Night Walker
Chapter 3
John glanced toward where the last sliver of sun spread its golden rays over a distant ridge line, and noted the
lengthening shadows. It was almost night. A fast pass of his hand in front of the night vision lens verified that it
was functioning; then he checked the chakan oil cartridge in his rifle one last time, and slid carefully into the
mud below the boardwalk. A growl of disgust burst over the comms, D’Argo’s contribution to the collection of
wordless complaints as they began their patrol of the marsh areas between the five waterways.
The decision to venture off the boardwalks had been the most contentious point they’d had to settle as they
developed their plan for hunting down the Nessie, as he had labeled the creature. The argument had raged
back and forth for almost two arns, John and Chiana on one side insisting that the boardwalk would give them
an advantage, if only because there was firm footing, and Aeryn and D’Argo stridently advocating a more
aggressive tactic of searching for the creature near the waterways.
The two warriors had ultimately worn them down, insisting that their method would get the job finished sooner.
John had bowed to their tactical experience, while Chiana had submitted to the decision unwillingly, concerned
about their vulnerability if they were wading through the mud and water.
The ooze crept up to John’s armpits as he surged forward, and he questioned their decision for the tenth time
since they’d left the town to foray into the marshes. He began working his way toward the lake, heading toward
the outlet of the largest of the five streams to begin his circuit. They were spread out across the width of the
marsh, depending on the firepower of the pulse rifles to compensate for the lack of backup if one of them got
into trouble.
They’d had to blackmail Rygel into bringing the second transport pod down with the night vision lenses and
pulse rifles. His emphatic refusals had dissipated abruptly when Aeryn told the Hynerian that he would not be
allowed to partake of the Ashrei food supplies if he did not help in their acquisition. They’d used the threat of
starvation to press him into service tonight as well, and he was currently flying a pattern perpendicular to their
movements, armed with Aeryn’s pulse pistol.
“Rygel, where are you?” John whispered into his comms. Stupid precaution, he decided. The Nessie would
probably smell him out before it heard him.
“I’m directly above Chiana. And I would like to point out for the last time …”
“Shut up, Rygel. We’ve been over this. We need you for spotter control and close air support. Oh …”
“John, are you all right?” Aeryn’s concerned voice burst out of the comms.
Crichton surfaced, shaking mud and filthy water out of his ears in time to hear the last half of Aeryn’s worried
transmission. “Relatively constant depth my ass. I’m fine. I went in over my head is all.” The mud was washing
into his boots and infiltrating its way inside his clothing. He sent up a private prayer of thanks to whatever spirit
had inspired him to leave Winona behind. Something more solid stopped the toe of his boot and he stepped up
onto it to work his way out of the viscous fluid that passed for water. A huge bubble of marsh gas wobbled up
and burst through the surface in front of him. “Augh! Holy Swamp Farts, Batman! Whose idea was this,
anyway?”
* * * * *
Aeryn worked her way carefully along the edge of the stream that bounded one side of the area she was
assigned to patrol. The initial disorientation resulting from overlaying normal vision with the enhanced view
through the lens had passed quickly, and she found it simple to work from one partially submerged hassock of
grass to another. She smiled at John’s complaints, allowing herself a small moment to reflect that his decision
to come to this planet was resulting in more discomfort for him than anyone else so far. She scanned the
edges of the stream for tracks, then crossed in a single leap and began working through the grass and mud at
an angle to check the next stream.
Rygel’s Throne Sled passed overhead, making one lazy loop above her before continuing off to her right
toward where John and then D’Argo were working their way downstream, roughly parallel to her route. Their
options for dispersing across the marsh had been limited once Pilot did a survey of the terrain. The water and
mud was deepest in the woods where D’Argo was working, the solid ground beneath the swamp sloping
gradually upwards from one side of the marsh to the other. Chiana was off to her left somewhere, also wending
her way through the trees, but where it was most shallow.
“Chiana, any problems?” She’d heard the occasional snort of disgust from D’Argo, but the Nebari had been
silent so far.
“This is worse than a Relfinian sewer in a rainstorm,” the high-pitched voice offered. Aeryn wondered how
Chiana knew what the inside of a Relfinian sewer looked like in the first place. “You owe me a new outfit when
this is over, Crichton.”
“Fried dentics. You could have passed this all up for fried dentics,” he responded.
The chatter and complaints continued as they worked their way down to the lake, back to the top of the marsh,
and began a second circuit.
“Here, Nessie, Nessie, Nessie,” John sang.
“Hey, Crichton. What was that idea you had about a farm animal?” Chiana’s splashing came across the
comms clearly.
“Tie out some bait and wait. Much easier than wandering the Okefenokee Swamp all night, but Vossmarr said it
wouldn’t work.” He sneezed. “I think I’m catching a cold.”
“But it’s warm tonight, not cold,” D’Argo kidded him. “You can only catch a warm.”
“Hilarious, D.”
“Were you making an offer, Crichton?” Rygel asked. Aeryn looked to her right and could see the vague energy
glow in the sky where she assumed the Hynerian was circling above John.
“Won’t ever find me tying myself at the end of a rope as critter bait, Buckwheat.”
Aeryn finished a sweep to the center stream, exchanged a fast wave with John as he appeared on the opposite
bank, and headed back toward Chiana. “Rygel. Anything?” she asked.
“Four megra-fahrbot lunatics in a mud bowl.”
“Faugh!” D’Argo’s cry of dismay added to the constant chatter over the comms. “I take it all back, Your
Flatulence. You smell like a Sebacean wild rose even on your worst day.”
“Hey! Anybody see anything move across the moon?” Chiana cried suddenly. “Like a big shadow?”
“Nothing, Chi. What’ve you got?” John called urgently.
Aeryn worked a little faster to her left, trying to pick out the glow of Chiana’s body in the woods beyond the next
stream.
“What the frell was that?” Chiana’s demand voiced nervous alarm, not an inquiry. “Hey guys? There’s
something moving around over here, but I can’t see anything.”
D’Argo’s concern broke into the chatter. “Chiana, move toward Aeryn. Be careful.”
“Aeryn, can you see her?” John asked more quietly.
The harsh bark of a pulse weapon echoed across the watery flats, one shot blending into the next in a rolling
ripple of noise as someone ahead of her pulled the trigger with desperate speed.
“Chiana’s firing!” Aeryn yelled, and moved toward the bright flashes just inside the tree line. A scream tore
through the night, a high pitched yowl of pain and fear, and Aeryn abandoned all caution. She slithered down
the stream bed, splashed through waist deep water and scrambled through the hummocks of grass, closing on
Chiana’s last position in a matter of microts.
“Chiana!” John’s voice ripped through the night, momentarily eliminating the need for the comms. “Aeryn, can
you see her?”
“Not yet.” She moved into the trees, swinging her head side to side to scan with the night lens.
A whine moved past her head at high speed as Rygel whizzed overhead. “Something moving to your right,
Aeryn,” came the shouted warning. “Watch out to your right!”
She spun around in time to see a huge looming shadow moving away from her along the smallest of the
streams, a bulky black object that seemed to float effortlessly across the mud and tussocks. She fired, seven
or eight shots hitting it squarely but effecting no change in its progress.
“Aeryn,” Rygel’s voice interrupted her. “Chiana’s directly upstream from where you are now.”
“Chiana!” John’s repeated shouts brought no response.
“Chiana!” D’Argo’s desperate bellow joined the chaos.
Aeryn tucked the rifle under her arm and sloshed upstream, ignoring the shower of mud and water as she
chose the faster route up the center of the waterway. A muted glow appeared to one side, draped over the
edge of the embankments. She scrambled through the thicker mud to get to Chiana.
“Aeryn?” John and D’Argo called at the same time.
She ignored them as she gently turned the slim figure over, trying to make sense of the two sets of colors and
images flooding into her brain, trying to make sense of what she knew she was looking at and couldn’t accept.
“For the love of …” Aeryn slung her rifle over her shoulder and struggled to lift the injured Nebari.
“I’m on my way, Aeryn. How bad is it?” John was panting, footsteps splashing rapidly in the background as he
called to her.
“She’s been gutted, John. That thing cut her entire midsection open.” She staggered to her feet, boots sinking
deep into the muck under their combined weight. “Rygel, what’s my fastest way out of here? We have to get
her back to Vossmarr.”
The Throne Sled sailed out of the dark to hover to her left, pivoting one way then the other as the Dominar
surveyed their surroundings. “That way, Aeryn.” He pointed downstream. “The walkway is about twenty five
motras downstream, then turn left.”
“I’ll meet you at the boardwalk and give you a hand, Aeryn,” John called.
She pressed the blue smeared body to her chest and reserved her breath for running.
* * * * *
D’Argo fought his way through a thicket of slender young trees, smashing and hacking at the foliage with his
Qualta blade as he hurried to join Crichton. The wall of growth gave way before him and he lunged into a
stagnant pool of water and rotting leaves. The oily scum of detritus and bacteria dampened the bow wave as
he surged through the chest deep water and forged back onto more solid ground.
He heard Crichton calling to Aeryn over the comms, racing to meet her at the walkway, and felt powerless to
help. His position on the far side of the marsh put him out of range to be of any assistance. D’Argo cursed
quietly as he crashed through the undergrowth, the Luxan profanity aimed entirely at his own recent behavior.
He had relented enough to offer Chiana his friendship and physical strength when they were struggling to save
Pilot and Moya from Neeyala’s crew, but he hadn’t told her how he truly felt. He hadn’t told her how much he
still loved her, and how much she would always mean to him even if their passionate physical relationship had
ended. He couldn’t lose her now, not until he had a chance to tell her. “Hurry, John!” he called over the
comms, lending the only support possible.
The arching outline of the foot bridge loomed ahead, a dark hemispherical lump that showed dimly against the
night sky when viewed without the night lens. D’Argo glanced down to pick a drier route through the roots and
fallen branches, and when he glanced up again, the smooth arc of the bridge had moved to the right. He
snarled, realizing belatedly that he wasn’t close enough to the bridge to see it yet. The firing mechanism of his
Qualta rifle sprang out of the hilt, released by fingers that had practiced the motion thousands of times, and he
swung the heavy weapon up even as he backed away, trying to give himself more time.
“D’Argo?” John called. “You okay?”
“It’s here, John! The Nezzie is here!” The dark shape moved in on him, not registering at all against the retina
of the eye behind the night lens. D’Argo pulled the trigger and the blast tore into the dark shape, vaporizing a
dimly seen protrusion. “Frelling …” Luxans had a word for such a foul smelling creature, but he didn’t have
time between the thought and the moment when its bulk ran into him to pronounce the word.
“Big D!”
John’s voice was receding, moving away from him as the cold touch of the creature struck at him. D’Argo used
the last of his strength to raise his weapon, placing the sharp dual points against his attacker and pulling the
trigger again and again. His rifle was jerked out of his grasp and he was flung sideways into the lumpy
hummocks of marsh grass. John’s voice was fading further away even as his human friend yelled louder, and
he could only think that it was a good thing that both Crichton and Aeryn were going to help Chiana because he
wanted her to live.
* * * * *
John boosted himself up onto the boardwalk, water and mud sheeting off him, and turned right, toward D’Argo’s
last roars of pain and anger. “Can you get her back without me, Aeryn?”
“Yes,” came the strained, panting voice. “Go.”
The comms were still active, so he could hear Aeryn’s clattering footsteps change to quieter thuds as she left
the boardwalk and started along the earthen path, but he could also hear Aeryn’s labored breathing and
Chiana’s own nearly silent moans through the injured Nebari’s comms.
“Frelling mess,” he complained, ignoring the fact that everyone could hear him. “Go gator hunting, should’ve
been ready to catch gators.” He accelerated as the mud was knocked off the soles of his boots, and his footing
on the worn boards became more certain. “D’Argo? D’Argo! Where are you, Big Guy?”
John ran to the slight elevation offered by the bridge over the last of the streams, and peered left and right,
checking both sides of the walkway. He cupped a hand over his unaugmented eye, struggling to cope with the
dual vision, and then swung around in a circle, scanning with the night lens only. “Rygel, I need some help over
here.”
“He’s gone ahead to get help, John.” Aeryn’s voice bounced and jerked from the strain of her efforts.
“Shit!” John deactivated his comms. “D’Argo! Come on, man. Moan, hiss, snarl,” he yelled into the night.
“Belch if you have to. Something! Tell me where you are.” A quiet noise eased out of the mud and grass
upstream from the bridge. John vaulted over the railing of the bridge, dropping into thigh deep water, and
forged toward the noise.
“Snarl again, D’Argo.” It wasn’t a snarl, it was a near-silent exhalation, but it was enough. John clambered
toward the noise, lunging through the grass and water until his night vision lens portrayed the eerie glow of a
living body lying prostrate in the tussocks near the trees. “Ahhh, shit!” He went down on his knees beside his
stricken friend.
Crichton stared with disbelief at the same sight Aeryn had struggled to comprehend. The Luxan’s belly had
been ripped open, organs sliced and smashed, blood and internal fluids sheeting out to soak into torn clothing
and stain the grass around him. John tried once with the night lens, and again with normal vision, but couldn’t
see whether the blood was running dark or clear. And there was too much of it.
“Johhhnnn,” D’Argo breathed.
“Hang on, D. Don’t quit on me.” He ran his hand through the stream of gore and held it up in the fading
moonlight. Dark black dripped across pale skin. John stared down at the damaged body and couldn’t envision
himself hitting that horrible wound hard enough to make the blood run clear.
“Aeryn?” He called, seeking help with the decision. “Aeryn!?” He remembered that he’d turned his comms off,
and reactivated the unit. “Aeryn!” Still no answer. He assumed she’d reached the town and had turned her
comms off while they hurried to save Chiana.
“D’Argo, what do I do here? I can’t hit this. I can’t possibly hit this.” There was no answer from the body in
front of his knees.
“John, how’s D’Argo?” Aeryn’s voice broke into his dilemma.
“Bad.” A clammy chill left him shivering as the relief from having her advice available swamped over him.
“Aeryn, this is so bad, but the blood is black. What do I do?”
“If he bleeds, he may die. If the blood doesn’t run clear, he will die.”
The answer sounded so simple, drifting disembodied into the night air. May die. Will die. Just hit it hard
enough. John stared at the hideous injury and couldn’t get himself to move. He was vaguely aware of Aeryn’s
voice calling to him, but the words made no impression on his mind as he began to panic.
‘My fault again.’ The thought surfaced unbidden, ripped viciously into his soul. ‘Another life.’
“Next time, I’ll make sure I’m the one who jumps in front of the runaway train. -- She’s right, D’Argo. I keep
getting people hurt or killed. -- Let’s see how John Lafitte, Curse of the Uncharted Territories has done so far.”
‘My fault again. Another life.’ John stared at his dying friend, the capacity for action destroyed by his guilt and
panic.
“You should have shot that shadow when you had the chance, John.” Harvey wandered to his side wearing
fishing waders and a brimmed hat covered with fly fishing lures.
“Shut up, Harvey. This isn’t the right time for recriminations.” John stood shivering in the creek, dungarees and
flannel shirt soaked and hanging heavy on his chilled body.
“Not the right time? But that’s what you’re doing, isn’t it?” The clone plucked a fly off his hat and began
fastening it to the end of some fishing line. “You saw the creature moving toward Ka D’Argo’s position and did
nothing. You deluded yourself into believing that the Ashrei’s claims were false, and that this creature was
misunderstood and harmless. And that delusion has cost your friend his life.” The black-clad clone awkwardly
whipped a fly rod back and forth, nearly hooking John with the lure, and then sinking it deep into the seat of his
own waders on its next pass.
“You place your obsession above the lives of your friends.”
D’Argo’s accusation seemed to ring all around them as John stood next to Harvey, his teeth chattering with
cold -- an accusation made only days earlier.
“It wasn’t the creature,” John insisted desperately. He’d seen the lurking shadow move past him during his first
trek toward the lake, a dark mass traveling along the small stream that lay between his area and D’Argo’s. He’d
aimed the pulse rifle, but despite having a clear shot he’d chosen not to pull the trigger, convinced that the
Nessie wasn’t the real threat. “It couldn’t have been the critter. It couldn’t have gotten over to Chiana and back
to D’Argo again from where I saw it. Not in that length of time.”
The clone disentangled himself from the hook and tried again, managing a credible cast into the unseen
distance. “If you had pulled the trigger, perhaps now you would have two trophy heads to hang on the wall of
your quarters, instead of two dead companions.” He cranked the fishing line in, dragging two fish flapping and
flopping into view.
The revelation jerked John out of his guilt-driven panic. He stared down at the exposed innards of his friend,
the pale moonlight illuminating the coiling rivulets where black and clear blood mixed and flowed together. He
took a deep breath. “How do I hit him hard enough? I’m not strong enough.”
“A Qualta blade has an edge and a flat side.” The smooth, uncaring voice of the clone spoke eerily into his
mind.
John jumped to his feet and scanned all around him, searching for the weapon. “Where’d you drop it, D’Argo?
Where is it?” He worked quickly from side to side, concentrating on the area between D’Argo’s body and the
watercourse, concluding that the Nessie would have attacked him close to the stream. There was the glint of
pale moonlight reflecting on something at the edge of the woods. Crichton pounced on the weapon. Fumbling
hands rearranged the hilt, converting the rifle back into a sword, and microts later he stood over his friend,
carefully aligning the flat side of the blade with the wound.
“Forgive me.” Crichton closed his eyes for an instant, took a deep breath, and hit his friend as hard as he
could.
* * * * *
“John Crichton, stop! Stop! Your companion is wounded, stop this.” Hands pulled his panting, sweating body
away from D’Argo, yanked the Qualta blade out of his grasp, and pushed him aside. John stumbled, tripped
over a hummock and felt into several inches of swamp water. “Why do you do this?” Vossmarr crouched over
the fallen Luxan, a large handlight trained on his belly wound.
“The blood,” John gasped, fighting to catch his breath. “What color is the blood?”
“It is mostly colorless, tinged with some black.” Vossmarr’s fingers were questing rapidly into the wound,
disappearing up to the slim wrists. “This is very bad.”
“No shit.” John took a deep breath and rolled to his knees. “Black blood is poison, clear blood is okay. Is he
still bleeding black?”
Vossmarr looked over his shoulder briefly, his face made cadaverous by the shadows spilling from the
handlight. He peered into the wound, exploring with one hand while he laid the fingers of the other against the
side of D’Argo’s head. “It is … all clear blood.” He closed his eyes, leaving the second hand in place as he
concentrated. “There is no poisoning in his system, only injury.”
John didn’t stop to question how Vossmarr was performing the diagnosis; he staggered to his feet and stumbled
back to D’Argo’s side. “Come on, we have to get him back before he bleeds to death.”
“Can you carry him alone? In your arms?” Crichton watched as Vossmarr’s dexterous fingers entered and
closed the wound simultaneously. Four thumbs met four index fingers, pulling the edges of the gaping opening
together while the remaining six fingers sank deep inside, pressing on organs, stemming damage’s clear tide.
The flow slowed and then stopped.
John looked at D’Argo’s bulk. His friend had carried him on several occasions, hefting his own substantial
weight as if it were no burden whatsoever. But Luxans were significantly heavier than humans. Vossmarr was
waiting, his attention still focused on his newest patient.
John thought of Tocot’s frigid surgery, warmed only by D’Argo’s fierce insistence that he keep fighting when he
thought he’d lost everything and wanted to die. D’Argo had brought him back much as Zhaan had brought
Aeryn back, but at less cost to himself … until now.
“I can carry him.”
* * * * *
He couldn’t remember how he’d gotten into the strange maze, but that wasn’t the detail that was bothering him.
The walls were uniform -- as they were in all mazes -- one identical arcing length of golden metallic wall melting
into the next, bending and twisting until he didn’t know which turnings he had explored, and which ones he
hadn’t. But that didn’t bother him either.
It was the voice that plagued him. It called his name repeatedly, the calm pleasant tones bouncing through the
softly lit corridors, sometimes louder, sometimes fading until he almost lost its beacon behind the rumbles that
never stopped. He would follow it faithfully through a half dozen intersections only to have the source suddenly
shift, leaving him lost and confused.
He didn’t like this place. It wasn’t like the other places he’d found himself in recently. The floor shifted and
pitched, and the rumbling made it hard for him to think. He’d recognized his surroundings every time before,
but this place was alien to him. He wasn’t scared. The maze made him feel surprisingly safe and secure, but
there were too many unknowns floating in his head, and the voice wouldn’t allow him any time to think.
John Crichton slid down the wall to sit on the warm floor, his head in hands, fatigue providing the sound
dampener that finally allowed him to ignore the summons. He was tired. Too tired to continue. He folded his
arms around his aching stomach, rested his head on his knees, and let the darkness of exhaustion sweep in to
carry him away. He heard the call again as he faded, more strident, more demanding. He couldn’t be bothered
to answer. He was too tired.
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
Chapter 3
John glanced toward where the last sliver of sun spread its golden rays over a distant ridge line, and noted the
lengthening shadows. It was almost night. A fast pass of his hand in front of the night vision lens verified that it
was functioning; then he checked the chakan oil cartridge in his rifle one last time, and slid carefully into the
mud below the boardwalk. A growl of disgust burst over the comms, D’Argo’s contribution to the collection of
wordless complaints as they began their patrol of the marsh areas between the five waterways.
The decision to venture off the boardwalks had been the most contentious point they’d had to settle as they
developed their plan for hunting down the Nessie, as he had labeled the creature. The argument had raged
back and forth for almost two arns, John and Chiana on one side insisting that the boardwalk would give them
an advantage, if only because there was firm footing, and Aeryn and D’Argo stridently advocating a more
aggressive tactic of searching for the creature near the waterways.
The two warriors had ultimately worn them down, insisting that their method would get the job finished sooner.
John had bowed to their tactical experience, while Chiana had submitted to the decision unwillingly, concerned
about their vulnerability if they were wading through the mud and water.
The ooze crept up to John’s armpits as he surged forward, and he questioned their decision for the tenth time
since they’d left the town to foray into the marshes. He began working his way toward the lake, heading toward
the outlet of the largest of the five streams to begin his circuit. They were spread out across the width of the
marsh, depending on the firepower of the pulse rifles to compensate for the lack of backup if one of them got
into trouble.
They’d had to blackmail Rygel into bringing the second transport pod down with the night vision lenses and
pulse rifles. His emphatic refusals had dissipated abruptly when Aeryn told the Hynerian that he would not be
allowed to partake of the Ashrei food supplies if he did not help in their acquisition. They’d used the threat of
starvation to press him into service tonight as well, and he was currently flying a pattern perpendicular to their
movements, armed with Aeryn’s pulse pistol.
“Rygel, where are you?” John whispered into his comms. Stupid precaution, he decided. The Nessie would
probably smell him out before it heard him.
“I’m directly above Chiana. And I would like to point out for the last time …”
“Shut up, Rygel. We’ve been over this. We need you for spotter control and close air support. Oh …”
“John, are you all right?” Aeryn’s concerned voice burst out of the comms.
Crichton surfaced, shaking mud and filthy water out of his ears in time to hear the last half of Aeryn’s worried
transmission. “Relatively constant depth my ass. I’m fine. I went in over my head is all.” The mud was washing
into his boots and infiltrating its way inside his clothing. He sent up a private prayer of thanks to whatever spirit
had inspired him to leave Winona behind. Something more solid stopped the toe of his boot and he stepped up
onto it to work his way out of the viscous fluid that passed for water. A huge bubble of marsh gas wobbled up
and burst through the surface in front of him. “Augh! Holy Swamp Farts, Batman! Whose idea was this,
anyway?”
* * * * *
Aeryn worked her way carefully along the edge of the stream that bounded one side of the area she was
assigned to patrol. The initial disorientation resulting from overlaying normal vision with the enhanced view
through the lens had passed quickly, and she found it simple to work from one partially submerged hassock of
grass to another. She smiled at John’s complaints, allowing herself a small moment to reflect that his decision
to come to this planet was resulting in more discomfort for him than anyone else so far. She scanned the
edges of the stream for tracks, then crossed in a single leap and began working through the grass and mud at
an angle to check the next stream.
Rygel’s Throne Sled passed overhead, making one lazy loop above her before continuing off to her right
toward where John and then D’Argo were working their way downstream, roughly parallel to her route. Their
options for dispersing across the marsh had been limited once Pilot did a survey of the terrain. The water and
mud was deepest in the woods where D’Argo was working, the solid ground beneath the swamp sloping
gradually upwards from one side of the marsh to the other. Chiana was off to her left somewhere, also wending
her way through the trees, but where it was most shallow.
“Chiana, any problems?” She’d heard the occasional snort of disgust from D’Argo, but the Nebari had been
silent so far.
“This is worse than a Relfinian sewer in a rainstorm,” the high-pitched voice offered. Aeryn wondered how
Chiana knew what the inside of a Relfinian sewer looked like in the first place. “You owe me a new outfit when
this is over, Crichton.”
“Fried dentics. You could have passed this all up for fried dentics,” he responded.
The chatter and complaints continued as they worked their way down to the lake, back to the top of the marsh,
and began a second circuit.
“Here, Nessie, Nessie, Nessie,” John sang.
“Hey, Crichton. What was that idea you had about a farm animal?” Chiana’s splashing came across the
comms clearly.
“Tie out some bait and wait. Much easier than wandering the Okefenokee Swamp all night, but Vossmarr said it
wouldn’t work.” He sneezed. “I think I’m catching a cold.”
“But it’s warm tonight, not cold,” D’Argo kidded him. “You can only catch a warm.”
“Hilarious, D.”
“Were you making an offer, Crichton?” Rygel asked. Aeryn looked to her right and could see the vague energy
glow in the sky where she assumed the Hynerian was circling above John.
“Won’t ever find me tying myself at the end of a rope as critter bait, Buckwheat.”
Aeryn finished a sweep to the center stream, exchanged a fast wave with John as he appeared on the opposite
bank, and headed back toward Chiana. “Rygel. Anything?” she asked.
“Four megra-fahrbot lunatics in a mud bowl.”
“Faugh!” D’Argo’s cry of dismay added to the constant chatter over the comms. “I take it all back, Your
Flatulence. You smell like a Sebacean wild rose even on your worst day.”
“Hey! Anybody see anything move across the moon?” Chiana cried suddenly. “Like a big shadow?”
“Nothing, Chi. What’ve you got?” John called urgently.
Aeryn worked a little faster to her left, trying to pick out the glow of Chiana’s body in the woods beyond the next
stream.
“What the frell was that?” Chiana’s demand voiced nervous alarm, not an inquiry. “Hey guys? There’s
something moving around over here, but I can’t see anything.”
D’Argo’s concern broke into the chatter. “Chiana, move toward Aeryn. Be careful.”
“Aeryn, can you see her?” John asked more quietly.
The harsh bark of a pulse weapon echoed across the watery flats, one shot blending into the next in a rolling
ripple of noise as someone ahead of her pulled the trigger with desperate speed.
“Chiana’s firing!” Aeryn yelled, and moved toward the bright flashes just inside the tree line. A scream tore
through the night, a high pitched yowl of pain and fear, and Aeryn abandoned all caution. She slithered down
the stream bed, splashed through waist deep water and scrambled through the hummocks of grass, closing on
Chiana’s last position in a matter of microts.
“Chiana!” John’s voice ripped through the night, momentarily eliminating the need for the comms. “Aeryn, can
you see her?”
“Not yet.” She moved into the trees, swinging her head side to side to scan with the night lens.
A whine moved past her head at high speed as Rygel whizzed overhead. “Something moving to your right,
Aeryn,” came the shouted warning. “Watch out to your right!”
She spun around in time to see a huge looming shadow moving away from her along the smallest of the
streams, a bulky black object that seemed to float effortlessly across the mud and tussocks. She fired, seven
or eight shots hitting it squarely but effecting no change in its progress.
“Aeryn,” Rygel’s voice interrupted her. “Chiana’s directly upstream from where you are now.”
“Chiana!” John’s repeated shouts brought no response.
“Chiana!” D’Argo’s desperate bellow joined the chaos.
Aeryn tucked the rifle under her arm and sloshed upstream, ignoring the shower of mud and water as she
chose the faster route up the center of the waterway. A muted glow appeared to one side, draped over the
edge of the embankments. She scrambled through the thicker mud to get to Chiana.
“Aeryn?” John and D’Argo called at the same time.
She ignored them as she gently turned the slim figure over, trying to make sense of the two sets of colors and
images flooding into her brain, trying to make sense of what she knew she was looking at and couldn’t accept.
“For the love of …” Aeryn slung her rifle over her shoulder and struggled to lift the injured Nebari.
“I’m on my way, Aeryn. How bad is it?” John was panting, footsteps splashing rapidly in the background as he
called to her.
“She’s been gutted, John. That thing cut her entire midsection open.” She staggered to her feet, boots sinking
deep into the muck under their combined weight. “Rygel, what’s my fastest way out of here? We have to get
her back to Vossmarr.”
The Throne Sled sailed out of the dark to hover to her left, pivoting one way then the other as the Dominar
surveyed their surroundings. “That way, Aeryn.” He pointed downstream. “The walkway is about twenty five
motras downstream, then turn left.”
“I’ll meet you at the boardwalk and give you a hand, Aeryn,” John called.
She pressed the blue smeared body to her chest and reserved her breath for running.
* * * * *
D’Argo fought his way through a thicket of slender young trees, smashing and hacking at the foliage with his
Qualta blade as he hurried to join Crichton. The wall of growth gave way before him and he lunged into a
stagnant pool of water and rotting leaves. The oily scum of detritus and bacteria dampened the bow wave as
he surged through the chest deep water and forged back onto more solid ground.
He heard Crichton calling to Aeryn over the comms, racing to meet her at the walkway, and felt powerless to
help. His position on the far side of the marsh put him out of range to be of any assistance. D’Argo cursed
quietly as he crashed through the undergrowth, the Luxan profanity aimed entirely at his own recent behavior.
He had relented enough to offer Chiana his friendship and physical strength when they were struggling to save
Pilot and Moya from Neeyala’s crew, but he hadn’t told her how he truly felt. He hadn’t told her how much he
still loved her, and how much she would always mean to him even if their passionate physical relationship had
ended. He couldn’t lose her now, not until he had a chance to tell her. “Hurry, John!” he called over the
comms, lending the only support possible.
The arching outline of the foot bridge loomed ahead, a dark hemispherical lump that showed dimly against the
night sky when viewed without the night lens. D’Argo glanced down to pick a drier route through the roots and
fallen branches, and when he glanced up again, the smooth arc of the bridge had moved to the right. He
snarled, realizing belatedly that he wasn’t close enough to the bridge to see it yet. The firing mechanism of his
Qualta rifle sprang out of the hilt, released by fingers that had practiced the motion thousands of times, and he
swung the heavy weapon up even as he backed away, trying to give himself more time.
“D’Argo?” John called. “You okay?”
“It’s here, John! The Nezzie is here!” The dark shape moved in on him, not registering at all against the retina
of the eye behind the night lens. D’Argo pulled the trigger and the blast tore into the dark shape, vaporizing a
dimly seen protrusion. “Frelling …” Luxans had a word for such a foul smelling creature, but he didn’t have
time between the thought and the moment when its bulk ran into him to pronounce the word.
“Big D!”
John’s voice was receding, moving away from him as the cold touch of the creature struck at him. D’Argo used
the last of his strength to raise his weapon, placing the sharp dual points against his attacker and pulling the
trigger again and again. His rifle was jerked out of his grasp and he was flung sideways into the lumpy
hummocks of marsh grass. John’s voice was fading further away even as his human friend yelled louder, and
he could only think that it was a good thing that both Crichton and Aeryn were going to help Chiana because he
wanted her to live.
* * * * *
John boosted himself up onto the boardwalk, water and mud sheeting off him, and turned right, toward D’Argo’s
last roars of pain and anger. “Can you get her back without me, Aeryn?”
“Yes,” came the strained, panting voice. “Go.”
The comms were still active, so he could hear Aeryn’s clattering footsteps change to quieter thuds as she left
the boardwalk and started along the earthen path, but he could also hear Aeryn’s labored breathing and
Chiana’s own nearly silent moans through the injured Nebari’s comms.
“Frelling mess,” he complained, ignoring the fact that everyone could hear him. “Go gator hunting, should’ve
been ready to catch gators.” He accelerated as the mud was knocked off the soles of his boots, and his footing
on the worn boards became more certain. “D’Argo? D’Argo! Where are you, Big Guy?”
John ran to the slight elevation offered by the bridge over the last of the streams, and peered left and right,
checking both sides of the walkway. He cupped a hand over his unaugmented eye, struggling to cope with the
dual vision, and then swung around in a circle, scanning with the night lens only. “Rygel, I need some help over
here.”
“He’s gone ahead to get help, John.” Aeryn’s voice bounced and jerked from the strain of her efforts.
“Shit!” John deactivated his comms. “D’Argo! Come on, man. Moan, hiss, snarl,” he yelled into the night.
“Belch if you have to. Something! Tell me where you are.” A quiet noise eased out of the mud and grass
upstream from the bridge. John vaulted over the railing of the bridge, dropping into thigh deep water, and
forged toward the noise.
“Snarl again, D’Argo.” It wasn’t a snarl, it was a near-silent exhalation, but it was enough. John clambered
toward the noise, lunging through the grass and water until his night vision lens portrayed the eerie glow of a
living body lying prostrate in the tussocks near the trees. “Ahhh, shit!” He went down on his knees beside his
stricken friend.
Crichton stared with disbelief at the same sight Aeryn had struggled to comprehend. The Luxan’s belly had
been ripped open, organs sliced and smashed, blood and internal fluids sheeting out to soak into torn clothing
and stain the grass around him. John tried once with the night lens, and again with normal vision, but couldn’t
see whether the blood was running dark or clear. And there was too much of it.
“Johhhnnn,” D’Argo breathed.
“Hang on, D. Don’t quit on me.” He ran his hand through the stream of gore and held it up in the fading
moonlight. Dark black dripped across pale skin. John stared down at the damaged body and couldn’t envision
himself hitting that horrible wound hard enough to make the blood run clear.
“Aeryn?” He called, seeking help with the decision. “Aeryn!?” He remembered that he’d turned his comms off,
and reactivated the unit. “Aeryn!” Still no answer. He assumed she’d reached the town and had turned her
comms off while they hurried to save Chiana.
“D’Argo, what do I do here? I can’t hit this. I can’t possibly hit this.” There was no answer from the body in
front of his knees.
“John, how’s D’Argo?” Aeryn’s voice broke into his dilemma.
“Bad.” A clammy chill left him shivering as the relief from having her advice available swamped over him.
“Aeryn, this is so bad, but the blood is black. What do I do?”
“If he bleeds, he may die. If the blood doesn’t run clear, he will die.”
The answer sounded so simple, drifting disembodied into the night air. May die. Will die. Just hit it hard
enough. John stared at the hideous injury and couldn’t get himself to move. He was vaguely aware of Aeryn’s
voice calling to him, but the words made no impression on his mind as he began to panic.
‘My fault again.’ The thought surfaced unbidden, ripped viciously into his soul. ‘Another life.’
“Next time, I’ll make sure I’m the one who jumps in front of the runaway train. -- She’s right, D’Argo. I keep
getting people hurt or killed. -- Let’s see how John Lafitte, Curse of the Uncharted Territories has done so far.”
‘My fault again. Another life.’ John stared at his dying friend, the capacity for action destroyed by his guilt and
panic.
“You should have shot that shadow when you had the chance, John.” Harvey wandered to his side wearing
fishing waders and a brimmed hat covered with fly fishing lures.
“Shut up, Harvey. This isn’t the right time for recriminations.” John stood shivering in the creek, dungarees and
flannel shirt soaked and hanging heavy on his chilled body.
“Not the right time? But that’s what you’re doing, isn’t it?” The clone plucked a fly off his hat and began
fastening it to the end of some fishing line. “You saw the creature moving toward Ka D’Argo’s position and did
nothing. You deluded yourself into believing that the Ashrei’s claims were false, and that this creature was
misunderstood and harmless. And that delusion has cost your friend his life.” The black-clad clone awkwardly
whipped a fly rod back and forth, nearly hooking John with the lure, and then sinking it deep into the seat of his
own waders on its next pass.
“You place your obsession above the lives of your friends.”
D’Argo’s accusation seemed to ring all around them as John stood next to Harvey, his teeth chattering with
cold -- an accusation made only days earlier.
“It wasn’t the creature,” John insisted desperately. He’d seen the lurking shadow move past him during his first
trek toward the lake, a dark mass traveling along the small stream that lay between his area and D’Argo’s. He’d
aimed the pulse rifle, but despite having a clear shot he’d chosen not to pull the trigger, convinced that the
Nessie wasn’t the real threat. “It couldn’t have been the critter. It couldn’t have gotten over to Chiana and back
to D’Argo again from where I saw it. Not in that length of time.”
The clone disentangled himself from the hook and tried again, managing a credible cast into the unseen
distance. “If you had pulled the trigger, perhaps now you would have two trophy heads to hang on the wall of
your quarters, instead of two dead companions.” He cranked the fishing line in, dragging two fish flapping and
flopping into view.
The revelation jerked John out of his guilt-driven panic. He stared down at the exposed innards of his friend,
the pale moonlight illuminating the coiling rivulets where black and clear blood mixed and flowed together. He
took a deep breath. “How do I hit him hard enough? I’m not strong enough.”
“A Qualta blade has an edge and a flat side.” The smooth, uncaring voice of the clone spoke eerily into his
mind.
John jumped to his feet and scanned all around him, searching for the weapon. “Where’d you drop it, D’Argo?
Where is it?” He worked quickly from side to side, concentrating on the area between D’Argo’s body and the
watercourse, concluding that the Nessie would have attacked him close to the stream. There was the glint of
pale moonlight reflecting on something at the edge of the woods. Crichton pounced on the weapon. Fumbling
hands rearranged the hilt, converting the rifle back into a sword, and microts later he stood over his friend,
carefully aligning the flat side of the blade with the wound.
“Forgive me.” Crichton closed his eyes for an instant, took a deep breath, and hit his friend as hard as he
could.
* * * * *
“John Crichton, stop! Stop! Your companion is wounded, stop this.” Hands pulled his panting, sweating body
away from D’Argo, yanked the Qualta blade out of his grasp, and pushed him aside. John stumbled, tripped
over a hummock and felt into several inches of swamp water. “Why do you do this?” Vossmarr crouched over
the fallen Luxan, a large handlight trained on his belly wound.
“The blood,” John gasped, fighting to catch his breath. “What color is the blood?”
“It is mostly colorless, tinged with some black.” Vossmarr’s fingers were questing rapidly into the wound,
disappearing up to the slim wrists. “This is very bad.”
“No shit.” John took a deep breath and rolled to his knees. “Black blood is poison, clear blood is okay. Is he
still bleeding black?”
Vossmarr looked over his shoulder briefly, his face made cadaverous by the shadows spilling from the
handlight. He peered into the wound, exploring with one hand while he laid the fingers of the other against the
side of D’Argo’s head. “It is … all clear blood.” He closed his eyes, leaving the second hand in place as he
concentrated. “There is no poisoning in his system, only injury.”
John didn’t stop to question how Vossmarr was performing the diagnosis; he staggered to his feet and stumbled
back to D’Argo’s side. “Come on, we have to get him back before he bleeds to death.”
“Can you carry him alone? In your arms?” Crichton watched as Vossmarr’s dexterous fingers entered and
closed the wound simultaneously. Four thumbs met four index fingers, pulling the edges of the gaping opening
together while the remaining six fingers sank deep inside, pressing on organs, stemming damage’s clear tide.
The flow slowed and then stopped.
John looked at D’Argo’s bulk. His friend had carried him on several occasions, hefting his own substantial
weight as if it were no burden whatsoever. But Luxans were significantly heavier than humans. Vossmarr was
waiting, his attention still focused on his newest patient.
John thought of Tocot’s frigid surgery, warmed only by D’Argo’s fierce insistence that he keep fighting when he
thought he’d lost everything and wanted to die. D’Argo had brought him back much as Zhaan had brought
Aeryn back, but at less cost to himself … until now.
“I can carry him.”
* * * * *
He couldn’t remember how he’d gotten into the strange maze, but that wasn’t the detail that was bothering him.
The walls were uniform -- as they were in all mazes -- one identical arcing length of golden metallic wall melting
into the next, bending and twisting until he didn’t know which turnings he had explored, and which ones he
hadn’t. But that didn’t bother him either.
It was the voice that plagued him. It called his name repeatedly, the calm pleasant tones bouncing through the
softly lit corridors, sometimes louder, sometimes fading until he almost lost its beacon behind the rumbles that
never stopped. He would follow it faithfully through a half dozen intersections only to have the source suddenly
shift, leaving him lost and confused.
He didn’t like this place. It wasn’t like the other places he’d found himself in recently. The floor shifted and
pitched, and the rumbling made it hard for him to think. He’d recognized his surroundings every time before,
but this place was alien to him. He wasn’t scared. The maze made him feel surprisingly safe and secure, but
there were too many unknowns floating in his head, and the voice wouldn’t allow him any time to think.
John Crichton slid down the wall to sit on the warm floor, his head in hands, fatigue providing the sound
dampener that finally allowed him to ignore the summons. He was tired. Too tired to continue. He folded his
arms around his aching stomach, rested his head on his knees, and let the darkness of exhaustion sweep in to
carry him away. He heard the call again as he faded, more strident, more demanding. He couldn’t be bothered
to answer. He was too tired.
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
