Chapter 4

Crichton felt fatigue coming over him as he nosed the Taurus down the sloping drive that led to the cabin he had inherited from his mother. A carpet of pine needles made the drive eerily quiet, and the fading sunlight cast a burnished glow that settled on the horizon. He shut the engine down, took the keys from the ignition, and stepped out onto the soft grass. The last time he had been here was the week after Kate's disappearance, and it took everything he had to return to his home and the throng of reporters awaiting his comment.

The two hour drive had been emotionally taxing; he had almost turned the car around twice. Her tale of invisible ships, translator microbes, and a race of beings close to human, had been overwhelming. If his daughter was telling the truth, then some unknown humanoid was awaiting him in the middle of the forest where no one would know he had gone. If she wasn't, well, she was ill and would need to be hospitalized. Crichton didn't know which was the less desirable outcome, but he had promised her that he would go and he always kept his word. After a quick trip to the last grocery before the backwoods, he knew he was committed.

The main house was beginning to show some signs of wear, but overall Mr. Mills, the property's caretaker, had done a decent job of maintaining the home's condition. He felt a frisson; a sense that someone was watching him through the tiny window that overlooked the drive and it made the hair on his arms stand. So far, so good he thought to himself. If crapping your pants can be called a good thing. Nervous laughter bubbled in his throat, but he stifled it. The key slipped into the lock with a definitive click, and he pushed the door in without entering.

I come in pieces! he called out, holding his hands in the air. No one returned his greeting, and no one appeared from the rapidly growing shadows. Okay, count of three, you come out, or I'm leaving to put my daughter in an asylum. He felt ridiculous standing in the doorway calling out to the ether, but what if this Aeryn Sun had tentacles, or worse.
Have it your way. One. He stepped into the doorway and looked around. It was darker than he feared; he couldn't see anything in front of him, and the light that dribbled in from the door was too pink to make a bit of difference. He remembered the tire iron in the trunk of the rental car but thought better of it as he screwed his courage up and closed the front door. In the silence that followed, John Crichton went through a range of emotions, including disappointment, sadness and relief. Oh Katie. He shook his head and turned on the first lamp he came to. The amber glow lit the hallway, but not much of the room itself. He bit his lip as he went around the room lighting lamps and wondering if he should call his father and warn him that Kate was going to go A.W.O.L.. He took his cell-phone from his breast pocket and began punching in numbers. The cold nose of a weapon pressed against the side of his head and he dropped the phone.

I'm not going to hurt you, I'm John Crichton, Kate Crichton's father. He tried to get a glimpse of the being but it was beside, and yet behind him. The creature did not respond, and he felt quick and sure hands sliding over his legs, and up his back. Hey now, my daddy says you've got to marry me if you wanna touch those parts. He felt himself being turned around to face what he presumed was Aeryn Sun, and found no one.
I said I won't hurt you. I just want to know who I'm talking to. Talking into the air makes me feel like an idiot. He heard a slight rustle behind him and quickly turned to find Aeryn Sun lifting her weapon to his face.
The female creature struggled to say.
Crichton felt lust coil in his groin and he slowly allowed his mouth to close. She stood nearly as tall as he, with a tight braid of jet black satin pulled away from her face. She wore a leather half shirt, and had poured herself into leather pants that boasted a large weapon, slung low, on each hip.
She demanded.
Proot? What, what is proot? He watched her struggle to form the words of his language, and was convinced that at the very least she wasn't American.
John Crichton. Proot.
Proof-Oh, Proof that I'm Crichton. She nodded fiercely and he bit his lip to stop staring at the curve of her jaw, the hollow at the base of her neck, the navel half hidden by leather. I have a driver's license, you probably don't know what that is though. What can I do to prove who I am? He found that he was speaking more to himself than to her. He kept his eyes on her as he dug through his pockets searching for a photo of Kate or anything that he could use that would persuade the woman in front of him to put away her weapon.
John Crichton, The rest of what she said to him was unintelligible, and he saw her reach into a hip pocket and remove a square of cloth. She handed it to him and he saw that his daughter had written a question on the cloth with a brown liquid that resembled squid ink.
Name the color of the universe. He smiled to himself; as a child Kate had been fascinated by what color the universe was. They had decided when she was seven that the universe was cappuccino with extra milk. He explained this to Aeryn Sun, and she put her weapon away.
Do all Sebacean women look like you? I mean the leather and the guns, and the hair. He cleared his throat nervously, and when she smiled, he had the feeling that she knew exactly what he really meant. She shook her head and he took a moment to survey the room. There were boxes of books stacked by the door of the cabin as if she meant to take them with her. I'd give my left nad for a Sebacean-English dictionary right now. He heard her throaty laugh and decided that from that moment on, he would do anything to hear that sound again.
After a few tense moments, and an awkward silence, Crichton went to his car to remove the bags of groceries that he had purchased. He began unpacking the bags, and found Aeryn Sun's curiosity about him arousing. She watched his every move, and he felt her eyes on him. He placed a bag of oranges on the kitchen counter and she closed the distance between them with two steps. She picked up an orange and rolled it in her hand with long, slender fingers. He cleared his throat and letting his hand linger a moment, he took the orange from her.
He over enunciated, and she bit her bottom lip to keep from laughing.
She laughed again, and a wisp of hair fell over her right eye. Crichton reached up to move it and she grabbed his wrist, shoving his arm away.
I'm sorry. I was only---Sorry. He shook his head and stepped back as she sighed, tucking the wisp of hair behind her ear.
Would you like me to cut this up for you? It will be easier to eat. He realized that the sexual tension that he had assumed was mutual, was born of the longing that he had not fulfilled in several months.
She laughed again, but he felt it as a twinge in his heart, and decided to keep his distance. She handed him the orange, and he pulled a knife from a drawer. She tensed up and he sliced the orange into quarters. He handed her one and put it to his nose, inhaling the pungent fragrance. She did the same and he watched her close her eyes to inhale a second time. When he saw her pink tongue tentatively glide across the rind of the orange, he picked up a quarter and bit into the flesh. Juice ran down his chin, his wrist and then his elbow, which made her soften and laugh. He ineffectively wiped the juice from his chin with his thumb, and laughed as she bit into a quarter that squirted juice into the air. He watched her as she licked her fingers clean.
Crichton pulled more items from the bag, and delighted in her response, though he kept his distance to respect her and to show her that he meant her no harm. She had said Thrust chew? which he guessed was her way of asking can I trust you? Can I trust you? He mulled her words and her actions, and concluded that she had been through something horrible. And when she leaned into him, but withdrew when he neared her, he longed to protect her from whatever had caused her to be this way. He knew then that whether Aeryn Sun was of this world or not, he would never again be the same John Crichton.