Cholak's Demon
Chapter 7
“Aeryn,” the voice intruded for what she thought might be the thousandth time. It plucked at her again. “Aeryn,
can you wake up?” She opened her eyes to find Gallenn sitting alongside her.
“What happened?” A small movement stopped almost before it started, the pain in her midsection convincing
her that lying still was an excellent idea.
“You got hit. I need your help.”
“Where’s John?” she asked instead. There was a memory of the black uniform moving like a whirlwind in the
hangar, leaving bodies in its wake as Gallenn tried to get her up the steps into the spacecraft. But there was
also a memory of him getting hit, flying through the air, arms and legs wheeling for a brief moment before his
body skidded across the deck. She couldn’t remember which one was right. “Where is he?”
“Right next to you.” Gallenn pointed to her right. “Don’t move, just look.”
She followed orders, turning her head slowly and carefully. John was curled up on his side next to her, his right
shoulder and chest encased in bandages, his right arm pinned inside with only his hand showing near his left
shoulder. “Is he all right?” she asked, wanting to touch him but finding that even moving her fingers made
everything hurt.
“It doesn’t look serious but I think something’s broken. You took a direct hit. The armor deflected most of it, but
you’re still bleeding, Aeryn.”
The missing pieces came back in a flood. Both versions of her memory were right. She remembered being
pulled up the steps by Gallenn, the two of them pausing for a single microt at the top to watch as John, driven
past all rational thought by the events of the past days, had hauled down yet another Peacekeeper and killed
him. They’d turned their backs on that sight of temporary insanity, and he’d carried her to the bed before
running back outside to ensure that the reinforcements couldn’t get in, and to retrieve John once he’d purged
his need for revenge.
“Aeryn?” Gallenn touched her shoulder with a single finger, drawing her attention back to his request. “I need
some help with navigation. John says we’re where you two got caught, but he can’t remember where you were
going to meet Moya next. Aeryn?” he summoned her again. “You have to tell me where to go next.”
She stared at him, trying to remember how many days it had been and where Pilot had said they would wait for
them next. “I don’t remember,” she confessed, the information refusing to emerge.
“You both need medical help,” Gallenn tried, then had to get her attention again. “Aeryn? John needs medical
help. You have to tell me where to go to find your friends.”
She rolled her head to the other side, watched Crichton for five microts, then fired off a set of coordinates.
“Hang on to those. Don’t forget them,” he said, jumping to his feet and heading for the door. “Okay, give me
the first sequence.” He disappeared into the cockpit chanting the series of numbers, reappearing microts later
to demand, “Second bunch of numbers.”
Aeryn resorted to repeating the entire set, unable to start in the middle. “I thought you didn’t know how to do
this,” she said weakly when he poked his head back in to verify his numbers.
“I don’t, but John woke up long enough to take me through it, and I wrote the instructions right onto the control
panel. If it doesn’t work, I’ll have to wake him up next. Power cells are coming up. We should have you home
in a few microts.” He gave her a cheerful grin and ducked out of sight.
Aeryn rolled her head back to the left to watch John. He was sleeping or unconscious, almost unnaturally still.
His left hand was lying palm-up on the mattress, fingers curled in a loose fist. She took a moderately deep
breath, clenched her teeth together, and slid her hand along the rumpled covers, ignoring the backlash of pain
from her side and stomach. She fitted her hand into his, reassured by the warmth enfolding her fingers. His
hand tightened and he opened his eyes.
“Hey. You’re alive,” he stated in a whisper.
“Hey. So are you.” Aeryn discovered that even smiling hurt.
“I though you were dead,” he said. A bright glint of light broke free, trickling down the side of his face to be
absorbed by the pillow.
“No.” She couldn’t think of anything else to tell him at that moment.
“You did it. Jail break from a command carrier.”
“Almost didn’t make it,” she pointed out. “Gallenn said if you hadn’t gone berserk we wouldn’t have gotten out
of there.”
John paled, looking uncertain, the last of the color draining out of his face. “What does he … I don’t remember
that. What do you mean berserk?”
She stretched her arm a little further to run a finger along his cheek, ignoring the pain in order to reassure him.
He’d become so capable over the past cycles, hardened, with a façade that mimicked ruthlessness; the outward
appearance made it easy to forget that John remained a non-violent person at heart. Now was not the time to
remind him about his rampage.
“Wrong choice of words. I exaggerated. You covered for us while he got me on board.” She thumbed an
errant tear off his cheek. “He said you did a good job of making sure we got away safely.” John looked more
assured by the second description.
The engines let out their familiar hum, escalating to an earsplitting shriek in microts. The bulkheads shuddered
with the crack of the rhotarri drive, and then it was quiet.
“Frell me!” Gallenn shouted from the cockpit. “I did it!”
“Interstellar drive by numbers,” John grinned. “You suppose we’re anywhere near Moya?”
“I gave him the coordinates for the second meet point, but she’s not due for another ten solar days.” The pain
in her side and stomach suggested that she might not be able to wait that long for Moya to arrive.
“I heard,” he nodded slightly. His eyes flicked down toward her body, narrowing slightly as he looked at a spot
near her waist. “We’ll either find them or some place that can patch you up.
“You’ll never guess what’s out there,” Gallenn barged into the confined space.
“Is it big and golden?” Aeryn asked, not taking her eyes off John’s sleepy, relieved smile. “They’re early. Open
a comms channel for me,” she instructed Gallenn, gesturing very carefully with a single finger. “Over there.”
He stepped through the clutter of hastily discarded uniforms to the panel on the wall, flicking several circuits
with expertise.
“Pilot?” Aeryn called weakly, finally turning her head away from John in order to speak toward the transmitter
panel.
“Aeryn!” The gruff-voiced yell had abandoned all of its usual pompous reserve. “You got away! Do you have
that megra-fahrbot Crichton with you?”
“Yes, Rygel.” There was a whispering laugh from beside her. “But we’re both hurt. Come get us.”
“We are on our way, Officer Sun,” Pilot’s voice interjected. “Moya will be within range in … five microts.”
“And Rygel,” she added, “we have someone with us who looks like a Peacekeeper. He’s not. Don’t shoot him.”
Gallenn bowed his thanks from where he was waiting next to the control panel. The small ship lurched
suddenly, several items slithering along a shelf to suggest that the craft had changed orientation suddenly.
“Docking web,” John offered, closing his eyes. “Tell Moya to starburst right away. Never know who’s
following.”
“No one can follow one of these things. You said so yourself, genius.” Gallenn began tossing clothes and gear
across the small room, clearing the floor near the door.
“Never know for sure. Tell her. Tell Pilot to starburst,” John insisted. “What are you doing?”
“You two are a mess. Were you planning on walking out of here on your own?” The ship settled with a quiet
moan, all noise dying away except for the quiet pinging of the hull as it adjusted to the atmosphere surrounding
it. Gallenn pitched one last bag into the heap in the corner, then disappeared into the cockpit.
“Home,” Aeryn said. “Little late, but home.” John just watched her, adding nothing to the sentiment. “Are you
going to be all right?”
The outer door of the cockpit opened with a smash, and then the quiet of the moment was destroyed by
D’Argo’s deep bellow of excitement; Chiana, Jool and Rygel joining in before Gallenn could begin to explain
what had happened. She had just enough time to see the fast flicker of something dark and unhappy cross his
face before the small quarters were crammed full of bodies.
“Frell me!” Chiana exclaimed in a yell as she lunged into the living quarters. Then they were working to get
both of them out of the ship, and she didn’t remember anything more after that.
* * * * *
Mele-On Grayza stalked through the expanse of the hangar bay, watching the work crews as they gathered the
dead bodies, laying them out in orderly rows for processing prior to disposal.
“How many?” she asked after a quarter arn of icy silence.
“Twenty-six, ma’am,” Braca answered from two motras behind her right shoulder, keeping a prudent distance
from the growing rage being manifested by the commandant.
“And wounded?” she prompted.
“None.”
Grayza spun around to face him, blue eyes staring unblinking into his. “None? Over four units sent to secure
three fugitives and every man dead?” She advanced on the luckless lieutenant, her pale skin even whiter than
usual. “They must have had someone helping them -- reinforcements waiting to ambush our personnel as they
entered the hangar.”
“Commandant,” Braca stammered, keeping his distance. “Fifteen men were killed by pulse weapons or
explosions, but the remainder were killed with … a knife. The control room suffered extensive damage when
their ship departed, but we were able to extract several fragments of surveillance recordings, and …” He broke
off as she continued to glare at him.
“Report,” she ordered.
“What we were able to recover indicates that the men were killed by Crichton. He seemed to go crazy but we
don’t know why; that portion of the recordings wasn’t recovered. One sequence shows that he was hit by pulse
weapon fire at least once, but it had no affect on him. He was on top of the man before he could fire a second
time, armed only with a blade.” Braca drew himself up even more stiffly, eyes staring straight ahead as the
commandant surveyed the hangar area another time.
“What would you like me to tell High Command, ma’am?” he asked after a lengthy silence.
“Tell them it was Cholak’s demon,” she hissed.
Only Braca’s eyes moved, snapping to the side to see if she was joking. “Ma’am?” he questioned her
instruction.
“Have them load the bodies just as they are onto four Marauders … no.” Grayza strolled toward the collection
of wreckage that until an arn ago had been orderly ranks of parked spacecraft. “We would have used a
tri-directional envelopment. Load the bodies onto three Marauders, then launch them on automated
departure. When they are ten thousand metras from the fleet, order weaponry to destroy the ships.”
Braca remained silent and motionless, watching her for another sign that she was not serious. “Those are my
orders, Lieutenant. Advise High Command that in addition to the damage to this carrier, John Crichton and his
comrades also destroyed the three Marauders and their crews while escaping. We are in pursuit of the
fugitives and will acquire this new weaponry when we capture them.” Braca waited beside her for another
microt. “Move!”
He departed at a near-run, leaving the commandant to wander through the battlefield. “I will make you pay for
this, John Crichton,” she hissed, surveying the damage.
* * * * *
She remembered how difficult it was waking up after she’d received the paraphoral tissue graft, struggling
through the layers of weariness and confusion to finally emerge into a waking world that made little more sense
than her dreams. That slow climb had been simple compared to this one, requiring a fraction of the effort.
There was a difference this time, however, in that a single voice kept asking her to make the transition,
repeatedly calling to her and asking her to pay attention.
Aeryn opened her eyes, mildly surprised that she didn’t hurt since most of her dreams had revolved around the
single theme of pain, and smiled at D’Argo’s hovering, worried face. “Hello,” she greeted him, trying to
remember where they were and what was going on.
“How do you feel, Aeryn?” he asked in a low whisper.
“I feel fine.” Aeryn tried to sit up and immediately revised her assessment. Every bit of her body from her
armpits to her knees hurt. “What happened?”
“You got shot aboard the command carrier.” D’Argo held a flask for her, helping her drink. “Do you
remember?”
Crichton’s scream of rage and anguish ringing in the background, pulse weapons fire, Gallenn pulling her up
while pressing against an agony in her side, a blade glinting for a microt in the lights of the hangar before John
went after the next soldier. John’s sleepy smile turning to something uncertain and haunted at her unthinking
remark. Lying next to him, both injured but safe. Pilot’s calm voice, the thump that meant they were home,
D’Argo’s familiar bass growl entering the cockpit, harmonizing with Chiana’s louder shriek of dismay.
“Yes. I remember now.” She looked left and right, spotting the empty medbed next to hers. “Where’s
Crichton? I want to see him.” D’Argo looked uncomfortable, and she clung to his hand as her unthinking
comment and his look of discomfort recreated that hideous day when she’d learned that John had been
captured on the Gammak Base.
“What happened? He was on the ship. He wasn’t hurt that badly. Where is he?” she asked more stridently.
D’Argo’s placating gestures slowed then stilled her anxious demands.
“That’s why I woke you, Aeryn. You need to rest and heal, but we need your help with John.” D’Argo slid an
arm behind her shoulders and helped her sit up, steadying her when she swayed and almost fell back.
Aeryn grabbed on to D’Argo’s arm as the room spun end for end, the whirling only increasing when she shut
her eyes. She took several deep breaths, willing it to stop, and after five or six more revolutions everything
settled down. “How long have we been here?”
“Only six arns. Jool treated your injuries, but you shouldn’t be walking yet. I’m going to carry you to where John
is.” He steadied her as she slid her legs over the edge of the bed. “Jool got the bleeding to stop and sealed
the wounds, but the pulse blast shattered the armor in the jacket. The fragments were what injured you.”
“I remember that part. What about John? What’s the matter?” she demanded.
* * * * *
D’Argo set Aeryn down next to where Chiana and Rygel waited outside the door to the maintenance bay,
holding on to her until she seemed steady on her feet. “Has there been any change?” he asked, triggering a
fast headshake from the nebari.
Chiana crouched down and eased to one side, peering into the maintenance bay with her head cocked to one
side. “He hasn’t moved since he yelled at me to get out.”
“He’s just sitting there like a stunned flibisk,” Rygel observed. “I think he’s lost what’s left of his mind.” D’Argo
tried to slap the Dominar, and he swerved out of range.
“What’s wrong with him?” Chiana demanded more insistently. “Crichton’s been injured before. He never acted
like this. You’d think someone he cared about died aboard that carrier the way he’s acting.”
“John is going to need time, Chiana” Aeryn cautioned, thinking that perhaps someone had died aboard that
carrier. The person they all knew as John Crichton might have been fatally wounded by what he’d been put
through. The exterior looked the same, but they would have to wait and see how the person inside had fared.
She tried to reassure the others despite her own concern. “It’s still John, but things didn’t go the way we’d
expected.”
“When do they ever?” Chiana fired back.
Aeryn touched one gray shoulder for a microt, offering some sympathy, then walked slowly and carefully into
the large chamber. The short walk from the door to where Crichton was sitting used up almost every bit of
strength available, providing an insight into how tiring that run from the cell to the hangar must have been for
him. She took several deep breaths, thumbed some sweat off her forehead, and slid down to sit on the floor,
her back against the side of a workbench.
According to D’Argo, John had been sitting in this one spot for over four arns, unwilling to talk to anyone, and
becoming violent when they’d tried to move him by force. He had stayed in the medical chamber long enough
to make sure she was going to be all right, and for Jool to confirm that the impact of the pulse blast had broken
several of the bones in his shoulder, but had come here to hide from his friends before they could treat his
injuries.
John had chosen to sit in a poorly lit corner of the maintenance bay. Why he’d come to this particular chamber
she didn’t know, unless it was the fact that it was quiet and secluded here. He was resting the side of his head
against his left hand, and his entire body was weaving slightly despite the fact that he was leaning against the
wall. They’d told her that he hadn’t slept yet, and it looked like the last of the boosters had worn off. As she
watched, his head started to drop, only to have it come back up with a jerk.
He’d managed to get a shirt on over the bulk of his trapped right arm, which remained secured inside the
bandages, but his jacket was lying askew across his shoulders as though he’d tried to get inside it and couldn’t
manage. Sloppy, disheveled, hair standing on end -- it was the John Crichton she’d missed for two cycles, and
she wanted to hug him until whatever was bothering him went away.
“What’s going on John?” she asked, taking a direct approach.
He swiveled his eyes to look at her, which was more than anyone else had gotten out of him so far. “You doin’
okay?” he asked, his voice rasping and hoarse.
“I’ll be fine. I need a few solar days rest, but everything will heal.” John nodded and went back to staring at the
floor. “John, let Jool do something about your shoulder.” He closed his eyes and slowly shook his head.
Aeryn thought about how much it must hurt despite the tight restriction of the bandages, and remembered part
of a conversation that had taken place aboard the small rhotarri-equipped ship. She got to her feet, waited
several microts for the dizziness to fade, then tottered over to where he was sitting. He moved over when she
indicated she wanted to sit to his left, giving her room to slide down between him and the wall. She took a
moment to pull his jacket into place on his shoulders, taking care with the damaged one, then let herself down
beside him.
“Something hurts,” she tried, hoping he’d understand that she wasn’t referring to his body. He nodded. “What
hurts so much that you want to feel the pain of broken bones to cover it up?”
He didn’t answer. Aeryn went back to thinking about the past few days. If he was already facing up to one
particular trauma, he would need to broach the topic himself. But her experience with him said that he wasn’t
dealing with the memories of Grayza yet -- it was much too soon to expect him to be working his way through
that particular problem.
“Please.” She laid the single word out slowly, using the small syllable that he had taught her so much about.
“Tell me what this is about.”
They sat together silently for almost a quarter of an arn before he rubbed his face and straightened up slightly.
“Your stealth suit,” he started, the words dragging as though each one was going to be the last.
“What about it?” she urged when he had been quiet for too long.
“How does it work?” His eyes flicked toward her once and then focused on the floor again.
“I put it on, flip a switch and it works. If people still see me, I take it off, give it to a technical expert and ask him
to fix it. That’s how it works.” It drew a tiny smile out of him, but it didn’t look like he’d been amused. “It has
something to do with taking incoming light from one side, routing it through the fibers and then projecting it out
the opposite side of the suit. How it keeps track of different objects surrounding it or takes care of the
irregularities, I don’t know.”
He fidgeted uncomfortably, taking nearly thirty microts before asking, “How effective is it?”
Aeryn studied him, watching for the small muscle movements that might help her understand why he was asking
these questions. “It depends on the environment. Dim lights and a complex background work the best
because the residual distortions won’t show up. Getting caught in good lighting against an even background is
the worst possible situation.” She got the expected nod, and then there was nothing more.
She shifted, pressing her forearm gently against her side in an attempt to ease the increasing ache. He’d
asked about the suit. It was the only thing he’d offered to talk about so she had to assume it was connected to
whatever was bothering him. It wasn’t in John’s nature to attack an issue straight on, so she started at the
moment when he’d been dragged off their ship and began searching for the moment that might explain his
deep depression. She found such a moment and had to swallow hard to keep the bile from rising in her throat.
Aeryn turned away from watching John and rested her head against her right hand, propping her elbow against
a knee. Four deep breaths helped her get a tiny grip on her emotions, but not enough to actually say
something to him. She shifted her gaze in hesitant stages until she was looking at him. John was shaking and
there was a gleaming trickle running down his cheek, the first break in his self-control.
“You saw me,” she forced the words out one by one.
John opened his mouth but no sound came out. He tried again. “Yes.” The whisper was barely audible.
She’d been so sure that it was a coincidence, a quirk of timing and a roll of his head. But she’d been standing
in bright lights against a solid background, just as she had explained to him several microts ago. This was why
she’d decided not to kill Grayza, the single critical reason why she hadn’t revealed herself inside those
quarters, and he’d already seen her by that point. No explanation from her could hope to relieve the agony
caused by his knowing she had watched, but she tried anyway.
“I came in there because I thought I might get a chance to say something to you … to let you know that I was
close to getting you free. I had no idea that was going to happen.”
John nodded, looking closer to a complete emotional breakdown than before. He started to say something
three times without a sound emerging and then suddenly smashed his left hand against his right shoulder,
deliberately pummeling the broken bones.
“Don’t!” she yelled, catching his hand on the way to another blow. “Don’t do that, John,” she pleaded. “I didn’t
mean to watch; I didn’t want to. I wouldn’t have … I never would have if there had been a choice.”
“I know that,” he admitted, his voice shaking with something far more painful than what he’d just done to
himself. “I had to say what I did, Aeryn. There was no other choice. I couldn’t help it.”
“You’re upset about what you told Grayza?” she asked, relief and shock combining to turn into something that
felt a little bit like hysteria. “The part about ‘the bitch took off’ and that you didn’t love me anymore?”
“I had to make myself believe it. She would have made me tell her that you were on the carrier.” His upper
body was leaping and twitching as the shaking accelerated, mixing with his fatigue to create a horrible dance of
uncontrolled muscles.
“John, I knew you didn’t mean it. It doesn’t matter,” she sighed in sympathy. She worked her fingers between
his and hung on to his hand, leaning down to kiss his knuckles. He tried to pull away, but she held on to him.
“John, she was using heppel oil on you. Until today I would have sworn that it was impossible to lie under its
influence. If that’s what it took to trick her, then it was the right thing to do.” She rubbed her thumb across the
back of his hand, the strongest caress she could provide at that moment.
“But then you were right there, and I had to believe it anyway, but she was doing … that … at the same time,
and I didn’t have a choice.” He pulled his hand loose, but only so he could prop his head against it, curling his
body around his trapped arm. “And I knew you were standing there, and I had to say it to you as well … and
believe what I was saying.”
She saw that this was more than guilt over his words. This was an unsustainable level of confusion and mixed
feelings on his part. “Look at me, John.” He turned his head to the side without hesitation, still resting it against
his hand but facing her. Aeryn rubbed her fingers against his temple for several microts, secretly pleased that
he would even let her touch him after what he’d been through. He was going to pieces before her eyes, his
emotions, thoughts, and physical reactions all becoming increasingly erratic as he finally released the nearly
psychotic level of control he’d been exerting ever since he’d been captured.
“You must be angry at me too,” she suggested, knowing that the emotions were there, even if he
wasn’t addressing them.
“Yes. No. I don’t know.” He shook his head against his hand. She waited to see if the repressed feelings
would make their way out. “I … wanted you to go away. To just not be there. But to answer Grayza I had to
make you not be there. But you were.” The fragments of explanations grew shorter and jerkier as he worked
himself down to a dazed silence, broken only by the chattering of his teeth as his depleted body shivered and
jerked.
Aeryn spent several microts trying to decipher the mixture of guilt, anger, and humiliation that she knew he must
be experiencing at that moment, looking for the best way to help him set it aside until he’d had some rest. The
complexities defeated her, leaving her no choice but to trust her instincts.
“Why are you sitting here … in this particular spot?” she tried.
“I feel … ” Whatever he’d intended to say got stuck. “I don’t want to be around anyone.”
“What about me?”
“You either.” The sullen, angry answer echoed once in the large bay. “But I don’t want you to leave,” he
contradicted himself. John laid his head on his knees, looking away from her, continuing to shiver. “It hurt so
much to say those things. You should hate me for saying them.”
He was punishing himself, or at least trying to, she finally realized. The untreated injuries, the seclusion,
staying awake -- every action was designed to exact a payment for something that had been beyond his
control. She brushed her fingers across the back of his head in a light caress, generating an enormous
lurching jerk from John.
“The words didn’t matter. I had the proof right in front of me that you didn’t believe it. Do you understand
that? The words didn’t matter, John. I was listening to what you were doing in order to keep me safe, not what
you were saying.” He nodded, and she watched the quivering in the slumped shoulders spread to his entire
body. He was far beyond exhaustion, his ability to form a rational thought destroyed by the abuse, the drugs,
and the injuries. “You did not betray me in any way, John Crichton.”
His shaking was getting worse, compounding by the microt. “I can’t move, John. Come here.” He looked
around to see what she wanted, then leaned carefully to the side in response to her gestured invitation,
lowering himself into her lap. She pulled him more firmly against her, helping him get settled.
“Is it over?” he asked in a whisper.
She had to think for a moment before realizing what he was asking. What she had been forced to do aboard
the carrier had been simple compared to his role, with none of the thought scrambling confusion caused by
exhaustion or the heppel oil. She tried to put herself in his place, and discovered that it was easy to be patient
with his illogical need for reassurance. “Yes, it’s over,” she told him, slowly stroking his cheek.
“Wasn’t a walk in the park for you,” he whispered as though reading her thoughts, his voice guttural with
unshed tears. “Had to do some tough things.” His left hand was slowly stroking her leg, the only spot he could
reach in his current position.
“I’d just spent almost an entire cycle looking for you, John Crichton, I wasn’t about to quit on you. I made you a
promise that I’d get you out if you hung on. You kept your end of the bargain.”
Something else was starting to happen, his breaths growing longer and longer, each one released in a series
of jerks and shudders. She looked down at him, and withheld any comment about the tears or the escalating
sobs.
There were unaccustomed phrases begging to be spoken. Short assurances like, ‘It’s going to be all right’, and
‘We’re going to get over this’, but this flood of uncontrolled emotions wasn’t like John, and something as small
as a sympathetic comment would very likely interrupt the release. She bent over him, hugging him tighter.
“Is it over?” he asked again.
“Yes, it’s over.”
There was a quiet shuffle to her right. D’Argo eased carefully into the maintenance bay to check on them,
Gallenn behind him, and she gave them a nearly imperceptible shake of her head. D’Argo nodded and they
backed away. John’s breathing grew less strained, the fit of crying passing gradually.
“More injuries than usual … even for us,” she suggested in a hushed voice.
He squirmed against her, somehow getting his head down far enough that he could wipe his eyes with the
portion of shirt covering his right hand. “Jool fixed you up, my shoulder will heal,” he observed when he’d
finished.
“Those aren’t the injuries I was talking about.” He nodded against her, the motion turning into a headshake
halfway though. “Give it time, John. It’s going to take time.”
“Okay,” he whispered. “Aeryn?” He was starting to shake again.
“It’s over,” she assured him before he could repeat the question. He nodded against her, and covered his face
with his free hand so she couldn’t see that he was crying. The shuddering, gasping breaths served to give him
away instead. She waited patiently, doing nothing more than slowly fingering his hair, and shortly after the
sobbing stopped, he finally fell asleep.
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
Chapter 7
“Aeryn,” the voice intruded for what she thought might be the thousandth time. It plucked at her again. “Aeryn,
can you wake up?” She opened her eyes to find Gallenn sitting alongside her.
“What happened?” A small movement stopped almost before it started, the pain in her midsection convincing
her that lying still was an excellent idea.
“You got hit. I need your help.”
“Where’s John?” she asked instead. There was a memory of the black uniform moving like a whirlwind in the
hangar, leaving bodies in its wake as Gallenn tried to get her up the steps into the spacecraft. But there was
also a memory of him getting hit, flying through the air, arms and legs wheeling for a brief moment before his
body skidded across the deck. She couldn’t remember which one was right. “Where is he?”
“Right next to you.” Gallenn pointed to her right. “Don’t move, just look.”
She followed orders, turning her head slowly and carefully. John was curled up on his side next to her, his right
shoulder and chest encased in bandages, his right arm pinned inside with only his hand showing near his left
shoulder. “Is he all right?” she asked, wanting to touch him but finding that even moving her fingers made
everything hurt.
“It doesn’t look serious but I think something’s broken. You took a direct hit. The armor deflected most of it, but
you’re still bleeding, Aeryn.”
The missing pieces came back in a flood. Both versions of her memory were right. She remembered being
pulled up the steps by Gallenn, the two of them pausing for a single microt at the top to watch as John, driven
past all rational thought by the events of the past days, had hauled down yet another Peacekeeper and killed
him. They’d turned their backs on that sight of temporary insanity, and he’d carried her to the bed before
running back outside to ensure that the reinforcements couldn’t get in, and to retrieve John once he’d purged
his need for revenge.
“Aeryn?” Gallenn touched her shoulder with a single finger, drawing her attention back to his request. “I need
some help with navigation. John says we’re where you two got caught, but he can’t remember where you were
going to meet Moya next. Aeryn?” he summoned her again. “You have to tell me where to go next.”
She stared at him, trying to remember how many days it had been and where Pilot had said they would wait for
them next. “I don’t remember,” she confessed, the information refusing to emerge.
“You both need medical help,” Gallenn tried, then had to get her attention again. “Aeryn? John needs medical
help. You have to tell me where to go to find your friends.”
She rolled her head to the other side, watched Crichton for five microts, then fired off a set of coordinates.
“Hang on to those. Don’t forget them,” he said, jumping to his feet and heading for the door. “Okay, give me
the first sequence.” He disappeared into the cockpit chanting the series of numbers, reappearing microts later
to demand, “Second bunch of numbers.”
Aeryn resorted to repeating the entire set, unable to start in the middle. “I thought you didn’t know how to do
this,” she said weakly when he poked his head back in to verify his numbers.
“I don’t, but John woke up long enough to take me through it, and I wrote the instructions right onto the control
panel. If it doesn’t work, I’ll have to wake him up next. Power cells are coming up. We should have you home
in a few microts.” He gave her a cheerful grin and ducked out of sight.
Aeryn rolled her head back to the left to watch John. He was sleeping or unconscious, almost unnaturally still.
His left hand was lying palm-up on the mattress, fingers curled in a loose fist. She took a moderately deep
breath, clenched her teeth together, and slid her hand along the rumpled covers, ignoring the backlash of pain
from her side and stomach. She fitted her hand into his, reassured by the warmth enfolding her fingers. His
hand tightened and he opened his eyes.
“Hey. You’re alive,” he stated in a whisper.
“Hey. So are you.” Aeryn discovered that even smiling hurt.
“I though you were dead,” he said. A bright glint of light broke free, trickling down the side of his face to be
absorbed by the pillow.
“No.” She couldn’t think of anything else to tell him at that moment.
“You did it. Jail break from a command carrier.”
“Almost didn’t make it,” she pointed out. “Gallenn said if you hadn’t gone berserk we wouldn’t have gotten out
of there.”
John paled, looking uncertain, the last of the color draining out of his face. “What does he … I don’t remember
that. What do you mean berserk?”
She stretched her arm a little further to run a finger along his cheek, ignoring the pain in order to reassure him.
He’d become so capable over the past cycles, hardened, with a façade that mimicked ruthlessness; the outward
appearance made it easy to forget that John remained a non-violent person at heart. Now was not the time to
remind him about his rampage.
“Wrong choice of words. I exaggerated. You covered for us while he got me on board.” She thumbed an
errant tear off his cheek. “He said you did a good job of making sure we got away safely.” John looked more
assured by the second description.
The engines let out their familiar hum, escalating to an earsplitting shriek in microts. The bulkheads shuddered
with the crack of the rhotarri drive, and then it was quiet.
“Frell me!” Gallenn shouted from the cockpit. “I did it!”
“Interstellar drive by numbers,” John grinned. “You suppose we’re anywhere near Moya?”
“I gave him the coordinates for the second meet point, but she’s not due for another ten solar days.” The pain
in her side and stomach suggested that she might not be able to wait that long for Moya to arrive.
“I heard,” he nodded slightly. His eyes flicked down toward her body, narrowing slightly as he looked at a spot
near her waist. “We’ll either find them or some place that can patch you up.
“You’ll never guess what’s out there,” Gallenn barged into the confined space.
“Is it big and golden?” Aeryn asked, not taking her eyes off John’s sleepy, relieved smile. “They’re early. Open
a comms channel for me,” she instructed Gallenn, gesturing very carefully with a single finger. “Over there.”
He stepped through the clutter of hastily discarded uniforms to the panel on the wall, flicking several circuits
with expertise.
“Pilot?” Aeryn called weakly, finally turning her head away from John in order to speak toward the transmitter
panel.
“Aeryn!” The gruff-voiced yell had abandoned all of its usual pompous reserve. “You got away! Do you have
that megra-fahrbot Crichton with you?”
“Yes, Rygel.” There was a whispering laugh from beside her. “But we’re both hurt. Come get us.”
“We are on our way, Officer Sun,” Pilot’s voice interjected. “Moya will be within range in … five microts.”
“And Rygel,” she added, “we have someone with us who looks like a Peacekeeper. He’s not. Don’t shoot him.”
Gallenn bowed his thanks from where he was waiting next to the control panel. The small ship lurched
suddenly, several items slithering along a shelf to suggest that the craft had changed orientation suddenly.
“Docking web,” John offered, closing his eyes. “Tell Moya to starburst right away. Never know who’s
following.”
“No one can follow one of these things. You said so yourself, genius.” Gallenn began tossing clothes and gear
across the small room, clearing the floor near the door.
“Never know for sure. Tell her. Tell Pilot to starburst,” John insisted. “What are you doing?”
“You two are a mess. Were you planning on walking out of here on your own?” The ship settled with a quiet
moan, all noise dying away except for the quiet pinging of the hull as it adjusted to the atmosphere surrounding
it. Gallenn pitched one last bag into the heap in the corner, then disappeared into the cockpit.
“Home,” Aeryn said. “Little late, but home.” John just watched her, adding nothing to the sentiment. “Are you
going to be all right?”
The outer door of the cockpit opened with a smash, and then the quiet of the moment was destroyed by
D’Argo’s deep bellow of excitement; Chiana, Jool and Rygel joining in before Gallenn could begin to explain
what had happened. She had just enough time to see the fast flicker of something dark and unhappy cross his
face before the small quarters were crammed full of bodies.
“Frell me!” Chiana exclaimed in a yell as she lunged into the living quarters. Then they were working to get
both of them out of the ship, and she didn’t remember anything more after that.
* * * * *
Mele-On Grayza stalked through the expanse of the hangar bay, watching the work crews as they gathered the
dead bodies, laying them out in orderly rows for processing prior to disposal.
“How many?” she asked after a quarter arn of icy silence.
“Twenty-six, ma’am,” Braca answered from two motras behind her right shoulder, keeping a prudent distance
from the growing rage being manifested by the commandant.
“And wounded?” she prompted.
“None.”
Grayza spun around to face him, blue eyes staring unblinking into his. “None? Over four units sent to secure
three fugitives and every man dead?” She advanced on the luckless lieutenant, her pale skin even whiter than
usual. “They must have had someone helping them -- reinforcements waiting to ambush our personnel as they
entered the hangar.”
“Commandant,” Braca stammered, keeping his distance. “Fifteen men were killed by pulse weapons or
explosions, but the remainder were killed with … a knife. The control room suffered extensive damage when
their ship departed, but we were able to extract several fragments of surveillance recordings, and …” He broke
off as she continued to glare at him.
“Report,” she ordered.
“What we were able to recover indicates that the men were killed by Crichton. He seemed to go crazy but we
don’t know why; that portion of the recordings wasn’t recovered. One sequence shows that he was hit by pulse
weapon fire at least once, but it had no affect on him. He was on top of the man before he could fire a second
time, armed only with a blade.” Braca drew himself up even more stiffly, eyes staring straight ahead as the
commandant surveyed the hangar area another time.
“What would you like me to tell High Command, ma’am?” he asked after a lengthy silence.
“Tell them it was Cholak’s demon,” she hissed.
Only Braca’s eyes moved, snapping to the side to see if she was joking. “Ma’am?” he questioned her
instruction.
“Have them load the bodies just as they are onto four Marauders … no.” Grayza strolled toward the collection
of wreckage that until an arn ago had been orderly ranks of parked spacecraft. “We would have used a
tri-directional envelopment. Load the bodies onto three Marauders, then launch them on automated
departure. When they are ten thousand metras from the fleet, order weaponry to destroy the ships.”
Braca remained silent and motionless, watching her for another sign that she was not serious. “Those are my
orders, Lieutenant. Advise High Command that in addition to the damage to this carrier, John Crichton and his
comrades also destroyed the three Marauders and their crews while escaping. We are in pursuit of the
fugitives and will acquire this new weaponry when we capture them.” Braca waited beside her for another
microt. “Move!”
He departed at a near-run, leaving the commandant to wander through the battlefield. “I will make you pay for
this, John Crichton,” she hissed, surveying the damage.
* * * * *
She remembered how difficult it was waking up after she’d received the paraphoral tissue graft, struggling
through the layers of weariness and confusion to finally emerge into a waking world that made little more sense
than her dreams. That slow climb had been simple compared to this one, requiring a fraction of the effort.
There was a difference this time, however, in that a single voice kept asking her to make the transition,
repeatedly calling to her and asking her to pay attention.
Aeryn opened her eyes, mildly surprised that she didn’t hurt since most of her dreams had revolved around the
single theme of pain, and smiled at D’Argo’s hovering, worried face. “Hello,” she greeted him, trying to
remember where they were and what was going on.
“How do you feel, Aeryn?” he asked in a low whisper.
“I feel fine.” Aeryn tried to sit up and immediately revised her assessment. Every bit of her body from her
armpits to her knees hurt. “What happened?”
“You got shot aboard the command carrier.” D’Argo held a flask for her, helping her drink. “Do you
remember?”
Crichton’s scream of rage and anguish ringing in the background, pulse weapons fire, Gallenn pulling her up
while pressing against an agony in her side, a blade glinting for a microt in the lights of the hangar before John
went after the next soldier. John’s sleepy smile turning to something uncertain and haunted at her unthinking
remark. Lying next to him, both injured but safe. Pilot’s calm voice, the thump that meant they were home,
D’Argo’s familiar bass growl entering the cockpit, harmonizing with Chiana’s louder shriek of dismay.
“Yes. I remember now.” She looked left and right, spotting the empty medbed next to hers. “Where’s
Crichton? I want to see him.” D’Argo looked uncomfortable, and she clung to his hand as her unthinking
comment and his look of discomfort recreated that hideous day when she’d learned that John had been
captured on the Gammak Base.
“What happened? He was on the ship. He wasn’t hurt that badly. Where is he?” she asked more stridently.
D’Argo’s placating gestures slowed then stilled her anxious demands.
“That’s why I woke you, Aeryn. You need to rest and heal, but we need your help with John.” D’Argo slid an
arm behind her shoulders and helped her sit up, steadying her when she swayed and almost fell back.
Aeryn grabbed on to D’Argo’s arm as the room spun end for end, the whirling only increasing when she shut
her eyes. She took several deep breaths, willing it to stop, and after five or six more revolutions everything
settled down. “How long have we been here?”
“Only six arns. Jool treated your injuries, but you shouldn’t be walking yet. I’m going to carry you to where John
is.” He steadied her as she slid her legs over the edge of the bed. “Jool got the bleeding to stop and sealed
the wounds, but the pulse blast shattered the armor in the jacket. The fragments were what injured you.”
“I remember that part. What about John? What’s the matter?” she demanded.
* * * * *
D’Argo set Aeryn down next to where Chiana and Rygel waited outside the door to the maintenance bay,
holding on to her until she seemed steady on her feet. “Has there been any change?” he asked, triggering a
fast headshake from the nebari.
Chiana crouched down and eased to one side, peering into the maintenance bay with her head cocked to one
side. “He hasn’t moved since he yelled at me to get out.”
“He’s just sitting there like a stunned flibisk,” Rygel observed. “I think he’s lost what’s left of his mind.” D’Argo
tried to slap the Dominar, and he swerved out of range.
“What’s wrong with him?” Chiana demanded more insistently. “Crichton’s been injured before. He never acted
like this. You’d think someone he cared about died aboard that carrier the way he’s acting.”
“John is going to need time, Chiana” Aeryn cautioned, thinking that perhaps someone had died aboard that
carrier. The person they all knew as John Crichton might have been fatally wounded by what he’d been put
through. The exterior looked the same, but they would have to wait and see how the person inside had fared.
She tried to reassure the others despite her own concern. “It’s still John, but things didn’t go the way we’d
expected.”
“When do they ever?” Chiana fired back.
Aeryn touched one gray shoulder for a microt, offering some sympathy, then walked slowly and carefully into
the large chamber. The short walk from the door to where Crichton was sitting used up almost every bit of
strength available, providing an insight into how tiring that run from the cell to the hangar must have been for
him. She took several deep breaths, thumbed some sweat off her forehead, and slid down to sit on the floor,
her back against the side of a workbench.
According to D’Argo, John had been sitting in this one spot for over four arns, unwilling to talk to anyone, and
becoming violent when they’d tried to move him by force. He had stayed in the medical chamber long enough
to make sure she was going to be all right, and for Jool to confirm that the impact of the pulse blast had broken
several of the bones in his shoulder, but had come here to hide from his friends before they could treat his
injuries.
John had chosen to sit in a poorly lit corner of the maintenance bay. Why he’d come to this particular chamber
she didn’t know, unless it was the fact that it was quiet and secluded here. He was resting the side of his head
against his left hand, and his entire body was weaving slightly despite the fact that he was leaning against the
wall. They’d told her that he hadn’t slept yet, and it looked like the last of the boosters had worn off. As she
watched, his head started to drop, only to have it come back up with a jerk.
He’d managed to get a shirt on over the bulk of his trapped right arm, which remained secured inside the
bandages, but his jacket was lying askew across his shoulders as though he’d tried to get inside it and couldn’t
manage. Sloppy, disheveled, hair standing on end -- it was the John Crichton she’d missed for two cycles, and
she wanted to hug him until whatever was bothering him went away.
“What’s going on John?” she asked, taking a direct approach.
He swiveled his eyes to look at her, which was more than anyone else had gotten out of him so far. “You doin’
okay?” he asked, his voice rasping and hoarse.
“I’ll be fine. I need a few solar days rest, but everything will heal.” John nodded and went back to staring at the
floor. “John, let Jool do something about your shoulder.” He closed his eyes and slowly shook his head.
Aeryn thought about how much it must hurt despite the tight restriction of the bandages, and remembered part
of a conversation that had taken place aboard the small rhotarri-equipped ship. She got to her feet, waited
several microts for the dizziness to fade, then tottered over to where he was sitting. He moved over when she
indicated she wanted to sit to his left, giving her room to slide down between him and the wall. She took a
moment to pull his jacket into place on his shoulders, taking care with the damaged one, then let herself down
beside him.
“Something hurts,” she tried, hoping he’d understand that she wasn’t referring to his body. He nodded. “What
hurts so much that you want to feel the pain of broken bones to cover it up?”
He didn’t answer. Aeryn went back to thinking about the past few days. If he was already facing up to one
particular trauma, he would need to broach the topic himself. But her experience with him said that he wasn’t
dealing with the memories of Grayza yet -- it was much too soon to expect him to be working his way through
that particular problem.
“Please.” She laid the single word out slowly, using the small syllable that he had taught her so much about.
“Tell me what this is about.”
They sat together silently for almost a quarter of an arn before he rubbed his face and straightened up slightly.
“Your stealth suit,” he started, the words dragging as though each one was going to be the last.
“What about it?” she urged when he had been quiet for too long.
“How does it work?” His eyes flicked toward her once and then focused on the floor again.
“I put it on, flip a switch and it works. If people still see me, I take it off, give it to a technical expert and ask him
to fix it. That’s how it works.” It drew a tiny smile out of him, but it didn’t look like he’d been amused. “It has
something to do with taking incoming light from one side, routing it through the fibers and then projecting it out
the opposite side of the suit. How it keeps track of different objects surrounding it or takes care of the
irregularities, I don’t know.”
He fidgeted uncomfortably, taking nearly thirty microts before asking, “How effective is it?”
Aeryn studied him, watching for the small muscle movements that might help her understand why he was asking
these questions. “It depends on the environment. Dim lights and a complex background work the best
because the residual distortions won’t show up. Getting caught in good lighting against an even background is
the worst possible situation.” She got the expected nod, and then there was nothing more.
She shifted, pressing her forearm gently against her side in an attempt to ease the increasing ache. He’d
asked about the suit. It was the only thing he’d offered to talk about so she had to assume it was connected to
whatever was bothering him. It wasn’t in John’s nature to attack an issue straight on, so she started at the
moment when he’d been dragged off their ship and began searching for the moment that might explain his
deep depression. She found such a moment and had to swallow hard to keep the bile from rising in her throat.
Aeryn turned away from watching John and rested her head against her right hand, propping her elbow against
a knee. Four deep breaths helped her get a tiny grip on her emotions, but not enough to actually say
something to him. She shifted her gaze in hesitant stages until she was looking at him. John was shaking and
there was a gleaming trickle running down his cheek, the first break in his self-control.
“You saw me,” she forced the words out one by one.
John opened his mouth but no sound came out. He tried again. “Yes.” The whisper was barely audible.
She’d been so sure that it was a coincidence, a quirk of timing and a roll of his head. But she’d been standing
in bright lights against a solid background, just as she had explained to him several microts ago. This was why
she’d decided not to kill Grayza, the single critical reason why she hadn’t revealed herself inside those
quarters, and he’d already seen her by that point. No explanation from her could hope to relieve the agony
caused by his knowing she had watched, but she tried anyway.
“I came in there because I thought I might get a chance to say something to you … to let you know that I was
close to getting you free. I had no idea that was going to happen.”
John nodded, looking closer to a complete emotional breakdown than before. He started to say something
three times without a sound emerging and then suddenly smashed his left hand against his right shoulder,
deliberately pummeling the broken bones.
“Don’t!” she yelled, catching his hand on the way to another blow. “Don’t do that, John,” she pleaded. “I didn’t
mean to watch; I didn’t want to. I wouldn’t have … I never would have if there had been a choice.”
“I know that,” he admitted, his voice shaking with something far more painful than what he’d just done to
himself. “I had to say what I did, Aeryn. There was no other choice. I couldn’t help it.”
“You’re upset about what you told Grayza?” she asked, relief and shock combining to turn into something that
felt a little bit like hysteria. “The part about ‘the bitch took off’ and that you didn’t love me anymore?”
“I had to make myself believe it. She would have made me tell her that you were on the carrier.” His upper
body was leaping and twitching as the shaking accelerated, mixing with his fatigue to create a horrible dance of
uncontrolled muscles.
“John, I knew you didn’t mean it. It doesn’t matter,” she sighed in sympathy. She worked her fingers between
his and hung on to his hand, leaning down to kiss his knuckles. He tried to pull away, but she held on to him.
“John, she was using heppel oil on you. Until today I would have sworn that it was impossible to lie under its
influence. If that’s what it took to trick her, then it was the right thing to do.” She rubbed her thumb across the
back of his hand, the strongest caress she could provide at that moment.
“But then you were right there, and I had to believe it anyway, but she was doing … that … at the same time,
and I didn’t have a choice.” He pulled his hand loose, but only so he could prop his head against it, curling his
body around his trapped arm. “And I knew you were standing there, and I had to say it to you as well … and
believe what I was saying.”
She saw that this was more than guilt over his words. This was an unsustainable level of confusion and mixed
feelings on his part. “Look at me, John.” He turned his head to the side without hesitation, still resting it against
his hand but facing her. Aeryn rubbed her fingers against his temple for several microts, secretly pleased that
he would even let her touch him after what he’d been through. He was going to pieces before her eyes, his
emotions, thoughts, and physical reactions all becoming increasingly erratic as he finally released the nearly
psychotic level of control he’d been exerting ever since he’d been captured.
“You must be angry at me too,” she suggested, knowing that the emotions were there, even if he
wasn’t addressing them.
“Yes. No. I don’t know.” He shook his head against his hand. She waited to see if the repressed feelings
would make their way out. “I … wanted you to go away. To just not be there. But to answer Grayza I had to
make you not be there. But you were.” The fragments of explanations grew shorter and jerkier as he worked
himself down to a dazed silence, broken only by the chattering of his teeth as his depleted body shivered and
jerked.
Aeryn spent several microts trying to decipher the mixture of guilt, anger, and humiliation that she knew he must
be experiencing at that moment, looking for the best way to help him set it aside until he’d had some rest. The
complexities defeated her, leaving her no choice but to trust her instincts.
“Why are you sitting here … in this particular spot?” she tried.
“I feel … ” Whatever he’d intended to say got stuck. “I don’t want to be around anyone.”
“What about me?”
“You either.” The sullen, angry answer echoed once in the large bay. “But I don’t want you to leave,” he
contradicted himself. John laid his head on his knees, looking away from her, continuing to shiver. “It hurt so
much to say those things. You should hate me for saying them.”
He was punishing himself, or at least trying to, she finally realized. The untreated injuries, the seclusion,
staying awake -- every action was designed to exact a payment for something that had been beyond his
control. She brushed her fingers across the back of his head in a light caress, generating an enormous
lurching jerk from John.
“The words didn’t matter. I had the proof right in front of me that you didn’t believe it. Do you understand
that? The words didn’t matter, John. I was listening to what you were doing in order to keep me safe, not what
you were saying.” He nodded, and she watched the quivering in the slumped shoulders spread to his entire
body. He was far beyond exhaustion, his ability to form a rational thought destroyed by the abuse, the drugs,
and the injuries. “You did not betray me in any way, John Crichton.”
His shaking was getting worse, compounding by the microt. “I can’t move, John. Come here.” He looked
around to see what she wanted, then leaned carefully to the side in response to her gestured invitation,
lowering himself into her lap. She pulled him more firmly against her, helping him get settled.
“Is it over?” he asked in a whisper.
She had to think for a moment before realizing what he was asking. What she had been forced to do aboard
the carrier had been simple compared to his role, with none of the thought scrambling confusion caused by
exhaustion or the heppel oil. She tried to put herself in his place, and discovered that it was easy to be patient
with his illogical need for reassurance. “Yes, it’s over,” she told him, slowly stroking his cheek.
“Wasn’t a walk in the park for you,” he whispered as though reading her thoughts, his voice guttural with
unshed tears. “Had to do some tough things.” His left hand was slowly stroking her leg, the only spot he could
reach in his current position.
“I’d just spent almost an entire cycle looking for you, John Crichton, I wasn’t about to quit on you. I made you a
promise that I’d get you out if you hung on. You kept your end of the bargain.”
Something else was starting to happen, his breaths growing longer and longer, each one released in a series
of jerks and shudders. She looked down at him, and withheld any comment about the tears or the escalating
sobs.
There were unaccustomed phrases begging to be spoken. Short assurances like, ‘It’s going to be all right’, and
‘We’re going to get over this’, but this flood of uncontrolled emotions wasn’t like John, and something as small
as a sympathetic comment would very likely interrupt the release. She bent over him, hugging him tighter.
“Is it over?” he asked again.
“Yes, it’s over.”
There was a quiet shuffle to her right. D’Argo eased carefully into the maintenance bay to check on them,
Gallenn behind him, and she gave them a nearly imperceptible shake of her head. D’Argo nodded and they
backed away. John’s breathing grew less strained, the fit of crying passing gradually.
“More injuries than usual … even for us,” she suggested in a hushed voice.
He squirmed against her, somehow getting his head down far enough that he could wipe his eyes with the
portion of shirt covering his right hand. “Jool fixed you up, my shoulder will heal,” he observed when he’d
finished.
“Those aren’t the injuries I was talking about.” He nodded against her, the motion turning into a headshake
halfway though. “Give it time, John. It’s going to take time.”
“Okay,” he whispered. “Aeryn?” He was starting to shake again.
“It’s over,” she assured him before he could repeat the question. He nodded against her, and covered his face
with his free hand so she couldn’t see that he was crying. The shuddering, gasping breaths served to give him
away instead. She waited patiently, doing nothing more than slowly fingering his hair, and shortly after the
sobbing stopped, he finally fell asleep.
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
