HUNGRY
These characters are not mine and I write this story with no intention of making any profit or doing anything other than sharing my fantasies with my fellow Farscape fans. I hope the story in some small way brings you enjoyment.
Gentle reader:
This story was written before D'Argo developed a relationship with Chiana.
Just prior to episode one, our travelers have been chased by a Peacekeeper Marauder in real space. Moya cannot Starburst due to the proximity of a deep space traffic hazard - a space-time discontinuity bordering a star nursery, against which they have become trapped. More or less backed up to a wall, Moya turns to fight but the confrontation ends abruptly when the PK pursuer breaks off to chase another ship traveling the edge of the discontinuity. The discontinuity's gravity field then grabs the unwary Marauder and it disappears in a brilliant flash of light. As this story begins, at Pilot's request Aeryn and John are attempting to retrieve an asteroid of 63% frozen water that unfortunately is situated very close to the discontinuity. After the PK's display of carelessness, Pilot is reluctant to approach the rift but Moya desperately needs the water to rejuvenate. On the rescue mission, Aeryn and John miscalculate too and get caught in the discontinuity's gravity field. They can't communicate with Moya, the pod can't get loose. It looks bad.
Peacekeeper space/time register, 55679.32 absolute, on the pod
John had thought it might end like this, alone, in space, far from the familiar, maybe even far from God, for all he knew. He wondered if his soul would find Heaven without Earth for reference.
He looked out the tiny pod's port at the discontinuity rift stretching as a sparkling beach at the edge of roiling, internally lit clouds of star nursery. It reminded him, just a little, of the surf at Nag's Head on the Carolina coast. It sparkled like that on a moonlit night. God, please listen to me, he thought. I miss North Carolina. I'd really like to spend eternity there, if it's ok by You.
After brainstorming up a wild plan involving a piggyback ride on a signal rocket out of the discontinuity's pull, John had to really work to convince Aeryn of the plan's feasibility. Always the convincing. Just once he wished Aeryn, or anyone else on Moya, would show a little faith. Hadn't most of his plans worked out? Well, maybe that time . . No, enough of that, no use crying over spilt milk.
And "No" was the first thing Aeryn had said too. "This time I'll do the dying and you do the rescuing."
"I won't die!" he'd said. But that hadn't changed her mind. He hadn't really believed it himself. Then he'd pointed out that she massed less, was a better pilot, and had a more deep space experience. She could tell Pilot exactly where to find him. No sale. Her sweet soft eyes were losing their usual hungry hawk sharpness. "John, I don't think I can leave you here alone. I think . . . I think I feel . . ."
Uh-oh. Cut that off. Mean and nasty time. "You know, you're something else, Aeryn. You're trying to say you feel something for me? Sorry, I can't swallow that. All those little put downs you're always laying on me. You're ashamed of me." Her eyes had snapped black again. "Aren't you? You never once told anyone on Moya about us. You've never kissed me in front of the others." (John had tried to kiss her once at a group meal. She'd practically broke his wrist in a half nelson.) "You know what I think? I think I'm just a convenient way for you to pleasure yourself, and that's all I'll ever be." He was playing dirty he knew, but decided to go for broke anyway. Better she was alive and hating him than a dead best buddy. "After all, you wouldn't want to admit . . ."
At that point she'd socked him on the jaw, God that'd hurt, then slapped her helmet on with a bang (they'd already had their suits on) and stepped into the airlock. No goodbye kiss, no "good luck, be seeing you." The price you pay to get your way. The last thing he heard from her had been a crisp, "In position," over the suit radio then he'd launched the signal rocket and she was gone.
He sighed and checked the readout. Maybe 200 microts before the singularity snacked on him and his pod. "Peanut butter," he muttered to himself. "That's what I want before I die. Peanut butter and crackers. With a big tall glass of cold milk." Might as well wish for the moon. More likely to get the moon.
Peacekeeper space/time register, 55679.40 absolute, on Moya
Aeryn ran all the way from the entry bay to the control room, screaming directions at Pilot as she ran. Too long! It'd taken too long to get back! The pod would be almost on the discontinuity's event horizon. Moya pivoted delicately on the mid-ship axis, Pilot's fine hand cautious so close to the hungry high gravity field.
By the time Aeryn reached Control, a run of at least 100 microts, they were almost visual on the pod, Zhaan trying to shout a response out of the deep space communicator but getting nothing for her pains, D'Argo twiddling the controls. The control room was suddenly lit by a blaze of white actinic light coming through their translucent hull panels. It flooded control for the space of a microt before the filters readjusted.
D'Argo reacted first. "Reversing course. That thing'll eat us too," he yelled more loudly than necessary and started punching controls. Zhaan jumped the other control station and helped him with the adjustments, both of them shouting course corrections so fast Aeryn wondered that Pilot could sort it out, even with his multi-tasking brain.
Since she was a better pilot than either of them, Aeryn knew she should be helping, but instead she stood quietly her forehead resting on a translucent hull panel, watching the light that marked John's passing fade into nothingness.
Peacekeeper space/time register, 55679.78 absolute, on the Skykar naval vessel Herrant (formerly Peacekeeper tannot freighter Pelou)
Volmae's smile gleamed in her white face. Hybin had finished his trace element analysis. Definitely a battle had occurred here, probably a Marauder and hopefully a Leviathan. And not too ago. Maybe 20 arns. The information that had brought Volmae and her crew of 45 Skykarians here had cost one whole grapon of tannot oil, but if they found the Moya and friend Crichton it would be worth it. Skykar had a ship, it had a crew and now it needed a war leader.
Peacekeeper space/time register, 55598.32 relative, on the pod.
No, John thought, not peanut butter and crackers. Peanut butter and jelly went better with cold milk. Then he remembered the pod had passed the discontinuity's event horizon and he shouldn't be thinking at all. Dead men don't think do they? Or do they? I think therefore I am, he told himself, and began to check out the situation.
He wasn't inside the discontinuity, or under it. Around might be a better word. The discontinuity's beach and star nursery ocean still lapped nearby. "Shot down the chute," he said to himself. "Like the high slide at Wild Waves." He'd survived. That was the keyword, survived.
In relative terms the pod wasn't too bad. The tough hull remained unbreached, all thrusters intact, all positional calculators functioning, check and double check.
But now the bad news, John said to himself. The cider press was dead. That's what John called the handy device that permitted Moya and the pods to ignore most of what John had learned in Physics 101 at MIT, including mass, inertia, velocity, and gravity. Everything Newton's apple obeyed the press set to moot.
Peel back a black hole cosmic traveler and what do you find? John asked himself. A good old-fashioned astronaut. A solid grounding in Newtonian physics might come in useful after all. He started calculating trajectories along the edge of the discontinuity and back to Moya's last position.
Peacekeeper space/time register, 55690.15 absolute, on Moya
D'Argo had often observed that beings who lived truly long lives tended to develop detached, dis-interested attitudes toward the more ephemeral races, Rygel being a case in point. The little frog now sat in the galley stuffing his ugly face, deeply into a major food binge. He'd not shown the slightest emotion when told of Crichton's passing but had immediately hopped up and sledded to the galley, saying he was going to get his share of the extra food before everyone else ate it up.
There were exceptions to the long-lived rule, of course. Zhaan, an ancient being like Rygel, sat at the next table over, her blue hand holding Chiana's white one, tears streaming down both of their faces. " . . . and sometimes he'd call me his human names, like Choo-Choo and Pip," Chiana was wailing. "You know, he's the only one that's ever believed in me. He's the only one who cared!" D'Argo didn't know if he bought all the little Nebari said, but her distress was real.
Zhaan murmured soothing, inaudible words to Chiana; and D'Argo decided he'd better get out of there before he misted up beyond redemption himself. Frell it, anyway. The human had touched his emotional center as he didn't think any being would again.
He went looking for Aeryn. At least she hadn't yielded to tears and wailing. Maybe Aeryn would feel like a little hand-to-hand combat to work off their mutual misery.
Peacekeeper space/time register, 55612.03 relative phasing to absolute
John hoped Aeryn hadn't really believed any of his b.s. about being ashamed. Then for an uneasy moment he wondered if she were still alive. The signal rocket piggyback ride wouldn't have been a walk in the park. No, she was fine. He had to believe it, just like he had to believe he was correctly reading the Sebacean glyphs on his astrogation charts and that Moya would still be there when he got back. Would they hang around for the three days it'd take him to get back? Why should they if he were dead? Why indeed? The Peacekeepers might track down Moya again at any moment.
His thoughts drifted. Nothing to do. This acceleration phase would go for another 12.2 arns. Then he'd have a sixteenth light speed, as fast as he dared push it, at which time he'd switch off thrusters for additional 20.3 arns, then pivot and begin a 12.8 arn deceleration.
Arns, God help him, he was thinking in arns and microts instead of hours and minutes. He'd think of something nicer, like the last time Aeryn had come to his sleep bench. She'd actually slept some too. After a sweet time of lovemaking, she'd lain in his arms, her firm skin cool against him. Snuggled together like two spoons in a drawer, they'd drifted off to dreamland. He'd woke up while she still slept, and breathing in the sweet scent of her and remembering her taste, like potato chips and ice cream, he felt his groin stir. Delicately he explored her muscular neck with his tongue and teeth, then brushing aside her loose dark hair he nibbled her ear. She rolled onto her back and pulled aside her thong undergarment, inviting him in. He filled her and they'd begun to move together, slowly. That had been the last time they'd made love. Maybe the last time they ever would. Even if he made it back, she'd probably never come to his sleep bench again.
John sighed and tried to think of something safer, like peanut butter. Rygel'd probably stolen the pod's food since it wasn't where it should be and there was only one bottle of water. John wouldn't starve to death or die of thirst, but his stomach was already informing him of its displeasure and daydreaming about Aeryn and peanut butter, or even Aeryn coated in peanut butter, was not filling it. "I'll wring your stubby little neck, Rygel," John muttered, and set revenge aside until he saw the Hynerian again, if he saw him again.
Peacekeeper space/time register, 55695.88 absolute on Moya
Aeryn sat cross-legged on John's sleep bench, her PK knife unsheathed across her knees. She wore John's ragged white undershirt and what she thought John called his "boxers" although she failed to see what the undergarment had to do with fist fighting. The shirt was white, the boxers pale blue. The colors seemed appropriate. Black and red were the Peacekeeper colors. You couldn't get much more different from Peacekeeper than this white and icy blue. And John had been truly different from any Sebacean Aeryn had ever met. He could go from as bold as a meat hound to as helpless as a newborn baby with no discernible transition. This seemed the best way to honor him - to dress in his clothes, to be him, to say to the universe at large, "No, I am not ashamed of John Crichton, my human . . . friend."
She didn't trust the others on board Moya. John's possessions had been meager but Aeryn knew from bitter experience that Rygel and Chiana would take anything not fastened to the hull and even some of that. If she'd still been a Peacekeeper, she would have put both of those habitual thieves on her short list. So she sat here in John's cell, holding watch. Tomorrow she'd talk to the rest about loading the Farscape with John's things and sending it into the discontinuity to join him.
In the meantime, things were a bit brighter on board Moya. The backwash from John's death had swept the ice-teroid out of the grip of the discontinuity and Moya had been able to drink her fill. Today everyone took a water shower instead of sonic. John would've loved it. He hated sonic, said it didn't get rid of the b.o., whatever that was.
She remembered trying to teach him the graceful moves of the combat dance she loved so much. He'd never learned one of them. Instead he'd tipped and tripped over his feet and finally ended up on his fanny. His muscles were too big for the combat dance, she decided. He couldn't balance properly. He would do better with the nyant-chiun style combat. Now that would use John's well developed pectorals and biceps to advantage, he'd . . . Aeryn stopped herself. John was dead. There would be no more training. Finally Aeryn's tears began to fall.
Peacekeeper space/time register, 55645.83 relative phasing to absolute, on the pod
John was having the nicest dream. He was running down a sand hill at Kitty Hawk on the Carolina coast. He was 12 years old and his arms were outspread and he was buzzing like a motor and pretending to be Wilbur Wright, flying the first airplane ever. Then a droplet of condensation fell off the pod's overhead and hit his nose and he woke up with a start. The air scrubber was on its last legs and the whole overhead panel of the cabin showed significant dew. He was pretty sure the scrubber would hang in there, but he'd give anything for an umbrella. Another droplet fell, hitting the pod's control panel. Better cover things up. Moya wouldn't have waterproofed this stuff.
Peacekeeper space/time register, 55697.62 absolute, on Moya
Zhaan stood in the entrance of what had until recently been John's chosen sleeping quarters. Aeryn, cross-legged on his sleeping bench, studiously ignored her, sitting with her back straight, a closed, protected expression on her face. Only the red rimmed dark eyes gave her away.
The Pa'u sat down at the far end of the bench. Chiana had finally calmed down some and gone to bed. A tough survivor, the Nebari would soon be fine. In a cargo hold D'Argo was still beating the stuffing out of an exercise dummy. D'Argo's miseries extended far beyond the recent death of a companion. Only a purging of guilt would bring him any relief and Zhaan doubted he was yet ready. Rygel had disappeared as he often did in moments of stress, but he too would be fine. Crichton had been only a momentary blip on the Hynerian's horizon. As for Pilot and Moya, they lived to serve and would express what grief they felt through obedience.
But Aeryn . . . Aeryn worried Zhaan. Zhaan had lived long enough and seen enough Peacekeepers to know that their toughness came from conditioned suppression. Aeryn wore John's most intimate clothing. The Pleisar officer's grief must be extreme, but she sat quietly, showing no expression.
"Did you ever couple with him?" Aeryn asked suddenly, startling Zhaan. "I know . . . I know you slept with him on Skykar, but were you ever, uh, intimate?" Aeryn didn't look at the Delvian as she spoke.
Zhaan didn't ask Aeryn who she meant. She touched the officer's cheek gently, and Aeryn's dark eyes looked into her pale ones. "No," Zhaan answered truthfully. "You were the only one on Moya. He and I, we conjoined, shared minds, once. It's a very intimate experience. He had the most beautiful mind. So unexpected, so compassionate." Zhaan touched Aeryn's hand that lay on the hilt of the huge Peacekeeper knife. "I'll miss him more than I would have thought possible a cycle ago." Aeryn's deep eyes looked in Zhaan's pale reflective ones.
"He tricked me, you know, to get me off the pod," Aeryn said softly. "He made me believe I was ashamed of him." Her chin jutted out. "I am never going to be ashamed of him again. Never, you understand? Never."
Peacekeeper space/time register, 55657.43 relative phasing to absolute, on the pod
John had switched off the engine, but the pod still zipped through space at sixteenth light speed "coasting" on inertia. He'd already pivoted and it was almost time to fire retro for the deceleration phase. In the meantime, he'd shut down or reduced power on as many systems as feasible. So far power hadn't been a problem, but no use in taking chances. Condensation from his breath fell from the overhead like a light rain, but he found himself wishing for a bath. His beard had begun to itch and his last sonic shower was only a distant memory. To top it off, the pod's sanitary facilities were rudimentary and he'd ended up bundling up his body waste in little bags and putting it in an empty storage bin. The pod stank to high heaven. Yep, that's where he was all right, high heaven. About as high as you could get, buddy.
And bored? He'd achieved a whole new plane of boredom. A whole new universe of boredom. He'd haltingly read and re-read every Sebacean chart, diagram and how-to flimsy on the pod and been through its limited data bank twice. He'd recited the Patriots starting line-up outloud several times, and the batting average of every player in the 1998 World Series, and even sang as many as the songs from Les Miserables as he could remember. One of his early girlfriends had been a Welleslyian music major and a bit player in the New England touring company of Les Miz. He'd tried to make every rehearsal and show and fallen in love with acting himself for the space of two quarters before his father found out and issued another "my way or the highway" warning, with a gentle fatherly slant, of course. John had then taken a double load of advanced chemistry the next quarter to make up with J. R. Senior. But even now, 15 or so years later, John could still do a fair rendition of "Red and Black," although "One More Day" seemed currently more appropriate.
So with his brain thus lulled with significant matters of import, when the proximity alarm went off John didn't react for a shocked 5 microts or so. That and the waterproof tarps he'd thrown over the controls may have saved his life. His heretofore dead communicator suddenly snapped to life and a Peacekeeper voice - you could always tell the PKs, the translator microbes made them sound vaguely Brit or possibly Aussie - then came on. "Can't see anything," the voice said, "but it's active and I'm reading a life form on board."
Another voice said, "That leviathan'll keep for a while. Let's see what we've got here." John crawled over to the view port in a vague hope that the PK was visual - it would have to be really close, no more than a few kilometers. He got the shock of his life, well maybe not of his life, but a major trauma. A Peacekeeper Marauder, rather like the one Larraq had flown and he'd blown up to save the Universe from the intelligent flu bug, was no more than a half kilometer away. That wasn't the shock. Moya was the shock. There she was as big as life and twice as striped. Oh shit the PKs had caught up with Moya again.
If these PKs knew what the notorious fugitive John Crichton looked like, maybe he could pull them off her. He reached out to flip the tarp aside and bait the trap but stopped, his jaw literally dropping. His own voice was now coming over the communicator. "This is the Leviathan Moya trying to contact unknown ship. You'd better blast out of here. That Marauder's out to get us and you'll get caught in the crossfire."
John remembered sending that voice-only message two days ago when Moya and the Marauder had tangled. Oh God, the discontinuity had thrown him back in time as well as giving him a good kick ass toss in space. Next up, the Marauder would chase his pod and fall into the discontinuity, if it played out again exactly as it had the first time around.
As if to point out the inevitably of the situation, the timer he'd set to fire the shuttle's retro ignition went off. John slipped his hand under the tarp and pushed the fire button. The Marauder took note of the rocket flare (who knows what the PK thought?) and diverted to follow him.
Peacekeeper space/time register, 55703.20 absolute, on the Skykar naval vessel Herrant
First officer Tanga rubbed her swollen belly. Being pregnant was such a strange feeling, wonderful but awkward. The rapid changes in one's body challenged even the most athletic to re-adjust balance centers. One found one's self having difficulty even getting up out of chairs.
Volmae sat down next to her. "Tanga, love, you were so lucky . . . to be chosen," Volmae said her hands waving in one of her graceful, generous gestures, "but I do wish . . . you weren't here."
"Leader Volmae," Tanga said, "the ship would be without a crew if the pregnant could not serve." Of the 45 trained Skykarians now on Herrant's crewlist, seven were pregnant by other Skykarians and five were pregnant with Crichton clone implants, including Tanga herself. All the implantees were close to term, while the Skykarian-bred were at various stages ranging from one-third to almost full term. Tanga had only been half term pregnant when they'd left home to search for a market for tannot oil and to find John Crichton.
Half the females on Skykar, two-thirds of that planet's women of childbearing age, were pregnant. The planetary withdrawal from the tannot drug resulted in this wonderful tidal wave of babies. After being childless for centuries (the Peacekeepers shipped in workers as needed), Skykar would soon be a nursery of enormous proportions.
The Crichton implants were another matter, of course. Cloning their heroic deliverer, John Robert Crichton, had been irresistible to the Skykarians. They could do it, so they did and Skykarian women begged for the privilege of carrying one the 10 Crichton fetuses even though their scientists had not expected them all to grow to term. That Tanga and the other four implanted women on the Herrant now all had swollen bellies proved that humans must be an amazingly vigorous race. When they returned to Skykar all ten implanted women would get together and compare notes on their pregnancies and play with each other's Crichtons. It would be a fun time.
"Come, love," Volmae said. "Moya is . . . close. Time to get to the bridge." With the help of Skykar's white skinned leader, Tanga struggled to her feet.
Peacekeeper space/time register, 55704.00 absolute, on Moya
"It's a Norween class freighter," Aeryn was saying. "Masses about 380 million erts, designed mostly for cargo but can carry troops in a pinch. Nothing heavier than medium cannon. Extra shielding." She was about to say that she'd shipped on a few, when the communicator came to life with Volmae's ghost like face.
"Friend Aeryn!" Volmae said. "Friend Zhaan . . . Friend D'Argo! It is so good . . . to see you!"
"As it is you, leader Volmae," Zhaan managed to get out. The Skykar out here?
Volmae's eyes seemed to be searching for something. "Where is Friend John?" Volmae asked. "We have come . . . to speak with him . . . again. We need his wisdom."
"Leader Volmae," Zhaan said. "We have some very bad news."
Peacekeeper space/time register, 55708.77 absolute, on Moya, corridor 39
John Crichton moved as stealthily as he could down Moya's side corridor. Coming in the back door had its advantages, secrecy being one of them, but secrecy meant no succinct situational briefing from Pilot, no happy re-union with his fellow travelers. On top of that he was weak from hunger, de-hydrated, his black space suit damp from dripping condensation, and he stunk so bad he doubted he could sneak up on anyone. Worst of all, he didn't have a clue what was going on, only frightened suspicions that made his heart beat so fast it felt like it would jump out of his throat.
An arn ago he'd switched off the pod's deceleration rockets when he first saw the huge metal ship with Moya grappled firmly to its keel. In fact from a certain angle, the two ships kinda looked like two huge mammals copulating. A long silvery tube erupting from the stern of the metal ship pierced Moya through her hangar bay. Although he'd fired attitudinal rockets as he maneuvered to his back door entrance, the very same one that out of which D'Argo had once without a space suit, no one had challenged him. He didn't know why. Unless everyone was dead at the stick, they had to know he was here.
He held the side arm he'd picked up from the Auxiliary Toolroom in front of him, trying to at least look menacing although he still couldn't reliably hit the side of barn with any PK weapon. The darkened corridor he slid along told him that Moya was in low power mode. That did not bode well at all, no indeed. Low power meant something was going on that took a lot of energy. He hadn't yet seen a DRD and that too was very bad.
It must have been his empty stomach that led him to the galley, but that turned out to be the right place after all.
Peacekeeper space/time register, 55708.93 absolute, on Moya
The "something" that sapped Moya's energy was sorrow. Her corridors were filled with it, the DRDs immobilized by it. The Skykars had all left the Herrant through a tunnel link in Moya's hangar bay. As many as could fit in the galley squeezed in and the others stood down in the hangar bay listening over the communicator to Aeryn and the rest of Moya's crew tell the story of Crichton's passing.
Pilot and Moya picked up on the sorrow the Skykarians emitted with their soft sighs and little shudders. The pregnant females were particularly touching and there were so many of them! He counted twelve gravid Skykarians, several of them very near term. Moya's sympathetic link to pregnant beings left her vulnerable to their emotional output. Pilot monitored as Moya reduced power all through her unoccupied interior and shut down all but a few DRDs. She sometimes did that when distressed.
Crichton's passing had uncorked an emotional storm in them all. The losses and the close calls they'd endured together, the large pains, the small kindnesses, the breathless chases, the terrifying hiding. All of the corked and long denied emotions came flooding out, and the crew and the ship itself mourned not just for John but the lost peace they would never find and the early death that they would.
John stood in the corridor just outside the galley, listening in puzzlement to the quiet sounds inside. It sounded like a woman crying. It sounded like several women crying.
"So he felt . . . no pain?" a naggingly familiar voice asked. Aeryn's voice answered, "I don't know. His ship disappeared in the discontinuity. There's no way for us to know. He's just . . . gone."
Zhaan's voice, "We are so sorry that you came so far, Volmae . . ." John lost track of the rest of it! Volmae! The Skykarians, friends, oh God. He sagged against the bulkhead and squeezed his eyes shut to prevent tears of relief from blinding him. He could let go now. His suddenly slack hands dropped his weapon and supporting himself with one hand on the bulkhead, he staggered to the galley entrance.
John saw Tanga first, her round belly so different from the slim little athlete he'd known on Skykar, it threw him off for a moment. She saw him too and threw herself at him with a squeal. In seconds whooping, laughing beings completely surrounded John, hugging and kissing, all talking at once. Everyone wanted to touch him, everyone but Aeryn. She stood back several paces, watching, her arms crossed and her expression opaque. John had Chiana under one arm and Tanga under the other when he finally spotted her there.
Seeing that she had John's eye, Aeryn stepped to his side while Chiana and Tanga hastily backed off. Aeryn's dark eyes looked into John's light blue ones for a moment, then her right hand grasped the back of his neck and her left hand his buttocks. She pulled him to her and filled his mouth with a breathless emphatic kiss that spoke the volumes of her longing and relief. Finally her lips let go of his, and she tucked her forehead under his arm while he hugged her close. "Hi there, Tough Guy," he whispered into her ear.
"Gracklites," she said into his pit. "You smell terrible."
Fire and Ice - Hungry, Page 11, 11/12/99, 1:31 PM
These characters are not mine and I write this story with no intention of making any profit or doing anything other than sharing my fantasies with my fellow Farscape fans. I hope the story in some small way brings you enjoyment.
Gentle reader:
This story was written before D'Argo developed a relationship with Chiana.
Just prior to episode one, our travelers have been chased by a Peacekeeper Marauder in real space. Moya cannot Starburst due to the proximity of a deep space traffic hazard - a space-time discontinuity bordering a star nursery, against which they have become trapped. More or less backed up to a wall, Moya turns to fight but the confrontation ends abruptly when the PK pursuer breaks off to chase another ship traveling the edge of the discontinuity. The discontinuity's gravity field then grabs the unwary Marauder and it disappears in a brilliant flash of light. As this story begins, at Pilot's request Aeryn and John are attempting to retrieve an asteroid of 63% frozen water that unfortunately is situated very close to the discontinuity. After the PK's display of carelessness, Pilot is reluctant to approach the rift but Moya desperately needs the water to rejuvenate. On the rescue mission, Aeryn and John miscalculate too and get caught in the discontinuity's gravity field. They can't communicate with Moya, the pod can't get loose. It looks bad.
Peacekeeper space/time register, 55679.32 absolute, on the pod
John had thought it might end like this, alone, in space, far from the familiar, maybe even far from God, for all he knew. He wondered if his soul would find Heaven without Earth for reference.
He looked out the tiny pod's port at the discontinuity rift stretching as a sparkling beach at the edge of roiling, internally lit clouds of star nursery. It reminded him, just a little, of the surf at Nag's Head on the Carolina coast. It sparkled like that on a moonlit night. God, please listen to me, he thought. I miss North Carolina. I'd really like to spend eternity there, if it's ok by You.
After brainstorming up a wild plan involving a piggyback ride on a signal rocket out of the discontinuity's pull, John had to really work to convince Aeryn of the plan's feasibility. Always the convincing. Just once he wished Aeryn, or anyone else on Moya, would show a little faith. Hadn't most of his plans worked out? Well, maybe that time . . No, enough of that, no use crying over spilt milk.
And "No" was the first thing Aeryn had said too. "This time I'll do the dying and you do the rescuing."
"I won't die!" he'd said. But that hadn't changed her mind. He hadn't really believed it himself. Then he'd pointed out that she massed less, was a better pilot, and had a more deep space experience. She could tell Pilot exactly where to find him. No sale. Her sweet soft eyes were losing their usual hungry hawk sharpness. "John, I don't think I can leave you here alone. I think . . . I think I feel . . ."
Uh-oh. Cut that off. Mean and nasty time. "You know, you're something else, Aeryn. You're trying to say you feel something for me? Sorry, I can't swallow that. All those little put downs you're always laying on me. You're ashamed of me." Her eyes had snapped black again. "Aren't you? You never once told anyone on Moya about us. You've never kissed me in front of the others." (John had tried to kiss her once at a group meal. She'd practically broke his wrist in a half nelson.) "You know what I think? I think I'm just a convenient way for you to pleasure yourself, and that's all I'll ever be." He was playing dirty he knew, but decided to go for broke anyway. Better she was alive and hating him than a dead best buddy. "After all, you wouldn't want to admit . . ."
At that point she'd socked him on the jaw, God that'd hurt, then slapped her helmet on with a bang (they'd already had their suits on) and stepped into the airlock. No goodbye kiss, no "good luck, be seeing you." The price you pay to get your way. The last thing he heard from her had been a crisp, "In position," over the suit radio then he'd launched the signal rocket and she was gone.
He sighed and checked the readout. Maybe 200 microts before the singularity snacked on him and his pod. "Peanut butter," he muttered to himself. "That's what I want before I die. Peanut butter and crackers. With a big tall glass of cold milk." Might as well wish for the moon. More likely to get the moon.
Peacekeeper space/time register, 55679.40 absolute, on Moya
Aeryn ran all the way from the entry bay to the control room, screaming directions at Pilot as she ran. Too long! It'd taken too long to get back! The pod would be almost on the discontinuity's event horizon. Moya pivoted delicately on the mid-ship axis, Pilot's fine hand cautious so close to the hungry high gravity field.
By the time Aeryn reached Control, a run of at least 100 microts, they were almost visual on the pod, Zhaan trying to shout a response out of the deep space communicator but getting nothing for her pains, D'Argo twiddling the controls. The control room was suddenly lit by a blaze of white actinic light coming through their translucent hull panels. It flooded control for the space of a microt before the filters readjusted.
D'Argo reacted first. "Reversing course. That thing'll eat us too," he yelled more loudly than necessary and started punching controls. Zhaan jumped the other control station and helped him with the adjustments, both of them shouting course corrections so fast Aeryn wondered that Pilot could sort it out, even with his multi-tasking brain.
Since she was a better pilot than either of them, Aeryn knew she should be helping, but instead she stood quietly her forehead resting on a translucent hull panel, watching the light that marked John's passing fade into nothingness.
Peacekeeper space/time register, 55679.78 absolute, on the Skykar naval vessel Herrant (formerly Peacekeeper tannot freighter Pelou)
Volmae's smile gleamed in her white face. Hybin had finished his trace element analysis. Definitely a battle had occurred here, probably a Marauder and hopefully a Leviathan. And not too ago. Maybe 20 arns. The information that had brought Volmae and her crew of 45 Skykarians here had cost one whole grapon of tannot oil, but if they found the Moya and friend Crichton it would be worth it. Skykar had a ship, it had a crew and now it needed a war leader.
Peacekeeper space/time register, 55598.32 relative, on the pod.
No, John thought, not peanut butter and crackers. Peanut butter and jelly went better with cold milk. Then he remembered the pod had passed the discontinuity's event horizon and he shouldn't be thinking at all. Dead men don't think do they? Or do they? I think therefore I am, he told himself, and began to check out the situation.
He wasn't inside the discontinuity, or under it. Around might be a better word. The discontinuity's beach and star nursery ocean still lapped nearby. "Shot down the chute," he said to himself. "Like the high slide at Wild Waves." He'd survived. That was the keyword, survived.
In relative terms the pod wasn't too bad. The tough hull remained unbreached, all thrusters intact, all positional calculators functioning, check and double check.
But now the bad news, John said to himself. The cider press was dead. That's what John called the handy device that permitted Moya and the pods to ignore most of what John had learned in Physics 101 at MIT, including mass, inertia, velocity, and gravity. Everything Newton's apple obeyed the press set to moot.
Peel back a black hole cosmic traveler and what do you find? John asked himself. A good old-fashioned astronaut. A solid grounding in Newtonian physics might come in useful after all. He started calculating trajectories along the edge of the discontinuity and back to Moya's last position.
Peacekeeper space/time register, 55690.15 absolute, on Moya
D'Argo had often observed that beings who lived truly long lives tended to develop detached, dis-interested attitudes toward the more ephemeral races, Rygel being a case in point. The little frog now sat in the galley stuffing his ugly face, deeply into a major food binge. He'd not shown the slightest emotion when told of Crichton's passing but had immediately hopped up and sledded to the galley, saying he was going to get his share of the extra food before everyone else ate it up.
There were exceptions to the long-lived rule, of course. Zhaan, an ancient being like Rygel, sat at the next table over, her blue hand holding Chiana's white one, tears streaming down both of their faces. " . . . and sometimes he'd call me his human names, like Choo-Choo and Pip," Chiana was wailing. "You know, he's the only one that's ever believed in me. He's the only one who cared!" D'Argo didn't know if he bought all the little Nebari said, but her distress was real.
Zhaan murmured soothing, inaudible words to Chiana; and D'Argo decided he'd better get out of there before he misted up beyond redemption himself. Frell it, anyway. The human had touched his emotional center as he didn't think any being would again.
He went looking for Aeryn. At least she hadn't yielded to tears and wailing. Maybe Aeryn would feel like a little hand-to-hand combat to work off their mutual misery.
Peacekeeper space/time register, 55612.03 relative phasing to absolute
John hoped Aeryn hadn't really believed any of his b.s. about being ashamed. Then for an uneasy moment he wondered if she were still alive. The signal rocket piggyback ride wouldn't have been a walk in the park. No, she was fine. He had to believe it, just like he had to believe he was correctly reading the Sebacean glyphs on his astrogation charts and that Moya would still be there when he got back. Would they hang around for the three days it'd take him to get back? Why should they if he were dead? Why indeed? The Peacekeepers might track down Moya again at any moment.
His thoughts drifted. Nothing to do. This acceleration phase would go for another 12.2 arns. Then he'd have a sixteenth light speed, as fast as he dared push it, at which time he'd switch off thrusters for additional 20.3 arns, then pivot and begin a 12.8 arn deceleration.
Arns, God help him, he was thinking in arns and microts instead of hours and minutes. He'd think of something nicer, like the last time Aeryn had come to his sleep bench. She'd actually slept some too. After a sweet time of lovemaking, she'd lain in his arms, her firm skin cool against him. Snuggled together like two spoons in a drawer, they'd drifted off to dreamland. He'd woke up while she still slept, and breathing in the sweet scent of her and remembering her taste, like potato chips and ice cream, he felt his groin stir. Delicately he explored her muscular neck with his tongue and teeth, then brushing aside her loose dark hair he nibbled her ear. She rolled onto her back and pulled aside her thong undergarment, inviting him in. He filled her and they'd begun to move together, slowly. That had been the last time they'd made love. Maybe the last time they ever would. Even if he made it back, she'd probably never come to his sleep bench again.
John sighed and tried to think of something safer, like peanut butter. Rygel'd probably stolen the pod's food since it wasn't where it should be and there was only one bottle of water. John wouldn't starve to death or die of thirst, but his stomach was already informing him of its displeasure and daydreaming about Aeryn and peanut butter, or even Aeryn coated in peanut butter, was not filling it. "I'll wring your stubby little neck, Rygel," John muttered, and set revenge aside until he saw the Hynerian again, if he saw him again.
Peacekeeper space/time register, 55695.88 absolute on Moya
Aeryn sat cross-legged on John's sleep bench, her PK knife unsheathed across her knees. She wore John's ragged white undershirt and what she thought John called his "boxers" although she failed to see what the undergarment had to do with fist fighting. The shirt was white, the boxers pale blue. The colors seemed appropriate. Black and red were the Peacekeeper colors. You couldn't get much more different from Peacekeeper than this white and icy blue. And John had been truly different from any Sebacean Aeryn had ever met. He could go from as bold as a meat hound to as helpless as a newborn baby with no discernible transition. This seemed the best way to honor him - to dress in his clothes, to be him, to say to the universe at large, "No, I am not ashamed of John Crichton, my human . . . friend."
She didn't trust the others on board Moya. John's possessions had been meager but Aeryn knew from bitter experience that Rygel and Chiana would take anything not fastened to the hull and even some of that. If she'd still been a Peacekeeper, she would have put both of those habitual thieves on her short list. So she sat here in John's cell, holding watch. Tomorrow she'd talk to the rest about loading the Farscape with John's things and sending it into the discontinuity to join him.
In the meantime, things were a bit brighter on board Moya. The backwash from John's death had swept the ice-teroid out of the grip of the discontinuity and Moya had been able to drink her fill. Today everyone took a water shower instead of sonic. John would've loved it. He hated sonic, said it didn't get rid of the b.o., whatever that was.
She remembered trying to teach him the graceful moves of the combat dance she loved so much. He'd never learned one of them. Instead he'd tipped and tripped over his feet and finally ended up on his fanny. His muscles were too big for the combat dance, she decided. He couldn't balance properly. He would do better with the nyant-chiun style combat. Now that would use John's well developed pectorals and biceps to advantage, he'd . . . Aeryn stopped herself. John was dead. There would be no more training. Finally Aeryn's tears began to fall.
Peacekeeper space/time register, 55645.83 relative phasing to absolute, on the pod
John was having the nicest dream. He was running down a sand hill at Kitty Hawk on the Carolina coast. He was 12 years old and his arms were outspread and he was buzzing like a motor and pretending to be Wilbur Wright, flying the first airplane ever. Then a droplet of condensation fell off the pod's overhead and hit his nose and he woke up with a start. The air scrubber was on its last legs and the whole overhead panel of the cabin showed significant dew. He was pretty sure the scrubber would hang in there, but he'd give anything for an umbrella. Another droplet fell, hitting the pod's control panel. Better cover things up. Moya wouldn't have waterproofed this stuff.
Peacekeeper space/time register, 55697.62 absolute, on Moya
Zhaan stood in the entrance of what had until recently been John's chosen sleeping quarters. Aeryn, cross-legged on his sleeping bench, studiously ignored her, sitting with her back straight, a closed, protected expression on her face. Only the red rimmed dark eyes gave her away.
The Pa'u sat down at the far end of the bench. Chiana had finally calmed down some and gone to bed. A tough survivor, the Nebari would soon be fine. In a cargo hold D'Argo was still beating the stuffing out of an exercise dummy. D'Argo's miseries extended far beyond the recent death of a companion. Only a purging of guilt would bring him any relief and Zhaan doubted he was yet ready. Rygel had disappeared as he often did in moments of stress, but he too would be fine. Crichton had been only a momentary blip on the Hynerian's horizon. As for Pilot and Moya, they lived to serve and would express what grief they felt through obedience.
But Aeryn . . . Aeryn worried Zhaan. Zhaan had lived long enough and seen enough Peacekeepers to know that their toughness came from conditioned suppression. Aeryn wore John's most intimate clothing. The Pleisar officer's grief must be extreme, but she sat quietly, showing no expression.
"Did you ever couple with him?" Aeryn asked suddenly, startling Zhaan. "I know . . . I know you slept with him on Skykar, but were you ever, uh, intimate?" Aeryn didn't look at the Delvian as she spoke.
Zhaan didn't ask Aeryn who she meant. She touched the officer's cheek gently, and Aeryn's dark eyes looked into her pale ones. "No," Zhaan answered truthfully. "You were the only one on Moya. He and I, we conjoined, shared minds, once. It's a very intimate experience. He had the most beautiful mind. So unexpected, so compassionate." Zhaan touched Aeryn's hand that lay on the hilt of the huge Peacekeeper knife. "I'll miss him more than I would have thought possible a cycle ago." Aeryn's deep eyes looked in Zhaan's pale reflective ones.
"He tricked me, you know, to get me off the pod," Aeryn said softly. "He made me believe I was ashamed of him." Her chin jutted out. "I am never going to be ashamed of him again. Never, you understand? Never."
Peacekeeper space/time register, 55657.43 relative phasing to absolute, on the pod
John had switched off the engine, but the pod still zipped through space at sixteenth light speed "coasting" on inertia. He'd already pivoted and it was almost time to fire retro for the deceleration phase. In the meantime, he'd shut down or reduced power on as many systems as feasible. So far power hadn't been a problem, but no use in taking chances. Condensation from his breath fell from the overhead like a light rain, but he found himself wishing for a bath. His beard had begun to itch and his last sonic shower was only a distant memory. To top it off, the pod's sanitary facilities were rudimentary and he'd ended up bundling up his body waste in little bags and putting it in an empty storage bin. The pod stank to high heaven. Yep, that's where he was all right, high heaven. About as high as you could get, buddy.
And bored? He'd achieved a whole new plane of boredom. A whole new universe of boredom. He'd haltingly read and re-read every Sebacean chart, diagram and how-to flimsy on the pod and been through its limited data bank twice. He'd recited the Patriots starting line-up outloud several times, and the batting average of every player in the 1998 World Series, and even sang as many as the songs from Les Miserables as he could remember. One of his early girlfriends had been a Welleslyian music major and a bit player in the New England touring company of Les Miz. He'd tried to make every rehearsal and show and fallen in love with acting himself for the space of two quarters before his father found out and issued another "my way or the highway" warning, with a gentle fatherly slant, of course. John had then taken a double load of advanced chemistry the next quarter to make up with J. R. Senior. But even now, 15 or so years later, John could still do a fair rendition of "Red and Black," although "One More Day" seemed currently more appropriate.
So with his brain thus lulled with significant matters of import, when the proximity alarm went off John didn't react for a shocked 5 microts or so. That and the waterproof tarps he'd thrown over the controls may have saved his life. His heretofore dead communicator suddenly snapped to life and a Peacekeeper voice - you could always tell the PKs, the translator microbes made them sound vaguely Brit or possibly Aussie - then came on. "Can't see anything," the voice said, "but it's active and I'm reading a life form on board."
Another voice said, "That leviathan'll keep for a while. Let's see what we've got here." John crawled over to the view port in a vague hope that the PK was visual - it would have to be really close, no more than a few kilometers. He got the shock of his life, well maybe not of his life, but a major trauma. A Peacekeeper Marauder, rather like the one Larraq had flown and he'd blown up to save the Universe from the intelligent flu bug, was no more than a half kilometer away. That wasn't the shock. Moya was the shock. There she was as big as life and twice as striped. Oh shit the PKs had caught up with Moya again.
If these PKs knew what the notorious fugitive John Crichton looked like, maybe he could pull them off her. He reached out to flip the tarp aside and bait the trap but stopped, his jaw literally dropping. His own voice was now coming over the communicator. "This is the Leviathan Moya trying to contact unknown ship. You'd better blast out of here. That Marauder's out to get us and you'll get caught in the crossfire."
John remembered sending that voice-only message two days ago when Moya and the Marauder had tangled. Oh God, the discontinuity had thrown him back in time as well as giving him a good kick ass toss in space. Next up, the Marauder would chase his pod and fall into the discontinuity, if it played out again exactly as it had the first time around.
As if to point out the inevitably of the situation, the timer he'd set to fire the shuttle's retro ignition went off. John slipped his hand under the tarp and pushed the fire button. The Marauder took note of the rocket flare (who knows what the PK thought?) and diverted to follow him.
Peacekeeper space/time register, 55703.20 absolute, on the Skykar naval vessel Herrant
First officer Tanga rubbed her swollen belly. Being pregnant was such a strange feeling, wonderful but awkward. The rapid changes in one's body challenged even the most athletic to re-adjust balance centers. One found one's self having difficulty even getting up out of chairs.
Volmae sat down next to her. "Tanga, love, you were so lucky . . . to be chosen," Volmae said her hands waving in one of her graceful, generous gestures, "but I do wish . . . you weren't here."
"Leader Volmae," Tanga said, "the ship would be without a crew if the pregnant could not serve." Of the 45 trained Skykarians now on Herrant's crewlist, seven were pregnant by other Skykarians and five were pregnant with Crichton clone implants, including Tanga herself. All the implantees were close to term, while the Skykarian-bred were at various stages ranging from one-third to almost full term. Tanga had only been half term pregnant when they'd left home to search for a market for tannot oil and to find John Crichton.
Half the females on Skykar, two-thirds of that planet's women of childbearing age, were pregnant. The planetary withdrawal from the tannot drug resulted in this wonderful tidal wave of babies. After being childless for centuries (the Peacekeepers shipped in workers as needed), Skykar would soon be a nursery of enormous proportions.
The Crichton implants were another matter, of course. Cloning their heroic deliverer, John Robert Crichton, had been irresistible to the Skykarians. They could do it, so they did and Skykarian women begged for the privilege of carrying one the 10 Crichton fetuses even though their scientists had not expected them all to grow to term. That Tanga and the other four implanted women on the Herrant now all had swollen bellies proved that humans must be an amazingly vigorous race. When they returned to Skykar all ten implanted women would get together and compare notes on their pregnancies and play with each other's Crichtons. It would be a fun time.
"Come, love," Volmae said. "Moya is . . . close. Time to get to the bridge." With the help of Skykar's white skinned leader, Tanga struggled to her feet.
Peacekeeper space/time register, 55704.00 absolute, on Moya
"It's a Norween class freighter," Aeryn was saying. "Masses about 380 million erts, designed mostly for cargo but can carry troops in a pinch. Nothing heavier than medium cannon. Extra shielding." She was about to say that she'd shipped on a few, when the communicator came to life with Volmae's ghost like face.
"Friend Aeryn!" Volmae said. "Friend Zhaan . . . Friend D'Argo! It is so good . . . to see you!"
"As it is you, leader Volmae," Zhaan managed to get out. The Skykar out here?
Volmae's eyes seemed to be searching for something. "Where is Friend John?" Volmae asked. "We have come . . . to speak with him . . . again. We need his wisdom."
"Leader Volmae," Zhaan said. "We have some very bad news."
Peacekeeper space/time register, 55708.77 absolute, on Moya, corridor 39
John Crichton moved as stealthily as he could down Moya's side corridor. Coming in the back door had its advantages, secrecy being one of them, but secrecy meant no succinct situational briefing from Pilot, no happy re-union with his fellow travelers. On top of that he was weak from hunger, de-hydrated, his black space suit damp from dripping condensation, and he stunk so bad he doubted he could sneak up on anyone. Worst of all, he didn't have a clue what was going on, only frightened suspicions that made his heart beat so fast it felt like it would jump out of his throat.
An arn ago he'd switched off the pod's deceleration rockets when he first saw the huge metal ship with Moya grappled firmly to its keel. In fact from a certain angle, the two ships kinda looked like two huge mammals copulating. A long silvery tube erupting from the stern of the metal ship pierced Moya through her hangar bay. Although he'd fired attitudinal rockets as he maneuvered to his back door entrance, the very same one that out of which D'Argo had once without a space suit, no one had challenged him. He didn't know why. Unless everyone was dead at the stick, they had to know he was here.
He held the side arm he'd picked up from the Auxiliary Toolroom in front of him, trying to at least look menacing although he still couldn't reliably hit the side of barn with any PK weapon. The darkened corridor he slid along told him that Moya was in low power mode. That did not bode well at all, no indeed. Low power meant something was going on that took a lot of energy. He hadn't yet seen a DRD and that too was very bad.
It must have been his empty stomach that led him to the galley, but that turned out to be the right place after all.
Peacekeeper space/time register, 55708.93 absolute, on Moya
The "something" that sapped Moya's energy was sorrow. Her corridors were filled with it, the DRDs immobilized by it. The Skykars had all left the Herrant through a tunnel link in Moya's hangar bay. As many as could fit in the galley squeezed in and the others stood down in the hangar bay listening over the communicator to Aeryn and the rest of Moya's crew tell the story of Crichton's passing.
Pilot and Moya picked up on the sorrow the Skykarians emitted with their soft sighs and little shudders. The pregnant females were particularly touching and there were so many of them! He counted twelve gravid Skykarians, several of them very near term. Moya's sympathetic link to pregnant beings left her vulnerable to their emotional output. Pilot monitored as Moya reduced power all through her unoccupied interior and shut down all but a few DRDs. She sometimes did that when distressed.
Crichton's passing had uncorked an emotional storm in them all. The losses and the close calls they'd endured together, the large pains, the small kindnesses, the breathless chases, the terrifying hiding. All of the corked and long denied emotions came flooding out, and the crew and the ship itself mourned not just for John but the lost peace they would never find and the early death that they would.
John stood in the corridor just outside the galley, listening in puzzlement to the quiet sounds inside. It sounded like a woman crying. It sounded like several women crying.
"So he felt . . . no pain?" a naggingly familiar voice asked. Aeryn's voice answered, "I don't know. His ship disappeared in the discontinuity. There's no way for us to know. He's just . . . gone."
Zhaan's voice, "We are so sorry that you came so far, Volmae . . ." John lost track of the rest of it! Volmae! The Skykarians, friends, oh God. He sagged against the bulkhead and squeezed his eyes shut to prevent tears of relief from blinding him. He could let go now. His suddenly slack hands dropped his weapon and supporting himself with one hand on the bulkhead, he staggered to the galley entrance.
John saw Tanga first, her round belly so different from the slim little athlete he'd known on Skykar, it threw him off for a moment. She saw him too and threw herself at him with a squeal. In seconds whooping, laughing beings completely surrounded John, hugging and kissing, all talking at once. Everyone wanted to touch him, everyone but Aeryn. She stood back several paces, watching, her arms crossed and her expression opaque. John had Chiana under one arm and Tanga under the other when he finally spotted her there.
Seeing that she had John's eye, Aeryn stepped to his side while Chiana and Tanga hastily backed off. Aeryn's dark eyes looked into John's light blue ones for a moment, then her right hand grasped the back of his neck and her left hand his buttocks. She pulled him to her and filled his mouth with a breathless emphatic kiss that spoke the volumes of her longing and relief. Finally her lips let go of his, and she tucked her forehead under his arm while he hugged her close. "Hi there, Tough Guy," he whispered into her ear.
"Gracklites," she said into his pit. "You smell terrible."
Fire and Ice - Hungry, Page 11, 11/12/99, 1:31 PM