MOYA WAS IN FULL STARBURST FOR THE FIRST LEG OF THEIR JOURNEY TO DOVANNI NOTIA.

Talyn would not be coming. They were going to wait where they had rendezvoused with Moya after his binge, Crais not wanting to put any more undue stress on Talyn if he didn't have to. They would find each other again.

Crichton sat in John's quarters, going through items accumulated over the cycles John had been here – well, what was left, anyway. John would never be back to claim anything left, and it was pointless to pretend that these quarters would someday be occupied again. They could be closed or converted into something useful, and no one here would touch anything as long as they thought he'd claim it, anyway.

He tossed a few odds and ends into the crate he'd brought up from the cargo bay, sat back a moment, looked around. He was only here to clean up. He suspected that that would a recurring theme in his life for the next while.

He slept in a small chamber on one of Moya's bottom tiers, away from the others. Had dragged a PK cot in. It was a habit he'd picked up. He liked it quiet. He liked to know where everyone else was in proximity to himself. He could hear Chi slinking around the habitation tier corridors at night – a habit of hers no doubt, but it annoyed the hell out of him. It always dragged him from his deep slumber and allowed the dreams to come. He'd also asked Pilot not to send any DRDs near him when he slept, as he'd accidently shot one a few days previously and didn't want that to become a habit. Pilot agreed. Chiana did not go to the lower tiers. None of them did, which suited him. If they found it strange, they didn't tell him so.

It didn't matter. He wouldn't be here for long, if he could help it. There was too much here to remember.

He saw something glint at the bottom of the pile he was going through, fished out a small silver case, knew exactly what was in it. Odd that John would have forgotten this, but then, why bother with a keepsake when you had the real thing right there?

A lock of night-black hair. How… pointlessly sentimental. He didn't open it, just tossed it into the crate, leaned over, scooped up everything left and stuffed it into the crate as well, roamed the room, swept everything left off shelves and desk, in drawers, and stuffed that all in as well. Then he slammed the cap down, latched it, hoisted it and took it with him.

He certainly didn't want anything in it. What possible use could it be? It belonged to another man.

He made his way down to his own, dumped the container outside, went in to a corner of the room, where he'd left his large duffels, still unpacked.

Crichton pulled the first large and heavy duffel to the bed, it containing everything he thought of value looted from the Marauder, up-ended it, spilled the contents on the bed, started sorting. A data reader and a box of chips, various components he'd chosen for his… the module, minor upgrades there, extra cartridges, batteries for his guns. The other duffel contained clothes and toiletries, things of that domestic nature - including several new T's, shirts, two jackets, a couple of extra pairs of leather pants, three pairs of military-issue heavy boots – all black, of course. There was white cold-weather gear, even a 'hot weather' suit – naturally. It could come in handy. He'd also had three longcoats made – all custom-designed to his specifications.

He pulled the new belt off the improvised coat-rack by the door, this one rigged in such a way as it had two holsters, crisscrossing the other. He strapped them on, butts out - pulled each pulse pistol and checked them.

He'd had them custom-made on the Tilenkia Commerce Station, along with the holsters. They'd cost him a fistful of cash, but they were almost exact matches to Wynona.

Following the incident when the Nebari had boarded Moya after Chi, just before the crew had hit the Shadow Depository, and Wynona had jammed, John had Pilot scan her into the database, so that he could study her from every angle, find out just what the flaw had been.

It had turned out that the flaw had been in Wynona's firing chamber – amongst other things, albeit minor.

As explained to him by the gunsmith on the station, Pulse pistols worked "quite simply", which Crichton took to be a mild understatement:

Oil cartridges were actually two cartridges, melded together. One contained Oil, the other an accelerant – basically metal flakes in a diluted Chakkan suspension. Inserting and then twisting the cartridge opened the prongs on the end and allowed the two to mix. Most veteran Peacekeepers could tell if the cartridge was full or almost empty by the smell – which was beyond Human ranges. John had discovered that he could tell by taste – and Crichton saw no reason not to continue. It was reliable. It was like olive oil, with a touch of cinnamon. The more 'cinnamon', the more quantity and potency to the mix. Nearly empty had no taste at all.

Once the cartridges were loaded, and the trigger squeezed, a tiny charge drew a single drop of the highly volatile Chakkan oil and accelerant into the pulse chamber, a highly-polished metal compartment where a millimicrot-length ionized plasma charge was sent through the oil which almost instantly superheated it to several thousand klances. Another near-instantaneous ion charge acted as an impeller which forced the now-lethal drop down the barrel of the pistol where it is then given a series of additional magnetic charges to boost its speed and then expelled at high velocities toward a target.

All of this happened in millimicrots. The pulse chamber in Wynona had been pitted from long use (Wynona had been taken from an old consignment left on Moya), and the charge had lost its potency. John had also been using both inferior-grade Oil cartridges – the oil and the accelerant mix had been bad – and inferior batteries (located in the large front end of the pistol. One pulled the 'hook' down by one's trigger finger to open the compartment and change the batteries. They had a functional life of two cycles.).

He'd been impressed by the design. Fortunately, since Pilot had scanned them, that had also meant that he'd had what basically amounted to a complete set of blueprints for Wynona, and he'd taken those with him to the gunsmith. The flaws had been corrected and they had worked impeccably against the Commandos on the station. It also meant that if he were to lose them, they could be easily reproduced.

He pulled another holster out, also custom-made, a shoulder holster, with another custom pistol for it, slightly smaller, also made to Wynona specifications. He put it on as well, adjusted it for maximum comfort, test-drew it a few times. Perfect. The right gun he'd dubbed "Betty", the left "Veronica." Just for the hell of it.

He would become proficient, he vowed, even though he was getting better all the time. He'd become an expert with his weapons. Assured death would ride in each fist. The bounty hunters would keep coming, the Peacekeepers would keep coming, and now the Scarrans knew that ol' Johnny Crighters had the ability to whack them, too.

He crossed to one of his new longcoats. All were identical. Worked into the lining across the shoulders, down the front, down the back, were thin but very durable sheets of composite – armor-plating. They had collars with a springy metal piece sewn into it. He smiled grimly – the composite was a ceramic/crystalline mix, and it had been expensive as hell too, but it would offer him some protection – and not set off any frelling metal detectors he might encounter. An interior pocket had been modified to contain a sturdy combat-grade knife. Various other hidden seams and pockets were all over, and all would hold whatever he needed. Pirates could teach you a lot, if you paid attention.

He pulled off his double holsters, hung them, left the smaller one where she was. Life was different now. He'd never go anywhere unarmed again. He even slept with a pistol near.

Moya shuddered out of starburst, Pilot informing everyone that she would require approximately two arns to execute another. Crichton stalked out of his quarters, hoisted the container, headed for the cargo bay. He made a mental note, that if they did find somewhere suitably competent to upgrade her, Moya would get the ability to starburst sooner, rather than later, if at all possible.

In the cargo bay, he stashed the container as far back into the bay as he could and promptly forgot about it. Crichton then checked on Farscape, nodded to himself that she was still ship-shape, rolled the ship into a small storage bay near the hanger and dis-connected all the power relays making the ship "safe", - threw a tarp over it, sealed the bay. He might have use for it – eventually. At the next Commerce world, he decided it might be worth selling. No one here could fly it with any real proficiency, and it could potentially be a hazard.

He walked out of the cargo bay, back up to Command. It was empty, save for Chiana slumped over the operations table. She didn't look all that well. She'd been sick ever since she'd returned from Thonexia.

"Chi – what's the matter with you?"

"Frellllll… remind me to prepare better the next time I go drinking with you."

Crichton walked to the table, looked down at her.

"You followed me. I didn't ask you to come. And you were the one pounding down Prejsin Mist Teas like they were going out of style. I told you that stuff wouldn't go well with Nebari physiology. You should have believed me." He winced at the thought of the seriously alcoholic stuff – it smelled like Valerian and tasted like kerosene smelled. If he recalled correctly, she and Jool had managed to cat each other into a drinking contest with the stuff.

Chiana glared at him, but there was a sparkle in her eye.

"Yeah, maybe, but you weren't shy with drinks, either." She was quiet for a while, then looked at him with slightly more apprehension. "Before you left us, did we, uh, you and I, I mean do… uhm…"

"What?"

"Well, it just felt like, I mean, when I woke up it, it felt kinda like I'd, y'know…"

"No - what?"

"Had sex." She whispered.

"Oh! Do you mean did you and I have sex somewhere in all that?"

She nodded. He shrugged, checked the Operations console. He couldn't honestly remember if they had or not. He'd been pretty damn drunk at one point, and she'd been coming on pretty strong... and it wasn't like he was the Crichton who'd been telling her 'no' forever…

"I don't remember, Pip. Is it important? You'd feel bad about it?"

Chiana blinked at him. John Crichton not caring if he and she had had sex? That was supposed to be a big no-no.

"Uh, no... it wouldn't have upset me… if it had been you, I mean… I just would have liked to have been awake for it…"

Crichton flicked a glance back at her, but didn't turn from the scan board.

"The odds are you were – but I don't remember." He paused, with a crooked smile. "Kinda wish I did." He looked back at her with a sly grin. "Maybe some other time."

"Uh..." Chiana blinked. Was it possible one of her dreams might come true?

"Pilot." Now ignoring her. Frell. Moment passed.

"Yes, Commander?" Pilot shimmered onto the clamshell.

"D'Argo fill you in on our idea to upgrade Moya – if it's possible?"

"Yes, Commander. Moya is intrigued by the idea, although all attempts in the past that we are aware of have not gone well."

"Let me guess – all died?"

"Or have been seriously crippled."

"With care, though, if we can find real experts – do you think it's possible?"

Pilot thought a few microts.

"I believe it is – with care. It would depend a great deal on whether it is or can be done in line with Moya's own physiology."

Crichton crossed his arms, started to think, mind running along possibilities.

"Because she's biomechanical, huh? That would make sense, of course. Can I assume past 'upgrades' were done mechanically?" Pilot nodded. "No wonder they failed. We won't even attempt it, Pilot, if it looks like it'll go that way. I want to make her more secure – not make it worse."

"Moya understands that, Commander. If it can be done safely, she informs me that she has no objections – with only one proviso."

"Which is?"

"Moya insists that my Den also be made more secure."

Crichton smiled. It wasn't a big smile, or even a particularly warm one, but it was a smile. Pilot noted that he was smiling much less than he used to – but he certainly understood why.

"Already in the plans, Pilot – no worries. If you would, I'd like you and Moya to discuss it – draw up a list of things that both of you think need greater protection, or enhancement. Hell – even stuff she'd just like – y'know, fuzzy dice, big new stereo. Whatever."

Pilot nodded, seemed to hesitate, said;

"Crichton… Moya is also concerned that such upgrades may be prohibitively expensive."

Crichton turned, nodded back at Pilot.

"That's not a consideration, Pilot. Just make that list – and don't worry about the cost. We still have tons of cash from the Shadow Depository raid – and two extra vacated shares we can dip into, if we have to, and there are plenty of other Depositories around, I have no doubt – you just make that list."

"Very well, Commander. Everyone – starburst in 400 microts."

Moya built into starburst, and Crichton sent one last look at Chiana, who was looking at him with some suspicion, dismissed her and then decided to go and assess their funds.

DOVANNI NOTIA WAS, AS PLANETS GO, UNSPECTACULAR.

One huge continent amidst a vast turquoise planetwide ocean, the interior of that continent an equally huge desert. Only the edges of the continent were green.

As they swung into orbit, Jool informed them that that continent was not where'd they'd be going.

"The Interion settlement is on the other side of the planet on a small island, well, a chain of islands." She told them.

"How are they on visitors?" D'Argo asked.

"Well, they're intellectual fundamentalists – but not particularly freethinkers, if you follow me. So, not particularly inclined, really."

"Hence the middle of nowhere." Rygel muttered.

Crichton jumped off the table he'd been sitting on, strode over to Jool.

"Tough. We won't be here that long. What's this information gonna cost us?"

"I guess that depends on who we ask," Jool replied. "The colony is basically made of expatriates – mostly people who disagreed with certain of my homeworld's policies."

"Which means what, exactly? Are they criminals?" Chiana asked.

Jool looked distinctly uncomfortable.

"Not in the strictest sense. They're more like …rebels. You know my homeworld is a meritocracy, but they think that's rather a bit… much, as it were. They're all descendants of members of clans that prefer the ancient caste system. It's complicated."

Crichton eyed her.

"Would this have anything to do with your leaving here under 'less than pleasant circumstances'?"

Jool cleared her throat.

"Something like that."

Crichton grabbed her arm, tugged her from Command.

"Tough. Whatever it was, you were still here before." He glanced over at D'Argo. "What do you think? Lo'Laa or a transport pod?"

"A transport pod would be less intimidating – especially if they're touchy."

Crichton nodded, led them all to the hanger. He rethought his use of the Prowler. If he was forgoing using Farscape, having something with speed and firepower couldn't hurt. He'd have to check it out when he came back. If he decided against using it, he could always sell or trade it for something he could use. Even as he thought about it, the idea of his own ship – something advanced - was definitely growing in appeal.

The trip down in the pod was quiet and uneventful, with Jool appearing more apprehensive the closer they got.

"What's the matter with you, Jool?" Rygel goaded. "Did you snurch something before you left?"

"No – and I resent the implication!" Her voice was higher than normal. Crichton glanced back at her, sighed.

"What did you steal, Jool?"

"Nothing!" Jool's hair was starting to go red.

"Jool…!"

Jool sighed, looked angry and desperate all at once.

"Look – I was on my Grand Educational Tour when I got robbed. I lost all my finances. I'd managed this far on what I had left. There's a gem mine in the desert on the big continent. I needed an 'in' here, so I arranged a few …things, and then – look, I needed money to get off the planet, so I borrowed a few! Just enough to get out of the system and meet up with my cousins!"

"I'll kick her eema so hard," Chiana grumbled. "It'll take me a whole day to pull my foot back out." D'Argo growled at the young Interion. Rygel just chuckled.

"Save it." Crichton chided. "We'll deal with whatever if it comes up – Jool said it herself – it has been almost 23 damn cycles."

They landed the pod without challenge, without incident, just outside the only settlement.

"Let's keep our weapons low-key, kids. We'll be reasonable – depending." Crichton said, adjusting his shoulder piece, standing and fastening his longcoat. Chiana followed suit, and D'Argo tucked his Qualta behind him. They were more likely to wonder why a Luxan wasn't armed than otherwise.

They stepped out into the moist air, the smell of brine reminding Crichton of his vacations with his father in Miami – a memory of which he almost immediately quashed.

Those memories belonged to someone else. His father was a dead brain-sucking maniac. He knew he was going to get tired of reminding himself to correct himself, but it had to be done. He didn't need the distractions. Make it a habit, and problem solved.

They casually made their way toward the settlement edge, Crichton and Jool leading, D'Argo, Rygel and Chiana following. They were almost to a gate when two Interion males, armed, stepped into their path.

"Halt there, Peacekeeper!" the one on the left barked.

Crichton raised his hands, not high – just high enough to show he wasn't carrying.

"I'm not a Peacekeeper." He continued walking.

"I said, halt! All of you!"

"Jool – you're up," Crichton said, pulling Jool around him and shoving her into the front. The men blinked when they saw her.

"Uh… hello. He's right – he's not a Peacekeeper. Is… Navria Atrekii Noma Denri Govali still in charge here?"

"What is with those frelling names?" Chiana muttered to D'Argo. He shrugged.

The male on the right eyed Jool suspiciously.

"Yes. How do you know her?"

Jool said nothing, until Crichton poked her in the back.

"I… used to live here."

"That doesn't matter. Answer the question!"

Crichton was about to step forward when another voice intruded on the scene, a woman's voice.

"Oh, for frell's sake! Put the guns down, you fekkiks."

The Sebacean owner of that voice walked up and past them, slapping one of the barrels down as she passed. She stopped just shy of Crichton, smiled a large smile.

"Hello there. Sorry about the Paranoid Brothers. Can I help you?"

She was almost as tall as he was, with long, tied-up-in-a-high-ponytail red-gold hair, striking violet eyes with just a hint of a slant, and an oval face. White teeth flashed behind a set of full lips. She wore a long grey "lab coat" - like affair which hid nothing of a very strong and supple body beneath. She glanced at his companions, gave him a slower going-over, obviously liking what she saw.

"All we want is some information." He said, brazenly returning the favor. This woman was, well… beautiful. She looked, he suddenly thought, like Rita Hayworth – with obvious differences, of course. She smiled another broad smile - one of those smiles that made full-grown intelligent men feel like supra-dumb hormonal boys.

"'Information'? This rock is, quite frankly, the hind-end of nowhere. I'm Miriya Breannados." She somehow managed to sound throaty and sharp at the same time.

Crichton looked her over again for a long moment.

"Yeah, nice to meet you," he replied dryly, pointedly avoiding giving her his name. If she noticed, she said nothing. "It's nothing major, no state secret – as far as I know."

"Well, come on in, then." So saying, she turned, sauntered between the two guards, stopped, fixed the one on the left with a withering glare, said, "Go do something productive." which just caused him to scowl and back away from her. She glanced back at Moya's crew.

"Interions – smarter than all Hezmana, but no manners at all." The smile came back. "Follow me."

Miriya led them through the small village, which was remarkably advanced for being the "hind-end of nowhere". They were stared at as they went by, and then just as quickly ignored. At last they came to a house larger than the rest, and Miriya unhesitatingly went up the stairs, beckoning them to follow, and she led them into a large oval foyer.

"Wait here, I'll see if the old girl's awake." She padded through a door, disappeared. D'Argo stepped up behind Crichton.

"She's uh… well…"

"Unusual," Crichton finished his thought. "For a Peacekeeper."

"That's one way of putting it," Chiana chimed. " A tech too, from the looks of her. How often do you meet a Sebacean with a sense of humour?"

Crichton just scoffed, said, "Not often," looked around. The furnishings were sparse, the air inside flinty. Carvings and statuettes from what appeared to be several different cultures were arranged around the room. Dark, mirror-polished wood covered the walls. The place looked like large sums of money had been spent. The door Miriya had taken banged open and the woman herself strode through, stopped, held it open for a much older Interion woman to follow.

Crichton didn't know how long Interions lived, but this woman looked to be pushing that limit – and hard.

"Thank you, Miriya," She croaked. Navria slowly made her way to the only chair in the room, Miriya behind her.

"Navria – these people are here looking for some information – nothing serious, I'm told." She glanced over at Crichton. "Isn't that right?"

"Yeah."

Navria squinted up at him, beckoned him closer. Crichton stepped closer, and she peered up into his face. She blinked, and for a moment, it looked like she recognized him.

"What do you want?" she wheezed. Before he could answer, however, the old woman caught sight of Jool, crooked a branch-like finger at her.

"You – come here." Jool pointed to herself, looked confused. "Yes, you. Come here."

Jool reluctantly stepped up, and Crichton stepped out of her way. The old woman squinted up at her. The squint folded the lines of her face so tightly it seemed as if her features would vanish beneath them.

"What's your name – and don't lie." Jool glanced back at Crichton, who shrugged.

"Joolushko Tunai Fenta Hovalis." She said, with a bit of trepidation. Navria squinted again.

"You have been away a long time, Joolushko Tunai Fenta Hovalis. Were you in prison all this time?" Behind them, Chiana laughed, and the question pulled a few smirks across faces.

"No, Navria Atrekii Noma Denri Govali. I was… on my way to make restitution when my ship was attacked by slavers. We got sick, but I recovered, and then we were sold to organ harvesters. I spent 22 cycles in cold storage."

"Indeed," Navria rasped. "Your cousins?"

"They were worse, Navria Atrekii Noma Denri Govali – they didn't survive."

Navria went silent as she appeared to consider it, then looked up again.

"What do you want?"

"Just information. My companions wish to find Abbanerex. Will you help us?"

Miriya looked up when Jool mentioned Abbanerex, looked back at her companions appraisingly.

"I see no reason to help you, Joolushko Tunai Fenta Hovalis."

Jool tossed Crichton another look. He stepped up.

"What did she do?"

Navria looked at Crichton with a skeptical air, her eyes sharp. He suddenly felt like it would be a bad idea to argue with this one.

"She's a thief, a liar, and a whore."

Crichton sent the old woman a dry smile, and elicited a sharp look from Jool when he answered,

"Aside from that."

Navria straightened as Chiana laughed again, seemed to reassess him. She barely came up to his chest.

"You obviously know nothing of her." Navria shambled away to a chair, sat heavily. She eyed the group for what seemed like a long time, then sighed. "You will take Joolushko Tunai Fenta Hovalis to the Ej'djem Reach and the moon Davros - and you will pay her debts." Her voice brooked no debate.

"What? Why should we do that?" Chiana said immediately. "They're her frelling debts!"

"Chiana!" D'Argo growled at her.

"Okay, the debts I understand. Why do you want her to go to this Davros?" Crichton asked the old woman.

"Because," Navria said, rising and hobbling away, her dignity immense. "That's where her husband had been waiting for her for the last twenty-four cycles."