Night Walker
Chapter 7
“AERYN!” John swung hard, kicked harder to drive them both through the water away from the source of
injury. He clutched Aeryn to him as the impact shoved them aside, tossing their entwined bodies away from
Thing #2, the water solidifying before their hurtling bodies to battered them. Her helmet smacked against his,
faceplate to faceplate, and he saw not mortal injury, but surprise and … joy. He pushed her away from the
looming threat, and saw the chemicals streaming from the backpack, spewing the contents of the breather
through the water to add to the light-dampening miasma. And underneath it all, the glint of metal.
“It seems a bit bulky. -- Not once you get it on.”
“I told them you would probably be in a fight, so they built the rest with that in mind.”
The genius technicians had put metal armor underneath everything else. Joy in her eyes, because Aeryn knew
she wasn’t injured. He’d kill the frelling little engineer for not telling him. John made a vow that Niv was going to
eat his fungoid-wetsuit piece by piece if they lived to see him again.
John turned in the direction of their attacker, singing “Oh, Quasitoad-o! I’ve got a treat for you!” The relief
streamed through his limbs, giving him strength where moments earlier there had been only shaking
weakness. He pulled the sword loose, shifted it to his left hand, and pulled Winona out of her holster. “Little
like an underwater version of ‘Red Sun’,” he observed, looking at the incongruous pair of weapons. He moved
closer to Aeryn, jerking his head once to ask if she was all right. Vigorous nod up and down. They turned
back-to-back and waited, slowly kicking themselves toward shore, drawing the creature toward shallower water
where they might gain a slight advantage.
Thing #2 struck at John next, the massive crushing claw leaping out of the dark. He hacked at it with the sword,
felt the blade bite and pop loose. The questing limb jerked out of sight. “Bet that was owwies.” A vision of a
red lobster shaking its paw popped into his mind. They floated and kicked, moving gradually away from it,
making it follow.
Aeryn started to roll to one side, twisting to bring the rifle to bear. The black scythe was slicing downward from
the side. He kicked hard, pushed against her back to give her some leverage to complete her turn. It slashed
past them, presenting a black, armored elbow as it overshot. Aeryn pushed off, thrusting hard against him,
placed the rifle against the shell and fired. It twitched out of the way at the last moment. John and Aeryn were
blown away from each other by the billowing roll of heated water.
Something grabbed him by the foot. John dragged in a lungful of air, an involuntary preparation in anticipation
of pain, but the awkward fist that had grabbed him was a smaller, undifferentiated claw. It pulled at him, yanking
him toward the glowering hulk, doing the fetching so the two weaponed limbs could strike at him at their leisure.
He swept down with the sword, praying he didn’t lop his foot off in the process.
It was like slicing into a well-browned sausage. Resistance, crunch, slither, pop. The amputated grasp stroked
his foot tenderly and sank out of sight. Thing #2 had to pissed off by now, he figured. He turned to join up with
Aeryn.
She floated less than two motras away, holding her leg and jerking convulsively. John holstered Winona and
dragged himself frantically through the water. The last slash hadn’t missed. Strings of blood drifted out from
under her hands, streamed along the suit to flick away from her knee as she floundered toward the surface.
John grabbed her harness and began dragging her toward shore, but Aeryn pulled at his hand and pointed up,
desperation in her eyes. He shook his head. Thing #2 would be underneath them, they couldn’t go up. Aeryn
beat at her mask with one hand, pulled at it, trying to tell him something.
The breather was damaged.
He spun her around. The chemicals were still spilling from the huge rent, something a child could have
foreseen. Aeryn was suffocating. He was an idiot.
John wound his hand into a shoulder strap and struck for the surface, ignoring the threat below. May die. Will
die. It really was an easy decision after all, provided he separated the guilt from action.
They didn’t make it to the surface. Aeryn clutched at him with one hand, jerking a painful warning, while they
were still two or three motras from fresh air. He pushed her upwards and spun to face Thing #2, yanking the
pulse pistol out again. The black bulk was there, just out of sight, hovering, waiting. Aeryn settled back next to
him, facing the creature, by his side. She was gasping, straining to pull the last of the oxygen out of the failing
unit, while her leg continued to blossom clouds of blood.
John pushed her away, toward the surface. She shook her head. He kicked backwards with her, watching the
stalking shadow, and pushed her again. He pointed to his chest, then pointed upwards. ‘I’ll follow.’ Head
shake. He pushed her again. She would drown if he didn’t do something. ‘I’ll follow,’ more emphatically.
She shook a fist in his line of sight. It looked something like ‘I’ll kill you if you don’t.’ Aeryn moved away.
All he needed to do was give her some time to make it to shore. Then he could beat a hasty retreat. John
glanced at the timer clipped to his harness. Just over a quarter of an arn had passed since they’d first walked
into the lake. It felt more like days. All he had to do was give Aeryn a little time. He tread water lazily and
waited.
* * * * *
Aeryn crouched in the shallows, fingers scrabbling frantically at the clasps, trying to release a mask that
refused to come free from her helmet. The breather had failed completely, shutting off all flow to the air lines.
Gloved fingers dug beneath the carefully constructed tubing, seeking to detach them in a vain striving for the
flood of air. But the brilliant technicians had built it too well, and her efforts went unrewarded. Confusion
heralded unconsciousness as her body used up the last of its oxygen, making it impossible to focus long
enough to find the secret to removing the mask. Aeryn pulled vainly at the latch, but numb fingers slipped free
and she collapsed into the sand.
The world had faded to shades of brown and gray, a monochromatic view reminiscent of twilight, when she was
yanked to her knees and the mask was ripped away. She hung in someone’s firm grip, gazing in bewilderment
at the Luxan boots sinking into the wet sand beside her knees. D’Argo was lying near death in the Ashrei
healing center. She knew that. She tried to decide who on this planet would steal his boots and blatantly
parade them before her at a time like this.
“Aeryn, we have to get you back to Vossmarr and his friends. You’re bleeding badly.” She bit down on her
lower lip to prevent any outburst as leather-armored fingers pressed harshly against the wound in her leg, but
the pain helped to clear her head, injecting color back into her world. Aeryn lifted her head, a normally easy
movement that had somehow become an exhausting struggle, and examined D’Argo’s concerned face looming
over her. It really was D’Argo, she marveled. It was D’Argo’s inexhaustible strength pulling her out of the wet
sand.
“You were …” Aeryn forgot what she was going to say when she discovered that she didn’t have the strength to
stand up. She collapsed into D’Argo’s embrace. Cool air flooded into her lungs, filled with the rank odor from
the oily muck that coated her suit, and she’d never smelled anything sweeter. The first trickle of strength
filtered into oxygen-starved muscles.
“Vossmarr,” D’Argo explained his presence succinctly. He started to pick her up. “We have to get you back,
you’re bleeding,” he repeated.
“What are you …” she looked around to see if anyone was with him. “Why are you here?”
“I came in case you needed any help as you came out of the water.” He stared down at her, no humor on his
face. “You did.”
Aeryn’s head cleared as if someone had suddenly thrown a switch that reattached her senses to the world
around her. “Where’s John? He promised he’d be right behind me.”
“John hasn’t come up, Aeryn.” His serious expression evolved into full-blown grief. “There’s no sign of him.”
She pushed away from the warrior and limped into the shallows, scanning the shore in both directions. “Can
you see him, D’Argo? … or smell him? Has he come ashore somewhere else?” Her leg was throbbing with
pain, every weight an agony, but she barely felt it as she searched the shoreline.
“All I can smell is that black stuff that’s all over you, Aeryn. I can’t even smell you.” He tried to pull her away
from the water. “Aeryn …”
“Get … away from me. Get further away from me so you can smell him if he comes up.” She spat each word
out distinctly and separately, plainly telling him that she would not give up on John until she saw the dead
body. “He promised he would follow. He promised.” She started to limp along the shore to her left, still
scanning for a black-suited figure, looking for any dark shape along the shore.
* * * * *
It was playing a waiting game. When he started for shore, it lunged at him. When he stopped, it backed off and
waited. If he moved toward it, it retreated, drawing him into deeper water. John glanced at the timer again.
Only one hundred microts since Aeryn had left. He wondered if she’d made it to shore. The uncertainty
gnawed at his patience. He envisioned Aeryn lying on the beach bleeding to death while he played this
otherworldly game of tag. He backed away, and the bow wave of water pressure thrust at him. The slicer cut
through the water, an earnest attempt to gut him. John hacked at it as it went by, but the angle was all wrong
and he only chipped a piece of armor loose.
“Enough’s enough. Come on out and play, you bastard. You’re not so tough. You’re not as tough as Jabba’s
pet rancor. Let’s dance.” His pulse beat loudly in his ears, the fast rhythm of fear offering a staccato
contradiction to his confident chatter. “Scared spitless, aren’t you John?” he admitted, listening to his pounding
heart. “Well, suck it up. Come on out, Godzilla. I don’t have all day!” John took a tighter grip on his weapons,
flipped over and went after it, drifting deeper and deeper into its home territory.
A black hulking shadow loomed directly below him. John kicked desperately to one side, Winona lining up in
hideous slow motion, the sword momentarily useless as the dark form moved toward him.
The indistinct carcass of Thing #1 spun in the current and drifted past. “Frell! Give me a heart attack, why
don’t you?” He let himself drift upright, spinning in place to view his surroundings. Watery forces were
dragging the corpse away from him through the mud, roiling the silt until visibility was little more than an arm’s
length in all directions. He spun again, looking for some sign of Thing #2. His feet touched the bottom, and he
was enveloped in a cloud of silt.
“Bad idea, John. Get the frell out of here. Now, dude!” Panic struck like lightning, the taste of fear sharp and
metallic in his mouth. He kicked against the lake bottom, but rather than propelling himself upward, his feet
sank into the mire, briefly anchoring him in place. John tried a more explosive thrust and popped loose, his
momentum starting a slow ascent through the hazy soup. “Get out of here, get out of here,” he chanted, the
panic easing even as the sense of urgency swelled to gargantuan dimensions. He jammed Winona into her
holster and dragged himself upward, kicking furiously to reach clearer water.
“FRRRRELL!!” He sucked in a deep breath of relief, inhaling the mild aroma of the chemicals that were
cleaning his air supply. The sense of claustrophobia created by the low visibility began to fade. He glanced
down. Something dark moved under his feet. “Shit!” He grabbed for Winona, pressing hard to move his hand
through the water in time. The carcass rolled and twisted below his feet. John laughed weakly. “Scar’t me
twiced, ya daid,” he scolded Thing #1’s remains.
More sunlight was penetrating the depths now, and visibility had increased to almost two motras. Crichton
began to relax, recovering from the series of starts and shocks he’d given himself. He kicked toward shallower,
clearer water, realizing how stupid it had been to play into Thing #2’s strategy.
It struck.
Crichton screamed as it snagged both legs, gathering him into the trap it had laid. It had lured him into deeper
water so it could get between him and the shore. He twisted against the massive grip that had fastened around
both thighs, struggling to face Thing #2 even as he felt something snap in his left leg. He gave vent to the
agony, howling out his pain. Bubbles cascaded loose from around the edge of the breather mask, creating a
silvery curtain as he exceeded the capacity of the relief valve. The slicing claw he’d seen arcing toward Aeryn
would be coming toward him; he knew it was already on its way.
He used his pinned legs for leverage, twisting in the grip despite the horrible sensations being transmitted
through his nervous system, and watched for the slashing movement. He was jerked to one side through the
water, the critter dragging him about like some sort of plaything. The force of the motion wrenched his body
against his trapped legs, and he bellowed again in pain and anger.
The thin cutting claw was coming at him, ballooning into sight from his left as it struck toward his stomach. The
Ashrei blade wobbled through the currents as he swung it desperately to that side, using both hands to fend off
the strike that would gut him. He couldn’t move fast enough. Time seemed to accelerate as his weapon crept
incrementally into the line of the attack.
There were two fast, painless impacts, and the arm snagged itself on the blade, driving the metal deep into the
joint just above the claw. The limb whipped back into the dark, recoiling in pain, carrying the buried metal with
it. John clung to the grip desperately, unwilling to give up his close-range weapon. His body was jerked after it,
generating signals of indescribable damage from his right leg. His left leg had gone numb already and no
longer troubled him. He all but lost the sword, yanking it loose at the last moment. It slipped from his hands,
and he lunged for it, pulling it back with a tenuous three-fingered grip.
The mask was delivering oxygen again, but there was something wrong with the face shield. The view had
gone blurry. John sucked in another breath, blinked hard, and his vision cleared. The dark form loomed over
him, towering above his insignificant struggles. The agony from his crushed legs reverberated up his spine as
Thing #2 dragged him into its clutches. He was abruptly chilled inside the wetsuit, shaking and ill from the
assault on his nervous system. He fought down the nausea as he was hauled closer.
“Eat steel!” he cried, half a bellow of defiance, half a howl of pain. The blade sank into the unseen body before
him, and he thrust further then twisted and wrenched the grip, trying to increase the damage. A limb wavered
into his sight from the right, an unspecialized arm that clouted him in the helmet, filling the face shield with a
torrent of water. John bellowed as the hold on his legs tightened, but he drew the sword out amidst the haze of
agony, and hacked at the form in front of him again.
He fumbled the grip into his left hand, shaking with the onset of shock, and grabbed at his pulse pistol. The
cutting claw appeared from his left, trailing a cloud of black ichor. He parried weakly, knowing he was once
again too late. The creature did all the work for him, tearing into the razor-sharp blade with frenetic strength.
The black, blade-like claw was hewn loose at the wrist, bouncing against John’s ribs before dropping into the
depths, carrying his blade with it.
“Come back here, you yellow bastard,” John panted weakly into the raging breath sounds inside his helmet.
“Come back here and take what’s coming to you.” He was crying from the pain now, but he had both hands
wrapped around Winona’s grip, and Thing #2 was drawing him in again.
Two arms battered at him. The unspecialized one from the right hammered at his head and shoulders, and
from the left, the truncated wrist battered at his stomach and ribs as though its hand was still attached. John
was pulled forward with a jerk, hauled into the shadows beneath a looming, armored head even as the two arms
continued to flail at him. The body was within reach, obscured but finally within an arm’s length.
John thrust Winona forward with both hands, jamming it against the body until he felt it lodge between joints in
the carapace. He jerked the trigger again and again, ignoring the roiling steam and backlash of heat. The
water went opaque, a murky stew of boiling water, blood, critter innards and mud. He ignored the darkness
outside his faceplate and continued firing.
Winona was becoming harder to hang on to as his strength waned. He needed both hands just to pull the
trigger. His breath was rasping in his helmet, the only noise in his world. The darkness had somehow gotten
inside his helmet, dimming and blurring his vision. And then the pummeling stopped. He let his hands drop,
Winona thumping weakly against his hip. Nothing happened. It was over.
John looked dumbly at the huge grip that still held his legs. Death hadn’t relaxed the muscles trapping him, and
they were sinking together. He pushed against the armor plating with his left hand, more a feeble fumbling than
a struggle for freedom. The dark, imprisoning bulk began to topple as it sank, carrying him sidewards through
the fouled water. He pushed again. Nothing.
“Can’t do it,” he mumbled to the collection of images in his head. He looked up toward the rippling light, seeing
not the overhanging tree limbs or the sun that had come out, but his father and his friends. Zhaan shook her
head and frowned at him, displeased. He was sinking.
“Did what had to be done, Dad.” Each word was a painful effort. “Aeryn’s safe,” he told Zhaan, finding one last
breath. “My train this time. My train.” The pain in his legs was gone. He relaxed.
“John, I do not wish to die.” Harvey’s voice intruded on the tranquility that had fallen over him.
“Damn! I was hoping this last bit of underwater insanity would earn me a ticket to Purgatory. Couldn’t you at
least wait until I’m dead before coming to collect?”
“As much as you despise my existence, John, I am not your Devil.”
“Leave me alone, Harv. Even a far-flung Farscape flier deserves to die in peace.”
“Not yet.”
His mind was empty. John sighed, content that it was going to happen this way, pleased that Harvey had left
him alone for the final moments. He’d done what he’d set out to do. Aeryn, D’Argo and Chiana would all
recover. There were some things he would have preferred to finish, but they didn’t really matter anymore. He
could rest now. His head dropped. Winona began to slide from his grip. He could rest now.
* * * * *
D’Argo plodded dejectedly along the shore behind Aeryn as she continued to search for some sign of John. It
had been too long, though, and in his hearts, he knew that Crichton must be dead. He tagged along, ignoring
the pain of his healing injuries, waiting for Aeryn to admit that John had lost the battle that had almost certainly
taken place beneath the quiet surface of the lake.
“Aeryn, you have to let someone tend to your wound,” he tried again. She was limping badly, an indulgence
the ex-Peacekeeper would never have allowed herself if she weren’t severely injured.
“No.” The anguish in the single word was more than enough to convince him to let her work it out in her own
way. “He’ll come up, D’Argo.” She limped four more steps and stopped. “He promised me he’d follow.”
“Aeryn …” He stopped, wrinkling his nose, overwhelmed by the moldy, fishy odor he could smell on Aeryn. It
was suddenly ten times more repugnant. D’Argo turned in time to watch incredulously as Crichton pulled
himself out of the water on his elbows, crawling ashore barely a twenty motras away. “Aeryn! Over there!”
D’Argo broke into a clumsy run, feeling the stabbing discomfort from his wounds with every pounding step.
John was yanking his mask away as D’Argo ran toward him, still lying immersed to his chest in the muddy
shallows. He wasn’t making any attempt to get up, not even to get to his knees, and D’Argo tried to run faster.
He felt a tearing in his chest and ignored it, charging through the sand toward his friend. Crichton grinned
weakly at him as he approached, then slumped back into the water, letting his head rest on his forearm just
barely clear of the small lapping waves.
“Hey, Big D. Glad to see you up and around.” Crichton’s voice was a rasping whisper, almost obscured behind
the slapping sound of the tiny wavelets washing up against him.
“John. Thank the Gods, you’re all right.” He crouched over the astronaut, carefully pulling the helmet and its
attachments away. “Can you get up?”
“Don’t think so,” he panted. “There’s some damage down there. A broken leg or two.” He grimaced, moving
just his eyes to look up at the big warrior crouching over him.
“Or two?” Aeryn arrived, hobbling painfully through the shallows. “You’ve only got two legs, John.” He didn’t
seem to be in any pain so she forced herself to relax, assuming that it was another of his peculiar jokes.
“Yeh.” His voice was getting weaker. “How you doin’, babe?” He raised one hand out of the mud to point at
the blood streaming out of the rent in her suit. “You okay?”
“I’ll be fine.” Aeryn knelt in the water beside him. “What took you so long? Stop for a trophy?” She looked for
the sword, but it was gone.
“Thing Two … dead now,” he struggled with the words.
“John?” Aeryn began looking for injuries.
“Where are you hurt?” D’Argo demanded in alarm.
John coughed once, swallowed convulsively with a small look of panic in suddenly widening eyes, and then
vomited a gush of blood into the water in front of him. “Oops,” he coughed the syllable out. “I’m screwed.” He
looked at the discolored current flowing around him with dismay, then sagged back into the water.
D’Argo splashed down on his knees next to Aeryn, ignoring the mud that soaked into his pants and tunic, and
together they eased Crichton over onto his back. “John. Oh no, John,” D’Argo groaned. A moment later he
staggered back to his feet with the limp figure cradled in his arms, ignoring the burning pain in his own chest
and stomach. “Can you follow on your own, Aeryn? I’ll send someone …”
“GO!” she yelled, gesticulating with one hand. “Go! Get him back to Vossmarr. Now!” She watched the broad
back hurry away from her, John’s dark wet hair and black suited feet the only parts of him visible as he was
carried toward the village at a run. “Hurry, D’Argo,” she whispered after them. She got to her feet with
difficulty, then stood staring into the dark water of the lake, wondering what she could have done differently.
Aeryn finally understood John’s recent depression in all of its intricacies. She knew that every logical argument
would lead her to the same conclusion every time: there wasn’t anything she could have or would have done
differently that would have changed the outcome. And despite that knowledge, she was consumed by the guilt
of coming to the surface to save herself while John was below fighting for his life. Logic told her it was fate, but
it felt like betrayal. Aeryn turned away from the water and struggled across the black sand, up the ledge, and
began the long walk back to the village.
The voices of Aksal and several others were echoing across the marsh as she approached the fork in the path,
the excited chatter loud against the quiet whispers of the breeze through the grass and trees. Aeryn wiped her
tears to the edges of her face, where they would go undetected amidst the small streams of water still trickling
from her hair. She straightened up, back rigidly erect, and limped forward to meet them.
* * * * *
John wandered down the alleyway between the carnival stalls, looking for a good one where he could spend
the last of his money. He jingled the last of his change in his jeans pocket, enjoying the quiet music of the
coins sifting through his fingers. He’d somehow forgotten to wear any shoes, but the grass was surprisingly
clean and lush under foot, not beaten down like it would be at most traveling carnivals. He glanced down the
intersecting alleys as he crossed each one, but they were all empty. He could hear excited screams over the
clank and music of the rides, but it seemed that no one was bothering to visit the midway.
His stomach hurt, probably from something he had eaten. He knew better than to get his meals out of a deep
fat fryer, but he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had junk food. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d
had food, for that matter. He stopped and puzzled that one a bit, but came no closer to recall. His legs were
aching, paying him back for wandering around barefoot. He should have worn his boots. John looked down at
his toes, wiggled them in the cool grass, and couldn’t remember when he’d taken to wearing heavy boots. He
preferred sneakers.
A motion to one side drew his attention. Flags fluttered around a sign reading “Fortunes Told/Spirits Mended”,
garish red paint on an intricate blue and yellow background blaring out the promise. He leaned over the
counter, peering inside the canvas stall, but no one was there. He glanced over his shoulder to see if there
was a better place to be fleeced out of fifty cents, tapping his quarters on the wooden surface in the meantime,
trying to attract the attention of the operator.
He turned around and jumped, startled by the sudden appearance of the booth’s owner. She was beautiful,
exotic, expertly made up to look like some sort of alien. He didn’t know how she had moved so silently. One
microt she hadn’t been there, the next she was standing so close he could practically feel her touching him.
“Hey,” John greeted the woman, trying to see a flaw in the makeup. She was the same intricate yellow on blue
pattern as the sign mounted above her tent. She nodded her head in acknowledgement, almost as if he’d
spoken her name instead of his usual informal greeting. He handed her his quarters, trying to decide if he
wanted his fortune told or wanted to find out what sort of mystical hogwash she used for ‘mending his spirit’.
“John?” The voice had come back. It was calling from somewhere to his right. He ignored the noise. He’d
been through this again and again. He was pleased that the voice had returned, reassured by its presence,
but he’d searched for it before, and its source remained lost to him. “John!” The voice was more demanding,
but he continued to gaze at the blue lady, enraptured by her look of serenity, the quiet balance of every
graceful movement. She still didn’t speak. She gestured toward the voice with one hand, but he didn’t bother
looking. She pointed a second time with more emphasis. When he still didn’t look she took him gently by the
shoulder, turned him, and pushed him firmly in the direction of the voice.
John took two steps then crumpled to the ground, overwhelmed by a horrible pain in his legs. He swayed on
his hands and knees, just barely conscious. He almost had it under control when his stomach upped the ante,
trying to out perform his legs in the ‘Doesn’t-This-Hurt? Sweepstakes’. He tried to look back at the fortuneteller
for help, but he couldn’t move against the agony. He collapsed, soft blades of grass poking at the side of his
face as he curled his body around the arms he had pressed into his screaming gut.
The echoing voice called to him again, beckoning him toward it. He tried to lift himself with his arms, tried to
crawl closer to see who it was, to see if they would help him, but he only managed a single body length, hitching
himself along like a half-crippled caterpillar, before his arms gave out and he sank back into the grass. He
stared at the short blades in front of his nose, wishing he knew what was happening to him but also sensing
that things were about to get worse. A wave of pain smashed down on him, swirled through his entire body,
draining his energy away from him as it receded. He could tell that another one was coming; he could feel it
growing like the swells at the beach. The next roller came in and pounded him into the darkness.
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
Chapter 7
“AERYN!” John swung hard, kicked harder to drive them both through the water away from the source of
injury. He clutched Aeryn to him as the impact shoved them aside, tossing their entwined bodies away from
Thing #2, the water solidifying before their hurtling bodies to battered them. Her helmet smacked against his,
faceplate to faceplate, and he saw not mortal injury, but surprise and … joy. He pushed her away from the
looming threat, and saw the chemicals streaming from the backpack, spewing the contents of the breather
through the water to add to the light-dampening miasma. And underneath it all, the glint of metal.
“It seems a bit bulky. -- Not once you get it on.”
“I told them you would probably be in a fight, so they built the rest with that in mind.”
The genius technicians had put metal armor underneath everything else. Joy in her eyes, because Aeryn knew
she wasn’t injured. He’d kill the frelling little engineer for not telling him. John made a vow that Niv was going to
eat his fungoid-wetsuit piece by piece if they lived to see him again.
John turned in the direction of their attacker, singing “Oh, Quasitoad-o! I’ve got a treat for you!” The relief
streamed through his limbs, giving him strength where moments earlier there had been only shaking
weakness. He pulled the sword loose, shifted it to his left hand, and pulled Winona out of her holster. “Little
like an underwater version of ‘Red Sun’,” he observed, looking at the incongruous pair of weapons. He moved
closer to Aeryn, jerking his head once to ask if she was all right. Vigorous nod up and down. They turned
back-to-back and waited, slowly kicking themselves toward shore, drawing the creature toward shallower water
where they might gain a slight advantage.
Thing #2 struck at John next, the massive crushing claw leaping out of the dark. He hacked at it with the sword,
felt the blade bite and pop loose. The questing limb jerked out of sight. “Bet that was owwies.” A vision of a
red lobster shaking its paw popped into his mind. They floated and kicked, moving gradually away from it,
making it follow.
Aeryn started to roll to one side, twisting to bring the rifle to bear. The black scythe was slicing downward from
the side. He kicked hard, pushed against her back to give her some leverage to complete her turn. It slashed
past them, presenting a black, armored elbow as it overshot. Aeryn pushed off, thrusting hard against him,
placed the rifle against the shell and fired. It twitched out of the way at the last moment. John and Aeryn were
blown away from each other by the billowing roll of heated water.
Something grabbed him by the foot. John dragged in a lungful of air, an involuntary preparation in anticipation
of pain, but the awkward fist that had grabbed him was a smaller, undifferentiated claw. It pulled at him, yanking
him toward the glowering hulk, doing the fetching so the two weaponed limbs could strike at him at their leisure.
He swept down with the sword, praying he didn’t lop his foot off in the process.
It was like slicing into a well-browned sausage. Resistance, crunch, slither, pop. The amputated grasp stroked
his foot tenderly and sank out of sight. Thing #2 had to pissed off by now, he figured. He turned to join up with
Aeryn.
She floated less than two motras away, holding her leg and jerking convulsively. John holstered Winona and
dragged himself frantically through the water. The last slash hadn’t missed. Strings of blood drifted out from
under her hands, streamed along the suit to flick away from her knee as she floundered toward the surface.
John grabbed her harness and began dragging her toward shore, but Aeryn pulled at his hand and pointed up,
desperation in her eyes. He shook his head. Thing #2 would be underneath them, they couldn’t go up. Aeryn
beat at her mask with one hand, pulled at it, trying to tell him something.
The breather was damaged.
He spun her around. The chemicals were still spilling from the huge rent, something a child could have
foreseen. Aeryn was suffocating. He was an idiot.
John wound his hand into a shoulder strap and struck for the surface, ignoring the threat below. May die. Will
die. It really was an easy decision after all, provided he separated the guilt from action.
They didn’t make it to the surface. Aeryn clutched at him with one hand, jerking a painful warning, while they
were still two or three motras from fresh air. He pushed her upwards and spun to face Thing #2, yanking the
pulse pistol out again. The black bulk was there, just out of sight, hovering, waiting. Aeryn settled back next to
him, facing the creature, by his side. She was gasping, straining to pull the last of the oxygen out of the failing
unit, while her leg continued to blossom clouds of blood.
John pushed her away, toward the surface. She shook her head. He kicked backwards with her, watching the
stalking shadow, and pushed her again. He pointed to his chest, then pointed upwards. ‘I’ll follow.’ Head
shake. He pushed her again. She would drown if he didn’t do something. ‘I’ll follow,’ more emphatically.
She shook a fist in his line of sight. It looked something like ‘I’ll kill you if you don’t.’ Aeryn moved away.
All he needed to do was give her some time to make it to shore. Then he could beat a hasty retreat. John
glanced at the timer clipped to his harness. Just over a quarter of an arn had passed since they’d first walked
into the lake. It felt more like days. All he had to do was give Aeryn a little time. He tread water lazily and
waited.
* * * * *
Aeryn crouched in the shallows, fingers scrabbling frantically at the clasps, trying to release a mask that
refused to come free from her helmet. The breather had failed completely, shutting off all flow to the air lines.
Gloved fingers dug beneath the carefully constructed tubing, seeking to detach them in a vain striving for the
flood of air. But the brilliant technicians had built it too well, and her efforts went unrewarded. Confusion
heralded unconsciousness as her body used up the last of its oxygen, making it impossible to focus long
enough to find the secret to removing the mask. Aeryn pulled vainly at the latch, but numb fingers slipped free
and she collapsed into the sand.
The world had faded to shades of brown and gray, a monochromatic view reminiscent of twilight, when she was
yanked to her knees and the mask was ripped away. She hung in someone’s firm grip, gazing in bewilderment
at the Luxan boots sinking into the wet sand beside her knees. D’Argo was lying near death in the Ashrei
healing center. She knew that. She tried to decide who on this planet would steal his boots and blatantly
parade them before her at a time like this.
“Aeryn, we have to get you back to Vossmarr and his friends. You’re bleeding badly.” She bit down on her
lower lip to prevent any outburst as leather-armored fingers pressed harshly against the wound in her leg, but
the pain helped to clear her head, injecting color back into her world. Aeryn lifted her head, a normally easy
movement that had somehow become an exhausting struggle, and examined D’Argo’s concerned face looming
over her. It really was D’Argo, she marveled. It was D’Argo’s inexhaustible strength pulling her out of the wet
sand.
“You were …” Aeryn forgot what she was going to say when she discovered that she didn’t have the strength to
stand up. She collapsed into D’Argo’s embrace. Cool air flooded into her lungs, filled with the rank odor from
the oily muck that coated her suit, and she’d never smelled anything sweeter. The first trickle of strength
filtered into oxygen-starved muscles.
“Vossmarr,” D’Argo explained his presence succinctly. He started to pick her up. “We have to get you back,
you’re bleeding,” he repeated.
“What are you …” she looked around to see if anyone was with him. “Why are you here?”
“I came in case you needed any help as you came out of the water.” He stared down at her, no humor on his
face. “You did.”
Aeryn’s head cleared as if someone had suddenly thrown a switch that reattached her senses to the world
around her. “Where’s John? He promised he’d be right behind me.”
“John hasn’t come up, Aeryn.” His serious expression evolved into full-blown grief. “There’s no sign of him.”
She pushed away from the warrior and limped into the shallows, scanning the shore in both directions. “Can
you see him, D’Argo? … or smell him? Has he come ashore somewhere else?” Her leg was throbbing with
pain, every weight an agony, but she barely felt it as she searched the shoreline.
“All I can smell is that black stuff that’s all over you, Aeryn. I can’t even smell you.” He tried to pull her away
from the water. “Aeryn …”
“Get … away from me. Get further away from me so you can smell him if he comes up.” She spat each word
out distinctly and separately, plainly telling him that she would not give up on John until she saw the dead
body. “He promised he would follow. He promised.” She started to limp along the shore to her left, still
scanning for a black-suited figure, looking for any dark shape along the shore.
* * * * *
It was playing a waiting game. When he started for shore, it lunged at him. When he stopped, it backed off and
waited. If he moved toward it, it retreated, drawing him into deeper water. John glanced at the timer again.
Only one hundred microts since Aeryn had left. He wondered if she’d made it to shore. The uncertainty
gnawed at his patience. He envisioned Aeryn lying on the beach bleeding to death while he played this
otherworldly game of tag. He backed away, and the bow wave of water pressure thrust at him. The slicer cut
through the water, an earnest attempt to gut him. John hacked at it as it went by, but the angle was all wrong
and he only chipped a piece of armor loose.
“Enough’s enough. Come on out and play, you bastard. You’re not so tough. You’re not as tough as Jabba’s
pet rancor. Let’s dance.” His pulse beat loudly in his ears, the fast rhythm of fear offering a staccato
contradiction to his confident chatter. “Scared spitless, aren’t you John?” he admitted, listening to his pounding
heart. “Well, suck it up. Come on out, Godzilla. I don’t have all day!” John took a tighter grip on his weapons,
flipped over and went after it, drifting deeper and deeper into its home territory.
A black hulking shadow loomed directly below him. John kicked desperately to one side, Winona lining up in
hideous slow motion, the sword momentarily useless as the dark form moved toward him.
The indistinct carcass of Thing #1 spun in the current and drifted past. “Frell! Give me a heart attack, why
don’t you?” He let himself drift upright, spinning in place to view his surroundings. Watery forces were
dragging the corpse away from him through the mud, roiling the silt until visibility was little more than an arm’s
length in all directions. He spun again, looking for some sign of Thing #2. His feet touched the bottom, and he
was enveloped in a cloud of silt.
“Bad idea, John. Get the frell out of here. Now, dude!” Panic struck like lightning, the taste of fear sharp and
metallic in his mouth. He kicked against the lake bottom, but rather than propelling himself upward, his feet
sank into the mire, briefly anchoring him in place. John tried a more explosive thrust and popped loose, his
momentum starting a slow ascent through the hazy soup. “Get out of here, get out of here,” he chanted, the
panic easing even as the sense of urgency swelled to gargantuan dimensions. He jammed Winona into her
holster and dragged himself upward, kicking furiously to reach clearer water.
“FRRRRELL!!” He sucked in a deep breath of relief, inhaling the mild aroma of the chemicals that were
cleaning his air supply. The sense of claustrophobia created by the low visibility began to fade. He glanced
down. Something dark moved under his feet. “Shit!” He grabbed for Winona, pressing hard to move his hand
through the water in time. The carcass rolled and twisted below his feet. John laughed weakly. “Scar’t me
twiced, ya daid,” he scolded Thing #1’s remains.
More sunlight was penetrating the depths now, and visibility had increased to almost two motras. Crichton
began to relax, recovering from the series of starts and shocks he’d given himself. He kicked toward shallower,
clearer water, realizing how stupid it had been to play into Thing #2’s strategy.
It struck.
Crichton screamed as it snagged both legs, gathering him into the trap it had laid. It had lured him into deeper
water so it could get between him and the shore. He twisted against the massive grip that had fastened around
both thighs, struggling to face Thing #2 even as he felt something snap in his left leg. He gave vent to the
agony, howling out his pain. Bubbles cascaded loose from around the edge of the breather mask, creating a
silvery curtain as he exceeded the capacity of the relief valve. The slicing claw he’d seen arcing toward Aeryn
would be coming toward him; he knew it was already on its way.
He used his pinned legs for leverage, twisting in the grip despite the horrible sensations being transmitted
through his nervous system, and watched for the slashing movement. He was jerked to one side through the
water, the critter dragging him about like some sort of plaything. The force of the motion wrenched his body
against his trapped legs, and he bellowed again in pain and anger.
The thin cutting claw was coming at him, ballooning into sight from his left as it struck toward his stomach. The
Ashrei blade wobbled through the currents as he swung it desperately to that side, using both hands to fend off
the strike that would gut him. He couldn’t move fast enough. Time seemed to accelerate as his weapon crept
incrementally into the line of the attack.
There were two fast, painless impacts, and the arm snagged itself on the blade, driving the metal deep into the
joint just above the claw. The limb whipped back into the dark, recoiling in pain, carrying the buried metal with
it. John clung to the grip desperately, unwilling to give up his close-range weapon. His body was jerked after it,
generating signals of indescribable damage from his right leg. His left leg had gone numb already and no
longer troubled him. He all but lost the sword, yanking it loose at the last moment. It slipped from his hands,
and he lunged for it, pulling it back with a tenuous three-fingered grip.
The mask was delivering oxygen again, but there was something wrong with the face shield. The view had
gone blurry. John sucked in another breath, blinked hard, and his vision cleared. The dark form loomed over
him, towering above his insignificant struggles. The agony from his crushed legs reverberated up his spine as
Thing #2 dragged him into its clutches. He was abruptly chilled inside the wetsuit, shaking and ill from the
assault on his nervous system. He fought down the nausea as he was hauled closer.
“Eat steel!” he cried, half a bellow of defiance, half a howl of pain. The blade sank into the unseen body before
him, and he thrust further then twisted and wrenched the grip, trying to increase the damage. A limb wavered
into his sight from the right, an unspecialized arm that clouted him in the helmet, filling the face shield with a
torrent of water. John bellowed as the hold on his legs tightened, but he drew the sword out amidst the haze of
agony, and hacked at the form in front of him again.
He fumbled the grip into his left hand, shaking with the onset of shock, and grabbed at his pulse pistol. The
cutting claw appeared from his left, trailing a cloud of black ichor. He parried weakly, knowing he was once
again too late. The creature did all the work for him, tearing into the razor-sharp blade with frenetic strength.
The black, blade-like claw was hewn loose at the wrist, bouncing against John’s ribs before dropping into the
depths, carrying his blade with it.
“Come back here, you yellow bastard,” John panted weakly into the raging breath sounds inside his helmet.
“Come back here and take what’s coming to you.” He was crying from the pain now, but he had both hands
wrapped around Winona’s grip, and Thing #2 was drawing him in again.
Two arms battered at him. The unspecialized one from the right hammered at his head and shoulders, and
from the left, the truncated wrist battered at his stomach and ribs as though its hand was still attached. John
was pulled forward with a jerk, hauled into the shadows beneath a looming, armored head even as the two arms
continued to flail at him. The body was within reach, obscured but finally within an arm’s length.
John thrust Winona forward with both hands, jamming it against the body until he felt it lodge between joints in
the carapace. He jerked the trigger again and again, ignoring the roiling steam and backlash of heat. The
water went opaque, a murky stew of boiling water, blood, critter innards and mud. He ignored the darkness
outside his faceplate and continued firing.
Winona was becoming harder to hang on to as his strength waned. He needed both hands just to pull the
trigger. His breath was rasping in his helmet, the only noise in his world. The darkness had somehow gotten
inside his helmet, dimming and blurring his vision. And then the pummeling stopped. He let his hands drop,
Winona thumping weakly against his hip. Nothing happened. It was over.
John looked dumbly at the huge grip that still held his legs. Death hadn’t relaxed the muscles trapping him, and
they were sinking together. He pushed against the armor plating with his left hand, more a feeble fumbling than
a struggle for freedom. The dark, imprisoning bulk began to topple as it sank, carrying him sidewards through
the fouled water. He pushed again. Nothing.
“Can’t do it,” he mumbled to the collection of images in his head. He looked up toward the rippling light, seeing
not the overhanging tree limbs or the sun that had come out, but his father and his friends. Zhaan shook her
head and frowned at him, displeased. He was sinking.
“Did what had to be done, Dad.” Each word was a painful effort. “Aeryn’s safe,” he told Zhaan, finding one last
breath. “My train this time. My train.” The pain in his legs was gone. He relaxed.
“John, I do not wish to die.” Harvey’s voice intruded on the tranquility that had fallen over him.
“Damn! I was hoping this last bit of underwater insanity would earn me a ticket to Purgatory. Couldn’t you at
least wait until I’m dead before coming to collect?”
“As much as you despise my existence, John, I am not your Devil.”
“Leave me alone, Harv. Even a far-flung Farscape flier deserves to die in peace.”
“Not yet.”
His mind was empty. John sighed, content that it was going to happen this way, pleased that Harvey had left
him alone for the final moments. He’d done what he’d set out to do. Aeryn, D’Argo and Chiana would all
recover. There were some things he would have preferred to finish, but they didn’t really matter anymore. He
could rest now. His head dropped. Winona began to slide from his grip. He could rest now.
* * * * *
D’Argo plodded dejectedly along the shore behind Aeryn as she continued to search for some sign of John. It
had been too long, though, and in his hearts, he knew that Crichton must be dead. He tagged along, ignoring
the pain of his healing injuries, waiting for Aeryn to admit that John had lost the battle that had almost certainly
taken place beneath the quiet surface of the lake.
“Aeryn, you have to let someone tend to your wound,” he tried again. She was limping badly, an indulgence
the ex-Peacekeeper would never have allowed herself if she weren’t severely injured.
“No.” The anguish in the single word was more than enough to convince him to let her work it out in her own
way. “He’ll come up, D’Argo.” She limped four more steps and stopped. “He promised me he’d follow.”
“Aeryn …” He stopped, wrinkling his nose, overwhelmed by the moldy, fishy odor he could smell on Aeryn. It
was suddenly ten times more repugnant. D’Argo turned in time to watch incredulously as Crichton pulled
himself out of the water on his elbows, crawling ashore barely a twenty motras away. “Aeryn! Over there!”
D’Argo broke into a clumsy run, feeling the stabbing discomfort from his wounds with every pounding step.
John was yanking his mask away as D’Argo ran toward him, still lying immersed to his chest in the muddy
shallows. He wasn’t making any attempt to get up, not even to get to his knees, and D’Argo tried to run faster.
He felt a tearing in his chest and ignored it, charging through the sand toward his friend. Crichton grinned
weakly at him as he approached, then slumped back into the water, letting his head rest on his forearm just
barely clear of the small lapping waves.
“Hey, Big D. Glad to see you up and around.” Crichton’s voice was a rasping whisper, almost obscured behind
the slapping sound of the tiny wavelets washing up against him.
“John. Thank the Gods, you’re all right.” He crouched over the astronaut, carefully pulling the helmet and its
attachments away. “Can you get up?”
“Don’t think so,” he panted. “There’s some damage down there. A broken leg or two.” He grimaced, moving
just his eyes to look up at the big warrior crouching over him.
“Or two?” Aeryn arrived, hobbling painfully through the shallows. “You’ve only got two legs, John.” He didn’t
seem to be in any pain so she forced herself to relax, assuming that it was another of his peculiar jokes.
“Yeh.” His voice was getting weaker. “How you doin’, babe?” He raised one hand out of the mud to point at
the blood streaming out of the rent in her suit. “You okay?”
“I’ll be fine.” Aeryn knelt in the water beside him. “What took you so long? Stop for a trophy?” She looked for
the sword, but it was gone.
“Thing Two … dead now,” he struggled with the words.
“John?” Aeryn began looking for injuries.
“Where are you hurt?” D’Argo demanded in alarm.
John coughed once, swallowed convulsively with a small look of panic in suddenly widening eyes, and then
vomited a gush of blood into the water in front of him. “Oops,” he coughed the syllable out. “I’m screwed.” He
looked at the discolored current flowing around him with dismay, then sagged back into the water.
D’Argo splashed down on his knees next to Aeryn, ignoring the mud that soaked into his pants and tunic, and
together they eased Crichton over onto his back. “John. Oh no, John,” D’Argo groaned. A moment later he
staggered back to his feet with the limp figure cradled in his arms, ignoring the burning pain in his own chest
and stomach. “Can you follow on your own, Aeryn? I’ll send someone …”
“GO!” she yelled, gesticulating with one hand. “Go! Get him back to Vossmarr. Now!” She watched the broad
back hurry away from her, John’s dark wet hair and black suited feet the only parts of him visible as he was
carried toward the village at a run. “Hurry, D’Argo,” she whispered after them. She got to her feet with
difficulty, then stood staring into the dark water of the lake, wondering what she could have done differently.
Aeryn finally understood John’s recent depression in all of its intricacies. She knew that every logical argument
would lead her to the same conclusion every time: there wasn’t anything she could have or would have done
differently that would have changed the outcome. And despite that knowledge, she was consumed by the guilt
of coming to the surface to save herself while John was below fighting for his life. Logic told her it was fate, but
it felt like betrayal. Aeryn turned away from the water and struggled across the black sand, up the ledge, and
began the long walk back to the village.
The voices of Aksal and several others were echoing across the marsh as she approached the fork in the path,
the excited chatter loud against the quiet whispers of the breeze through the grass and trees. Aeryn wiped her
tears to the edges of her face, where they would go undetected amidst the small streams of water still trickling
from her hair. She straightened up, back rigidly erect, and limped forward to meet them.
* * * * *
John wandered down the alleyway between the carnival stalls, looking for a good one where he could spend
the last of his money. He jingled the last of his change in his jeans pocket, enjoying the quiet music of the
coins sifting through his fingers. He’d somehow forgotten to wear any shoes, but the grass was surprisingly
clean and lush under foot, not beaten down like it would be at most traveling carnivals. He glanced down the
intersecting alleys as he crossed each one, but they were all empty. He could hear excited screams over the
clank and music of the rides, but it seemed that no one was bothering to visit the midway.
His stomach hurt, probably from something he had eaten. He knew better than to get his meals out of a deep
fat fryer, but he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had junk food. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d
had food, for that matter. He stopped and puzzled that one a bit, but came no closer to recall. His legs were
aching, paying him back for wandering around barefoot. He should have worn his boots. John looked down at
his toes, wiggled them in the cool grass, and couldn’t remember when he’d taken to wearing heavy boots. He
preferred sneakers.
A motion to one side drew his attention. Flags fluttered around a sign reading “Fortunes Told/Spirits Mended”,
garish red paint on an intricate blue and yellow background blaring out the promise. He leaned over the
counter, peering inside the canvas stall, but no one was there. He glanced over his shoulder to see if there
was a better place to be fleeced out of fifty cents, tapping his quarters on the wooden surface in the meantime,
trying to attract the attention of the operator.
He turned around and jumped, startled by the sudden appearance of the booth’s owner. She was beautiful,
exotic, expertly made up to look like some sort of alien. He didn’t know how she had moved so silently. One
microt she hadn’t been there, the next she was standing so close he could practically feel her touching him.
“Hey,” John greeted the woman, trying to see a flaw in the makeup. She was the same intricate yellow on blue
pattern as the sign mounted above her tent. She nodded her head in acknowledgement, almost as if he’d
spoken her name instead of his usual informal greeting. He handed her his quarters, trying to decide if he
wanted his fortune told or wanted to find out what sort of mystical hogwash she used for ‘mending his spirit’.
“John?” The voice had come back. It was calling from somewhere to his right. He ignored the noise. He’d
been through this again and again. He was pleased that the voice had returned, reassured by its presence,
but he’d searched for it before, and its source remained lost to him. “John!” The voice was more demanding,
but he continued to gaze at the blue lady, enraptured by her look of serenity, the quiet balance of every
graceful movement. She still didn’t speak. She gestured toward the voice with one hand, but he didn’t bother
looking. She pointed a second time with more emphasis. When he still didn’t look she took him gently by the
shoulder, turned him, and pushed him firmly in the direction of the voice.
John took two steps then crumpled to the ground, overwhelmed by a horrible pain in his legs. He swayed on
his hands and knees, just barely conscious. He almost had it under control when his stomach upped the ante,
trying to out perform his legs in the ‘Doesn’t-This-Hurt? Sweepstakes’. He tried to look back at the fortuneteller
for help, but he couldn’t move against the agony. He collapsed, soft blades of grass poking at the side of his
face as he curled his body around the arms he had pressed into his screaming gut.
The echoing voice called to him again, beckoning him toward it. He tried to lift himself with his arms, tried to
crawl closer to see who it was, to see if they would help him, but he only managed a single body length, hitching
himself along like a half-crippled caterpillar, before his arms gave out and he sank back into the grass. He
stared at the short blades in front of his nose, wishing he knew what was happening to him but also sensing
that things were about to get worse. A wave of pain smashed down on him, swirled through his entire body,
draining his energy away from him as it receded. He could tell that another one was coming; he could feel it
growing like the swells at the beach. The next roller came in and pounded him into the darkness.
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
