AND NOW, ON FARSCAPE:
BLIND ICARUS:
LOST CAUSES
"The song is done - the sweet cry of yearning
died in my mouth:
A magician did it, a friend at the right hour,
a noontime friend - no! Do not ask who it might be -
it was at noon when one turned into two . . . ."
- Friedrich Nietzsche,
Out of the High Mountains, AFTERSONG.
…six monens later…
MOYA PLOUGHED THROUGH THE DENSE NEBULA, incandescent dust flowing around her like a stellar mist, shrugging off the exotic radiations that played over her skin.
Pilot merely kept up his routine and did not interfere. She had heard it, and he had not, but she had been so certain, he could do nothing but acquiesce. He hoped that she'd not be disappointed again. She'd been mistaken before.
D'Argo roused himself from the doze he'd been falling into by an exuberant Chiana bounding into his quarters. The last weeken had been textbook in a demonstration of the spirit-sapping strength of unremitting tedium.
"Pilot thinks he found a signal!" she sent chattering at him as he sat up.
"Is that a definite thing?" He returned a skeptical look back at the grinning Nebari. They'd done this nine times in the last six monens already.
"No, not definite, but it's the best yet, and Pilot didn't actually find it, he says Moya heard it." Chiana leaned in, grabbed his arm. "C'mon – we're only a few hundred microts away, he says – on the other side of this Tor!"
"Tor" was the Sebacean word for "nebula".
D'Argo hauled himself to his feet and followed her out. His leg still ached from the wound he'd received three weekens previously at the last spot they'd thought they'd picked up Crichton's trail in the F'reel System. They'd found Vess'mar'Ine bounty hunters instead.
What a frelling mess.
"Chiana, we shouldn't get our hopes up. It's just as likely that it isn't John. We may have to accept that he's simply not coming back."
"It's just as likely that it is. Have some faith." She bounded like a manic Welliba gazelle up the corridor ahead of him.
D'Argo sighed, shook his head.
"I have plenty of faith – in things going farhbot," he muttered as he followed her.
Crichton had been "missing" for almost six monens, ever since Crais and Talyn had returned, alone.
No, not going there.
Whenever he thought about it, even though D'Argo was fairly certain he understood why they had done it, a small sting of resentment would always flare up in him – no, he wasn't going to try and figure out that skein, either.
They'd heard stories, here and there, snatches of hearsay, more fanciful facets of the "Crichton Legend". They'd listened and laughed, though there were a couple, one or two, that D'Argo fiercely hoped weren't true, stories of assassinations, piracy and …massacres.
"Did sh – they - say anything?" He'd asked, all concern and dread.
"Very little. They seemed to be in some haste, but did not deign to explain it to me. 'Thanks for everything' were their final words to me, Commander." Crais had told him, not particularly relishing the thought of telling them so. "There was no other message."
"I see." Crichton had said. He'd paused, nodded and then he'd walked calmly away.
That night, Chiana had heard him …laughing.
The next night he'd vanished from Moya.
He had that small stab of resentment, but Crais had after some prodding spelled it out – so, then, what about the Crichton they'd simply forgotten?
He couldn't find it in himself to blame John for leaving the way he had. Nothing any of them could have said would have been of any comfort. It all would have rang hollow.
"Everyone – it is confirmed." Pilot interrupted his ruminations. "It is definitely a signal from Commander Crichton!"
Chiana beat him to it.
"Pilot – are you sure this time?"
"All signal waveforms match the criteria for Crichton's voice. It is definitely him."
D'Argo stepped onto Command, saw Chiana still grinning, Rygel bobbing in his thronesled, Jool bent over a console. Pilot shimmered on the clamshell.
"Voices can be imitated." D'Argo said, not really wanting to ruin the good news, but compelled to anyway.
"You gotta be a hardcore pessimist all the time?" Chiana said, annoyed.
"There is a difference between pessimism and realism, Chiana."
"It is not his module, but internal scans confirm near-Sebacean lifesigns, Ka'D'Argo." Pilot told him, after a moment.
Chiana stuck her tongue out at him.
"In other words – Human."
D'Argo just shook his head again, said, "Okay, Pilot. Intercept."
Pilot nodded, vanished from the clamshell.
Six monens.
D'Argo wasn't angry at Crichton for leaving. No one was, not really. They'd been concerned for their friend, worried over his well-being, anxious over some of the things they'd heard with his name attached. What had concerned D'Argo then had been the state of Crichton's mind at his going, and what concerned him now was the state of Crichton's mind at his return.
In the grand scheme of things, six monens was nothing.
For some, however, it could be a lifetime.
HE WATCHED THE SHINING GOLDEN TEARDROP BREAK FREE FROM THE NEBULA BEHIND HIM.
The ship he was in was a Nemedjian "Blaster"-class frigate, 30 cycles old, and not technically his property. His first impression of its lines had been "a hunchbacked rat", which had not endeared him to the ship's previous owner. He didn't kill the guy but he may as well had.
It was battered but serviceable; armed but not heavily so and only about two weekens from being officially labelled "junk". Normally run by five to twelve individuals, he'd managed with a cranky work 'bot and a snotty computer that didn't seem to like much of anything, including operating. Moments after transmitting his signal, it finally got its wish and blew most of its own mind out. The backup computer was a standard number cruncher, sans personality and worked much better, except it couldn't fly the ship. He'd settle just for keeping the life support and communications running.
He'd sucked in a breath at Moya's appearance, now let it out slowly. A band of tension coiled suddenly across his chest then dissipated. It felt both like several lifetimes since he'd seen her last and only yesterday. He had come to and made many hard decisions and realized a few more remained – like whether this Leviathan and the memories she held were something with which he could live comfortably. He'd left to get some distance though it never seemed far enough.
He hadn't trusted himself to stay, he hadn't trusted himself around his friends. He didn't trust himself with the memories. He'd been on the edge of madness trying to reconcile it all, what had felt like betrayal, the indifference, the sheer callousness of their flight. He thought that maybe, just maybe, he'd finally gotten a handle on it.
"We don't say goodbyes," she'd once said.
She'd been true to her word.
He wondered yet again – for the billionth time - why he wasn't or hadn't been angry or just disappointed. Yes, it had driven him to a near-breakdown – the sheer agony of losing her like that, to… him. He'd needed to think. He'd lost all sense of purpose.
Now?
Things were very different.
He looked at the screen at Moya again, caught his reflection in a piece of polished metal, touched the healing cut on his head, just above his left eyebrow. It was coming along nicely, but it would leave a scar. He shrugged internally. He'd picked up a few new scars in his time away. One more made no difference.
A few new scars, a few new names…
He put his head back, closed his eyes and waited.
"Where are you going?" she asked, all eyes and unasked questions. She was very indeed young and he felt very old.
"I don't know yet." He looked back up at the endless expanse of stars, shook his head. "Nowhere to go, I guess."
"Nonsense," she said, taking and squeezing his hand. "You can always go home."
To his eternal bewilderment, his unbidden laugh at that made her hug him hard and cry.
"Crichton? John? Are you there?" D'Argo.
John Crichton? There was a name he hadn't heard in a while. Hadn't felt like it for a while, either. Yeah, he could be Crichton. For these people. They were still friends.
Whose friends, he was still debating.
"Yeah, D. I'm here. Blew a whole bunch of capacitors. Or something."
His voice was a little hoarse. He hadn't said a single word in three days. He'd stopped talking. He spoke only when he had something to say and stayed silent all other times. He'd learned to listen, and no longer judged anything by the antiquated sensibilities of a primitive planet that no longer mattered.
"Glad to see you. Interesting ship. You all right? What happened?"
"I've been better. Flight computer tanked. I can move - barely - on stationing thrusters. I'm a little sore here and there. Otherwise, got all my pieces. Standing by."
He sat back up, looked around again as Moya came closer. Soon, she'd be in range and he'd plunk this piece of junk in her hanger and try and make it serviceable again. Failing that, he might be able to trade it in for something slightly better. He had to stay mobile.
"We'll be microts. Glad you're home."
Home.
Was Moya home? Did he want one? Where did you go when there was nowhere to go? He'd traced her location, put himself into her path just as he'd run out of fuel, sent the signal… months of searching, for a damn wormhole, for something that would give him an explanation – for anything. He'd even gone to Dambada, searched through the ruins of Furlow's garage - not really knowing why - but doing it anyway. If there had been a wormhole there – and there must have been – it was gone now. No matter what he did, his attempts at 'slingshots' had no real effect. He'd recorded everything, studied them minutely, but came to no conclusions other than his own apparent lack of ability. The only one he'd managed had damn-near killed him.
He'd moved on, looked for other traces, just moving around, letting his instincts guide him, trying to feel his way to answers. Trying to find Furlow or another wormhole.
It hadn't worked. He'd met people that were less than reputable, done things less than noble or stellar, all for frelling answers he knew he wasn't going to like.
His last destination had been a Charrid base. Furlow had been there, though there was nothing there now but faint traces and three hundred dead, decomposing Charrids.
No Ancients, no wormholes, no Furlow, no buzz in his head to tell him he was close. Nothing. He didn't know anything new, he'd not uncovered a reason, or an excuse he could give himself for doing it. There was - he'd finally realized, feeling stupid, as it had felt utterly obvious - nothing for him to find.
So prosaic, that. The last nail. Plain, simple steps that had led to his demise.
Like clockwork, one, two, three:
John had gone to Talyn. Whether by design or at Aeryn's behest – didn't matter. Naturally, and he knew this was inevitable, the relationship had taken its next step – because John sure as hell was going take every chance – and in the end, Aeryn had chosen.
You can't fool love, right? She knew Crichton. That was why she'd been so desperate to save his life when John had been injured by that bomb; why they had left when he'd been down on Kanvia negotiating for the Chromextin in John's place: in no position to protest or do anything about it.
It wouldn't have mattered anyway.
The Choice Had Been Made.
One became essential.
One became expendable.
Just like that.
Okay, fine.
It was inevitable, after all.
He had the face, had the memories, had the feelings. You couldn't fool the woman you loved though - she'd know. She'd known. That face, the memories, those feelings? Didn't matter - copies were copies. That's just the way these things were, would always be.
He did not and would not begrudge her the right to make her own choices.
Crichton looked at the stars, at one that shimmered in the centre of his view, a bright one.
They were gone, as if they'd fled to an entirely different universe - they were where he could not go.
He had nothing to prove, nothing to really fight for, now that all the things he had hoped for were finished, all his dreams dead.
They were not his dreams, he'd realized, finally. Not his hopes. Never were, never would be.
I'm done. This particular comedy is almost over.
His ship's drift made it appear as if the nebula were moving, was shifting that star behind it.
I will never be a victim again.
He watched it until it had vanished behind the dust.
