Ch2: Déjà Vu?

 
Where John Crichton is saved…or is he? 
 
"To be living for you is all I want to do…" 
 Today, Jefferson Airplane!

Space. A small alloy based module is drawn towards a gleaming golden brown leviathan…it's sole occupant, an unlucky American astronaut, peers out of the window as his craft is sucked into the gaping hole in the leviathan's side….

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DÉJÀ VU?

The young leviathan shimmered as it burst through the wormhole, its sleek body glowing with power. It felt exhilarated. Synapses fired, nerve endings tingled and every cell in its body buzzed with excitement. It had no idea where it was and only a dim recollection of where it had come from but that didn't matter. Here was good. Here was a wide-open space to play in. It made a wide arc and swooped through the sky, filled with the joy of being alive. As it completed the manoeuvre it became aware of a small metal object spinning nearby. Its curiosity piqued, the leviathan circled back, slowing down as it passed the object. What was it? It wasn't big enough for a planet and it didn't appear to be either asteroid or meteor. It sensed life coming from inside but it didn't appear to be one like itself.

It felt no fear of this object but it did experience something else, what was it, nervousness? Trepidation? These were new emotions for the leviathan and although not unpleasant sensations, an inner voice seemed to urge caution. Another voice, not its own, entered its consciousness, and seemed to be telling it to do something. The leviathan listened intently as the strangely familiar voice issued a short series of instructions. The cadence of the voice began to exert a strange power over the young leviathan's exuberant will. The thought of ignoring or disobeying never entered its ever-developing mind. It loved the voice. It wanted to please the voice and it felt quite natural to obey the request. The leviathan initiated the sequence to unlock the docking web and once more it felt the intoxicating surge of energy as its vast body responded to its will.

"It's not wearing a restraint collar so it's not Peacekeeper," Crichton mused.

"So who is it?" said Harvey.

"How should I know? I've tried calling them but they're not picking up the 'phone."

"You're taking this very calmly I must say," the neural clone remarked.

"No choice. And anyway, these guys, whoever they are, are saving my butt."

"What for John? And for how long?"

The module reached the docking bay and settled on the ground with a heavy thud. The hanger was deserted, no other craft or welcoming party, friendly or otherwise, was in sight.

John Crichton tucked Wynona into his flight suit, pushed back the hatch of FS I and clambered out of the cockpit. He took a quick look around him to confirm he was alone and to confirm that this was what he thought it was: the Hammond side-docking bay of a leviathan. He let himself drop to the ground. The sound of his boots hitting the floor caused a low echo to reverberate around the cavernous space. Again he looked around him. Still no one appeared. He was beginning to feel just a little bit spooked.

"Anyone here?" he called out.

"Here, here, here," came the reply as his voice echoed through the empty chamber.

Harvey stood beside him. "Be careful John," he warned. "It might be a trap."

"Yeah right. Trust me Harvey, I've had some experience in these matters and usually when I'm captured there's some ugly looking critter sticking a pulse rifle in my face." Or a DRD zapping me, he added to himself, remembering his first arrival on a leviathan.

"This is not Moya," Harvey replied, reading John's unspoken thoughts.

"No, but it's a leviathan. Come on let's find Command. And butt out of my thoughts, okay?"

"You don't want to get cloned again do you?" Harvey continued unabashed.

Crichton stopped. He took out his pulse pistol and set the charger to maximum. Harvey was right. No point taking chances. This time anyone who looked or sounded even remotely deranged was going to die straight off, before they had the chance to wreck what little was left of his life. Not very fair but hell life wasn't fair. After three cycles in the Uncharted Territories he reckoned he could write the book on that one.

Crichton made his way along the leviathan's corridors towards Command. He carried the pulse pistol in his hand, lowered but ready if required. Harvey chose to walk beside him. He didn't object, in fact he was secretly rather grateful for the neural clone's virtual presence.

The corridors looked exactly as they had on Moya: gentle curves and beautifully proportioned arches. As he ran his hand along the walls, Crichton noticed that the passageways did, however, appear slightly smaller than on Moya and had far fewer side corridors running off them. The leviathan had looked huge from the outside but Crichton began to wonder if perhaps, like Talyn, this was a younger creature than Moya. He hadn't seen any DRDs yet either.

The layout of the Leviathan was sufficiently similar to Moya, however, to allow him to reach the central control room with little difficulty. The door was open. John walked inside. It looked like it was an exact replica of Moya. He went quickly from one console to the next checking the various monitors and confirming his initial assumption. Everything appeared identical. The only difference was the clamshell. There was no image of Pilot, of any pilot, displayed within its maws. He moved back to the navigation console and read the data clearly displayed on the monitor. According to the readings he was exactly where Moya had been. Deciding he had nothing to lose, he pressed the controls on the console trying to call up the flight planner. Nothing happened. The image remained the same. The controls did not respond to his touch. He tried the comms system. That didn't respond either. Perhaps there was a fault. Only one way to find out, go find the Pilot.

He headed back out of Command. It took a little longer to find the Pilot's den. He took several unintentional detours along the way, allowing him to find several more empty chambers. The leviathan appeared to be totally devoid of life, and Crichton began to suspect that it had never been inhabited. He reached the entrance to the den. This door was closed. John paused before swiping his hand across the control panel. He took a deep breath, raised Wynona before him and hit the button. He was half expecting it not to work so he wasn't surprised when the door failed to swish open at his touch. Nonetheless he still swore.

"Frell."

He hammered on the door. "Hello, anyone in there," he called. "Open up. I haven't come to harm you," he added. Silence. The door remained resolutely shut. Crichton tapped his fingers against the unyielding barrier. It was always the same. He always ended up having to do it the hard way. "Harvey, you know the way into Pilot's den from underneath?"

Harvey appeared at his side. He looked thoughtful. "Well to be perfectly honest John, I'm not sure. I could try though," he added, unexpectedly helpful for a change.

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John was now lost inside the leviathan's air ducts. He had remembered Pilot's den had air vents so he reckoned all he and Harvey had to do was locate the pipe that ran there and hey presto! This was, of course, proving easier said than done. He had lost track of how long he had been crawling on his hands and knees along the leviathan's lower tier air ducts. He hoped he was heading in the right direction. He had gone back to Command first to see if he could call up the leviathan's blueprints but the controls had again failed to respond. So it was a case of trial and error. He'd already gone down several dead ends but at least it had allowed him to work out that he seemed to be getting closer. He sighed. He was cold, tired and thirsty and was increasingly feeling like a laboratory rat in a never-ending maze.

The leviathan sensed, rather than watched this strange creatures' progress along its inner arteries. It wondered what it was doing and why? Its presence caused it no pain. If anything, it was a rather nice feeling to have another being with it. It wondered what the little thing would do next. Should it try to do something to help? But it wasn't sure what exactly that might be and the voice had said to do nothing. So, obediently, it did nothing and waited for the voice to speak again. The voice would tell it what to do. But the voice remained silent.

Crichton continued crawling, a small circle of light in front of him as he held the torch in his mouth. This was not a comfortable way to travel. At least there didn't seem to be anything icky lining the pipes. He continued along the pipe, muttering to himself, mostly about nothing and mainly to keep Harvey from chipping in with 'helpful' suggestions. So far his 'make-believe' friend's advice had proved unerringly wrong. He reached another division and paused. Left, right or straight on?

"Toss a coin?" suggested Harvey, the voice coming from directly behind him.

"Fuck coins!" Said Crichton with feeling. "Left. We're going left."

It was a guess but one that proved to be right for once. A short crawl further and he hit another grill, which, peering through its tight meshing he could see seemed to bring them out at their desired destination. He could just make out Pilot's nest but the wire meshing made it impossible to see if there was anyone in there. Crichton took the torch from his mouth and tucked it into his belt. He replaced it with Wynona. He sat down, swung his legs around and bracing his arms against the sides of the wall punched his legs forward. The grill popped from its surrounds and fell forward with a satisfying clatter.

Crichton waited, waited for the phalanx of guns to appear in the hole in front of him. Nothing happened. He waited a microt or two longer and then, once again maneuvering himself around, began edging his way forward towards the rim of the pipe. He took the gun in his hand and poked his arm and head out. Still nothing. He looked quickly left and right. Nothing. He looked upwards towards the Pilot's den and cursed at what he saw, or rather, what he didn't see. There was no pilot. He lowered his weapon, ran his hands through his hair and shook his head. Now he was really confused. What was going on? If there wasn't a crew and there wasn't a pilot, who had initiated the docking web to bring him on board, who was controlling the leviathan? He extracted himself from the duct and stood up, groaning as he did so.

"What the frell is going on?" he said aloud.

"Indeed, curiouser and curiouser," replied Harvey.

Crichton shot his virtual companion a pained look and admonished, "this is not Alice in Wonderland Harvey. Come on; let's search this place. I wanna know what the frell's going on."

"I suggest we try the galley next," the clone answered. "You're hungry and you'll start to dehydrate if you don't get liquid soon."

Crichton nodded. His stomach made a small gurgling noise as if to add its vote to the suggestion.

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That had been ten solar days ago. During that time Crichton had searched every inch of the ship but had seen no one and found no trace that anyone had been there before him. He hadn't seen a single DRD and had reluctantly come to the conclusion that the leviathan was working on its own, and ignoring him. He had tried everything he could think of to get its attention, all to no avail. Nor had he found anything resembling fuel.

The leviathan was providing air and light but that was all. None of the controls seemed to be working although he'd taken apart any number of circuit boards to see if there was a problem or if he could adapt them to respond to his commands. In a moment of utter frustration he'd even contemplated bypassing the creatures higher functions. He'd dismissed the idea immediately but it was a sign of his growing desperation that the idea had even occurred to him. Every thing he tried, failed and he was left back where he started: in a well-lit oxygen tent.

He looked and smelt dreadful. His five o'clock shadow had lapped the clock several times and his lips were chapped and beginning to split. He had survived so far on the meagre condensation collected from the cabling in the leviathan's coolant system. He had been unable to find any food and he hadn't experienced hunger like this for almost two cycles, since the time Chiana had taken them to the mining facility on the budong remains in fact. The lack of food was beginning to take its toll and he was feeling constantly light headed and any activity was becoming more and more of an effort.

He knew his body was using up what little spare fat he carried and soon it would start to break down his muscles. His belt was fastened several notches further in and his face had taken on a gaunt, harrowed expression. He wondered how much longer he could last. He hated the enforced inactivity. It was not in his nature to give up but he couldn't see what alternative he had. FS 1 wasn't going to get him very far and at least the leviathan was moving rapidly through space, albeit with occasional detours as it executed convoluted loops around any stray asteroid they happened to be passing. He wasn't sure where it was heading to exactly but at least it seemed to be moving towards an inhabited sector. If he had read the data right he would be within range of a small commerce planet in two more solar days. He had calculated that he would have just about enough fuel to make it there from the leviathan, if he lasted that long. If not…

Crichton leant against the navigation console and sighed. This wasn't how he had ever imagined dying. Of all the situations he had been in, before, during or after that fateful wormhole, this had never seemed the likely way he was going to die. Shot, stabbed, fried, dissected yes, but never starved to death. He had already begun to hallucinate. A strange wisp of smoke was now a regular sight as he made his way around the ship. He could see it now, lurking in the corner. He ignored it and instead cast his eye across the leviathan's command centre until his eyes came to rest on the clamshell where Pilot's face should be. He missed the guy, missed his gentle voice and calm efficiency that had been so reassuring during the many crises they had faced together. He hadn't even had a chance to say goodbye. He sniffed. Just someone else he cared for who he wouldn't see again.

This whole leviathan déjà vu thing was frelling with his mind. It just didn't seem right to be on board one without the others. He kept expecting D'Argo or Chiana to come bursting in. Even hearing an eardrum piercing high-pitched shriek from Jools would be welcome. Instead there was silence. Total, eerie silence.

Even Harvey had deserted him. After several tirades about resuming work on wormholes had been ignored, the clone had disappeared in a huff and Crichton had not yet found the energy to summon him back.

His gait slow and unsteady, he made his way up to the terrace. He spent most of his time there, watching the distant stars. He found it helped pass the time. Yesterday he had thought he'd seen a prowler heading towards them and he had leapt up convinced it was Aeryn come back to find him. Of course he'd been wrong. It was just his mind playing tricks on him. But that didn't stop him looking, hoping.

He sat cross-legged on the floor, picked up his notebook and began to plot the course he thought he had travelled in the past few arns but his heart wasn't in it. He put down his pencil and rubbed his hand across his stubbled chin. His newly acquired beard was itching like hell. It might be the least of his worries but he desperately wanted to shave. He had resisted the temptation so far because couldn't spare the water it would involve and the idea of dragging a sharp blade across his dry skin was not one that filled him with any enthusiasm.

He folded his arms and let depression take hold. He was getting weaker by the arn and soon he would die. There would be no one to mourn his departure and no one to get a message to Aeryn or the others. He would die without seeing any of them again and that stung him deeply. It hurt almost as much as the thought that he had failed Aeryn again and that there would now be two children in the Uncharted Territories who would never know their father. He didn't want to die like this or any other way for that matter. He wanted to live. He wanted to live for Aeryn. He clung to that thought as his stomach went into a long, loud lament about the serious lack of sustenance coming its way.

He gazed into space. He remembered the times he had spent on the terrace with Aeryn, his mind lingering on the occasion after the Drax had nearly killed her and her smile as he had acknowledged her playful teasing. He gave an involuntary smile of his own at the memory. God, she was beautiful. He looked out at the stars. 'Aeryn' was clearly visible shining brightly against the dark vista, the star's brilliance throwing all in its reach into shadow. He smiled again. Just like the real thing he thought.

"Whatever happened to wishes wished on a star coming true," he grumbled to himself. He sighed and closed his eyes.

"John? Wake up!"

His eyes shot open. He looked up and saw Aeryn standing in front of him. He tried to get up but she motioned him to remain still. She knelt down beside him.

"What the frell are you doing here?" He cried, ignoring her gesture and trying to rise but falling backwards in his weakened state. He shook his head. "No, you're not here, you're a dream," he said, "a figment of my imagination."

She simply smiled at him, that rare smile that made him go weak at the knees.

He wiped his hand across his face, brushing away the tears that had sprung up in his eyes.

"Oh, if only you were here," he continued, reaching out to touch the imaginary face before him. "I'd do better this time. This time I'd do it right. This time you wouldn't walk away from me. Aeryn please, give me a chance, at least let me try!"

But she wasn't there. She was far, far away by now. Her trail was growing colder with every passing arn and he had less and less chance of finding her.

His will finally broken, he let go. His body crumpled and he sank to the floor sobbing like a small child. His drew his legs in, his arms wrapping themselves instinctively around his body and he wept as his heart broke.