"It's hard to believe this is all that's left of you." I bend over and run a hand over the warped piece of metal that sits in Moya's docking bay.
The wreckage, of course, gives no reply-- no warm pulse of infrared, no chirps or flashing lights, not even the faint vibration of a functioning machine.
"It'll be enough to give Moya some peace."
I jump, feeling startled and embarrassed at being caught in a moment of sentimentality. Lost in my own despair, in my own weakness, I didn't hear Crichton's approach. It's inexcusable. These lapses are happening each solar day now, and always somehow related to him-- the ghost of the man I loved.
"No. Having something left doesn't make it easier, doesn't make him any less dead. He's still gone." I glance up at the copy, then turn back to face the scorched remnants of Talyn, preferring the site of a corpse to that of a living ghost.
"You mean Talyn? Or Crais?"
"Both."
My words apply to both, but I meant neither when I said them. I was thinking of my John, but I won't say that. Not to him.
"Aeryn..." The copy lays a hand on my shoulder, and I shudder. "From the minute you stepped off Talyn, I could tell something was different between you and Crais. I shouldn't have let him stay on Talyn for the starburst. Should have thought about what it would do to you."
"You don't understand." I kneel in front of the wreckage and touch it again, squeezing down this time and feeling the sharp edges dig into my skin. "They were linked as closely as Moya and Pilot, joined by something deeper than a shared transponder. For one to sacrifice the other would have been impossible."
"So you didn't..." Crichton sighs with what might be relief and sits down next to me so that his back is to the scraps of metal and his face is in the periphery of my vision. "You didn't link with Talyn again after Dam-Ba-Da?"
"No."
That's not what he's asking, not really. He wants to know if I recreated with Crais, because for some stupid, inexplicable, human reason, that matters to him. A part of me wants to tell him the truth, but that part of me is a ghost that should have died with my John. I stay silent, playing the part of my former self, the simple soldier who never saw the feelings that lurk like phantoms, haunting every spoken word. This awareness, this humanity, is a kind of second sight, like Stark's or Chiana's preternatural gifts, and like those abilities, it is a curse more often than a blessing.
"I'm just tryin' to understand what you lost, Aeryn."
Out of the corner of my eye, I see his hand moving toward mine and pull away just in time to avoid his touch.
"You already know what I've lost." I lean against the heel of my hand, letting the torn metal almost cut through my skin. "Talyn could have been my home. Our home."
Ours. His and mine. Mine and John's. Bialar's and mine. I don't know which unrealized reality I mourn, but it doesn't matter because they're both gone; they both chose their frelling ideals over me.
"You would have stayed with him." I turn to meet the copy's eyes, but he holds up a hand and shakes his head, his features twisted by a false smile. "No. Not my business."
"I wanted to. Crais became a good man. You see that now. After John died, while we were looking for Moya, that's when I began to see it."
It's the truth, but only half of it.
"I want the hand of friendship."
Talyn chirped in enthusiastic agreement, but Bialar looked up from the command console and shook his head slowly. "I do not believe that would be in Talyn's best interests, not given your current mental state."
I swallowed my anger, willing my hands to stillness though I wanted to hit something. "You know me. I can control my emotions. That's why you wanted me to link with Talyn before. I had my--" I took a deep breath, hoping he wouldn't notice the long pause. "--reasons for refusing, but those reasons are gone."
"Very well." Crais favored me with the self-satisfied smirk that always proceeded the exercise of his authority. "After we have rendezvoused with Moya, and after you have carefully considered the matter, I will allow you to join us."
"I need this," I argued. Saying those three words was like coughing up broken glass.
Frell him for making me beg. I knew what was in his head, what he wanted from me. I couldn't be all those things, couldn't be the emblem of strength and love, the anti-Peacekeeper, the living symbol of everything he wanted to be and wasn't. I couldn't be the idol on his pedestal, but I could be body in his bed. I could be the voice of reason for Talyn. I could be their comrade in arms.
I needed so badly to be something to someone.
"When we were both linked with Talyn, I saw into your mind, Aeryn." His face softened as his eyes met mine.
"And I saw into yours." I raised my chin, making that a challenge.
He shrugged. "Then you know my feelings on the matter, and you know how much it pains me to refuse your offer. That does not change the fact that I know yours. Aeryn, Crichton is waiting for you aboard Moya--"
Almost of its own accord, my fist connected with his jaw. The blow reverberated up my arm, jarringly painful for me, and no doubt worse for him. "John Crichton is dead."
He seized both my wrists and brought my hands up between us, shaking them in front of my face. "Is this what you call controlling your emotions? You are no better than Talyn."
I wanted to hit him again, mostly because Talyn had trained one of his internal guns on me and doing so would end it. Instead, I looked away from his face, locking my eyes on the toes of our boots.
"You're right. At the moment I am no better than Talyn. That's why I need you."
He released my wrists, moved his hands up to my shoulders, and squeezed. "As I said, after we have located Moya and made or rendezvous, I will consider your offer, assuming it still stands."
Frelling high-handed bastard! If he hadn't felt the need to pass me off to the Crichton copy like an inherited possession, he and Talyn might still be alive. The wreckage biting into my palm might be the living skin of a magnificent being, one who sheltered, carried, and protected me, one whose mind I shared for a few brief, frightening, amazing solar days.
"I see how it is." The copy nods to himself, stands, and leaves me alone with with the twisted, empty relic.
I doubt that. He's probably imagining things that never happened-- me with Crais, trying to bury cycles of pain by sharing snatches of pleasure. Does he think I loved Bialar the way I loved John?
It doesn't matter. I'm not going to bother telling him how I was rejected, delivered to him like a package. I don't belong to him, and if he thinks I took Crais as my recreation partner, then he's more likely to understand that fact.
In a way, Crais was right; being haunted by the specter that calls himself John Crichton has made me reevaluate my feelings. The day I asked for the hand of friendship, I needed to be something to someone. Now, I only want to be away from everyone.
Being alone-- it's the only way to be safe from loss.