Episode Three: Farscape Loose Ends, Pasts Due

by Errationatus

Crichton and Crew have managed to repair Talyn and give Moya a few upgrades. Now he has to make a decision: stay or leave? To continue on with this "series", please see the further stories under the name "Errationatus2".

Previously, on Farscape:

Having successfully acquired the neural grafts needed by Talyn, the repairs and upgrades to Moya also successful, Crichton has survived both a mission for an Ashkelon Warlord and relentless bounty hunters. During the mission, Crichton had been seriously injured, losing his left eye in the process. Forced to remain at Abbanerex while both Talyn and Moya recover from their repairs and upgrades, Crichton tries to adjust to the changes he has undergone. Now, just over three monens later, he, Talyn and Moya are almost fully recovered…

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AND NOW, ON FARSCAPE: FREEBOOTER:

LOOSE ENDS

PASTS DUE

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The consequences of our actions take us by the scruff of the neck, altogether indifferent to the fact that we have "improved" in the meantime.

- Aphorism 179, Beyond Good and Evil, F. Nietzsche

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MIRIYA BREANNADOS HEARD THE SHOTS DOWN THE CORRIDOR AND WAS RACING THERE, AN INTERION SECURITY TEAM CLOSE ON HER HEELS.

She'd been heading to the Commissar's office to check her manifests – she was upgrading Moya's DRD's – when she'd heard the gunfire. Fearing that more bounty hunters had infiltrated the station, she'd called Security.

"What's down here?" she asked one of the security guards.

"Nothing but empty storage."

The shots stopped.

Miriya skidded around the corner in time to see Crichton reloading his pistol. He did that thing he often did testing a new cartridge – he touched his tongue to it. Odd way of doing it. At the far end of the rectangular bay was a makeshift target.

He was using it as a firing range.

"John!" She called as she came to a stop, bewildered security behind her. "What the frell are you doing?"

Crichton glanced up at her with his one eye, said dryly, "Practicing. What the frell does it look like?" His voice had recovered from his injuries as well. It was smoother than it had been - also a shade deeper. New muscle rippled on his shoulders, torso and arms. Since losing his eye, he'd seemingly become obsessed with 'self-improvement', and thanks to the Warlord D'Strand'm'tah, he had all the facilities, time and safety in which to do it. The system had been closed to outsiders for the duration of their stay, and Crichton and his friends were given free rein in the station and surroundings.

When Crichton wasn't sleeping, he trained himself, and hard. D'Argo taught him swordsmanship, esoteric Luxan martial arts; Chiana, stealth, other tricks of the thief's trade. He learned triage from Koiban, first aid. He picked the brains of every technician in Abbanerex he could corral, and when Miriya worked, he would watch as intently as any eager apprentice. He spent long arns in Abbanerex's extensively-stocked holographic suites, running combat scenario after scenario, covering a multitude of wars and species, piloting sims, vehicle sims, weapons sims, hand-to-hand from two dozen worlds, even ancient weapons. He fought droids, the local security in their training regimens (until the chief of security remanded them over for retraining – as he kept soundly defeating them after awhile), D'Strand'm'tah's on-loan Constables. He had the station's computers read virtually every piece of tactical military, cultural, and technical literature they had on file to him.

He learned fast. Miriya had learned to admire his drive and tenacity – most of the time.

Miriya looked back at the security captain, told him he could leave, that she'd handle it. He left, but he wasn't particularly happy about it.

"I know you feel the need to practice, John - but couldn't you give security some warning first?"

"Why? All I get is a load of dren about 'discharging a weapon within the station', yada, yada. Where in hell am I supposed to do it? Outside in a suit?" He stopped and thought a moment. Not a bad idea, actually. It could come up. He put that on his mental-to-do list. He sighted down the barrel of his pistol, flicked some non-existent dust off the end. Miriya sighed, came up to him. Better to be on his side than opposed, she'd learned.

"Well, how's it coming?"

"You tell me." He holstered the gun, stood a microt and then pulled both with blinding speed and fired twenty shots down at the target. The target had a large series of circles painted on it, with a solid one in the middle. When he was finished, he holstered the pistols and said, "Go look." He reached for his longcoat, shrugged into it. On the left side, shone three silver hooked quills. They looked like rank insignia. Crichton had secured them to his coat a monen or so ago. From the Se'em'aari bounty hunters, she recalled. Why he kept them, she couldn't imagine.

"They're my quirks," was all he'd say, so there wasn't much point in asking. She just assumed they were trophies.

Miriya shrugged, and went. When she arrived at it, she gaped at the target. There was two holes in it – just two. She came back, not hiding her disbelief.

"I assume that look means you're impressed?" He smirked at her.

"Frell… that's the best shooting I've even heard of, let alone seen for myself."

He abruptly pulled out his smaller pistol from under his arm, fired ten shots from it. All went through the hole on the right.

"Not bad for one-eye."

Miriya smiled at that. "That's exceptional for two eyes."

He smiled at her – and it was a wide smile – well, as wide as it got lately. Which meant she could actually see some teeth, and stuffed his small pistol back under his arm.

"Everybody needs a hobby." He glanced back down the bay, shrugged. "Once you train yourself to compensate, it's a breeze." He turned, headed back up the hallway.

Ahead of him, with all the intensity of a loyal dog, ran the DRD he called "1812" – it had followed Crais and Muukarhi from Elack, and a monen ago asked Miriya to do a "special job" on it. For some reason, the DRD had 'taken a shine' to Crichton as he convalesced and Crichton had taught it some atonal thing he called a 'tune'.

The DRD seemed quite taken with the ability – Miriya knew it was basically circuit rot - AI senility – and would chirp a particular tune – "The 1812 Overture", John called it, at the drop of the proverbial hat. At his direction, she'd rebuilt it, cleaned and reintegrated its circuit boards "to keep the original personality" – yotz, but he was paying – and she built it up with scads of extra sensors, memory, weapons and tools, a composite-armored shell. She also added to its computing capacity, in essence allowing it to become smarter. It was half-again as large as the average DRD – then she painted it red, white and blue, and copied his written "1812" symbols onto either side.

Crichton had been satisfied. She was starting to think he might be losing it, but he wasn't the first person to want a DRD as a pet. It was Crichton's DRD, and it wouldn't listen to anyone else – although she hadn't programmed it that way.

Miriya shook her head at his 'new attitude', and fell in beside him.

"All that aside," she said. "The last stages of work on Moya are almost completed."

"That's good. The kid sleeps a lot, so we know he's on the mend. Moya - what's left?"

They turned up into the habitation blocks. She watched him walk, liking it – he had a loose-limbed, easy stride, one that could instantly propel him in any direction should the need arrive. She'd watched him in a few of those combat simulations. His new physical development also seemed to give him an enormous amount of energy, that she had thought to help "burn off", only to have it turn into a sexual marathon that left her exhausted and replete and he seemingly as energetic as ever. She wasn't sure what was going through his head, but she'd discovered that if she gave him even the slightest chance for recreation, he'd take it – no matter where they'd happen to be.

At some point it had occurred to her that maybe this "surrender" to his oddly-sudden and ravenous appetite for her might be a mistake, but she had been, until present, enjoying it too much to care. Over the last few days, however, it had appeared to have ebbed off, and Miriya was actually starting to remember what a full night's sleep felt like. Still, she'd discovered she'd missed him during her trips away from the system.

She was fairly sure she didn't like the feeling.

"DRDs. Armor catalyst stability. Propulsion enhancements and tweaks. That's pretty much it."

"How long will that take?" Crichton stopped at one of the large wrap-around windows that looked out over the repair yard. To his left he could see the familiar red and black shape of Talyn. Crais was doubtless onboard. He'd spent every spare microt he could overseeing Talyn's repairs. He actually cared about the kid, Crichton grudgingly admitted to himself. Well, hell – stranger things had happened.

Next to him, a few bays to the right, Moya was nestled in her niche, shiny with her new armor-skin. White-suited Techs were crawling over her, checking, rechecking, adjusting. She and Pilot had slept a great deal as well, but now Pilot was awake, and overseeing the last of Moya's upgrades. As far as Pilot was concerned, Moya would be completely thrilled when she awoke. He was, as he'd said himself, "inordinately pleased."

"A couple of solar days, tops." Miriya answered. "Mostly for the DRD rebuild."

"Yeah," he said, leaning on the window and turning toward her. "How are you going to replace a few however-many thousand-odd DRD's anyway?"

She smiled at him.

"I'm not. I only had to rebuild about thirty. They're going to go onboard Moya and rebuild the rest."

"Nice. They do the majority of the work and you still get paid for every last one."

"Just business, John." He scratched around the black med-patch he wore over his missing left eye. It looked for all the world like a pirate's eyepatch without the strings - but it was actually a repair kit. The 'patch' was merely the protective cover for an assembly of nano-machines that were carefully and delicately repairing the extensive damage to his eye socket, muscles and nerve bundles – all in anticipation of the eventual replacement of his eye. They would, upon completion, simply copy his functional eye and reproduce it in the empty socket using his own body's tissue. No rejection, perfect vision. It would not, unfortunately, be soon. It could be monens, it could be cycles. It could be tomorrow or never. Looking in the mirror that morning, he'd found it suited him – and the future he had planned.

"Yeah. Business." He paused, seemed to be remembering something else. He looked back out into the 'yard'. "Two million, eight hundred and sixty-two thousand CPs later." He scratched his temple, his hair had grown out since the operation to repair his head, and was almost back to when she'd met him, the small braid behind his right ear still there. Grey had begun to fleck through it as well. He didn't care.

"I did tell you it wouldn't be cheap."

"And I told you that I didn't expect it to have been. I'm sure D'Strand'm'tah loved having that bill land on his desk." He chuckled dryly to himself.

She crossed her arms, looked at him in mock disbelief, as she cared as little for D'Strand'm'tah's troubles as he did.

"What did you do?" She jabbed a thumb at the ceiling, ignoring that he'd already talked to the Warlord and his family long since. "You saved his whole family. You asked for what? Some weapons? A ship? He turns around and gives you the one I took two cycles to build for him, I might add." She huffed, still vaguely displeased that the Warlord had simply given it away after all her hard, diligent and precise work – not caring that she'd been paid quite handsomely for it long since.

"He sent three strongboxes a motra long and two high. They are, I was informed, full of money. That's also for you and your friends. One of them is for you alone. That's probably his mate's doing, though. Abbanerex has already been paid for the repairs on your Leviathans – with rather hefty bonuses for all concerned." She avoided talking about her bonus, generous too. "He didn't bat an eye. He was worried it wasn't enough. Although that was probably his mate's doing, too." She shook her head at the sums involved. The crew of Moya and Crais had gone from barely-tolerated intruders to honored guests overnight. Now even richer honored guests.

All for one female and a few spawn? Miriya rolled her eyes. No wonder females ruled the universe.

"He did all that on his own. I had wanted to pay for it myself." He watched a repair tug float by. He had, but toward the end, he'd realized that the share left on Moya from the Shadow Depository raid was John's – and not his to spend. Besides, he didn't want it anyway.

He wanted nothing of Crichton's. He was his own man, he would find his own place, and follow his own ways.

Miriya looked skeptical. "Why?"

"It was my idea." He turned from the window. "Hungry?"

"You made it possible." Miriya shook her head. "I've eaten already."

"Well, I'm hungry." He started off. She followed. Out of the blue -

"Where did you go last night?" Miriya asked him, face guileless.

"I took a walk. I get restless." He glanced over at her. "Why?"

Another pleasant recreation, less 'violent', but this one had left her restless, too.

"You haven't been sleeping much, I hear."

Crichton turned into the cafeteria.

"If I sleep, I dream. " He left it at that. He saw Chiana and Jool and Koiban sitting at a table, and Chiana waved at him. He nodded, grabbed a tray, helped himself to some food, joined them. Miriya came as well.

"Hey, Crichton – " Chiana chimed as he sat down. "Any word when we can get back onboard Moya and the frell out of here?"

"A couple of days, she says." He nodded to Miriya. "Just the DRDs and a few tests left, is all."

"Drad." Chiana leaned over, stole a chunk of Grolack off his plate, crunched. She grimaced, looked up at him. "Not great."

Crichton took a bite.

"Yeah." He shoved it away, grabbed a plate of goola coils. They tasted remarkably like egg noodles. He found himself idly wondering what the UT equivalent of cheese was like and if he really wanted to know.

"The Môlurian chops are pretty good too," Chiana offered. He grabbed one, slapped it beside the coils. Môluria were creatures the size of small dirigibles, completely genetically-engineered, having no minds to speak of, basically grown to be, well, meat. Môlarian meat tasted vaguely like peppered pork. They also had the same nutritional value.

Crichton ate a while, then gave a quick perusal of Jool and Koiban, Jool looking morose.

"What's your problem?" He asked Jool around a mouthful of Môluria.

"Nothing."

"Uh-huh." He went back to eating.

"I may not be leaving with the rest of you." Jool said. Koiban ignored her.

After a beat or two and a few more chews; "Why?" Crichton asked. He didn't seem to care one way of the other.

"I never asked for any of this." Jool told him, meaning Moya, being frozen, everything since. "I never meant to get stuck out there for all that time. Look, I'm grateful for everything you've all done for me, but I want to go home. I want my life back."

"What's the frelling problem? You wanna go live on some rock with you being thirty cycles behind the times? You've got money, now." He jabbed his fork at Koiban. "You've got a husband – more or less - who's a stand-up guy. What more do you want?"

"That husband is the problem." Jool said. Koiban nodded stiffly. They'd had a long argument about the past. They had tried the relationship route, but it hadn't worked. Koiban answered for himself this time.

"I am not going back to the Homeworld. I have not been there for fifteen cycles and have no desire to return. There is, frankly, nothing there for me. I have lived too long out here, as it were."

"Hey! You want to come with us?" Chiana asked him. Crichton looked at her as if he'd not considered the idea. "We can use someone with combat experience and medical knowledge." Koiban thought about it, then nodded again.

"Yes. Yes, why not? I offer my services as a medic. I have no desire to remain here when you leave." He looked at Crichton. They all did. He wondered why, looked annoyed briefly and then shrugged.

"I can't see Moya or Pilot objecting. You'll have to run it past D and Guido though."

Jool sent him a sour look.

"Thanks for the concern."

Crichton snorted, ate until he was finished, Jool glaring the entire time.

"What do you want, Jool?" He said at last, wiping his hands, greasy from the chops. "Options? You have two options, and they're the only ones you ever get – live or die. Everything in-between are just different flavors of dren. You can do the things you want to, or the things you have to – you can't do both. Chose and live with it."

Jool sniffed.

"That's spectacular advice."

"Take it or don't, I don't give a frell. If you want to go home – go home. Live with the decision. Don't expect us to make it for you."

"Then I'm going home." She glanced at Koiban, who simply nodded.

"Then go." Crichton told her, unconcerned. "You're cool with that?" He asked Koiban.

"I was convenient for the moment, nothing more." He told Crichton, speaking up for himself, some faint bitterness laced through his words.

"You any good at interspecies medicine?"

"I've had experience with a rather wide range, actually."

Crichton nodded.

"Good for you. Everyone works on Moya."

"Excuse me – " Jool huffed. "You were not convenient, Evigan."

"You used me as a means to get off Dovanni Notia, Joolushko. That it backfired on you is your own fault. We were never officially registered, you owe me nothing, nor I you. I am not staying here, nor returning to the Homeworld. There is little there for me. We both knew it then and we know it now. So you may do your will."

Koiban's voice was not kind.

"Your final answer?"

"It is." He looked away from her.

Jool stared at him for a long moment, then rose, left in a huff, Koiban not watching her leave.

"Them's the breaks." Crichton told him. Koiban just looked at him. He didn't look particularly happy, but Crichton was no marriage counselor.

"I appreciate you allowing me to stay." He said at last.

"It's not up to me. All I said, Chi had a good idea."

"I have extensive combat medicine experience as well."

"Good. You'll need it." He tossed a smirk at Chiana, who winked and bounced away to the counter, looking for food for herself.

He glanced over at Miriya, saw a questioning look on her face.

"What?" He asked her, looking over the picture menu for something that resembled toast.

"You don't trust people all that easily, do you?"

"No." He said pointedly. He looked over at Chiana. "Where's D?"

"On Moya." Chiana replied. "He said something about going over the list of upgrades with Pilot. I guess he's doing inventory." She shrugged. "I think he's really just there to make sure Rygel doesn't try and help himself to D'Strand'm'tah's gratitude."

"Yeah. Okay. That's where I'll be if anyone wants me. This place is rapidly turning into the ass-end of space. You can start moving back to Moya, I think. It's mostly just clean-up now."

"Drad! I know I'm sick of this station."

Crichton just nodded, left the cafeteria. Miriya watched him go, watched Koiban staring out of the window for a moment. He got up, and he too left. She looked back to see Chiana staring at her.

"Something?" Miriya asked. Chiana had an odd look on her face.

"You and Crichton getting close, huh?" She asked unexpectedly.

"Hardly – I think that depends on what you mean by 'close', Chiana." Oddly discomfited by the question, though she laughed.

"You sharing quarters?" Miriya looked at Chiana closely.

Was she jealous? They had talked before about Crichton and Sun and what had gone on there, and how it ended. Miriya knew that Chiana had only sketched out the main points, and certainly hadn't gone into any details. Miriya was no fool – even if she could eventually feel something more than just affection for him, she knew he would never return it.

Miriya had not been emotionally repressed in typical Peacekeeper fashion – but John Crichton was not that kind of man. She remembered that she'd asked him, half in jest, one night if he thought it might get "serious", only to receive a coldly-bland and enigmatically frustrating, "It'd be easier just to shoot you," in reply.

"No, we don't share quarters, Chi," she said. "It's nothing serious. It's only sex. I don't mean anything more than that to him. He spends a few arns in my quarters, I spend a few arns in his, it's not consistent, we're not doing anything but relieving tension. He sleeps alone. He insists on it. I'm fine with it."

Chiana snorted in derision.

"All this time, and you still don't know anything about him, do you?" She shook her head. "Crichton doesn't just have sex with anybody. If he didn't care, he wouldn't do it."

"I don't think you know this Crichton as well as you think you do, Chiana. You seem to forget that as far as he's concerned, the real Crichton left with Sun." Miriya said it so gravely, that Chiana had no choice but to stop and think about it.

"I offered the first time; I'm the one who offers every time." She paused, seemed to think about it, found it odd. "I offer." She shook her head. "I don't mean anything to him, he doesn't trust me – he doesn't trust anyone. I'm not replacing anyone, because to his mind he hasn't anyone to replace."

Chiana looked at her closer, suddenly uncomfortable at that insight.

"Don't worry, Chi – he's not using me… we're kind of using each other. We understand the rules." She grinned. "I'll leave him in one piece."

Chiana rose, looked down at her, smiled a small smile. She knew a few things about Crichtons.

"I'm not worried about him, Miriya. I'm worried about you."

Miriya started at that, and Chiana just left. Miriya watched her go, turned in her seat and looked out the window of the cafeteria, out into space.

Frell.

Truth to be told, Miriya was more worried about herself, as well.

---

D'ARGO WATCHED THE TECHS MOVING PAST HIM, SUITED AND WEIGHED DOWN WITH TOOLS.

More checks on Moya's new skin. Crichton's idea. Moya had been injected with a catalytic agent that changed the composition of her skin – turning her normally highly-elastic outer layer into a hardened shell. It was still elastic, he was informed, but it would stand up far more readily to damage. She could now easily re-grow any damage much more quickly now, as well - the catalyst also acted as a regenerative.

D'Argo certainly couldn't find any fault with the idea. The better-protected Moya was, the better-protected they were. She'd gone from her bronzy-gold to a shiny silver, but that wouldn't last either, he'd been informed again – she'd eventually regain her former hue as the catalyst settled down. He looked to Pilot, saw him casually running scans. He seemed to be no worse for wear for all of Moya's changes – or his own. One tech had, a monen ago, ran a routine check on his connection to Moya, and had been horrified at what he'd found. Both he and Crichton had conferred, and another five thousand krindars later (added to the bill at the insistence of D'Strand'm'tah), Pilot had been severed from Moya and reconnected – and he was now without the constant pain he'd been under since his insertion. The expertise of the techs had assured that he would reintegrate quickly. Relatively.

D'Argo bundled the pile of flimsies under his arm, proceeded into the Den. He stopped at the edge, looked around. Several of the bridges to Pilot's station were much slimmer now – no wider than a DRD, and there were fewer of them. There was only one main one – and that was missing.

A technician was standing in front of Pilot's console.

"Uh – excuse me." D'Argo called to him. "Where's the bridge?"

The tech looked back at him.

"Sorry. New feature. Weren't you informed?"

"No. Where is it?"

The tech reached over, hit a control. The bridge suddenly appeared, slid from Pilot's 'island' over to him.

"Retractable. A security feature."

D'Argo walked over, stopped before the console, nodded at Pilot.

"It was Commander Crichton's idea," Pilot informed him. "I also have…" he pointed to a set of boxes on either side of his console. "…personal defensive shield generators – and shield barriers that completely seal off my station. Like a shell."

"Polydarinidecarybidium." The technician informed D'Argo. "Impenetrable to pulse fire." D'Argo nodded again, pulled out a flimsy, looked it over.

"Okay – there are a few things on this list that, well, I have no idea what they are or what they're for – I'd like an explanation if you've the time, Pilot."

"Certainly." Pilot said, looking up.

"Okay… 'Nested Sustenance Nodes?'"

Pilot indicated the tier below him, where his connections to Moya could be accessed.

"Those are nutrient tanks, independent of Moya," Pilot told him. "If she is ever incapacitated and my nutrient flow from her is stopped or blocked, I can simply switch over to them. It allows me to stay functional much longer – about a weeken – to enable me to be more of a help to the crew in finding a solution or effecting repairs. Like my station here, all of my linkages to Moya are now shielded as well."

"Very clever." D'Argo said, impressed. "Can those tanks be refilled manually?"

"Yes. It was Commander Crichton's idea."

The technician looked up from a scan she was conducting.

"The shield walls which encases the station also has a series of virtual touch controls on them – a backup in case this console sustains major damage. They are not as comprehensive as these controls, but they allow the Pilot to maintain control over most of this Leviathan's key functions."

"Above me is an independent atmosphere generator and scrubbing system. If necessary, I can also shield myself against any biological or chemical contamination."

"You mean, if an enemy where to attempt to drug you or gas you…"

"Now much more difficult."

D'Argo cocked a sideways grin at him.

"Also John's idea?"

Pilot nodded his great head.

"He seemed most preoccupied with my own personal safety."

D'Argo laughed.

"Well, seeing as you have been collared, possessed, starved and poisoned on any number of occasions, I think it's understandable."

Pilot nodded again.

"I would like to avoid future occurrences, if at all possible."

"I can't blame you." D'Argo agreed. He pointed to the flimsy. "What's this about Moya's doors?"

"All doors to key areas of Moya are now being catalytically changed to be thicker. Also the controls to them have backups and more secure locking mechanisms."

"Good." D'Argo kept going down the list. "Two doors to Command?"

"Yes. Command is being equipped to enable it to be sealed off and independently supplied with air, heat and lights in the case of a hull breach. It will now possess an inner door that will cycle down and render it airtight – if necessary."

"What are these 'cell caches'?"

"Each of your quarters will now have hidden compartments containing bulk food for one weeken, basic medical supplies and weapon/ammunition storage – one pulse pistol, one rifle, twenty cartridges for each. Moya's hanger and cargo bays are similarly equipped – although heavier weapons will stored there. Only I and the DRDs – and Moya of course, know where they all are. For security reasons."

D'Argo smiled at that.

"So even if we get locked into our quarters, we still have access to weapons and supplies – and no enemy can pry the information out of us because we'll only know the location of a few, which gives us a chance later on. Very good. Another one of Crichton's?"

"Inspired by Rygel, he said."

"Those are all very sound ideas, Pilot. I'm impressed."

Pilot nodded again, went back to his console, worked for a few moments, looked back at D'Argo.

"Moya is also pleased with her upgrades. She informs me that she is quite taken with her new abilities."

"Speaking of which – what's this about half of tier twenty now being taken up with 'viable data nodes'?"

"Ah – Moya now has redundant backup and access for all her data libraries – and they have all been expanded considerably – hence the needed space."

"I see. Excellent, Pilot." D'Argo rolled the flimsy up, put it away. "I also noticed Command is rather different now. It seems much more efficient."

"It is. Virtually every system on Command has been upgraded. There is even an expanded secondary piloting station if I am ever incapacitated. Moya may still be flown, and navigated manually."

"It seems we've gotten our money's worth. I'm glad Moya is happy with the changes."

"She is most profoundly pleased."

"Good." D'Argo turned, made to leave.

"One other thing, Ka'D'Argo…" Pilot said. D'Argo turned back. "Moya has a request to make of you."

"Certainly, Pilot. What is it?"

"It often becomes confusing – and, I admit, a little irritating – when so many voices give orders at the same time. Moya and I request that there be one voice giving direction. We want a Captain, and both Moya and I, after consultation with Commander Crichton, have chosen you."

D'Argo started, took a step back.

"What?"

"Don't knock a good idea." Crichton said as he stepped into the Den. He'd discussed it with Pilot – and by extension Moya, long ago. "What do you say, Heavy D?"

"Me? Captain?"

"Why not you?" Crichton walked up to the stunned Luxan. "I can't see anyone having any objections to it."

He glanced at Pilot, who nodded.

"Why not you?" D'Argo asked, a tad skeptically.

"Me? I don't want the job. I'd suck at it."

"What makes you think I wouldn't?"

"Would you?" Crichton just looked at him, guileless. "Pip's not qualified, and I wouldn't let Rygel command model boats in a bathtub. You were a general once," he told him with a faint grin. "You're the only one qualified."

"Come on, John – you're an actual trained officer – you're the one who tends to take charge in any given situation. We always end up following you, anyway."

Crichton just looked at him, gave him an ironic smile.

"Yeah – and where has it gotten us? I'm not qualified, D. I'm not sane, sober or stable. You are. You take the blame for a while." He smacked his Luxan friend lightly on the shoulder with his fist, walking past him up to Pilot. "Look, just get used to the idea – because you're it."

"You think the others will accept it?"

"They'll get used to it." Crichton turned to Pilot, who nodded at him.

"Well…" D'Argo said at last, accepting. "If I'm going to be Captain, I suppose I should get to work."

Crichton crooked a grin at him. He stuck out his hand, and D'Argo took it. "Congrats, Captain." The grin widened slightly. "Better you than me."

D'Argo mirrored Crichton's smile. He stepped away, was almost to the door, when he turned, looking faintly embarrassed.

"A meeting of all the tech-heads on this ship and a progress report as well as finish-time estimations might be in order." Crichton suggested, without turning around.

D'Argo nodded, gave himself a small wry laugh.

"Right. Good idea."

"Don't worry, D. You'll get used to it, too."

---

CRAIS SNAPPED HIS EYES OPEN, CHECKED TALYN'S CONTROL INDICATORS, CLOSED HIS EYES AGAIN, SATISIFIED.

Just a synaptic 'hiccup', he noted, blowing out a breath. He rubbed the back of his neck. It still ached from where the Abbanerex surgeons had reattached his new Hand of Friendship. It differed a great deal from the original. It was linked directly to Crais' brainstem, but did not cross over into his nervous system. No more cybernetic bleed-back, no more scarring, no more pain – for either he or Talyn. Even its design was different – aesthetically – it was a smooth silver disk that conformed to his neck, was infinitely more comfortable than the previous, and the detachable module that de-linked him to Talyn could only be released by a mental command or via the hidden pressure switch that only he knew, from him. No one would ever forcibly sever him from this Leviathan again.

The connection was far less raw than it had once been, now much smoother, more subtle. The sensation that he stood on Command, and floated serenely in space, that he was in his own body, yet wrapped in the comforting coldness of space, protected by a mighty hull and sensing a wider universe, of his own feeble muscles compared to the immense power of this still-young Leviathan, was no longer unsettling. He could easily separate the two, and still feel it. It was a sensation that trumped all others.

To be both powerful and weak, to be both aware and limited, to both be and not be, a gestalt, an amalgam, a joining more intimate than any recreation, well, it was, he thought, beginning to define himself, for himself.

"Don't lose yourself." One of the surgeons had told him. But it was far too late for that. Linked as he was, he often forgot where he began and Talyn ended.

It was not something either feared.

He reached out again into Talyn's sleeping mind, searching for anything out of the ordinary, any distress, found none. He was healing quite well from his grafts, and was stable. Crais could still monitor and access all vital systems while Talyn slept. He had been asleep for a very long time, and Crais wondered what he would be like when he awoke. "Talyn but not", Shee'ladahalia had told him. Even Talyn now was a gestalt entity – the experiences and ghostly thoughts of Elack, who had so selflessly donated great parts of his rather formidable mind to this young one. In essence, Crais realized, they were not just two, but three. Three as one.

He scanned around the ship for Shee'ladahalia, found her working on a node on Tier Four. He watched her work, admired her skill, almost envied it, really. She was one who had dedicated her skills and passions toward life. He pulled his consciousness away from Talyn's, lest he disturb him, went back to what he had been doing before the 'hiccup' had distracted him.

He thought about his past, all the things he'd done, all the things he had tried to do since he'd taken this Leviathan from its mother. He'd learned a great deal, he knew, but he had much more to discover. Things like compassion, respect for life, the things he'd forgotten since taken from his father. But there were truths he knew now, things he understood about himself. He was a manufactured monster, had been a willing participant in that fashioning - and he had only one path now to follow. If it ended in his own extinction, so be it. He would do all he could to see that those who sought dominion through murder and destruction would fail.

I cannot make amends. I can only pay. I was a farmer's son, and I remember.

He checked a few systems, and felt immensely glad again – Talyn was fine, he would be better than before. Crais felt him stir, and at the same moment, a sudden communication came in – a request from Crichton to speak to Talyn. Permission was given, of course. They owed this Crichton everything.

Crichton arrived in due course, was fitted with an auxiliary 'hand-of-friendship' – far less intrusive, just a facilitator to allow those who wished it to have more of a direct contact with the Leviathan. Crais listened in, once he understood Crichton's next request, and wished he hadn't.

"D'Argo is what?"

"You going deaf in your old age, Ryge?" Crichton didn't even bother turning around. He'd returned from Talyn shortly before. His voice was rather flat. "D'Argo is the Captain of Moya now."

"Is he? Why weren't we allowed a say in it?"

"Moya wanted a Captain. She chose D. Pilot agreed with her. You don't see anyone else freaking out over it."

Crichton had been pretty much correct in that no one but Rygel had any actual objections. Koiban had wisely refrained from voicing an opinion, Chiana had laughed and hugged him. Miriya had asked if a uniform had come with the job. Jool had not returned to Moya. She was still on the station.

"That is not the point!" Rygel continued. "We weren't consulted!" His thronesled bobbed over to Crichton, got close so Rygel could empathize his point.

"Y'know, the only time you're interested in democracy is when you don't want something to happen. D'Argo's the Captain – end of story." He shoved the thronesled aside, eliciting a squawk from the ex-Dominar.

"Why should I follow him, then?" Rygel asked, surly.

"Don't." He rejoined, finally turning, "There are ships leaving Abbanerex for the Reach every monen or so."

"Captain, Commander …" Pilot interrupted before Rygel could sputter.

Crichton turned away from Rygel, looked to the new clamshell off to the left of Command – it was much larger, the image sharper. It looked for all the world that Pilot was sitting right there – more or less.

"Pilot – what is it?" D'Argo asked.

"I have run extensive diagnostics on Moya's systems, and I believe that she will be ready for viable independent flight in a solar day."

"That's great, Pilot – but I could have sworn the techs said a weeken at the earliest."

"For many of her subsystems, yes, but Moya does not need those to leave this station."

Crichton nodded at that.

"Guess we're not the only ones getting antsy." Pilot nodded his great head in confirmation.

"Yes. I admit that neither myself nor Moya likes to be stationary for very long."

"We can leave?" Rygel piped up. "Then let's leave!"

"Not yet." D'Argo interjected, and Rygel's face immediately fell. "I'd rather at least another two days – for stability. If we don't have to, I see no reason to rush anything." He looked back to Pilot. "Wouldn't you agree, Pilot? For Moya's sake, at least."

"Yes, of course, Captain."

"It wouldn't matter, anyway." Rygel grumbled. "We don't know the way back to anywhere."

"You need to pay closer attention to what's going on, Buckwheat." Crichton told him. "Part of Moya's upgrades were databases – and the locations, landmarks, reference stars and trade routes of various and sundry homeworlds. I made a point of including those."

Rygel blinked.

"Mine as well?"

"Yours, D'Argo's – everybody's. As much as Abbanerex had."

"Except yours." Rygel said without thinking. It got him a few sharp looks, but Crichton didn't seem to care.

"I can go home?" Rygel's eyes were aglow with the idea.

"Yes, Rygel," D'Argo said. "It's a monen trip that way, and unless you can buy or book passage on something going that way, you're stuck. Moya's not in any shape to go anywhere yet."

"But I know now how to get home. That's enough. That changes everything." Rygel spun in his throne, hummed away.

Crichton shook his head. "That's Rygel sorted." He sat down at the newly-expanded Ops table. "What are the rest of your plans?"

"Not following you, John." D'Argo asked him.

"I'm leaving, too." He told them, looking at them steadily. "Leaving Moya."

There was a general consternation at that. Even Moya rumbled.

"What? Again?" Chiana started. "Why?"

"That's the reason I insisted on the upgrades - and the repairs for Talyn. Loose ends - I'm tying them up. You guys can go anywhere you like now."

Chiana snapped at him, "But we still have bounties on our heads too, y'know."

"No, you don't, Chi." Crichton told her, stopping her. "That was part of my deal with D'Strand'm'tah. He's greased a few wheels. You'd be surprised how many PK Captains he has in his back pocket." He knew it cost the Warlord one helluva lot of cash, but that had been entirely by design, and as Miriya had said, business was business. Crichton had been astronomically expensive to deal with – which should discourage any more frelling Warlords from seeking to 'employ' him in the future. His bounty stayed, but he didn't give a flying dren about that. Let 'em come.

"Granted, that'll only last so long, so it's at least breathing space."

Chiana opened her mouth, hesitated, closed it.

"Where are you going to go, John?" D'Argo asked him, calmer, believing he knew Crichton's reasons.

"I don't know yet. Miriya's first. D'Strand'm'tah gave me his ship. I'm gonna take it. I'll take that strongbox he sent for me and you guys are welcome to the rest. Go home and live like kings." No one mentioned that there was a Depository share that had Crichton's name on it. Of course, the only one who didn't think he had a right to it was he himself.

D'Argo nodded, but he didn't actually like it.

"But, Crichton…!" Chiana began. He stood, raised a hand.

"This isn't open for debate, Chiana. My decision is final. It's safer for everyone on this ship if I'm not on it - you know that. That's why I've done all this. Moya can now get you home, and I suggest you go. Don't waste the opportunity."

"You're gonna run from Peacekeepers, and Scarrans, and a million frelling bounty hunters all on your own, is that it?" Chiana demanded, furiously upset. Crichton just turned a crooked smile on her.

"Yeah."

"That's crazy. You don't have to leave!"

Crichton just smiled at her again, shook his head, and left. Just like that. Chiana made to go after him, but D'Argo stopped her.

"Chiana… don't."

"He's running away, again - and you're just gonna let him? Again?"

Miriya had been sitting quietly, watching it all. She wasn't quite sure why he was doing it, but she thought she had an idea. Normally, she wouldn't have said anything, but Chiana was radiating emotions new to Miriya, and they were rattling off her senses, making her nervous. She couldn't explain it.

"Maybe… maybe he came back to do what he said, Chiana. Fix things." She paused, looked down the way he'd gone, and it fell into place. "He never intended to stay."

Chiana wasn't to be swayed.

"What do you know about it, Miriya?" She spat, feeling hurt. She was tired of them coming and going.

"Enough to know that some things are better left alone, and some places have too many ghosts in them to ever be comfortable again."

Miriya followed Crichton out of Command. Chiana went to say something else, stopped, thought. She sighed then, sat down.

"I don't want him to leave!" She muttered, slamming a fist on the table. "He doesn't have to!" First one, then the other. At least this one would say goodbye, but it didn't help.

"I know, Chiana. But we can't stop him. We have to let him go." D'Argo told her. "I think he needs this."

"Won't do him any good if it kills him."

"That's not our decision to make."

"Besides," Rygel sniffed. "Crichton's right. It is safer here if he isn't here. The Peacekeepers only want him."

Chiana snorted, stood, all scorn.

"Very sensitive, Ryge. Well said." Then she stomped out.

"What did I say? It's the truth!" Rygel looked bewildered. D'Argo just sighed, looked down the corridor. It wouldn't be the same, but then little was, now. Everyone had to do what they could, and he knew that the memories that Moya held did not comfort Crichton – not at all. They only reminded him of what was no longer possible. For a man like John Crichton, they cut deep. No, Aeryn was not dead, but she may have well have been. She was gone as effectively. D'Argo knew that kind of pain, and he wished it on no one. He was also John Crichton's friend.

As his friend he would let him go, but he would always regret it.

---

CHIANA FOUND CRICHTON IN HIS 'QUARTERS'.

Stepping in, she realized that this was the first time she'd been in them. It was basically an empty conduit shunt, with a shaft in the corner that ran up. There wasn't much in it, just a makeshift bunk and a cannibalized desk and chair. He had a number of notebooks and recording equipment in the shelves, what appeared to be books of various kinds, data spools and boxes of crystal storage. Just walking in depressed her. A glance at an open notebook on his desk as she entered showed her the squiggly symbols that denoted wormhole calculations, that esoteric math she didn't pretend to understand.

The man himself was sitting at his 'desk', a data reader active, symbols scrolling across it. They looked like maps. He was sitting as if studying, deep in thought, one hand on his chin. At the foot of his bed were a pair of big duffels. They looked only half-packed.

She moved further into the room.

"Whatcha doing?" She tried to sound casual.

"Making sure I actually have somewhere to go." He was calmer than Chiana thought he should have been.

"I don't want you to go."

"I can't stay, Chi."

"We can help you. We've done alright in the past."

"I can't ask you to do that any longer, and he had no right to in the first place." He turned in his chair to look at her. "It's not your fight. Never was."

"This isn't about that." She said, sitting herself down hard on his bed and glaring at him. "It's about Aeryn."

He just sent her a small smile.

"No, it's not."

"Yeah, sure. It wasn't your fault. You didn't do anything wrong. She did." Chiana felt herself flailing, wanting him to stay, not knowing how to convince him, knowing she probably couldn't. He was silent for what felt like a long time.

"No, she didn't." He said softly, finally. "She had every right to make the choices she made. It wasn't her fault Crichton had a copy made. Luck of the draw. None of it is her fault."

"Frell…. yah… I know." She sighed herself, drawing her feet up, putting her elbows on her knees, head in her hands. "Hey – I'm… sorry, y'know. Nobody deserves that."

Crichton looked back at her, shook his head.

"Just life, Pip. Nothing's fair or unfair, it just is. Do the best you can with what you've got. I don't have to tell you that."

A few long quiet moments went by.

"You holding on to her?" Chiana asked, quietly.

Crichton admitted it.

"I'm trying not to, but not so easy. She's too …deep in here, Chi. I can't stay. I can't be reminded every day. I'll go mad." He said quietly.

"Can you let her go?" Chiana watched him closely.

"Don't have a choice." He watched the maps rotate on the screen, glanced at an open notebook at his elbow, the exotic symbols that bent space, warped time, made gods of men. Nothing there could fix it though. The power of the fabric of the universe at his fingertips, and it could do nothing to give him what he really wanted. Never would. Fate gave him the potential ability to wipe out a complete star system, to crush entire civilizations, but not the ability to hold one woman's heart. He had never wanted the former, and he could never have the latter. He swore sometimes he could hear Fate laughing.

He was certain it had laughed hardest when he'd gone to Talyn – and Talyn had shared his memories of Aeryn and Crichton's time onboard – including a rather telling moment when Aeryn had taken his Hand-of-Friendship and used it to save John's life. Needed him, she'd said. He saw it, with a clarity as if he'd been there, been Talyn, had felt it himself. That immediate and open recall had put him squarely into their time on Talyn, into her memories – and he had never existed there. Not for her. Ever. It was if he had simply… not been.

Only one John Crichton in her mind. Only one and no one else.

There was truly nothing left now. Nothing left for him now but to play his role – expendable asset, Kaarvok's Creature left behind to be hunted, to die and keep them safe. Die, be dead, be damned and forgotten.

Hell - maybe he deserved it. He felt like he was slowly dying as the days went by anyway, and if that were the case, then nothing mattered any longer, and there was no further need to fear. But… forgotten? Not likely. I'll make the name of 'John Crichton' something they'll fear forever.

"I… could help." The inevitable offer, and at any other time it would have irritated him, but this time, he simply told her, with complete candor,

"No, you couldn't." He smiled a rueful smile, conceded, "That's not your fault, either."

Chiana nodded, understanding.

"Not like you to give up hope. For anything."

"I don't fight battles I can't win, Chi. Not anymore."

"So you run?" she told him, standing. "What happened to being 'proactive'?"

"I will be. But you guys don't deserve the ride. You have your own problems, and you'll never solve them covering my ass. I need to do this, and I need you to let me go."

"Don't wanna." She sniffed. She looked back up at him. "You never planned to stay anyway, did you?"

He gave her that lopsided half-smile, shook his head.

"No, I never did. Just wanted to fix what had been broken, as best I could. We all have to leave sometime, Chi."

He ran his hands through his hair, sighed, his smile fading.

"I appreciate you all, I want you to know that. You're the closest thing I'll ever have to a family, but I need to go. I need the distance." The smile came back. "Nothing, however, is forever."

Chiana stood, hugged him hard, a hug he returned.

"You're John Crichton to me, and you always will be." She told him. "I love you. Don't forget."

She kissed him, and then left, and he watched her go. He wouldn't forget, but it was too damn dangerous for them to stay in any proximity to him. Perhaps They could abandon these people so easily, but he wouldn't – hadn't. They were now as free of John Crichton as he could engineer it. If he could sever them completely – to keep them safe – well, hell, he'd do that too.

As to Aeryn…. He just couldn't stay, surrounded – trapped by John's memories of her, of the times she and Johnhad shared. He would never see her again. He had meant less than nothing to her. Aeryn Sun had not cared about his existence, and she certainly had not been in love with him – ever, but it was impossible to simply forget.

He was simply the image of John Crichton. As thus he had no goals now, no home, no family on Earth waiting for him, no one to miss him - no father, no sisters to regret his passing. There was nothing to fight for, and no motivation left. John Crichton was home. The family was complete again, his mission abandoned and for Him, complete.

He would be and was - the intruder, the alien.

What had hair-braiding R'vhsme called him on N'sharrast, when she'd given him his 'war name'? Oh, yeah – Kha'jav– 'Cold Shadow'. She'd meant it ironically, sardonically, but it suited. It fit. Just the shape of the long-gone original, fated to fade when the light finally caught up. He really had no responsibilities at all, none left – he'd cleaned up the mess Crichton had left behind, hadn't he?

Well…. Scorpius.

He had some responsibility there, simply by the dint of having Crichton's face. Scorpius wouldn't stop until he had what he wanted. Thwarting that son-of-a-bitch in any way he could manage would certainly constitute a purpose. Not much of one, but a purpose nonetheless. He almost smiled – Kha'jav would wander on, stay in his darkness and wait for the Scarran half-breed to walk into his sights – and then he'd pull the damn trigger with some rather extreme prejudice.

It's all I've got, so I accept it, he told himself, told that stubborn part of him that refused to let Her go. You can't miss what you never had.

Don't pretend, don't hope. Don't get killed for something that never belonged to you – don't, he remembered, looking over at the silver quills gleaming on his longcoat, die for no reason. He had, he believed, finally understood what Iskijji had been trying to tell him.

Choose. Endure. If the choice came, that life-and-death choice where your endurance had reached its limits – chose death – and you would live to endure another day. Defeat or victory - neither mattered. If you survived either, you had won because you yet existed, you yet endured, and there was always another day. Everything else was affectation, window-dressing. He had not defeated Iskijji or her Sisters. He had endured them - he had taken them to their limits and they had chosen death. That Iskijji had died had been unimportant. Iskijji yet endured. She chose.

He nodded to himself. Even making no choice was in itself a choice. When Fate threw death at him again, as it no doubt would, when it insisted he chose – in its twisted little game - he would chose death – and then he would defeat Fate, confound it. If he did die? Well, he'd defeat it then, too.

He thought back to his friends. There were things to be done. They would undoubtedly think of waiting for him.

They would, he realized, be waiting a long time.

---

HE MADE THE ROUNDS, FIGURED IT WAS BETTER THIS WAY.

Koiban had been kind, courteous and tactful. He wished him well, expressed some regret that he wouldn't get to know him better. Crichton had simply thanked him, told him that life on Moya could get… interesting. Koiban had stated that he was perfectly willing to take what came - he'd been in a war or two. He could handle himself. Crichton had just clapped him on the back and moved on.

He dropped in on Rygel, and the Dominar was surprisingly jovial. His quarters were covered in plans, data sheets, flimsies and notes. Crichton noted schematics for ships, architectural plans to buildings, lists of what looked like names. Ryge had been busy the last few days. Inquiries were returned with chuckles and cryptic asides.

"Planning a coup, Ryge?" He'd asked, which had elicited a rather hearty bout of laughter.

"Perhaps, perhaps." Was all Rygel would say. Crichton had merely shaken his head, left Rygel to his fantasies. Rygel wouldn't have cared if he left, anyway.

Jool had returned, to say her formal goodbyes, and to attempt, one last time, to change Koiban's mind. He declined.

When shipboard night fell and Moya dimmed her interior, all went their separate ways. Crichton would roam the ship, 1812 his only companion, thinking of nothing and everything. He could hear Nebari sighs coming from D'Argo's quarters and was passing glad that those two had worked things out.

You'd have thought they'd learned from that dren with Jothee, but hey - if they wanted to dance through the emotional minefield relationships entailed, well, hell, it was their necks.

There was no relationship with Miriya, despite how it looked to the others. The sex was good - it wasn't the sex that bothered him – hell, who cared? It took the tension out of him – at least temporarily. The Peacekeepers were right about that one. There were emotional contexts there he wouldn't allow himself to pursue, or think about, or consider. Love or anything resembling it would just get him killed. It was a distraction he could not afford, and yes, it all came down to Miriya.

He liked Miriya, she had her moments. It meant, however, nothing. She sat in his quarters even now, did Miriya, waiting. There was no emotional context for him, not really, there was nothing there but the violence of bodies meeting. He couldn't be held responsible if the perceptions of others were faulty. It simply wasn't there. There was no passion, just lust, and Miriya easily inspired that.

Be honest, he admonished himself. Given enough time, perhaps, different circumstances… maybe. She was smart, beautiful, strong, adept. She had everything he liked in a woman save one, and he admitted that to himself as well, hard as it was – she wasn't Aeryn Sun, and never would be. Give him the time, though, the space, different circumstances, the freedom? Yeah, maybe he could care about Miriya Breannados. Maybe. But he had none of those things, not the space, time, freedom or love. None of them. It was too bad about Miriya. Like everyone around him – if he cared, they'd get hurt, they'd get maimed, they'd die.

Females could come and go, but no one would ever own him again. It was a risk he would never again take.

He could feel it just there, on the edge of his mind - there was a great hole in him, something that grew every day, felt colder, felt harder, like a shard of ice sitting in his chest and just growing, sending tendrils into his veins, freezing his blood. He didn't try to stop it, knew he couldn't. It felt like dying, that instant of realization just as the bullet hit or the knife bit, the creeping horror of your final instant of life, but in him it was slow, drawn out, and he knew it would take a long time before it reached its crescendo and he came crashing down.

When he'd sleep, he wouldn't dream, and if he did, he couldn't remember them – realized he was grateful. When he'd left Moya that first time, after She'd left, all of his dreams had been of Her, and they had been nothing but agony. He didn't want the memories. They interfered with his reason – and they resonated with emotions he neither wanted nor could afford.

There would be no indignation, no anger at Her being with John – he certainly had no right. What he might have hoped for and what had happened were, as usual, diametrically opposed to one another, and that was a lesson he had learned long since.

The face, the name, the memories of the life that had been – they did not belong to him. He was John Crichton only because the others expected him to be – so he was – for them.

Everything changes, Chi, he thought to himself, heading back to his quarters. And nothing does, and none of it matters, never did, never will.

In his head, he had already bade them all goodbye.

I can live with it. No choice.

---

MIRIYA SAT on the edge of his bed, watched him as he entered.

"So Moya can't leave yet." She said, as he entered.

He shook his head.

"No, not yet. Day after tomorrow."

"I can leave anytime," she told him, guileless. "You come with me to Ogg'M'nendi and I'll give you your ship."

He looked at her, cocked an eyebrow.

"When?"

"Now?" She stood, waited.

He sat down at his console, his back to her.

"In the morning."

Miriya nodded to herself, left.

---

HE SAID HIS FINAL GOODBYES IN THE HANGER.

He'd already loaded everything into Miriya's ship, before everyone awoke. It was easier that way.

Chiana had merely hugged him again, Koiban had shook his hand. Jool had left already, that morning, early, on a transport even now back to the Interion Homeworld. He vaguely hoped she would be better off. Koiban had extended her farewells. Rygel had been surprisingly emotional – because, as he told him, he wasn't leaving any decent possessions behind for him to claim. Rygel wished him luck, at least, and Crichton thanked him, and told him to keep his head down.

Talyn, they discovered, was more healthy than he had ever been – with a new-found confidence – and the wisdom and experience of a Leviathan who had literally seen it all ghosting his senses. Pilot had informed them that Moya had been ecstatic with her new abilities. She was also exceedingly grateful to Crichton and effusive in her gratitude. Crichton had just dismissed it as unnecessary, that she owed him nothing. Pilot had informed him that Moya would not forget it, that he would always have a home with her. She felt smarter, stronger, more sure, and that was a tremendous gift.

Crais had informed them that Talyn had reported likewise. Talyn, like Moya, was also grateful to Crichton for his efforts. Crichton had likewise dismissed it as unimportant. Crais had, somewhat tentatively, also extended his best wishes for Crichton's upcoming journey, and his own personal gratitude for what he'd done for Talyn.

Crichton dismissed that as well.

D'Argo had hugged him mightily, until Crichton had to tell him that his ribs were starting to crack. The big Luxan stepped back, and his eyes were serious.

"John – I want you to have this." He held a dagger in a sheath before him. He pulled it to show the blade itself. It was seven hentas long, made of a milky, springy metal. It had Luxan writing engraved on the blade and a leather-wrapped handle. "It's called a Bakta – it is given from brother to brother. It is a symbol of family and fraternity."

Crichton looked at it, was actually touched.

"Thanks, D. But you should save it for your brother."

D'Argo stepped a step closer, held it up.

"I have." Crichton smiled, reached up, took it. He stuck the sheath into his belt at the small of his back. He's secure it better later. He found his eye was a little out of focus.

"I'm… honored, D. Truly." D'Argo nodded, laid a heavy hand on his shoulder, smiled.

"There's a tattoo that goes with it," He laughed. "Naturally - but you probably wouldn't want that. It's called the 'Rejalia'."

Crichton eyed him dubiously.

"Where does it go?"

"Anywhere you'd want it." He held up a smallish circle, with what appeared to be a stylized tribal sunburst pattern. "It's not actually necessary, John. Luxan tradition. But you can take the template, if you like."

Crichton looked at it, pulled his longcoat off, exposed his left arm, pointed at his deltoid.

"There's good." D'Argo looked at him with a question. "It's the side my heart's on." To which D'Argo smiled a wide smile and with infinite care, pressed the template neatly on Crichton's arm. There was a brief searing pain, which quickly faded. When it was gone, D'Argo removed the template and there was a perfect imprint of the Rejalia left behind. Crichton looked at it, and winked at Chiana. She laughed. Crichton pulled his longcoat on, stuck a hand out. D'Argo took it, pulled him in for another hug, which Crichton returned.

"Thanks, Heavy D. Take care of 'em." He balled a fist, hit D'Argo in the shoulder as Crichton had often done. In the past. "I'll see you again."

"Take care, my friend."

Crichton followed Miriya into the hatchway of her Marauder, 1812 at his heels. He paused at the door, but did not turn around. Moments later, he stepped inside, and the door cycled closed.

Shortly after that, The Edge powered up, swung around, and was on her way.

Slowly, the remaining crew of Moya dispersed from the bay, each with their own thoughts. Only Chiana stayed, gazing into the empty bay.

"Goodbye, John Crichton." She said, swiping the tears from her face. "Don't forget who you are."

---

THE TRIP TO OGG'M'NENDI TOOK TWO DAYS.

Crichton said little in that time, didn't even question Miriya's decision to hitch a ride with a Eor'Tah Slash Runner, a specialized transport that was stripped of everything but cockpit and engines – big engines. The Runner could move at enormous speeds, speeds no Marauder, or Leviathan without Starburst, could match – literally slashing days off the trip – hence "Slash Runner."

They ate in silence, slept in silence. He had not been in the mood for anything else, and Miriya agreed - he'd begun leaving bruises. However, the prolonged silence had begun to grate on her nerves.

"Crichton," she called to him when The Edge had detached from the Runner and was once again proceeding under its own power. "It's at least half a day more to the system – and I'm getting a little tired of this ascetic act you've got happening."

"What do you want me to say, Miriya? You want my frelling life story?"

Miriya nodded.

"Yeah, sure, why not? Give me all the juicy bits."

"There's nothing to tell," he told her, coming up to sit in the Co-pilot's chair. 1812 whirred after him, stopped under the chair, watched Miriya. "Lately, you're all the juicy bits."

"Oh, by Binnari…" she sighed, couldn't help herself, laughed.

"Binnari? Who's that?"

"The Goddess of Love and Fertility on Verakalos." She told him, smiling at the memory.

"Verakalos? Where's that?"

"It's my homeworld. Where I was born. I told you."

"Really? I thought you'd been born full-sized from some crazy mechanic's wet dream."

She turned a "I-can't-believe-you-said-that" look onto him.

"Oh, frell you."

"Maybe later."

She snorted, rubbed a hip for emphasis.

"You'll be lucky if I don't beat you with a iso-spanner."

"I'm sure that has its charms." She just shook her head, checked her Navicomp. On course.

"Why did you leave Moya, John? What were your real reasons?"

Crichton just eyed her for a moment, pulled the Bakta D'Argo had given him, watched the light fall on it. It was a beauty, that was for sure. He'd discovered a curious property to the blade. It was quite flexible, on his belt it bent comfortably around his waist. Pulled from its sheath, it sprang into a solid piece of metal, as hard as any steel. It was a practical warrior's blade and Crichton already cherished it.

"I told you my real reasons. Crichton's presence on Moya was an accident. My presence was an accident. D, Chi, all of them, they got caught up in that accident, and it has nothing to do with them – not Scorpius, none of it. It's all Crichton and his stinkin' wormholes."

"Chi was right – you'll be alone. You can't run for long. There are too many people who want your head."

Crichton grinned a lazy grin at her, put his feet up, balanced the knife on his palm.

"Wanting it and getting it are two entirely different things, Miriya. I have a few tricks up my sleeve yet."

"You'd better."

"Come on, Miriya – you've heard the 'rumors'. I'm John-frelling-Crichton! Destroyer of Scorpius' Gammak base! Successful raider of a Shadow Depository – Natira's Shadow Depository! I slaughtered an entire Nebari battalion and single-handedly destroyed a Scarran Dreadnought! I am the Master of Wormholes – I stretch out my hand, and your planets and fleets die!" He chuckled to himself, thinking of how ridiculous it sounded, even though it was, more or less, true. "Who's gonna mess with that pedigree?"

"You do have a point, I suppose." She said, sourly. "Of course, that pedigree comes with a rather high price tag. What's the bounty up to now? Last I heard it was 25 million." There was a ghost of a smile on her face.

"I wouldn't recommend thinking about trying for it. With all the separate ones floating around, it's closer to fifty."

"I still don't give a retsit's ass about it," she laughed. "But others will, and your friends won't get spared just because you're not there."

"They will when I spread around that John Crichton, infamous scourge of the Peacekeepers, has taken a wormhole and gone home."

Miriya looked at him incredulously.

"What?"

"Like I said. Who's gonna believe there's two Crichtons? The idea's batshit crazy. I'll just become some guy trying to cash in on Johnny's name."

Miriya just shook her head again, amazed at the audacity. It could work. What then - was he going to become a pirate or something? They'd turn him in faster than the Slash Runner had brought them here.

"You'll have to watch your back forever."

"I have to do that anyway." The Navicomp started beeping and he put his feet down, sheathed the Bakta, looked at the readout.

"That's a helluva sensor net."

"The known enemy is the defeated enemy." She reached over, hit a control and the beeping stopped. "Not a single ship can approach this system and not be seen – and they wouldn't even know that they were seen. I live here, so, different story."

"How deep is the net?"

"A few hundred thousand metras. There's no going around it, either."

Crichton just nodded, sat back. They moved deeper in the system, and every so often, the Navicomp would beep, and Miriya would recalibrate it.

"Tracking pings. They're just keeping an eye on us." She'd explain. "It also lines up targeting systems."

"Targeting systems? On what?"

Miriya just smiled at him, and as they approached Ogg'M'nendi, they were almost immediately challenged.

As they passed the outermost planet – basically nothing more than an ice ball no bigger than Earth's moon, two immense satellites hove into view.

"See? All lined up." She told him. "They're called Hounds."

Weapon platforms. Even though Ogg'M'nendi was a den, they were not keen on 'drop-ins'. Much too much of what went on was considered illegal by far too many. The Hounds were small asteroids, and they were coated with weapons. One even sported an array of Frag Cannons. Miriya powered down her engines, waited, and finally communication was established. On a screen on the console, a face popped up.

"Marauder - this is Traffic Comptroller Verges. State your business and intent. Do not attempt to circumvent this station – or you will be summarily fired upon." Comptroller Verges looked, Crichton thought vaguely amused, like a punk business man – natty suit, wild white hair, pale amber skin. A jagged scar across his left temple and a clan tattoo over his right eye completed the picture. He was, Crichton was informed, an ex-Zenetan pirate. Crichton had just nodded. He knew Zenetans – more or less.

"What's going on, Verges?" Miriya asked in lieu of a greeting. "What's with all the firepower?"

"Miriya!" He exclaimed. "Where have you been?"

"Working." Came the rejoinder. "What's with the Hounds?"

"We've had a few problems with my former comrades. The last raid didn't go so well."

"Who got caught?"

"Belsus, Hogo and Trei. Not good."

Miriya sent a wide smile at him.

"Now that depends entirely on your point of view. Well, obviously, I'm not a Zenetan, so, do you mind…?"

"Yeah, sure." Verges replied. The Hounds rolled away. "I see you have added some new hardware." He grinned at her. "And upgraded The Edge a bit."

"Work, work, work." She grinned over at Crichton, who just rolled his eye, kept his silence.

"Good thing you're back, though, I will say. Some Ashkelon ships used their free passage waivers and delivered something to your shop and I think it made some folks nervous. Zroga's been threatening to take over your facilities to find out."

"Has he now? Well, I'll fix that. Thanks." She fired up her engines and they were underway again.

"The whole place is on high alert, so watch yourself." Verges signed off.

"Zenetans?" Crichton asked her. "Why are Zenetans this far out?"

"Ogg'M'nendi isn't inhabited." She explained roundaboutly. "It's moons are. My facilities are on the moon Tyvon. Basically, everyone here deals in spacecraft – in one way or another, none of it legal, as I told you before. We need parts, we need spaceframes and computer components and engines and weapons. We could buy them, sure – but we're here to make money. So, there are the Picker Teams."

"Picker Teams." Crichton reiterated. "Let me guess – they raid battlefields and the Flax – and wherever else possible – and help themselves to ships, derelicts, etc. For a commission, no doubt."

"Yeah," she smiled at him. It wasn't returned. "Nice inference. The last raid on the Flax didn't go so well and the Zenetans are a little upset. They won't crack us, though. They've got nothing to match the Hounds."

"Nice." Crichton wandered off, and Miriya sighed. Miriya pointed the Edge at Tyvon. About an arn later, they were easing into its orbit, she called to Crichton to come back to the cockpit. Tyvon did not have a single dench of original surface left, as far as he could see – it was almost entirely covered in buildings, docks, warehouses. Around the moon itself was something Miriya called the 'Halo', a huge ring station literally attached to the surface via heavy elevators. The Halo had facilities for virtually any type of vessel you could name. The only way to the surface was by the key-coded elevators. Several 'free' smaller Miriya-owned Hounds orbited Tyvon – and they had been programmed to destroy – immediately – any ship that tried to bypass the Halo. The Halo also doubled as a kind of 'mall', filled with shops and services of all kinds. Miriya owned a rather large chunk of both the Halo and Tyvon.

"Nice setup." Crichton observed.

"It gets me by." She circled the Halo, came in to her own berth, eased the Edge in, powered down. Automatic grapplers latched on.

"Welcome to Breannados Industries."

"You have the ship D'Strand'm'tah ordered here?"

"Naturally. It's exclusive, custom-modded, and just ever-so-illegal."

"And frelling expensive, no doubt."

Miriya got up, led the way.

"One of the great rules of life, John – you get what you pay for."

Crichton snagged his duffels on the way by, slung his rifle. He glanced down at 1812, then at the swaying hips of Miriya before him. A headache was readying itself to migrate from the socket of his missing eye.

"I'd better." He muttered, following.

---

MIRIYA'S FACILITIES WERE RATHER EXTENSIVE.

They'd taken a quarter-arn trip down in her private elevator, Crichton noting the code - merely for his own edification – and the ride hadn't been uncomfortable. The elevator – Miriya had several, the others were strictly for cargo, no life support – had been built for only about four people, max. Miriya described how Tyvon worked on the way down, told him more about the Picker Teams and various other workings of both Tyvon and the Halo. Once in her facility, she led him on a tour of her 'workshop', greeting her staff on the way – a colossal enclosed space that could have easily housed Moya with room to spare.

Various ships - Luxan craft, Charrid vessels, Peacekeeper-built ships, a few he didn't recognize – even a couple of Scarran 'Ravagers' – interceptors – were here and there, all in various states of disrepair. Mountains of parts lay in categorized heaps. The roof consisted of various sized hatches, all to facilitate entry and egress of finished or arriving repair or custom jobs. The roof to the place was easily half-a-metra over their heads. Miriya's 'office' – and home – was dead centre, a large pillar that oversaw the area.

She needed, she informed him, to look over her shop manifest to see where she'd stowed D'Strand'm'tah's – his - ship.

"I'm afraid I'm behind on a few orders." She'd said, inviting him in, to sit, offered him a drink, which he declined. "Most everything here in one piece is already paid for. The older stuff gets moved to storage."

He nodded, set his gear down, 1812 parking under her desk, and Miriya moved a pile of chips and various parts out of the way of her personal computer, fired it up, began looking it over.

"Just give me a few microts."

"Take all you need."

She continued to cycle through her lists, finally stopped on one, called it up.

"There it is. Storage bay 21." She pointed at it, and moved aside. Crichton bent down, looked it over. The ship was in the middle, with various little windows popping open to detail particular features.

"It was one Hezmana of a job. My pride and joy." Miriya told him. "A little more expensive, but worth it." She smiled broadly. "Isn't it gorgeous?"

The ship on the screen was long, dark, with heavy engines. It looked like a huge pulse pistol. It had a decent-sized cargo hold, and along it's flanks it carried some rather impressive firepower.

"Are those… Nebari weapons?" He asked, pointing to three projections at the front. He had memories of having seen those before, on the ship that had brought a mind-cleansed Durka – and a little vixen named Chiana - to Moya.

"Nebari Shock Lancers. Frelling impossible to get, but I got 'em. I had a Hezmana of a time integrating them into the spaceframe and control nodes, let me tell you. Fortunately, D'Strand'm'tah is one of those people, who when they say 'spare no expense' actually mean it. Cost two fortunes." He nodded. He could imagine.

"They any good?"

"Are you kidding me?" She called up the spec sheet on them, pointed to it. "Effective catastrophic damage range is five hundred thousand metras. These things give Scarran Dreadnoughts pause, and the Nebari don't even consider them mainline weapons!" She shook her head, still impressed herself. "You wouldn't believe what I had to go through just to get them."

"Is that why it took you so long to actually get it to D'Strand'm'tah?"

Miriya looked faintly sheepish, and a tad uncomfortable that he'd remembered.

"Something like that. I admit I was having some separation anxiety."

Crichton smiled faintly at her, nodded almost imperceptibly.

"Downside to the Lancers?"

"Unidirectional. Power hogs."

He nodded. Understandable.

"What's the ship's pedigree?"

Miriya reached down, brought up the original sheet.

"Veddik-class Stealth Vigilante – it's the small-end of Vigilantes, but it's an Interceptor. Quick, agile. Fitted with sensor-opaque Markon-class armor – the frelling best - and a passive jamming system. I even installed a Luxan Deception Shroud – but because of the ship's size, it'll only hold for a arn or so – and it won't fool any decently intensive scans. The ship's about thirty cycles old. Young for one of those." She pointed to various sections. "Engines are larger than normal, but that's because of the Shock Lancers. Had to feed those directly in for the power, but as an added benefit, this thing is easily four Hetches faster than anything in its class – which translates into faster than most military vessels and very likely all civilian ones. All legal civilian ones, anyway."

She smiled broadly, clearly immensely proud of it. She pointed again to the screen.

"These are variable-sweep quad pulse cannons – chain-fed. There are six of them, two forward, two midship, two aft. Cyclic rates of about five shots a microt. That's the main cannon – and it's fed by Chakkan tanks. You do not want to be on the wrong end of it. All but the heavy guns can be slaved to the main onboards, made automatic or motion-sensitive. I changed the computer setup in the Command bay, created three additional cabins and berths and redesigned the flight controls. Usually these things are designed for control by at least ten – standard commando team – but it can be run by fewer – or one, if they trust the onboards and automation – and they should, because I programmed it. It's already armed and fueled."

He whistled in awe. This ship was a thoroughbred, through and through – a masterwork, and he told her as much. She smiled that broad, make men-feel-like-teenagers smile at the compliment.

"How much did you charge D'Strand'm'tah for it?"

"One eight hundred nine ninety-five nine." She glanced down at him, the smile curling into a sardonic grin. "Non-negotiable." She sighed through her nose. "That was my sale price. For special customers."

"It's an odd price. What the hell did he want it for?" She shrugged at the whims of the super-rich.

"Show, probably. It does nothing but good for his prestige. If not that, some chip to hold over someone's head. A present for his spawn - who knows? He didn't even notice the money gone. I should tell you that these things aren't easy to provision, John. The ammo tanks are just that – tanks of Chakkan Oil. This isn't a standard Vigilante – it's a specialized Stealth Interceptor class, and I've customed the Hezmana out of it on top of that. These things aren't modular like most other Peacekeeper ships. It's loaded now, but…"

Crichton just crooked a grin at her.

"That's what Peacekeeper depots are for."

Miriya sighed, led him out, down to the shop floor. She led him to a small vehicle that looked like the UT's idea of a golf-cart. She got in, started it up. It coughed a few times, caught, which made her frown. She was a regular maintenance kind of girl, and someone would get a stern grilling when she was finished. Leave for a few monen and everything fell apart. It wasn't like she hadn't been in communication with them, because she had been. Who, she wondered, would be getting fired today? She glanced back at Crichton, who seemed to be waiting. Oops. Mind-wander.

"Sorry. Not a short walk."

He climbed in, told 1812 to stay, and they scooted down one of the lanes between parts. Here and there hung ships of various configurations, suspended in heavy rigging from the high ceiling. He noted various ships scattered about – a skeletal Marauder, two Prowlers, both looked rather old, something that looked vaguely Sheyang, and a Charrid vessel.

"What's the Charrid ship?" He asked, pointing to it.

"Hmmm? Oh – that's a recon shuttle. Piece of dren when it was new. Charrids don't build a damn thing worth having."

"So why do you have it?"

"Same reason I have all of them – I strip 'em as I need 'em. In that case, for the Scarran control nodes and repulsor packs."

"Ah."

They drove by a large pile of components, and what looked to be a long pipe. A very long pipe. It was easily fifty motras long.

"What's that?" He pointed again.

"Scarran Planetary Cannon. That's just the barrel."

"Frell me." He whistled. "That's a big gun."

"Runs on a geothermal tapper." She grinned over at him. "I don't have one of those."

"Why not?"

"Wouldn't fit in my shop." Crichton whistled again. "I keep the barrel for the metal."

She turned past another mountainous pile of components, into a clear space.

"Here we are." She said, slowing the cart to a stop. The ship he'd seen on her computer sat before them, black, sleek and dangerous-looking. By the time he'd got out of the cart and walked up to it, Crichton was already in love. It was rather large – from a distance, he'd thought it was a part of her shop. It was armed to the teeth and looked like it would kick your ass just sitting there.

"This is the only class of Vigilante that can land and take off from a planet's surface. Even then there aren't many ports that can accommodate it. Did I mention that the armor has an ablative component and a limited shield arrangement? The shields are all for radiation, of course."

"Of course." He murmured, walking along her belly, looking over the engines. Sebaceans didn't like radiation, nor anything else that could raise temperatures.

"At full strength, the shields and armor can fend off a Dreadnought barrage. Although I wouldn't recommend trying it for long."

"No, good idea." He said absently, and Miriya smiled to herself. She sensed a new love affair blooming. Not that she hadn't known that this was the perfect ship for him from the moment D'Strand'm'tah offered it to him. She reached into a pocket, fished out something that looked like a slim television remote control.

"Here – control rod. Activates the auto-systems."

He took it, looked it over.

"Handy. I can see this being useful."

"Oh, we're just getting started on all the features. Those – " she indicated four huge crates nearby. "Would be your packages. We'll deal with them later. Come on."

She opened the hatch, and they went inside, and Crichton followed her to the 'bridge' – or the "Command Deck" as she termed it. It was sunken, down a short set of steps. There were four seats, the pilot's to the left and co-pilot's to the right, up front. Two others to either side. In the centre was a panel on a pivoted stand – the Commander's spot. The forward portal was dark. Miriya informed him that that was retractable armor plate. If necessary, a holographic display that showed him the forward view could be activated. He sat in the pilot's chair, trying to get a feel for the ship. It was almost instantly comfortable.

"Check this out," She told him, activating the console. A flat panel lit up, pulsed. She pointed at it. "That is a bio-lock key. You put your hand on it, the ship's onboards sample your DNA. From that point on, you and only you can operate this ship. You can also tie-in your comm…" she reached into a small compartment in his seat, pulled out a small silver oval. "This – into the mainframe too. Voice command – and only your voice, if you choose. An enemy would have to cut your hand off to start this ship, or imitate your voice perfectly – or both." She grinned at him. "My own little toy."

"Nice." He got up, went aft, into the crew quarters. There was a small kitchen, food storage, small laundering facilities, a small auto-doc – a medical bay. Four decent-sized cabins were aft of the facilities. Aft of that, two smaller rooms with bunks. Four open bunks in the back. The ship could house ten people at a squeeze, provided they didn't expect much in the way of luxury. The crew quarters opened into an open space with a wrap-around computer system, which he immediately dubbed Ops, and Ops connected to the small cargo bay - big enough to fit a single Marauder in, maybe a Prowler too at a squeeze - which led back to the engine compartment and systems access. He looked it over, popped a few access covers, ran a cursory eye over their interiors. All clean. He nodded to himself, went for'ard. Miriya had stayed in the cockpit.

"Well, what do you think?"

"It's gorgeous, all right." He agreed. "D'Strand'm'tah has taste."

"That he does." She stood. "Shall we load whatever the big secret out there is?"

Crichton just grinned at her.

"Let's. And no, I'm not telling you what they are." He led the way. "A boy's gotta have some secrets."

She sighed, smiled, felt like hitting him. She just followed him back out, got her automated loading equipment in gear. Half-an-arn later, the whatever-it-was was loaded in the cargo bay and secured. His money, brought down from the Halo by an automated drone, was also loaded. She told him that he needed to finalize a few things before she could let him go. He agreed.

They drove back to her tower, Miriya pointing out a few things he might have missed on the ride over, he nodded, feigned interest, but would rather just do it and get it over with - he had things to do yet.

They went back up to her residence, and Crichton signed her waivers, transitional documents – and one Ashkelon bill of transference, there to remind Crichton that as of now, he'd been paid in full. It had been more than he'd expected, but not unwelcome. She finalized everything, came back into the main living area.

"Well…" Miriya began, watching Crichton sit himself down.

"Well?"

"You've got a great ship. I'd not have given it to anyone else – favor for D'Strand'm'tah or not. At least I know who'll have it."

"I'll take the best care of her."

She nodded, looked hesitant.

"We'll be apart for a while." If she expected some reaction other than what she got, she was disappointed.

"And?" was all he said, picking at various odds-and-ends on the table in front of him. At his feet, 1812 waved his eyestalks at her.

"And… nothing." She sighed. Yeah, it was nothing. It was just sex. They liked one another, nothing wrong with that - but it didn't mean anything. Crichton eyed her, got up as she flopped into a chair. He walked over, bent down.

"What, Miriya?" He asked, hands on the arms of the chair, trapping her in it.

Miriya looked up at him, feeling a little unsettled, a little sheepish. She really didn't want a relationship, but frell it, it had started to feel pretty good, this "being somebody's" as it were. Miriya had never felt that sense of contentment before, or the odd feeling of security that came with it.

"I'm not just some… play-about… I don't do this a lot, you know."

"Do what? Jump into bed with a guy?" He wasn't going to make it easy, was he?

"Yes. I'm not some flighty whore. I didn't do any of it because I…"

Crichton bent closer, said softer, "Do I treat you like a whore, Miriya? You were forced into all that sex, were you?"

"No, of course not. But…"

"But what? You said 'Just fun times, John – no conditions, no regrets.' You said that." He leaned in closer. "Are you changing your mind?"

"No – I know you don't want…" He shook his head.

"It's not that I don't want. It's that I can't. I'm not stable enough – not sane enough. If you're feeling used, I'm sorry – that was never my intent. I never actually had any at all."

Miriya stared up at him. He wasn't simply kicking her away now that they'd separate. He wasn't emotionally invested because he didn't have any capital, so to speak.

"You really… cared about her, didn't you? Loved her?" She asked him, both dreading, for a reason she could never adequately explain – and expecting – the answer she had thought he'd give – but, he didn't.

"No." A few emotions flitted through that one blue eye, and they were instantly quashed. She blinked at the speed of it. "Love is nothing more than an addiction, a chemical dependency. It gets in the way of everything. It makes you take chances you shouldn't, and in the end it'll only get you killed." He smiled, faintly. "Peacekeepers got that one right."

He stepped back, a little, and his face hardened.

"Because of it, I have to do what they wouldn't, and doing it will leave me dead." He scoffed. "That's meaningless too. No one will even know it happened. Don't make me care about you, Miriya. You'll end up dead." He leaned back in, very close. "I'm not the one."

"You're so sure of that, aren't you?" She told him, reaching up to touch the ghost of a scar on his throat. "I don't care about that. I liked all that sex. I don't want you to think that I… I just wanted things to be straight between us."

The crooked smile, the rueful one she was by now well-acquainted with, creased his face.

"Yeah. Sure. They're straight. I've just learned to treat every goodbye like it's the last. Because it usually is."

"Well, in that case…" she sent a dazzling smile at him, one he knew well, and would not mistake. "Can you say goodbye in an arn?"

He laughed then, something for which she was inexplicably grateful, even if she was still uncertain on a level she couldn't quite identify. She was not, however, one to dwell on such things. She knew what she liked, and she didn't let the things she didn't trouble her for long.

"Incorrigible." He told her, as if she didn't already know.

"It's a strength," she told him, looping a couple of fingers on his collar, pulling him even closer. "I rarely say never. It slows me down. Eventually we'll see each other again, and if we do, well, why the frell not? It doesn't cost either one of us anything. Right?" She kissed him then, very thoroughly.

"If you say so." He told her when she let him up for air.

"I do. Whatever happens, happens. I think we can both live with that."

He nodded, smiled. He understood where she was going with this.

"One for the road, huh?" He asked, as she started tugging at his shirt, his belt.

Miriya stood, yanked him to her, glared at him.

"This isn't about you, Crichton. I have my own needs." Her eyes, however, were glittering.

"Well, hell. Who am I to get in the way of those?"

"Exactly." She told him, pulling him along behind her as she headed deeper into her quarters.

---

THE SMILE ON HIS FACE vanished as he left her apartments, stood on the railed lip that ran around them, waited. She came out shortly after, having changed clothes into something a little more appropriate for her surroundings – coveralls, heavy boots, a long vest with many pockets and a belt hung with many tools, gloves. She'd tied a bandana around her head and a pair of what looked like welder's goggles were slung around her neck.

"You know where you're going?" She asked him, watching him look out over her shop.

He shrugged. "I have a few places in mind."

"Maybe I'll see you around." She said, causing him to look back at her with a look that wondered what she was thinking. "You never know." She pointed what looked like another control rod out over the shop floor. In the distance, a large chunk of the ceiling began to open.

"Your way out." She said. "You'll have to clear a flight plan out of the system at the Halo."

"Good enough." She held out a disc, about two hentas thick and a few across. He took it. It had two controls on it, one blue, one green.

"Hound sensor." She told him. "Put it anywhere. Blue activates it, green shuts it off. You'll need it to get to the Halo. Otherwise the Hounds will just blow you away."

"You need this back?" He held it up. She shook her head. "It'll also let you out of the system. I probably shouldn't let you keep it, but… keep it." She smiled at him, thrust a hip out. "You might just find you can't live without me."

He shook his head, headed off down the stairs.

"Incorrigible."

"Goodbye, John." Her voice was packed with more emotion than he would have expected from her. He stopped on the stairs, looked back up at her.

"Goodbye, Miriya. Behave yourself." She smiled, sent him a look that suggested that was ridiculous, and he continued on. He borrowed her cart, stowed his stuff, put 1812 in the seat next to him, drove himself back to the Vigilante.

He went onboard, stowed his gear, checked his package in the cargo bay, smiled a wide smile.

When the time came, those 'packages' would give him what he wanted – inescapably, irrevocably, absolutely. He would have his way.

In a small box, he found his Ward of Passage, took it with him to the cockpit, installed it, checked the controls. They were fairly straightforward, nothing he couldn't handle. A few moments later, and the ship was powering up. He liked the feel of it, he liked the sound of it. 1812 parked in front of a data port, hooked himself in, and Crichton smiled down at the DRD. Miriya hadn't questioned why he'd wanted 1812's data-handling capacities enlarged, but she probably should have inquired further.

He activated the Hound sensor, lifted off, and she rose smoothly, passed through the hatch. He pointed her at the Halo, climbed easily toward it, past one of the huge Hounds.

Below, Miriya closed the hatch, shook her head, sighed to herself. It had been nice while it lasted, but he had been right – relationships got in the way. She had realized that she had been heading down a track that led to some very disturbing feelings, and Chiana had been right, too. She could have fallen for him, far too easily. He wasn't a man you do that with – not with his life. Not with hers. It didn't stop the regret, which annoyed her, and it didn't stop the lovely lassitude stealing up on her limbs, or the feeling of contentment in her belly.

She was really going to miss that.

Miriya smiled, went back into her quarters, sat down at her computer, thought a moment.

Yeah, she cared. She could accept that. She'd give him a head-start, she decided. She could do that much.

She logged onto her personal comm network and got to work.

---

IT HAD TAKEN HIM ONLY HALF-AN-ARN TO CLEAR HIS FLIGHT PATH.

He checked with the Tyvon Navigational "Office", checked the coordinates out of this system, programmed the Vigilante with them, and was soon heading out on auto-pilot. He checked over the ship a little more thoroughly, found everything in working order, the ship fully-stocked and provisioned. As homes went, it would serve perfectly well. He set 1812 to cleaning and organizing the main cabin, and went back to the cockpit, sat down, checked the instruments.

He'd leave the system shortly, and decided to think of a name for his new home. The ship's registry had been wiped – part of Miriya's "upgrade". The ship had a decent AI system, nothing too incredibly sophisticated, but Peacekeepers tended to want to keep their ships theirs, and they had protocols built into the ship's mainframe that could, if necessary, cause the ship to basically ignore anyone on it, to return to whatever Carrier or base called it – a kind of override system to confound thieves. Miriya had purged all of that, but basic command lines remained. Basically, until the ship "knew" who it actually belonged to, there was always the potential that it could be remotely reprogrammed, and put him into a world of dren.

So, it needed a name, it needed to know who owned it, it's new function, and where it's "loyalties" lay. He thought a bit, decided finally on a name.

He christened her the Vengeance, a name they'd remember. It was a fine, fine name for a pirate ship built for mayhem and destruction.

He then primed the recognition systems on the ship, so that only he could fly or otherwise access anything on her, and spent the next several arns loading his data into the ship's onboards. The Hound sensor Miriya had given him went into protected storage – a sensor–blind 'safe' where no signals could enter or exit. It was usually used to store sensitive explosives.

That done, he settled in for the flight. It would take about a day to get where he was going, and he had no idea as to the reception he'd receive, but he felt he had to do it. He picked up one of the gleaming silver masks he'd brought to the cockpit, looked it over, eye tracing the fine line-work etched into its surface. Returning it could get him killed, but she had taught him many valuable lessons – all rolled into one startling philosophy.

He owed her that much.

---

HE WASN'T CHALLENGED AS HE ENTERED THE SYSTEM.

The Vengeance reported no signal locks of any kind, no attempts at communications, nothing. Good or bad he couldn't decide, figured it didn't matter. He'd spent some time rummaging through the databases on Abbanerex, and he knew where he was going.

The Se'em'aari Homeworld was covered in dense forest, and what seas he could see looked shallow. As he approached, the Vengeance reported a scan lock, but he let it happen. That was to be expected, but it didn't stop him. He pointed his ship toward the southern hemisphere, and was soon slicing through the dense atmosphere. As he neared the surface, he could see that the Se'em'aari had rather sophisticated facilities – which made sense for a people who often went offworld.

He did not, however, choose a port to land in. This was personal, and he would treat it that way. His navigational data pointed the way and he followed, at last coming to a large settlement. His approach, naturally, brought out the natives, but that didn't stop him, either. He dropped the Vengeance into the open centre of the town, landed the massive ship and powered down.

The masks went into a bag he had bought especially for them. A quick check of the temperature outside indicated it was warm, but he put his longcoat on, left it open, his pistols visible. They'd expect them. He cycled the hatch, walked down the ramp, ignored the many eyes watching him and the low hisses that greeted his appearance. Homes and buildings meshed seamlessly with the surrounding forest.

Crichton had picked well. At the end of a long lane was a gate that bore the sigil that had been etched into the mask he carried. As he was proceeding down the lane, a female stepped in his path, flaring her spikes, stopped when she saw the three gleaming on his coat. She flattened her spikes, bowed her head and stepped away.

He walked to the gate, which was open, stopped beneath it. One large building was directly across from it, and he knew that was this Clan's main centre, like the longhouses of ancient Viking villages. He saw a female appear at the far end, and she walked slowly toward him. He held his ground. She wore an elaborate red sari-like garment, with a silver mask at her hip hanging on a coiled belt.

Crichton found himself wondering why he wasn't nervous, for he felt quite calm. As she drew nearer, he could see that the female had delicate features, like Iskijji, dominated by large green-blue eyes. She came up to his collarbone in height, and stopped less than a half-metre from him, looking squarely at the "Life-Barbs" on his coat. She studied them intently for a moment, looked up at him. He wasn't sure why he did it, but he just nodded his head and held her gaze. She blinked those large eyes at him a couple of times, nodded once, and turned, walked four steps, stopped. He followed, and she proceeded on.

Ahead of them, the doors to the hall opened, and he followed her in. It looked, he mused, as much like a Viking longhouse on the inside as it did outside, although it was a tad more modern. A few dozen Se'em'aari sat, chattered until he entered, and then silence fell. He saw his first Se'em'aari male, possessing the same somewhat delicate features, but no quills. They were covered in luxurious fur. He was reminded of a calico cat one of John's neighbours had had, but it had spent more time at his house with Livvy. He shook that from his mind, focused on the task at hand. He stopped in the doorway, and the female went on to the other end, stopped before another female in the dominant place in the hall. They seemed to be speaking, but he couldn't tell. Finally, she stood aside and the dominant female raised a hand.

He walked down to her. She was as elaborately dressed as the first, only in blue, her mask mounted on her chair behind her. The tips of her quills were graying, and he assumed this meant that she was aging, although he couldn't tell simply by looking at her face. She possessed the same delicate features, the same large eyes, hers a dark grey. They too focused on the spikes for a few moments, then turned to his face, searching it. There was a fierce intelligence in those eyes.

On the wall behind her, arrayed around the room were other masks, some cracked, some with burns, all in some way damaged. Fallen Se'em'aari. It made sense. She stared up at him, and he slowly and reverently proffered his bundle. She took it, held it for a moment, never looking away from him.

When she opened it, pulled Iskijji's mask from the bag, a sigh seemed to float about the room, followed by the rapid-fire click of quills, as if the assembled Se'em'aari had all shuddered.

Crichton stepped back, waited. The female looked at him, looked down at the mask, pulled the other two out to gasps and more clicking quills.

"Aikijji, the Eldest." He said quietly. She jerked her head back up at that. "Nihijji, her Sister, and my teacher, Iskijji. I remember. I will always remember." Another trill of quills rounded the room. "It was not personal."

"No." she replied, in a surprisingly lyrical voice. "It is only the Trade."

"Just business." He replied with a short nod and her eyes narrowed. "And honor."

Again the trill of quills. He raised his hand to the Life Barbs, said with complete conviction,

"I will not die without reason."

He dropped his hand, waited. She stood, and with great dignity, went to the wall, mounted Iskijji's and her Sisters' masks. A low trilling hiss sounded in the room as it went up. She returned to her seat, sat.

"I am Rei'illji, Leader of my Clan."

"I am Crichton," he said after a moment, taking another step back. A deep hiss rose from the assembled Se'em'aari. He couldn't tell what it meant, but yeah, his "fame" reached far and wide, apparently. "I am no one."

"Hardly no one." Rei'illji said with a small smile. "Do you understand our Way?"

"Imperfectly. Iskijji's lesson was unfortunately brief."

"An honest answer. Tell me the circumstances of their deaths."

He told her, brutally honest, even as to his own misgivings and actions. When he'd finished, he glanced around and saw that the other Se'em'aari's eyes were watery, as if they would weep. Rei'illji's eyes gleamed, shimmering with emotion.

"You honor our Sisters. We are satisfied. Yet, you have incurred a debt in us."

Crichton shook his head at that. He hadn't returned the masks and told the story for any gain other than to pay what he saw as a debt he owed them. If not for Iskijji, he wouldn't even be here. Rei'illji, however insisted, explaining that while she understood, it was simply "The Way." Crichton finally acquiesced.

"If that's the case, I have one request," he told Rei'illji. She cocked her head at him, nodded. "No Se'em'aari will hunt ever the crew of the Leviathan Moya. Specifically - Ka'D'Argo the Luxan, Chiana, a Nebari, Joolushko Tunai Fenta Hovalis, an Interion, Evigan Koiban, an Interion, Dominar Rygel the Sixteenth, Hynerian." He paused, considered. "Or Aeryn Sun, Sebacean."

Rei'illji looked to her Clan mates, who trilled their quills, then slowly bowed to him.

"No Se'em'aari will ever hunt these."

"I'm satisfied." He turned, started to leave.

"You are Hunted, Crichton." Rei'illji told him. He turned back to her with a fierce smile.

"I am always hunted," He told her, distilling Iskijji's lesson down. "But predators do not become prey simply because they are hunted." There was a murmur around the hall at that, and Rei'illji nodded again, and Crichton walked from the hall.

He paused at the gate, but did not turn, the eyes of many Se'em'aari still on him. With a half-smile still on his face, Crichton returned to the Vengeance.

---

THE VENGEANCE CUT THE STARRY NIGHT SMOOTHLY.

Crichton sat in the cockpit, feeling as if a weight had been lifted from him, a debt paid, glad he had done it. Although Iskijji had said or indicated nothing about it, had in no way insinuated that what he had just done was necessary, it had just seemed… right. The less people on his ass the better, and the less hunting his friends – bonus.

He was doubtless about to stir up more trouble for himself, and he didn't need any of it spilling over.

Just outside the Se'em'aari system, he paused, checked over his navigational data. He'd accumulated a lot of it from the Abbanerex, part of his pre-planning, and he knew that he'd wasted some time, cost some distance, coming here.

He found what he was looking for, nodded to himself. First, however, he had to make another side trip. In his cargo bay sat a very large case full of Warlord money – minus immediate expenses, of course. It felt odd to have that kind of wealth – and it was wealth with a capital "W". That was going to be insurance, and he needed somewhere to put it. He'd remembered and researched that for a while as well, looking for the perfect place to stash it. He'd found it, and directed his ship to take him there.

Pirates buried treasure, didn't they?

---

CRICHTON KEPT HIS EYE ON HIS PROXIMITY AND WEAPON LOCK SENSORS AS HE PASSED THROUGH ITS OUTER RING PLANE.

Two solar days ago, he'd 'buried' his 'treasure' and had made his way here - the planet Serri NeMinnious. Serri NeMinnious was a gas giant, surrounded with many moons, several habitable, but the majority of its denizens lived within its ring plane – one so large it had its own breathable atmosphere. Serri NeMinnious itself hung redly in the sky, a vast bloated thing with many storms like great eyes dotting it's surface. That was why it had the name it did. Serri NeMinnious meant "Face of Many Eyes" in Holoshan, it's "overseers". The Holoshan Imperium – which wasn't a big Imperium, but it was tremendously strong – claimed it. They had been blood enemies of the Charrids for three thousand cycles, to the Scarrans for five thousand, and guarded their borders jealously. Neither race tended to want to upset the Holosha. As long as you didn't break their rules – come near their inhabited planets unbidden or touch their stuff – they paid little attention to anyone not Scarran or Charrid. He could see their huge mining ships plying its atmosphere, harvesting the chemicals they used. Its ring was a den of every kind of criminal, drug lords, war criminals, Genocidals, mutilators, and psychotics of every stripe.

Well, he wasn't here to see any of them. Just dropping in on an "old friend".

Sort of.

The Vengeance banked smoothly into the ring.

"You can find friends in the unlikeliest of places." He told 1812, more to hear a voice, even if it was his own. "There should be a beacon to… there it is. We'll follow this – it leads to the Vóok Asteroid. It's a sort of free port for this place. Most of the bigger rocks in here have been claimed by various 'warlords' and that ilk, but Vóok is open."

1812 chittered at him, and he chuckled to himself.

The Vengeance raced toward the big asteroid, passing over several smaller ones, they recorded a few weapon locks and scan hits, but little else.

"Did I mention that they're all paranoid?"

The little DRD chirped, waved it's eyestalks. He almost swore that 1812 had just rolled his eyes, after a fashion.

He found the port, landed. Crichton strapped on his gear, and primed the auto-defences, headed out the hatchway, 1812 at his heels. The hatch cycled shut behind him.

A grubby, sickly-looking 'attendant' waited as they disembarked, looking like a cross between a man and a large-mouthed bass. He demanded a hundred currency pledges for the "lot rental", 500 for "protection".

Crichton looked at the guy with skepticism.

"Lot rental? Right. I don't think I'll need the protection, either, thanks." He said to the 'attendant', turning and using the remote. Auto-cannons on the ship swung around, stopped.

He slapped the open-mouthed bass-man on the back as they walked past.

"I recommend you make a sign warning folks off. They're blind, keyed to movement. Have a radius of about 15 motras out from the ship."

Crichton reached down, picked up a handful of small stones, tossed them casually back toward the ship. The forward cannons instantly locked onto them, blew them to vapor. The attendant squawked, ran off.

"Valets - who needs 'em?" He smirked to himself. "Well, little buddy, I need a drink."

He wended his way through the crowds of what turned out to be a rather sizable settlement, albeit a rundown, open-sewer kind of a settlement. His presence drew stares, mutters, murmurs, and created space for he and his DRD as he walked. Crichton heard his name whispered a few times.

Yeah. Legends. You don't have to do anything except show up.

He finally arrived at a large tavern – the meeting place and world-shaper of any planet, went in. They never changed, no matter where you were, Crichton mused. Same smoky interior, same tired-looking women stripping for drunken louts who hooted loudly and tipped little.

A mountain of ruddy flesh stepped into his way, easily a head taller than Crichton, and he looked like he could have shrugged off the Vengeance's auto-cannons and carried it away, to boot. 1812 popped several of his mini-cannons. The man's tiny eyes glinted as he looked down at the droid, sniffed and then looked back at Crichton.

"No pets." He rumbled. Crichton just smiled, and the mountain suddenly discovered that a pulse pistol had somehow miraculously appeared under his chin.

"Didn't your mommas teach you any manners, Garuda?" He asked the guy casually. "Rekkard."

The heavily-cushioned brain ticked over for a few microts. "Crichton… Not here. Later. Half-arn." Garuda's little eyes glinted as they shifted around the bar. There was a remarkable lack of anyone looking in his direction. A bead of sweat slowly trickled down his bald head.

"I think you should go get me a drink. I'll have a Jardeen Raslak." The pistol came down. "Put it on Rekkard's tab." Garuda didn't move. "Now, Garuda. I'm not as patient as I once was." The mountain shifted, backed off. Garuda wasn't smart, but he knew enough not to push things.

Crichton found a table, next to the dance area, which was dominated by an intricate series of poles. It reminded him of a rather convoluted 'jungle gym' from a school playground. Crichton settled into his chair, watched the girl dancing before him. She was a rather pretty turquoise, with very long jet-black hair, and gold eyes. Every time she took a turn on the rather complicated "pole" system, she'd shoot him a smile. She was extremely nimble.

Garuda brought him his expensive drink, muttered something indecipherable, went away. Crichton just smiled.

1812 had scooted onto the table, and was still scanning Garuda as he lumbered off. A series of chirps followed.

Crichton shrugged.

"Garuda's harmless. Depending on who you are. I saved his life once. That makes him harmless – to me, anyway."

Oddly enough, that seemed to satisfy the DRD, and it returned to scanning the place. The dancer would sway over the table occasionally, and Crichton just sat back, watched her for a while.

A few more came out, went through their routines, and then joined together for one large dance and strip number that had no one but him applauding. He did it just for the hell of it.

Crichton took a gulp of his Raslak, watched the entrance to the tavern. He'd been here before, back when he'd been in his first self-imposed exile from Moya. A Sebacean man stepped in, trailed by a few others. They dispersed, and Crichton ignored them. The man in the lead was the one he was looking for.

"Ah. Right on time." He told 1812. The Sebacean walked to the bar, engaged in a very brief conversation with Garuda, and then walked to the rear of the tavern, sat down.

"Let's go pay my old friend a visit," he told his DRD. "shall we?"

---

HIS NAME WAS REKKARD .

He went, of course, by Rekkard. He owned an asteroid nearby, had come to Vóok for supplies. Across from him, sat a man he really had no desire to see, one he'd hoped he'd never see again. It hadn't seemed likely anyway, but the frelling universe seemed to get smaller every day.

He took another long pull on his Rebiss-leaf pipe, but it didn't help. He was Sebacean, almost 150 cycles old, just square into middle age. His right arm was artificial, replaced after he had lost it in a battle with the Scarrans 80 cycles previously. He'd engaged a Stryker over a Scarran base, had zigged when he should have zagged, was shot down, his ejection seat malfunctioning and his arm flailing. Going through the canopy had cut his arm off as effectively as a laser bone saw. He had become somewhat famous for what actually happened after, his Prowler careening into the base's power station, destroying it and allowing them to defeat them – purely by accident. He didn't like to think about it.

Officer Rekkard , Genjki Company, Devarjji Regiment, never rising any higher, thanks to an out-of-the-way tribe of Sebaceans – Boclarli, they were called – and their last-frelling-names. He didn't care that it meant "strong warrior from the dark star". His first name was a fine, normal Sebacean name. His last name had been a rather large millstone around his neck in terms of his career. The arm had dumped his flying rating from a two to a four – and that was the end of Prowler duty.

Convoy guard. Crowd control. Tech watch.

Frelling grot work.

The man across from him he knew lately only by reputation. Looked Sebacean, wasn't. Had destroyed a Gammak base, looted and destroyed a Shadow Depository, slaughtered a Nebari battalion, and, if rumor were true, had recently single-handedly destroyed a Scarran dreadnought. Scuttlebutt had him destroying a Warlord's prison not too long ago – just for some females. Thinking about it made Rekkard's head hurt.

This man's name had become synonymous with chaos and destruction. But he knew this man was admired too – few had punished the PK's as much as he did and lived long enough to become a legend this big.

John Frelling Crichton.

He'd initially been prepared to simply tell him to piss off – the last thing he needed was the walking planet-sized mess of trouble Crichton invariably represented. Something, however, told him to tread cautiously. Crichton had taken a few hits since he'd seen him last. Not that he'd been in the best of shape the last time, either. Granted, he looked a lot stronger now, certainly better armed. What the DRD was for, he couldn't imagine.

He wasn't about to ask or comment, as he doubted Crichton would probably take it well.

Crichton, however, was merely watching him. He was just sitting there, scanning his tavern with a practiced eye. Rekkard figured he'd already noted the men he'd brought with him. The mercs he had under contract were not cheap, and he wasn't about to feed them into the Crichton grinder. Garuda leaned over to him, said something he doubted Crichton could hear. Crichton's gaze shifted to Rekkard when Garuda did, and he was reminded how alien Crichton really was – despite his Sebacean appearance. Very few Sebaceans had blue eyes, one in every billion, maybe. Grey, sure. Even green. One out of hundred million had violet. But not blue. Not that blue.

Garuda backed off. He'd just told him that Crichton had landed in a Stealth-class Vigilante, a custom job, one armed to the teeth, and outfitted with Nebari Shock Lancers.

Holy frelling dren.

Crichton sat calmly, but that didn't make Rekkard feel any better. A Vigilante with Nebari Shock Lancers? Holy frelling frell! How in the blue end of Hezmana did he get a Vigilante? Nebari Shock Lancers? With those he could fry practically anything he pointed them at – including Rekkard's asteroid. Was he here to square up old debts? This guy had a reputation of being rather proficient in blowing stuff up. Rekkard choked on the smoke of his pipe, which elicited a crooked smile from Crichton, and he felt the sweat sliding down his neck.

Great. What next? I find out Crichton can kill me with Heat Delirium from a distance, just by staring?

"Why are you sweating, Rekkard? Not a good sign for a Sebacean." Crichton observed, his voice deeper than Rekkard remembered. "You don't look so hot. Little grey around the eyes."

Probably because you are nothing but a deliverer of giant piles of dren to my doorstep, he wanted to say, but he knew better than that, too.

"What do you want, Crichton?" Frell it. "I notice you're down an eye."

"And you've finally mastered the obvious."

Rekkard sent him a sour expression, asked again.

"What do you want?"

"Reihna."

What the yotz? Was he crazy? No, scratch that. Of course Crichton was crazy.

"You're farhbot." Rekkard said. "Reihna's gone. Her entire operation here is fried. Fadarso came in here and wiped her out. Blew her whole rock to dust." Rekkard suppressed a small shudder at the thought of the Peacekeeper prefect that ruled his own little kingdom a few systems over. He had three Carriers under his personal command. If he found out Crichton was here…!

"Sure he did." Crichton said, a small smile on his face. "And Vorcs are gonna come flying outta my ass."

'He's put a bounty on your head, too, Crichton. Two million-five."

"That all? That's frelling insulting." He spat. He paused, and with that crooked smile and a glance at Rekkard's mercs, asked, "Thinking of collecting?"

"Do I look insane? I'm just trying to keep my own damn head down."

"Good policy." He heard Crichton say. "Look," he continued. "Just tell me where she went, and I'll get outta your hair."

"You're not listening – Reihna's gone. She's dead."

Crichton looked at him as if he was mentally deficient.

"Do I look stupid to you, Rekkard? You owe me, remember?"

Some stubborn pride flared, and it was probably not smart, but Rekkard couldn't help it.

"I owe you, huh? How do you figure?"

"If I recall correctly, and I do - Fadarso would have had your head on a jinka pole if not for me – and Reihna would still be taking shots at it."

"I remember that my head wouldn't have been in danger of a jinka pole if not for you," Rekkard growled, not liking the reminder. "But Reihna's still gone."

There was a rumbling sigh from Crichton, and a short, "I really don't have time for this."

Crichton just cocked his head, and a rifle – a new one, one of those vicious Forge-class jobs – Scarran killers - was suddenly in Rekkard's face, stopping exactly in line with his nose, about a dench away. The barrel looked very long, very large, and he could swear he could see the magnetic charge needles way down there at the end of it.

"You and I both know she's not dead, Rekkard." Crichton said. "Garuda's proof of that - he wouldn't be here if she were. He's one of Reihna's pets - her muscle. He'd be on Marakana crying his eyes out. You know how Kellas are. He's either here for show or he's watching you for Reihna – or both."

He smiled, but it was the smile of a Vrakka Cat, the kind it made just before it disemboweled something. Rekkard did know how Kellas – Garuda's species – were, but he wondered how Crichton did. A lot of things had changed since he'd last been here. Rekkard looked him over again, and reassessed.

"Jinka poles and Fadarso will be the least of your problems. Now, you can tell me where she is, or I'll just blow your damn head off and look for myself. I may have to start on your asteroid."

Crichton readjusted his stance slightly, sighted down the barrel. He shrugged, but the barrel of the rifle didn't move a milli-dench.

"Either suits me."

That blue eye had gone very cold, and Rekkard got the uneasy feeling that it was one of the last things a great many people had seen. He could see that Crichton would kill him, without a microt's hesitation. He could see it in his steady gaze. Yeah, he'd changed. Definitely. Rekkard sighed.

"She told me to say she was dead – to everybody." Another sigh. "She went to Tretmeji-Falouut Tor."

Crichton didn't change expression, or move the gun.

"That's a big place. Specifics."

Rekkard grimaced.

"Specifically Batoou-Orisen." The rifle vanished, and Crichton smiled a maddening smile at him.

"Now was that so frelling hard? You're getting stubborn in your old age."

"Frell you, Crichton." Crichton's smile widened, but not by much. Rekkard just dragged on his pipe, blew out a lungful. "Reihna's no good to you. Fadarso really did come in and clean her out. He was pretty thorough."

Crichton snorted.

"Not as thorough as she is."

Rekkard just shook his grizzled head.

"You want that fat mechanic?" That pain in the eema, that damned bloody thief. A nod. "She doesn't have her – she'd just kill her first. She wouldn't care that much."

Crichton rose, the DRD scooted off the table.

"She has Furlow. She's too smart." Rekkard sighed, nodded. Crichton started to walk away.

"I hate your guts, Crichton. I just want you to know that." He called after him.

"You're in good company, old man." Crichton sent back. A moment later, he had left the tavern. Rekkard smiled finally, shaking his head again. Yeah, he hated him, and damn him to Hezmana, he admired him, too.

He just hoped Reihna Karadandidos never found out that he'd talked.