MOYA WAS IN FULL STARBURST FOR THE FIRST LEG OF THEIR JOURNEY TO DOVANNI NOTIA.

Talyn would not be coming. They were going to wait where they had rendezvoused with Moya after his binge, Crais not wanting to put any more undue stress on Talyn if he didn't have to. They would find each other again.

Crichton sat in John's quarters, going through items accumulated over the cycles John had been here – well, what was left, anyway. John would never be back to claim anything left, and it was pointless to pretend that these quarters would someday be occupied again. They could be closed or converted into something useful and no one here would touch anything as long as they thought he'd claim it, anyway.

He tossed a few odds and ends into the crate he'd brought up from the cargo bay, sat back a moment, looked around. He was only here to clean up. He suspected that that would a recurring theme in his life for the next while.

He slept in his Marauder, away from the others. He liked it quiet. The ship had proximity sensors and would alert him if anyone drew near. At night Chiana slunk restlessly around the Leviathan – a habit of hers no doubt. He'd also asked Pilot not to send any DRDs near him, as he'd accidentally shot one a few days previously and didn't want that to become a habit. Pilot agreed. None of them bothered him on the Marauder, which suited him. If they found it strange, they didn't tell him so.

It didn't matter. He wouldn't be here for long, if he could help it.

He saw something glint at the bottom of the pile he was going through, fished out a small silver case, knew exactly what was in it. Odd that John would have forgotten this, but then, why bother with a keepsake when you had the real thing right there?

A lock of night-black hair.

How pointlessly sentimental.

He didn't open it, just tossed it into the crate, leaned over, scooped up everything left and stuffed it into the crate as well, roamed the room, swept everything left off shelves and desk, in drawers, and dropped that all in as well. Then he slammed the cap down, latched it, hoisted it and took it with him.

He wanted nothing of that life. What possible use could it be? It belonged to another man.

He made his way to the hanger, dumped the container outside his ship, went in and retrieved the duffels he brought from Osakis Lashing, still unpacked.

Crichton pulled the first large and heavy duffel open, up-ended it, spilled the contents on the floor, started sorting.

A data reader and a box of chips, various components he'd chosen for his… the module, minor upgrades there, extra cartridges, batteries for his guns. The module should fit in the Marauder at a squeeze and it could be useful.

If not, he'd just burn it, dump it into a star somewhere.

The other duffel contained clothes and toiletries, things of that domestic nature - including several new T's, shirts, two jackets, a couple of extra pairs of leather pants, three pairs of military-issue heavy boots – all black, of course. There was white cold-weather gear, even a 'hot weather' suit – naturally. It could come in handy. He'd also had three longcoats made – all custom-designed to his specifications.

He pulled the new belt off the improvised coat-rack by the door, this one rigged in such a way as it had two holsters, crisscrossing the other. He strapped them on, butts out - pulled each pulse pistol and checked them.

He'd had them custom-made on the Tilenkia Commerce Station, along with the holsters. They'd cost him a fistful of cash, but they were almost exact matches to Wynona.

Following the incident when the Nebari had boarded Moya after Chi, just before the crew had hit the Shadow Depository, and Wynona had jammed, John had Pilot scan her into the database, so that he could study her from every angle, find out just what the flaw had been.

It had turned out that the flaw had been in Wynona's firing chamber – amongst other things, albeit minor.

As explained to him by the gunsmith on the station, Pulse pistols worked "quite simply", which Crichton took to be a mild understatement:

Oil cartridges were actually two cartridges, melded together. One contained Oil, the other an accelerant – basically metal flakes in a diluted Chakkan suspension. Inserting and then twisting the cartridge opened the prongs on the end and allowed the two to mix. Most veteran Peacekeepers could tell if the cartridge was full or almost empty by the smell – which was beyond Human ranges. John had discovered that he could tell by taste – and Crichton saw no reason not to continue. It was reliable. It was like olive oil, with a touch of cinnamon. The more 'cinnamon', the more quantity and potency to the mix. Nearly empty had no taste at all.

Once the cartridges were loaded, and the trigger squeezed, a tiny charge drew a single drop of the highly volatile Chakkan oil and accelerant into the pulse chamber, a highly-polished metal compartment where a millimicrot-length ionized plasma charge was sent through the oil which almost instantly superheated it to several thousand klances. Another near-instantaneous ion charge acted as an impeller which forced the now-lethal drop down the barrel of the pistol where it is then given a series of additional magnetic charges to boost its speed and then expelled at high velocities toward a target.

All of this happened in millimicrots. The pulse chamber in Wynona had been pitted from long use (Wynona had been taken from an old consignment left on Moya), and the charge had lost its potency. John had also been using both inferior-grade Oil cartridges – the oil and the accelerant mix had been bad – and inferior batteries (located in the large front end of the pistol. One pulled the 'hook' down by one's trigger finger to open the compartment and change the batteries. They had a functional life of two cycles.).

He'd been impressed by the design. Fortunately, since Pilot had scanned them, that had also meant that he'd had what basically amounted to a complete set of blueprints for Wynona and he'd taken those with him to the gunsmith. The flaws had been corrected and they had worked impeccably against the Commandos on the station. It also meant that if he were to lose them, they could be easily reproduced.

The 'Girls' he called them, finding it faintly amusing.

He would become proficient, he vowed, even though he was getting better all the time. He'd become an expert with his weapons. Assured death would ride in each fist. The bounty hunters would keep coming, the Peacekeepers would keep coming, and now the Scarrans knew that ol' Johnny Crighters had the ability to whack them, too.

He crossed to one of his new longcoats. All were identical. Worked into the lining across the shoulders, down the front, down the back, were thin but very durable sheets of composite – armor-plating. They had collars with a springy metal piece sewn into it. He smiled grimly – the composite was a ceramic/crystalline mix, and it had been expensive as hell too, but it would offer him some protection – and not set off any frelling metal detectors he might encounter. An interior pocket had been modified to contain a sturdy combat-grade knife. Various other hidden seams and pockets were all over, and all would hold whatever he needed.

Pirates could teach you a lot, if you paid attention.

He pulled off his double holsters, hung them, left the smaller one where she was. Life was different now. He'd never go anywhere unarmed again. He even slept with a pistol near.

Moya shuddered out of Starburst, Pilot informing everyone that she would require approximately two arns to execute another. Crichton stalked out of the ship, hoisted the container, walked across the bay. He made a mental note, that if they did find somewhere suitably competent to upgrade her, Moya would get the ability to Starburst sooner, rather than later, if at all possible.

He stashed the container as far back into the bay as he could and promptly forgot about it. Crichton then checked on Farscape, nodded to himself that she was still ship-shape, rolled the ship into the Marauder's small bay and dis-connected all the power relays making the ship "safe", - threw a tarp over it, sealed the bay.

He walked out of the cargo bay, back up to Command. It was empty, save for Chiana slumped over the operations table. She didn't look all that well. She'd been sick ever since she'd returned from Thonexia.

"Chi – you look like shit."

"Frellllll… remind me to prepare better the next time I go drinking with you."

Crichton walked to the table.

"You followed me. You were the one pounding down Prejsin Mist Teas like they were going out of style. I told you that stuff wouldn't go well with Nebari physiology." He winced at the thought of the seriously alcoholic stuff – it smelled like Valerian and tasted like kerosene smelled. If he recalled correctly, she and Jool had managed to cat each other into a drinking contest with the stuff.

Chiana glared at him, but there was a sparkle in her eye.

"Yeah, maybe, but you weren't shy with drinks, either." She was quiet for a while, then looked at him with slightly more apprehension. "Before you left us, did we, uh, you and I, I mean do… uhm…"

"What?"

"Well, it just felt like, I mean, when I woke up it, it felt kinda like I'd, y'know…"

"No - what?"

"Had sex." She whispered.

"Me and you?"

She nodded. He shrugged as he checked the Operations console. He'd been pretty damn drunk at one point, and she'd been coming on pretty strong... and it wasn't like he was the Crichton who'd been telling her 'no' forever…

"Is it important? You'd feel bad about it?"

Chiana blinked at him. John Crichton not caring if he and she had had sex? That was supposed to be a big no-no.

"Uh, no... it wouldn't have upset me… if it had been you, I mean… I just would have liked to have been awake for it…"

Crichton flicked a glance back at her but didn't turn from the scan board.

"Don't remember." He paused, with a crooked smile. "Kinda wish I did." He looked back at her with a sly grin. "I'm game if you are."

"Uh..." Chiana blinked. What the frell?

"Pilot."

Chiana's mind rolled. Say something!

"Yes, Commander?" Pilot shimmered onto the clamshell.

"D fill you in on our idea to upgrade Moya – if it's possible?"

"Yes, Commander. Moya is intrigued by the idea, although all attempts in the past that we are aware of have not gone well."

"Let me guess – all died?"

"Or have been seriously crippled."

"With care, though, if we can find real experts – do you think it's possible?"

Pilot thought a few microts.

"I believe it is – with care. It would depend a great deal on whether it is or can be done in line with Moya's own physiology."

Crichton crossed his arms, started to think, mind running along possibilities.

"Because she's biomechanical, huh? That would make sense. Can I assume past 'upgrades' were done mechanically?" Pilot nodded. "No wonder they failed. We won't even attempt it, Pilot, if it looks like it'll go that way. I want to make her more secure – not make it worse."

"Moya understands that, Commander. If it can be done safely, she informs me that she has no objections – with only one proviso."

"Which is?"

"Moya insists that my Den also be made more secure."

Crichton smiled. It wasn't a big smile, or even a particularly warm one but it was a smile. Pilot noted that he was smiling much less than he used to – but he certainly understood why.

"Already in the plans, Pilot – no worries. If you would, I'd like you and Moya to discuss it – draw up a list of things that both of you think need greater protection, or enhancement. Hell – even stuff she'd just like – y'know, fuzzy dice, big new stereo. Whatever."

Pilot nodded, seemed to hesitate, said;

"Crichton… Moya is also concerned that such upgrades may be prohibitively expensive."

Crichton turned, nodded back at Pilot.

"That's not a consideration, Pilot. Just make that list – and don't worry about the cost. We still have tons of cash from the Shadow Depository raid – and two extra vacated shares we can dip into, if we have to. There are plenty of other Depositories around. Just make that list."

"Very well, Commander. Everyone – Starburst in 400 microts."

Moya built into Starburst, and Crichton sent one last look at Chiana, who was looking at him with some misery, some trepidation. He almost laughed, dismissed her from his mind and then decided to go and assess their funds.