’s vital signs.  Paradoxically, while Pilot seems none the worse now than several arns ago, my shoulder is burning feverishly.  Gingerly, I rub at the area around the wound, and my fingers brush over the scar at the top of my shoulder, at the edge of my shirt.  It’s small, hardly noticeable, but its discovery jolts other memories loose.  Odd how it makes me want to smile now, considering the amount of cursing I did when receiving that wound.


   



The plan is still frelled, but it’s the best I can do, and Jax and Teyn can make no improvement on it either.  It does afford John some protection, and if he really frells up, he’ll likely take me out instead of one of my comrades.

We do a practice run, weapons unloaded, and it seems to work.  Teyn is on point, Jax on her left, I on her right.  Behind me is John, and to his left is Ced.  Darek is rearguard. 

“Armor up for sims,” Teyn directs us.  I can’t suppress a groan entirely, and John looks at me strangely.  Frell, this is going to hurt.

We are all assigned our target windows, which overlap; even if one person misses a shot, it’s likely the next person will not.  But there’s always that chance.

I’ve taken charge of John today, whether he likes it or not; he’s going to be at my back, and I need him focused.  I help him put the gear on, a lighter version of our battle armor with sensors threaded through it, and adjust the straps quickly.  “Gun feels different now,” he observes, hefting it.

“Really?”  I’ve never noticed; just an adjustment to make.  But the armor does restrict movement to some degree, although it also makes it easier to steady the heavy pulse rifle.  I hand him the sim cartridge for his weapon and I attach the sensor to the end of the barrel.  “Watch your shots; you tend to go a little high.  Don’t worry so much about accuracy as covering the area.  Your rifle is set for maximum fire.  Sweep it evenly.”

He nods, and I bang my fist on his chestplate before donning my own gear.

He looks just like the rest of us now; I can distinguish him only by his height, a little shorter than Jax, a little taller than Ced.  His posture looks right, he’s balancing the way I’d shown him.  So maybe this would be all right, at least in the sims.

Frell, this is going to hurt.

And it does, but I don’t get the first hit.  John misses a guard in the simulation, who fires at Teyn.  She drops to her knees with a yell, the electric current knifing through her shoulder, cursing.  John freezes, which means that he misses another guard, who takes Jax out with a thigh shot.  I surge forward, spraying shots frantically, and John falls in just behind and to my right—

Chest shot, and I hit the ground hard flat on my back, pain coursing through my upper body.  I don’t even know which guard shot me.

“End sim dekka five,” Teyn calls out, and cracks her helmet open as the sim ends and the training room reappears.  “Good job, John.  We’re all dead except you.”

I roll onto my knees, forcing myself to breathe slowly, the pain dulling to a sparking tingle now.  A hand appears to help me up, and I realize it’s John’s as he pulls me to my feet.

“Sorry,” he says, not looking at any of us, and I cuff his shoulder like I would a cadet.

“Don’t worry about it,” I say, and fire at his foot.  The sim is off, so the shock is minor even though it’s close range.  Still, he jumps and almost loses his balance.  “Just don’t shoot me in the back.”

Of course, he does, although he doesn’t mean to.  In less than two hours, we’ve all died again a dozen times, including John.  He’s also slipped a few times while firing, which has resulted in his shooting me in the back, the shoulder, and, twice, the eema.  I am not entirely sure that the second time was an accident.

“Enough for now,” Teyn says at last, and ends the simulation.  We all instantly drop onto the floor and start peeling off the armor.  We’re all hot, thirsty, and sore, but it’s not much worse than other sessions when we’ve tried new configurations.   We’ve all frelled up today, like every other day, myself included.  Even Teyn missed a couple shots, although I suspect it was because she was watching the rest of us.

Jax and I squat, armor half on and half off, and discuss possible changes in personnel positions; Teyn monitors, occasionally offering a suggestion.  I know John is nearby, but I’m not paying any particular attention until I feel him gently touch the shock burn on the back of my shoulder, half hidden by the edge of my tank.  I jerk involuntarily and twist around to curse, but I stop at the stricken look on his face.

Abruptly, this has stopped being some kind of adventure and has turned real.  He’d misfired, and if his rifle had held a chakkan oil cartridge instead of a sensor relay, I’d likely be dead or at least seriously injured. 

He’s not concerned with the marks on his own body; his eyes travel around our comrades, noting the red patches on skin.

“All it takes it one miss,” Teyn says calmly.  “One miss, and if the others can’t compensate for it, we all go down.  That’s why we practice this way.  We can’t afford errors in what we do.”

He nods, his face pale, and fumbles his own armor loose.

Five hundred microts later, we do it all over again.  We drill until it becomes automatic, until we move as one, fire as one.  Jax and I try small adjustments, setting people a motra farther apart, a half motra closer, until it seems to work with everyone’s bodies and firing styles and movements.  Finally we complete the simulation without error several times, and it’s a frelling relief to all of us.

We’ve spent four arns in the simulator, and Teyn only lets us stop now because we need to clear out for the perimeter team to practice.

Still in his armor, John slumps wearily onto a bench in the locker room.  Jax is talking to Teyn in one corner; Ced and Darek are sitting on another bench, back to back, propping each other up.  I strip off my gear, down to my tank and leathers, and store the armor on its rack automatically, but my focus is on John.

“Maybe this isn’t such a good idea,” he says softly as I walk over barefoot.

I shrug and start unfastening the straps on his chest plate.  “The security on the council chambers is at the highest level, which means that this is one of the more difficult jobs we’ve taken.  You didn’t do so badly out there.”

“No?”

“No.  Just aim a little higher next time.”

“I thought you told me to aim lower.”

“Well, that was before you shot me in the ass.  Twice.”

We laugh for a microt, and I let my hand rest on his cheek briefly.  I can smell his sweat and the soap he used that morning and that pungent, indescribable odor that is John Crichton, and I let myself inhale deeply; a small, harmless indulgence. 

“You’re wrong, you know,” I say quickly, before the words choke away again.  “I’ve never thought of you as being less, never treated you that way.  And it was always real, John, always you, no one else.  No games, no pretending.”

He doesn’t say anything, just grasps my hand tightly, his eyes closing.

“Go get something to eat.  I’ve got to analyze the sim reports, see what worked and what didn’t.”  I walk away quickly, scooping up my boots and holster as I stride away.




“Aeryn, I didn’t think you were this romantic.”

I recognize his tone as sarcasm and throw the sim armor at him a little harder than intended. 

“Well, at least I’ve got a big gun,” he murmurs to himself, snorting a laugh, and I don’t want to know what he means.  I focus only on finalizing the sim program as he puts on his gear.

“What’d you do to piss Teyn off?” he asks.  I frown at him, uncomprehending, and he elaborates, “You have to do extra practice with the faulty tech who would be commando.  That’s got to be a punishment, right?”

“No, the punishment was getting shot in the ass so many times by you today.  Although I don’t really think it was an accident.” I shoot him a dark glare; he stands perfectly still, but the slightest grin is tugging at his mouth.  Bastard.  “We’re going to play a game.”

The grin slips; at least he’s smart enough to be a little nervous.  Everyone, exhausted, has long since returned to quarters.

“Peacekeepers don’t play games,” he says, and I give him what I think is a reassuring smile.  Nervously, he swallows.

I activate the sim and push him to the door of the locker room.  As we step through, other figures materialize—Jax, Teyn, myself, Ced, Darek.  They are all frozen in their initial postures, waiting for the sim to be restarted.  John looks at me, his eyes widening in understanding.

I guide him to his place, a couple motras behind my simulation.  When he strikes his initial posture, I shift him slightly until he is set perfectly.  “Commence one-tenth speed,” I say, and the figures around us flicker to life, moving forward, raising weapons.

I have one hand on John’s right shoulder, the other resting on top of his weapon.  I apply slight pressure to guide him, and we advance in formation down the hall, into the blasted-open inner chambers.  At this speed, he sees his targets and reacts well, but, like most new recruits, he tends to have tunnel-vision; he doesn’t see the unassigned threats appear, and that’s when I tug or push him.

We make it all the way through without a miss, and the sim automatically flickers out.

John flips up his visor and regards me quietly for a moment.  I smile up at the gratitude in his eyes, and then we do it all over again, at a higher rate of speed.  And again, and again, until I’m standing in the locker room, watching on the viewscreen, as he completes the course without mishap.

I don my own armor and join him, replacing my simulated self.  We speak only as necessary, and, at half speed, I only get hit once.  I ignore the sting and reset the sim, and we go faster and faster until we successfully complete the course five times in a row, the last being a random threat generator.  Fatigued, I almost miss a couple targets myself; John does not.

I end the simulation and lead the way back to the locker room, where I immediately collapse onto a bench.  John drops onto the next one, and we don’t speak for a long time.  Sweat stings the shock burns on my body; I think that in less than eight arns I will be back inside this armor, doing it all over again, and I groan softly.

I feel a small tugging, and I open my eyes to see John unstrapping my armor.  I am so tired that I let him.  He grimaces as he sees the fresh shock burns on my shoulder; he doesn’t know the one that really hurts is on my lower back, just above my waist.  He’d slipped and shot me at near point-blank range.

“I didn’t get shocked once.  Why?”

I shrug.  “You did well.  And I didn’t miss.”

“You turned the shocker off on me, didn’t you?”

Surprised, I grin a little, and he shakes his head, half turning away.  “Look, John, this is how I was trained, since childhood.  Frell up, you get a shock.  You weren’t trained that way, and it was making you frell up more because you were expecting to get burned.  Am I right?”

Reluctantly, he nods. 

“So now you know how to do it, and tomorrow you’ll impress everyone,” I finish, and stand up to rack my armor.  “But tomorrow it’s Teyn doing the training.  You’ll get stung.  Be prepared for it, but don’t fear it.  Frell, if I had a krendar for every time I got—“

“Thank you,” he says softly, his face still turned away.

“You’re welcome.”  I secure the lockers and sling my holster over my shoulder.  “Just don’t shoot me in the ass tomorrow, all right?”

He chuckles a little, and I head out the door in search of a few arns of sleep.

“Aeryn...that’s a pretty bad burn on your shoulder.  I could...take care of it for you.”

He’s standing there, hands loose at his side, trying so hard to seem casual.  I stop and half turn, looking at him sharply.  “Thanks, but I can do it.”

“You’re sure?” he persists, and now I know he’s not talking about dressing a minor injury.  There’s that hint of desperate hope in his voice, and I’m reminded of the words I said to him: Take what you can get.  It’s more than you had yesterday.

He’d willingly follow me to my quarters, and we could frell until dawn.  But it wouldn’t be enough.  For either of us.

“I’m sure,” I say softly.  “But thank you, John.”

[ScaperRed]

“I’ll take your shift, if you want,” I say from the rear hatch to the cockpit.

Desa glances up and waves me in.  “Thanks, but I’ve got it.  You ought to be half dead from the session Teyn put you all through today anyway.”

I shrug and settle into the co-pilot’s seat and watch Desa run the regular monitoring checks of controls.  Sitting watch on command is redundant; the automatic sensors would alert the crew to any possible problems at least as quickly as a person would.  But it is tradition, and it does provide structure during long or tense missions.

“So what’s wrong?”

“What?  Nothing.  Just can’t sleep.”

Desa slants me a look but says nothing; I look away, out toward the bright pinpoints of stars.

“Yeah, I used to have that problem,” she says, a little blandly.  Just can’t leave it alone... Irritated, I rise.

“How’s his ankle?” she asks, and I hesitate a moment.

“Fine, I suppose.  Minor fracture.”  It is actually a pretty bad frelling break.

“So that’s why he tripped?  How many of you did he get, anyway?”

“Didn’t Ced tell you?”

She swings around fully, lips thinning, a little angry herself now.  “I heard it from someone on the perimeter team, not our team.  It was quite the spectacle, I understand.  But you had the best view, didn’t you?”

“What’s your problem, Desa?” I say, closing the gap between us.  She leans back slightly; she’s still sitting, and she’s realized she’s at an even greater disadvantage.  As tempting as it might be, I would not hit her, though; she is officer on command, on duty even if it is redundant duty.  And, I realize, my anger cooling a bit, she is my friend, even if I am frelling furious at her at the moment.  Pissed, as John would say.

John.  Always John.

I drop back into the co-pilot’s seat again, this time with a sigh, and I rub my aching forehead absently as I lock gazes with Desa.  “Look.  Just say it, whatever it is, and we’ll fight about it if we need to. All right?”

She relaxes slightly, taking a microt to scan the boards again.  “I’ll tell you what I heard first.  Then you can tell me I’m wrong.”

Most of it isn’t wrong, and I add what she doesn’t know.  Just prior to our departure from base, Teyn had had us practicing the dust-off dismount from the Marauders that would drop us on the roof of the Hokothian Parliamentary buildings.  The sims had gone fine; John had begun integrating well into our team, and his marksmanship had improved greatly.  Of course, Teyn didn’t know that he was getting extra practice each night while everyone else slept.  She wouldn’t have objected; I simply hadn’t told her.  She was pleased with John’s progress.  I was more pleased, because the skin on my back and shoulders and chest was starting to grow back finally after the nightly shock burns decreased in number and ferocity. 

I still couldn’t understand why he was missing so many shots, though.  He’d always been a better marksman than that.  Structure of the team.  Weapon.  Too much time to think. Getting shocked.  How much was riding on this mission. I couldn’t figure it out, so all I could do was help him train until every movement became automatic.  And it seemed to be working.  At first.

During the very first real-time practice of the dismount, John had jumped from the grab-ring and landed badly on one boot behind me.  I’d heard the popping noise, and I had instantly gone to him, breaking formation.

Teyn’s fist had racketed off my faceplate with enough force to ring my ears as well as drop me flat onto my back.  Even worse, she didn’t say a word, just glared down at me while everyone else froze in place.  Then she’d ordered Jax and Ced to help John to the medical facility and everyone else to take a water break.

She had few words for me.  “Everyone’s interchangeable, Aeryn.  Everyone.”

Within an arn, John returned, and we practiced the dismount a dozen times.  My performance was impeccable, as was Teyn’s; everyone else had at least one stumble, although John appeared to end on his knees more often than not, by the noise he made.  I never looked around for him again.

Afterward, Teyn asked me to train with her.  It wasn’t actually an order, yet I obviously didn’t have the option of refusing.  So I walked with her to the training ring, while Ced helped John limp off to quarters on what was undoubtedly a very swollen and sore ankle.

By now, I knew Teyn well enough to recognize the darkness in her eyes, and I was wary as I took my initial stance.  This time, however, there was lecture along with the physical training.

“A soldier’s focus must be absolute,” she began the familiar litany as we traded blocks and feints.  “No one in the unit is more important than anyone else.  To feel otherwise is to put into jeopardy the mission, the unit, the team. To do other than duty is to put lives at risk—and I won’t have it in my unit.”

I blinked at the last part, a change in the frequently quoted rulebook, and barely blocked Teyn’s punch.  I threw a hard right, which she countered automatically, and I noticed the slight glaze to her eyes as she continued the same train of thought.  “Your attention today was elsewhere, your focus nonexistent.  Such behavior will certainly get him killed if nothing else—“

I slipped inside her guard and smashed an elbow against her ear, sending her reeling as she had sent me monens ago in that first sparring.

“How’s your focus, Teyn?” I snapped back, my tight fists trembling from withheld anger.  I didn’t offer a hand up, and she took her time to rise from her knees in the dust, rubbing absently at her ear, which I was violently glad to see bleed.

She glared at me for a moment, death in that look.  I was so frelling angry that I didn’t care. I had no idea why I felt this way, but it poured through me, radiated from me, until the one clear thought in my mind was that Teyn may break my neck, but we’d cross over at the same time.

We circled slowly for a few microts before Teyn stopped, shaking her head suddenly, and inexplicably began to laugh.  It was not a joyous sound; it was more like a death rattle, and the strangeness of it cut through my tunnel-vision until I was less angry than...uneasy.

“Sorry,” Teyn said after a moment.  “You just...remind me.  Of someone.  Two people, actually, and I’d never seen it...until today.”

“Who?”

She shook her head.  “After the mission, if we’re all still alive.  If not...there’s others who can tell you.  Don’t want to jinx things.”

The next day, we left on our mission.  Teyn had us running the sims again.  With his sore ankle, John took a bad step, or tripped, or something; he fell, and he didn’t get his finger clear of the trigger in time.  Darek, rearguard, was the only one who didn’t get taken out.  I now had two fresh shock burns across my back, on top of the half-healed ones, and they all hurt like hezmana.  We reset the sims, took our places again after Teyn verbally flayed John, and started over. 

Maybe it was because my back muscles were spasming in anticipation of getting shocked, maybe it was because I was still half-pissed at Teyn, and at John for even being here.  I was listening intently even as I was firing at my targets. When I heard John’s stride falter, I swung hard about just as he slipped again, and I smashed my rifle against his, knocking it out of his hands just as he fired.  The shot creased the top of my shoulder; at least it was a bit of fresh flesh, even though it was at close range.  The shock made my muscles spasm again, so I didn’t hit John as hard as I had intended.  He still went down instantly when I planted my rifle butt in the center of his chestplate.

The next sound I heard, over the electric sizzle going through my body, was Teyn cursing at the top of her lungs, followed by the slam-skitter of her helmet sliding across the deck.

Crashing to the floor, I concentrated on staying on my knees; I knew how painful it would be if I fell onto my back.

Teyn ordered everyone out except for me and John.  I remained on my knees, resigned to the verbal assault that I would be receiving shortly.  I felt momentarily sorry for the one John would get, but he was here by his own choice.  Frell him, I was the one with synth-patch all over my back and shoulders, and with sweat stinging in a fresh one.

“Helmets off,” Teyn ordered, and I complied instantly, tucking my helmet under my left arm, at attention even while kneeling.  She grabbed the front of my armor with one hand, the front of John’s with the other, and dragged us together, our heads colliding with a clack I heard as well as felt.

“Listen to me, both of you.  I’ve been trying to solve a problem by using drills.  But it’s not a problem that I can solve.  It’s not a problem that can be eliminated by training.  This is something the two of you had better frelling work out in the next two days, or we’re all in deep dren.  That’s supposing we can even dismount the Marauder without our commando tech here shooting us all in the back.”

“Senior Officer, I—“ Furious, I started to rise. Frell, she ought to be grateful that I had taken him down during the last sim instead of the whole team getting shocked again—

She still had a grip on my armor; she rose with me, yanked me to one side and down, and I crashed down onto hands and knees.

“Sun, he’s watching for you,” she roared in my face.  “He keeps missing, or tripping, or whatever the frell is going on, because he’s looking to see if you’re all right.  He misses a shot, and his head turns toward you.  He looks at you, he trips.  Care to explain this, either of you?”

“This is my fault,” John interjects.  “Yell at me, Teyn, not Aeryn.  I fucked up, she didn’t—“

“Shut up, John—“

“Both of you!  Frelling hingemots!”  Teyn roared, and she first shoved me hard, then John.  I landed flat on my back, the armor digging into tender spots, and I cursed softly and continuously under my breath.

When I rolled onto my knees and struggled up, Teyn’s speculative gaze pinned me.  “Armor off, both of you.  You’re done today.”

Not looking at John, I complied, folding the sim armor neatly in front of me.  “Dismissed?”

“No.  Take off your shirt.”

Frell.  I knew exactly what she wanted John to see, and I knew why.  I still hesitated, until she moved a step closer, glaring.  I stripped off my tank and turned my back to John, standing at attention in my bra and leathers.  I heard his quiet intake of breath at the collection of marks across my back, the fresh one on my shoulder bleeding slightly.

“Look.  No, you look!  Any one of those hits, had it been from a pulse rifle, would have killed Aeryn.  Any of the hits any of us took, would have killed us.  This is what inattention will do.  This is what lack of focus will do.

“You have a job to do.  You do it right, everything else falls into place.  You think about anything else—including how someone else can get hurt if you frell up—and we’ll be dead.  You understand that, tech?  Because one more frell up—for any reason—and, for the love of Cholak, you will be rearguard, despite what the frell the council wants!  I’ll lob a couple grenades in there and blow the place to hezmana, tech or weapon be damned!”

Slipping my shirt back on, I picked up my armor and stood quietly while the senior officer railed at John.  She was right.  And he knew it; he looked sick.  But he’ll feel a lot worse if one of us does die because he made a mistake.

“And you.  You want to be a midnight target, that’s your choice.  But a soldier takes care of the body first.  It’s the best weapon you’ve got.  Medbay.”

I nodded.  “How’d you know?” I asked, and I was vaguely surprised that I had the nerve to ask.

Teyn snorted as I headed out of the bay.  “By the way you were moving yesterday.  You were a little slow in the training ring, and you didn’t have full extension.  Or do you think your senior officer is an idiot and wouldn’t notice?”



Desa listens in silence until I finish. 

“Look, Aeryn.  I’m not going to pretend I understand what’s going on between you and John.  But Teyn’s right.  You’ve got to—resolve—whatever it is, and fast, or we’re all at risk.  And there’s something else for you to think about.  What if one of you doesn’t make it back?  What about all that’s unsaid, unfinished between you?”

I suck in a sharp breath.  “Peacekeepers don’t think that way.”

“Well, we’re not exactly regulation any more, are we?  Let it go, Aeryn.  Whatever it is, let it go.  Or you’ll wish you had.  Think about it—what if this is it, these next two days?”

“You’re thinking with your—“

“Heart?  Or another body part?  What does it matter?”

Desa’s fears, not mine.

“Make the most of it,” Desa says softly, and I don’t think she’s talking to me at all now.


 


Scorpius launches the module a third time, and I take a few microts to wonder what he’s trying to discover.  I flip through the journal, looking at the pages of wormhole theory.  Although I recognize some of the symbols and equations, my grasp of science is too tenuous to truly understand their significance. 

Scorpius has never seen the journal, other than a glimpse or two over my shoulder.  It would be truly an ironic end to this fool’s journey if the information he seeks cannot be found within these pages. 

At the same time, it would also mean death to galaxies if he cannot stop the Scarrans.

I look at Pilot, who has finally drifted into a fitful doze, and I find that, at the end, I am less concerned about the greater good than the small.  Or perhaps I have simply used up my capacity for caring for anything beyond these walls that have become my only home.

I find my place in the journal again.  John wrote of my helping him in the simulator.  He was surprised at first, and then, in typical Crichton fashion, he found hope within it.  When this is over, the last part of the task he set for us, Aeryn can let go of him at last. 

John could never understand that I didn’t want to let go of either John Crichton.  Or that I never loved one more than the other, any more than I could love one of his arms or legs more than another.  Experiences made them different, just as it had made me different with each one of them, but I always viewed them as extensions of that wonderful being known as John Crichton.  Not a copy, not an original.  Both John.

And it wasn’t a dead Crichton of which I had needed to let go.

Teyn knew that, and abruptly I miss her so much that my throat chokes up entirely as I continue reading.

After I’d gone to the medbay, Teyn had yelled at John for several microts before breaking off abruptly.

I probably deserved the ass-chewing.  Didn’t even say anything back.  After she ran down a little, she said that I wasn’t her only problem, just one of many, which surprised me.  Teyn said that she didn’t know how the frell the plan was going to be able to work, and that she absolutely didn’t know what to do at this point.  Not just because of me, though.  Because of Aeryn.

The short term memory losses have reduced in frequency, maybe even stopped by now.  There’s still a chance one could happen, though. 

So take her off the team, I said, but Teyn just shook her head and said something about how she was sure she could still take Aeryn in a fight, but there would be a drenload of blood on the floor afterward.  And that it wouldn’t solve anything.  Aeryn needs to do this, for herself.

“And she’s the best one in that position,” Teyn said.  “It’s too late to replace her.  Frell, there was never any other option, in my estimation.  She and Jax are like extensions of me in formation, and no one—no one—in ten cycles has ever fit that well.  And I can’t move you either, because you’re not only in the best protected spot, but Aeryn knows where you are and that you’re all right.  It would totally wreck her concentration to move you now.  So...fix it.”

I didn’t know what she was talking about for a moment, and my stomach balled up when I figured it out.  I can’t fix a damn thing; I just keep fucking it all up more.  So I told Teyn I was the wrong guy to fix anything with Aeryn, and it took her a couple microts to figure out what I was saying.  When she did, she laughed. Scornfully.

“You’re an idiot, John Crichton,” she said, and gave my chest a hard push when I started to walk away.  “Sit.  And frelling listen, because maybe, just maybe, this isn’t about you, and it isn’t about him.  Maybe it’s just about Aeryn.”

So we sat on the training mat, and Teyn asked me if I’d ever lost anyone I was close to; ever held them when they died.  Not just a comrade, but a family member, a close friend, someone who had been such a part of my life that I could not have imagined a day without them.

And I couldn’t.  Zhaan had been in another ship when she died.  The closest had been Gilina, who had been a friend. I’d lost some relatives that were distant, but I hadn’t been there when they died.  Mom...one of my greatest regrets was not being there at the end, but I couldn’t, at that time in my life.  That was one reason why I had kept watch over Aeryn when we thought she might die.

“This is why you don’t understand,” Teyn said, and I was surprised at the gentleness in her voice.  She was talking to me like I was a kid, yet her tone didn’t offend me, because the words were hard for her to say.  “When you lose someone you care about like that, you don’t get over it.  Part of you dies, too.  You learn to deal with it, but you don’t—ever—forget.  Not everything that happened, not everything you felt.   And not the person.  You understand?”

I didn’t.  Not what she was telling me, or why.  Partly because I didn’t want to think about it.

Sighing, Teyn unsnapped the top part of her armor and removed it.  She pointed to various scars on her arms and shoulders; she not only told me briefly how each was acquired, but named a comrade who was with her at the time and how that person had later died.  “I carry them with me,” she said.  “Do you understand now?”

“Yes, but this is different—“

She nodded.  “It is.  But this is as far as I can take you.  You have to find your way from here, John.  He lived.  They had a life together, however briefly, and it was good.  She doesn’t need to forget that, or let that go.  That’s not the issue between you.”

I asked her what was, and she said I wouldn’t want to hear it.  She told me anyway, as she took off the rest of her armor and folded it.  She said basically that I was having a hard time living up to the other guy’s legacy.  She said I didn’t trust myself enough to be myself without question, and that I didn’t trust Aeryn, either.  She said that neither one of us should have anything to prove, especially to the other, yet that was what we seemed to waste the most time doing.

It hurt, because it’s true.

I asked about Aeryn.  Teyn thought for a long moment, and I was sure she wasn’t going to answer, but she did.  She said that Aeryn was not going after Furlow so much for revenge, but in an attempt to fix something that had gone out of control.  “She’s angry at Furlow,” Teyn said, “because she’s angry at herself.  She’s never forgiven herself for not preventing John Crichton’s death on Dam Ba Da.  At the same time, she knows that it was not within her control to save him.  That’s why she’s so determined to make sure you come to no harm.  That’s what she can’t let go.”

“Because she couldn’t save him.”

Teyn hit me in the chest in exasperation.  “Because she loves you.  So go fix it.  Aeryn—can’t right now.  So it has to be you.”

She went on to say that Aeryn had been through so much physically as well as emotionally the last few months that Teyn was afraid she was close to cracking. 

I just wish I knew what to do.  I’d like to fix things between us; I don’t know how, and suddenly, we’ve got no time left.  I can feel the sand trickling through the hour glass, and I sure as hell don’t want to go on this mission with this—distance still between us. 

Trust.

It’s that last word on the page that my eyes linger on.  I say the English syllable slowly, savoring the feel of the word even as I think of its implications. 


   


I lie on my stomach in my bunk, studying the seamless metal deck a half motra below, trying to make my mind as smooth as the floor.

We all have private quarters on this larger disguised freighter.  The rooms are tiny, but it’s nice to have a space to oneself.  No snoring; no unwanted advice.  Just the peace of a soldier and her thoughts.  Right.

Finally, I rise, slip my shirt on over my sore shoulders, unfold my pants and pull them on.  Habit makes me remove my holster from its hook next to the bed; I sling it over my left shoulder instead of buckling it on and walk barefoot out my door and down the hammond side corridor six doors.  Breathing deeply, I rap on the closed door once with my knuckles.

“It’s open,” he says quietly, and I palm the doorswitch.  As the door slides back, I see him sitting on the edge of his own narrow bunk.  He’s hunched over, his open journal on the small shelf on the opposite wall.  He continues writing for a microt, then carefully caps his pen and closes the book. He looks at its cover for several microts, as I look at him.

He’s obviously sleeping no better than I am; he hasn’t even undressed.  His boots are lined up neatly on the floor at the foot of his bunk.  He looks oddly unfinished without them, and I realize that I’ve rarely seen him in this in-between stage.

I close the door behind me and find I’m standing at attention.  I make myself relax my posture slightly as he finally looks up at me.

“Can’t sleep?”  It’s a stupid question, but it’s the best I can do.

He shrugs.  “You either?  How’s your back?”

That’s another stupid question, so we’re even.  I shrug dismissively in return and take one step into the room.

“We should probably talk.”

“Yeah.  I’m frelling things up even more than usual for you.”

“Shut up,” I say, a little angry now, and take one more step.  “That’s not going to help.”

He drops his gaze to the floor.  I take another step.  “There’s no way to work this out, Aeryn.  I’m terrified I’m gonna make a mistake, and you’re gonna die.  How do I get around that?  Any ideas?”

“Don’t frell up.” Another step.

“I’m me.  How do I do that?”

I take one more step, and I’m standing in front of him.  I take his hands and place them on my waist.  He sucks in his breath but does not protest, and I feel his fingers press slightly into my flesh.  I don’t exactly know what I’m doing on a rational level; it’s another part of my mind that has taken me over and brought me here.  I rest my hands lightly on his shoulders, and he leans forward a bit, sighing softly as he fits his forehead between my breasts.

He doesn’t want to talk now, and I’m not in his quarters for conversation anyway.  I feel his breath on my stomach through my shirt, and I pull him closer for a moment, my fingers running through his short hair.  I keep hearing Desa’s words mixing with my own: What if all you’ve got is the next two days?  Take what you can get; it’s more than you had yesterday.

Bending, I lift his face to mine, and all I taste is the moment.



In the darkness, I slip from between the sheets and feel around on the floor for my clothing.

“Leaving?”

His tone is neutral, but the sound of his voice startles me; I’d thought he was asleep by his breathing pattern.

“Didn’t want to wake you.  I can’t sleep.”

“You don’t have to go.  I can’t sleep either.”

I give up the vain search for my clothing and let him draw me back into the sheets.  It’s a tight fit, even lying on our sides, and for a microt I wonder how we managed to not fall out of bed and onto the floor earlier. 

I feel his lips on my shoulder, and then his hands are wandering soothingly over my body.  He still seems fascinated by my scars; his fingers trace them gently.  The new ones on my back sting a little, but I say nothing as his touch feathers over them. 

“I’ve missed you,” he whispers into my neck.

I twine my fingers with his and hold tightly.

“I’m sorry about—I shouldn’t have—When I saw you and Jax—“ his voice hitches to a halt, but his arms tighten around me.

I think about it for a microt, and I think I start to understand.  Desa’s right; there is no manual to follow when it comes to emotions, other than to not have them.  I don’t know what I’m doing.  But I suspect the same is true for John.

“It’s about trust, John.  You don’t quite trust me.”

He’s quiet for a moment, and I wait, dreading the answer.  “Trust...I trust you with my life, Aeryn.  But—I—hell. It’s like I have you for a little while, and then you’re gone.  And then you’re back, for a while, and I’m always wondering how long I’ll have you this time.  And then, your last mission, when you got shot—I had to face the possibility that I might not get you back at all.  I mean, you were dead when they brought you out, Aeryn—kill shot dead, but—dead.  And—in that moment—I think I started to understand you a little.  How you’re afraid of getting hurt again, of losing me.  Like you are now.

“Like I am now.  Terrified.  Of losing you.  Terrified of doing something that will not only make me lose you—I’ve already done that—but something that will get you killed, maybe other people too.”

“You didn’t lose me,” I point out.

He chuckles softly and brushes his face against my back.  “Sure thought I did.  I’m sorry I didn’t trust you then.”

I press the button on the underside of the bunk to raise the lights and, balancing carefully on the edge, roll over to face him.  “Trust me now.  Trust me to do my job.”

“I trust you.  It’s...what else can happen that bothers me.”

I shake my head, rising on one elbow.  “Doesn’t work that way.  Trust me to do my job.  Trust in fate, if you prefer.  And let me go, John.  If we’re ever going to...fix anything, we’ve both got to do that.”

“Thought you didn’t want me to die in your arms again.”

“I don’t.  I’ll do my best to prevent that.  But that could happen.  To either of us.  Question is, what do we do now?”

He pillows his head on his arm, looking up at me gravely for several microts.  Gently, he works the fingers of one hand into my tangled hair and pulls me closer.  He kisses me slowly, thoughtfully, and then rolls onto his back, under me.

“Trust,” he says softly against my lips.  “Let’s work on this concept.”

I am in full agreement.



We train hard the next two days; so hard that I see firing patterns when I close my eyes, I feel my limbs twitching as they “march” on the edge of sleep.  We all still frell up occasionally, but for the most part, the plan works. 

John and I also train on the concept of trust. 

I trust that he’s going to do his part of the job, and I don’t try to cover for him any more.  He takes some hits that way, but it serves to make him more cautious.  He focuses on his job and lets me take my hits as well.  In fact, I am sure that is part of the test: Teyn never missed before, but she deliberately lets two targets escape, both of which score kill shots on me.  Another time, my rifle jams, and I’m left defenseless, trying to draw my pistol before the simulated blast explodes in my face. John flinches each time but continues, leaving me writhing on the floor. 

Jax and I work out last microt details on the plan constantly as our intel is updated.  I know John watches, and waits. I know he’s working on that part of trust, too, that part that I still find difficult to understand simply because before John Crichton it did not matter with whom I recreated.  I know this is different, what’s between John and me, and I strive to see things as he does.  It’s not easy.

After our various duties are done, however, we work on the more pleasurable aspects of a trusting relationship.

Yet, at the same time, I’m still holding back.

I tell myself it’s the timing.  When the mission is over, when we return to the base, I’ll explain about the stasis pregnancy.  He—We don’t need any other distractions at the moment.

Of course, thinking about the stasis pregnancy makes me also consider how he will feel about it, and what issues related to trust will rise from this particular complication of our impossible relationship.

One step at a time, I tell myself, and run my hands up his back again. 



 


I can tell by Pilot’s soft breathing that he has drifted into a deep sleep.  Painfully, I clamber down from the console and stretch, trying to work some of the soreness from my body.  It’s a futile attempt, though, and I soon settle onto the floor, my back against Pilot’s console, the journal open once more on my knees.

There’s only one more page written; a handful of John’s words left.  I delay for microts, not wanting to come to the end; not wanting to remember what happens beyond this page. 

It’s almost time now.

I don’t know if things are fixed, but they are better now.  We’ve talked some, and we’ve both backed off a little.  And I have hope that when this mission is done, we can get all the way past our fears and build a life together.

I’m terrified that something will go wrong, but I’m not letting myself dwell on it.  It’s fate again, and we’ll have to trust in it.

This is the last journal entry I will write as a tech, not an assassin.  When I put the armor on, strap on my weapons, walk through that door—I will become something else, someone else. 

And right now, the one person I want to talk to most is my dad.  It’s those rattlers again, Dad.  The same as when DK and I graduated; the same as when we started the Farscape project; the same as when I launched on this little three-hour tour that’s turned into almost four years.  The same as the first time I ever saw Aeryn, and the same as I felt as I helped blow up a Gammak base and a command carrier.

I keep trying to do what you said, Dad, trying to be my own kind of hero.  Sometimes I’ve lost sight of that, though, and done things—things I’m not proud of.  But this—you wouldn’t approve, Dad, I know you wouldn’t.  It’s one thing to kill in battle.  It’s cleaner somehow.  But to break into political chambers and kill everyone there, even though it’s necessary—it bothers me.

I know there’s no way around it.  I know I have to be the one to go along, to do this.  Despite what I told Aeryn, I know that there’s no way I can let this information get into Peacekeeper hands.  That’s why I have to go—to authenticate the info, and destroy it.  The chip I’ll hand over to Teyn will have nothing more than the information Scorpius has already given the Peacekeepers, and no one except for Aeryn will ever know that. She feels bad about deceiving Teyn, deceiving her people, but she agrees that I have to do this.  I won’t let the balance of power shift; I won’t be responsible for letting that tide of destruction loose.

When we get back to the ship, I’ll tear the pages of wormhole equations out of the journal and burn them.  Believe me, I’d wipe the knowledge out of my mind, too, if I only could.

And then it really will be finished. 

I don’t think I’ll be coming home, Dad.  I’m done with wormholes.  I don’t want that responsibility any more.  I’m tired, so tired.  All I want is a simple life, with Aeryn.  Or as simple as it can be with half the galaxy after our asses.

I have to go now, Dad, and be something that I’m not, in order to do something greater than myself.  Something that your other son, the other John, also did.  I think you’d be proud of us both.

Swallowing painfully, I close the journal and hold it tightly in my shaking hands.  I wish the story ended here; I wish to Zhaan’s goddess that it had ended the way he had wanted. 

I don’t want to remember anymore.

But if I don’t remember, then he really is gone forever, just as the other John on Talyn would vanish if I no longer recalled our time together. 

It’s all I can do for either one now.


   


Everyone has his or her own little ritual to perform before a mission.  Ced checks and rechecks his gear.  Jax paces, growling to himself.  Darek eats.  Teyn vanishes, to do whatever it is that she does.  I usually check my gear one more time and then find a quiet spot to sit and gather my thoughts.  I think of Zhaan then, and I smile a bit; this is her influence, as I never had this much self control when I was a Peacekeeper.  I would have been pacing and growling with Jax.

Today I break my ritual.  It doesn’t take me long to don my battle armor and assorted gear; my weapons check is automatic.  Instead of joining my comrades, I go to find John.
   
He’s already put on his gear.  He’s standing in it, looking in the small mirror on the wall, when I open his door.

“How do I look?” he asks, and I choke back my first reply, my nerves suddenly screaming.

I want to say harshly, Like a tech playing commando, but I don’t.  That’s my fear talking, and it has nothing to do with his appearance. 

I have him turn around once in the confined space,  and I force a small smile.  “Like one of us,” I tell him, because he does, and he smiles broadly, the uncertainty in his eyes leaving.  I smile in response, glad that I could give him that much, and then I begin my own ritual for today, that of making small adjustments to his armor, tugging at pouches and belts to make sure they’re secure.  My focus is singular, and it’s only when I am finished that I realize he should be annoyed by my fussing.  I look up warily, but he’s not irritated, his blue eyes soft, and I know that he understands my need to do this, to perform my own little ritual over his person and his equipment.

“Weapons check,” I tell him, and he instantly draws his sidearm, checks the chakkan oil cartridge, and returns Winona smoothly to her holster.  His rifle is on the bed—it should be in the rack against the wall, but I say nothing—and I pick it up, give it a visual inspection, and hand it to him.  In turn, he checks it and slings it over his shoulder, just as Jax and I have taught him, and he stands at attention like an alert cadet.

“Do I pass?” he asks, and I force a smile again and rap my gloved fist against his chest plate. 

“Come on,” I tell him, but he catches my hand in his, and I shiver involuntarily at the light pressure.  For a moment, the blood pounds in my ears, and I think I hear the faint thrum of a Prowler engine, as impossible as that is.

“What?”

I shake my head, shake off the shiver, and I lean forward blindly to kiss him one more time. 

I choke back words that threaten to spill over. What I tell him is, ”Remember, shoot high and cover your area.”

“And don’t shoot you in the ass.”

“And don’t shoot me in the ass.  Yes.”

His hand curls around mine as we walk down the corridor.  I’m struck by the incongruity of two people in full battle dress holding hands as if they are on a pleasant outing.

The walk is far too short, and I have to force myself to palm the door switch of the hangar bay, to let go of him and walk the path chosen for me by fate.

[ScaperRed]

Chapter 9:
All-In

   



We encounter no resistance as we violate Hokothian-controlled space.  Desa brings the Marauder in on a tight security-jammed vector, just as planned, at maximum velocity.  At the precise split-microt decided, she flares the ship, and the bottom hatch opens, the grab-ring descending.  We drop from the ship, landing in our positions, weapons ready; completing dust-off, the Marauder screams away.  We scramble for the ventilation ducts instantly.  Jax codes the override to disable the surveillance and security measures and rips the cover off.  We dive inside just as the second Marauder, with the perimeter team, screams into position for dust-off as well.

Jax is on point for this part of the mission, his counter-security sensors gear pushed in front of him as he goes, blinding Hokothian eyes to our approach.  Teyn is hard at his heels. I’m next, and then John between me and Ced, Darek at the rear.  It’s a tight fit for commandos in battle armor; Jax even gets stuck at one point, and Teyn has to kick him free, laughing and cursing. Ten microts later, Jax uses his size and strength to batter the grill free, and we drop onto the floor above the conference room, which has blast-resistant shielding surrounding it.  I toss a high-velocity shaped charge to its pre-designated spot; we flatten ourselves and brace for the blast, and then we’re moving forward, dropping through the hole, firing at the few ceremonial guards as we fall. 

Instantly, we take our positions, Darek covering us.  Teyn is on point, and she fires two tactical PK12 missiles at the armored door, which instantly shreds into molten slag.  She is through the door before the particles even land on the floor. Her third and four tacs blow the Scarran representative and his guards into bloody scales.

I take out two Hokothian guards in my target window, but I am scanning for Furlow.  There’s no hiding that girth; she’s firing a pulse pistol wildly from her crouch behind the conference table.  I track my rifle around, shooting down a third guard as I do so—

I sense motion to my far right, and instinct makes me start to swing around hard, firing. 

“Aeryn!” John shouts.  In a split microt, I realize another target has popped up in his relatively low-threat window—

He’s frelling missed.

Still turning, I fire at the Hokothian guard even as he fires at me.  My aim is better; his chest explodes.  Only my left shoulder does.

The force drives me stumbling backward; Ced slams into me to steady me, still firing at his own targets.  I don’t feel the wound yet, but my arm is useless, and my primary target is still firing.  I can’t steady my rifle one-handed, so I drop it and lunge forward.  I see Furlow’s head snap toward me, see her bring her weapon around as I draw my pulse pistol. She fires once at me, misses, and she dives behind the heavy table completely as my pistol clears the holster and I fire on the fly.  The table is too heavy to tip, and my limbs are becoming strangely heavy, so I scramble awkwardly on top of the table and kneel, my weapon trained on her cowering bulk. 

Dimly, I am aware that the pulse fire has ended, that a haze of smoke hangs over the room, that my heart is pounding with adrenaline and stim and a thousand emotions. 

“I was just...trying to...” Furlow whimpers, dropping her weapon.  “I mean, I’ve got something, something that—“

“I know what you’ve got,” I say, and watch her eyes widen in recognition of my voice before I fire two pulse blasts into her chest.  Instantly she slumps, life flickering from her narrow-irised eyes.

I feel...nothing.

I’m shaking now, and I can’t seem to draw a breath.  I check the other bodies behind the conference table and see no movement.  I move to slide off the table, but I roll off it instead, slamming onto the floor.

Vaguely, I hear Teyn shouting at John to hurry, John shouting angrily back at her that he’s going as fast as he can.  Someone cradles me, lifting me half up, and then Teyn is calling my name softly, opening my visor.  “Aeryn.  Aeryn, hang on.”

“Did I—“

“Yes, you got her.  Shut up.  Don’t look.”

I do anyway, twisting my head around as pain cascades through me.  The shoulder of my armor is shattered, and I can see shards of bone, white tendons, bits of my own armor embedded in my torn flesh. And blood, enough blood to run down my arm and fill my sleeve and gauntlet.

“Aeryn—“

“Shut the frell up and finish before we’re all dead!” Teyn screams back at John.

I can’t seem to draw a deep breath, and Jax takes my helmet off.  He presses injectors to my throat, and the pain lessens slightly until Teyn starts packing the hole with synth-pads.  I try to bite back a cry of pain, and she thumps my chest plate encouragingly. 

“Desa, change in plans, we have wounded, I repeat, we have wounded—“

I lose consciousness for a microt; when I open my eyes, John is holding my hand, although I can barely feel it.  “Aeryn, I’m sorry, so sorry, it’s my fault, it’s—“

“Shut up,” Teyn orders him and shoves him away roughly.  “Out the same way we came, people.  Ced, you take Aeryn’s place.  John, charges set?”

“Yes.”  He hands her two info chips, which she tucks into a pouch.  He and Teyn help me stand; Teyn closes my right hand around my weapon and cuffs my cheek hard before putting my helmet back on.

“Home, people!” Teyn bellows, and she, as usual, is first one through the shattered door.  She has my rifle slung over one shoulder, her tac launcher on the other, and both are tracking possible threats.   Jax and Ced rush at her heels; John’s arm around my waist steadies me as I stumble after, Darek beside me.

We encounter no resistance in the outer chamber; the haze of smoke from our entry still coats the air.  I hear distant firing and know that the perimeter team is busy, keeping reinforcements at bay.

Abruptly, Teyn curses and jerks back, just before a wash of pulse fire shoots across the corridor.  We’re at a juncture, and some Hokothian guards have apparently made it around the perimeter team to trap us.

I watch another flare of light and realize from the color it’s Scarrans.  We’re frelled.

Jax and Teyn confer quickly; it’ll take too much time to go around and hit them from behind, and we have no idea as to their numbers.

“Grenades,” John says, leaning me back against the wall, and I feel him opening pouches on my utility belt. 

Jax grins ferally, and they salute each other briefly.

“Frell,” Teyn mutters, and then John is moving away from me, Teyn taking his place.  I want to protest, but I don’t have the breath for it, and I don’t understand what they’re planning to do.  But if John thought of it, it must be totally frelled—

It works.  Firing rapidly one way, Teyn and I cross the corridor, as Ced and Darek fire down the other.  The suppression fire works momentarily, long enough for Jax and John to hurl two grenades down each corridor and leap to cover on the other side.  The missiles explode just as the charges set in the conference room do, and we scramble down the hallway, desperately trying to keep our feet, the building starting to come apart around us.

The building shakes again, knocking us to our knees.  Ced struggles up first and kicks open the door Teyn indicates.

The top of the building is gone, bright afternoon sunlight pouring through the gap.  Inside the shattered office waits a Marauder, access ramp down, top guns tracking the incoming single fighters that have been scrambled.

Desa is one hezmana of a pilot.

My legs are going out from under me now; Teyn is dragging me along, shouting orders over the comms.

“John?” I call, gulping for breath, and almost pull out of Teyn’s grip. “John!”

There are more explosions behind us, and John’s farboht laugh echoes in my ears.  “Fifteen microts behind you, baby, just got a little more love to leave behind for these bastards—“

“John!”  Jax cries, and then there is nothing but static and pulse fire and a rumbling that shakes what is left of the building.

I jerk away from Teyn, falling to my knees, trying to go to him.  Teyn  grabs my armor, yanking me back.  “Ced, go,” she orders tersely.  “Darek, cover—“

I’m fighting her with what little strength I have left.  She throws my rifle to Darek and wraps both arms around me, dragging me onto the ramp.

“It’s no good, Teyn, it’s no good—floor fell apart—he’s—“

Gone.

Through the smoke and dust, I watch Ced’s smaller figure appear, running hard, Jax looming behind him.  Dimly, I hear the shriek of the second Marauder as it takes flight, the perimeter team safely aboard.

Teyn says nothing to me, just continues to swear, voice choked, as I collapse against her shoulder and she carries me aboard the Marauder.




“I’m going back for him—“

“No, you’re not.  He’s a casualty of the mission, and you’re too badly injured yourself—“

“We don’t leave anyone behind!” I shout at Jax, but he grips my wrists tightly, and it hurts, my shoulder hurts, everything hurts as he holds me back from the hatch.

“He’s gone, Aeryn.  I’m sorry.”


I wake suddenly, white light in my eyes, the left side of my body a mass of pain. Automatically, my right hand clenches, searching for my weapon; my left merely twitches.  Sharply, I inhale, and it’s the dry recycled air of a ship without a trace of chakkan oil smoke.

“Shh,” Desa says softly, her hand on my chest pushing me flat. “Shh.”

“John?” I croak, and turn my head quickly, scanning for him.  There is motion at my side, but it’s Jax, rising swiftly to go stand by the door, his broad back to me.  “John?”

“Shh,” Desa says softly again, and does something to my shoulder that makes me jerk with pain.  “Sorry, Aeryn,” she says, but she’s not talking about my injury.  Peacekeepers don’t cry about wounds.

“John!” I shout hoarsely.  I feel a stab of pain in my neck, and I welcome it, I welcome how my vision clouds, because I don’t want to hear Desa’s broken voice.

I already know what she will say.



“No, you’re not. He’s a loss…a casualty of the mission…”

I look up at him; the expression on my face stops him from speaking again.

“Teyn doesn’t leave anyone behind, and neither will I. I’m going back after him.”

“Aeryn…Officer Sun! Answer me!”

I don’t even look at Jax or the others that are looking in our direction.  I just go.  I will find him.  I have to.



“Who do you think has him?” Desa whispers.  I don’t open my eyes; I lie perfectly still, listening to the faint voices.

“Doesn’t matter.  Scarrans will want him,” Ced replies, his soft voice shaking.  “Poor bastard.”

“Scarrans...”


I search for him for arns, crawling through the ventilation system of the Scarran base. It’s hot, so hot, and the soft flow of air is the one thing that saves me from heat delirium. I ignore the heat and the pain from my shoulder and press on steadily.   

There are only faint sounds filtering through the vents as I crawl from room to room; everything is muffled. Hearing a noise I stop just as they carry John into a small room, his body limp as they carelessly drop him onto a table.

There’s nothing I can do but watch through the vent as one of the Scarrans applies wires to the small rods protruding from John’s scalp. By their casual manner, it is obvious they have done this to him numerous times. They begin strapping him down. As they do so, a machine on the far side of the room slowly begins to whine, filling the room with its noise.

At first I don’t see the reasoning behind the restraints until John’s body starts to convulse as the questioning commences.

I watch as it continues for arns. The interrogator stays close to John, his mouth only denches from his ear. I can see the heat radiating off of him even from my position; it’s as though I can feel it on my own skin. John tries to scream, but no sound escapes from his lips. I know it is due to the heat;  I can see the burns that have formed on his skin from the continued close proximity.  I grip my rifle tightly in my hands, biting back my own cries at his pain.

I sit there for arns, trembling in frustration, waiting for my chance.  I can’t hear the questions, but there is only one thing of interest to either the Scarrans or the Peacekeepers where John is concerned. Wormholes. Everything always comes back to wormholes.



“John!”

I hear his name called, and I jerk awake, at first not recognizing my own rough voice.  “John?”

“Aeryn, shh, you’re injured, you’re—“

“Where is he?  Where is he?” I shout.  Someone leans over me, and my good hand wraps around a convenient throat. “Where is he?  We have to go back, we have to—“

Desa chokes out my name, prying at my fingers frantically, but I see through her, I see into the dream from which I’ve awakened, and my hand won’t release.  It’s as if all my anger and my pain has fused into this grip that I can no longer control.

Jax suddenly appears, face twisting in concentration as he shoves his thumb into a pressure point on my wrist.  When that doesn’t work, he calls for Teyn, and I see a dark flash as his fist draws back. A bright light explodes in my head, and I sink into the darkness again gratefully.


I watch as the questions continue for arns. The Scarran interrogator stays close to John, his mouth only denches from his ear. I can see the heat radiating off of him even from my position. John tries to scream, but no sound escapes from his lips. I know it is due to the heat, I can see the burns that have formed on his skin from the continued close proximity as well.

I sit there for arns, trembling in frustration, waiting for my chance.



“Easy, Aeryn.  Take it easy,” Teyn says softly, and her hand is oddly cool on my face.  “Let it go, Aeryn.  You have to let it go.”

There is an odd liquid quality about her voice that, in my haze, I can’t identify.  I struggle for a moment, trying to clear my mind, but I can’t.

“Rest,” she says, and I must be wrong, because it sounds as if her voice is choked with tears.



Teyn is practically carrying me now.  I can’t find John anywhere, and the whole place is turning into hezmana.  I struggle, but she’s got a deathgrip on my utility belt, and her arm around my back is the only thing holding me upright.  My left arm is numb now, probably from blood loss, but I don’t care about that, or the mission, or Furlow, or anything else.  I only care about one thing.

“I’m coming, baby, hold on.”

“If I don’t see you at the transport in thirty microts, I’m coming after you,” I shout back, my legs failing me, and Teyn steadies me even as she’s pushing me toward the Marauder.

“No, you’re not,” Jax yells back over the comms. “I’ve got him, Aeryn.  Stay with Teyn.”

There are more explosions behind us, and John’s farboht laugh echoes in my ears.  “Fifteen microts behind you, baby, just got a little more love to leave behind for these bastards—“

“John!”  Jax cries, and then there is nothing but static and pulse fire and a rumbling that shakes what is left of the building and deafens us all.

I jerk away from Teyn this time, falling to my knees, trying to go to him.  Teyn  grabs my armor, yanking me back.  “Ced, go,” she orders tersely.  “Darek, cover—“

The two commandos scramble forward as Teyn hoists me up with a grunt and wraps both arms around me; I can feel her iron grip through my armor.  I don’t have the strength to break free, and I’ve only got one good arm anyway. I’d need both and a lot of luck to take Teyn down on her worst day.

“It’s no good, Teyn, it’s no good—floor fell apart—he’s—“

I can’t breathe. 

When I finally do, the last of my strength goes out with my exhalation, and I collapse against Teyn.


I wake in the Marauder, Jax looking down at me as Desa tries to stop the bleeding in my shoulder. Faintly, I can hear Teyn cursing from the cockpit.  Ced is holding my hand.  Something is wrong. I can tell by their faces.

“Where’s John?” My voice is only a whisper. The look of concern on Jax’s face deepens. I try to sit up, but Ced and Desa won’t let me.

“Keep your eema down…that’s an order,” Jax growls, steadying himself with one hand against a support strut as the Marauder banks sharply.

“What happened?  Where’s John?”

Jax swallows hard.  “Teyn got you to the Marauder. Grenades, he wanted to throw one more frelling grenade... I went back after him, and then the whole frelling place started coming apart.  I couldn’t get him, Aeryn.”

“We have to go back! We can’t leave him behind!”

Jax turns away from me, shoulders taut. “It’s no good, he’s gone.”

Not again, please... My body and mind are numb. Images of my John lying on his deathbed fill my mind, and I again watch as the life leaves his eyes. This John is alone and wouldn’t even have the gift of a familiar face…and he is also my John as well.

“I’m going after him,” I whisper, and I rise and push past them to do so.


“Is it—heat delirium?” Jax asks, his voice oddly choked.

“No, she doesn’t have what Darek does.  This is a fever.  She shouldn’t have it, but it’s not heat delirium.  Not yet,” Desa says softly.

Something cool touches my face; a wet cloth.  It does feel like the start of heat delirium, like when the Draks invaded Moya...

I tear my aching mind from that memory.  Something is far more important.  Something.  If I could only think, if I could remember—

“Hold on, Aeryn,” Teyn says clearly.  “You have to fight.  Fight it, Aeryn.  You know what you have to do.  You have to—“



I have to get him back, I repeat to myself as I crouch in the ventilation duct.  I focus on that, not on the heat, not on the sweat soaking my armor, not at how my hands shake.  I have to get him back.

John is still attached to the interrogation equipment.  An alarm sounds from the machine finally, and  I watch as the machine is turned off and a Sebacean female is brought into the room. From her actions, I can only assume she is a med tech of some sort. My heart starts to beat rapidly as they undo the straps and a gurney is wheeled into the room. John doesn’t move as they put him on it and take him away.

I follow through the venting system as best I can, but they don’t follow the same direction as the passage and I find myself lost. It takes me an arn, or longer, checking each opening I pass until I find John again. Dressed in his leathers and black t-shirt, he is lying limply on the floor of a dimly lit cell.  I can see by his labored breathing that if I don’t get him out soon he won’t make it. No! I won’t think of that! He is going to make it. He has to.

After checking my tracking device to configure our location for escape, as quietly as I can I unfasten the bolts holding the vent in place. As I open it, I hear something. Frell! It’s the med tech returning, carrying a tray with her. As she enters, a guard locks the door behind her. I watch as she sets the tray beside John. She holds his head up to give him, I can only assume, water. She coaxes his cracked and swollen lips open enough to pour a small amount of liquid into his mouth. I can feel my heart lurch as he coughs it back out. She is persistent and is able to get more into him. Laying him back down, she slowly begins to undress him. I can see the burns covering his body from spending a only a solar day—or is it two?  a weeken? – under Scarran control. As she applies a salve to the burns, some split open and begin to bleed. She carefully applies a dressing to them.  I bite my clenched fist to keep from crying out as she tends to his injuries.

After she is done with John’s medicinal needs, the tech again puts the cup to his lips. Placing the cup back on the tray, she then picks up a small bowl and stirs the contents. I can see it is some sort of gruel; she has to open his mouth further to insert the spoon.  After she has done this a few times, I see John’s stomach muscles jerk. I know what is coming even before she turns him onto his side to vomit. Putting him onto his back once again, she gives him more liquid, and then lays his head back down. As she picks up the tray, I see her look down at John, and I see the concern on her face just before she turns and tells the guard she is ready to leave.  It’s obvious he won’t last much longer.

After the two have gone, I open the vent and drop to the floor; I stop and listen to see if I have alerted anyone with my entrance. Nothing. I quickly cross the room and kneel next to John, whispering his name. I am afraid to shake him awake, afraid that I will hurt him more.  Yet I am panicked at how long it takes for him to rouse.  After several microts and continued whispers of his name, I see his eyes open. The swelling prevents them from opening beyond mere slits, but I can see a smile trying to form on his lips.

“The Radiant Aeryn Sun,” he whispers.  “Saving my ass again.”

“You knew I’d come,” I whisper back, and I kiss his cracked lips lightly.  “I won’t leave you.  I won’t—“

He jerks in my grasp, pushing weakly against me, his wide eyes staring over my shoulder.

Spinning around on my knees, I bring up the tac launcher and fire blindly at the Scarran just as he raises his hand and envelops us both in heat.


“Infection?  But—“

“Hokothians are known to use contagions.”  Teyn’s low voice is thoughtful.  “Frelling cowards.”

“Darek is worse, and—“

“We’re almost home.  We’ll deal better with it all there.”

“How long?” My voice comes out as a whisper, and I cough to clear my dry throat. But at least it doesn’t seem so frelling hot now, I think, trying to shake loose of the fevered nightmares that still chase at the edges of my mind.  Nightmares I may have forever, but at least that’s all they are.  Scarrans will never harm John now, and for the moment, I feel more relief for him than sorrow.

Teyn has heard me; she moves into my range of vision, hands clenched on her belt.  “Two solar days.  We’ll be at the base in fourteen arns.”

I nod and struggle to sit up a bit.  Teyn and Desa both stay in the doorway, and the soreness of my jaw reminds me why. 

“Sorry,” I say to Desa.

She shrugs, her posture relaxing a bit.  “Circumstances.”

I look away from the sadness in her eyes and try to cough to clear my throat.  It turns into a fit that wracks my frame and sends pain shooting through my entire left arm. 

“He’s gone, then?” I say at last, and I am surprised at the dullness in my voice. 

I am more surprised by the silence that ensues, the look that Desa darts at Teyn, the senior officer’s tightly compressed lips.

I force myself upright, holding onto consciousness by sheer force of will.  “Teyn?  What’s happened?”

Teyn walks heavily across the room and sits on the chair next to the infirmary bunk.  Closing her eyes, she pauses for a moment, then straightens her broad shoulders and tells me.  With no evasions, no reassurances, no tears, she tells me what Desa and Jax could not.

John is alive.

[ScaperRed]

The remainder of the Hokothian guards were organizing rapidly. John and Jax had slowed to cover the perimeter team, lobbing grenades at their pursuers.

John had lingered to throw one more grenade.  Jax was perhaps three strides ahead; he’d turned to urge John to run, when with a loud crack, the floor had simply collapsed under them.  Jax had grabbed onto an exposed strut with one hand, the other held out to John, who was too many motras away to reach.  John had fallen past and disappeared in the rubble and dust.

“So he’s dead,” I say, as Teyn pauses, swallowing hard.  I catch my breath as I watch the senior officer’s face twist hard; from the doorway, I hear Desa choke back a sob.  But something’s not right. Teyn might regret John’s death, but she is a soldier, and soldiers know that there is no greater honor than to die in battle saving one’s comrades.  She looks sickened instead, and my stomach twists painfully.  “Teyn?”

“He’s not dead,” she says very softly, and grips my hand tightly.  “He survived the fall, apparently was scarcely injured according to reports.  But he was captured by the Hokothians.  And we think he is now in Scarran hands.”

Scarran hands.

“We have to go back for him,” I say, shaking off the images of my nightmares that grip me now with panicked talons.  “Teyn, tell me someone has gone back for him—Jax, Ced, somebody—“

“Aeryn, we don’t even know where he is right now—“

“Scarrans, Teyn!  You know what they’ll do, you know that—“

“Aeryn, there’s nothing—“

“We don’t leave anyone behind, Teyn.  We don’t leave anyone behind.  Or is that only for us?  Not for techs, not for—“

“Aeryn—“

“You can’t leave him behind, you—“

“I know that!” she roars, shoving up from her chair.  She pounds the wall three times with her fist, the force of it shaking the room.  “I wrote that rule, cycles ago, because—Frell!”  She hits the wall once more and swings around, shaking her fist out.  “In twenty cycles, this has never happened.  Never!  We didn’t know, Aeryn, or it would’ve been different.  Makes no matter what John is, he’s part of my team, and I would not leave him behind voluntarily.  But Jax thought he was dead—frell, he should’ve been dead just from the fall—by the time we found out, we were halfway to base, with no frelling idea of where he could be held.  We still don’t know!”

“We have to go back for him,” I repeat.

Shaking her head, Teyn stands in the doorway.  “Aeryn, if the Scarrans do have him—there won’t be time.  You know as well as I do what will happen to him.”

I shake my head, choking back tears.

“Aeryn’s right,” Desa says softly, moving to stand next to my bunk.  “We have to do this.  I’m your pilot.  Jax will go, so will Ced.”

“If the Scarrans have him,” Teyn begins again, then swallows her words.  Sighing, she rakes both hands over her braided head and nods.  “Suicide.  We’re not a suicide squad.”

“No, we’re not.  We protect the defenseless,” Desa says clearly, head held high, and squeezes my hand hard.  “We’re Peacekeepers.”  She glances down at me, and I grip her hand with all my strength.  “We’ll get him back.”





I drift in and out of consciousness during the next fourteen arns.  Each time I wake, either Desa or Ced is with me; they reassure me that Teyn is working our extensive network of contacts, that a plan is being formulated, that John has not been forgotten.

I am beyond tears.

After more than half a cycle, I find myself once again in that same cold, dead space I occupied when John died near Dam Ba Da.  I don’t cry, I don’t grieve, I don’t feel.  I merely exist.  There is a difference this time, however.  Across this vast expanse of frozen emotion, I see a dim light.  I recognize it as hope, and, drawing together the remnants of my strength, I wait for it to come closer.





“Clear the room,” Teyn orders, bursting abruptly into the surgery.

Offended, the medic turns.  “Senior officer—“

“Out!” Teyn yells, and the entire medical team vanishes.

I am barely conscious; I try to focus on Teyn’s face as she leans over me.  “Aeryn, we’ve found him.  He’s alive.  Hokothian freighter.  Transferring to Scarran in four solar days.  We’ve got one shot to get him at the exchange point.”

I nod and squeeze Teyn’s hand in gratitude.  “I’ll be ready.”

“We’ll be ready,” she corrects me, and squeezes back.  “Team, Aeryn.  We don’t leave anyone behind.”

“Thank you, Teyn, so much—“

She snorts and lets go of my hand.  “Frell, I do have a reputation to maintain.  Medic!  You’ve got thirty-six arns to get my officer ready for a mission.”





Darek dies the same day we ship out.

The Hokothians have apparently bioengineered a contagion that induces heat delirium.  Like a virus, it hijacks the replication process at the cellular level and spreads quickly.  It codes itself to the victim’s genetic material, and it is impossible to create an antidote within the few solar days before death.

How Darek was infected is unclear.  Teyn thinks that he may have opened his helmet at the wrong time or perhaps a seal in his armor was cracked.  One of the dying guards probably released the pathogen as a marker, a way of tracking the assassins who had breached security.

I have fared far better than Darek. I’m still alive, although my wound from the battle has infected badly despite the medics’ best efforts.  I was shot with an exploding-tip projectile, not a pulse blast, and Teyn’s theory is that the Hokothians coat their ammunition with such contagions.  It doesn’t matter at this point how I got this infected wound.  It’s not healing well, and with the fever still wracking me, it’s all I can do to walk from the medical facility to the freighter with the rest of the team. 

This mission will be unfunded.  Teyn was highly offended at my offer of payment, although I can well afford it; since I’ve been with the unit, my expenditures have been almost exclusively for personal armament and basic needs, except for the one shore leave at Cassino.  My accrued wages alone would nearly pay for John’s extraction, and I also still have most of my share from the Shadow Depository.

“We don’t charge our own, Aeryn,” she had snapped, with more anger than appeared appropriate.  Her fury wasn’t at me, however.  It was with the council, which had voted that the risks involved in rescuing John were too great to justify in terms of personnel and equipment.  Their reasoning, Teyn admitted reluctantly, was probably correct, however.  At that point, John had already been in custody for four solar days: interrogated, drugged, tortured.

“There may not be more than a body to rescue.” Her words haunt me even now as I stand on the ramp of the freighter, staring down the doubt in her dark eyes. “You don’t have to go, Aeryn.  We will get him out.”

As a soldier, as a strategist, I understand Teyn’s position.  My physical condition puts the success of the mission into doubt.  I would not want a stubborn fool like me along either. I can barely dress myself, and it took five hundred microts for me to get my utility belt buckled and my holster strapped on my thigh.  I’m not even sure I have the strength to draw my weapon if called to do so.  Nevertheless, I won’t be left behind, and Teyn reads the determination in my eyes as well as I read the doubt in hers.  And I don’t know why, but she smiles slightly, blinking, and cuffs my cheek like she would a cadet as I pass by, and I take the gesture as a benediction.





After we are in space, we briefly toast Darek with raslak and tales of his adventures, his bravery in battle, his solid nature as a soldier.  As Peacekeepers, we have no afterlife to believe in, no concept of a sacred realm or hezmana.  We have only the moment and the comrades with whom we share the best and worst of life, and they only live so long as we carry their memories.

I swirl the raslak in my glass, and I wonder if Zhaan has met her goddess in her afterlife, if she has found peace at last.  I think about John’s concept of death, of being well met by friends and family after passing through a bright light.  Was it that way for the John I knew on Talyn, when he passed from my arms into whatever awaited him?  Or was it different because of the twinning?  Would he have to wait for the other John Crichton before both could cross over? 

I recall the vague impressions of my own death, that sense of awaiting new orders at a deployment station until Zhaan had forced me to return to the living world.  My present comrades would understand nothing of this.  So in silence I give Darek another toast, wishing him into the care of whatever deities looked after good and selfless people, and I hope that I will one day deserve to meet him in such a place.  A place where perhaps one John Crichton currently resides.

I empty my glass, and I shatter it against the wall with those of my comrades.  My duty now is to the living.




Ironically, the plan is bad enough to be one of John’s.

It’s actually not the worst plan I’ve ever participated in.  It certainly is better than the one D’Argo and I formulated with the mercenaries to take the Shadow Depository and rescue John from Scorpius nearly two cycles ago.  That plan was so frelled that we succeeded only because luck, fate, or Zhaan’s goddess was on our side.  Or perhaps a combination of all three.

It’s the best that Teyn and Jax can design, and I can think of nothing better.  We may actually succeed, if John is in any condition to follow simple orders.

We will arrive at a small commerce planet called Tythos several arns before the Hokothian freighter is slated to arrive.  Disguised as Charrid soldiers, we will board the Hokothian freighter, take custody of John, and deliver him to the “Scarran” freighter nearby.

The major flaws in our plan include our complete lack of Charrid armor and our extremely limited pool of personnel.

Since the council would not approve the mission, our team consists of volunteers only.  Of the five of us, Jax is far too large to pass as a Charrid, as is Ced; even I am almost too tall.  It will have to be Teyn, me—and Desa.

No one needs to say it; we know each other’s strengths so well.  It’s a bad combination, a weak insertion team.  I am tempted to convince Teyn that it would work better and draw less attention if she and I go alone.  I gauge the flatness of Teyn’s dark eyes and change my mind; I know that look.  Insubordination will take me into the training ring to prove my point, and it won’t take much to start my shoulder wound bleeding again, which will effectively eliminate me from the team entirely.  Then it would be Teyn and Desa to get John out, and we’d stand a better chance throwing a grenade up the entry ramp of the Hokothian ship before blasting in the main hatch.

It’s an indication of my fevered state that I actually have to consider and discard that plan.

We have twenty-eight arns of transport time between the base and Tythos.  By the time we arrive, John will have been in custody for five solar days, 120 arns.

Twenty-eight arns to make a frelled plan better, to anticipate every possible contingency, to memorize the layout of the Hokothian freighter, to learn enough Charrid to pass by guards, to integrate Desa into an insertion team, to organize Ced and Jax into an underpowered perimeter team.  Twenty-eight arns, and all I can do is sit and critique and will my shoulder to heal enough so that if I do bleed to death, it will be after I extract John.

Because I have to go, and it’s beyond my own desires.  Teyn and I both know how frelled his mind is likely to be if only the Hokothians have interrogated him; Scarran questioning will be much more damaging.  Privately, Teyn tells me that one contact had confirmed that a Scarran representative had secretly arrived to negotiate the terms of the Hokothians surrendering him.

“We’re lucky in that the Hokothians don’t entirely trust the Scarrans, and they didn’t turn John over right then.  They were using him as a pawn, and they won’t release him until the Scarrans pay the bounty.  That’s why the transfer will be made at Tythos, at the edge of Tormented Space, near the border of Hokothian-controlled space.  But, Aeryn, the Scarran won’t wait until Tythos to interrogate John.  You know what will happen.”

I know it, I dream it, I seem to be able to feel his agony across the distance.  I make myself nod, keeping my face as expressionless as Teyn’s.

“There is a good chance that he will not be able to recognize any of us—including you, Aeryn.  But I’m betting my life, our lives, that he will recognize you, and that he will do what you ask if needed.”

“Well, there’s a first for everything,” I manage to say dryly, and Teyn smiles slightly in response.

My teammates are...amazing.  Ced’s mission appears to be to make me smile at least every couple of arns.  He’s constantly telling a bad joke or quipping or just doing something ridiculous, but always within my view.  Jax tries once to apologize for not grabbing John and not going after him in the first place, but I don’t let him.  After that, he doesn’t seem to have any words beyond awkward reassurances, but he is a quiet, solid presence from which I can draw comfort.  Desa, when not training, remains nearby, either chattering in a way that reminds me of Chiana or fussing over my shoulder wound and fever as much as Tareth, the med tech who volunteered to come along.  And Teyn, Teyn is the most remarkable.  She says little, but her every look, every movement, exudes confidence and competence.  She gives me optimism when my strategist’s mind screams otherwise.  She makes me believe that the dim light shining across my frozen emotions is not merely a false reflection, but a beacon of hope. 

Cholak help me if it is not.





I’m asleep, on Teyn’s orders, when we dock at Tythos, and it’s probably a good thing.  I don’t know about the first kink in the plan until after Jax scouts it out and Teyn wakes me.

Our intel was either wrong or the Hokothians were in an extreme hurry to deliver their cargo.  Their freighter arrived six arns before we did.  With some careful questioning and use of his easy charm on a female dock worker, Jax verifies that a Scarran and a half dozen Charrids had met the Hokothian freighter and taken possession of something oblong, about three motras long, and carried very carefully; the right size for a covered gurney or medbed.  The Scarran from the Hokothian ship had spoken with the other one for a few microts and then had returned to the Hokothian ship.

“We do know he’s alive, at any rate,” Teyn tells me, as my good hand clenches the sheets.  “Scarrans wouldn’t want him dead.  They want his knowledge, and if it had been extracted fully, they would have just killed him.”

The frelled part, of course, is that he is now on board the Scarran ship, which is a Stryker, the fastest in the fleet. 

“But we have time to get him out.  The Scarran ship is having engine trouble, and they are not slated to undock for fourteen arns.  That gives us time.  So it’s some good, some bad.”

“So the plan remains the same, basically, only we have to infiltrate a Scarran ship instead of Hokothian, and we have no cover story.”

“Jax is working on that,” Teyn says cryptically.  “Get cleaned up and ready to go.  I anticipate this little dance will begin within three arns.”

Within an arn, we are waiting in a small hotel room that eerily reminds me of the one I spent time in on Valldon.  It’s not a good omen, and I force myself to set it aside as we review the port layout, the configuration of a Scarran Stryker, the common Charrid and Scarran phrases that we might need to know.

Desa braids my hair for me and looks over my shoulder at the information on the clear sheets.  Her hands are actually shaking less than mine.

And then we have nothing to do but wait. 

Teyn sprawls in a chair near the window, and I finally see her ritual before a mission.  She sits staring into space, perfectly motionless except for her fingers, which constantly turn and caress an old ident chip, its surface worn and smooth.

After what seems like a hundred cycles, but is only a little more than an arn in reality, there is a knock on the door, and Ced and Jax enter, carrying tightly folded bundles.  Ced has a large bruise appearing on his forehead, Jax an ugly oozing slash across one huge bicep, but both are grinning as they dump their trophies on the floor.  Charrid armor, complete with helmets and fully charged weapons.

“And no pulse blast holes, either,” Jax says, and snaps to mock attention as he looks at Teyn.  “As you ordered, Senior Officer.”

“Well, let’s hope you got the sizes right,” Teyn retorts, eying the one she unfolds doubtfully.  “I’m not as thin as I used to be.  Bodies?”

“Don’t ask,” Jax says, wrinkling his face.  “Suffice to say, these fekkiks got exactly what they deserved by frelling around in the wrong place.  Oh, they’re all males—typical for Charrids—“

Dropping her voice an octave, Teyn barks out a Charrid curse; I follow her example.  Passable, especially if muffled by a helmet.  We look at Desa, who scowls and tries desperately to lower her higher-pitched voice.  Ced snickers, which earns him an annoyed curse in Sebacean in her regular tones.

“I’ll cough if I have to speak,” she says, with as much dignity as she can, and locates the smallest uniform for herself.

Ced and Jax leave to take our personal weapons and boots back to the ship and to find their places on the perimeter.  Before he goes, though, Jax grasps my good shoulder gently.  “Keep it simple, Aeryn.  Get in there, get him, get him out.  Focus on that.  We’re all behind you.  We’ll bring him home.”

I clasp his hand for a moment, throat too tight to speak.  Leaning down, he kisses my cheek lightly and heads out the door with Ced.

Desa has to help me get the armor on over my regular clothes; she is concerned about my shoulder wound and takes several microts to redress the injury, adding extra padding, while I fidget.  “Don’t bang that around; you’ll tear the wound open or snap the bones,” she warns, and guides my left arm into the sleeve.  I am sweating profusely and biting my lip against the pain by the time I am fully outfitted.

Critically, Teyn looks me over and shakes her head, sighing softly.  Grasping my shoulders, she straightens my posture a bit and takes my left arm gently, hooking my hand into my belt buckle to give my arm some support.  “Don’t walk.  Swagger.  You’re such a frelling wonderful Charrid soldier that you don’t need to march.  Better?”

I nod.

“Desa, check the hallway, please,” Teyn says quietly. Desa slants an inquiring look at her, but she does as told, closing the door behind her with a soft click.

Teyn looks at me for a few microts, a slight smile curving her lips.  “Not much time for this, but it’ll have to do,” she said.  “Couple things first.  You’re sure you’re prepared for this?  No matter what we find?”  She waits for my nod before continuing.  “Right, then.  This could go very badly.  If that happens, none of us will make it out alive.  If it comes to that, and I’m close enough, I’ll shoot John myself.  But if I’m not—“

“I’ll do it,” I say softly, clamping my jaw.  Briefly, I remember when he was held in the Shadow Depository; I had made a vow to take John’s life rather than leave his shattered remains for Scorpius to torture.  I was prepared to do it then, and I am prepared now.  But there is a difference this time: the next pulse blast or knife thrust will cross me over right behind him.  I will not be taken prisoner by the Scarrans.

Teyn nods and clasps my shoulder gently.  “Last time I sparred with you, I was angry, because you reminded me of someone. Two people.  And I said I’d tell you the story after the mission, if we survived.”

I nod, choking back questions.  I think I know what Teyn is going to say, but I don’t know if I want to hear it.  However, it’s not what I expect.

Teyn looks away for a moment, clearing her throat, and I am startled to see tears in her eyes when she looks back at me.  “I wasn’t carrier born like you, Aeryn.  I was conscripted as a child, and later on, so was my sister, who I didn’t even know existed.  Somehow we found each other, and we served together for many cycles.  She died twenty cycles ago, in a Prowler accident, because Captain Crais refused to risk a retrieval team.  I was going to break his order, go after her myself with my comrades, but I wasn’t fast enough.  This, and some grand memories, are all that I have left of my sister Rani.”  She held up the old ident chip, then slipped it around her neck, tucking it into her armor.  “She’s the reason why I never leave anyone behind.

“I understand love, to some degree, because I loved my sister.  But mine has always been a soldier’s love, a love of comrades, that bond between warriors.   I’ve never loved anyone the way Desa loves Ced, the way you love John...the way your parents loved each other.  I won’t pretend to understand it.  I understand loss far better.

“I’ve been hard on you since you arrived, Aeryn, and it’s not because of anything you’ve done.  You need to know that.  You are one of the best commandos, best pilots, I’ve ever served with, and I’m proud that you are part of my team.  Go through that door knowing that.  And go knowing that you carry the best parts of your parents within you.  You have your mother’s strength and your father’s loyalty.  As they were when I knew them so many cycles ago, they would be very proud of you today, not only the soldier that you are, but the person.”

Tears blur Teyn’s face; I can’t speak, I can hardly breathe as we stand, gripping each other’s shoulders.  Teyn hugs me hard, briefly, and cuffs my cheek in rough affection.

“Now let’s go be heroes,” she says, her voice gravelly.  “Let’s go be Peacekeepers.”





We affect a drunken stagger and swagger as we approach the Scarran Stryker.  It’s an easy posture for me to take; I’ve only walked a quarter metra and already my legs are shaking.  As we near the ramp, Desa, walking between us, trips and nearly falls to her knees, shoulders hitching as if she is about to vomit.  Smoothly, Teyn and I grab her arms and steer her quickly up the ramp, past the two Charrids on guard duty.

Over the helmet comms, one asks, “Too much good time?”

Teyn growls back, “Too much and too little,” and adds a curse with which I am unfamiliar.  Her pitch and cadence are perfect, and the guards both wheeze Charrid laughter as we pass between them.

It’s Scarran arrogance and Charrid carelessness that get us on board.  Ident chips would have been checked, at the least, on a Peacekeeper vessel.  Just because we look and smell like Charrids, the hirelings of Scarrans, we are allowed to walk into the heart of the ship without being further accosted.

As we walk, Teyn activates the image recorder dampener.  Each security device we pass will be disrupted and will automatically play a loop of the previous hundred microts.  It’s one of the nicer pieces of equipment to which we have access, and at this moment I feel personal gratitude to its inventor, glorious tech that he must be.

Once around the first bend, we drop the drunken act and slip our rifles off our shoulders.  Teyn takes point, striding with great purpose down the hall, Desa to her left, I to her right, staggered slightly in a typical Charrid formation.

Two guards are stationed in front of the security area.  They stand straighter, hands tightening on their weapons, as we approach, and I know these two will be troublesome; they are too alert.  Of course, that must also mean that we are knocking on the right door, and John is right behind it.

“Prisoner transfer orders,” Teyn says in Charrid, and rattles off the appropriate codes and officers involved.

“Akanth said nothing of a transfer when he was here an arn ago,” one responds.

Teyn shrugs impatiently.  “Apparently another ship has been secured, as this bucket of dren will take too long to fix.  All I was told was to move the prisoner.”

They almost believe it; we’ll never know what tipped them off.  Teyn has inched forward casually while speaking, and when one drops his rifle down slightly in sudden suspicion, Teyn is on him, slamming him back against the wall, her knife ripping through his trachea instantly before he can call an alert to the others.  I grab the other by the throat before Desa can even move; it takes all my strength to crush his windpipe and snap his neck one-handed, but I do it, dropping his body into Desa’s stunned arms.

“Go,” Teyn whispers, dragging the body of the other one into an access corridor.

I attach the code breaker to the keypad of the doorlock.  It’s only a few microts until it beeps, but it feels as if a monen has passed.  I snatch the device off the pad and toss it to Teyn as the door slides open and I rush into the dim room.

It’s a standard Scarran interrogation cell, half sized to fit aboard the Stryker.  The restraints on the wide arms of the seat hang empty, and I have to stifle a scream of disappointment and rage until I see him, a huddle of darkness, in one corner.

I kneel by him, my gloved hands frantically seeking pulse, heartbeat, breath, anything.  He jerks away from my touch with a small cry that breaks my heart, cowering as far from me as he can.

“John.  John, it’s me, Aeryn,” I whisper, trying to grab his arm.  “We have to go now, we don’t have much time—“

He wrenches away from me, burying his face against the wall.  “Not real, not real, not real—“

“Let’s go, Aeryn!” Teyn hisses from the doorway.

I yank the helmet from my head and use both hands to grasp his face and pull it toward mine.  He resists, grimacing, and only opens his eyes reluctantly when I kiss his forehead gently. 

“Aeryn?” he whispers, unbelieving.  Hesitantly, he reaches up to touch my face.  “Aeryn!”

He clutches me to him suddenly, painfully, and I collapse onto him, hardly daring to believe that I can feel him against me. No matter what they’ve done to him already, they haven’t broken him, he remembers me, he remembers my name and that I would come for him—

It takes all my waning strength to pull him to his feet.  I fumble my helmet back on and pull his arm around my shoulders to steady him. We’re a pair, leaning on each other, his weight almost crushing me, wobbling for the doorway, where Teyn beckons frantically.

This is going to work, I think in amazement. We’re going to make it!

Desa is at the next corridor junction, keeping watch.  The plan is simple from here: make it to the main hatch, hopefully undetected, shoot the two lax guards at the ramp, and run like hezmana, Jax and Ced providing cover fire.  Get to our ship a few berths away, break dock, and open a bottle of raslak.  Simple plan.

It only takes a microt for it to go to frelling dren.

Desa fires a warning shot down one corridor and yells for us to hurry.  Teyn goes ahead to help secure the corridor, and I push John, who is barely able to keep his feet, along faster.

I sense motion behind me and swing around in time to blast two Charrids.  Behind them, though, is a Scarran, and the Charrid pulse weapons are powerless against that species.

I’m gasping now, John’s weight pressing me down.  I can see the main hatch; I see Teyn and Desa going through it.  There are flashes of pulse fire, and I know the exterior guards are dead.  We’re twenty-five steps from freedom, and hope is carrying me, carrying us, each step of the way.

Teyn has come back through the hatch.  She shouts something unintelligible in the comms as she fires past us, down the corridor.  I  hear an explosion and feel its force rattle the entire ship.  Later, as these events replay on a continuous loop in my mind, I will realize that Teyn went outside to collect her PK112 from Jax, and that the tac she fired up the corridor obliterated the Scarran behind me.  All I know at this moment, however, is that we are twenty steps to freedom.

There’s an access corridor just before the main hatch.  John sees the movement first; he cries out, and I swing around, firing, a split microt too late.  I see the pulse blast blossom on the Charrid’s chest plate at the exact same moment that my right leg is knocked out from under me.

I fall flat, losing my grip on John, and he falls half on top of me, trapping me.  The impact knocks my helmet rolling down the corridor. As my hands hit the floor, I feel something in my shoulder tear, and that pain is far greater than that in my leg.  That realization is my first indication of doom.  It’s the really bad wounds that don’t hurt right away.

I scrabble frantically, pushing myself upright; my right leg won’t respond, blood pouring from the wound on my thigh, and I know that the bone is broken, that I won’t be walking out of here, that we are frelled beyond repair.

Teyn is advancing toward me, firing steadily over me, ignoring the pulse blasts that pepper around her.  Behind her, Desa cries out as the hatch begins to iris closed.

John is grabbing at me, trying to help me, but so weak himself that he can’t even get up.

I still for a moment, gathering my resolve, the last of my energy.  In that split-microt, I remember what Teyn told me, that I had my mother’s strength and my father’s loyalty.  I think of Ced and Desa, and I wish them all the luck, all the fate, with which John and I were never gifted.

“Go, Teyn,” I say, looking at her one last time.  “Get them out.  I’ll take it from here.”

She never stops firing, and I wish I could see her face instead of the Charrid’s helmet.  She begins to yell, an anguished keening, as I whip around one last time to fire at the Charrids who are advancing.  I take out two before my rifle empties of Chakkan oil; I throw it at them then and throw myself on top of John as I draw my knife.  Out of the corner of my vision, I see Teyn leap through the hatch just before it snicks closed.

“Thank you, Teyn.  Thanks for everything,” I say into my comms, and I brush John’s cheek with the back of my hand before I put the blade to his throat. 

In that moment, he stills, his blue eyes looking up at me.  Inexplicably, he smiles, and his lips form the words Love you, baby, even as he feels the blade start to bite into his skin.

I look into his clear eyes, and my hand shakes.  I do the unthinkable.

I hesitate.

John’s face blurs and disappears into a white haze.  Belatedly, I hear and feel the crack of a rifle butt against my skull.  And then, nothing.

[ScaperRed]

Chapter 10:
Betting on the Wild Card

 

I don’t even realize that I’m speaking softly until I sense Scorpius crossing the walkway to Pilot.  I stop, wondering why Scorpius has come to the den again.

“And so...you were all captured?” Pilot asks quietly.  He  roused at some point during my whispered recollections but had said nothing until now, merely leaned over enough to brush my hair with one of his claws occasionally when I faltered.

I lean back, resting my head against his console.  “Just John and me.”  I think of Teyn, her mouth quirking in a grin behind her raised fists as we square off in the training ring. Jax, light gleaming off his smooth shaved head and even teeth as he laughs at one of Ced’s jokes. Desa and Ced wrestling over tadek pieces with mock ferocity before one of them invariably ends it with a kiss.

I am hollow with grief.

Scorpius says nothing for long moments, just moves to check something on the scans for himself.  Eyes closed, I forget that he’s even there, lost in a bit of memory; it’s the end of a training session, and Teyn and I are talking about Prowlers, our hands describing arcs and rolls.  Jax lumbers over to join the conversation, toweling sweat off his massive, bare shoulders.  Ced teases Desa in the background about something until she hits him in the chest, knocking him off his haunches, which only serves to make him laugh harder.  And John, John walks into the periphery of my vision to lean on the fence and watch, waiting for me.  He’s still in his dirty tech coverall, and I can place this memory if I try, it must have been just before I left on the mission where I nearly died—

John.  Always John.

“You did not fail him,” Scorpius says quietly from above me.  He can’t see me shake my head, but he must interpret my silence as negation, for he finishes checking the scans and settles onto his haunches beside me.  “In fact, it was with great personal sacrifice that you and your team tried to save him.  You should be commended for that, Officer Sun.”

Oh, I failed him, all right.  I failed everyone.

“Commended for what turned out to be a totally futile effort, Scorpius?  How you’ve changed.  You should execute me yourself for this massive failure—“

“Officer Sun—“

“He hadn’t broken yet, don’t you understand?  He hadn’t broken.  If I’d just—“  Furiously, I pound my fist against the floor until I can’t lift it anymore, until I’m struggling for breath.  “I failed everyone, Scorpius.  The Scarrans hadn’t gotten the wormhole information yet.  They weren’t through with him.  If I’d only—none of this would have happened, do you understand?  None of it!”

I think of Teyn, of the promise I’d made to her to finish things, and I want to retch. 

Because she would’ve known that I couldn’t do it.  Would’ve known that I really didn’t have Xhalax’s strength.  And that was why she and Jax—

“There is still time,” Scorpius says softly.  “Time to mend that which has been rent asunder.”

His gaze flickers to the closed book on my knees.  Automatically, I curl one arm around it, hugging it to my chest, and struggle to my feet.  My other hand stretches to touch Pilot’s cheek, and he murmurs unintelligibly at the caress.

“Yes,” I say, struggling to contain my raging emotions, to stay within this numb bubble.  “There is still time.”

I glance at Pilot, whose breathing is more labored than my own.  But not much.



Pilot already knows how the story ends.  Still, he asks me to continue after Scorpius leaves again, and I do, first leaning and then sitting on his console as my strength wanes.  I speak to him automatically, and sometimes he has to guide me with a question as I lose track of what I’m saying, lost in what I see within my mind. 

He and Moya don’t need to know it all, nor, I am sure, do they want to.  But this vocal recounting has become another of my few duties, and I perform it willingly, editing the tale as necessary.

I’ve lost so much of my memory.  And I would gladly trade what’s left of my sanity as well as the horror within my mind for a single additional memory of John Crichton’s smile.

That won’t happen, of course, and maybe that is justice.  Maybe this is punishment for my many and varied crimes.  To remember.



   
I barely feel the pressure on my arms and shoulders as I'm carried down the corridor. I must lose consciousness, because suddenly we arrive at the cell. Images keep flashing through my mind: John lying in bed, heat pulsating from his body, dying in my arms. John lying in my arms, blood pouring from the jagged wound on his throat. His voice breaking as he asks, "Why did you kill me?" The words gurgling as he chokes on his own blood.

Lying sprawled on the floor of my cell, I can't remember if I killed him before my capture. In my memory, I feel the grip of my knife in my hand, I feel the slight give of his skin as the blade cuts him.  I see the blood trickling onto the dull silver edge...And then, nothing.

Maybe I killed him after we were captured.

For the love of Cholak, let me have had the strength to do that much for him.



The fever I had fought before we arrived has once again begun to rage through me. It's hard for me to stay awake, and I don't want to. I want to join John, and that thought consumes my every waking moment.

For some reason I cannot fathom, they are keeping me alive. However, they are determined to “enjoy” themselves even with that small task. They leave food and water just inside the door, knowing I will have to crawl in agony with my broken leg.  They’ve only given me enough medical attention to ensure that I don’t bleed to death too soon, and my wounds are festering.  Every dench of my body feels as if it is covered in liquid fire as I try to reach the water.

It would be so easy to give up, to lie here and wait for death.  It’s what I want now.  I have nothing left but a shattered body wracked with pain, and a mind I can no longer trust.

It’s John who makes me drag myself across the floor.  It’s his hand around mine that makes me grasp the cup and gulp a few sips of water before it falls from my nerveless fingers. It’s his voice that coaxes me, that screams at me, that makes me go on.  It’s not really him; my mind is intact enough for me to realize that.  It’s what he would want and what he would expect of me.

It’s all I have left of him.

And so I refuse to give them the satisfaction of seeing me give up. I keep John's image in my mind, his smile as he spoke of his family, his laughter over some comment he found amusing, his sweet caress as we made love. I hold onto what remains of John Crichton.


Vaguely, I hear voices swirling through my vivid memories; voices I had not noticed at the time, wracked in pain and delirium as I was.  Scarran voices.

"Sir...her core temperature continues to remain above optimum."

"If you do not stabilize it, we will lose a very valuable commodity with the Peacekeepers. Grayza seems extremely interested in Aeryn Sun and Crichton. Crichton is at an end of his usefulness, but what are the Commandant's interests in this one? It is possible she sent this one here. I want to know why..."

They thought Grayza had sent me to rescue Crichton.  That’s why they interrogated me for so long instead of just killing me.

Frelling idiots. 



I am on Talyn. Sitting in the chair next to John's bed, I watch as his breathing becomes more ragged. He looks at me and I cross the short distance and lay beside him and take his hand. I have lived this moment more times than I can count. The words he is about to speak spring to my mind before he can say them; they are etched deeply into my consciousness. I don't want to hear them as I know they will be his last before he dies yet again in my arms.

John looks at me, but instead of the peace in his eyes that I had always remembered, all I see is ice cold anger.

"You killed me."

Choked with tears, I have no breath in which to respond to him, so I shake my head.

"You left me to go after Furlow alone."

At last I find my voice. "I had to go after the Charrid..."

"No, you could have stayed with me." He whispers, "You killed me...both of me. Is that why you came back for the other me?"

I can't help myself as I cling to him, desperate to make him understand. "I tried to save you...I love you."

"But you ended my life...twice." With that final whisper, the light leaves his eyes.

Suddenly I am holding the other John again, blood pouring from his mouth and throat. My knife is gripped tightly in my hand, covered in his blood. Hatred darkens his eyes as he accuses me, "Why did you come? Why?"

Slowly his skin begins to crack and peel. I try to back away as his body decays in microts in front of my eyes, but I am unable to move. All I can do is watch as his eyes are the last to be ravaged and they begin to glaze over, despite the fact they are still looking in my direction. They sag inward suddenly as his skeleton disintegrates into dust, and I am once more left with nothing.


The only sound I can hear as I walk through the corridor is Moya's rhythmic hum that I have come to associate with comfort and home. It's hard for me to concentrate in the unusual heat, but I know there is something for me to remember. Faint voices seem to whisper in my ear. However, when I turn, there is no one to be seen.

I notice I am close to John's quarters, but I don't want to go and see the possessions he had collected over the cycles on Moya. Still, I find myself nearing the room as if I have no control over my actions, when suddenly I remember that John had not taken his recorder with him when he had joined me. If there is anything of his that I want, it is this one item. Through this simple device, I will find a way to hear his voice again.  Although I ache at the thought, its longing  drives me forward more quickly...

I’m on Moya? But—My thought sputters and dims almost instantly.

The door opens automatically before me and I enter, only to reel back as if struck by a sharp blow to my chest. Two partially dressed bodies lie on the bed, their attention locked only onto one another as they kiss passionately. I watch as John's hands slowly rub across the blond female’s body. Suddenly they look up at me, and I recognize the other woman is Gillina. John's eyes darken as he looks at me. They climb off of the bed; as they stand side by side, Gillina's arms circle his bare waist. She leans her head against his chest and smiles. Through my shock, I can feel the heat of rage and jealousy course through my body.

“Why,” I whisper.

"Why do you think? We're dead, we belong together, we always have." John looks down sadly at Gillina.  When he looks back up at me, I can see nothing but fury in his eyes. His body tenses, as if ready to attack. "But we are dead because of you. You killed me by your own hand and Gillina because of your jealousy, you self-righteous bitch!"

I shake my head at his accusation. "Gillina died at Scorpius' hand. She died saving you."

"She died because of you!" he bellows as he steps forward. "You were jealous of her on the Zelbinion and at the Gammak Base. She would have left with us and would still be alive if not for you."

"John..." Gillina says as she reaches out her hand to him, "Come back to me."

He turns back to her, taking her hand. As they draw close, he leans down and softly kisses her lips.

My chest burning with pain, it’s hard for me to breathe as I watch the two of them embrace again.  I know it is because I am angry—angry at John for saying these things to me, and angry at myself because I had been jealous when I had seen them kissing on the Zelbinion.  I had never allowed myself to interfere because I had known I had no claim on him. Still...

"I never wanted either of you to die,” I say as I gasp for air.

John finally turns back towards me, his arm still curled protectively around Gillina. "Then why did you come back for me?  Were you afraid I would spill my guts to the first Scarran I saw? You didn't want any secrets revealed? Why?"  His face contorted in anger.

"You know why I came back for you..." I find myself falling onto the floor, unable to breathe, looking up at John’s cold face, then darkness...


 

I try to wrench loose from the memory, but I’m engulfed in it, trapped within the darkness.  But I’m remembering, not experiencing it for the first time, and the Scarran voices echo within the blackness spread throughout my mind.

"Sir, the prisoner is entering the second stage of heat delirium. Her core temperature is rising too fast due to the fever."

"That is of no consequence.  End the session. The Emperor has reached an agreement with the Peacekeepers for the prisoners Sun and Crichton. Take her back to her cell."

They never found out about the stasis pregnancy.  Ironically, the fever the Hokothians had unleashed on me skewed my vital signs enough so that they thought my intolerance to the heat probe was due to illness alone.  They had no idea that I might carry John Crichton’s child.  If they had...

That’s why they didn’t break me, John. I couldn’t let them.  I still had some small amount of hope, even then.  Hope that I would see you again.  And I’d never be able to look in your eyes if I’d given your child to the Scarrans.

But what good was hope against fate?



   

Pain...I can remember pain as I'm thrown into a cell on the Transport. My mind still reels from my memories being twisted and contorted.  I understand now that the Scarrans have been interrogating me. What I don't know is why they are allowing Peacekeepers to take me into custody, what deal has been made, what game is now being played. My whole body hurts, but it is mild in comparison to the fever raging through me, cramping my muscles. I press my face against the floor, the cool metal comforting as my eyes adjust to the dim light.

"N-no..." I hear whispered, and I struggle to turn in the direction of the sound, knowing automatically it is John's voice. I can see him lying on the floor next to the wall.

My first reaction is immense relief. Thank the goddess he's still alive.

My second is utter despair.

"John..." I begin crawling towards him, ignoring the white-hot pain shooting through my leg. Even in the dimness, I can see something is wrong. He's trembling uncontrollably, almost seizing.

"John, please answer me," I plead softly, my voice rasping.  I can hear him mumbling as I draw up close to him, but the words are meaningless bits of English, harsh soft sounds.  I turn him over gently. I can't control the gasp of surprise as I see the bruises and swelling mottling his face.

"Aeryn...I have to find Aeryn, keep her safe..."

I lean against the wall, gently lifting his head into my lap. As tears run down his face, I wipe them away. "Where's Aeryn?" His eyes are gazing upward, seeing something I cannot. "I tried...I tried so hard, Dad, but I couldn't find her. Maybe she didn't want to be found.  Maybe she didn’t want to be here, with me.”

I cup his face, whispering, "John, I'm right here..." My fingers brush softly against his cracked lips. His shaking has begun to get worse as he grabs his stomach and a moan escapes him.

"I gotta be strong, Dad...I gotta be strong for her. I've failed her enough." His breathing is becoming more labored as he suddenly stretches his hand outward. "I know you’re not really here, I guess...I guess I'm dying and I just didn't want to be alone. He had Aeryn with him at least...I've always been jealous of what they...he had. That's all I wa...wanted. To love her and have her love me too." He lets his hand drop back to his stomach as he winces in pain. Suddenly he begins coughing.  He turns onto his side, and I hold onto him tightly until the spasm eases. When it finally ends, I roll him onto his back. A small drop of blood, more black than red in the dim light, is dripping from the corner of his mouth. 

I can’t hold back the tears any longer. "Please...not again. I can't lose you again, John. I'm here, please see me." I wipe away the blood and lean down, placing a kiss on his lips.

As I bring myself back up, I see his eyes focus on me at last. "A-Aeryn?" his voice softly rasps out. "Where are we?"

I smile as I look into his dazed eyes. "Where do you think we are?" I ask gently as I trail my finger along the side of his face.

"We made it, didn't we? Made it back home...I was just talking to Dad. I thought...I thought you didn't come, I couldn't find you."

"You are only tired, you've—you’ve been working hard to bring us to Earth,” I say, trying to smile for him, to make this pretense real to him.  It’s all I can do for him now.  “I've been with you this whole time."

He closes his eyes in pain, but as they reopen, it is as if he doesn't know the spasm has happened. He smiles at me, and I wonder what he sees. "You look so beautiful in this light." He looks upwards and then back at me; he brushes his fingers through my hair.   "I can't look at you enough with the moon light reflecting off of your hair. You are positively glowing..." His fingers reach around the back of my neck, pulling me towards him. "I love you, now and forever,” he whispers just before our lips touch.  The kiss, like our life together, is too brief.

"I love you too, now and forever," I whisper against his lips.

He looks into my eyes again and smiles briefly, brilliantly.  His hand slides from my neck as his eyes glaze, and I know I have lost him for a second time.

I wrap my arms around him, holding on tightly as his body gradually slackens in my arms one last time. I don't know when, but I begin to rock with him in my arms until the guards come and they take him away from me forever.

 


There’s not much to remember after that, for awhile; one long dark arn blends into the next as I lie coiled in grief on the cool floor, until I feel the slight shudders of docking echo through the transport.  Med techs in Peacekeeper uniforms roll me onto a stretcher and carry me out into the bright light of the hangar bay.  Dimly I hear them discuss my condition, but at this point, I really don’t give a damn.

A voice pierces my half-unconscious haze; furious shouting echoes to hammond side.   I raise my head enough to see another stretcher coming out of the transport, the black-clad figure of Commandant Grayza in attendance.  She is screaming, cursing, beyond mere fury, and with a faint smile on my lips, I let my head fall back onto the stretcher.

You can’t hurt him now, you bitch.  No one can.



Grayza has ordered me confined to the med bay under full restraint and guard. It’s hard to stay awake, even when it feels as if my body temperature has cooled sufficiently. The med techs have been working constantly since my arrival.  They are worried the Scarrans will use a form of this contagion with which I am infected against them in the coming war. Induced heat delirium would decimate the Peacekeeper forces and enable the Scarrans to easily take control.

Voices penetrate the comforting darkness, familiar ones.  Although I try to ignore them, they persist, eroding my momentary peace.  Suddenly I feel as if my entire body has gone into starburst, sensations spiking through me, and my eyes jerk open as a spasm wracks me.  I immediately close them against the harsh light of the med bay, desperately seeking the darkness again, willing myself into it.

"Open your eyes, Officer,” a female voice commands.

I slowly open them to see Commandant Grayza standing over me, pale lips grimly smiling.

"It seems the Peacekeepers owe you a small token of gratitude. If you had not allowed yourself to be captured, we might never have known of the contagion the Hokothians had developed for the Scarrans to use against us."

Detached, I watch wearily as she edges closer to my bed. "It is a shame Crichton could not be saved. From my reports his death was quite painful."

She looks at me, seeking a reaction to her words.  I won’t give her the one she wants; I’m not even capable of it now.  In her arrogance, she thinks there is still something left in me to be broken, something that survived Scarran interrogation that she can snap with cool words covered in false sympathy.

I don't say anything as I search my memory for the information I had learned after our first encounter with Grayza on Scorpius' command carrier. I remember the intel gathered on her rise through the ranks. Locking her gaze with my own, I try to sit up, but the restraints on my arms hold me down.

"John's death may have been painful, but at least I have the satisfaction of knowing he will never fall into the hands of the Peacekeepers or a Commandant who is nothing more than a common tralk." I spit out the last word with every ounce of hatred I feel at frelling fate.  At the universe that conspired to see that we would never be reunited except in death. Frell the consequences, and frell fate.  I don't turn from her; I watch as her pale eyes narrow in my direction.

"Leave us!" she says to the medtechs in the room, and instantly we are alone.

"You lie there...indignant over what? A lover’s death? You are a traitor to Peacekeepers and Sebaceans alike. You and Crichton have caused untold damage to the peace I have fought so hard for with the Scarrans."

I laugh at her, the almighty Commandant Grayza, my rough voice echoing in the sterile room.

"Me? A traitor to Peacekeepers and Sebaceans? Your peace is going to cost the lives of billions of Sebaceans. What do you think you are doing with this abomination of a peace treaty? You have used this 'peace' only as a shield to hide behind. You have frelled your way from a grot to this position, and you are still nothing but a back alley whore!"

Grayza is a lot quicker than her appearance would indicate. I do not see her move; I only feel the blow as it strikes the side of my face, her nails cutting into my cheek. Her skin is no longer pale, anger flushing her features, and I feel an unexpected surge of grim triumph at her response.

"You would do well not to speak to me in such a manner! I am nothing if not loyal to the honor of the Peacekeepers!"

"HONOR? What do you know of honor? You used Heppel Oil to become..." I am prepared this time for the blow that follows.

"Guards!" They quickly fill the room, and I almost laugh at how they stand, weapons ready, over me.

"Take this traitor out of here. Let us see how enjoys the company of our other honored guest."

The guards come forward to release my restraints, not looking at the red welts that are forming on the side of my face as they lift me off of the bed. I try to put my full weight on my good leg as they stand me up, but it buckles under me, my body still weak from the fever.  Although the guards grip my arms tightly, I collapse and land partially on the floor. I try not to cry out as my broken leg smacks against the hard surface. Grayza smiles.  I wish I could wrap my hands around her neck and slowly squeeze her throat, watching her eyes bulge to the point of almost bursting. I smile at that image in my mind as the guards drag me away to my cell, and my reward is her puzzled look at my grim pleasure.



I can hear his voice through the pain- and drug-induced haze, "Officer Sun...you must wake up."

Please leave me alone. I no longer vocalize the words; I merely think them, but with a force that he can surely feel.  Painfully, I roll onto my side, my tense back telling him to shut the frell up for the tenth, hundredth, thousandth time.

I know this is my punishment for the wrongs I have committed in my life: to be subjected to Scorpius' presence after all that he has done to John. A constant reminder of how I failed him, even at the end, when he needed me the most. This is all that I think of as the hybrid’s soft voice rolls over me.

I don't know why, but he continues talking to me as time, uncounted days, slowly unravels. I lay there, not even looking in his direction as he tells me of his own past, the stories flowing haltingly, whispered perhaps to himself as much as to me, as I rarely respond to anything he says.

I can be thankful that he only speaks when the silence has become suffocating.

What is he doing? Why is he doing this? He tries to instigate conversations with me.  He continues to force food and liquids on me when they are brought, often giving me the largest of the portions, and insisting that I take them until I do, merely to silence him.

Doesn't he see it isn't worth it? I only want lie here and wait for the inevitable, to join John. I used to believe as the Peacekeepers that there is nothing when we die. Zhaan taught me differently on the ice planet...and John had shown me otherwise on Valldon. There is more out there after we pass on and I know John is waiting for me.  Still forgiving me.  Still loving me.

"Where is that formidable female that Crichton fell in love with?"

"What?" I slowly open my eyes.  This is a new gambit, and its novelty vaguely stirs my...interest.

"I said...where is the female that Crichton fell in love with? All I see is a weak excuse for a Sebacean. Crichton would be disappointed."

Shaking my head, I slowly turn over to face him. "You know nothing of what Crichton expected."

"Oh, but I do..." He gives me a side glance as if judging me. "From my neural chip. I garnered quite a bit of information from Crichton. Not the information I sought, but useful just the same."

"Stolen memories...you took a lot from him. His memories...his innocence. You changed him when you put him in the Aurora Chair."

"You must not blame me for that. The Ancients are the ones who began this dance with Crichton. If they had not seen to give him the technology, I would not have kept him in the chair..."

"No, you would have killed him when you found he didn't have any useful information."

"Perhaps, but we will never know that outcome. Fate saw otherwise."

I can't help but laugh at his use of that word. "Fate...you know nothing about fate. You see something you want and you take it, destroying all that stands in your way."

As I start to continue, we hear footsteps in the corridor. Soon the door to the cell slides back, and I see Grayza standing in the opening, her nose wrinkled in disgust at the sight of us lying on the dirty cell floor.

"Bring her..." she says and turns away.

I know what to expect as I'm strapped into the chair.  John had never realized that I had known when he continued to have nightmares of his experience at Scorpius' hands on the Gammak base. He never knew that it was my hands that soothed away the sweat-soaked dreams and eased him back into sleep, even in my quarters on the base.  But knowing what to expect and preparing oneself are two entirely different things.

There is no way to adequately express the pain, the horror, of having one’s mind ripped open and put on display.

Grayza doesn’t ask questions at first, merely watches and gives occasional instructions to the technicians controlling the chair. 

But she doesn’t get what she wants.

Although my hands are bound and my broken body renders me helpless physically, I can still fight, and I do. 

“A warrior’s real power isn’t here,” Teyn said, grabbing my clenched fists for a moment, until I forced myself to swallow my irritation at getting thrown on my eema once again.  “It isn’t here,” and she thumped me hard on the chest. “It’s here,” she said, reaching up to rest her palm on my forehead.  “Your body is the weapon, but your mind is the key.”

I almost smile at the recollection, ruefully; a weeken later, Teyn nearly broke my nose while sparring.  It had been my own fault, really; I’d quarreled with John over something minor, that first monen or two at the base, and I was angry, unfocused.  I’d thought I’d seen an opportunity to slip under Teyn’s guard and crack her jaw for a change.  I’d been completely unprepared for Teyn’s block and counterpunch, and I was actually unconscious for a few microts.  The next thing I knew, Teyn was pulling me to sit up with one hand, the other checking the back of my head and neck for damage.  I pulled away, spitting blood from a cut lip, and clamped one hand over my streaming nose, trying to staunch the flow of blood.  It hurt like hezmana, but I was actually angrier at myself than Teyn.  Teyn’s slight chuckle behind me did nothing to improve my mood, and I was grateful that the others had already gone in.

“Aeryn, you’re half my age or less; you’re in excellent physical condition; you have a longer reach; you’re taller; you have fine skills.  So why is it that, after all the training we’ve done, you always end up on the ground instead of me?”

“Maybe I didn’t get my mother’s mean streak,” I muttered, slightly surprised when the words leave my mouth.

Teyn chuckled again, and I heard leather creak as she sat on the ground next to me.  “Patience,” she said, “and self-discipline.  Two things we all had in short supply at one time or another.  Two things you need to develop.”

She checked my injury and helped me to my feet.  “Don’t think it’s broken, but it’s still bleeding.  Off to the med techs with you.  I’ll take your gear to your quarters.”  She cuffed my shoulder lightly and sent me on my way, repeating, “Patience, and self-discipline.  You’ll get there.”

I cling to that memory as the chair begins to revolve, as the current begins knifing through my neural pathways.  I think about sparring, of katas and drills, and I hold to those images, creating a block, even as I feel my mind being sliced into parts.  I think of what Teyn has said, because one thing I am sure of is that Commandant Grayza lacks patience and self-discipline even more than I do.  And if that’s true, then I’ll die in this chair and take my memories of John intact to the other side.

[ScaperRed]

Arns pass and I can see Grayza's cool demeanor is fading as she paces the room. As she steps onto the platform, it seems her eyes search my own.

"You and Crichton spent a great deal of time together since you left the Peacekeepers."

I can’t keep from visibly flinching at the sound of his name, but I do not say a word, only return her gaze.

"You were friends? Lovers?" She sneers as she says the word. She knows the answer already but waits for my response.

I give her none.

"What did Crichton tell you about wormholes?"

"They open and close...oh and they are blue." I sense the fire a microt before it actually touches me, arcing through every neural pathway.

"Lovers share so many secrets in bed.  Aeryn Sun, what secrets did Crichton tell you?"

It's hard for me to breathe, but finally I am able to answer her, "He loved to kiss the mole on my hip." Anger flashes through her eyes, but she controls it. I expect pain for my retort, but she surprises me with her response.  Perhaps she has some patience after all.

"Power down, give her some time to recuperate," Grayza says, looking to the tech behind me and then turning her gaze back to me.  "We're going to be here for arns."

Abruptly she turns and leaves the room, and I find myself unexpectedly breathing a sigh of relief. As I sit there for what seems like arns, I find myself drifting off to exhausted sleep.

I'm awakened by Grayza's slap across my face. "I did not permit you to sleep, only rest."

"There's a difference?" I ask, my voice slightly slurred from weariness.

Ignoring my remark, she continues, "What secrets did John Crichton reveal to you?" Her voice is too calm, slick, as the words slide from her lips.

She holds out her hand to one of the guards when I don't answer her; he places a small vial in her hand.

"You have grown quite obstinate during your time away from us...your true family. We know you were part of a renegade ex-Peacekeeper group. They launched a rescue attempt shortly before we 'recovered' you. The Scarrans were ready this time, your people did not reach very far. What unpleasant deaths they all had.  To save you.  Hardly worth it, was it?  Hardly worthy of such Peacekeeper honor.”

Lies, manipulations...

I fight the urge to retch from the images that spring to mind: Teyn and Jax immolated under Scarran hands, Desa screaming as Scarran claws bit into her skin, Ced’s last ringing bellow as he emptied his pulse rifle into the advancing Scarran—

Lies.

But I know Teyn. I know her better than I know myself in some ways, and I know that Grayza, for the first time, speaks truth.  My team is dead, dead because of me, my own frelling selfishness—

I can’t keep a shudder of grief from spasming through me, even as I fight to make my mind blank.  I try to think of Teyn, of training, but she is dead, they are all dead, and I am so tired, so worn, and I’ve never had enough self-discipline.  Still, I struggle.  Do not give Grayza any satisfaction, any indication of weakness—

But she’s sensed something, for her pale eyes narrow speculatively.

“We believe there are more cells of these renegades. Do you know where they are located?"

Grayza looks from me to the chair’s display.  When the answers she seeks do not appear, she steps closer to me, and the reek of Heppel oil that surrounds her makes me grimace.

"You are making this much more pleasurable on my part. I am beginning to rather enjoy your resistance to the chair, but High Command demands answers."

She holds a clear vial out for my inspection, but it means nothing to me.  Slowly opening the vial over me, she allows the liquid to drop onto the sleeve of my gray prison uniform. I feel it soak through the material. Soon a burning sensation begins where the liquid contacts my skin. It is dull at first, but soon it spreads up my arm. I try to ignore it, but soon I cannot as it makes contact with more nerves. Locking my jaw, I try to keep the screams inside. I can see Grayza is not pleased at my resistance; she applies more of the liquid, dripping it across my arms, my hands, my legs. Soon it seems as if I am about to drown in the circle of pain as it envelopes me.

It is taking all of my focus to keep from screaming; a small whimper escapes as she begins to question me again. And this time I can’t hold back, although I try to think of sparring, of shooting, of Prowler maneuvers.  I can’t stop the flashes from breaking forth, sweat pouring from my body with the effort; sweat mixing with the burning liquid until fire seems to course through my veins.

John and Jack working on the displacement engine. John telling me it could destroy a planet. His final words, "I've never felt better." His burial in space.

"Stop! What is this? Did he or did he not die on the transport here?" Grayza turns to me, fury behind her pale eyes, and I actually feel a dim flash of fear now; fear that she might be able to take the knowledge she wants from me, that she could invade all that I have left of John Crichton.

The combination of pain in both my mind and body are reaching their limits as the chair digs more deeply into my mind.  She repeats the questions about John, her voice increasingly shrill.  Agony arcs through every nerve; the room spins, bathed in arcing blue fire, and finally I cannot stop the screams that issue from my raw throat.  I feel the blank wall I’ve built to protect my mind start to crack as it becomes harder to keep my memories my own.  Darkness beckons, and I slip thankfully into it before I betray John yet again.



I awake to pain, but it is soon replaced by a surprisingly gentle touch.  Slowly opening my eyes, I flinch to see Scorpius sitting next to me on the gritty floor of our cell. Even that minor movement sends torment through my body. He notices I am awake, but he doesn't speak as he continues to apply a wet cloth to the reddened burns on my arms and legs. Soon the burning sensation has dissipated to a tolerable level and I slowly sit up and lean against the wall. My throat is raw as I thank him, raw from my own screams in the chair.  The realization should embarrass me, but it does not.  I no longer have the capacity for such complex emotions.

"Did you tell her anything?" he asks as he brings a cup of water to my lips.

I am grateful for the coolness of the water as it trickles down my throat. "I have nothing to tell."

"I expected you to say that, your training has served you well, but I'm afraid it will also be the cause of your death shortly."

I close my eyes against the pounding in my head. "It doesn't matter anymore."

"It should matter to you." He hisses, "There is a war about to start and the Sebacean people will be obliterated because of the information gained from Crichton's knowledge."

I open my eyes to this and can see his anger barely contained at the idea of Scarran domination.

"You may no longer care about your fate or that of your own species, but think of this...Crichton fought against me for so long for what reason? He thought I would use the knowledge for conquest over others. He was never further from the truth." He shook his head slowly. "Surely you can see the truth as it is. The Scarrans must be stopped..."

To my surprise he leans over towards me.  Somehow I keep myself from rearing back in revulsion of his being so close to me. Or perhaps I am merely too exhausted.

"You may not want to continue on, but I do.  While you were being interrogated, one of my men still loyal to me made contact. He has implemented my plan for escape. If you want to simply die, you may stay here, but if you want to stop the Scarrans and avenge Crichton and fulfill what he fought for...join me."

He quickly moves away from me as we hear the quick step of the guards approaching our cell. As the door opens, Capt. Braca steps in with several guards, all with weapons ready.

"It is your turn, Scorpius."

Watching the hybrid struggle to stand, Braca smiles. "I am going to enjoy this."

Scorpius faces him calmly.  "Oh...I am sure you will...Captain." He follows the guard out of the room and I am left alone to consider his offer.

Closing my eyes, I lay my head on my folded arms, ignoring the pinpricks of pain resonating from the burns. I don’t want to admit it even to myself, but Scorpius is right. I lost one John as he tried to stop the Scarrans and the other because they ripped that knowledge from his mind. For myself, I only wanted to give up...to rest. I know now what John had meant when he had told me he was tired. It seems everything has been drained from me. My body, my mind, my soul.

But John was...is... a part of my soul. I have to find that part of myself again, to continue as he did, as he dared to try. It’s the only way I have left to honor him.  To survive, for as long as I could, for as long as I could stand it.  To keep his memory.

Frell, I never thought things would go this badly when John threw that coin up into the air.  If I had...

“Coulda, woulda, shoulda,” his voice echoes in my mind, and I feel tiny, unexpected tears sting my eyes.

Scorpius’ plan, whatever it is, must be farboht.  A long shot, a wild card chance, as John would have called it. Stripped of command, with few supporters, Scorpius will be unable to mount a defense against the Scarrans.  Suicide.

I examine my shoulder wound, leaking through its bandage; the slowly healing pulse blast wound on my thigh.  The bone has been sealed, but the tissues are not regenerating as they should.  I may not even live long enough to take part in Scorpius’ plan.

Time seems to slow as I wait for Scorpius to return, but soon I hear the footsteps once more. As the door is opened, I pretend to sleep. I hear shuffling steps and then the dull sound of a body hitting the floor. As the door latches, I look over to see Scorpius lying on his side, breathing heavily. His pale eyes meet mine, and I am startled to see a combination of calculation and hope within them.

"I'll join you...what is your plan?"



I lose track of time completely in the next few days, weekens.  I spend arns in the Aurora Chair, where my only slight relief is taunting the Commandant, who is becoming increasingly frantic with her queries, her methods.  And it occurs to me that there must be a reason for her distress, other than a simple soldier’s obstinacy.   High Command must be pressing her to get results. 

Or the Scarrans are already advancing.

When I’m in the chair, my focus is absolute, creating the shield my mind needs to survive. I remember my training, my comrades, and they come to my defense even now, in this new way.  It’s also my way of carrying them with me.

I hardly ever think of John now.  I don’t allow myself that luxury.  A thought is all Grayza needs; a thought can become a pathway.  Or so she thinks.

Ironic, isn’t it, that I know virtually nothing about wormholes.  John spoke of them on Talyn a few times, but we had—other topics that were far more interesting.  On Moya and on the base, John stopped talking about them, knowing that a mere mention of them opened wounds far deeper than a blue funnel. 

Grayza, of course, refuses to believe me.

One day she completely loses control, screaming at me that the Scarrans are coming, that they will rape and pillage every corner of the known universe, that every Sebacean child will be slaughtered if I don’t give up my knowledge.  My last thought, as she slaps me unconscious, is that she is desperate to the point of hysteria.  She may even be out of control enough soon to kill me.

And I smile at that thought and thank Teyn for the lessons.



But Grayza isn’t hysterical, I find out soon enough, as the command carrier shudders under Scarran attack.

Scorpius and I have formed an uneasy alliance through shared misery.  I have little hope of escape, but I find this partnership useful, particularly when I am thrown back into our cell after yet another session in the Aurora Chair.  Scorpius makes me drink water and eat and tends to my wounds as best he can; I do the same for him.  The price I pay for this bond is, of course, listening to his half-mad ravings, of escape and rescue and making weapons to defeat the Scarrans.  Of the countless things he’d like to do to Grayza in the Aurora Chair.

After enough days of this, suicide does begin to seem a more pleasant alternative that merely waiting to die.  I am contemplating this while helping Scorpius change a coolant rod. Abruptly, the deck shifts under me, and I am flung across the floor, the blue tube rolling to smash into the wall.  Scorpius has also been knocked sprawling, and we freeze momentarily, staring incredulously at each other, before scrambling to our feet and pounding on the cell door.

A command carrier is the largest ship in the Peacekeeper fleet; it’s far larger than most other ships in any fleet, in fact.  For one to groan and wallow as this one is doing can mean only one thing.

Scarran attack.

Briefly, I consider that Grayza is not quite the hysterical tralk I had thought her, and then I am pounding harder on the door, demanding to be let out.  I know from prior personal experience that the prison level is the last best place to be on a command carrier that is being destroyed.

My heart is pounding, and I’m wondering why I’m even putting forth this effort, when the door does slide open, and I look into the face of Captain Braca.  He’s still in uniform, although the insignia has been stripped, and he carries a bag slung over his shoulder.

“Quickly, sir!” he calls, pushing past me to extend an arm to Scorpius.  “We haven’t much time—“

He takes time to replace the cooling rod for Scorpius, even as I rush through the door, the floor heaving under my feet.

It’s pandemonium in the corridors, people running in all directions, fires breaking out.  I have a disorienting flash of memory, of another command carrier exploding, of a gout of flame leaping forward to immolate my former comrade Henta. 

Braca strides past me to lead the way, shouting, his pulse pistol absurdly drawn within his own command carrier.  He’s close to panic himself, shoving his way through his own people recklessly. Scorpius and I stagger in his wake, sometimes supporting each other, sometimes crashing into each other.

There’s another rumbling boom, and a creaking shudder wracks through the great ship.  I feel the vibration rip along the floor and instantly recognize that unique sensation.  Hull breach.  Massive hull breach and decompression.  The command carrier is being boarded.

Scorpius is still demanding details as we struggle along; how many Strykers, how many fighters, what kind of armament, how many Peacekeeper Marauders and Prowlers had made it out of the hangar bays.  Braca answers him automatically, and I half listen to this futile report, my strategist’s mind still working even after everything. Interrupting, I make an automatic demand for a weapon, which Braca ignores, his jaw tight.

No one’s getting off this ship alive, I think, and then we’re in the middle of a fire fight.

Braca has chosen poorly.  This is the side of the command carrier that has been breached, although this compartment retains breathable atmosphere.  The hangar bay that we’ve just staggered into is streaked by pulse fire, Scarran soldiers advancing steadily to secure it.  Peacekeeper bodies litter the floor, although there are groups of commandos and even a few techs who continue to vainly return fire, their pulse blasts mere annoyances against Scarran skin.

There are Charrids, too, and Braca leads us right into a squad as we hastily back out into the corridor.

Scorpius instantly closes with one, struggling for his weapon, and I hear his Scarran-like snarls over the sounds of battle behind me.  I flatten myself to one side as Braca fires blindly, taking out two Charrids, and he would have become the victim of the third if I hadn’t thrown myself into him, knocking him clear, the pulse blast searing across my back.  I don’t feel the wound then; I’m ripping the pistol from Braca’s grasp even as we fall.  I roll with the impact, hard and fast to my knees, targeting and firing while still in motion.  Blasts rip past me as I do so.  The Charrid falls, his chest a smoking ruin, and then there is momentary silence, punctuated only by harsh breathing and Scorpius’ growls of pleasure as he breaks his Charrid opponent’s neck.

White-faced, Braca scrambles to his feet and holds out his hand for his weapon.  I balance it on my palm for a moment thoughtfully, then flip it in the air and catch its grip as it drops past, as I’ve seen Jax do a thousand times before.  I level the barrel at Braca for a few microts, watching his face pale even more.  In the corner of my vision, I see Scorpius wipe his bloody gloves on his victim and rise, grinning, the Charrid’s pulse rifle slung over his shoulder.  I get up on wobbly legs, adrenaline ebbing, and let the pulse pistol drop to my side.  Braca does not ask for it again.  He quickly picks up a Charrid weapon, turns and rushes down the corridor toward another bay.

His second choice is well done.  There is no one in this bay, not even a tech, and we race toward the nearest Marauder on the ready line.  We’re nearly there, everyone gasping for breath, when the Marauder shatters in front of us.  Braca, running well ahead of us, is thrown back nearly to our position, his body riddled with shrapnel.  I barely have time to throw an arm over my face before I am blown back by the blast as well.

Gasping, I roll to my knees, barely noticing the small shards of metal now buried in my own arms and chest, as I spin around to face a Scarran missile launcher being wheeled farther into the hangar bay behind us.

Scorpius is cursing, his words unintelligible, nearly foaming at the mouth as he grabs my shoulder and shakes me hard.  “Can you fly?”  he growls, and shakes me harder when I fail to understand him.  “Fly, Officer Sun!  You must fly!”

“Fly?” I hit the deck reflexively as the Charrid squad begins to fire their hand weapons.  “Scorpius, we’ll never even get off the—“

Frell.

“Cover me,” I shout to Scorpius, and I have just enough time to think that only John could have appreciated such a bad plan before I set it in motion.  Instantly, and with great enthusiasm, Scorpius begins to return the Charrid fire as he retreats to a good-sized chunk of Marauder rubble for cover.

Gathering my strength, I spring forward, and I run as fast as I can in a random zigzag pattern, pulse blasts peppering the deck around me.  My focus is centered on the nearest craft, a Prowler that isn’t on the ready line, and I don’t feel any pain now, or see the energy bursts slamming past me, or hear the pulse blasts or my own ragged breaths.  It’s Teyn’s voice that echoes in my mind in that moment: “Patience.  Self-discipline.”  And during those microts, I’m full of both.

I grab the access ladder with my good hand and swing myself up into the open cockpit.  My fingers fly over the startup sequence, and I put enough thrust to the engines to lift the Prowler off and swing around, weapons targeting the Scarran missile launcher and its crew.  I depress the firing button firmly even as they start to scatter.

Nothing happens.

I depress it again and again, even as my stunned eyes watch the Charrid crew swarm around the missile launcher again and prepare it to fire at my ship.  That’s it, game over, throw the hand in, I think, the image of John’s poh-ker cards floating through my unraveling mind.

John.

Burned by Scarran heat probes, his skin cracked and bleeding, his mind stripped and failing as he died in my arms.

That’s not the image I want to have in my mind as I die, but I can’t seem to shake it, until a fragment of his voice floats up over the pounding of my own heart.

He’d won again at that silly Earth game, and we were all accusing him of cheating, of changing the rules.  He’d just shrugged, smiling a little, and said, “Sometimes you draw a wild card and it makes your hand.”

A wild card could be whatever was needed to fill the objective.  It could be what it was, or something else entirely.

Instantly, that vision of his burned skin still lodged in my brain, I spin the Prowler around so that its engines are facing the missile launcher, and I put the reverse thrusters to maximum.  Skidding and bucking, the Prowler scrapes on its skids backwards in the blink of an eye.  I watch the warning sensors light up across the boards in proximity alerts as I near the wall, and I spin half around, balancing the reverse thrusters with a quick maximum burst from the rear mains.  The Prowler yowls in protest, and I almost lose it, one useless wing cannon smashing against the deck before I can recover it.

When I regain control and look back, I find the missile launcher half melted, its crew immolated, and Scorpius standing, jaw agape, near the carnage.

He recovers himself quickly as I set the Prowler down.  Retrieving Braca’s bag from his corpse, Scorpius clambers up the access ladder and drops in behind me.  “Well done, Officer Sun!  How did you ever think of such a maneuver?”

I blink, but that last image of John still won’t fade entirely.  “Something that just came to mind,” I say unsteadily, and, just as another squad races into the hangar bay, I hit the thrusters and the Prowler streaks down the long access way.  Its coded signature registers automatically with the hangar bay computer, and the doors roll open as we approach.

I have only a few microts to revel in the clear blackness before a few Scarran fighters begin pursuit; most of them are concentrated on the other side of the carrier.  I roll and dodge, whipping through maneuvers automatically, and the Scarrans soon pull back, not willing to expend time and energy on a single escaping fighter when there is an entire command carrier to ravage.

It’s been less than an arn since this whole little adventure has begun, but it feels like days; I am starting to shake with fatigue, my breath rasping in my chest, as the last Scarran fighter turns back.  I need to put the ship on a specific heading, but I lose consciousness before I can ask Scorpius where we’re going. 

I’m just grateful, as I slide toward the blackness, that now I see nothing.

[ScaperRed]

Chapter 11:
Folding

 


“So that’s why you...trust...Scorpius,” Pilot says.

I nod, but I can’t quite meet Pilot’s eyes.  I do trust Scorpius. I trust that his motive is pure revenge, that he wants only to destroy the Scarrans, that he does plan to use wormhole technology as a means of transporting armies and weapons across space.  I trust that, for whatever reason, he does value, at this time, my companionship, my life; he values it more than I do, at this point. 

At the same time, I am well aware that there are levels of trust.  We each still have our own secrets and motivations, and I think we both know that.

In short, I trust him as much as I think he trusts me.

“I was wondering, Aeryn,” Pilot starts to say, and pauses for a microt to collect his thoughts, catch his breath.  I slip off the console to comfort him, but it’s his arm that steadies me as I nearly fall, my stiff legs buckling from sitting for so long.  We hold onto each other, and I wait for him to finish his question. 

“Why did you and Scorpius come here?  Surely he could have done his experiments...elsewhere...a base...found a group of Peacekeepers...”

And this is something I have to own as well.

“It was me, Pilot.  I wanted to come back to Moya, to come home.  Scorpius didn’t.”  And I’ve killed you because of it, Pilot, you and Moya.

“But surely Scorpius would not have...just done as you asked?”

I shake my head slowly, leaning back against the console, pulling away from him. I am not worthy to touch him. I am surprised to feel shame start to burn through me.  I didn’t know I was still capable of that emotion.

He’s waiting for an answer, dim curiosity mixed with concern for me in his great amber eyes.  I owe him that much, even though it is a confession that strips the last vestige of my honor away.  A last betrayal of John, and everyone I held dear.

“I made a deal with Scorpius, Pilot.  I lied, and I made a deal with him.”


 


I awake slowly, reluctantly, to searing pain across my back.  I have no idea where I am, and I panic for a microt, trying to determine my location.  The bed is soft, but its foul odor overwhelms me. Sickness, sweat, dirt, other scents, and I recoil from it even as I try to roll over to relieve the burning pain across my back.  Agony knifes through my body, stemming from a single point, my left shoulder.  Biting back a cry, I drop onto my back again and fight to breathe.

Long ingrained training kicks in, forcing me to do a physical assessment of my condition.  The worst pain comes from the deeply throbbing wound in my shoulder.  There are other various injuries—my back, my arms, my leg—but they are minor irritants in comparison.  I can’t recall how I was injured but I know somehow that this is the wound most likely to kill me.

Clenching my teeth, I struggle to remain conscious, to try to discover where I am.  The stench of the room is horrendous, as nauseating as the pain in my shoulder.  Dimly, I hear something.  Many voices, distant, haunting, just out of coherence.  Valldon, yes that’s it.  I remember now. Too much fellip nectar, trying to forget the pain, the loss. That’s why I’m here, why I hurt so much. 

Flashes of memory come unbidden: John, his body limp by my side on Talyn.  His skin, already cooling, lifeless, as I close his eyes, the sobs ripping from me.  I close his eyes—yet they stare back at me, calm and blue and accepting.  The knife in my shaking hands, cutting into the skin of his throat.

That’s not right.  Not how he died—

His head is in my lap, his face battered, my hands stroking away blood from the corner of his mouth as he tries to speak.

“I've always been jealous of what they...he had. That's all I wa..wanted. To love her and have her love me too.”

“I love you, now and forever.”

This is not Valldon.      That was another loss, another John Crichton, a long time ago. 

Where am I?  Where the frell am I?  How did I get here?

Blue eyes, cold and still with death, stare out at me from a slack face.

“John,” I whisper, my head spinning with images of the past, my body convulsing with heat and fear.

I gasp, my heart pounding, as a hand slides behind my head and helps me sit up.  A gentle touch.  Nightmare, just a nightmare—

“John?” I ask, louder this time, my voice cracking.

“No, Officer Sun.  John Crichton is dead.”

Scorpius. 

The enemy, asleep with the enemy beside me.  Again I gag, but not because of the foul stench but because of Scorpius, his hands probing my injuries. I flinch away from his touch, my skin crawling, a moan of protest all I can utter, unable to speak from sheer loathing.  Please do not touch me.

“You must stay still,” he hisses, grabbing my injured arm and using the resultant flare of pain to force me on my side.

“Don’t…” but I can’t finish the sentence.  He has found the infected wound, the pain shoots through my veins. My head is clouded over with nothing but pain and fear.  Fear of this enemy.

Not quite right either.
Another flare of pain cuts through the fog, keeping me conscious.  Making me remember.  Scarrans, Charrids, torture, heat, blood...John. Scorpius.  Scorpius with his head in my lap, slick with sweat and begging for mercy, begging for revenge.  A plan.  Escape. 

Allies.

The pain subsides for a microt, a sense of coolness spreading in the wound briefly, and I am able to look up at my companion.  His coolant suit ripped and badly patched, he looks no better than I feel, weary with pain, maybe even grief at all we have both lost.  John Crichton, my love, his only chance.  Braca, his trusted officer.  Hope. 

Images of our escape rattle through my mind, and I am vaguely surprised at the effort expended, the strength of the survival instinct, which has only served to bring us here to die more slowly than on the command carrier.

“I have arranged for our transportation to Etna,” he says as he fashions a rough bandage over the oozing wound in my shoulder.  I hear the back of my shirt rip, and I wince as he probes the shallow pulse blast wound across my shoulder blades.  I feel coolness drip onto the burn and sigh slightly at the mild relief.  It’s only then that his words register, as he collapses next to me.

“What are you talking about?” I demand.  Neither one of us is in any condition walk out the door, let alone travel to another world.  But despite his own weakened state Scorpius burns with determination.  I am too tired and sick to fight any more.  There is nothing left for me to fight for anyway.

“Etna, Officer Sun, to the abandoned research base.”  He eases himself up onto one elbow and looks down at me.  “I must continue my research, we must work together to defeat the Scarrans.”  His eyes blaze with hatred.  In his current state he should be ready to stop this crusade, ready to die, as I am.  Again I am wrong, as I have been in so many things.

I am amazed at his resilience, when I have none left.  The flight from the command carrier, that instinctive bid for survival, took my last bit of strength and purpose. I feel empty, a riddled hulk drifting in space.

I turn away from him and stare across the room.  Filth stares back at me, and for a moment I hear John’s voice, begging me to save him, help him.  Just like on Valldon. 

“It’s too late,” I whisper back, and I’m not sure if I’m speaking to Scorpius or to the voice only I can hear.

Scorpius emits a low growl.  “It is not too late.”   

It is out of context, but still true.  It is too late for me to save the universe. John is dead, the Scarrans have wormhole technology, and there will be no future, all because of me, because I hesitated.  Knife to his throat, those blue eyes ready, forgiving, understanding, I hesitated—and all was lost.

“I can’t help you.”

“But we are a team!  With our combined skills, there is still a chance-“

“Not for me,” I try to raise my voice in protest, but I don’t have the frelling energy.  “I can’t fight anymore, I just can’t.  Please…”

“Begging?” Scorpius yells, forcing himself to his feet. “Officer Sun, a Peacekeeper does not beg, a Peacekeeper fights, until death!”

“Well,” I say, trying to raise myself off the mattress, “I am not a Peacekeeper!”

Silence.  I lock gazes with him and in that moment my determination matches his.

“I have not been a Peacekeeper for four cycles, and it took more pain, brutality, and death than you will ever know for me to understand that.  I am Aeryn Sun, I was a Peacekeeper—I am not now, nor will I ever be again.  And Scorpius, I am ready to die.  Please just let me die.”

Silence.

I close my eyes, and, unbidden, images drift before my eyes.  Not of a regiment or a team or a Command Carrier; not of the ex-Peacekeeper base where my closest comrades are now dead because of me.  Golden curving walls, sloping corridors, a sparse room with all my gear stowed neatly, a workbench in the maintenance bay with my tools, a long walkway leading to one of my first real friends.

I remember something John said once: “Home is the place you go when you have nowhere else, and they have to take you in.” 

I want to go home. 

It’s the only thing that will stir me from this bed.  I want to go to the only home I have ever known.  Moya.

I want to be with my friends, if they will have me, if they are still there.  I want to see Pilot and touch his cheek once more. I want to die with them, not alone or with Scorpius. 

And not as a Peacekeeper.

I turn to face the half-breed.  Desperate, it’s his turn to beg, but his training won’t allow it. 

“I want to find Moya,” I say unsteadily.

“For what purpose?” he asks impatiently.

“I want to go home.”  I roll over and close my eyes, ending the conversation and hoping to Zhaan’s Goddess that Scorpius helps me, for I know that I can’t do it alone.

I picture Moya’s golden walls curving around me, the familiar orderliness of my quarters, the slight rushing pulse of air that is her breath sustaining us.  I hear the whirring passage of a DRD, and just as I drift into unconsciousness I hear John chuckle faintly.  “Aeryn?  Aeryn, you’ve gotta see what Zhaan’s cooked up now—“

Soon, John.  Soon.



The pain in my shoulder wakes me and I unwillingly cry out.  Rolling around on the bed, I try to sit up on my own.  I am too weak, and I don’t cringe when Scorpius’s black gloved hands ease me off my back and into a seated position.  He checks the wound, again applying the cool ointment, but the relief is minimal.

“The wound is still infected.”  He is silent, but he looks a long time at it before reattaching the bandage.

“It is getting worse, isn’t it?” I say.

“I am afraid so, Officer Sun.”

This does not come as a surprise.  And I am ready to die, but I don’t want to die here.  I need the comfort of Moya, the presence of my friends.  I want to go home.

“Take me to Moya, Scorpius.” 

“I will not give up.”

I look at him and for a moment I envy his determination, his undying hope for the future.  I don’t think I have ever felt that way about the future, even in my best moments, and in that microt I see that John and Scorpius are very much alike.  I look into his eyes and search a hidden spark of compassion for a coward, a pathetic soldier ready to die, who has also been a companion.  I see none.  I see only his desire for vengeance, his loyalty to an ally, and his need—his need. 

I clear my throat.  “We won’t give up.”  He looks at me, his pale eyes gleaming. “Jool is on Moya, she can treat my wounds.  There are allies on Moya that can help us.  They will not turn me away.”  It is not enough.  I have to make his taking me to my home worth his while, necessary to his efforts.  Scorpius makes deals.

And I have one for him. 

I take a deep breath and hope John will forgive me.  “He kept a notebook.”

He stares at me in silence, the words meaning nothing to him yet.  Then his eyes widen and light up with understanding.  He…John… John kept a notebook…wrote in a notebook…equations in a notebook.  It is my turn to play on his sense of hope and use it to my own ends.  Scorpius exhales deeply and nods his head in assent.  A bargain has been made, a bargain I will not honor, but he can not doubt.  My journey home, for the notebook. 

But in his greed he can’t see that I am being only partially truthful.

John did keep a journal.  But it’s with the rest of his gear at the base, not on Moya.  There may be another on Moya, one that he kept while I was away on Talyn, and in that notebook there may be some of the equations Scorpius seeks. 

But if there is—

He will have to pry it from my dead hands.  As long as I am alive, John’s enemy will not possess his knowledge, will not read his intimate thoughts, and will not violate my memory of him.  I swear this, on the remains of my honor.

“We will leave immediately,” he says.  I smile and settle back gratefully, closing my eyes, exhausted already.

I am going home.




 




“But how did you know the journal—“

“I didn’t, Pilot.  I lied.  I had left instructions with the base that, should John and I not survive, our personal effects would be returned to Moya, so that you would know what had become of us.  I had no way of knowing that that had happened, or that John’s journal was among those things.  In fact...I was rather surprised.”

“You lied...to Scorpius...and he did not know?”

I think about fate, hope, all the invisible forces that shape lives and give them meaning even while they become our fatal flaws.  It’s easier for me to think that John died, not because of his love for me, but because his flaw was hope.  Paradoxically, in the end, his greatest enemy has the same defect. 

“Scorpius believed me because he clung to hope,” I say at last.  “It was all he had left.  It would take cycles for him to start the wormhole research again, to even get back to the point at which he was when Crais and Talyn destroyed his command carrier.  It would be too late to defeat the Scarrans then, and I knew it.  I used that hope against him, for my own ends.  And against you and Moya, as it turns out.” 

I can’t even face him now.  My hands white-knuckle the edge of the console as shame for one of my many flaws surges through me. My flaw that has destroyed everyone—my need to find a place to belong.  It had led me away from Moya, away from John, and it had led me back, with disastrous results for both.

Gradually I become aware of his pincer gently stroking my hair, and the simple gesture nearly brings me to tears, because within it is...forgiveness.  For all of it.  And I don’t deserve it.

“The journey here...must have been difficult, as injured as you were,” Pilot says at last.  For whatever reason, he wants to hear it all, even now.  Or perhaps he thinks he is doing me a kindness by listening.  I am no longer sure of...anything, other than the few duties I have pledged to perform.

It takes a few sips of water to clear my throat.  I still can’t face him, so I lean against the console, propping my elbows against it, and I let the memories overtake me once more.


 

Outside, the heat is unbearable.  It hits me like a pulse blast, instantly shooting my body temperature upwards.  I’d stayed in the shower for as long as I could, until I was shivering in the cold water, knowing that in a few hundred microts I would be exposed to conditions that I would find intolerable in the best of health.  Futile.  More than an arn in this heat, and I would have heat delirium in my current state.  It must have been fate mocking us once again to lead Scorpius and me to such a planet as a haven after our escape.

The planet’s twin suns are high in the sky, the white light blinding to my unaccustomed eyes.  Thick black robes both disguise me and protect me from the searing light.  Still, I can still feel the intolerable heat prickling my sweat-soaked skin.  It is so hot that each breath burns my lungs, and I don’t know how much of my discomfort is the planet’s climate and how much is the fever still plaguing me.

Scorpius has one arm wrapped around my waist, supporting most of my weight, although he is scarcely strong enough to walk.  I try to hold tightly to his shoulder, but the thick cloth sticks to my skin, suffocating me, and within a dozen steps I am exhausted.

My shoulder throbs steadily, the heat making it worse and bringing back Scarran memories.  Scarran heat, infection, death.  For a microt I almost yield to the images, lapse back into the pain of those torture sessions.  But I can’t lose focus as we struggle to make our way through the crowded city, to our only means of escape.  My only way home.

“We are nearing our destination, hold on,” Scorpius whispers in my ear.  He knows I am on the verge of collapsing, and I know that he will not let me.

I stare at my boots, detachedly watching them stumble forward.  At least they fit.  Braca had placed clothing for me in the bag as well as a good amount of currency, knowing that a gray prison uniform would be far more memorable and interesting than plain Peacekeeper garments.  But either he’d gotten the sizes wrong or I’d lost even more weight than I’d thought; my gun belt and holster are cinched tight to keep the leather pants from sliding down my hips, and the shirt hangs on my shoulders.  Frell, I am just grateful for clean clothing, although it’s soaked with my sweat now.

The racket of the city drones in my eardrums as people barter.  Fruit, vegetables, raslak, barrels of fellip nectar, marjools.  Rifles, pistols, water, ammo, grenades.  Pots clang, animals howl, children cry, men fight.  The sounds are so muffled they become a constant buzz in my head.  It is so hot.  Water, guns, fruit, raslak.  Stop.  Stop.  Stop.

“Stop!”

Scorpius has tensed, and I stumble to a halt with him.  Shouting echoes around us.  I raise my gaze from the dirt, trying to find the source of our new problem.  Suddenly I am struck with a fear so intense I almost collapse.  I stare into the eyes of a Scarran soldier, a single soldier mere motras from the two of us.  There is no way that we can fight him.  No way that we can run.  We are frelled.

“Scorpius,” the Scarran hisses. “So easy to spot under those robes.  Your coolant suit gives a very unique heat signature.”

“What do you want?” Scorpius asks calmly.

“Who is that with you?” the Scarran asks.

“That is none of your concern.”

“I think you should come with me.”

“I disagree.”  There is a pause.  “Povek natrenko,” Scorpius says in Scarran.

“Povek.”

“May we speak?”

The soldier does not answer, but I see him nod his head.  I am panicked. Can’t be right.  What’s going on? “Scorpius,” I whisper hotly, “what are you doing?”

“Stay calm, Officer Sun.  Can you stand on your own?”

I doubt very much that I can but I nod anyway.

“Stay here and remain calm. I know Scarrans.  There are more where this one came from and we need to get away unnoticed.”

His arm slips from my waist and I am left alone.  I watch him walk towards the soldier.  I am unsteady; all of my energy is focused on staying upright.  Don’t leave me. 

The crowd sweeps around and past me, nudging me in all directions.  They hustle by, voices raised, trying to conduct business.  Scorpius is disappearing behind a swarm of bodies.  No, no, no.  Don’t leave me.

I move my hand down to grip my pulse pistol; formerly Braca’s.  I may be weak, diseased and near death, but I am still a soldier, and I have one last mission to complete.  I won’t stand here alone and helpless and watch my only means home disappear in a crowd with our enemy.

I stagger forward; the Scarran and Scorpius have paused.  My arm is heavy with sweat-drenched fabric, but I raise it anyway.  The crowd around me does not notice the pistol as I take wavering aim.  The Scarran is not paying attention.  I take a deep breath, trying to steady my weapon, aiming for the back of his head, and pull the trigger when I am a few motras away.

The blast throws me on my back, pain shooting through my body.  The crowd is frantic, screaming, people tripping and falling around me, and a wave of fear spreads down my spine.  I’ll be trampled. I’ll never get home.

“Get up!”  Scorpius yells and grabs my right arm.  I’m yanked off the ground and half dragged, half carried through the masses, quickly disappearing from the wounded Scarran’s sight.  “What were you thinking?” he hisses at me. 

“I was saving your eema, that’s what I was thinking.”

“Well, next time do not!”  His arm is wrapped around my waist once more and he is carrying almost all my weight.  “Now all the Scarrans on this planet will be after us, and there were enough witnesses to identify the both of us.”

We make our way through the city as fast as we can, heading toward the shipyards.  I’m angry and I’m relieved and I’m so tired that I can hardly think of what I am.  The pain in my shoulder has increased tenfold since I hit the dirt.  Never make it now.  Scarrans.  Recaptured. Recaptured.   

Frightened screams echo in my ears, my head spinning, and suddenly I feel dislocated, in the wrong place, the wrong time.  I remember a little girl, a girl who’s only a red stain on the earth because of my inaction.  Tears came then, but do not come now.  She is dead, he is dead.  The pain is unbearable. I will soon be dead. Relief spreads through me as I lose consciousness.


   
My eyes stick together as I try to open them.  I brace myself for the foul stench of our hostel room to hit me, but it doesn’t.  I blink a few more times, and my eyes start to focus.  Dark. Smooth cool wall. Engine hum. A ship. Made it to a ship. Releasing a ragged sigh, I notice I am in a bed, with clean sheets about me, a thick bandage over my shoulder.

The pain that has been my constant is almost undetectable, and I realize that Scorpius must have acquired a medkit and injected me with painkillers.  Scorpius?  Oh, yes.  The deal.  My ally of the moment.  Thank you, Scorpius.

This morning confusion is becoming routine.  I never know where I am, when I am, or with who.  I shake my head and try not to laugh.  Maybe it is because I no longer know who I am.

“Scorpius,” I say, my voice cracking with thirst and weariness.  I sit up surprisingly easily, and swing my bare feet around to touch the floor.  Almost instantly the door in front of me swings open, and my ally appears.

“You are awake,” he says and walks towards me. 

“Yes, and thank you for the painkillers.”

“They are a means to get you through the days, but you mustn’t get out of bed.  The absence of pain is an illusion.  I managed to clean the wound, but it is still getting worse.  You must rest.”  He looks at me and I see the words left unspoken in his eyes.  I will die if I don’t stay in bed.  I will not make it to Moya.

“Survival, Officer Sun,” he says and smiles.  Whether he is sincere in his concern or not, I know that he wants to get me to Moya alive as much as I want to get there.  For different reasons, but to the same end, we will work together.

“Can you bring me something to drink?” I ask, scrubbing a hand wearily across my face.

“Of course.”

And so it begins.



The throbbing in my shoulder wakes me, but I open my eyes to Moya’s curving golden walls.  Zhaan smiles down at me, her hands gentle as she ministers to my injuries. 

“Bad trade, Zhaan, your life for mine.  I wasted it.  It’s my fault, all my fault—“

Her rings flash before my blurred eyes as she wipes the tears from my cheeks.

“There is still time,” she says softly.

John appears on the other side of my bed, his hand descending to cup my cheek.  “You have to be strong, Aeryn,” he says.  “You have to make it home.”

“There’s still time,” they say together, their voices mingling and becoming fainter as I rouse.


My eyes open, my good hand lifting to touch my dry face, still tingling with the echoes of tears and the touch of ghostly hands.

Home.  I have to make it home.




The days seem to meld together and I have no recollection of when we started this journey.  The last clear memory that I have is of the Command Carrier, of arguing with Scorpius about finding Moya.  I know there has been pain and filth and planets, clean sheets and dirty sheets, rotting food and hiding in shadows.  The medication has me in a fog, and when it wears off, the pain in my shoulder is blinding.  Only one thought rings clear, beating with my heart, echoing with each breath.  Home.  I have to make it home; there is still time.

Scorpius muses over his calculations and mumbles under his breath, asking me constantly about the journal.  I tell him nothing for fear that he will decide the information will not be with the journey to gain it; if it is even there. When we stop we ask about Moya, we ask about Arnessk where I remember Jool was planning to go.  Sometimes we get a lead.  Other times it seems hopeless.  Like everything else.

When I sleep, I dream of death and when I wake I fear that I have already died, so close to home.  The image of a wormhole is burned into the backs of my eyelids, and each time I close my eyes I curse them, I curse the ancients, I curse John, but most of all I curse myself…and then I sleep.



The coin arcs into the air, spinning slowly.  I track its downward progress, willing it to change, yet I am shocked when it does.

The yellow explodes into blue, the blue of John’s eyes, the blue of a wormhole opening.  The funnel shoots outward, splitting through Moya’s hull into space.  Screaming, I grab for John, but I’m too late, I’m always too frelling late, and his sleeve rips through my fingers as he’s sucked into the swirling blue.

He’s gone.

Weeping helplessly, I collapse onto the deck as the hull reseals itself...

The coldness of the deck against my hands and knees rouses me.  I blink dry eyes, disoriented for a moment, before shaking off the dream as best I can and hoisting myself back into bed.

I don’t let myself think about wormholes or coin tosses or stubborn frelling humans or weak former soldiers.  I think of Moya, and I wish myself home.



“Wake up, wake up!”

Someone is shaking me violently.  I try to shove him off, but I have no strength, and the fog of the drugs is too thick for me to put up any resistance.

“Wake up, Officer Sun!”

The voice belongs to Scorpius, and as I realize this I feel the entire ship shake.  I am tossed from the bed and land on top of the half-breed.  I don’t feel the pain directly; it is as if I am outside my own body.  I know that I have been injured, but I do not know where.  I try to get off of Scorpius, but as I push down on my hands, I hear a cracking.  My wrist.

“Frell,” I say as I look down and see the irregular bend of my right wrist.  “What the frell is…”

The ship shakes again and we roll together, but this time I end up crushed beneath his weight.

“What is going on,” I say as I try to push him off of me.

“We are being attacked,” he says through panicked breathing.  “It is a Scarran scout ship, they must have been tracking our movements.” 

“Tracking us?” I ask. “How would that have happened?”

“There is no time for me to explain right now! I need you to fly.”

“What?” I say, slightly shocked and beginning to panic.

“You are a combat pilot, I am not.  I need you to fly us out of this situation!”

Frell, he is desperate.  “You know I may kill us both.”

“If you don’t, they will.”

Standing, he pulls me to my feet and glances once at my broken wrist.  I shrug, unable to sense the pain, and he nods in return as he takes my arm, steadying me as the ship heaves again.

He braces himself by placing a hand against the bulkhead, and he holds tightly to my upper arm as he leads me through the door and into the cockpit.  It’s the first time I’ve been out of my quarters, and I realize that the ship is merchant class, small and old, its maneuvering capability definitely no match for the Scarran scout ship.  I turn my head and look at Scorpius skeptically.

He shakes his head violently.  “Do it, don’t look at me like you can’t, because you can.  You must, unless you want to die here and not on your precious Moya!”

I take a deep breath and allow him to seat me in the pilot’s chair.  I grip the control with my left hand, and I feel a slight twinge in the back of my mind.  Ah, the shoulder, yes that’s it.  There is no real pain, and so I tighten my grip.  I bring my right hand about and try to curl my fingers around the maneuvering thrusters, but there is no movement.  Broken, yes.  I remove my left hand from the control and use it to curl the fingers of my broken hand around it.  I then place my left hand over my right and grip as tightly as I can.  I feel it, there is pain, but it is still distant and so I focus on my job.  You are a pilot.  Fly home.

“Strap me in,” I say and Scorpius obeys my command quickly.  His fingers flit across my breasts and stomach, securing me as I focus on the monitors.

I analyze the scanners’ output before me.  Relying on my training, I clear my mind and stare at the visuals.  One Scarran Scout ship to the port side, its weapons fully armed and being deployed.  We have no defenses available.  No spatial anomalies to hide in.  Nowhere to run.

I bank the ship sharply to starboard as fast as it will go, and the Scarran ship follows suit.  Retreat is not possible, but my instincts are telling me to run, and so I try.  There is weapons fire and our tiny ship jerks violently.  For a microt we tumble in free fall, until I regain control and fly us straight an instant before dipping into another corkscrew to avoid more weapons fire. 

My heart is beating faster and a stabbing pain cascades down from my left shoulder.  I grit my teeth, holding fast to the controls, and try to focus on the task at hand.  I attempt some more evasive maneuvers, remembering back to Peacekeeper sims, feeling the familiar rush of sharp turns and reckless spirals.  But this is an old ship, not a finely tuned Prowler; it vibrates as I fly and there is doubt in the back of my mind whether this vessel will hold together in the end.

The sensors bleep and there is more weapons fire.  I successfully dodge two charges, but the third hits us hard.  Sparks fly inside the cockpit, showering both Scorpius and me. Not going to make it.  Think of something.  Think!

“Frell,” I say and jerk the controls hard to port so that our small ship is heading right towards the Scarran attacker.  “I hope this works,” I mutter under my breath.  Of course, it will scarcely matter if it doesn’t, for microts later our atoms will be spread across metras of space.

I hold tightly to the controls and watch out the view port as we fly closer to the Scarran ship.  I try to exhale, relax, so that I can pull this off—but I can’t, every limb is shaking with exhaustion, fear and pain.  Steady.  A stray shot creases the hull to port, but I maintain our course. I can see the distinct formations of its hull now, the color of the metal, the huge frelling guns trying to rotate to track our progress and fire, microts from full throttle impact.  Behind me, I hear Scorpius start to yell as I pull hard on the control and our tiny ship soars upward at a 90-degree angle.  The sensors in front of me go berserk as the Scarran ship fires its cannons, and I watch as the charges miss our ship and crack their own hull.  By flying so close, I managed to set the automatic targeting system upon itself.

I let out the stale breath I was holding and turn to look back at Scorpius.  He smiles widely in relief and in approval.

“Well done, Officer Sun.”

I slowly lift my mangled hand from the control.  I start to feel the pain and it is overwhelming.  I try to say something, but the world around me is growing hazy and white spots dance before my eyes. Scorpius’s eyes full of concern are the last things I see before I black out.


“You did good,” John says.  I open my eyes and see him leaning against the door in my quarters on Moya.  “It’s been a long road, but you’re almost home, Aeryn.”

I reach out for him, and he pushes off the door and walks to me.  His black t-shirt is tight across his shoulders and biceps from working out in the gym with the commandos, and he is so solid, so comfortingly solid, as I lay one trembling hand on his forearm.  “I want to stay with you,” I whisper, but he’s already fading, his lips brushing my temple in a phantom kiss.

“Not yet,” he says softly in my ear.  “There’s still time for you to make it home.”

Still, I feel him settle next to me on the bed, his cool insubstantial fingers combing through my hair, and with a sigh I let myself sink farther into the dream.

If I can’t reach Moya, then let me die here, now.  Please grant me that one small mercy.  Please.



Again there is confusion, but I snap myself out of it faster this time.  I am on a ship, with Scorpius, I am drugged, I am dying and we are looking for Moya.  Yes, that wasn’t so hard.

“Scorpius,” I call, hoping that he hears me the first time and I don’t have to get up.  I’m not sure that I can.

“Yes,” he says from nearby, and I notice his dark figure sitting in the corner.

“What are you doing in here?”  I ask.

“I was unsure if you would survive, I am pleased to see I was mistaken.”

“Me too,” I mumble half heartedly as I try to sit up.

“Don’t exert yourself,” he snaps and hurriedly comes to my side to help me. 

“Did we lose the Scarrans?” I ask.

“Yes, for now.”  Scorpius pauses and looks at my face.  He sits on the bed, and I can see the exhaustion in his posture.  However, his movements are much easier; his wounds have apparently healed far better than mine.  “However, I have failed to locate their tracking device, and our ship is badly damaged.  I have put out a distress call.  It is all I can do.”

There is a silence and Scorpius seems lost in thought.

“I have no other options!” he shouts and stands from the bed.  Fists clenched, breathing heavily, he emanates frustration and fury. “I was betrayed!”

He looks at me and then turns and punches the bulkhead.  He doesn’t stop there, but tosses over his chair.

Furiously, he turns and pounds his fist against the bulkhead, smashes his chair against the floor, rips the covers from my bed and throws them on the floor. 

It’s an indication of how close to death I am that his berserk behavior evokes only a mild irritation.

“Scorpius,” I say sternly.

He continues his rampage, hitting the wall again, kicking the sheets across the floor.

“Scorpius!” I shout.  He pauses for a fleeting moment and then charges towards me, jumps on the bed and props himself denches from my face.  I wince slightly at his hot, fetid breath, the touch of his knees against my knees.  Fear flickers along my spine for a microt as I remember who and what this man truly is.  But I do not let myself flinch.

“What would you have me do, Officer Sun?” he hisses, glaring eye to eye with me. “I was betrayed and now we are stranded in this mangled ship waiting for our enemies to capture us again!”

“I expect you to do nothing,” I say.  “We were Peacekeepers and now we will die in space, like we were meant to.”

“I cannot accept that.”

“I think you have no other choice.”

Eyes to eyes, breath to breath, we remain.  And so our alliance has come to this, to a mere argument over how our shared existence will end.  As if we had the slightest control over any of it at this point.

“You do not want to die like this, it is why we made this journey in the first place!” he rages, his Scarran heritage echoing in his rough voice.

“No, I wanted to die at home, but when have I ever gotten what I wanted?  Fate.  Frelling fate.  All right.  I accept this fate, and so will you, Scorpius, because you have no more control over this than I do!”

“We have received your distress call.  Please identify yourself,”  a distant voice interrupts our argument.

Scorpius and I stare at each other in stunned silence a microt longer before he leaps from the bed and strides toward the cockpit.  His cool controlled response echoes through the open door.

“We are in need of some assistance.”  I can hear him working the sensors to pick up the ship.

“Identify yourself.”  Another voice sounds on the other end, stern, but hauntingly familiar.

“My name is Captain Wensika.  To whom am I speaking?”

“This is Captain D’Argo of the Leviathan Moya.”

D’Argo.  Moya?  He said Captain, which isn’t quite right, but it has been a long time and much could have changed. 

“D’Argo,” I whisper.  Scorpius rushes into the room and picks me up like a child.  He carries me into the cockpit and places me in the pilot’s chair.  He nods and motions to the comms as he flips the channel open for me.

“D’Argo,” I say, struggling to maintain my composure, relief starting to pour through me.

There is a long pause before he responds.  “Aeryn?” he asks softly.

“Yes,” I say, losing all control.  A tear starts to fall from my eye for the first time since… “Yes, it’s me.  Can we come aboard?”

“Of course!” he shouts over the comms and I can hear his joy reverberate in his deep voice.  My own head spinning with released grief, I can hardly think of how to tell him, how to tell them all what has happened. 




I feel the soft thud of our landing in Moya’s docking bay and Scorpius grasps my upper right arm to help me to my feet.  I stare down at my mangled hand and feel the gaping wound in my shoulder, the assorted other injuries that mark my existence.  I take a deep breath and look into my companion’s eyes.  He is calm now, and I nod my head. I’m as ready to face them as I will likely ever be.

Slowly, I lead the way down the exit ramp into the docking bay.  I stop when I reach the warm pulsating surface of Moya, and I stare into the eyes of my crewmates.  D’Argo is trying to smile through a look of utter horror.  Chiana is tilting her head and coming towards me, her hands outstretched.  Rygel is stern, but I see the compassion in his eyes, the way he grips his scepter.  Jool is not even trying to hide her despair, her hands covering her face.  I must look like death itself.  But they are all here, even that Old Woman, and I am overwhelmed with emotion.  Emotions that have been shut off out of necessity. 

But now I’m staring into the eyes of my friends, no—my family. I’m without John, and I’m going to die, and I’m so afraid of what will happen next, and I feel guilty for even surviving.  Tears start to fall from my face and I’m so weak that I sink to the floor.  Sobs are wracking my body, but I cannot speak.  I can only feel, for the first time since John’s death. 

I hear Chiana and Rygel approach; I feel them touching me.  In the background I hear D’Argo’s growling voice and I sense Scorpius behind me.  Everything is spinning.  I am home.  I am home. I should feel joy at being here, but despair floods me instead.  I am home, but now that I am here I know that John is dead, and I know for certain that there will never be a home for me now that he is gone.

[ScaperRed]

Chapter 12:
The House Always Wins



Pilot appears to have drifted off to sleep again. I stop speaking and take another sip of water, its coolness a relief to my hot, dry throat.  Absently, I rotate my shoulder slightly, trying to work out a bit of the pain and stiffness, and am rewarded only with a searing pain that makes me curse softly.  Teyn would chastise me for lack of self-discipline, and she would be right; I seem to have used most of it up in the last few monens.  I think maybe she’d forgive me, though, under the circumstances, as long as I do carry through to the end. 

It’s an effort to climb over the console and drop to the other side, and I rest, one hand gripping the edge, my unfocused eyes staring into the abyss motras from my boots.  I’m not seeing the huge hollow in the center of Moya, though; my mind is for a few microts, to my great relief, empty.

“Will you...keep your promise...to Scorpius?”

It takes a moment for Pilot’s soft words to register, longer for me to formulate a reply.  I’ve lost track of Scorpius’ whereabouts; I think he’s aboard Moya somewhere, but I’m not sure.  Careful.

“Pilot, I gave him my word,” I say, and turn to look Pilot in the eye.  “On my honor as a Peacekeeper.”

We regard each other for a long moment, and then Pilot nods his head ever so slightly.  “Commander Crichton...would understand.”

“Yes, he would,” I say past the lump in my throat, and stretch painfully to stroke Pilot’s cheek as his eyes close once more.  “Yes, he would, Pilot.”


I am utterly drained when I leave Pilot sleeping and return slowly to my own quarters.  I’ve completed one of my duties at last; I’ve honored Pilot’s wish to hear my tale.  Still fully dressed, I settle onto my bed, the journal clasped loosely against my chest, and close my eyes.

Just a little farther to go.  Just a little more to remember.




I wake to noise, confusion and disorder.  That’s how I instantly know that I am on Moya.  My eyes open slowly and painfully, swollen and raw from tears. I don’t remember anything past my arrival.  I have no idea how much time has passed.  Whether that’s because of the drugs, the exhaustion, or the release of emotion I felt at making it home, I don’t know.

“Jool, it looks bad—“ Chiana’s trembling voice is nearby, behind my head.

“That’s because it is bad.  Frell!  I don’t have the medicines to treat this, or the lab facilities, or—“

“I could make a salve, perhaps out of—“

“No!” they shriek together, and there is a scuffling sound, as if someone is being shoved across the floor, punctuated with a hissed chorus of, “Out!  Out!  Out!”

I cautiously draw a deep breath, my face wrinkling at the rank odor.  I really hope the smell isn’t coming from the wound on my shoulder.

“All I can do right now, Chi, is clean the wound and—Aeryn!”  Jool cries and hurries back toward me, but Chiana elbows in front of her, curling her black-gloved hand around my fingers.

“Hey,” she says, gripping tightly, “how you feeling?”

“That’s a stupid question,” Jool mutters, leaning past Chiana’s shoulder.  “Are you in any pain, Aeryn?”

“Stupid question?  What do you mean—“

“No,” I say, smiling faintly, gently disengaging my hand from Chiana’s grip.  The persistent odor is making me feel a little nauseous, and I reflexively wave my hand in front of my face.  “No pain, but...do I smell something—odd?”

Jool and Chiana trade a look, and I half expect them to say it’s my shoulder rotting away.  Instead, they break into laughter, all hostility forgotten, holding each other up.

“It’s—it’s the old woman, Noranti,” Chiana gasps at last.  “You—you missed that bit, it’s just been the last half cycle or so—“

“She won’t bathe,” Jool finishes, shuddering in disgust. 

“Washes off the juice,” they say together, in such a perfect parody that I laugh weakly with them, although I haven’t got a frelling clue about what they’re talking about or what it means.

“She thinks she’s a healer,” Chiana says.

“Don’t worry, Aeryn, I won’t let the crazy old tralk near you,” Jool says firmly, picking up a scanner.  I realize I’m in Zhaan’s lab, in Moya’s makeshift medical unit, and that this must be real, not more delirium; I don’t have enough imagination to create such an olfactory hallucination.  I give a shuddering sigh of relief, and Chiana takes my hand again. 

“How long have you had this wound?  And this fever?” Jool asks, frowning at the results on the scanner.

I shake my head; I honestly don’t know at this point.  “Weekens, monens.  The wound won’t heal, but the fever’s not contagious.”

“I don’t know how that could be, but it does explain your weight loss.  Chi and I carried you in here after you collapsed. You weigh practically nothing. ”

I nod, remembering how I’d barely been able to make it down the ramp to my friends.  Friends.  I glance around the room.  “Where’s D’Argo?”  There’s something I need to tell him, something he needs to know, but the painkiller Jool has given me has put my mind into a deeper haze. 

Jool is scowling at the readout, lost in thought.  Chiana’s lips press together tightly, then relax in an attempt at a small smile.  “He and Rygel are guarding—Scorpius.”

It takes a microt for me to understand why D’Argo would be guarding Scorpius, but when I do, panic breaks through the haze.  Panic over what we may have brought with us.

“D’Argo!  I have to speak to D’Argo, now—“

They grab my arms, pushing me back, but I struggle with them, almost breaking free.  “You don’t understand, we’re in danger, we’ve brought danger to you—“

“Aeryn, you can’t even walk—you’re delirious, we’re safe here, we’re all safe,” Jool tries to reassure me, tightening her grip until pain flares through me.

“D’Argo, get down here.  Now!” Chiana calls into her comms.

“Chiana, we have a prisoner to—“

I rip away from Jool and lean toward Chiana’s comms.  “D’Argo, listen to me.  You have to eject the ship we came on.  There may be a tracking device on it.  Eject it now and starburst.”

“Who—“

“Scarrans.  D’Argo, there isn’t time!  Pilot, do you hear me?  You have to eject it now, before—“

“Do it, Pilot!” D’Argo’s voice echoes over the comms.  “Now!”

The microts seem to drag as Moya opens the landing bay and performs a reverse flush of atmosphere. 

“Scarrans,” Chiana breathes, “frell, Aeryn, they’re out here too?”

I’m gripping her arm now as hard as she gripped mine, waiting tensely for Pilot’s starburst warning.  It’s a mark of his and Moya’s panic as well that he gives none, just initiates it, and the sudden violence throws me off the bed.  I crash into Jool and Chiana, and we go down in a tangle, Jool trying to cushion my injured arm vainly.  Pain flares through me as starburst rips through the ship, yet it’s the sheer relief of escape that I feel most keenly just before I lose consciousness again.



“Aeryn?”  The voice is distant.  “Aeryn, open your eyes.  Can you hear me?”

I look up at a blurred version of Jool; her green eyes are kind but her brow is creased with concern.

“Joo…Jool,” I rasp and wince at the rawness in my throat.

“Hold on,” she says frantically, leaving my side.  A moment later she supports my head and holds a cup of cool liquid to my lips.  I drink slowly, swallowing with difficulty, and try to give her a small smile in thanks.  I can’t.  I remember why I’m here, how I’m here, and that realization crushes me.

It is only then that I feel the small hand in mine and turn my head to the left to meet the dark, tear-stained eyes of a familiar Nebari girl.

“Chiana,” I say and this time I do smile weakly. 

She tears up for a microt before responding with a shaky “hey” and a tight squeeze of my hand.  She moves closer to me and places her other gloved hand on my forehead for a microt before cupping my face.  “You almost didn’t make it outta that one.  You’ve been out for—for arns.”

“Your fever was bordering dangerously on heat delirium,” Jool says, running a scanner over my body and concentrating on the results.  “It finally dropped an arn ago.  You need fluids, food, and rest.”

I know it’s the truth and despite my exhaustion and my grief, for a brief microt I am grateful that I am here.  I’m home, and I’m with my family, and we’re safe, and it fills me with something almost resembling hope.  But it’s only for a microt, and then it’s gone.

I glance up, and the tears in their eyes make me realize that I’m not the only one grieving.  It’s odd, because I can sense that in part they’re grieving—me—in a way, the loss of who I was.  I can’t let them do that, not after all that’s happened.  So I push back my sorrow, steady myself, grip Chiana’s hand.  I make myself smile.

“It’s very good to see you, Chiana.”  I turn my head to find Jool and I smile at her as well.  “You too, Jool.  Thank you.”

“Oh, Aeryn…” Jool says, chin trembling, before she turns away, clenching the scanner in both hands.  I gaze at her back and remember her last words to me before I left Moya.  ”Don’t go backwards…”  Should’ve listened.

“Jools,” Chiana says softly and I turn my head back at hearing her voice.

I see in Jool’s wide and watering eyes and in the agonized look on Chiana’s face that they already know some of it.  How, I have no idea, but they know, and I am relieved and horrified, even as more tears gather in my eyes. And I’m not going to ask how they know, not yet.  It’s enough that they do.
 
“Where is Scorpius?” I ask, no longer afraid of explaining all that accompanies his presence aboard this ship.

“Where do you think?” Chiana says. “In a cell and he can rot in there!”

I am shocked, but then I remember that no one knows of our companionship over these last monens.  They do not realize he is an ally.  How twisted my reality has become, when the thought of Scorpius as a foe is shocking to me. 

I force myself upright, shrugging off a wave of nausea and pain, and I swing my legs around so that I am sitting with my back to Chiana, my legs dangling over the side of the med bed.  I take a few deep breaths and try to estimate my strength; I will not let my feet crumble under me when I hit the floor. I won’t.

“Aeryn, what are you frelling thinking?” Jool shrieks in my ear and tries to push me back down on the bed.  Her protests are followed by Chiana’s and I can’t use my remaining strength to fight them off.

“Frell off, will you?” I rasp and drop to the floor.  The impact is jarring, but I do not fall.  I waver for a moment, getting my balance, and am surprised that my right leg is less stiff and will hold my weight.  I take a tentative step forward and then another and then another until I am walking, slowly but steadily.

“Aeryn, you shouldn’t be up…”

“Leave her alone, Jools…”

“Shut up, you tralk, Aeryn, listen to me…”

It’s hard not to laugh at their bickering as they shadow me.  Instead of irritating, it has become the sound of home, family, companionship; and I’ve missed it, missed it as much as I’ve missed the two girls engaged in it.  I am fiercely grateful, in that moment, simply to hear it.

Although I haven’t been on Moya for more than a solar day or two, Jool’s medicines have begun to work on my injuries.  She’s set and sealed the broken bones in my wrist, and I can move it, although it’s sore.  I can walk, with little pain in my leg, and thankfully less in my shoulder.  I could heal here, physically.  That twinge of something close to hope is stirring inside me again, and this time it does not fade so fast.

My strength, however, does, and I stumble to my knees only one tier later, gasping for breath.

“Aeryn, he’s locked in a cell with D’Argo watching him,” Jool says for the third time as she kneels by me.  “It’s safe.  You don’t have to worry—“

“No, not about Scorpius, about the—“

“Scarrans?  Aeryn, we ejected the ship and starburst, remember?  It’s all right,” Jool says soothingly, but I shake my head.  They don’t understand, can’t understand—

Chiana squats beside me, lifting my long hair out of my face.  “I commed D’Argo.  He—He wants to talk to you anyway.”

I just shake my head, breathless and frustrated. 

D’Argo does exactly what I expect him to do: he refuses to listen, picking me up like a child and carrying me back to bed, although he does remark that he is impressed that I know that particular Luxan curse.  That rips my last shred of self-discipline, and instead of pounding his shoulder with my fist, I sob against it.  I’d learned that curse from Teyn, and now she is gone, they are all gone, and John, how would I ever be able to tell our friends about John, about—

D’Argo sets me gently on the bed but doesn’t let go, hugging me tightly until, exhausted, the tears slow.  Chiana and Jool crowd nearby, arms around each other’s shoulders, crying softly as well, but why, I don’t know.  “Scorpius is fine, Aeryn.  Jool has treated his injuries, as much as he will allow.  He has been given food and water.  He is being treated far better than John was.”

“You don’t understand—“

“He claims to be—an ally,” D’Argo says with distaste.  “He did not bring you here as a prisoner?  He has no control over you?”

“No, of course not, you don’t understand—“

Gently, he strokes the tears from my cheek.  “He will not be harmed, Aeryn, but neither will I permit him the run of Moya.  You may trust him, but I do not.”

“D’Argo, he is not a threat to us.  He only wants to stop the Scarrans-“

Heavily, he sighs and pushes me gently back down on my pillow, and I don’t have the strength to fight him.  “I don’t think anyone can stop them now, Aeryn,” he says quietly, bleakly, and I wonder what he’s seen, what he’s heard, so far out in the Uncharted Territories.

“I will do this for you, Aeryn,” he says, forcing a smile.  “When you’re strong enough to help us guard Scorpius, I’ll release him, if you still want me to do so.  Until then, no harm will come to him, but he will remain in his cell.”

I nod. This is the best deal I will be able to broker for Scorpius.  I can’t see that a few days will make much difference, anyway.  Ultimately, whether I live or die, D’Argo will have to let Scorpius out. 

“I suppose I—I should tell you about—“ I falter, closing my aching eyes against fresh tears.

“No,” D’Argo says softly, squeezing my hand.  “Aeryn, you don’t have to tell us a frelling thing.”

I look in his sad blue eyes and wonder again how much he already knows, how much they all know, and how.  Scorpius would not have said anything--

“Rest, my friend,” he says, his deep voice choked.  “Heal.  You’re home at last.”



It’s another day before Jool allows me to return to my quarters, and another before I gather the strength to rise on my own again, firmly brushing away Jool and Chiana’s efforts to help.  I need to do this on my own.

I try to at least pull my hair back, but the pain in my shoulder makes it impossible.  For the first time, I realize how long it’s grown, almost to my waist, and that, more than anything, makes me wonder how long I’ve been gone from Moya.

In my haste to leave Moya originally, I’d also left some clothing behind.  It’s old and faded, but it’s mine, and I feel better once I’ve showered and dressed in my own clothes.  In fact, after so long as an invalid, just to be out of bed, clean, dressed, makes me feel strong, although in truth I am far from it.  Makes me feel almost—as I once was.

It takes me a while to ascertain where Scorpius is being held, for no one wants me near the half-breed, not even Pilot.  After I threaten to walk the ship until I find him, Pilot does tell me.  Fortunately, it’s only a few tiers away, within range of my waning strength.  Scorpius is being held in a cell on the ship that I have never ventured near before.  It is a high security cell, open on three sides, with a single cot in the center.  The door is guarded by DRD’s, as well as our resident Luxan.

I quicken my pace as I approach; D’Argo is frowning to see me out of bed.  His concern changes to puzzlement, however, when I glare at him.

“Aeryn, what—“

“Let him out, right now,” I interrupt.

He is speechless for a microt, but I do not waver.  He has to understand who the enemy is, and it is not Scorpius.

He relents and looks at Jool, who has trailed behind me. “Is she still delirious?” he asks.

Anger rises within me, but just as quickly fades to amusement; I must not forget the differences this past cycle has created between us.

“D’Argo, he is not my enemy, nor yours.  He saved my life a dozen times and I his.  You may still hate him, and he you, but without his help I would never have managed to to return to Moya.  I will tell you all of it, but not before you let him out.”

Scorpius wisely says nothing, but sneers ever so slightly at D’Argo.  My icy glare puts a stop to that at once. 

“But, it’s Scorpius,” D’Argo says, as if that fact is all the explanation needed to keep him detained, and it once would have been.  John help me, John forgive me.

“Yes, it is Scorpius, D’Argo, and he saved my life.  I don’t know how much that is worth anymore, but I owe him my thanks, and my allegiance, and if you value my life at all, than so do you.”

“Aeryn,” D’Argo says and steps toward me.  “Of course I value your life, we all do.  But--” 

Tears come unexpectedly to my eyes at his sincerity.  How strange to hear someone say he values my life when I can’t even do that myself.

“D’Argo, I am strong enough to help you keep an eye on Scorpius, and so you have to let him out.  You gave me your word.”

D’Argo growls softly under his breath and strides over to the cell doors.  I watch as he keys in the code and wait patiently as the doors finally slide open.

“I hardly believe you are fit to guard me, Officer Sun,” Scorpius says with a sly smile as he steps to freedom.  I can’t keep back my own rueful half-grin; he’s right.  D’Argo looks incredulously at me, and all the twisted humor is suddenly lost.

So much has changed in me, and not enough in the rest of my former companions.  I have a long story to tell, and now that Scorpius is free I have no excuse to delay any longer.  I owe my friends explanations.  So frelling many explanations.

I meet D’Argo’s gaze unwaveringly and clear my throat.  “Now I have some things to tell you…”


Scorpius is examining John’s module. D’Argo allows this only if I keep Scorpius within sight.  He brushed aside my wanting to explain, and at the pain in his eyes, I didn’t press.  I quietly took my new duty of guarding Scorpius, while D’Argo walked away briskly, clearing his throat roughly. 

I watch from across the bay, wondering if there is any chance of accomplishing what Scorpius has in mind.  On our journey he talked little of his actual plan, but as soon as we headed down Moya’s corridor towards the docking bay he let it all spill.   His obsession, his twisted sense of Peacekeeper identity, caused him to forget that I am no longer one, that I have no interest in wormholes, that I have no hope for any future past the next few solar days. I’ve come to Moya to die.  He’s come to Moya to—

Change time.

I stare blankly at the little white ship, as Scorpius runs his hands lovingly over the wing the same way John had countless times.  He wants to use that to go back and change the timeline?  It makes no sense.  He tries to explain the connection between wormholes and time, but my chaotic mind cannot grasp the concepts.  He says he wants to change time, and I think of the monastery planet, of nurses killed, a young girl’s terror, a hero lost in history.  I think of mistakes.

And then he talks of John, of my seeing him again, of preventing his death, of correcting the errors of this past cycle—and I shut down, unable to listen, unable to breathe.

I think of Valldon, the seer showing me John Crichton’s face, saying to save him, that there is a way.  Lies.  Deceptions.  Insanity.

I can’t do this.

I can’t hope to fix my mistakes, to put it all right.  I can’t hope to see John again.  I can’t hope.   

I have to let go.  Jool finally, tearfully, admitted that there was little hope for me.  That she could do nothing beyond slowing the progress of the infection, as the Peacekeeper medtechs had done.  I am going to die. 

Scorpius wishes to go back, stop the Scarrans.  Decimate them before they become powerful, undoubtedly.  That I can understand, Zhaan forgive me, that I can even condone although it’s genocide he wants.  It’s what he’s always wanted.

I have nothing left to want, save one thing.  One thing I have to do for myself.  I have to let go. 

That was my fatal error in the beginning.  I couldn’t let go, especially when he was alive and dead at the same time.  I never let myself grieve, move forwards.  I went backwards in every way.  Sorry,  Jool.

Scorpius has to fight the Scarrans.  I only have to let go.  And die.

 

“Officer Sun,” he says from inside the module.  “I cannot uncover this notebook you spoke of.”  There is no suspicion in his voice, which is a surprise to me.  He can’t grasp my duplicity, my use of half truths, although it is a game he plays so well himself.

“It must be there,” I say steadily, and he goes back to his examinations.

“Aeryn,” says a tentative voice from the bay entrance.  I turn my head and look back at Chiana.  I smile and she walks forward hesitantly.  “I have something for you.”

She holds out her hand and I see resting on her palm a small vid-chip.  Her eyes are puffy; she’s been crying again.  Frell, there’s no shortage of tears on this ship, between all of us, even D’Argo. 

“You all right, Chi?” I ask, closing my hand around the vid chip and her tiny palm.

Her lip trembles and a tear spills reluctantly from her eye as she fights for control.  Her attempt doesn’t last long, and she falls into my arms, her body rocking with sobs.  She knows. She knows it all. It hits me at once and explains so much of the past few days.  D’Argo and Jool and Chiana, they know my story already.  They do know about John.

“Chiana,” I say softly and grip her as hard as she grips me.  Tears are threatening and I don’t want to let them come, not yet. I’m not ready to let go, after all.

“Aeryn,” she hiccups.  “I miss him so much.”  I stare at her blankly and she drops her head instantly.  “I’m sorry, I…I can’t imagine what you are feeling…I…”

I can’t say anything to that.  I just hold onto her hand and ask the logical question, my voice steady.  “How did you find out?”

“This,” she says, and turns my hand over.  Reflexively, I open it, looking at the vid chip on my palm.  She holds onto my hand, which has started to tremble.  “Ced and Desa came here…”

 Ced and Desa.  Alive.  They are alive.

“Aeryn, you all right?” she asks, tightening her grip on my hand as my whole body starts to shake.  My legs go out from under me, and Chiana guides me to the floor, kneeling beside me, never letting go.

“They’re alive?” I whisper, my fist clenching around the vid chip until it digs into my palm.  “They’re alive?” 

Chiana nods, squeezing my fist. “This is a—a message from both of them.  In case you did make it back. They hoped you would, of course, we all did, but after they told us what happened—Frell, Aeryn, we thought you were dead.  You and Crichton.  We grieved for you, both of you.” She’s crying again, the tears dripping onto my hand.  “So, you see, Aeryn—“  She looks over my shoulder at Scorpius. “We are all more grateful to that frelling monster than you may think.”

The tightness in my chest begins to loosen.  I’m not quite crying as I look down at my hand and smile.  Alive.

“They brought with them all your personal effects, as well as Crichton’s.  They said you’d—you’d left a note asking them to.  D’Argo wanted to wait until you were stronger before telling you.”

It takes a moment for me to understand the meaning of the words.  They found Moya, they brought word to my friends, they left me a message, they returned—

Crichton’s things.  His notebook.  Frell.

I look back at Scorpius, who is contentedly taking something apart on the module, and I don’t know what the frell to do.  But through my confusion one phrase echoes through my mind: They’re alive.

And I hang on to it.




I sit alone in my quarters, my arm throbbing, my heart matching it beat for beat.  I hold the vid chip in my hand, turning it over and over in my fingers for a long moment before sliding it into the viewer.

Desa’s face shows up first.  She smiles, but her brown eyes are bleak, and I know there’s no good news on this chip.  The best news, their being alive, has already been delivered.  “Aeryn Sun,” she begins formally, and then hesitates.  “Aeryn.  We wanted to record this for you, so that you could hear everything from the two of us directly.”  She stops, her head bowing, for a long time, as if gathering her thoughts.  When she speaks again, her voice is absolutely steady.  As steady as it can be when it’s filled with grief.

“We know from our intel that John died in transit, but we never heard what happened to you, just that the command carrier was destroyed by Scarrans.  I hope every day that you are alive and that this recording will find you somehow, so that you will know what’s become of us all.  Ced and I are the only two from our unit who survived that day you and John were captured.”  She struggles for a moment, blinking, jaw tight, and her voice is an octave higher when she speaks again.  “Teyn decided to lead another rescue mission, back to the Stryker.  It was desperation and we all knew it, but none of us wanted to give up.  It was our choice, Aeryn. 

“Jax was the first to fall; he was shot right through the upper thigh.  It was pretty bad.  Teyn made it all the way inside, Ced right behind her.  She—It took six pulse blasts to take her down.  She was killed almost instantly.  Jax and Ced managed to carry her out, while I covered them.  Jax died pretty much the moment we took off.  The shot had hit the major artery of his upper leg and the blood loss was too great.”

Tears are running down Desa’s face.  My jaw clenches, my hands, my entire body, and I can’t unlock any joint, I can’t even breathe.  We don’t leave anyone behind, I hear Teyn say clearly.  The frelling rule.  I am numb.

“The Scarrans...” a sob slips through and Desa loses all control, turning away quickly, shoulders shaking.  There is a pause in the vid, and then Ced appears.  Lines crease his face now, his pale blue eyes are bleak, his usually meticulously trimmed mustache is ragged, but it is still Ced, and he still manages an easy smile as he clears his throat.

“Hello, Sun.  I hope this vid finds you well.  I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but here it goes, if you don’t already know.  The Scarrans have pretty much ravaged this section of the Uncharted Territories and are moving into Tormented Space.  The ex-Peacekeeper groups converged and fought against them, but we were not much resistance.  Not enough of us.   After they got through with us they attacked High Command, destroying most of the Peacekeeper presence in the Uncharted Territories and in our own space.  Some soldiers fled to join us and we fought until there was really no one left to lead us.  I can’t put into words the terror and desolation the Scarrans have wreaked upon us all in just a few monens.  It is unbelievable.  They are—everywhere now.”

I can’t believe what I am hearing.

“Desa and I are going to take our chances in Tormented Space, but we wanted to find Moya, like you asked us to, and deliver all of your and John’s possessions to your friends.  It’s all we can do for you now.  I hope you’re safe and know that we are thinking of you every day.  Maybe someday you’ll buy us a round of raslak and we’ll remember our comrades.”  He falters for a moment, and his voice breaks as he continues.  “Good luck, Aeryn.  We miss you and John both.  Goodbye.”

His face disappears.

In the silence, my muscles gradually unlock.  I draw a slow, shaking breath and pull the chip from the viewer.  I don’t know how long I sit there holding it before I carefully tuck it into my pocket. 

And I start to let go.

[ScaperRed]

The next few solar days blur together.  One minute I am in the depths of sorrow, the next I am filled with rage.  And then sometimes I catch a familiar phrase of Teyn’s running through my head, or I remember a stupid argument with Jax over tadek and I laugh, or smile, or feel a sense of happiness.  But only for a microt.

Sometimes I remember the blueness of John’s eyes, and my heart fills with the love that remains.  Other times I think of the blue of wormholes, and I find myself slamming my fist against one of Moya’s bulkheads, until the pain in my hand is greater than the pain in my chest.

Sometimes I wonder what color fate is and if I can see its threads running through our lives, or if I’ve just been a frelling fool.

This is what it is like to grieve.  Really grieve.  It’s not blocking out the emotions, drowning them in raslak and fellip nectar.  It’s not running away, and it’s not trying to be something I’m not.  It’s really feeling, really remembering, and I don’t want to do any of it.  I’d rather be a coward and run, like I tried to do before.  This time I can’t, and I don’t have any place to run to anyway.  So I finally start to grieve, and now that I’ve started, I can’t stop.

My friends want to help, but there’s nothing they can do for me.  Oddly enough, it’s Chiana who understands this best.  She went through this, when Nerri’s life disk stopped.  The difference is that Nerri lived on, and at times I hate that, hate her for having that.  Unlike Jool, she says little.  At some point in her own journey, she’s come to understand silence, and she sometimes sits with me through the long arns when images and feelings crash through my mind until I feel that I’m finally going insane.  Ironic.  Battle injuries, Hokothian infection, Scarran torture, Peacekeeper questioning.  I survive all that, but grief breaks me.

Emotion takes fuel, though, just as a pulse pistol takes chakkan oil, and there is a point where I have no more.  Instinctively, I know that this is just a lull, a momentary cease fire.  I am still grateful for that temporary peace.

Soon after comes a day, though I can’t remember which one, when D’Argo brings the bags to my quarters. 

He wants to help me with this task, but he’s soon crying more than Chiana, his great hearts breaking, feeling that he somehow betrayed his closest friend by being unable to cross time and space to save him.  He never blames me, only himself, and the wrongness of that makes me want to weep.

So it’s Chiana who gently sends D’Argo away, who helps me unpack my personal effects, who insists on putting them away for me so I don’t have to get out of bed, the fever flaring again.  She chatters as she does so, asking only superficial questions, and she even makes me laugh a time or two.   But then she unpacks my coat, admiring it.  Not the torn one I wore from Moya.  The one that replaced it after it was damaged, when I got shot in the ass.  The one that Teyn had given me when I returned to base.  She’d casually tossed it to me and said that an officer needed an officer’s coat, and now I’d look like the rest of the team.

Teyn.  Teyn, you fool.  You frelling fool.  Your frelling rule.

I don’t cry, I don’t say anything, and Chiana puts the rest of my things away without a word.  She quietly picks up John’s bag to take it away, and that’s when I find my voice.  I ask her to bring it to me.  We inventory it together, and it’s really the last time either one of us cry over John.  It appears that even grief does have its maximum tolerances.  I can’t hold any more.
 



Scorpius asks after the journal.  Somehow he knows it was brought back with John’s personal effects.  I tell him that he can have it when I finish reading it.  Do I mean it when I tell him this?  Sometimes I do and other times I don’t. 

I vowed never to let John’s secrets fall into the hands of his enemies.  I failed him once because I hesitated, and now I’m doing it again.  But the hope that Scorpius may be successful, the hope of redemption, lingers in the back of my mind.  It’s the only thing that keeps me from ripping the notebook to shreds, because, no matter what I tell Scorpius, I’m not reading it.  I can’t bring myself to do so.  Yet.

Noranti flutters up beside me as I walk by the Center Chamber.  “Aeryn Sun, how are the herbs working for you?” she asks.  I choke back a gag, still not accustomed to the smells that waft from her. 

“Very well, thank you,” I say, for they are.  They help the pain, they help me to sleep, and I suspect they are helping me to grieve, though I do not accuse.  I’m grateful to the old woman. 

“Good, good, good,” she sings and scurries off in the opposite direction.

Last night we all sat down to last meal together, as we had so many times in the early days of Moya.  It was the end of one of my better days; I’d even made it down to the maintenance bay and worked out lightly for a quarter arn before Jool had found me and scolded me all the way back to my quarters.

Chiana had cooked, shooing Noranti from her pots constantly, and for the first time in weekens I felt real hunger.  The smells and tastes of the food intermingled with quiet voices and laughter, until some of the tension inside of me relaxed.  For that moment, I felt almost content.  As content as I could be without John sitting in his usual place.

Scorpius ate with us too, and that was strange for the others; strange for me also, that he should occupy a chair while John did not.  The others shared brief stories of their own time away from Moya.  They had fared no better than I had, which was why they had chosen to return.  In the end, we all came home to Moya.

Scorpius and I told bits of our own tale, the parts that did not involve John; the parts that were not as painful.  And finally, the others softened.  They don’t trust him, which I can’t blame them for, but at least they don’t hate him as much today as they did yesterday.

And then the fever hit me again, and all I could do was let D’Argo carry me to Zhaan’s lab with Jool running anxiously alongside.

This morning I am still feverish, exhausted.  I contemplate the bit of conversation I overheard between D’Argo and Jool as I stare at the ceiling.  Jool wants to find a Diagnosin, as impossible as that is this far out in the Uncharted Territories.  It’s a slim chance for me even then, I know from the way D’Argo’s voice cracks, from Jool’s stifled cries, and I ache for them.  My friends still care about me, still have hope for me, as unbelievable as it seems to me after all I have done.  And there’s nothing they can do. 

Jool finally lets me go back to my quarters at midday.  She’s been up with me all night, and Chiana is supposed to come from Command to stay with me while Jool takes a nap.  As much as I appreciate their concern, I don’t want it.  I’m tired, and I want to be alone, at least for a little while.

Sweat pools at the base of my neck, but I walk on.  I can handle the heat, for now, and I have a destination in mind so that D’Argo won’t think I’m delirious.  I want to be with Pilot, my only source of comfort now, and I want to walk to him on my own.  Nothing will stand in my way. 

I should know by now that nothing is ever that simple.  That a killing fever is relatively mild on what John had called the Galactic Richter Scale of Disasters.  That my long road home was only that, a way home in order to die.  That I’d really had no chance from the beginning.  When you play fate’s game, fate always wins.




At the instant I vow to get to Pilot’s den on my own, the deck heaves beneath my feet and disappears, the entire ship yawing wildly.  Just as quickly the deck snaps up again, and I hit it hard, stumbling into the wall with my right shoulder.  The ship rocks back and forth, and I lose my footing and go crashing to the floor.  My right leg aches from the impact and the pain in my shoulder is so intense that for long microts all I can do is curl up on the floor, gritting my teeth.

“What the frell was that?” I demand into comms, struggling to get back on my feet, the deck still pitching under me.

There is no answer.

“D’Argo?” I shout.  I make it to my feet and try to run, but the best I can do is a shuffling limp, the old pulse wound on my thigh suddenly flaring pain.  “Pilot, what happened?”

Fear goes through me like a knife at the continued silence, and I force myself to move faster, each step jarring my shoulder. 

My coms crackle with static and I hear a distant voice trying to break through.  “Out of nowhere…extensive damage…boarding.”

“Pilot?” I shout, desperation breaking loose.  “Talk to me!”

I hear a buzzing noise coming from behind me and I turn just in time to see Rygel speeding down the corridor. 

“Aeryn,” he cries, “what’s happening?”

“I don’t know.  You get to Pilot as fast as you can and find out.”

He doesn’t answer but speeds ahead of me.  I watch his little form zoom away and my sense of dread grows.

“D’Argo!” I try again.

I am able to run a bit now, though I have to slow to a fast walk every few microts, breathless, my chest aching.  I am approaching Pilot’s Den and breathe a sigh of relief as I see Scorpius coming from the opposite direction, followed by D’Argo.

“Aeryn!” D’Argo shouts.  “It’s the Scarrans!”

I can’t feel my heart beat.  I can’t breathe.  I can’t think.  I blink, and I’m in the Scarran interrogation cell.  I blink again, and I hold John as he takes his last breath.  No more torture, no more death, please no more.  I walk shaking to D’Argo, and Scorpius catches me as I stumble and holds me up. 

D’Argo looks at me, not as a friend, not as a comrade.  He looks at me as a soldier, as the only one he can rely on now.  And somehow I draw strength from that look, enough strength to reach inside and find a small piece of what remains of Aeryn Sun.  I shake off Scorpius’s hand and force myself to stand at attention, returning D’Argo’s gaze.  When I speak, my voice is soft but steady.

“How many?” I ask.

He blinks but maintains eye contact.  “At least twenty.”

“Status?”

“They have temporarily disabled our comms system and ripped a hole in the side of the ship.  They have begun to board, and they have Charrid soldiers with them,” Scorpius informs me.

He sees the question on my face and answers, “They came out of a wormhole.”

D’Argo is still watching me, waiting to see me flinch.  We both know that we have no chance of winning this battle.  But this is how warriors should die.  So I harden my expression, my hand dropping to the grip of my pulse pistol, its solid familiar shape as comforting as it is useless.  I put away guilt, and pain, and fear, and weakness. 

“Then let’s go put them back in,” I say.  It’s a poor attempt at bravado, but it’s all I’ve got.  It’s enough for D’Argo to bark surprised laughter.  His comradely slap to my good shoulder nearly knocks me unconscious.



Pilot says he can maintain control of the doors and the DRD’s.  D’Argo and I have retrieved the tac launcher from Moya’s weapons locker.  This is the best we can do, and maybe with luck it will be enough to get us through the day.

I don’t let myself think about the last time I used it, or who steadied me then.

D’Argo says the plan is farbhot, that I have been hanging around Crichton too long.  At this I laugh and tell him he is right, but that it’s the only hope we’ve got. The word rings oddly in my ears.  What an idiot I am to be talking about hope.

As we walk back to the others, I am already gasping for breath from the exertion.  D’Argo pretends not to notice.  “D’Argo,” I say, and pause, my heart hammering.

“Yes, Aeryn?”

I stop, my hands shaking.  From fear.  I curse my weakness, but I know I can’t go another step farther.  Not until he gives me his word.

Yet I can’t bring myself to ask him to do this.  “I won’t be captured again by the Scarrans, D’Argo.  I won’t.”

He looks down at me, his eyes filling with tears.  He says nothing, but he holds his hand out, Crichton’s gesture, and we shake hands, a silent vow.  I exhale shakily as D’Argo, blinking, calls roughly into his comms for Rygel to make himself ready.




Rygel is armed with two pulse rifles.  Jool and Chiana have a Pulse Canon, balanced between the two of them, as well as their pistols.  Scorpius has his bare hands until I relent and hand him a pulse pistol—Braca’s—which will only be effective against the Charrids.  But then again, Scorpius is the only one among us who might have the strength to survive against a Scarran in hand-to-hand combat.  He may well be the only one left to tell our tale of dubious glory. 

I follow Scorpius towards the newly ripped hole in Moya’s bulkhead, D’Argo close at my heels.  The three of us have somehow become a team, a strange and unlikely alliance, Scorpius standing where Crichton always stood.

As we approach the open door to the landing bay, I hear noises ahead, and my pulse quickens, adrenaline beginning to flow.  This is farbot.  Out of the shadows I see a Scarran soldier carrying a crate, followed by a number of Charrids.  What are they doing?

“Secure the Pilot!” one growls to the others.

“Yes, sir.”

“Take everything you can, leave no survivors.  This ship is ours!”

This statement is followed by a series of hoots and growls.

“Frell,” I murmur.  There are more Charrids than we expected.  And where are the other Scarrans?

Scorpius continues forward, lurking in the shadows, and signals our stop only motras from the attackers.  “Get ready,” he whispers.  D’Argo and I brace the tac launcher between us, and Scorpius crouches down on the ground, pistol ready.

The Charrids start moving in our direction, five Scarran soldiers taking up the rear.  Scorpius is motionless, patient.  I think of Teyn, how she could handle a tac launcher by herself; Teyn and Jax, cut down by Scarran pulse fire.  John dying, his face blistered by Scarran heat.  I want to scream, and I want to kill every Scarran I see, every Charrid.  But it’s not time for revenge; it’s time to show what I’ve learned through the blood of my comrades.  So I hold my post, my back rigid, and like a good soldier, I wait for orders.

“Fire!” Scorpius hisses.

D’Argo and I aim the weapon at the nearest Scarran and fire.  The harpoon-like projectile pierces the Scarran’s thick, armored skin instantly, driving through his heart.  The charges explode on impact, and the Scarran, a huge cavity in his chest, crashes to his knees.

Teyn would be proud of that shot. 

For a microt the Charrids do not know what has happened.  Scorpius starts his pulse fire and takes down four Charrids before they realize they are being attacked.  Hidden DRD’s scurry out from their hiding places and shoot at the on-comers.  D’Argo and I frantically reload the Tac launcher, as I see out of the corner of my eye a Charrid running toward us, leveling his rifle.  Throwing my left shoulder under the launcher to brace it, I use my right hand to draw my pulse pistol and fire.  Pain spikes throughout my body from the pressure on my shoulder, nearly blinding me, but the soldier goes down.  I force myself to grasp the heavy weapon with both hands, supporting it as D’Argo finishes reloading.

Scorpius is firing constantly, and yet Charrids are breaking through our tiny force and making their way towards the Center Chamber.  D’Argo has managed to re-load the tac launcher, in what seems like arns but has been only microts, and we fire at the nearest Scarran soldier.  Success again.  I only see three more Scarrans, and my spirits start to rise. 

“Let’s go, let’s go,” I shout as we struggle with the third projectile.  As we start to load the weapon I look up again and my heart pounds in my chest.  About twenty more Scarran soldiers have just emerged from the ship and are filling the corridor.  I pause and D’Argo swears at me, only to look up and follow my gaze.

“Pilot!” he shouts, and with a grunt he swings the launcher over his shoulder with one arm and grabs me with the other.  “Close the doors on tier three on my command!”  He hauls me back several steps, Scorpius dropping back with us, and we start to run, weapons fire blazing around us, shooting wildly at Charrids as we retreat.  My hand is shaking, each breath slamming hotly into my chest.  All I see are Charrids, Charrids from every angle, my vision blurred, and I keep firing, they keep falling, I keep firing, until I don’t know what I see, which ship I’m on, until my pulse pistol empties of chakkan oil, and I change the cartridge as we run.

DRD’s still fire behind us in the distance as we run as fast as we can, towards the second line of defense.

I see Rygel first, mad with rage as he rams a Tokra knife in the eye of an attacking Charrid.  Noranti is throwing some sort of dust on the closest ones, leaving them disoriented and blind, giving Chiana and Jool just enough time to fire their weapon. 

“D’Argo,” Chiana shouts over the weapons fire.  “There were a bunch of soldiers that broke through, I didn’t see how many!”

“Never mind that!” he shouts back. “Everyone, head up one tier.  There are about twenty Scarrans on our heels.”

Jool and Chiana drop the pulse cannon instantly, turning to run, and Rygel fires one last pulse blast before he flies down the corridor.  Noranti, however does not move. 

D’Argo grabs her by her tangled hair and starts to drag her along with us.  She kicks him in the shin hard enough to startle his hand open and tells him to go.  “I’ve got something for the Scarrans,” she says and she runs in the opposite direction.

“Noranti!” D’Argo cries, and makes to run after her, but I ram my good shoulder into his chest, pushing him in the direction of the others. 

“Let her go,” I say, blocking his body with my own.  The pain in our captain’s eyes is greater than that in my shoulder.

We run, and we make it all the way to the next tier without seeing or hearing Scarrans or Charrids.  Noranti, whatever you have done, thank you.

“Pilot!”  D’Argo shouts. “Close off tier three, now!”

The doors behind us lock tightly and we rest for a microt, all of us gasping for breath.  I slide down the wall onto my heels, cradling my aching arm with the pulse pistol in my right hand, and try not to vomit.

“Tier three sealed, preparing to vent all atmosphere into space,” Pilot says.

I imagine below us all the doors opening in all the corridors and all the docking bays.  The atmosphere rushes from the ship, taking all the Scarran filth with it.  Along with Noranti, if she still lived.

Pulse fire screams suddenly, arcing past me. Adrenaline surges again, and I start to bring my pistol around, even as, out of the corner of my eye, I see Chiana turn.  She’s moving slowly, to my perception, too slowly and I start to scream a warning, whipping my own pistol around, but I’m too late, I’m always too frelling late.  She levels her weapon at the Scarran as he fires, and her finger goes lax on the trigger.  The pulse blast tears through her stomach, and her light little body seems to fly back forever before she slams into the wall and slides limply down next to me.   

Her name is a scream of rage, and the next thing I know, D’Argo is running at the attacker, a single Scarran soldier, heavily armed and backed by about ten Charrids.

He draws his Qualta blade and fires, and fires, and fires, each blast hitting the Scarran but never slowing or hindering him despite the minor wounds that open on his skin.  Then the Charrid soldiers behind him are firing and Jool, Rygel, Scorpius and I are returning fire as best we can, but they advance, swarming us, leaping over the bodies of their fallen comrades.  It’s hand to hand combat now.  An oncoming Charrid knocks my pulse pistol from my hand, and I Pantak jab him with my good hand, straight into Rygel’s ready knife blade.  Another surges toward me, and I grab his pulse rifle, the barrel hot under my fingers, and use his momentum to flip him over my shoulder, head first into the wall.  The effort drives me to my knees, just as I hear his neck crack, and I can’t get back up, all my strength gone.  I can only watch the others as I gasp for air, my hand frantically searching for my pulse pistol on the floor.

They are warriors in that moment.

Rygel slashes his Tokra knife at his opponents, gouging eyes, ripping at throats, a fierce Hynerian yell bursting from his throat.  Scorpius breaks a Charrid neck and flings the body aside, reaching for another.  Jool, tears running down her face, holds her ground, firing her pulse pistol frantically, her blasts surprisingly accurate and steady at close range.

And D’Argo.

D’Argo has fired again and again, wounding the Scarran a dozen times, until the huge soldier begins to shake and slow.  But he’s too close, and I scream a warning to D’Argo as the Scarran releases a stream of heat into D’Argo’s face, paralyzing him, the Qualta blade dropping from his slack hands. 

Over the sound of Jool’s pulse fire, I can hear the sick cracking noise as the Scarran breaks D’Argo’s neck.

He falls to the ground in a lifeless heap just as a pulse blast tears through Rygel and knocks him off his throne sled.  Still dripping blood, the Tokra knife clatters to the floor.

Training closes my hand around the grip of my pulse pistol; training pulls it up; training makes my fingers squeeze off two quick, clean shots that dispatch the remaining Charrids.  Training, because I am staring at the scene before me, and it’s unreal, a mindfrell, a nightmare.  Chiana and D’Argo and Rygel did not just fall in battle, it does not make sense, it is not possible.  I stare at the heap of flesh that was once my closest comrade, my constant companion in battle.  A soldier like I was, someone who maybe knew me better than John ever could.  And he was dead.  He was dead at the hands of a Scarrren, dead at the hands of wormhole tech, dead at my hands.

I’m not thinking now, not planning, not using any sort of strategy.  I don’t feel wounds or pain or even my own body.  I am nothing but rage now.  I holster my useless pistol and push myself to my feet, and I start toward the Scarran, our last enemy, still alive but weakened by D’Argo’s attack.  I’m going to kill him, with my bare hands if necessary.  If he crosses me over at the same time, that’s just as well.

D’Argo’s Qualta blade lies next to his limp hand.  Without a pause, I step across his corpse, grab his blade, swing it up as high as I can one-handed.  I can’t hold it, so I force my left arm to move, my hand to close around the polished handle.  I’m screaming a Luxan curse as I rush forward and bury the blade in the monster’s chest, propelling it with all my weight, all my strength, the tip sliding through a wound D’Argo had scored in the scales.  I feel his claws rake my arm as he struggles to get his hand up, to burn me with his heat.  I’m screaming in Sebacean as I wrench the blade out, dark blood dripping down my arms, and then I’m just screaming, my gaze locked with the Scarran’s flat, soulless eyes.

Look at me, look at me, let me be the last thing you see.  You took everything from me.




Microts pass unmeasured.  I hold the Qualta Blade loosely at my side, breathing hard. My throat is raw from screaming, and rage is all that keeps me on my feet. 

“No, no, no, no,” Jool moans in agony, her trembling hands touching Chiana’s hair, her arms, her face.   “No!” she shrieks, looking from Chi’s corpse to D’Argo’s.

It’s only then that I notice the lack of weapons fire, the quiet stillness of death all around me.  I turn and look back at where I saw Rygel fall. Scorpius kneels over the bloody remains, mumbling something under his breath that sounds like, “You fought well, Dominar Rygel XVI.”

Gasping, I sink to my knees, dropping the Qualta blade in front of me.  I still don’t feel my body, but the rage is starting to trickle away.  I don’t think I’ll want what will replace it.

Jool doesn’t even know I’m here; she doesn’t even know she’s here as she sobs, cradling Chiana’s limp body.  Chiana’s black eyes, open in death, lifeless, stare at me.  More eyes to haunt my dreams.

“Jool,” I whisper.

She looks startled as she hears my voice.  She is lost in her grief, she is alone in it.  Blankly she meets my gaze, face twisted.  She’s not in the room anymore; she’s gone, and I know too well the place she’s trapped in.  I am the wrong person to do this, to pull Jool from her grief, but there’s no one else.

“We have to go.”

She shakes her head and throws her head back down on Chiana’s chest.  “No, no, no, no,” she cries.

“Jool,” I say more firmly and stand.  I can’t let my voice shake.  I can’t feel anything except for the anger.  “We have to go, we will come back.”

She doesn’t respond and I look back at Scorpius.  He nods his head and strides over to her.  He grasps her under the arms and hauls her up, screaming and kicking, fighting to return to the side of her fallen friend. 

I wish I could.

“Pilot’s den,” I say, and lead the way.  Gradually, as we walk away from the carnage, from our friends, Jool’s cries lessen.

She doesn’t know that this is actually the easiest part.  The loss.  The initial pain.  The shock.  It’s the days to come, days made empty, that will be unbearable.

It’s my fault.  All my fault.  Because I hesitated.  Because I failed John.  My right hand is covered with drying Scarran blood, but I am coated with the blood of dead soldiers.  Dead innocents.   Dead comrades.  Dead friends.  All fallen against the Scarrans.

I am numb. 

When I see a lone Charrid stalk up out of the shadows near Pilot’s Den I just shoot.  I don’t feel fear, or pain, or even anger.  I just shoot, he just falls, and Jool’s soft screams of sorrow are just screams.  I don’t feel them. 

I am numb.

Scorpius enters the Den first and I hear him hiss and drop Jool.  There are two Charrids left, just inside the door.  Scorpius grabs for his pistol.  Mine is already out and I am firing at the soldier on the right.  He fires a single shot before he falls that grazes my arm.  I don’t feel the pain.  Scorpius fires at the other and misses, and I see out the corner of my eye that Jool is trying to stand and fight.  She hesitates on the walkway, fumbling to bring her pulse pistol up.  A shot blasts through her left arm, and she drops her weapon.  Another blast strikes her chest and she tumbles over the edge silently, her face blank and staring.

Automatically, I kill the Charrid, a single shot to the head.  I walk steadily to the body, and, with a grunt, I kick the corpse into the abyss.

Numb.



Pilot isn’t injured; the Charrids hadn’t gotten far enough before we came back.  However, he is in great pain from Moya’s injuries, so much pain that he can scarcely think. 

I assess the damage to Moya’s hull quickly.  The breach is huge, the fires that erupted even more destructive.  There is little we can do.

Numb.




“There is...one hope, Officer Sun,” Scorpius says, arns later.  After the dead have been gathered.  After Moya has been tended.  After our own injuries have been taken care of.

I look at him as I drop the ignition powder on D’Argo’s chest. 

Numb.





And now I’ve finished another of my duties, or perhaps it was a punishment as well, an atonement.  I’ve remembered it all, lived through it all again, up until the last four solar days.  Without Jool’s medical expertise, my condition is steadily deteriorating.  I don’t wish to die of infection or heat delirium, Scorpius’ blade thrust into my chest.  I’d rather fall in battle, as D’Argo did, as all my friends did.  Or at the controls of my Prowler.  But then, it’s been a long time since I’ve gotten anything I wished for.

It takes an arn or longer to gather together the things I need for this ritual and carry it all to the terrace. I’ve had four days to consider this, to weigh the value of lives carefully and try to find something of significance for each.  Still, it’s a woefully small box that I hold in my hands now, with few items residing in it.

There’s the bone dagger D’Argo has had since he was a boy.  There’s the Tokar knife Rygel had clutched to the end, slashing at Charrids.  There’s a packet of the old woman’s herbs.  There’s a ring that Jool favored and a few strands of her hair.  There’s one of Chiana’s small black gloves.  I add the locket she had given me after smashing up my Prowler so long ago; the locket that had traveled with me to the base and back again. 

I roll it thoughtfully in my hand for a microt; gift-giving was never common in my life, and the sentiment behind it touched me far more than the object itself.  The clasp feels a bit loose, and I open it with my thumb.  I’d never put anything inside it, but to my surprise, small images smile up at me, John’s on the left, mine on the right.  She must have gotten them from Pilot’s data banks, before she returned the locket with my other personal effects to me.

“Oh, Chi...” I whisper, and it’s many microts before I am able to place it, still open, gently in the box.

John’s journal goes in next, and it’s only with great difficulty that I release this last remnant of him, although he is one of the people for whom I perform this ritual.  I don’t know what happened to his body; I don’t really want to know.  I prefer to assume that it was destroyed with the command carrier, that he is completely beyond the reach of Scarrans or Peacekeepers or Ancients. 

It was different on Talyn.  I wouldn’t let Crais help me, would barely tolerate the presence of Rygel and Stark.  They’d allowed me to stay as long as I’d needed with John’s body.  It was Rygel who quietly packed his things away, Rygel with his practical mind who determined what the other John would need, as Stark and I discussed what to do, and it was the three of us who carried him to Furlow’s copy of his module for one last flight.  When my hands shook too much to program the flight computer, it was Stark who led me away and Rygel who completed the sequence.  I climbed up on the stubby wing to kiss him one last time, but Rygel had to close the cockpit canopy; my legs gave way, and Stark had to catch me to keep me from falling off the wing to the deck.  It was Rygel who gave a beautiful eulogy, even though he occasionally choked up himself.  I wish I could remember those words; I could use them today. 

Crais quietly joined us at the last, standing behind me.  In silence, the four of us stood together and watched the module leave Talyn for the last time and arrow straight into one of the suns of Dam Ba Da.  It seemed most fitting then, as this was really where John’s fate and wormholes became so closely entwined; in retrospect, it seems even more fitting, as Furlow had a hand in both of their deaths.

John Crichton and wormholes, forever intertwined.

At first I’d thought to tear out the pages of wormhole equations and burn only those, keeping the rest of the journal for myself.  If there was any chance I might live more than a weeken, I might still do so.  But I swore I’d not let John’s private thoughts fall into the hands of his enemies, even as I was promising that book to one, and I don’t want to take any chances now.  I don’t want to fail him again.

So the journal goes in, tucked against the side of the box.

Our team never wore rank or insignia; that was Teyn’s preference, that we all had a sort of equality within the team, even while she was our undisputed leader.  I have no patch or pin or remembrance to put in the box for my comrades, and it bothers me greatly until I remember the vid chip Desa left for me.  I take it from my pocket and drop it on top of the other things.

When Scorpius and I cremated their bodies after the Scarran attack, I kept a bit of the powder D’Argo carried for that rite.  I slowly uncap the vial now and sprinkle it over the contents of the box.  Kneeling before it as best I can, I watch the flames burst into existence with the exposure to air. 

My gaze is drawn to the locket, to the smiling faces that no longer exist.  I watch the metal bubble into slag, the images curl and blacken to ash before it all collapses into a still burning heap.

John and Aeryn, together forever.

The thick journal is the last to burn.  As the flames subside, thick smoke still wafts upward.  I lean over the box and draw the smoke deeply into my lungs.  I breathe in my comrades, my family, my love.  And I let them go.




Pilot does not even notice the box of fire burning on the terrace.  I check him one last time and find him slumped, deeply sleeping.  I watch him for awhile, my throat thick with unsheddable tears.

I don’t know where Scorpius is, and I don’t care how furious he will be when he discovers what I’ve done.  On numb legs, I make my way back to my quarters and collapse onto my bed, with barely enough energy to remove my boots.  I breathe shallowly, still tasting smoke, and for the first time in days, I sleep.




“You’re close now,” John says. He sits on the edge of my bed in my quarters on board Moya, and I feel his hand pass over my fevered face.  I know he’s not real, I know this is a dream conjured by my desperate mind, I know that this image of him in his IASA white shirt and khaki pants is really a memory of him, of how he tended me when I had heat delirium cycles ago.  I know this, and still I press my cheek into his warm touch, my tears filling his palm.

“Strength, Aeryn,” he says.  “You must confront your fears with strength.”

My words to him, so long ago, when the neural clone was taking over his mind. 

“You are my strength,” I say between sobs.  “And you are gone.”

His lips feel cool against the hot skin of my forehead.  “I’d never leave you,” he whispers, and those are words from another memory, from that odd time that Moya got herself stuck in the midst of starburst and separated into different dimensions.

I wait for him to fade as I awaken.  He doesn’t, one hand moving soothingly on my cheek still, the other cradling my sweat-soaked head.  I release a shaky sigh and sink into the dream fully.



It’s duty that wakes me arns later.  My last duty.

Pilot has woken from a dream of his own, and he is frightened.  So I pull on my boots and stumble to him, giving what comfort I can.  He’s weaker, and so am I, and the one clear thought in my head is, Soon, John.  I’ll be home soon.

[ScaperRed]

Chapter 13: Dealer’s Choice


“I have failed.”

The comms buzz with static, yet his defeat comes through clearly.  Defeat, and anger, and utter bewilderment.

I...am not surprised.

Still, I exhale slowly.  As I do so, I release whatever hope had remained. It’s over. Scorpius’ last desperate bid to win this fool’s game.  It’s over.  Stopping the Scarrans. It’s over. 

Scorpius feels bitter defeat.  I feel only relief.

Pilot moves slightly, his claw seeking my hand.  “Officer Sun,” he whispers, and I lift my head, mildly startled at his sudden formality.  “Moya and I want you to know that it has been an honor to serve you, and an honor to know you.”

You are the only one who still has honor, Pilot.

“Pilot, this is all my fault,” I say softly.

“No, Aeryn—“

“I’m sorry.  So sorry.  Tell Moya that for me.  I should have stopped them.  I should have been stronger.”  I should have done things differently.  So many things.



It won’t be much longer now.

Pilot’s breathing has slowed by half.  He slumps behind his console, bent almost double.  All of his strength is concentrated in the pincer that grips my hand.

I don’t know how many arns have passed since Scorpius gave up, how many arns I’ve sat, one leg folded under me, on the edge of Pilot’s console, holding his claw.  The creaking of Moya’s hull has gradually eased.  I can scarcely feel the throbbing hum through the console, what I’ve always thought of as Moya’s pulse.

I can scarcely feel. 

“Not...your fault,” Pilot whispers.

He means the Scarrans’ attack.  We’ll never know if they had somehow tracked us, using a search vector based upon our old freighter ejected two starbursts ago, or if it was simply a random patrol.  So perhaps that part is not my fault.  I did my best to prevent the Scarrans’ finding us.  As usual, it just wasn’t enough.

But the wormhole, the wormhole—my fault.  All my fault.

“Are you frightened, Pilot?” I ask, as he makes a small noise.

He half opens his great amber eyes and looks at me for a long moment.  I want to return the love I see in his eyes, but I can’t.  I want to comfort him, ease his passage, but I have nothing left within me. 

He tilts his head slightly, still regarding me, and slowly raises another arm, resting his claw on my shoulder.  “No, Aeryn. I’m not afraid.  Are you?”

I think of second chances, equations in a notebook, a journal burning. The sacrifice of comrades.  Life leaving blue eyes.  Strange, it doesn’t even hurt anymore.

“No, Pilot,” I say, my voice steady.

It’s taken more than a cycle, but I’ve finally let it all go.  All the pain, all the grief, all the love, all the fear. 

I draw in a slow breath and note the staleness of the air.  The atmospheric scrubbers stopped working arns ago. 

It won’t be long now.

I’m ready.



I hear him before I see him, his quick steps echoing in the utter stillness.  He strides through the open doors to Pilot’s chamber and approaches.  His shoulders drawn back rigidly, black lips curling, he emanates anger as he crosses the walkway.

I only sigh as he breaks our peace.  He won’t give up.  At one time I would have admired that.  Now it seems insanity.

“Officer Sun, I need that notebook...now!”

Carefully, I drop off the console, placing myself between Scorpius and Pilot.  I wait, my hands hooked in my belt.  He’ll likely kill me when he discovers what I’ve done with the journal.  That’s fine. I just don’t want Pilot to see it happen.

“You must see that I will never accomplish our task without the equations in that book!  You must give it to me now, while there is still time!”

“There is no more time,” I say evenly.  “It’s over, Scorpius.  It was over long ago.  We’ve lost.”  Everything.

“I—do not—lose!”  A deep-seated rumble sounds from his throat, the Scarran inside him fighting for dominance.  And winning, for the moment, as he grabs me by the throat and lifts me off my feet. 
“If I have lost, if we have lost, then all is lost!”

Finally, he understands.

His hand tightens on my throat, and I begin to choke, gasping for air.  I don’t fight.  I don’t have any fight left in me.

So this is how it ends.  Sorry, Pilot.  I’ve failed you, too.

Behind me is a low moaning noise, and I close my eyes, unable to bear that Pilot should witness my death.  His moan builds to a scream, and the numbness that surrounds me begins to break a little.  Not like this, I think, and my hand grips Scorpius’, trying to pry his fingers loose.  Not like this. Please, for Pilot’s sake, let me do something right—

“A...wormhole!” Pilot shouts, his weak arms waving helplessly.  “A wormhole has opened...we are being—“

Moya jerks violently, shuddering, and Scorpius releases me to grab instinctively at the console.  Gasping, I grab onto it as well as Moya vibrates and wallows and then rolls, the floor becoming the ceiling, the wall, and back again, a twisting spiral that matches the rolling of the wormhole itself.

--swallowed.

Pilot’s scream continues, rising and falling.  His terror and pain rip through the numbness in which I’ve lived the last four days, and it’s anger I feel suddenly, anger at his agony, anger at myself for my part in causing it, anger at Scorpius for pursuing this quest.  Anger at dying like this, haunted by the wormholes that have ruined my life and taken all I have ever valued.

Anger at John for unwittingly unleashing this horror.

Moya yaws again, and I find myself dangling from the console by one hand, the abyss that goes through the center of Moya black and open beneath my boots.  I don’t have the strength to hold on, my hand already uncurling.  My fingers slip. 

I think of Xhalax, and I fall.

Moya wallows, a shriek echoing through her.  My body jerks, pain ripping through me, and I stop, my right arm trapped.  In Scorpius’ grasp.

Let me go, I will him over Pilot’s hoarse screams, the groans of Moya as her ribs crack.  Let me fall...

He won’t.  He holds onto me as fiercely as he holds onto his belief that he can still change things, still win, even now.  He holds onto me, as Moya is slammed through the wormhole.  He holds onto me as her outer skin cracks and breaks, her ribs shatter, her internal corridors twist. He holds onto me as Moya dies around me.

Finally, the vibrations cease and Pilot’s screams fade. 

I am dimly aware of a burning ache in my arm as I am lifted.  My legs scrape against the edge of the walkway, and then I feel its hardness beneath my knees. 

“Are you all right?” Scorpius asks calmly.

I ignore him, listening intently.  I want to be wrong.

There is no sound, no life pulsating through the ship.  No shallow breathing from her Pilot.   There is only the silence of death surrounding me.

Death is my shadow.



I blink slowly and wonder why I’m still kneeling on the walkway.  There is a heaviness covering me, pushing me down.  I can’t seem to focus; I can barely open my eyes.  My legs are cramped.  Strange.  I’ve only been kneeling here a microt.  Or have I?

A figure forms in the shadows.  I blink again, and the image wavers.

It’s hard, but I turn my head and look at Scorpius.  He sits on the walkway next to me, shaking his head slowly, seeming as dazed as I feel. Air...losing air.  Must be it.  Seems too soon, but...hull breach?

I see a man.

Blink.

A figure walks forward from the shadows.  I shake my head to clear my mind, my blurred vision, this heaviness from my limbs.  I turn and look at Scorpius, who is breathing hard.  He looks angry.  He still won’t give up.  Is he trying to stand?  He can’t even rise from his knees.  Is the air supply already dwindling?  It seems to be too soon for that.  Perhaps a hull breach and air is... Is that a man? 

Blink.

A figure of a man dressed in a Peacekeeper Captain’s uniform stands before me, but I know that he is no Peacekeeper.  His face is pale, almost void of any color.  And his eyes… they are black like the vacuum of space, empty holes.  I cannot tear my gaze from those eyes.  They are endless, boundless; beyond his features lies a galaxy and I am floating within it. 

“Who…?” Scorpius snarls, and then stops.  I can see he is struggling for every breath. Is the air supply already dwindling?  It seems to be too soon for that…

“Time.”  The eyes speak.

“What?” I stutter.

“Time.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Time.”

“Please…” I am so tired.

“Time.”

“Is malleable,” Scorpius says.

The eyes pause and look towards him.  “Time.”

“Is up,” I say and my hand reaches for my pulse pistol.

The eyes turn towards me again.  “This one, he is dangerous.”

It is not a question.

“Who are you?” I ask.  Before I can say another word, my eyes close and images cascade across the back of my eyelids.  Earth.  Jack Crichton.  Rain.  Aurora Chair.  Diagnosin.  Scarrans.  John.  Death.

“You have encountered the Ancients.”  Again, not a question. 

Scorpius hisses in excitement next to me.

I nod. 

“The Ancients are members of my species substantially modified to live in your realm.”  My head is starting to feel lighter.  “Contact has been lost between our kind, and we decided to investigate the state of wormhole knowledge in your realm on our own.  We detected wormhole activity here.  I am surprised to discover a Leviathan. The expectation was a Pathfinder vessel."

My head is definitely clearing even as images flicker in the back of my mind.  I’m getting angry.  John.  Ancients.  Wormholes. Always frelling wormholes.

“You are surprised?” I ask, my voice raising as I try to shake off the mental intrusion. “You brought us here, through the wormhole?  You killed her, you killed this Leviathan!”  Somehow I am standing, my sudden anger strengthening me.  “Does that not even concern you?”

“There are greater concerns.”

My hand drops toward the holster on my thigh. 

“The damage here is extensive. Wormholes are the one feature that bridge both our realms, which adjoin, though never intersect. An aggressive perforation of one allows an unacceptable incursion of material... from your existence into ours.  We sensed problems when wormhole activities increased, but I see now that the space-time signatures in your realm are completely unstable.  It is unfortunate that wormhole knowledge has been ripped from the mind of John Crichton and used to ravage your universe.”

Unfortunate.

Millions dead.  John dead.  Moya and Pilot dead.  All my comrades dead.  Unfortunate. The word sears me.

“Time… is… malleable…” Scorpius interrupts, gasping for breath.

The man turns to face the half-breed.  “I know what you desire.”     

“Is it not what you desire?”

“What are you talking about?” I snap at them both. Unfortunate…

“Officer Sun,” Scorpius directs his attention towards me, “all that has happened, it was not meant to happen.  It can be changed.  The outcome of events can be altered, the galaxy can be saved from Scarran domination.”

I nod; this is what he had been trying accomplish.  But you lost, Scorpius.  You lost—

“You fail to understand,” the man interrupts.  “Unskilled wanderings create... unrealized realities.  Your activities could be disastrous.”

Like that’s never happened before.

“More disastrous than what has already occurred?” Scorpius asks.

There is silence.

“No,” the man answers finally.  “This was not meant to happen. I cannot allow this reality to continue.”

Scorpius nods and struggles to stand.

“No!”  The man’s voice rumbles, and Scorpius falls back onto the floor.  The eyes turn to me.  “Only you can possess this knowledge.”

I shake my head.  “I don’t understand.”

“There is nothing to understand.  You must feel.  You must feel the correct path, you must feel when time went wrong.”

“Feel…?”  I feel nothing.

“Officer Sun,” Scorpius says, “think back, remember.  When did things go wrong?  What would you do differently to prevent the events of the past from happening again?  You must remember that, if nudged closely enough to course, events have a way of restructuring themselves. If the participants are the same, the venue is the same, the motivation is the same, then well, the outcome is likely to be the same.  To change what has happened, we must make events vector farther away from the reality you and I both know.”

I close my eyes. Where did time go wrong?  Change what? So much has gone wrong.  There is so much that I would change.  Images of John pour through my mind, memories of my actions, memories of his pain, my pain, our pain…

Something pulls at me, a wisp of long ago memory.  A...feeling.  I feel caught between two currents, two feelings, two tides far larger than myself, than either one of us.

… He shouldn’t come. 

He can’t come.

I gasp at the intensity of the feeling.  My eyes open wide, only to meet the colorless void of the eyes opposite my own. 

“You see.”  Again, not a question.

“It was the coin toss.”  I am breathing hard, realization shocking through me.  “He never should have come… I never should have let him come…”

It is all my fault.  All of it.  I let him come...but...

“This reality was not meant to be.”

I see Scorpius smile out of the corner of my eye. 

Not meant to be.  So that means...

“Can it be changed?” I ask slowly.

"You must traverse the wormhole and go back.  Should a traveler appear earlier in the timeline of his own existence, he would be but as a pebble cast upon still water.  The ripples you create will, over time radiate upon far distant shores, geometrically altering events in its path.”

Change it.  Fix it.  It’s possible.

But he’s looking at me, not Scorpius.  Insane.  What can I possibly fix?  “I don’t know how to travel through a wormhole.”

“I can do it,” Scorpius says abruptly.

“No.”  The eyes hold my own steadily.

He is dangerous. I shake my head at the intrusion, but not at the statement; I cannot deny it.

“I will give you the knowledge.”

I take a step back, my head shaking from side to side. I don’t want the knowledge. I’ve seen what it does to those who hold it within themselves.  I am not strong enough to do this.

“I will give you the knowledge.”  It’s a command.  No arguments allowed.  “After you complete your task, you will re-enter the wormhole and the knowledge will be lost as the timeline shifts.  In that changed reality, you and I will never meet.”

There is deep silence as I think about what he has said.  I know it is the right path.  I can feel it.  I know that I have to accept my role in this mission in order to prevent the catastrophic events of the past monens from happening.  I can fix this.  I can feel it.  I can feel it.

“All right,” I say unsteadily, and hold my breath. 




The wormhole is blue.  It is the blue of thinning atmosphere.  It is the blue of John’s eyes.  The knowledge of this blueness seems to flow outward from me, until it fuses with the actual entity of the wormhole we traverse.  I can feel the path that I need to take now.  It is like a pulse blast ringing in my head, getting louder and louder as I fly John’s module. 

“My module, my baby, my ride, and you call it—“

“Fucking bucket of dren.”

I smile.  He would never believe what I am feeling now, that this piece of fucking dren is more maneuverable in a wormhole than my Prowler ever could be.

Scorpius breathes heavily behind me.  I can sense his excitement, his longing, his need.  His need to win, to defeat the Scarrans.  His need to possess such knowledge.  His need is what makes him dangerous.

He would do anything to accomplish his goals.  He would sacrifice worlds, an entire reality, himself.  He would sacrifice me in an instant if he could obtain the knowledge.  He would commit genocide with the disregard of a true Peacekeeper toward a lesser species.

Perhaps that’s why I trust him, even as I still feel the imprint of his fingers on my throat. I know his motivations.  John never would have trusted him, but I have seen things that John will never see. 

Are we doing the right thing?

I have to believe that we are.

The ringing in my head grows even louder.  I try to concentrate, to anticipate the twists and loops of the blue tunnel, but instinct closes my eyes.  I feel my way through the wormhole. 

Images of the past flicker through my mind.  Pilot’s body slumped lifelessly over his console.  Moya’s dim silent corridors as Scorpius and I ready the module for flight.  D’Argo’s blood stained corpse.  The small unmoving figure of Chiana, too young to be stripped of life in battle.  The shreds of Rygel’s royal sash around his lifeless body.  Jool’s stricken face as she fell from the walkway.

And John… of course John.  A thousand moments of John.

You are...the radiant Aeryn Sun...

Pain resonates through my whole body.  It seeps from my pores into the swirling blue of the wormhole.  So much that shouldn’t have happened.  So much time that was lost and wasted because of me.

I try to shake off the memories, to focus on my task, my duty.  I can’t.   You have to remember.  Always remember.  The thought drifts through my mind. 

Our comrades live on, as long as we honor their memories.  Teyn’s salute to Darek as we drank in tribute to his life.

I will remember.

“Officer Sun?”  I hear a voice in the distance, but I am buried in the overwhelming pain of memory. 

I shatter.

I...feel.

The bubble of numbness in which I have been living bursts, agony washing over me—drowning me.  The images of John multiply and then dissolve into Scarrans.  Scarrans everywhere, destroying so much life in search of only power.  Scarrans slaughtering innocents, destroying whole worlds with wormhole technology.

A Scarran attack cruiser converges on a command carrier, its weapons powering up…but the black vacuum of space contracts, and I see something more frightening and terrifying than the idea of changing the past… I see a rip in time.

It grows larger and larger until it envelops both ships.  Space is swirling and spasming in all directions, until it catches us and begins pulling our module in towards it.  If I open my eyes, I will see my body being sucked into the whirlwind.     

Lost.  Failed.  Failed again.  Fate.  Always fate.  I always fail.

“Officer SUN!” 

Reflex snaps my eyes open.  My hands are white on the controls, pain from my grip coursing through me.  My heart pounds, my raw throat throbbing. 

Breathe.

Again and again I force air into my lungs; it’s become a duty rather than an reflex, and I struggle to perform it, the physical and emotional pain combining to wrack through me.

Scorpius places his hand on my shoulder.  “Are you all right?” he asks.  His touch is comforting, and it reconnects me to our mission.

I blink a few more times and realize that the swirling blue of the wormhole still surrounds us. 

“Yes,” I say hoarsely, understanding that I have been sobbing without even realizing it.  The pain of memory and of premonition was so intense I had lost myself within it, and in the process I had led us through the wormhole to exactly where we needed to be.  I feel the end of our journey as clearly as I feel my own heart beating.  One more vector, one more decision, and we will be through.

We are doing the right thing. I know that now with a conviction so strong it seems a part of my own existence.  What I have seen in the wormhole does not have to happen.  I can stop it from happening.  I will seize this opportunity to change the past with the same fervor as my half-breed companion. 

Because it is necessary… and in this moment of clarity I fly the module out of the wormhole and into the past, to change what should never be, and to fix what must never occur.

[ScaperRed]

“Officer Sun?” Pilot says in response to my comms.  I stifle a gasp, the image of Pilot slumped, motionless with death, burned into my mind.  I had not even been able to look him in the eyes or offer any comfort as he crossed over. 

I failed him then.  I won’t fail him now.

“Yes, Pilot,” I say as calmly as I can through my anguish. “Could you deploy the docking web?”

“But, Officer Sun, I never opened the hangar doors for you to depart...?”

“I opened them myself, Pilot. I knew that with Moya’s grief over losing Talyn, neither of you would want to be disturbed.”

I can hear his hesitation, and I hold my breath.  He is grief stricken, but not stupid, and I have no idea what to do if he questions further.  It will be more than difficult to explain the truth to Pilot, but if I have to…

“Deploying the docking web,” Pilot says, interrupting my thoughts.  “Landing bay two, please.  D’Argo is loading his ship in bay one.”

I exhale in shaky relief.  I want so badly to say goodbye, to say thank you, to say that I am sorry… but that’s not my mission.  I’ve come back here to prevent that need—that need to say goodbye.  “Very well, Pilot.”

I turn to look at Scorpius as the docking web begins to pull us in.  “You know what to do?”

“I stay in the module and wait for you,” he answers.

“And?” I ask.

“And… I contact myself and inform him of Grayza’s alliance with the Scarrans.”

I nod and we share a small smile, for it is a surprisingly good plan and our alliance has proved to be more successful than I ever could have imagined.  Now, if it only works…


I stand in the shadows outside my quarters and watch as I pack my bags.  It is so strange a feeling to watch myself that I hardly even react to it.  I just watch, and I remember the agony of those moments before we left.  The raw pain and grief from John’s death.  The confusion from having been on the command carrier and destroying it. The regret at lives lost.  The fear at the discovery of the stasis pregnancy.  It all feels fresh as I think of it, yet it has a distant quality, like a wound scabbed over.  Well, it has been a long time.  For me, anyway.

It is hard to see myself a little over one cycle ago, knowing what I know now.  I know how she feels, and I know how it will all end. There was a point in my training at the base when I could hardly recognize myself in the mirror anymore.  That feeling comes rushing back as I watch this slightly younger woman who wears my clothes, my weapon, my tightly braided hair, my remembered grief. Abruptly, our identities have separated and I am no longer looking at myself, but at a woman named Aeryn Sun… and we are not the same.

I see her straighten, her hand dropping to her thigh holster.  She senses the presence of someone else.  I shake my head; it has taken her too long.  She could have been killed by now.

I step forward and she draws her pulse pistol instantly, leveling it at this unexpected threat.  I watch as she assesses my presence.  She is so very cold, very measuring.  I don’t see any reaction in her eyes, but I know how I would have felt.  That knowledge flickers in the back of my consciousness, generating a sense of caution mixed with wry amusement. 

“You can put that away,” I say, and I can’t keep a small, ironic smile from forming on my face.  I know she won’t do as I order, and she doesn’t.  She does exactly what I would’ve done then.  Frell, of course she does—she’s me.

“Who are you?” she demands, her grip tightening on the pistol, and walks a step closer.  Her eyes flit over me, and I hold perfectly still for a moment, wincing inwardly at what she sees.  I am gaunt, my worn clothes fitting loosely; the weight has melted from my frame after monens of stress and injury.  My long, uncut hair falls nearly to my waist now, pulled back from my face and roughly secured.  For a moment I envy her tight, neat braid.  It is something I can no longer manage with the pain from my shoulder.  Frell, I must be a vision from hezmana, a nightmare version of herself standing before her.  This won’t work… she’ll never believe…I wouldn’t have believed...

Her eyes shift, a sudden flicker, and I know she is thinking I am an Ancient, some sort of imposter.  I start to laugh as my churning emotions shift abruptly once again.  How very me, of me.

“Who the frell are you?” she snaps, and then blinks as I continue to chuckle.  “Are you laughing at me?” 

“Just at your predictability,” I say through my laughter and take a few steps closer to my younger self.  “As for the first question, well I would think that is obvious.”  I am surprised at my sarcasm and more surprised that my younger self lowers her weapon slightly.  What is she thinking?  Immediately, I lunge toward her and knock her pulse pistol down.  In the same motion I grasp her wrist and twist, driving her to her knees as I rip the weapon from her hand.  She gasps in pain and in panic, on the ground, arm locked painfully behind her back, her own weapon pressed to the back of her head.  “You just left yourself completely defenseless.  What is the matter with you?” I shout.

I hear her gasp again and I release my grip on her quickly, stepping back out of her reach automatically as I do so.  I shake my head angrily.  What the frell am I doing?  She has not had the training I have, she has not been through all that I have.

She is shaking slightly as she rises to her feet.  She is furious with herself as well as frelling frightened at being taken by surprise.  By...me. 

Swallowing hard, I realize that I mirror her feelings. I desperately try to calm myself, to focus on the mission and what I have to accomplish. I’ve already frelled things up, but perhaps not beyond repair.

I have to remember...who I was.

“I’m sorry,” I say, walking towards the bed.  I don’t put my back to her.  “This is not how I should have started this.” 

I sit on the edge of the familiar bed stiffly, shifting slightly to ease the pressure of my holster on the still-sensitive tissue of the old wound on my thigh.  She watches me, and I experience a strange sense of pride as she recognizes a weakness in her enemy.  Carefully, out of her reach, I lay her weapon—the exact weapon that resides in my holster, with more scrapes and scars—on the bed next to me.  I can feel her desperation to hold the pistol in her own hands, to reverse this balance of power.  Not so different in some ways, I think, and shake my head to clear it, trying to focus on what I must do.  I look up into her eyes; she’s still angry, but she’s also still afraid.  Smart.  She should be afraid of me. 

But it’s more than simple fear.  Something—the way I walk, the way I hold a pistol, something—has triggered a response in her and now she is seeing herself in me.

But she is not yet convinced.  Of course not.  She’s me.  She needs proof.  Something tangible, something physical.  Something that will prove to her that I am her, and that I am, at the same time, not. 

I unzip my coat and shrug it off painfully.  Slowly I lift my shirt, exposing my scars, some old and some new.  I watch her eyes as they trace the patterns etched into my skin. It feels as if I am staring into some bizarre mirror—watching myself look at myself, yet knowing that we are two very separate and distinct individuals.

For the first time, I feel real sympathy at John’s internal conflicts over being twinned.  That desperation for him to be himself.

I see recognition in her eyes.  The scar from Larraq’s blade, the scar from prowler training, the scars from battle simulations and battles.  She stares and her hand moves unconsciously to rub against her own identical scars.  She frowns, her gaze traveling to the scars she doesn’t yet know.  The ones from Scarran claws on my arms, the one still oozing on my shoulder, the smooth one on my ribs, the faint scars on my knuckles from hard training.  I turn slightly so that she can view the roughly healed scar across my back from our escape from the command carrier.  There are so many others, I reflect bitterly, but these are the easiest to show, and more than enough evidence.

It takes her a moment to comprehend it all and I understand perfectly.  There are times when I don’t recognize my own skin anymore, the scars the tracks of my travels.  Badges of courage, honor, experience, the Peacekeeper in me still insists, but my own weak voice just whispers wound, pain, defeat.

Before she can say anything I lower my shirt, choking back my feelings ruthlessly.  Do it.  Get it done, I tell myself, and my voice is a little rough, a little like Teyn’s, as I speak. “I know you are planning to leave… alone, but you don’t really want to leave, not without John at least.  I know, because I have lived through it.”

She looks at me skeptically and waits.  She still doesn’t believe that I am her, that she is me.  She doesn’t want to believe it, and neither would I if I were her.  But I am her.  I feel her confusion, because I am confused as well, dizzy from the doubling.  I don’t know what to do. I only feel desperation for the microts slipping away. 

“Look, there is not much time!” I shout and stand to face her.  She tenses, fists knuckling in response to my frustration.  Suddenly I realize there is one thing that I can tell her to convince her that I am who I claim to be.   I step closer to her, and she stiffens as I grip her arm tightly, but she refuses to give ground.  Reluctantly she meets my gaze, lips compressed, and in that moment we truly are mirrors.  “I know what you are feeling,” I whisper.  “I know about the pregnancy. I know you found out on the command carrier and I know how scared you are.  You haven’t told anyone, and you are not going to tell John before you leave.”

I hear a faint gasp.  Eyes widening and filling with tears, she breaks from my grip to stumble to the bed and sink onto its edge.  I feel another dislocation of senses.  We’ve switched places physically, and there is an eerie sense of emotional shift as well as I choke back my own memories of those intense feelings, the confusion, the doubt…that she feels now.

I am very aware that she is within easy reach of the pulse pistol on the bed.  She is too.  She gives it a quick glance and makes her decision.

She looks up at me, nothing but pain in her face, and gestures to me to sit.  I pull a chair over from my—her—the worktable and sit across from her.  As I do so, I wince, automatically shifting my leg to ease the holster.  Still, somehow, when I settle, she has assumed nearly the identical posture, leaning forward, elbows square on knees, back straight.  It startles me, and I recall the two Crichtons.  My younger self looks at me, and I know that she is thinking the same thing.  Two Aeryn Suns, the only difference between us is in the battles we have fought, and lost, and the scars we have gained in the process.

“In an arn, you are going to try to leave Moya alone.”  I pause, seeking her permission to continue.  She nods.  Careful, now.  Not everything.  She doesn’t need to know everything.  She doesn’t want to know everything.  “John will want to come with you.  You will argue.  He is going to try to use a frelling coin toss to decide, but you can’t let him.  You can’t let that coin toss happen.  You have to stay strong, strong enough to leave him.  He can’t come with you, no matter how much you want him to and no matter how exhausted you are.  Do you understand me?”

My younger self looks into my eyes and I know she can see the pain there.

“You watched him die again.”

It is not a question and I turn my head to the side quickly, grief twisting my face.  I should have known that I could not hide feelings from myself. 

I turn back to face her, to face my past mistakes.  To face myself.  She is a soldier, I tell myself.  Keep it simple.  Give her orders.  That’s all she can comprehend right now.  Again, it is Teyn’s voice I hear as I speak to this cadet version of myself.  “Do you understand?  He cannot come with you, no matter what.  If he does, not only will he die, but he will die at the hands of the Scarrans.  They will rip wormhole technology from his mind and use it against the Peacekeepers.  But they will not stop there. They will spread beyond Peacekeeper space, and within a few monens, everyone is frelled.  And when they are done destroying this part  of the galaxy, they will go elsewhere.  They know everything that was…is… in John’s mind and that means that they know about Earth.  Eventually they will go there as well, and they will leave nothing but a wake of death and destruction.

“And a—“  I have to pause and steady my voice.  I shift a bit, rubbing my aching shoulder absently.  “A Scarran scout ship will find Moya.  Everyone—D’Argo, Rygel, Chiana, Jool, the old woman—everyone on Moya will be killed.  Moya will be fatally wounded, and she and Pilot will die too.”

She looks sick as she lets my words sink in.  Her greatest fear has just been realized and I know, in ways I hope she never knows, how much it hurts.

“Then I’ll stay. I’ll stay and protect them.”  I see the longing in her face, the words left unspoken.  She doesn’t really want to go.   I’ll stay and protect him.

I blink back sudden tears, shaking my head impatiently as I choke back more.  A river of regret.  “No.  You have to go.  There are important missions that you must be a part of, training you must have, and there is one mission in particular that you must complete, one mission that you will know is yours alone.” 

I laugh a little through my sorrow and she looks surprised.  “Frell,” I say to her, “I know how completely fahrbot things are inside your head.  You have to sort it all out.  You can’t do that here. You can’t do that with him.  You have to do it on your own.  I know this, because I didn’t.”

There is silence as we look into each other’s eyes. She believes me, and she finally understands what she has to do. It’s something that I never had the strength to do.  Hurt him.  Hurt him to save him.

“You can’t tell him what I’ve told you.  You have to just go.  You know how he is, how frelling stubborn.  If you tell him, it could change things within your timeline.”

“It could improve the future, keep it from happening—“

“Think about it,” I say, and I have to smile a little.  After a moment, she smiles regretfully as well, shaking her head, undoubtedly thinking of the Jocacean monastery, of Dacon and the nurses. Still, she’ll want to tell him, to give him some sort of explanation.  And she can’t.  He can’t be influenced.  He has to find his own path.  So does she.

“You can’t tell him.  Ever.  Swear.”  She hesitates, and I lean closer.  “Aeryn.  Swear that you won’t tell him.  On your honor.  On his life.”

Stubborn, so stubborn.  Just like Crichton.

“I promise,” she says at last, reluctantly.  It’s not quite the same, but it’s the best I’ll get from her.  She’ll honor her word. 

My duty is done here and I should leave, but wasted opportunities haunt me.  I hesitate, out of selfishness, out of a need to undo so many of my own actions.  I don’t have the strength to walk away from the truth again.  I’ve got to make this right somehow.  Make sure she makes it right.

“You must come back,” I whisper through tears that won’t be held back anymore.  “Come back as soon as you can.  Don’t lose him the way I did.  It’s not the amount of time you have.  It’s that you have any time at all.  Don’t waste any of it. Don’t frell up like I have.”

I stand and turn to leave, but there is still more that she has to know, and it will be the hardest for her to understand.

“I have one more thing to ask of you,” I say softly.  “The last thing you must do for me…for yourself, for… us… is…”  I turn back to face her. “If a time comes when you must accept Scorpius as an ally, do it.”

“What?” she asks and physically recoils from me, her hand moving toward her pulse pistol.

“He can be trusted, he wants the same things that we do… to prevent Scarran domination.”

“I don’t believe you.” 

I know she is thinking of John, of the torture, of the chip that nearly killed them both, of all the betrayal and all the deceit and all the death at the hands of Scorpius.  I know how hard it is to believe.  I believed it only out of necessity.  But believing it could save her life, his life, many lives.

Stepping toward her, I grab the collar of her shirt, and pull her face close to mine.  She looks surprised by my strength as I haul her to her feet, but she doesn’t fight me.  “I didn’t believe it either,” I hiss through clenched teeth, “but spending endless days in a torture chamber with someone will do that to you.”  I let her go with a slight push.  “He can be trusted.”

She nods as she straightens her clothing. I doubt that she believes me, but I know that she has taken my words as truth.  If she has to, she will trust Scorpius.

I pick up my coat and turn to walk away, but she speaks, her voice shaking a little.  “Where will you go now?  Back to—your time?”

I nod, keeping my back to her.

“What will happen to you—then?” she asks, and I know she is thinking of poor Dacon, the forgotten hero of a peace that was never brokered, because I am, too.

I shrug and turn.  “I don’t know.  But it doesn’t matter.”  I died a long time ago, echoes in my mind, and I’m not sure if I hear my mother’s voice or mine.

She is standing, left hand hooked into her belt, right hand hanging over her empty holster, shoulders squared.  I’m standing the same way.  I smile as I realize that we are the same, in that moment, except that my pistol resides in its customary place.  She smiles as I do, and we stand quietly for a few microts.  Unexpectedly, a strange sense of affection washes over me for her, for this Aeryn Sun who is me and will not be me. 

I think of the last time I saw the two Johns together, the deceased one as a hologram, the other flesh.  They had played that silly hand game and ended up as twin images yet again; they had smiled the same smile; the deceased John had wished the living one luck.

I’ve spent so much time with John Crichton, in my mind when not in the flesh, that his unflagging, bizarre sense of hope has rubbed off on me.  The realization hits me suddenly, that this is why I have made this trip through time: not because it was required of me, but because I have hope that it may set events right.

After all that is happened, I still have hope.

And it is John’s influence on me that makes me speak once more, repeating his words to his twin to my own.

“Good luck, Aeryn,” I say, forcing my voice to be steady.  I nod slightly to her and start through the doorway. 

I pause one last time.  “I know you don’t want any more advice, but you’re getting it anyway.  Don’t fight yourself so hard.  Don’t drink so much.  Don’t try to be what someone else wants.  One more thing.” My hand points unerringly to the shelf behind me, although I don’t look.  “Don’t forget your coat.  You’ll need it.”   She doesn’t understand my ironic chuckle but I can’t hold it back as I walk out of my quarters on Moya for the last time as the person that I currently am. 

I step into the shadows and look down at the yellow DRD by my boot.  I wait.

There is a faint snick as she slides her pistol into its holster.  Quietly, she says, “Pilot?  Did you get all that?”

“Yes, Officer Sun.  She does—appear—to be Aeryn Sun, by my scans.  And there is what seems to be a second module, this one in landing bay two,” Pilot answers, his voice slightly puzzled, and his voice echoes from my comms as well as hers.

“Frell,” she says softly, and I know without looking that her hands have reached up to pass over her face and hair, a gesture of bewilderment.

“Aeryn...what will you do?”  Pilot asks hesitantly.

“What I had planned to do.  I need to go, Pilot.  Now more than ever.”

I hear the sounds of packing resume at a higher rate of speed, and I know I don’t have much time left.  I walk silently down the corridor a bit, the DRD following me.  With some difficulty, I kneel, putting my face on the level of its eyestalks.  Something Crichton would do, I think, and I laugh a little to myself as I look at the drone.  It would appear that in some ways I have become more him than me.

“Pilot,” I say, and pause, clearing my throat.  There is so much I want to say to him, but I am afraid that it will be too much or too little.  I would like to go to the den, for us to look once more upon each other. I can’t.  I’m not sure I have the strength to walk that far or that I would be able to remain hidden from the others.  In the end, I fall back on the simplicity that has threaded my life, and I suppose it does not matter.  “Moya, you have been my protector and my home.  My greatest happiness has been within your walls and that of your son.”

Scrubbing my hands across my face, I struggle to my feet.  One more goodbye.  “Pilot, you and John were my first friends here.  I value the trust you have always placed in me, and I always tried to honor the bond between us.  Thank you for all you’ve done. I love you and Moya, and I cherish your memories. Goodbye.  I will see you again some day, if Zhaan’s goddess is kind to a simple soldier.”

“Goodbye, Aeryn.”  The unexpected words of Moya’s voice and heart whisper through my comms, and I blink back tears.

Squaring my shoulders, I walk away down the corridor, and I do not look back again.




I stand in the shadows of the landing bay, watching Aeryn load the Prowler.  Every movement is precise and mechanical.  A stark contrast, I am sure, to the confusion tumbling in her mind. She cycles open the hatch of the Prowler and tosses a bag inside, and I draw a slow breath, trying to prepare myself. 

I can’t.  There is simply no way to hold in my feelings, to not feel that burst of pained pleasure simply to see him stride into the landing bay with his bag in his hand.  That powerful set to his shoulders, that purposeful stride, that look of pure determination on his beautiful face.

I shouldn’t have stayed.  I shouldn’t do this to myself.  I shouldn’t risk this.

Yet I had to.  To see him again, like this, one more time.  Selfish.  Add it to my list of personal defects; I no longer have Aeryn Sun’s pride.  I am not the straight-backed woman loading crates into her carefully-maintained Prowler.  I am a shadow of her now, and if I can take this small indulgence for myself, this view of John Crichton as he should have remained, I will. 

It’s more than I had yesterday.

“I’m coming with you,” he states firmly, and the argument starts, just as I remember it. 

It is so odd, standing here watching it in front of me as my mind replays it in memory, cross-checking the details.  I wonder how much of what I had said penetrated her resolve.  She is stubborn, especially when she thinks she is right.  John would laugh to hear me think this about myself.

John...you should have stayed here...stayed like this...

Perhaps there is a bit more tension in her shoulders, a bit more distance in her eyes as she looks everywhere but him.  I can’t tell, for it is so difficult to separate these moments in my mind.

She tells him that she watched him die, yet he’s alive, that she has to go.  He demands she tell him good-bye, pursuing her as she tries to move around him and continue loading the Prowler. 

“You see, you leave, and then you come back and I-I can’t...handle the in between,” he says, and it cuts my heart as much as hers, for different reasons.  I see him watching me leave the base on missions; I see him waiting for my return.  I curse myself for never thinking about how the time in between must have been for him.

He insists that she call him John, and I remember that, too, I remember how I refused to do so until it became necessary. 

They fight, shove each other, shouting, and her anger is great enough to take her away on her own path, until—

“Do you love John Crichton?  Not him...not me.  John Crichton.”

And it breaks my heart a thousand times more than it does hers.

The kiss blurs before my eyes, but I don’t need to see it.  I feel it all over again, my reluctance to respond, his desperation, my resistance crumbling.

And I know that although hope has brought me this far, I’m still playing a fool’s game.  It will all be for nothing.  She isn’t strong enough, because she is me.  And I was never strong enough where John Crichton was concerned.

“What does that taste like?” he murmurs, my memory echoing each syllable.

“Like you,” my mind whispers.

“Like yesterday,” she says, her voice husky, and I gasp at her strength.

He goes crazy at the statement, of course.  There is more shouting, and he starts to retreat. 

And then she falters.

She’s not as strong as I thought.  She can’t let him go away hurting so much, even though pain cuts like a blade through her more each microt.

“I can’t do this again,” she says, voice choking.

Then let him go.  Please.

“And I can’t let the one thing I love fly away in a crappy little ship!” he explodes, and I wince at the line, expecting him to smash a crate.  But he doesn’t, and I focus on that, the small change.  Please...

And then she brings up fate.

Frell, what will I do if she can’t make him stay?  Will he believe me, will it matter?  Will warning be enough?  Will it change too much? I should’ve known better—

And he brings forth the golden coin, the same one he shot—will shoot on the fly with my pulse pistol over half cycle later.

I watch her sigh, move reluctantly closer, and the urge to stride out of concealment and Pantak jab her is almost irresistible.

He flings the coin in the air, and I freeze as it drops toward the deck.  She does not.  She snatches it from the air as it descends, and she is furious as she speaks.  “Just make a frelling wormhole and go home.”

Good soldier.

I start to slide back toward the wall, to ease out through the rear access.  I hear snatches of her words, his angry insistence.  She’s smarter than I thought, and, in some ways, her heart is more open than mine was.  She tells him that it is too late for her.  She asks him, “Do you love Aeryn Sun?” 

“Beyond hope,” he says, and my knees buckle as grief rushes over me again.

“Then, don’t make me say good-bye, and don’t make me stay.”

I stifle sobs in the charged silence, although it is unlikely either one would be aware of anyone or anything else at this point.

I hear his distinctive steps move away, toward the exit, toward a safe path.

And then she breaks.

She scatters the neatly stacked crates in a fury, kicking the dren out of them.  She’s taking her anger out on them—but she also knows he won’t walk away from her in this state.  She’s rejected everything she’s seen today, everything she knows is true.  She is taking a chance on my appearance being a deception.  She’s fooling herself—and my anger at her vanishes, because I would do the same frelling thing.  I would have done anything—would still do anything—to not have to say goodbye to John Crichton. 

Now, as bizarre as it seems, my only hope is Scorpius.  If he can warn himself in time—

Her boot kicks the coin back to him.  He picks it up, looking at her as they walk slowly toward each other.  At her slight nod, he flips the coin high in the air.  Her gaze follows the spinning disc; my gaze remains on him, burning this image of him into my mind as I accept the wheel’s inevitable turn.

His eyes slowly cloud over, his expressive face stilling.  He doesn’t cry out, but a shudder goes through his broad frame, and, for one brief microt, grief pours from every part of him.

Confused, I look at her, and instead of seeing the exhausted defeat in her eyes that I remember feeling, I see...relief.  Pain, incredible pain, but also relief.

It takes a few microts for them to pull themselves back together.  They stand there, shoulders bowing, as they both accept what has happened.

I make my way unseen into the access shaft, my heart lightening even as it tears for them both.



I nod to Scorpius as I climb into the module and close the canopy.  He nods in return, his pale eyes narrowed in what I assume to be thought.  At this point, I don’t really care, and I don’t want to talk.  All I want is to finish the mission before I break down completely.  With that realization, to my surprise, I discover that Aeryn Sun is far stronger than I am.  And John Crichton may never know that, or why she left him for an uncertain future.

Shivering, I start the module. 

“Success?” Scorpius says softly behind me, and I nod.  His hand presses comfortingly on my shoulder for a moment before he settles back into the small rear seat.

I swallow hard, trying to get enough control of my voice to ask Pilot to open the landing bay doors as we approach.  They slide open unasked, and I blink back more tears, knowing my old friend is watching me depart Moya for the last time.  Last time for this Aeryn Sun, that is.

Unerringly, I take the correct vector, and when the wormhole appears, I accelerate the module.

The Ancient had given me the knowledge to navigate the wormhole, the ability to sense my way back to this point in time.  He had said nothing about our return.

Before, I had heard a sound like a pulse blast, guiding me through the twists and turns of the blue tunnels.  Now, although I send the module forward at full speed, I hear nothing.

Unbidden, a fragment of memory spins reluctantly loose in my mind.

“This is not something I can coach you through.  It's half intuition, it's half feel, and I know it like I invented it."

After nearly a cycle and a half, it’s ironic that I understand what he meant on Dam Ba Da, before he went off to play the hero, to die and leave me behind with—nothing.  Broken to pieces on the rocks, never to be put back together again. Such a long fall from utter grace.

Twice.

“You have your mother’s strength and your father’s loyalty,” Teyn’s voice whispers at the back of my mind, and at last I know it’s true.  The best of both of them.

I don’t need to check the instruments to confirm our entry angle.  I sense it, as I sense the pulse pistol at my thigh, the breathing of my odd companion behind me, the breaking of my own heart.  Without hesitation, we dive into swirling blue, the blue of John Crichton’s eyes, and I understand so many things at last, the least of which are wormholes.

And I finally forgive him for leaving me. 

Both of him.






Authors’ Note: Lines of dialogue in both coin toss scenes were taken, in some cases verbatim, from the episode DWTB.  Scorpius’ explanation of time was taken from Harvey’s in DD.  We acknowledge the brilliance of the writers of the original lines and respectfully borrow them for our tale.  We hope we kept the context true.   We frequently accessed both Farscape Ally’s and xenajules’ transcript sites to check for accuracy, and we are grateful to them for the resources provided.  It saved literally hours of going through tapes.

[ScaperRed]

Epilogue: Deuces Wild



“It has altered!” Scorpius calls excitedly as we slam along the water-like tube.  “Officer Sun—“

“Shut up!” I yell absently, the controls suddenly sluggish as I try to guess the path, anticipate the curves.  I hear nothing, feel nothing, and I rely upon my training as a pilot because that’s all I have.

“...half intuition, half feel...”

“Shut up,” I mutter, trying to concentrate.  “Shut up...”

”...beyond hope...”

I’m lost again because of John Crichton, this time in a frelling wormhole. I have no idea where we will exit, or, if we do, what we will find.  Was it enough? I wonder, and my mind flicks back to Moya, to the Aeryn who was grieving one John and unable to accept the other.  He would help her finish loading.  What would it be, one last kiss, the braiding of hands one final time?  Would she come back?  Would he stay?  What about the—

“Officer Sun—“

An image flashes to my mind, that of a little girl who has my dark hair and quick hands, John’s blue eyes and brilliant smile, and an ache rips through me as her father picks her up, tossing her high in the air—

“Officer Sun—“

His voice pushes the image away, and I panic, unable to locate the correct vector.  The tunnels seem to go on and on, twisting and doubling back on themselves until we appear to be stuck on an endless loop.   Lost.  Everything lost.  Just like I have been for so long.

I think of my younger self, of the strength she showed today, the sense of duty.  I think of how at the last she did leave it up to fate, and I marvel that this time, we weren’t frelled by fate.  Maybe we never were.  Maybe it was choices, not fate.  Choices that created paths.

Good luck, Aeryn, I think once more, and I spin the module sideways in the middle of a juncture.

The side of a wormhole had utterly destroyed the Pathfinder vessel.  It would be ironic, yet somehow fitting for me to die in one as well, considering how wormholes have shaped my life.  Wormholes, and one human.

“Officer Sun, what are you doing—“ Scorpius roars.

Chance.  Choice.  Fate.

Stay your path, Aeryn, I urge.  Both of us.  Do what you must. Strength.  Loyalty.  Duty.

Love.

I accelerate the module directly at the spinning wall of the wormhole.  I close my eyes, my hands steady on the controls, and suddenly I hear it.  It’s not a pulse blast, it’s the roar of a finely-tuned Prowler engine as it breaks atmosphere, and my heart sings with it as the nose of the module impacts with swirling blue.




Dimly, I am aware of Scorpius’ impotent rage behind me.  It scatters, just as my entire world goes from flowing blue to sparkling white.  Like the mist we almost went into on Moya that time, I think, and then I am part of it, too.




There should be a white light.  A white light, he’d said, and friends and family.  Xhalax would hardly be comforting, and I doubt I would recognize my father.  But Zhaan should be here.  He should be here—one or two of him?  Crichton, confusing me even now—

Teyn.  Jax.  Darek.  Pilot and Moya and our crew. Would  they be here, or were their fates changed now?

But there’s nothing.  No physical sensations at all.  Not like the ice, when Zhaan brought me back.  More like the kill shot.  John had said he hadn’t seen anything then, either.

I’m not afraid.  After all, I’ve been dead before. 

“It’s not the dying that worries most people on my world,” John had told me once.  “It’s where they might end up, heaven or hell—“




It’s hot.  Frell.

I draw a ragged breath, my muscles shaking.  My hands are still wrapped around the controls tightly, trying to maintain a steady course. But I am in a Prowler, not John’s module, sweating in my battle armor, and I see the brightness of stars through the clear canopy as I recognize my condition.

It’s not hezmana, it’s heat delirium.  Frell.




I have no recollection of how I got here, and by my spastic muscles, I assume I am beginning to go into the second stage of heat delirium.  Not that there is anything I can do about it. I have the thermal controls set so low that the cockpit is freezing, but I find no relief. 

Hokothians, I think.  Contagion.

I remember the mission to assassinate the Prime Hokothian. I remember the change in plans to separate in Prowlers to confound pursuit.  I remember—

It must be the heat delirium, perhaps it’s worse than I thought, because there appear to be two sets of memories, and they jumble together incoherently.

I remember leaving Crichton on Moya—I remember leaving with Crichton.  I remember finding the contact for the assassins’ group.  I remember sparring with Teyn that first time, and I remember that I should have told her to keep her left guard up better—

Told who?

Me.

Dizzy, I unfasten my helmet and let it drop into my lap.  So frelling hot, I can’t think straight—

At least I’m in the right place.  Peacekeepers are born in space, and that’s where they should die.





The cockpit hatch is cycling, and I instinctively reach for my weapon before my eyes even open.  My hand flails on my thigh, unable to grasp the pistol grip.  Frell.  I open my eyes and glare defiantly into the face of—

Scorpius.

He pauses, remaining out of my reach—as if I am in any condition to defend myself.  Unaccountably, he smiles.

“Officer Sun.  I have been looking for you.”

He extends a hand, which I can barely clasp.  “Why?” I force myself to say.

Pausing, he looks at me, searching for something.

“I don’t know where Crichton is,” I say, hating the quaver in my voice from the heat delirium, “so go frell yourself.”

The hybrid laughs.  “Officer Sun, what do you remember?”

“What?”  The assassination attempt, is he trying to get information for—but the Hokothians are allied with the Scarrans—

I blink, dizzy suddenly from overlapping images.  Two assassinations?

His grip tightens on my hand, pulling me out of the cockpit.  I struggle momentarily, but I have very little strength.  He drags me across the cargo bay of what appears to be a small freighter and to a small chamber, where he begins removing my battle armor.

Oddly enough, I feel no fear, merely confusion.

“If a time comes when you must accept Scorpius as an ally, do it.”

I would shake the thought off as impossible, but it’s in my voice, yet at the same time it’s something that I hear myself say in a voice that is not quite mine; lower, slightly rougher. 

“The heat delirium is making your disorientation worse,” Scorpius says.  “It is fortunate that I found you when I did.  You’re well into the second stage.”

He grins, gripping my ungloved hand, and I feel a faint revulsion.  “I believe I can reduce your core temperature.  You should be able to...remember more then.”





Almost all of it has come back.  There are some gaps still, and I am unsure if they remain because of the heat delirium or the transit through the wormhole or the inflexibility of my own mind.  As it is, I recall enough.  At times, I would erase some of the more painful memories.  At other times, I savor the sweetness within the pain, those brief days and weekens with John Crichton that now exist only in my mind.

Scorpius told me that the two sets of memories would eventually reconcile, and they have.  The ones that are more “recent” – from this timeline—have taken precedence over the ones that are more “distant”—from the timeline that we first lived.  Those “distant” events have taken on a dreamlike quality, but they have not entirely faded.

Nor has the wormhole knowledge the Ancient placed in my mind.  I don’t understand how they work; I certainly can’t call them to me.  But I sense they are there, just as I sense that Scorpius is honest in his drive to stop the Scarrans at any cost.  Part of that drive includes, if not obtaining, then protecting the knowledge that John alone holds.

It’s not to say that I trust him implicitly.  There are still things he does not need to know, things I will not discuss with him.  He may recall my affection for John Crichton, and I still worry that he might attempt to use that.  But he doesn’t know about the stasis pregnancy.  That is one secret I have kept to myself.

I have to trust him, and not only because he saved my life.  It’s because I have no other choice.  Nor does John.

Scorpius explained this clearly. Twice.  If nudged closely enough to course, events have a way of restructuring themselves. If the participants are the same, the venue's the same, the motivation's the same, then well, the outcome is likely to be the same.

The timeline has changed.  I know this from my own memories, from my body, the scars and wounds that no longer exist despite the tingling ghost of remembered pain.  But has it changed enough?  Or has it only delayed the final outcome?

Of course, there’s nothing I can do about that now.  Except...hope.  And trust, of all the people in the universe to protect John...Scorpius.  He’s the only other person who knows what has happened.

As best I can calculate, we reentered the timeline just after the Hokothian mission.  Scorpius found himself recovering from injury on Arnessk—he did not tell me how he was injured, nor did I ask—and as quickly as he could, he and Braca traced my likely position based upon his knowledge that I was one of the assassins.  The best, most nondescript ship he could obtain at that time was the aged freighter in which I had awakened.  Still, it is uncanny that he was able to find me, already three days ill with heat delirium and steadily growing worse.  Perhaps it was fate.  I’m no longer sure, of so many things.

Scorpius has fabricated a cooling suit similar to the one he wears, and it has been successful in keeping my temperature from going any higher.  I have no illusions, however.  Only the Hokothians would have the cure for the contagion that has infected me.  No one else. 

I wear the cooling suit because it allows me live a few solar days longer.  And I want to live, out of hope.  Hope not to be cured, but hope simply to return to Moya, to be able to take my last breath within her walls as Scorpius takes my life before the Living Death begins.

I don’t dare hope to see John again.  That would be asking far too much.





I insist on piloting the Prowler.  The freighter has blown an engine, and Moya is only a solar day away.  We leave the hulk to drift in space, and I, my hands shaking only a little, set the course Scorpius indicates.  There’s nothing to bother us in this sector of the Uncharted Territories, and I am grateful Scorpius grants my request.  I am a pilot, and if I cannot last long enough to reach Moya, I would prefer to die at the controls of my Prowler in space.

“Officer Sun, you are an exceptional pilot,” he says in his deep, considering tones, and I know what he will ask before I hear the words.  “In the wormhole, you appeared lost at one point, before you performed that—highly unusual maneuver.  May I speculate?”

“Go ahead,” I say, because I doubt if he will ever be able to understand what I did or why.

“The Ancient endowed you with the wormhole knowledge necessary to complete the mission.  Am I correct?”

I nod.

“However...he did not imbue the knowledge to find your way back.  In fact, it might have been his intention that we not escape the wormhole at all.”

I nod again.

“As you are an exceptional pilot, and you are experienced with wormholes, Officer Sun—didn’t it appear to be rather, well, suicidal to vector directly into the wall of the wormhole?”

I nod again.  “You have a point, Scorpius?”

He chuckles softly, and I smile a bit in response.  “Why, Officer Sun?  Was suicide your intent, our dual suicide, after all we’ve survived?  After all, we are Peacekeepers.”

“No, we’re not, Scorpius.  Not any more.”

He is silent, although I can sense the sneer that is crossing his face, and I feel a sudden surge of compassion for this twisted individual.  I know I can make a life outside the box the Peacekeepers place their soldiers in.  I’ve done it twice already. Scorpius, Scarran half-breed, cannot even imagine doing so, simply because of his great hatred for half his heritage.

“So it was...suicide you were seeking, Officer Sun?”

I sigh, making a small course correction.  “No, Scorpius.  Redemption.”





I am in a fevered doze when Pilot tentatively hails us.  Scorpius nudges my shoulder, but I am already reaching for the comms, my hands shaking with emotion more than heat delirium.

“Pilot, it’s Aeryn.  Aeryn Sun.  May I please come aboard?”

“Aeryn!  You’ve come back!  Certainly, you may come aboard.  I’ll deploy the docking web.”

“Thank you, Pilot,” I say, and I can’t even lift my hands to wipe away the tears cascading down my cheeks.

“Officer Sun, are you all right?” Pilot asks, and the concern in his voice makes me weep harder.  He and Moya are fine in this timeline, but that knowledge does not lessen my grief of losing them both once already.

“I’m ill, Pilot.  And there is someone with me.  Listen to me carefully, Pilot, for I don’t know how long I have.  If I die, then you must get word of what I tell you to John.  Can you do that for me, Pilot?”

“Of course, Aeryn.”

There’s not much I can tell him. Scorpius and I have discussed this many times, and I do not deviate from our agreement.  “Scorpius is with me, Pilot, and he asks for asylum...”





John is not aboard, of course.

Scorpius, whose knowledge seems inexhaustible, has located this cold room on board Moya.  It has something to do with regulating thermal fluctuations.  I didn’t really pay any attention to his explanation.  It’s as good a place to rest and think and wait as any other, and I am so grateful to back on Moya again.  To be home, as much as any place without John can be.

And then, one day, a message from Lo’La comes.  It seems that D’Argo has collected all of them except for Jool, and they have asked to return to Moya. 

I don’t know why I’ve been granted this unexpected grace.  I can’t think of anything that I’ve done to truly earn redemption, for that is what it feels like, despite the weight of mistakes—sins—that I carry.

All I do know, and what Scorpius can never understand, is the rightness I’ve felt since agreeing to reset the timeline.  A clarity has surrounded me that I haven’t felt for cycles.  It was that sense of truth that made me set course for the wall of the wormhole, rather than remain in the endless loop I’d been lost in for so long. I took a chance, and whatever entities safeguard wormholes and those who traverse them—Ancients or Zhaan’s goddess or whoever—granted me good fortune.

Just as I am taking a chance now, as I rise from my bunk in the cold room and stumble toward the landing bay, perhaps the biggest chance of my life.  Or perhaps it is a choice.  Or fate.  I don’t know.  I am not a philosopher.  I am a soldier, a pilot, and I force myself onward on shaky legs because of what I hear.  I am drawn by the sweet sound of a Prowler engine as it breaks atmosphere, and I am no longer afraid of what might be below.

It’s my own voice whispering in my ear as I stumble onward, through the access door.

“It’s not the amount of time you have; it’s that you have any time at all.”

He stands there, Winona drawn and steady in his hand as he scans for threat.  Trying to hold back the tears, I walk towards John Crichton, who I’ve lost twice already, and the rightness of this moment gives me the strength to walk toward him once more.

He sees me, but his hand remains steady, the weapon still pointed at me.  At first, I think he doesn’t recognize me, and I understand that completely.  And then he does know it’s me, I can feel the force of his realization across the motras separating us as my steps slow.

John.  John Crichton.  Alive.

“Aeryn.  You’ve come back.”  There are tears in his eyes as he holsters his weapon, and he smiles as he starts toward me. “Everything’s gonna be all right.”

It’s the love in his voice that breaks me.  And the hope.  Always the hope.

At the end of my strength, I choke back a sob and shake my head. I hold out one arm, beckoning him to me.  “It’s gonna be—“ he starts to say, and his arms go around me as I collapse.  His solid, strong arms.  And I’m home, at last. 

But not the way I want to be.  Because everything is not going to be all right.  Not for us.  Not for him.  And  he’ll never know why.

Maybe that’s the price of redemption.

I feel his lips on my forehead, and I gasp at the relative coolness of his kiss on my hot skin, at the gentleness of his touch.  At what I still remember.  I can’t hold back a sob now.  It’s the relief of his holding me again, and it’s the knowledge of how short this time with him will be.  It’s how much this will hurt him.  But there’s no anger, and that surprises me a little.  Patience finally. And self control.

"Baby, you're burnin’ up."

And duty.  Always duty.

I focus on that, and I break his heart again.  To save him, again.  “You have to promise me something.”

“Promise you what?”

“You have to promise that you will not kill him...”



Noranti insists that I need more rest, although it’s been arns since I received the Hokothian antidote.  She backs away quickly, however, when I start to rise, undoubtedly remembering how I’d knocked her unconscious when she’d tried to drug me earlier.  Chiana smiles, somehow understanding what I have to do, and asks only if I need any help as she pushes the old woman out of my quarters.  I shake my head, and she pauses just long enough to say, “Glad you’re all right, Aeryn.  Glad you’re back.”

I have to swallow hard and make myself smile in return, forcing back the image of her death. Didn’t happen.  Won’t happen.  None of it will, if you stay strong.

I keep repeating that to myself as I clean up, dress, strap on my pulse pistol.  I say it again as I comm Pilot and ask where John is.  It runs through my mind continuously as I walk slowly through Moya’s corridors to Command.

I haven’t seen him since we came back from the Hokothian ship.  He carried me to my quarters, kissed my forehead, and left me with Noranti and Chiana.  Probably he went to guard Scorpius, and I almost laugh at the thought.  Of course, he doesn’t understand.  Never will 

And I’m grateful for that.



He’s standing on Command, his gaze on the stars.  My steps slow as I take in the sight of him.  I have no idea what I’ll say to him.  I only know what I can’t.  When I stopped being a Peacekeeper, at last I began to truly understand honor, the importance of keeping vows.  Of promises.  Even those made to myself.  A self that I am, and am not at the same time.

I walk toward him and sit at the back of command.  I can’t quite bring myself to touch him.  I can hardly believe that this is real, that I’ve been given this reprieve, for whatever reason. 

Call it fate, call it choice, call it chance.  I call it redemption, and I only hope I will someday deserve it.




The Road Not Taken, by Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.


Authors’ Note: Several lines of the Epilogue are lifted verbatim from “Promises,” along with the general action of that episode.  We acknowledge the brilliance of the writers and humbly borrow from them to complete our tale.