Episode Four: Farscape Loose Ends: Corners

by Errationatus2

PART TWO of "CORNERS". Crichton has got his crew and is settling in, but it's a small galaxy and you can meet the most unexpected people...

NEBUDHI LAIR WAS NOT A TYPICAL 'FREE PORT'.

The planet Nebudhi orbited the star Nerhdi in a area of space called 'Abyssal', and Nebudhi was Nerhdi's only planet. Nebudhi was called the 'Pirates' Graveyard' by some, a 'hellhole' by others and by a certain lingering fanatical sect of the Dey'd'ardhi Diaspora; 'Gateway'.

Abyssal was an area of space noteworthy for two things – one, its total lack of stars, as if some deity had come along with a big scoop and just excised them from the area, creating the illusion of a bowl of empty space, and a silver line of riotous energy that bisected it almost completely, ending in a crackling orb that some said hid a planet of mystical origins.

"Here Space Ends," ran the old Dey'd'ardhi Creed – and thus its better known name of Abyssal. The long silver energy ribbon was called the "Finger of God" by the Creed. The Finger pointed to "The Cup of Oblivion" – the unusual empty space around the Lair - and was thus where all souls came at the End. Needless to say, the fanatics of this particular Creed were numerous and unhappy that the Lair squat in its midst.

Ringing the system, on its 'edge', was the other prominent feature of the Lair – it had been an open port for almost three thousand cycles – and it was surrounded by ships – thousands upon thousands of them. Most were derelicts, long since stripped to their skeletal frames. There had been some kind of clean-up effort centuries gone, but that had been quickly abandoned – for the Nebudhi Shroud – as it was called by the fanatics, or the Shoals, as it was called by the pirates, had its uses – as a place in which to hide, to be lost, or to be buried.

There were only a few habitable spots on Nebudhi, and the Lair girded the planet the entire way around along the equator – the most optimum spot for habitation – and some of the more powerful, respected or wealthy of the pirates and criminal elements had exclusive habitations further north or south, depending on the zones they could terraform, annex or take over. But, being that terraforming was an expensive and time-consuming process, habitable zones away from the equator tended to change hands rather frequently.

It was lawless, certainly, and it did indeed cater to vice and debauchery, and several times various authorities had tried to shut it down or erase it completely.

A home to smugglers, pirates and criminals, spies, corporate tyrants, fugitives both famous and infamous, killers of every stripe, bounty hunters and crimelords, Nebudhi Lair did not go down so easy.

Some say the Lair was founded by Sekhmarhri - the infamous pirate who, with her fleet of captured Command Carriers, had plagued the Peacekeepers so earnestly five hundred cycles ago - as a base from which to launch her legendary exploits. It was difficult to say for certain, however, although the crashed and decaying hulk of a Sekhmarhri-era Command Carrier did form the locus of the port, around which the rest of a city had been built. It had been transformed into small city within the city, and only the "elite of the elite" of Nebudhi occupied it. Those who lived in it called it the Locus.

There was a kind of hierarchy in Nebudhi, less-than savory arms of megacorporations, arms dealers, narcotic cartels – all vying for control of the port at one time or another – just certain groups that ran most things that made life bearable for the various pirates and insalubrious types - and were not, for the most part, frelled with by any great degree. Death was also an industry in Nebudhi Lair.

Nebudhi Lair was not just on the ground, of course. Hanging over the planet in a geosynchronous orbit above the Lair were colossal docking facilities – called the Terminus - rigged to accommodate virtually any configuration of spacecraft.

Chak'sa was looking at the place with dubious eyes, as they approached the outer docks.

"This is a bad idea. This is a place where they will shoot you in order to steal your gun so that they may shoot you with that as well."

"Cha…" Hax told her, standing behind her chair and looking out the forward portal. "Don't be so pessimistic."

"That's a fine thing – coming from you," she rejoined. "You know full well this is no prime vacation spot."

"That depends on your definition of 'vacation', I would think." Crichton broke in.

"It would simply be a change of pace to go somewhere that isn't a seedy den."

Haxer smiled a broad grin at her.

"My dear, those kinds of places have police forces and standards."

Crichton indicated to Shiv to find them an approach vector.

"We're not exactly the moneyed elite." He said as he stretched in his seat. "And I don't like cops."

As they made their way through the 'Shroud', several small ships darted out from the orbiting rubble, only to turn around and flee almost immediately, upon getting at better scan of their opposition.

"Swarmers," Haxer told him. "They try to surround or attach themselves to a ship – try to overwhelm it with numbers and then strip it bare." He grinned. "We're a bit out of their league though."

"Well, we'll keep an eye out in case they get brave." He activated the auto-tracking systems.

Eventually they came through the Shroud, and approached the Terminus. Haxer turned to Crichton as they approached.

"The facilities are dodgy up here, Boss. If I were you, I'd try for a berth at the Locus."

"Why?"

"Because the ship's auto-defences will pile corpses three motras deep by the time we get back, if we don't. This ship will be a little too tempting to a large number of folks down there."

Crichton nodded.

"Understandable. I thought this Locus had reserved berths and all that yotz, however."

Haxer's grin widened.

"So?"

"We could always appropriate one of Reihna's berths." Shiv spoke up finally. "I believe she has at least two in the Locus, if not more." Crichton nodded, and indicated that she was to find him one.

"That will do nicely, Shiv." He glanced at Hax, who nodded. Yeah, he knew a few codes to get them open.

The Vengeance came gracefully down and below it, a large bay door awaited – only to slice open at Haxer's transmitted codes. After a few moments they found themselves in a berth that was unmistakably Karadandidos. Her flower sigil was all over it. Stepping out, Crichton had realized that the Vengeance needed something along those lines – and while it might have been corny on Earth, he doubted anyone out here had ever seen it before. It'd be a nice replacement for the fading PK wedge up there, and he'd already sketched out what he wanted. His crew disembarked behind him, all armed to the teeth, and stopped, waiting for him. Over their heads the bay door cycled closed with a boom.

"Any mod shops on this rock?" He asked, looking the berth over. It had refuel facilities and a tool shop, locked supply caches. No one had been here in a while, either, from the looks of it.

"To do what?" Hax asked.

"A paint job." Hax answered with a shrug.

"We can ask around." 1812 slid up to Crichton's feet and looked up at him. He leaned down, patted the DRD. "Keep your eyes open." A chirp. He turned back, used the control rod to lock the ship down and power up the auto-defences. The control rod went back into his armored 'valuables pocket'.

"Question," Haxer asked, watching him. "That's the only one of those, yeah?" A nod. "How do we get back in if we can't find you, say?"

"You don't."

"How do you get back onboard if you lose it?" Chak'sa asked.

"I won't."

"If you do." Hax added.

"Voice command/recognition."

"Only your voice, right?" A nod.

"Is that wise?" Chak'sa asked. "If you are killed…"

"Then you'd better hope I stay alive, huh?" He told her, a small smirk on his face.

He started walking from the bay, Shiv at his right side, as was becoming usual, matching his step, the DRD before him. Chak'sa and Hax looked at each other briefly and followed. Crichton stopped them at the exit and told Haxer to reprogram the bay. "Make it mine," he commanded. It took no more than a few hundred microts, and the bay now belonged to the Commander of the Vengeance.

Through the exit, a broad corridor led out into a large open area – the Carrier had been gutted over the intervening cycles, hollowed-out to a great extent, to form a huge expanse of shops and services. Old lifts had been left in place even as floors had been removed to open up the space. The people were of myriad types, and threaded throughout, the white-robed adherents of the Dey'd'ardhi Diaspora, hawking and pushing the religion, or threats of divine retribution if all around them wasn't removed without delay. Crichton stopped as he surveyed it.

"Chak'sa – go find me a mod shop – someone that can do paint and insignia."

Chak'sa nodded, adjusted her weapons.

"Price?"

"No object. I want this – " He handed her his parchment design. "I want it done right. As indicated. Tell them to get it done as soon as. Replace Reihna's little flower on that bay, too." She nodded again, glanced at Haxer, headed into the throng, parting it like Moses at the Red Sea.

"Hax. Do what you do best. Find all the info-brokers you can - buy, steal or hack anything you think relevant – and you know what I mean by that." Hax grinned, and bobbed his head. He strolled off in the opposite direction to Chak'sa. He hit his comm. "Call when you're done." Acknowledgements were rendered and he let them go.

"And I?" Shiv asked. Crichton handed her a heavy pouch and a computer pad. She took both, felt cash inside the pouch.

"Shopping. Get what we need, but don't let them scam you."

"Shopping." Shiv sounded dubious. "Me." He handed her the Vengeance' control rod, and her dubiousness deepened.

"Consider it an exercise in trust." Crichton told her, looking over the expanse before them. The ship couldn't go anywhere even with the rod. They still needed him to override the computer lockouts. "And no one is gonna frell with you."

Shiv looked at him a moment longer, then nodded. Crichton watched her go, smiled to himself. He doubted she'd ever done something as mundane as shopping, which was why he gave that job to her. Experiences were not gained simply in battle.

He wandered off, 1812 scooting off ahead of him, finding a clothier after a brief walk. He stepped in, asked after custom jobs and, in the vein of his ship's new paint job, bought a large square of heavy black fabric and set the tailor to the task of transcribing his design onto the square. He also had two dozen insignia made, and another two hundred self-adhesive. When it was done he smiled broadly and happily paid. It was perfect. He stepped out with the bundle under his arm. At his feet, his DRD chirped. He glanced down at 1812, gave it a tap and indicated what appeared to be a tavern ahead of them.

"Let's go have a drink." He smirked. "Been a long day." A twitter in response and 1812 preceded him on his way to the tavern, and like every tavern it was murky and filled with smoke. He found a spot at the bar, and 1812 parked at his elbow. He ordered a Raslak from the extremely reedy-looking bartender, who looked like he hadn't eaten in months. The guy looked at the DRD with disapproval, but said nothing. Crichton drank his Raslak and ordered another.

He studied the bar in the mirror behind the bar, glad it was there. No one looking his way. Good. He studied his own face in the mirror, noted he needed a shave, noted the new lines, the new flecks of grey in his hair. Crichton's father had gone white before he'd turned forty-five. It had grown out a bit, too, longer, less spiky. Yeah, he still looked like a Crichton, but he was feeling less like one every day.

There was a movement behind him, just in the corner of his eye, and he twisted, intercepted the hand that was streaking toward him, grabbing the wrist and pulling its owner forward, slamming that hand on the bar, his other jamming a pistol under the chin of a very surprised woman… who then simply smiled at him.

"Frell me – you've gotten much better." She told him and it took him a microt, but he remembered the voice. He got a better grip on the hand, didn't remove the pistol.

"Small frelling universe. What the hell are you doing here?" He asked her. She glanced down at the gun, smile broadening.

"Working." He released her hand and slowly removed the gun, and Peacekeeper Disrupter Jenavian Charto eased herself into the seat beside him. "What are you doing here?"

"Trying to relax. That the way you say hello to everybody?" The pistol went away just now, she noted. The pistol for his right hand went into a left holster on his hip. Interesting.

"Just people I like."

"Next time try waving. This way is a good way to lose a head." He told 1812 to stand down, and the droid retracted all the cannon it had pointing at her. Jena sat next to him, shooed 1812 down the bar. Crichton lifted his glass as the droid went past, stopped, turned and went back to scanning the bar. Jena ordered Fresian Water and looked him over. He gulped down his drink and ordered another.

"I almost didn't recognize you. What the frell happened?"

Crichton turned to look at her and without changing expression asked, "In what sense?"

She waved a long finger in the vicinity of his face.

"Prison riot," he said and left it at that. Jena nodded her head, didn't question it. She knew the kind of life he led.

He looks very tired, she thought.

"What are you doing here?" She asked him.

He shrugged. "Slumming." He took a long drink, set his glass down. "You here to arrest me or some yotz?"

Jena blinked at him.

"Why would I do that?"

"Fifty-five million. Your duty as a Peacekeeper." It wasn't accusatory, she noted. It was just said, a fact well-known and in no dispute.

"I can't collect the money – rules - and I don't have the time," she said with a small smile.

"Ah. Well, then, what government are you destabilizing this weeken?"

"No government. Looking, believe it or not, for pirates." Crichton contemplated the dregs of his latest Raslak, polished it off, ordered a bottle of "Gett-Slew", which tasted like pears, but acted like bourbon, and two glasses. He poured a measure of the blood-red liquid into a glass and sipped. Just like he remembered.

"Pirates, now. You're expanding your horizons." He poured a measure into the other glass, slid it over to her. "Any particular crew?" She looked hesitant and then leaned over to him.

"Dar'shanne's bunch. The Wāko Navar. And with some luck - Karadandidos'." She said in a low voice. Crichton almost laughed.

"Dar'shanne'll just wanna marry you." He snorted. "The Navar will just eat you after they gang-rape you. They're complete scum. Don't be crazy. Sebacean or not, if Reihna catches you spying, you'll be lucky to die with some of your skin."

"You talk like you know them," Jena slapped the drink down her throat, enjoyed the burn.

"Well enough to know enough not to frell with them." He slid another drink down. "What the hell do Peacekeepers want with pirates? Reihna? She hasn't raided anything of yours in over a cycle or so."

"It's not like that." She held out her glass for another. He filled it. "It's simply… reconnaissance."

Crichton snorted at that. He was finally feeling the mellowness of the Gett-Slew.

"Reconnaissance… I can spare you some work – Dar'shanne hates everybody, and Reihna frellin' hates Peacekeepers. You can't buy her and you sure as hell can't appeal to her patriotism." He laughed at that. "She'll slaughter every PK crew that she can catch. She always needs ships. They're all like that." He poured Jena another drink.

Jena smiled at him, swirled her drink.

"But just who do they hate more – Scarrans or Peacekeepers? That's the question." She sipped her drink. Crichton laughed again, a laugh laced with sarcasm.

"The enemy of my enemy is my friend. Forward thinkin'."

"It'll do in an emergency." She smiled at him, tried changing the subject. "I've missed you, believe it or not. Actually missed you."

"No one misses me. They just forget me until they need something." He scoffed again, topped off her drink, leaned back, looked her over.

"You still look good. Like the hair." She'd cut it since, it was shorter, spikier. She didn't look like she did on the Royal Planet. She was in brown leather, doing her best to look like a pirate without a crew. She did look pretty good. He looked her over for a few long moments, picked up the bottle, stood. "Tell you what – I'll help you with Reihna if you drink the rest of this with me."

Jena smiled a broad smile and stood, bringing her glass.

"I thought you'd never ask."

---

SHIV RETURNED TO THE SHIP A FEW ARNS LATER.

She had been trailed by several automated drone carriers, and Crichton had been right that no one had "frelled with" her. She had managed to procure everything on his list. Canisters of sleep agent – why he wanted it she couldn't imagine. Three large barrels of Froijen Raslak – the expensive kind – three cases of fellip nectar, and the rest – rations, medi-supplies for the auto-doc, data crystals, memory expansion modules for the ship's AI, lubricants, spare parts; Chakkan ammunition, both for himself and the ship, spare components, potable water generators. The rest was blank – listed only as "Anything they needed," which confused her for a moment, until she realized that he had meant her herself, Haxer and Chak'sa/ A quick comm to both procured their lists and those items had been also purchased.

Shiv found it an odd experience shopping for herself, for, in her 'independent' days, she'd simply steal anything she required - but she took it as an order and gave it a go. She purchased clothing, severely military-like and eminently practical.

Until, on a whim – and Shiv could never have explained it had anyone the courage to ask, she purchased several clothing articles that had nothing to do with security, combat or practicality. There was a sleeping outfit of light grey that was light and incredibly soft – she had marveled at the feel of it as she'd contemplated it in the shop, and had suddenly chose. It was sheer in that it would be clingy and appear to reveal more than it actually did. It was, she decided, a complete indulgence in luxury, and for herself alone.

She also bought, again on a sheer whim, what Reihna would have called "glamour clothes" – utterly feminine clothing that she had been assured by the shopkeeper would turn the heads of any male species in the Uncharteds. They served no practical value whatsoever – which had been the point, apparently. She could see practical value in them, having thought on her conversation with Chak'sa earlier – if she were as attractive as Chak'sa had said, anything that accentuated that appearance could give her a tactical advantage – should it be required.

She commed Crichton as the drones deposited her procured items in the Vengeance's storage bay and after she had stored her own purchases in her quarters.

He told her to amuse herself, to hold on to the control rod, and that he would comm them all in a few arns, and she could tell by his voice that he'd been imbibing.

Amuse herself?

How, she wondered, was she to do that?

---

CHAK'SA BAVMORDA WAS, FRANKLY, AN ANOMALY NO MATTER WHERE SHE WENT.

She had long since stopped noticing stares – except the ones that went on a little too long. It had taken her an arn or two, but she found what passed for a reputable mod-shop on this garbage pile of a planet and hired the services of the place – was leading the paint crew back to the ship. She'd declined the proprietor's advances and one of the 'artist's' blatant proposals of a quick coupling in the back of the building. An 'inspection' of her Dra'ak'ka quelled any more forthcoming propositions. She was glad she was alone this time, amusedly remembering the last time she'd been propositioned within Haxer's hearing. He'd done nothing until they had been ready to leave the establishment they'd been in and then he'd casually knocked the male out cold – to deny after that he'd done anything of the kind, even though she'd unmistakably seen him do it. She certainly didn't need his help in taking care of herself. If anything, she protected him more often than not.

He was very dear to her, she admitted to herself, but the thought had never really crossed her mind that he and she would ever have that kind of relationship.

Not really. Not often.

That time on Relagis Prime with the Mistress of The Amber-Clad Carnival – well, that was simply for his own protection. That female was a complete predator, and Haxer had no idea what he'd been in for, as he'd entertained her advances. Chak'sa's threats to the woman had been in his best interests, no other reason.

Chak'sa commed him, was cheerily told all was well. She'd nodded to herself and then commed Crichton, to be told to 'oversee the job", and that he'd comm them in a few arns. The mod shop had pulled together its equipment and were now behind her waiting for her to pick a direction. She sighed, set off, ignoring the many inevitable stares that followed her. The mod team followed eagerly, liking the prospect of easy money.

Chak'sa had spent her life trying to find somewhere she could be where she wasn't the anomaly – and whether she liked it or not, very few people ever looked upon her as simply a person in her own right, and only Hax had never regarded her as anything but. She had often wondered – early on in their partnership – why he had done the things he had done. She'd basically been his captive in Reihna's service, even if in the "captivity" she'd had all the freedom to which she had the right. He'd never laid a hand on her, nor tried to, although he'd insinuated that he had often enough at the time – part of a ruse to keep the other pirates from attempting same, she realized later on – and challenged anyone who disputed his 'claim'.

It should have made her angry and she surprised herself with the revelation that it hadn't bothered her. He didn't do it any longer – hadn't since they'd left Reihna's service for good.

What, she wondered, had changed? And why did it bother her? They weren't lovers. Even though, physically, there was no impediment to such a thing – she was stronger than a Sebacean, had a few different organs and different physical responses to pleasure than he might be used to, but none of that was insurmountable. It was perfectly possible for them to be lovers.

But… he was a mentally-disturbed ex-Peacekeeper. She was a mutated Scarran, bred from stolen DNA, one of Staleek's discarded 'Chosen Trues". Yes, she looked like a Sebacean woman with a Scarran skeleton. It didn't matter. He was disturbed and she was an mutant outcast. They were currently in the employ of the most notorious outlaw in this entire arm of the Galaxy, and she did not need a lover, although she could become as sexually frustrated as anyone. She didn't trust males, for one thing.

Except him, whom she trusted implicitly.

Frell.

Chak'sa found the parking bay, and Shiv already waiting at the main lock. She allowed them in and the mod team got their first look at both the bay sigil, Shiv, and the Vengeance itself. Directed and watched by the two females, and the no-nonsense tone emanating from both dampened the spirits of the team somewhat, but not their skill. Before the Vengeance would leave the bay, she would have an insignia all her own, and while neither unique nor used much on actual ships on Earth any longer, it would be one that would soon become well-known across space – and feared, as its long-dead originators had intended.

---

HAXER FELT LIKE THE MYTHIC "GREAT ACCUMULATOR" OF HOJLDR PRIMUS.

Nexari Datarum - "He Who Collated," in that technological religion – God of Information Retrieval - all beings, all events, all places would one day be scanned, turned into data, catalogued and placed to last forever in his infinite data drive.

He'd done a good day's work, his portable drive stuffed. It just waited to be sifted for its secrets – secrets that might just spell the ruin of a certain half-breed and his insanity, and his fingers itched to play the mathematical music that would render the information down for its factual essence.

They'd do it – he and Crichton – they'd bring Scorpius down once and for all. He'd been honestly hesitant in Ushen Nevaar – Crichton was an unpredictable unknown – and his reputation rivaled Reihna's. Even as insane as he was no doubt seen, Haxer knew people – a man with absolutely no pretensions could see them easily enough in others – and aside from guarded troubles and secrets that such a one as Crichton would undoubtedly have, Haxer had seen something in him that made everything… true.

No. Not "true" – right. It was right that Crichton would destroy Scorpius, and it was right that Haxer would help him.

Like himself, Crichton was hollow inside, he was an empty man, a man who had nothing to lose because everything he'd had of value was already long gone. All that remained was vengeance, all that remained was that the cause of the destruction of their lives did not live on and prosper.

If Scorpius wanted Crichton, Haxer would confound him at every turn. He would hide his movement in the data streams. He would distort any information the half-breed would scan for – he would confound his systems.

If Scorpius wanted wormholes, Haxer would take Crichton's knowledge, decode it, hide it so Scorpius would never find it. He could trust him for that, could Crichton. Haxer was a master of data, adept as few others in its ways, in the paths it could travel, at the beauty of syntax and the subtlety of its deceptions. All this mastery he would lay willingly at Crichton's feet – all for Scorpius' fall.

Haxer smiled to himself. He was having a hard time trying to trust Crichton – he didn't really trust anyone - except Cha. He was a master of language, he could tell when people lied – he could see it, hear it in the syntax, in the words themselves, in the words they chose, used – or didn't use, he mined the subtlety of languages for their truths. It wasn't a skill he advertised, but he could do it and he was rarely wrong. He trusted Cha because she'd never lied to him – not once. Crichton didn't lie, per se, he just didn't tell the truth. It was a subtle distinction that Haxer had a hard time pinning down. Just what he wasn't telling the truth about Hax couldn't figure out. Not yet, anyway. As long as their goals were the same, Hax was willing to follow him.

"Ander!" someone called, and Hax looked around, shaken from his reverie. It sounded very close, a woman's voice, but he shrugged, kept going. No one he knew. The voice didn't repeat, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw a rather attractive woman embrace a man just on the corner, shook his head amused. Young love. Let them have it. Ander, my friend, you'll learn better soon enough.

Haxer commed Crichton to inform him that he'd finished his mission and was returning to the ship to store it. Crichton acknowledged and told him thereafter to 'go frell around". Hax eventually arrived at the Vengeance's bay in time to see the mod team half-done the new ship insignia, Cha seated comfortably on a maintenance access pod on the side of the ship watching them. She waved to him and he waved back. The design had been roughed out on the side and the crew was in the process of painting it on, using basic black and white. Hax couldn't be sure what it was until after it had been finished, but didn't really care – it was Crichton's ship, and he could put blue Vorcs with furry hats up there for all Haxer cared.

He made his way into the ship, sat down at his station, loaded his data collector into its slot and let the computer sift and digest. A few moments later, Shiv walked by, and he had to look twice. She was wearing… something she didn't usually. It was clingy and a rich red and it looked completely feminine and all he could do was be appreciative. She was, frankly, stunning in it and he told her so.

Shiv asked him why he thought so, and Hax stalled, wondering if he hadn't set himself up for some pain. He knew Shiv appreciated the truth, so he shrugged to himself and candidly told her. She seemed to absorb the information without emotion, contemplate it and then returned to her cabin. He sifted his data some more and when she returned, she was in her usual attire.

"Something I said?" he asked as she went by.

"Not at all. You were very informative. Thank you."

"Why the change?" She blinked.

"I cannot wear such clothes out there." She told him, as if he were witless.

"Granted. You'd start a riot." He thought of the image she presented, smiled. Cha was right – she was completely oblivious to how she looked. He shook that out. "Funny how we come for some relaxation, and Crichton's the only one apparently relaxing."

"It was your suggestion. However, if your assignment has been completed, he has basically said that we were free to relax in any method we choose. How do you propose we go about this relaxation?" She looked at him with those steady orange eyes and he realized that she expected an answer. He shifted in his seat.

"Well, from the looks of things, Cha is already relaxing. If she's not sparring or practicing, she likes to tinker or supervise said tinkering. Relaxing is basically doing what you like to do best – only for yourself."

"What I do best… is hunt." She blinked again. "Are you suggesting I go hunt someone?"

Haxer smiled at her, shrugged.

"Why not? Go roam. Find someone who looks like they could be a challenge and hunt them. Test your skills. Just don't kill anybody." He laughed. "Hezmana – go break into the centraplex of the Locus and back out without being seen. That should test your abilities."

Shiv cocked her head at him, thought and then nodded.

"I shall do as you advise," and then turned and headed out.

"Hey –" He called after her, thinking he may have made a mistake. "It was only a suggestion!"

If she heard him, she gave no sign, and he heard the lock cycle closed. Haxer considered it, shrugged. It's not as if anyone could catch her… his search program beeped, and he turned his attention to his data, and warming to the task, began to sort.

Chak'sa watched the mod crew finish the treblinside insignia, and checked it against the illustration Crichton had given her. It matched and she nodded, told them to set up for the other side. She felt she could leave them alone for a least a while and retreated into the ship, saw Haxer at his console, engrossed as usual in his data.

Yes, it was bugging her.

"How are you feeling?" she asked in way of greeting, and he answered without looking up.

"Shipshape. Just collating."

"Were you hungry?" She asked. He blinked, looked at her oddly.

"Not particularly."

"Would you like…" Chak'sa hesitated. They were companions, comrades, partners. Nothing else. She shook her head, changed her mind. Frell.

"Like what?" he looked back at his monitor. Deep in her throat, Chak'sa sighed.

"To be alone?" She asked instead. "To work."

Haxer nodded, obviously already forgetting she was there. She watched him for a few moments longer, shook her head, left to return to monitor the mod-crew.

Stupid, she told herself. He's not stable. You only feel like you owe him a debt for his concern and care in those early days. You don't, not really – it has been paid back several times over. That is all.

She climbed the ladder to a dorsal hatch and walked across the top of the Vengeance, stopped to check and re-cover an exposed relay. She cursed one of the crew roundly for a spilled paint can, and tapped her staff behind him as he cleaned it up. They began the Hammonside blocking for the insignia and she glowered at them as they did.

She didn't need a lover, and she didn't need him.

Her comm crackled and unexpectedly Haxer asked, "Are you hungry, Cha?"

"Yes." She snapped back after a moment. "But I am busy."

She suddenly heard him down below, outside, and he yelled up at the mod-crew.

"This is the Vengeance!" He hollered at the crew. "It is automated to kill anyone stupid enough to attempt to enter it unbidden! Now you gentlemen know enough to know not to frell with things, right?" There were hurried nods. Naturally. "Just remember that if anything goes wrong – or funny – and you and your shop cease to exist. That's easy enough to understand, yes?" More nods. "Good." Her comm said again,

"There. Now you're not busy."

Infuriating, annoying, irritating…! She growled to herself, but it didn't stop the smile slowly crossing her face, nor her legs carrying her back to the dorsal hatch.

---

CRICHTON HAD HIS FEET UP, FELT RELAXED.

Below his chair, an always-vigilant 1812 scanned the private booth, the walls and beyond it. Better than a guard dog. Across from him, languidly draped across a couch, sat a pleasantly-buzzed Disruptor who was watching him with interest. The half-smile she'd had on her face at the start of their Gett-Slew drinking seemed permanently affixed.

Crichton had John's memories of that time on the Royal Planet, and he remembered well Jena's long, smooth, strong limbs and willing, responsive flesh. Whoever selected girls for future Disruptor duty from the Peacekeeper crèches had great taste and a sharp eye. As if he were being nostalgic, he asked her about the Royal Planet, about her mission there.

"It was tiresome, tedious and not at all appealing – although I didn't mind some of the luxuries, I will admit." She swirled her drink, downed it, reached for the bottle. She laughed. "You and your lot almost completely blew it for me, though."

My lot? Not hardly, he thought, but kept it to himself. On a big monitor in his head, Harvey was relaying information about the woman before him. It was highly informative – if a bit dated.

"So that time at the river – just part of the job?" She looked at him closer, but there was no bitterness or reproach in his tone. It was just a question.

"At first," she admitted. "Just checking, you understand." He nodded. Her smile lit up her entire face. "Of course, the second and third times were simple verification."

"Of course." He smiled his flat smile at her. "Do you still have that stiletto in your wrist?" A soft snikt was his answer and he nodded approvingly. "A skeletal derivative, I assume?" A nod. "Because Reihna would have you scanned – down to your molecules."

Jena noted that, nodded at him to continue.

"It's probably not the best time to approach her, really. She's in full paranoid mode."

"Why?"

He recounted why in brief, concluded with, "She's gonna be like a scalded cat for a while, I'm afraid."

Jena laughed, then sighed.

"So what you're telling me is that basically I'm not going to get anywhere near her."

He pursed his lips, shook his head in the negative.

"You couldn't call her, vouch for me? Give me some directions?"

"I stole her number one before I left – sort of – so she probably doesn't like me so much at the moment, either."

"Who?" He told her, watched her eyes widen in surprise. Yeah, the Peacekeepers knew the name of Shivi'na Na'Carahad. Apparently his charms knew no bounds.

"You won the loyalty of the Silent Hand?" The "Silent Hand" was one of Shiv's many 'titles'. "You really have changed." Sounding perfectly sober. Ah, right, he reasoned. Her built-in chemical inhibitors no doubt. The line on his "monitor" that detailed that tidbit flashed. He liked this knowing a few things about Disruptors they likely didn't know he knew. He'd just keep it that way.

"Change or die, Sweetheart," he told her with a smirk.

Jena cocked her head at him.

"What's this dren I hear about there being two of you?" He blinked at her. "Yeah, it's getting around."

"What have you heard?" Small frelling universe, he mused. Although it wasn't unlikely that it'd been going around for a while. News travelled oddly out here. It was amazing how things one would think no one would know ended up being told in the most obscure places. Granted, there were journa-and spy-voyants everywhere. Jenavian grinned at him, but her eyes were watching him closely.

"The tale – with variations - is that some freak accident made two identical copies of you and one went home to his planet and the other one stayed behind. To battle Peacekeepers probably. Is it true?"

He smirked, volunteered nothing.

"It never occur to anyone that maybe Crichton went home, and some pirate that just happened to look like him stole his name for its notoriety?"

Jena chuckled.

"Is that the version you've been pushing?"

"How do you know it isn't the truth?"

"Disruptor instincts. Amongst other things."

"Female intuition?" A nod, a smile.

"Something like that."

Crichton took another gulp of his drink, just nodded, not caring to talk about it.

"Feel free to pass my version on."

"If you like. I thought you were going to help me with Reihna." She said, sitting up, changing tack again.

"So I did. I've saved your life."

"This is important, John. Vitally important."

"Isn't it always?" She shook her head at that, hair dancing around her head.

"The Scarrans… they're building a fleet, John – a huge one. They're assembling armies on their staging planets. They're preparing for war."

"And?" he seemed utterly unconcerned.

"And? And they'll soon outnumber us! In a cycle, it'll be two-to-one. In two, five-to-one. Ten-to-one." She shuddered at the prospect. "You may not like Peacekeepers, but when we conquer a planet, we don't tend to slaughter the inhabitants to the last. They grabbed the Sebacean colony of Zenatati Nou fifty cycles ago and they splashed it from one end to the other with blood and raped bodies."

"And your great idea is to recruit pirates?"

"Our 'great idea' is to recruit anyone we can. If we don't get help, the Scarrans will make this entire galaxy a Zenatati Nou! It would take us another ten cycles to match them ship-for-ship, and we don't have ten cycles. We'll be lucky if we have one."

"You'd be better served hitting up the Ashkelon." He told her. "They've got fleets and troops out the ass."

"We are." He nodded. Of course they were.

"Reihna won't help you, Jena, believe it. She doesn't care who runs what – she'll go until they stop her – whoever that might be." Jena sighed, and he just polished off the bottle.

"I still need to go." She frowned. "At least get a message to her."

Crichton eyed her for a few more moments, and then with a cold, sardonic smile, said, "Actually, I may have a way. But there's something I want, first."

He saw the smile, but dashed that. She wasn't going to distract him that way.

"I'm not doing you any favors. I expect something in return."

"What do you want?" She looked guarded, as expected.

"Information. Tell me everything you know about Scorpius' current whereabouts and projects – and something called 'PH1999' and 'Solatja'."

"I can't tell you that." She said, as if that were too deep and dark a secret.

He shrugged, ordered another bottle of Gett-Slew.

"That's my price." A waiter appeared and dropped the bottle off. "Not negotiable."

"Look – I'll help you – I'll even turn the other way on occasion, but that's not something I can share."

"Then you're on your own with Reihna. What's more important – Scarran armies or your little secrets?" He smiled at her, knowing he had her – or would soon. "Telling me what Scorp is up to is not the same as giving me the keys to his condo and combo to the safe."

She looked at him oddly, but got the gist.

"I tell you – and you give me an in with Karadandidos?"

He shook his head.

"I give you the only real viable alternative you've got. You're on your own after that."

Jena sat and considered – and considered. Crichton merely sat comfortably and watched her, sipped his drink, and waited.

With a sigh that went all the way to her toes, Jenavian leaned back, looked at the ceiling and said, "PH1999 is an advanced tech facility. It's all theoretical tech, and extremely secret. The only way near it is to be on a special ship directed by High Command and remote-slaved by cyborgs. Any other approach to the place is met by four Carriers whose sole purpose is to destroy anything that isn't that ship. Those Carriers are completely automated and controlled from PH1999." She kept her eyes on the ceiling, sighed another deep sigh. "Solatja is the codename for a project of Scorpius' – and I don't know the details. It's Scarran for 'harvest'. All I do know is that it's located somewhere in Tormented Space, in something called the 'V'masque Wastelands."

Jena turned her face from the ceiling and she wasn't happy. Crichton just watched her.

"Well?" She asked, after a long moment.

"Don't feel too bad, you're not giving anything away – not really." She shook her head. It didn't help. Crichton pushed the bottle of Gett-Slew at her and then directed her to Serri NeMinnious – and a man named Rekkard, after a brief explanation of circumstances.

"This will help?" She sounded skeptical. It didn't seem commensurate with what she'd told him.

"It's all you're going to get, Jena. Even he won't really help you, but if you stress it, he might put in a word. He's ex-Peacekeeper, he's seen the Scarrans at it firsthand. You might get lucky." He thought about it, decided to square things.

"You might even want to check out a Commander out there named Fadarso."

"Why?"

"Personal use of Peacekeeper equipment and personnel in violation of Peacekeeper Codes. He's too close to Charrid territory for their liking, if you follow me. He keeps pissin' them off. If you let Rekkard in on it – more or less - tell him you'll fix his little Fadarso problem…"

Jena nodded, and he could see her making a note of it. That should ease Rekkard's mind about it all.

"That's in Holoshan Space?" he nodded. She brightened a bit. "The Holoshans and the Charrids – and the Scarrans - have been blood-enemies for hundreds of cycles. I could use that, too…"

"Still feel bad?" he asked her. She shook her head. No, she didn't. Surprising how they seemed to like to help Crichton, he thought. What mysterious power did he possess, anyway? It couldn't have been his looks – he didn't have those anymore.

"Drink up." She poured herself a drink, looked over the rim of the glass at him.

'If I can pull this off, John, we're that much closer to stopping the Scarrans – even if we can just slow them, we'll have a better chance. You'll have helped save the Peacekeeper Influence – and hundreds of billions of Sebaceans."

He shrugged. It meant nothing to him.

"Do you have to leave this planet anytime soon?" She asked after a few moments. He shrugged again.

"A day, maybe two, maybe not. Haven't decided." She slid closer to him in the booth.

"Unfortunately, I have to leave sooner. I have missed you, you know – and I really do appreciate your help."

Crichton watched her slide closer, thought about it. Yeah, he'd told himself he wanted nothing of Crichton's – and that included his memories. Still and all… why the hell not? Those particular memories were pretty good. Unbidden, he smiled, remembered a line from some Shakespeare play, Mrs. Bolton's 10th Grade English class:

"Come, come, let us thither: this may prove food to my displeasure. That young start-up hath all the glory of my overthrow: if I can cross him any way, I bless myself every way."

He wasn't sure if it were entirely appropriate, but grinned at her, poured her another drink.

"Really? Let's talk about it."

Jena smiled back, wider, and slid closer.

---

INTERLUDE

"HOW IS SHE?"

"She's perfectly fine. A mild concussion, nothing serious. A burn or two. You shielded her from most of it."

"She's Sebacean, doctor. They're a bit more susceptible to radiation than we are."

"I don't doubt your word, Commander. But there's no evidence of any exposure above a few rads, and that's not enough to cause anything but minor flash burns. Still… it's an odd wavelength. We'll keep her here for observation until we're completely certain. Would that suit you?"

"To a T."

"She won't like it, John," DK told him, shaking his head.

"She'll understand the need, Deek. That's why we came back in the first place."

"She's still recovering. Won't she want you to stick around?"

DK thought of his own fiancée, waiting in the car outside. Crichton's fixation on any project he was on – his easy ability to obsess – DK corrected himself, may have made the last two years possible, but it had to be hard on relationships. He could see the import of this work, but he wasn't sure if it was worth it to 'save' humanity and end up alone in the process.

Crichton squared his shoulders, took a deep breath outside her door. The engine was destroyed, the base trashed, but then there were other places he could go. He had to go, get the venue changed, and the project back on track before the US pulled out and then stonewalled it for the next twenty years. The government was still petulant over his insistence it be a worldwide thing, and not something they could exclusively exploit.

Perhaps he'd been in space too long, but he knew his perspective was different, that regardless of where he was born, he no longer saw things from petty views of this or that country. He dealt with planets as a whole now.

He sighed, opened her door, walked in to Aeryn's room, with the sudden strangest feeling that some great decision had passed him by, had decided in his favour – in some odd manner. He smiled to himself.

In my favour? Maybe not.

Aeryn looked a little hollow-eyed, very tired, but she greeted him with a smile.

"You're gonna be all right," he told her, his smile widening. Before she asked, he told her, "I'm okay. You got it worse than I did." He frowned then, and Aeryn felt her heart sink a little. She knew what was coming. Had expected it.

"I'm really sorry," he said, regretfully. "I have to go. They want me in Washington. I have to get those idiots to restart the funding to rebuild the engine core. They're calling it a failure."

"Wasn't it?" She asked, weakly. This was so typical.

"No. I understand what happened now. This time I can do it quicker, and with no mistakes. I'm going to move it to Serendipity." If he thought she'd rejoice over that, he was wrong. Or maybe she was just too tired.

Aeryn just shook her head. She could see the gleam in his eye, and she knew that all future sacrifices would be hers to make.

"You do what you have to," she told him, with a sigh. She knew him, knew his obsessions, knew what it meant to him. Of course she'd agree.

"I have to leave today," he added, and she just nodded. That also figured.

"I know." She closed her eyes and settled into bed. "Go."

He kissed her gently.

"With any luck we'll be together at Serendipity." He rose, turned to go. "I'll be back as soon as I can. This is only temporary." He stopped, looked back at her, and she smiled a wan smile and nodded. He sighed again, and closed the door behind him.

"Isn't everything?" She asked the silent room. Aeryn looked at the door for a good while, then sighed herself, got as comfortable as she could, and was soon asleep.

INTERLUDE ENDS

---

THEY LINED UP IN NEAT ROWS, IN BLACK ARMOR, ARMED TO THE TEETH.

Their commander looked them over and was satisfied. Two thousand of his best.

"Stand by. Entering system perimeter in 500 microts."

He acknowledged, tightened an already impeccable seal. He looked over his troops.

"Our orders are total assault and clear. No survivors save those specified. No prisoners save as ordered. First Squad will take the ring. Second and Third will assault the facilities. High Command wants the entire operation destroyed beyond recovery. Hardsuit Commandos will deploy first."

Two thousand bodies snapped in salute at the orders. He put his hands behind his back and walked the platform before them.

"I know it seems like grunt duty. But, we are a part of a precisely ordered and elegant strategy. We are essential to its success. Even now our aerials are destroying their forward defences. You are required to do your duty - what you do best. For my part, I have no intention of restraining you in your duty." Again the snap salute in acknowledgement of his words.

"You have your orders. Snap to!" He barked, and as one, they turned and marched out, to be deployed into their dropships and assault pods. He followed more casually, thinking on his intended target, a smile creasing his face.

That particular target had a reputation of being clever, inordinately fortunate, formidably adept at avoiding capture.

Well, we'll see, the commander thought, fitting himself into his drop-pod. He himself was going to wait and see – wait and greet this oh-so important target, and see for himself.

No legend was forever.

Comptroller Lantralli Verges watched in horror as the Command Carrier roared from nowhere. The sensor net had not registered it, and it should have. He had, however, no time to ponder it. Frag Cannons blasted the Hound that was protecting his watch station and he watched it disintegrate. He tried to arm the others – couldn't. He saw the same Cannon rotate toward him and he managed an alarm before it blew him and the station to atoms. His last thought was only one word:

Sabotage!

The Carrier continued past the wreckage, Marauders and Prowlers arcing from it, heavy gunships following. The ultrafast "Hardships" blasted inner-system, well ahead of the main force.

By the time it would arrive, there would be little left but to assess and report.

---

MIRIYA SAW THEM COMING AND CURSED a string of lurid invective that would have made hardened marines looked twice in wonder. She gasped when she saw a huge chunk of the Halo suddenly crumple inward and then shatter silently. Watched as a Hound veered drunkenly and ploughed into a section of her shop, it and the section vanishing in a fireball and concussion that reached her 200 microts later, shaking the whole shop. She told her techs to run for it, but she doubted any would escape – all ships not Peacekeeper were being destroyed. Not everyone simply laid down and died, however. Several Marauders and a few Prowlers were downed in the assault, but Tyvon and the Halo and the other shops never stood a chance. Miriya felt her fury grow.

They were destroying everything!

The first Peacekeeper that entered her shop was killed by the auto-defences built into the tower, as well at least a dozen more, but someone somewhere found the main computer section that controlled the defences and fried it, and they swarmed in. Miriya retreated to her apartments high up in the Tower.

Below she saw them firing methodically with heavy 'Batter Cannon', massive weapons on mobile platforms. When one fired, a whole section of her shop disintegrated. She felt the Tower take a few hits, and decided. Miriya loaded everything her computers had recorded of the attack – up to now – into a remote drone and ordered it to take off. Far on the other side of her shop – the side furthest from the Peacekeepers, a hatch opened and featureless black orb the size of a basketball abruptly launched itself into the sky. She'd programmed it to find one ship in particular, at an engine frequency she knew very well indeed. The computer confirmed it achieved orbit and then headed in a direction away from the system that would hopefully slip it past the Peacekeepers out there.

She then started yanking her datacores, quickly rewired the main computer to fry itself, and let it go. As a backup, just in case, her cores went in an armored box, and the box she dropped down a hidden chute in the wall of her workroom. They would fall down into an armored safe that she and only she could open. So she hoped, at any rate.

When they finally got in, Miriya surrendered, and received a stunning blow across the face as her reward. The butt of a rifle struck the back of her head and the last thing she saw was a heavy boot swinging toward her stomach as she lay on the floor. She was unconscious for the two subsequent ones and missed the Regimental Commander's entrance. He looked over the unconscious woman and ordered her taken to the Carrier.

Slung like a sack of grain, she was carried out. The Commander examined the now-tilting rooms and shook his head. Too many possessions. Too many useless odds and ends that served no purpose. Well, whatever – what could one expect from a tech anyway? He thought no more highly of them than he did a DRD.

He told one of his sub-commanders to finish laying waste to the facility and to kill anyone else they found. Messages were to be sent, warnings to be created, fear to be inculcated. He then ordered a Marauder to be left for him and hidden. The Captain would be informed that he was staying behind as he would deal with this outlaw himself. The sub-commander saluted briskly and relayed the Commander's orders.

As he left the Tower area, the sub-commander smiled to himself and brushed a spot on his sleeve where the new bar that would soon denote him as Regimental Commander would go.

---

SHIV WAS COMFORTABLY SEATED IN THE PUBLIC TRANSPORT, returning to the Vengeance's parking side of the Locus, contemplating the afternoon she'd just had. She'd taken Haxer's advice, and while initially finding the suggestion a little odd, she'd warmed to the idea, and had chosen at random a 'victim'. The first had panned out, being a shopkeeper, the second had almost immediately left the planet, but the third proved more interesting - initially. He had been furtive, like a man with a secret, and his random actions had been those of a person attempting to make certain to shake any pursuit.

She'd followed him across the Locus, and he had not seen her. In the end, unfortunately, he had turned out to be merely engaged in a little adultery, and Shiv had no interest in couplings.

Then she saw the Thantados.

Shiv didn't hesitate. She was up and out the door of the moving transport before anyone noticed, and racing lithely across its tracks and onto the trail of the other Thantados she was certain she'd seen.

What prey, she asked herself, could be more worthy than one of her own kind?

She'd managed the assassin's last position, stopped. She was good. Very good. Shiv could not have been more than a few hundred microts behind her. Above her, she heard a scrape, infinitesimally small, but it propelled her into the shadows like lightning, and a half-microt later, a blade was quivering in the pedway where she'd stood. There was a small laugh from above her, and she was startled to hear that the voice was male. Yes, there were male Thantados - "Blade Mages" - but they were even more rare than renegade ones.

"Come out, Sister." She heard him say. "We are the same."

Shiv cast her voice out, and immediately shifted position.

"Indeed? I am Shivi'na Na'Carahad."

Another laugh floated down, and then the sound of a body landing lightly on its feet. He deliberately put himself in the open, and Shiv got a good look at him. He was perhaps taller than she, but not by much, long and lean and strong as all Thantados were – with the same calm, composed face, but his eyes were twinkling with laughter. That was even more rare than male Thantados. He was wearing loose-fitting dark garments (what Crichton might have called "classical Arabic" had he seen the man), with the Thantados metal cuirass of blades.

"I am Thadon No'Halladan. We are alike in having names, Sister." Shiv relocked her blades, and stepped slowly from her shadows. Neither relaxed, however.

"You are a renegade?" Her tone was skeptical.

"I am." He smiled at her, obviously liking what he saw, his orange eyes taking her all in. "But not as you may think."

"Explain." Her eyes narrowed.

"I am deliberately set loose on the Galaxy, Sister, with free will. The Fabricators have learned from your defiance. They watch your exploits with much fascination." Shiv felt a premonition of… something, but even as the feeling came, he was moving. "As do I."

He might not have been quicker than she, but he was close enough, and physically stronger – before she could move, he had her around the torso, arms trapped at her side, and for the first time in a long time, Shiv knew what superior physical strength felt like – but she wasn't about to go anywhere quietly, launching all the counters she knew – but he avoided or blocked each.

"Calm down, Sister! No harm will come to you!" Shiv suddenly relaxed, and he made the mistake of smiling and abruptly her dark head was coming back and smashing into his face. With a grunt, he dropped her, and she immediately bounded up the wall opposite, and he barely had the time to move before he was impaled.

"You dare to lay hands on me!" He fled, up alleys, onto rooftops and Shiv followed, goaded by the smile on his now-bloody face – which she was suddenly determined to wipe from it.

She'd chased him halfway across the Locus, and Thadon admired her determination – until he abruptly realized that she was no longer behind him!

He stopped, and immediately backtracked, but could find no sign. He cursed to himself that he let her out of his sight – she was far, far too dangerous for that. From her shadows, Shiv watched him go back, and she could see his tenseness. How dare he take her so lightly? She watched him move, watched the light play on his skin, noted his bone structure, his straight nose, firm jawline, could remember vividly his strong arms around her, flattening her breasts and pinning her like… and then had to shake her head to get her brain from travelling down those avenues.

Whence came this nonsense?

Frell. Was she – did she find him attractive? Or was it merely the novelty of seeing a male Thantados? She stayed in her shadows and watched him, saw him become frustrated (interesting that he was so open emotionally), and finally turn back onto his previous route. She waited and dropped back onto that track herself – ahead of him, waited. She stopped him with a blade at his throat and a hissed, "Explain yourself."

He smiled at her – frell him – and simply stated what he had said earlier.

"That explains nothing!" She told him. "Did you seek me out specifically?" The blade was pressed harder against his throat, which seemed not to bother him at all.

"In a sense. You are the most famous of all Thantados, Shivi'na Na'Carahad. What do they call you? The 'Silent Hand'? 'DeathShadow'? How many meaningless titles? I admit to a certain personal fascination, myself, regardless. Your …rebellion interests our makers."

"I was given free will. I choose to use it. There is no mystery."

He laughed.

"What do you do with that will? Associate with criminals? Pirates?" He reached up, infinitely slowly, and secured her wrist. To her own surprise, she did not try to shake him loose. He did not attempt to move her hand, merely wrapped long fingers around her wrist, lightly. Then he stroked those fingers across the back of her hand. She stared at his fingers, at the temerity of the tingle in her flesh as he did it. She didn't understand why he was doing it, but it would have him dead if he continued… or might have, if her arm hadn't suddenly gone nerveless in the wake of those fingers.

Neuro-sedative! She cursed, felt the muscles in her legs go weak. Like some rank amateur, she'd played right into his hands. Geared to her physiology, only another Thantados would know what to use.

"I apologize," He told her, catching her in his arms before she fell. "You are, frankly, too dangerous to deal with unless measures are taken." He pulled her close, lips at her ear. "You will forgive me – eventually."

He gazed at her face for what seemed like a long time, and his expression was unreadable, until a small smile played over his face. He ran his fingers down her temple, down her cheek, around her chin, admiring her face.

"You are a rare beauty, Shivi'na Na'Carahad. Such a pity you are so unaware of the power you possess through it." He sighed, and she was abruptly subjected to the indignity of being slung over his shoulder. "Things are as they must be." He seemed to hesitate, and the smile returned. "We must talk, you and I."

Shiv felt odd – both angry and fascinated, and disappointed in herself that she had allowed herself to be taken so easily. He had obviously been designed for that purpose – so her Makers wanted her to return to the Homeworld. That was a cycle away.

Shiv tested her muscles and knew she was caught when she could move nothing. She was caught. She did not hope. That was not in her nature, nor did she expect Crichton or the others to come after her once they realized she was missing. Second or not, she had invited herself onboard the Vengeance, and there was no profit in it for them to expend the effort to 'rescue' her. Shiv also admitted to herself that Thadon was intriguing, and that the reason he had caught her was that he was indeed an attractive male – the novelty of the first she had seen.

However…

Fascinated or not, Shiv hoped he had calculated the dosage properly, because the instant she was free – he would die.

---

HAXER KNEW NUMBERS AND CODES AND CIPHERS AND FEW OF THOSE HE COULD NOT CRACK.

Females, on the other hand, completely mystified him. He'd long ago given up trying to figure them out, however – he was no fool. Let them have their mysteries. He'd taken Cha to what passed for a high-class restaurant on this hole of a planet, and they'd spent a pleasant two arns eating, and just discussing trivia, old memories, Crichton's motivations, Shiv's, she inquiring after his newly-repaired brain. No, there were no new insights. They were returning to the Vengeance, when Chak'sa asked him what he thought it meant.

"What do I think what means?" He asked her.

"'Why Crichton named the ship 'Vengeance'?"

"I'd think it was pretty obvious. He plans to use it – and us, just as likely - to get revenge on Scorpius. I'm for that." He grinned.

Chak'sa shrugged, and Hax knew that she was simply trying to talk her way to… something. It made him curious, as Chak'sa wasn't exactly the 'share introspection' type.

"The Dri'miir say that vengeance is the only sanctified form of violence," Hax added. "Although revenge isn't. They say it's a matter of mindset - they like to make those kinds of distinctions." Chak'sa thought about it briefly, then nodded slightly.

"An interesting one, to be sure." Haxer had to agree. "Does he believe he will achieve this vengeance he seeks?" Chak'sa asked, sounding skeptical. Hax shook his head.

"Nope. I doubt he believes in much of anything, actually. I think he thinks it's important to simply get the chance." She nodded at that as well, and they walked on in silence – a not-unpleasant one, Haxer thought. He watched a few heads turn and appreciative glances come her way. She apparently didn't notice.

"That bother you?" He asked her out of the blue, after a short while. She seemed taken by surprise.

"Does what bother me?"

"Crichton. Not believing. In things." She smiled slightly, shook her head.

"No. It is his own affair." A pause. "Why would it?" He shrugged.

"Just curious." He laughed. "Order. Stability. Enforcement." He snorted in derision.

"What?"

"Peacekeeper Creed. Well, one of them." He mused briefly. "I believed in those once."

"You could use a little stability," she jibed. He smiled.

"That's why I have you around, Cha. You centre my universe." Chak'sa stopped abruptly, looked at him.

"I do?" He nodded. Of course she did, she knew that. She fixed him with a glare he knew well and asked, "Why?"

Frell. He didn't know why, he only knew that she did. He gave her the standard male answer – the only one he actually had, and knew it wasn't going to be anywhere remotely adequate.

"You just …do. I can't really explain it." She looked frustrated, as he knew she would, and he answered that look with, "I could lie, y'know." She shook her head, sighed in her Scarran way. Haxer had a premonition, found himself strangely shocked. Surely she didn't… with him? He was useless in that capacity.

"I've kept you from a real life," He told her, and she looked at him with disquiet. "I know that, and I apologize. I know I'm not much in the way of a partner." He smiled a rueful smile.

"You can be rather vexing at times." She said, and there was a hint of amusement below it.

"I know it." He nodded. "Look, Cha… if it's an end to this you want…." She grabbed his wrist.

"Did I indicate that? Did I say that?"

"No, ma'am!" He agreed at the rather strong grip. She'd leave bruises if she tightened it. "All I'm saying is…"

"Nonsense!" She snapped at him. "I have been with you this long, why would I leave you now?" He shrugged.

"I don't know, Cha – to have a real life maybe? Something that isn't running or fighting or hiding or stealing, living hand-to-mouth with a crazy guy?" Even as he said it, he was hoping to Hezmana she'd just chalk it up to his lunacy and leave it at that. The prospect of her leaving made his guts churn. To his utter relief, she said,

"You are not," she released his arm. "That is not your fault." She looked away. To her surprise, Haxer took her hand gently in his own. She looked down at it.

"Cha…" she looked into his face. His eyes were open and honest. He had to be honest. He didn't like it, but he had to be – especially to her. One lie would lose her forever. "I'm not saying no, but my head needs to screw itself back on, y'know? Maybe, if this re-pathing works… all I'm saying is that you deserve as close to sane as I can be."

He saw her eyes dim a little, then brighten, as a smile crossed her face.

"Then I shall wait, no doubt, a very long time." To her relief, Haxer laughed.

"Not too long, I hope." He said, kissing then releasing her hand and walking away. "Talking about it and doing it are two different things, Cha – and I'm getting real tired of talking." He chuckled and kept going, and Chak'sa stood there for a few microts longer, suddenly realized what he was saying, and shaking her head, followed.

---

HE SAW CHARTO OFF WITH A SMALL WAVE AND A SMILE.

They had spent a pleasant few arns, and he felt better for it, some unnamable pressure that had been building up had dissipated. He returned to the Vengeance to see that the painters had finished – and now emblazoned on her side was a huge skull and crossbones – Earth's universal symbol for piracy. It was also where Reihna's flower used to be and he approved. Out here, it would be completely unique and completely his – and his smile was one of satisfaction at its crisp lines and precision application. The paint team was just finishing up, and Hammonside, up high comfortably watching the team finish sat a placid-faced Chak'sa Bavmorda. He nodded at her and received one in return, proceeded into the ship. 1812 scooted up the side of the ship, heading toward her. They got along.

Haxer was ensconced in front of the main computer interface, doing what he did best. Crichton nodded at him as he went by, ran a few checks. Conspicuous by her absence, Crichton called back to Haxer as to Shiv's whereabouts.

"Out hunting," came the reply, "but she promised not to kill anything."

Crichton digested this, said, "I found out both where and what PH1999 and Solatja are – and only one is viable."

"Which?"

"Solatja. It's where Scorpius is – and where my curiosity really wants to be." He checked the Vengeance's databanks. "Frell. I've got nothing up here. Anything in your data about something called the V'masque Wastelands?"

Haxer nodded, frowned, nodded again.

"Yeah… wait a microt… nothing specific, some intercepts of PK shipping manifests – pirate stuff, naturally – nothing they wanna steal though. I just thought it was all junk files."

"What's in the manifests?"

Haxer appeared at the door, carrying a portable data reader.

"Standard Carrier stuff. Rations, fuels for various auxiliary craft." He looked them over. "Odd. Someone's requisitioned a large number of Yaver tubes and Mekla coils."

"What's odd about those?"

Haxer shrugged. "Dunno – but Cha would." He called her, asked.

"Yaver tubes and Mekla coils? Strange. I shall be down directly."

It only took a few moments, and Chak'sa entered the Command area, took the manifest from Haxer. She smiled an odd smile at him, Crichton noted, then dismissed. Their relationship, and as long as it didn't get in the way of either his plans or their jobs, he didn't care. He handed them two of the new insignias, told them to put them somewhere noticeable on their outfits. Two nods answered. It was nothing new to those who spent their lives as pirates. She looked over the rest of the manifest.

"Interesting. It's nothing of consequence. They're just the components to an energy recycling structure. They take an energy stream and flip its charge, recycle it back through the system."

"Why would they do that?" Haxer asked.

"It has been used in some weapon systems, to overwhelm defensive shield arrays, it can also be used to undermine some kinds of defensive cordons. Peacekeeper commandos occasionally use it to disrupt power grids to cities." She frowned, looked it over more closely. "Except…"

"Except?"

"Well, the requisitions in these manifests call for rather large tubes and coils." Crichton stood, came over and looked over her shoulder.

"How large?" Chak'sa was doing some mental calculations.

"Actually, quite large. Too large for any practical field operations."

Crichton scratched his chin, paced away, thinking hard.

"Chak'sa – if those systems were linked to a Carrier's drive system… and the energy charges they flip applied to the Carrier itself – what would happen?"

"It would create an internal pulse that would literally fry every power distribution pathway on the Carrier.. that would be an extremely foolish application of…."

"…and if that pulse was channeled through the Carrier's shield generator grid, say? That manifest had enough material on it for several of those gadgets. If you ringed the Carrier with them – then what?"

Chak'sa had sat, was trying to follow what he was proposing.

"Well… all it would do would be to set a constantly charge-flipping energy conduit that ran around the ship. I can't see any useful application to such an arrangement, however."

"Unfortunately, I can." Crichton looked grim. "If a Carrier had that setup, it could blunt, shunt or otherwise channel large amounts of energy and radiation around the ship." He stopped pacing. "A Carrier could skip through a star's corona and never feel the heat."

"That makes no sense." Haxer said. "Command Carriers don't do research."

Crichton sat. He could see where this was going, and it wasn't an avenue down which he wished to tread. Naturally, choice was not something he'd gotten a lot of lately. In his head, Harvey was whispering rather anxiously. Crichton shut him up, returned his focus to the 'real' world.

"Some do. One thing about wormholes… they have rather fickle energy signatures, and some rather exotic and unlikely radiation exchanges. It's what makes them extremely dangerous to traverse."

Chak'sa eyes widened. Yeah, the tech in her could see the ramifications.

"If you could shunt that energy…"

"Yeah. You could travel through them without blinking – even unstable ones."

So that's what Scorpius was doing in the Wastelands. Crichton shook his head. Scorpius was farther along than he'd imagined, not that being able to pass through one meant much. There was still the matter of knowing where you were going. However, that didn't mean Crichton could afford to waste much time. He turned to his control board and began running checks on the Vengeance's systems.

"Sorry, kids. R&R's over." Behind him, Haxer and Chak'sa took their stations, began running checks on the systems they oversaw. He hit his comm. "Shiv." He waited, then frowned. Shiv's response was usually immediate.

"Shiv, respond." Met with silence, he turned to Chak'sa, who shook her head.

"Signal's clean." Crichton grimaced. She was likely in some kind of trouble. Shiv would not have lost her comm, and there were very few reasons she wouldn't answer him.

"Can we scan for her?"

"We'll have to be in the air, Boss," Haxer told him. Crichton nodded, and raised the Vengeance free of the berth.

"Run it." He took the ship higher, hovered. "It should be pretty easy to isolate Thantados lifesigns." A nod from Haxer and he ran the cycle, and they waited.

"Got it. Very faint though."

"Where?"

"Farside Docking Annex. Weird. I'm getting two Thantados signatures. One's relatively strong, the other's really dim."

"Track it. Let's go." The Vengeance angled toward the Farside Docks and cruised over the open Locus. She got looks and fingers pointed in her direction. She wasn't hard to miss, and the new insignia on her flanks also drew attention.

"It's moving. Speed indicates a ship." Hax paused, watched the track. "Staying planetside, heading Velka 002." Crichton boosted the ship away from the Locus, into open sky, turned after it.

"If it is another Thantados," Chak'sa ventured, "Shiv may have chosen to accompany them. She has little trouble in changing allegiances."

Crichton had considered that briefly, changed his mind. Shiv had sworn him an oath, and he was going to take her at her word. He pulled out the blade he'd taken from her. It gleamed.

"This says she hasn't. Get set to overtake and board." He shifted the coordinates slightly. "Let's get stealthy."

---

SHIV WATCHED HIM MOVE ABOUT HIS SHIP.

She was muscle-dead from the neck down, the drug immobilizing her with efficiency. She could still move her head, could still see and hear and speak. He'd placed her gently into a cushioned chamber, to prepare her for the long journey, she supposed. An entire cycle in stasis. It was not something she relished.

"You realize," she told him as he came near. "If I do somehow become free, I will kill you."

"I've no doubt of that." He told her with a smile. "But - unlikely." He squatted next to the chamber. "Aren't you even curious?"

"About what should I be curious?"

"About how I was able to capture you so easily." His smile broadened. She shook her head.

"I am not curious. You were obviously designed and engineered to do just that. I'm not a fool."

He laughed, stepped back, primed his systems.

"Nor would I make the mistake of thinking you so. Contrary to what you may believe, Shivi'na, our Makers are not without compassion."

Shiv sighed.

"I am a product of their genius – a disposable killer." She scoffed. "Where is the compassion in that?"

He looked back her, surprised, a little bewildered, as if she'd said something outrageous.

"Do you truly believe that? That the Fabricators would craft so carefully for such a base reason? I'm astonished at such an attitude." He stopped the ship, put it into a hover mode, came back to her, kneeled down, said earnestly, "You are not simply a 'disposable killer', Shivi'na – you are a living work of art! It is no accident that all Thantados are the pinnacle of their trade – and you are the pinnacle of Thantados. Dispose of you? Not hardly. You are the culmination of a thousand cycles of care and craftsmanship."

"You try to charm me," Shiv said implacably. "It will not work. If I must go back to Requyiim, I will do it in silence. Put me into stasis, where I may dream of the many ways you can die."

"You were captured so easily," he said, as if she'd not spoken, with only the faintest trace of mockery, "because as you said - I was designed to do precisely that. I was, frankly, made for you."

Shiv blinked and he smiled.

"Yes. For you. I am your perfect other, in common parlance, I would be your…" he hesitated, looking for the words, unfamiliar to Thantados, "… your perfect match, as it were, your perfect mate." He saw anger cross her face, but only smiled. "I know how you feel, but you cannot deny the attraction you feel toward me, even now. Our makers know you intimately, Shivi'na, of course they do. To you, I am … irresistible." He laughed, returned to his controls and the ship rose, and he vectored across the planet's surface, wanting to get to the dark side and sensor blindness, in case anyone might follow. He had much to tell her.

Shiv rolled her head away from him. He was telling the truth. As angry and frustrated as she was, she could not deny that he stirred things in her – perhaps even that elusive 'desire' others had spoken of – well, maybe, but it didn't matter. Designed for her or not, she was more than just a series of automatic responses.

"It will not save you, if I get the chance." She laughed a tiny laugh, full of cruel pragmatism. "It is an even better reason, actually, to kill you – especially if you create in me such a vulnerability."

Contrary to what she would have thought, he laughed heartily.

"Fairly stated and true, too. The reasonable do not argue against reason." He adjusted his course, frowned briefly at his scanner. Was someone following him? He checked again. There was nothing on his scopes, and he proceeded on.

"However, the facts are facts, and the truth is that the Makers hold you in such esteem that I was made for you – you are not being punished, Shivi'na, nor will you be forced to submit to the Death at your return. Nor am I returning you."

"What? Nonsense!" She ejaculated. "How arrogant! 'Made for me'!" She barked a short sharp laugh. "Do they reward me for my disobedience?" she sneered. " - and are you such a prize?"

"No," he told her in all seriousness. "I am an example. For you to see with your own eyes." He reached over to a control, and something at her arm hissed. She felt a dull life throb through her veins, but as yet, she could not move. What was he playing at? "I must convince you…." He stood. "In a few moments, your mobility will return in full. You may do your will." As he said it, Shiv had regained mobility - was already moving, blades flashing at him.

"Or you can learn about the truth of yourself and why you were really sent out into the galaxy."

With preternatural skill, the blade that could have cut his head off stopped with absolute control at his flesh, indenting but not cutting. Cold orange eyes gazed into open ones, and Shiv pressed her blade slightly. A spot of light blue blood welled. He did not falter nor make any move.

"Then tell me."

"No." Her eyes widened at his boldness. "Not under threat. You must learn to trust sometime. Think of the risk our Makers have taken." In her head, she scoffed. The Makers took no risks – that was why she and he and all like themselves were in the universe.

"You kidnapped me." She said, accusatory. Why should I trust you?

"No, I did not. I merely brought you to a place where you would listen to reason. That you are so touchily dangerous was the reason for the immobilizer."

Shiv stared into his eyes for what seemed like a very long time, and he looked back, openly. Trust. It was not easy. But… she had given it to Crichton, had she not? For no reason she could discern, she'd done it. Why him, and not one of her own kind?

"I am not a trap, a trick, or a ploy," he told her softly. "If I am anything, I am… a message."

Shiv decided, and put her blade away. He nodded.

"There is a concern among the Fabricators, Shivi'na. Naturally, they did not communicate the details to me, but it is evident. This concern is deep. Do you remember the last time you saw a Fabricator?"

Shiv nodded. She took a step away from him.

"The day I was decanted, as all Thantados do. That is the way of it – I saw a Maker the day I was born, and will the day I die, and never in-between."

He nodded as she said it, that being tradition.

"I have seen them many times." She looked taken aback. "Yes, I was as surprised – being called back to the High Ones and the Assigners over and over. It was then I understood the reason – they were worried. Things have changed since you left."

"What things?"

"Five cycles ago, several Thantados were contracted by the Mek'kehhj, as a last ditch effort in their thousand cycle-war with the Avroo'nadai. Five Maidens and two Mages were contracted, and in short order, the entire ruling Concordat of the Avroo'nadai were eliminated." He shook his head at what he knew, and he knew how she would react. "Even though the contract had been fulfilled – not a single Thantados returned from the planet. Not one." Shiv gasped. "There is more – every last one was captured, publicly tortured and killed. This is unprecedented in our history." Shiv had to lean against a bulkhead for support – it was unbelievable! In the five thousand cycle history of the Thantados, nothing like this had ever happened!

There was more, however.

"The Avroo'nadai retaliated and wiped out the Mek'kehhj – and they have sworn a blood oath to wipe out Thantados – all Thantados, everywhere they can be found. They do not know where Requyiim is – yet. I believe that is the cause of the Makers' concern."

"You… came to warn me?"

"Not exactly." He turned back to his ship, began moving again. "Our Makers need you – your template. They believe that your unique abilities and …sensibilities will aid them in the future. The Avroo'nadai will find Requyiim eventually. The Makers wish to be ready. You know they have no armies or defences but us."

The survival of her race, of her Makers – at stake. Was it possible? Yet, his words rang with truth.

"What is being done in the meantime?" she asked.

"Several contracts have been canceled and our Sisters and Brothers – have been redirected." He spoke with satisfaction at the next. "I can tell you that the Avroo'nadai will be taught fear. Even now, their leadership dies in quantity under our blades."

"That is not enough." Shiv knew it, really, without asking. He shook his head in confirmation.

"No. Our brethren are still being caught." He looked back at her, looked her up and down. "But you – you have been there and were not caught." He smiled at her. "Our Makers wish to know why."

"As would I," Shiv told him, trying to remember when she had been anywhere with Avroo'nadai. She had been many places in her time, and many had simply blurred together. "Tell me what these Avroo'nadai look like."

He sniffed in disdain.

"They are a subset species of the ancient and honorable Zen-Mokai. They are Felinids."

Shiv remembered – a cat-like species she'd encountered very early in her career. She'd been hired to kill the rival of a Northern Clan. She remembered that the kill had been tricky, but not impossible – and while she recalled a few close calls, she had never felt that she would have been captured.

"The Makers cannot afford the level of attrition, if these captures continue, Shivi'na."

"Agreed." She watched him pilot for a moment. "Surely they have a contingency."

She saw him stiffen momentarily and then relax. The look he sent her was both trepidacious and amused.

"They do. It is… unusual."

"In what way?"

"In a way, I have already told you. I was created to be your perfect… mate."

Shiv almost laughed.

"We do not breed!"

"Thantados do not. Yet. We can. Our offspring will."

Shiv once again almost fell over from surprise.

"What?"

An alarm went off just then, and he turned his attention to it.

"Proximity alert." He told her. "A vessel is approaching from the dark side, coming straight at us."

"Warning." The flat tones of the computer told him. "Shelweela warship approaching at Hetch two, vector Relka nine. Evasive action recommended." He scanned the ship.

"Frell." He breathed at her. "My ship is no match for them offensively."

"Who are they?" Shiv demanded.

"My past," he told her with an ironic grin. "I have been a long time searching for you." He glanced back, trying to see his control panel. "I have my own enemies." He gazed back at her. "I have no choice. You must live." He stood.

"What you have told me…"

Gently, he grasped her wrist, but unlike the last time, the only tingle was the contact of skin on skin.

"I know. There will be another time." Before she could stop him, he'd pulled her to him and kissed her deeply. Shiv felt her body instinctively reacting, but not defensively. Before she could figure out why, he'd whirled then shoved her into an escape pod. The door slashed closed and she could only watch as he smiled and ejected the pod. As it tumbled away, she saw the blade-shaped Thantadoan craft arc and accelerate away, watched the orb she took to be the Shelweela ship veer to follow. Warnings sounded in the pod and Shiv hurriedly strapped herself into the crash harness, realized that the pod had no controls. She went where it went.

Just before the pod crashed and took her consciousness with it, Shiv remembered the kiss with a startling clarity and had the errant thought, one she would never understand:

I came very close. So very close.

---

SHIV AWOKE IN HER OWN BED ON THE VENGEANCE.

"How're you feeling?" A voice asked her.

Crichton's.

She blinked at him, sat up. Pain pulsed through her head, subsided. She was dressed in soft nightclothes – from those she had bought earlier in the day on some unexplained whim.

"As well as can be expected." She breathed deep a few times, to steady herself. "Thank you for retrieving me."

"We were coming after you – and found a pod instead." Crichton stood, looked down at her. "You wanna tell me what happened?"

Shiv looked up at him, thought. What had actually happened? She told him what Thadon had told her – minus the part about he being her "perfect mate" and the implications of what he had told her about her biology. Crichton did not need that particular detail, as it was irrelevant to him. She had not thought of herself as that… complete. No other Thantados was able to breed. The Makers had no need of it. As far as I know, she amended.

But now…? Why her, specifically?

Crichton nodded along with her tale. When she had finished, he looked at her for a few moments, then asked,

"You believe this guy?"

"I am… uncertain."

"Well… it's pretty damn elaborate, if it's a lie. It's not like it can't be checked on."

"I would appreciate if that could be done." She asked him, to his nod.

"I'll have Hax look it up. You need more rest? You took a couple of solid bumps hitting the ground." Shiv lay back, feeling weary and sore.

"Do you require me?" Crichton shook his head.

"Not really. We're heading to Phaeldon-an-Dremexia." That was an Information Brokerage. Depending on who was asking, and how much they were willing to pay, many things could be learned at such a place. It was also the only place outside of governments and the large journalism corporations that employed voyants. It was not, of course, legal.

"Then I ask that I may be relieved of duty for the foreseeable future." She sighed softly.

"Come out whenever you feel better," He told her to her silent gratitude. The door to her quarters hissed open, and he stepped through. "Shiv…" He began. "If you need help, if you need to leave…"

Shiv gazed at him from her bed.

"Not at this time." She pulled a cover higher. "Tomorrow perhaps." His one blue eye looked back at her, his mouth crooked in a small smile.

"You just let me know." He closed the door behind him. He did not understand, Shiv realized – and yet he did. She reached over, extinguished the light in the room. It went dark, and she closed her eyes. Silently, she thanked Crichton, glad that she'd taken the chance on him. He would, she knew, if she asked, help her – for no reason other than she required it. That was a new thing, and one she had not expected. That they came after her also surprised and secretly pleased her.

Shiv fell asleep shortly after, and for the first time in a very long time, she dreamed - dreamed about soft lips and strong arms, and even as she did, true to herself to the end, wondered why she should.

---

INTERLUDE

THE CRAFT PUNCHED THROUGH THE ATMOSPHERE, SONIC BOOMS CHASING IT AS IT PLUMMETED.

It suddenly veered, flipped over, continued on its rocketing fall, rolled and straightened out, slowed only by a fraction. It was black, long, snub-nosed, glowing white-red from air friction. Two massive engines rotated forward, blazed in an attempt to slow the craft down. One shuddered, then tore loose, exploded, disintegrated from the friction. The craft heeled over, plunged into the dark mass of storm cloud that seethed below it, roared out the other side into high winds, lightning and driving rain.

Now, only a few hundred metres above the ground, the nose of the craft came up, slightly, then a little higher. It stayed airborne for a good twenty kilometres, came vectoring in over a small town before it dipped dangerously, then plowed through a small grocery store, which knocked the nose up higher, smashed through a copse of trees in a small park, snapping them like toothpicks – the craft rolled, hit the ground hard, sent a great plume of dirt behind it, skipping like a stone on the water, disintegrating as it went. It crashed through the long low building of a car dealership, gouged a long track in the parking lot, crushing several vehicles as it went, and ended its pell-mell fall by demolishing a brick church, and finally sliding to a stop in an intersection.

Moments later, a sonic boom shuddered over the area, finally catching up, followed by another. Aside from the wind blowing debris across the area, nothing else moved for a long while.

A figure stepped, none too steady, from the destruction of the station, wavered in the wind, was pelted by the rain. He turned his face into it, allowing the stinging beads to wake him, stand him up straight.

The wind snapped his coat, pulled him into a turn, faced him to the roadway, and the sound of sirens in the snap of rain and growl of thunder.

The time was 4:55 AM EST.

The TEAM THAT COLLECTED HIM WERE SEASONED PROFESSIONALS.

Most ex-Army, Navy, Marines, a couple of Special Forces boys, even a guy from the SAS, and two Germans, ex-Spetnaz, cold as ice and hard as steel. They had an accumulated experience of different environments of over two hundred and fifty years all told. It must be said, that even these guys were impressed with the destruction of the wreckage of the ship that stood nose down in this small town's main intersection, surrounded now by emergency vehicles and police. Tracked from orbit – they had arrived almost before the locals did, and now were relieving the local law of their burden. The time was now 6:26 AM.

He didn't look like an alien – just a disturbed man who'd apparently seen the "Phantom of the Opera" one time too many. He was packed into a rather sophisticated "Closed-System Transport pod", as the tech-boys called it, a container that basically locked whatever went into it with a perfect sterility. The pod was then loaded onto a heavy truck, driven to an undisclosed small airport that no civilian had ever set foot on and was in the air before the 'Collectors" had returned to their base. By lunchtime, all that was left in the town was the evidence that something had crashed. Not a trace of that something, however, remained behind. The local news would spread the story nationwide, and then worldwide, but it would be turn out to be nothing more than a freak meteor strike – despite eyewitnesses – by the eleven o'clock news.

IN NEVADA, UNDERNEATH THE WORST AND BEST-KEPT SECRET IN THE WORLD, the CST pod was wheeled into the 'safe room' they called the Tank, and its bewildered occupant was calling for names those present knew well. They were sent for and after several anxious hours, arrived.

"This had better be important," the man called for grumbled, stepping into the Tank. He was a busy man, his time of the utmost value. He froze when he saw the occupant of the CST Pod. His companion, a woman with raven hair and grey eyes, recently released from hospital, looked utterly shocked when she saw him.

"Stark!" She exclaimed in complete surprise.

The first and only Banik to ever set foot on Earth smiled and waved hesitantly. He had, he realized, a great deal of explaining to do.

INTERLUDE ENDS

---

CRICHTON WATCHED THE STARS ROLL BY.

He was in a spacesuit, found in a rear locker of the Vengeance, but it wasn't a normal suit. It was armored, black, and a perfect fit, and it was already his new favorite. He'd run a diagnostic on its onboard computer tie-in and it had given him an overview of itself and its function.

The suit was originally from, of all places, the Pleisar Regiment, but from the Mekhajin Company - Special Orbital-Drop Heavy Assault Commandos, and the suit was designed to allow its wearer to survive a great many things – from ship-to-ship combat to what the onboard called "Orbital to Atmospheric Deceleration Planetary Deployment Events" – whatever the frell they were. It looked, all told, like a black suit of slimline samurai armor – it even had a flared helmet and one-way visor.

Between the inner lining and the outer shell was a layer of gel-foam, designed to absorb tremendous impacts against the suit. He'd marveled at the ingenuity that went into the thing – a soldier wrapped in this suit had air for two days, because the suit had a micro-atmospheric processor rather than air tanks, and if necessary, could use the coolant system in the suit as fuel for further oxygen – in an emergency, of course. It also had cybernetic actuators built into it, which quadrupled his strength – to fight Scarrans hand-to-hand, he surmised. It had storage for extra weapons, was self-illuminating, water-tight and impervious to radiation. With the thing on, he was over two metres tall and nearly a hundred and forty kilos, yet thanks to the actuators he could move as if he wasn't even wearing it. The helmet had Heads-Up Tactical and Sensor displays, an omnidirectional comm – and the ability to wirelessly direct-link into the Vengeance's main computer and remote-control the ship – from a planet's surface, if need be.

It thrilled his tech-minded soul to no end.

In his suit, seated comfortably between two power feeds for the forward dorsal cannon of the Vengeance, Crichton settled back and watched the stars go by. Relative distances being what they were, Crichton had no real sense of velocity; there were no objects nearby by which to gauge, even though he knew perfectly well that he and his ship were travelling at some serious speeds. He hadn't felt this relaxed in monens.

Naturally, it didn't last.

"Crichton." Chak'sa commed him. "Ship's sensors detect an object approximately 50 000 motras off our treblinside, vectoring toward us."

He sighed, replied.

"Configuration? Is it a ship?" Even as he asked, the sensor data started scrolling across his visor. His written Sebacean was still a little tricky.

"No." There was a pause. "It is approximately 13 hentas in diameter. The Main identifies it as a High-speed Contact Drone."

"Does it say where it's from?" He rose, activating magnetic nodes in his boots to keep him on the side of the ship, made his way back to the dorsal hatch.

"One moment… they're communicating…." She meant the Drone and the ship's computer. "The Drone states that it is an emergency beacon from Breannados Industries."

Crichton sighed another sigh to himself and climbed down the ladder, closed the hatch over his head and waited until atmosphere and pressure cycled back into the accessway. He knew it evened out when the hatch at his feet sliced open. At the bottom, he stepped out into the small room at the bottom of the shaft and opened the door, removing his helmet as he did.

"Emergency beacon? What's going on? Does it say?"

He was heading to Command as he pulled off pieces of the suit.

"No. It is now inert." Right. They'd have to go pick it up to find out what happened – so that they couldn't ignore it if they wanted to know. Typical Miriya.

"Go get it." He told her, and was out of his suit and stepping into the Command by the time they pulled up alongside. Chak'sa sat in Shiv's customary seat and Haxer was in his usual place. Shiv was, as yet, in bed. Crichton decided to let her sleep.

"Grappled." Chak'sa told him. "Winding now." Crichton reached down, tapped 1812.

"Go hook it up, kid." The droid twittered and rolled off. Crichton sat in his chair and told Chak'sa to put them back on course for Phaeldon-an-Dremexia.

"The Drone did say it was an emergency beacon." She reminded him. He shrugged.

"With Miriya, that could mean anything. Phaeldon-an-Dremexia, please." She nodded, and the ship swung back on course. They were a quarter-arn further on when Haxer looked up from his board.

"Your DRD's pretty efficient. Drone is hooked in and relaying it's data. I'll have it for you in a bit." Crichton just nodded, leaned back in his seat and yawned. He'd almost dozed off when Haxer swore and got his attention.

"What the frell…?" He swung in his seat, hit a control. The main screen before them lit up. Video ran, showing the surveillance camera footage of the Peacekeeper's initial attack on Miriya's shop. Crichton leaned forward, frowned mightily. The video shifted to show the interior of Miriya's shop, but the footage was bad. The transmission broke up into noise. Data replaced it, scrolling slowly across the screen. Both Haxer and Chak'sa were watching Crichton for his reaction and orders.

For a few moments, he looked unconcerned, seemed to have retreated into his own head, a faraway look in his eye.

With a disgusted and growled "For frell's sake…!", he swung the Vengeance away from Phaeldon-an-Dremexia and toward Ogg'M'nendi.

---

LIEUTENANT MYKLO BRACA WAS FAMED FOR HIS PATIENCE.

It was wrong to simply dismiss him as a toady for Scorpius, as so many did. Scorpius, it should be noted, took Braca very seriously. Braca had in his favor something many other Peacekeepers professed, but few possessed. Ambitious Braca certainly was – he'd gone from a rank-less minor officer under Crais to Scorpius' chief aide – indispensible aide, and depending on his good fortune, only a few steps from an eventual – assured – command of his own.

What Braca had, that so many of his comrades lacked – was complete and utter loyalty to his commanding officer – and it was real loyalty. While Braca worked for a superior, that superior could be absolutely secure in the knowledge that Braca would carry out his or her orders to the letter – no matter what those orders entailed. It was a very simple method that had carried Braca rather far, and promised more to come. "Loyalty and Duty are the Soul of The Peacekeeper", ran one of the creeds.

Braca was also quite intelligent and discerning – some would say almost empathic – to the needs of his commander – any normal Sebacean commander, that was; which Scorpius was not. Still he'd managed quite well so far.

The Commandant, one Mele-On Grayza, was one of the five Supreme Commanders of the Special Action Directorate – special troopers, inured to the suffering of others. Even hardened Peacekeeper veterans shuddered at the mention of the S.A.D. They were the Peacekeepers tasked to carry out planetary 'cleansings' – genocide. It took a particular brand of cold-bloodedness to command such, let alone be a trooper therein. Braca had participated in mass killings before, as a soldier and the commander of soldiers, but always in combat, in war – soldiers killing soldiers, not the indiscriminate slaughter of civilians.

Baniks didn't count. They were gene-fabricated and not people.

His empathy was failing him with this woman, as it often failed him with Scorpius. She was calculating and distant, and he felt like a microbe on a probe. She intimidated the Hezmana out of him and he didn't have to do anything but stand there and listen as she and Scorpius argued.

"You are diverting valuable minds, Scorpius, that could be better served geared to this new crisis." She meant the gathering Scarran storm.

"They are precisely pointed in that direction, Commandant, I assure you." Scorpius told her, completely reasonable and calm and Braca wondered how he did it.

"You are basing this expenditure and all these resources on the word of one Vexa-bred female?" She meant Furlow. Braca wondered how she'd gotten that information, made a mental note to hunt the traitor down. "What guarantees do you have of her rather… dubious tale?"

Scorpius offered her a seat, which she sat gracefully in, gazed up at the half-breed intently. Scorpius sat, Braca taking up a position behind his seat.

"My enhanced Aurora Chair, Commandant. No fiction survives its sifting."

"Indeed?" All charming skepticism.

"I'm sure a demonstration can be arranged, if you doubt me." As smooth as Chezraa cream, Braca admired.

"Why this interest in this alien, Scorpius? Is it because he has thwarted you so often?" If it was meant to sting, it apparently failed. Scorpius didn't even react, save to smile a toothy smile.

"Precisely." His tone seemed almost amused. "Amongst other things. I am but perhaps a short monen from my goal – the mastery of wormholes for Peacekeepers and by extension, the entire Influence. With them, the Scarran threat is nothing."

She narrowed her cold eyes at him.

"You truly believe that?"

"With wormholes, we will be able to destroy them at will. Unreservedly." He was very close, and the mechanic Furlow had been a great wellspring of information – as long as she'd lasted.

His long-sought prey, that great prize in his head - free and open for the taking – it most definitely would not resist his improved Aurora Chair this time. He so conveniently trapped on a world that could not resist even a single Carrier, surrounded by helpless leverage.

What a foolish move that had been! The only thing – the only thing that kept John Crichton safe was distance, and that was about to shrink to nothing. All Scorpius needed now was time, even though his usually inexhaustible reserves of patience were being tested by the delays and complexities of refitting an entire Carrier, and now the interference of this woman. It could not be soon enough.

"Why did Crichton twin himself – if true? How did this mechanic know he had done so?"

"I doubt it was Crichton's own doing." Scorpius told her. "It would not have served him in any pointed regard. The more fidelity to the copy, the more risk that we would acquire at least one of them." Scorpius waved a hand, as if to dismiss what he said next as of being no importance. "Furlow did not know – she surmised from what little data she could gather. I discount very little, Commandant - until it is proven fiction. I simply sent operatives to confirm or deny this rumor." He smiled, slightly. "Not even Crichton can be in two places at once. It appears to be true."

"In that case…. High Command has sent new orders." She held up a chip and Braca marched smartly to her, retrieved it, marched back to Scorpius, held it out for his taking.

"New orders? This is a Special Services Sanctioned Build. I have full powers from High Command to do what I must." Scorpius reluctantly took the chip from Braca, looked at it as if it were a poisoned goblet he'd just been ordered to drink.

"Had, Scorpius." She told him with just the faintest hint of satisfaction in her voice. "High Command has its doubts about this project – the latest in the chances they've taken on you. Funds, personnel and resources are not inexhaustible."

Braca could feel the faint heat rise from Scorpius – a sure sign of fury, but nothing showed in his face, and the only betrayal of his feelings was the edge in his voice.

"Am I to stop my work then? When I am so close to success?"

"Not at all," Grayza told him, rising from the chair. "You will continue. The new overseer of this project – me - will simply have a new focus. Your operatives have secured certain avenues and players, but High Command believes – again, if the story of there being a duplicate are true – that the Crichton currently in this part of the Galaxy is more useful to our cause than an alleged one hiding on some backwater who knows where."

"Useful? I assure you there are two – and both are equally stubborn. 'Useful to our cause'? How do you plan to sway him to your point of view, Commandant? Crichton hates Peacekeepers."

Grayza smiled a lazy smile at him.

"No, Scorpius. Crichton hates you. Careful study of past events has shown that, were it not for certain actions by you and former Captain Crais, John Crichton could have been approached and convinced of the rightness of our cause. He is hostile to us only because of you."

Scorpius could see where it was going.

"You can't buy Crichton's knowledge! If it were that easy, I would have had it long since!"

"You don't have the appropriate coin, Scorpius. You will focus your efforts on completing that Carrier and your plan on the capture of the John Crichton currently residing on his home planet." She turned to go. "I am now in command of your subversion efforts on the Crichton in this space."

"Just like that? Some of those threads were carefully and long-since placed – you could unravel it all if you're not… careful."

Grayza didn't seem to care. She walked away.

"You have failed because it was you doing the buying, Scorpius – and you simply could not match the price Crichton would no doubt ask – you don't have that kind of power."

Scorpius rose, both frustrated and angry – at least, however, he still had control over his project. Grayza would fail, he was certain of it – what vexed him was to be the undoubted waste of a meticulous and well-crafted plan. Inwardly, Scorpius sighed. No matter. He was nothing if not prepared for eventualities.

"And you do have it?" He asked her. She smiled like a Vrakka cat about to pounce.

"I do now."

---

TYVON AND THE HALO WERE IN RUINS.

The Vengeance slid by a Hound that floated in pieces between the moon and Ogg'M'nendi. There was no indication that it had even been fired. None of them had, and that was simply not right. The Halo itself was wrecked, huge chunks of it had to be navigated with care. There were faint transmissions from all over, emergency beacons, but Haxer doubted any of them were alerting of live people – almost all were automated. Down below, Tyvon was a burning, cratered mess, a Hound having crashed and pulverized a large section of the shop.

"Nice job," Crichton commented as they came out on the other side of the Halo, paused for scans of Tyvon. "Very thorough." He sighed, pointed at the scan board. "Is that automated too?" he asked, indicating the beacon from Miriya's shop.

Shiv, awake now and filled in, looked it over. "No – that is a broadcast disaster beacon from a DRD. It would explain this one." 1812 was on the bulkhead above Crichton's head – and if a DRD could ever be said to be intent, 1812 was just such a one. "Usually sounded when the DRD finds someone alive."

"Some hard radiation between here and there, Boss," Haxer called from the back. "Frelling with lifescans. I think I have several – can't be sure. Probably wrong."

"Find me an open space to put her down." Such was done, and they were soon picking their way through the destruction. Fires snapped here and there, smoke drifted lazily in the still air. Somewhere machinery whined in pain, whirring and ka-chunking.

"They weren't kidding, were they?" Haxer commented, stepping over a charred corpse.

"Heavy pulse fire," Chak'sa noted, studying score marks on the wall. "Pulse cannon, heavy rifles."

"Some guy named Verges had said that they expected trouble from the Zenetans. In Peacekeeper ships, maybe?" Crichton remembered.

"No way, Boss – not Zenetans – not this thorough, and not this heavy." Haxer countered. "They would have looted the place, too." He toed another corpse over, saw a Sebacean face, a dark red uniform. Peacekeeper – with a very neat hole punched through his chest. He looked at the Regimental insignia – Inari Company, Vorshak Regiment.

"Full Heavy Assault Battalion." Shiv stated, lithely stepping around rubble. She stopped, knelt, came back up with a large cartridge. "Undoubtedly Peacekeeper. Mark IX Batter Cannon."

"For this place?" Haxer sounded incredulous. He took the cartridge from her, looked it over. "You use Batter Cannon on Scarran base defences – not a shop full of techs."

Crichton looked grim.

"Find the lifesigns. I'll head to Miriya's place." They split up, picked a direction. Crichton surveyed the shop floor, traced the path of wreckage. It led from the outer docking ports, wound through the machine shops and headed straight for Miriya's tower/apartments. He pulled a pistol – just in case – and with an all-out armed 1812 leading the way, made his way to her living quarters, found another body, another Peacekeeper, this one with no visible damage, but still utterly dead, also Inari.

The Tower was a mess – looking for all the world like some great creature had taken a huge bite from it. The centre support listed at a painful angle, the roof attachments visibly straining to hold the main section level - small fires and circuitry popping all over. Water gushed from broken plumbing. He climbed the stairs to the top, found the door smashed open and the interior in complete disarray.

He checked the outer rooms first, found nothing of note but a cooked computer core. He headed to her back rooms, small workshop, bedroom – and got a reason for a lifesign:

He sat in the large chair that Miriya had suspended from the ceiling – the bedroom the only room not damaged – armed and apparently waiting. Crichton had holstered his pistol. This Peacekeeper had dark hair, and that square goatee they all seemed to favor.

"Gratifying to finally see you in the flesh after hearing so many tales." He nodded to himself. "You are different from the wanted beacons."

"Is there a point to you?" Crichton asked him dryly, calmly. The guy smiled an oily smile.

"A message. If you want the woman, you will come quietly. Now. Without a fuss."

The guy was watching Crichton standing there, seemingly casual, calm, but that one blue eye was glittering. Like clear ice with dark water flowing beneath.

"What do you get out of it?" He asked, unexpectedly.

"As hard to believe as it is, your value extends beyond simple monetary remuneration, Human. You are rank, position and Carrier command."

Crichton glanced out of the window in the bedroom, shook his head.

Before the guy knew what was happened, Crichton had drawn and killed him with a single shot. He walked over, tore off the Inari insignia, put it in his pocket.

"Wrong." He told the corpse.

On the guy's sleeve had been two silver bars – the rank of a Regimental Commander. He pulled those off too, put them with the stolen insignia, then stalked out of the apartment.

He was halfway down the stairs when a groaning squeal of metal sounded in his ears and the steps under his feet buckled. He leapt the last few metres just as the connectors to the roof of the Tower gave way, the Tower leaned far to the right, seemed to hesitate, and then crashed to the shop floor with a roar and a huge plume of dust and smoke that rose, rolled across the ceiling. 1812 squeaked up at him. A moment later, Shiv's voice was on his comm.

"I'm fine," He told her. "Miriya's tower just fell over." He looked back at the pile of rubble, couldn't shake the feeling of it being a little too …excessive. "The Peacekeepers have taken Miriya."

There was a general acknowledgement.

"Your lifesigns?"

Three negatives. Everyone was dead.

Crichton then ordered a general search of the area – for anything of use or special interest – and then he and 1812 went hunting. Half an arn later, Chak'sa found the Marauder left behind for the now-dead Commander. Crichton ordered her to stash it in the Vengeance's hold – and Miriya's personal ship – The Edge, undamaged. An arn later, and The Edge was fast-grappled to the underside of the Vengeance, attached to a port that would normally accommodate a troop transport. Haxer reported that he'd found two somethings of great interest, and Crichton told him to make sure those somethings were secure.

"All right. Let's get back to the Vengeance, and get out of here. We have work to do."

They were in orbit again before anyone asked – and it was Chak'sa that did the asking.

"Miriya?"

"What do you expect me to do? Ask around as to which Command Carrier she's on? What they'd want in exchange I can't give 'em." He was laying in coordinates as he spoke. Somewhere Scorpius waited in the V'masque Wastelands. Phaeldon-an-Dremexia would tell him where that was and he would go and ruin Scorpy's plans. The Vengeance began to turn.

"What can be done about Miriya?" Chak'sa said as the Vengeance powered away from the now-silent system.

"I'm open to intelligent suggestions." He told her. "There are just two things to consider, however."

"And they are?" Shiv asked.

"One – that I give a damn, which I don't." Shiv seemed somewhat surprised by that statement.

"And two - I'm the one running this dog-and-pony show," he said calmly, face set in stone, "It is not a frelling democracy, and I say where, when and why we go anywhere."

Shiv watched Crichton for a time. He looked back pointedly, and she merely looked back to her controls and out the forward portal.

Haxer came in, dropped himself into the Operations console.

"Never discard an ally. Even if they don't know they are one." Was all he said, directed at the air. He said nothing else, began running more decryption routines on the new data they'd acquired.

It was quiet for some time in the Command bay, and the light-years ticked by.

"Whatever she was before," Shiv said quietly into the quiet. "This changes things."

"We don't know that." Crichton informed her, as quietly.

"That is all we know." She paused, adjusted a minor increment in their course. "For certain."

The muscles along the side of his jaw bunched, relaxed, bunched again, relaxed. He sighed. Fine. He'd go Phaeldon-an-Dremexia later. Again. All good plans were flexible.

"Hax – find me Dar'shanne."

---

NEXT TIME ON

FARSCAPE - FREEBOOTER:

…GAMBITS…

---

Thanks for reading! I hope you've enjoyed my story so far. Feel free to review.