Voices Of Reason
Chapter 6
Jool was already waiting in the maintenance chamber that everyone still thought of as Zhaan’s infirmary when
D’Argo strode in carrying a weakly objecting Crichton. John had traversed less than half the distance from
where they had left Aeryn when he had been forced to stop, leaning against one of the thick arches that were
spaced regularly through all of Moya’s corridors. He bent over forward, his back against Moya’s rib but bracing
his hands on his thighs, waiting for a bout of dizziness to pass. He gazed at his friend’s feet through half closed
eyes. “I’ll be all right in a minute. You don’t really have to stay here with me. Go help Aeryn.”
Closing his eyes momentarily against a whirling view of the floor, he only heard D’Argo’s hiss of disagreement.
He wasn’t even aware that he was sliding to the floor until he felt strong hands hauling him upright again.
“No, D’Argo,” he objected as he felt the Luxan start to lift him off his feet, “just let me lean on you and I can
make it the rest of the way.” But muscular arms slid behind his shoulders and knees, he was scooped off the
floor and they started to move again. Through nearly closed eyes he was aware of the flash of corridor lights
passing at a quickening pace. The pulsing lights joined the whirling in his head, threatening to spin him into
unconsciousness. He tried to help D’Argo support his frame by hanging on with one arm, but found that he
suddenly had no strength remaining whatsoever, and was left with no other choice but to submit to his friend’s
assistance.
If the weight of the tall, sturdy human was a burden, D’Argo didn’t show any sign of the strain. He had carried
his small son, Jothee, to bed this way many times, and he now cradled someone who meant nearly as much to
him. He reached the infirmary quickly, maneuvered John’s long legs through the doorway, and carried him to
the high couch they used as an examining table.
As D’Argo carefully deposited his burden, Crichton quietly renewed his complaint, “I hate being carried that
way, D’Argo.”
“Very well! Next time I will grab you by one ankle and drag you through Moya’s corridors behind me like the
carcass of a Folsatian pit hog.” Jool started to open her mouth to object to his retort but he cut her off. “John
needs medical treatment. Can you help him?”
Jool was already moving quickly from one rack of instruments to the next, grabbing several items. “If this
retrograde laboratory has the necessary equipment,” she rattled through the racks that held what had been
Zhaan’s herbal treatments, “I supposed I might be able to make a clinical diagnosis. Doesn’t your species
believe in treating your illnesses before they become advanced? I’ve studied most of my culture’s theoretical
fields covering numerous existent xenobiological microbial and viral infectious agents, so if your species does
have any passing similarities to my own, as you’ve suggested, then hypothetically I should be able to formulate
an initial diagnosis of what form of -- oh good, sensor pads and a readout panel …” Her voice ran on as she
prepared the pads and continued her search through the contents of the benches and drawers.
“How did you get here so quickly?” John inquired, struggling to regain some firmness in his tone. “We only
commed you a couple of microts ago.”
“Pilot said Moya wanted me to come down here and wait for you, but he wasn’t specific as to the nature of the
problem. I’ll need to place these sensors, John, in order to derive some primary physiological parameters …”
Ignoring the non-stop prattle coming from the corner, D’Argo reached behind John as he managed to sit up,
and helped him take his vest off. John started to just yank his T-shirt up enough for Jool to place the torso
sensors, but he discovered that it was thoroughly soaked now, so he struggled to pull the wet garment off over
his head. Again, a firm but gentle hand took hold and helped him pull it free. John wrapped himself in the
thermal sheet that had been draped at the foot of the table, shivering for a moment now that his sweating body
was shirtless, and laid down again, waiting for Jool.
D’Argo spared a brief moment to place his hand on John’s shoulder, gave it a gentle squeeze, turned and
hurried out of the room. Crichton could hear the metallic zing as the Luxan pulled his Qualta blade from its
sheath, then a click and a snap as he converted it into an energy rifle. He was left feeling weak and alone,
stuck here with an invisible viral foe to battle while the others were searching Moya, risking their lives against
the Peacekeeper infiltrators.
He was consumed by an urge to just leave the lab and go after D’Argo, pushing through the discomfort of his
illness in order to help his friends, to be with Aeryn, to make sure she was safe. His promise echoed in his ears
though, and he knew he couldn’t let her down. He tried to relax. He forced himself to let the strange Interion
examine him, take blood, test his inner workings, and felt a little afraid.
D’Argo hurried away, fighting against a mounting rage once again, targeted this time against himself. When he
had pulled Crichton’s shirt over his head, he had seen the still darkening bruises of his own handiwork. Black,
purple, green and yellow patches had spread and connected, leaving John’s torso almost completely covered
with his artwork of anger. ‘How could I have turned on him in such savagery?’ he asked himself. ‘This is the
friend who sacrificed himself so that I could be reunited with my son!’ He steeled himself against the guilt and
went in search of a Peacekeeper on whom he could vent his frustration.
* * * * *
Aeryn crouched outside the opening to the central neural cluster, scanning the interior through the sites of her
pulse rifle. Rygel floated behind her, working hard to be as courageous as one of his valiant predecessors,
Rygel IX. “Are you sure this is the right place to start hunting?” Aeryn dragged her focus once more back to
the matter at hand.
“A Peacekeeper officer who has just lost his entire command and his ship has nothing to look forward to except
a Tribunal and execution. Their only hope for avoiding that outcome is to cripple or destroy the ship that led to
their defeat.” She worked her way carefully into the cavern, continuing her methodical scan of the cluster’s
numerous openings. “The entire neural cluster would be their most obvious target, giving them the greatest
tactical opportunity.”
She eased over to the vertical shaft that ran all the way from Pilot’s neural connections near the top of Moya’s
body, down through all the tiers to the bottom of the enormous peaceful beast. In two brief darts she made her
initial survey of the shaft both above and below her. It appeared empty. She leaned further into the open
column and made a more complete survey.
Without relaxing her vigilance for a microt, she nonetheless turned to look at Rygel, “Will you search through
the tiers above us until you reach the level right below Pilot?” She half expected Rygel to refuse, his Hynerian
instinct for self-preservation normally rose above the interests of everyone else on the ship. But he moved his
Throne Sled into the center of the shaft and peered up and down, then looked pensively at Aeryn.
“Where will you be?” When she gestured downshaft he nodded. “What should I do if I find one of those
murderers? I have no pulse weapon.” A green wrinkled hand emerged from within his robes holding a wickedly
serrated Charrid knife, the largest personal weapon the Dominar normally chose to wield while directing his
hovering chair. Aeryn regarded him for a long moment, then reached behind her and pulled a small object off
the belt at the rear of her pants and handed it to the diminutive royal Hynerian. He looked it over carefully and
with a malicious smile tucked his knife back out of sight. “Where did you get a pocket pistol?”
“I’ve had it ever since the first day I came on board Moya. Crichton took it off one of Crais’ security officers,”
she said. A quick smile flicked across her face as she recalled that early encounter. Crichton hadn’t even
known how to hold the small weapon and had almost shot himself in the head by firing it backwards, but his
daring grab at the weapon had saved all of them that day. The amusement faded from her expression she
remembered where John was now, and the danger they all faced at this moment. “I’ll work my way down. Keep
your comms open at all times.”
“Thank you for your insightful suggestion … Princess of The Apparent.” Rygel was already disappearing out of
sight overhead as he sneered at her instruction.
“Rygel, I want that weapon back when we’re done with this!” She raised her voice only enough to ensure that
he heard her. A derisive laugh echoed down through the shaft, a clear statement that she had seen the last of
that weapon. Aeryn shook her head. It was naïve to think she would ever get it back. She swung a leg over
the edge of the low wall around the central nexus and grabbed the ladder. Keeping her rifle trained on the well
below her, she began the long descent, checking the immediate surrounding area on each tier carefully as she
worked her way down through Moya.
Ekron could hear small bits and pieces of the conversation above him, echoing down the vertical passage. He
recognized the voice of the Sebacean woman who had thrown their assault into disarray, and heard the
Hynerian leaving to search upshaft. The woman was almost certainly one of the traitors they had been told
about. Her understanding of the tactics that had brought them all to this location demonstrated that she was
the former Peacekeeper. Coming up with a plan to defeat her was going to be a challenge.
He had come close to despairing of losing the DRDs until the Leviathan had been rocked by an explosive shock
wave. He faced the probability that the Marauder had been destroyed with drilled pragmatism, and knew he
needed to somehow join up with his captain and take over this Leviathan. When the DRDs were temporarily
thrown into confusion by the electromagnetic pulses that accompanied the turbulence, he had been able to
enter an access tunnel unseen, and slipped away from them.
He had located the central neural cluster and knew that he was now somewhere near the bottom of the thick,
braided nerve fibers that led from points all over the ship to the pilot far above. Now he crouched in a dark side
tunnel and listened to the noises above.
* * * * *
John dozed off to the sound of ringing in his ears. He was occasionally aware of Jool working around him,
checking his condition, but most of the time there was just the whine in his head, and the need for more air
pressing on his chest. Jool woke him twice to give him something to drink, the chatter about fluids and
electrolytes adding to the buzzing noise that circled and circled in his head. He jerked fully awake to the sound
of metal and glass striking, a furious clatter from the counter that held Zhaan’s few diagnostic instruments.
“Frell!” The single word expletive held a volume of frustration.
“Wh--” He cleared his throat and tried again. “What’s up?”
“This is an impossible situation. I don’t have the instruments I require, and there is something very unusual
happening to the virus that has invaded your system.” She walked over and stood next to him, examining a
culture plate that she still held in her hand. “John …”
Her reticence bothered him more than all of her multi-syllabic ramblings. Suddenly he found that some of the
tightness in his chest wasn’t just the illness. “Go ahead, spit it out. What’s the problem?” He didn’t try to look
at her squarely, just laid back and waited for her to work around to whatever was bothering her, watching the
indecision on her face out of the corners of his eyes.
“Does your species use modified microbial antigen generators?”
He stared up at the shadows cast on the arched ceiling, running the phrase through his mind, trying to turn it
into something recognizable. His microbes had translated all of her words, so it had to be the arrangement.
The words ran like an echo through his head. ‘Antigen …”
“Antibiotics? You mean antibody therapy! Of course we do, that’s our primary method for fighting infections.”
She threw the culture plate across the chamber where it smashed against a wall, fragments falling wetly to the
deck. “Of course you would. When are the lesser species going to learn that retroactive treatments to
microbial infections only result in an increased susceptibility to unmodifiable infectious organisms in the
future?”
John didn’t even ask. He closed his eyes and allowed the hum of far away music to carry him away from the
confusion.
* * * * *
Hasman ran catfooted along a corridor, moving as fast as he could without making any undue noise. He had
been forced out of the access tunnels by the horde of DRDs that were swarming through the Leviathan’s
concealed areas. He had turned into one tunnel after another, never actually being seen by the DRDs, but
herded by them nonetheless. Finally he was forced to admit that if he remained in the access shafts and
conduits, he would be found in a matter of arns, if not microts. He had cautiously emerged into an empty
corridor and paused, surveying his surroundings. When he heard and saw nothing he forayed cautiously into
the hallways, searching for a solution to his predicament.
Hasman benefited from having served on a Leviathan transport for a quarter cycle, just long enough to learn
the basic genetic layout for these beasts. After several microts of stealthy travel he determined that he was
somewhere near the network of workshops and maintenance bays that normally spanned the creature from one
rear flank to the other. He stopped and crouched for a few microts to consider a strategy. The ship had a
former Peacekeeper on board, so he would not be able to use standard tactics. An attack on the central
nervous system of the ship was the first thing even a junior officer would expect, and he did not have a weapon
of sufficient size or power to do any significant damage.
First, he needed to find a weapon of any sort -- pulse rifle, maintenance laser cutter, laser probe, anything that
would cut through the Leviathan’s tough outer membranes that surrounded all of its more delicate living matter.
He also needed to know how many crew members he might have to avoid.
He envisioned the brief battle in the maintenance bay and began counting. The Hynerian could be discounted
-- most of that species were cowards and the rest were ineffective fighters. The Luxan, the Peacekeeper and
the Nebari girl had all performed credibly during the fight. There had been another woman somewhere in the
corridor, he had a flashing image of her stunned, unmoving form. She was an unknown. Which made five.
He thought for another microt. There had been someone who had been able to get behind them unseen, a
skilled combat soldier perhaps, who was able to infiltrate behind their unit without being detected. He searched
his memory some more. He had heard that person’s voice -- male. It was possible that there was a second
Peacekeeper traitor on board. So six life forms certainly, possibly more.
He began to move again, glancing into one empty chamber after another. He was fairly sure he was
somewhere in the vicinity of the treblin side transport hangar and its associated maintenance and storage
areas, any of which might reveal a weapon of some sort. It was then that he heard voices up ahead. He
slowed and approached the area cautiously. A woman’s voice, high pitched and demanding, followed by a
slow, quiet male voice. He was still unarmed and had no way of knowing if there were just two individuals up
ahead, or more. He crouched against the corridor wall, partially concealed by a support rib and considered his
options.
* * * * *
After D’Argo left John in the infirmary he had roamed Moya’s corridors for a quarter arn, mindlessly in search of
something … anything … upon which he could vent his anger. After one hapless DRD just barely managed to
avoid being kicked into crumpled uselessness, the hallways became curiously empty of the scuttling yellow
machines. If he had taken the time to scan the areas around him, D’Argo might have noticed motionless
eyestalks watching his progress from points of safety along the ceiling and walls.
He eventually found himself standing motionless in an intersection not far from Command, his anger fading
suddenly, evaporating as quickly as it had appeared. He stood, trying to remember where his fury had been
driving him. He took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and knew that he had not actually entered full Luxan
hyper-rage this time, falling only just short of it. If he had crossed the line, only physical release would have
allowed him to come out of the mindlessness this soon. He was relieved that no one had suffered this time from
his genetic inability to control his temper. Carrying that burden like a yoke on his spirit, he turned and hurried
to Command.
Entering, he demanded, “Pilot! What is the current status of the search!”
* * * * *
Chiana raced into the Den, slinging her pulse rifle over her shoulder as she approached the raised bulwarks
that surrounded Pilot and all of his controls and displays. “Pilot! Any luck with the DRD search?” Barely
slowing as she reached him, she bounded up on the edge of his station and perched there lightly.
“No, Chiana. I have instructed the DRDs to suspend all but the most essential of Moya’s maintenance until the
Peacekeepers have been located. I have focused the search on the access tunnels and larger conduits
through which they might be able to travel. There are only a minimum number of DRDs patrolling the corridors
since I don’t believe they would choose to travel through Moya in plain sight unless they are forced to.” His four
arms continued to manipulate controls without pause as he spoke.
“Where are the others?” Chiana waggled her tired feet, trying to ease the cramps in her legs and toes.
“Officer Sun and Dominar Rygel are searching the central neural shaft, and Ka D’Argo has just arrived on
Command to monitor the DRDs from there. Stark … ” his tone dropped in concern, “Stark was last observed
near Zhaan’s Chamber, on one of Moya’s burned tiers.”
“Where’s Crichton? With Aeryn?” She was stilled concentrating on her fatigued legs, so she didn’t see the
concerned look Pilot turned in her direction. When there was no answer, she turned to look at him, alarm filling
her expression. “Where’s Crichton, Pilot?”
* * * * *
Chiana didn’t slow down as she tried to turn the corner into the infirmary and her feet slid out from under her.
Jool looked up, startled, as the black and gray figure slid to stop near the bed where Crichton was sitting
hunched and wrapped tightly in the thermal sheet.
“Hey Old Man!” Their favorite greeting brought no response from him. “You don’t look as bad as everyone
says you’re doing.” Her attempt at humor fell flat. Her artfully guileless expression could not completely hide
her dismay when John raised his head to look at her. His eyes were dull and lifeless, and the smile that always
lurked behind even his most serious expressions was gone completely. He laid down wordlessly, curling up on
his side under the thermal sheet and closed his eyes.
Concern made her angular stride even more mechanical as she approached Jool, who continued to work
intently. She searched for words, or for a question, but before she could speak Jool looked up with animosity
and frustration in her expression. “Unless you have something to offer, perhaps a brilliant insight into
manipulating recombinant DNA, go away and leave me alone. I’m trying to help John, and his species’
ridiculous reliance on that archaic fallacy he calls ‘antibiotics’ is making this an impossible task.” She returned
to her work without noticing the affect her words had wrought.
Chiana stared at her speechlessly for a microt. She hissed “Grot-less Wonder” just under her breath and
advanced toward the workbench, the possibility of physical violence a consideration at that moment. “I only
came down here to see how Crichton was doing, you arrogant … ”
“Pip … ” The voice behind her was insistent.
“Hey, Crichton!” She whirled around, her anger forgotten. “How you feelin’?”
“I’m hangin’ in. Don’t be mad at Jool, okay? She’s doing her best.” He felt Chiana’s hand run through his hair,
pushing the short, damp strands back off his forehead. He turned a little on the pillow, and the same
reassuring stroking continued against the side of his head, from the temple back over his ear to the base of his
skull. It was relaxing, and the ever-present headache seemed to ease as the massaging continued. He only
heard and felt her, but he was glad she was there, and didn’t want her to leave. Then even that awareness
faded into darkness.
Chiana saw the laxness enter his body and knew the instant that he had fallen asleep, no matter that it was a
feverish restlessness. She watched for another long moment, and then walked slowly out of the chamber. She
felt frustration’s stinging tears begin to flow and wiped them roughly away, angry at her weakness.
Crichton had, over the cycles, become something like an older brother to her. For a short period of time, she
had certainly tried to interest him in another type of relationship, but his love was reserved unswervingly for
Aeryn. So she had settled for the level of instinctual trust she had experienced only with her real brother, Neri.
Her inability to be of any help now was a grinding irritation that would not leave her in peace.
She paused, considering something John had said to her shortly after she had first come on board Moya. He
had told her to pass the caring along, to do something special for someone else. Her irrepressible smile
reappeared as she realized there was something she could do for Crichton after all. She could do her best to
make sure the one thing that was most important to him in this universe remained safe. “Pilot, is Aeryn still in
the central nexus?” She began to run toward the center of Moya’s bulk even before she received a reply.
When Chiana bolted from his chamber on her way to the infirmary, Pilot had returned to his multitasking
surveillance of Moya, and everything within and around her. The non-stop signals from hundreds of DRDs
barely distracted him from the other myriads of details flowing in through all of Moya’s millions of neural
connections. The thick umbilicals that ran from the ship to the lower portion of his body had taken more than a
cycle to fully connect, and were continuing to grow with each passing day. Every arn brought an infinitesimal
increase in the amount of information exchanged between him and Moya.
As he continued to direct the search being conducted by the host of drones, he reviewed the latest data from
Moya’s external sensors, noting an anomaly. A faint energy signature was emanating from an area of space
nearby, but neither Pilot nor Moya had ever seen anything like it before, so he began comparing it against the
massive data stores imbedded in Moya’s living tissues.
* * * * *
Ekron crouched at the base of the shaft, hidden from the searcher above by the shadows. He had decided that
there was a small window of opportunity provided by her slow careful descent. If he could remain unseen until
her feet protruded below the ceiling level of this tier, he should be able to yank her off the ladder and kill her. It
was risky. If there was any struggle, the others might hear and he would be driven before them like a frantic
drannit once again, but the chance to reduce their number by one couldn’t be discarded. He carefully drew his
long knife from its sheath and waited.
* * * * *
“John?” He heard Jool’s voice speaking to him as if from a long distance away. He swam toward the surface of
consciousness, pulling himself up the long rope that hung from the single word. “John, I’m going to take
another sample of your blood. I need to know if the last formulation I tried is working.”
“All right,” he mumbled. He felt the pressure against his arm, heard the hiss. He opened his eyes, and watched
as she took the sample and placed it in the scanner. She watched the screen as the machinery ran the
analysis, her normally smooth forehead wrinkling in disappointment and dismay. Obviously whatever she was
trying wasn‘t working. She removed the capsuled sample and in a pique flung it across the chamber where it
joined the debris of the earlier culture plate.
He tried a simple question. “Not going too well?” He was shocked by how his voice rasped and quavered. His
mouth was parched and inside his throat it felt as if the two sides had grown together. He tried to swallow but it
didn’t break up the awful sensation.
She glanced to where he lay, declining to actually answer him. Instead, she reached for a drink container and
brought it to him. “Since you’re awake, try and drink some of this. If you can’t, I’m going to have to find another
way to rehydrate your body.” She offered her arm to help him sit up, but when he tried to pull against it she
found she couldn’t manage even a fraction of his weight. Crichton gradually squirmed one elbow under himself
and worked his way into a partially raised position.
He gagged against the strong, bitter taste of the mixture in the flask initially, but his throat was so dry he tried
another sip and found it strangely refreshing on the second chance. He glanced at Jool, comparing the pliable
form of this intellectually elite woman to Aeryn’s resilient strength. He wished she was here. He tried another
sentence. “You’ll get it, just keep trying.” The liquid was finally lubricating the tissues in his throat.
“It’s not that,” her voice took on a familiar tone of complaint. “It’s this antiquated lab, the lack of proper facilities,
Moya’s vibrations destroy emulsions before I can … oh! It’s just all impossible.” She took the empty container
away from him and began to refill it. He remained propped up on one arm, watching her frustrated, jerky
movements.
“Jool …” He waited until she looked around at her. “I do understand how you feel.” She turned away again
and her ringlets bounced as she shook her head, denying that he could know what she was experiencing. “All
my life … hard work always was enough to get me where I wanted to go … I always knew I was going to be an
astronaut … as long as I gave it everything I had, I could achieve … my goals.” He paused frequently,
struggling to marshal his scattered thoughts and catch his breath. “Top of my class in high school … getting
accepted to MIT … uh, that’s the college I wanted … getting into IASA … convincing the brass to let DK and me
try the Farscape project.”
She returned with the flask, but didn’t hand it to him yet. She just watched him as he caught his breath and
continued.
“And then I wound up … here on Moya ... None of the rules here are the same. No matter what I try … no
matter how long I’m here, something … always seems to go wrong. I say things and everyone misunderstands
… I think I understand what they are saying … and I turn out to be wrong. I think I know how equipment works
… ” he paused and gestured at the scanners and analyzers around the chamber, “and then it doesn’t. I try and
find a set of rules that will make this place make sense, and there aren’t any.”
He took the flask from her and peered into it. “What is this sludge anyway?”
She placed one hand on her hip and tilted her head a bit, looking at him with a new humor that he had not seen
in her expression before. “What if I told you it was piss?” He laughed at her allusion and drank some more
anyway.
“I found some leaves in the storage containers over there. I have only a rudimentary knowledge of herbal
cures, but I believe this particular varietal form makes an efficacious treatment for fevers. I’ve added some
chained amino acids and electrolytes to help your body maintain basic energy levels.” She took the again
empty container and watched as he tried to make himself comfortable.
“So what do you do about it?”
He had to think for a moment to remember what he had been talking about. “I haven’t entirely figured that out
yet. It seems to keep changing with every new situation … maybe just caring enough to keep trying anyway,
Jool.”
Jool twitched the thermal sheet back over him and began to walk back toward the equipment, her mind already
returning to the problem. She paused, turned to say something more, but he was already unconscious again,
the short speech had used up all of his meager supply of energy. She stepped quietly back to his side and
watched the twitch of his closed eyes for a few microts, reassuring herself that he was only sleeping.
* * * * *
It seemed as if she had been working her way through tier after tier for an entire solar day. Aeryn’s hands
ached from hanging onto the ladder one arm at a time. She had resorted to changing hands, cradling the
pulse rifle in her left arm for intervals, but she knew that was dangerous. She had originally learned to shoot
right handed and despite later Peacekeeper policy that all regiments learn to fire ambidextrous, left handed
shooting never felt natural to her.
Her arms and legs ached from the unnatural position she was forced to hold on the ladder. She was only four
tiers from the bottom when she finally admitted to herself that she needed to take a rest. She swung out of the
shaft and onto the floor outside the well. She stretched her aching back and shook her legs to get the blood
flowing again.
Two more tiers below her, Ekron crouched and waited. He was patient, she would continue her search and
then he would get his chance to strike back.
Aeryn cradled the rifle in her right arm and reached for the ladder once more, pausing as she heard rapid
footfalls in the corridor outside. She moved away from the well, and crouched, ready to fire when her attacker
appeared in the open hatchway. It took all her of her self-discipline to keep from pulling the trigger when
Chiana burst into sight. She stood up again and pointed the muzzle safely away from her.
“What are you doing here?” Aeryn cringed inside at her tone of censure, she wasn’t mad at Chiana, only upset
at how close she had come to shooting her. “Why didn’t you warn me before you came flailing in here like a
scalded trelketz?”
“I didn’t know where you were. Pilot said the DRDs hadn’t seen you for about a quarter arn, so I guessed how
far you might have descended and tried to get ahead of you.” She sidled to the well and peered down, her
Nebari vision cutting through the dark better than a Sebacean’s, scanning the levels below. It all looked clear.
“Want me to lead for a while?”
Aeryn was puzzled by her presence. Chiana had always shown a willful independent streak. She didn’t
question that Chiana would be willing to help in the hunt, only that she wanted to be here, accompanying her
instead of being off searching the conduits that only she and Rygel could fit through. There had been a deeply
hidden element of friction between the two of them all along, just a hint of irritation whose source had never
been defined by either one of them. So why was she choosing to be in this place at this moment?
Aeryn gave a tiny shake of her head, dispelling thoughts that had no place in their current predicament. They
had to find those commandos before someone on Moya got killed. She gestured with her weapon. “Go ahead,
I’ll cover you.”
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
Chapter 6
Jool was already waiting in the maintenance chamber that everyone still thought of as Zhaan’s infirmary when
D’Argo strode in carrying a weakly objecting Crichton. John had traversed less than half the distance from
where they had left Aeryn when he had been forced to stop, leaning against one of the thick arches that were
spaced regularly through all of Moya’s corridors. He bent over forward, his back against Moya’s rib but bracing
his hands on his thighs, waiting for a bout of dizziness to pass. He gazed at his friend’s feet through half closed
eyes. “I’ll be all right in a minute. You don’t really have to stay here with me. Go help Aeryn.”
Closing his eyes momentarily against a whirling view of the floor, he only heard D’Argo’s hiss of disagreement.
He wasn’t even aware that he was sliding to the floor until he felt strong hands hauling him upright again.
“No, D’Argo,” he objected as he felt the Luxan start to lift him off his feet, “just let me lean on you and I can
make it the rest of the way.” But muscular arms slid behind his shoulders and knees, he was scooped off the
floor and they started to move again. Through nearly closed eyes he was aware of the flash of corridor lights
passing at a quickening pace. The pulsing lights joined the whirling in his head, threatening to spin him into
unconsciousness. He tried to help D’Argo support his frame by hanging on with one arm, but found that he
suddenly had no strength remaining whatsoever, and was left with no other choice but to submit to his friend’s
assistance.
If the weight of the tall, sturdy human was a burden, D’Argo didn’t show any sign of the strain. He had carried
his small son, Jothee, to bed this way many times, and he now cradled someone who meant nearly as much to
him. He reached the infirmary quickly, maneuvered John’s long legs through the doorway, and carried him to
the high couch they used as an examining table.
As D’Argo carefully deposited his burden, Crichton quietly renewed his complaint, “I hate being carried that
way, D’Argo.”
“Very well! Next time I will grab you by one ankle and drag you through Moya’s corridors behind me like the
carcass of a Folsatian pit hog.” Jool started to open her mouth to object to his retort but he cut her off. “John
needs medical treatment. Can you help him?”
Jool was already moving quickly from one rack of instruments to the next, grabbing several items. “If this
retrograde laboratory has the necessary equipment,” she rattled through the racks that held what had been
Zhaan’s herbal treatments, “I supposed I might be able to make a clinical diagnosis. Doesn’t your species
believe in treating your illnesses before they become advanced? I’ve studied most of my culture’s theoretical
fields covering numerous existent xenobiological microbial and viral infectious agents, so if your species does
have any passing similarities to my own, as you’ve suggested, then hypothetically I should be able to formulate
an initial diagnosis of what form of -- oh good, sensor pads and a readout panel …” Her voice ran on as she
prepared the pads and continued her search through the contents of the benches and drawers.
“How did you get here so quickly?” John inquired, struggling to regain some firmness in his tone. “We only
commed you a couple of microts ago.”
“Pilot said Moya wanted me to come down here and wait for you, but he wasn’t specific as to the nature of the
problem. I’ll need to place these sensors, John, in order to derive some primary physiological parameters …”
Ignoring the non-stop prattle coming from the corner, D’Argo reached behind John as he managed to sit up,
and helped him take his vest off. John started to just yank his T-shirt up enough for Jool to place the torso
sensors, but he discovered that it was thoroughly soaked now, so he struggled to pull the wet garment off over
his head. Again, a firm but gentle hand took hold and helped him pull it free. John wrapped himself in the
thermal sheet that had been draped at the foot of the table, shivering for a moment now that his sweating body
was shirtless, and laid down again, waiting for Jool.
D’Argo spared a brief moment to place his hand on John’s shoulder, gave it a gentle squeeze, turned and
hurried out of the room. Crichton could hear the metallic zing as the Luxan pulled his Qualta blade from its
sheath, then a click and a snap as he converted it into an energy rifle. He was left feeling weak and alone,
stuck here with an invisible viral foe to battle while the others were searching Moya, risking their lives against
the Peacekeeper infiltrators.
He was consumed by an urge to just leave the lab and go after D’Argo, pushing through the discomfort of his
illness in order to help his friends, to be with Aeryn, to make sure she was safe. His promise echoed in his ears
though, and he knew he couldn’t let her down. He tried to relax. He forced himself to let the strange Interion
examine him, take blood, test his inner workings, and felt a little afraid.
D’Argo hurried away, fighting against a mounting rage once again, targeted this time against himself. When he
had pulled Crichton’s shirt over his head, he had seen the still darkening bruises of his own handiwork. Black,
purple, green and yellow patches had spread and connected, leaving John’s torso almost completely covered
with his artwork of anger. ‘How could I have turned on him in such savagery?’ he asked himself. ‘This is the
friend who sacrificed himself so that I could be reunited with my son!’ He steeled himself against the guilt and
went in search of a Peacekeeper on whom he could vent his frustration.
* * * * *
Aeryn crouched outside the opening to the central neural cluster, scanning the interior through the sites of her
pulse rifle. Rygel floated behind her, working hard to be as courageous as one of his valiant predecessors,
Rygel IX. “Are you sure this is the right place to start hunting?” Aeryn dragged her focus once more back to
the matter at hand.
“A Peacekeeper officer who has just lost his entire command and his ship has nothing to look forward to except
a Tribunal and execution. Their only hope for avoiding that outcome is to cripple or destroy the ship that led to
their defeat.” She worked her way carefully into the cavern, continuing her methodical scan of the cluster’s
numerous openings. “The entire neural cluster would be their most obvious target, giving them the greatest
tactical opportunity.”
She eased over to the vertical shaft that ran all the way from Pilot’s neural connections near the top of Moya’s
body, down through all the tiers to the bottom of the enormous peaceful beast. In two brief darts she made her
initial survey of the shaft both above and below her. It appeared empty. She leaned further into the open
column and made a more complete survey.
Without relaxing her vigilance for a microt, she nonetheless turned to look at Rygel, “Will you search through
the tiers above us until you reach the level right below Pilot?” She half expected Rygel to refuse, his Hynerian
instinct for self-preservation normally rose above the interests of everyone else on the ship. But he moved his
Throne Sled into the center of the shaft and peered up and down, then looked pensively at Aeryn.
“Where will you be?” When she gestured downshaft he nodded. “What should I do if I find one of those
murderers? I have no pulse weapon.” A green wrinkled hand emerged from within his robes holding a wickedly
serrated Charrid knife, the largest personal weapon the Dominar normally chose to wield while directing his
hovering chair. Aeryn regarded him for a long moment, then reached behind her and pulled a small object off
the belt at the rear of her pants and handed it to the diminutive royal Hynerian. He looked it over carefully and
with a malicious smile tucked his knife back out of sight. “Where did you get a pocket pistol?”
“I’ve had it ever since the first day I came on board Moya. Crichton took it off one of Crais’ security officers,”
she said. A quick smile flicked across her face as she recalled that early encounter. Crichton hadn’t even
known how to hold the small weapon and had almost shot himself in the head by firing it backwards, but his
daring grab at the weapon had saved all of them that day. The amusement faded from her expression she
remembered where John was now, and the danger they all faced at this moment. “I’ll work my way down. Keep
your comms open at all times.”
“Thank you for your insightful suggestion … Princess of The Apparent.” Rygel was already disappearing out of
sight overhead as he sneered at her instruction.
“Rygel, I want that weapon back when we’re done with this!” She raised her voice only enough to ensure that
he heard her. A derisive laugh echoed down through the shaft, a clear statement that she had seen the last of
that weapon. Aeryn shook her head. It was naïve to think she would ever get it back. She swung a leg over
the edge of the low wall around the central nexus and grabbed the ladder. Keeping her rifle trained on the well
below her, she began the long descent, checking the immediate surrounding area on each tier carefully as she
worked her way down through Moya.
Ekron could hear small bits and pieces of the conversation above him, echoing down the vertical passage. He
recognized the voice of the Sebacean woman who had thrown their assault into disarray, and heard the
Hynerian leaving to search upshaft. The woman was almost certainly one of the traitors they had been told
about. Her understanding of the tactics that had brought them all to this location demonstrated that she was
the former Peacekeeper. Coming up with a plan to defeat her was going to be a challenge.
He had come close to despairing of losing the DRDs until the Leviathan had been rocked by an explosive shock
wave. He faced the probability that the Marauder had been destroyed with drilled pragmatism, and knew he
needed to somehow join up with his captain and take over this Leviathan. When the DRDs were temporarily
thrown into confusion by the electromagnetic pulses that accompanied the turbulence, he had been able to
enter an access tunnel unseen, and slipped away from them.
He had located the central neural cluster and knew that he was now somewhere near the bottom of the thick,
braided nerve fibers that led from points all over the ship to the pilot far above. Now he crouched in a dark side
tunnel and listened to the noises above.
* * * * *
John dozed off to the sound of ringing in his ears. He was occasionally aware of Jool working around him,
checking his condition, but most of the time there was just the whine in his head, and the need for more air
pressing on his chest. Jool woke him twice to give him something to drink, the chatter about fluids and
electrolytes adding to the buzzing noise that circled and circled in his head. He jerked fully awake to the sound
of metal and glass striking, a furious clatter from the counter that held Zhaan’s few diagnostic instruments.
“Frell!” The single word expletive held a volume of frustration.
“Wh--” He cleared his throat and tried again. “What’s up?”
“This is an impossible situation. I don’t have the instruments I require, and there is something very unusual
happening to the virus that has invaded your system.” She walked over and stood next to him, examining a
culture plate that she still held in her hand. “John …”
Her reticence bothered him more than all of her multi-syllabic ramblings. Suddenly he found that some of the
tightness in his chest wasn’t just the illness. “Go ahead, spit it out. What’s the problem?” He didn’t try to look
at her squarely, just laid back and waited for her to work around to whatever was bothering her, watching the
indecision on her face out of the corners of his eyes.
“Does your species use modified microbial antigen generators?”
He stared up at the shadows cast on the arched ceiling, running the phrase through his mind, trying to turn it
into something recognizable. His microbes had translated all of her words, so it had to be the arrangement.
The words ran like an echo through his head. ‘Antigen …”
“Antibiotics? You mean antibody therapy! Of course we do, that’s our primary method for fighting infections.”
She threw the culture plate across the chamber where it smashed against a wall, fragments falling wetly to the
deck. “Of course you would. When are the lesser species going to learn that retroactive treatments to
microbial infections only result in an increased susceptibility to unmodifiable infectious organisms in the
future?”
John didn’t even ask. He closed his eyes and allowed the hum of far away music to carry him away from the
confusion.
* * * * *
Hasman ran catfooted along a corridor, moving as fast as he could without making any undue noise. He had
been forced out of the access tunnels by the horde of DRDs that were swarming through the Leviathan’s
concealed areas. He had turned into one tunnel after another, never actually being seen by the DRDs, but
herded by them nonetheless. Finally he was forced to admit that if he remained in the access shafts and
conduits, he would be found in a matter of arns, if not microts. He had cautiously emerged into an empty
corridor and paused, surveying his surroundings. When he heard and saw nothing he forayed cautiously into
the hallways, searching for a solution to his predicament.
Hasman benefited from having served on a Leviathan transport for a quarter cycle, just long enough to learn
the basic genetic layout for these beasts. After several microts of stealthy travel he determined that he was
somewhere near the network of workshops and maintenance bays that normally spanned the creature from one
rear flank to the other. He stopped and crouched for a few microts to consider a strategy. The ship had a
former Peacekeeper on board, so he would not be able to use standard tactics. An attack on the central
nervous system of the ship was the first thing even a junior officer would expect, and he did not have a weapon
of sufficient size or power to do any significant damage.
First, he needed to find a weapon of any sort -- pulse rifle, maintenance laser cutter, laser probe, anything that
would cut through the Leviathan’s tough outer membranes that surrounded all of its more delicate living matter.
He also needed to know how many crew members he might have to avoid.
He envisioned the brief battle in the maintenance bay and began counting. The Hynerian could be discounted
-- most of that species were cowards and the rest were ineffective fighters. The Luxan, the Peacekeeper and
the Nebari girl had all performed credibly during the fight. There had been another woman somewhere in the
corridor, he had a flashing image of her stunned, unmoving form. She was an unknown. Which made five.
He thought for another microt. There had been someone who had been able to get behind them unseen, a
skilled combat soldier perhaps, who was able to infiltrate behind their unit without being detected. He searched
his memory some more. He had heard that person’s voice -- male. It was possible that there was a second
Peacekeeper traitor on board. So six life forms certainly, possibly more.
He began to move again, glancing into one empty chamber after another. He was fairly sure he was
somewhere in the vicinity of the treblin side transport hangar and its associated maintenance and storage
areas, any of which might reveal a weapon of some sort. It was then that he heard voices up ahead. He
slowed and approached the area cautiously. A woman’s voice, high pitched and demanding, followed by a
slow, quiet male voice. He was still unarmed and had no way of knowing if there were just two individuals up
ahead, or more. He crouched against the corridor wall, partially concealed by a support rib and considered his
options.
* * * * *
After D’Argo left John in the infirmary he had roamed Moya’s corridors for a quarter arn, mindlessly in search of
something … anything … upon which he could vent his anger. After one hapless DRD just barely managed to
avoid being kicked into crumpled uselessness, the hallways became curiously empty of the scuttling yellow
machines. If he had taken the time to scan the areas around him, D’Argo might have noticed motionless
eyestalks watching his progress from points of safety along the ceiling and walls.
He eventually found himself standing motionless in an intersection not far from Command, his anger fading
suddenly, evaporating as quickly as it had appeared. He stood, trying to remember where his fury had been
driving him. He took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and knew that he had not actually entered full Luxan
hyper-rage this time, falling only just short of it. If he had crossed the line, only physical release would have
allowed him to come out of the mindlessness this soon. He was relieved that no one had suffered this time from
his genetic inability to control his temper. Carrying that burden like a yoke on his spirit, he turned and hurried
to Command.
Entering, he demanded, “Pilot! What is the current status of the search!”
* * * * *
Chiana raced into the Den, slinging her pulse rifle over her shoulder as she approached the raised bulwarks
that surrounded Pilot and all of his controls and displays. “Pilot! Any luck with the DRD search?” Barely
slowing as she reached him, she bounded up on the edge of his station and perched there lightly.
“No, Chiana. I have instructed the DRDs to suspend all but the most essential of Moya’s maintenance until the
Peacekeepers have been located. I have focused the search on the access tunnels and larger conduits
through which they might be able to travel. There are only a minimum number of DRDs patrolling the corridors
since I don’t believe they would choose to travel through Moya in plain sight unless they are forced to.” His four
arms continued to manipulate controls without pause as he spoke.
“Where are the others?” Chiana waggled her tired feet, trying to ease the cramps in her legs and toes.
“Officer Sun and Dominar Rygel are searching the central neural shaft, and Ka D’Argo has just arrived on
Command to monitor the DRDs from there. Stark … ” his tone dropped in concern, “Stark was last observed
near Zhaan’s Chamber, on one of Moya’s burned tiers.”
“Where’s Crichton? With Aeryn?” She was stilled concentrating on her fatigued legs, so she didn’t see the
concerned look Pilot turned in her direction. When there was no answer, she turned to look at him, alarm filling
her expression. “Where’s Crichton, Pilot?”
* * * * *
Chiana didn’t slow down as she tried to turn the corner into the infirmary and her feet slid out from under her.
Jool looked up, startled, as the black and gray figure slid to stop near the bed where Crichton was sitting
hunched and wrapped tightly in the thermal sheet.
“Hey Old Man!” Their favorite greeting brought no response from him. “You don’t look as bad as everyone
says you’re doing.” Her attempt at humor fell flat. Her artfully guileless expression could not completely hide
her dismay when John raised his head to look at her. His eyes were dull and lifeless, and the smile that always
lurked behind even his most serious expressions was gone completely. He laid down wordlessly, curling up on
his side under the thermal sheet and closed his eyes.
Concern made her angular stride even more mechanical as she approached Jool, who continued to work
intently. She searched for words, or for a question, but before she could speak Jool looked up with animosity
and frustration in her expression. “Unless you have something to offer, perhaps a brilliant insight into
manipulating recombinant DNA, go away and leave me alone. I’m trying to help John, and his species’
ridiculous reliance on that archaic fallacy he calls ‘antibiotics’ is making this an impossible task.” She returned
to her work without noticing the affect her words had wrought.
Chiana stared at her speechlessly for a microt. She hissed “Grot-less Wonder” just under her breath and
advanced toward the workbench, the possibility of physical violence a consideration at that moment. “I only
came down here to see how Crichton was doing, you arrogant … ”
“Pip … ” The voice behind her was insistent.
“Hey, Crichton!” She whirled around, her anger forgotten. “How you feelin’?”
“I’m hangin’ in. Don’t be mad at Jool, okay? She’s doing her best.” He felt Chiana’s hand run through his hair,
pushing the short, damp strands back off his forehead. He turned a little on the pillow, and the same
reassuring stroking continued against the side of his head, from the temple back over his ear to the base of his
skull. It was relaxing, and the ever-present headache seemed to ease as the massaging continued. He only
heard and felt her, but he was glad she was there, and didn’t want her to leave. Then even that awareness
faded into darkness.
Chiana saw the laxness enter his body and knew the instant that he had fallen asleep, no matter that it was a
feverish restlessness. She watched for another long moment, and then walked slowly out of the chamber. She
felt frustration’s stinging tears begin to flow and wiped them roughly away, angry at her weakness.
Crichton had, over the cycles, become something like an older brother to her. For a short period of time, she
had certainly tried to interest him in another type of relationship, but his love was reserved unswervingly for
Aeryn. So she had settled for the level of instinctual trust she had experienced only with her real brother, Neri.
Her inability to be of any help now was a grinding irritation that would not leave her in peace.
She paused, considering something John had said to her shortly after she had first come on board Moya. He
had told her to pass the caring along, to do something special for someone else. Her irrepressible smile
reappeared as she realized there was something she could do for Crichton after all. She could do her best to
make sure the one thing that was most important to him in this universe remained safe. “Pilot, is Aeryn still in
the central nexus?” She began to run toward the center of Moya’s bulk even before she received a reply.
When Chiana bolted from his chamber on her way to the infirmary, Pilot had returned to his multitasking
surveillance of Moya, and everything within and around her. The non-stop signals from hundreds of DRDs
barely distracted him from the other myriads of details flowing in through all of Moya’s millions of neural
connections. The thick umbilicals that ran from the ship to the lower portion of his body had taken more than a
cycle to fully connect, and were continuing to grow with each passing day. Every arn brought an infinitesimal
increase in the amount of information exchanged between him and Moya.
As he continued to direct the search being conducted by the host of drones, he reviewed the latest data from
Moya’s external sensors, noting an anomaly. A faint energy signature was emanating from an area of space
nearby, but neither Pilot nor Moya had ever seen anything like it before, so he began comparing it against the
massive data stores imbedded in Moya’s living tissues.
* * * * *
Ekron crouched at the base of the shaft, hidden from the searcher above by the shadows. He had decided that
there was a small window of opportunity provided by her slow careful descent. If he could remain unseen until
her feet protruded below the ceiling level of this tier, he should be able to yank her off the ladder and kill her. It
was risky. If there was any struggle, the others might hear and he would be driven before them like a frantic
drannit once again, but the chance to reduce their number by one couldn’t be discarded. He carefully drew his
long knife from its sheath and waited.
* * * * *
“John?” He heard Jool’s voice speaking to him as if from a long distance away. He swam toward the surface of
consciousness, pulling himself up the long rope that hung from the single word. “John, I’m going to take
another sample of your blood. I need to know if the last formulation I tried is working.”
“All right,” he mumbled. He felt the pressure against his arm, heard the hiss. He opened his eyes, and watched
as she took the sample and placed it in the scanner. She watched the screen as the machinery ran the
analysis, her normally smooth forehead wrinkling in disappointment and dismay. Obviously whatever she was
trying wasn‘t working. She removed the capsuled sample and in a pique flung it across the chamber where it
joined the debris of the earlier culture plate.
He tried a simple question. “Not going too well?” He was shocked by how his voice rasped and quavered. His
mouth was parched and inside his throat it felt as if the two sides had grown together. He tried to swallow but it
didn’t break up the awful sensation.
She glanced to where he lay, declining to actually answer him. Instead, she reached for a drink container and
brought it to him. “Since you’re awake, try and drink some of this. If you can’t, I’m going to have to find another
way to rehydrate your body.” She offered her arm to help him sit up, but when he tried to pull against it she
found she couldn’t manage even a fraction of his weight. Crichton gradually squirmed one elbow under himself
and worked his way into a partially raised position.
He gagged against the strong, bitter taste of the mixture in the flask initially, but his throat was so dry he tried
another sip and found it strangely refreshing on the second chance. He glanced at Jool, comparing the pliable
form of this intellectually elite woman to Aeryn’s resilient strength. He wished she was here. He tried another
sentence. “You’ll get it, just keep trying.” The liquid was finally lubricating the tissues in his throat.
“It’s not that,” her voice took on a familiar tone of complaint. “It’s this antiquated lab, the lack of proper facilities,
Moya’s vibrations destroy emulsions before I can … oh! It’s just all impossible.” She took the empty container
away from him and began to refill it. He remained propped up on one arm, watching her frustrated, jerky
movements.
“Jool …” He waited until she looked around at her. “I do understand how you feel.” She turned away again
and her ringlets bounced as she shook her head, denying that he could know what she was experiencing. “All
my life … hard work always was enough to get me where I wanted to go … I always knew I was going to be an
astronaut … as long as I gave it everything I had, I could achieve … my goals.” He paused frequently,
struggling to marshal his scattered thoughts and catch his breath. “Top of my class in high school … getting
accepted to MIT … uh, that’s the college I wanted … getting into IASA … convincing the brass to let DK and me
try the Farscape project.”
She returned with the flask, but didn’t hand it to him yet. She just watched him as he caught his breath and
continued.
“And then I wound up … here on Moya ... None of the rules here are the same. No matter what I try … no
matter how long I’m here, something … always seems to go wrong. I say things and everyone misunderstands
… I think I understand what they are saying … and I turn out to be wrong. I think I know how equipment works
… ” he paused and gestured at the scanners and analyzers around the chamber, “and then it doesn’t. I try and
find a set of rules that will make this place make sense, and there aren’t any.”
He took the flask from her and peered into it. “What is this sludge anyway?”
She placed one hand on her hip and tilted her head a bit, looking at him with a new humor that he had not seen
in her expression before. “What if I told you it was piss?” He laughed at her allusion and drank some more
anyway.
“I found some leaves in the storage containers over there. I have only a rudimentary knowledge of herbal
cures, but I believe this particular varietal form makes an efficacious treatment for fevers. I’ve added some
chained amino acids and electrolytes to help your body maintain basic energy levels.” She took the again
empty container and watched as he tried to make himself comfortable.
“So what do you do about it?”
He had to think for a moment to remember what he had been talking about. “I haven’t entirely figured that out
yet. It seems to keep changing with every new situation … maybe just caring enough to keep trying anyway,
Jool.”
Jool twitched the thermal sheet back over him and began to walk back toward the equipment, her mind already
returning to the problem. She paused, turned to say something more, but he was already unconscious again,
the short speech had used up all of his meager supply of energy. She stepped quietly back to his side and
watched the twitch of his closed eyes for a few microts, reassuring herself that he was only sleeping.
* * * * *
It seemed as if she had been working her way through tier after tier for an entire solar day. Aeryn’s hands
ached from hanging onto the ladder one arm at a time. She had resorted to changing hands, cradling the
pulse rifle in her left arm for intervals, but she knew that was dangerous. She had originally learned to shoot
right handed and despite later Peacekeeper policy that all regiments learn to fire ambidextrous, left handed
shooting never felt natural to her.
Her arms and legs ached from the unnatural position she was forced to hold on the ladder. She was only four
tiers from the bottom when she finally admitted to herself that she needed to take a rest. She swung out of the
shaft and onto the floor outside the well. She stretched her aching back and shook her legs to get the blood
flowing again.
Two more tiers below her, Ekron crouched and waited. He was patient, she would continue her search and
then he would get his chance to strike back.
Aeryn cradled the rifle in her right arm and reached for the ladder once more, pausing as she heard rapid
footfalls in the corridor outside. She moved away from the well, and crouched, ready to fire when her attacker
appeared in the open hatchway. It took all her of her self-discipline to keep from pulling the trigger when
Chiana burst into sight. She stood up again and pointed the muzzle safely away from her.
“What are you doing here?” Aeryn cringed inside at her tone of censure, she wasn’t mad at Chiana, only upset
at how close she had come to shooting her. “Why didn’t you warn me before you came flailing in here like a
scalded trelketz?”
“I didn’t know where you were. Pilot said the DRDs hadn’t seen you for about a quarter arn, so I guessed how
far you might have descended and tried to get ahead of you.” She sidled to the well and peered down, her
Nebari vision cutting through the dark better than a Sebacean’s, scanning the levels below. It all looked clear.
“Want me to lead for a while?”
Aeryn was puzzled by her presence. Chiana had always shown a willful independent streak. She didn’t
question that Chiana would be willing to help in the hunt, only that she wanted to be here, accompanying her
instead of being off searching the conduits that only she and Rygel could fit through. There had been a deeply
hidden element of friction between the two of them all along, just a hint of irritation whose source had never
been defined by either one of them. So why was she choosing to be in this place at this moment?
Aeryn gave a tiny shake of her head, dispelling thoughts that had no place in their current predicament. They
had to find those commandos before someone on Moya got killed. She gestured with her weapon. “Go ahead,
I’ll cover you.”
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
