The Luck Of The Draw
(A FarScape FanFic by Beth A. Carpenter)
FARSCAPE and all related characters and elements are trademarks of the Jim Henson Company.
All other characters and story ideas are the creation of the author.
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this story are either product's of the author's or are used fictitiously.
TIMELINE: This story chronicles what happened to Captain Crais and Talyn during the episode "Lava's A Many Splendored Thing".
Part One - Keep Them Doggies Rollin'
~ The planet Elcaris Minor bustled with its commerce and tourist trade. The supplies Crais had selected and paid for with what little currency he still had was loaded on the transport pod, ready to return to Talyn whenever he was ready. He knew he would have to find a way to gain some more money. That was the only problem with no longer receiving the Peacekeeper pay he had enjoyed all those cycles. Crais was not happy with the prospect of taking passengers or cargo, finding that he truly enjoyed the solitude and privacy on Talyn, but he was left with few options and little choice. He licked his lips and sighed, stroking his goatee as he crossed the busy thoroughfare to a refreshment house. He had an arn before he planned on returning to the gunship and he hoped he could pick up some useful information regarding Commandant Grayza and her plans. Crais needed to know how far her influence reached and whether or not the pact she had masterminded with the Scarren's was in place.
Music and laughter drifted from the refreshment house and he stepped across the threshold, stopping as he gazed around. He had never seen such a place, it's décor and atmosphere like nothing he had ever experienced. A small frown crossed his face as he gazed around. The main room was large, a lazy haze of smoke drifting in the air just above his head, the wide planked wooden floor scuffed and dirty. A long staircase on the far wall led to an upper level, more than likely holding rooms for rent. A man with a round, black hat sat at a square wooden box that came up to Crais' shoulder, a ledge holding white and black keys protruding from it about a third of the way from the floor. The man was pushing the keys, producing a terrible racket which passed for music in the establishment, the tinny sound grating on the Sebacean Captain's nerves, causing him to grit his teeth. Wooden tables littered the main floor, their tops covered with some form of green fabric, most of them surrounded by a number of strangely dressed men engaged in games of cards, although Crais had to admit, he had never seen cards that looked the way these did. Or men that looked that way. Every single one of them looked like the dregs of society.
His eyes followed a young blonde woman across the room, a round tray in her hand. She jumped and giggled as one of the other patrons slapped her on the behind as she walked past and Crais quirked an eyebrow. Her manner of dress was as strange as the men, her low-cut dress of red fabric tight around her small waist, pushing her ample bosom almost out of the confines of the dress, the hem stopping just below her knees to reveal a pair of shapely calves and black lace-up boots he had only seen performers wear. Her hair was twisted up in curls, a jaunty feather bouncing from its tucked position the back and she winked at Crais as she turned around and headed back through the refreshment house, her tray loaded with fresh drinks. Another strangely dressed man pushed his way past Crais, the swish-swish of doors behind him causing him to turn and look. Two small doors he hadn't noticed when he entered swung back and forth behind him from their place halfway up the wall.
Crais looked at the bar the waitress had left, stretching down the wall beside him the length of the room. It's wooden surface glistened and shined, a brass railing running around the lower edge, a huge mirror as long as the bar itself facing it, reflecting the room back to the Captain. Strange animal heads lined the walls, pictures of half-naked women scattered between them. Crais seriously though about leaving, but his curiosity kept him in the odd refreshment house.
The barkeep behind the polished bar, a burly man with a mustache that stretched stiffly past the roundness of his cheeks and perfectly parted and pomaded black hair, watched Crais intently as he laconically wiped out a glass. His shirt was crisp white linen, a thin strip of a tie tied in a floppy bow at his neck, red garters encircling his upper arms to hold the sleeves of the shirt in one place. The white apron around his waist was dingy, well-used and the barkeep turned his head, spitting a wad of dark brown fluid into a container on the floor behind him. That caused Crais' other eyebrow to rise and he finally moved, walking around the corner of the bar and stepping up to it, his back to the room, a position Crais found very uncomfortable even though he could see everything in the mirror behind the bar.
"Name your poison, pardner," the barkeep drawled, reaching out to retrieve a fresh glass from beneath the polished bar top and setting it before the ex-Peacekeeper.
A man stepped up next to Crais, his footfalls accompanied by an odd jingling noise, and slapped him on the back as if they were long time friends. "Give 'im a shot of Red Eye, Joe," the stranger called.
Crais turned to the man, a sharp retort on his tongue, and froze, his face paling beneath his dark goatee, his eyes narrowing slightly as his heart slammed in his chest in surprise. A pair of bright blue eyes, Crichton's blue eyes, twinkled at him from under the worn, wide brim of a brown hat, the likes of which he had seen only once before, shadowing the man's face, but Crais could still see Crichton's annoying smile beneath it. The stranger propped a booted foot up on the railing below them, a sharp silver contraption causing the jingling Crais had heard at his heel, his legs encased in a pair of blue material tucked into his brown boots. He wore a yellow and red flannel shirt with red bandana and black and white spotted vest. A huge gold star was pinned to his chest, completing the ensemble. A wide, tooled leather gun belt circled the man's waist and Crais caught a glimpse of the white handled grip of an archaic weapon peaking at him from it's holster at the man's right leg. Crais turned and peered at the other patrons. They were all dressed in a similar fashion, albeit none of them quite as clean and neat as the Crichton look alike.
The stranger who looked disturbingly like the human slid a small glass towards Crais, tossing his own back in one gulp. He peered at the Captain, his blue eyes narrowing as he studied him. "What's the matter stranger?" he asked softly, noticing Crais' sudden paleness beneath his dark goatee. "You look like you've seen a ghost." Before Crais could reply, the stranger thrust his hand out. "Name's Carver, Joshua Carver. But you can call me J.C."
Joshua Carver. J.C. John Crichton. Crais looked around the strange refreshment suspiciously, his stomach clenching. Something was not right, yet Crais couldn't tell what was bothering him, other than the stranger's uncanny resemblance to Crichton. He looked at J.C., his mouth suddenly dry. He tossed back the red liquid in the glass, coughing as it burned the back of his throat on the way down. J.C. slapped his back, grinning from ear to ear, reaching out to the bottle the bartender had set before them and poured two more rounds. "Crais," the Sebacean finally managed to gasp. "Bialar Crais."
J.C. slapped him on the back again with a hearty laugh. "Well, Bialar Crais, welcome to the Double T." J.C. turned, leaning his back against the shiny bar, tipping his odd hat further back on his head as his blue eyes watched a dark haired waitress walk past. He pulled a finger length, thin brown tube from his pocket and ran his tongue along the length of it, sticking one end into his mouth and lighting the other.
The waitress brushed up against him, her eyes lighting up. "Hi Woody," she purred.
Crais looked at him in question. "Wood-y?"
J.C. blushed beneath his beard and moustache. "It's a long story."
"Woody!" a man yelled as he walked into the bar, waving to Carver.
J.C. smiled sarcastically at him, waving back. "Hello.you low-life drifter," he mumbled, his smile fading.
Crais leaned one arm on the bar. "I have time for the story."
J.C. peered at Crais sheepishly. "I have a.I have a." He paused, noticing the looks from the men at the table closest to him. "I have a wooden leg," he whispered.
"Supposedly that's not the only wooden thing you got, Carver! Ol' Sadie here says you're as stout as an oak tree!" the men cheered, holding up their mugs of amber liquid in salute. "She says you've always got a woody!"
Carver cast them a nasty glance, turning it to Crais as the Captain snickered. "It ain't funny mister."
Crais simply shrugged and watched as smoke drifted from the lit end of the brown tube in J.C.'s mouth up above their heads. The uneasy feeling was growing stronger, but for some reason, he couldn't get his feet moving towards the door, standing next to J.C. as if frozen in place. J.C. slapped Crais' arm with the back of his hand, bringing the Captain out of his reverie.
"Hey pal, sees them yokels over thar?" he asked quietly, the brown tube tucked into one corner of his mouth.
Crais peered over his shoulder, then turned to face J.C. Two men sat at one of the round tables, shuffling the rectangular deck of cards between them lazily. "What about them?"
J.C. smiled, chewing on the end of the slim tube. "Well, they been bragging they can whoop anybody at cards." J.C. inclined his head towards Crais and winked. "And seein's how you're new in to the Double T and probably looking for a way to make some greenbacks, I was thinkin' maybe you'd like to help me take them varmints on." He shrugged casually. "You do look like the gamblin' type."
Crais raised an eyebrow at J.C.'s observation, puling himself up to his full height. "I'm afraid, Mr. Carver, that you are.mistaken. I do not gamble."
J.C.'s eyes widened and he nodded, a slow, devious smile crossing his lips. He removed the tube from his mouth, dropped it to the floor and rubbed it out with his booted foot. He moved closer to Crais, denches separating them. "What's the matter there, Crais? Are you chicken?" he challenged softly. "Buck, buck, buck, buck, buck, buck, buckee!" he squawked, flapping his arms.
Crais' face grew dark in outrage and he slammed to glass on the bar. The Crichton that remained on Talyn had teased the Captain enough with that particular taunt that Crais understood the insult only too well. He lifted his chin, bristling in annoyance, tugging his uniform jacket into place as his eyes locked with J.C.'s. "I am not.chicken." He held out his right arm towards the table the two men sat at, accepting Carver's challenge and seating himself in the corner chair. He had a good view of the entire establishment. "What are we.playing, gentleman?" Crais asked sociably.
One of the men, a sleazy little fellow named Jack with a dark, grizzled face and unkempt white beard shuffled the cards. "Poker. Five card stud, aces and one-eyed Jacks wild." His tan hands quickly dealt each of them seven cards.
Crais stared at the strange symbols before him, noticing that many of them were similar in shape and color. "What are.one-eyed Jacks?" he finally asked.
J.C. leaned over and punched Crais in the shoulder, jostling the Captain and ignoring the nasty glance cast in his direction. "What a card you are, Crais!" He shook his head, withdrawing another brown tube from his pocket. He tossed a coin in the middle of the table, turning to grin at Jack. "I'm in."
Crais followed suit and tossed a coin on the table after J.C., watching as the other three men played, laying down various combinations that won hands and money. He assimilated the information quickly, his eyes narrowing as gazed at his cards. Card games had been easy for him to learn and he had learned many of them as he rose through the ranks as a Peacekeeper. It didn't help that his own brother Tauvo pestered him on their off hours to play. It was the first time he had thought of his brother without feeling angry and it brought a slight smile to the ex-Peacekeeper's face. Crais laid the cards down. "Full house."
J.C. whistled, leaning his chair back on two legs. "Well, I'll be." He laughed. "Beginner's luck there pardner," he teased, winking at Crais, a huge grin beneath his beard.
Crais pushed the incessant nagging from his mind and he began to relax, losing track of time as he played the game Joshua Craver referred to as poker. He had amassed a sizable pile of coins, much to the other men's displeasure, deciding that this would be the last hand he played. Crais knew better than to push his luck. "Royal flush," Crais commented calmly as he placed the cards on the table, reaching out for the pile of coins in the middle.
"Hold it right thar, mister," Jack said, his hand slamming down on Crais' and taking a hold of the Captain's wrist. Crais' luck had just run out. "I don't know who you are or what ya tryin' to pull, but nobody beats Black Jack and Wily Bart at poker, especially a greenhorn like you!" His eyes narrowed into beady little specs under his bushy eyebrows. "I says you been cheatin'!"
Crais stared at the older man incredulously, his other hand sliding across the table. "I assure you, sir, I have not been cheating," he stated calmly, hoping to reach the pulse pistol at his hip.
"You keep that hand where I can see it!" Jack yelled. Bart, who had been silent throughout the entire game, drew his weapon, his thumb pressing the lever at the top, clicking it backwards and aiming the muzzle at Crais' head. Carver simply sat back in his chair, calmly cleaning his fingernails with his knife. "Bart here says you been cheatin'," Jack insisted, jerking his head back towards his brother. He pushed the sleeve of Crais' uniform jacket back looking for hidden cards.
Crais' mouth dropped open slightly at his words and he chuckled nervously. "Bart has not said a word all evening. Gentlemen, I am not cheating," Crais insisted. This was not good. He had backed himself into a corner, and let his guard down.
J.C. leaned forward in his seat, standing up and tilting his head, his blue eyes locked onto something behind Crais. "Hey mister, what in tarnation is that?" he asked, pointing to the transponder embedded in the base of Crais' neck.
Crais froze as Jack stood up. Why hadn't he hidden the transponder? The situation was rapidly spiraling out of control as Jack pulled his own archaic weapon from its holster, his chair falling backwards to hit the floor with a thud, the drinks spilling across the table, wetting the cards and coins. Before Crais could even reach for the pulse pistol at his hip, he found three guns at his head. He did the only thing he could do. Captain Bialar Crais held up his hands in surrender. "There is no need for.hostility, gentlemen."
J.C. looked at the others. "I say we shoot the cheatin' bastard," he calmly drawled. He looked at Crais, his blue eyes cold and deadly as he cocked back the hammer on his weapon. A slow, malicious smile appeared on his face. "Adios, amigo." ~
Crais sat straight up in his bed with a strangled gasp, the sound of gunfire still ringing in his ears, his heart slamming in his chest with such a force that he thought it was going to burst through. His body was covered in fear induced sweat and he sat staring at the opposite bulkhead until his heart calmed, roughly scrubbing his face with his hands, trying to dislodge the cold, blue eyes from the dream. He looked over his fingertips, staring blankly. Dream wasn't a strong enough word. Nightmare was the better term. "Talyn, status," he finally managed to say, his voice rough, his throat dry with the remnants of sleep.
~ We are still an arn from Elcaris Minor. ~ He paused, sensing something was wrong with Crais. ~ Are you all right? ~
Crais nodded at the Leviathan's concern. "Yes, Talyn. It was just a dream." He slipped out of his bed and padded to the hygienics chamber, his mind suddenly racing. Why did he have that dream? He had never, in the last three cycles, ever dreamed of Crichton. Was it guilt over the last conversation he had with Aeryn, still feeling the need to protect her and the others as the deceased Crichton wished? Or was it from the feeling of unease he had been plagued with since leaving Arnessk, an annoying gnawing in his gut that he couldn't place? No matter what it was, Crais was sure the dream was a warning. Elcaris Minor might not be the wisest place to dally for long.
He leaned back against the bulkhead, letting the cool water wash away the remnants of the dream as he closed his eyes. He began to analyze the dream as he slowly washed. The establishment he had been in was unusual, the clothing and even the beverages nothing he had ever encountered in his travels. And then it clicked. The book. He had been sorting out a box of odds and ends the DRD's had rounded up and came across a book that had belonged to Crichton, remembering the conversation he had had with the human before he sacrificed his life, a conversation that had enlightened Crais and Talyn even more about the strange human and their culture.
"Rollin', rollin', rollin', keep them doggies rollin', rollin', rollin', rollin', Rawhide!"
"Crichton!" Crais stood up and glared at the human, his hands out to strangle the Commander. It was bad enough tensions were high with their narrow escape from the retrieval squad and Talyn still needing help, but to be forced to listen to the human's caterwallering.Crais wanted to take the laser tool he was clutching and stuff it down Crichton's throat. "Must you.do that while we are working?" Crais calmly asked, reigning in his temper and glaring down at Crichton where he crouched next to a power node.
Crichton turned innocent blue eyes up to look at the Captain, an annoying grin spreading across his face. "Aw, c'mon, Crais, my singing's not that bad." He returned his attention to the conduit he was splicing back together.
Crais sighed in frustration. "It is." He never finished the sentence, trying very hard to get along with Crichton for everyone's sake. He turned back to the control panel he had been working on, the hair on the back of his neck standing up as Crichton began to hum. "Crichton."
"What?"
"Please.cease and desist," Crais asked through clenched teeth. "I cannot concentrate."
Crichton shrugged. "Sorry. I can't help it. Whenever I get nostalgic, I tend to think back to some of the great movies I miss watching. You know, Westerns."
Crais gazed down at him, one eyebrow raised. "Westerns?"
Crichton's eyes met the Captain's and he nodded, then shook his head. "No, you don't know." He looked at the conduit, chewing his lower lip as he continued to work. "A Western is a.western. There was this great actor named John Wayne and he wore blue jeans and a bandana and a cowboy hat."
Crais rubbed his temple, turning to lean back on the bulkhead. "What.by Cholak.is a cowboy hat?" he asked in exasperation.
Crichton stood up, dusting off his hands. "I'll show you." He led Crais back to the sleeping area he and Aeryn had been using, the gunship's living quarters still not fully developed. He dug through his satchel, pulling out an old worn copy of some Earth book. "This was DK's. He gave it to me before I left. It's called Hondo, by Louis L'Amour." Crichton pointed to the man on the cover. "That, skipper, is a cowboy hat."
Crais pulled himself out of his reverie, a rueful grin on his face. He had begrudgingly made friends with the other Crichton, the two of them forming a truce of sorts out of mutual respect, the human going as far as trying to teach Crais and the others some of his inane human games. He never had that chance with the other Crichton, the one still living. Crais toweled off and walked through his quarters, the planet of Elcaris Minor looming through the viewport. He found the book sitting on the console and ran a finger over it. At least now he understood the strange scenery in his dream.
Without giving the dream another thought, Crais quickly dressed. As he reached up to bind his hair, his eyes caught a glimpse of the transponder. He stopped, staring at his reflection in the mirror, suddenly remembering the dream again. Crais dropped his hands, letting his hair fall loose. It was full enough and long enough to hide the transponder. Crais checked the charge on his pulse pistol, holstered it and strode out, making his way to the landing bay and Elcaris Minor, ignoring the gnawing in his gut.
The Captain would find himself wishing he had paid closer attention to gnawing feeling.
FARSCAPE and all related characters and elements are trademarks of the Jim Henson Company.
All other characters and story ideas are the creation of the author.
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this story are either product's of the author's or are used fictitiously.
TIMELINE: This story chronicles what happened to Captain Crais and Talyn during the episode "Lava's A Many Splendored Thing".
Part One - Keep Them Doggies Rollin'
~ The planet Elcaris Minor bustled with its commerce and tourist trade. The supplies Crais had selected and paid for with what little currency he still had was loaded on the transport pod, ready to return to Talyn whenever he was ready. He knew he would have to find a way to gain some more money. That was the only problem with no longer receiving the Peacekeeper pay he had enjoyed all those cycles. Crais was not happy with the prospect of taking passengers or cargo, finding that he truly enjoyed the solitude and privacy on Talyn, but he was left with few options and little choice. He licked his lips and sighed, stroking his goatee as he crossed the busy thoroughfare to a refreshment house. He had an arn before he planned on returning to the gunship and he hoped he could pick up some useful information regarding Commandant Grayza and her plans. Crais needed to know how far her influence reached and whether or not the pact she had masterminded with the Scarren's was in place.
Music and laughter drifted from the refreshment house and he stepped across the threshold, stopping as he gazed around. He had never seen such a place, it's décor and atmosphere like nothing he had ever experienced. A small frown crossed his face as he gazed around. The main room was large, a lazy haze of smoke drifting in the air just above his head, the wide planked wooden floor scuffed and dirty. A long staircase on the far wall led to an upper level, more than likely holding rooms for rent. A man with a round, black hat sat at a square wooden box that came up to Crais' shoulder, a ledge holding white and black keys protruding from it about a third of the way from the floor. The man was pushing the keys, producing a terrible racket which passed for music in the establishment, the tinny sound grating on the Sebacean Captain's nerves, causing him to grit his teeth. Wooden tables littered the main floor, their tops covered with some form of green fabric, most of them surrounded by a number of strangely dressed men engaged in games of cards, although Crais had to admit, he had never seen cards that looked the way these did. Or men that looked that way. Every single one of them looked like the dregs of society.
His eyes followed a young blonde woman across the room, a round tray in her hand. She jumped and giggled as one of the other patrons slapped her on the behind as she walked past and Crais quirked an eyebrow. Her manner of dress was as strange as the men, her low-cut dress of red fabric tight around her small waist, pushing her ample bosom almost out of the confines of the dress, the hem stopping just below her knees to reveal a pair of shapely calves and black lace-up boots he had only seen performers wear. Her hair was twisted up in curls, a jaunty feather bouncing from its tucked position the back and she winked at Crais as she turned around and headed back through the refreshment house, her tray loaded with fresh drinks. Another strangely dressed man pushed his way past Crais, the swish-swish of doors behind him causing him to turn and look. Two small doors he hadn't noticed when he entered swung back and forth behind him from their place halfway up the wall.
Crais looked at the bar the waitress had left, stretching down the wall beside him the length of the room. It's wooden surface glistened and shined, a brass railing running around the lower edge, a huge mirror as long as the bar itself facing it, reflecting the room back to the Captain. Strange animal heads lined the walls, pictures of half-naked women scattered between them. Crais seriously though about leaving, but his curiosity kept him in the odd refreshment house.
The barkeep behind the polished bar, a burly man with a mustache that stretched stiffly past the roundness of his cheeks and perfectly parted and pomaded black hair, watched Crais intently as he laconically wiped out a glass. His shirt was crisp white linen, a thin strip of a tie tied in a floppy bow at his neck, red garters encircling his upper arms to hold the sleeves of the shirt in one place. The white apron around his waist was dingy, well-used and the barkeep turned his head, spitting a wad of dark brown fluid into a container on the floor behind him. That caused Crais' other eyebrow to rise and he finally moved, walking around the corner of the bar and stepping up to it, his back to the room, a position Crais found very uncomfortable even though he could see everything in the mirror behind the bar.
"Name your poison, pardner," the barkeep drawled, reaching out to retrieve a fresh glass from beneath the polished bar top and setting it before the ex-Peacekeeper.
A man stepped up next to Crais, his footfalls accompanied by an odd jingling noise, and slapped him on the back as if they were long time friends. "Give 'im a shot of Red Eye, Joe," the stranger called.
Crais turned to the man, a sharp retort on his tongue, and froze, his face paling beneath his dark goatee, his eyes narrowing slightly as his heart slammed in his chest in surprise. A pair of bright blue eyes, Crichton's blue eyes, twinkled at him from under the worn, wide brim of a brown hat, the likes of which he had seen only once before, shadowing the man's face, but Crais could still see Crichton's annoying smile beneath it. The stranger propped a booted foot up on the railing below them, a sharp silver contraption causing the jingling Crais had heard at his heel, his legs encased in a pair of blue material tucked into his brown boots. He wore a yellow and red flannel shirt with red bandana and black and white spotted vest. A huge gold star was pinned to his chest, completing the ensemble. A wide, tooled leather gun belt circled the man's waist and Crais caught a glimpse of the white handled grip of an archaic weapon peaking at him from it's holster at the man's right leg. Crais turned and peered at the other patrons. They were all dressed in a similar fashion, albeit none of them quite as clean and neat as the Crichton look alike.
The stranger who looked disturbingly like the human slid a small glass towards Crais, tossing his own back in one gulp. He peered at the Captain, his blue eyes narrowing as he studied him. "What's the matter stranger?" he asked softly, noticing Crais' sudden paleness beneath his dark goatee. "You look like you've seen a ghost." Before Crais could reply, the stranger thrust his hand out. "Name's Carver, Joshua Carver. But you can call me J.C."
Joshua Carver. J.C. John Crichton. Crais looked around the strange refreshment suspiciously, his stomach clenching. Something was not right, yet Crais couldn't tell what was bothering him, other than the stranger's uncanny resemblance to Crichton. He looked at J.C., his mouth suddenly dry. He tossed back the red liquid in the glass, coughing as it burned the back of his throat on the way down. J.C. slapped his back, grinning from ear to ear, reaching out to the bottle the bartender had set before them and poured two more rounds. "Crais," the Sebacean finally managed to gasp. "Bialar Crais."
J.C. slapped him on the back again with a hearty laugh. "Well, Bialar Crais, welcome to the Double T." J.C. turned, leaning his back against the shiny bar, tipping his odd hat further back on his head as his blue eyes watched a dark haired waitress walk past. He pulled a finger length, thin brown tube from his pocket and ran his tongue along the length of it, sticking one end into his mouth and lighting the other.
The waitress brushed up against him, her eyes lighting up. "Hi Woody," she purred.
Crais looked at him in question. "Wood-y?"
J.C. blushed beneath his beard and moustache. "It's a long story."
"Woody!" a man yelled as he walked into the bar, waving to Carver.
J.C. smiled sarcastically at him, waving back. "Hello.you low-life drifter," he mumbled, his smile fading.
Crais leaned one arm on the bar. "I have time for the story."
J.C. peered at Crais sheepishly. "I have a.I have a." He paused, noticing the looks from the men at the table closest to him. "I have a wooden leg," he whispered.
"Supposedly that's not the only wooden thing you got, Carver! Ol' Sadie here says you're as stout as an oak tree!" the men cheered, holding up their mugs of amber liquid in salute. "She says you've always got a woody!"
Carver cast them a nasty glance, turning it to Crais as the Captain snickered. "It ain't funny mister."
Crais simply shrugged and watched as smoke drifted from the lit end of the brown tube in J.C.'s mouth up above their heads. The uneasy feeling was growing stronger, but for some reason, he couldn't get his feet moving towards the door, standing next to J.C. as if frozen in place. J.C. slapped Crais' arm with the back of his hand, bringing the Captain out of his reverie.
"Hey pal, sees them yokels over thar?" he asked quietly, the brown tube tucked into one corner of his mouth.
Crais peered over his shoulder, then turned to face J.C. Two men sat at one of the round tables, shuffling the rectangular deck of cards between them lazily. "What about them?"
J.C. smiled, chewing on the end of the slim tube. "Well, they been bragging they can whoop anybody at cards." J.C. inclined his head towards Crais and winked. "And seein's how you're new in to the Double T and probably looking for a way to make some greenbacks, I was thinkin' maybe you'd like to help me take them varmints on." He shrugged casually. "You do look like the gamblin' type."
Crais raised an eyebrow at J.C.'s observation, puling himself up to his full height. "I'm afraid, Mr. Carver, that you are.mistaken. I do not gamble."
J.C.'s eyes widened and he nodded, a slow, devious smile crossing his lips. He removed the tube from his mouth, dropped it to the floor and rubbed it out with his booted foot. He moved closer to Crais, denches separating them. "What's the matter there, Crais? Are you chicken?" he challenged softly. "Buck, buck, buck, buck, buck, buck, buckee!" he squawked, flapping his arms.
Crais' face grew dark in outrage and he slammed to glass on the bar. The Crichton that remained on Talyn had teased the Captain enough with that particular taunt that Crais understood the insult only too well. He lifted his chin, bristling in annoyance, tugging his uniform jacket into place as his eyes locked with J.C.'s. "I am not.chicken." He held out his right arm towards the table the two men sat at, accepting Carver's challenge and seating himself in the corner chair. He had a good view of the entire establishment. "What are we.playing, gentleman?" Crais asked sociably.
One of the men, a sleazy little fellow named Jack with a dark, grizzled face and unkempt white beard shuffled the cards. "Poker. Five card stud, aces and one-eyed Jacks wild." His tan hands quickly dealt each of them seven cards.
Crais stared at the strange symbols before him, noticing that many of them were similar in shape and color. "What are.one-eyed Jacks?" he finally asked.
J.C. leaned over and punched Crais in the shoulder, jostling the Captain and ignoring the nasty glance cast in his direction. "What a card you are, Crais!" He shook his head, withdrawing another brown tube from his pocket. He tossed a coin in the middle of the table, turning to grin at Jack. "I'm in."
Crais followed suit and tossed a coin on the table after J.C., watching as the other three men played, laying down various combinations that won hands and money. He assimilated the information quickly, his eyes narrowing as gazed at his cards. Card games had been easy for him to learn and he had learned many of them as he rose through the ranks as a Peacekeeper. It didn't help that his own brother Tauvo pestered him on their off hours to play. It was the first time he had thought of his brother without feeling angry and it brought a slight smile to the ex-Peacekeeper's face. Crais laid the cards down. "Full house."
J.C. whistled, leaning his chair back on two legs. "Well, I'll be." He laughed. "Beginner's luck there pardner," he teased, winking at Crais, a huge grin beneath his beard.
Crais pushed the incessant nagging from his mind and he began to relax, losing track of time as he played the game Joshua Craver referred to as poker. He had amassed a sizable pile of coins, much to the other men's displeasure, deciding that this would be the last hand he played. Crais knew better than to push his luck. "Royal flush," Crais commented calmly as he placed the cards on the table, reaching out for the pile of coins in the middle.
"Hold it right thar, mister," Jack said, his hand slamming down on Crais' and taking a hold of the Captain's wrist. Crais' luck had just run out. "I don't know who you are or what ya tryin' to pull, but nobody beats Black Jack and Wily Bart at poker, especially a greenhorn like you!" His eyes narrowed into beady little specs under his bushy eyebrows. "I says you been cheatin'!"
Crais stared at the older man incredulously, his other hand sliding across the table. "I assure you, sir, I have not been cheating," he stated calmly, hoping to reach the pulse pistol at his hip.
"You keep that hand where I can see it!" Jack yelled. Bart, who had been silent throughout the entire game, drew his weapon, his thumb pressing the lever at the top, clicking it backwards and aiming the muzzle at Crais' head. Carver simply sat back in his chair, calmly cleaning his fingernails with his knife. "Bart here says you been cheatin'," Jack insisted, jerking his head back towards his brother. He pushed the sleeve of Crais' uniform jacket back looking for hidden cards.
Crais' mouth dropped open slightly at his words and he chuckled nervously. "Bart has not said a word all evening. Gentlemen, I am not cheating," Crais insisted. This was not good. He had backed himself into a corner, and let his guard down.
J.C. leaned forward in his seat, standing up and tilting his head, his blue eyes locked onto something behind Crais. "Hey mister, what in tarnation is that?" he asked, pointing to the transponder embedded in the base of Crais' neck.
Crais froze as Jack stood up. Why hadn't he hidden the transponder? The situation was rapidly spiraling out of control as Jack pulled his own archaic weapon from its holster, his chair falling backwards to hit the floor with a thud, the drinks spilling across the table, wetting the cards and coins. Before Crais could even reach for the pulse pistol at his hip, he found three guns at his head. He did the only thing he could do. Captain Bialar Crais held up his hands in surrender. "There is no need for.hostility, gentlemen."
J.C. looked at the others. "I say we shoot the cheatin' bastard," he calmly drawled. He looked at Crais, his blue eyes cold and deadly as he cocked back the hammer on his weapon. A slow, malicious smile appeared on his face. "Adios, amigo." ~
Crais sat straight up in his bed with a strangled gasp, the sound of gunfire still ringing in his ears, his heart slamming in his chest with such a force that he thought it was going to burst through. His body was covered in fear induced sweat and he sat staring at the opposite bulkhead until his heart calmed, roughly scrubbing his face with his hands, trying to dislodge the cold, blue eyes from the dream. He looked over his fingertips, staring blankly. Dream wasn't a strong enough word. Nightmare was the better term. "Talyn, status," he finally managed to say, his voice rough, his throat dry with the remnants of sleep.
~ We are still an arn from Elcaris Minor. ~ He paused, sensing something was wrong with Crais. ~ Are you all right? ~
Crais nodded at the Leviathan's concern. "Yes, Talyn. It was just a dream." He slipped out of his bed and padded to the hygienics chamber, his mind suddenly racing. Why did he have that dream? He had never, in the last three cycles, ever dreamed of Crichton. Was it guilt over the last conversation he had with Aeryn, still feeling the need to protect her and the others as the deceased Crichton wished? Or was it from the feeling of unease he had been plagued with since leaving Arnessk, an annoying gnawing in his gut that he couldn't place? No matter what it was, Crais was sure the dream was a warning. Elcaris Minor might not be the wisest place to dally for long.
He leaned back against the bulkhead, letting the cool water wash away the remnants of the dream as he closed his eyes. He began to analyze the dream as he slowly washed. The establishment he had been in was unusual, the clothing and even the beverages nothing he had ever encountered in his travels. And then it clicked. The book. He had been sorting out a box of odds and ends the DRD's had rounded up and came across a book that had belonged to Crichton, remembering the conversation he had had with the human before he sacrificed his life, a conversation that had enlightened Crais and Talyn even more about the strange human and their culture.
"Rollin', rollin', rollin', keep them doggies rollin', rollin', rollin', rollin', Rawhide!"
"Crichton!" Crais stood up and glared at the human, his hands out to strangle the Commander. It was bad enough tensions were high with their narrow escape from the retrieval squad and Talyn still needing help, but to be forced to listen to the human's caterwallering.Crais wanted to take the laser tool he was clutching and stuff it down Crichton's throat. "Must you.do that while we are working?" Crais calmly asked, reigning in his temper and glaring down at Crichton where he crouched next to a power node.
Crichton turned innocent blue eyes up to look at the Captain, an annoying grin spreading across his face. "Aw, c'mon, Crais, my singing's not that bad." He returned his attention to the conduit he was splicing back together.
Crais sighed in frustration. "It is." He never finished the sentence, trying very hard to get along with Crichton for everyone's sake. He turned back to the control panel he had been working on, the hair on the back of his neck standing up as Crichton began to hum. "Crichton."
"What?"
"Please.cease and desist," Crais asked through clenched teeth. "I cannot concentrate."
Crichton shrugged. "Sorry. I can't help it. Whenever I get nostalgic, I tend to think back to some of the great movies I miss watching. You know, Westerns."
Crais gazed down at him, one eyebrow raised. "Westerns?"
Crichton's eyes met the Captain's and he nodded, then shook his head. "No, you don't know." He looked at the conduit, chewing his lower lip as he continued to work. "A Western is a.western. There was this great actor named John Wayne and he wore blue jeans and a bandana and a cowboy hat."
Crais rubbed his temple, turning to lean back on the bulkhead. "What.by Cholak.is a cowboy hat?" he asked in exasperation.
Crichton stood up, dusting off his hands. "I'll show you." He led Crais back to the sleeping area he and Aeryn had been using, the gunship's living quarters still not fully developed. He dug through his satchel, pulling out an old worn copy of some Earth book. "This was DK's. He gave it to me before I left. It's called Hondo, by Louis L'Amour." Crichton pointed to the man on the cover. "That, skipper, is a cowboy hat."
Crais pulled himself out of his reverie, a rueful grin on his face. He had begrudgingly made friends with the other Crichton, the two of them forming a truce of sorts out of mutual respect, the human going as far as trying to teach Crais and the others some of his inane human games. He never had that chance with the other Crichton, the one still living. Crais toweled off and walked through his quarters, the planet of Elcaris Minor looming through the viewport. He found the book sitting on the console and ran a finger over it. At least now he understood the strange scenery in his dream.
Without giving the dream another thought, Crais quickly dressed. As he reached up to bind his hair, his eyes caught a glimpse of the transponder. He stopped, staring at his reflection in the mirror, suddenly remembering the dream again. Crais dropped his hands, letting his hair fall loose. It was full enough and long enough to hide the transponder. Crais checked the charge on his pulse pistol, holstered it and strode out, making his way to the landing bay and Elcaris Minor, ignoring the gnawing in his gut.
The Captain would find himself wishing he had paid closer attention to gnawing feeling.