| Child Of The Night (The Director's Cut) (CoTN was first posted October 7, 2002) |
| Introduction (Posted with the story when it originally appeared at Kansas) |
Hello, gentlebeings,
I began writing “Child Of The Night” shortly after ‘Dog With Two Bones’ aired here in the U.S. I wasn’t trying to
resolve the cliffhanger, I just wanted to tell this particular story. I needed a strong, loving relationship between
John and Aeryn, and I chose to go forward in time instead of back. So I made a few SWAGs (Scientific Wild Ass
Guesses) about where the show would go, and started typing. I was writing several others stories at the same
time, however, and didn’t get it finished before the beginning of Season 4.
At that point the show ‘ran over’ the assumptions of the story, they left Jool on Arnessk, and I filed the story in a
sub-directory labeled ‘Road Kill’ until I could get back to rewrite it. And there it sat until our present situation
arose. I, like many of the writers, am torn between writing letters and writing fanfic, and am having trouble
getting the muses to stop by. The Youses-Muses-Gang has made itself very scarce lately. So I decided to pull
this one out, dust it off, and slap an ‘Alternate Universe’ proviso on it. It has Jool but not Harvey, people
chasing the crew but not the Peacekeepers, Noranti didn’t stick around, the Scarrans are still a threat, and
most importantly, John and Aeryn are together … and I mean together.
I will give you a WARNING right now, I’m going to treat John worse than I have ever treated him before. Read
the rating and the warning below before proceeding.
Some of the story is a bit self-indulgent, which accounts for the length, but I couldn’t find another part that I was
willing to rip out of it. So if I rattle on a bit, forgive me and flip the pages faster until it gets interesting again.
One more note, then I’ll begin.
There are two absolutely blatant items in Part 2 that refer to our present anguish (the cancellation), which
replaced two equally derogatory but outdated opinions. (Hey, I’m the one writing it … why can’t I have some
fun?) But as I edited this story, I found some lines elsewhere that had me smiling because they seemed to fit
our current circumstances so well. I just wanted you to know that they weren’t placed in the story since ‘Black
Friday’ -- I was simply lucky enough to hit the right combination of keys to come out with something that seems
to apply.
Hope you enjoy it,
Kernil Crash
Purveyor of Hallucinations
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
Rating: This story is rated R for scenes involving torture. The last part is rated NC-17 because I left John and
Aeryn together too long and they got frisky.
Disclaimer: Not mine, no profit … kind of like Sci-Fi’s claim.
Spoilers: Minor spoilers splattered across the entire first three seasons. This takes place after ‘Dog With Two
Bones’.
Beta-Readers: Thank you so much to ScapeArtist and Scrubschick for prying time into your already very busy
schedules to take a look at this. As usual, I got a screaming case of the dithers, and needed some
reassurance before deciding to post this. The feedback provided insights and revelations that I would not have
reached on my own. I chose not to incorporate certain suggestions, and this was a long story to beta-read, so
if there are inconsistencies or discrepancies, don’t blame them.
DIRECTOR'S CUT: This version of Child Of The Night is a bit different from the editions posted anywhere else
on the internet. Just to start with, it is longer -- 20 chapters instead of 17. Some chapters have been rewritten
a little bit to correct some technical errors, others have been expanded to resolve some details that I felt were
not sufficiently explored in the first couple of versions, and I have replaced a number of scenes that I deleted
from the other versions because they 1) did not move the plot forward; or 2) simply felt redundant. Since they
are redundant, they are by definition self-indulgent forays into moments that may or may not 'belong' in the
story. Some of you asked to see them. Here they are. The one chunk I probably shouldn't have removed is in
Chapter 6.
I believe that some portions of this 'director's cut' are better than the trimmed down edition that I have posted
elsewhere, and that other chapters benefited from the reduction surgery. In other words, I make no claims as
to whether this is a better or worse edition of Child Of The Night ... it is simply a different version. In either
case, this is what I keep on file for myself when I want to revisit the story. Hope you enjoy the 'deleted scenes'.
* * * * *
FINAL WARNING: This story involves torture, and it isn’t particularly glossed over. The worst of it appears in
Chapter 7, although Chapters 17 and 18 aren't a walk in the park either. If you don’t like those sorts of things,
then I strongly suggest you seek out something else to read.
* * * * *
CHAPTER 1
Aeryn Sun looked over her shoulder, reassured by having D’Argo at her back. Behind him crouched a platoon
of mercenaries, ready and watching for her signal. Every individual carried one of the heavier, shoulder slung
pulse rifles -- the smallest pulse weapon that would effectively kill a Scarran. They waited motionlessly despite
the tension generated by the impending assault, the depth of their training obvious in their self-control and
patience. Aeryn took a deep breath and nodded. One member of the platoon stepped out, aimed a shoulder
mounted multi-delivery weapon at the heavily armored door, and let go a rocket. The roar of the explosion was
carried back on a storm of heat and dust as the barricade disintegrated into a cloud of metal fragments. The
mass of fighters kept their heads down until the last of the shrapnel clattered down on their helmets.
Aeryn rolled around the corner and went in low, confident that any resistance would be firing mid-chest height
for a sebacean. She saw a forest of scaled legs beneath the haze of smoke and fired upward into the crowd.
The roar of weapons accelerated into a deafening bellow, bits of ceramic raining down on them unheard as
errant shots and ricochets blew fragments from the hardened walls. Yells and shouts sounded behind her, a
counterpoint to the growls and roars ahead. She ignored both sets of noises and kept moving forward, firing at
anything that moved in the smoke and haze ahead of her.
She dropped to one knee when the pressure of sound eased against her ears, knowing it was the first sign that
firing was dwindling, alerting her before she could actually hear a change in the noise level. She used the time
to scan for more of the enemy with her heat-vision lens, waiting impatiently as the firing around her dropped
away, and then stopped altogether. Troops moved up in a mass, reinforcements pounding into the hallways
branching off to either side to take cover and wait for the advance.
When her fast scrutiny revealed none of the rippling images of the heat-heavy scarrans before them, Aeryn
moved up to the first corridor junction. She stopped to scan again, and the hair on the back of her neck fought
to stand up as the howling of some animal filled the corridor. It was a primeval sound, the bellow of some
bestial creature announcing its rage and anger to the world. The sound faded to silence for a moment, and
then returned in greater fury with a new note in it. It was then that she realized it wasn’t a howl of defiance; it
was the sound of supreme suffering. But this was a scarran stronghold, the torment of a dumb animal was to
be expected in a place like this.
“Which way, Aeryn?” D’Argo asked from behind her shoulder. He was so close, she could feel the heat of his
body radiating against her back. Under normal circumstances, she would have ordered him to move away.
The close proximity was unsafe in combat, but she knew he was hanging close in order to watch out for her
because Crichton wasn’t with them, and found his protectiveness reassuring. She focused her attention on the
job ahead of them as the mercenaries moved up, clogging the hallway from side to side as they waited for her
next signal. Both the howling and the sporadic firing had stopped, and it was strangely quiet except for the
shuffle of feet. She motioned them forward, and the mass of fighters moved deeper into the building complex.
Aeryn dropped to one knee while she considered their choices, trying to pick out some detail that would tell her
which way to go next.
“Any idea?” D’Argo spoke from behind her, still hanging protectively close.
“I don’t know. The information we purchased only said that they had brought him here.”
A new noise rolled down the hallway from their right, a scream of unimaginable intensity that echoed off the
walls, wrapping itself around the entire mass of fighters before bounding on down the corridor, ricocheting off
the ceramic walls. The noise ended rapidly as the lungs producing it ran out of air, the tones falling away into a
smaller, tortured cry of agony. Then it returned, full-throated and strong, rising rapidly into the howling they’d
heard before.
D’Argo seemed to stumble for a microt, catching himself with a hand against her back. Aeryn dropped her
head for a moment as a wave of dizziness and nausea swept over her, leaving her feeling chilled and sick.
“No,” she whispered, steadying herself by leaning back against the familiar weight of D’Argo’s hand.
“Are you two all right?” asked the mercenary captain.
“We’re fine,” D’Argo snarled, enraged without any apparent cause. “Are your troops ready to go?”
“Of course.”
The officer was indignant, and rightfully so. They were one of the most expensive mercenary units available,
and one of only two outfits willing to take on scarrans. The private army made its living fighting the small or
politically insignificant battles that escaped the interest of the Peacekeepers, and they had found a profitable
niche by specializing in operations against the slowly advancing scarran threat. This unit enjoyed killing
scarrans, as a matter of fact, and had quoted a rock-bottom price in return for the privilege of destroying the
installation once the purchased mission was completed.
“This way.” Aeryn motioned with confidence, and lunged around the corner into the hallway that led toward the
animal sounds. The pounding of the armored feet filled the corridor behind her, the mass of troops moving as
a cohesive unit, flankers moving off from the main mass automatically as they forayed further into the building.
She ran without hesitation to the door that hid the beast, gesturing toward their goal before she actually
reached it. The lungs inside were taking a rest, permitting only small, agonized whimpers to make their way
past the heavy door.
“This one,” Aeryn directed.
There was no hesitation. Two soldiers stepped forward with a heavy metal ram, responding to their captain’s
hurried, crisp hand signals. Two more troopers slung their weapons and took hold while the platoon arranged
itself on either side of the door, pulse rifles at the ready. There was a flurry of clicks as chakan oil cartridges
were replaced then the hallway was quiet. The scream was starting again as the captain gave a quiet, barking
command, and the mass of men surged forward behind the group with the ram. The four men smashed
through the door in a single blow, carried forward by the mass of fighters ranged around them. They were
greeted by the full power of the tortured howl, a noise seemingly too horrible for a single creature to produce,
although only one throat was singing that song of agony. This time even some of the experienced soldiers
faltered for a microt before their training took over and they pressed forward into the room, firing as they
spread out.
Aeryn and D’Argo were swept forward in the center of the group. As soon as she got inside, Aeryn stepped out
of the mass to one side and scanned the contents of the room. She spotted a scarran with his hand on the
controls of a machine and fired without hesitation, destroying the equipment before him with three accurate
shots. The tortured sounds from deeper in the room ended abruptly. The scarran turned with a snarl and
D’Argo fired, vaporizing its head with four shots so closed spaced they sounded like one. The body stood on
its own for a microt and then toppled to the floor.
They looked up from their single task and the battle was over, leaving twelve dead scarrans scattered around
the room at the cost of only one wounded soldier. The captain scanned the room then motioned his men to
continue sweeping the enclave. He turned to look over the smoking equipment. “Is that your man?” he asked,
gesturing further into the room.
“Yes, that’s him.” Aeryn and D’Argo moved to stand next to the still figure. It was strapped spread-eagled on a
gleaming metal table, lying in the center of a spattered pattern of sweat, blood, and filth. Aeryn leaned against
D’Argo for several microts, permitting him to put an arm around her, then carefully pushed free of his embrace
and pulled herself rigidly upright.
“Kelvo Fourteen,” the captain said, looking at the frozen indicator. “I’m sorry we were too late.”
Aeryn looked dry-eyed at Crichton’s body, shock keeping her unnaturally calm. “He’s still alive. I want to get
him out of here and back to our ship. He survived Kelvo Ten before, he’ll make it through this.”
The mercenary officer shook his head. “You’re better off letting us put him out of his misery right now.
I’d be willing to do it for you if you like.” When both D’Argo and Aeryn shook their heads he signaled to his
medical staff. They moved forward and began releasing the straps that were holding Crichton down on the
metal table. “This isn’t the same as induced delusions …”
“We are NOT LEAVING HIM!” D’Argo bellowed. The officer raised his hands in a placating gesture. He’d seen
luxan hyper-rage on two occasions, and he spoke quickly, trying to calm this one down before it was too late.
“Ka D’Argo.” He was working hard to put emphasis into his words while still trying to placate the angry warrior.
“This was direct nerve induction, not that brainwave gadget they use, and this never leaves much of the victim
intact. I’ve never …” He paused, trying to impress something on them. “I’ve never seen anyone survive Kelvo
Ten, let alone Fourteen. He’s insane, crippled, or both. You’d be doing him a favor if you kill him.”
Aeryn turned on him this time, “We said ‘NO’! We’re taking him back and we’ll get him whatever help he needs
to recover.” He took one step away from the anger in her eyes, not understanding the vehemence in her
outburst, not familiar with their passionate concern over a single fighter.
“In that case, my people will help you get him out of here and transport him back to your ship.” He switched on
his headset in order to issue commands to someone outside the building, and within several microts four of his
men appeared carrying a stretcher. They waited patiently while the medtechs finished removing the electrodes
that had been fastened to Crichton’s body and released the last of the wide straps holding him down.
The last latch was pulled loose, the strap eased away from his throat, and the tech rolled Crichton’s head to lie
nervelessly to one side. Aeryn moved forward just in time to see a line of spittle run from his mouth and drip to
the surface beneath him. There was blood running from his ears and nose, the slow crimson drops adding a
heavy counterpoint to the delicate spray already drying on the table. The coppery tang was undetectable,
masked by the acrid stench of urine and vomit that she’d been able to smell from the moment they had burst
into the room. That overwhelming odor struck deep into her subconscious, telling her more about what had
transpired here than the pale, virtually unmarked body laying before her.
She tried to focus on something else to draw her attention away from the images springing to life in her mind,
but she reverted to gazing at the table’s finely applied patterns of flung droplets, unconsciously gauging the
force required to separate viscous liquids into an almost vaporized state. The straps would have made it hard
to snap the blood and sweat free like that. It would have demanded either a great deal of strength or a spastic
frenzy to create that artwork. Aeryn started to shake, no longer capable of maintaining her rigid self-control.
“Aeryn.” D’Argo’s voice drew her away from the sight and smell. “Why don’t you wait for us at the transport? I
can stay here until they bring him out.”
She shook her head, not ungrateful but unwilling to leave John for even a microt. Her mind strayed
immediately, sauntering back to consider what it would have taken to make John vomit and urinate on himself
like this. Howls rang in her mind, the images from her subconscious merging with the sounds in her memory to
create the vision of the cherished body transported into a hideous frenzy where the physically impossible
became possible.
One of the medtechs looked up at his commander and held up a blue syringe with a long slender needle, the
simple motion tearing Aeryn’s attention away from its morbid focus a second time. The technician received a
quick nod and the man felt for a point under Crichton’s throat, placing the needle against the pale, clammy skin
with delicate accuracy.
“What are you doing?” Aeryn demanded, grabbing the man’s hand to stop him, inexplicably convinced that they
were going to carry out the offer of a mercy killing.
“No, Officer Sun!” The mercenary officer leapt forward and pulled her away. “You don’t want them to move him
if he can feel anything. This will cut him off from most sensory input for several arns. We’ll leave you a supply
of the drug at no extra charge. If he’s still in there in any recognizable way, you do not want him connected to
his nervous system while we move him.”
“Please listen to him, ma’am,” one of the medical techs implored. “We’ve had quite a bit of experience with this
sort of thing. The scarrans use it whenever their cognitive dislocation methods don’t work.” Aeryn hesitated,
looking at the completely lax figure on the gleaming metal table. Crichton’s body appeared unharmed below his
neck, the reddish welts from the straps fading now that the restraints had been removed. D’Argo was standing
silently on the other side of the table, looking no more decisive than she felt.
The vibrations of a distant explosion tingled through their feet, followed by the rippling rhythms of multiple pulse
weapons firing from somewhere in the building, and the officer put his hand to his ear, listening to transmissions
from his subordinates. “I don’t have time for this,” he snarled, “they’re counterattacking.” He reached past
Aeryn and ran his hand heavily down one of the unmoving arms from shoulder to elbow.
Crichton screamed. The apparently inert body suddenly arched off the table its entire length, tendons and
muscles standing out in tautened spasms, limbs shuddering and flailing spastically.
Aeryn swung around and punched the officer in the side of the throat, driving him gagging and coughing to his
knees. She stood over him for a microt, struggling against the rage that was insisting she kick the stunned
mercenary as he knelt fighting for air. The scream behind her was cut off abruptly and she whirled back in time
to see the needle buried in John’s throat, driving up toward the base of his skull. D’Argo was still nodding his
consent even as the medic delivered the relief. “We had to Aeryn,” he said quietly, explaining why he had
given permission. Crichton’s body slumped back onto the table, once again appearing as though he was
completely senseless.
The commander was helped to his feet by one of his men, looking at Aeryn with something approaching
admiration. “Nice punch,” he whispered. He struggled to clear his throat, his voice was no stronger when he
continued. “My men will take him back to your ship and get him settled. They can give you the location of
several medical facilities nearby, but I don’t think any of them are going to be of much help. We’ve taken men
there before. None of the healers have been able to do anything for them when this happens.” He craned his
neck, massaging the spot where he’d been hit. “Best of luck. I’m sorry you lost him.”
“He’s not dead yet,” D’Argo yelled at the departing figure.
“Yes, he is. He knows it inside there somewhere. It’s just going to take you a little longer to figure it out.” The
voice continued to rasp but it was strong enough to float back into the room as the group of fighters headed
toward the battle in the distance.
* * * * *
The medtechs were conscientious about getting Crichton settled in Moya’s infirmary before they left to rejoin
their command. They showed everyone how to administer the drugs that cut him off from his nervous system,
making highly specific references to the readouts from the scanner, and left a supply of the loaded syringes as
promised. The four men who had carried him aboard insisted on washing some of the sweat, blood, and dirt off
his body before transferring him onto one of the beds. They finished by covering him with one of the golden
thermal sheets, securing that to the underside of the bed as a soft overall restraint.
Aeryn knelt with them as they sponged him clean, inexplicably bothered by having strangers bathe the familiar
body. She ran her fingers along a darkening band spanning John’s chest, recognizing the first signs of deep
bruising. One of the men lifted a leg to wash beneath Crichton, turning the limb at an angle to Moya’s muted
yellowish light as he worked, and more of the bruises were revealed.
Chiana sank to her knees across from Aeryn, crowding between two of the soldiers as they rolled John onto his
side to wash his back. “What did … how …” She touched the wide stripes of livid flesh that were visible for the
first time as the gentle light illuminated the damage, her hands drifting from ankles to knees to thighs as she
struggled to phrase a question. “What did this to him?” John took a deeper breath then let it out on an
extended sigh. Chiana drew away quickly but her hands still hovered over the bruises, as though she could
comfort him without actually making contact.
“He was strapped down,” one of the soldiers said carelessly. “But it’s never enough to keep them from beating
themselves to a pulp against that table.” He was concentrating on helping two of his comrades wrap a towel
around Crichton’s waist so he missed the affect his statement had on the small group watching and didn’t know
to stop. “This guy’s lucky. Most of them manage to shatter bones or dislocate joints trying to …”
“Shut up!” the two med specialists barked simultaneously.
The soldier looked up, abruptly aware of his thoughtless comments. He glanced around at the strange group
standing above them -- no two the same species, no two dressed alike -- and acknowledged that these were
not soldiers. “I … I’m sorry.” He looked down at Crichton, then back up, beginning to blush. “I wasn’t thinking
about … I’m sorry,” he finished lamely.
“Argelians!” The panicked shout from John broke the silence that had fallen over the chamber as the soldier
finished his stumbling apology. Everyone froze, waiting for another outburst. Nothing more followed.
“What’s an Argelian?” asked Chiana.
“No idea,” mumbled D’Argo, watching his friend for another sign of life, for any sign of consciousness.
The six men in uniform lifted John effortlessly and placed him gently on the medbed, taking their time getting
him settled in order to ensure that he was in a comfortable position. One of the medtechs stepped across the
infirmary to retrieve several pillows, tucking them under John’s knees and forearms until he lay in a more
relaxed, natural posture. Two of the soldiers worked at securing the thermal sheet to the underside of the bed
while the others began picking up and stowing their gear, rolling it efficiently into the stretcher.
“You need to keep in mind that there’s no way to know how badly he’s been damaged cognitively,” the senior
tech warned the group. “Even if he can hear you and understand, he may not be able to answer. You’re not
going to be able to know whether he’s thinking straight and can’t move, or moving right and gone completely
insane. And it can change from arn to arn.” He looked at the rigid postures, the disbelieving faces, and tried
again, speaking softly.
“He is insane inside there, you have to trust me on this. We’ve pulled too many of our own men out of that
frelling contraption of theirs to get this wrong, most of them before they had to cope with Kelvo Ten. We’ve
never found anyone who survived anything beyond Kelvo Twelve, so your man is … well, he’s not lucky, but
he’s certainly unique. You may see moments when he seems lucid, but it’s kind of like an echo of what he used
to be, a reflex.” He gave them a few microts to absorb what he was telling them. “It won’t last.”
“Surely there is something that a Diagnosan or some other medical expert can do for him,” Rygel insisted.
“There’s always something that can be done as long as someone is still alive.” He floated closer to the
motionless form and hovered, watching the still face.
“Crichton, we’re going to help you recover from this,” Jool offered, adding her assurances to the denial of the
medic’s pronouncement.
“No, you aren’t, and you need to face up to this right now. All of you have got to face this.” The medtech
stopped what he was doing to face the small group. “That scarran torture has totally frelled his nervous system
from the center of his brain right to the ends of his fingers and toes. That cursed machine disrupts every
aspect of the victim’s physiology -- neurons, neurotransmitters, chemical balances, the works. There isn’t
anything resembling a normal synaptic response left inside him, and no one around here has discovered a way
of realigning or reinitializing the responses in a case like this. We have tried, believe me.” He knelt to finish
collecting his gear. “He’s gone and he’s not coming back. I’m truly sorry for your loss, but that’s the way it is.”
The medic finished packing away the last of his instruments and looked around him to make sure he hadn’t
forgotten anything. “Your comrade lasted through level fourteen. That’s an amazing tribute to his courage.
Put a pulse blast through his head, remember him for his strength, and get on with your lives.” He threw them a
hasty salute of sorts and the six men hurried out of the chamber, headed back to the planet to rejoin their
brethren.
The chamber was silent except for small shifts and sighs as they all looked at Crichton. He looked as if he was
sleeping soundly, all the damage hidden from sight.
“Should we do what he said?” asked Chiana, her voice rasping as she fought back tears.
“No!” Aeryn and D’Argo barked together. They looked at each other, then D’Argo continued, the passion in his
voice reined in but still evident. “John got captured making sure the rest of us got away. We are not
abandoning him now.”
D’Argo turned toward the motionless figure. “We’re going to find a way to fix this, John. I promise you that.”
There was a flutter of eyelids then Crichton was still again.
“There’s no way of knowing,” Rygel was almost whispering. He suddenly sat up straighter and looked
imperiously at the others. “I choose to believe he can hear us and knows what we are trying to do. I chose to
believe he understands.”
“Very good, Rygel,” Jool said sarcastically. “Now tell us all what we are going to do about getting him some
help. Let’s say, just for the sake of argument, that we believe what those military morons said and decide not to
take him to any of the medical specialists on that list. I’m willing to concede that they know we can’t get Crichton
any help in this portion of the galaxy. Where do we go to find someone who can heal him?”
“We would need someone who understands synapses and synaptic responses.” D’Argo was the first to list a
requirement.
“Someone who can get inside Crichton’s head and see if he’s sane,” Chiana chimed in, “or as sane as he’s
ever been.” Aeryn smiled the slightest bit at Chiana’s attempt to lighten the conversation, but the expression
felt false and unnatural on her face. She continued to stare at John, unable to pry her eyes off his face for an
instant. It looked as if he was smiling, but the expression faded before she could be sure. She glanced around
to see if anyone else caught it, but they were all glaring at Rygel who had just let loose an invisible cloud of
helium.
“I’m angry,” Rygel growled in explanation. Any force in his voice was undermined by the high-pitched squeak
that emerged as he spoke. “I’m very angry.”
“You’re very disgusting,” countered D’Argo, his voice sounding like a Vorc under the influence of the gas.
Aeryn looked down and John was definitely smiling now.
“Look,” she exclaimed, pointing.
She started to touch his cheek, to caress the smiling face so he would know she was there, but snatched her
hand away as four voices yelled at her together. “No, Aeryn!”
Aeryn folded her arms, tucking her hands securely under her armpits so she wouldn’t be tempted again. As
soon as they had returned to Moya, D’Argo had described to everyone in shocked detail what had occurred on
the planet, trying to impress on their shipmates the importance of not touching John unless they were certain
that the medication was doing its job.
The smile disappeared as they all watched, replaced by a distressed frown. “We’re here, John. We’re going to
find some way to put this right.” The anxious expression didn’t alter despite her assurance, and she
understood for the first time the dilemma of what the medic had described. She’d been certain for all of ten
microts that he was listening, and now she didn’t know what had caused the muscles in his face to pull into the
short-lived expression of joy.
“Back to our discussion,” she said in a distracted manner. Her voice had returned to normal, the helium
expended. Aeryn forced herself to look away from Crichton, turning toward the others to concentrate on finding
a solution. “Does anyone have any other input? Ideas?”
“We would need someone who could understand the intricacies of his nervous system, differentiate between his
autonomic and voluntary responses, have the capability of rebuilding the synaptic flow and connections, the
capacity to determine if Crichton is sane, reinitialize his neurons, repair any muscular or organ damage that has
occurred, and be sophisticated enough to cope with what may be an unknown species.” Jool rolled off the
requirements they were seeking. “And if he is truly insane, we would need to find a species or medical specialty
that can restore a person’s mind.”
“We should be able to find someone like that on every commerce planet we come to,” Chiana said sarcastically,
somehow managing to sound frivolous and depressed at the same time. “Where are we going to find someone
like that?” she followed dejectedly.
“I think …” Aeryn paused, considering what she was about to propose. “I think that sounds like a delvian, but
John is so badly injured this is probably going to take more than a single priest. What if we went all the way
back to the New Moon of Delvia?”
“But those blue butted lunatics really were crazy!” objected Rygel.
“What’s the New Moon of Delvia?” Jool asked into the silence following Rygel’s outburst.
D‘Argo ignored her question, responding to Rygel’s observation first. “Zhaan gave them the key to finding their
way back to balance though. That is, John and Zhaan together,” D’Argo corrected himself. “Aeryn may be
right. They’re a fully integrated delvian community. They’ll have the healers and priests necessary to help
John … if they aren’t all insane by now.”
“Pilot?” Aeryn called toward the walls of the chamber.
“I’ve been listening, Officer Sun.” Pilot’s image appeared in the clamshell hanging in the corner. “According to
the charts I’ve been assembling in Moya’s datastores, it should take us just over twelve solar days to reach the
delvian colony. Will that be soon enough considering Crichton’s current condition?”
Aeryn looked at the supply of needled tubes arranged in a neat row on the work surface. There were almost
thirty of them, but she didn’t know how often John would need the system numbing injections. If he required
their influence more than twice a day, they would be faced with the sounds of his unendurable agony for the
last two days of the journey.
“Only twelve solar days, Pilot?” Rygel asked. “We were there almost three cycles ago.”
“We have not been traveling a particularly linear course, Dominar Rygel.” Pilot stated the obvious first, his
more formal manner of addressing the hynerian serving to add a bite of sarcasm to his observation. “My
calculations are based upon a maximum effort by Moya, with minimal recovery time between starbursts.”
“I don’t know,” Aeryn wavered. One microt earlier she’d been certain she was doing the right thing by trying to
heal John; now she felt as if she was only prolonging a miserable existence merely for her own benefit. She
couldn’t stand the thought of losing him again. “We’d be heading right back into the middle of Peacekeeper
territory. It would be incredibly dangerous for all of us.”
The small group continued to hover indecisively, each individual shifting slightly as they considered their limited
options.
“D’Argo?” Aeryn finally asked, breaking the silence. “What do you think?”
“Go.” The slurred voice was quiet but insistent, a whisper cutting into the silence of the group’s indecision. A
fierce battle was waged between the expressions crossing Crichton’s face and then he repeated it. “Go?” It
was taken over by a whine of sorrow, not pain. “Go we know not where. Wait for me. Waiting for Godot.” He
ended on an almost cheerful note, a complete transition from how he had started his brief, jumbled
contribution.
“Take it as a sign, not a command,” suggested Chiana more brightly. They had all been standing silently as
John’s initially lucid utterance faded into confused ramblings.
“Pilot. Set a course for the New Moon of Delvia, please. As quickly as Moya can manage.” D’Argo looked
around the group to see if anyone disagreed with his instructions. Only nods met his stare.
“Please prepare for starburst in ten microts.” Pilot’s countdown was so short, Aeryn was sure that Pilot and
Moya had been preparing for starburst even before the group had reached a decision. She smiled at the
preemptive actions of the ship and her pilot and held on to a workbench, waiting for the lurch that signified they
were under way.
“Stars in her hair were seven,” Crichton breathed, “blessed damsel of heaven.” He twitched slightly and an airy
cry eased out of him.
“What if we go all the way back there and they haven’t recovered from their illness?” Aeryn asked. “We only
have the one chance to take him somewhere.”
“Does anyone have another idea?” D’Argo demanded. “Is there anywhere else we can take him where we
might have a chance of helping him?” The entire room lurched as they entered starburst, each person finding
something to hang on to as they slid into the passage between dimensions. They looked at each other, but no
one offered a suggestion.
“So we go there and hope we’re doing the right thing.” Aeryn sucked her breath in sharply as John opened his
eyes. They were filled with blood, the result of internal hemorrhaging. The blue irises appeared purple, drifting
aimlessly in the center of bright red orbs. She drew her hand slowly from one side to the other above his face
and there was no reaction. He was either blind or cut off from his sense of sight. The others watched with
despair and horror.
“Hurry, Moya,” Chiana whispered. “Hurry.”
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
I began writing “Child Of The Night” shortly after ‘Dog With Two Bones’ aired here in the U.S. I wasn’t trying to
resolve the cliffhanger, I just wanted to tell this particular story. I needed a strong, loving relationship between
John and Aeryn, and I chose to go forward in time instead of back. So I made a few SWAGs (Scientific Wild Ass
Guesses) about where the show would go, and started typing. I was writing several others stories at the same
time, however, and didn’t get it finished before the beginning of Season 4.
At that point the show ‘ran over’ the assumptions of the story, they left Jool on Arnessk, and I filed the story in a
sub-directory labeled ‘Road Kill’ until I could get back to rewrite it. And there it sat until our present situation
arose. I, like many of the writers, am torn between writing letters and writing fanfic, and am having trouble
getting the muses to stop by. The Youses-Muses-Gang has made itself very scarce lately. So I decided to pull
this one out, dust it off, and slap an ‘Alternate Universe’ proviso on it. It has Jool but not Harvey, people
chasing the crew but not the Peacekeepers, Noranti didn’t stick around, the Scarrans are still a threat, and
most importantly, John and Aeryn are together … and I mean together.
I will give you a WARNING right now, I’m going to treat John worse than I have ever treated him before. Read
the rating and the warning below before proceeding.
Some of the story is a bit self-indulgent, which accounts for the length, but I couldn’t find another part that I was
willing to rip out of it. So if I rattle on a bit, forgive me and flip the pages faster until it gets interesting again.
One more note, then I’ll begin.
There are two absolutely blatant items in Part 2 that refer to our present anguish (the cancellation), which
replaced two equally derogatory but outdated opinions. (Hey, I’m the one writing it … why can’t I have some
fun?) But as I edited this story, I found some lines elsewhere that had me smiling because they seemed to fit
our current circumstances so well. I just wanted you to know that they weren’t placed in the story since ‘Black
Friday’ -- I was simply lucky enough to hit the right combination of keys to come out with something that seems
to apply.
Hope you enjoy it,
Kernil Crash
Purveyor of Hallucinations
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
Rating: This story is rated R for scenes involving torture. The last part is rated NC-17 because I left John and
Aeryn together too long and they got frisky.
Disclaimer: Not mine, no profit … kind of like Sci-Fi’s claim.
Spoilers: Minor spoilers splattered across the entire first three seasons. This takes place after ‘Dog With Two
Bones’.
Beta-Readers: Thank you so much to ScapeArtist and Scrubschick for prying time into your already very busy
schedules to take a look at this. As usual, I got a screaming case of the dithers, and needed some
reassurance before deciding to post this. The feedback provided insights and revelations that I would not have
reached on my own. I chose not to incorporate certain suggestions, and this was a long story to beta-read, so
if there are inconsistencies or discrepancies, don’t blame them.
DIRECTOR'S CUT: This version of Child Of The Night is a bit different from the editions posted anywhere else
on the internet. Just to start with, it is longer -- 20 chapters instead of 17. Some chapters have been rewritten
a little bit to correct some technical errors, others have been expanded to resolve some details that I felt were
not sufficiently explored in the first couple of versions, and I have replaced a number of scenes that I deleted
from the other versions because they 1) did not move the plot forward; or 2) simply felt redundant. Since they
are redundant, they are by definition self-indulgent forays into moments that may or may not 'belong' in the
story. Some of you asked to see them. Here they are. The one chunk I probably shouldn't have removed is in
Chapter 6.
I believe that some portions of this 'director's cut' are better than the trimmed down edition that I have posted
elsewhere, and that other chapters benefited from the reduction surgery. In other words, I make no claims as
to whether this is a better or worse edition of Child Of The Night ... it is simply a different version. In either
case, this is what I keep on file for myself when I want to revisit the story. Hope you enjoy the 'deleted scenes'.
* * * * *
FINAL WARNING: This story involves torture, and it isn’t particularly glossed over. The worst of it appears in
Chapter 7, although Chapters 17 and 18 aren't a walk in the park either. If you don’t like those sorts of things,
then I strongly suggest you seek out something else to read.
* * * * *
CHAPTER 1
Aeryn Sun looked over her shoulder, reassured by having D’Argo at her back. Behind him crouched a platoon
of mercenaries, ready and watching for her signal. Every individual carried one of the heavier, shoulder slung
pulse rifles -- the smallest pulse weapon that would effectively kill a Scarran. They waited motionlessly despite
the tension generated by the impending assault, the depth of their training obvious in their self-control and
patience. Aeryn took a deep breath and nodded. One member of the platoon stepped out, aimed a shoulder
mounted multi-delivery weapon at the heavily armored door, and let go a rocket. The roar of the explosion was
carried back on a storm of heat and dust as the barricade disintegrated into a cloud of metal fragments. The
mass of fighters kept their heads down until the last of the shrapnel clattered down on their helmets.
Aeryn rolled around the corner and went in low, confident that any resistance would be firing mid-chest height
for a sebacean. She saw a forest of scaled legs beneath the haze of smoke and fired upward into the crowd.
The roar of weapons accelerated into a deafening bellow, bits of ceramic raining down on them unheard as
errant shots and ricochets blew fragments from the hardened walls. Yells and shouts sounded behind her, a
counterpoint to the growls and roars ahead. She ignored both sets of noises and kept moving forward, firing at
anything that moved in the smoke and haze ahead of her.
She dropped to one knee when the pressure of sound eased against her ears, knowing it was the first sign that
firing was dwindling, alerting her before she could actually hear a change in the noise level. She used the time
to scan for more of the enemy with her heat-vision lens, waiting impatiently as the firing around her dropped
away, and then stopped altogether. Troops moved up in a mass, reinforcements pounding into the hallways
branching off to either side to take cover and wait for the advance.
When her fast scrutiny revealed none of the rippling images of the heat-heavy scarrans before them, Aeryn
moved up to the first corridor junction. She stopped to scan again, and the hair on the back of her neck fought
to stand up as the howling of some animal filled the corridor. It was a primeval sound, the bellow of some
bestial creature announcing its rage and anger to the world. The sound faded to silence for a moment, and
then returned in greater fury with a new note in it. It was then that she realized it wasn’t a howl of defiance; it
was the sound of supreme suffering. But this was a scarran stronghold, the torment of a dumb animal was to
be expected in a place like this.
“Which way, Aeryn?” D’Argo asked from behind her shoulder. He was so close, she could feel the heat of his
body radiating against her back. Under normal circumstances, she would have ordered him to move away.
The close proximity was unsafe in combat, but she knew he was hanging close in order to watch out for her
because Crichton wasn’t with them, and found his protectiveness reassuring. She focused her attention on the
job ahead of them as the mercenaries moved up, clogging the hallway from side to side as they waited for her
next signal. Both the howling and the sporadic firing had stopped, and it was strangely quiet except for the
shuffle of feet. She motioned them forward, and the mass of fighters moved deeper into the building complex.
Aeryn dropped to one knee while she considered their choices, trying to pick out some detail that would tell her
which way to go next.
“Any idea?” D’Argo spoke from behind her, still hanging protectively close.
“I don’t know. The information we purchased only said that they had brought him here.”
A new noise rolled down the hallway from their right, a scream of unimaginable intensity that echoed off the
walls, wrapping itself around the entire mass of fighters before bounding on down the corridor, ricocheting off
the ceramic walls. The noise ended rapidly as the lungs producing it ran out of air, the tones falling away into a
smaller, tortured cry of agony. Then it returned, full-throated and strong, rising rapidly into the howling they’d
heard before.
D’Argo seemed to stumble for a microt, catching himself with a hand against her back. Aeryn dropped her
head for a moment as a wave of dizziness and nausea swept over her, leaving her feeling chilled and sick.
“No,” she whispered, steadying herself by leaning back against the familiar weight of D’Argo’s hand.
“Are you two all right?” asked the mercenary captain.
“We’re fine,” D’Argo snarled, enraged without any apparent cause. “Are your troops ready to go?”
“Of course.”
The officer was indignant, and rightfully so. They were one of the most expensive mercenary units available,
and one of only two outfits willing to take on scarrans. The private army made its living fighting the small or
politically insignificant battles that escaped the interest of the Peacekeepers, and they had found a profitable
niche by specializing in operations against the slowly advancing scarran threat. This unit enjoyed killing
scarrans, as a matter of fact, and had quoted a rock-bottom price in return for the privilege of destroying the
installation once the purchased mission was completed.
“This way.” Aeryn motioned with confidence, and lunged around the corner into the hallway that led toward the
animal sounds. The pounding of the armored feet filled the corridor behind her, the mass of troops moving as
a cohesive unit, flankers moving off from the main mass automatically as they forayed further into the building.
She ran without hesitation to the door that hid the beast, gesturing toward their goal before she actually
reached it. The lungs inside were taking a rest, permitting only small, agonized whimpers to make their way
past the heavy door.
“This one,” Aeryn directed.
There was no hesitation. Two soldiers stepped forward with a heavy metal ram, responding to their captain’s
hurried, crisp hand signals. Two more troopers slung their weapons and took hold while the platoon arranged
itself on either side of the door, pulse rifles at the ready. There was a flurry of clicks as chakan oil cartridges
were replaced then the hallway was quiet. The scream was starting again as the captain gave a quiet, barking
command, and the mass of men surged forward behind the group with the ram. The four men smashed
through the door in a single blow, carried forward by the mass of fighters ranged around them. They were
greeted by the full power of the tortured howl, a noise seemingly too horrible for a single creature to produce,
although only one throat was singing that song of agony. This time even some of the experienced soldiers
faltered for a microt before their training took over and they pressed forward into the room, firing as they
spread out.
Aeryn and D’Argo were swept forward in the center of the group. As soon as she got inside, Aeryn stepped out
of the mass to one side and scanned the contents of the room. She spotted a scarran with his hand on the
controls of a machine and fired without hesitation, destroying the equipment before him with three accurate
shots. The tortured sounds from deeper in the room ended abruptly. The scarran turned with a snarl and
D’Argo fired, vaporizing its head with four shots so closed spaced they sounded like one. The body stood on
its own for a microt and then toppled to the floor.
They looked up from their single task and the battle was over, leaving twelve dead scarrans scattered around
the room at the cost of only one wounded soldier. The captain scanned the room then motioned his men to
continue sweeping the enclave. He turned to look over the smoking equipment. “Is that your man?” he asked,
gesturing further into the room.
“Yes, that’s him.” Aeryn and D’Argo moved to stand next to the still figure. It was strapped spread-eagled on a
gleaming metal table, lying in the center of a spattered pattern of sweat, blood, and filth. Aeryn leaned against
D’Argo for several microts, permitting him to put an arm around her, then carefully pushed free of his embrace
and pulled herself rigidly upright.
“Kelvo Fourteen,” the captain said, looking at the frozen indicator. “I’m sorry we were too late.”
Aeryn looked dry-eyed at Crichton’s body, shock keeping her unnaturally calm. “He’s still alive. I want to get
him out of here and back to our ship. He survived Kelvo Ten before, he’ll make it through this.”
The mercenary officer shook his head. “You’re better off letting us put him out of his misery right now.
I’d be willing to do it for you if you like.” When both D’Argo and Aeryn shook their heads he signaled to his
medical staff. They moved forward and began releasing the straps that were holding Crichton down on the
metal table. “This isn’t the same as induced delusions …”
“We are NOT LEAVING HIM!” D’Argo bellowed. The officer raised his hands in a placating gesture. He’d seen
luxan hyper-rage on two occasions, and he spoke quickly, trying to calm this one down before it was too late.
“Ka D’Argo.” He was working hard to put emphasis into his words while still trying to placate the angry warrior.
“This was direct nerve induction, not that brainwave gadget they use, and this never leaves much of the victim
intact. I’ve never …” He paused, trying to impress something on them. “I’ve never seen anyone survive Kelvo
Ten, let alone Fourteen. He’s insane, crippled, or both. You’d be doing him a favor if you kill him.”
Aeryn turned on him this time, “We said ‘NO’! We’re taking him back and we’ll get him whatever help he needs
to recover.” He took one step away from the anger in her eyes, not understanding the vehemence in her
outburst, not familiar with their passionate concern over a single fighter.
“In that case, my people will help you get him out of here and transport him back to your ship.” He switched on
his headset in order to issue commands to someone outside the building, and within several microts four of his
men appeared carrying a stretcher. They waited patiently while the medtechs finished removing the electrodes
that had been fastened to Crichton’s body and released the last of the wide straps holding him down.
The last latch was pulled loose, the strap eased away from his throat, and the tech rolled Crichton’s head to lie
nervelessly to one side. Aeryn moved forward just in time to see a line of spittle run from his mouth and drip to
the surface beneath him. There was blood running from his ears and nose, the slow crimson drops adding a
heavy counterpoint to the delicate spray already drying on the table. The coppery tang was undetectable,
masked by the acrid stench of urine and vomit that she’d been able to smell from the moment they had burst
into the room. That overwhelming odor struck deep into her subconscious, telling her more about what had
transpired here than the pale, virtually unmarked body laying before her.
She tried to focus on something else to draw her attention away from the images springing to life in her mind,
but she reverted to gazing at the table’s finely applied patterns of flung droplets, unconsciously gauging the
force required to separate viscous liquids into an almost vaporized state. The straps would have made it hard
to snap the blood and sweat free like that. It would have demanded either a great deal of strength or a spastic
frenzy to create that artwork. Aeryn started to shake, no longer capable of maintaining her rigid self-control.
“Aeryn.” D’Argo’s voice drew her away from the sight and smell. “Why don’t you wait for us at the transport? I
can stay here until they bring him out.”
She shook her head, not ungrateful but unwilling to leave John for even a microt. Her mind strayed
immediately, sauntering back to consider what it would have taken to make John vomit and urinate on himself
like this. Howls rang in her mind, the images from her subconscious merging with the sounds in her memory to
create the vision of the cherished body transported into a hideous frenzy where the physically impossible
became possible.
One of the medtechs looked up at his commander and held up a blue syringe with a long slender needle, the
simple motion tearing Aeryn’s attention away from its morbid focus a second time. The technician received a
quick nod and the man felt for a point under Crichton’s throat, placing the needle against the pale, clammy skin
with delicate accuracy.
“What are you doing?” Aeryn demanded, grabbing the man’s hand to stop him, inexplicably convinced that they
were going to carry out the offer of a mercy killing.
“No, Officer Sun!” The mercenary officer leapt forward and pulled her away. “You don’t want them to move him
if he can feel anything. This will cut him off from most sensory input for several arns. We’ll leave you a supply
of the drug at no extra charge. If he’s still in there in any recognizable way, you do not want him connected to
his nervous system while we move him.”
“Please listen to him, ma’am,” one of the medical techs implored. “We’ve had quite a bit of experience with this
sort of thing. The scarrans use it whenever their cognitive dislocation methods don’t work.” Aeryn hesitated,
looking at the completely lax figure on the gleaming metal table. Crichton’s body appeared unharmed below his
neck, the reddish welts from the straps fading now that the restraints had been removed. D’Argo was standing
silently on the other side of the table, looking no more decisive than she felt.
The vibrations of a distant explosion tingled through their feet, followed by the rippling rhythms of multiple pulse
weapons firing from somewhere in the building, and the officer put his hand to his ear, listening to transmissions
from his subordinates. “I don’t have time for this,” he snarled, “they’re counterattacking.” He reached past
Aeryn and ran his hand heavily down one of the unmoving arms from shoulder to elbow.
Crichton screamed. The apparently inert body suddenly arched off the table its entire length, tendons and
muscles standing out in tautened spasms, limbs shuddering and flailing spastically.
Aeryn swung around and punched the officer in the side of the throat, driving him gagging and coughing to his
knees. She stood over him for a microt, struggling against the rage that was insisting she kick the stunned
mercenary as he knelt fighting for air. The scream behind her was cut off abruptly and she whirled back in time
to see the needle buried in John’s throat, driving up toward the base of his skull. D’Argo was still nodding his
consent even as the medic delivered the relief. “We had to Aeryn,” he said quietly, explaining why he had
given permission. Crichton’s body slumped back onto the table, once again appearing as though he was
completely senseless.
The commander was helped to his feet by one of his men, looking at Aeryn with something approaching
admiration. “Nice punch,” he whispered. He struggled to clear his throat, his voice was no stronger when he
continued. “My men will take him back to your ship and get him settled. They can give you the location of
several medical facilities nearby, but I don’t think any of them are going to be of much help. We’ve taken men
there before. None of the healers have been able to do anything for them when this happens.” He craned his
neck, massaging the spot where he’d been hit. “Best of luck. I’m sorry you lost him.”
“He’s not dead yet,” D’Argo yelled at the departing figure.
“Yes, he is. He knows it inside there somewhere. It’s just going to take you a little longer to figure it out.” The
voice continued to rasp but it was strong enough to float back into the room as the group of fighters headed
toward the battle in the distance.
* * * * *
The medtechs were conscientious about getting Crichton settled in Moya’s infirmary before they left to rejoin
their command. They showed everyone how to administer the drugs that cut him off from his nervous system,
making highly specific references to the readouts from the scanner, and left a supply of the loaded syringes as
promised. The four men who had carried him aboard insisted on washing some of the sweat, blood, and dirt off
his body before transferring him onto one of the beds. They finished by covering him with one of the golden
thermal sheets, securing that to the underside of the bed as a soft overall restraint.
Aeryn knelt with them as they sponged him clean, inexplicably bothered by having strangers bathe the familiar
body. She ran her fingers along a darkening band spanning John’s chest, recognizing the first signs of deep
bruising. One of the men lifted a leg to wash beneath Crichton, turning the limb at an angle to Moya’s muted
yellowish light as he worked, and more of the bruises were revealed.
Chiana sank to her knees across from Aeryn, crowding between two of the soldiers as they rolled John onto his
side to wash his back. “What did … how …” She touched the wide stripes of livid flesh that were visible for the
first time as the gentle light illuminated the damage, her hands drifting from ankles to knees to thighs as she
struggled to phrase a question. “What did this to him?” John took a deeper breath then let it out on an
extended sigh. Chiana drew away quickly but her hands still hovered over the bruises, as though she could
comfort him without actually making contact.
“He was strapped down,” one of the soldiers said carelessly. “But it’s never enough to keep them from beating
themselves to a pulp against that table.” He was concentrating on helping two of his comrades wrap a towel
around Crichton’s waist so he missed the affect his statement had on the small group watching and didn’t know
to stop. “This guy’s lucky. Most of them manage to shatter bones or dislocate joints trying to …”
“Shut up!” the two med specialists barked simultaneously.
The soldier looked up, abruptly aware of his thoughtless comments. He glanced around at the strange group
standing above them -- no two the same species, no two dressed alike -- and acknowledged that these were
not soldiers. “I … I’m sorry.” He looked down at Crichton, then back up, beginning to blush. “I wasn’t thinking
about … I’m sorry,” he finished lamely.
“Argelians!” The panicked shout from John broke the silence that had fallen over the chamber as the soldier
finished his stumbling apology. Everyone froze, waiting for another outburst. Nothing more followed.
“What’s an Argelian?” asked Chiana.
“No idea,” mumbled D’Argo, watching his friend for another sign of life, for any sign of consciousness.
The six men in uniform lifted John effortlessly and placed him gently on the medbed, taking their time getting
him settled in order to ensure that he was in a comfortable position. One of the medtechs stepped across the
infirmary to retrieve several pillows, tucking them under John’s knees and forearms until he lay in a more
relaxed, natural posture. Two of the soldiers worked at securing the thermal sheet to the underside of the bed
while the others began picking up and stowing their gear, rolling it efficiently into the stretcher.
“You need to keep in mind that there’s no way to know how badly he’s been damaged cognitively,” the senior
tech warned the group. “Even if he can hear you and understand, he may not be able to answer. You’re not
going to be able to know whether he’s thinking straight and can’t move, or moving right and gone completely
insane. And it can change from arn to arn.” He looked at the rigid postures, the disbelieving faces, and tried
again, speaking softly.
“He is insane inside there, you have to trust me on this. We’ve pulled too many of our own men out of that
frelling contraption of theirs to get this wrong, most of them before they had to cope with Kelvo Ten. We’ve
never found anyone who survived anything beyond Kelvo Twelve, so your man is … well, he’s not lucky, but
he’s certainly unique. You may see moments when he seems lucid, but it’s kind of like an echo of what he used
to be, a reflex.” He gave them a few microts to absorb what he was telling them. “It won’t last.”
“Surely there is something that a Diagnosan or some other medical expert can do for him,” Rygel insisted.
“There’s always something that can be done as long as someone is still alive.” He floated closer to the
motionless form and hovered, watching the still face.
“Crichton, we’re going to help you recover from this,” Jool offered, adding her assurances to the denial of the
medic’s pronouncement.
“No, you aren’t, and you need to face up to this right now. All of you have got to face this.” The medtech
stopped what he was doing to face the small group. “That scarran torture has totally frelled his nervous system
from the center of his brain right to the ends of his fingers and toes. That cursed machine disrupts every
aspect of the victim’s physiology -- neurons, neurotransmitters, chemical balances, the works. There isn’t
anything resembling a normal synaptic response left inside him, and no one around here has discovered a way
of realigning or reinitializing the responses in a case like this. We have tried, believe me.” He knelt to finish
collecting his gear. “He’s gone and he’s not coming back. I’m truly sorry for your loss, but that’s the way it is.”
The medic finished packing away the last of his instruments and looked around him to make sure he hadn’t
forgotten anything. “Your comrade lasted through level fourteen. That’s an amazing tribute to his courage.
Put a pulse blast through his head, remember him for his strength, and get on with your lives.” He threw them a
hasty salute of sorts and the six men hurried out of the chamber, headed back to the planet to rejoin their
brethren.
The chamber was silent except for small shifts and sighs as they all looked at Crichton. He looked as if he was
sleeping soundly, all the damage hidden from sight.
“Should we do what he said?” asked Chiana, her voice rasping as she fought back tears.
“No!” Aeryn and D’Argo barked together. They looked at each other, then D’Argo continued, the passion in his
voice reined in but still evident. “John got captured making sure the rest of us got away. We are not
abandoning him now.”
D’Argo turned toward the motionless figure. “We’re going to find a way to fix this, John. I promise you that.”
There was a flutter of eyelids then Crichton was still again.
“There’s no way of knowing,” Rygel was almost whispering. He suddenly sat up straighter and looked
imperiously at the others. “I choose to believe he can hear us and knows what we are trying to do. I chose to
believe he understands.”
“Very good, Rygel,” Jool said sarcastically. “Now tell us all what we are going to do about getting him some
help. Let’s say, just for the sake of argument, that we believe what those military morons said and decide not to
take him to any of the medical specialists on that list. I’m willing to concede that they know we can’t get Crichton
any help in this portion of the galaxy. Where do we go to find someone who can heal him?”
“We would need someone who understands synapses and synaptic responses.” D’Argo was the first to list a
requirement.
“Someone who can get inside Crichton’s head and see if he’s sane,” Chiana chimed in, “or as sane as he’s
ever been.” Aeryn smiled the slightest bit at Chiana’s attempt to lighten the conversation, but the expression
felt false and unnatural on her face. She continued to stare at John, unable to pry her eyes off his face for an
instant. It looked as if he was smiling, but the expression faded before she could be sure. She glanced around
to see if anyone else caught it, but they were all glaring at Rygel who had just let loose an invisible cloud of
helium.
“I’m angry,” Rygel growled in explanation. Any force in his voice was undermined by the high-pitched squeak
that emerged as he spoke. “I’m very angry.”
“You’re very disgusting,” countered D’Argo, his voice sounding like a Vorc under the influence of the gas.
Aeryn looked down and John was definitely smiling now.
“Look,” she exclaimed, pointing.
She started to touch his cheek, to caress the smiling face so he would know she was there, but snatched her
hand away as four voices yelled at her together. “No, Aeryn!”
Aeryn folded her arms, tucking her hands securely under her armpits so she wouldn’t be tempted again. As
soon as they had returned to Moya, D’Argo had described to everyone in shocked detail what had occurred on
the planet, trying to impress on their shipmates the importance of not touching John unless they were certain
that the medication was doing its job.
The smile disappeared as they all watched, replaced by a distressed frown. “We’re here, John. We’re going to
find some way to put this right.” The anxious expression didn’t alter despite her assurance, and she
understood for the first time the dilemma of what the medic had described. She’d been certain for all of ten
microts that he was listening, and now she didn’t know what had caused the muscles in his face to pull into the
short-lived expression of joy.
“Back to our discussion,” she said in a distracted manner. Her voice had returned to normal, the helium
expended. Aeryn forced herself to look away from Crichton, turning toward the others to concentrate on finding
a solution. “Does anyone have any other input? Ideas?”
“We would need someone who could understand the intricacies of his nervous system, differentiate between his
autonomic and voluntary responses, have the capability of rebuilding the synaptic flow and connections, the
capacity to determine if Crichton is sane, reinitialize his neurons, repair any muscular or organ damage that has
occurred, and be sophisticated enough to cope with what may be an unknown species.” Jool rolled off the
requirements they were seeking. “And if he is truly insane, we would need to find a species or medical specialty
that can restore a person’s mind.”
“We should be able to find someone like that on every commerce planet we come to,” Chiana said sarcastically,
somehow managing to sound frivolous and depressed at the same time. “Where are we going to find someone
like that?” she followed dejectedly.
“I think …” Aeryn paused, considering what she was about to propose. “I think that sounds like a delvian, but
John is so badly injured this is probably going to take more than a single priest. What if we went all the way
back to the New Moon of Delvia?”
“But those blue butted lunatics really were crazy!” objected Rygel.
“What’s the New Moon of Delvia?” Jool asked into the silence following Rygel’s outburst.
D‘Argo ignored her question, responding to Rygel’s observation first. “Zhaan gave them the key to finding their
way back to balance though. That is, John and Zhaan together,” D’Argo corrected himself. “Aeryn may be
right. They’re a fully integrated delvian community. They’ll have the healers and priests necessary to help
John … if they aren’t all insane by now.”
“Pilot?” Aeryn called toward the walls of the chamber.
“I’ve been listening, Officer Sun.” Pilot’s image appeared in the clamshell hanging in the corner. “According to
the charts I’ve been assembling in Moya’s datastores, it should take us just over twelve solar days to reach the
delvian colony. Will that be soon enough considering Crichton’s current condition?”
Aeryn looked at the supply of needled tubes arranged in a neat row on the work surface. There were almost
thirty of them, but she didn’t know how often John would need the system numbing injections. If he required
their influence more than twice a day, they would be faced with the sounds of his unendurable agony for the
last two days of the journey.
“Only twelve solar days, Pilot?” Rygel asked. “We were there almost three cycles ago.”
“We have not been traveling a particularly linear course, Dominar Rygel.” Pilot stated the obvious first, his
more formal manner of addressing the hynerian serving to add a bite of sarcasm to his observation. “My
calculations are based upon a maximum effort by Moya, with minimal recovery time between starbursts.”
“I don’t know,” Aeryn wavered. One microt earlier she’d been certain she was doing the right thing by trying to
heal John; now she felt as if she was only prolonging a miserable existence merely for her own benefit. She
couldn’t stand the thought of losing him again. “We’d be heading right back into the middle of Peacekeeper
territory. It would be incredibly dangerous for all of us.”
The small group continued to hover indecisively, each individual shifting slightly as they considered their limited
options.
“D’Argo?” Aeryn finally asked, breaking the silence. “What do you think?”
“Go.” The slurred voice was quiet but insistent, a whisper cutting into the silence of the group’s indecision. A
fierce battle was waged between the expressions crossing Crichton’s face and then he repeated it. “Go?” It
was taken over by a whine of sorrow, not pain. “Go we know not where. Wait for me. Waiting for Godot.” He
ended on an almost cheerful note, a complete transition from how he had started his brief, jumbled
contribution.
“Take it as a sign, not a command,” suggested Chiana more brightly. They had all been standing silently as
John’s initially lucid utterance faded into confused ramblings.
“Pilot. Set a course for the New Moon of Delvia, please. As quickly as Moya can manage.” D’Argo looked
around the group to see if anyone disagreed with his instructions. Only nods met his stare.
“Please prepare for starburst in ten microts.” Pilot’s countdown was so short, Aeryn was sure that Pilot and
Moya had been preparing for starburst even before the group had reached a decision. She smiled at the
preemptive actions of the ship and her pilot and held on to a workbench, waiting for the lurch that signified they
were under way.
“Stars in her hair were seven,” Crichton breathed, “blessed damsel of heaven.” He twitched slightly and an airy
cry eased out of him.
“What if we go all the way back there and they haven’t recovered from their illness?” Aeryn asked. “We only
have the one chance to take him somewhere.”
“Does anyone have another idea?” D’Argo demanded. “Is there anywhere else we can take him where we
might have a chance of helping him?” The entire room lurched as they entered starburst, each person finding
something to hang on to as they slid into the passage between dimensions. They looked at each other, but no
one offered a suggestion.
“So we go there and hope we’re doing the right thing.” Aeryn sucked her breath in sharply as John opened his
eyes. They were filled with blood, the result of internal hemorrhaging. The blue irises appeared purple, drifting
aimlessly in the center of bright red orbs. She drew her hand slowly from one side to the other above his face
and there was no reaction. He was either blind or cut off from his sense of sight. The others watched with
despair and horror.
“Hurry, Moya,” Chiana whispered. “Hurry.”
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
