HE WAS DEAD.
He knew that. It was the only thing that made sense.
He expected oblivion to be different, though. He had no soul. Being only Kaarvok's copied Creature, a quick and empty death and a sharp shunt into nothingness should have been all there was to it.
He stood on a wide plain, dark grass at his feet, stars over his head, a thick ribbon of them dazzling his eyes, making him remember why space had always pulled at him so hard and why he'd always been so happy to let it. Hanging in the sky was a large orange moon, one that had been pummeled hard by meteors. Warm, scented wind moaned and whispered around him. If this were hell instead of limbo, it was vacant – and not too bad, all things considered.
He turned slowly around, looking for some structure or landmark, half-expecting a castle in the distance or some gnarled tower with a single light in the single window way up top.
Only wide, dark plain before him, in all directions. A few, broad-trunked trees with broad flat leaves.
"Are we dead?" Harvey asked him.
"I'm dead," Crichton corrected him. "You were never really alive."
"That's rather harsh, John."
"Bite me." Crichton sighed. "It figured you wouldn't even let me expire in peace. What is it with you, anyway?"
Harvey wandered away, looked around, wandered back.
"Not very inspiring," he said of the local landscape. "This has nothing to do with me, John. Oddly enough, " he added, pointing behind Crichton. "I don't think it has much to do with you, either."
Crichton turned to look where Harvey was pointing, and he was looking at the figure for a while before he realized that it was a person at all. The wind changed direction and he could suddenly smell a subtle scent, spices and vanilla and musk blended together, and he knew that Scent like he knew his own, had smelled it in his dreams every night and pretended it was something else. It hurt less that way.
What the frell was she doing in Hell? He glanced back, but Harvey was gone.
"I'm sorry," she murmured softly, in that smooth contralto of hers. It was followed by a short sigh. "Things haven't exactly gone the way I'd hoped."
He shook his head in wonder. Okay, so he was in hell and this was his torment? There were worse things, but not by much.
"Hope is for poets and priests." He told her dryly, with only a hint of bitter sarcasm. It made no difference what he said. He was dead - who gave a damn? She wasn't really anywhere near here. It was just the dying crackle of his synapses screwing with him. He was beyond any stupid hopes now.
"I can't believe you would ever say such a thing," she said.
"You have me confused with someone else." He told her. He had hoped it would have been Scorpius sent to torment him – he could spit in his face forever. Two soulless monsters each others' torture.
It so frelling figured. He didn't know what he'd done to make the universe utterly despise him so thoroughly, but despise him it so obviously did.
She blinked, as if she only now recognized him.
"It's… you," she said, the realization dawning on her. He watched the horror crawl up her face. Far from hurting his feelings, that look only hardened him.
"I didn't mean…" She stammered.
"Some things are inevitable." He told her coldly.
"I should have stayed." She said, walking toward him. "But I couldn't. I had to go with him."
He backed away. He didn't trust himself to know what to do if she tried to touch him. "You have the right to try a normal life."
"What about you?" She asks. He almost laughs. It's a little late to give a damn about him. He shrugs, walks away from her.
"I'm not him."
"Why do you believe that?" She asks, follows him, sticking the knife in, twisting it.
He shook his head. He stops, looks at her.
"I'm not. You decided."
"Are you sure?" Those liquid grey eyes of hers stare at him. He feels their pull, like a physical thing. Despite everything, he knows that whatever it was that fashioned men - fate, evolution, some capricious god - he had been designed for her – and her alone. Every borrowed cell knew it, but it made no difference.
A man was more than his cells.
"It doesn't matter."
"It matters." She says, with a sure and steady conviction. "You know I love you."
"Not me, Aeryn. Never me."
Another sigh from her, and she turns away, puts her back to him.
"One in two places."
He doesn't know what she means, just stands there and waits, wonders at her, wonders what she will say next, fascinated by this new thing, her openness. Almost sad that he had to die to finally see it. Inexplicably, he remembers that time on the Ancient-created Earth, the only time that feels real to him, as if he were real – when John had been blessed by her, by her sweet lips and perfect strong body, the privilege of touching that cool smooth skin, of feeling that exquisite combination of firm/softness of her, and through the memory feels his hands twitch and his borrowed heart almost beat. Something crackles along his nerves, and he fights it down, curses his body's false memories, furious over their temerity.
That was not him, and he must never pretend it was, nor allow others to delude him into thinking it so.
"Go away, Aeryn. Go back to him and forget me." Just let me die in peace.
"I already have." she says, and vanishes.
Darkness crashes down.
INTERLUDE
"YOU'RE IN THE WRONG PLACE."
She turned with a sudden jerk, going into a defensive posture. She had been walking through a broad field lit by pale orange moonlight, a planet she remembered seeing once, long ago. She stopped. To her right on a large boulder, sat a man garbed in black Peacekeeper leather, forearms resting on his knees. His voice was a gravelly growl, but it sounded familiar. His face was shrouded in shadow, but she could smell him, knew him like she knew herself.
"Oh, John – you startled me."
"I didn't expect you'd remember me." The voice was harder than she remembered, deeper than she knew, colder than it ever should have been. "Not John."
A ghostly face suddenly appeared at his shoulder, and to her horror, the hated cadences of Scorpius whispered through the warm night air.
"Come, Crichton – don't do this to yourself. Don't let her torture you so. Look at her… yes… beautiful and cold. Always cold – until she left you behind on Moya, of course." Harvey sneered at her, more a snarl.
"Go away, Harvey." Deadly cold. Flat. Harvey? The Neural Clone? The chalky face drew back, vanished, but the voice ghosted back.
"Left you to bear the pain, the scars, left you behind, left you to die so she could have him."
Aeryn stepped back, aghast.
"No! It wasn't like that…"
She could see one icy blue eye glare back at her.
"Is he wrong?"
"Yes!" she said emphatically, meaning it with everything she had.
"He's not wrong." He told her. She saw him rise. It hit her in the chest like a fist, but it wasn't an accusation.
"He's wrong. You have to believe that."
"Nothing to believe." The air was suddenly chilled, cold, the cold inside a crypt.
A sudden realization grew in her – as if from nowhere.
She was a million lifetimes away.
"You could die." She told him, not knowing from whence it had come. The idea of John Crichton dying… unthinkable.
He was walking away.
"What are you trying to accomplish?" She demanded. He paused, only for a moment. He was drawing back into the shadow, away from her.
"I never thought – I don't think of you as a copy."
The shadows enveloped him, caressed him as if he were one of their own.
"Goodbye." He said, and it sounded as if it had come a long way, was as final as the fall of the headsman's axe.
"This is a mistake. Coming here was a mistake."
One blue eye turned back out to her, bright and cold in that darkness. He never spoke again.
"It was a mistake."
The shadows reared at her.
"Don't do it."
She took a few steps after him, and the shadows seemed to solidify, stopped her as effectively as if they were plasteel.
"Don't die!" She shouted, desperate. She pounded on the black wall. "Don't die!"
The wall suddenly shattered, and she fell forward. He was gone, as if he'd never been there. The shadows before her were a solid wall of black, sliding away, following him, falling like heavy rain.
"Don't die for me!" She screamed into that blackness – a scream that rose and rose until all she could hear –
…was the sound of a siren outside, it's looping shriek washing past her window, red and blue light splashing on the walls. Aeryn Sun wearily looked at the clock on her bedside table, sighed when she saw it was 4:15 AM, far too early for this dren, then down at the man sleeping soundly beside her. Today he would be leaving, to work for his government, Earth's New Hero. They would be separated, and she did not know for how long. They had been told "not long", but she was suspicious of the government's word. She sighed, lay back down. She felt as if the vestiges of a dream were swirling deep down in her head, and it unsettled her. Something was very wrong, something that concerned John, but she could not pinpoint just how, or what. John sighed, did not awaken. She looked at him carefully, but nothing seemed amiss, his sleep untroubled. It was just the upcoming separation, the stresses she would no doubt encounter, the endless stupidities and frustrations dealing with bureaucrats and politicians and secrecy and silly human traditions and conventions. She didn't doubt it would all be uphill.
Sleep came back for her, and she yawned, closed her eyes.
Everything will work out, she thought, sleep claiming her. Unbidden, the thought followed: It has to - I've given up a lot.
The siren had long gone by, and the silence lingered, deepened.
You will remember, a voice seemed to say in the silence of the room, just the air moving. You must.
If Aeryn heard it, she gave no sign.
INTERLUDE ENDS
CRICHTON AWOKE, HAZY, DISORIENTED, FEELING LIKE HE'D JUST SPENT A MONTH SERIOUSLY DRUNK.
His head hurt, a lot, and he could only see out of his right eye. He reached up, felt a thick swath of bandages around his head, down half his face, wrapping around his head and throat. He had a cast on his left arm, as well. He put his hand down, looked around. He was in a very large, very clean room, white walls, white ceiling, antiseptic smell. Around him were darkened windows filled with serious equipment and blue-coated techs.
This a hospital? How bad was I hit? He felt the bandages on his face again. Hell, bad enough, apparently.
"He's awake!" he heard a familiar voice chirp, and the welcome face of his favorite Nebari came into view.
"Pip…" he croaked. Damn. He sounded terrible.
"It's okay," she said, bouncing up to the bed, gently laying a hand on the un-bandaged side of his face. "You're okay. Don't try to talk too much." She smiled a huge smile, leaned in, kissed him on the nose.
"Where…?" he asked in his croak.
"On Abbanerex," she replied. "In their executive hospital. Only the best. All expenses paid."
He heard other voices then, D'Argo's, Rygel's, Miriya's. D'Argo stepped up.
"John – how are you feeling?"
"Like… Command Carrier …parked itself on my …head." He told D'Argo. Damn – his voice was shot to hell.
Rygel laughed at him. "Well, you look like dren."
"Thanks, Ryge." Crichton managed a crooked half-smile. "S'how I feel …so I'm at least …breaking even."
Miriya stepped up behind Chiana, who stepped out of the way.
"Rygel lied. Half of you is still pretty," she jibed.
D'Argo leaned over him. "You were set up, John. Vittiga arranged for the bounty hunters to follow you. We found him - he's dead. Someone killed him, by, of all things, poison on his money. No doubt what he'd been given to betray us."
"I'd say that was …ironic, but frell the …guy." Crichton said, with something that passed for a smile. D'Argo smiled back.
He touched his bandages again. "Moya? The kid?"
"They're good. Apparently hunters went after Crais too. He did well for himself, I hear. He was almost killed by a Commando but it worked out. He was wounded as well, but not nearly so bad. He was treated and released long ago."
"So… how bad off… am I?"
"Well, maybe you should ask Koiban." Chiana said from the foot of the bed. "He treated you."
Koiban nodded to Crichton.
"You did this?" Crichton asked him.
"Yes. The physicians on this station have little experience with Sebaceans – or, uh, Humans. I have had quite a bit – with Sebaceans, at any rate, so they asked me to do what I could. Your physiology is remarkably similar."
"What's the …verdict?"
"You will live, certainly. I'm afraid some of the damage you incurred I could not repair."
The others were suddenly looking a tad gloomy.
"Like?"
"You were rather severely injured, Mr. Crichton." Chiana leaned over, whispered something in his ear. "Apologies, Commander Crichton. You were struck in the head repeatedly by an activated Shock Rod. It is, quite frankly, a miracle you were revived. I rebuilt the left side of your skull, but I could not save your eye. That organ was completely ruined,"
"My eye …is gone?" Crichton groaned. "Damn!" Half-blind. It just got better and better. But half his head had been rebuilt? Maybe the eye was the least of his worries.
"Fortunately, and this is in my estimation another minor miracle, none of the major arteries to your brain were damaged. Your voice will improve in time. You inhaled some rather harsh chemicals."
"You mean …I'm gonna sound …like this …forever?" His voice was a harsh, croaking buzz.
Koiban shook his head.
"No – in time, it will heal, but the chemicals have thickened your vocal cords. I've repaired your lungs. I'm afraid we won't know for sure until it heals completely. It was a uncertain thing for quite a while. You were clinically deceased for quite some time. We managed to steal a prison ship and make it out of the system. We were immediately picked up by D'Strand'm'tah's ships, and you were put directly into stasis. Stasis saved you, to be entirely truthful. My apologies for your disfigurement. I repaired what I could, but I am not a cosmetic surgeon."
Crichton put is head back, sighed. Dead, too. Sure, why not? It had been heading that way, anyway.
"Hey, you …did a helluva job …anyway. Thanks. Thanks, everybody." He looked back up. "How long …was I out?"
"Almost a full monen," D'Argo informed him. "D'Strand'm'tah's family is safe. He was extremely grateful. He wants to see you when you're feeling better."
Crichton waved that off.
"Talyn?" He asked, wincing as he re-adjusted himself on the bed.
"Talyn has had his neural reconstruction completed. The techs are very optimistic. He's already showing signs of excellent reconnection, although he's still unconscious, and will be, for some time yet."
"That's great. …Moya?"
"Her upgrades went very well, John," Miriya stepped back up. "Both she and Talyn needs time – he for integration of his new neural pathways. You'll probably be here for at least another half-a-monen – probably more."
Crichton put his head back down. He felt immensely weary. Life was heavy on him, but it still felt sweet. He'd done what he'd meant to do. He'd fulfilled his obligations. Good. The sky's the limit now.
"Figures. I appreciate …everything, guys. I'm just …really tired."
D'Argo told him. "We've got everything under control. You rest." He waved the others out. "Let's let John get some more sleep."
They filed out.
"Thanks, D."
"Just rest, my friend." He put a large hand gently on his shoulder for a moment, then he too left. Someone didn't. He cracked open his eye, saw Miriya still standing there.
"What?" he asked her. His voice was now just a grating buzz.
She looked a bit chagrined.
"Oh, nothing. I'm just glad you're all right." She smiled a lop-sided smile. "That was the bravest thing I've ever seen."
She meant what he'd done on Morning's Bounty.
"It was stupid." He shook his head. "I'm down an eye."
"Eyes can be replaced or re-grown, John." She paused. "Why'd you do it?" It had taken her a long time to wash his blood off her hands, arms, shirt. It had stopped her, made her think, shocked her at the price he'd paid just to get a couple of Leviathans fixed. The stories were really true – he was insane – and amazing.
"Don't know." He smiled. "Just pissed off."
"Oh."
He closed his eye, felt heavy. He opened it after she'd been silent for a few long moments.
"What now?"
Miriya looked a little embarrassed.
"It's just a little strange for me."
"What is?" He closed his eye again. His eyelid was made out of lead, and gravity was a dozen times its normal strength just then. He was tired of questions and their answers and their repercussions.
"Caring about someone." She said, softer. "So easily, so quickly." If he was surprised, she was moreso.
He sighed.
"I'm a hopeless case, Miriya."
He felt her hand gently touch his face, soft lips touched his, followed by a little laugh.
"Well, I don't want your babies or anything."
He coughed a chuckle, pried his eye again, looked into two sparkling violet ones.
"Miriya… I'm not your type."
She put a finger on his lips, smiled a crooked smile, one he wasn't sure was cynical or just rueful.
"I know."
She leaned back in, said softly, as if she were telling him a secret no one else could hear,
"I'm not offering to take anyone's place, John. I wouldn't want to, anyway."
You couldn't, he thought without rancor, nodded slightly, let her go on.
"Everything's temporary," she went on, and it sounded like something she'd believed for a long time. "I don't try to buy what I can never own, and I never take things for granted." She paused, seemed to look inward for a moment. "There are times I wished it wasn't true, but everything is temporary – and I can live with that."
She smiled that wide smile of hers, and he felt it's power perk him up, just a little. It was one of her weapons, he told himself without resentment - and a damn fine one at that.
"But, there's …something… about you, and I can't help liking you, and I rather like a few things you can do. No conditions. Just you and me and some time together, if you want, and we'll have no regrets."
"Regrets. Yeah." He thought about it for a bit. "I can do that. It's only time." He was fading fast, she noticed. She reached over to a table near him, dropped a silver object on it. He recognized it.
It was Iskijji's mask. Inside it were three silver quills.
"These were in your pocket." Miriya said, holding it up. "Three masks and these. I didn't know what they were, but you obviously thought they were important." She picked up a quill, turned it in the light, put it back in the mask. "There was some dren about rules on the station about 'trophies' or some nonsense and the 'drawing of further trouble', but I put an end to that."
He reached for it, and Miriya dropped the mask in his hand. He looked at it a few moments, at the Barbs, remembering what Iskijji had said, eye tracing the fine lines on it, then handed the barbs back. Miriya put them back on the table. The mask he dropped down to his chest, and he put a hand over it, held it there.
He nodded slightly to her voice echoing suddenly in his head.
Yeah, I'll remember.
"It is important."
Miriya waited, then smiled, knew he wasn't going to explain it, hesitated – unsure - kissed him one last time, left.
Crichton closed his eye, sighed, the sigh travelling all the way down to his feet and back again.
Alive – messed up, but alive. It doesn't matter. I'm almost done. Endure. Choose. Die - if you must - for a reason.
Out here, that was probably the best for which he could hope.
Everything was temporary. Even life itself.
He could live with that. Didn't have a helluva lot of choice in the matter.
Sleep dropped him into blissful unconsciousness, and this time, he didn't dream.
NEXT TIME ON
FARSCAPE - FREEBOOTER:
LOOSE ENDS – PASTS DUE