Previously, on Farscape:

On the planet Dambada, John Crichton has been in a battle for possession of his body with the neural clone. Aeryn prepares to shoot Crichton in the mistaken belief that it has usurped John's brain. The Ancient they call "Jack" stops her. "Harvey" dies, and Crichton finally has his mind to himself.

To combat the approaching Scarran Dreadnought, Jack unlocks John's wormhole knowledge, and they begin work on the Displacement Engine.

Back on Talyn, Stark and the still-blind Crais have to contend with a Scarran who has managed to board the ship and is determined to take control. Stark and Crais manage to trick the Scarran and Talyn shoots him.

On Dambada, as they work on the device, the wormhole knowledge slowly filters through John's mind. Finally, with only one stage to complete, John and Aeryn exit the area while Jack installs the partanium - a highly radioactive substance that powers the device. While they're gone, Furlow shoots and kills Jack, and steals the engine.

Planning to sell the Displacement Engine to the Scarrans, Furlow escapes in a sand buggy, but is pursued by Aeryn and John. Aeryn has to jump off to battle a Charrid pursuer, and when John finally catches up with Furlow she is being interrogated by the Charrids. John uses the opportunity and the distraction to retrieve his Displacement Engine, and rejoins Aeryn. With nothing to show the Charrids, Furlow is dragged away by them to 'explain' her failure.

Aeryn destroys the rest of Furlow's Complex, hopefully so no chance of any trace that could lead future seekers to wormhole technology remains. The wounded Rygel boards Talyn's transport pod and leaves the planet, waiting out of range to rejoin Talyn.

Insisting she accompany him, Aeryn joins John in his module, and they fly toward the Scarran Dreadnought. Releasing the weapon, he demonstrates the terrifying power of wormhole technology. The Dreadnought is destroyed, and following brief farewells, John and Aeryn leave for Earth…

AND NOW, ON FARSCAPE:

BLIND ICARUS

LOST CAUSE

"The song is done - the sweet cry of yearning

died in my mouth:
A magician did it, a friend at the right hour,
a noontime friend - no! Do not ask who it might be -
it was at noon when one turned into two . . . ."

- Friedrich Nietzsche,

Out of the High Mountains, AFTERSONG.

…six monens later…

MOYA PLOUGHED THROUGH THE DENSE NEBULA, incandescent dust flowing around her like a stellar mist, shrugging off the exotic radiations that played over her skin.

Pilot merely kept up his routine, but otherwise did not interfere. She had heard it, and he had not, but she had been so certain, he could do nothing but acquiesce. He hoped that she'd not be disappointed again. She'd been mistaken before.

D'Argo roused himself from the doze he'd been falling into by an exuberant Chiana bounding into his quarters. The last weeken had been textbook in a demonstration of the spirit-sapping strength of unremitting tedium.

"Pilot thinks he found a signal!" she sent chattering at him as he sat up.

"Is that a definite thing?" He returned a skeptical look back at the grinning Nebari. They'd done this nine times in the last six monens already.

"No, not definite, but it's the best yet, and Pilot didn't actually find it, he says Moya heard it." Chiana leaned in, grabbed his arm. "C'mon – we're only a few hundred microts away, he says – on the other side of this Tor!"

"Tor" was the Sebacean word for "nebula".

D'Argo hauled himself to his feet, followed her out. His leg still ached from the wound he'd received three weekens previously at the last spot they'd thought they'd picked up Crichton's trail in the F'reel System. They'd found Vess'mar'Ine bounty hunters instead. What a frelling mess.

"Chiana, we shouldn't get our hopes up. It's just as likely that it isn't John. We may have to accept that he's simply not coming back."

"And it's just as likely that it is. Have some faith." She bounded like a manic Welliba gazelle up the corridor ahead of him.

D'Argo sighed, shook his head. "I have plenty of faith – in things going farhbot," he muttered as he followed her.

Crichton had been "missing" for almost six monens, ever since Crais and Talyn had returned, alone.

No, not going there.

Whenever he thought about it, even though D'Argo was fairly certain he understood why they had done it, a small sting of resentment would always flare up in him – no, he wasn't going to try and figure out that skein, either. They'd heard stories, here and there, snatches of hearsay, more fanciful facets of the "Crichton Legend". They'd listened and laughed, but there were a couple, one or two, that D'Argo fiercely hoped weren't true, stories of assassinations, piracy and …massacres.

"Did sh – they - say anything?" He'd asked, all concern and dread.

"Very little. They seemed to be in some haste, but did not deign to explain it to me. 'Thanks for everything' were their final words to me, Commander." Crais had told him, not particularly relishing the thought of telling them so. "There was no other message."

"I see." Crichton had said. He'd paused, nodded and then he'd walked calmly away.

That night, Chiana had heard him …laughing.

The next night he'd vanished from Moya.

He had that small stab of resentment, but Crais had, after some prodding, spelled it out – so, then, what about the Crichton they'd simply forgotten?

He couldn't find it in himself to blame John for leaving the way he had. Nothing any of them could have said would have been of any comfort. It all would have rang hollow.

"Everyone – it is confirmed." Pilot interrupted his ruminations. "It is definitely a signal from Commander Crichton!"

Chiana beat him to it.

"Pilot – are you sure this time?"

"All signal waveforms match the criteria for Crichton's voice. It is definitely him."

D'Argo stepped onto Command, saw Chiana still grinning, Rygel bobbing in his thronesled, Jool bent over a console. Pilot shimmered on the clamshell.

"Voices can be imitated." D'Argo said, not really wanting to ruin the good news, but compelled to anyway.

"You gotta be a hardcore pessimist all the time?" Chiana said, annoyed.

"There is a difference between pessimism and realism, Chiana."

"It is not his module, but internal scans confirm near-Sebacean lifesigns, Ka'D'Argo." Pilot told him, after a moment.

Chiana stuck her tongue out at him. "In other words – Human."

D'Argo just shook his head again, said, "Okay, Pilot. Intercept."

Pilot nodded, vanished from the clamshell.

Six monens.

D'Argo wasn't angry at Crichton for leaving. No one was, not really. They'd been concerned for their friend, worried over his well-being, anxious over some of the things they'd heard with his name attached. What had concerned D'Argo then had been the state of Crichton's mind at his going, and what concerned him now was the state of Crichton's mind at his return.

In the grand scheme of things, six monens was nothing.

For some, however, it could be a lifetime.

HE WATCHED THE SHINING GOLDEN TEARDROP BREAK FREE FROM THE NEBULA BEHIND HIM.

The ship he was in was a Nemedjian "Blaster"-class frigate, 30 cycles old, and not technically his property. His first impression of its lines had been "a hunchbacked rat", which had not endeared him to the ship's previous owner. He didn't kill him, but he may as well had. It was battered but serviceable; armed, but not heavily so, and only about two weekens from being officially labeled "junk". Normally run by five to twelve individuals, he'd managed with a cranky work 'bot and a snotty computer that didn't seem to like much of anything, including operating. Moments after transmitting his signal, it finally got its wish and blew most of its own mind out. The backup computer was a standard number cruncher, sans personality and worked much better, except it couldn't fly the ship. He'd settle just for keeping the life support and communications running.

He'd sucked in a breath at Moya's appearance, now let it out slowly. A band of tension coiled suddenly across his chest then dissipated. It felt both like several lifetimes since he'd seen her last and only yesterday. He had come to and made many hard decisions, and realized a few more remained – like whether this Leviathan and the memories she held were something with which he could live comfortably. He'd left to get some distance, but it never seemed far enough.

He hadn't trusted himself to stay, he hadn't trusted himself around his friends. He didn't trust himself with the memories. That was why he left in the first place. He'd been on the edge of madness trying to reconcile it all, what had felt like betrayal, the indifference, the sheer callousness of their flight. He thought that maybe, just maybe, he'd finally gotten a handle on it.

"We don't say goodbyes," she'd once said.

She'd been true to her word.

He wondered yet again – for the billionth time - why he wasn't or hadn't been angry or just disappointed. Yes, it had driven him to a near-breakdown – the sheer agony of losing her like that, to… him. He'd needed to think. He'd lost all sense of purpose.

Things, however, were very different now.

He looked at the screen at Moya again, caught his reflection in a piece of polished metal, touched the healing cut on his head, just above his left eyebrow. It was coming along nicely, but it would leave a scar. He shrugged internally. He'd picked up a few new scars in his time away. One more made no difference

A few new scars, a few new names…

He put his head back, closed his eyes.

"Where are you going?" she'd asked, all eyes and questions. She was very young and he felt very old.

"I don't know yet." He'd looked up at the endless expanse of stars, shook his head. "Nowhere to go, I guess."

"Nonsense," she said, squeezing his hand. "You can always go home."

To his eternal bewilderment, his laugh at that made her hug him hard and cry.

"Crichton? John? Are you there?" D'Argo.

John Crichton? There was a name he hadn't heard in a while. Hadn't felt like it for a while, either. Yeah, he could be Crichton. For these people. They were still friends. Whose friends, he was still debating.

"Yeah, D. I'm here. Blew a whole bunch of capacitors. Or something." His voice was a little hoarse. He hadn't said a single word in three days. He'd stopped talking. He spoke only when he had something to say and stayed silent all other times. He'd learned to listen, and no longer judged anything by the antiquated sensibilities of a primitive planet that no longer mattered.

"Glad to see you. Interesting ship. You all right? What happened?"

"I've been better. Flight computer tanked, but I can move - barely - on stationing thrusters. I'm a little sore here and there, but all right. Standing by."

He sat back up, looked around again as Moya came closer. Soon, she'd be in range and he'd plunk this piece of junk in her hanger and try and make it serviceable again. Failing that, he might be able to trade it in for something slightly better. He had to stay mobile.

"We'll be microts. Glad you're home."

Home.

Was Moya home? Did he want one? Where did you go when there was nowhere to go? He'd traced her location, put himself into her path just as he'd run out of fuel, sent the signal… months of searching, for a damn wormhole, for something that would give him an explanation – for anything. He'd even gone to Dambada, searched through the ruins of Furlow's garage - not really knowing why - but doing it anyway. If there had been a wormhole there – and there must have been – it was gone now. No matter what he did, his attempts at 'slingshots' had no real effect. He'd recorded everything, studied them minutely, but came to no conclusions other than his own apparent lack of ability. The only one he'd managed had damn-near killed him.

He'd moved on, looked for other traces, just moving around, letting his instincts guide him, trying to feel his way to answers. Trying to find Furlow, or another wormhole.

It hadn't worked. He'd met people that were less than reputable, done things less than noble or stellar, all for frelling answers he knew he wasn't going to like. His last destination had been a Charrid base. Furlow had been there, but there was nothing there now but faint traces and three hundred dead, decomposing Charrids.

No Ancients, no wormholes, no Furlow, no buzz in his head to tell him he was close. Nothing. He didn't know anything new, he'd not uncovered a reason, or an excuse he could give himself for doing it. There was - he'd finally realized, feeling stupid, as it had felt utterly obvious - nothing for him to find.

So prosaic, that. The last nail. Plain, simple steps that had led to his demise.

Like clockwork, one, two, three:

John had gone to Talyn. Whether by design or at Aeryn's behest – didn't matter. Naturally, and he knew this was inevitable, the relationship had taken its next step – because John sure as hell was going take every chance – and in the end, Aeryn had chosen. You can't fool love, right? She knew Crichton. That was why she'd been so desperate to save his life when John'd been injured by that bomb, why they had left when he'd been down on Kanvia negotiating for the Chromextin in John's place: in no position to protest or do anything about it. It wouldn't have mattered anyway.

The Choice Had Been Made.

One became essential.

One became expendable.

Just like that.

Okay, fine. It was inevitable, after all.

He had the face, had the memories, had the feelings. You couldn't fool the woman you loved though - she'd know. She'd known. That face, the memories, those feelings? So what? Didn't matter - copies were copies. That's just the way these things were, would always be.

He did not and would not begrudge her the right to make her own choices.

He looked at the stars, at one that shimmered in the centre of his view, a bright one.

They were gone, as if they'd fled to an entirely different universe - they were where he could not go.

He had nothing to prove, nothing to really fight for, now that all the things he had hoped for were finished, all his dreams dead. They were not his dreams, he'd realized, finally. Not his hopes. Never were, never would be.

I'm done. This particular comedy is almost over.

His ship's drift made it appear as if the nebula were moving, was shifting that star behind it.

I will never be a victim again.

He watched it until it had vanished behind the dust.

Chiana watched him enter command, dressed, clean, shaven, armed.

He'd been back two days.

They'd had their reunion, Crichton had been hesitant and distant, but all had welcomed him back without recrimination, without acrimony – all save Rygel, of course. They'd been worried, they'd said. He'd reassured them.

Whatever shape he was in, he'd told them, he'd done to himself. No one else was to blame, he'd said pointedly.

No one, as yet, had asked what had happened in his time away, and he was volunteering nothing. He spent his time away from them working on the 'Blaster'. Even back, they barely saw him.

Crichton strode up to the navigational console, called to Pilot.

"Pilot – any word from Talyn and Crais?" His voice was calm, sharp, steady.

"Yes, Commander. Moya received a burst transmission from Talyn just under an arn ago. They will meet up with us in half a solar day. Talyn has been having… troubles, Crais says."

Yeah, I wasn't the only one, he thought, feeling coldly sardonic. Half-a-cycle ago, Talyn had returned with the news of 'The Departure' - and then he and Crais had left, neither very happy, but Crichton suspected it was more Talyn than Crais. He'd not been long in following them. Crais and Talyn had come back more often than he had, however. Talyn was still neurotic and twitchy, had lashed out at his mother on their last visit, two solar days ago. Fortunately, it had been verbal and not physical. The kid's mind was deteriorating at a rapid pace. Crais had managed a few stopgap repairs but nothing short of massive 'surgery' as it were was going to fix the kid.

"Not really his fault. How are we for supplies?"

"We will need re-supply within the weeken to stay within safety."

"When Crais gets back, you should probably find a decent Commerce Planet and re-stock. You never know how far away the next one will be."

"A good idea, Commander."

"Anything on Stark?"

"I was curious about that myself, but he informed me that Stark had left shortly before… the first time… – muttering something about a planet called Valdon. Apparently, he plans to seek to commune with… Zhaan. She was…calling him. Or so he claimed. He disembarked on Dambada and vanished. He could frankly be anywhere."

Shit. He could have used Stark. Nevermind.

"Uh-huh. Well, you know Stark. He'll show up again when the whim grabs him."

"Very likely."

"Thanks, Pilot."

He turned, headed off, Chiana jumped in behind him, followed. He had more gray-white in his hair, starting to streak his temples. It was longer, past his collar. There was a slim braid behind his right ear, she noticed, with small, slender silver cylinders woven through it. Odd.

"It's a warrior's affectation here," She'd told him, sitting in his lap to do it, weaving it deftly with her slim fingers. "It makes you someone."

"I'm no one. I'm not real." he told her, patiently trying to explain it again. "I'm no warrior, either."

"Reality is highly suspect at the best of times", she'd laughed. "You'll be a warrior all right – you can't be anything else."

"Hey – where ya going?"

"To fix my ship."

"Can I come? I can help."

A shrug.

She followed along for another few moments, then asked;

"Are you okay?" There's a pause there, and it feels longer than it actually is, lasting no longer than a microt. He has weighed his answer and the one he gives is not the one he feels. This question has been asked of him many times, and the answer is never, she realizes, true.

"I'm fine. Why wouldn't I be?"

"Well, c'mon – you did kinda space out there for more than a couple of days."

He stopped, looked at her. He is deadly serious, more than she thinks it merits.

"Yeah – I'm sorry about that. Dunno what I was thinking. I'm better now." He seemed to look past her for a moment, then continued on. There is something different about his walk, Chiana notes, but she can't place it. It seems heavier, like the sound of police boots in a hallway. It doesn't mesh, it's not right, not coming from John.

"No, it was okay, I mean, it was understandable…"

"Chi – there's nothing to discuss."

"But…"

He stopped, and the look her gave her scared her.

He turned and continued on. She didn't follow him.

CRAIS AND TALYN RETURNED ON TIME, AND THEY WERE, AS INFORMED, MUCH CALMER.

Without preliminaries, they were asked to follow Moya to the nearest Commerce Planet, which they did. The re-stocking of Moya went off without incident, and the two Leviathans moved on. Eventually, they came across the Thonexia Commerce Station, and Crichton abruptly decided that he needed some "R&R", to which Chiana and Jool loudly seconded and thirded, and D'Argo and Crais had reservations about – to which Crichton had merely replied with a curt, "Suit yourself", and went anyway. He moved his module out of the 'Blaster' and took the Frigate. Twelve arns later, Jool was returned - very drunk – by station security, with a large lump on her head. Chiana came back unconscious, so inebriated she would not awaken for two days.

An investigation by D'Argo could find no trace of Crichton. Further investigation revealed that a Nemedjian frigate was seen heading for the Tilenkia Commerce Station on the other side of the system arns before.

Two solar days later, as she sped toward the station, Moya received word that the Tilenkia Commerce Station was currently under security lockdown, pending an investigation into a firefight that had broken out between a Sebacean male and a squad of Peacekeeper commandos on shore leave. There were nine dead - all Commandos - and over four million krindars of damage had been done to the station via the ramming of a Nemedjian Frigate into it. Said Sebacean had then stolen the Commandos' Marauder and was last seen heading to Arkkanoi IV.

When, D'Argo wondered, had John learned to fly a Marauder?

By the time Moya and Talyn had reached Arkkanoi IV, three days later, the Marauder had been looted and sold to an underground starship dealer, and all that they could glean was that the one they were looking for had booked passage for either Tarklian or the Vomannis Tor worlds.

Crais suggested that they split up, he and Talyn would head to Vomannis Tor. D'Argo, more worried than angry - agreed. They would meet back at Arkkanoi.

Another half-day went by, and Talyn settled into orbit around Osakis Lashing, the only habitable planet in Vomannis Tor, a sector-notorious den of outlaws, rebels and malcontents. Crais armed himself heavily and went to the surface.

After some fruitless questioning of the locals, he asked Talyn to attempt to key in on Crichton's biosigns, to narrow down his search. Talyn had some difficulty scanning through the thick pollution from the heavy oil refineries that clogged the planet, but he eventually managed to send Crais to the area called Volker's Den, arguably the worst part of a very seedy planet.

Crais finally found Crichton in a bar just off one of the spaceports. He walked into the place that probably should have been more raucous than it was. The Human was not hard to spot. Crais stepped over the bodies of two Hekhmaji - bipedal Felinids - bounty hunters - there was clear path and space around them and their killer.

Against the wall in the corner, sat Crichton himself, looking cold and dangerous, having acquired a new wardrobe, a very black leather, armored and hooded longcoat with blood-red and silver inlays, new boots and pants. He also had a heavy pulse rifle resting on the table before him, and as Crais approached the table, he could see it was a brand-new, very illegal-for-a-civilian-to-have Peacekeeper-issue Forge-class heavy assault pulse cannon, obviously liberated from the Marauder. It did not use Chakkan Oil and it was designed solely to kill Scarrans. At his feet was a very large duffel, stuffed full.

"Crais." Crichton nodded when he saw him. Cold blue eyes regarded the ex-Captain from the shadows of the hood.

"Commander Crichton." Crais said, trying to determine his mood. Notoriously hard to read, was this one. The other had been no problem at all. This one was a wall.

Crichton squinted at him, reached over, took a drink.

"You want something?"

Crais blinked.

"We have been looking for you for days."

Crichton smiled a thin smile at him.

"Well, hell, Crais – here I am. If you'd started here, you would have found me before I'd arrived." The smile was a razor-thin thing, and it was only when Crichton set the mug back down that Crais realized that Crichton was drunk – no, not drunk, but what Crais' father had called 'frozen in drink' – numbed – and he recognized the kind of numb. It was the kind that got people killed.

Crichton casually picked up the rifle, swung it squarely around to point directly into Crais' face. The barrel stopped a dench from his nose. For all his supposed imbibing, the barrel was as steady as a rock. There was a collective step back by the other patrons.

"You realize that all of this was your doing, yes?" His eyes narrowed. Crais remained calm, watching Crichton closely. He nodded. Yes, he regarded that as a fact. A few dozen microts ticked by.

"Goddamn universe." Crichton sighed a half-sigh/half-growl, looked at Crais for a few moments, suddenly slammed the Forge back onto the table. "Why is it so frelling capricious? You know?"

He swayed unsteadily for a moment, stopped.

"No… 'course you don't." He examined at his half-full mug, looked back over at Crais. "Why the frell would you? Who frelling cares? Sit the frell down."

Crais did, opposite him. Crichton glanced down at his rifle, looked up across the bar, stared away from Crais for a moment. He reached into his pocket, pulled a small pouch out, tossed it at the bartender, who caught it, opened it, counted, nodded back.

"I don't like you, Crais. Never have. Never will. But that comes as no surprise to you. You won't be losing sleep over it."

Crais shook his head. No, of course not.

"But that's not me – you understand? Those are memories. Those memories have emotional components I can't help. I'm going, however, to try. You did nothing to me, I understand that now. So - I will give you the benefit of doubt – not trust, but some leeway. That …hate… that's John's. I'm gonna cut you some slack – provisionally."

Crais wasn't entirely sure what he meant, but he got the gist. He and the other Crichton had managed to reach a kind of accord. Not much of one, but working. This too, could be considered a step forward, one he was happy to accept.

"That is fair," Crais told him, and received a curt nod in return.

"Don't –" he returned with a cold edge. " - ever mistake me for him. There's no Sun here to save you and it could be a mistake you might not live to regret."

Crais simply nodded again. Crichton stared at him for long microts, seemed uncomfortable. He looked away as a raucous group laughed and bellowed their way by the table.

"Crais…" he said, not looking back. "Did you ever want to go home - so badly you could taste it - and then realize that a home was something you never actually had?"

Crais said, utterly honestly and openly, "Yes." And Crichton almost smiled, and after a few moments, nodded.

"Tell me one more thing, Crais." Crichton turned cold and bloodshot eyes back onto the ex-Peacekeeper Captain.

"If I can."

Crichton leaned across the table, looked closely at the ex-Captain.

"Was she…" A pause. "…happy?" He asked quietly.

Crais knew better not to lie.

"Yes, of course. Very much so."

Crichton looked a moment longer and then pulled back, sat silently. After what seemed like a very long time, he said, quietly -

"Yeah."

He stood again, picked up the Forge rifle, slung it on his back, picked up his duffel, slung it over his shoulder. Crais rose with him. He got a firm grip on his Forge, said;

"Let's lock and load. You mind getting that?" He kicked another large duffel under the table. Something had changed him, Crais could see it. Something was …missing, but Crais merely nodded, slung the duffel, grunted at its weight, nodded to indicate the way out.

They were nearly to the transport pod when Crichton stopped, pulled back the hood and looked at Crais, asked, "The kid ok with me onboard?"

Crais wondered at the question for a moment, then realized what Crichton meant. I look and sound like the other one, and Talyn's not fond of that one at the moment. He can make the distinction, right?

"Talyn has no objections to you, Commander." Talyn could.

"You're sure?"

"Yes, of course." A nod.

On Talyn, Crichton dumped his duffels into a crew alcove, glanced out the port. He stopped, looked around the red corridor, at the angular red DRD on the wall above his head, then made his way to Talyn's Command.

"Ka'D'Argo has been informed, Commander." Crais told him as he entered. Crichton still had his rifle on his back. "He will meet us at Arkkanoi IV."

Crichton scrubbed his hands through his hair.

"He's pissed."

"No. He understands. We all do."

Crichton glanced around Command.

"Yeah, sure…" he looked up at the ceiling. "Sorry, kid." Talyn warbled. Crichton looked at Crais.

"Talyn asks, 'sorry for what'?"

"Just… sorry. I'm sure I owe a few apologies here and there."

Talyn warbled again.

"Talyn accepts your apology, Commander, for whatever it was."

"Thanks." Crichton seemed to hesitate a moment, then asked:

"How is he, anyway?"

"As well as can be expected. The repairs to his neural synapses has been patchwork at best. I have tried everything I can think of, but my funds are limited, and those who could help are understandably suspicious. I have managed to keep him going this long… but the damage by… the Retrieval Squad was rather extensive." Crichton looked around, made a slight cutting motion with his thumb across his throat, looked up as he did it. Crais understood.

"Talyn – if you will excuse us for a moment, Commander Crichton and I wish to talk privately." Talyn warbled. "Thank you. Engaging privacy mode." He looked up at Crichton.

"A concern, Commander?" Crichton, surprisingly, seemed perfectly sober, and Crais wondered briefly how that was possible.

"How extensive was the damage to the kid, Crais? Really?"

Crais sighed, crossed his hands behind his back.

"Extensive. Initially, I had to impose a simulacrum of my own neural patterns over his own to stabilize him – it was only a framework, but it did not last. I have managed to install neural shunts and a few synaptic patches, but as you can imagine, they are merely stopgaps, holding actions as it were – and they will not last, either. The experts I knew were all Peacekeepers and they are understandably reluctant to aid me. Those experts I could find were either hostile or prohibitively expensive." Crais almost sighed. "Even now he is becoming increasingly more erratic and unreliable. In two weekens, perhaps less, perhaps slightly longer, I fear his entire neural network may collapse. He could very well go insane."

"Ok, that's bad. I find it hard to believe that for a people who use Leviathans so extensively - no one seems to have any decent repair or rehab facilities for them."

Crais looked a little discomfited by what he was about to say, "I'm afraid that most races who employ Leviathans tend to think of them as, well, disposable. Unfortunately true."

"Yeah – most. Someone has to give slightly more of a crap for them, however. If there's nothing we can do for him, there has to be somewhere and someone that can."

"What do you suggest?"

"I suggest we stop dicking around and find one." Crichton turned, walked toward the door. "I don't know about you, Crais, but personally, I've had it with being at the mercy of every whim of fate in this galaxy. I think it's past time to be a bit more… proactive." He stopped at the door. "How long until we meet up with D?"

"Perhaps a solar day, a few arns more."

"Cool. If the kid doesn't mind, I'll find a corner to crash in."

"Not at all. Help yourself as you require."

"Thanks." Crichton stepped out the door and Crais disengaged the privacy lockout on Talyn. Crais watched him make his way back toward the rudimentary crew quarters, shake his head, and then continue on. Uncannily, Crichton stopped precisely at the same alcove the other had used when he'd first come onboard. Crichton hesitated, walked past it. He found a small niche on Talyn's Hammonside, climbed in, pulled longcoat and hood around him, put the Forge rifle on his lap, and was almost immediately asleep.

Crais contemplated the sleeping man for a few long moments, shook his head, and then started Talyn on the long flight back to Arkkanoi IV.

Crichton slept the entire trip.

D'ARGO STARED ACROSS THE TABLE AT HIM UNTIL HE LOOKED UP.

"What?" Crichton asked. It had been another day since Crais had returned him to Moya. Crichton had awakened long enough to carry his stuff over, then immediately pass out again.

"You sure you're all right?" D'Argo asked.

"Fine. Got a headache that could etch steel..."

"What in Hezmana were you thinking?"

Crichton slapped his mug down on the table, startling Jool, who squeaked. She was ignored. She was still feeling faintly ill from her own binge.

"I wasn't. That's the goddamn problem. I was trying to find a focus, D. I had thought I had gotten my act together, but coming back tipped things over again. I had to get out and think – at least try and get my head back on straight. I'm better. I know what to do now."

"John…" He'd debated broaching it, tried tentatively, "I know what it was, I can understand. You loved Aeryn and she…"

It came down like a steel door closing, hard, arctic and final:

"No, D." His eyes were flint. "I don't love anyone. Those are John's memories, not mine. She loves him, and she's happy. She had the right, okay? Whatever happened between the two of them – has nothing to do with me."

He narrowed his eyes, and his voice was even colder.

"I accept it. I am what I am, whatever that is."

He stopped, looked at his friend, the empathy on his face, the sorrow in his eyes.

"You need to stop thinking of me and him as the same. We're not."

"I don't see any difference, John." D'Argo told him and meant it. Crichton just shook his head.

"I know. But I do."

D'Argo nodded slowly, and Crichton glanced around the table.

"Look, I'm sorry I sent you guys all over. I apologize for the binge. It was weak." He looked pointedly at D'Argo when he said it. D'Argo just nodded again. Yeah, he understood better now.

"Is that going to be your excuse forever?" Rygel groused.

"Screw you, Sparky."

"John…" D'Argo tried again. "It wasn't that. I can understand that. I wouldn't hold it against you." He pushed a disc across the table at him. "It's this that worries me. This was everywhere we went."

He pressed a button on the side of the disc and an image shimmered above it. It was a face he recognized – Myklo Braca, Scorpius' shadow. Images of the crew followed their names on the beacon.

"An unprecedented reward is offered for the capture of the terrorist John Crichton. If captured alive, twenty-five million currency pledges. If dead, five million."

Aeryn's image floated up, and Crichton just looked at it, his face stone.

"For the capture of the Peacekeeper deserter Aeryn Sun, a reward of 15 million currency pledges. For Ka'D'Argo the Luxan…" D'Argo reached over, shut it off.

"All our bounties are substantially higher than they were."

"Why is Aeryn's so high?" Rygel asked, missing the shadow that crossed Crichton's face.

"Because, Ryge – 'grab Sun and Crichton comes running' – that's the refrain." He laughed, but there was absolutely no humor in it. "Are they ever behind the times."

"My only concern was…" D'Argo began.

"Yeah, I know." Crichton interrupted. "I had to kill two Hekhmaji on Osakis Lashing. The hunt for me is intensifying."

"What do you think we should do?'

"I was talking to Crais about Talyn – about finding somewhere to help him. It might be a good idea to see what we can do for Moya, as well – in way of armor, other defences, maybe. She's gotta be getting pretty damn tired of taking shots all the time."

D'Argo eyed him for a moment.

"Agreed. Do you have a plan?"

"First – we have to find professionals that can work on Leviathans. They deserve that much. More bounty hunters will be on the way. We upgrade them as much as they can stand and we can afford."

"Is that even possible? Upgrading a Leviathan?"

Crichton went back to eating, shrugged.

"I don't know, but we have to do something. We've got all this cash – let's make it work for us."

Jool coughed, and they looked at her.

"I think I know a place." She began. "Where they work with Leviathans, with no Peacekeeper interference, I mean."

"Where?"

"That's the problem – it's a very professional outfit, all experts. I'd heard about it before I'd been frozen. I should say I know of it, but I don't know exactly where it is."

Crichton looked at her, shoved his plate away.

"Think hard on it. Is there anywhere or anyone you might know to find out?"

Jool looked uncomfortable.

"Well?" D'Argo ground at her.

"Dovanni Notia. There's a small group of expatriate Interions living on the farside of the planet. They might know."

"Why am I anticipating a 'but', Jool?"

"I, uh, didn't exactly leave there under the best of circumstances."

"Do you know how to get there?" D'Argo asked her.

"Not exactly." Sheepish. "It's been twenty-three cycles!" D'Argo sighed.

Crichton glanced over to the clamshell, glanced back at her as he said, "Pilot – does Moya know where this Dovanni Notia is?"

Pilot shimmered onto the clamshell.

"Yes, Commander – it is on the edge of the Abraxi Tor – about a weeken and three solar days from here – with starburst." Crichton looked at D'Argo, who nodded in agreement.

"If you would, lay in a course."

"Very well."

Crichton looked back at Jool.

"You can talk to these people?"

"I shouldn't have too many problems. I'm an Interion, they're Interions." Her voice implied there was more to it, but he let it slide for now, nodded, got up. D'Argo glanced over at him.

"Now why does that sound like famous last words?"

Crichton quirked a cold grin at Jool, said to D'Argo – "Let's just hope it's not her epitaph." - left, leaving them wondering what he had meant by that.

THE TERRACE HAD BEEN THEIR PLACE.

They would sit or stand and watch. They would touch without touching. They would understand one another in the comfortable silences. All around them - blazing stars and radiant dust and beautiful cataclysms, all his stellar dreams spread before him - for all that he would only have eyes for Her.

Crichton remembered. He knew it in his heart as if it were only yesterday, as if he'd been there himself. She had been superb and real and She had smiled that Smile – that Smile that he could feel, that Smile that peeled open his soul, and made every one of his cells light up - at him, for him and him alone.

No.

He has never stood here with Her.

The memories and emotions that made this place special belonged to them. He remembered and felt it only because he had no choice.

He stood here now only as a final test, to look inside himself and see what remained – what, if anything, actually belonged to him.

He would have laughed if he could have remembered how, but things weren't funny anymore, and hadn't been for a long time.

He might have cried, but he'd forgotten how to do that, too.

Feelings got in the way, he'd realized. They made you weak, they distracted you when you needed to focus. She had taught him that. She had been right, even though She had forgotten, had been crippled by John and his relentless infantile desires. Aeryn had been trying to tell John that, teach him, practically since She'd arrived on this Leviathan.

In this life, feelings would just get you killed. Survival uber alles. It was all you'd get – all you'd be allowed to have. Gilina had loved John and it had gotten her killed. Aeryn had loved John and had died. Zhaan had loved John and it killed her as effectively as if he'd just shot her himself.

He had learned, however. Kaarvok's Creature had waited and learned and he had finally paid attention. His heart and body bore the scars of that lesson.

He knew what he was now. A madman had taken a body and split the cells into two entities, claimed them identical. That, of course, was ridiculous. In the very next second after his creation, he and John were inescapably different.

She'd seen those differences – the gathering darkness at the base of him, the twisted-bastard creation of Kaarvok he was – and then She had followed her remorseless feminine instincts and She'd chosen as She should have, and that was all the proof that was required. She was not one to be fooled.

"We don't say goodbyes."

Even as the shade of an intruder slept in his synapses, they had not spoke for some time - the differences showed themselves – this intruder was one John had purged, but Crichton didn't want his gone. He would continue to use his own personal Scorpius for his own ends, use the knowledge, and Harvey would be persuaded to full acquiescence or Harvey too would go. But - he understood the necessities, the hard decisions to be made, did Harvey. Harvey understood and he would acquiesce. Harvey too was a survivor, another bastard creation. Bastard sons of monsters.

They would be brothers.

"We don't say goodbyes."

John had been there with Her when it mattered - when She had been ready, he'd been there. When She'd hurt, wept, laughed, felt it all for the first time openly and honestly, without fear, he had been there. It did not matter if the feelings, thoughts and motivations of the copy were the same.

Of course they were.

He would never know those moments, though, they could not be recaptured, they could not be duplicated. All those firsts - gone forever - never to be reclaimed. They were never meant for him to know, but he knew. He felt them like a thorn under a fingernail, a splinter driven so deep you couldn't get it out without more pain than it was to simply leave it in, and it was all he would ever have of Her, from Her.

Crais had allowed him to view some of Talyn's logs, his memories, on the trip back from Osakis Lashing. They were incomplete and Talyn in no real shape to be thorough. When Talyn was well, however, he'd go and ask him directly – he'd know for sure. But even for that - he knew - he had not existed on Talyn in any form, not even as a ghost, not a thought, not a memory, not a "what about…" – he'd never existed there, and he wasn't even sure any longer if he existed here.

What he would be, he did not know. All he knew was whom and what he wasn't, and for now, it had to be enough.

In the six monens he'd been gone from Moya, he'd finally accepted the truth.

Aeryn - although She had forsaken those lessons for illusions of love and security - had taught him, taught him what was truly important here. He had finally taken it to heart.

The necessity of one day at a time - taken as it came - one night at a time. To master the very minutiae of life, to be wary, to be ready. The way of the gun, the way of the shadows and the dark silences. Allies only of the moment, and you trusted nothing but your tools, your instincts and your skills. Only ever yourself. There was no safety, nowhere was secure, no one could ever be trusted fully, for in the end all betrayed - and since the grave was the end for all, it didn't matter if you lived or died.

Crichton's enemies, who would make no distinction and were thus his enemies, did not, would not rest.

Unlike John, however, he would not run. Never again would he run.

He learned these new cadences quickly – once the illusions vanished. He ate when he needed, slept only because he had to, stayed awake until exhaustion pulled him to bed and deep dark sleep would stave off any dreams - and then he slept alone, because the dark hid many secrets and death could come as easily in a kiss as in a blade or pulse blast. Frivolities wasted time – and wasted time would get you nothing but death, wrapped prettily and hand-delivered by Fate.

Home was wherever he stood at the moment.

Love nothing. If you love nothing, you lose nothing.

John had done many, many very stupid things because he'd allowed himself that weakness. He will not make those mistakes.

"First things first" has become his new mantra. It will, he knows, be the only thing that will permit him to continue, to maintain his sanity.

He has stood here too long. This, he realizes, is his gravesite. Perhaps it's fitting. He does not know yet. The man who leaves this terrace will not be the one who entered.

Her light and Her warmth filled this space once and his heart recoils from the remembering, because it is only the memories of a newly-dead man who yet longs for Her. He always will, but that doesn't matter, either.

He steps back into his shadows and closes his heart and his eyes.

She has taught him well.

Her world. Her ways. All or Nothing.

He was not destined for Her All, so he will live on Her Nothing.

It is all he can do. He feels… smashed, scoured, hollowed of everything that made him what he had thought he was and now knew was not true.

She was everything, and he is nothing now, scalded and nerveless by Her indifference. All he can do now is search for those pieces and discover if any of them were truly him.

He does not hate Her, he could never do that - an impossibility. He's not angry, because he has no right to be angry. "Angry" meant that he was betrayed or slighted somehow, but he wasn't, he hadn't been – it hadn't been a contest, because he had never been a contestant. Nothing She had done had been "wrong" - how could it have been? She was not responsible for his delusions of Crichtonhood. That She'd dismissed him so readily was proof enough of that.

He dares think on Her fondly a moment longer, more than he has dared this long half-cycle, knows he shouldn't. Aeryn Sun was never, had never, would never be his, they shared and would share nothing. He remembers what he remembers because those memories are merely copies. He is not real, they are not real.

He says it to the stars before him, lets it go into the space between them.

"Goodbye."

He only remembers because he has no choice.