Previously, on Farscape:
Having found the dying Leviathan Elack, who consents to a harvest of neural grafts for Talyn, Crais and the Kia'Baa'ri Shee'ladahalia Muukarhi and her team have done just that. A run-in with bounty hunters forces the team to leave, leaving Crais behind, with the bounty hunters scouring the ship looking for him. In the Commerce System of Ej'djem Reach, Chiana has been "bought" by an Ashkelon Warlord, and Jool is confronted by the husband she abandoned 24 cycles previously. Crichton and Miriya have come to Davros at D'Argo's request, but things aren't quite what they seem…
AND NOW, ON FARSCAPE: FREEBOOTER:
BLIND ICARUS
ECLIPSE
There you are, my friends! - Alas, so I am not the man,
not the one you're looking for?
You hesitate, surprised! - Ah, your anger would be better!
Am I no more the one? A changed hand, pace, and face?
And what am I - for you, friends am I not the one?
- Friedrich Nietzsche,
Out of the High Mountains, AFTERSONG.
MIRIYA BREANNADOS WATCHED TRAFFIC CONTROL DRONES FLIT PAST HER SHIP.
She'd been here before, certainly, but she had forgotten the place was this thick with vehicles. As they had entered the orbital plane of Davros, her sensors had registered thousands of ships and tens of thousands of drones. For some reason she could never quite fathom, she hated the things. The drones just rode on her nerves. Perhaps it was some dread of a collision, the look of sheer chaos or the seeming randomness of their flights – well, she could never quite put her finger on it.
They managed the inner orbital docks without incident, however, to find Moya still docked, Pilot informing them that he had not heard from D'Argo or the others since being asked to call for Crichton, but he knew their last location, which he dutifully relayed. He'd tried comming them, but with little success. Crichton told Pilot that he'd deal with it, and for Pilot to ready Moya for her return to Abbanerex – preferably at a moment's notice.
"Let's check the local nets before we go anywhere," Crichton told her before they found a berth of their own.
"Why?" She asked, indicating her comm array. "I can't stay hanging out here for long." He sat, started cycling.
"Just a hunch." He found a local station, listened. It was mostly just endless advertisements. Davros was, after all, basically a planet-sized shopping mall. She watched him, saw him starting to tune out of the local bands, and was surprised to see him cycling higher – into frequencies he shouldn't have known about. He'd stop on certain ones, listen, then proceed on. Miriya found herself reassessing him as he sat there. This was completely unexpected.
He was tapping into relayed frequencies, higher and more encrypted ones, Peacekeeper Captain-level codes and High Command channels. They were older ones, but they were valid ones. After a few moments, he flicked the array off, directed her to dock. He had stopped at no one frequency for more than a half-a-dozen microts, and Miriya was completely mystified.
"Why did you do that?" She asked, as The Edge came to a stop.
"Do what?" She indicated her comm array. "Oh, just to see what was available."
"That's just odd, John."
Crichton shrugged, got up, did a quick check on himself, nodded slightly, went aft pulling his gloves on.
"Shall we?"
Miriya negotiated for privileges, got them, and locked The Edge down, followed him. He stepped out and into the promenade of the orbital station, acting for all the worlds like he was simply a tourist come for shopping – even though he looked nothing like one, all leather and weapons. He reached over, put his arm around her shoulders, pulled her to him and drew her into the crowd alongside him.
"Remember where we parked." He quipped as they proceeded along. After a few moments she put her arm around his waist. It was less awkward walking that way, but not by much.
"So," he asked, conversationally, by her ear. "How many bounty hunters do you think are in this system?"
Equally conversationally, Miriya replied, tucking her hip next to his trying to match the cadence of his stride. Once she had, however, walking with his arm around her was rather… unexpectedly pleasant.
"Hundreds, easily. This is a prime hunting ground. There are millions of people here, and it's a good place to hide amongst a crowd – if you need to, I suppose." Crichton pursed his lips and nodded.
"You're probably right. We need to get to the surface."
"There should be transports going every few hundred microts."
"Where?" She pointed, and he led the way. This arms-around thing, she realized, was also advantageous in a crowd like this. Neither of them would lose the other.
They managed the transport tier, were unceremoniously stuffed into a shuttle, and crushed face-to-face in the press of bodies. Miriya simply stepped into him, wrapped her arms around his midsection, pulled herself close.
"Not too terribly inconvenient." She smirked up at him. That dry smirk of his came back, and he went back to scanning the crowd. She also noticed that there was an ever-so-slight space around Crichton and herself – and thought it was that either Sebaceans weren't liked much here, or it was some revulsion for Peacekeepers. She figured it was probably the latter. This was Ashkelon territory, after all. He also, she noted absently, never took a hand far from one of his pistols.
The shuttle finally landed, and the gush from the ship was like a relief – only to be quashed by the literal sea of bodies before them. Crichton shook his head, and Miriya took his hand this time. He glanced down at her as she did.
"Ten times the bodies, ten times the likelihood of getting lost." Was all she said. He nodded, didn't argue, but switched her to his left, pulled her to that side. He reached up, hit his comm as they proceed through the crowd.
"D. Jool. Buckwheat." Then waited. After a few moments, there was a hesitant voice on the other end – and not one Crichton knew.
"Hello?" A pause. "Are you receiving me?"
"And you are?"
"I was left this comm by a Ka'D'Argo with instructions to speak to whomever called on it."
"Speak, then."
There was a muttered, "This is ridiculous…" then the voice said, louder, "Who was the partner of Abbot?"
Crichton grinned to himself, shook his head in bemusement.
"Costello."
Silence.
"Very well. Come to the Commissary Annex. I am at a small eatery called Rev'brannik's." Another pause. "I will wait half-an-arn. No longer."
"Fine. Rev'brannik's. As soon as. How will I know you?"
"I will be the only Interion with a Qualta Blade."
Crichton cut the comm, looked at Miriya, who was already pointing the direction to a small information kiosk.
"That was strange," She told him as they proceeded along.
"That depends," Crichton answered her, "Why D would give up his blade…" and said nothing else until they reached the Commissary Annex.
"Rev'brannik's?" He asked. "I don't read the local lingo so well." Miriya led him to a stand-up map, scanned it briefly, pointed to a large red square.
"That's it, there." She checked it against the green dot with the stylized arrow he assumed was the local equivalent of the 'You are here' indicator. "It's not too far off."
They arrived, just as an Interion was leaving, and Crichton intercepted him before he got too far. True to his word, he was carrying a Luxan Qualta Blade.
"I'll take that," Crichton told him, stopping him. The Interion looked him over, seemed to match him with whatever D'Argo had told him in his head, nodded, and handed the blade over.
"I am Evigan Koiban." He said, after a moment. Crichton nodded, indicated that they should all sit back down, which they did.
"You're Jool's husband?" Miriya asked. He nodded. "Well, she has some taste, at least."
He nodded again. "Thank you. I assure you, however, she married me simply as a means to an end."
"That sounds like marriage, all right. Wanna explain what happened?" Crichton waved the waiter away, but Miriya ordered a drink.
"Your Nebari friend was bought by the local warlord for his seraglio, and your other friends went to negotiate for her release. After a fashion."
Crichton shook his head in dismay, sighed.
"Chi's not going to sit still for that for long," he said, mind turning round a few times.
"…and I doubt the Warlord will negotiate for anything," Miriya added. "He's unbelievably wealthy. You guys have absolutely nothing he'd want."
Crichton was looking at Koiban.
"How'd you get involved in this?"
"As I said, I'm Joolushko's husband…"
"Do I look stupid?" Crichton asked him, hard-voiced. Koiban blinked, and Miriya sighed.
"What? No, of course not, I…" Koiban began, but was cut off.
"D'Argo doesn't just hand his Qualta over." There was a pulse pistol abruptly in Koiban's face. "You work for this Warlord asshole?"
Again, Koiban blinked, and there was the scrape of a few chairs from people around them who had overheard the disparagement.
"Periodically." Koiban was rather calm. He'd learned patience on some rather tough battlefields. "I work for him via contract," he began explaining, as if to the slow-witted. "I'm not on any payroll and I don't answer to him. He needs me, not the reverse."
"You've got guts." Crichton told him. The pulse pistol went away.
"Yes, and I rather like them on the inside of me. I've told you the truth. Make of it what you will."
"How do I contact this…"
"D'Strand'm'tah." Miriya provided, and he nodded in thanks.
"…and talk some sense into him?"
"He lives on his own moon, which he calls 'Sanctuary'. No one goes there unless he wants them there. Or you get his attention." Koiban informed him. "The former can be quite profitable and advantageous – on most occasions, but the latter is usually not a very good idea."
Crichton opened his mouth to say something, but Miriya stopped him.
"I haven't got my drink yet, John." Crichton looked at her, annoyed.
"So?"
"So there aren't any staff anywhere in this café." Miriya answered, waving a finger across the table. Crichton quickly surveyed the area. Patrons, he realized, had begun a slow trickling out, as well.
"Okay… what the hell….?"
Koiban looked the other way. "Excuse me," he pointed over Crichton's shoulder, at three figures in long dark cloaks. "But do you know these?"
Crichton managed a short sharp "frell!", shoved Miriya out of the way, and was diving for cover himself when Rev'brannik's suddenly exploded into screams and chaos.
CRAIS WATCHED THE INVIDID GO BY, SLOW, CIRCLE BACK.
Dren – had he been spotted? He pressed himself deeper into the duct, cursed. Up the corridor, he heard a popping, grinding sound, then a crack and a gush of blue steam erupted into the corridor, billowed past. He sniffed, realized with a spike of dread what it was – edresin, the catalyst for Elack's fluidic circulatory systems. If he lost too much - his 'blood', as it were would begin to gel, and death would not be far behind. On the plus side - if there were such a thing in this situation - the clouds of it would hopefully make the Invidid's search that much harder.
Elack was definitely in his last stages. He'd stayed in the Nexus to cover the tech team's escape, just in case, and the tier he'd been on had begun to depressurize. He'd barely managed to make it through the ductwork and into a lower tier before it went completely. Fortunately, many of Elack's autonomic systems were still functioning and bulkheads had closed, stopped the depressurization from spreading – at least for now.
Elack rumbled, suffered another long slow shudder. Crais glanced out into the corridor, saw the Invidid still there, but now it had been joined by someone else – another bounty hunter he assumed. They did not look like they liked one another. The newcomer was Insectoid, slightly taller, slimmer than the Invidid, but covered in a solid, faceted carapace, the edges of which were clearly sharpened. Part of its carapace formed a shield over its head. He heard the Insectoid hiss.
"Invidid… go your way. You have failed. I shall take this Peacekeeper scum." The voice was sibilant, but sharp.
"The prize to the strongest. Interfere not, or we will forget our directives."
"I offer you only this chance."
"Worthless you are, Hafta'lal'ta, to kill only."
"Your others have failed. Go now. No more warnings."
Crais saw the Invidid raise its weapon. This Hafta'lal'ta bristled, carapace shuddering in anger.
"All are contracted! We hunt for same."
"No. Die."
The Invidid managed one shot before it was diced by the razor-edged carapace. Its globular armor popped like multiple balloons, eliciting a gurgling scream. The Insectoid grunted, collapsed to one knee. The Invidid's shot had hit him. Crais held his breath. The Invidid was down, but the Insectoid was still moving. It shook itself, rose.
Crais waited a while longer, watched it as it stepped out of the blue haze left by the edresin, looked at the Invidid, then went to it
The Invidid gurgled. Crais knew that the Invidid was not actually one creature, but a colony of creatures, with a collective consciousness. The one he had managed to incapacitate earlier was probably reincorporated into its 'brother' here.
It, however, was in no shape to offer much in the way of resistance. It had been hit by multiple strikes, and its armor was useless. Without it, it was nothing more than 'blue goo'.
"Invidid…you are resilient. I shall have to kill the rest of you."
Hafta'lal'ta pulled a small bottle of something from its belt, uncapped it, poured a small measure into one of the slashed globes. There was a gurgling moan from the Invidid, and anywhere blue that Crais could see began to go black. It was obviously some kind of poison. Hafta'lal'ta stood, replaced the bottle, watched the Invidid die. Then it went silently down the corridor, past Crais' hiding place, soon vanishing around the turn in the corridor.
Frell. There was one less, at least, and unfortunately, Crais knew the name of Hafta'lal'ta. The Insectoid was a vicious, relentless killer. It had absolutely no ethical scruples that he'd ever heard. Males, females, offspring - of any age - it would kill with relish. The Peacekeeper bounty on Hafta'lal'ta's head was even higher than Crichton's, although they didn't put themselves out trying to capture him. They employed him more often than not.
Crais climbed back into the ductwork, heading for'ard. He wanted to be far away from the hunting killer before he tried sleeping.
He reached a space further down along, with a shaft that had once held conduits, but had long since disintegrated due to Elack's age. The shaft went down for a considerable distance. Crais looked at it, looked back up the corridor. He was near the rear of the Leviathan, only a tier or two away from Elack's long-dormant propulser systems.
He climbed down the shaft, found a spot, backed into a space between the support struts. From here he could not be seen, and the alloys in the conduit around him should mask any scans. There was only one way in, and he could see anyone coming long before they reached him. Crais got as comfortable as he could, closed his eyes.
He was abruptly snapped awake as he heard a soft clicking chitter come up the corridor above him, pressed himself back deeper into the pipes. A few moments later, the form of the Insectoid stepped cautiously around the space, and Crais held his breath. It slowly made its way around the hole in the floor, peering into the shaft, scanning the walls. The armored head appeared to look directly at his space.
"I smell… I smell you, Crais…" it hissed. He sighed internally. Of course it did. So far, however, smelling was not seeing.
"Surrender. There is no bounty for you dead. No reason for you to die."
There were the sounds of footsteps from the corridor up ahead and Crais cursed silently to himself. Hafta'lal'ta's attention immediately turned to it. Elack shuddered again, harder than the last time, vibrating hard down his length, throwing Hafta'lal'ta off-balance. Whomever was up there with the Insectoid was also thrown off-balance, for the shot that Crais could see was meant for Hafta'lal'ta went wildly off to the side. It clattered in anger, leapt out of Crais' sight, and he chose that moment to dive from his space, dropped further down the shaft, landing with a solid thunk on the floor below, and felt something in his knee give. There was another shot from above, and Crais heard a sharp short scream and then something bounced off the wall of the shaft, falling. Crais managed to move out of the way as the body of one of Muukarhi's techs landed with a sodden, sickening crunch where he'd just been standing.
An angry chatter followed it down, and the Insectoid clattered away.
Crais looked over the tech, wondering why he'd remained. He gathered up the pulse pistol the tech had carried down with him. Another would always be useful.
"Thank you." He told the dead. "It seems you proved a fortuitous distraction. Unfortunate, but true."
Crais tested his knee, cursed as pain lanced up his leg, felt it. His kneecap. He'd popped his kneecap. Gritting his teeth, he grabbed it, bore down on it, heard it pop, felt hot pain sear. He held his breath, waited until it passed, gingerly put his weight on it.
It would have to do.
He climbed back up to his space, pulled his ration pack from it, slung it, climbed back down. It took him longer than he would have liked.
In the corridor, he checked his guns.
So far, so good.
He was close to where the bounty hunters would have moored their ships. He was unfamiliar with Invidid technology, but if it flew, he'd figure it out.
Steal a ship, return to Abbanerex, hope the Insectoid didn't manage to follow. Simple plan. Very simple.
Those were, naturally, the ones that frelled up the worst.
CHIANA PACED AROUND HER 'CELL', STILL TINKED.
It wasn't as remotely ostentatious as the room she'd been dumped in arns earlier. It was much smaller, but comfortable, decorated with taste. It also had an irate Luxan, a piqued Interion and a sleeping Hynerian in it. D'Argo had spent the last half-arn picking at the lock on the door, but she'd already told him it was impossible to pick. She'd tried.
"Leave it!" she told him, exasperated. "It's a 18-level tumbler system with torsion-sensitive sensor layers in it! They're impossible to pick with specialized lockpicks, let alone you poking at it with those big Luxan paws."
D'Argo cursed, stood, slammed his palm against the door. It didn't even rattle. It galled him that he'd walked into this trap so readily.
"It's all so ridiculous," he growled. "He buys you, kidnaps us, yet treats you like a queen and has the money he paid for you sent to Moya." He shook his head. "It makes not one erg of sense."
"What do you want?" Chiana replied. "Dank dungeons and torture?"
"That would make more sense."
"Don't be ridiculous." Rygel said, rising from a pile of pillows and calling his sled. "Look – as a non-Hynerian you're not completely repulsive - but I simply don't see the need to buy you. Especially you." She crossed her arms, glared at the Dominar. "But if this Warlord is as stupid as to waste the kind of money on you he obviously has, he should be easy to deal with – provided we can get out of here and past those guards of his."
"Constables." D'Argo told him.
"Who cares?" Rygel hopped on his sled, got comfortable, floated toward the table in the centre of the room and the food thereon. "We still need to get by them. Not so easy. Perhaps we should have listened to this D'Strand'm'tah instead of insulting him." He turned a glare to D'Argo which D'Argo ignored.
"He wanted us to lure Crichton here!"
"Of course he did! Crichton will come anyway!" Rygel countered. "What did you think? This D'Strand'm'tah wants him for the bounty? He's got more personal wealth than half my empire's yearly tax revenue! He's probably one of the single richest sentients alive! He doesn't need any frelling bounty!"
"He – what?" D'Argo looked confused for a moment, trying to imagine such immense wealth, and that one person could possess it.
"Some Captain you are." Rygel growled, although he knew enough to stay out of arm's reach. "Did it not occur to you that it could have been a straight business proposition?"
"But why buy Chiana? There are easier ways to get our attention."
Rygel sighed, the sigh of someone who thought he was trying to explain something fundamental to a hopeless simpleton.
"He has rules, too, D'Argo. I know something of these Ashkelons. He's a powerful warlord, yes, but he's not the only one. They have families, clans, affiliations, and Houses. Even with his wealth, he's accountable. He has enemies. Like any Imperium, jockeying for power and position is a delicate balancing act. For whatever reason, something has upset that balance, and he has to maintain his face; if I'm correct in this – and I usually am – this D'Strand'm'tah has been trying to go legitimate for quite some time – present a respectable façade. Obviously something dire has occurred for him to act in this manner. If you had been less Luxan and more civilized, we could have just asked him."
"You still can." A voice said, with a hint of amusement. On the far wall, a large monitor lit up. D'Strand'm'tah smiled at them from it. Astute silver eyes regarded them with confidence and surety. "Well-reasoned, Dominar." Rygel snorted in pleasure. "You are correct – in summary, if not particulars."
"What do you want?" Chiana snapped. Jool shot her a look of Maybe you shouldn't tick this guy off', which was ignored.
"Dominar Rygel is right, Chiana. You were bought as a gesture, not as an acquisition."
"A gesture for whom?" D'Argo asked.
"My fellow Warlords of course. A common enough transaction without a trace of suspicion about it. 'An exotic toy'. Now that you've had time to think about it, I'm sure we can discuss this. Yes?"
"Very well," Rygel said, and D'Argo nodded. Behind them, the door opened.
"Follow my guards, if you would." Outside waited two of the large Constables. The Moyans were led to a central room, large, airy and tastefully appointed, golden sunlight streaming through cathedral-like windows, from which fluttered iridescent silken curtains. The air was warm and scented pleasantly. D'Strand'm'tah sat at a large dark onyx table, but rose and gestured for them to sit as they entered. He was tall and well-built, the kind of well-built one acquired in spas and well-appointed gymnasiums. He waved his Constables behind him, where they seemed to meld into the décor and vanish. Servants appeared with food and drink.
Without preamble, D'Strand'm'tah began.
"I'm not a man given to asking for anything, but I'm no tyrant, nor a thief."
He saw the skepticism on their faces, smiled.
"Yes, I am Ashkelon. Yes, I am a warlord, and yes, most of my business practices are less than legitimate. The Dominar was correct – I do wish to become respectable, as it were. Much of the wealth I have gained illicitly I have funneled into legitimate business ventures – and they generate far more revenue than my illegal activities."
"The curse of any criminal cartel." Rygel said dryly, to which D'Strand'm'tah simply nodded.
"Indeed. Particularly when large and powerful facets of that cartel do not share your outlook."
"Cut to the chase." Chiana barked, getting a sharp look from D'Argo. She smiled and shrugged. D'Strand'm'tah merely chuckled.
"In the Meticulous Spiral – a system that borders my own – lives and reigns one Strad'ail'leevis, and whereas my domination of this system is based on financial concerns, he is more …traditional – intimidation, murder, graft and corruption. He's quite good at it. He has a rather well-equipped army at his command, and excellent spies." His face darkened. "And kidnappers."
He snapped his fingers and a servant hurried over with a sheaf of papers. D'Strand'm'tah scattered them across the table at the Moyans.
They were photographs, flat crisp images of a very attractive woman, and three children – all girls, all which bore resemblances to the woman – and D'Strand'm'tah, they realized.
"My wife, my children."
D'Argo looked at the woman in the photos. Her gaze was open, warm and friendly, her eyes a soft turquoise and her face softly round under luminous waves of deep-orange hair.
"They've been kidnapped by Strad'ail'leevis." D'Argo said. It wasn't a question.
"Yes." He took the photo from D'Argo, gazed at it, his features softening. D'Argo could see real depth of feeling there. D'Strand'm'tah obviously adored her.
"My Rial. Seri'a, Lor'rea, D'sarri. They are my only reasons for living, my only reasons for life."
"But you have dozens of other females…" Rygel began and D'Strand'm'tah looked at him sharply.
"Hynerian… of course. No, they are a Harem only for appearance's sake. They are game pieces. Some there to deny them to my enemies, some as levers, some as potential rewards, some as hostages. They do not interest me past those functions." He looked over at Chiana with a rueful smile. "You are a hostage. No offence meant." Chiana rolled her eyes with a "humph!" and crossed her arms.
"What do you want from us?" Jool asked. "We're not commandos."
"No, but you are famous. John Crichton and his friends. Legendary, even."
"Crazy enough to go after them for a substantial payment?" Chiana chimed. "And me as a hostage in case they refuse." D'Strand'm'tah nodded.
"Naturally, it is not called a 'kidnapping'. Strad'ail'leevis has simply 'requested' their presence at his palace. We both know what it is of course. Rial is a relation by marriage only, but it is not uncommon for extended family to have an extended stay at a relative's."
"Why did he kidnap them? Does he want money, territory?"
"Neither. I have his mistress in my Harem. You may have met her, Chiana. Be'bari'a." Chiana indicated that she did. "She, however, wants to be here. Strad'ail'leevis had planned on using her as a payment for a service a Peacekeeper Captain had done him some time ago. She came here and asked for asylum."
D'Strand'm'tah took a pull from a tall glass at his elbow. "It was a calculated risk, but I knew he would do little overtly. He had apparently managed to replace the pilot of my wife's personal transport with a Chemari." At the puzzled looks, he explained, "They are genetically-engineered chameleonic lifeforms. A specialty of his scientists."
D'Strand'm'tah indicated the table before him. It lit up. On it was a starchart, an image of several planets. Glowing behind it all was a purple spiral nebula.
"The Meticulous Spiral. The green world is called 'Morning's Bounty'. It is his prison world. The blue world – 'Azure Meanings' - is his fortress. It is an ice world, and his palace is several metras beneath its surface." Both worlds were ringed with formidable defences – and ships.
"Interesting names for the place."
"He thinks he's being ironic," D'Strand'm'tah grimaced. "I will equip you with whatever supplies you think you will need to retrieve them. At last reports, they were being kept on Morning's Bounty. As they are all females, he threatens to throw them into the prison population if I do not comply."
"For his mistress." Jool muttered as if she didn't believe any of it. "One he didn't want anyway."
"It is all about form and appearances." D'Strand'm'tah sighed. "Stupid traditions, but traditions nonetheless."
"Look, I got a glimpse of some of your fleet when we were brought here – why don't you just storm the place and get them back?" D'Argo asked.
"Again – traditions. As warlords, we may undercut one another, we may war with each other economically, with spies, with saboteurs, with any and all devious plots – short of real war or murder of the other. No Ashkelon has ever warred on another with soldiers and fleets, and I shall not be the first to break this ancient rule." D'Strand'm'tah rose, paced as he spoke. Rygel, perhaps not too surprisingly, made the leap.
"Ashkelon… you're all one family, aren't you? Literally. You're all relations – in one way or another."
"Again, well-reasoned, Dominar. Yes, we are all one family, through marriage mostly nowadays. Our soldiers, our armies, our administrators the V'rahn, all created by our scientists. All Warlords are related, by blood, and bonds deeper than blood. We are members of an ancient family. Strad'ail'leevis is a cousin, a second cousin."
"How many true Ashkelon are there?" Rygel asked.
"About one hundred, depending." The Warlord answered, returning to his seat, pouring himself a drink. "I have brothers and sisters who are Warlords in their own rights, and some who are not." He sighed. "We may undermine each other to the point of poverty, strip each other of everything but our lives, but we cannot kill one another, we cannot make overt war, or conquer each other's dominions via naked force. The Ashkelon endure, even if individual Warlords do not. It is not, I admit, the ideal exemplar of the term 'family'." He smiled an ironic smile at that, shook his head. "But it is the way it is, and it has endured for thousands of cycles." He eyed Jool. "May I ask why you were seeking out my physician?"
"You mean Koiban?" Jool looked startled. D'Strand'm'tah nodded. "Uh… he's my husband."
D'Strand'm'tah laughed. "So you are the infamous Joolushko Tunai Fenta Hovalis."
"Yes, but I don't think 'infamous' is the right…"
"Navria called you a whore, Jool." Chiana quipped. "Which would you prefer?"
Jool just rolled her eyes, and sulked.
"Look – we're not in this kind of business." D'Argo brought them back to the moment. "Our ship – our Leviathan - is scheduled for an extensive refit at Abbanerex. We're already overdue as it is."
"I have no one else. I haven't the time. Your reputation says you can do this."
"What reputation?" Jool blurted, exasperated.
"What reputation?" D'Strand'm'tah said, incredulous. "John Crichton and his friends – spike in the Peacekeepers' side, destroyers of Nebari battalions, of Gammak bases – and Scorpius' Gammak base no less – the looting and destruction of Natiria's Shadow Depository - and the destruction of a Scarran Dreadnought! Half the systems on the Rim closed down because they thought the Scarrans would launch a pre-emptive strike shortly afterward! It is said that Crichton destroyed it single-handedly – and could do the same to their planets."
"Oh. That reputation," Chiana sighed. Frell.
"As I said, I will supply you with whatever you need. I will also see to it that your Leviathans receive any care they require." D'Strand'm'tah paced. "If you succeed, you may ask for anything in payment – and I will give you this – " he snapped his fingers and the servant laid something in his hand. He held it up. "An Ashkelon Ward of Passage. With this you may pass freely through any territory a Warlord controls. Even Peacekeepers will not follow you through our dominions. Even Strad'ail'leevis would honor this. You will have safe haven in any territory an Ashkelon controls."
D'Argo looked at his friends, saw Chiana nod, Rygel thoughtful and Jool look confused. Safe haven was attractive in itself. As D'Strand'm'tah was no doubt aware.
"I'd have to contact Crichton. You took our comms."
Even as D'Argo said it, a V'rahn suddenly appeared, hurried to D'Strand'm'tah, began whispering in his ear. A few moments later, D'Strand'm'tah turned with a smile.
"No need. He's already on Davros."
CRAIS WAS JUST ABOUT TO SET UP AN AMBUSH ON THE INSECTOID WHEN ELACK DIED.
There was a great shuddering groan, and the ship rolled. Systems started simultaneously failing all over the Leviathan. Doors began to slam open and shut, some locking tight, some slamming open. Some doors led to the unpressurized Hammonside of Elack, causing entire tiers to blow out. Power failed by sections, moving down from his front to the rear, and darkness fell. The only light cast came from a faintly florescent glow on the walls, which bathed the corridors in an eerie gold light.
To Crais' great and everlasting surprise, Shee'ladahalia Muukarhi suddenly appeared in the conduit opposite him, extricating herself with grace.
"Well. That is that." She said in way of greeting. "We have approximately 2 arns before the gravity cuts out." Muukarhi said, getting her bearings. She'd been crawling through those ducts for what seemed like days.
"It should be very interesting attempting to get around this ship at that point." Crais said, still surprised.
"Aren't Peacekeepers trained to move in weightless conditions?" Muukarhi was closely watching the corridor ahead of them.
"Certainly. In these confines, however, it will make moving about hazardous. Especially if we must fight."
Muukarhi tightened a buckle on her uniform, stretched.
"Well, then – we'd best proceed."
"What are you doing here?" He finally managed to ask. "I told you to return to Abbanerex."
"I don't take your orders, Crais. One of my techs fell behind and we couldn't wait. I stayed behind as the Twixt Far Stars left. They will send word as to our situation to Abbanerex and the local authorities. We merely need hold out until then."
"Not so easy." Crais told her. He nodded up the corridor where a shape could be seen approaching. Handed her the tech's pistol. Suddenly a piercing hiss sliced through the air, followed by shots zipping past them, ricocheting through the corridor. Crais snapped off a few shots as Muukarhi dove for the floor. The shape dodged, but kept coming. Muukarhi fired from the floor, coming nowhere near the Insectoid, but she too forced it to dodge, and straight into Crais' incoming fire. Hafta'lal'ta grunted, fell back, but immediately rose, snapping an arm up, loosing another volley of pulse blasts, this time in Crais' direction. He grunted, rolled back across the floor toward Muukarhi. Muukarhi glanced up to see Crais holding his smoking left arm.
"Damaged?"
"No." Crais lied. He fired up the corridor again, this time hitting the bounty hunter in the leg. Hafta'lal'ta chittered, went down, but once again immediately rose, fired off another volley. Crais ducked between wall-ribs as a multitude of shots clattered around him. Chunks of wall were skittering off the floor and walls, sharp shards that Crais flinched at as they went by him. One large piece fell practically at his feet, and he was suddenly struck by an idea.
He sucked in a deep breath, tensed, grabbed the shard and then hurled himself up the corridor, slamming into Hafta'lal'ta as hard as he could, just as the Insectoid closed on Muukarhi. Both went down in a jangle and for a moment, Crais cursed, for the Insectoid easily had five times his strength, felt the pincers of the insect lock on him and start to dig in with terrific force, before Hafta'lal'ta gave out a hacking chatter and fell back. Crais' makeshift dagger had struck home. He reeled back and fell, just as Muukarhi reached him.
She gasped as Crais lay there panting. Hafta'lal'ta may have been dead, but in that brief clash Crais had not gone unpunished. Crais has a massive wound across his chest – and it was pouring blood.
Muukarhi tore down the corridor, found the ration pack and hurried back, pulling out what medical supplies it had, doing what she could to close off and treat the wound. She stripped him to his bare chest, shook her head that she dared not use any of their water to wash the wound. Hoping that those claws hadn't been poisoned, she proceeded to seal and wrap it as best she could.
She hoisted him to his feet after, grabbed their packs and helped the wounded ex-Captain up to the rear observation tier. Just outside it hung the bounty hunters' ships. She sat him against the wall, checked the wound.
"I appreciate your ministrations." Crais said, voice weary, reflecting the pain he was in.
"What you did was very brave." Muukarhi told him, surprised at herself. "I did not expect it."
"I did not expect you would have remained – simply for one tech. But you did. I am sorry about him, by the way. He tried to help me." Surprised again, Muukarhi asked how he died.
"Well." Crais told her, and left it at that.
Muukarhi nodded again, said nothing, reassessing this man again. She was about to inquire as to their next move when the floor shifted under their feet. It was a subtle thing, as if Elack were turning.
"Did you feel that?" Muukarhi asked.
Crais nodded, perplexed.
"It feels as if this Leviathan is moving, but he's dead."
"That's definite. His circulatory system blew several arns ago – he is definitely dead."
There was a shudder then, a rumble followed that ended in a loud slamming sound, just beyond the bulkhead.
Muukarhi looked toward the ceiling, slowly her gaze came down on Crais.
"What did that just sound like?" She asked, as if she already knew the answer. Crais, too believed he knew.
"Very large… grapples."
Muukarhi took off to the other side of the observation deck on a run, Crais waiting.
"Frell!" She bolted up to Elack's rudimentary open observation blister, skidded to a stop just in the door. Behind her, she could see Crais' inquiring gaze.
Above their heads hung the very last thing either wanted to see – the long dark shape of a ship both recognized:
A Pantak-class Vigilante.