Whispers
Chapter 2
Crichton straightened his legs, stretched for a moment to restore the circulation, and then laboriously tucked
his feet under his thighs again. He squirmed in place for nearly ten microts in a vain attempt to get the heavy
leather to stop creasing in several exceedingly uncomfortable places. It didn’t help. After one more futile effort
to ease the pinching grasp of his pants, he gave up, reconciling himself to the non-damaging discomfort for as
long as it took to complete their negotiations.
The meeting place they’d been escorted to had turned out to be nothing like the conference room he had been
half-expecting. Despite his three cycles living in the Uncharted Territories, he retained a tendency to envision
Earth-type situations whenever he was proceeding into an unknown situation. As usual, he’d had to cover up a
fast mental scramble when they had been ushered into a shady circular depression surrounded by thick walls
of shrubbery, and had been invited by gesture to take their places in the ‘chairs’ arranged there.
Although they were barely five motras from one of the primary streets of the station, all but the loudest noises
were muffled by the dense growth surrounding them, letting through only a hushed undercurrent of the tuneful
hvisk chattering. D’Argo’s low growl of disgust carried easily across the quiet enclosure. John smothered a
laugh. The luxan fit into the furniture even worse than he did.
The hvisk seating was nothing more than a round cushioned platform with a depression in the middle, which sat
on a half-motra high pedestal. Their hosts were far more limber than either humans or luxans. The hvisk
simply backed into the seats until the forward edge caught them behind their knees, and then sank gracefully
into the cushions. They tucked their feet in close to their bellies, and then arranged the draped folds of their
robes to hide everything but their clawed toes.
John had chosen to get into his seat by launching himself backward with a moderate sized hop. Once situated
in the center of the cushion, he had tried letting his feet hang off the front edge, only to have the raised lip
knock him over backwards into an undignified sprawl. In the end, he had chosen to sit in the center with his
legs crossed, feeling very much like a solitary bit of food in the center of a large saucer. Rygel had it easy. He
had simply grounded his throne sled in the middle of his seat, and then watched with sardonic humor while
D’Argo circled his chair several times considering his options. Eventually, D’Argo had shucked his Qualta
blade, laid it near the pedestal base of his seat, and let himself down into the padding with all the control and
grace of a swooning sheyang.
“Any idea what’s going on, Rygel?” John asked. They had been sitting in various levels of discomfort for almost
an arn, during which very little had happened. The hvisk nodded and sang to them from time to time, made
small pushing motions that seemed to ask them to wait, and that was the extent of it. There had been no other
form of communication or negotiations so far.
“I leave the musical portions of entertainment to my palace musicians,” the deposed Dominar said.
“I do not claim to understand these individuals.”
“I thought you were the great negotiator,” D’Argo said, challenging the hynerian. “So negotiate.”
“One needs a second party in order to begin such a discussion,” Rygel said. “So far they are only interested in
sitting and chirping.”
Two additional hvisk entered the meeting area. They stood behind the other three for several microts, peered
at the visitors, and then left. It was the third time they had been surveyed in this manner and Crichton was
beginning to feel uneasy. The sensation of being sized up as a meal was growing more pronounced with each
inspection.
“Why are they looking at us like that?” he whispered to his comrades. They were being scrutinized yet again.
“They aren’t looking at us,” Rygel said, stressing the ‘us’. “They are staring at you.”
“They’re looking at all of us. They’re probably trying to figure out how bad you would taste or what’s supposed
to go with Cajun Hynerian Gumbo.”
The latest set of visitors chirped at the three seated hvisk, bowed once and left. John admitted to himself that
all of the stares did seem to be aimed specifically in his direction but chalked it up to the fact that he was sitting
between D’Argo and Rygel.
“As though you’re a better catch. Rack of Erp-man,” Rygel shot back.
“How much longer will this take?” D’Argo demanded of the hvisk, drowning out the beginnings of a spat between
his crewmates.
Heads bodded, eyes creased into hvisk smiles, they were treated to a three-part harmony of untranslatable
explanations, and nothing more happened.
“Perhaps there is some sort of ceremony of which we are unaware that is required in order to initiate these
proceedings,” Rygel tried. He received an almost identical response except that all of the hvisk heads swiveled
from side to side instead of bouncing up and down.
“I wonder if the girls are having the same problem,” John said. He leaned down to talk into the comms clipped
to his belt, trying to keep the communication somewhat private. “Chiana. Jool. How you ladies doing?”
“Aside from Miss Money-Bags trying to pay three times as much as necessary for everything, we’re doing
great,” Chiana’s voice answered cheerfully. Jool’s outraged response to the accusation could be heard
screeching in the background. “And this is drad, Crichton! They can pump the iriscentant fluid right into
Moya. We don’t have to transfer it barrel by barrel.” There was a short pause as a hvisk trilled in the
background, followed by, “No, that’s too much just to hook up a frelling hose! Try again, Bugle Beak.”
“You have any trouble getting them to start the bargaining, Chi?” John leaned closer to his comms, wondering
about the acuity of hvisk hearing.
“They launched in almost before we could sit down.” Chiana broke into laughter. “You should have seen Jool
trying to get herself in one of their seats.” There was another strident shriek of interion outrage in the
background accompanied by a rippling series of random notes that John decided might be hvisk laughter. It
sounded as though the other bargaining party was having a hell of a good time.
“What means are they using to conduct the bargaining?” Rygel demanded loudly over his own comms.
“They have data displays. It’s slow, but not very complicated. We tell them what we want and how much, and
then they show us a price. Then we refuse to pay that much currency.” The trilling hvisk laughter said that
they weren’t offended by the blunt description. “How you comin’?”
“A whole lot slower. Let us know when you’re headed back to Moya.” John waited until he heard the comms
close then straightened up to face their team of bargainers. “How about we get started?” he asked, focusing
on the center of the three individuals. It beamed at him, bowed, and that was the end of the response.
“I give up. Must be my deodorant or something.” John unwound his legs, rolled to the edge of his seat and
flipped his legs over the side. He perched there until some of the circulation began returning to his feet.
“We’re still interested in some information if you folks want to deal. Give our pilot a holler if you’d like to … talk,”
he ended lamely.
“John. A little help,” D’Argo asked, extending a hand. Planting both feet firmly to prevent himself from getting
jerked into the seat on top of D’Argo, John grabbed the offered wrist and pulled the luxan upright. When they
turned around, the three hvisk were out of their chairs and were blocking the exit. They clasped and unclasped
their hands and kept bowing, looking nervous, and refused to move aside.
Crichton approached them, anger stirring for the first time. “Look … Guys! You don’t want to bargain. You
don’t want to explain. You don’t want us to leave. You’ve got a nice setup here, but fish or cut bait.”
“Crichton!” D’Argo’s growling censure told him he had exceeded the limits of translator microbes.
“Either start dealing or get out of the way,” he tried again. The situation took on a surreal quality. Their hosts
continued to block the exit, obviously apologizing but refusing to move. John put his hand on the butt of his
pulse pistol and glanced to make sure D’Argo was beside him, thinking they might have to force their way out of
the enclosure. Just as he was releasing the latch holding Winona in place, a fourth hvisk scuttled in, glanced at
the tension-filled group, and stepped close to sing to the others. All four hvisk stepped aside.
“We can leave,” Rygel translated.
“No kidding, Guido. Very perceptive.” The Dominar soared past him without his usual acerbic response.
“Where you headed?” John called after him.
“A community this large is sure to have acquired some marjoules in their travels,” Rygel called back. The
throne sled accelerated over the heads of the crowds in the central artery. A microt later, Rygel disappeared
from sight.
“Now what?” D’Argo asked. They were working their way through the steady streams of pedestrians.
“I don’t know.” They had been counting on someone aboard the Kyelligg knowing where Scorpius’ Command
Carrier and its associated fleet were located, based on the assumption that a trading society of this size would
stumble across the information at some point in their many transactions. “I guess we wait for Crais to get back
and see if he’s located Scorpy and his mindless minions.” They worked their way around the perimeter of a
small lake, dodging smaller hvisk who were warbling and scampering about through the crowds. “You ever
been aboard a ship like this?” Crichton asked, gesturing toward the strip of parkland surrounding the lake.
“Not one this big. Some luxan ships are large enough to use variable gravity fields, but we don’t have anything
big enough to utilize plants for atmospheric replenishment.”
“Budgies,” John commented, pointing to a flock of almost thirty small hvisk, each no more than a motra tall.
Except for their size, the youngsters differed from the adults only in that their crests were more vivid. The
bright, nearly fluorescent colors merged into a huge psychedelic wave that shifted and flowed as the children
milled about under the watchful eyes of four adults.
“Buj-jies?” D’Argo tried to mimic the word.
“Budgies. It’s a type of bird on Earth. They don’t look like them really, but they’re kind of … You know what?
Forget it. It doesn’t matter.” For once it didn’t seem worth the effort to explain the odd association his mind had
made between a small colorful bird and the flock of sentient creatures flowing around their legs. That lack of
enthusiasm had been happening to him more frequently with each passing day, compounding each time Aeryn
went out of her way to avoid talking to him or looked away when he resorted to comparing some bit of trivia to
his life on Earth.
John stopped walking long enough to allow the mass of children to flood around them on their way toward the
lake. Their ‘voices’ -- or what passed for voices -- were as undeveloped as a human child’s. In a group, they
sounded like an untrained orchestra made up entirely of kazoos. One diminutive hvisk, smaller than all the
rest, stopped long enough to look up at Crichton. It tooted earnestly at him for several microts. “Get movin’,
scooter,” he told it. “You’re getting left behind.” It squawked one more note at him, swerved past his legs, and
disappeared after its companions.
“If you’re finished, could we go back to Moya now?” D’Argo grumbled, but not without humor.
John motioned him forward. With D’Argo leading, they started to cut across the expansive primary arm of the
station, headed for where they’d come aboard from Moya. A knot of more than twenty adult hvisk suddenly
coalesced to D’Argo’s right, sweeping toward him at a brisk pace, the individuals in the group bumping into
each other as well as jostling and shoving the luxan as they moved past. He stepped out of the tangle of
pale-robed bodies, hissing with irritation at their behavior.
“The entire frelling walkway and they have to run us over,” he complained. He waited for John’s reply,
expecting another of his untranslatable comparisons to Earth. There was no response. D’Argo turned to see
what bit of trivia John was marveling at this time.
He was alone amidst hundreds of the Kyelligg’s inhabitants. Crichton was gone.
* * * * *
Aeryn scrambled up one of Moya's oval-holed ladders, squeezed through an opening at the top, and perched a
hip on the four-dench wide lip that ran along the wall, bracing herself between the flange and the ladder in
order to remain in place. Two DRDs were already in the confined work area, clinging to the ceiling on either
side of a biomechanoid valve. They swiveled their eyestalks in her direction and chirped a short greeting.
“Pilot, I’m in place,” she called. The leviathan’s systems for taking on fluid supplies had been used so seldom
over the last cycles that the valve had become stuck, exceeding the capacity of either Moya or the DRDs to get
it open. Pilot’s tentative request for assistance had interrupted nothing more important than a non-stop pacing
of the tiers. Even working on a simple task such as this gave her something else to think about other than the
scores of memories she didn’t want to revisit.
“It will be several more microts before they are ready aboard the station,” Pilot commed back. “Will you be able
to wait there?”
“It’s a little cramped, but I’m fine here. Let me know when it needs to be opened.” Aeryn shifted in the small
opening, finally choosing to rest her butt on the narrow shelf and jam both feet against the ladder in an attempt
to get comfortable. Her thoughts wandered back to the exchange that had taken place half an arn earlier. Her
route to this spot had taken her past Naj Gil’s cell. She had paused long enough to confirm that he was still
incarcerated and that the door was securely locked, and then had begun to walk away.
“Allow me to assist in some way,” he had called after her. “There must be some task I can perform that would
benefit ship or crew.”
She had stopped with her back turned to him, unwilling to even look at a member of the species that had tried
to acquire wormhole technology, leading to a sacrifice she could not justify. “Let a scarran wander around
Moya unwatched. I don’t think so.”
“My life depends on your survival,” he had argued. “We are deep within Peacekeeper territory. If I am
recaptured, my death will be neither pleasant nor quick.” She had heard him moving behind her, coming to the
bars of the cell. “It would not be in my best interest to sabotage this ship or harm its inhabitants.”
A DRD nudged her shoulder, bringing Aeryn out of her brief reverie. “Officer Sun!” Pilot called. From the mild
distress in his tone, it was obvious that he had tried to get her attention more than once.
“I’m here, Pilot.”
“They are ready aboard the Kyelligg. Please open the valve no more than half way. Moya has not used these
fluid conduits since she escaped from the Peacekeepers. I cannot be entirely certain that there are no fissures
in the lines.”
Aeryn reached over her head, took a firm grip on the valve’s handle, and tugged. She had expected that a
sharp yank would break it free: a motion requiring more force than a DRD could muster but nothing especially
strenuous. The valve didn’t budge. She moved her feet up a rung, grabbed the lever with both hands and
heaved at it with her entire body weight. It jerked open half a dench. “Pilot, how far does this need to move in
order to be half open?”
“From full recess to pointing straight down,” the voice responded. It had another ten or twelve denches to go
before it reached that point.
“Frell … ing … scut … work,” she grunted in rhythm with each heave on the lever. It crawled toward its
destination and she could hear the first trickles of fluid crawling down the leviathan’s internal piping.
“Iriscentant fluid?” she asked in time with her battle against the recalcitrant mechanism.
“Followed by a chemical nutrient slurry that Moya finds useful in the growth of new hull components; and thirdly,
a liquid compound that will be converted into a nutrient mix for my own sustenance,” he replied. “Chiana and
Jool have bargained successfully for all items requested by Moya.” The normally placid voice sounded ecstatic
with pleasure and she expended several microts wondering how long a leviathan could survive without
replenishing certain substances necessary for internal functions.
“New hull components,” Aeryn repeated, taking a break to catch her breath. “As in --”
“As in growing new tiers, Officer Sun,” he answered, sounding surprised by her inquiry. “Moya’s size is not
finite. She is still young.”
Aeryn smiled at the dark, nearly black walls around her, patted the leviathan’s inner hull briefly, and returned to
her labor, gradually yanking the valve open to the prescribed limit. “Is that enough, Pilot?” she called at last.
“Yes. It will take longer to complete the loading, but until the DRDs check for leaks, this is an adequate rate of
flow.”
Aeryn leaned back and watched four DRDs gather around the valve. Small picks, probes, and tightly confined
laser beams were plied, beginning the slow task of removing the build up of cycles in order to free the frozen
mechanism. It was peaceful in the small enclosure. The quiet rush of fluids persuaded her to relax for the first
time in several solar days. She shifted to one side where the ledge wasn’t as narrow, made herself more
comfortable, and thought back to the end of her exchange with Naj Gil.
“It would not be in my best interest to sabotage this ship or harm its inhabitants.” The scarran’s claim echoed in
her mind. She had started to turn around to face him, intending to say something to the effect that his race had
already damaged one member of the crew irreparably, and the mere thought of voicing that sentiment had set
loose a wave of anger she hadn’t suspected was hiding inside. She had bitten down on the remark, seeing the
futility in voicing the accusation. The anger had receded, leaving her chilled but in control.
Naj Gil had waited at the door to the cell, his breath growling behind her, his strength forfeited to the
Peacekeeper surgery and more recent wounds. He was a neutered specimen, worthy of nothing more than her
distain and a reasonable amount of caution. “No,” she had answered with finality, and stalked off without
sparing him an additional glance.
“Pilot! Aeryn!” D’Argo’s alarmed transmission echoed in the confined space. “Crichton’s disappeared.”
Aeryn closed her eyes and shook her head in disgust, thinking of the number of times over the past cycles that
he had gotten separated from them or had simply wandered off while gawking at the scenery on the dullest of
commerce planets. Crichton disappearing was a definition of his character.
“This would not be the first time Commander Crichton became lost or got separated from the rest of you.”
Pilot’s enigmatic response gave voice to Aeryn’s private thoughts. “Is there something more remarkable about
this event that we do not understand?”
“I don’t mean he disappeared, I mean he has been abducted. He was right next to me and then we were
surrounded by hvisk, and when they moved away he was gone. They’ve taken him.”
“This is ridiculous, D’Argo,” Aeryn called back. She was unwilling to believe that the entirely apolitical
inhabitants of the Kyelligg would compromise their neutrality by doing what D’Argo was describing. She began
making her way down the ladder. “He probably just went to look at something. The hvisk would not --”
“AERYN!!” The angry bellow generated a squealing complaint from the comms. “I cannot see or smell him. He
has disappeared. Stop arguing and get to the Den. Pilot! Ask Moya to scan the station for lifesigns. A human
should stand out against these creatures. Find him!”
The desperation and fury in his voice cut through the disbelief, slicing deep into something raw and hurtful
inside. An expanding knot in her stomach reminded her of what it felt like to look at the sightless eyes of a
dead John Crichton. She clung to the ladder for a microt, hands and feet suddenly numb, her grip on the rungs
jeopardized by the lack of feeling.
“Pil--” Her first call to the symbiote rasped and cracked into whispering silence. She cleared her throat and
tried again, all the while scrambling down the ladder at high speed. “Pilot, begin the scans. I’m on my way.”
She abandoned the rung-by-rung descent, shifted both hands and feet to the outside of the ladder’s frame,
pressed inwards, and slid the final fifteen motras to the bottom of the shaft.
She reached the next lower tier at the same time that D’Argo was calling to Jool and Chiana. She stumbled and
fell to one knee from the force of her landing, staggered back to her feet, and began to run. The two women
answered, saying that they were approaching the hatch and would hurry to reach the safety of Moya. Rygel
was complaining at length about an abandoned meal of marjoules, but behind the griping was the high-pitched
scream of a throne sled moving at its maximum velocity. Rygel had already begun an aerial search pattern for
their missing crewmate.
“D’Argo!” she yelled, rounding the corner into the Den. “How far are you from the docking hatch? I’ll get the
scans from Pilot and meet you there!”
“I can be there in --” The next sound wasn’t a word. It was a long, drawn-out snarl of frustration.
After three cycles of living shoulder to shoulder with D’Argo and getting to know how he reacted to most
situations, interpreting the sound was a simple matter. He would have already spent precious microts
searching for John, using both sight and smell in an attempt to locate him, and had probably lost track of his
location. He would be turning left and right, scanning his surroundings, tanktas and braids flying, trying to
figure out how long it would take him to reach the docking hatch. The remainder of his message was bellowed
at a volume that suggested he was trying to talk to her without the benefit of the comms.
“-- in one hundred microts!”
Aeryn crossed the span to Pilot’s station at a pace barely short of hazardous. Pilot’s arms were flying:
controlling the ship’s sensors, gathering the sheaves of transparent schematics, adjusting the comms, and
searching through the readouts all at the same time. Eyes bulging, mouth gaping open as he worked, he didn’t
spare her so much as a glance when she came to a halt before him.
“Keep looking for him,” Aeryn called to D’Argo. “Pilot hasn’t located him yet.” Another growling snarl said that
he had been headed for the hatch and was reversing course again. “Wait!” she transmitted a microt later. The
back and forth decisions were almost certainly pushing the luxan toward the uncontrollable onset of hyper-
rage. She ignored the possibility and concentrated on Pilot. He was staring at a single flimsy printout, nodding
ponderously. “Pilot’s got him,” she said, interpreting Pilot’s stare. “I’ll be there in two … make that three
hundred microts.”
Aeryn scrambled up onto the consoles. Kneeling beside Pilot, she watched without comment as he laid out a
series of more than twenty schematics. One claw was devoted to tracing the path she would have to follow
through the Kyelligg to reach a small blip with a red marker next to it. She began tracing the route with a finger,
shook her head when she lost her way, and he showed her a second time.
“Got it.” She confirmed the route a second time, preferring to take the extra microts if it meant she wouldn’t get
lost once she was aboard the Kyelligg, and then stacked the flimsy transparencies in the order she would need
them. “Chiana!”
“Right here, right here.” The breathless nebari ran into the Den carrying a pulse rifle. Aeryn snatched it out of
her hands, didn’t bother to apologize for the hasty grab, and bolted out of the chamber.
A single DRD whined slowly out of the dark behind Pilot. It came to rest next to one of his elbows. The
eyestalks swiveled back and forth, alternately scanning the drooping, motionless armored head of Pilot, and the
gray, panting figure that was bent over with its hands on its knees. “Frell,” Chiana said on a deep breath. She
straightened up and looked at the empty doorway where Aeryn had disappeared. “Not Crichton. Not again.
And the hvisk seemed so nice.”
* * * * *
D’Argo was barely aware of the quiet chirp of the comms channel closing. Too much of his attention was
consumed by the combination of concern for Crichton and the impossible task of containing a mounting
anxiety-generated rage. The two feelings intertwined and goaded him closer and closer to an uncontrollable,
mindless outburst. He snarled at a passing hvisk, startling the inoffensive creature into a hurried retreat, and
then turned toward the docking hatch and began to run, weaving between groups of startled hvisk and shoving
others aside in his haste. The motion and effort felt good; energy flowed freely, redoubling until he was barging
through even the densest of crowds as though no one were in his way, leaving a squawking, hooting trail of
upset citizens in his wake.
Aeryn emerged from the floor-mounted door just as he approached the hatch. She made the odd transition in
a single leap, obviously familiar with the gravitational shift. There was one fast, snapping shake of her head to
help her adjust to her new orientation, and then she brushed impatiently past the worried luxan.
“Left,” she ordered, comparing her surroundings to the top schematic in her hand. “How the frell did he get
separated from you in this place? This station is a child’s playground. No one could get lost in these streets.”
They were moving at a near run through the crowds.
A whine accelerated toward them as they wound through a series of plantings and seating areas. Rygel
descended to join them. “There’s no sign of him.”
Aeryn threw a fast, irritated glance over her shoulder at the hynerian. “Where have you been? Pilot located
him. Haven’t you been listening?”
“I had my comms turned off so I could listen for his voice. I believed D’Argo from the first microt and thought
Crichton might call out for help if he was still able to resist.” Aeryn frowned and started to turn toward him,
flicking an expended schematic in his direction. The Dominar swooped beneath the spinning transparency then
swerved away from her, glowering in return. “Do not be angry at me because you refuse to think of him as
John Crichton. If it were the other one, you would have been on this station in under four microts, ready to
shoot anyone who got in the way of your search.”
D’Argo reached out, snared the throne sled, and hauled it down to waist level against the occupant’s attempts
to escape. “You are not helping, Rygel. Go back to Moya!” His shove sent the chair wobbling three motras
across the narrow alley. It banged into a wall, nearly ejecting Rygel before leveling out. The two soldiers stood
without moving as the throne sled steadied and turned away, carrying the complaining Dominar back the way
they had come.
“Rygel’s right,” Aeryn admitted in a shaking voice. She looked up and down the empty alley as though she
would find Crichton somewhere within its tight confines. “I dismissed what you told us at first, thinking that he
was foolish and irresponsible. I wouldn’t have thought that about --”
“Aeryn!” D’Argo interrupted her hesitant self-recriminations. “There are moments when Rygel is exceptionally
sagacious, displaying the qualities of a great ruler; and there are moments when the little pile of dren is a foul
smelling imbecile. This is one of the latter.” She looked down at the maps in her hand and started to shake her
head. D’Argo tried again. “You need to concentrate on finding John. There will be time to debate this later.
Focus.”
Aeryn took a deep breath, slung the pulse rifle over her shoulder, and used both hands to flip to the next
depiction of the station. She double-checked their position and headed further into the narrowing alley. “How
did he get lost?” she asked over her shoulder, accelerating to a steady jog. The walls were getting further
apart, widening out as they moved toward a cross street.
“He did not get lost. A mob closed in around us for several microts and when it broke up he was gone. I’m sure
they did it deliberately.” Longer legs allowed him to match Aeryn’s pace with a fast walk.
“Why? Why take Crichton? What do they want with him?” Aeryn tossed another transparency aside and
continued her headlong rush, guiding the pair flawlessly into one narrow street after another. They emerged
from one alleyway into another of the main arteries, and D’Argo realized they’d cut from one of the Kyelligg’s
sixteen main branches across to another. He followed her straight across the expanse and entered one of the
arteries that was second in size to the primary arms of the station.
“Left,” Aeryn ordered after several more intersections. She slowed in order to study the readout in her hand,
using her peripheral vision to track D'Argo's progress ahead of her. “Try that opening.” She pointed toward a
pair of open doorways flanked on either side by a small crowd of hvisk. The individuals were wearing the same
pale robes that all hvisk wore, except that in every case they were trimmed with a single bright stripe that
slashed from shoulder to hip along the draped edge. Several whistled at the two intruders who had stopped in
front of the buildings, letting out sharp, disharmonic tones.
D’Argo hesitated, looking back and forth between two adjacent doorways, unsure which one Aeryn had been
indicating. She shoved past him to resume the lead, shouldering aside two adults who moved to block their
way.
“Which way?” D’Argo asked.
Aeryn dropped another schematic; only three remained in her hand. The interior of the building was light and
airy, full of plants and rippling waterfalls that clung magically to the walls, the pleasant hallways packed with
hvisk. Their singing merged into a flowing, harmonious chorus. The two crewmates shoved and bullied their
way through the gathering, D’Argo’s drawn Qualta blade generating stares and nervous shuffles. He pulled at
Aeryn’s shoulder, urging her to let him lead the way through the crowds. “Tell me which way and stay close to
me. I’ll clear a path.”
“The corridor to the right,” she said, studying Moya’s scans. “Hurry, D’Argo. This is taking too long. They’ve
had him too long.” She fell in behind him, stretching to match her strides to his longer paces.
“Hurrying,” he agreed and hoisted the Qualta blade menacingly. The masses parted before him, the larger
hvisk pulling the smaller ones aside and tucking them protectively behind their legs when they spotted the
weapon. “Mothers,” he said suddenly.
“What?”
“These are mothers with their children. The females must have the robes with the trim on them. What kind of
place is this and why have they brought John here?” They paused to look around them, confirming D’Argo’s
suspicions. Every adult had one or more children pulled in tight alongside her legs, black eyes watching with
intense suspicion. The glares followed the two crewmates as they resumed their journey through the corridors.
“Right and then right again,” Aeryn directed, flipping the last map aside. “Start trying rooms on the left.”
They leapfrogged down the hallway, bursting through one doorway after another to the shock of the individuals
inside each room. Squawks and whistles echoed in their wake, heads popping out of the open doors to watch
their progress, crests bristling with either fear or outrage.
“Medical facility,” Aeryn called, running past D’Argo to lunge into the next room. “This is a hospital of some
sort. Why the frell have they brought him here? Was he acting sick?”
“No. He was his usual irritating self. Where is he?” D’Argo yelled in frustration, moving more quickly as each
room yielded only more startled hvisk. “This one’s locked!” He grabbed Aeryn, arresting her dash past him.
Releasing her once she was stopped, he backed to the opposite side of the hallway, got a running start, and
smashed through the door. Aeryn was right on his heels, weapon ready.
The scene inside was peaceful in comparison to their frantic search, the lights dimmed to a calming twilight.
Four older hvisk, all males according to their robes, stood near a control panel covered with illuminated
readouts, looking relaxed and even a little cheerful. The age-faded crests were standing straight up, a jaunty
statement that they were pleased with whatever they were doing, while the black eyes were almost entirely
hidden behind the squinting eyelids that passed for a smile among the inhabitants of the Kyelligg. All four
turned in alarm as the two rescuers stumbled into the room.
The one person who didn’t appear to be enjoying himself was Crichton. He was lying in a larger version of the
hvisk seats, partially curled up, one hand hanging limply over the edge of the surface. Several extra cushions
had been tucked under his knees and around his sides to make him more comfortable in the cup-like bed, but
despite the outward attempt at comfort, his face was pale and sweating, and a complex system of webbing had
him securely netted into place. His head, the focus of whatever they were doing to him, was cradled in a
gleaming white apparatus. One of the hvisk turned away from the weapons, ignoring the threatening postures,
and made an adjustment to the equipment. John’s eyelids fluttered erratically, accompanied by a quiet
complaining sigh.
“Stop what you’re doing!” D’Argo rushed forward to stand between the abductors and his friend.
“Let him go!” Aeryn yelled at the same time. She leveled her rifle at them and stepped up to stand beside
D'Argo. The four beaks began opening and closing in distress, low whistles filling the room in a hair-raising
harmony. Aeryn took two steps back to stand beside Crichton and repeated her demand. "Let him go.
Whatever you’re doing to him, stop it now and release him.”
One of the hvisk crept forward, bobbing up and down, hands turned palm up in front of him as he chirped at
them. The whistles transformed into long, mournful hoots.
Aeryn shook her head, frustration and anger encouraging her to resort to violence. She fought down the urge
and tried again. “I don’t understand you. Release him now.” The hoots increased in volume and frequency.
“Watch them, D’Argo, I’m going to cut him loose.” She turned toward Crichton and the hoots behind her turned
into loud honks of distress.
“What have they done to him?” D’Argo asked over his shoulder. One of the hvisk approached and he snarled
at it, scaring it back toward its companions.
At first she couldn’t see anything to explain John’s pallor and rapid breathing. It wasn’t until she knelt at the
head of the round bed and leaned in close that she saw the source of the problem. Dim light glinted on dozens
of hair-thin wires running into his skull, piercing both skin and bone. They were arranged around his head in
odd groupings that lacked any discernable pattern: six or more here, a scattered collection elsewhere, and
then a tightly bunched concentration somewhere else. There was no way to tell what they were meant to do.
“Get these out of him now!” More bobbing and distressed hooting followed. But the machine went on humming
and John let out another airy cry. “No arguments, no whistles, no dances.” Aeryn stepped forward and placed
the muzzle of her weapon against one of their foreheads. “Let Crichton go.”
D'Argo hissed behind her. She spared him a split-microt glance. He was on one knee next to John, examining
the wires. He got to his feet, a growl of anger emanating from deep within his chest. “I do not recognize any of
this equipment. What do you think they are trying to do?”
Aeryn’s headshake was a brisk left-right snap that didn’t take her eyes off the hvisk for so much as an instant.
She backed away from the group, surveyed the banks of electronics behind them, and then barked an order.
“Either stop this now or step away. I’m going to destroy your machine.”
Four crests drooped; the color faded out of the feathers until they were almost transparent. The hvisk spread
out in front of the consoles, blocking her from firing at the machinery despite their fearful trembling. Aeryn
stepped past them in four long strides, tracing the cabling that ran from where Crichton lay back to a large
panel. “This one,” she determined, charging the pulse rifle.
“Wait, Aeryn!” D’Argo was watching the alarmed hvisk and their increasingly wild gesticulations. They were all
waving toward Crichton, drooping feathers and anxious eyes transmitting distress. “Wait! We don’t know what
it’ll do to --”
Aeryn fired.
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
Chapter 2
Crichton straightened his legs, stretched for a moment to restore the circulation, and then laboriously tucked
his feet under his thighs again. He squirmed in place for nearly ten microts in a vain attempt to get the heavy
leather to stop creasing in several exceedingly uncomfortable places. It didn’t help. After one more futile effort
to ease the pinching grasp of his pants, he gave up, reconciling himself to the non-damaging discomfort for as
long as it took to complete their negotiations.
The meeting place they’d been escorted to had turned out to be nothing like the conference room he had been
half-expecting. Despite his three cycles living in the Uncharted Territories, he retained a tendency to envision
Earth-type situations whenever he was proceeding into an unknown situation. As usual, he’d had to cover up a
fast mental scramble when they had been ushered into a shady circular depression surrounded by thick walls
of shrubbery, and had been invited by gesture to take their places in the ‘chairs’ arranged there.
Although they were barely five motras from one of the primary streets of the station, all but the loudest noises
were muffled by the dense growth surrounding them, letting through only a hushed undercurrent of the tuneful
hvisk chattering. D’Argo’s low growl of disgust carried easily across the quiet enclosure. John smothered a
laugh. The luxan fit into the furniture even worse than he did.
The hvisk seating was nothing more than a round cushioned platform with a depression in the middle, which sat
on a half-motra high pedestal. Their hosts were far more limber than either humans or luxans. The hvisk
simply backed into the seats until the forward edge caught them behind their knees, and then sank gracefully
into the cushions. They tucked their feet in close to their bellies, and then arranged the draped folds of their
robes to hide everything but their clawed toes.
John had chosen to get into his seat by launching himself backward with a moderate sized hop. Once situated
in the center of the cushion, he had tried letting his feet hang off the front edge, only to have the raised lip
knock him over backwards into an undignified sprawl. In the end, he had chosen to sit in the center with his
legs crossed, feeling very much like a solitary bit of food in the center of a large saucer. Rygel had it easy. He
had simply grounded his throne sled in the middle of his seat, and then watched with sardonic humor while
D’Argo circled his chair several times considering his options. Eventually, D’Argo had shucked his Qualta
blade, laid it near the pedestal base of his seat, and let himself down into the padding with all the control and
grace of a swooning sheyang.
“Any idea what’s going on, Rygel?” John asked. They had been sitting in various levels of discomfort for almost
an arn, during which very little had happened. The hvisk nodded and sang to them from time to time, made
small pushing motions that seemed to ask them to wait, and that was the extent of it. There had been no other
form of communication or negotiations so far.
“I leave the musical portions of entertainment to my palace musicians,” the deposed Dominar said.
“I do not claim to understand these individuals.”
“I thought you were the great negotiator,” D’Argo said, challenging the hynerian. “So negotiate.”
“One needs a second party in order to begin such a discussion,” Rygel said. “So far they are only interested in
sitting and chirping.”
Two additional hvisk entered the meeting area. They stood behind the other three for several microts, peered
at the visitors, and then left. It was the third time they had been surveyed in this manner and Crichton was
beginning to feel uneasy. The sensation of being sized up as a meal was growing more pronounced with each
inspection.
“Why are they looking at us like that?” he whispered to his comrades. They were being scrutinized yet again.
“They aren’t looking at us,” Rygel said, stressing the ‘us’. “They are staring at you.”
“They’re looking at all of us. They’re probably trying to figure out how bad you would taste or what’s supposed
to go with Cajun Hynerian Gumbo.”
The latest set of visitors chirped at the three seated hvisk, bowed once and left. John admitted to himself that
all of the stares did seem to be aimed specifically in his direction but chalked it up to the fact that he was sitting
between D’Argo and Rygel.
“As though you’re a better catch. Rack of Erp-man,” Rygel shot back.
“How much longer will this take?” D’Argo demanded of the hvisk, drowning out the beginnings of a spat between
his crewmates.
Heads bodded, eyes creased into hvisk smiles, they were treated to a three-part harmony of untranslatable
explanations, and nothing more happened.
“Perhaps there is some sort of ceremony of which we are unaware that is required in order to initiate these
proceedings,” Rygel tried. He received an almost identical response except that all of the hvisk heads swiveled
from side to side instead of bouncing up and down.
“I wonder if the girls are having the same problem,” John said. He leaned down to talk into the comms clipped
to his belt, trying to keep the communication somewhat private. “Chiana. Jool. How you ladies doing?”
“Aside from Miss Money-Bags trying to pay three times as much as necessary for everything, we’re doing
great,” Chiana’s voice answered cheerfully. Jool’s outraged response to the accusation could be heard
screeching in the background. “And this is drad, Crichton! They can pump the iriscentant fluid right into
Moya. We don’t have to transfer it barrel by barrel.” There was a short pause as a hvisk trilled in the
background, followed by, “No, that’s too much just to hook up a frelling hose! Try again, Bugle Beak.”
“You have any trouble getting them to start the bargaining, Chi?” John leaned closer to his comms, wondering
about the acuity of hvisk hearing.
“They launched in almost before we could sit down.” Chiana broke into laughter. “You should have seen Jool
trying to get herself in one of their seats.” There was another strident shriek of interion outrage in the
background accompanied by a rippling series of random notes that John decided might be hvisk laughter. It
sounded as though the other bargaining party was having a hell of a good time.
“What means are they using to conduct the bargaining?” Rygel demanded loudly over his own comms.
“They have data displays. It’s slow, but not very complicated. We tell them what we want and how much, and
then they show us a price. Then we refuse to pay that much currency.” The trilling hvisk laughter said that
they weren’t offended by the blunt description. “How you comin’?”
“A whole lot slower. Let us know when you’re headed back to Moya.” John waited until he heard the comms
close then straightened up to face their team of bargainers. “How about we get started?” he asked, focusing
on the center of the three individuals. It beamed at him, bowed, and that was the end of the response.
“I give up. Must be my deodorant or something.” John unwound his legs, rolled to the edge of his seat and
flipped his legs over the side. He perched there until some of the circulation began returning to his feet.
“We’re still interested in some information if you folks want to deal. Give our pilot a holler if you’d like to … talk,”
he ended lamely.
“John. A little help,” D’Argo asked, extending a hand. Planting both feet firmly to prevent himself from getting
jerked into the seat on top of D’Argo, John grabbed the offered wrist and pulled the luxan upright. When they
turned around, the three hvisk were out of their chairs and were blocking the exit. They clasped and unclasped
their hands and kept bowing, looking nervous, and refused to move aside.
Crichton approached them, anger stirring for the first time. “Look … Guys! You don’t want to bargain. You
don’t want to explain. You don’t want us to leave. You’ve got a nice setup here, but fish or cut bait.”
“Crichton!” D’Argo’s growling censure told him he had exceeded the limits of translator microbes.
“Either start dealing or get out of the way,” he tried again. The situation took on a surreal quality. Their hosts
continued to block the exit, obviously apologizing but refusing to move. John put his hand on the butt of his
pulse pistol and glanced to make sure D’Argo was beside him, thinking they might have to force their way out of
the enclosure. Just as he was releasing the latch holding Winona in place, a fourth hvisk scuttled in, glanced at
the tension-filled group, and stepped close to sing to the others. All four hvisk stepped aside.
“We can leave,” Rygel translated.
“No kidding, Guido. Very perceptive.” The Dominar soared past him without his usual acerbic response.
“Where you headed?” John called after him.
“A community this large is sure to have acquired some marjoules in their travels,” Rygel called back. The
throne sled accelerated over the heads of the crowds in the central artery. A microt later, Rygel disappeared
from sight.
“Now what?” D’Argo asked. They were working their way through the steady streams of pedestrians.
“I don’t know.” They had been counting on someone aboard the Kyelligg knowing where Scorpius’ Command
Carrier and its associated fleet were located, based on the assumption that a trading society of this size would
stumble across the information at some point in their many transactions. “I guess we wait for Crais to get back
and see if he’s located Scorpy and his mindless minions.” They worked their way around the perimeter of a
small lake, dodging smaller hvisk who were warbling and scampering about through the crowds. “You ever
been aboard a ship like this?” Crichton asked, gesturing toward the strip of parkland surrounding the lake.
“Not one this big. Some luxan ships are large enough to use variable gravity fields, but we don’t have anything
big enough to utilize plants for atmospheric replenishment.”
“Budgies,” John commented, pointing to a flock of almost thirty small hvisk, each no more than a motra tall.
Except for their size, the youngsters differed from the adults only in that their crests were more vivid. The
bright, nearly fluorescent colors merged into a huge psychedelic wave that shifted and flowed as the children
milled about under the watchful eyes of four adults.
“Buj-jies?” D’Argo tried to mimic the word.
“Budgies. It’s a type of bird on Earth. They don’t look like them really, but they’re kind of … You know what?
Forget it. It doesn’t matter.” For once it didn’t seem worth the effort to explain the odd association his mind had
made between a small colorful bird and the flock of sentient creatures flowing around their legs. That lack of
enthusiasm had been happening to him more frequently with each passing day, compounding each time Aeryn
went out of her way to avoid talking to him or looked away when he resorted to comparing some bit of trivia to
his life on Earth.
John stopped walking long enough to allow the mass of children to flood around them on their way toward the
lake. Their ‘voices’ -- or what passed for voices -- were as undeveloped as a human child’s. In a group, they
sounded like an untrained orchestra made up entirely of kazoos. One diminutive hvisk, smaller than all the
rest, stopped long enough to look up at Crichton. It tooted earnestly at him for several microts. “Get movin’,
scooter,” he told it. “You’re getting left behind.” It squawked one more note at him, swerved past his legs, and
disappeared after its companions.
“If you’re finished, could we go back to Moya now?” D’Argo grumbled, but not without humor.
John motioned him forward. With D’Argo leading, they started to cut across the expansive primary arm of the
station, headed for where they’d come aboard from Moya. A knot of more than twenty adult hvisk suddenly
coalesced to D’Argo’s right, sweeping toward him at a brisk pace, the individuals in the group bumping into
each other as well as jostling and shoving the luxan as they moved past. He stepped out of the tangle of
pale-robed bodies, hissing with irritation at their behavior.
“The entire frelling walkway and they have to run us over,” he complained. He waited for John’s reply,
expecting another of his untranslatable comparisons to Earth. There was no response. D’Argo turned to see
what bit of trivia John was marveling at this time.
He was alone amidst hundreds of the Kyelligg’s inhabitants. Crichton was gone.
* * * * *
Aeryn scrambled up one of Moya's oval-holed ladders, squeezed through an opening at the top, and perched a
hip on the four-dench wide lip that ran along the wall, bracing herself between the flange and the ladder in
order to remain in place. Two DRDs were already in the confined work area, clinging to the ceiling on either
side of a biomechanoid valve. They swiveled their eyestalks in her direction and chirped a short greeting.
“Pilot, I’m in place,” she called. The leviathan’s systems for taking on fluid supplies had been used so seldom
over the last cycles that the valve had become stuck, exceeding the capacity of either Moya or the DRDs to get
it open. Pilot’s tentative request for assistance had interrupted nothing more important than a non-stop pacing
of the tiers. Even working on a simple task such as this gave her something else to think about other than the
scores of memories she didn’t want to revisit.
“It will be several more microts before they are ready aboard the station,” Pilot commed back. “Will you be able
to wait there?”
“It’s a little cramped, but I’m fine here. Let me know when it needs to be opened.” Aeryn shifted in the small
opening, finally choosing to rest her butt on the narrow shelf and jam both feet against the ladder in an attempt
to get comfortable. Her thoughts wandered back to the exchange that had taken place half an arn earlier. Her
route to this spot had taken her past Naj Gil’s cell. She had paused long enough to confirm that he was still
incarcerated and that the door was securely locked, and then had begun to walk away.
“Allow me to assist in some way,” he had called after her. “There must be some task I can perform that would
benefit ship or crew.”
She had stopped with her back turned to him, unwilling to even look at a member of the species that had tried
to acquire wormhole technology, leading to a sacrifice she could not justify. “Let a scarran wander around
Moya unwatched. I don’t think so.”
“My life depends on your survival,” he had argued. “We are deep within Peacekeeper territory. If I am
recaptured, my death will be neither pleasant nor quick.” She had heard him moving behind her, coming to the
bars of the cell. “It would not be in my best interest to sabotage this ship or harm its inhabitants.”
A DRD nudged her shoulder, bringing Aeryn out of her brief reverie. “Officer Sun!” Pilot called. From the mild
distress in his tone, it was obvious that he had tried to get her attention more than once.
“I’m here, Pilot.”
“They are ready aboard the Kyelligg. Please open the valve no more than half way. Moya has not used these
fluid conduits since she escaped from the Peacekeepers. I cannot be entirely certain that there are no fissures
in the lines.”
Aeryn reached over her head, took a firm grip on the valve’s handle, and tugged. She had expected that a
sharp yank would break it free: a motion requiring more force than a DRD could muster but nothing especially
strenuous. The valve didn’t budge. She moved her feet up a rung, grabbed the lever with both hands and
heaved at it with her entire body weight. It jerked open half a dench. “Pilot, how far does this need to move in
order to be half open?”
“From full recess to pointing straight down,” the voice responded. It had another ten or twelve denches to go
before it reached that point.
“Frell … ing … scut … work,” she grunted in rhythm with each heave on the lever. It crawled toward its
destination and she could hear the first trickles of fluid crawling down the leviathan’s internal piping.
“Iriscentant fluid?” she asked in time with her battle against the recalcitrant mechanism.
“Followed by a chemical nutrient slurry that Moya finds useful in the growth of new hull components; and thirdly,
a liquid compound that will be converted into a nutrient mix for my own sustenance,” he replied. “Chiana and
Jool have bargained successfully for all items requested by Moya.” The normally placid voice sounded ecstatic
with pleasure and she expended several microts wondering how long a leviathan could survive without
replenishing certain substances necessary for internal functions.
“New hull components,” Aeryn repeated, taking a break to catch her breath. “As in --”
“As in growing new tiers, Officer Sun,” he answered, sounding surprised by her inquiry. “Moya’s size is not
finite. She is still young.”
Aeryn smiled at the dark, nearly black walls around her, patted the leviathan’s inner hull briefly, and returned to
her labor, gradually yanking the valve open to the prescribed limit. “Is that enough, Pilot?” she called at last.
“Yes. It will take longer to complete the loading, but until the DRDs check for leaks, this is an adequate rate of
flow.”
Aeryn leaned back and watched four DRDs gather around the valve. Small picks, probes, and tightly confined
laser beams were plied, beginning the slow task of removing the build up of cycles in order to free the frozen
mechanism. It was peaceful in the small enclosure. The quiet rush of fluids persuaded her to relax for the first
time in several solar days. She shifted to one side where the ledge wasn’t as narrow, made herself more
comfortable, and thought back to the end of her exchange with Naj Gil.
“It would not be in my best interest to sabotage this ship or harm its inhabitants.” The scarran’s claim echoed in
her mind. She had started to turn around to face him, intending to say something to the effect that his race had
already damaged one member of the crew irreparably, and the mere thought of voicing that sentiment had set
loose a wave of anger she hadn’t suspected was hiding inside. She had bitten down on the remark, seeing the
futility in voicing the accusation. The anger had receded, leaving her chilled but in control.
Naj Gil had waited at the door to the cell, his breath growling behind her, his strength forfeited to the
Peacekeeper surgery and more recent wounds. He was a neutered specimen, worthy of nothing more than her
distain and a reasonable amount of caution. “No,” she had answered with finality, and stalked off without
sparing him an additional glance.
“Pilot! Aeryn!” D’Argo’s alarmed transmission echoed in the confined space. “Crichton’s disappeared.”
Aeryn closed her eyes and shook her head in disgust, thinking of the number of times over the past cycles that
he had gotten separated from them or had simply wandered off while gawking at the scenery on the dullest of
commerce planets. Crichton disappearing was a definition of his character.
“This would not be the first time Commander Crichton became lost or got separated from the rest of you.”
Pilot’s enigmatic response gave voice to Aeryn’s private thoughts. “Is there something more remarkable about
this event that we do not understand?”
“I don’t mean he disappeared, I mean he has been abducted. He was right next to me and then we were
surrounded by hvisk, and when they moved away he was gone. They’ve taken him.”
“This is ridiculous, D’Argo,” Aeryn called back. She was unwilling to believe that the entirely apolitical
inhabitants of the Kyelligg would compromise their neutrality by doing what D’Argo was describing. She began
making her way down the ladder. “He probably just went to look at something. The hvisk would not --”
“AERYN!!” The angry bellow generated a squealing complaint from the comms. “I cannot see or smell him. He
has disappeared. Stop arguing and get to the Den. Pilot! Ask Moya to scan the station for lifesigns. A human
should stand out against these creatures. Find him!”
The desperation and fury in his voice cut through the disbelief, slicing deep into something raw and hurtful
inside. An expanding knot in her stomach reminded her of what it felt like to look at the sightless eyes of a
dead John Crichton. She clung to the ladder for a microt, hands and feet suddenly numb, her grip on the rungs
jeopardized by the lack of feeling.
“Pil--” Her first call to the symbiote rasped and cracked into whispering silence. She cleared her throat and
tried again, all the while scrambling down the ladder at high speed. “Pilot, begin the scans. I’m on my way.”
She abandoned the rung-by-rung descent, shifted both hands and feet to the outside of the ladder’s frame,
pressed inwards, and slid the final fifteen motras to the bottom of the shaft.
She reached the next lower tier at the same time that D’Argo was calling to Jool and Chiana. She stumbled and
fell to one knee from the force of her landing, staggered back to her feet, and began to run. The two women
answered, saying that they were approaching the hatch and would hurry to reach the safety of Moya. Rygel
was complaining at length about an abandoned meal of marjoules, but behind the griping was the high-pitched
scream of a throne sled moving at its maximum velocity. Rygel had already begun an aerial search pattern for
their missing crewmate.
“D’Argo!” she yelled, rounding the corner into the Den. “How far are you from the docking hatch? I’ll get the
scans from Pilot and meet you there!”
“I can be there in --” The next sound wasn’t a word. It was a long, drawn-out snarl of frustration.
After three cycles of living shoulder to shoulder with D’Argo and getting to know how he reacted to most
situations, interpreting the sound was a simple matter. He would have already spent precious microts
searching for John, using both sight and smell in an attempt to locate him, and had probably lost track of his
location. He would be turning left and right, scanning his surroundings, tanktas and braids flying, trying to
figure out how long it would take him to reach the docking hatch. The remainder of his message was bellowed
at a volume that suggested he was trying to talk to her without the benefit of the comms.
“-- in one hundred microts!”
Aeryn crossed the span to Pilot’s station at a pace barely short of hazardous. Pilot’s arms were flying:
controlling the ship’s sensors, gathering the sheaves of transparent schematics, adjusting the comms, and
searching through the readouts all at the same time. Eyes bulging, mouth gaping open as he worked, he didn’t
spare her so much as a glance when she came to a halt before him.
“Keep looking for him,” Aeryn called to D’Argo. “Pilot hasn’t located him yet.” Another growling snarl said that
he had been headed for the hatch and was reversing course again. “Wait!” she transmitted a microt later. The
back and forth decisions were almost certainly pushing the luxan toward the uncontrollable onset of hyper-
rage. She ignored the possibility and concentrated on Pilot. He was staring at a single flimsy printout, nodding
ponderously. “Pilot’s got him,” she said, interpreting Pilot’s stare. “I’ll be there in two … make that three
hundred microts.”
Aeryn scrambled up onto the consoles. Kneeling beside Pilot, she watched without comment as he laid out a
series of more than twenty schematics. One claw was devoted to tracing the path she would have to follow
through the Kyelligg to reach a small blip with a red marker next to it. She began tracing the route with a finger,
shook her head when she lost her way, and he showed her a second time.
“Got it.” She confirmed the route a second time, preferring to take the extra microts if it meant she wouldn’t get
lost once she was aboard the Kyelligg, and then stacked the flimsy transparencies in the order she would need
them. “Chiana!”
“Right here, right here.” The breathless nebari ran into the Den carrying a pulse rifle. Aeryn snatched it out of
her hands, didn’t bother to apologize for the hasty grab, and bolted out of the chamber.
A single DRD whined slowly out of the dark behind Pilot. It came to rest next to one of his elbows. The
eyestalks swiveled back and forth, alternately scanning the drooping, motionless armored head of Pilot, and the
gray, panting figure that was bent over with its hands on its knees. “Frell,” Chiana said on a deep breath. She
straightened up and looked at the empty doorway where Aeryn had disappeared. “Not Crichton. Not again.
And the hvisk seemed so nice.”
* * * * *
D’Argo was barely aware of the quiet chirp of the comms channel closing. Too much of his attention was
consumed by the combination of concern for Crichton and the impossible task of containing a mounting
anxiety-generated rage. The two feelings intertwined and goaded him closer and closer to an uncontrollable,
mindless outburst. He snarled at a passing hvisk, startling the inoffensive creature into a hurried retreat, and
then turned toward the docking hatch and began to run, weaving between groups of startled hvisk and shoving
others aside in his haste. The motion and effort felt good; energy flowed freely, redoubling until he was barging
through even the densest of crowds as though no one were in his way, leaving a squawking, hooting trail of
upset citizens in his wake.
Aeryn emerged from the floor-mounted door just as he approached the hatch. She made the odd transition in
a single leap, obviously familiar with the gravitational shift. There was one fast, snapping shake of her head to
help her adjust to her new orientation, and then she brushed impatiently past the worried luxan.
“Left,” she ordered, comparing her surroundings to the top schematic in her hand. “How the frell did he get
separated from you in this place? This station is a child’s playground. No one could get lost in these streets.”
They were moving at a near run through the crowds.
A whine accelerated toward them as they wound through a series of plantings and seating areas. Rygel
descended to join them. “There’s no sign of him.”
Aeryn threw a fast, irritated glance over her shoulder at the hynerian. “Where have you been? Pilot located
him. Haven’t you been listening?”
“I had my comms turned off so I could listen for his voice. I believed D’Argo from the first microt and thought
Crichton might call out for help if he was still able to resist.” Aeryn frowned and started to turn toward him,
flicking an expended schematic in his direction. The Dominar swooped beneath the spinning transparency then
swerved away from her, glowering in return. “Do not be angry at me because you refuse to think of him as
John Crichton. If it were the other one, you would have been on this station in under four microts, ready to
shoot anyone who got in the way of your search.”
D’Argo reached out, snared the throne sled, and hauled it down to waist level against the occupant’s attempts
to escape. “You are not helping, Rygel. Go back to Moya!” His shove sent the chair wobbling three motras
across the narrow alley. It banged into a wall, nearly ejecting Rygel before leveling out. The two soldiers stood
without moving as the throne sled steadied and turned away, carrying the complaining Dominar back the way
they had come.
“Rygel’s right,” Aeryn admitted in a shaking voice. She looked up and down the empty alley as though she
would find Crichton somewhere within its tight confines. “I dismissed what you told us at first, thinking that he
was foolish and irresponsible. I wouldn’t have thought that about --”
“Aeryn!” D’Argo interrupted her hesitant self-recriminations. “There are moments when Rygel is exceptionally
sagacious, displaying the qualities of a great ruler; and there are moments when the little pile of dren is a foul
smelling imbecile. This is one of the latter.” She looked down at the maps in her hand and started to shake her
head. D’Argo tried again. “You need to concentrate on finding John. There will be time to debate this later.
Focus.”
Aeryn took a deep breath, slung the pulse rifle over her shoulder, and used both hands to flip to the next
depiction of the station. She double-checked their position and headed further into the narrowing alley. “How
did he get lost?” she asked over her shoulder, accelerating to a steady jog. The walls were getting further
apart, widening out as they moved toward a cross street.
“He did not get lost. A mob closed in around us for several microts and when it broke up he was gone. I’m sure
they did it deliberately.” Longer legs allowed him to match Aeryn’s pace with a fast walk.
“Why? Why take Crichton? What do they want with him?” Aeryn tossed another transparency aside and
continued her headlong rush, guiding the pair flawlessly into one narrow street after another. They emerged
from one alleyway into another of the main arteries, and D’Argo realized they’d cut from one of the Kyelligg’s
sixteen main branches across to another. He followed her straight across the expanse and entered one of the
arteries that was second in size to the primary arms of the station.
“Left,” Aeryn ordered after several more intersections. She slowed in order to study the readout in her hand,
using her peripheral vision to track D'Argo's progress ahead of her. “Try that opening.” She pointed toward a
pair of open doorways flanked on either side by a small crowd of hvisk. The individuals were wearing the same
pale robes that all hvisk wore, except that in every case they were trimmed with a single bright stripe that
slashed from shoulder to hip along the draped edge. Several whistled at the two intruders who had stopped in
front of the buildings, letting out sharp, disharmonic tones.
D’Argo hesitated, looking back and forth between two adjacent doorways, unsure which one Aeryn had been
indicating. She shoved past him to resume the lead, shouldering aside two adults who moved to block their
way.
“Which way?” D’Argo asked.
Aeryn dropped another schematic; only three remained in her hand. The interior of the building was light and
airy, full of plants and rippling waterfalls that clung magically to the walls, the pleasant hallways packed with
hvisk. Their singing merged into a flowing, harmonious chorus. The two crewmates shoved and bullied their
way through the gathering, D’Argo’s drawn Qualta blade generating stares and nervous shuffles. He pulled at
Aeryn’s shoulder, urging her to let him lead the way through the crowds. “Tell me which way and stay close to
me. I’ll clear a path.”
“The corridor to the right,” she said, studying Moya’s scans. “Hurry, D’Argo. This is taking too long. They’ve
had him too long.” She fell in behind him, stretching to match her strides to his longer paces.
“Hurrying,” he agreed and hoisted the Qualta blade menacingly. The masses parted before him, the larger
hvisk pulling the smaller ones aside and tucking them protectively behind their legs when they spotted the
weapon. “Mothers,” he said suddenly.
“What?”
“These are mothers with their children. The females must have the robes with the trim on them. What kind of
place is this and why have they brought John here?” They paused to look around them, confirming D’Argo’s
suspicions. Every adult had one or more children pulled in tight alongside her legs, black eyes watching with
intense suspicion. The glares followed the two crewmates as they resumed their journey through the corridors.
“Right and then right again,” Aeryn directed, flipping the last map aside. “Start trying rooms on the left.”
They leapfrogged down the hallway, bursting through one doorway after another to the shock of the individuals
inside each room. Squawks and whistles echoed in their wake, heads popping out of the open doors to watch
their progress, crests bristling with either fear or outrage.
“Medical facility,” Aeryn called, running past D’Argo to lunge into the next room. “This is a hospital of some
sort. Why the frell have they brought him here? Was he acting sick?”
“No. He was his usual irritating self. Where is he?” D’Argo yelled in frustration, moving more quickly as each
room yielded only more startled hvisk. “This one’s locked!” He grabbed Aeryn, arresting her dash past him.
Releasing her once she was stopped, he backed to the opposite side of the hallway, got a running start, and
smashed through the door. Aeryn was right on his heels, weapon ready.
The scene inside was peaceful in comparison to their frantic search, the lights dimmed to a calming twilight.
Four older hvisk, all males according to their robes, stood near a control panel covered with illuminated
readouts, looking relaxed and even a little cheerful. The age-faded crests were standing straight up, a jaunty
statement that they were pleased with whatever they were doing, while the black eyes were almost entirely
hidden behind the squinting eyelids that passed for a smile among the inhabitants of the Kyelligg. All four
turned in alarm as the two rescuers stumbled into the room.
The one person who didn’t appear to be enjoying himself was Crichton. He was lying in a larger version of the
hvisk seats, partially curled up, one hand hanging limply over the edge of the surface. Several extra cushions
had been tucked under his knees and around his sides to make him more comfortable in the cup-like bed, but
despite the outward attempt at comfort, his face was pale and sweating, and a complex system of webbing had
him securely netted into place. His head, the focus of whatever they were doing to him, was cradled in a
gleaming white apparatus. One of the hvisk turned away from the weapons, ignoring the threatening postures,
and made an adjustment to the equipment. John’s eyelids fluttered erratically, accompanied by a quiet
complaining sigh.
“Stop what you’re doing!” D’Argo rushed forward to stand between the abductors and his friend.
“Let him go!” Aeryn yelled at the same time. She leveled her rifle at them and stepped up to stand beside
D'Argo. The four beaks began opening and closing in distress, low whistles filling the room in a hair-raising
harmony. Aeryn took two steps back to stand beside Crichton and repeated her demand. "Let him go.
Whatever you’re doing to him, stop it now and release him.”
One of the hvisk crept forward, bobbing up and down, hands turned palm up in front of him as he chirped at
them. The whistles transformed into long, mournful hoots.
Aeryn shook her head, frustration and anger encouraging her to resort to violence. She fought down the urge
and tried again. “I don’t understand you. Release him now.” The hoots increased in volume and frequency.
“Watch them, D’Argo, I’m going to cut him loose.” She turned toward Crichton and the hoots behind her turned
into loud honks of distress.
“What have they done to him?” D’Argo asked over his shoulder. One of the hvisk approached and he snarled
at it, scaring it back toward its companions.
At first she couldn’t see anything to explain John’s pallor and rapid breathing. It wasn’t until she knelt at the
head of the round bed and leaned in close that she saw the source of the problem. Dim light glinted on dozens
of hair-thin wires running into his skull, piercing both skin and bone. They were arranged around his head in
odd groupings that lacked any discernable pattern: six or more here, a scattered collection elsewhere, and
then a tightly bunched concentration somewhere else. There was no way to tell what they were meant to do.
“Get these out of him now!” More bobbing and distressed hooting followed. But the machine went on humming
and John let out another airy cry. “No arguments, no whistles, no dances.” Aeryn stepped forward and placed
the muzzle of her weapon against one of their foreheads. “Let Crichton go.”
D'Argo hissed behind her. She spared him a split-microt glance. He was on one knee next to John, examining
the wires. He got to his feet, a growl of anger emanating from deep within his chest. “I do not recognize any of
this equipment. What do you think they are trying to do?”
Aeryn’s headshake was a brisk left-right snap that didn’t take her eyes off the hvisk for so much as an instant.
She backed away from the group, surveyed the banks of electronics behind them, and then barked an order.
“Either stop this now or step away. I’m going to destroy your machine.”
Four crests drooped; the color faded out of the feathers until they were almost transparent. The hvisk spread
out in front of the consoles, blocking her from firing at the machinery despite their fearful trembling. Aeryn
stepped past them in four long strides, tracing the cabling that ran from where Crichton lay back to a large
panel. “This one,” she determined, charging the pulse rifle.
“Wait, Aeryn!” D’Argo was watching the alarmed hvisk and their increasingly wild gesticulations. They were all
waving toward Crichton, drooping feathers and anxious eyes transmitting distress. “Wait! We don’t know what
it’ll do to --”
Aeryn fired.
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
