MIRIYA AWOKE TO THE CLOSED CONFINES OF A PRISON TRANSPORT.
She wasn't in a cell, just on a dirty cot, wedged in a corner. There were two other techs with her, both prisoners like herself, a young man who looked to have been worked over a few times, and keeping to himself, and an older woman, older than Miriya, who sat with arms crossed and a defiant look on her face. They were not in cells, simply because they were "just techs" as far as Peacekeepers were concerned, and no 'real threat'.
Miriya was determined that that would be considered a mistake from this day onward.
She assessed. Standard light transport, probably a Raga or a Venross - class corvette. A pilot, a navigator, three guards. The ship was dren, looking as if it hadn't been either serviced or cleaned in quite some time. Her expert eye noted details. This tub had to be almost fifty cycles old.
"Hey, you - fire-hair." One of the guards pointed his rifle at her. He had a pockmarked face, a large jagged scar that slashed his face, across his lips, giving him a permanent sneer. She brushed her hair, hopelessly unkempt, from her face. She didn't miss that he watched her intently as she did it. Miriya knew precisely how she looked to most Sebacean males.
"Yes?" She asked with just enough air, breathy, and sounding just a little melancholic.
"Whatchoo do, huh? Pretty thing like you? Whatchoo break?"
"Nothing." She told him, putting on her best innocent face. "I'm a victim of circumstance."
"That's too bad. Arenjuni's no place for you." He shrugged, turned away. "Too bad."
Miriya cursed under her breath. Arenjuni? On the outskirts of PK space, it was supposed to be a "work planet", a prison world, but it wasn't, not really. Run by Kennis Mar, a PK Captain with many connections and no scruples whatsoever, Arenjuni was a prison only on paper. He ran a slave market, selling 'choice' prisoners to the highest bidder.
She was not going the frell to Arenjuni!
Moving back on her bunk as if in horror at the prospect, Miriya furiously looked and thought, trying to remember everything she could about these ships, looking for something to exploit. She had no tools, nothing but her wits. A slow smile crossed her lips.
Use the tools you had, she told herself, remembering an old maxim of an early instructor. The finest techs innovate, not simply imitate. But they do not ignore the tried and true.
Miriya surreptitiously unzipped the single piece overall they'd forced her into, sans underwear, exposing round and supple flesh, scrunched up on the bunk, positioned herself advantageously in the light and put her head back – all "despair".
One of the guards looked around again, the youngish one with the brown hair and serious face, Miriya put her head down and sighed, looked at him with veiled eyes. Miriya - as a rule, like all self-assured, intelligent and talented women - did not depend on her appearance. She knew perfectly well, however, how attractive she was, and she knew perfectly well how to use that to her advantage, when necessary. She sighed lower, hugged herself, which naturally – and innocently, of course - accentuated her cleavage. She closed her eyes, looked away in "hopelessness". She felt, rather than saw, the guard lick his lips.
"Keep yer mind on business," the pockmarked one growled, and Miriya cursed him. "None of that, now."
"It'd be a shame…" one guard rejoined. "Just giving that away."
"She won't last long, sure." He sniffed. "Not when Mar's done."
"It's a long trip," the third guard said, making himself heard. "Can't hurt. Been awhile too."
They argued about it for a good quarter-arn longer, and Miriya did her best to centre herself and calm the anger at being considered nothing more than a piece of meat. Eventually, they decided and she sat there, waited, eyes closed, until she heard one come closer, opened her eyes to see the brown-haired guard standing over her.
"You heard, yah?" He leered down at her. "You want some privileges?"
"I'd do anything not to have to go there," Miriya told him, completely truthful. Inside, she was completely offended and totally furious. Not a flicker of it crossed her face.
"You give us no fuss, now, do as you're told, and you get consideration." Miriya nodded, the meek tech, knowing they meant not a word of it. He motioned with his gun for her to stand.
"You drop that now," He told her, indicating her coverall. "Give me some access."
Miriya did as she was told, hesitant and modest, but pulling her coverall off, allowing it to slip slowly down. Pockmark made a noise as she did, something inarticulately appreciative. Miriya dropped the coverall to her feet, stood there naked but for her boots, completely unperturbed by her nudity. She slid the coverall away with a foot. Brown-hair made a 'turn-around' gesture, and she did, felt a gloved hand on her back, pushing her into a bend. She put her hands against the bulkhead for support. Brown-hair leaned over her back as he fumbled to free himself.
"You just let it happen, and there won't be any problems." He hissed by her ear. Miriya nodded. He kicked her feet apart, and Miriya heard the clunk of a belt and trousers on the floor. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the business end of his rifle, set down to rest against the bulkhead, an arm's-length away.
With two smooth movements, Miriya waited until he'd stepped forward and then succinctly kicked up and back, calf connecting squarely and making him squeal in a pitch not often heard by Sebacean males, and then pivoting to scoop up his rifle and putting two shots expertly into the remaining guards. A swift kick to the head relieved Brown-hair of his more immediate pain. Still naked, Miriya marched smartly into the cockpit and jammed the barrel of the rifle into the pilot's neck.
"We're not going to Arenjuni," she told him, "but you knew that." He nodded.
Behind her the two other tech prisoners were looking at her with awe. The much-beaten young man was kicking Pockmark with relish. The older woman just stood there, crossed her arms and smiled.
"Find me something decent to wear," she told the older woman. To the pilot she ordered, "and you find somewhere decent to drop us off."
THADON NO'HALLADAN adjusted his new outfit, found it slightly too tight at the waist, popped a strategic seam, made it serviceable. He checked his identification chip again, memorized it's details. The new gene-markers in his blood would pass any blood scan and the 'fixes' to his eyes made them look Sebaceanoid 'normal'. A pigment injection darkened his skin. His ship had been secured in a registered depot, and the man whose name he'd borrowed quietly eliminated and vanished.
It was not the first time he'd been someone else. He was Thantados – and they were the supreme assassin.
It was sheer chance, a rather large risk, but for Shivi'na he was prepared to risk much – risk everything – whatever was necessary.
He took one breath, centered himself.
He was not, despite what others may have thought about Thantados, a gambler, yet this could cost him – cost him everything.
No matter.
Whatever it took.
With all the casual air of being where he was supposed to be, was what he appeared to be, No'Halladan walked easily into the recruitment centre and handed his ident chip over with a smile.
MIRIYA FRIED THE TRANSPORT'S CONTROLS AND HELPED HERSELF TO ANY CURRENCY THE DEAD POSSESSED.
Dressed in a surplus uniform from the ship's meager stores, armed with a pulse pistol from Pockmark, and most of the currency on the guards and pilots, she made her way through the bustling crowds of a place the pilot called "Kaljh", the closet Commerce area with no real PK presence. The other two techs had thanked her and long-since vanished into the throngs. Miriya was confident that she could forget the living Peacekeepers she left behind – they wouldn't be contacting anyone anytime soon. She didn't have much, but she had more than she'd started with – the money was just enough to buy her a few choice tools and something to eat at a local café. She knew she could have just as easily marooned the pilots and stolen the transport, but she'd vetoed the idea the moment she'd had it. Too easy to track, few defensive measures, no appreciable speed or maneuverability. In short, the thing was a piece of junk.
All she needed to do now was… well, figure out something. She had no idea how long she'd been 'out' as it were. Much of her time in PK custody was spent either unconscious or in a haze of pain. She felt perfectly well, if very tired, a bit sore here and there, nothing major, but you couldn't take that sort of thing for granted. She needed viable transport off this rock. A rock Kaljh actually was – a hollowed-out asteroid circling a cinder circling a dying star. Miriya weighed options available to her and found she liked none of them.
Damn Crichton! She growled to herself without any real heat. She was watching the ships come and go. Before she'd encountered him, a quick smile and quicker recreation with some witless pilot or freighter captain would have solved her problems. Now… she just couldn't bring herself to simply… do it. It was just sex, for frell's sake! It meant nothing. The problem was… the "just" part wasn't sticking. It shouldn't mean anything, but dammit, it did, and she didn't know when that attitude had changed for her, but she knew Crichton was to blame.
Well, if he was to blame, he'd just have to make up for it.
A check of the local bounty hunters and wanted beacons came up with nothing. There was no ships worth stealing, and she had only enough money left for one night at a local squat. She was close to frustration when she spotted the ancient Luxan Eradicator, and it's pilot and passenger, which elicited a broad smile and a silent sigh of relief.
They weren't exactly friends, that particular Luxan and that particular Nebari, but at the moment, they were close enough.
THREE DAYS LATER, AND MIRIYA HAD SETTLED IN.
She slept in Crichton's old cell, and made herself comfortable there. A commerce planet and a handful of borrowed cash bought her clothes, sundries and anything else she needed. She started to feel like herself again just as Evigan Koiban returned from a run at a nearby Commerce Planet, and carrying a wanted beacon. From it, they learned that "Crichton's Pirate Band" was last seen in the so-called "Vash'ras Wilderness", and Moya obligingly took Miriya there, after she'd evinced an interest in returning to Crichton's side, telling a long, sad story of livelihood lost, and torture borne. Miriya paid back her board with repairs and glitch tracking.
As enhanced as Moya now was, she still had those little irritating glitches that plagued any working ship. Miriya spent her time concentrating on that while the search went on, doing her best not to think too much about what she would do when and if they did find Crichton. The rest of her time was spent making friends with Chiana, finding that they shared a certain streak of deviltry.
At one point, another day or two along, Moya had thought she found the Vengeance, but lost it, only to find it once more as it exited the "Wilderness". Miriya felt a surge of relief upon seeing it, which made her feel rather odd that she should, and was even glad to hear Crichton's irritated burr when he turned back on his course to intercept Moya, and "find out what the frell they were doing", since this wasn't the way to keep the bounties off their heads.
There was no happy reunion with the crew of the Vengeance, and Miriya expected none. She transferred to the Vigilante with alacrity, bidding the Moyans an effusive and hearty goodbye and thanks. Crichton refused resolutely D'Argo's offer of aid and assistance, and finally proceeded on their way after some cajoling.
Miriya was welcomed back to the Vengeance with about three hundred questions and the surprising revelation that she'd been in Peacekeeper custody for over two weekens.
Two weekens! Where did the rest of the time go? What happened?
Miriya felt uneasy, but could dredge up no answers that satisfied anyone, including herself. A thorough run-through in the auto-doc showed no abnormalities save a few scars and some joint inflammation in her wrists and neck, quickly repaired. Crichton would tell her little about where they were going or what they were up to, and Miriya knew better than to wheedle. She'd find out soon enough.
She spent her time as the Vengeance went from here to there and back again repairing more glitches, smoothing rough spots in the ship's functions, realigned the torsion compensators, improved cycling and thus firing rates on the ship's cannon, quad guns and fixed two fried circuits in the Shock Lancers. She gave 1812 a complete check and a thorough cleaning. The little droid - ungrateful little bugger - scooted away when she was finished and went back to watching her, as it had since she'd arrived.
"I'm not doing anything underhanded," she told the vigilant machine, resenting the scrutiny. "I don't have anywhere else to go."
It didn't take her long to work her way back into Crichton's cabin and bed, something she'd never doubted would take much time anyway, although she found that her contentment sleeping beside him and the comfort she derived from his presence during the night cycle disturbed her. There was an odd mixture of need and …revulsion, that arose from the emotion, and she hadn't a clue what it meant – if it meant anything, or if it were just the last few weekens catching up to her. Boiled down, it was simply that she felt that she didn't like that she liked the feeling so much. He was always gone long before she woke up, and that was also unlike her. He was as indifferent to her as always, and she wasn't sure she didn't resent that, too.
At her rather annoyingly persistent insistence, Crichton had relented and taken her back to Ogg'M'nendi. He'd been correct, when he'd answered her queries. What hadn't been destroyed had already been thoroughly looted. The entire affair was a burned-out wreck. The secure underground safe into which she'd dumped her data hadn't been all that secure. It had been found.
Miriya ranted. She screamed in rage and kicked things, threw things, and Crichton and crew could only watch in various stages of amusement and prepare to duck if any hurtled detritus came their way. While a tad out-of-character, it was perfectly understandable.
To everyone's immense surprise following the convulsion of rage, Miriya had then sat down in the middle of the wreckage and bawled her eyes out, probably the first time she'd ever done such a thing, given the duration and intensity of it. Crichton, more taken aback than any of them, tried to comfort her, only to have her latch onto him and not let go until she'd exhausted herself. During the storm, Crichton had picked her up and deposited her in his bed on the ship, and she'd not noticed. An arn later, and she'd managed to cry herself to sleep, tormented now and again by specters of bad dreams. Through it all, Crichton stayed and watched her, disquieted by the explosion of emotion.
"Frell." she'd said, upon awakening, seeing him there. "Sorry," she chuckled ruefully. "I don't know what came over me."
"It's been a trying monen," he told her, with a faint grin. "You mentioned something about 'frelling unreliable bastards' and 'nerve induction'."
Looking faintly embarrassed, Miriya wiped her face and asked him in a small voice,
"Have you been here the entire time?"
Again that faint grin, "Well, I took bathroom breaks."
She sat up, hands together between her knees. She looked small and vulnerable and Crichton wondered at it.
"This is really … unlike me. I don't do this sort of thing."
"We all reach a breaking point, Miriya. It usually comes when we don't expect it." Crichton told her, rising, stretching. He held out a mug of sweet water and a crossis bun. She accepted both dully, just staring at the bed at her feet. "It's not a small thing to lose everything that matters to you." He shrugged. "Believe me, I know. You'll get over it."
"Get over it?" Miriya said with little heat, but it grew as she spoke, "My shop wrecked, all my projects wrecked, my storerooms looted , my entire stash of savings – and it was considerable – stolen! What in the frelling blue end of Hezmana is left? Get over it?"
"I told you when you came onboard we got there late, did I not?" He replied, unperturbed by the explosion, calm. She nodded, irked. "But we got here before anyone else, Miriya."
"What are you saying, John?" She looked skeptical.
"The Edge is in a secure depot in Arl Finnis' Ring Station – and your 'considerable' money is on your ship."
"What?" Miriya seemed completely stunned. "My ship?"
"Yes, Miriya. Your money and your ship. Couldn't save anything else, but it's a start."
"You've …saved me, John Crichton," her brain running 'round and 'round that he had done this for her. Crichton backed away from the emotion surging through her, faintly surprised by his own reaction to it.
"No, Miriya, I didn't save anything. I just got lucky. Look - get some rest. We'll head over to Finnis' and get your stuff, all right?" Miriya beamed her huge wattage smile at him and just nodded. Crichton got out before she did something else out-of-character like leap up and hug him.
She watched him go, and stared at the door for a long while. She lay back down, putting the sweet water and bun down, forgotten, and pulled the blanket up to her chin, sighed a deep, deep sigh, and told the ceiling,
"Yes, you saved me, John Crichton." And then she began to laugh, remembering what she told herself on Kaljh, that he'd made up for it all right, and was still chuckling when she faded into sleep.
At the back of her mind, however, she wondered why gratitude should have been there at all.
HAXER NEVER RETURNED, CHAK'SA DID, DAMAGED, BUT EXULTANT.
The Vengeance had waited in the Harrahda Frontier, just outside the V'masque Wastelands. They were on their way to pick up Miriya's ship when they'd been called by Chak'sa. Chak'sa, she was told, took priority. The ship was in full stealth, to avoid the periodic Marauder and Prowler patrols that strayed through the area. Chak'sa returned in one of the fighter-pods, and put… something in a secured area of the cargo hold before going to Crichton.
"I found it," she told him. "It was there, as promised."
"What happened to you?" he asked her, noting the slashes and abrasions on her skin. Dark blood flaked around the wounds. Some of it was still fresh.
"It had automatic defences. Synwynd did not mention those." Chak'sa grinned savagely. "She is most cunning. It was exhilarating." She noticed Miriya, who was all eyes, bade hello, which was returned.
"Go get yourself patched," Crichton told her. "Nice job." She nodded, passed him and handed over a small package as she did so. Miriya looked curious, but asked no questions. "My ship?" was the only one she offered.
"Soon enough. Shiv." He said and he and she vanished into the Ops, which he closed off. Miriya sighed, wandered back to the Auto-doc. Her doubts from the day previously had vanished, and Miriya felt like her old self again.
"Are you alright?" She asked, watching the Scarran-"blended" warrior tend to her wounds. "I'm Miriya Breannados. I built this ship. Well… I made it unique, which is probably more precise."
"I am fine. You build well." Chak'sa told her, stripping off her armor and under-kilts. Unembarrassed by her nudity, she climbed into the Auto-doc diagnostic chamber and allowed it to cycle. A hundred microts later, she stepped out, checked the readings. Nothing major. "I am Chak'sa Bavmorda. As you can see, it was nothing."
What Miriya saw was an amazing female physique, packed tight with rock-solid muscle, slashed here and there with old scars, but losing nothing in feminine curves for all that. Her Scarran skeleton merely heightened the appearance of strength, detracting from her appeal not in the slightest. She was adorned here and there with tattoos, and Miriya knew they were more hieroglyphic than tattoo, chronicling a harsh history to those who knew the arenas. This was no female to ever take lightly.
With a grin Miriya quipped, "I know who you are," she scratched her nose. "You're famous. Best fighter Lost Fortune Arena ever had." Chak'sa nodded, but said nothing. She moved to the heal chamber to allow the machine to do its work.
"I've heard the stories." Miriya tilted her head at her. "You killed Borin Jar in two rounds, and crippled the Resistor when he refused to yield – allowing him to take an honorable retirement instead of being thrown to the crowds. They said you took particular relish in killing Scarrans and Sebacean collaborators."
"Stories," Chak'sa told her, not particularly impressed by Miriya's recall. Her past was not somewhere Chak'sa visited often. "People like to exaggerate."
"Sure they do," Miriya rejoined, "but they didn't have to where you were concerned." She thought a bit. "Say - aren't you usually a duo, however? You partner with a Sebacean male? A Decrypter, I think…"
Chak'sa interrupted her. "We are not lovers."
Odd leap to make. Were – or wants to be? Interesting…
"What's the problem?" Miriya leaned casually on a cabinet as Chak'sa stared at the ceiling, 'trapped' by the heal chamber. "He not your type?"
"I do not have a 'type'," Chak'sa told her in a cold tone, cursing that she had said that unbidden. "We are partners, nothing else."
Miriya put up her hands mock-defensively.
"Have it your way."
Chak'sa climbed out of the heal chamber after it had finally finished and flexed, looking for sore spots. She felt much better, at least physically. She reached for her clothes, began to dress. She fixed Miriya with a cold gaze.
"You are very curious about things that are not of your concern."
Miriya was unruffled.
"I like to know crewmates – or potential ones, at least. Wasn't aware I was prying. You're the one getting defensive. He's not good enough to be a lover – well, frell, that's your call."
Chak'sa glared at her for a moment, snapped her armor back into place, feeling better with every plate as it went on.
"I did not say that he was not good enough – he is, he just –" she caught herself, cursed silently again. She snapped the last piece into place and fixed Miriya with an unmistakable look. "You reach too far, Breannados. Beware."
"There's no need for that, Chak'sa. There's no shame in caring about someone."
"It is none of your concern!" She hissed and Miriya backed off. "Do not think that simply because you are a diversionary toy for Crichton that you may take liberties."
"Excuse me?" Miriya huffed, indignant at the implication. "I am no male's toy! Crichton and I… – whatever we are – at least I'm honest about it!" She had wondered if she were being so, and that too often enough. "Scarrans aren't exactly famed for their frelling empathy!"
Chak'sa blinked, looked offended, gained control of herself, smiled slightly.
"You are brave, Miriya. I can respect that. I am not good with… relationships."
Miriya saw something flicker in Chak'sa's eyes, some worry, a concern. Because he wasn't back yet? Crichton send him on some fool's errand? She relented, somewhat.
"Who is?" A smile. "Are you worried about him? Wherever he is?"
"I am always worried about him," Chak'sa said, softer. Miriya crossed her arms, tried another smile. There was no need to antagonize her. They'd be crewmates, if she could swing it. She needed allies. So she said:
"You're right, Chak'sa. I'm sorry. I just recently lost pretty much everything I've spent my life working for – that sort of thing tends to fray one's nerves." Chak'sa nodded, understanding. "I've never …loved anything, not really. Peacekeepers call it a disease, a weakness. Techs aren't indoctrinated as deeply, but still…" She shrugged. "Of course, I've never really …tried. No one worthy, y'see." A wry smile.
"Perhaps you should try, Breannados." Chak'sa, moving away. "It may be all that saves you."
With that she disappeared up the accessway, and Miriya followed after her.
"What do you mean by that? Save me? From what? Is that a threat?"
"No." She stopped, sighed, also relenting slightly. She had admitted more than she had intended, but Miriya had not used it against her. A few microts later, she said reluctantly, "It is something 'Haxer' said to me once, that is all." She looked faintly discomfited by sharing. "He said, 'males build and plan and design and war, but females have the courage to love us, and by loving us, they civilize us, and make everything we do worth the effort. It's the one thing that saves us.'"
"He believed that?" Miriya asked, with no trace of mockery.
"Yes, I believe he did." She frowned.
"Do you think it'd make a difference with Crichton?" There was some faint trepidation in Miriya's voice – unexpected to both of them. Chak'sa regarded her for a moment, then replied truthfully,
"No. Not with him."
Chak'sa turned and left, left Miriya feeling uncomfortable and uneasy, suddenly wishing she'd stayed on Moya.
"WELL… I GUESS IT'S TIME I LET YOU ALL IN ON THIS," Crichton told them as they gathered. He called up the holomap, pointed at a blip that pulsed on it.
"That's us." He moved his finger to a blue disjointed area. "This is the V'masque Wasteland. The computer has a hard time imaging it accurately because it's completely frelled over there."
"I've heard of it," Miriya informed him, glad to finally be in the loop. "A lot of ships get lost in there, and there were a few Picker teams that used to try and go looking. None of them ever came back…"
"I'm not surprised." Crichton told her. "V'masque is a wormhole nexus – where dozens of them come together. Wormholes, however, are kinda like opposing magnets – the apertures repel one another. When that happens, they tend to shred the surrounding space." Crichton sat down, looked grim. "Scorpius and his repeater-fitted Carrier are somewhere in there."
"Frell," Miriya breathed. "You're not seriously considering going in there after him?" She pointed to fluctuating numbers floating above the Wastelands. "Those gravity waves would rip this ship into scrap before you moved ten whole motras."
Crichton nodded, reached over, slid a datachip into the holomap projector.
"S'why I dropped by the Hoj Mocai Cartographers." He hit a key. Lines sprung up, superimposed on the current map. "The only safe routes through."
"How do they know?" Miriya sounded heavily skeptical.
"They map. It's what they do. It's as likely," Crichton rejoined. "Eventually the wormhole apertures would reach an equilibrium. Lines of stability would form. Kinda like bridges over whirlpools."
Miriya nodded. "And we're going in there to do… what, exactly?"
"Blow the Carrier and, if we're lucky, Scorpius, straight to hell."
"Just like that?"
"This is a Veddik-class Stealth Vigilante, is it not? What it's designed for, no? We sneak in, go boom, run like hell."
"You just gonna kill fifty thousand people, John?" Miriya looked disapproving.
"Don't be stupid." He snorted at her. "This is Scorpius' experimental Carrier. The nerve centre of his wormhole experiments and where he keeps his data – and all the techs that work on it for him. The majority of the space inside that Carrier is labs, equipment and sensor platforms. There are no fifty thousand people on that thing."
"Frell…" she breathed, knowing the implication. "All in one spot."
"Exactly." He crossed his arms, looked at the holodisplay before him. Miriya kept up with the questions.
"I can see how tempting it is. Are you sure it's not a trap?"
"I doubt it. He would have left it somewhere a smidge more accessible if it were." A knowing, sardonic grin. "That doesn't mean I'm not going to treat it like one."
A nod of that red head.
"How do you plan on blowing an entire Carrier, anyway? I build pretty damn well, but not even this ship can destroy a whole Carrier, lancers or not."
Crichton glanced at Shiv before answering.
"I stopped by an old friend's a while back. He swapped me something that'll do the trick quite handily."
Miriya sat back.
"Well… what?"
"Inquisitive, aren't you?" He didn't smile. "You'll find out soon enough."
Miriya stood. "You can trust me, you know."
"I know how far I can trust you, Miriya, don't worry." He looked over at her, a crooked smile on his face. "You just be ready when I need you."
"I usually am," she smirked at him, to a shake of his head.
"Incorrigible." He pointed at the display. "There's a small plasma field just… here. I wanna take the ship into it to mask our initial approach."
"That'll play Hezmana with sensors." Miriya studied the readings before her. "Active plasma's not something we should be hanging around in for long."
"We won't be. Just long enough. I need you to make sure we don't have anywhere for it to sneak in and fry anything." Miriya frowned.
"That'll take awhile." Crichton nodded.
"Take 1812 with you. This is important, Miriya." He laughed softly. "You wanna be a part of my crew? This'll do it."
Miriya scooted 1812 ahead of her with a toe. "That all? Fine then. You wanted it yesterday, I suppose."
A nod. "Preferably."
"Naturally." She stepped out of Ops. "I'll call when I'm done."
Crichton took in Shiv and Chak'sa as he spoke.
"I'm sure you will."
BELOW THE CARRIER, A GREAT SILVER-BLUE MOUTH GAPED, THEN CLOSED.
Scorpius glanced over at Braca who had started when the wormhole had suddenly appeared, spilling its cold blue light through the bridge.
"Sorry, sir." Braca said, faintly embarrassed. "I admit that they make me nervous."
"As well they should, Braca," Scorpius told him. "They are beyond primordial. They are fundamental – the very weavings of the fabric of space itself. We, however, will be using none of these for our travels."
"As you say, sir." Braca was more interested in the mundane things of Peacekeeper life – like keeping his commander happy. "Nerada Lamm's Command Team, sir – for your inspection." He gestured back at the individuals who stood at attention behind him.
Nerada Lamm was in the top five best pilots in the entire Peacekeeper Influence. Only one still around above her, and the one above him long since fled to a primitive planet far away. She was also a canny commando and a dead shot with any pulse weapon put in her hands. She had special rank, and was – as far as that went – free to choose her own assignments, a privilege granted only the cream of Peacekeepers. She was as hardened a combat veteran as any and more than most. She should have had an honorable retirement and relegated to training the next generation. However, she had put herself under Scorpius' command, for reasons known only to herself. Scorpius nodded at her as he came closer, went down the line, looked over her recruits.
"Where did you acquire these?" He asked, nodding at First Freislan, Lamm's second-in- command, stopping before a short stocky woman, third down the line from Lamm.
"Torvan Outpost, Scorpius," she said, her voice surprisingly melodious for such a hard-looking woman. Another nod.
"And you are?" He asked her.
"Officer Yora Klun, Mejka Regiment, Saren Company."
"Your specialty?"
"Heavy weapon deployment and explosive ordinance."
"Indeed." He moved on to the next, asked the same question of the thick and tall soldier beside her.
"Gunnery Chief Novan Harlock, Joja Regiment, Rorshak Company."
"And you?"
A tall, lean man, sharp-faced and sharp-eyed.
"Infiltration and Assassination Specialist Dawg'l Menshaf, sir. Special Services."
The last was a sandy-haired male with a neat beard and a serious face. He had the red-shouldered uniform of a Tech Officer.
"You?"
"Tech Officer Haven Sawer. Disinformation Specialist, Mohavrin Company."
Scorpius studied his face.
"Have I seen you before, Specialist?"
"One never knows, sir. I was with the Seventh Phalanx during the Meridahn Data Raids."
"Ah, yes. They do not often attribute that our techs may also wage war, yes?"
"Yes, sir."
"All cleared and checked, sir," Braca added unnecessarily. Scorpius inclined his head in acknowledgment, still staring at Sawer. After another few microts, he looked away. If Sawer was disturbed by the scrutiny, he did not show it.
"Your mission is very simple," he told them. "You are to go to a Emela-class world and retrieve a certain individual for me."
"Emela-class, Scorpius?" Lamm sniffed. "A planet of barbarians – why not simply use regular troops for this person?"
"Because, Commander, this person is none other than John Crichton – and it is to his home planet you shall be going – via wormhole."
None of the team changed expression and Braca was glad of their discipline.
"When?" Lamm looked unconcerned.
"Soon. Familiarize yourself and your team with the new Marauder. I need you to go at a microt's notice. You may pick up to twenty of my guard to go with you. Your absolute priority is the capture of John Crichton – secondarily, you are to also capture the deserter Aeryn Sun."
"Why?"
"She's his weakness. He will do anything to preserve her."
"Where?" Braca handed her the coordinates.
A short, sharp nod, and Lamm lead the team out.
"A concern, sir."
"Yes?"
Braca put his arms behind his back, did his best to look thoughtful.
"Crichton has been on his homeworld for some time. It might be possible that he has become an important figure there, given that he has taken advanced technology back with him. Your own data showed that there are billions of Humans there."
"And this one Carrier full of techs would be no match even for billions of rather primitive Humans, is that it, Braca?" A nod. "That is why I'm sending Lamm first. A few may often succeed where brute force and numbers will not."
"Of course, sir. My concern is chiefly that he may be so important now – and so well-guarded, that even Lamm's team may not succeed."
"I will do whatever I must to get that precious open knowledge in Crichton's head, Braca." He turned away, watched another wormhole gape and vanish beneath them.
"Even if I have to lay waste to his planet to do so."
HAXER WATCHED THEM SET UP.
So far, he had gone undetected. It had been a near thing, getting himself on this Carrier, but he'd succeeded. His credentials were impeccable, and he knew they were, because he'd forged them himself. He knew Peacekeeper networks, and he knew the tech networks and he knew how to make them obey him as he wished. Even now he had his data skulkers roaming the networks on the ship, hunting and eating, storing the information he wanted. Disguised as simple diagnostic programs, they would not be noticed. He would know, by the time he was finished, all Scorpius knew. He was close to his enemy – close to Scorpius, but he could do nothing yet.
Follow the plan. It was a good plan, a very good plan, and if it worked… his enemy would know what it meant to be stripped of everything and left alive, to suffer and not even know why he must do so.
Things were moving on the edges of his neurons, Haxer knew. Memories and ghosts of memories. He'd lived on a Carrier before, in that other life, in that other man's boots, and things were shifting, like shadows in a dimly-lit room. There was nothing he could concretely grab and say, 'yes, this is mine! This is a real memory of mine!', but familiarity was being born again, a sense of what Crichton would have called 'deja-vu' although that was not a phrase Haxer knew. There was definitely a sense of 'I know this place'.
Officer Yora Klun marched by, paused for a moment, ordered him to work. He snapped to and saluted "Yes, ma'am!", picked up his gear and followed her.
In his head he smiled, wondering what Cha would think if she could see him now.
ENERGETIC PLASMA SKITTERED ALONG THE VENGEANCE'S HULL.
Like 'St. Elmos Fire', it danced and darted, looking for somewhere to ground itself. Fortunately for the ship and its occupants, the ceramic-metal composite of her hull gave the energy little purchase.
"This dren is playing havoc with sensors," Miriya told them. "As I predicted."
"You're scanning for a mass of metal basically the size of several city blocks. It'll show." Crichton rejoined, reclining comfortably in his pilot's seat. "On the plus side – far fewer patrols in here."
Miriya was watching the energy exchanges outside in the Wastelands, the nearly off-the-scale eruptions of radiation and gravity. She could understand why Scorpius would hide his experiments in here. No one would just wander casually by.
"That's because they're not this crazy," Miriya muttered, eyes fixed on her screen. She half-heartedly cursed her timing – back in time to get crushed in a freakish gravity well. Hooray. Crichton just ignored the gripe.
A large object suddenly registered on her board.
"I think I found it." She tried to scan further out, found the plasma blocking the attempt. "I think it's the Carrier, but this dren is playing Hezmana with any scan past a few thousand metras."
"What's the bearing?"
"Relka two-nine-zero, with a deviation of about 15 metras."
"No – that's too close." Crichton frowned, hit his comm. "Chak'sa? You ready?"
"I need another hundred microts for the primer." A pause. "And another fifty for the auto-seek and grapple deploy."
Crichton nodded though she couldn't see him. "Problems?"
"No. Device sensitivities."
Crichton looked over at Shiv. "The instant she's done, we move." A nod in the affirmative. "Keep an eye on that object, Miriya."
"Relka two-seven. Deviation twelve metras." She frowned. "It's coming at us – while sliding across the bow."
"They're angling in and keeping their nose to us." Crichton reached forward, primed his main cannon. "That's definitely not the Carrier." He glanced back at Miriya. "Mass readings?"
"At least twice our size. Right - not the Carrier. Now Relka two-five, deviation 9 metras." She tried refining the scan again, gave up. "Still can't identify it." She smirked over at him. "But I'm willing to bet real money that it's either an Assault-class frigate or a Revenger."
"Which is what?" Shiv asked.
"They're a specialized Interceptor-Destroyer class. Half-again as large as us." She frowned again. "Usually crewed by Borgs." She sniffed. "Relka two-two, deviation 4 metras."
"Close enough to knock." Crichton said, rising. "Shiv – keep an eye on it."
Crichton left to her nod, told Miriya to stay put when she started to rise. "Keep watching.", he told her.
"Where are you going?" She called after him.
"To change," he called back, which explained nothing.
A few moments later, Chak'sa called up that she had finished.
"Look – finished what, Shiv?" Miriya asked, frustrated. "I did what he asked. Am I member of the crew or not?" She slapped her comm. "Well, John – am I frelling crew or not?"
Something that sounded like the tail-end of a sigh came through his comm when he replied.
"Sure, Miriya. Why not? Chak'sa's been priming a K'shrohn Orbital Impactor. That what you wanted to know?"
Miriya's jaw dropped. That would more than effectively destroy the Carrier. It'd be like a giant crushing a bug. "How the frell did you – never mind. Very clever."
"Yeah, clever. Except for our friend out there. Where is it now?"
Miriya checked.
"It's stopped. Holding at Relka two-two, deviation one metra. How the frell did they know we were in here?"
There was a muttered curse she didn't catch.
"Damn-near nose-to-nose." There was a pause. "Stand by to repel boarders." Crichton suddenly said, and Miriya felt an odd thrill spike through her. Fear? How did he know that they were most likely preparing to do that?
Mere microts after he said it, there were a series of heavy booms on the hull, and across the ship, half her hatchways suddenly sliced open. Down the corridors she heard the rush of atmosphere, heavy bodies, and sudden gunfire.
Before the fight reached her, Miriya remembered most vividly four distinct actions – one, a blur named Shiv that vanished into the corridor; two, the sounds of heavy pulse fire – Crichton's favorite Forge rifle - the cycling of the internal and external weapon defences and of her slim fingers – of their own volition, coding and transmitting signals and aiming them directly behind the Revenger.
Even as she gaped at her hands, even as she tried to stop them and couldn't, there was a squeal behind her, a flash and she managed to stop, grab her own pistol and whirl, fire at the dark shape that suddenly rushed at her and was hit by a battering ram as she did so.
CRICHTON LOCKED THE LAST PLATE OF HIS SPACESUIT IN PLACE, and smiled grimly to himself.
Not exactly according to plan, but, what the hell. He was flexible. He heard the grapples slam home, could see the simulated impact points on his helmet HUD from the tie-in from the ship's sensors. Using a panel in Ops, he did a quick one-two with the keys and told the Vengeance what she should do under certain circumstances. He nodded to himself when she responded and unlimbered his Forge as a hatchway near him groaned and then slammed open.
Interesting. Key overrides. Now how did they get those?
His suit computer registered all the other hatches and access-ways on the ship opening and he nodded to himself inside his helmet, backed up and keyed a few more commands into the shielded Ops computer. He was finishing just a dark shape entered, and Crichton didn't hesitate. The Forge blew it into oblivion, and he got a quick glimpse of something vaguely humanoid, wrapped in what appeared to be a kind of grey ceramic armor. He'd read about these in his studies back on Abbanerex – crippled Peacekeepers given another chance to serve by being turned into cyborgs, usually more machine than person. The 'Borgs knew they were disposable, and fought with a suicidal abandon and fury unmatched by the average Peacekeeper. They even gave Scarrans pause. There were not many 'Borgs, perhaps only a regiment or two – most 'normal' Peacekeepers tended to believe some unnamed 'vital component' was lost when one underwent the process, and thus did not opt, nor volunteer for it.
Crichton cared little. He was too close, and he wasn't about to let them derail him now. He blasted another as it entered the hatch nearest to him, sending it hurtling back into the void, plasma twisting about the corpse like mad sharp-edged orange-yellow snakes. Crichton stuck his head out of the hatch for a quick look-round, saw the dark underbelly of a Revenger latched firmly to his ship. The Vengeance's auto-cannons were hammering it and he smiled grimly. He found the idea of it grappled to his ship almost offensive. Almost immediately, another part of his brain began contemplating how to steal it.
First things first.
As he was about to turn back in, a 'Borg dropped from an auxiliary access hatch above him and hit him from behind, propelling both out the hatch and into the plasma field beyond. The 'Borg went for his helmet seals and Crichton yell-activated the suit's actuators, effectively tripling his strength, and he returned the favor on the 'Borg, an enhanced blow to the face crushing it's visor and head behind - abruptly ending the fight.
Unfortunately, the triple-strength blow was delivered in space, and as Newton had put forth long ago "any reaction has an equal and opposite reaction", the blow threw Crichton back with all the force it had impacted the 'Borg – away from the Vengeance, and out of the plasma field. Crichton cursed, almost called the ship, and cursed again. Plasma crackled around his suit, frelling up communications and the link to the ship, sparking into the unshielded parts of the armor.
He tried slowing his momentum, attempting to put what he knew about zero-gee 'swimming' into practice.
Another problem reared its head then. Crichton was not in zero-gee.
He was in an area of space where intense gravity wells sprang into and out of existence without warning - beneath him, true-to-form, a wormhole suddenly opened – and Revenger and Vengeance, 'Borgs and pirates, plasma field and Crichton himself – were abruptly gobbled up like krill into a whale's mouth.
HE KNEW HE PROBABLY SHOULDN'T DO IT.
Crichton had all but demanded they keep their distance and he understood perfectly why he'd wanted it so. Safer. For them and for him. Ka'D'Argo, however, had no intention of just standing by and doing nothing. So far, they had done that, but it just didn't sit well.
Whether he liked it or not, agreed or not, Crichton was a member of their dysfunctional little family, and he needed people he could trust watching his back. Moya had shadowed the Vengeance – from a distance of course, and they could discern the pattern of Crichton's seemingly random wanderings. When Crichton vanished into the V'masque Wastelands – wormhole territory if there ever was such a thing, Moya's crew voted and D'Argo decided – they'd follow – and do what they could. Talyn would not allow his mother to face such a thing alone, and they were glad for both the backup and firepower.
So it was that Talyn and Moya arrived to see the Revenger attack the Vengeance, to see Crichton thrown into space, and all subsequently sucked down a random wormhole.
The decision as to what to do next was taken from them, however, when the same wormhole came alive only moments later – and consumed them, as well.
