[Place usual disclaimer here. Not mine. No money. All in good fun.]
A first chapter, written many years ago & recently re-discovered. Set right after The Lost World 3.22 "Heart of the Storm, Part 1" and the very beginning of Farscape 4.11 "Unrealized Realities." Spoilers for any and all that came before those episodes. If there is good feedback, I might continue it...you have been warned!
What if wormholes & shifting planes of reality are the same?
FAR WORLD, LOST SCAPE
"What is he doing now?" The Nebari bounded into the alcove and sat down, tucking her legs beneath her. She didn't care that the alcove was already occupied, nor that the occupant obviously wished her on the other side of Moya, if not the other side of the Uncharted Territories.
Aeryn Sun looked up from the handmade book she held, a finger still tracing the lines and curlicues of the strange language written within. She turned her head to look over Chiana's shoulder. The sight outside the viewport was the same as it had been for the last three ahrns: John Crichton, human astronaut, floating serenely in space with only an EVA suit and helmet to protect him.
Aeryn returned her gaze to the book. "He says he's sniffing wormholes."
"He's completely fahrbot," Chiana said, dipping her head to the side as if her peripheral vision could make more sense of the scene. "Without a ship? Not even that piece of dren module of his?"
Aeryn shrugged. "D'Argo is standing by with his ship in case anything happens."
"But don't you worry, him in just an EVA suit?" Chiana turned her sideways stare on Aeryn.
Aeryn turned her back on the inquisitive Nebari. "It's what he wants."
"So? Since when have you ever taken that into consideration?" Chiana's mocking voice whispered in her ear.
Aeryn whipped her head around to stare at the younger woman. Chiana grinned and ducked just out of her reach. "Face it, Aeryn, you're used to having him eat out of your hand. This is all new to you, isn't it?" She giggled, the gleeful noise bouncing off Moya's golden walls.
Aeryn continued to stare, storm blue eyes narrowed to slits. Chiana blithely ignored the tempest warnings. For some time now, the former Peacekeeper's bark had been much worse than her bite. Aeryn didn't scare her anymore - much. And, truth be told, she rather enjoyed the estrangement between the Sebacean and the human. Not that she wanted to see her friends in pain, because she didn't, especially not Crichton. But she also didn't think either one had any idea of what they were truly after...or who. Besides, it was Aeryn who had left him - twice! - and it was Chiana who had to deal with the shattered pieces left in her wake. Let Aeryn suffer for once, it's only fair. Trouble is, whenever Aeryn suffered, Crichton did, too. It was just one more of the incomprehensible behaviors that made Crichton, well, Crichton.
Finally Aeryn spoke. "I'm not going to play your game, Chiana. Run along, go get into trouble with Rygel." The look in Aeryn's eyes would have turned the lava on that planet where they ran into the Tarkans into boulders of ice.
Chiana stood her ground. She crossed her arms and dipped her head, glancing sideways out the window at the floating human. "Do you think learning his language is going to mean anything to him? Do you think it will make it all better?" Aeryn had been away for a long time, first on Talyn, then off...wherever she had been. The Sebecean didn't know Chiana - or Crichton - nearly as well as she congratulated herself on knowing.
"Chiana, I won't warn you again-" Aeryn's voice vibrated with barely controlled anger, and Chiana instinctively scooted backward. Then a flash of light that would rival a star going supernova lit the alcove. Aeryn whipped her head around. "What the frell was that?" she exclaimed.
An eerie blue-white glow played over the two women as they fell over each other to get to the viewport. A wormhole had opened up directly in front of the still floating Crichton. It skipped and jiggled, the movement hypnotic in its gracefulness. But to Chiana, its dance was vaguely menacing.
Aeryn got to her feet first. Tapping her comm badge, she was off on a dead run before Chiana could untangle her own limbs. "John!" she could hear Aeryn calling into the comm. "John, can you hear me? John, get back...D'Argo, are you there? Get Crichton…" and Aeryn's voice faded as she raced down Moya's corridor.
Chiana continued to stare out the viewport. John was facing the wormhole, his arms outstretched, his feet pointed, as if about to dive like a bird into the vortex. Then he turned and tumbled, trying to use his arms and legs as if space were an ocean and he a swimmer struggling against the current. But it was no use. The wormhole was growing, the mouth widening, the vortex turning faster and faster. Then...it shimmered, as if something very hot had passed in front of it.
Chiana blinked her eyes to clear them, but the shimmer remained. "That's drad, wormholes have never done that before." She tapped her own comm. "D'Argo, where are you? Crichton needs you!" But she received only static in answer.
The wormhole was almost upon Crichton and he seemed to have given up his struggle. He faced the wormhole, peace written in his arms and legs. "No, Crichton!" Chiana screamed into her comm. "Hang on! D'Argo will get you!" But he didn't respond, and he gave no indication he heard her.
Chiana dropped to her knees in the alcove, hugging her arms tight against her sides. "D'Argo, where the frell are you?" she whispered. Then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw a sleek craft racing toward the floundering human. But it wasn't D'Argo's ancient Luxan warship. It was a Prowler, a small fighting craft as dangerous as its pilot. Aeryn. She must have had the Prowler prepped and ready to leave at microt's notice all along.
Chiana watched, her breath ragged and uneven, as the Prowler danced toward the human, moving one step forward toward him then two steps back from the ever widening wormhole. Then the canopy opened and Aeryn emerged in her EVA suit and helmet. She turned back, and Chiana realized she was checking a tether. Then Aeryn used the momentum of a kick off the side of the Prowler to try and reach Crichton.
He seemed to know she was there, for he turned and reached a hand toward her. Aeryn held out her own hand. Their fingers caught, held, then -
Chiana blinked her eyes. Another one of those weird mirage-like ripples appeared. How strange. Through it she could still see Crichton and Aeryn, hands locked together. Aeryn used her other hand to pull them along the tether toward the Prowler. The wormhole grew behind them, swirling and churning, its blue glow skipping and whirling. Or was that the effect of the strange mirage-like ripples? Chiana couldn't tell. Her gaze intensified, as if she could pull the both of them back with its strength. But it was getting harder to see. The ripples increased in size and frequency and then…
Nothing.
Chiana's mouth hung open. A startled squeak came from her mouth. The wormhole and the ripples were gone. The prowler still hovered in place. But Aeryn - and Crichton - were nowhere in sight.
Chiana swallowed. Then she spun on her heels and took off, running faster than she ever had before, even faster than when those frellniks chased her and Nerri on Rhesirts 7. "Pilot! Get me some readings now!" she screamed, tearing down the hallway toward Pilot's chamber.
"John, where are you?"
Marguerite Krux whispered the words, and shut her eyes tightly. She had ceased struggling against the hands that kept her pinned to the great stone altar upon which she lay; she had learned that her struggles only made them grip her flesh tighter. She hoped that by staying still she could lull her captors into a false sense of complacency. Then pick a moment to break free.
Unfortunately, the men holding her - druid priests, of all the random tribes, cultures and nationalities to show up on this Godforsaken plateau - didn't show any signs of relaxing until after their grim duty was over. Which meant until after they finished sacrificing her in a misbegotten attempt to stop some terrible storm on its way. They thought she was another druid, a priestess by the name of Morrigan, who they blamed for the storm's existence. It was, Marguerite thought with wry terror, the worst case of mistaken identity she had ever come across. And considering she had been a very successful triple agent in the Great War she certainly knew her way around mistaken - and secret - identities.
Secrets. Before this insane day of shifting realities and mixed-up timelines started, she had been desperately torn between telling Lord John Roxton all and damning the consequences, or keeping safe her secrets – and therefore keeping him safe. It seemed so academic now that it looked like she would never get the chance to choose. Even if somehow she survived, there was no guarantee Roxton would do the same. Just before the shifting planes of reality ripped her from his side and dumped her into the druids' lap, Roxton had been ambushed by a troop of armed Spanish conquistadors. "Please be safe, John. Please be alive," she breathed, and opened her eyes.
A knife swung over her face, flashing dully in the unnatural phosphorous that lit the cave walls and the pool of water below. Swinging in ever descending arcs, the blade came closer and closer. The chanting of the men who held her hostage increased in volume. Malicious insanity gleamed in the druid leader's eyes as he waved the knife in front of her face.
Despite her earlier plans, Marguerite struggled anew to break free. She couldn't hold back the tears. They flowed freely. "I'm not Morrigan!" she screamed at the paunchy, pale face above her.
In response, he touched the knife to her cheek. She flinched, and whispered a heartfelt goodbye to Roxton. But the druid leader didn't draw blood. Instead, he traced intricate runes against her flesh with the blade point. She shuddered without thinking, then made a concerted effort to keep still. She didn't want to involuntarily move and force the knife to cut her.
Her mind emptied of all save fear, she stared upward, trying to avoid the mad eyes of the druid and the glint of the knife. She focused on the hole in the cave's roof, the hole that just days ago, in her own time period, had been plugged with stones. Then Roxton set off a coal gas explosion that blew the stones free - and in the process, saved them from sure death by asphyxiation. A small part of her appreciated the irony in the situation: she escaped one death in the cave only to die here anyway! A pained chuckle escaped her lips. Never let it be said that Marguerite Krux does not have a sublime sense of the ridiculous.
The sky visible through the hole was still a serene azure, not a cloud to be seen. I'm being sacrificed for a storm that doesn't even have the decency to show up for the ritual. Really, of all the ignoble ways to go, Marguerite, Death really picked a good one for you.
The knife pricked her throat, and she closed her eyes tightly against the sensation. Fine, Death, have it your way. I still don't regret what happened when you tried to unfairly sink your claws into John. She immediately opened her eyes again. She'd be damned if she let some deranged druid or Death do this on their terms. She would stare them in the face to the last.
The knife pressed deeper. Any more pressure and it would cut her skin. She kept her gaze fixed on the sky above. "I really do love you, John. Please believe that." She said the words out loud, calmly and sweetly. If she had to die, her last thoughts would be of the one good thing her life had brought her.
With a crack of thunder, the sky turned from robin's egg blue to the deep gray of clouds heavy with rain. Lightning flashed. The priests' chanting increased in speed and volume.
"Behold, the storm approaches! You cannot escape your destiny, Morrigan!" The druid leader swung the knife high above his head. Marguerite could not help but watch in terrified fascination as the knife swung down -
- and the heavens above started to swirl. Eerie blue light filled the cave. The druid froze, the knife held in mid-air. The chanting stopped, and anxious murmurs took its place. "The storm! The storm!" cried out some. "We are too late!"
"No, we are not too late!" cried the leader. "You still cannot escape your destiny, Morrigan!"
"Yeah, yeah, you keep saying that," Marguerite muttered. Then she yelled, "But for the last time I am NOT Morrigan!"
A sound like a thousand thunderclaps filled the cave. Then a blinding light, brighter than a million suns, came through the roof's hole and lit every crevice. The shimmer that announced a converging plane of reality appeared in front of it. Marguerite shut her eyes against the painful glare, only to become overcome by vertigo. It felt as if the world spun around her, faster and faster, like a carousel gone mad. A strong wind swirled above her, rumbling like a steam train run amuck. Her long dark hair flew about her face. She shut her eyes even tighter. The sounds built to a keening crescendo.
Then, as suddenly as the wind and light appeared, they stopped. Marguerite cautiously opened one eye, then another. The druids looked shell-shocked, their robes akimbo, their expressions dazed. Their hold on Marguerite's limbs was slack.
It was the chance she had been waiting for. She swung her legs up, kicked with all her strength.. Down went the druids holding her feet. Veronica took credit for teaching her that move. But Marguerite had been adept at close street fighting long before she ever heard of the lost plateau.
A right uppercut freed her left arm. She sprang off the altar. The cave entrance was just a few feet away... But the druids were quickly regaining their faculties. She only had a second's head start. Two of the men overtook her before she could duck into the cave's access tunnel.
"You failed, Morrigan! Failed!" The druid leader didn't bother to disguise the glee in his voice. "You summoned the storm yet we are still here! Your powers are no match for mine!" He laughed, a high-pitched cackling. His expression turned malevolent. "Now...prepare to die."
Marguerite struggled in her captors' grasp. Twisting and turning, she tried to make her body a dead weight. But it was no avail. The altar loomed in front of her once more.
Then, from behind her, a sound. A cross between a high-pitched whistle and a whine, it didn't match any ballistic gun she knew. But it had to be from a weapon of some sort. The druid holding her left arm gave a small cry. He let go of her limbs and slumped to the ground. The druid on her right did the same. Freed, Marguerite whirled around. "John? Is that you?"
"You know my name?" A man, dressed in a close fitting dark outfit of some unidentifiable material, stood in the middle of the cave. His gun was oddly shaped and completely black, and emitted what looked like thin beams of red light. Whatever they were, they were highly effective. He took down the two druids rushing his position with the minimum of effort.
But Marguerite couldn't watch him for long, much less wonder who the hell he was and why his name was John. The druid leader grabbed her from behind. His knife was poised at her throat.
"Your familiar cannot save you either, Morrigan! I will have my revenge!" And the knife began to cut.
Later, Marguerite would claim that the whole thing was a blur. To the others she would insist the druid leader must have been killed by the stranger and his little red bolts of light. All she could remember was one moment her throat was about to be slit, and in the next moment the druid leader was no longer a threat.
Only to Roxton, and only when she was sure they were alone and far away from any inadvertent eavesdropping ears, would she confess that when the knife began to cut, a blue light began to pour out of her skin. It gathered strength and presence until it whirled around her and the druid. The knife was deflected from her throat as if by an invisible wall.
The leader dropped the knife and grasped his wrist, crying out in pain. He stared at her, defiant defeat in his malevolent gaze. She raised her arms out of instinct, scarcely knowing what she was doing. The blue energy gathered into a ball that crackled and fizzed. His eyes grew wide with horror. The ball grew until it enveloped him in its sphere. He spun and tumbled in his prison of energy. She lowered her arms. The ball shrank until, with a small audible pop, it disappeared.
She collapsed to the ground.
The blue light disappeared as if it had never existed.
And she lost consciousness.
"Are you okay?"
The voice was unfamiliar. Marguerite blinked, and the cave slowly came into focus.
"Take it easy," said the voice. "That was some light show you just put on."
Marguerite gradually realized that the stranger was behind her, supporting her back as she struggled to a sitting position. It felt as if she had been hit by a T-Rex. A large, male T-Rex, not some half-grown female. She looked around the cave and noticed that the remaining druids lay motionless where they fell. Must be courtesy of her mysterious rescuer. She raised an eyebrow in admiration.
She opened her mouth to speak, but the movement hurt. With a trembling hand, she felt her neck. Her fingers came away wet with blood, but it was just a nick. It would heal, and might not even leave much of a scar if she used some of Challenger's ointments in time. She continued to sit still, letting her heart and breathing return to something a little closer to normal.
"Can you hear me?" The stranger left her side, and kneeled in front of her, looking into her face. "You OK?"
"I think so. For now, at least." Still struggling with her breathing, Marguerite gave him a weak smile. "Thank you."
"Hey, the pleasure is all m-." His words stopped suddenly. An expression at once wary, happy, and yet a little angry flashed across his face. "Are you speaking English?"
She gave him a puzzled look. "Yes. You are, too," she couldn't help pointing out. "Would you like me to speak something else? I take requests. Honest."
He seemed not to hear her. "Is this..." and he appeared to struggle with his next words, "the planet Earth?" He looked at once dazed and not a little sick.
Marguerite stared at him. "What other planet would it be?" Then she remembered an encounter the explorers had had not too long ago. Oh no. Not more outer space visitors! At least this one is in a much more attractive package than the last. "Yes, this is Earth. Last I checked. Although sometimes on this plateau I have my doubts."
Now it was his turn to throw her a puzzled glance. "Plateau? What plateau? Are we in the Western US? Where exactly are we?"
Marguerite sighed. They could play twenty questions all day. And she had much more important things to do with her time. "Right now? We are in a cave that we need to get out of. It has a very bad coal gas leak. And I never want to see this place again..." Her voice trailed off as she remembered that there were some very good memories of the cave to go with the very bad.
Roxton!
She needed to find him, and fast. She could only pray that he had managed to escape with less difficulty than she did. And what of Veronica, Finn and Challenger? They, too, were probably caught in the shifting planes. Which meant they needed help.
She stood up, shook out her skirt, and made a fast, if slightly unsteady, beeline for the cave entrance. "Coming with me?"
The stranger moved quickly, and put himself in her path. "Wait! You still haven't told me where on Earth we are, and I don't mean cute remarks about the obvious."
"My friends are in danger. You want answers, I'll give them to you if you promise to continue using that...whatever it is…weapon you have. The druids took my favorite pistol." She brushed past him and briskly left the cave.
He followed close behind, easily matching her stride. "Have Winona, will travel. So where are we?"
"Somewhere in South America. You don't remember how you got here?" She threw him a sideways glance. He most definitely wasn't a local, which meant he had to come from somewhere else. And that meant that he found a way onto the plateau. Maybe they could use that way to finally get home.
He shook his head. "You don't want to know how I got here. In fact, I don't believe it myself. They've never acted that way before."
"What hasn't?" They were in the jungle now, and Marguerite chose the path that would take them to the last physical location where she saw Roxton. Whether they were in the same time period or even reality was a different matter, but she would worry about that only if necessary.
He hesitated, then shrugged. "Wormholes."
Marguerite raised an eyebrow. "Worm holes. You got here by following inchworm tunnels?"
He laughed, but it was sharp and curt. "Wormholes. You know, Hawking. Sagan. Einstein."
"I've heard of Einstein, but the others don't ring a bell. Sorry."
"Like Star Trek."
"Star what?"
"Star Trek. But not the original one. Deep Space Nine."
"I'm sorry, I have no idea what you are talking about."
"C'mon, y'know, Kirk, Spock, 'he's dead, Jim.'"
This was the strangest conversation she'd ever had, and Marguerite had had her share of cryptic conversations over the years. "I'm sorry your friend is dead?" she ventured.
The stranger looked at her as if she had grown a third head. "No, it's a phrase. Y'know, Captain James T. Kirk, Dr. McCoy, 'set phasers on stun'…"
Marguerite gave him what she hoped was a friendly smile. This man was very strange, but he did help save her life and, more importantly, he had the only thing resembling a weapon around. And knowing the plateau, that weapon was going to come in more than handy. "Look, I don't know your friends, but if they are scientists then my friend George Challenger will know them. He's a pretty well-known one himself."
He stared at her, then shook his head. "No, it's a television show." She must have looked as blank as she felt, because he added, "How long have you been on this plateau, anyway? It does look pretty primitive."
She hid a smile. Primitive was just the beginning. "My friends and I have been stuck here three long years. "
He grinned. "I've been gone from home for four myself. I don't even know who replaced Clinton as the US President."
Marguerite stopped in her tracks to look at him. "Clinton? You mean Wilson."
He snorted. "No wonder you've never heard of Star Trek if you think Wilson is pres..." His voice trailed off. "Um…what year is this?"
"1922. But today that's been relative."
"1922." His expression matched his deadpan tone.
"As near as we can tell."
He laughed, long and loud. "Oh man, that's rich! This is the best virtual reality, Scarren mindfrell, Ancient sick and twisted simulation yet!" His chortles bordered on what to Marguerite sounded like hysteria. "Trouble is, sweetheart, I have no idea who you are supposed to be. The coloring is almost right, but the details are badly off. Wrong hair, wrong nose, wrong eyes. Whoever created your image frelled up big time." He swept an appraising glance from her head to her toes. "Nice try, though."
Marguerite folded her arms and regarded him coolly. She knew she must look far from her best. Being dragged from reality to reality and then struggling with insane druids were not exactly high on her list of favorite beauty treatments. But still! "I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about. But this is very real. Granted, unbelievable, but real. You are on a plateau in South America. One of my friends thinks that this is a nexus for shifting planes of reality, and that's certainly been true today. So I can only assume that you came from one of the realities. Maybe it was against your will or knowledge. But that's still no cause to be rude." Her tone was scathing. "I can assure you, I am exactly who I say I am: Marguerite Krux of the Challenger Expedition. We left London three years ago, in 1919, and we've been on this plateau ever since."
The man continued to grin. "Finally, something that isn't straight out of John Crichton's Greatest Hits! Bravo. Hey, I mean it, kudos on the originality. But enough is enough. You can pull back the curtain now, O Great and Glorious Oz. Come out, come out, wherever, whoever you are." He turned in a slow circle, his weapon out and in firing position. "Come on. I'm getting bored now. So game over already. Stark, is this your doing? It involves too much independent thinking to be Scarren, and it's not earnest enough to be the Ancients."
Marguerite slowly backed away as the man's strange firearm swung in her direction. He sounded certifiably insane. But he had the only weapon in the vicinity. And she could hear the high-pitched chirps of a raptor pack on the hunt. They were a fair distance away, but raptors could cover a lot of territory in a short amount of time.
She gave him her a reassuring smile and used her most patient voice, tactics that had served her well when dealing with suspicious German spies, boy kings and would be fairy queens. "I know it sounds unbelievable. If someone had told me before I left London what I would see these last three years, I would have immediately called Bedlam and asked for the men in white coats."
He snorted. "Lady - Marguerite - whatever you are - I saw you take out some sort of robed priest with a blue ball of light. Things like that just don't happen on the real Earth. Not the Earth I am from."
Despite her best intentions, she shivered at the mention of her close escape. "No, they don't," she agreed. "And I must ask you, please don't tell anyone what you saw. I scarce believe it myself. But that's just life on this plateau." She sighed, thinking about the reaction she would get if she told anyone in England the events of the day. Bedlam would only be the kindest response. "Believe me, I'd be much happier back home. Where the things that occur here would only be found in fantastical books and penny dreadfuls."
The man lowered his gun. "Actually, that sounds familiar. I can relate-" His words were cut off by Marguerite's hand, which she had slapped across his lips.
"Shhh," she whispered. She almost laughed at the man's indignant gaze; she was sure it was same expression she had worn whenever, in the first days of their life on the plateau, Veronica would do the same thing to her. "Listen."
The raptors were closer now. They could be heard crashing through the jungle's underbrush. They must have picked up the scent.
"Damn it!" At her curse, the man turned his head and raised an inquisitive eyebrow.
"Whz thm mttr?" he mumbled against her hand.
"Sorry." She took her hand away. At least he didn't try to bite it, which is the trick she would have pulled if in his shoes. "How fast can you run? And how well can you shoot that thing?"
Lord John Roxton was about to die. He was out of ammunition. His guns were empty and useless. Only one broken tree branch, clutched tight in his hand, stood between him and the muzzle of a 16th century Spanish conquistador's musket.
Not the death he envisioned for himself. Being a man of the 20th century, he was some 500 years removed from the era of the conquistadors. But then, he never imagined having to fend off a Tyrannosaurus Rex with nothing more than a well-placed rifle shot. Or to live in a treehouse. Or to fall deeply, madly, passionately in love with a mysterious woman of fire and steel, who less than twenty minutes ago vanished in front of his stunned gaze.
The Lost World was full of surprises.
At least Marguerite won't be killed with me. Please be safe, my love. He tightened his fingers on the stick. Then with a mighty cry, he charged toward the conquistadors. He'd be damned if he would die like an animal, crouched in the underbrush. He was the hunter, not the hunted. And he intended to take as many of them with him to Hell as he could.
His charge had the intended effect. The Spanish Capitan, his arm raised in mid-air to give the order to fire, stared at him with a dumbfounded expression. If the situation weren't so dire, Roxton would have laughed aloud at the look on the Spaniard's face.
The Capitan quickly regained his composure. As if in slow motion, Roxton watched as the Spaniard's lips formed the command -
- and the heavens above began to swirl. It reminded Roxton of a tornado, only this tornado was all vortex, no earth-pointing tail. A bluish-white glow danced over the jungle, bleaching out the vibrant green and casting unearthly shadows.
The majority of the conquistadors dropped their weapons so that they could make the sign of the cross. Some mumbled prayers. Others outright cried for salvation. Those who weren't on their knees praying ran into the jungle in an effort to get away from what they called "la obra del diablo." Roxton just continued to watch the sky, fascinated by the play of light as the vortex jiggled and danced. This was unlike anything he had witnessed so far on the plateau, and he couldn't wait to hear Challenger's attempt to explain it.
One Spaniard was not dissuaded by the celestial show. "I will kill you myself like the dog you are!" the Capitan yelled, and he aimed his firearm direct at Roxton's heart.
Roxton smiled. He had spotted a shimmer, announcing a converging plane of reality, just behind the conquistador. But his mouth had barely registered an up quirk when a hot white light flash-fried the air, blinding him.
He shut his eyes against the painful glare. A vigorous wind buffeted him, its tempo increasing, its strength overwhelming. It pushed him to the ground, and he grasped at roots, vines, anything to keep him anchored when it felt as though the spinning air would inhale the very earth itself.
As quickly as it started, the gusty maelstrom ceased. Roxton opened one eye, then the other, and sat up.
The Spanish captain lay motionless on the ground just a few feet away. Roxton stood up, wincing as parts of his body that had been hit by stray stones and other flotsam made themselves known. He approached the fallen conquistador, and knelt down to check his pulse.
It was there. Faint, but steady. Roxton nodded, satisfied. He stood up, and swept his gaze over the area. No other conquistadors remained, but-yes! There was the rifle he had discarded when it ran out of ammunition. Apparently whoever was carrying the weapon had abandoned it when he ran off in superstitious fear. Roxton grinned. He loved that rifle and would've hated losing it. In a strange way, it was Marguerite's first gift to him. She had paid for it as part of outfitting the expedition - as she had reminded him on more than one occasion.
Marguerite...must find her. But how does one track someone swallowed by a shifting plane of reality? Challenger...must get to George, he'll help. Lost in his thoughts, Roxton almost didn't hear the twig snapping behind him. He spun around, only to find himself staring once more down the barrel of a Spanish musket.
The Capitan was pale, his breathing erratic. But his stare never wavered. "Infidel English cur, now you will die. We will have our revenge." The Spaniard tightened his finger on the trigger -
- and fell face first to the ground, dead.
A stunned Roxton looked up from the body sprawled at his feet. A woman stood before him, her firing arm still outstretched. In her hand was a pistol unlike none Roxton had ever seen. Sleek and compact, it radiated danger, much like its possessor. Tall and clad in a form-fitting suit of black that matched the sheen of her waist-length hair, she returned his stare with a calm, unblinking gaze.
"Thank you," Roxton ventured. "You saved my life."
She didn't smile in response, but she spoke - a cacophony of slurred syllables and clicks.
He shook his head. "I'm sorry, but I don't understand you. My companion might be able to speak your language, but she's...not here."
The woman frowned as soon as he begun to speak, and the frown only deepened the more he spoke. She said a few more things in that strange tongue of hers, gesturing with her hands.
He shrugged, apologetic. "I only speak English. Well, and a little French and Spanish. But if we could find Mar-"
"English," the woman interrupted. A corner of her mouth turned up in a slight smirk.
"Yes, English. Do you know English?"
"I know. Speak little," the women said, in an accent unlike any he had ever heard before. Her expression was annoyed and yet amused. "You. Human?"
Roxton narrowed his eyes. What a strange thing to ask. Well, it would be strange if asked anywhere else on Earth. Here, he supposed he could be confused for something other than human - say, a Kobold or a werewolf or, he thought ruefully, a vampire. Or even a robot built by space aliens. Really, the possibilities were endless when one put a mind to it… He chuckled, only to realize that the woman was still staring at him, waiting for an answer.
"Uh, yes. That is, I am human. You?" he asked, with a joking grin.
She shook her head no. In a movement too fast for his eyes to follow she aimed her weapon between his eyes.
"Whoa!" He threw up his hands in what he hoped was a universally recognized symbol of surrender. "You just saved my life, let's not be so quick to end it. I mean you absolutely no harm."
Her eyes narrowed. "Mercan?" she asked, gesturing at him with her weapon.
"Mer-are you asking if I am American?" She nodded. Roxton continued. "No. I'm English."
Her expression remained full of suspicion. He hurried to add, "From England. London to be precise. Americans are from, well, America. The United States."
"Floor Da."
"Yes, Florida is a state in America. But I am from England. Different country." Roxton was infinitely glad in that moment not to be Ned Malone. The woman obviously had issues with Americans.
"IASA?" she asked, her weapon never wavering.
"Eye what?"
She must have seen the honest bewilderment in his eyes, for she lowered her gun. Roxton was a tiny bit disappointed; it was a magnificent looking piece of hardware and he hadn't finished his visual examination yet. But he doubted she would hand it over for a closer look.
"Where are you from?" Roxton asked, after a pause to watch her holster the gun.
She smiled, tight and pursed-lipped, and shook her head.
"All right. We'll skip that part. Do you know how you got here? Onto the plateau, I mean?"
She rolled her eyes.
"I'll take that as a no. Well," he picked up his rifle, careful to keep his fingers far from the trigger under her watchful gaze, "today's been one of those days. Probably many people who have shown up on the plateau today have no idea how they came to be here. I'm sure it's because of Challenger's bloody shifting planes of reality."
"No," she said. And Roxton swore she said something that sounded like "worm hole." But he didn't have time to ask for clarification. The ground started to jump beneath their feet as though heralding the second coming of the San Francisco earthquake. But the movement wasn't due to seismic activity. The loud thumps and crashes resonating through the jungle meant that a Tyrannosaurus Rex would be upon them at any second.
"Run," Roxton commanded. He suited action to word. But he had barely taken two strides before the T. Rex burst out of the brush and into their clearing. Roxton stopped immediately. Too late. The dinosaur had poor eyesight, but it was excellent at picking up motion. It let out a fearsome bellow. All its attention focused on the hunter.
The beast's rancid breath, replete of rotting meat, swept over Roxton. He tried not to choke as he brought his rifle into firing position. He squeezed the trigger and- nothing. Without looking, Roxton instinctively knew what happened. The conquistadors had treated his beloved gun as if it were one of their blunderbusses and had loaded it accordingly, packing the bullet down the barrel instead of loading the chamber. He was lucky the gun hadn't blown up in his face.
The beast roared again. The noise shook the ground and rustled the leaves. Roxton didn't dare move. Perhaps the dinosaur would lose visual track of its prey. But no such luck. The beast lunged for the kill -
- then turned at the last second to look behind itself. Scorch marks scored its hide. Roxton took the opportunity to run into the jungle, using the obscuring canopy to cover him as he doubled back to where the woman stood. Her weapon repeatedly fired what looked like red beams of light at the T. Rex. The dinosaur seemed affected, but the pain appeared to enrage more than dissuade it.
"Aim for its eyes!" Roxton yelled. Without missing a beat, the woman fired one clean shot after the other. First the right eye, then the left. It didn't seem to do anything. The animal lowered its massive jaw, snapping rows of razor sharp teeth just scant feet from where they stood. It drew back for another deadly strike.
But then the animal gave a loud, keening roar. The enormous head waved from side to side as if the dinosaur had the mother of all massive hangovers. "Now run!" Roxton shouted. He grabbed the woman's hand and took off deep into the jungle.
Not a moment too soon. The terrible lizard let out one more ear-splitting bellow, and started to stumble. Roxton and the woman found themselves thrown off their feet when the body crashed to the earth. The jungle fell silent in the aftermath. Then, in groups of ones and twos, the birds, monkeys, and other noisy residents of the plateau went back to their chattering ways.
"Are you okay?" Roxton asked, getting to his feet and extending a hand to the woman.
She ignored his gesture of help, and stood up in a movement as graceful as it was fast. "Okay," she said, brushing herself off. "What…?"
"What was that?" At her nod, Roxton said, "T. Rex. Dinosaur."
She continued to look perplexed. Roxton smiled. "Yes, they are supposed to be extinct. But on this plateau, they are very much alive. Well, except for that one, of course." He laughed, not so much at the expression on the woman's face, but out of sheer joy to be alive after two close escapes – three if you counted the woman holding her gun on him. "Now, if only I could find Marguerite—"
"ROXTON?" The shout was faint, but nearby. And rather panicked. "JOHN!"
"Marguerite!" Roxton took off running, back to the clearing where they had faced the T. Rex.
It was a sight of which the memory would gladden his heart for years to come. On the far side of the clearing was Marguerite, crouched next to the T. Rex, clutching something brown to her chest. She was disheveled and dirty, with a decidedly angry expression on her face. He had never seen anything so infinitely beautiful. A man, dressed in same type of black outfit as his mysterious female rescuer, stood beside her.
"Marguerite!" he shouted.
She looked up from the dinosaur. A smile that rivaled the noonday sun in its stunning brilliance broke forth when their gazes caught and held.
"John!" she cried out.
"John?" he heard from beside him, as his dinosaur-slaying companion stared incredulously at the scene. But he had no time to ponder her reaction. Marguerite was nearly upon him.
They crashed together in a tangle of arms and legs and lips. He wasn't sure who initiated the soul-searing kiss or the frantic touches of reassurance and comfort that accompanied it. All he knew was that his world was once more steady on its axis, as it always was whenever Marguerite was with him. When their lips finally parted for some much-needed air, he couldn't stop stroking her hair, her cheek, the sweet curve of her spine. The other hand stayed at the small of her back and kept her pressed close to him. He was almost fearful of breaking contact - what if another blasted plane of reality took her away from him again? Finally, with great reluctance, he pulled far back enough so he could look into her face, stare into the sea gray eyes he loved so well.
He received a not-so-light punch in the shoulder for his efforts.
"How dare you make me think you were crushed somewhere underneath that T. Rex?" Marguerite waved what Roxton, after a few dizzying seconds spent trying to follow the object in her hand with his gaze, made out to be his hat.
"I didn't realize I had lost it. Thanks." He grabbed it from her hold, and settled it on his head with a grin. "Ah. That's better."
"Roxton…," she warned, but it was his turn to be concerned. He placed a finger under her chin and turned her head to the side, exposing a nasty looking cut on her neck.
"Where did you get this? What happened to you?" he said in a low growl, eyebrows drawn together.
"It's nothing. It'll soon heal." His expression stayed thunderous. Marguerite smiled, and placed a gentle hand to his cheek. "I'm fine, John. Really. But are you all right?" Her gaze, long practiced in the art of searching out wounds, swept over his body.
"Unlike you, not a scratch." He cupped her face with his hands, unaware of anything save that the woman he loved was miraculously restored to his side.
John Crichton couldn't believe his eyes, and not for the first time this very strange day. A wormhole gone wonky, well, yeah, that was a sure signal that today wasn't going to be a trip to Disneyland. But few days in the Uncharted Territories were. So an unplanned side trip down Mr. Einstein's rabbit hole wasn't that incredulous making.
What he found at the bottom of this particular hole, however, would put the hookah-smoking Cheshire Cat to shame. A woman dressed like Out of Africa Barbie fighting off some sort of religious nutcake with bolts of blue light – fine, that was something that would probably show up sooner rather than later in the UTs. But for Meryl Streep to claim that the mad clerics were actually Celtic Druids, and that somehow they found their way to early 20th century South America? Ho-kay…now you're talking Salvador Dali time.
But that was small potatoes – not even shoestring French fries – compared to fighting off a rabid pack of Jurassic Park extras. Spielberg was wrong, again. Raptors were more cunning and definitely much faster than anything shown on the silver screen. Seriously, Steve-O had a lot to answer for. But the raptors were no match for Winona – and, he always gave praise where praise was due - his newfound tour guide to this particular funhouse. Marguerite told him exactly where to aim, and led the hungry, hungry dinos right into the line of fire.
And if one encounter of the dinosaur kind wasn't enough, they had no sooner put down the last of the vicious overgrown iguanas when Marguerite identified the unearthly bellow echoing through the jungle as belonging to a Tyrannosaurus Rex. A T-frelling-Rex, of all things. And it was Crichton who recognized the accompanying "zings" as belonging to a pulse pistol - namely the pulse pistol favored by a certain ex-Peacekeeper turned irreversibly contaminated fugitive. He and Marguerite took off, following the sounds, arriving just in time to see the T. Rex topple over and a battered hat fly into the air at the impact. Marguerite had been pretty pissed off when she saw the hat, until a man dressed like Out of Africa Ken ran into view.
And beside Dress Up Ken was the last thing Crichton ever thought he would see in this long day of unbelievable sights. But why should he be the only one to have all the laughs this time? Because it turned out this particular rabbit hole had two Alices: him, and Aeryn Sun.
She stood like an angel of vengeance at the edge of the clearing, pulse pistol out and at the ready. But at least she wasn't aiming at him, for which he was grateful. You never knew with Aeryn these days, or at least that's the unsettled feeling he felt in her wake. Up and down, criss and cross, left and right and never quite passing go - the dance was dizzying. Just when he thought he had her, she ran off. With him. But not him. It was a long story, and not one that Crichton felt particularly inclined to revisit at the moment. Or any moment. Then they were reunited. It didn't go so well. And then they were separated. That went even worse. But not as bad as the subsequent reunion. That left Crichton so off-center, it took potions from Granny Noranti, who should come with her own triple strength Surgeon General warning, to keep him on a somewhat even keel.
Hell, maybe this whole day was just one big bad hallucinatory side effect of taking too many non-FDA approved drugs from strange women with three eyes. But then, Crichton sighed, no matter how demented his brain became, he would never in a billion years come up with a plateau in South America populated by dinosaurs and people straight out of a Kipling Twice-Told Tale. Or Indiana Jones. Take your pick.
Besides, Aeryn was here. And since the drugs supposedly took away his craving for her, kinda like a nicotine patch for romance, he couldn't really chalk this one up to Noranti. Nope, it was like Marguerite said. Unbelievable, but real.
He made no move toward Aeryn. He heard her cry out his name. But he wasn't sure if it was amazement at his presence, or merely confusion over there being, once again, two Johns. Apparently the guy with whom Marguerite was playing a spectacular game of tonsil hockey shared his first name. He'd never met a Sebecean with the same first name as another; maybe all Sebeceans had unique names. But then, he hadn't really met all that many Sebeceans, had he?
He shook his head to clear it. Strange thought tangents – now, that was a side effect of Noranti's drug with which he was familiar. At times he even had memories that he couldn't remember acquiring. Focus, John! Then he chuckled. Better not use that name around here; it could get confusing.
He was still laughing under his breath to himself when Aeryn approached him. "Crichton?" she asked softly.
"Yeah, it's me, Aeryn."
"Are we on Earth?"
"Apparently. Well, in a manner of speaking. This ain't no Earth I'm familiar with."
"What do you mean?" Her tone was even, but he could see a touch of fear behind her gaze.
Crichton closed his eyes. Ah, Aeryn. And to think that on Dam Ba Da you voluntarily offered to go to Earth… He opened them rapidly. Another memory, not his. What the frell was happening?
"John?" Now the concern was plainly evident.
"I don't know how to explain it, Aeryn. Marguerite – she's the woman over there – she says that this is some sort of a lost plateau in South America. That's a land mass, mostly south of the Earth's equator. But she also says that the year is 1922. Which means we are about eighty years off from my time, which should be about 2002 or so by now."
"We are in your planet's past?"
"Looks that way, although even in 1922 there weren't dinosaurs. They all died off millions of years ago, before humans ever existed."
"Then we are not on Earth?"
Crichton shrugged. "That could be one explanation, although Marguerite speaks English and talks of London and President Wilson. Those are all Earth references."
Aeryn nodded. "The man I met - the one with the woman - also mentioned London. And he said that dinosaurs are supposed to be extinct, but they are alive here."
Crichton folded his arms. "You spoke with him? He understood you even without translator microbes? Wait, don't tell me, you tried out your new English skills."
Aeryn narrowed her gaze. "We communicated just fine. He speaks much more intelligibly than you. Now I know that not all humans speak incessant nonsense."
"He's eighty years older than me, Aeryn, give his vocabulary time to catch up."
"He doesn't look eighty years older than you. He looks quite nice, as a matter of fact." She threw him a sideways glance, light dancing in her eyes, although the rest of her face remained impassive.
Crichton looked away. A teasing Aeryn was fairly new to him, and one that had only really showed up after their last reunion. He wondered, not for the first time, if she had learned to tease while she was with…him…or if it was an even more recently acquired skill. "He looks taken. Very taken," he added dryly.
She sighed, and the light in her eyes faded. "What are we going to do, Crichton? How do we get back to Moya?"
He shrugged. "I've been thinking that one over myself. Find the nearest wormhole and jump down, I guess."
"I'm serious, Crichton."
"So am I, Aeryn. I have no frelling idea. No idea how we got here, no idea how to get out of here. But look at it this way. No plan means no standard operating massive frell-up."
"That's not helpful."
"Sorry, it's the best I got."
Marguerite broke contact first this time, suddenly aware that they were the focus of the strange, black clad couple standing on the other side of the clearing. She cleared her throat. "I'm very glad that you are none the worse for wear. I was beginning to run out of fine thread for stitching wounds."
He grinned and allowed her to step away. The flick of his gaze indicated that he, too, was aware of their new friends' scrutiny. However, the warmth in his eyes also indicated that he was relinquishing her from his grasp solely because it was her wish.
Her gaze faltered a bit under the intense strength of his. She loved him – oh, how she loved him! – but the longer she allowed him to love her, the more dangerous it became. For both of them.
She knew her attempts to put distance between them were bordering on the laughable. How many evenings could she pretend she had a headache or was otherwise exhausted and had to turn in early, thus avoiding any late night tete-a-tetes on the treehouse balcony? Challenger, Veronica and Finn were no help; ever since she and Roxton crawled out from the cave in front of the other three, they seemed to have permanent smirks on their faces as they conspired to give her and Roxton as much privacy as possible. It would have been wonderful of them under any other circumstance, but… And she was running out of safe topics to which to switch the conversation whenever it appeared heading for intimate waters.
In fact, Roxton had called her on her behavior just that morning – ye gods, it felt eons ago – so to continue to indulge in it would step over the line from laughable to downright hurtful. And the last thing she wanted to do was hurt this wonderful, amazing man. Yet to allow him to love her, to make plans for a future together, would ultimately hurt him far, far worse. Especially if they ever made it back to London.
But for now…well, the day was nearly over, and so with it went their chance to try to use the hot air balloon to escape the plateau. The winds only changed one day a year; their normal pattern would tear the balloon to shreds before it even reached the plateau's edge. She was desperate to return home – she learned the hard way that it is better to face unpleasant tasks straight on, without delay – but she inwardly rejoiced that, at least for now, England was still dreams away. Which meant that she could pretend, for a bit longer, that she was worthy of Lord John Roxton's attentions. It was selfish, but then selfish always had been everyone's favorite epithet to toss at her.
She threw him a teasing glance from under her eyelashes, letting him know that she knew his thoughts and was grateful to him for letting her maintain what was left of her dignity. He nodded, and held her hand to his lips for a gentle kiss before letting it drop.
"So," he said, lifting his chin to indicate the couple talking quietly amongst themselves on the other side of the fallen T. Rex, "what do we do next?"
"With them or with ourselves? Return to the treehouse in both cases, I suppose. Pray that George can come up with some sort of explanation – if he is even there. I hope that he, Veronica and Finn made it through the shifting planes of reality as well as we did."
"I wouldn't be here if it weren't for one of our mysterious visitors," Roxton admitted.
"Nor I," Marguerite conceded. "We need to find the others. Now." She turned to look at the newcomers. "We should convince them to come with us. The man – his name is also John – appears to be from the future. Perhaps Finn can help him."
"The woman – I didn't get a name – speaks a language unlike any I've ever heard, and appears preoccupied with whether one is human and/or American."
Marguerite laughed. "We qualify on one account. Too bad Malone isn't here."
Roxton picked up the rifle that had been discarded in favor of holding Marguerite. "This is useless now. If Veronica, Challenger and Finn do need help, our new friends and their rather wonderful weapons will come in handy."
"Always the keen sportsman, I see, Lord Roxton." Marguerite spoke in a light, sarcastic voice, seeking to throw off the emotion of the last half hour and return to their usual bantering and bickering.
"Only when it comes to vanquishing enemies." But he would not be drawn into matching her tone. "I do not sport when it comes to us. We will continue our talk of this morning." The words were measured, thoughtful, and whispered low into her ear.
"After we find our friends." With a supreme effort, Marguerite turned her back on the light in his gaze and strode toward the plateau's newest arrivals.
"Immediately after," he growled, and followed in her wake.