TITLE: No Dominion
AUTHOR: Maayan
EMAIL: maayan42@yahoo.com
SPOILERS: Anything up to and including SoD is fair game. 
RATING: R for violence, language and sexual situations.
ARCHIVING: Do not archive without permission.
SUMMARY: Three weekens after SoD. Moya's crew race against time to save Zhaan, 
and get thrown in the middle of a civil war in the process - with earth-
shattering consequences for John.
NOTES: The plot has been rendered hopelessly AU by what we learned from Jack 
about the wormhole information in Crichton's brain in Infinite Possibilities, 
but I decided to go ahead with the story as planned. 
NOTES bis: *Not* SACCer-friendly.
DISCLAIMER: Not mine. Henson's and Co. 
THANKS: To my beta readers, Brenda (aka ScribLL) and Tink, who braved a new 
fandom because I asked. 



And death shall have no dominion.
Dead men naked they shall be one
With the man in the wind and the west moon;
When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone,
They shall have stars at elbow and foot;
Though they go mad they shall be sane,
Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;
Though lovers be lost love shall not;
And death shall have no dominion. 

Dylan Thomas



The twin pulsars spun in tandem, lazy, dying gods of some ancient cosmogony. The 
entire system basked in the glow of the deranged neutron stars, and a large 
golden planet revolved underneath John's feet, precariously balanced on 
the edge of the pulsars gravitational fields. Taunting him. 

To think that Earth was the only inhabited world in the solar system, and here 
they seemed to stumble upon populated planets every other day. What was up with 
that? A capricious Big Bang, not so random after all.

Past the pulsars and light-years away from Moya, still visible to the naked eye, 
John watched the morbid dance of a binary X - the accretion disk of a black 
hole, feeding on the matter of its companion star. 

So much beauty and so much death. 

A little bit like sharing space with Aeryn.

It was hard to tell who drained the other one's energy; they roamed Moya like 
some indivisible cosmic entity, inseparable yet always apart. 

"John. It's time."

He nodded tightly to acknowledge both her entrance and her words, staring at her 
reflection in the glass panel of the terrace. Glass, or whatever the hell this 
material was - he still had to figure it out. 

"I'll be right there, Aeryn."

He had been standing at attention for the last arn. His shoulders were stiff, 
his neck rigid with tension, spine locked, chin up, hands clasped behind his 
back. A basic show of strength and control, totally superfluous aboard Moya. Or 
maybe not. He had forgotten how to be anything but on guard a long time ago. 

He turned to face the ex-Peacekeeper. 

Aeryn's leather-clad silhouette cut a striking figure in the door. He let the 
old shiver of want pass through him unnoticed, coldly taking stock, recording, 
shelving for later. 

Much later. 

He had it all down to a fine art now. 

His gaze strayed to the side. 

"She's toying with you, John. Why do you let her get away with it?"

//Shut up, Harvey. You're not invited to the party.//

The alien consciousness retreated meekly. The clone knew better than to piss him 
off. As to why John let Harvey get away with the deprecating intrusions... 
sometimes the hybrid's voice in his head was a welcome escape from the sound of 
stubborn silence, or the confusing maelstrom of disordered memories. 

//Maxime.// 

John brought his eyes forward. Aeryn was gone. 

He had expected as much. 

He missed their easy partnership already. 

Fuck.

With a sigh, John ran a gloved hand over his short dark hair and set off after 
his reluctant crewmate towards the cargo bay. The rest of the crew would be 
waiting. Some things took precedence over the enigmatic Aeryn Sun, and at the 
moment one of them was Zhaan. 





After Scorpius's death, the successful surgery and Aeryn's resurrection, they 
had left the surgical facility and spent the next weekens going through Moya's 
datacores, looking for a planet which would offer Zhaan some respite, if not a 
cure. Stark had sought out Crichton, unknown to his dying lover. Zhaan was 
hiding the progression of the disease from them, but Stark wasn't ready to let 
her go without a fight. 

Neither was John. 

He had shared Stark's words with Pilot and Aeryn. With Pilot, for obvious 
reasons, and with Aeryn, because the ex-Peacekeeper needed to feel like she was 
doing something. The search led them to Ectani Prime - a lush, golden planet 
revolving around twin pulsars. The light and the rich soil could be exactly what 
the Delvian needed. At the very least, it would garner them some time to look 
for a more aggressive cure. Best of all, Moya's sensors failed to detect any 
Peacekeeper presence in the area. 

Then there was that tight feeling at the bottom of Crichton's stomach - neither 
good nor bad, like slow burning embers. John wanted to go there. He just 
couldn't explain why. Gut instinct in all its glory. 

They hadn't talked about Peacekeepers, or Scorpius, or anything else. There had 
been no time. As far as they could tell, the Peacekeepers believed Aeryn dead 
and Crichton incapacitated. Scorpius was gone - although John struggled to 
believe that. No more hunting. If they'd had time to enjoy it, this newfound 
freedom would have been a heady feeling. 

There were always other, more pressing concerns. 

John's palm strayed along the organic curves of the transport pod and he 
reclined in his seat, trusting Aeryn to take them safely down to the surface. 
Delicate fingers closed around his forearm and he turned his head to confront 
their owner. 

Zhaan smiled gently, and he was forced to return the kindness. 

It wasn't fair that he should draw comfort from her touch. He had taken enough 
already. Her smile dimmed. He had always been transparent to Zhaan. They all 
were. They had come to her room with news of a suitable planet, and she had 
welcomed them with a quiet nod and wise eyes. Aware all along of what they were 
trying to do. For all John knew, Moya herself had whispered echoes of their 
secret meetings to the dying Delvian. He had witnessed stranger things. 

Zhaan's hand lingered on his forearm, but he turned his attention away from her. 
He too could read her well. Not all the time, but now, when she was too tired to 
hide and deceive, he would look inside eyes as blue as his own and choke on the 
depth of her acceptance, her calm embrace of fate and death. She was going along 
with this for their sake. Just as John had involved Aeryn because the Sebacean 
needed to take part in their efforts to save Zhaan, the priestess humored her 
children in the name of peace and their own healing. 

//There is nothing you can do.

//I will not accept that.

//I know.//

There was no end to his arrogance and his folly. Johnny-boy to the rescue. 
Savior of the Uncharted Territories. Hale-fucking-luja.

"We land in one hundred microts," Aeryn announced from the pilot's seat. 

D'Argo bent to retrieve his Qualta blade. Stark began fussing over Zhaan again. 
Rygel held on tighter to his throne-sled. Chiana and Jothee had remained aboard 
Moya to assist Pilot and watch over the Interons. Not that the humanoid 
popsicles would be going anywhere soon. 

Blood on his hands and on his brain. 

John Crichton almost smiled. 





"What the hell am I looking at, Blue?"

Zhaan clasped John's arm and stirred him onward with an indulgent smile. Stark 
trailed behind them, preceding D'Argo and Rygel. Aeryn walked ahead, the heel of 
her right hand resting on her holstered pulse pistol. No need to scare the 
natives witless, but no need to lower their guards either. 

"It's a weather dome, John," Zhaan answered, leaning against his side. He slowed 
down to match her languid pace, gaze riveted to the huge, transparent sphere 
surrounding the city of Ectani. "It is designed to protect the city from natural 
disturbances of unusual magnitude and magnetic interference from the twin 
pulsars. According to Pilot, we are not anywhere near storm season now, so we 
can safely leave the pod outside the dome's perimeter."

"Good thing too," John grunted. "I've had enough of bad weather on that goddamn 
ice cube, and keeping the transport outside this shiny little bubble makes for 
surer escape routes."

"Do not worry so, John. We have no reason to believe an escape route will be 
needed during our stay."

Crichton didn't answer her, nodding absentmindedly. Avoiding her eyes with 
deliberate care. Zhaan didn't need to read his face to capture his thoughts. 

//When I stop worrying, people die.//

She held his arm tighter, willing her warmth into him. 

John felt cold to her. He had for some time - as if the icy tendrils of the 
frozen planet refused to relinquish him. Stubborn memories of free-falling 
ejection seats, intrusive surgery, restraints and utter helplessness. They had 
been so caught up in the unexpected joy of their reunion with Aeryn, the grim 
satisfaction of Scorpius's death and the grief-stricken shock of Zhaan's own 
sacrifice. The Delvian wondered if anyone had bothered to inquire after him at 
all. When had John last talked, really talked, with any of them? 

When had John last been the sole master of his own mind?

One cycle and counting. Zhaan shuddered. One cycle. There was no telling what 
hidden damage the chip - Scorpius's consciousness - had wrecked over such a long 
period of time. John put up a strong, convincing front, but shadows lurked 
underneath the comforting facade of sarcasm, friendship, confidence and deranged 
humor. 

Whatever the outcome, this enforced rest would do them all some good. Zhaan 
refused to leave this realm without knowing whether all of her children would be 
safe. 

"So. What's the deal with the people here?" John was frowning, eyeing the tall, 
elegant bronze buildings beyond the protection of the dome with suspicion. 
"Looks an awful lot like another royal planet to me."

"This colony is much younger, John, a lot less decadent," Zhaan explained with a 
little laugh. "In fact, these Sebaceans broke off from the royal system hundreds 
of cycles ago, although they remain allies."

"Very reassuring." The Human shook his head with a derisive smirk. "Well, stop 
me before I kiss anybody this time. Deal?"

Zhaan tilted her head a little to the left. Chiana had informed her of John's 
ordeal on the royal planet. His reluctance was understandable. The Human's trust 
was in short supply these days. "Yes, John. I believe it is, as you say, a 
'deal'." 

"Thanks, Blue."

"No. Thank you, John."

He smiled for her, but there was no joy in it. He spread his free arm in a wide 
arc before them. "So what do ya say, Zhaanie? Think you'll like it here?" 

She ignored the bitter cheer and the modest grin, but answered him truthfully. 
"I do not know yet, John." She lifted her eyes to the whitened sky. "Under the 
pulsar's light, I feel better already. The pain is... less." She stopped and 
bent to gather a fistful of pungent earth. Crichton kept his arm wrapped around 
her in support. She brought her hand to her nose and inhaled. She could 
almost believe. "Maybe, John. Maybe." 

It was all she could concede. She refused to lie to him. 

He nodded, subdued, and they set off once more after Aeryn. The ex-Peacekeeper 
had stopped to wait for them, but she was still far enough that she wouldn't 
inadvertently eavesdrop on their conversation. Zhaan accepted the unnecessary 
gesture of esteem with resigned understanding. How far Aeryn had come. How proud 
of her Zhaan was, even if she had no right to feel such pride. The merit was 
Aeryn's and Aeryn's alone - once John's turbulent will and irrepressible faith 
had set her on her course. 

To the uninformed observer, Aeryn had undergone the most radical transformation, 
from wasted potential to radiant incarnation of one who was, ultimately, so much 
more than a Peacekeeper. But Aeryn was in so many ways not much more than a 
child - her growth could have been nothing but radical. John... John was another 
matter. 

From the start, Zhaan had sensed a self-assured soul and a strong center. Time 
and tragedy had conspired to undermine his foundations. While Aeryn couldn't 
help but benefit from whatever the future threw her way, John could only mourn 
what he had once possessed, what once was, what had been ripped away from him. 

Certitude.

Belief.

Faith. 

It took more destructive power to bring down so strong an edifice, than it took 
perseverance to raise it. Reconstruction meant tearing down the ruins, starting 
anew. Zhaan had been there. They faced uncertain times. John was floundering, 
while Aeryn's footing was not yet confident enough to hold them both upright. 

//And now, I am leaving them. My children.//

Responsibility pounded at the doors, raging against the soothing acceptance of 
her fate. Dared she indulge in one last act of selfishness? Dared she lay down 
to die, and abandon them to pick up the pieces?

//Ka'halen, guide me.//

Her survival rested in the hands of the Goddess.

"Hey, Zhaan? You still with me?" John's breath, warm against her ear. His voice 
was so very soft, and so very sad. 

"I am fine, John. Only admiring this amazing flora."

He nodded, taking in their surroundings himself, looking away from her to an 
edge of tall, ever golden trees. "Yeah. It's quite something."

Zhaan sighed in contentment. She felt better for the honest, if furtive note of 
wonderment floating beneath John's words. 

Her companion looked down at his heavy combat boots sinking into the lush, 
fertile ground with each new step. "Zhaan, I need to... I'm going to say 
something. I don't... don't expect any answer. I don't want one. Please, just... 
accept it."

Zhaan's eyes darkened, but she honored his request with a silent nod. 

He sighed. Pausing again so that they could face each other. 

Stark stood a few paces behind them, but John didn't seem to care. His warm, 
strong hands framed her face with aching tenderness, and she had to fight tears. 
He leaned forward ever so slowly, expecting her to push him away, but she held 
still. At last, his lips brushed against her brow, against her diseased skin, 
and lingered there. He pulled away a little, fathomless cerulean eyes, shuttered 
and pained. 

"I'm sorry, Zhaan. I'm so very, very sorry."

Stark bristled, and she wished him to stay away. She shook her head lightly, 
parting her lips to interrupt, but John's fingertips softly sealed her mouth. 
"I'll do whatever it takes, I swear, Zhaan. I can't promise you I'm going to 
heal you, because I'm not a god." He chuckled. It was a sorrowful, tormented 
sound. "Took me a while to realize that one. But if there's even a chance... I 
won't let you down. Not ever again."

John, always so willing to take the weight of the universe on his shoulders. So 
deeply wounded, yet never broken. For that brief moment while his eyes held 
hers, sealing their covenant, it hurt. Hurt so terribly, Zhaan thought Death had 
caught up to her. She had shared Unity with John, more than once. Better than 
anyone, she was aware of the cost - of the stains survival had left on his soul. 
But his core, his essence, still bespoke of infinite compassion, loyalty and 
undying strength. Bespoke of his love for her. For them all. And he hadn't 
needed eight hundred cycles to get there. 

//See what I see... Build on that piece.//

She tilted her head with grace, acknowledging his words. He wasn't ready 
to hear her. Before the end came, she would enter Unity with him. One last time. 
And return the gift. 

//Fight all the things that betray you.//

Show him, really show him, how precious and magnificent he was. 




Drops of light glittering through the windows of the solarium. Above her, the 
sky. Underneath her feet, the bustle of the merchants and the crowds, going 
about their daily lives in the market square. 

Allara never tired of the view. 

At times, she almost believed that her decision to become a priestess had less 
to do with faith than fond memories of roaming the temple as a child. No walls, 
but isolation nonetheless. Peace and quiet. The glass-like construction 
preserved her from the agitated masses of her fellow citizens, like the dome 
preserved Ectani from the capricious planet's atmosphere. 

She could see hundreds of metras in every direction by simply turning on 
herself, yet no one could see her. The reflection of the solar rays on the 
polished glass concealed the depths of the temple from profane eyes. 

Allara stood very still, staring at history unfolding a few denches underneath 
her. 

"He has arrived."

She didn't turn around. She had felt Jarian's approach as soon as he had entered 
the edifice. "I know, brother."

The tall, dark-haired man dressed in the dark brown leather of their order, 
joined her in front of the bay window and grasped her hand. "The leviathan 
remains in low geostationary orbit. Their pod landed outside the dome. The 
Regent gave them permission to stay for as long as they wished."

She felt his inquisitive gaze on her and tried to summon a smile. He wasn't 
fooled. Threading his fingers through her thick blond curls, he tilted her face 
to the side, forcing her to meet his gaze. "Why so sad, my sister?"

If she explained, would he understand?

"It is... hard, to reconcile my duty as a citizen and my oath as a priest."

"It is prophecy, Allara. What will be has already been written."

She pulled away from her sibling, taken aback by her own anger. "It is not 
prophecy, Jarian! We, the religious cast, should know better. The scroll was 
written seven hundred cycles ago, a mere transcription of what Kalem Sacot saw 
in the temporal rift. One glimpse of a possible future. But the future is not 
static. We could take matters into our own hands. We could choose a different 
path." She choked, shivering. "We could renounce war."

Jarian was shaking his head, the infinite patience that she envied so softening 
his features, his kind brown eyes. "Generations of scribes and priests have been 
over this, Allara. I have forgotten how many times you and I have had this same 
discussion. We dare not alter what we know of the future. According to Sacot's 
vision, we stand a fighting chance as long as the Human is here. If we turn him 
away, who knows what will become of us?"

"It is not the uncertainty of our fate, which saddens me, brother. It is not the 
specter of war, looming over the horizon, either."

"Then, what?"

She sighed deeply, and lay her hand against the warm pane of the window, 
watching the leather-clad figure she had hoped never to see penetrate the 
dome with his companions. "I grieve for him, Jarian. I mourn the inevitability 
of his suffering."

Jarian approached her slowly, as if she would bolt, and wrapped his arms 
around her shoulders. "So compassionate, Allara. Please, don't do something 
foolish. I would not be able to protect you from the Regent's wrath if you 
interfered. Our order may have kept the prophecy a secret from everyone, even 
our rulers for all those cycles, but Tesha has her own plans for the Human. We 
cannot appear to be taking interest in him. If anyone suspects..."

"They will attempt to assassinate him," she murmured, kissing the back of his 
hand. 

"Yes," Jarian said, not without kindness. 

She shivered. He only held her tighter. "There is so much more at stake here 
than this city, this planet, our war, brother. So much more that we do not yet 
understand. Sacot's vision showed us so little. We want to believe that we can 
master our future, but we are adrift."

Jarian nuzzled the hollow between her neck and shoulder. Together, they watched 
the strangers make their way confidently into the city - ignorant of small 
matters like time's invariance and prophetic quantum singularities. 




Ectani was built on fertile land, surrounded by wild forests of tall, golden 
trees visible through the gigantic dome. The city was dominated by a high, 
needle-like bronze edifice, which they learned was the palace. Another 
construction made of some reflective material Aeryn could not identify stood 
beside it. Inquiries brought back information that this was Ectani's main 
temple. 

Crichton perked up at that. "I thought Sebaceans didn't believe in anything. 
What would they need a temple for?"

The ex-Peacekeeper slowed down the pace, letting John and Zhaan catch up to her. 
There was no sarcasm in Crichton's tone, only mild curiosity, and this pleased 
Aeryn for reasons she could not quite name. She answered him, while they trailed 
through the narrow streets of what looked like the entertainment district, 
searching for a place to stay. 

"I learned a bit about the history of this colony when we were on the royal 
planet." Tactfully, she omitted to tell Crichton that the information had come 
from Dregon. That she had begun to plan a future away from Moya, when it seemed 
like John would marry Katralla and leave her behind. She had looked for a place 
where she might fit in and settle down. "You remember that dynastic integrity 
the Empress kept going on about?" 

John shot her a look. Of course, how could he forget? 

"Almost a thousand cycles ago, one of the princes had an offspring out of 
wedlock. It was all kept secret for the sake of political stability, and the 
child was exiled here with servants and a handful of colonists."

"Don't tell me a few dozen Sebaceans have managed to populate this planet all on 
their own, even if they had a thousand years to do it in," John said, his gaze 
panning around the sprawling city and its millions of inhabitants. 

Aeryn shook her head. "No. Fifty cycles or so after the child was sent away, the 
secret somehow leaked out of the palace. By then, it was too late. The dynastic 
integrity could not be compromised--"

"Because the prince had been Han Solo-ed," Crichton interrupted.

Aeryn ignored his obscure reference, although she caught the gist of it. 
"Because the prince was already married and turned into a statue. Some 
unsatisfied members of the nobility thought it was a good time to secede from 
the royal colonies and joined their compatriots out here, dragging a large 
following along. Tensions were high between the colonies for a while, but as 
Ectani grew into a thriving kingdom, things settled down and an alliance treaty 
was signed."

"So Ectani upholds the same policy of non-alignment as the royal system?" John 
asked.

"Yes. But Ectani Prime has very little power beyond this planet's immediate 
surrounding territories. Things are a lot more quiet here."

John relaxed. "Good. Quiet is good." 

Aeryn's eyes met Zhaan's troubled gaze, finding a familiar concern reflected in 
the clear blue orbs. The smile might be in place, the manic, rapid-fire, 
senseless chatter, or the cocky attitude John seemed to have picked up along 
with his fondness for Peacekeeper outfits, but there were other, more disturbing 
signs, which the women couldn't ignore. The purple shadows underneath sunken 
eyes, the paleness, the inattention, the fugue states, the occasional trembling 
of the hands - Crichton was running on nervous energy alone. 

"So what does this have to do with the fact that Sebaceans have a temple?" John 
asked, looking puzzled and genuinely intrigued. 

"The colonists were not the original inhabitants of this planet," Aeryn 
explained. "The aliens who lived here had a very advanced civilization. They 
welcomed the colonists, built the dome, cohabited with them for a long time. 
Then one day they just... left. By then the citizens of Ectani had adopted some 
of their beliefs, and those remained."

Crichton laughed, staring at the people going about their business around him, 
with what seemed like renewed appreciation. "So, what you're saying is that 
these guys have been irreversibly contaminated?" He winked at Zhaan with a broad 
smile. "Hell, we're gonna fit right in." 

John cocked his head towards a group of men in crimson leather suits, gathered 
in front of some kind of shop. Two women in similar attire were tending to them 
- their suits were black. Everyone they had come across so far had been wearing 
one of these two colors, save for a couple of Sebaceans dressed in brown when 
they passed the entrance of the temple.

"What's with the color code?" 

Once again, Aeryn took up the explanation. "This society is organized pretty 
rigidly, in casts."

John nodded. "Yeah, in some countries we got that on Earth, too."

Aeryn and Zhaan exchanged another meaningful glance. It had been a while since 
John had mentioned his home. 

"Red suits," the ex-Peacekeeper said, "are reserved for the warrior cast. 
Civilians wear black. The religious caste wears brown. The royal family wears 
gold."

"Looks more like the standard dominatrix outfit than religious robes to me, but 
whatever." John gave Aeryn a little salute. "Avoid red and gold like the plague. 
Got it. It's like one big game of Stratego."

She wasn't going to ask, but John waved his hand in her direction anyway. 
"Forget it."

He paused, Zhaan still leaning against his side, surveying their surroundings. 
They had left behind the center of the city, with its sky-reaching pyramidal 
edifices. The constructions in this district had been planned on a much smaller, 
reasonable scale. No building was higher than three stories. John had stopped in 
front of some kind of inn.

"Hey, Aeryn?" he asked, gesturing at the sign, written in Sebacean. "Does it say 
if they got vacancies?"

She shook her head. "No. It just states the name of the owner, his business, and 
his caste. But we can go in and inquire."

John wrapped his arm more securely around Zhaan. Stark had come up behind them, 
resting a hand on the back of his exhausted lover. The light was dimming - one 
of the pulsars setting beyond the planet's horizon. "Yeah," Crichton said 
softly, watching Aeryn over the head of the faltering Delvian. "I think that 
would be best."





Aeryn found him much later, on the open roof of the inn. 

A quick dinner, and they had retired to their rooms. Rygel had food delivered. 
There were advantages to waving around large amounts of currency. Their pulse 
weapons and D'Argo's Qualta blade insured that the rest of the patrons, mostly 
alien traders visiting Ectani on business, steered clear of them. 

The crew had agreed to get a good night's rest and reconvene in the morning. 
Stark, John and Aeryn would accompany Zhaan beyond the dome, deep into the 
forest, hoping that this planet's soil held some of the nutrients the priestess 
so needed. 

Aeryn was woken up by his cries. She always slept soundly, but John, who never 
bothered to hide his fears even when he was awake, surrendered to them 
unconditionally in the throes of unconsciousness. 

The walls were thin. 

She heard the shout, the tumble and muffled curse which meant that Crichton had 
hit the nightstand getting out of bed, the indiscriminate rummaging as he 
dressed and the soft click of the door when he left the room. 

She contemplated staying in bed - going back to that warm blackness where Zhaan 
wasn't dying. As far as she could tell from the sounds, John hadn't left the 
inn. What were the odds that he would get into trouble? 

She stared at the unsullied ceiling for a few microts. 

Guilt. 

What a frelling pointless emotion. 

If she stayed here, she would feel guilty for not being there for him. If she 
went to see him, she could make things worse. Either way, the possibility of 
catching a few more arns of sleep was fading away. 

With a groan, Aeryn dragged herself out of bed. She slipped on her leather pants 
and boots, leaving them untied. She forwent her leather jacket - the air was 
warm - and tied her hair in a quick, messy braid. She grabbed her weapon on the 
way out and left her room in silence, looking for a clue as to John's 
whereabouts. 

A door, which led to a flight of stairs and what Aeryn assumed to be the roof 
was still swinging. 

She reached the top of the stairs and emerged outside, greeted by the rumors of 
the busy merchant metropolis. At first, she thought that the light coming from 
the noisy streets beneath her was blocking out the stars, until she remembered 
what the innkeeper had told them about the dome. 

The planet was trapped in the gravitational web of the twin pulsars, like a 
child's toy balanced on a precarious edge. Night never fell, one pulsar rising 
over the horizon while the other set - dusk and dawn, a single moment in time. 
On top of its shielding duties, the dome had been conceived to offer Ectani an 
artificial night. It meant forsaking the starlight. Only the muffled glare 
of one of the pulsars was visible at the zenith, like a flaring, dying sun 
viewed through a dark prism. 

And there he was. 

Sitting on the ledge, legs swinging in the air, looking so young it made her 
want to throw up. Young equaled vulnerable, and a vulnerable John meant rattlers 
in her stomach. She hated those. 

The streetlight bounced off the dark bronze walls of the city, framing his 
familiar profile - bright eyes, pliant lips and soft cheekbones. His hands were 
joined loosely in his lap, shoulders stooped, fatigue drawn in every line of his 
body. 

Aeryn sighed. She rarely had to do the comforting, and he never asked for it. 
Focusing on other people's problems was John's way of running away from his own. 
Aeryn wasn't experienced enough at this emotional dren to decide if it was 
selflessness on his part, or cleverly disguised cowardice. Reading others had 
never been her strong suit, and after two cycles, John Crichton was still a 
perfectly annoying enigma. 

"Hey, Aeryn. Aeryn?"

How did he know she was there? She had been stealthy. 

She straightened like a good little soldier and walked out of the doorway's 
shadows towards him. "Yes, John."

He twisted around to look at her. She couldn't see his face against the backdrop 
of the city lights. "Is everything okay? You need me for something?"

He never assumed that she could be there for him - only that she had need of 
him. Why was that? 

Why did John do anything that he did? 

She opened her mouth to tell him that he had woken her up, then thought better 
of it. "No. I couldn't sleep."

John cocked his head to the left. She missed not being able to look into his 
eyes. "Yeah. Me either," he said at length, stating the obvious.

This was not going well at all. What was she supposed to do now? Had she 
expected him to come right out and share with her what was bothering him? John 
was very good at honing in on his crewmates' woes and worries. He wasn't half as 
cooperative when it came to volunteering his own. 

Not that she really needed him to explain. She wasn't privy to the content of 
his nightmares, but she could hazard a few guesses. He had, after all, spent the 
past cycle slipping into madness. He had never completely recovered from his 
treatment at Scorpius's hands on the gammak base - the spiral culminating with 
his surrender at the shadow depository, their frenzied escape, her subsequent 
death and the savage brain surgery. It had hardly been three weekens since he 
had been strapped down on the surgeon's table, brain laid open. Three weekens 
since he had killed her. 

Aeryn stood next to him, peering over the ledge, musing. So what if he couldn't 
sleep? By all accounts, he should be a raving lunatic. 

"This," John said without preamble, pointing at the uniform blackness of the 
sky-dome, "wigs me out."

Aeryn lived in dread of the day John wised up and realized once and for all how 
very little of everything he said his companions understood. Would he attempt 
genetic manipulation of the translator microbes? Radiation therapy? He was still 
very much a scientist. Once, she had seen him dissect a used dentic. Aeryn 
tended to forget that John had known nothing of space, dentics or any other 
alien life-forms a measly two cycles ago. 

He seemed to have forgotten himself. 

"Does that means it gives you a wooly?"

John blinked at her, nonplussed, then smiled a little. "The willies, Aeryn. It's 
the *willies*."

'Willies', 'wooly', 'woody'... sounded all the same to her. At least, he never 
mocked her efforts. And it made him smile. A cycle later and she still 
remembered the plate of food cubes with the funny face. John had thought smiling 
was important then. 

Aeryn acknowledged his correction with a grunt. "Being raised in space means 
that the view never looks familiar. It's always new constellations, new stars," 
she said, trying to bait him out of his sulk. "But you're right, this black sky 
is a bit... unsettling." What the frell was she doing? She was babbling like 
Rygel negotiating for Hynerian marjoles.  

John nodded, distracted, staring at his dangling feet. Aeryn hopped onto the 
ledge next to him, as close as she could without touching. 

She couldn't remember much about drowning, about dying, but she still had 
flashes of the neural cluster. 

//No matter what happens... you... have worked your way... into my heart.//

John, leaning towards her, callused yet surprisingly soft fingers framing her 
jaw, hot breath on her cheek, moist lips so close to her own, fear for him 
making his proximity all the sweeter. 

Pain and blackness. 

Aeryn was very careful not to flinch from his touch. She didn't want to 
punish him. She had entertained the thought, for a microt, when she first came 
back, and despised herself for that lapse, but she was still angry. It was 
irrational, she knew, yet it helped little. She was angry that Scorpius died 
before she could exact her revenge for what he had put John through, angry that 
John had succumbed to the chip, angry that the clone still lurked inside John's 
brain, angry that she had allowed her emotions to blind her and failed to shoot 
Crichton down before he killed her. 

Death was her gift. 

She had dispensed death to Zhaan unwillingly, and failed to offer it to John 
when it could have done some good. She wanted to be more than death's messenger, 
and it had almost killed them all. 

Aeryn stared at her fingertips, so close to John's leather-clad thigh. She could 
reach out and touch him. She could bridge the chasm.

//We will not act on it.//

John, sensitive little Human that he was, was abiding by her wishes and 
stubbornly refused to take the decision out of her hands. He kept his distance 
and never complained. When she snapped at him - frustration and need clawing at 
her womb - he didn't try to defend himself. He just shut down and pulled away. 
It only cut that much deeper, fanned her anger.

He would never retreat - never back off - before, whatever she did or said to 
him. And she had said a lot. Done a lot, too. Now all it took was the twitch of 
an eyebrow. A shiver of her hand, and he was gone. When she approached him, when 
the contact lingered, he mistook it for charity. Maybe, just maybe, she did want 
to punish him. Give in to the condescending little voice in her head. 

//Don't worry about it. He's not going anywhere. He doesn't have anyone but you. 
Let Crichton suffer. It's what he does best.// 

Frelling great. She had her own clone now.

On the ledge, John shifted, withdrawing away from her. Aeryn was well aware of 
the true depths of John's empathy, but he couldn't have guessed what she was 
thinking. Right? 

John would know. The words, the touches, the little comforts. If John were in 
her place, he would know how to put everything right. Aeryn wasn't used to 
lesser races making her feel inadequate. She didn't like it.

Tentatively, she leaned her head against his shoulder, like she had done so many 
times before, and her hand came to rest at the back of his head, caressing damp, 
short hair. John exhaled a little gasp, so very still, before slowly backing 
away from her, one hand making sure she wouldn't tip to the side when he 
withdrew his support. 

"Not tonight, Aeryn," he whispered, looking into her eyes. He smiled self-
consciously. No reproach there. "I'm not up to it, okay? Can we just sit here, 
enjoy the view, no games?"

She froze. 

Games.

Was he making fun of her? 

She turned, looking forward to an empty bed. John was right after all. Not 
tonight. 

"I talked to the innkeeper before turning in." She paused, striding the ledge 
with her back to him. "The dome does more than keep away the bad weather. It 
filters out the radiation from the twin pulsars. The people here have devised 
some pretty cool drugs so that Sebaceans can survive outside the dome for long 
period of times, so you can go with Zhaan tomorrow. She won't be affected. The 
radiation's exactly what she needs. Rygel will be fine without the drugs, 
because of his metabolism, but D'Argo and Stark will have to stay behind." John 
paused. "Astroboy won't be happy about that one."

Aeryn couldn't help but ask. "What about you?" 

She felt the infinitesimal displacement of air when he shrugged. If she closed 
her eyes, she could picture him - chin resting against his breastbone, that 
crooked, unassuming smile which ignited liquid fire in her loins, the falsely 
tranquil, dark-ringed cerulean eyes. 

"I'll take the drugs. Go with you and Zhaan. If I start cookin', we'll know I 
made a mistake."

She stood to face him with a disapproving scowl. "Crichton, that's madness."

He chuckled, the tips of his fingers worrying his lips. "Been there. Done that. 
Got the full body suit."

She almost apologized.

Turned around and made her way back to the stairway.

"See you in the morning, John."

She stole one last look at his forlorn figure, bathed in copper and darkness. 
His murmured answer escorted her in. 

"Sleep well, Aeryn."





"Sir." 

Annoying buzz in his ear, reminding him of the vibrations and the noises of a 
command carrier.

"Sir."

He missed the regulated environment of his defunct gammak base. These new 
installations, hastily thrown together, still had some ways to go in terms of 
accommodating his exigent physiology. 

"Sir? Are you all right?"

Scorpius sat up on his cot, feeling the tell-tale tension between his eyes. It 
was time to insert a new cooling rod, but there were other matters to attend to. 
"Come in, Lieutenant."

The door slid open, admitting his second in command. Braca's face was the 
picture of trained obedience. Bad news, then. Not that he had expected any 
different. 

Braca came to stand at attention at the foot of the cot, hands clasped behind 
his back, eyes fixed on some point above Scorpius's head. "I'm sorry to wake 
you, Sir."

It was a dance. An annoying, but necessary ritual. They had fallen into a rhythm 
over the monens since Scorpius had taken over Crais' ship. Braca's compliance 
and loyalty was self-serving at best, condescending at worst, but he was 
efficient. He had come to respect Scorpius's authority, even though his 
uneasiness and downright disgust at obeying the hybrid still flared up once in a 
while. Scorpius didn't mind. It made Braca more predictable. 

Predictability was a good thing in subordinates. 

"Why are you sorry, Lieutenant? I asked you to wake me, didn't I?"

Braca was off-balance again, but Scorpius was pleased to see him recover 
quickly. The half-breed had expanded minimal energy into molding the lieutenant 
into the perfect tool, and it was always satisfying to see one's plan come to 
fruition. 

Cold comfort, however, when major undertakings seemed on the verge of being 
thwarted, once again. 

How long until some ignorant commander from High Command sent someone at the 
base to challenge Scorpius's authority? It had been hard enough to convince the 
military to give a scientist the reins of a full gammak base. He had been 
allowed to take over the command carrier because Crais had proven insubordinate 
and unstable, but he couldn't expect Peacekeeper Command to watch from the 
sidelines for much longer. Not when the Scarran threat was more immediate than 
ever. 

Scorpius stilled before rising to face the lieutenant, calming himself down. 
Thinking of the Scarrans had a way of rising his core temperature. He stood, 
leather creaking in tandem with his careful movements. The suit had been a part 
of him for many cycles - he hated it. Woke every single time frivolously wishing 
it was gone. 

Scorpius had no patience for foolishness. Even his own.

"Report, Lieutenant."

"Sir, the techs have completed the analyses you requested. The results are 
available for your review."

Definitely bad news. This did not overly disturb Scorpius. Despite the threat 
from High Command, information gathering and problem-solving were what he 
excelled at, and what he, for lack of a better word, enjoyed. His skills had 
asserted themselves at an early age, allowing him to rise above the status of 
scientific curiosity and convenient lab rat. 

He didn't like to think back to those days. 

The experimentation. The humiliation. The pain.

Had it not been for his intelligence, he would have been terminated once the 
scientists realized that hybridization in no way provided answers to Sebacean 
thermal instability. Quite the contrary. 

He had learned much from the researchers who had experimented on him, soon 
outpacing them. He understood now that his suffering had served a higher 
purpose. The scientists were all dead. He had made sure of that. In a noticeable 
twist of irony, John Crichton had killed the last one when he had blown up the 
gammak base. 

Crichton. 

It always came back to John. 

Scorpius did not believe in fate, but the Human had a way of challenging his 
certitudes. 

A challenge. Yes. For a while, it had almost felt like Scorpius would miss the 
resourceful Human.

Scorpius contemplated Braca's carefully concealed discomfiture, until the 
lieutenant squirmed under his gaze. 

It now looked like his path and Crichton's might just be destined to cross 
again. Abandoning him on the frozen planet had been a rare miscalculation on 
Scorpius's part. He should have secured John along with the chip until 
completion of the analysis. Instead, he had allowed himself to be blinded by 
anger and the heady arrogance of victory.

For the first time in his painful life, Scorpius found himself hoping.

Hoping that John Crichton was not dead.




Breakfast - a thick white paste which tasted sweet on Aeryn's tongue, and 
generous helpings of some dark hot beverage Crichton said reminded him of Ko'ffi 
- was swallowed swiftly. 

If anyone noticed the Human's exhausted appearance, they kept it to themselves, 
and Aeryn didn't ask if he had slept at all. It was quite obvious that he 
hadn't. The dark shadows underneath weary eyes were starting to look like 
bruises, and his skin was paler than usual. 

Still, he ate and talked animatedly, not about to be deterred from his usual 
running commentary - not even by Stark, who, as predicted, was not taking 
to the news that he couldn't accompany Zhaan outside the dome well. Crichton's 
reasonable explanation - about the radiation and the drug - was dismissed. Stark 
only grew angrier. 

"I can take the drug, I can, I can..." Stark stuttered, almost panicked. 

"Sweet Stark..." Zhaan whispered, but he wouldn't let himself be soothed by her 
touch. 

They were drawing attention from the other patrons. Aeryn's hand rested close to 
her pistol. D'Argo had his Qualta blade on his knees, rather than at his back. 
Force of habit. 

Crichton's voice was low and gentle. "Stark, buddy, I understand. I'm sure there 
are tests we can do. But the innkeeper was pretty adamant that the drug wouldn't 
work for a Banik, and that the radiation would disrupt your energy pattern. We 
don't know how long any of us can survive exposure. We weren't harmed over the 
short time it took to reach the dome from the pod, but do you really want to 
risk it? Zhaan will need you later..."

Stark wasn't listening. "You have no... no right... no right to be with her, 
Crichton. Me. It should be me."

"I know that--" John interrupted, placating.

"Death," Stark moaned, laying his head on Zhaan's shoulder. "There's too much 
death." His one insane eye zeroed in on Crichton with frightening intensity. 
Aeryn wondered what he was seeing. "And you're at the center of it. Always the 
center..."

John froze. 

D'Argo growled, and Aeryn held very still.

Even Rygel stopped stuffing his face.

The background noise of the inn faded to a dull buzz. 

"Stark," Zhaan admonished softly, but John raised a hand to silence her. 

The handsome lines around his mouth and eyes tightened, anger and resignation 
warring for dominance. "I said you could guilt-trip me, and that still holds, 
Stark, but I'm not letting anyone else die if I have anything to say about it. 
So you'll take the damn test." Aeryn shifted to attract his attention. He 
scowled in her direction. "Right. We both take the test. And if you fail it, 
Stark, you stay behind. No discussion. Got it?"

The Banik looked like he would argue again, but D'Argo punched him the shoulder, 
barely checking his strength, shutting him up. 

"Fine," John said, standing. "Let's get this show on the road."





It was agreed that they would procure the drug, then accompany Zhaan to the edge 
of the dome where the crew would split up. John, Aeryn, and maybe Stark would 
escort the priestess outside the dome, while D'Argo and Rygel would remain 
behind, using the time to secure supplies. The Delvian had insisted that she 
could make her way to the forest just fine on her own, but she was respectfully 
ignored. 

They stepped out into a pretense of dawn - the dome allowing the pulsar light 
through in gradual layers. The streets were swarming with black-clad merchants 
setting up their displays. John had secured directions to the closest medical 
facility and led the way with D'Argo. Aeryn brought up the rear - Zhaan, Stark 
and Rygel between them. 

The Sebacean was surprised to feel a light breeze against the back of her neck. 
She hadn't expected any wind underneath the dome, but it would stand to reason 
that the protective sphere came equipped with powerful environmental scrubbers. 

She was the first to register the shout.

"Incoming!"

John.

Instincts took over, even though she didn't understand the word. The urgency and 
panic in his voice was enough. She tackled Zhaan and Stark, right there in the 
middle of the crowded street. 

Rygel she couldn't reach in time. 

A microt later, the ground heaved underneath her stomach and her world exploded 
in a cacophony of sound and fire. Her weapon was in her hand, but she was too 
busy protecting herself from flying debris to bring it up. 

After the concussion came silence - a stunned moment of frozen time. 

Then the screaming started. 

Aeryn raised her head, scanning her surroundings. A thick cloud of smoke was 
rising a handful of denches ahead of her, where she had last seen John. She shut 
down that line of thought, first checking herself over for injuries. She rolled 
away from Stark and Zhaan, wrapped around each other.

"Are you injured?"

"No, Aeryn, we're both fine," the Delvian answered, already struggling to her 
knees. 

Aeryn stopped her. "No, stay down. Let me survey the area first."

Zhaan was shaking her head before she had completed the sentence. "If someone is 
hurt, they might need me."

Aeryn sighed. There was no use arguing with Zhaan in healer mode. "Fine. Try to 
locate Rygel. I'm going to check on John and D'Argo."

She didn't wait around for an answer. 

Standing, she tried to assess the extent of the damage. 

It was a scene of carnage, and she was transported back to more than one planet-
side mission with her platoon. There were bodies on the ground. Lots of them. 
Ignoring the moans and pleas of the wounded, she made her way up the street, 
towards the epicenter of the explosion. The area had sustained severe structural 
damage. A large chunk of the paved road had collapsed, and at least one edifice 
was disfigured beyond recognition. 

It was hard to breathe, and it was very hot. Not an incendiary device, but some 
of the displays had caught fire from the sheer force of the detonation. Aeryn 
smelled carbonized flesh over the acrid stench of smoke. The heat was sure to 
kill off some of the wounded if the blaze wasn't put out soon. Aeryn didn't 
worry about the heat. She was busy replaying John's warning shout. If he had 
been close enough to spot the threat, then he must have been in the immediate 
vicinity of the blast. 

The rancid taste in her mouth had to come from the noxious fumes. 

Frell the stealth approach.

"Crichton!"

She tripped on... there was barely enough left of the body to identify it as 
Sebacean. She refused to check for distinctive marks. Frelling dren. She had to 
break John out of his leather fetish. How was she supposed to find him in this 
sea of black?

Black smoking corpses. 

"John!"

She clasped the palm of her free hand over her mouth and nose. Her lungs were 
beginning to hurt. She took as deep a breath as she could. "D'Argo! Answer me, 
you big... useless... Luxan!"

"I'm insulted."

She staggered and caught herself on a collapsed lamppost, coughing. Her blood-
shot eyes were tearing up. "D'Argo?" Aeryn felt his heavy hand on her shoulder 
before she saw him. The big warrior was covered in soot and ashes. There was 
also blood. 

Red, not black. Lots of it.

D'Argo must have seen something in her expression, because he didn't waste her 
time with inane comments, just grabbed her arm and pulled her a few denches 
away, towards the opposite side of the narrow street, where the damage was less 
extensive. 

Aeryn saw him then. 

Slumped over, his back resting against what might have once been a wall, head 
lolling to the side, eyes closed. 

She kneeled by John's side, holstering her weapon to free her hands. She 
reached for his leather jacket, hesitant, dreading the damage she would discover 
underneath. Crimson marred the sleek material.

D'Argo's words tumbled down to her with surprising gentleness. "It's not his 
blood," the Luxan said, crouching next to them. "As far as I can tell, he's not 
injured. Just knocked out cold." 

Aeryn closed her eyes briefly. This. This was relief. She remembered. She had 
experienced it often enough over the last few weekens, typically in connection 
with this annoying, unconscious man. 

"What happened?" she asked, when her voice felt steady enough.

She ran her fingers through John's short hair, inspecting a nasty cut on his 
forehead. It wasn't bleeding. D'Argo's assessment was correct. John wasn't 
seriously wounded. She discovered that she could breathe despite the smoke. 

"Suicide bomber," D'Argo said. "John spotted him before I was aware of what was 
going on. He shouted something. Next thing I knew, he had pushed us to the 
ground behind some kind of vehicle. I think he hit his head on the way down. I 
felt him go limp on top of me."

Aeryn and D'Argo traded a well-honed look of affectionate exasperation. The ex-
Peacekeeper couldn't help but chuckle when she pictured the Human trying to 
shield the huge Luxan with his body. 

"Is everyone else unharmed?"

"I think so. I saw Zhaan and Stark. I don't know about Rygel. But we were 
further away from the blast." 

D'Argo nodded. "Then we shouldn't stay here."

Aeryn stiffened and drew her weapon. "You think this was directed at us?"

Moya's crew had a way of turning peaceful strangers into crowds of homicidal 
maniacs out for their blood. Crichton called it a 'gift'. 

What was one more planet?

D'Argo was shaking his head. "No. This had all the markings of a terrorist 
assault. I've seen enough of those. Did your friend on the royal planet 
mentioned political instability?"

"No, but this could be new."

"What are the odds?" D'Argo grumbled, borrowing one of John's expressions. "If 
Ectani is involved in a civil war, at least we have nothing to do with it this 
time. I'd rather keep it that way." He growled, gently reaching for John's inert 
form. "That's if we haven't frelled this up beyond repair already."





John Crichton was not in a happy place. There was a cheerleading squad 
practicing back flips behind his right eye. And nausea rising like the storm of 
the century. 

"John. Wake up."

He didn't think opening his eyes could make him feel any worse, until the light 
promptly skewered his optic nerve. 

It also revealed the sober features of Aeryn Sun. 

He might just remain conscious for a while.

"Crichton?"

He turned on his side to face her.

It was a grievous mistake. 

"I'm going to barf." 

Aeryn bypassed the translation hiccup and grabbed a bucket. Breakfast had signed 
on for a return ticket. He should have laid off the gooey yogurt-wannabe. He 
heaved and the pounding in his head reached Superbowl proportions. 

Through the cramps, the pressure in his chest, and the instinctive panic, he 
tried to focus on Aeryn's touch, her fingers combing his matted hair. When he 
was done, he fell back on the cot, shaking. Now to get rid of that horrible 
taste in his mouth--

"You look like yotz, Crichton."

"Thanks for the pep talk, Sparky." He sounded a little like a frog going through 
puberty. His throat hurt like hell. He closed his eyes; Aeryn had disappeared 
somewhere - presumably to get rid of the evidence - and Rygel's scaly hide was 
hardly worth the discomfort. He raised his hand to wipe the sweat off his brow. 
Hissed when he encountered a bandage. 

"Here, John. Drink this." He forced his eyes open again to find Zhaan holding a 
glass of some clear liquid in front of his face. He tried to sit up, but his 
arms wouldn't cooperate. A firm hand attached to three hundred pounds of Luxan 
closed around his biceps and pulled him upright. 

He swayed a little, waiting for the worse of the vertigo to pass. "Thanks, Big 
D." He accepted Zhaan's offering with a grateful nod. The medicine tasted cool 
and sweet. "Someone wants to tell me what happened?"

It was hard to focus. Concussion, then. It would explain the goose-egg-sized 
bump above his right eye and the symphonic orchestra massacring the Ride of the 
Valkyries all over his frontal lobe. 

He used to like Wagner. 

"You don't remember?" Aeryn asked, looking concerned. 

It was hard to concentrate, but that didn't worry him. Between the mind-frells, 
the ice-pick surgeries and the good old-fashioned head traumas - it was a 
goddamn miracle when he managed to remember his own name. One day something 
irreparable was going to get jarred, and John Crichton would end up a drooling 
mess in some intergalactic loony bin. Or as a vegetable. 

Aeryn was staring at him. 

Words. Words should be coming out of his mouth. 

He blinked, reaching past the drumming pain. "Uh... I remember... seeing this 
guy. He was carrying something. I know a fragmentation grenade when I see one." 
He massaged a bruise on his shoulder. "I tried to warn people. Then I played 
linebreaker with big, bad and Luxan here." He checked the dressing on his 
forehead again. Mumbled. "Now why that seemed like a good idea at the time, I'll 
never know." 

He managed to focus long enough to take in his surroundings. They were in some 
kind of room filled with medical equipment - high ceiling and pristine walls. 
His companions stood around the gurney he was sitting on. No alien presence. It 
was safe to talk.

"Two questions: 'where are we?' and 'is everybody okay?'"

"We're at the medical facility where we planned to procure the anti-radiation 
drug. You've been unconscious for a couple of arns. A doctor looked you over. He 
said as far as he could tell you would be fine, save for a bad headache. He left 
to take care of the other victims," Aeryn said. "And everyone's okay. We hit the 
ground when we heard you shout and avoided the debris."

"What about me?" Rygel protested. "I was almost crushed under a store front when 
the building collapsed."

"You're not even injured, your lowness," D'Argo growled. 

The little Hynerian grumbled, maneuvering his throne-sled away from John. "Well, 
I could have been."

John was still processing Aeryn's words. "Other victims?" he echoed. "How many 
casualties?"

"A dozen dead, almost a hundred injured to various degrees," Zhaan explained. 
"Authorities are still clearing up the scene."

"He killed himself," John said, looking at Aeryn. It wasn't a question. "The 
bomber blew himself up."

She nodded. "There was barely enough left of him for an identification. They are 
conducting genetic testing on the remains now."

John swung his legs over the side of the cot. He had to get out of there. The 
medical apparatus, the table, the bright light overhead - it made him feel 
claustrophobic. 

Nasty memories. 

Too soon. 

"John, I think you should rest," Zhaan admonished, her palm on his chest. "You 
took a pretty hard blow. The scan showed a little swelling..."

"Oh, leave him alone, Zhaan," Rygel interrupted. "It's not like his brain can 
get frelled any more than it already is."

There was silence. Brief, outraged, acutely uncomfortable. 

Aeryn was scanning the rooms for projectiles.

D'Argo snarled. "Rygel!"

"Guido's right," John said quickly, grabbing the Luxan's forearm. His head hurt 
too much. He couldn't take a shouting match. Besides, Rygel's thoughts only ran 
parallel to his own. The Hynerian stared at him with no little surprise and what 
might even have been contrition. He couldn't read Rygel's eyes underneath the 
overhanging earbrows.

"Are we being detained?" Crichton asked, changing the subject. "Or can we leave 
whenever we want?" Another thought occurred. "Did Stark pass the radiation 
test?"

Aeryn answered his questions in order. "Nobody saw us at the bombing site and we 
passed off your injury as accidental. We're free to leave as soon as you're well 
enough to walk. We've secured the supply of Kantak drug we need. You passed the 
test. The drug will work for you. But Stark will have to stay behind."

Zhaan moved away from John to comfort the prostrate Banik. Crichton hadn't 
noticed him, crouched in a corner of the room. The posture was so reminiscent of 
their days of captivity in the gammak base, John had to look away. "Let's go 
then."

He jumped off the cot. 

Would have ended up flat on his face if not for D'Argo. The Luxan grabbed him by 
the collar of his jacket before his knees gave way. He heard Zhaan over the roar 
of the blood rushing in his ears. "John, maybe you should..." He managed to 
raise his hand, silencing her long enough to steady himself - allow the world to 
settle down along with his stomach. 

"M'okay," he reassured the Delvian, tentatively pulling away from D'Argo. Now 
that he was standing, something felt out of place. His hand strayed to his right 
thigh, twitching. "Where's Wynona?"

The question sounded harsh and a little frantic to his own ears. 

"Here," Aeryn said. She held the gun to him, butt first. She reminded him of a 
lion-tamer John had once seen as a boy. Without the whip.

Bad Johnny. Bad visuals.

He forced himself to relax, reaching for the weapon with as much nonchalance as 
he could muster. "Thanks." He holstered the pulse pistol before facing his 
shipmates, hands on hips. "As much as I'd love to know what the hell's going on 
in this place, we came here for a reason. D'Argo, you, Stark and Rygel can try 
to gather some information while we're gone. It would be better to know what 
we've walked into. It's just not a priority right now." He accepted the jacket 
Aeryn offered him. It was covered in blood, but that would have to wait. "I hope 
the comms work outside the dome. We gotta check that." His brow furrowed. "Or 
inside the dome for that matter." He pressed the badge pinned to his chest. "Yo. 
Ground control to Major Tom. Pilot, can you hear me?"

"Yes, Commander. I hear you just fine."

"Pilot, we've run into a bit of a jam, here." John pictured the symbiot hanging 
his big shell-head in resignation. He had become quite familiar with that 
particular Earthism. 

"Is everyone all right, Commander?"

"We're fine, Pilot. We just need you to monitor surface transmissions for 
information on a bombing. Happened a couple arns ago not far from the main 
market place. Will Moya's sensors be affected by the pulsars' radiation?"

"No, Crichton. Moya's scanners are perfectly operational. If the sensors were 
going to be impaired by the pulsars' proximity, I would have told you so."

John smirked. Snarky Pilot. His favorite kind. "Of course, Pilot. Please, let us 
know anything you find."

"Understood, Commander."

John nodded out of habit, even though Pilot couldn't see him. 

Rubbed his forehead again. 

Aeryn had been standing by his side through the entire exchange. She didn't look 
convinced that he could make it out the door on his own. That wouldn't stop him 
from trying. 

He took a few steps, managed to remain standing, and turned to face the others. 
"I'm fine," he said, before any one of them could ask again. Softly, "We should 
get moving." He didn't look at Zhaan. "We've wasted enough time."





Aeryn spotted them soon after they left the medical facility. 

Rygel was trying to secure a vehicle to spare Zhaan the effort of having to walk 
to the edge of the dome, which would have taken a couple of arns. The square 
buzzed with echoes of conversation - the attack was at the center of the 
speculations. From what Aeryn could gather, it wasn't the first incident, far 
from it. Violence was escalating, and the culprits belonged to some terrorist 
group the citizens only referred to as the G'Ken. 

When the ex-Peacekeeper noticed the unusual number of red-suited men in their 
vicinity, she attributed it to increased security patrols following the attack. 
Until she realized that the men were in fact shadowing Moya's crew - not even 
bothering to be inconspicuous. 

She caught D'Argo's attention with a glance. He nodded, letting her know that he 
was aware of the tail himself. Casually, she caught up to John, who was again 
leading the group. 

"I've seen them," Crichton said, before she could attract his attention.

He didn't look at her, staring straight ahead, apparently unconcerned, but she 
was close enough to see muscles clench around his jaw and watch his throat work 
convulsively. His nonchalant swagger wasn't as effortless as it looked. 

Dren. Why couldn't the frelling universe give them a break? 

John didn't need this. 

None of them did. 

She didn't have to look at D'Argo to know that the Luxan was ready to draw his 
blade. He stood close to Stark and Zhaan, and she assumed that he had warned 
them as well. Aeryn counted five shadows behind them, three ahead. And no alley 
close by to use as an escape route. They would have to fight their way out. 

She reached for her weapon.

John's fingers closed around her forearm. "No, Aeryn."

What the frell?

"Crichton, what are you doing?"

He stopped and squinted at her. She could tell that his head was still bothering 
him. He had gotten rid of the bandage, and although the cut above his eye was 
small, it looked angry and swollen. "We're outnumbered. If we open fire here, 
we're toast."

She stared at him, uncomprehending. "You want to surrender?"

"Aeryn, we can't get away, and we can't outgun them. They've been following us 
for a while, and they haven't tried anything. What do you say we chat a little, 
make nice with the friendly Neighborhood Watch? See what they want?"

Wry, deep-set voice which haunted nightmares and dreams alike.

She stared harder. 

John took a deep breath and muttered, "All right, children. Game face on." He 
winked at her. "If they shoot first and ask questions later, you're entitled to 
say 'Crichton, I told you so'."

"John, it's..."

"Insane, mad, crazy," he interjected in sing-song. "Hell, Aeryn, I know. You 
got another idea?"

She knew that tone. That look. John was set on a course of action, and there was 
nothing left for Aeryn Sun to do but stand by him, hold onto her weapon and pick 
up the pieces when he was done.

He turned on his heels and she took off after him, motioning D'Argo and the 
others to stay put. She saw the big Luxan shake his head in resignation. He 
would follow Crichton's lead, as always. 

Rygel hovered close to D'Argo, sneer firmly in place. "What a surprise. The 
Human's gone fahrbot again," he grumbled.

"Silence, Rygel," Zhaan ordered with steel in her voice.

Aeryn trusted the priestess to seize up the situation.

Their escort had stopped when they did. They were standing at attention in the 
middle of the street; a vacuum had opened in the crowd around them. They watched 
John and Aeryn's approach without a flinch, seemingly willing to take their cue 
from their quarry. They wore side-arms - regulation PK pulse pistols - but made 
no move to draw them. 

Aeryn pushed her coat-tail behind her hip to expose her weapon, still holstered. 
John was right on one key point. They were outgunned, and Aeryn had learned the 
hard way that choosing conciliation over fire-power had its upside every once in 
a while. 

She could even acknowledge it out loud without shame. 

John came to stand an arm's length away from one of the soldiers. Judging from 
his posture, the man was likely to be the one in charge - the commanding 
officer. Aeryn surveyed the others, all the while tracking Crichton out of the 
corner of her eye. 

He had adopted a familiar stance - hands on hips, arms akimbo, feet shoulder-
width apart for balance. It wasn't his PK captain impression; he had outgrown 
that over the last few monens. She recognized the bravado from their first 
intrusion in the shadow depository - the reckless confidence in his own 
abilities born of one too many trials, the hint of dangerousness and the subtle 
self-possession. 

She had yet to discover what the frell was a 'kayeffssi'. 

"So what is it this time, people?" John drawled, without preamble. "Have we 
parked our pod outside the yellow lines? You're selling subscriptions to the 
Encyclopaedia Sebacea?" He gestured at their suits. "Can't be Jehovah's 
witnesses, you're the wrong color."

And if the soldiers had caught any of that, Aeryn had a nice gammak base to 
sell, overlooking Nebari Prime. 

When the commanding officer took one rigid step closer to John, she tensed, 
ready to jump into the fray should he attack Crichton. His next words stayed her 
hand before she could reach for her pistol. "Officer Tanol, Your Highness. 
Please accept our apologies. We did not mean to intrude. We have been assigned 
to your protection by the Regent. She wishes you to join her at the palace at 
your earliest convenience."

She got another shock when John burst out laughing. It didn't sound quite right. 
"I... just... sorry--" Crichton shook his head, biting the fleshy end of his 
thumb, eyes rooted to the ground, "for a minute there, I thought you called me 
'Highness'."

Officer Tanol had to be commanded for his impeccable review stance and blank 
face. "If you would accompany us to the palace, Highness, I am sure the Regent 
will answer all your questions." 

John wiped the smirk off his face, deadly serious. "Are we given a choice?"

In the tense silence that followed, Aeryn heard D'Argo, Zhaan, Stark and even 
Rygel gather behind John and herself, closing ranks. To their credit, the 
soldiers didn't react in any way to the sight of an angry Luxan readying his 
Qualta blade for battle. 

Tanol's gaze did not waver when he answered John. "Please, Highness."

Crichton sighed, shoulders hunched. "If I go with you, can my shipmates carry on 
with their business?"

Anger ripped through Aeryn. "No frelling way!"

"John..." Zhaan interceded.

D'Argo growled. "Crichton, what in hezmana...?"

Crichton turned around to confront the rest of the crew. "Look, guys, we came 
here with a purpose." His eyes softened when they found Zhaan's. "You can't 
afford to waste more time, Blue. You get weaker every day. That's a fact. I 
don't think I'm in danger from those guys." 

He was lying through his teeth. Aeryn knew him too well - the aloof self-
sacrificing routine couldn't fool her. John was scared.

"John," Zhaan said, concerned, "I don't believe..."

Crichton lowered his voice. "Aeryn, you take Zhaan outside the dome as planned. 
Rygel and Stark, you go ahead with the information gathering. Looks like it's 
more necessary than ever. D'Argo..."

"Shut the frell up, John."

Crichton's mouth snapped shut.

"We're not leaving you behind," the Luxan said, unperturbed by the Human's dark 
glare, and unwilling to be provoked. 

Aeryn knew that D'Argo recognized the hostility for what it was - John's fear 
masquerading as anger. Driving himself, always, because he didn't know how to 
let anyone else take the lead. Because things had been set this way a long time 
ago. The crew looked to him for plans and directions - for sheer stubbornness - 
and patterns died hard. 

Aeryn frowned. Time there was a change. 

Crichton's jaw was clenched so tight it looked painful. "Haven't you guys 
learned anything? Don't you get tired of this shit? Since I've set foot in this 
frelling galaxy I've landed you in one mess after another. We haven't got time 
for this. Stark, you must see that I'm right-"

"You're right," Aeryn interjected before the Banik could intervene and pound 
John's self-esteem into the ground. It annoyed her to hear John talk like this. 
He was never one to assign blame or shoulder guilt in vain - preferring to act 
rather than wallow. 

She ground her teeth, seething. 

Scorpius's poisoned legacy. 

"We don't have time. So do as D'Argo says. Shut up. We're all going." She didn't 
need to look for Zhaan's acquiescence. The Delvian wouldn't go anywhere without 
John. "We'll do what it takes to fix this, together, like we always do. And 
that's final."

Aeryn sidestepped Crichton, addressing Tanol before John had time to recover. 

"Take us to the Regent, Officer," she snapped. "All of us. Now."





"Pilot?"

"Yes, Chiana?"

"Could you locate Jothee, please?"

"In his quarters, sleeping. Would you like me to wake him?"

"No, thanks... How are you getting on with the scans? Anything I can do to 
help?"

There wasn't anything Chiana could do that Pilot and Moya couldn't handle 
themselves, but it beat staring at the interons. The comatose popsicles were, as 
John said each time they encountered a new eat-us kind of creature, 'giving her 
the crisp'. As to why she spent so much time in the maintenance bay in the first 
place - maybe she was trying to make it harder for Jothee to find her. 

Or was that easier? 

It was difficult to think around the anger and the guilt. 

D'Argo had forbidden them to go down planet-side. He hadn't said it in so many 
words - had even tried to be tactful about it, amazingly enough, by insisting 
someone should remain on board to assist Pilot and watch over the interons, but 
she had known what he was doing. His protectiveness had crossed the line over to 
overt control since Jothee was back, and although she understood where her lover 
came from, she couldn't quite repress her ire.

She had needed to be with Zhaan.

And John, always the mediator, had been too taken up with what she assumed was 
his own grief to reason with the Luxan. 

"Thank you for your assistance, Chiana," Pilot's disembodied voice answered, 
"but I cannot think of anything at the moment. Although I am starting to piece 
together some of the information Crichton asked for, and it looks like our 
arrival on this planet is not the most fortunate."

Chiana didn't like the sound of that. She left maintenance bay three, and made 
her way to Command. "What do you mean, Pilot?" 

"From what I can gather, we arrived in the middle of a civil war."

The young Nebari began to walk faster. "I'm listening."

"The bombing Crichton wanted me to look into is not the first of its kind. The 
attacks have become increasingly frequent and deadly over the last cycle. The 
responsible party is believed to be a group known as the G'Ken."

"Doesn't that mean 'Purity' or something like that?" Chiana interjected. She had 
picked up quite a lot of Sebacean in her travels. This was an older form of the 
word, but still close enough that she recognized the meaning.

"Indeed," Pilot confirmed. He sounded surprised. 

"So what do they want?"

"From what I understand of the local politics, they are trying to overthrow the 
royal family."

"Revolutionaries? Drad," Chiana muttered. "That's just drad."

"This hardly seems like a good thing, Chiana," said Pilot reproachfully.

"I was being sarcastic."

"Ah, yes."

Chiana entered Command, striding to one of the control consoles. Pilot's image 
appeared on the clamshell. 

"So what have they got against the royals?"

"I managed to access some of the planet's official records. I didn't dare 
venture too deeply, in case my intrusion was traced back. Moya is not an 
intelligence-gathering vessel..."

"Pilot," Chiana muttered between clenched teeth.

She didn't know who rambled the most - Pilot or Crichton. 

Pilot had the good grace to look contrite. "Hmm, yes, Chiana. It appears that 
the G'Ken does not approve of the royal family's endorsement of the religious 
caste. They seem to think that a more traditional Sebacean organization of 
society is the proper way. They have called for the main temple to be destroyed 
and the orders disbanded. The G'Ken has been a vocal opposition for many cycles. 
They had legitimate political representation until a cycle ago, when they 
suddenly went underground. That's when the violence started."

"There's no indication as to why they suddenly decided to plant bombs all over 
the place? Was their position threatened by the royals or something?"

"I have not been able to find any information on the subject. However, I have 
only accessed official records. Those could have been censured."

Chiana hung her head over the console, reviewing the data Pilot had gathered. 
"That's not good, Pilot. Not good at all."

"The others should be made aware of the danger, indeed."

"That's not what I meant," she said, frowning. Shivers coursed up and down her 
spine. 

This was always a bad sign. Rattlers, John said. Reptiles. He had drawn 
one for her, and she envisioned the disgusting creatures now, coiling in her 
stomach. 

"D'Argo wasn't the only one who got to listen to Rygel ramble over and 
over about the breakaway colonies' politics, and I've heard him and Aeryn 
discuss Ectani before they went planet-side. This colony's sphere of influence 
is small compared to the royal system, but they are allies. Their royal families 
are related, right? This place would make a great Peacekeeper outpost. It's just 
that the Peacekeepers can't overtly take over because the royal system would be 
all over them in a microt - threaten to align with the Scarrans or something. It 
would be a mess. But if they were to take over covertly..."

Perplexed silence from Pilot. 

What? Did he think she was Nerri's little sister for nothing? That she had 
survived that long without listening to conversations around her? Without 
understanding anything of politics? She might be bent on personal survival, but 
she knew there was a whole universe out there. 

She had to live in it. 

"I'm just speculating, Pilot." She spent too much time around Crichton. She was 
beginning to make things up as she went along. "But you said the G'Ken promoted 
a more traditional Sebacean society, so they would be more receptive to 
Peacekeeper doctrine. They've been peaceful for cycles and suddenly they've got 
weapons, bombs... they threaten the stability of their own planet... Can we say 
'Peacekeeper Special Directorate'?"

She waited expectantly as Pilot ran her conjectures through his multi-tasking 
brain. 

His eyebrows - or what passed for them - drooped. "I believe your hypothesis 
could be sound, Chiana. I will contact Crichton right away. Even if the 
Peacekeepers are not involved, our friends should stay clear of the political 
conflict. This information will be useful." 

Chiana hugged herself, watching Ectani Prime rotate languidly through the main 
view-screen. "Vek. They have no idea what they're walking into."





The Regent was not what John had in mind. He had pictured more or less a carbon 
copy of the royal planet's Empress, and he kept waiting for counselor Tyno to 
come to his rescue. She hardly looked a day over twenty. If this was the best 
they could come up with, he didn't want to know what had happened to the 
remainder of the royal family. 

She was small, about Chiana's height. Pretty in an almost androgynous way - 
slender bone structure, pale skin, transparent gray eyes, innocent mouth, boyish 
hands joined at waist level. She wore her hair short - strawberry blond curls, 
which framed delicate cheekbones. 

The Regent stood in what John assumed to be the main audience chamber. She 
seemed to be expecting them, although Crichton hadn't noticed any of the 
soldiers reach for any kind of communication device since their 'arrest'. For 
lack of a better word. 

Or was he meant to believe that this was a social call? 

//Fame. Gotta love it.//

He squashed the slight hysterical laugh that wanted to bubble up his throat and 
viciously ignored the quiet despair, which ripped through his insides when he 
thought of his unborn child. The pain dulled a little each day - more through 
sheer resignation than the healing balm of time. John had once thought that he 
would make a good father. He wasn't so sure now. If he was meant to protect a 
child's innocence through the formative years of its life, shouldn't he have 
some left for himself? 

His head was still pounding, but he kept his hand to his side rather than try to 
massage the tension out of his forehead. No need to give further sign of 
weakness. Although the jagged cut above his right eye was bound to be a dead 
giveaway. 

The edifice was quite similar to the palace on the royal planet - dark corridors 
and high windows - although the walls and floors were not pristine white, but a 
deep, golden bronze. In fact, the audience room reminded John a little of Moya's 
main chamber, save for the much, much higher ceiling. 

And the armed guards lining the walls. 

What was the ratio of back-stabbers to PK spies in this charming little place? 

The Regent strode up to him, rather than wait for him to come up to her, as 
would have been proper. Inexperience or convenient facade, he couldn't tell. It 
wasn't the first time John was thrown into a situation without the slightest 
clue as to what was going on; it didn't mean that he had learned to like it. 
Nevertheless, he decided to play the game. He wasn't the only one involved this 
time, and outspokenness would only take him so far. The others had agreed to let 
him handle this, since he was the primary target, and he couldn't let them down. 
He swallowed his annoyance and a stinging retort. Time to turn on the Southern 
charm. 

His mother would be so proud. 

An unidentified blur zoomed past, pulling him out of his thoughts. "Your 
Majesty, I am Rygel the Sixteenth, Dominar of Hyneria, sovereign to..."

"Not now, Sparky," Crichton growled, pulling the little Hynerian back by his 
throne-sled. He ignored Rygel's affronted sputtering. When the Regent was close 
enough that he could count the freckles on her colorless cheeks, he bowed his 
head a little. "Your Highness."

She looked even smaller from up close. Her skin-tight, matte, gold leather suit 
did nothing to accentuate her stature. Her voice was surprisingly deep, accented 
in a way he had come to associate with Sebaceans. "Welcome, cousin."

That he hadn't expected. 

His companions fidgeted nervously behind him. Judging by the quality of their 
silence, they were as lost as he. "Cousin?" 

"I am Tesha, Regent of Ectani. My dynasty is related by blood to the dynasty of 
Princess Katralla. You are Katralla's consort and future Regent of the royal 
system. You are therefore my cousin." She didn't smile. "Family."

//What family? The Addams? The fucking Medicis?//

How, for the love of all that was holy, did he get himself into these messes? 
"Uh, Highness... I think there's been some kind of misunderstanding..."

"Please," Tesha interrupted. "What we have to discuss is for our ears only. My 
guards will escort your friends..."

John was already shaking his head, hackles rising. "Stop right there, lady. 
Whatever you have to say to me, you can say in front of them. I have no secrets 
for my shipmates. Deal with it." He couldn't see Aeryn standing at his back, but 
imagined she was already dropping into a fighting stance - cursing his name to 
hell and back. At least, they hadn't been relieved of their weapons, which in 
itself made no sense. 

Tesha didn't look happy, but she relented. She signaled her guard, and the 
soldiers filed out, leaving Moya's crew alone with the Regent and Officer Tanol. 
Either Tesha knew a lot more about Crichton than John was comfortable 
considering, or she was pretty fond of unnecessary risks. She didn't behave like 
the sovereign of a kingdom threatened by terrorism. 

His comms burst to life. "Commander Crichton."

"Yes, Pilot?" he replied, never looking away from Tesha. Taking the 
communication was a mark of disrespect, but he didn't want to find himself 
trapped or otherwise dead for the sake of protocol. If a command carrier or 
something equally nasty had entered orbit, he wanted to know. Been there, done 
that - and it wasn't much fun the first time around.

"I have the information you asked for regarding the bombing. Chiana has also 
contributed significantly to my analysis."

That sounded like something he wanted to hear. But not yet. "Pilot, I'm kinda in 
the middle of something. I'm gonna have to call you back."

"But, Commander..."

"I. Really. Can't. Talk. Right. Now. I'll be in touch A.S.A.P. Or one of the 
others will."

He killed the transmission. //A.S.A.P.// Pilot was going to spend the rest of 
the day wondering if John had used some kind of code.

"Sorry for the interruption, Highness."

Tesha's expression was unreadable. There wasn't nearly enough light in this 
room. The high windows were covered by heavy drapes. 

Shadows roamed. 

"I apologize if my guards alarmed you, cousin," Tesha said, disregarding his 
half-hearted apology. "I only sent them to insure your protection. Of course, I 
knew who you were as soon as your leviathan came into our orbit. I just thought 
preferable not to contact you on an open channel."

"Wow, wow. Back up. First, let's cut the 'cousin' crap. I'm John. Second, how 
did you hear about me in the first place? The Empress had all records sealed."

Tesha eyed him as if he was the stupidest of life-forms. He would recognize that 
look anywhere. "What kind of a Regent would I be if I didn't know what was 
happening in my own family?"

"So basically, you're spying on your allies," Crichton said. 

She shrugged. "As I am sure they are spying on us. Why does that bother you?"

He shook his head, dismissing the question. "Forget it." He was too tired for 
head-games. "If you're that well informed, you must know I'm not really Regent. 
It was all a scam. I'm not the one playing pigeon-stool with Katralla right now. 
So although I appreciate the house-call, I think we're gonna leave you alone and 
just get on with our business, okay?"

He made to turn around, but Tesha's hand on his shoulder stopped him. "You are 
Katralla's consort, John. The vows have been exchanged. She carries your 
offspring."

That hurt.

Not so dulled after all. 

"You are family."

Aeryn was standing closer and he drew comfort from her presence. He wondered in 
passing how she felt about hearing of Katralla again, then dismissed the thought 
as futile. She would be angry, jealous; that was a given. Aeryn felt deeply, 
despite appearances. She didn't always know how to govern her own emotions, 
which only strengthened her decision to stay the hell away from him. 

So many nails in his coffin.

"Fine," John said, going along with Tesha's logic. "Then why didn't you get in 
touch as soon as we landed?"

"'Get in... touch?'," the sovereign echoed, puzzled. 

"Contacted us. Why wait?"

She didn't reply. She didn't need to.

"Ah, yes," he said, chuckling, answering his own question. "You were spying on 
us. Wanted to know what we were doing here."

Tesha didn't bother to deny his accusation. "Indeed. However, after the... 
incident, I realized that your safety could be at risk and ordered my guards to 
reveal themselves. Bring you to me."

"And we are very grateful for your protection, Highness," Rygel declared 
obsequiously.

John opened his mouth to offer a reply of his own... but the words wouldn't 
come.

He was tired.

Tired.

Zhaan was wasting away, and this kid in seventies bondage gear was playing mind 
games.

John let his head fall back, staring at the ceiling. In this light, the bronze 
covering looked like diseased skin. Clogged, burst capillaries. 

He wanted out of this place. 

"Okay," he said softly, swinging his attention back to the young Regent, 
"enough. You didn't invite us over for tea and crackers. And I was just a 
convenient blow-up doll for your cousin. So what do you want, lady?"

Tesha blinked owlishly, big gray eyes holding him in place. Her impenitent, 
expressionless face was beginning to creep him out. If she weren't so pretty, 
she would look dead. A waif. Whatever was going through her calculating, icy 
little mind, he wasn't going to like it. 

"I require your... assistance."

He couldn't help but tense. //Calm down, Johnny. You're not alone this time.// 
As long as Aeryn didn't go trekking in the forest with some of the locals, he 
would be fine. "Sorry, don't wanna carry your children."

She disregarded the interruption. The kid caught up fast. "Your reputation 
precedes you, John Crichton."

"Yeah, you said that already."

Where was she going with this? 

"Not that reputation."

Sarcasm. Progress, at last. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"You have eluded the Peacekeepers for over two cycles, destroyed a gammak base 
and more recently a shadow depository. Information travels."

"You've got little spies everywhere," John muttered. "Yeah, I know, I know. I'm 
family. I'm a pet project... What is it that you think my--" he sneaked a glance 
at Aeryn and D'Argo on either side of him, "our reputation can do for you?"

That kind of fame he couldn't wait to share. 

"Have you heard of the G'Ken?"

He nodded non-committally. "They're responsible for the bombing today. I don't 
know anything about the 'why'. And I really don't care."

Tesha broke out of her rigid stance, stepping away from her bodyguard, and began 
circling John. She passed by Aeryn without touching her, barely a few inches 
between them, ignoring the armed woman. Aeryn's eyes flashed with rage. Crichton 
wanted to reach out to her, but he couldn't. Tesha didn't need to know what kind 
of bond existed between the crewmates. Information was power, leverage. She had 
too much of both already. 

"G'Ken signifies 'purity' or 'rectitude'. It's an ancient Sebacean word. Its 
true meaning is not easy to translate. G'Ken was the name given to members of 
the warrior caste who had been, shall we say, at odds with the religious caste 
for cycles. The strife was mostly political, matters of influence at the court, 
nothing more. Until a cycle ago, when most of the G'Ken disappeared, and the 
violence started."

"What are they trying to achieve?" John asked, worrying his lower lip, curious 
in spite of himself. 

D'Argo shifted. The big guy was starting to get impatient. 

That was not a good thing. 

Tesha shrugged, still pacing. "Take power, overthrow the royal family, destroy 
the religious caste-"

"Rejoin the Peacekeepers," Crichton interjected between clenched teeth. 

Tesha whipped around. He was so unprepared for the display of anger that he took 
a step back. "No!" the Regent bit out. "The G'Ken believes we have betrayed our 
Sebacean heritage by embracing alien creeds, but their hatred of the 
Peacekeepers runs as deep as that of any other colonist."

"All right," John said to appease the ruffled sovereign. "Why did the G'Ken 
decide to go from legitimate political group to terrorist movement overnight?"

Tesha froze, fists clenched. "My... aunt, the queen, was ill-advised. She 
planned to have the members of the G'Ken arrested."

"And someone leaked the info," John sighed, understanding. He tried to rub out 
some of the tension building between his eyes. He needed to sit down.

"That's when the G'Ken went underground. Two monens later, they planted their 
first bomb. Here. Inside the palace." Life drained like sand out of her 
features. So young and so hard. "We were celebrating the birth of the queen's 
first heir. My cousin. The infant and I were the sole survivors."

"I'm sorry for your loss," John said, "but I still don't see what this has to do 
with me."

Tesha pursed her lips, as if tasting something sour. "I... Ectani Prime doesn't 
have the experience or the resources to fight the G'Ken. We have never known any 
major war, certainly no civil conflict. We rely mostly on intelligence, 
information-gathering, for security purposes. And since the warrior caste is 
involved, I cannot trust anyone, not even my personal guard."

Officer Tanol stiffened. John wondered if there was more between them than met 
the eye. The Regent paused in front of him, steely gray irises daring him to 
call attention to Ectani's security failures. For the first time, he looked past 
the coldness, the haughtiness and the defiance, and realized how much the 
admission was costing Tesha. 

"I need your help to eradicate the G'Ken."

Aeryn had had enough. "We're sorry, Tesha," no mark of respect there, "but we 
have other commitments. Now if you don't mind, we're leaving."

The Regent was unmoved.

John guessed what was coming and managed to stifle an inappropriate, derisive 
chuckle. "Look, I appreciate your situation, Highness, but there's nothing we 
can do for you. We're not mercenaries, and we're not professional soldiers. What 
you're talking about could take monens, and with our track record, you really 
don't want us to hang around that long. Trust me."

"Well done, John. Calm and rational. I'm proud of you."

//Now is not a good time for your paternal instincts to kick in, Scorpy.//

He snapped himself back to reality, expecting Tesha's ire, but the Regent was 
looking at him with eyes as calm and clear as the dome overhead. "I need your 
expertise," Tesha said. 

"No." John shook his head. "No way. What do you think I am? Gun-for-hire?" Even 
as he denied it, he knew. The young Regent was too confident. She already had 
the means to manipulate him into doing her bidding. And she hadn't even taken a 
goddamn number. 

This was not - //not// - happening again. 

No fucking way. 

"We don't have time for this, we don't--"

"Stark!"

The Banik had been admirably restrained until now, no doubt due to Zhaan's 
influence. John hadn't expected him to keep silent that long, but they couldn't 
give away the reason for their presence on Ectani. 

"Stark, please," John repeated in a softer voice, not turning around. He didn't 
want to confront Stark's despondent agony, or Zhaan's enduring strength. It 
would only drive home the shame, and make it harder to breathe.

His life was one big, three-ringed circus. 

//What's black-and-white, black-and-white, black-and-white...//

Spinning. Always spinning. 

He wanted off the ride. 

Tesha's hands were intertwined in front of her. There was neither sympathy, nor 
compassion - not a hint of remorse - marring her juvenile features. She danced 
with the shadows. Sucked the light out of the room. "I am aware of your Delvian 
friend's condition," the Regent remarked, as if discussing the weather. "I 
understand Ectani's soil is what she needs."

John didn't stop to wonder how Tesha had come by this information. Her spies 
could have eavesdropped on any of their conversations. 

He had run out of words. There was nothing to say.

"How dare you?" Zhaan snapped, sharp and angrier than John remembered her being 
for a long time. "I will not allow you to use me as a vulgar bargaining tool, 
child!" The Delvian was seething. This time, it was Stark restraining his lover, 
shushing her, pleading with her to spare her strength. 

"That's it," Aeryn interjected. "We're leaving."

"I'll cover you," D'Argo growled, converting his blade. 

"Well, yotz. Every single time I smell power, the Human has to frell with a 
princess..."

John clung to the silence amid the raised voices. Calmness of defeat. He knew 
it well. A last moment of stillness before going EVA without a suit. Motionless 
determination as he surrendered to Scorpius and traded himself for Jothee. The 
numbness was soothing, comfortable. Familiar. 

It heralded lucidity. 

Tesha seemed unperturbed by the ruckus, by his friends' show of force. Her 
stillness called to his. He stood very close - and wondered in passing what 
could have happened in such a short life to rip the light from her eyes. He 
hoped, for her sake, that it was nothing like what had happened to him. 

That it wasn't irreversible. 

"Zhaan needs to leave the dome," he stated. 

"John, what are you doing--"

"Crichton--"

"Please, Zhaan, Aeryn. Let me finish." He kept his attention on the Regent. 
"Tesha, Zhaan can't stay here."

"I could not possibly let her venture outside the dome without an armed escort. 
It is too dangerous. And if you do not help me, I cannot spare the men to 
accompany her."

He was cold. "She needs her friends around her now."

"You are royalty, John. The G'Ken threatens you as they do me. It would be 
prudent for you to remain inside the palace." She had the decency to offer him 
the illusion of choice. Of dignity. Small favors. "I know you have been told 
that the Banik and the Luxan would not be able to leave the dome, but there are 
ways. They will be free to escort your friend while you remain here. To help 
me."

Aeryn's fingers thread through his own. "John." Her voice was deep and limpid. 
This voice had once told him about love. "You don't have to do this. You must 
take some time to think about it. There has to be another way." She held his 
hand tight. "John. You're not alone."

"I know that. But there's no time. You take Zhaan. You go now. Well, as soon as 
Stark's problem is fixed." He wanted to plead with her not to argue; he had 
showed enough weakness for one day. Sometimes appearances were all a man had to 
cling to for support when fear came knocking. And John had learned to pretend 
with the best of them. "I'll be here when you return."

"I'm not going anywhere, Crichton." She shook her head, refusing to hear him 
when he tried to interrupt. "D'Argo and Stark can go with Zhaan. You're staying, 
I'm staying too. That's final."

He hung his head, hiding the flood of relief. He should have tried harder to 
make her leave, for her own safety, but he was powerless to convince himself - 
least of all her. 

Tesha was waiting for his answer.

"I'll stay. I still think it's a complete waste of your time, but I'll do what I 
can to... help you stop the G'Ken. You make sure Zhaan is escorted outside the 
dome as soon as D'Argo and Stark are clear from the danger of the radiation. 
Agreed?"

The Regent bowed her head a little. It could have passed for a mark of respect. 
"Agreed, John Crichton. I thank you." Tesha frowned. "You have been injured," 
she said, pointing at the cut on his forehead. "My healers will tend to you." 
She eyed him coolly. "You should rest. The next few days will be trying."

He believed her. 




Patterns. Logic. A life of schemes. Order ushered in reprieve, bred certitude 
and arrogance. Sustained authority. Meaning had been sought from the beginning. 
The knowledge that his birth had not been willful - for who, in their right 
mind, would have brought him deliberately into the world? The understanding that 
he had been kept alive for a purpose. 

Discernment. Control.

Patterns.

Scorpius was unlike other Peacekeepers in more ways than genetics. He was 
willing to take responsibility, where others only looked to shift the blame, 
avoid the consequences, driven by fear, incapable of seeing past their 
immediate discomfort to consider the bigger picture. 

He was unique. 

Like John. 

In many twisted ways, they were deformed reflections of each other. He was 
beginning to see that now.

Patterns. 

He found himself spending many arns dissecting their bond with the clarity of 
hindsight and all the sharpness of his considerable powers of analysis. 

John was not his equal. How could he be? Inferior species, from a primitive 
world. Impaired by emotions he could not control. Scorpius thrived on 
discipline. Strength of mind held his warring natures together, just as his 
thermal suit allowed him to survive an impossible cohabitation. 

John had tapped into a similar strength to survive their first encounter, and 
everything that came after. Scorpius had violated the Human's thoughts often 
enough - first with the Chair, then in the shadow depository, and finally with 
the neural implant - to map out the changes in John. A strong edifice built on 
shaky foundations. None of it made sense, but Scorpius excelled at solving 
conundrums. Yet where Crichton struggled to impose order - regain control - 
Scorpius only saw chaos and confusion. John's alien consciousness had stopped 
making sense - had it ever? - and was defeating him even now. 

He should have given more credit to the complexity and sophistication of John's 
brain. Scorpius had never been confronted with an unsolvable equation, and he 
now faced two: John Crichton and wormhole technology. How utterly vexing that 
one should be the key to the other. It was time to shoulder responsibility and 
move on - look ahead to the broader picture. He needed the Human's help. Rage, 
humiliation, all of it had to be set aside for the sake of the greater goal. It 
was a simple matter of discipline. Giving into the anger, the dark urge to go 
after John, capture the Human and make him suffer as Scorpius had suffered, rip 
out screams of mercy falling on deaf ears - exact revenge and temporary 
satisfaction - would be surrendering to his Scarran heritage. As a Peacekeeper, 
he could not waste time and resources. 

So very ironic that John brought out the Scarran in him, the very thing the 
Human's knowledge could help him eradicate. Therein lay the ambivalence of his 
impulses towards Crichton. Unthinking anger and objective need coalescing to 
challenge his hard-won control. To be dependent on John's cooperation in order 
to win the single most important battle of his existence was an insult to the 
keenness of his mind, but it was time to surrender to logic and seek the Human's 
cooperation. 

By any means necessary. 

"Sir. Communications have opened a secure channel to High Command, as you 
requested."

Scorpius didn't look away from the console, which had been holding his attention 
for the past seven arns. The holograms spun in front of his eyes, evading him, 
taunting him. Cruel illusion of victory. True genius was the ability to hold two 
contradictory concepts in mind at the same time. He had not expected the Human 
to be capable of such feat. 

"Sir?"

"I heard you the first time, lieutenant."

Braca's long-suffering silence brought a thin smile to Scorpius's blackened 
mouth. He stood, marching out of the lab, heading for the communication center. 
Braca fell in step behind him. 

"While I inform High Command of the latest," - he licked his lips - "unfortunate 
development, I want you to send out a wide-dispersal priority Red One message 
coded to all operatives in the Uncharted Territories. It is imperative that we 
locate John Crichton as quickly as possible." 

"Sir, our resources are very limited. It will be difficult to follow up on--"

Scorpius's hand cut through the air. "High Command will send us all the 
reinforcements we need, I assure you. Reports of Scarran forces massing at the 
borders of the Uncharted Territories are coming in with increasing frequency. We 
need that technology, Braca. High Command knows this as well as I do. Time is 
running out. If we cannot access the chip's information, we are as good as 
dead."

"There's still a chance our tech specialists could break the code."

Was that Braca trying to make him feel better? He found the idea highly amusing. 
"I do not share your optimism, Lieutenant. I have to confess that in the 
beginning I found this puzzle entertaining. Now I just find it... excruciatingly 
annoying. The Ancients used sequences of concepts which must be indigenous to 
Crichton's culture and his personal history to create the code. We will never 
find the proper combination on our own." The anger rose again and he struggled 
to smother it. "Make very clear in your message that finding Crichton must take 
precedence over all ongoing missions. Capture is authorized, but I want him 
unharmed. Completely unharmed, Braca."

"Yes, Sir. Should I order the techs to ready the Chair for extraction?"

Scorpius paused before entering the communication center, facing Braca with a 
snide, closed smile. "Ah... I'm afraid the Chair will not do it this time, 
Lieutenant. I need more than John's memories. I need access to his higher brain 
functions. And the Chair can be... rather unforgiving." Although Braca remained 
impassible, Scorpius could tell that the lieutenant thought those last words to 
be quite the understatement. "I thought that I would simply try to... ask 
nicely."

Staring. Braca was definitely staring now, and Scorpius found that he was quite 
enjoying the lieutenant's chagrin, as always. "Crichton gave himself up for the 
Luxan's son. I do think he would be convinced to cooperate again if he was 
informed of the threat the Scarrans represent. To himself, his friends and even 
his home world."

"And if he cannot be enticed, Sir?"

Scorpius bared his teeth, hard-pressed to stifle the growl building in his 
chest. "Then we will have to consider other means of persuasion."




D'Argo hadn't said a word, and that in itself was a bit disturbing. Rygel was 
off on a food binge, abusing the Regent's hospitality. Comfort of the expected. 
Tesha's healers had come to collect Stark. They would be back for D'Argo later. 
Crichton had been insistent. Take care of the others first, then he would submit 
himself to their examination. In truth, Aeryn could tell that the healers were 
not high on his list of favorite persons at the moment. He had had enough of 
being prodded, poked, and scanned to last him a lifetime, just like she had had 
enough of ice and snow. 

She knew that his head was still bothering him. With Zhaan drilling holes in his 
skull, it wouldn't get better anytime soon. He stood, back against the wall in 
one of the chambers Tesha had set aside for them as living quarters, deceptively 
at ease. His tired, unsettled eyes told a different story. His movements were 
stilted, lacking their usual grace. 

She wanted to let him go, let him sleep, but she had to contend with fatigue and 
deceptions of her own. She was wary of pushing, prodding at the wall he had 
erected for fear that he would retreat deeper inside his shell. She knew that 
wall very well. Funny that he should erect his barricades when hers were 
crumbling down. It was a new kind of gift, one she wasn't sure how to accept. 
The privilege to look inside herself by simply watching him. 

So why wasn't she laughing? 

There were things he didn't want them to see. Secrets. Secrets weren't something 
she had ever associated with John. It was foolish, of course. Everyone had 
secrets, at the very least willful omissions. Why would John be any different? 

He was hiding. It made her want to hunt him down. Did he feel that way around 
her, when confusion meant retreat, evasion, harsh words destined to push him 
away, declarations of love she would not follow through? It was still awkward - 
trying to see through someone else's eyes. 

//They say you have to walk a mile in someone else's shoes to understand them.//

It came with the territory, came with caring for another. 

It was more than a little frightening. 

"I am not a pawn to be played with!" Zhaan was angry. Aeryn had gone as far as 
checking the color of her eyes from up close. Still blue. Could have fooled her. 
There was nothing weak or sickly about the Delvian. The priestess stood tall and 
unyielding in front of Crichton, fists clenched, lips pressed into a thin, 
unforgiving line. "You had no right to make such a decision for me."

"I understand, Zhaan, but--"

"I believe I have earned a little more respect."

Aeryn heard John's sharp intake of breath over the sound of her own blood 
rushing in her ears. 

"Zhaan, please--"

"No, John. I thought you were past making choices for the rest of us. I can see 
now that I was wrong."

Crichton flinched. Aeryn watched the scene unfold with morbid fascination. She 
wanted to stop Zhaan, help John, but she couldn't bring herself to derail the 
priestess's righteous anger. Short of restraining Zhaan, which was out of the 
question, she wouldn't know how. It wasn't her place. In a little corner of her 
mind, she could even convince herself that John deserved the lashing. D'Argo's 
stern expression spoke of similar thoughts. 

Aeryn found herself wishing for Stark. The Banik and the Delvian had a way of 
balancing each other. 

John pushed away from the wall. His hands were trembling a little. He swallowed, 
shoulders hunkered. "I'm... I'm sorry."

"Apologies are not the answer to everything, John." 

Aeryn couldn't imagine how much that hurt. 

"I... ah... I've got to..." He looked at the ground, raised his eyes up again 
with a visible effort. "Take care of yourself, Zhaan. I hope you find... what 
you need."

Aeryn didn't like to see him withdraw. It wasn't like Crichton at all, yet so 
little was these days. Something was very, very wrong with him.

John walked past Zhaan, past the rest of them, and left the room. 

Aeryn didn't move. Waited for Zhaan, who was breathing slowly, to calm herself. 
A moment later, the Delvian seemed to deflate, lassitude undermining her strong 
carriage. Her shoulders bore the weight of every one of her eight hundred 
cycles. D'Argo stepped forward, offering his arm in support. 

"Go after him, Aeryn," the priestess whispered. Her blue eyes were grieving. 

The ex-Peacekeeper turned around, following Crichton. 




One foot in front of the other. Breathe slowly, but not too deep. Drive away the 
gray edge around his vision. His chest hurt, his hands were clammy, shivers 
running up and down his spine. He had to sit down. Outside. Get some fresh air - 
as fresh as the dome would allow anyway. Escape the walls closing in on him. 

He had tried to leave the palace. Had been intercepted by a couple of Tesha's 
very polite guards. He hadn't argued with them. He couldn't. His mouth was dry, 
throat was too tight, no words would come. 

He stumbled onto a terrace like a blind man. Sat down, hard, when his knees hit 
a bench. He couldn't see... couldn't see... Nausea swelled at the back of his 
esophagus and the panic rose with it. He couldn't be sick here - no, no no. He 
bent forward, head between in legs. Shallow breaths. He knew the drill. 

Maxime knew all about these things. Psychology 101, she would have said. Anxiety 
attack. Post-traumatic disorder. Jesus, did he qualify. He wanted to laugh, but 
he didn't have the oxygen to spare. 

Maxime... her image had not faded over the years and remained crystal-clear, 
even if she was confined to the periphery of his thoughts in a little box 
labeled 'too painful to dwell on', where she kept his mother company. He had 
been thinking about her a lot since the surgery - one of those memories he had 
been unwilling to sacrifice. He didn't like to question just how badly the 
diagnosian had screwed with his brain. //Attempt... replace... you... normal.// 
Well, fuck. Did he look normal now? 

He wrapped his arms around himself, digging his fingers into the flesh of his 
sides with bruising force. The sharp pain helped a little. He was so cold. Buzz 
in his ears. Reality was a place very, very far-away. 

For fuck's sake, Johnny, calm down. 

He didn't think anyone would be coming after him, but he couldn't take the risk 
of being found like this. Shit, shit, shit, it hurt. He was rocking, back and 
forth, back and forth, comforting himself, because there was no one else to do 
it for him.

Losing it. Completely losing it. 

He had been for a while, and didn't know how much longer he could keep it hidden 
from the others. There were panic attacks after the gammak base; they had 
alleviated around the time he began hallucinating Scorpy - the clone at work, 
altering his brain chemistry to insure John didn't do something drastic like 
play Russian Roulette with Wynona, knowing he could only lose. After that, there 
had been little time for fear, only madness on a downward slope. 

The attacks had recurred since the surgery. And the nightmares. It wasn't like 
before - hallucinations so vivid he could touch them - more like half-formed 
memories twisted beyond recognition, fever dreams, hellish visions, night 
terrors beginning to seep into his waking hours like a malignant disease. They 
were getting harder to subdue and he was terrified of losing it in front of his 
shipmates. Their trust in him was shaky enough as it was. 

All he needed was some uninterrupted sleep. A full day's rest without feeling 
like he owed his crewmates an apology, and he would be fine. But now this... 
Frosty the Snow Bitch manipulating him, Aeryn angry and distant, Zhaan pissed at 
him... Whatever it was - delayed-onset post-traumatic reaction or the surgery 
scrambling his memory centers - he was terrified that he wouldn't be able to 
hold it together, keep up the pretense for much longer. Not that he had a 
choice. Zhaan came first. 

Wind him up. Watch him spin. 

John blinked hard, fighting off the tears building up at the back of his throat. 
Shit, oh, God. Small black spots swam across his vision. 

He couldn't go back. Back before Scorpius. Before the wormhole. He would never 
be who he once was. And he couldn't go forward. His future was an endless stream 
of jumbled images, flashbacks of failures and torture, Scorpy's ugly grinning 
face every time he closed his eyes and Harvey the only one still willing to talk 
to him. Smiles, smokescreens and jokes - human nonsense to cover up the cracks. 

He could only go down.

He was panting like a lost puppy now; if he kept this up much longer, he would 
faint. He hugged himself tighter. Breathe, Johnny, breathe. He thought of simple 
things. Sunday brunches at the old family house in Charlotte. Playing little 
league on warm Saturday afternoons, the extended Crichton clan screaming their 
heads off in the stands. Sneaking into the Hasty Pudding Club in the middle of 
the night to surprise Maxime on Halloween. She had been pretty sick by then, 
even if she showed none of it. The traditional Harvard-MIT raft race on the 
Charles in the spring. Celebrating the successful funding of the Farscape 
project with Alex, DK and his father - mourning those who couldn't be present 
with too much champagne. A peaceful, sleepless night on Maxime's grave, a week 
before the flight, sharing his hopes and dreams with her, like he hadn't in a 
long time. Not even bothered that she couldn't talk back at him. 

Bittersweet places. Home. God.

He giggled, and the sound wrapped around a sob. Funny how his dreams hadn't 
featured anything about living ships, stubborn Peacekeeper commandos, sadistic 
scientists, killing the love of his life and nervous breakdowns. 

"Want me to hold your hand?" Caustic feminine voice, a familiar trail of wood, 
green cypress, old leather, silk and breath mints. Short-nailed fingertips on 
his cheek.

He snapped his eyes open with a start. 

Found himself kneeling on the ground with no idea how he got there. Another 
blackout. 

Maxime. Oh God, Maxime. Was she haunting him now too? 

He grabbed onto the bench to give himself a push. His heart-rate was slowing 
down, his breathing was more regular - his vision clearing up - but the headache 
still lanced through him. A couple of Extra-Strength Tylenols would really hit 
the spot. 

Get your act together, pal. 

His own kind of hero - right. The kind that came with psychotropic 
prescriptions. Cooker without the relief valve. What would his father say? 

He sat, facing the dome, the city sprawled underneath, not seeing any of it. 
Wishing the pulsar light would warm him up a little. 




Aeryn tracked him down to a terrace overlooking the temple. He had tried to walk 
as far as he could, probably got turned around by sentries when he attempted to 
exit the palace, and found this place, the closest thing to freedom he could 
achieve. 

He sat on a bench, hunched like an old man, almost a perfect recreation of their 
conversation the previous night, except that he wasn't on the ledge. Perhaps he 
didn't trust himself so close to nothingness. Like then, Aeryn didn't have 
the words to reach him, the momentum to trample all over her fears, her 
confusion, her daily struggle with the past, the present, things that didn't 
make any sense. Before... before, there had been the hallucinations of Scorpius, 
then the chip. Whatever was wrong now - had been wrong since the surgery, or 
since forever really - she had no clue. If she didn't understand the problem, 
she couldn't solve it. And John wasn't talking. 

Frelling hezmana. It hurt. She didn't care to wonder about it for once, just 
accepted that the pain was there. Was this her lesson for the day? If she didn't 
hold onto that frelling emotional dren, just let it flow through her, didn't try 
to force it into a neat Peacekeeper box just to prove to herself that it 
wouldn't fit, it might not hurt so badly. John had a way of teaching her even 
when he wasn't trying. 

"Zhaan was upset," she said. Why not? It was the truth. Zhaan was upset. She 
could even tell John that the Delvian hadn't really meant the accusations. It 
would be true also. The priestess had berated him about stolen choices and 
forced decisions to avoid voicing her real grievance. 

//What do you think I am? Gun-for-hire?//

That was more or less what Tesha had asked of John. And he had said yes. For 
Zhaan's sake. And Zhaan - dying Zhaan - didn't want that ultimate stain on her 
soul before reuniting with her goddess. Zhaan was not a warrior. The idea of 
John killing for her made her sick. Aeryn could have explained, but she had a 
feeling Crichton already knew. He often did. It was almost distressing, to 
fathom how few secrets they had for John. He could look at them and grasp their 
innermost thoughts just because he cared enough to listen. 

Aeryn didn't sit. Just stood over him, a hand on his shoulder. He winced a 
little and she removed it. There was still a discolored bruise where the Scarran 
had hit him three weekens ago. The shoulder had been dislocated. Sometimes she 
forgot how fragile his human body was. She forced herself to forget, or she 
would never be able to take him into danger again. 

//I love you.

//I love you too.//

Her throat was tight. It wasn't from his warm proximity, or the memory of his 
arms around her, of being reintroduced to life. She ruffled his hair, and he 
bowed his head a little, like a Ketian cat allowing itself to be petted. 

"Are you still angry with me?" 

The question threw her, but she didn't stop caressing him. She let her fingers 
trail down the smooth column of his neck, over the broad shoulders, the strong 
chest and came to rest on his waist as she kneeled in front of him. She tilted 
her head to capture his eyes. Red-rimmed. So blue. So worn. Squinted in pain. 
The headache wasn't letting up. 

"I was never..."

The tips of his fingers landed on her mouth, silencing her. John would forgive 
anything, but a lie. "Yes, you were. You are, still. I understand. Trust isn't 
easily regained. I broke it."

"That's not true," she protested, drawing his hand into her lap. His skin was 
chilled. Her chest hurt. 

"Yes, it is." His mouth quirked. "It is, Aeryn."

"It wasn't you." She had never doubted that. "There's nothing you could have 
done."

He chuckled darkly. "And that's the problem, isn't it?"

She didn't know anything could feel like this - to see a friend in pain, need to 
alleviate their suffering so desperately, yet not know how to offer help. Which 
was all right, because John didn't look like he would know how to accept it 
anyway. 

"John..."

"I'm okay, Aeryn."

He was far, far from 'okay'. 

He stood, guiding her to her feet. A firm hand framed the side of her face and 
she couldn't help it, she nuzzled the rough skin of his palm. He had that look 
again. As if he held some profound truth that would not be revealed to her for 
cycles, but he couldn't come out and share, because the journey was as important 
as the destination. 

And she understood. She clutched one such truth herself, close to her center. 
The hope John was so evidently mourning - it wasn't dead, just buried. Crichton 
had the map to it, he had just forgotten, but she could not confront him with 
that simple fact. 

He wasn't ready to hear it. 

So John would keep her truth safe, and she would do the same with his. Maybe 
this was love. She was still new to the subject; she couldn't be sure. 

Aeryn squeezed the hand caressing her face and on impulse brought it to her 
mouth. She kissed his palm. His skin tasted like rain - she remembered still - 
and sweat. She might not be able to share his truth with him yet, but she could 
remind him to keep looking. 

"Aeryn, what--"

She shushed him. Guided him back inside, gratified when he leaned against her. 
"You need to sleep, John."

A shudder coursed through him.

She understood how he could do it, how he could be so giving all the time; it 
was easy to be strong for someone other than herself. Her confusion and 
frustration appeared so inconsequential when she focused on someone else's pain. 
John's pain.

She tugged on his hand, worried when he stumbled over his own feet. He was 
almost sleep-walking. She berated herself for not spotting the real extent of 
his exhaustion earlier. How many sleepless nights... were the nightmares a 
regular occurrence too? 

"How's your head?"

"Fine," he whispered. 

Aeryn couldn't decide what was worse - a manic Crichton or a subdued Crichton. 
She was about ready for some inane lecture on the mood-lifting virtues of 
'shokolate' over food cubes. 

"The truth, John."

He sighed, a little exasperated. A spark of the old Crichton. "It's sore. Okay, 
pounding like a drunk steel-band on Mardi Gras." He yawned. "I'll let Tesha's 
healers have a look at me. Promise."

John sounded like he would rather volunteer for a full frontal lobotomy without 
anesthetic than allow any of Tesha's people anywhere near him. What he wanted - 
needed - was Zhaan, but he would never ask. Aeryn let him be. 

When they reached their quarters, Zhaan and D'Argo were gone and Stark still 
hadn't returned. Aeryn breathed a little in relief. She guided John to the main 
room and led him to the bed. He dropped on the mattress. His lids were drooping 
and he stifled another yawn. 

When she bent to remove his boots, he blinked, startled. "Aeryn, what are you 
doing?"

"Stop talking, John."

He did. 

She took off his jacket and pushed him against the covers. His eyes were already 
shut tight. "John," she called, combing through the short hair on his forehead. 
It was getting shorter all the time. 

"Hmm."

"I'll wake you up in a couple of arns, all right?"

He stared blearily up at her. 

"I remember what you told me the first time you got knocked over the head. It 
happens often enough." His eyebrows rose in half-hearted indignation. "You said 
it was important to conduct standard neurological exams over the next solar day. 
Make sure the swelling doesn't get worse."

"I don't think my brain would notice," he mumbled.

His breathing evened out as soon as he closed his eyes. Aeryn kissed his brow, 
pleased to see the deep lines of tension smooth out in slumber. Her thumb traced 
the path of an imaginary tear down his cheek. Knowing he would rest for a while, 
she left the room and went in search of Zhaan.




No one stopped Allara. No one asked questions. Why would they? 

Her brother was Tesha's personal advisor and lover. The Regent was known for her 
wild sexual appetites, and the priest was allowed access to the palace anytime 
of the day or night. Allara herself had shared the royal bed on occasion. It was 
not an unusual practice. Over hundreds of cycles, the religious caste had relied 
on personal favors as much as political savvy to guarantee royal support against 
the warrior caste.

Allara did not worry about the soldiers she came across, but she went out of her 
way to stay clear of the Human's friends. No need to arouse suspicion. She 
waited outside the aliens' quarters, saw the Delvian Pa'u and the Luxan leave, a 
handful of microts before the former Peacekeeper returned with Crichton. 

She had not seen him up close until that moment, and despite his obvious 
weariness, he made a daunting picture standing by his companion, both of them 
clad in Peacekeeper leathers. It was obvious by the way the Human leaned on the 
woman that they were close, moving with the coordinated grace of old lovers, or 
old warriors - it was difficult to tell one apart from the other. The ex-
Peacekeeper's touch spoke of caring, worry and aching tenderness. Her hand 
looked deceptively fragile against the man's broader figure - her dark, 
unconventional beauty made even more striking by the contrast of his handsome, 
chiseled frame. 

Allara waited for a long time after the woman departed. Her muscles ached with a 
mixture of fear, anticipation and a little awe. She had been raised on tales of 
the Human and his part in her planet's fate, she had grown up knowing that he 
would stand somewhere in her future - an enigmatic but all too frail figure. And 
although the mystic and the thrill had faded with time, some of the sense of 
wonder buried in childhood memories resurfaced now that she stood so close to 
him. The implications of her actions, the sheer scope of what she was about to 
do, only compounded her scruples. If the Regent found out, her fate would be 
worse than death. 

Allara couldn't stall any longer. Crichton's shipmates were bound to come back. 
She crossed the hall, the corridor, pushed open the door to the bedroom and 
paused - letting her vision adjust to the darkness. The door remained ajar, 
providing just enough illumination to navigate around the furniture and make out 
the slumbering form on the mattress. Khal'a'x bless, she was shaking. She wished 
for Jarian's appeasing presence, but it couldn't be. She could not involve her 
brother in her reckless decision. 

She stopped by the bed. Her heart skipped a beat.

She was about to alter prophecy. Whatever her scientific knowledge and 
understanding of the true nature of Sacot's so-called vision, she couldn't 
suppress the small shiver of primal dread snaking through her. She sat carefully 
on the edge of the mattress, shifting a little to let the dim light from the 
hallway illuminate the Human's features. 

Beautiful.

Not the dark, threatening seduction of most Sebacean males, but a kind of 
unassuming, sweet perfection, a face which bespoke of intelligence, kindness and 
determination. She took it all in - hair too short to be disheveled, the high 
brow, the soft cheekbones, the angle of the jaw, the full lips and the throat 
bared in submission, the outline of a nipple through his shirt. Her palm coursed 
the contours of his chest, never touching him - broad shoulders and strong arms, 
confident hands, narrow waist, trim hips. Sculpted muscles, defined frame - 
lithe but substantial. The leather pants left very little to her imagination. It 
seemed that human males were susceptible to involuntary arousal as well. 

By the gods, so lovely. The solidness, the rightness of him. 

So very real. 

As a priestess of Ectani, she had an unlimited choice of attractive male 
partners with whom she could recreate. Allara never went frustrated. She hadn't 
expected to react physically to the Human, but there it was. 

She climbed onto the bed, holding her respiration. He didn't move. Even asleep, 
he looked exhausted. Only when she bent a hair-breadth away from his lips, 
savoring his earthy, male scent, the alien warmth of him, did she realize that 
he was trembling. His lips parted, freeing a small, husky sound of need; or was 
it distress? He tossed his head to the side, and she withdrew, afraid that he 
had sensed her presence and was waking up, but he settled down again with a soft 
sigh, and she resumed her exploration. The hard planes of his stomach. So 
tempting. Her hands ventured between his legs. 

She bit her lower lip, indecisive. This had not been the reason for her 
intrusion in the Human's chamber, but she felt a familiar ache deep within her 
womb. Soon he would leave, tied to another, and she would never see him again. 

She cupped him, gently, through the material of his pants, and he arched under 
her hand with a moan. She would not go further. She had wanted to see that 
expression on his face, once - and hold it, a rare memory. She loved him. In a 
way, she had always loved him. The idea of him. Words on a scroll. Faithful 
companion on one too many lonely nights of study in the temple. Fantasy lover of 
a young, impressionable mind. 

The reality by far outclassed the fiction.

Allara pulled away, comforted in her resolve. She could not allow prophecy to 
unfold. 

His pain was unjustifiable. 




"Do you think the Universe is indeterminate?"

"Since when do you care about Quantum Mechanics?"

"You cared, so I always cared. My mind just wasn't warped like yours. Warped 
period, sure, but I never was, and never wanted to be, a scientist. The 
Uncertainty Principle has entertaining philosophical implications, so I'm 
asking."

Short laugh over the soothing whisper of the tide. It felt good. "Entertaining?"

"I get bored."

"I remember." A sigh. "Why are we talking about this, really?"

Sly smile. How he remembered. The smile. The smaragdine eyes. "It drives him 
crazy." A look over her shoulder. A snide quirk of her mouth. Pink tongue 
snaking out to moisten her lips. 

"Him?"

"Harvey," she sniggered.

He tried to turn around, then thought better of it. "What is he doing back there 
anyway? Feasting on my soul? I feel a little more like Faust each time I conjure 
him up."

"Chill. I keep him in line."

A groan. "Do you sell tickets? This I wanna see."

"Hey, it's your brain, sexy. You can drop by anytime."

He wrapped one arm around himself, his other hand bringing a Sam Adams to his 
lips. "I'm dreaming, right?"

A shrug. "Well, you're sleeping, so I guess this qualifies as dreaming."

He reached for her hand, almost startled when his fingers closed around solid 
skin and bone. He looked at her sideways, afraid she would disappear if he 
stared too hard. "I miss you."

Enigmatic smile. "I've always been here."

"Really?" Doubtful.

"You know. Horatio. Weird things. Heaven and Earth. Blah, blah, blah."

He loved this place. The summer house, north of Long Island, not far from Port 
Jefferson. A century-old construction, two stories, blue and white wood, 
shingles and gingerbread, a gallery. A few wooden steps led to a stretch of 
beach from the garden. White sand, wild grass running across the dunes. If he 
closed his eyes, he would smell his mother's expensive perfume. 

They sat on the gallery, bare feet teasing the grass, shoulder to shoulder. 
Facing the Atlantic. The sun had set. The sky was clear - a deep, royal blue to 
usher in darkness. 

"Why are we here?"

"You chose the place. Not me. Hey, the house, the education, the looks, the 
personal tragedies... you qualify to be a Kennedy." The ribbing was good-
natured, like a balm to his soul. 

She held a mug of coffee between both hands. She blew across the rim, her breath 
going up in volutes. It got cold here in October. She wore her favorite pair of 
501s and one of his M.I.T. shirts. She was always the talk of the campus at 
Harvard, for wearing the colors of the enemy. 

She never gave a damn. 

Her skin was pale, but she looked healthy. Short copper hair, lustrous. Wild 
cat's eyes. A witch's mouth. She smelled like home and family. He reached out to 
caress the line of her jaw. "You haven't changed at all."

Affectionate. "Cause that's the way you remember me, stupid."

"I don't understand what's happening. Why are you back?"

Almost sad. "All will become clear. At some point."

"How do you know?"

"I'm dead. I get to be whatever I want. I get to be a fortune cookie. I get to 
be omniscient." He stared. "All right, just kidding. I mean, I'm still dead. But 
I'm not a fortune cookie."

Pressure, on his chest. A pull he never wanted to answer again. He whimpered. 
"Don't leave. I'm scared. I'm losing it."

She leaned against him a little heavier. 

"Not going anywhere. You called me. I came."

"I'm just dreaming. When I wake up, you'll be gone. It'll still hurt."

"I'm never far. And you have your friends."

He closed his eyes. 

"They're not very happy with me right now - not that it's much of a change."

It was her turn to sigh. She had no answer to that. So much for a cookie. She 
turned around again, glaring at something deep into the house. 

"What's he doing now?"

She snorted. "He spent so much time burrowing in deep enough to get to the 
wormhole knowledge left by the Ancients, he sort of forgot to check out your 
basic Earth science. Arrogant little bastard. He's puzzling out the Plank time 
at the moment. Peacekeepers aren't that great at theoretical mathematics, you 
know? They stole the hetch drive from someone else. Scorpy is kind of the 
leading mind in a restricted field."

"Scary thought." Small voice. "Can you tell me about DK?"

She lowered her head. Exhaled. "I could tell you what you want to hear, but I'm 
here with you, not there with him. I don't know anymore about DK and your Dad 
than you do."

He didn't want to cry. Please,