Just One Look

-- Part 3 --

When Aeryn made it to her quarters, she punched the door shut and walked the length of her room, back and forth, back and forth. Damn that Crichton. Until now, he'd left her alone. They whole crew had, in fact. They'd left her to her new routine, her tasks as a soldier. Wake up, report to Pilot, make rounds, eat breakfast, work on her part of the mission, then lunch, more work, dinner, rounds, and lights out.

Aeryn loved the routine. She loved the way she didn't have to think about anything, the way she could be still and calm, wrapped up in duty and order as if it were a thick blanket.

Her part of the mission was to ready weapons and make explosives, pulse pistols, missile launchers, and Y57 rifles. They lay spread out on every surface of her quarters, many of them broken into their components. Aeryn stopped and picked up the firing mechanism of a hover mine. She'd bought the mines for next to nothing on a commerce planet and they all needed new locking springs. She sat down at her make-shift work table and started to pry loose the damaged spring. A moment later, she dropped the part and began pacing again.

Stupid, frelling human.

Very little disrupted her calm these days. Not the incident with the Bocreel nor Crichton's injury nor Crais's questions about informants. Then Crichton had to follow her and grab her arm in a way he had a million times before. And he had to make sense, of all things. "When I killed you," he'd said, as if she could ever forget. And then she'd looked at him out of the corner of her eye. Looked. She'd seen the expression on his face, the quick blinking back of tears. She'd felt her hand twitch in response, almost reaching out to touch him.

No, this was completely unacceptable. She was a soldier now. Nothing more, nothing less. She'd tried love, tried the way of the nonmilitary, and it had almost destroyed her. She wasn't going to make the same mistake twice.

Aeryn punched open the door and strode into the hallway. She was breaking routine, but sometimes a change was necessary to stay sharp. "Expect the unexpected," her old duty officer used to say, "Don't grow complacent." So she'd do rounds now and work on the weapons later.

Swinging her arms and keeping her pace to an even tempo, Aeryn let her mind shut down. As she walked through Moya's corridors, making sure that the ship was not compromised, she lost herself in the rhythm of a job she'd done countless times before.

***

John dropped the bag of Hynerian ingots in front of the Bocreel. It made a satisfying tumble of clinks. The Bocreel's yellow eyes narrowed slightly.

"I've come back for the chip," said John. He pushed back his coat and placed his hands on his hips, showing his pulse pistol. D'Argo shifted beside him, Qualta Blade held ready. John had nixed the idea of the others joining them. He'd thought that they'd get more results with less sebaceans who looked like peace keepers. He hoped he was right. A day had passed since they'd last seen the Bocreel and he seemed just as fierce as ever.

John tried to appear, if not fierce, then determined, but he wasn't sure how well he was pulling it off. The bandage around his neck probably didn't help much, nor the fact that he was feeling the aftereffects of Jool's pain killer. His muscles ached, his eyes were gritty, his head felt fuzzy and his left hand trembled if he held it out. All in all he was not the picture of dangerous criminal who would stop at nothing to get the contents of the chip.

The Bocreel gave him a hard look and gestured to the seat in front of him, the tips of his claws peeking out of blue fur.

As John sat down, he glanced around the tavern. A half dozen or so pairs of eyes were trained on them at this very moment, mixed in with the other patrons. Not very good odds. If things went wrong this time, it would be the two of them against the Bocreel plus his armed guards. John noticed D'Argo stepping back from the center of the room so he'd a better vantage point. It really didn't make him feel any better.

"How your neck?" asked the Bocreel.

"It's fine. How're your claws?"

The Bocreel made a hoarse wheeze, which John took to be a guffaw. "My claws just fine. My chip just fine. My guards are just fine, too."

"Good, glad to hear it."

"We start with glass of goolaw." The Bocreel poured amber liquid into two tiny cups. He picked up one and handed the other to John.

John took a sniff. It reminded him of some 150-proof moonshine he'd tried once when he was seventeen. "Goolaw, huh? Pretty strong stuff." He set it on the table. "If you don't mind, I'll-" He was about to say "pass," but noticed the Bocreel's claws encircling his glass and remembered how easily offended he could be. "-drink this right up."

John and the Bocreel tossed their drinks back at the same time. The Bocreel made a satisfied belch. John's eyes watered and he coughed for half a minute.

"You like?" said the Bocreel.

"Yeah," John said, his voice an octave higher than normal. He cleared his throat and tried again. "It's great."

"Good. Now why you back? Do you have better story to tell?"

John frowned and touched his glass again. "You know, actually, this stuff isn't that great. It's way too strong and it tastes a lot like gasoline. On my world that'd kill you. You're not going to kill me, are you?"

"Not now," said the Bocreel.

"Good, because my friend, D'Argo, there -- he's a warrior, and he would not be happy if you killed me. Not that he'd be able to do much about it. I mean, you have a whole roomful of guards and we just have the two of us."

"Crichton," hissed D'Argo.

John leaned closer to the Bocreel. "Can I tell you a secret?"

The Bocreel nodded.

"D'Argo doesn't win that many fights. Underneath all the bluster, he's really a big softy."

John felt a hand clamp down on his shoulder. "John," whispered D'Argo in his ear, "shut ... the ... frell ... up. What is wrong with you?"

"I don't know." John rubbed his eyes. He couldn't seem to stop talking. "I feel like dren. My eyes are all gritty. My muscles are sore. And look at my hand. Look at this." He demonstrated the shakiness by holding out his left hand. "It's probably from this amazing drug I took yesterday, but Jool said I have abnormal bacteria in-"

"Enough," said D'Argo. "Do you think you can stay silent for half a microt?"

John opened his mouth to reply, but D'Argo pressed a hand against it. "Just nod," he said. John nodded.

D'Argo turned to the Bocreel, his hand still pressed against John's mouth. "What did you put in his drink?"

The Bocreel shrugged. "Nothing IN drink. Goolaw is good beverage for negotiation. In my tongue, the word goolaw mean 'without deception.'"

John yanked off D'Argo's hand and glared at the Bocreel. "Truth serum? You gave me truth serum? Imagine that, another alien messing with my head. That's just frelling great."

D'Argo pointed his Qualta Blade at the Bocreel. "I knew this was a bad idea, John. This creature cannot be trusted. We will leave now."

"No," said the Bocreel. "Look around, Luxan."

John and D'Argo glanced around the room. The Bocreel's guards had stood up, their hands on their weapons. The rest of the patrons in the bar became intensely interested in their drinks.

"I want questions answered," said the Bocreel. "Then you go. If I like answers, you get chip too."

John stared at the Bocreel. "Fine, I've got nothing to hide."

D'Argo leaned close. "Answer his questions and nothing else," he said. "Do not babble."

"I do not ... babble ... that much." Damn goolaw.

The Bocreel started right in with Crais and Aeryn. He'd done his homework and was familiar with their careers in the peace keepers. John had no problem answering these questions, nor the ones about the aurora chair, the gammack base or anything else the Bocreel threw at him. The only problem was, John was really starting to feel worse and he wasn't sure how much longer he could keep talking. The tremor in his left hand had spread to his entire body so that he had to wrap his arms across his middle to keep them still. He felt sweaty and hot. And the grittiness in his eyes felt like sandpaper. It hurt to blink.

"Listen," said John, shaking his head to keep the fuzziness at bay, "we're not going to turn you into the peace keepers. And I don't want to take down the entire peace keeper force. So you can keep your damn business going. Sell all the arms you want. I don't care. I just want this chip."

The Bocreel shook his head. "One more question. Tell about wormholes."

John frowned. There was something wrong with this request, but he couldn't figure out what it was. He closed his eyes and tried to think, but that didn't help at all. It just made the room spin. John opened his eyes, wincing at the way his eyelids scraped against his eyeballs.

"I came through a wormhole. That's how I got to the Uncharted Territories." John resisted the urge to keep talking, to tell him all about the knowledge in his brain, the knowledge that was probably worth a lot of money. He used the table to help stand up. "I'd love to keep chatting with you, but I really need to get going before ..."

John felt as if the room was sliding to the right, so he grabbed onto the edge of the table and waited for it to settle down.

"You no look so good," said the Bocreel. "We must end negotiation. Take money, come back when better. We finish."

D'Argo slipped beside John and picked up the pouch full of coins. "Is it the drink?" he asked the Bocreel.

"No, no drink. Drink harmless." The Bocreel waved his blue paws at them. "Go, go."

"Right." John turned, still hanging onto the table. Then he carefully made his way to the door, grabbing chairs along the way. He felt like he was drunk and had the flu at the same time. And he couldn't stop shaking. Not a combination he'd recommend to anyone.

When he stepped outside, he threw a hand up to shield his eyes from the sun. "Oh, man, this is not good."

"We will go back to Moya," said D'Argo. "Jool will be able to give you something. Can you walk?"

"Of course, I can walk." But as soon as he took a step, he listed to the right and ran right into the wall.

D'Argo grabbed his arm. "The pod is this way."

"Right."

By the time they got back to the landing area, D'Argo had his arm around John and was supporting most of his weight. John just wanted to lay down, close his eyes and stop the world from spinning. D'Argo ended up carrying him up the steps of the pod and setting him down on the same bunk he'd collapsed in yesterday.

John tried to peel off his coat. "Hot," he mumbled.

D'Argo helped him out of it and then rolled it up for a pillow. Then he set John's head on the pillow and hurried to the pilot's chair. The last think John saw before he closed his eyes was the pouch full of Hynerian ingots sitting on the floor. He was still no closer to stopping Scorpius, he realized as he closed his eyes. He'd failed once again.