Episode 13 - Welcome To The Machine
"It doesn't look like we're gonna get out of this one, and if we're gonna go down, I wanna go down swinging." -- John Crichton
Aeryn Sun stepped out onto the platform overlooking the Prowler flight deck, where the fighters were serviced and prepped for launch. She tried to look as if she belonged there, though it had been nearly two cycles since the last time she flew her Prowler out of this hangar.
She saw a few familiar faces among the pilots and techs, but at first could not find the one person she was looking for. Then he stepped out from behind a Prowler on the far side of the bay. Pausing, he spoke to a tech with her arms shoulder-deep inside the hetch drive assembly.
He looked awful. Gaunt, tense, eyes dark with exhaustion. Had the man slept at all since their return from Moya and the Uncharteds? Certainly he hadn't been in his quarters any of the times she'd gone looking for him.
Nodding in response to something the tech said, John meandered off across the flight line towards another Prowler sitting at one of the refueling stations.
From her position several motras above the flight deck, Aeryn saw the danger before anyone else could have. An impatient pilot, eager to be out on patrol, had rolled his ship out of its slot at the rear of the bay and begun taxiing full-speed towards the open bay doors. Due to angles and obstructions, neither the pilot nor John could see the other yet, but Aeryn could see that their courses were going to intersect within microts.
"Look out!" she cried, striving to make herself heard across the vast and noisy space.
John turned. Whether it was due to her warning or the fact that he could suddenly see the rapier-pointed nose of the Prowler bearing down upon him, she wasn't sure. He had only a microt or so to react, and Aeryn's heart sank when she saw him freeze in place, directly in the Prowler's path.
Then, just when it seemed too late, John flashed into motion, diving and rolling across the deck out of harm's way faster than she would have thought him capable of, out of harm's way.
The Prowler continued on without pausing, its pilot either unaware or, more likely, unconcerned by his close call. Aeryn remembered occasions in her past when something of the sort had occurred, and recalled how little she herself had cared at the time about the lives of the mere techs who cared for her ship.
Rushing down the ramp and across the deck, taking care not to encounter similar hazards, she reached John just as he was getting to his feet. She came up from behind him, and as she got closer she could hear him muttering under his breath. The words weren't clear enough to understand, but the tone of voice was familiar enough to set off alarms.
"John?" She touched his shoulder.
He spun, slapping her arm away and dropping into a practiced defensive stance. Thanks to his agitated state, it took a microt for him to recognize her and relax. Something behind his eyes lit up and he almost smiled, but then he pushed it away and settled his face into a neutral expression.
"Aeryn." He looked down at his grey jumpsuit and brushed off some imaginary dust before looking back up at her.
"Surprised to see me?" It had been almost a monen since their return. John had made no effort to contact her during that time, and she hadn't even been able to find him until now. It was a big ship.
"Nah." He shrugged and turned away, continuing on his former path towards the refueling station. "I figured you'd track me down eventually, though I had hoped you'd take the hint." He examined the readings on the panel and turned the power switch back to standby.
Aeryn crossed her arms, leaning against the panel next to him and glaring at his unresponsive face. "Hint?" It was frelling amazing how little sense the human could make, even when the individual words translated. "John, I haven't seen you since we got back from Moya. I was told you'd been promoted, reassigned--"
John burst into harsh laughter. "Yeah. Promoted. Sub-Officer John Crichton, at your service." He sketched a small, self-deprecating bow. "You know something, Officer Sun? Our dear Captain Crais has a very twisted sense of humor." He grimaced and looked away, glancing around at the techs and pilots milling about the bay.
"Why? What happened?" The news of his promotion had come as something of a shock when she heard of it. It typically took several cycles, or else some act of exceptional valor, for a crewman to rise to sub-officer.
John started to speak, then shut his mouth with a snap. He shook his head. "You shouldn't be here, Aeryn. It's not safe." He turned away.
She was about to make some comment about stating the obvious, considering what had just nearly happened, when John made a gesture that froze her blood in her veins. He tried to make it seem like he was merely combing his hair back, but that irritated brush past his ear was too hauntingly familiar to mistake. Added to the muttering a few microts ago, now she was sure.
"You never went to the med bay, did you? You're still having visions." It had been weekens after Tauvo's death before she confronted him about his increasingly erratic behavior. He'd finally admitted, after several attempts to put her off, that he was having occasional hallucinations of Scorpius, as if the half-breed were speaking to him. She'd agreed not to report it, on the condition that he would seek treatment immediately upon their return to the carrier.
John shook his head, though whether he was confirming her guess about the med bay or trying to deny the visions altogether, she couldn't be sure.
"John, you promised you'd get help. If you're unfit for duty--"
"I'm fine, Aeryn. It's under control." He walked away, leaving her scrambling to catch up.
"You are not fine, Crichton, not if you're seeing and hearing things that aren't there. It's dangerous, especially in this place, where you can't afford any distractions."
He whirled around and pushed her against the nearest vertical bulkhead. His voice dropped to a guttural whisper. "Fine, go ahead and report me. Give Crais the excuse he needs to finish the job!"
Aeryn rocked back at John's violence and intensity. "What are you--"
He placed a hand against the wall on either side of her and brought his face close to hers. She could feel his breath against her neck. "You want to know why I'm stuck down here instead of back in my lab? Crais. He blames me for getting Tauvo killed. Hell, he wanted to rip me apart with his bare hands, but he couldn't, not with the admiral looking over his shoulder. So he decided to screw me instead."
"Screw...you?"
"By 'promoting' me. The techs and specialists working the Prowler bays have the most dangerous non-combat jobs in the entire fleet, Aeryn. They usually assign the job of supervising them to disgraced officers as a demotion; it's considered beneath a soldier's dignity. 'Grot work', I think you'd call it. Crais actually had to promote me to give me the job. He can't kill me himself, so he decided to humiliate me--not that I give a damn about that--and probably hopes I'll get myself killed here and save him the trouble."
Aeryn had been afraid that the captain might react badly to Tauvo's death. She'd known the Crais brothers were close; it was fairly common for siblings to be recruited together, and the emotional ties, while strongly discouraged, persisted in many cases despite all official efforts. It was not unheard-of for a surviving sibling to want vengeance for a brother or sister's death, even when, as in this case, it was grossly misdirected.
It took a microt for Aeryn to recall what had triggered John's sudden revelation. She put a hand on his face. "But why haven't you seen the med techs? No matter what the captain did, it doesn't change the fact that you need help."
John backed away from her touch, visibly retreating back inside himself and crossing his arms over his chest. "Aeryn, think about it. If I report this little problem of mine, it'll be all the excuse Crais needs to do what he wanted to do in the first place. I'd be declared irrevocably damaged and 'retired' within a solar day!"
She stopped short. As much as she hated to admit it, John might be right. Transit madness, if that was what John had, was a perfectly curable condition that afflicted a small percentage of conscripted soldiers. Sebacean soldiers, that is. But in an alien, especially one out of favor with command? Would they even bother to try?
John stepped closer again. "Really, Aeryn, I'm okay. It's not even as bad as it was before."
She cocked her head and made a show of looking him up and down. "Your appearance says otherwise."
John smiled ruefully and shrugged, then turned his eye to something over her shoulder. The smile vanished.
Turning to look, Aeryn saw a pair of Prowler pilots eyeing them disapprovingly.
"Aeryn," John said quietly. "You should go. I may be on Crais' shit list, but I don't want to put you there, too. That's why I've tried to stay away from you."
She gave him a scathing look and prepared to let him know exactly what she thought of that. She could look after herself, frell him. But before she could formulate the words, someone called her name.
"Sun!" She turned to see Vikko Kranda, now a senior officer and squadron leader, approaching from behind her. "You come down here to get a look at some real pilots?"
It was good to see him; he had been a member of her unit back when she was flying Prowlers, and a long-time, friendly rival. "Of course," she called back, matching his teasing tone. "Have you seen any?"
Kranda laughed.
Aeryn turned back to John, wanting to finish their conversation before she got caught up in reminiscences, only to find that he had taken advantage of her momentary distraction to slip away.
Frelling human.
Sitting by an artificial lake in one of the carrier's forty or so planetary terrains, John felt he could breathe again. It was almost like being back on Earth, except that the sky was an arching roof of metal, and it was too quiet. There were no mosquitoes biting, no songbirds calling from the treetops, no ducks in the lake. Not quite real, but as close as he could get in this artificial world he now inhabited.
He came to these huge chambers on nights when sleep eluded him, or was simply too painful to contemplate. Few ventured here during the arns when the deck lighting dimmed to simulate a planetary night, except the commando teams during training exercises. As long as he picked a terrain that wasn't scheduled for use, he could sit alone and enjoy the smell of growing things, undisturbed and free to think in peace. He hardly saw his quarters anymore.
The incident today, with the Prowler, and Aeryn, was giving him a lot to think about. He'd known, intellectually, that the flight deck was a dangerous place to work--hell, Crais had all but gloated about it--but today's events had driven the fact home. Maybe, instead of resigning himself to the situation, he ought to get off his ass and start looking for ways to fix it. Wouldn't that just twist Crais' tail, if he took this disgrace of a job that no one else wanted, and not only survived it, but succeeded? He thought Tauvo would have liked that.
If for nothing else, he should do it for the techs, in Gilina's memory. Their lives were harsh, and their duties dangerous, even under the best of circumstances. Anything he could do to make their lot a bit less onerous in a world that failed to appreciate their importance would be an accomplishment he could be proud of.
A faint voice whispered in the dark corners behind his ears, speaking of traps and fear and giving up hope. John shook his head like a shying horse, though it never helped. He picked up a stylus and the Peacekeeper version of a scientist's notebook, abandoning his current train of thought for the moment. The whispers faded and blessed silence reigned once again inside his mind. Whatever the voice and the visions of Scorpius were, there was only one thing guaranteed to banish them. They never bothered him when he was working on wormhole theory. If he worked on it long enough, they might even let him sleep.
Arns passed while he scribbled notes and half-formed equations across the pages. He was on the right track, he was pretty sure, but there was just too much information missing. He had too many crazy theories, and only actually conducting tests could tell him whether they were, in fact, crazy. Without a lab, without his equipment, he had to rely solely on his own mind. It was frustrating, but he kept working, because sometimes a bit of knowledge would seem to drop down out of thin air and fall into place.
"So this is where you've been hiding."
He jumped, the stylus scratching a wild line across the page at the unexpected voice. It was familiar, though. He closed his eyes in frustration and didn't look up.
"You look like shit, Crichton. When was the last time you slept?"
Aeryn knelt down on the ground beside him, and he couldn't help but meet her eyes, half-amused by her atypically proper usage of the English epithet. He just shook his head. He didn't want to lie, but he was reluctant to admit the truth, which was that he didn't remember. Had it been two nights ago? Three?
"How'd you find me?" he asked by way of misdirection.
"You weren't in your quarters. Again. So I tried to think of where else you might go. This is the third vacant terrain reconstruction I've checked."
"Hmm." She knew him so well. John turned his eyes away from her face, back down to his notes. Pretending that he didn't miss her desperately was so much easier when she wasn't standing right there.
"We didn't finish our conversation."
Damn her for being such a stubborn wench. "Aeryn, I already told you, I don't want you getting caught up in all this. Crais blames me--"
"John, you blamed yourself, too. But there wasn't anything you could have done."
"I know that, now, thanks to you and Zhaan beating it into my head. But I do understand where Crais is coming from. He's lost his brother, and he needs someone to blame. I was there, I survived, and I'm an easy target."
Aeryn dropped down to sit on the ground facing him, legs curled under her. She looked puzzled. "You're not angry with him?"
"Oh, you bet your ass I'm angry! And if Tauvo was here he'd be kickin' Bialar's ass for me. That's why I'm not gonna let the bastard beat me."
Aeryn grinned, one of those full-strength, mega-watt smiles that made his heart turn somersaults. "That," she announced proudly, pointing a finger right at his face, "is the Crichton I know!"
He slapped her finger gently away in mock annoyance, snorting derisively but flushing with secret pleasure at her approval.
But, no. This was wrong. He had to stop this, for her, no matter how much it hurt to lose it. "Listen, Aeryn," he started, getting serious again, "I know it sucks, but you know as well as I do that you can't be hanging out with me right now. Crais has made me a pariah, even more than I was before. I'm a leper, poison to anyone who touches me. We've got to stay away from each other, or people will talk."
Aeryn's smile turned instantly into an angry scowl. "Let them talk."
John took a deep breath and decided to try complete and utter honesty. "Aeryn, I know you better than that. Your career means a lot to you, and I don't want you throwing it away for my sake. Besides, if Crais gets another burr up his ass and decides you were involved, you could find yourself reassigned to something twice as dangerous as Marauders.
"You know, better than anyone that this past cycle has been hell for me. First Gilina, then Tauvo. I think I've accepted that neither one of their deaths was my fault. But that doesn't change the fact that they're both dead because of me. Because they were close to me, in the wrong place, at the wrong time. I've lost two friends already. I couldn't stand it if I lost you, too."
She sat quietly, no longer glaring daggers, and the silence stretched out over many microts. John watched as hints of emotion played over her face, saying things she could not find words to express. There was pain and loss written there, and he suddenly remembered that she, too, had lost friends. Gilina and Tauvo were probably among the first people in her life that Aeryn had allowed to get that close to her. Her stoic façade had fooled him into thinking it didn't affect her as much, but perhaps, underneath, she was in just as much pain as he was.
"I don't want to lose you, either," she finally said, simple and to the point, confirming his guess. The words may have mirrored his own, but the tone with which she spoke gave them a much different meaning. There was something else there, hiding in the shadows behind her eyes, something he couldn't read.
He felt his resolve waver. He needed her. They needed each other. But how could he put her at risk?
"How about here?"
The question came out of left field with no referent. "What?"
"This place. There doesn't seem to be anyone else here." She gestured, encompassing the entire environment.
"Not while the lights are out like this; I've hardly ever seen anyone else come in." It wasn't dark, by any stretch, but the warm glow that mimicked the feel of sunlight on his skin was absent for these few arns during the sleep cycle.
"Then why don't we meet here? It's quiet. We can talk all we want, and no one will see and report me for fraternizing with you."
John thought about it, then looked around. "What about surveillance?" He'd grown used to the idea that he was being watched on this ship, though he still didn't like it.
"Difficult in these chambers because of the large amount of open space. And I doubt they devote much attention to areas that are typically empty. Crais' pique notwithstanding, we're simply not that important. If some security officer sees us on his monitors, he'll just assume we've come for some private recreation and ignore us."
John felt a quick thrill up his spine at those words, as he wondered for just a microt if Aeryn was actually suggesting....
But then he dismissed the thought with a wry smile. It was entirely his own imagination; there had been no hint of innuendo in her voice. Yer getting' horny there, boy.
It was an odd sensation, after nearly two cycles of friendship, to suddenly be consciously aware of Aeryn as an attractive woman.
Ah, well, he'd deal with that some other time. For the moment, there was only her brilliant compromise, with which he decided he was in full agreement. It would be a risk, but a small one, and it would be worth everything if he didn't have to go through all of this alone anymore.
They talked for arns, catching up on their time apart. And when the voices started whispering again, he ignored them.
Aeryn leaned back and took a sip of her drink, before setting it back on the table. She occupied a table beneath the stylized bird emblem on the wall of the lounge. Alone.
This was one of the aspects of flying Marauders that she had the most trouble adjusting to. Prowler pilots tended to congregate off-shift with their squad mates, to talk and drink and play games. Marauder crews, though, after spending so many days or weekens crammed into a small space with the same people, almost invariably went their separate ways, in search of privacy, or at least different faces, when they returned to base.
Aeryn and her new crew had just returned from such a mission, and she was relishing the chance to just sit. It had been a tough battle, spanning several solar days, as part of a task force detailed to put down an attempted coup on a Peacekeeper protectorate world near the border. They were all tired and looking forward to an extended rest.
She wondered if John would be in their spot by the lake tonight, and hoped he would be. They'd never been able to make plans, of course. Between her own training and time on missions, and John's heavy schedule and uncertain sleep habits, their free time had only managed to coincide about one solar day in ten for the past three monens.
A loud babble of voices drew Aeryn's attention to the door, where a group of Prowler pilots was making a noisy entrance. Aeryn recognized some of the faces; it was Henta's squadron, part of the same Icarian Company she had once flown with herself.
Henta spotted Aeryn while she was getting a drink and came over to join her. "Hey Sun," she greeted with typical post-mission exuberance, "you just get in too?"
Aeryn nodded, waving Henta to take a seat. They spent some time comparing their experiences during the engagement; Henta's squad had been with the Prowlers providing air support, while Aeryn's crew had been in the thick of the ground fighting.
After a while, a third pilot joined them. Senior Officer Kranda, however, looked far angrier.
"Bad fortune during the battle?" Aeryn guessed with some sympathy. This had been Kranda's first major engagement since becoming squad leader; the unit's performance would have a major impact on the course of his career from this point forward.
"No, no," Kranda replied, sitting down heavily. "The battle went well, actually. Fourteen kills for the squad, and only one Prowler damaged. It was after we got back that everything went to hezmana."
"What happened?" Henta asked, bringing out the cards and chits for the pilots' favorite game of bahknor.
Kranda grimaced. "Some stupid tech was too slow getting out of the way when we pulled in, and that frelling deck officer blew a pulse chamber over it. You'd think he was a tech himself, the way he panders to them. Not only did I have to listen to his prating complaints, but he actually grounded my entire squad for the next weeken!"
Henta froze in shock, mid-deal. "What? He can't do that, can he? He's a grot! You rank him by two grades, at least!"
Kranda's face was downright murderous. "The fekkik quoted me chapter and subsection of the regs, citing 'overdue maintenance issues' for all my ships. And he had the audacity to smile about it."
Aeryn was almost afraid to ask; she thought she could guess precisely which flight deck officer was making himself so popular. "So what are you going to do about it?"
The senior officer laughed ruefully and shook his head. "A couple of my guys already tried to put the drannit in his place. He may act like a frelling tech, but he fights like a commando. Wonder which branch he got busted out of?"
Oh, for the love of Chilnak.... They didn't know. Somehow, probably due to his long absences and obscure postings, John Crichton's identity as an alien had been forgotten. His appearance was so perfectly Sebacean that there was nothing to make him stand out.
Well, unless he opens his mouth.
Aeryn certainly wasn't going to be the one to enlighten them. At some point in the past few monens, John had apparently learned to defend himself far better than she remembered. She wondered what else he'd been keeping from her when they talked. In any case, though, if the pilots he was angering knew he wasn't Sebacean, no fighting prowess in the universe would keep him safe.
Henta, oblivious to her preoccupation, piped in. "I guess you haven't had to deal with him up in the Marauder bays, Aeryn, but this guy has been a pain in our eema for probably a quarter cycle now."
Curiosity overcame Aeryn's common sense. "What else has he done?"
Aeryn marched through the doors of the terrain reconstruction deck and scanned the area. If he wasn't here, she was going to hunt him down wherever he was, no matter how public, and make him explain himself. At gunpoint, if necessary.
Fortunately for John, he was already there waiting for her. He was certainly aware that the task force had returned, given his earlier confrontation, so perhaps he'd been expecting her.
He looked up as she approached, his expression shadowed and somber but brightening somewhat upon seeing her.
"Hey," he called out as she came into earshot. She didn't reply until she'd taken her usual seat with her back against a convenient tree.
"What the frell do you think you are doing?" she demanded without preamble, glaring at him with her arms crossed.
"Nice to see you, too, Aeryn." John's smile was confused, but conciliatory.
She didn't answer, having no patience for frelling small talk.
"You're gonna have to be more specific, Aeryn," he finally said, looking puzzled and not a little worried.
"I just spoke to Kranda," she explained in slow, menacing tones. "Are you trying to get yourself killed?"
John's earlier dark expression returned, clouding his face again, his forehead furrowing in barely-repressed anger. "Your buddy Kranda killed one of my techs, Aeryn," he growled. "He wasn't more than half a cycle out of training, and Kranda ran right over him because he was being too much of a frelling cowboy to watch where he was going!"
Aeryn tilted her head. She wasn't familiar with the term koo-boy, but she got the general idea. "John, you told me yourself that the launch bays are a dangerous place to work--"
He stopped her with a raised hand. "But they don't have to be, that's the problem! In the past three monens, I've put in just a few basic safety precautions, and we've cut the accident rate nearly in half!"
Aeryn sat back. Henta and Kranda hadn't mentioned that small detail when they'd been regaling her with their complaints. All they cared about was the inconvenience.
John went on, looking disgusted but speaking more calmly. "Now I just have to get your Prowler jockeys to stop racking up a higher body count on the flight deck than they do on the battlefield. If it takes knocking a few heads together, then that's what I'll do." His hands, resting on his upraised knees, clenched and relaxed over and over as he spoke.
The disparity in status and importance of techs versus soldiers was a topic she and John had discussed before in their night-time perambulations. Thanks to her own friendly relationship with Gilina Renaez, not to mention having spent so many weekens in a half-destroyed Marauder being held together by the skills of a single tech, Aeryn was probably more receptive to John's arguments than anyone else aboard. "I'm not saying you're wrong, John, but things have always been this way. Techs simply aren't valued the way soldiers are. They're considered little more than tools, to be discarded and replaced if they're damaged or lost."
John sighed and leaned his head back against the tree. "Damn, growing up here in the Peacekeepers must be one hell of a brainwash. If this was Earth, your techs would have thrown down their tools and told you where to stick your superior attitudes a long time ago."
"If this was Earth," Aeryn pointed out, getting back to her original concerns, "you wouldn't be in so much danger of getting your face bashed in by the pilots you're provoking."
"Couple of Kranda's boys already tried that," he countered, smiling enigmatically.
"So he told me. I think you may have actually impressed him; he's trying to figure out what commando squad you were in before your 'demotion'."
John snorted contemptuously.
"When did you learn to fight like that?" Aeryn asked.
He sobered, lowering his gaze to the ground. "I started going to the advanced hand-to-hand training classes not long after we got back," he explained. "No one ever asked whether or not I was supposed to be there. It gave me something to fill my time, tire me out. But mostly, Aeryn, after what happened to Tauvo, I do not want anyone to ever have to protect me again."
Aeryn nodded. That was pretty much what she'd suspected, though she still wondered why he'd never mentioned it before. "Well and good," she said, ignoring that oversight. "You're just lucky that no one among the pilots seems to remember you as the alien tech we brought aboard two cycles ago. If they'd even suspected that you weren't Sebacean, no amount of fighting skill would have helped you. They would never take such insolence from an alien."
"Huh," was John's subdued reply. "I'd wondered about that."
"Just be careful not to remind them. You're changing things down there, things that have been done the same way for a very long time. Peacekeepers, as a rule, are about as fond of change as they are of aliens."
John snorted. "They aren't fond of losing their happy little privileges, that's what. Every change I've made, Aeryn--from rearranging the deck and taxi lanes for better visibility, to clearing space around the ships and moving all that crap they used to keep out on the deck to a central storage--it's all right there in the regs if you bother to actually read them. The pilots just don't think the rules should apply to them, and they've been getting their way for way too long."
"What do you mean, it's in the regs?"
John laughed slightly. "Babe, I'm not a complete idiot, you know. I wanted to do something to help the techs down there, but I didn't just jump in blind. I checked the codes, read them cover to cover, just looking for a loophole or two I might be able to exploit."
He paused for effect, then shrugged helplessly. "Imagine my surprise when I learned that not only was I allowed to make every change I'd been considering, I was actually required to do so. There are all sorts of rules and safety procedures in there that no one has bothered to enforce in I don't know how long. Centuries, maybe."
"What?" Aeryn was aghast. The rules were everything in Peacekeepers, almost a religion. To learn that some were being ignored--that she herself had, unknowingly, done so--was like a blow to the very foundations of her faith. How could such a thing have happened?
"I don't know how it started," John said, seeming to read her thoughts. "Rules like that often get set aside in war time, in the interests of expediency. If they were as unpopular with the pilots then as they are now, maybe later generations just conveniently forgot to enforce them again after the war was over. Or it may have been the deck officers; when they started handing this job out as a punishment, the disgraced commandos who got stuck with it were more concerned about kissing up to the pilots than they were about the proper operation of the flight deck."
Aeryn's mind was still whirling in shock. "Are you telling me that you really have the authority to ground an entire Prowler squad? Even when most of them outrank you?"
John reddened and shifted uncomfortably. "Um...well," he fumbled, "not exactly. I may have...stretched a rule or two on that one. I don't really have any authority over the pilots at all. I can't give them orders. What I do have, though, is the last word on every ship that lands on my deck. Most of them have little problems, things caused by normal wear and tear. Simple stuff that can be put off until something major comes up so you can fix everything at once. But if I decide it's 'necessary', I can take a ship off of active status for any problem that might affect performance, even slightly."
"So you didn't ground Kranda or his squad at all...."
"I grounded their ships. Exactly. It's a technicality, but one I can use to teach the pilots a lesson. They get one of my techs hurt or killed, they lose their ships for a while. And the rest of the techs can take their own sweet time making the repairs."
"You're insane," Aeryn pronounced decisively.
"Since birth." The grin was cocky and unrepentant. "It'll save lives, Aeryn. If it saves even one, it'll be worth it."
"Even if it gets you killed?"
John suddenly got very serious, and very quiet. "Aeryn," he said, finally. "You and I both know what's been going on in my head lately. It's not getting any better. I'm trying to do some good with what little sanity I may have left, here. If it does end up getting me killed, well...." He shrugged indifferently.
Before Aeryn could marshal her arguments, John shifted and straightened up. His voice suddenly cheery, he asked, "So, how was your day, honey?"
Her mouth gaped open, her thoughts thrown into a tailspin by the sudden shift in both mood and topic. Part of her wanted to go back, beat some sense into Crichton, convince him to be more careful, but the rest of her was more than happy to change the subject. Her mind recoiled from the whole idea that John might be going slowly insane and there was nothing she could do about it. Avoidance was an entirely viable tactic, one they used regularly.
She sighed, thinking back on the last several solar days. "The mission was successful," she reported blandly. She could hear more than fatigue in her own voice, though, and Crichton caught it immediately.
"Bad?" he asked.
She shrugged. "Battle always is, no matter how long and hard you train and practice for it."
John's eyes bored into hers, prodding her to say more.
"It was easier when I was flying prowlers," she finally admitted. "We were just taking out anonymous enemy ships then, targeting engines, shooting down missiles. Destroying machines. Now I see faces when I fire my weapons."
Crichton sat quietly, listening to her with understanding. This was what she loved about these meetings of theirs. She could talk about emotions here, admit to having doubts, and John would never revile her for the weakness. She could expunge her demons in safety, and receive the benefits of John's entirely unique perspective.
"I would imagine it's especially hard when those faces are Sebacean," he murmured.
"I suppose," she replied evasively, though of course he was correct.
"I know you couldn't talk about it before you left, but can you tell me anything about the mission now?"
"It was an uprising. We suppressed it." What was there to tell?
"But what was it about?"
About? "What do you mean, what was it about? It was a rebellion!"
"But what were they rebelling against? There's usually a reason, Aeryn."
She stopped, silent. There were times when John's unique perspective could be a little disturbing, too. She fumbled for something resembling an answer. "It...we...I don't know, Crichton. We weren't told anything about that. The Peacekeepers are simply contracted with the current government."
"It might help, in the future," he suggested, "if you knew what you were fighting for."
She thought about that. Then she stopped thinking about it, tied it up in a neat bundle and filed it away to think about later. Sighing, she let her head tip back against the tree trunk.
"Tired?" John asked.
"A bit."
"You should go get some sleep, then."
She nodded. "I suppose I should. Sleep, and a few days of rest. For once I'm glad this is such a quiet patrol. I--"
A shrill alarm pierced the air, shattering their tranquility. They both jumped at the sudden noise, then stared at each other with wide eyes. This particular alarm was one rarely heard on this ship in the past few cycles, a ship-wide call to battle stations.
The voice of the communications officer came through the comms, a faint hint of something like excitement tingeing her usually calm demeanor. "Attention all personnel. We have received a distress call from a Peacekeeper base under threat by a Scarran dreadnought. We will arrive within six arns to render assistance. All personnel report to emergency stations for further instructions."
She and John sat in shocked silence for a microt, then rose to their feet.
"Dreadnought?" John asked as they made their way quickly to the door.
"The most powerful vessel in the Scarran fleet. Twice our size, with firepower to match. Our odds of success in a one-on-one confrontation--"
"Never tell me the odds," he interrupted her. "No rest for the weary, I guess. Gonna be a long night."
As they reached the door, John slowed and then stopped, turning to Aeryn with a strange, uncertain expression. He rubbed one thumb against his lower lip, eyes boring deep into hers.
"John? What are you--"
Reaching up, John grabbed her by the back of her neck and pulled her into a sudden, desperate kiss. Her eyes flew wide in surprise, even as she felt herself respond. John's eyes were closed, and stayed closed for a few microts after he let go and pulled back. Then he took a deep breath and looked into her eyes again.
"For luck," was all he said, quirking a wry grin, and then he turned and jogged away towards the flight deck.
Aeryn couldn't move. She stared after him, absently touching her lips. She could still taste him. Slowly, incrementally, she started to smile.
Then footsteps pounded up the corridor from the opposite direction, shaking her from her reverie. Schooling her expression and squaring her shoulders, Aeryn Sun prepared herself for yet another battle.
This time, though, she knew what she would be fighting for.
John slowed to a fast walk as he approached the hangar doors, not wanting to arrive out of breath or present an appearance of panic.
The flight deck was a frantic hive of activity, with techs flying here and there looking both tense and focused. There was little if any fear in evidence, and John envied them their composure.
The sheer number of techs present was the biggest surprise. Not only were all three shifts now on duty for the duration, but the techs whose normal stations were with less essential vessels, such as the scrub-runners and the KL-series transports, were also detailed to the Prowler bays in emergencies.
There were no pilots or commandos in sight, all likely now sitting in the carrier's many briefing rooms learning about what they'd be up against. Part of John wanted to be there, a fly on the wall. The terse announcement and Aeryn's brief description of a Dreadnought were anything but a complete picture.
Was this Pearl Harbor, first strike in the war that everyone feared was coming? Or simply a test, a probe of Peacekeeper defenses?
Would they be alone in this battle, or were other carriers coming? What about the base? What kind was it? Planet? Space station? Could it hold out until they arrived?
With a mental growl of frustration, John waved away the pointless questions. They had a job to do here, a job that people's lives were going to depend on them doing well.
John gave a piercing whistle--a trick that always amused the techs, since it was apparently not something Sebaceans ever learned to do--and drew the entire crew together in a vacant maintenance bay for a brief meeting.
He spoke loudly, attempting to project in spite of the lousy acoustics in the bay, so as to be heard by the crowd of several hundred people. "This is the real thing, guys," he announced, bluntly. "You know all those new safety rules we've been pushing? They're out the window as of this moment, so watch your asses out there!
"Now, we need everything that can fly and shoot fueled and ready to launch in five arns. Start with the easy ones and work your way down the list. It doesn't have to be pretty and it doesn't have to be perfect, but get those birds ready for space, got it?"
Nods and murmured agreements met that query. John turned his attention to his chief tech, a stern woman with slightly graying hair. "Avena, what's the status of the Prowlers from Senior Officer Kranda's squad?"
"All the engines have been removed and stripped for a complete overhaul, sir."
"How long would it take to put them back together?"
Avena consulted her data pad, and he could see her making mental calculations. "Eight arns, sir."
"Damn," he swore vehemently.
The techs seemed to shrink away from him, clearly expecting a violent reprimand at the very least. "We simply did as you ordered, sir," Avena asserted nervously.
John waved off her worries with a deprecating laugh. "Yeah, I know, you guys are just too frelling efficient." He got a few chuckles from the crowd for that, but they were still tense. He sighed. "Much as I would love to make Kranda Knievel sit this one out, we're going to need every fighter we've got. Even him."
John saw nods of agreement accompanied by frowns on the faces around him. He sympathized; he hated having to give away the victory he'd so lately and narrowly won.
"Avena," he said sharply, using his voice to draw her to attention. "Pick a team of your best techs. If you can get that squad flying in six arns, I'll grant every one of you an extra liberty day whenever you want it."
The techs looked completely flabbergasted by that, and John smiled. He remembered Gilina telling him once that techs rarely got any acknowledgement, much less any reward, for their achievements. It encouraged mediocrity. John was going to change that; it was time to see what the application of a little positive reinforcement could do.
Everyone set to work with a will, spurred by the deadline of the approaching battle. The fighting complement of the carrier might not appreciate them, but at times like this the techs knew their true worth. Their diligence and expertise with the machinery of war could mean the difference between victory and destruction in the coming arns, as much or more than the skills of the pilots of the strategies of their commanding officers.
John stayed out of their way. In his early days down on the flight deck, he had tried lending a hand a time or two. It had quickly become obvious, however, that it just made the techs uncomfortable to have him there. They became nervous and accident-prone. So John had learned to step back and concentrate on the true functions of his job, which were to help them do theirs by getting them what they needed, and to keep the pilots and senior officers from distracting them with silly orders.
As the arns ticked down to microts and their destination grew closer, John found himself breathing a sigh of relief. They'd made it. Soon dozens of pilots started to stream in through the doors, helmets in hand, and climbed into their ships. The Prowler squads raced towards the launch area, ignoring the lines and paths John had so recently laid out. He held his breath, but the techs were alert despite their fatigue and scrambled out of the way.
As the exodus proceeded apace, John caught sight of Kranda and his squad from across the bay, coming through one of the doors and proceeding blithely towards their Prowlers, clearly expecting to find them ready and waiting.
When they discovered that the reconstruction was not yet completed, the pilots were something less than pleased. A shouting match broke out, though it was the commandos doing all the shouting. Avena spoke quietly, trying to explain, but they were having none of it.
John had been heading across the bay at a quick jog from the microt he'd seen these guys come in. As he got closer, he saw Avena finally lose her patience and snap at one of the pilots who was berating her.
The pilot in question raised his hand to deliver a resounding backhand slap for the insolence, but John grabbed his hand out of midair and yanked him off balance, then kicked his legs out from under him.
Stepping past the fallen soldier before he could scramble back to his feet, John took up a position between Kranda and the techs, next to and slightly in front of the irritated Chief Avena.
Kranda, having seen the casual take-down of his pilot, looked just about ready to tear John's head off. He took a step forward, but John raised his hand and pointed two fingers into his face.
"Back off, flyboy," John said sharply.
Kranda stopped, from shock more than anything, most likely. "How dare you speak to me that way? You have no right; I am your superior officer--"
"But you are not my commanding officer. Sir. And I do have the right, because you are standing on my flight deck, interfering with my people's work. Check with Lt. Malarr in Flight Ops. I already have. She didn't like it any more than you do, but she's confirmed my authority on this deck as per Article Thirteen Tola--"
"Don't you quote regulations at me, frelnik!" Kranda's face got redder, his fists clenching impotently at his sides.
John was actually starting to enjoy this; it felt good to be able to tell someone off but good, even if he was treading a very fine line between resolve and insubordination. He continued in his most rational, reasonable tone, "Sir, we are in a high alert situation here. I'll have to ask you and your men to clear out until we're ready for you."
"Our ships are supposed to be ready now!"
John smiled. "Your Prowlers were pulled from active status for delinquent repairs less than fifteen arns ago, Senior Officer, on my authority. Perhaps you remember that. Now, there is nothing in the rules that says I have to release them until those repairs are done. Under any other circumstances, I would love to stand back and watch you stew. But I figure we need every pilot we've got if we're going to survive this, so I've had this team working nonstop since the alert came down, getting your birds put back together."
"We are supposed to be out there!" Kranda screeched, waving an arm wildly towards a random spot on the bulkhead, losing even more self-control. If Sebaceans weren't so nearly cold-blooded, John would expect to see steam coming out of his ears. "Do you want to explain to Lt. Malarr why our fighter screens are a squadron short?"
"I already have," John replied calmly. "And if you had bothered to check in with her instead of coming down here and making an 'ass' out of 'u' and 'me', you would have known that. I believe she's detailed your unit to the Xelstar regiment temporarily, until your ships are ready."
"Ship security? That's an outrage! We're pilots, not frelling boot-shiner grots!"
John just shrugged. "Take that up with the Lieutenant, sir. All I know is that the longer you stand here yammering at me, the longer you'll have to wait before your ships are ready."
Maybe it was the smile on John's face as he said it, but something finally tore the last of Kranda's temper. With a roar, he threw himself at Crichton, all technique and training forgotten in his rage.
John caught his arms and, using the man's own momentum, tossed him sprawling onto the deck.
There was a low growl, in stereo surround sound, as nearly a dozen angry pilots took exception to this poor treatment of their commander and started forward.
Oops. John took up his best defensive stance, ready to fight even knowing he was going to lose.
Then the advancing soldiers stopped, identical looks of confused dismay on their face, and backed away a step. The confusion was mutual, and John found himself wondering if some senior officer had just walked in. But then he sensed something and took a glance behind him.
Twenty techs stood arrayed behind and around John, each and every one of them holding some large and heavy tool. There was nothing about their postures that seemed even vaguely threatening, but they were very much there.
Kranda was on his feet and in Crichton's face almost instantly. "You just made a big mistake, Sub-officer Crichton. Striking a superior officer is a serious offense. I swear to you, I will have you up on charges the instant this battle is won! Your career is finished!"
John felt a laugh bubble up from somewhere deep in his chest, slightly hysterical but real enough. "Go right ahead, asshole," he chuckled at Kranda's crimson, contorted face. "I really couldn't care less."
Then he turned his back on a stunned Kranda in clear dismissal and raked his eyes over the techs ranked behind him. "What are you guys just standing around for?" he demanded sternly. "Get back to work!"
As the carrier and its escort vessels decelerated into the system and approached the besieged gammak base, the huge ship dropped a trail of breadcrumbs. Fifty Marauders, stripped bare of all but essential weapons, moved off at a tangent, slipping behind the gas giant that the base was orbiting before the Dreadnought came into sensor range.
The small fleet raced around the huge planet, just grazing the upper atmosphere and using the massive gravity to boost their speed beyond anything the normally plodding ships were capable of. It was a new tactic, recently added to the commandos' repertoire.
A single Marauder led the way, with the officer who had first proposed this unique maneuver at the helm. Aeryn Sun smiled as she held the ship's course steady, wondering what the others would think if they knew that this technique had originally been conceived by an inferior alien from a backward planet.
At the proper moment, Aeryn wrenched the ship away, blasting them out of orbit and onto a direct course for the planet's largest moon. Their velocity was at least twice what Marauders were capable of unassisted, which should help them slip through the Scarran fighters swarming about the small satellite with minimal contact.
"I'll see that you get a commendation for this, Officer Sun," said Lt. Dak. He was standing just behind Aeryn's shoulder, observing this new maneuver with apparent satisfaction.
"Thank you, sir." She would, she vowed silently, make sure to include the true originator of this tactic in her report; it was John's theory, and he deserved the credit for creating it.
"Any word from the carrier, Sub-Officer?" Dak asked, turning his attention to another soldier.
The young man at the comms console replied, "They've engaged the Dreadnought, sir, on the far side of the moon."
"Good," Dak nodded.
"A command carrier has got to be the biggest frelling diversion I have ever heard of," the weapons officer muttered.
"Let's just hope it works," Dak replied grimly. "We've got a job to do, and we can't do it with that frelling budong full of Scarrans hovering over us. Whatever this base has been working on, High Command apparently considers it worth the possible loss of an entire carrier to keep it out of the hands of the enemy. That's our job."
"Aye sir."
Dak turned back to communications. "See if you can get a tight-beam transmission through to the base as soon as we're within line-of-sight."
It took about a hundred microts before they were able to contact anyone. "Who's there?" came a harried voice, finally. The man on the base was out of breath and obviously far past any caring for procedure or courtesy.
Dak didn't bother objecting to the rudeness. "Lt. Dak, sir," he identified to the base officer. "Commanding Katirian company, Pleisar regiment. Are you the base commander?"
"Lt. Heskon, sir. Chief of security. The commander is dead, sir."
"What's your situation, Lieutenant?"
The man at the other end took a deep breath. "The Scarrans commenced their attack approximately five arns ago. We managed to repel their troop ships for almost four arns until our ground to space artillery ran out of ammunition. Thanks to the volatile nature of this moon's surface, the Dreadnought has refrained from using its main weapons; their intent is evidently to capture the base rather than destroy it."
"They have landed troops, then?"
"Yes, sir. We don't know how many; there are no sensors up top where they landed. They breached the base perimeter and have now penetrated to level five. We're holding them there for the moment."
Dak nodded; they'd expected something of the sort. "Lt. Heskon, my troops should be arriving within five hundred microts. Please have the project personnel prepare for extraction, along with all of their data and essential equipment."
"Aye sir."
When the last squad of Prowlers raced down the flight deck towards the gaping maw that was the launch bay, John took a deep breath. His job wasn't done, not by any stretch, but the first hurdle had been cleared and no lives had been lost.
Three dozen techs still labored tirelessly on Kranda's squadron of Prowlers at the far end of the bay. At this rate, Avena's crew might just beat John's six arn goal for completing the repairs.
The rest of the crews, those not involved in that frantic task, John divided into groups of twenty and assigned to maintenance bays along the perimeter of the main hangar. They could already hear the thrum of the main frag cannons firing, the sound ringing through the metal superstructure of the carrier. Soon some of those Prowlers they had watched fly out of the hangar would be limping back, damaged or crippled. The techs' jobs would then be to get those disabled craft back into the battle, if possible, and as fast as possible.
The ringing of the carrier's guns was soon joined by the jolts and rumbles of Scarran weapons fire striking against the shields. The crews paused and looked up at every shake at first, but soon they were managing to ignore the disturbance and keep working.
Over the course of the next quarter arn, half a dozen Prowlers returned to the bay with minor damage, and the tech teams were soon hard at work.
About an arn before, just as the first of the pilots appeared in the hangar, the hangar deck's main comms had started to broadcast a live feed from flight ops control. For the most part the chatter was mundane--technical jargon, deployment patterns and the like--so after a little while John managed to push it into the background like a radio talk show.
Once in a while, though, he was drawn back to it by a familiar voice, such as when Captain Crais fired orders to the Prowler wings or the Vigilantes, or by his own worries. He kept an ear open for news of the Marauder squadrons, but heard no mention of them. What were Aeryn and her fellow commandos doing? Where were they?
A loud rumble echoed through the walls, and the deck shook again, hard enough to throw everyone off-balance. John was just getting steadied again when a short, shrill alarm sounded. He looked up.
Another Prowler was entering the bay. It veered drunkenly, narrowly missing the wall. As it turned back on course, John could suddenly see a trail of vapor streaming out from under one wing.
"Oh, shit," he muttered. "Team two, emergency! Get some foam on the deck!"
The techs heard his order and rushed to comply, but the pilot of the damaged ship must have been seriously hurt. His approach was still erratic, and far too fast. As he neared the middle of the bay, while the techs were just starting to deploy the fire-retardant foam, the fighter suddenly listed to one side and scraped a wing against the bare metal of the deck.
Sparks flew.
"Frell! Get down!" was all the warning John had the chance to give before the sparks ignited the trail of cesium fuel leaking from the Prowler.
Diving for cover in the nearest maintenance bay, John felt a rush of searing heat wash over him as the resulting explosion filled the entire hangar with noise and fire. As the heat and sound faded, new sounds took their place: pain-filled screams from those who hadn't been so lucky.
John staggered to his feet and slammed a fist into the nearest comms panel. "Fire on deck!" he shouted, hearing his own voice echo through the bay as his cry for help reached flight ops. "I repeat, fire on the hammond side flight deck! We need suppression teams and med techs! Frelling now!"
He barely heard the acknowledgements from the ops personnel as he stumbled back towards the hangar and took his first look at the disaster.
Flaming debris littered the deck for a hundred motras in all directions from the site of the crash. Bodies, too, many of them also burning.
War. This was what war looked like. How many of those bodies belonged to people he'd known by name? People he'd joked with, and managed to goad into laughter despite the wide gulf of rank and custom?
The dull thrum of weapons fire continued unchecked, and for the first time John found himself really thinking about what that sound meant.
And praying those shots were finding their targets.
With a short burst from the landing thrusters, Aeryn set her Marauder down in a place she had never thought to return to. The hangar, at least, had not changed. Indeed, the spot she'd chosen, as close to the far wall as possible to make room for the dozens of others following her, was almost the exact same place from which she'd stolen a Marauder the last time.
Back then, she had come to this place to rescue two people. This time she was here to rescue everyone.
While the other ships were setting down all around them, Lt. Dak was attempting to devise a strategy. They had a general diagram of the base, and Lt. Heskon had given them the approximate position of the Scarran invaders.
"Sir?" Aeryn spoke up tentatively after watching her commanding officer mutter to himself for a while.
"Yes, Officer Sun?" he replied distractedly.
"As you know, sir, I have been to this facility before..."
"Yes, of course. It's part of the reason I wanted you on my team for this mission."
Aeryn nodded. That explained her sudden transfer to the company commander's flagship, an event which had been both pleasant and daunting during the briefing earlier. "There is a back-corridor route, sir, mostly used by the techs. It leads from the hangar here through narrow passageways to this point," she pointed to a section of the diagram, not far from the Scarrans.
"How narrow?"
"We'd have to go single file, sir."
"Too tight for the Scarrans to use?"
Aeryn thought about it. "Most likely."
"Excellent!" Dak crowed. "We'll be able to catch them in a cross-fire, drive them back to the surface. And it sounds like a perfect evacuation route, as well. Easier to defend."
The rest of the company, over two hundred commandos, was standing ready on the deck by the time Dak and his crew disembarked. Instead of the smaller pistols and rifles that were their usual gear, each soldier sported a shoulder-slung pulse cannon. They were heavy and awkward in close quarters, but they were also the only hand-held weapon in the Peacekeeper arsenal that could reliably put down a Scarran with a single shot.
Dak took point, with Aeryn just behind him to provide directions, and led half the commandos through the back passageways. The others were to advance through the main corridors. Together with the base personnel already in place, their forces hoped to catch the enemy in a three-way cross-fire. It might not be enough to completely destroy them--an initial strafing run before entering the base had shown a dozen transport ships parked on the roof, meaning there might be as many as five hundred Scarrans inside the base--but it ought to at least force them to retreat higher.
Along the way, Dak's unit encountered several techs who had retreated to these back hallways when the Scarran advance cut off their escape. He ordered them brusquely to the hangar bay to wait.
After what seemed like metras of walking--somehow Aeryn hadn't remembered it being so far--they reached a hatchway that she recognized. "Here, sir," she pointed out to Dak. "This leads out into a secondary corridor, designation seven lerg three."
Dak moved to the hatch and gestured for silence. Like a wave, as the message passed back along the line, everyone froze. The lieutenant listened, ear pressed close to the door, for a dozen microts, then turned, frowning, back to Aeryn.
"Scarrans," he whispered harshly. "At least two; probably a scout patrol. Any other exits?"
"Not nearby," she replied, pitching her voice low to match his. Scarran hearing wasn't terribly acute, but no sense taking chances. "Last one was at least a hundred motras back."
"Too close to the main force. They'd be on us before we could get into position. We've a better chance with just the patrol." Dak paused, then gave a wicked little smile. "Wouldn't be any fun if we didn't get to kill some lizards, anyway, eh Sun?"
Aeryn returned his smile, remembering Tauvo. Crichton wasn't the only one itching for a little payback. She primed her cannon, the ready hum of energy build-up providing a more than adequate reply.
At Dak's direction, she crouched low by the hatch opening, ready to fire at any available target the microt he pulled it open. This was risky, to be sure. Success was entirely dependent on the element of surprise; if there were more than two out there, she and Dak might not be able to take them all out before one of them could call for help. The commandos trailing behind them would only be able to exit one at a time, leaving the Peacekeeper forces highly vulnerable for a short interval.
Dak counted down silently, then wrenched the heavy door aside. Aeryn scanned quickly, saw nothing, then shoved her weapon through the door, somersaulted over it and came up into position on the far side of the corridor, facing the opposite direction.
"Three!" she called out, even as she aimed and fired on one of the Scarran scouts. It was a well-placed shot to the head and the huge creature fell without a sound, having never seen his attacker.
Dak pivoted around the edge of the door, bringing his own weapon to bear just as Aeryn drew a bead on her second target. One scout was already reaching for his comms. The other fired a wild blast in Aeryn's direction. It missed, narrowly, but she didn't flinch and her own shot found its mark, just as Dak's own cannon spat. The call for aid was interrupted before it began.
Dak rolled out of the door and took up a position at Aeryn's back to guard the other direction, alert for any alarm the weapons discharges might have triggered. With the hatch clear, the commandos started filing out behind them, each taking up a covering position in one of the corridor's many alcoves.
No Scarrans appeared, and a hundred tense microts later all of the Peacekeeper commandos were deployed and ready.
The ship shuddered, groaning like a wounded whale, and John shifted to maintain his balance. He shook his head and sighed. He needed to find something productive to do to keep himself distracted, instead of wasting time staring at that ugly gash ripped into the floor of his deck, and the bodies still littering the scorched corners of the bay.
The voice in his head was whispering again, about wormholes and weapons and the power to defeat the Scarrans. "Shut up, damn it," he muttered under his breath, trying futilely to wave the voice away. "That's not helping."
"Sir?"
John turned smartly, grateful for the distraction, but also hoping he hadn't been overheard talking to himself. He found himself looking down at a young girl, not much more than seventeen or eighteen cycles old, with dark hair and deep brown eyes. Her quizzical expression said she had indeed heard him. Damn it. "Yes, um...." John had made it a point to know all of the techs under his supervision by name and specialty, but this one was new and he was drawing a blank.
"Pi J'hesta, sir."
"Pi?" John fought a smile, absurdly amused at the linguistic coincidence that had bestowed such an appropriate name on a tech. This was hardly the time for that discussion, though; it would take much too long to explain. John shoved the thought aside and replied seriously, using her surname as was customary. "What is it, J'hesta?"
"Chief Avena would like to speak with you when it's convenient, sir."
He sighed, relieved to have something to think about at last. "It's more than convenient, it's a damn miracle. Lay on, MacDuff."
J'hesta froze, a panicked look crossing her face. John mentally kicked himself. He really had to learn not to do that. J'hesta was expecting to be punished any microt for her hesitation, because she hadn't understood his orders. It was yet more proof that she was new to the flight deck; most of the techs he'd worked with over the past few monens had gotten used to his odd speech patterns. They also knew that he wasn't the type of capricious, sadistic officer who punished others for his own mistakes.
"Take me to the Chief, J'hesta," John clarified gently.
"Oh, aye sir!" The girl turned and marched briskly away, leading him towards the single remaining active maintenance bay on the deck. The rest of the area had been shut down following the accident, but Avena's crew still labored on, repairing Kranda's squad of Prowlers.
As he approached the bay, John could see the small black ships still swarming with techs, all of whom he knew well. Avena had picked out the most experienced and talented people on the deck to do the work, some of them nearly as brilliant in their chosen field as Gilina had been in hers. Under other circumstances, John knew, he could have called many of them friends, could have spent long arns off-shift just shooting the breeze with these people. But now, as their supervising officer, the gulf of rank was simply too wide to be bridged.
If young Pi J'hesta had been chosen to work among this group, John realized, Avena must have thought there was something pretty special there. He'd have to keep an eye on this girl's progress.
Assuming they both survived the day.
The Chief was inspecting some bit of work for one of the techs. As John approached, she nodded her approval then turned to face him.
"What's up, Avena?"
The older woman didn't blink. She was used to his quirks by now, and even understood him part of the time. "We are refueling the squadron now, sir. The ships will be ready for launch in under two hundred microts."
He smiled at the news, impressed. The work had been interrupted by the Prowler crash on the main deck and the subsequent chaos of rescue and damage control, but Avena had still managed to beat her original estimate by over an arn. "Good work," John said simply. "I'll let the pilots know."
As he turned away and headed for the nearest comms station, John made a mental note. If by some chance they managed to survive the day, he vowed, he'd find something nice to do for that crew as a reward.
The evacuation was proceeding in as orderly a fashion as such things generally managed--which was to say not very, and getting worse by the microt.
The Scarran forces had been driven back, forced to retreat almost to the surface. Fifty of the base's remaining soldiers, led by Lt. Dak, were standing guard at the far end of the escape route, alert for the inevitable counter-attack once the Scarrans regrouped. Hopefully, however, they would be gone by the time that happened.
Aeryn was in the hangar, directing the evacuees to their ships as best she could. Each Marauder took on as many as it could hold, usually about twenty additional personnel, before taking off. A dozen ships had already left before Aeryn ever arrived, the first rush of essential personnel having beaten her to the bay. Two dozen ships had been filled and departed since then.
With so many people crammed into each ship, it was going to be a very uncomfortable five-day journey back to Peacekeeper space if the worst happened.
As time passed, the stream of refugees slowed to a trickle, and the number of ships remaining dwindled to just a bare handful. Then for over three hundred microts there was nothing. The silence of the base was eerie, absent the noise of the nearly one thousand people who had lived within its walls.
Because of that preternatural quiet, Aeryn heard the tramp of boots echoing along the corridor long before anyone appeared.
Dak emerged first, leading the final retreat of the base's defenders. He came to stand at Aeryn's side while the others filed out to the remaining ships.
"All quiet?"
"Yes, sir. No problems at this end." Aeryn glanced up at her superior. "Are the timers set?"
Dak nodded. "We have about eight hundred microts."
"Should be plen--" Aeryn started to say, when an angry voice suddenly cut through hers.
"You!"
Both Aeryn and Dak turned. A dark-haired man, lieutenant's insignia still clinging to the ragged and dirty remains of his uniform, was stalking towards them with a finger pointed accusingly at Aeryn's face. He seemed vaguely familiar.
"You, Hardek!" the man called out again as he got closer still.
Ah, that brought the memory to the surface. Heskon, the security officer who had accosted her in Crichton's cell the last time she was here. She'd forgotten him in the interim, but obviously he still remembered her. Probably because she'd knocked him unconscious.
'Nela Hardek' had been the identity forged for her by Gilina Renaez, to allow her to move about the base freely during that earlier mission. Apparently the deception had held up, even through the subsequent inquiry, and her true identity had never been discovered.
"Lt. Dak," Heskon said, still pointing at Aeryn, "I insist that you place Officer Hardek under arrest, for assault on a superior officer."
Dak's expression was a mix of confusion and exasperation. "Lieutenant, I am fairly sure this woman has not come anywhere near you."
"Not today. It was nearly a cycle ago. She infiltrated this facility, broke two prisoners out of their cell--"
The rant continued in long and painful detail. Aeryn looked over at her superior, only to see that he was looking both bored and impatient. She remembered their eight hundred microt deadline, now dwindled to less than six hundred.
Frell it.
Heskon was still griping about her unprovoked attack when she obliged him with a demonstration. Her fist impacted with his face in a full-power pantak jab, and Heskon fell to the ground, unconscious and silent.
Dak's only immediate response was to raise a single eyebrow.
"We don't have time for this, sir," she explained.
"Right." He nodded. "Crewmen!" Dak gestured to two young soldiers who had been watching the proceedings with some amusement. "Get this man aboard a ship."
"Aye, sir," the grots replied brightly. Each man took one of Heskon's arms and prepared to drag him away.
"Just make sure it isn't mine," Dak clarified.
Their smiles grew wider. "Aye, sir," they said again.
At a gesture from the lieutenant, Aeryn followed him towards their Marauder. Time was indeed running short.
"Sir," she asked tentatively as then climbed aboard. "About Heskon's charges...."
"What about them, Sun? All of his accusations were against an Officer Hardek. I have no soldier by that name under my command."
"But...what about...just now...."
There was a twinkle in Dak's eye, though his face was perfectly serious. "I didn't see anything." He turned and marched towards the bridge. Then, just as he was about to pass out of sight, he turned back towards her. "Off the record, though," he said slyly, "I'd been wanting to do that for arns. The man's an annoying treznot."
The harried officer in flight control who took John's report was understandably abrupt. "Fine," she snapped, cutting him off. "I'll pass the information along. Now get off this channel, Sub-officer; we have more important things to--oh, frell!"
John physically stepped back from the comms station. There was pure panic in that voice, and Peacekeeper officers simply did not do that. What the frell is happening? Shouting voices came through the open comms channel, overlapping and muffled. The words were garbled, but the fear and desperation came through clearly, worrying John further.
"What's happening, sir?"
Young Pi J'hesta had appeared at John's elbow, watching and listening curiously.
John shook his head. "Dunno."
An alarm blared, momentarily deafening everyone. John didn't recognize it at first--it wasn't one he'd heard before--but J'hesta's eyes widened. "Collision alarm!"
At the same instant, one voice came clearly through the babble on the comms. "Helm, take evasive action. All hammond side cannons, maximum fire! Kill that ship!"
John stood frozen for an instant. His instincts advised flight, but was there really anywhere they could run?
The impact, when it came, seemed almost mild at first, hardly worth the flight ops crew getting so bothered about. There was a jolt, no worse than the many they'd ridden out caused by weapons fire, and a distant rumble vibrating through the walls.
But the sound didn't die away. It grew, building into a deafening roar that shook the ship like a freight train bearing down on them, until it became a struggle to simply remain standing. J'hesta, forgetting protocol, grabbed onto John for support, and he wrapped one arm around her while trying to hold onto the wall with the other.
There were screams, from both tearing metal and Sebaceans. The lights all through the hangar bay dimmed, then flared brighter; several exploded in showers of sparks. Then, all at once, the bay plunged into darkness.
Just when John thought the worst might be over, there was a loud concussion from the mouth of the bay, followed by a shock wave that threw everyone still standing onto the deck. John lost his hold on J'hesta as he tried to roll with the shock. He slammed to a stop against a Prowler's landing strut, still clamped securely into the maintenance chock-blocks.
The impact knocked the breath from John's lungs, and it seemed for a crazy instant as if the ship was empathizing with him.
Who the frell dumped me into the world's biggest shop vac?
The inane thought raced through his mind before he could process what was happening. Precious air was rushing out, a hurricane-force gale towards the gaping maw of the landing and launch bay. Containment field failure, he deduced, grabbing on to the Prowler. Others, less fortunate, screamed as they plummeted towards the emptiness of space, along with tools and debris and anything else not bolted down.
John could see pressure doors all around the bay slamming shut, sealing them off from the rest of the ship to prevent decompression of the entire section.
Where's the frelling emergency power?
A piercing scream snapped John's attention back, and he turned his head into the wind. Through tearing eyes, he could see J'hesta about two motras to one side and behind him, her body flailing wildly at the end of the fuel line she'd managed to grab onto. Sooner or later--probably sooner--the line would snap, or the constant pummeling against the deck would weaken the young girl's grip.
"Climb!" he yelled back at her. "Grab my hand!"
For a microt he feared she would ignore him, or was already too dazed to understand. But then, slowly, shakily, she started to pull herself hand over hand.
*Do not risk yourself in this foolish manner, John. You must save yourself.*
Not a whisper this time; it was like the Scorpius in his head was yelling in his ear over the roar of the wind. He felt his muscles resist as he tried to release one hand from his grip on the fighter and reach out for the girl.
"Let...go of me...frelling bastard!" John gritted his teeth and fought the compulsion. Why did that stupid voice care, anyway? He'd be dead in thirty microts whether he hung on or not, unless the emergency systems kicked in, which they should have done long since.
The young tech, having finally climbed far enough, reached out to him and nearly lost her grip when his hand wasn't there to catch her. With a growl that started deep in his chest and expanded into a roar of rage, John finally managed to loose one hand and reach out, his fingertips brushing against J'hesta's. As he hung there, reaching out for her hand, shadows crept into the corners of his vision as the air pressure dropped.
He reached again, desperately, finally grasping Pi's hand in his own. If he couldn't save her, or even himself, then at least they could both have someone to hold on to. They wouldn't have to die alone.
As they broke free of the moon's thin atmosphere, there were no Scarran ships waiting for them. It was odd, but perhaps they'd all been called away for some...then Aeryn caught sight of the battle being waged at the far edge of her screen.
"For the love of Chilnak..." she whispered sadly.
The carrier was wallowing like a wounded trolock. One entire side of the main defensive ring structure had been sheared away, and she could make out pinpoints of fire raging on the inner decks. Thousands dead, she knew, in that ring alone; the guns that studded the outer surface would have been fully manned.
The dreadnought, fortunately, looked to be in little better shape. It too sported multiple fires and signs of major damage. Smaller ships still swarmed about, dueling their counterparts and harrying the larger vessels.
"Set course for the asteroid field, Officer Sun," Lt. Dak reminded her, his voice sad and wistful, carrying no reprimand for her distraction. "We need to rendezvous with the others."
Aeryn blinked away the stinging in her eyes and set the course, curving them back into the planet's shadow where they would be hidden from Scarran sensors. "And then what, sir?" she asked.
There was silence for a long time, until she was sure he wasn't going to reply. Then he said, quietly, "I don't know, Sun. I don't frelling know."
Behind them, the explosives the commandos had placed throughout the Gammak base detonated. The massive explosion ignited the volatile surface of the moon, and the inferno spread rapidly. Soon the huge gas giant that dominated the area of the battle had lost a moon, and gained a second, tiny sun.
TBC...