Episode 7 - Spies Like Us
"That man...he is an imposter." -- Scorpius
"Tauvo, how many times do I have to tell you? You can not shoot the quarterback!"
Aeryn sighed. Ten solar days ago, Crichton had made a comment to Tauvo about the lack of competitive sports among the Peacekeepers. The resulting argument had ultimately led to a comprehensive and detailed overview of a human exercise called 'foot ball', Crais actually encouraging Crichton's dissertations with active curiosity and questions.
They'd even gone so far as to program a standard holographic tactical simulator with the conditions and proper numbers of troops to mimic the stylized military exercise. Now, off-duty and sharing a table in the officers' lounge, Aeryn was witnessing their continuing attempts to 'score touchdowns.' If they kept it up, she was going to need another drink.
Tauvo muttered something in his native colonial dialect, the words obscure enough to defy translation. Odd...Sebacean root languages, even ones with centuries of divergence, rarely bypassed the translator microbes. Perhaps it was a phrase borrowed from an alien tongue; even languages could suffer from contamination.
"Don't give me that," Crichton snapped good-naturedly, pointing an accusing finger at Crais. "Whatever that was. This is strictly hand-to-hand, Tauvo, no weapons allowed. The challenge is to keep the quarterback from advancing the ball without killing him. Just...just pretend your CO wants him alive for questioning."
Tauvo nodded reluctantly and went back to staring at the display. From the opposite side of the table, Gilina was looking at it, too. "John," she asked, "do your people really use this type of training?"
"Well," John admitted, "this really isn't considered a martial training exercise on my world; that was just the easiest way to explain it to Mr. Super-soldier here. We're not nearly as focused on war and military action on my planet, at least most of the time. This is a sport. A game, played for entertainment. But many of the skills and abilities you look for in your soldiers--strategy, skill, speed, the will to win--are also key to being a good player. Kids where I come from look up to the guys who excel at this sport, just like kids here idolize great war heroes."
Gilina glanced over at Aeryn, who responded with a noncommittal shrug and a raised eyebrow. She, too, found Crichton and Crais' fascination with this 'game' incomprehensible. Perhaps it was a male thing.
"Lt. Crais?" came a disembodied female voice.
His posture unconsciously straightening to attention, Crais tapped his comms and replied, "Yes, Lt. Teeg?"
"Please locate the alien Crichton and report with him to the Captain's office."
"Acknowledged," Crais said shortly, then glanced at his companions with a rueful grimace. "Well," he said, relaxing back into his chair, "where do you think I should start looking for this Crichton character?"
"Very funny, bro," the human replied with a snort. He shut down the holo-imager and tucked it away. "Wonder what Captain Bigwig wants with me?"
The two men took their leave quickly, heading for the double doors and their appointment with the captain. Gilina, typically, remembered a task she'd left incomplete and departed as well.
Aeryn smiled slightly at the tech's retreat. She and Tauvo had rank and status enough to ignore some minor points of propriety. Crichton, essentially an outsider and with no official status at all, was oblivious, and would probably not care if he knew. But Gilina Renaez, Peacekeeper tech, born and raised in service, was feeling the full weight of all the unwritten rules she was violating just sitting in the company of officers. Without Crichton's presence to encourage her, she would always find an excuse to be elsewhere.
Left suddenly alone, Aeryn tried to decide whether to get herself another drink or just head for her bunk. She was about to opt for sleep when a familiar voice spoke from behind her.
"Hello, stranger. Want some company?"
Aeryn turned, smiling. Behind her stood Officer Yal Henta, her friend and comrade since they'd been in Prowler Attack School together at sixteen cycles. "Join me, please," she said eagerly.
The blonde-haired pilot sat down and pushed one of the two glasses she'd been holding across the table to Aeryn. "I've heard some very unlikely stories about your last assignment," she began. "More excitement than you'd expect for a tech mission."
"The stories are probably all true," Aeryn said, smirking.
"It would have been nice to hear those stories from you, Sun. You've been back aboard for over three weekens," Henta pointed out, "and yet I've barely seen you in all that time."
Aeryn looked down at her hands, folded together on the cold metal table. "I've been busy. Marauder training. Now that I'm not flying Prowlers anymore, there's fewer opportunities for us to run into each other."
"That's not the only reason," Henta argued, with a gesture indicating the previous occupants of the table. "People are starting to talk about the company you're keeping these days. Lt. Crais, I can understand; he's good looking and very well-connected. A good relationship to cultivate, if he's noticed you. Possibly even a good frell, though I know you're careful about such things. But the techs? And one of them not even a Peacekeeper, but some lesser species the captain adopted?"
This time, Aeryn met Henta's gaze unflinchingly. Unlike her inadvertent dissociation from old friends, she felt neither regret nor shame for her current choice of companions. "Do you recall the old saying, Henta, about shared battle forging allies out of adversaries? I spent over five monens in the Uncharted Territories, and for much of that time, my only crew were Crichton and Renaez. We survived battle with Sheyang scavengers, and the two of them saved my life more than once, both then and later. We had to work together to survive, and I know them better now than I knew the members of my Prowler unit."
She could see that Henta was still having trouble accepting a social relationship with a tech or an alien, no matter what the excuse.
"Think about it this way, Henta. We soldiers are supposed to exemplify all the Peacekeeper virtues: discipline, loyalty, courage, strength, perseverance. But many of us don't quite live up to those ideals. In spite of what High Command might think, we're not all perfect soldiers.
"But the same misperceptions apply to techs. We look down on them as weaker, less able than we are. We dismiss them as useless. With some of them, our perceptions are true, but not all of them. Some, like Renaez, possess qualities of bravery and fortitude that any soldier would be proud to claim. And Crichton, for all his ignorance and primitive background, has a warrior spirit and a strong will. He saved my life on a number of occasions, when most others would have left me to die. If I choose to seek the company of such people after all we shared together, it is no one's business by my own."
"Hey," Henta protested, raising her hands in mock surrender. "Power down the cannons there, Sun. I'm not your enemy. I won't say any more about it."
Aeryn could tell Henta wasn't really convinced, just humoring her. It took more than mere words to change opinions forged by a lifetime of propaganda. She should know.
John stood facing Captain Crais' desk, trying not to fidget. He'd forgotten how big this room was; this was the first time he'd been back since the day he'd arrived on board, nearly a year before.
Tauvo had come with him only as far as the door. When it opened, he'd shared one significant look with his brother, nodded, and simply walked away, leaving John standing confused and directionless. Obviously whatever was going on was something Tauvo already knew about. John tried to settle his nerves with the assurance that it couldn't be too bad or Tauvo would have said something. But the tension remained because, despite their growing friendship, John knew Tauvo's first loyalties were still to his brother and the Peacekeepers--though John couldn't swear which of the two came first.
"So, Crichton," the captain said smoothly, leaning back in his seat and folding his hands across his lap. "You have been back with us for over three weekens. How is your project proceeding with the data you acquired at Dam-Ba-Da?"
All this just to ask about the wormhole research?
"We've made some progress," he began cautiously. "The data we gathered at least confirms that what I traveled through was a wormhole. Some combination of the energy created by my slingshot maneuver and a solar flare triggered its formation. There was something missing at Dam-Ba-Da, though; what we made there wasn't fully formed, just the bare beginnings. As to what was lacking? No clue."
"How long until you resolve that problem?" Captain Crais asked, with the infuriating attitude of a man used to issuing orders and having things happen immediately.
John called up the calm, elementary-school tone he'd used on every clueless, impatient IASA bureaucrat he'd ever had to schmooze for funding. "Scientific breakthroughs can't be ordered or scheduled, Captain. It takes time, meticulous trial and error, and far more data than we've acquired thus far. One of my planet's greatest inventors once said that success was one percent inspiration and ninety-nine percent perspiration. It's going to take a lot of work, and I can't give you a time table. The answer is there somewhere, though. I can almost smell it."
John expected the captain to get upset at the news, but he just nodded thoughtfully. Then he changed the subject, abruptly.
"Tauvo has told me of your efforts on his behalf, in great detail. I have not had the chance until now to properly...thank you."
"Um...it was my pleasure, sir," John fumbled uncertainly. "I respect your brother, and couldn't just abandon him."
"He has also nearly managed to convince me that your strategy for the tannot production on Sykar will prove to be a great improvement over the traditional approach. Tauvo asked that I find some way to reward you for all the work you have done since you arrived, not the least of which was saving his life."
"That's really not necessary--" John objected.
"I am the captain here, Crichton," Crais interrupted brusquely. "It is my purview to decide what is and is not necessary."
"Um...okay."
"As you have probably learned," Crais continued, "Peacekeeper service is an honor reserved for Sebaceans, by law and long tradition. On rare occasions, however, there have been exceptions made to the purity regulations, for non-Sebaceans whose loyalty is proven and whose contributions, past or future, are deemed significant.
"After long discussion with Tauvo, and review of reports filed by Officer Sun and others, I petitioned High Command with a request. In recognition of your actions in preserving the lives of two Peacekeeper officers, and the potential value of your work, High Command just today has granted my request. I am hereby authorized to offer you, John Crichton, a Peacekeeper commission as a Crewman Specialist."
John gaped for a moment, speechless. This was, by far, the last thing he had ever expected. It took a few microts to wrap his brain around the concept, and even then he could only manage to address a small point, not the whole issue at once.
"'Specialist'? I thought I had the rank structure around here figured out, but that's a new one. Is it a tech grade?"
"It's not surprising that you haven't heard of it; there are very few present on this carrier. It is not a tech position; a Peacekeeper soldier who feels his greatest strengths lie in the intellectual rather than physical arena can apply to become a specialist rather than join a combat unit.
"It's not a popular choice, as specialists are viewed as second-class soldiers by the others. In addition, since they see much less combat action, their rate of promotion tends to lag far behind their peers. But for those with little interest in command, it can be a satisfying career path, or so Lt. Larell tells me. Your capabilities as a pilot, and your sessions with Sub-Officer Abljak, give you the minimum qualifications for the rank of crewman. As a specialist, you would not be taking part in any military action except in an emergency, and you could continue your work on wormholes."
"So you're offering to make me a Peacekeeper soldier, a non-combat one? Black uniform, pulse pistol, the whole nine yards?"
"Yes."
"Captain," he finally replied. "This is kind of sudden. Not so long ago, you had me walking around the ship under armed guard. Now you want me walking around armed?"
"As a tech, you would not have the authority to lead the wormhole project," Crais said, as if that explained everything.
John shook his head, dragging himself away from the minutiae and back to the big picture. "Look, Captain," he said, "I understand that you feel this is a great honor you are doing me. But I don't believe I can accept."
Crais' face darkened. "And why not?"
"My goal is the same as it was when I arrived: to find a way back to my home. I can't make long-term commitments here which would tie me down. Besides, I'm really not cut out for the military."
Crais scowled, but John refused to flinch. He had absolutely no desire to join up with this paranoid, hyper-regimented organization. Dealing with U.S. Navy had been bad enough, for the brief time he'd had to put up with it before they shipped his butt off to IASA.
"Tauvo said you might feel that way." Crais' expression took on a calculating air. "It's a pity, really," he said, trying to sound casual. "I've had a unique opportunity for you cross my desk, but without that commission I suppose we'll have to let it pass by."
John knew--just knew--that he was going to regret asking this. "What kind of 'opportunity'?"
Crais looked smug, as if he'd just scored a victory and John didn't know it yet. "I have received a request for the immediate transfer of six techs to a high security gammak base. There are rumors that the facility is pursuing wormhole technology. I had hoped to be able to send you as part of the tech contingent, undercover, to see if they might have the information you need to achieve success."
John sat on the tiny bunk of the Marauder's crew quarters, fidgeting self-consciously with the insignia that now decorated his tech-issue jumpsuit. The markings proclaimed him to be a Peacekeeper tech, tramco support division, maintenance provost. His shiny new ident chip, hanging by a chain around his neck, supposedly corroborated that small subterfuge instead of showing his rank of crewman specialist, though it still contained his true genetic profile. He missed having his dad's puzzle ring hanging there, where he could feel the connection close to his heart. But it was too risky, having such an alien artifact displayed openly, so the ring was hidden away in an inside pocket.
He could feel Gilina's eyes on him from across the room, though he was never quick enough to catch her staring.
"Gilina," he finally said, shattering the silence, "is something bothering you?"
She denied it, very unconvincingly, and refused to meet his eyes.
"'Lina, I wish you'd talk to me about it, whatever it is. Maybe there's something I can do. It's not like you to be so quiet."
She opened her mouth to speak, but then closed it again without making a sound. The process repeated several times as she searched for the right words, before she finally blurted out, "Are you planning to stay now?"
"What?" John asked, confused. Stay where? The gammak base?
"John, ever since I've known you, you've said you wanted to go home, to get away from the Peacekeepers where you were reviled and despised simply for not being Sebacean. You even convinced me that I could find a place out there with you, a better life away from all this.
"But now they've accepted you, offered you a place among them with authority and power. And you agreed to it, took the oath and put on the uniform. Are you now planning to remain here with them?"
John moved over and fell to his knees in front of the woman he'd grown to love. "Gilina, nothing has changed. I still plan to go home, and I still want you to come with me. I only took Crais' offer for one reason: this assignment. It was the only way to get access to this base we're headed for. They may have data there on wormholes, data we haven't had access to yet. It may be just what I need to break the impasse we're struggling with. But the thing that made me finally decide to accept was learning you were already on the list to go. I didn't want you to go without me."
"But what about the oath you took?"
"I thought about that, and I turned Crais down at first for that very reason. But then I realized: you had already committed to deserting the Peacekeepers whenever we got the opportunity. What difference does it make if we're both deserting, instead of just one of us? If it helps any, I had my fingers crossed the whole time I was taking that oath." He grinned, trying to make light of his moral quandary.
Gilina let out a breath, sounding like she'd been holding it for days. He hands gripped John's tightly and her eyes squeezed shut, emotions she'd been repressing bursting to the surface.
"You were really worried about this, weren't you?" John asked.
She nodded, still cutting off the circulation to his fingers. "I want us to go, as soon as we can."
"That's still the plan, but what's with the sudden urgency?"
Gilina jumped to her feet and retreated to a far corner of the tiny room, arms wrapped tightly about her midsection, leaving John still crouched by her bunk. "You know those medical exams we had to get before we left?" she said.
John nodded. Not like he could forget; they'd given him the full treatment, probed and sampled parts he hadn't even known he possessed. As a non-Sebacean, there was no baseline for the medtechs to work from, so they had to record everything for his new Peacekeeper records. It had been worse than the exam they'd done the day he arrived.
"The patient is not supposed to be told any of the results of their exam; it keeps them from getting distracted from their duties by health concerns. Any abnormalities are reported to their commanding officer, instead, who then makes decisions about treatment or change of duty assignments. With a fellow tech, however, the medtechs will sometimes violate that rule if there is something they think we would want to know."
"My god, Gilina, is something wrong? Are you sick?"
"No, John," she said, hugging herself tighter. "I'm pregnant."
Having sprung to his feet in his flurry of concern, John now sat back down hard on the bunk. "Pr..."
"I would like to have this child, John."
"Preg..."
"And if we stay, they will never allow it to live."
"P-Pregnant?" John finally managed, his brain having frozen up at that single concept. "B-But, how is that possible?"
"John," Gilina admonished, a faint smile breaking through her strained expression for a microt, "I didn't expect to have to explain this process to you."
"But we're totally different species...appearances aside, we're not even related species. My people evolved somewhere on the other side of the universe."
Gilina's smile collapsed as if it had never been. "I'm sorry this doesn't please you, but I still--"
"Doesn't pl--" John leaped to his feet and pulled the trembling woman into a tight embrace. "'Lina, baby, I'm sorry. I am pleased. I'm delirious. I'm ecstatic!" He pulled back and gazed into her eyes, willing her to believe it. "I'm just a little confused, that's all. I never even dreamed this was possible."
"Sebacean DNA is compatible with a number of species. It's a matter of great concern to High Command; why do you think they have so many purity regulations and contamination protocols?"
John hadn't thought of it like that before, but he supposed it made sense. After all, the deep South, in the years before desegregation and civil rights, wouldn't have felt the need to pass so many anti-miscegenation laws if the races hadn't been able to interbreed. There'd have been no point.
"It's really their own fault, of course," Gilina scoffed.
"What do you mean?"
"Well, not them personally, but their predecessors. Peacekeepers have been around, in one form or another, for thousands of cycles, so long that their origins have been forgotten. Throughout the centuries, there have been constant efforts to improve the breed, to create a better soldier, the perfect Peacekeeper. Early genetic modifications were done at the whim of local regimental commanders, with little or no coordination, nor regard for how it would influence compatibility except with the basic Sebacean stock."
As if finding comfort in a dry, scientific topic, Gilina gradually relaxed as she spoke. "Over time, the changes progressed so far that the altered genotypes from one regiment could no longer interbreed with those who had received different mutations. Even worse, there was far more interaction with civilian colonists in those days, so the changes--and the compatibility problems--spread into the general population over the course of centuries. Eventually, it became a serious concern, as more and more people were unable to procreate with their chosen mates. Methods were found to determine compatibility prior to choosing a partner, but many chose to mate for love, regardless of reproductive viability, and the population started to decline.
"By about two thousand cycles ago, the problem was growing severe. The Peacekeepers could no longer replace the large numbers of soldiers lost in battle with internal breeding and voluntary recruitment alone. That's when mass conscription of children from Sebacean colony worlds began."
"Oh, I'm sure that went over well," John commented sarcastically. "Stealing children from people who were already having trouble with a shrinking population."
"You have no idea," Gilina replied, shaking her head. "There was nearly a full-blown revolution, which only the military might of the Peacekeepers was able to put down. And even so, at least one faction managed to break away and relocate their colonies to the Uncharted Territories, away from the Peacekeepers.
"Anyway," she continued, realizing she had wandered away from her original topic, "the Peacekeeper leadership of the time chose to address the compatibility problem by modifying the very composition of our DNA. Their scientists somehow made the molecular structure more malleable, increasing the range of compatibility." She laced her fingers together tightly, then slowly loosened the knot to demonstrate.
"The unexpected side-effect of that was that not only were we Peacekeepers--and eventually Sebaceans as a whole--able to breed with each other freely once again, but we also became compatible with other races. There had always been a small incidence of interspecies relationships in the border areas, particularly with races like the Luxans, with whom we shared some commonalities of culture and values. But until that modification, children from such pairings were exceedingly rare.
"And that's why it's possible, John."
It took a second for John to recall where this history lesson had started, and his face broke into a wide grin. "A baby! We're going to have-- When are you due? How far along are you?"
She shook her head. "It doesn't work like that." She proceeded to explain the concept of stasis pregnancy, and the seven year window in which the stasis could be released.
"So, wait," John said, mind whirling with all these new concepts, "that means you could have been pregnant a long time, doesn't it? Are you sure the baby is...." He couldn't finish the sentence.
"Yours? Yes, John, I'm sure. I had the medtech go back to the results of my last physical, a cycle and a half ago. I wasn't pregnant then, and you are the only one I've been with since."
John's grin, if anything, got even wider this time. Inside his mind, he was doing a wild happy-dance, but outside, he struggled to regain his concentration. "You were saying you wanted to leave the Peacekeepers right away, because of this."
"Yes," Gilina said, sighing in frustration. "They may have waived the purity regulations for you, John, but they will never allow a half-breed child to come to term, much less grow up among them. If this child is going to survive, we need to leave before they have a chance to gene-test it."
"You said it takes a surgeon to release the stasis?" John found himself staring at Gilina's abdomen, as though he could see the new life there through sheer force of will.
"Well, a surgeon with a syringe containing a catalyst. If I can forge a request to the base medical facility, I can get that catalyst and administer it myself. If we're going to leave, John, this base we're going to may be our best opportunity." Gilina rubbed her hands along her thighs nervously.
"Crais said it was some kind of ultra-high security thing...you sure it wouldn't be easier to wait until we get back?"
"No, John, the base is perfect. The security is focused on keeping people out. If we can steal a ship--"
"It'll have to be a Marauder; that's the only kind we both know how to fly," John interjected.
"--a Marauder, then--I can program a blind spot in their sensors and they won't be able to track us. There won't be many ships available for pursuit, and the base itself is stationary. They'll report us, and someone will be sent to hunt us down, but for just a couple of techs they won't try too hard. By the time they get started looking, we should be long gone."
"You really think we can do it?" John whispered hopefully.
"Assuming there's a ship available that we can get to..." Gilina bit her lip, thinking it through. "We'll need time to stock it with supplies...to give me a chance to get the catalyst. I think we could leave four or five solar days after we arrive on the base."
"I love you, you know that?"
Gilina reached up and kissed him in response, no words necessary.
"Thanks for the lift, Officer Sun," John called, waving jauntily at their pilot as he and the other techs disembarked onto the gammak base.
"I will miss our conversations, Crichton," she replied. "And I'm sure Lt. Crais will miss playing your stupid game with you. We'll welcome your return when your work here is finished. Until then, good luck."
"Yeah, Aeryn, thanks," John replied. He'd miss them both, and wished he could say goodbye, but he couldn't risk revealing his and Gilina's plans to go AWOL, even to their former co-conspirator. "You have a nice trip back, okay?"
"It will be very quiet, having the ship to myself."
"It'll give you time to catch up on your reading," John teased. "Or practice all that tech stuff Gilina was showing you on the trip out."
She gave him a good-humored glare, but didn't rise to the bait. "Be well, John Crichton," Aeryn said, holding out her hand for the human gesture he'd taught her.
He clasped it firmly. "Fly safe."
John climbed down out of the Marauder and joined the other five techs from Crais' carrier, all of them waiting for someone to arrive and process them in.
Looking around, he could already see that this place would never be mistaken for anything but a Peacekeeper facility. Standard industrial aesthetic, the only decorations the red and black insignia along the walls. It was perhaps a bit dingier than the carrier, and the air contained a faintly chemical smell, like petroleum.
They waited for nearly an arn after Aeryn took off before a security officer showed up. He scanned their ident chips perfunctorily, had them stick their hands in the genetic verification machine, and assigned them quarters. John's semi-spurious ident chip held up as promised, and the gene scanner didn't seem to notice he wasn't quite the same as the others.
Settling into his quarters took less than thirty microts; techs weren't issued much in the way of personal possessions, and none of his few things from Earth had come with him, for safety reasons. His first duty cycle would begin in less than an arn; after that, he and Gilina would get to work.
They had it all planned out. During their duty shifts, he and Gilina would perform the tasks they were assigned. Even though they were planning to leave soon, John still wanted to learn everything he could, so he'd be keeping an eye open for any wormhole information that might be lying about at the same time. Somewhere on this rock might be the one piece of data he needed to solve the puzzle and get himself--and his new family--home.
In their off-duty hours, once Gilina found them an appropriate ship, they would work quietly to prepare for a covert departure. Their greatest hope of success lay in Gilina's unparalleled skill at hacking into PK control systems, to create false requisitions and forge work orders. It was one of her more subversive hobbies, but one she'd never used in quite this way before.
Here in the privacy of his assigned quarters, John could allow himself to smile at Gilina's recent revelation of pregnancy, to feel in a way he couldn't risk in public. It was joy, and anticipation, and fear--what his father would have called 'rattlers'. It was buying the ring for Alex, walking down the gangway for his first shuttle mission, or watching the sunrise on the morning before the Farscape test. A child--his child--was a dream that, until he'd heard the words from Gilina's mouth, he hadn't realized how much he wanted. The news redoubled his worries about keeping Gilina safe when he got back to Earth, but it would also be the one thing that would make this whole nightmare--getting shot through the wormhole, all the struggle and homesickness, the pain his disappearance must have caused his family--worth it in the end.
Lying on his back, staring up at the tangle of wires and circuits in the underside of the data console, John waited for his work partner to tell him if the latest patch was holding.
This was just their second day, and John was already glad he and Gilina weren't planning on sticking around long. The tension on this base was oppressive, in everyone from the lowest tech up to the Commander himself. It was like everyone was waiting for the other shoe to drop.
The two of them had been incredibly lucky so far; Gilina found the perfect ship for their needs almost immediately: a Marauder transport long overdue for a major engine overhaul, sitting unused in a dusty corner of the hangar bay. The repairs had been delayed and rescheduled a dozen times as other projects were given higher priority. Gilina had tweaked the duty roster last night and had assigned herself the task, which she anticipated would take her less than two days.
Tonight, they would begin the quiet process of refueling and restocking the ship for a long journey, being careful not to attract undue attention. Once they were ready, Gilina would program the blind spot, requisition the catalyst from medical, and they'd slip away in the night.
John was startled out of his reverie when a sudden, dead silence fell over the room, stilling the voices of a dozen techs in an instant. From his cramped position under the consoles, he couldn't see the source, but the few faces he could see were frozen in quiet terror as if a dangerous animal had wandered in and no one wanted to attract its attention. Taking the hint, John stayed where he was and remained quiet.
A soft, deep voice broke the silence, from somewhere near the door. "Report," it said. "What progress?"
The officer in charge of the lab, Lieutenant Xhorel --a specialist, John had learned, feeling some slight amusement at finally meeting one only after becoming one--replied, but his voice was too low and tentative to make out the words.
Whatever the response, however, it obviously failed to please his superior. John could feel the slow, heavy tread as the officer began a slow circuit of the room. "Unacceptable, Lieutenant," said the voice.
Black booted feet strode along the aisle past John's face. He was surprised to note the highly polished leather extending all the way up the figure's legs. A microt later, he sucked in a shocked breath as he caught a glimpse of the man's head and face through a crack between the consoles. The black leather covered his entire body and most of his head, leaving only a portion of the face visible. And that face....
John felt a chill of dread. It wasn't Sebacean. It was alien, menacing, reminding John strongly of Boris Karloff's characters in Phantom of the Opera and Frankenstein--white as a corpse and twice as ugly.
The creature was speaking as he circled the room. "I expect results," it said in a cultured, sinister voice. "If you cannot provide them, Lieutenant, I shall have to find someone who can. I do not tolerate failure."
Xhorel babbled reassurances and promises of redoubled efforts. Apparently satisfied, or at least placated, the creature turned and left.
As the techs relaxed from their stiff postures and began to talk amongst themselves again, John tried to remember how to breathe. "Khall?" he called softly to his work partner. The dark-haired tech crouched down and bent to look under the console.
"What the frell was that?" John whispered.
Khall swallowed convulsively. "Scorpius," he whispered nervously, eyes darting around the room as if the specter would return at the very mention of his name. "He's in charge of everything around here. They say even Commander Javio is afraid of him."
"But what is he?" John persisted. "That was no Sebacean!" Under the circumstances, John couldn't be sure if the disgust in his voice was entirely feigned, as so many of his responses had to be, for the sake of his role as a provincial PK tech.
"No one's sure," Khall admitted. "Some say he's part Scarran, others think he's a demon, that he can read our thoughts and see our deepest fears. All I know is he's punished or executed a dozen officers and techs since I've been here."
"What do you slijnots think you're doing?!" shouted Lt. Xhorel, appearing suddenly at Khall's shoulder. "Chattering like a five-headed trelkez! You heard Scorpius; back to work, or I'll have you all up on report!"
The officer was trying to be stern and threatening, but he just ended up sounding utterly terrified. Even so, everyone quickly went back to what they'd been doing before the chilling interruption.
Scorpius, John thought with a shudder. Boy, am I glad we're leaving soon.
On the evening of their fourth day, John was nearly dancing around in the confined space of Gilina's quarters, talking a blue streak. Gilina, for her part, was unable to get a word in edgewise and just sat, watching John with a bemused expression.
"They were equations, 'Lina--wormhole equations--they had to be!" John was babbling. "I only got a glimpse, just a few seconds before Lieutenant Tight-ass wiped the display, but I recognized a few of the descriptors. It's there, they really are working on wormhole theory! I just need to get a better look--"
"John."
"--obviously they haven't got it all figured out yet, either, but--"
"John."
John stumbled to a halt, both physically and verbally, as Gilina's voice finally penetrated his excitement. "Hmm?" he replied, distracted.
"We're ready."
"Ready?" Still caught up in his own thoughts, John wasn't parsing Gilina's information too clearly.
"Ready to go," she clarified. "The Marauder is fixed and stocked with enough supplies to get us to the nearest inhabited system. I programmed the sensor blind spot just before you got here. We can leave tonight."
"Tonight?" John realized he was sounding like a trained parrot.
"That was the plan, wasn't it? To leave as soon as we were ready?"
"Yeah..."
Gilina noticed his reluctance. "John, what's wrong?"
"Can we wait one more day?" he asked. "We should get some more supplies, food and water, just in case we take a wrong turn or can't stop at the first system we come to for some reason. A margin of safety, if nothing else."
Gilina arched a knowing eyebrow.
"And yes," John admitted sheepishly, "I would also like to get one more shot at studying those wormhole equations I saw. It could be just what we need to get back to Earth."
"I don't like staying any longer than we have to," Gilina sighed, hands folded protectively across her abdomen.
"It's just one more day, and we really might need the extra supplies. You know I'm still not an expert at flying these Peacekeeper ships."
Gilina still looked uncomfortable, but nodded reluctant assent.
It was the last day, last chance, and John was getting more frustrated with every passing minute. He'd caught a couple more brief glimpses of the hauntingly familiar equations, but still had no chance to study them.
Much of his frustration stemmed from his suspicion that, had Crais simply swallowed his pride and sent his new crewman specialist to the gammak base openly, John would have gotten his answers by now. As a tech, he simply did not have the clearance to see what he needed to see.
With less than half an arn until the end of shift, John was starting to reconcile himself to leaving the base with just what wormhole information he already had, scant though it was.
He and Khall had swapped positions today, the tech working underneath the latest work station console to go on the fritz while John watched from above to monitor the effects. As he stared at the fuzzy screen full of blue and black patterns, he was struck with a sudden feeling of deja vu that nearly made him laugh aloud. It's the frelling blue screen of death, he joked to himself. Bill Gates' influence has spread further than we ever suspected!
A few meters away, Lt. Xhorel was staring intently at a working screen, with the desperate, confused expression John remembered DK wearing the first time he'd opened a calculus text book. His friend had sworn he'd been issued the Greek translation by mistake.
John itched to be invisible, just for a minute or two, to look over the officer's shoulder and see if it would make more sense to him. Then, suddenly, as if the very universe was responding to his desires, an opportunity marched in, in the guise of a helmeted guard. The faceless grot spoke a few curt words to Xhorel, who blanched and swallowed nervously before following the guard out of the room. He was so flustered by the unexpected summons that he completely forgot to clear his screen.
John froze for a microt, almost unable to believe his luck, but then he shook it off and set to work. Gilina had showed him a trick last night, to remotely access data terminals. He couldn't do it while Xhorel was there, because the link wasn't subtle, or undetectable. But while the terminal was vacant, it was easy.
Cross-connect a couple of wires...feed the system an override command that neither he nor Gilina was supposed to know...and the fuzzed-out screen before him cleared, receiving data from a new source. Taking a deep breath to calm the rattlers raging in his gut, he looked down at what he'd come so far to see.
What the hell?
They were familiar, and yet not. Equations, symbols he'd never seen before in his life, and yet they tickled his brain with hints of something.
It was woefully incomplete, barely more than scratching the surface...he knew that, too, and yet he didn't know what was missing, or where.
Voices and footsteps approached from the corridor; he should shut down, disconnect from the other terminal before he was caught, but he couldn't move a muscle. Numbers and vectors whirled before his eyes, teasing him with not-quite-knowledge.
But that...there...that was....
"That's not right."
The words fell from John's lips in a quiet murmur he hadn't meant to utter aloud, and the sound dropped into the sudden, deadly silence of the room like a pulse shot. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see two black-clad figures in the doorway, looking at him.
Like a fly caught in amber, John stood staring at the screen, unable to even blink. The equation was wrong, badly wrong, but no matter how hard he looked he couldn't see what was wrong about it. And he couldn't look away.
A voice behind him said, calmly, "That man, he is an imposter. Seize him."
The equations continued to burn into his mind until rough hands dragged him away.
"I am Scorpius."
No shit, Sherlock.
John had to bite his tongue to restrain the hysterical impulse to mouth off, though hysteria seemed perfectly justified at the moment. Strapped into something that reminded him a little too much of an electric chair, spinning slowly in the center of the dark chamber--it was like a Disney ride from hell. Stick with the persona, John; you're a meek little tech.
"I don't understand why I'm here," he said. "Did I do something wrong?"
"Name," Scorpius ordered.
"John Crichton. Tramco support, maintenance provost. On temporary reassignment to this base." He'd had that litany drilled into his head the whole trip here.
"Unfortunately, wrong, on all counts," replied the black-hooded creature, now leaning into John's field of view. He lifted a gloved hand, gesturing to the arctic-eyed redhead behind the console.
She flipped a switch, and the chair's resemblance to the electric chair suddenly ceased being a fanciful one. Shock sang through his body, as if he'd touched a live wire with every square inch of skin at once. The pain was excruciating, but brief, and he gasped for breath as it faded.
"You look quite Sebacean," Scorpius pointed out calmly, as if nothing had happened, "yet your energy signature is quite dissimilar. What species are you?"
Oh crap, how did he know that? "You're no poster boy for racial purity, either," John replied irritably. The comment broke free against his will, stress overriding restraint and tact as per usual. He winced, expecting another zap for his impertinence.
Scorpius merely tilted his head curiously. "Perceptive," he replied in a voice heavy with irony, "but irrelevant. Who are you working for?"
The question caught John by surprise, and he barely had time to register Scorpius lifting a gloved hand. There was no time to brace himself.
Not that it would have done any good.
Fire raced up John's spine and exploded in his brain, searing pain all through his body.
Oh god...
Muscles seized, bruising wrists and ankles as they jerked against the harsh restraints.
Make it stop...
The conflagration spread from the center of his brain outward, sending images and memories flashing before his eyes like birds fleeing a brush fire.
So your life really does flash before your eyes when you die, noted the tiny portion of his mind that wasn't busy screaming. Senses failed as the agony increased, darkening his vision, leaving him deaf to anything but his own cries.
An eternity passed, spanning just a few heartbeats. The fires gradually receded to a few smoldering hot spots along his nerves and what felt like red-hot needles piercing his eyeballs. Lights and shapes flashed before his eyes, which at first he took to be nothing more than after-images of pain, resolved into pictures on the screen. Random, almost too fast to see, but John still recognized them. Images of fire and danger--the inferno on the Zelbinion, an angry Luxan gripping his throat, superheated plasma outside the window of the Farscape during the first re-entry test, the ill-fated sling-shot maneuver--they were the very memories that had just flashed through his mind seconds before.
"What the hell was that?" he gasped out as soon as he could take a breath.
"A memory," replied the cadaverous alien smugly, still leaning over him with detached coolness. "Random and indistinct at the moment. It will take some time to map your neural patterns."
"You stay the hell out of my mind, you--" he began, rage flaring and adrenaline numbing the residual pain. His tirade was cut off in a convulsive splutter as the machine flared to life again, pulling him back down into the abyss.
Damn Crais for getting me into this....
The chair caught that thought and dragged it to the surface, along with memories linked to it.
Flashes of space, of ships: shuttles, his module, a Leviathan, Crais' carrier. A Marauder that had been his home for five of the strangest, scariest, most exciting months of his life. Faces: human, Sebacean, Luxan, Delvian, Sheyang, and Sykaran; Tauvo, Dad, Zhaan, Gilina--no, mustn't think about her--Crais.
The images briefly settled down enough to distinguish fragments of conversation.
* * *
"Sir, he claims to be a 'human', from a planet
called 'Erp'."
"Your vessel appeared on our scans during the
battle, out of nowhere. Our readings indicate a
low level of technology, no weapons or shields in
evidence. Now, normally, something so primitive
would be of no interest to us."
"At the moment, you aren't worth the air we
would waste to flush you out an airlock."
* * *
The searing heat faded. John felt a preternatural chill flash over him. Whatever this machine was, it could read his mind, pull free his most private recollections. Gilina...oh, shit, Gilina, sitting in her quarters, waiting for him to get off shift, ready to flee the base with him, pregnant with his child...he couldn't let Scorpius see, couldn't let this bastard know who she was, what they had planned.
Inside his ravaged mind, John started building walls.
* * *
"In recognition of your actions in preserving
the lives of two Peacekeeper officers, and the
potential value of your work, High Command just
today has granted my request. I am hereby
authorized to offer you, John Crichton, a
Peacekeeper commission as a Crewman Specialist."
* * *
"Clever, this Captain Crais of yours," Scorpius murmured as John's cries faded to breathless gasps. "To take a lie and turn it into truth, merely to plant another lie over it."
"I'll be sure to tell him you were impressed," John spat back, his voice hoarse. Defiance was the only weapon he had left, to prove to himself he wasn't broken.
"It takes a great deal to prove your worth to a Peacekeeper captain, especially when you lack the proper genetic make-up," Scorpius mused, almost to himself. "Harder, perhaps, in my case, as I had to overcome my Scarran heritage."
So the bastard is a Scarran. What the hell was he doing on a Peacekeeper base? The Peacekeepers detested the Scarrans.
If this were an old superhero comic book, the villain would be gloating, enjoying his victim's pain and his own sense of power. John thought that might actually be an improvement at this point; the antagonism would at least keep him angry, spur his determination. At first glance, his nemesis fit the part of the archetypal villain perfectly, but Scorpius' utter detachment and businesslike calm inspired nothing in John but despair. He fought it, but it was growing more difficult.
Scorpius kept pacing around the edge of the platform, counter to the chair's rotation. It was making John dizzy.
"This captain of yours," Scorpy commented finally. "He must have had a reason for choosing you as his spy. I'd like to see more of that."
John knew what was coming by now, and had to bite his lip to keep himself from begging, pleading for mercy.
Concentrate. Don't let him see her.
Through the haze of pain and the sweat stinging his eyes, he saw the machine find more of that last meeting with Crais.
* * *
"What kind of 'opportunity'?"
"I have received a request for the immediate
transfer of six techs to a high security gammak
base. There are rumors that the facility is
pursuing wormhole technology."
"And you couldn't just...you know...slip me
in under the radar?"
"Not as such; access to most of the facility
is security three velka. Without a valid ident
chip matching your genetic code, you wouldn't get
two motras."
"If there's a real wormhole research project
out there, why not just ship me and my team off to
join them openly? If we pool our resources, we'd
probably figure it all out that much sooner, and
it would get me out of your hair."
"Tempting, but the achievement would then be
credited to that project."
"You don't just want wormholes for the greater
glory of the Peacekeepers," John realized. "You
want them for you, as something to put on your
resume."
Crais got up and started pacing around the
room. "I've never been one of the elite,
Crichton, did you know that? My parents were
common farmers. I was never afforded
opportunities that space-born Peacekeepers are
given; I rose through the ranks on my wits,
but some doors were always closed to me. If,
through your efforts, I can present High Command
with working wormhole technology, those doors
will swing wide and I can rise to where I
should be."
A long pause.
"If I were to agree to this--"
* * *
The image froze there, and an alarm sounded at the console. "He's resisting," reported the woman running the machine.
For the moment, however, her boss didn't seem to care. "Our spy has an interest in wormhole technology. Interesting. Find what he knows."
The two of them watched dispassionately when John began to scream.
* * *
"Entering critical apogee phase."
"Farscape One, hold a moment!"
"Hold? Canaveral, what?"
"Meteorology reports some kind of electro-
magnetic wave, repeat, some kind of wave. John do
you read me?"
"Yeah, I'm reading you. What kind of wave?
Is it a solar flare? Canaveral?"
Static, garbled voices.
"Canaveral?!"
Through the static, he heard his father's
voice shout "Abort!" but it was too late. A
blue wave of energized plasma washed over the
module, the force throwing it into a spin and
tumble. Through the turbulence and the struggle
to regain control, he noted he was falling
through a blue tunnel, unlike anything he'd ever
seen before.
"This technology interests me. In order to
further Peacekeeper research, I am considering
allowing you to remain aboard, to assist our techs
in researching the problem."
"Tauvo, take this Crichton down to medical
and have them do a full bioscan. I will contact
Chief Gelvis and have some techs assigned to
the project."
As he neared apogee, he heard a voice
calling out to him. "... ohn, we...tecting...
lar flare ... ear me?"
A bright light, just as he was ready to pull
up. When his eyes stopped blinking at the
overload, they were drawn upwards, to a blue
light. A funnel shape, twisting and spinning,
leading down to nowhere. Gorgeous...
* * *
"He's still putting up blocks, sir."
"Of course he is," Scorpius replied, unperturbed. "Break through; he must know more about wormholes."
Keep him out...don't let him see...
* * *
"There are but a few places we can live. The
Ancients have stories of a world that will welcome
us. We can only hope they're true."
* * *
More beeps from the console as the scene froze up again.
"Another block?"
"Yes sir," the woman replied. "Much stronger than before."
"Really, Crichton," Scorpius scolded. "You are only making this more difficult on yourself."
"Wasn't me," John gasped back, grateful for the reprieve, whatever the reason. "Don't ya hate it when the batteries go dead?" he laughed, more than a little hysterical with pain and exhaustion.
"Break through, increase the extraction level," Scorpius ordered, showing the first hint of emotion John had seen.
Oh...fuck....
Up until now, the scenes playing out before John's eyes had been like watching a rerun of "This Is Your Life". This time, though, there was something...new.
It was him, and the Ancient who called himself Jack--their last talk in the hive chamber, just as he remembered--but the words....
* * *
"These equations are necessary for creating
a wormhole."
* * *
"I don't remember that..." John whispered.
* * *
"You're teaching me how to--"
"No. You cannot access this data consciously.
You will not remember this part of our encounter.
We will not give you wormhole technology."
"Why not?"
"If you're not smart enough to discover it
on your own, you're not smart enough to handle it
wisely. You'll have to find it yourself. The
unconscious knowledge we've given you will guide
you, nothing more. That's all that we can do
for you, but that should be enough. You are
already on the right path."
* * *
"He...he gave me the equations." Shock, and betrayal, and a bare wisp of hope. He might have gotten home by now if they hadn't been so paranoid. He might yet, if he could figure it all out.
"Fascinating," Scorpius crowed, breaking his mood with a snap back to reality. "You sought wormhole knowledge, infiltrated this gammak base to find it, never realizing you already possessed it." Turning to the woman at the controls, his voice grew deep, harsh, and belligerent. "Find it. Segment his mind, as many layers as it takes."
Self-control failed, and John gave in to panic. They were going to rip him apart. "No," he begged, desperately. "No...please!"
His pleas fell on deaf ears.
Huddled against the cell's stone wall, John wrapped his arms tight around his ribs in a futile attempt to control the shivering that wracked his body. His cell mate, the manic ghost of Christmas future, had been dragged cheerfully off to take his own turn in the Chair, leaving John alone in the dark. Exhaustion, both physical and mental, demanded that he sleep, but fear and the adrenaline still pumping through his system denied him the relief of unconsciousness.
An electronic crackle issued from the surveillance panel on the wall, followed by a blessedly familiar voice.
"John?"
She had to call his name twice before he could make himself believe his ears. "Gilina! Thank god...are you alright?"
"I'm fine. I went looking for you when you didn't come back after your shift. I heard the techs talking about your arrest. What happened?"
"Never mind that, it's not important. I need you to do something for me."
"Anything. What is it?"
"Leave. Take the Marauder and just go--"
"What? No! We've got to get you out of there!"
He shook his head. "Forget about me; I need you to be somewhere safe, where they can't find you. They're ransacking my mind for information, stealing my memories."
A gasp. "The Aurora Chair?"
"If that's what Scorpy's little toy is called, then yeah. If they find you in there, find us, see what we had planned...they'll arrest you, kill the baby, and maybe execute you, too. Just go, find some planet I've never heard of and hide."
"I won't leave you, John. Just hang on. I sent a secure comm to Officer Sun, and she's going to pass the news along to the captain. He may be able to negotiate your release; technically, you're still under his command."
Yeah, right, John sighed inwardly. He'd seen the avarice lighting up that Scarran monster's eyes. It was pure hunger, gold fever for the power locked inside John's skull. The bastard wasn't going to let him go until he got what he wanted.
No point in dashing Gilina's hopes, though. "I still want you out of here, 'Lina," he insisted. "If Crais can get me out, great. I'll figure a way to come find you, somehow, somewhere--"
"I can't stay tapped in too long, John," Gilina interrupted. "Just hang on; I'll think of something."
"Gilina, no!" he shouted, his voice rasping with abuse. He turned, facing the wall camera in desperation, calling out, but the electronic click of a cut connection was his only reply.
Second verse, same as the first.
It was day three on the merry-go-round. Maybe. It was so hard to keep track of time. Thanks to his cellmate Stark, who wasn't nearly as crazy as he'd first appeared, John had gotten a little relief from the pain and fear last night, and actually slept for a little while. But even so, the exhaustion was inescapable. All John could feel, by this point, was tired amusement and vengeful satisfaction at Scorpius' mounting frustration.
They were searching every dark corner of John's memories, looking for wormholes and hitting nothing but the sturdy walls he'd erected to guard Gilina. The continued resistance only further convinced the Scarran bastard that John was deliberately hiding his knowledge, and drove him into a frenzy of annoyance. There was no sign at all that Gilina's call for help had done any good; Crais had probably just written John off as a loss and washed his hands of the whole affair.
John could feel his body weakening, his mind cracking around the edges. It would be a race. Would his body give out--heart failure, stroke, he wasn't picky--before his mind crumbled?
Scorpius and PK Barbie had given up trying to overpower John's neural blocks after the third heavy nosebleed, afraid to kill their prize goose before he laid his golden egg. The strategy now, it seemed, was to wear him down slowly, keeping the Aurora Chair at a low level for extended periods. He couldn't even work up the energy to scream after a while, and just sat, gasping, as he endured and prayed for an end.
* * *
"Hey, Jimmy Dean!" a ten-year-old Johnny
Crichton called out. "Pick on someone your own
size!"
The older boy--his name was actually Lenny,
John would find out later--turned to look at
this new annoyance. His adolescent muscles were
already bulging through a skin-tight t-shirt; his
face wearing an exaggerated sneer. He dropped
the skinny little boy he'd been extorting lunch
money from and stalked towards John.
The small boy, instead of running away, took
heart from the unexpected support. He jumped to
his feet and kicked Lenny in the back of the knee.
Stumbling slightly, Lenny spun around in a
rage, but he still hadn't learned not to turn his
back on an opponent. A second kick from John,
better-aimed and on an already weakened knee
joint, sent Lenny crashing to the ground.
Instantly, John had an arm firmly around
the bully's neck in a choke-hold he'd learned
from his sister Susan, who used it remorselessly
on her baby brother when he was being a pest.
The smaller boy looked ready to punch Lenny in
the nose, but John waved him off.
"Bother us again," he growled in the bigger
boy's ear, "and we'll pound you into pudding.
Got it?"
Lenny beat a hasty retreat the second he
was released, leaving his two ex-victims standing
together in the school yard.
"Hey," the smaller boy said. "Thanks for
the help."
"No biggie. Name's John. John Crichton.
We just moved here from Annapolis."
"Doug Knox. Call me DK."
"Dammit, Aeryn, we've got to do something.
He's getting worse, and no one else is lifting a
finger to help. His own crew has given up on him,
but I won't."
"And what do you think you can do, Crichton?
You're a tech--no, not even that--and you've
never even fired a weapon!"
"Fine, I'm an inferior being with no
redeeming qualities. But I have two hands and a
brain, and I can not just sit around and watch a
man suffer like this."
"What is he to you that you're so determined
to risk getting injured or killed in this insane
quest?"
"What were you to me, Aeryn, when I pulled
you out of that fire on the Zelbinion? What were
you when you were paralyzed and I goaded you into
fighting back? What were you when that wormhole
appeared and I took you to my home world rather
than abandon you? You were a shipmate, Aeryn, a
comrade. You were someone I had come to respect.
Someone I had even started to consider a friend.
Well, the same is true of Lt. Crais here. I hope
I'd try to help anyone who was suffering like
he is...."
* * *
The chair powered down at a gesture from Scorpius, and the memory scene froze. There was a long silence as the half-breed stood unmoving, seemingly lost in thought.
"It is time to break this impasse," he finally declared, striding towards the door. "Keep Crichton here; I shall return shortly."
Two arns passed. John sat, still strapped helplessly into the inactive chair, with nothing to do but watch the techs bustle through their maintenance duties. Not one of them was willing to look him in the eye.
He worried for a while about what Scorpius had in store for him. Eventually, though, he succumbed to sheer exhaustion.
Many boot-clad feet pounding in the corridors woke him in time to hear Scorpy's taunting voice. "Time to end this game, Crichton," said the Scarran. He kept his eyes on John, watching for the slightest reaction. A black-gloved hand gestured toward the entrance.
John couldn't see at first, the chair having stopped with him facing the control panel. The reason for the bastard's assurance quickly became evident. Six techs, huddled in a frightened knot, shuffled into his field of view. Two armed guards stood on either side.
John's stomach dropped through the floor in sick horror when he saw that Gilina was one of them.
No, that's not possible. I kept that secret, kept him from seeing....
"What are you--" he started to ask, fearing the answer.
"In my explorations of your mind, Crichton," Scorpius broke in, as if John hadn't spoken, "I noted an interesting facet of your psyche. You have shown again and again that you value the lives and well-being of others--friends, acquaintances, even total strangers--enough to risk physical harm to yourself in their defense. It is a trait found to your degree in only a few other races I know of."
John tried to avoid looking at Gilina, so as not to give away her specific importance to him. It took a moment for him to realize that he knew all of the other techs in the group as well. Five of them, including Gilina, had traveled with him to the gammak base from Crais' carrier group. The sixth was Khall, his work partner from the lab.
"So," Scorpy continued, "if you will not give me what I want to save your own life, perhaps you will do so to save the life of one of these innocent people. You know them all, do you not? Consider some of them friends?"
"Damn you, Scorpy!" John cried. "I've been telling you for three days: I'm not blocking anything about your precious wormholes! Let them go!"
"The equations are there, inside your brain. You have only to let me access them, and these techs will be allowed to return to their duties. It is quite simple, really."
Now, as Scorpy gestured to Niem to start the Chair, John realized that the bastard had won. He risked looking at Gilina, to see her frightened eyes staring back at him. He begged her forgiveness with a silent, pleading gaze; to save her life, he was going to have to risk exposing their secret. It was the only way to prove to Scorpy that he wasn't hiding the wormholes from him.
The chair began to spin, and the rising hum of the machine heralded the return of pain and memories. With a fearful sigh, John dropped his walls.
The first images to appear were of intimate moments, starting with their kiss on the Zelbinion, and he felt himself blush at having such memories broadcast for all to see.
Scorpius snorted with disgust and waved Niem to a halt after only a few memories had surfaced. He didn't appear to notice that the woman in the pictures was present in the room; he probably hadn't bothered to even look at any of the techs he'd had detained.
"These sexual escapades, entertaining as I'm sure they are, do not interest me. Show me the wormhole equations!"
"Please," John implored him. "I've stopped resisting; you've got everything now. I told you I wasn't hiding wormholes."
Niem confirmed that the blocks were gone, but Scorpius didn't want to hear it. Three more attempts yielded similar results, though none of the truly incriminating memories had surfaced yet. He remained aggressively disinterested in the relationship being revealed, and finally shook his head.
"I had hoped you would be reasonable, Crichton. Perhaps you believe I wasn't serious in my threats, and so you remain obstinate."
"No!"
"I think, perhaps, a demonstration of my sincerity might expedite matters."
"Oh, god, please! No!"
Pulse pistol gripped in one hand, Scorpius turned towards the group of techs. He raised the weapon, ignoring John's increasingly desperate pleas, and fired one shot.
TBC...