"I'm going to frelling kill her!"
Crichton leaned back and watched Aeryn fume. When he was not actually on the receiving end of it, he found that there was something timelessly entertaining to the scene.
"You'll have to get in line, you can have what's left when I'm done with her." Jothee snarled.
Crichton chuckled. They both stopped to glare at him.
"What's so funny?" Aeryn snapped.
"You are," he replied. "Haven't you figured out that you can't stop Chiana wandering off whenever she wants to?"
"I can if I break her legs." Aeryn muttered darkly.
Crichton was feeling better. Since they had left Moya, he had lost that nagging feeling that Harvey was lurking just behind his eyes. He'd stopped hearing whispers of words that he couldn't quite make out. He'd stopped jumping at shadows. Of course, the fact that he had done most of his waiting in the hotel bar had probably done something for his improved mood. If Harvey was in there somewhere, he'd probably drowned him by now. Not even Chiana's impromptu Houdini could sour his mood.
"You know Chi, she's like a dog when you let it off its leash. You just have to let her run around until she tires herself out, then she'll come back."
Jothee glared at him. "Did you just call Chiana a dog?"
Crichton shrugged and took another swig of the bottle he had bought with him. It was bright green, sticky and sickly. It seemed to be doing a good job of dissolving his synapses. "A bitch, then."
Aeryn kept pacing, muttering incoherently to herself. She kept dropping her hand to her waist then shying away when it brushed the empty space where her pulse pistol customarily sat. Crichton suspected that its absence had rattled her far more than Chiana's truancy.
"She's a big girl now, Aeryn. Chiana can take care of herself."
"We need to go now," Jothee reminded them, "Our contact will be waiting for us."
Crichton watched Aeryn warily. Now was the point at which he would usually have been making physically contact, reassuring her. Crichton felt a trill of self loathing he'd almost managed to forget for a few seconds. The purple bruises were fading but still stood out on Aeryn's neck accusingly.
"Look," he said sharply, "There's nothing we can do about Chiana, we'll have to fill her in when she appears. We need to do what we came here to do."
Aeryn drew to a stop reluctantly. "You're right." she said.
They made their way through the hotel. They passed through rooms that were only slightly less opulent than a a palace. Every conceivable surface and object glittered or shone, as if the architect had been a demented magpie. Here in the uncharted territories, it was perfectly conceivable that he was.
"Our contact is a man named Tanis." Crichton said. "He'll contact us in the reception and take us to meet the resistance."
They walked past an archway that opened into a ballroom large enough for a leviathan to get lost in.
"How do we recognise him?" asked Jothee.
"We don't. He's been given our description, he'll contact us."
"Then how do we know he is who he claims to be?"
"We don't." Aeryn repeated.
"Frell."
"Their game, their rules." Crichton shortly.
They reached the end of the corridor. It opened up into a a high ceilinged room. There was a small fat man wearing a brightly coloured uniform with so many gold braids and tassels that he looked like a piece of mobile upholstery. He also looked slightly frightened, possibly owing to the grey armoured and visored soldiers who surrounded him.
For a moment, everyone stood, frozen in mid stride. Then one of the soldiers turned his head towards them.
"You – stop!"
The command seemed to have the opposite effect to the one desired. They ducked back into the corridor. A moment later a volley of pulse blasts followed them, charring some paintings and blasting a chunk out of a marble pillar.
"Crap!" Crichton swore, "Stormtroopers!"
"How the frell did they find us?" Jothee said.
There were shouts, followed by several more shots which narrowly missed them.
"Does it matter?" Aeryn said, "Would you maybe like to wait and ask them?"
They ran back down the corridor Crichton heard booted footfalls behind them.
"Where are we running to, Aeryn?"
"I've no idea! There must be a back exit here somewhere, if we can get to the streets we -"
They ran towards a corner. As they reached it more grey clad soldiers marched around it and stood, barring their way. They skidded to a halt. Crichton looked round and saw soldiers approaching from behind.
They raised their hands. One of the soldiers stepped forward and regarded them arrogantly. It should be impossible to regard someone arrogantly whilst wearing a helmet which totally conceals facial features, but the soldier managed. Possibly they were given special training.
"You are the human, John Crichton?" the faceless soldier addressed Crichton.
Crichton tried his best. "Who me? You must have gotten the wrong hotel. I'm Capt -"
The soldier drove the butt of his rifle into Crichton's stomach. He fell to his knees, trying to wheeze through pain.
He looked up through the tears and saw the soldier raise his rifle to strike again. Then there was a blur of motion as Aeryn leaped forwards, grabbed the soldiers arm and twisted, deceptively gently. There was a muffled cracking sound and the soldier screamed.
Then other soldiers grasping Aeryn by the soldiers and dragged her back. She raised her hands calmly, her face dignified.
The leader clutched his arm, "Kill her!" he screamed in a voice that vibrated with a mixture of pain, rage and humiliation, "Kill them all!"
There was one of those moments that seemed to go on for far longer than it should. In the sudden silence, Crichton thought he could hear his heart beating. He wondered if he would hear it stop.
"Death to the establishment!"
The voice was familiar but Crichton was given no time to place it. A small round object that looked a little like a sci-fi gold ball bounced around the corner and rolled to their feet. They all stared at it.
It went beep. It exploded.
Crichton pulled himself to his feet after several false starts. He felt like his brain was spinning round and round in his skull. Thick white smoke filled the corridor. It made his eyes burn and when he drew breath it made his throat spasm. He held his breath.
A soldier stumbled towards him out of the smoke. The soldier clumsily swung his rifle at Crichton's head. He caught it with one hand and punched the man as hard as he could with the other. The soldier toppled backwards into the smoke.
Crichton clutched at his hand and whimpered a bit. His lungs felt like they were about to explode and he felt as if his brain was turning into yoghurt. Then there was someone else in front of him in the smoke. Something was shoved into his hands and that familiar voice shouted, "Put this on and follow me!"
Crichton looked uncomprehendingly at the thing in his hands. It was like half a plastic egg shell with straps around the back. There was a ridge at the top, he noted, as if it was designed to fit against something, and there was some kind of a rubber seal along the edge. He wondered what it all meant
His hands decided that they were not going to receive any meaningful input from his brain, so listened instead to the urgent messages from his screaming lungs. They clamped the gas mask over his mouth and nose.
Breathing came easier then, although he still felt like an eighty a day smoker who had just been chased up Everest. His head felt light but his thoughts seemed heavy, their weight sloshed around his head like water dizzying him. John Crichton felt a sudden longing for marmalade. He didn't even like marmalade, he couldn't stand the foul salty crap. But marmalade in that one moment represented a place and a time where people did not randomly shoot at him, chase him, club him nor gas him on a daily basis. He realised with a sudden spark of clarity that he missed marmalade.
Crichton's eyes focused just in time to see the stranger disappear into the smoke. He reeled in the same direction.
He passed a soldier, retching and clawing at his face. After a few moments he stumbled clear of the cloud. He saw several soldiers laying groaning on the floor, and as he turned back Aeryn and Jothee lurched out of the smoke towards him.
"Come on, this way!"
Crichton just caught a blur of movement as their rescuer disappeared around the corner. He heard angry shouts from somewhere in the smoke. Aeryn and Jothee ran forwards in the direction indicated, and after a moment trying to cough out his own lungs onto the floor, Crichton followed.
He followed them down the corridor, then down a side passageway which led to a kitchen. There were row upon row of metal tables, there were unidentifiable floating grey things bubbling in huge pots, there was the stink of sweat and rotting vegetables and sizzling meat. There was no man in a white hat, but there was a purple furry thing with tentacles, which flapped and screeched at him wordlessly. Crichton had time to wonder whether it was the meal or the chef before he had burst through another door and he was out into the dark, damp night air. Crichton staggered past a mound of rotting vegetable peelings then set off after the others down the alleyway.
They ran. Crichton wasn't quite sure how far or how long, but it felt as if they ran half way across the moon, and every step of the way he felt as if his heart would explode the very next beat, his feet would collapse the very next step, and his lungs would leap out and strangle him to death just to finish the job. Terror fuelled the adrenaline banks of his body and drove him mercilessly forward. At first there were the sounds of bootfalls echoing all around them in the mist that had sprung up. Gradually they faded and fell behind. Eventually they just faded.
Their mysterious benefactor slowed and then quickly ushered them into a nondescript doorway. For a moment before he ducked through the door, Crichton caught a glimpse of the man's face in the gloomy light. He was again struck by a strange sense of familiarity, and at the same time a sense of oddness which threw him.
They were lead down a flight of stairs into a dingy little cellar. It was uncomfortably cramped so that the five of them were standing shoulder to shoulder. Crichton could hear their ragged breathing in the gloom. The man who had lead them there lit a candle and looked up at them, wiping the sweat from both eyes. Crichton stared. He knew that face. It was just that there was more of it than he was used to.
"Stark." Aeryn greeted.