Ch3: He Never Knew Where He Was Anyway
Crichton wandered through the marketplace. He was having a great time.
After being cooped up on Moya for so long, he would have enjoyed any change of scene but this place was a smorgasbord of weird and wonderful new discoveries.
The stalls he was now passing looked much shabbier than the ones he had just left behind. Rubbish filled the gutters and a smell like rotten eggs permeated the whole area. The street was still bustling with shoppers but Crichton now stood out against them. He hadn't seen anyone who had looked vaguely human, sebacean or interon for at least a half arn. He was starting to get threats from passers-by. He'd also been spat at a couple of times. He decided to ignore it. He continued his exploration. He passed a critter selling critters. He stopped to look at the vorcs. There were three of them chattering to each other from their separate cages. He toyed with the idea of buying one for Aeryn but decided she might not appreciate the gesture. When he reached the triple headed soothsayer he took a sharp left and then turned right into a narrow side street. This couldn't be right. He thought he was following the route back to the main gates, as suggested by the last trader he had stopped to ask, but he had to admit it…he was lost.
He decided to carry on a little further before turning back and asking directions again. He passed a tavern. The door was open. He could see a small group sat around a table laughing and enjoying a drink together. He paused. He could use a drink. He also remembered Pilot and Aeryn's warning that despite their trading reputation, off the main market square, this was a deeply unfriendly place and anyone who looked like a PK could expect to find their only welcome was a swift, sharp blade to the stomach.
Scorpius appeared by his side. "Don't do it John. It's not worth it. They'll kill you."
"Shut up Harvey. I don't need your advice."
"John! This is foolish."
"Harvey, you are not my mother. I'm old enough to make my own decisions."
"Mistakes more like," Scorpius muttered and added something more comfortable, if a trifle flamboyant, on top of his heat protection suit.
"Forget it Harv. You're not coming with me. And certainly not in that shirt," he added.
There was a momentary lull in the conversation as John walked inside or was that just his paranoia? The bar wasn't busy. It only had a few customers: the group of three he'd seen from the street, two more lounging at the counter, a couple sat at the back of the room and one sat alone in a corner, facing the door but hidden in shadow. They all looked local.
The locals in this case were the Chunga and the Gilda. The Chunga were an offshoot of the Hynerians, although all Chunga vehemently denied it, and the Gilda were a race that resembled oversized birds of prey. Mostly, they got on. The market had been carefully carved up into spheres of influence so a semblance of harmony was maintained and profits didn't suffer. The only real trouble came from the two rival cartels that had developed within these boundaries.
Crichton made his way to the bar. He stood beside a chap who looked like an emaciated albino vulture, right down to the moulting white feathers, bald patches of skin and lethal looking claws. A belt of short, sharp knifes completed the picture. Next to Captain Beaky was something that looked like a Hynerian, only ten times bigger and uglier. The Chunga didn't seem to be carrying any weapons, but hell, if it farted like Rygel they'd all be laid out in an instant. Both were wearing brown overalls. The bartender, another underfed vulture, came over and refilled Beaky's mug with a fizzy brown liquid. The Gilda handed over two cronk, the local currency.
The bartender turned to Crichton. "Some of that," he said, pointing to the mug of frothy brown liquid the punter next to him was drinking. A half full mug was slapped down in front of him. "That's five cronk," the barman said and held out his talons. It was either get stiffed as a tourist or refuse to pay. Crichton didn't fancy his chances either way. He paid over the five cronk. The barman looked at him, pocketed the money, and walked to the other end of the bar.
As Crichton lifted the mug to his lips, he felt a tap on his shoulder. Oh no, here it comes, he thought. He held on to his mug and turned, ready to duck if anything vaguely dangerous appeared to be heading in his direction. On this occasion it was a large green fist belonging to a slightly drunk, but extremely prejudiced, Chunga. He dodged to the side, knocking against Captain Beaky and causing the guy to spill his drink. Crichton swung his mug at the attacking Chunga. Of course, it quickly descended into a bar room brawl and Crichton was fighting for his life covered in mud, blood and beer. He was not winning. He wasn't even holding his own. In fact, he was getting horribly beaten...
The green slug, the one who'd first hit him, held him in a rib-crushing grip. He elbowed the Chunga in the stomach. As the hold momentarily loosened, he broke free, only to stagger directly into Captain Beaky's slashing claws. His t-shirt ripped and blood oozed from deep scratches left across his chest by the razor sharp talons. Another Gilda came at him claws outstretched and feathers ruffled. He was joined by two Chunga and, as one, they rushed Crichton. Crichton fell backwards. It crossed his mind that this was a stupid way to die and, perhaps, he should've listened to Harvey after all. He flailed his arms and waited for the killer blow. His head collided with the edge of the table before hitting the stone floor with a solid thud. He blacked out.
"John! John Crichton! Wake up."
John opened his eyes and looked around him. His attackers lay dazed or dead around him. Stood over them was a face he knew: it was Jenavia. She still wore the insignia of the royal household around her neck although the white dress and lurid pink make-up had gone. Now she was dressed in a long brown leather trench coat and pants. She smiled at him.
"Thanks for the help. Again." he said.
She gave a small nod and replied, "If you're going to spend your life being attacked, you really ought to learn to fight better".
"I don't have your advantages," he waved a hand at her stilettos. "Where did you come from?"
"I was sat at the back. I saw you come in."
"What are you doing here anyway?" he said picking himself off the floor. He staggered slightly.
"Well, after the elimination of my megalomaniac fiancé, they reassigned me."
"Not quite as glamorous," Crichton observed.
"John I need to get off this planet. Can you help me?"
He looked at her. She looked back at him. He remembered when she'd helped him. He also remembered the night at the lake.
"Come on," he said. "I don't think we should be here when the cops arrive." He looked around the bar. There were stirrings of life in one or two of the bodies. "Or when this lot wake up," he added.
--------------------------
John had difficulty keeping up with Jenavia as she led the way through the maze of market stalls. His vision kept going out of focus and his body screamed in protest at every step he took and every knock he received. They reached the main exit from the market and, unchallenged, hurried through the gates to the parking lot outside. Crichton felt dizzy and sick but now more confident of where he was going, he led the way to the pod. It wasn't there. In its place stood a gleaming black capsule.
"This is your transport?" asked Jenavia. "I'm impressed."
"Er, no." Crichton looked around. He couldn't see the pod or Chiana. "I'm sure it was here," he said, leaning against the black capsule.
"Maybe you got confused, made a mistake?" suggested Jenavia.
"Well it's gotta be around here somewhere," replied Crichton.
Crichton wandered through the marketplace. He was having a great time.
After being cooped up on Moya for so long, he would have enjoyed any change of scene but this place was a smorgasbord of weird and wonderful new discoveries.
The stalls he was now passing looked much shabbier than the ones he had just left behind. Rubbish filled the gutters and a smell like rotten eggs permeated the whole area. The street was still bustling with shoppers but Crichton now stood out against them. He hadn't seen anyone who had looked vaguely human, sebacean or interon for at least a half arn. He was starting to get threats from passers-by. He'd also been spat at a couple of times. He decided to ignore it. He continued his exploration. He passed a critter selling critters. He stopped to look at the vorcs. There were three of them chattering to each other from their separate cages. He toyed with the idea of buying one for Aeryn but decided she might not appreciate the gesture. When he reached the triple headed soothsayer he took a sharp left and then turned right into a narrow side street. This couldn't be right. He thought he was following the route back to the main gates, as suggested by the last trader he had stopped to ask, but he had to admit it…he was lost.
He decided to carry on a little further before turning back and asking directions again. He passed a tavern. The door was open. He could see a small group sat around a table laughing and enjoying a drink together. He paused. He could use a drink. He also remembered Pilot and Aeryn's warning that despite their trading reputation, off the main market square, this was a deeply unfriendly place and anyone who looked like a PK could expect to find their only welcome was a swift, sharp blade to the stomach.
Scorpius appeared by his side. "Don't do it John. It's not worth it. They'll kill you."
"Shut up Harvey. I don't need your advice."
"John! This is foolish."
"Harvey, you are not my mother. I'm old enough to make my own decisions."
"Mistakes more like," Scorpius muttered and added something more comfortable, if a trifle flamboyant, on top of his heat protection suit.
"Forget it Harv. You're not coming with me. And certainly not in that shirt," he added.
There was a momentary lull in the conversation as John walked inside or was that just his paranoia? The bar wasn't busy. It only had a few customers: the group of three he'd seen from the street, two more lounging at the counter, a couple sat at the back of the room and one sat alone in a corner, facing the door but hidden in shadow. They all looked local.
The locals in this case were the Chunga and the Gilda. The Chunga were an offshoot of the Hynerians, although all Chunga vehemently denied it, and the Gilda were a race that resembled oversized birds of prey. Mostly, they got on. The market had been carefully carved up into spheres of influence so a semblance of harmony was maintained and profits didn't suffer. The only real trouble came from the two rival cartels that had developed within these boundaries.
Crichton made his way to the bar. He stood beside a chap who looked like an emaciated albino vulture, right down to the moulting white feathers, bald patches of skin and lethal looking claws. A belt of short, sharp knifes completed the picture. Next to Captain Beaky was something that looked like a Hynerian, only ten times bigger and uglier. The Chunga didn't seem to be carrying any weapons, but hell, if it farted like Rygel they'd all be laid out in an instant. Both were wearing brown overalls. The bartender, another underfed vulture, came over and refilled Beaky's mug with a fizzy brown liquid. The Gilda handed over two cronk, the local currency.
The bartender turned to Crichton. "Some of that," he said, pointing to the mug of frothy brown liquid the punter next to him was drinking. A half full mug was slapped down in front of him. "That's five cronk," the barman said and held out his talons. It was either get stiffed as a tourist or refuse to pay. Crichton didn't fancy his chances either way. He paid over the five cronk. The barman looked at him, pocketed the money, and walked to the other end of the bar.
As Crichton lifted the mug to his lips, he felt a tap on his shoulder. Oh no, here it comes, he thought. He held on to his mug and turned, ready to duck if anything vaguely dangerous appeared to be heading in his direction. On this occasion it was a large green fist belonging to a slightly drunk, but extremely prejudiced, Chunga. He dodged to the side, knocking against Captain Beaky and causing the guy to spill his drink. Crichton swung his mug at the attacking Chunga. Of course, it quickly descended into a bar room brawl and Crichton was fighting for his life covered in mud, blood and beer. He was not winning. He wasn't even holding his own. In fact, he was getting horribly beaten...
The green slug, the one who'd first hit him, held him in a rib-crushing grip. He elbowed the Chunga in the stomach. As the hold momentarily loosened, he broke free, only to stagger directly into Captain Beaky's slashing claws. His t-shirt ripped and blood oozed from deep scratches left across his chest by the razor sharp talons. Another Gilda came at him claws outstretched and feathers ruffled. He was joined by two Chunga and, as one, they rushed Crichton. Crichton fell backwards. It crossed his mind that this was a stupid way to die and, perhaps, he should've listened to Harvey after all. He flailed his arms and waited for the killer blow. His head collided with the edge of the table before hitting the stone floor with a solid thud. He blacked out.
"John! John Crichton! Wake up."
John opened his eyes and looked around him. His attackers lay dazed or dead around him. Stood over them was a face he knew: it was Jenavia. She still wore the insignia of the royal household around her neck although the white dress and lurid pink make-up had gone. Now she was dressed in a long brown leather trench coat and pants. She smiled at him.
"Thanks for the help. Again." he said.
She gave a small nod and replied, "If you're going to spend your life being attacked, you really ought to learn to fight better".
"I don't have your advantages," he waved a hand at her stilettos. "Where did you come from?"
"I was sat at the back. I saw you come in."
"What are you doing here anyway?" he said picking himself off the floor. He staggered slightly.
"Well, after the elimination of my megalomaniac fiancé, they reassigned me."
"Not quite as glamorous," Crichton observed.
"John I need to get off this planet. Can you help me?"
He looked at her. She looked back at him. He remembered when she'd helped him. He also remembered the night at the lake.
"Come on," he said. "I don't think we should be here when the cops arrive." He looked around the bar. There were stirrings of life in one or two of the bodies. "Or when this lot wake up," he added.
--------------------------
John had difficulty keeping up with Jenavia as she led the way through the maze of market stalls. His vision kept going out of focus and his body screamed in protest at every step he took and every knock he received. They reached the main exit from the market and, unchallenged, hurried through the gates to the parking lot outside. Crichton felt dizzy and sick but now more confident of where he was going, he led the way to the pod. It wasn't there. In its place stood a gleaming black capsule.
"This is your transport?" asked Jenavia. "I'm impressed."
"Er, no." Crichton looked around. He couldn't see the pod or Chiana. "I'm sure it was here," he said, leaning against the black capsule.
"Maybe you got confused, made a mistake?" suggested Jenavia.
"Well it's gotta be around here somewhere," replied Crichton.