Whispers
Chapter 3
D’Argo breathed shallowly as he leaned over Crichton trying to find a pulse. The acrid smoke coming from the
burnt circuitry caught at the back of his throat and struck painfully at his nasal passages, masking out all other
odors. Aside from being physically painful, the stench of blasted electronic equipment made it impossible for
him to determine if John was giving off the unpleasant, mildly sour scent that the human normally exuded
whenever he was injured. D’Argo located one of John’s major arteries, pressed carefully against the side of his
friend’s neck, and was rewarded with a slow and steady ticking beneath his fingertips.
“Crichton,” D’Argo said, keeping his voice low. There was no response to his quiet summons. He shifted to the
other side of the circular bed. From there he could search for some way to detach the netting holding Crichton
in place and still keep an eye on the other occupants of the room. The hvisk were gathered in front of the
destroyed equipment, whistling to each other in rapid arpeggios that began to intertwine into a single complex
theme of distress. One hvisk left the group and tried to approach Crichton, its crest lifting and falling anxiously.
A menacing swing from Aeryn’s pulse rifle stopped its advance.
“How is he?” she asked, keeping her gaze fixed on the hvisk. She trained the weapon on its chest and jabbed
the muzzle in its direction. The lone individual retreated reluctantly.
“Unconscious. But at least he’s breathing and his pulse is strong. That was foolish, Aeryn. There was no way
to know what destroying that machine would do to him.” D’Argo leaned closer, peering through the smog to see
what had happened to the wire-thin probes. “We’re in luck. The needles have retracted. At least we don’t
have to figure out how to get those out of him.” He went back to feeling around the edge of the platform for a
release mechanism.
Aeryn backed away from the hvisk until she could spare a fast downward glance at the unconscious figure.
“There might be more of them coming. We need to get him out of here.”
D’Argo nodded, snatched his knife from his belt and slashed through the straps holding Crichton down. The
hvisk quartet began a new melody, bobbing nervously and gesticulating first at the door and then at Crichton.
D’Argo tossed the ruined netting in their direction and jostled the unconscious human, hoping for at least a
mumbled complaint. John’s body slopped from side to side. There wasn’t even the most basic muscular
resistance to the manhandling. The fear that Aeryn’s abrupt solution had critically injured Crichton increased,
squeezing his own two hearts until he thought he knew how Aeryn must have felt that horrible day aboard
Talyn. “He’s not waking up.”
Aeryn didn’t seem to hear his comment. Her focus on the hvisk didn’t waver for a microt. “These four aren’t
much of a threat, but if there were more of them, they might try to stop us. Can you carry him?”
D’Argo settled on a quiet snort to let her know that it was a ridiculous question. He had carried Crichton more
than once, and if she had been thinking clearly she would have remembered and wouldn’t have bothered to
ask. It meant that despite her outward show of control, Aeryn was every bit as worried as he was. His Qualta
blade slid into its sheath with its familiar metallic rasp, and he gathered the limp body into his arms, struggling
with the unwieldy burden until he managed to get John to the edge of the mattress. “Let’s go,” he said on a
grunt. He levered himself and his cargo upright. “When he wakes up after being hurt, he whines about it
incessantly. I want to get him back to Moya before that happens.” D’Argo hefted his load, trying to get Crichton
settled more securely in his grasp.
“When was he whining about being hurt?” Aeryn was maneuvering to let D’Argo reach the door first while she
kept the hvisk covered with the pulse rifle. The little group had stopped trying to communicate and was
bunched together in the corner, watching mournfully as their captive was taken away.
“When he --” D’Argo hesitated, too late considering that John might not want Aeryn to know about the accident
that had almost killed him. “I think John should be the one to tell you about that.” He began to walk faster,
hoping she would drop the subject.
So much remained unsaid between his two friends, their relationship damaged nearly beyond comprehension,
let alone repair. D’Argo looked down at the motionless features resting against his shoulder and wondered how
he would have coped if this John Crichton had been the one to die and the other one had returned to stand by
his side -- whether he could have accepted that other person as the friend he had come to value so deeply or
whether he, like Aeryn, would find it difficult to accept the other in this one's stead.
“You should ask him yourself when he wakes up.” [i]If he wakes up,[/i] D’Argo added silently to himself.
* * * * *
Aeryn jogged along behind D’Argo, scanning the crowds around them for any further threat from the hvisk.
She was repeatedly distracted from her surveillance by the sight of John’s left hand swinging laxly from side to
side in time with D’Argo’s stride. The curled fingers brushed lightly across the luxan’s back on each pass,
nudged the scabbard of the Qualta blade and then reversed course without so much as a hint of intervention
from the person who was supposed to inhabit that body. There was no guarantee that the situation would ever
change, and much of her concentration was going into burying the thought that her hasty destruction of the
equipment may have injured John … perhaps permanently.
Despite his strength and stamina, D’Argo had been forced to stop within microts of leaving the medical facility to
adjust the way he had been carrying John. The unconscious body was too unwieldy to carry in his arms as
they wove through the crowded streets. The dangling legs had caught on every corner, shrub, and
pedestrian. She had helped him lower Crichton’s feet to the floor, then had strained to support his weight long
enough for D’Argo to get one shoulder into his stomach and lift him again, draped over D’Argo’s shoulders this
time.
John hadn’t stirred throughout the change, and there hadn’t been a single sign of life since she had pulled the
trigger on her pulse rifle. Prior to that instant, he had been making a few noises and small movements. The
first stirring of fear uncoiled deep in her stomach and wandered leisurely up her spine: fear that D’Argo was
right and she had injured John when she had rashly destroyed the hvisk machinery. Aeryn shook her head,
banishing the thought-warping concern. John’s mind had been invaded too many times over the last three
cycles. She had seen the relief in his slowly expanding smile when the neural clone had been destroyed, and
was certain he wouldn’t want another species meddling with his brain, no matter what it took to make it stop.
“Almost there,” D’Argo said, breaking into her thoughts. “Any change?”
She was about to say ‘no’ when John’s hand closed into an awkward fist. “I think he’s awake.” Aeryn moved
closer to grab the reflexively clenched fingers. The hand fumbled at hers for several microts, finally managing
to close around just her thumb.
“He doesn’t feel like a sack of raw Gelsarit wheat anymore. He’s conscious,” D’Argo confirmed. He stepped out
of the stream of pedestrians and stopped near a cluster of shrubs.
“John, can you hear me?” Aeryn shifted her hand within his, turning it into a normal grip, and crouched down to
see if his eyes were open. His fingers closed more tightly around hers and he mumbled unintelligibly into
D’Argo’s back. “Can you stand?” she asked, slowly pulling her hand out of his.
“I think so,” the inverted figure said weakly. “Put me down.”
D’Argo lowered John’s feet to the floor and started to move away. He leaped forward again when Crichton’s
knees buckled. The warrior grabbed him around the chest and hauled him back up. John grabbed at him
drunkenly, trying to steady himself. “Maybe not,” John revised his condition. “What happened?”
“You don’t remember?” D’Argo propped the weaving astronaut against the wall and held him in place. John’s
eyes crossed and he began to slide down the wall. D’Argo grabbed him more securely and pulled him back up,
shoving him against the wall with a thump designed to help him concentrate.
“Thanks,” Crichton acknowledged the save. He held one hand to his forehead, stilling his wobbling head by
pressing it back against the wall. “I remember … there … there was a cute little guy kazooing at me --”
“Ka-sooing?” Aeryn’s microbes refused to translate the word even on the second try. She shook her head in
frustration.
Without moving his head, John swiveled his eyes in her direction and gazed at her. It looked as though he had
just noticed an object he thought was lost forever and had come across by accident. He took a deep breath,
went back to staring at D’Argo, who was still propping him up, and tried again. “I remember walking by the lake,
and then there’s nothing until I came to with your shoulder doing its best to give me a Heimlich.” He stood up
straighter, paying more attention to their surroundings. “Where are we? What’s going on?”
D’Argo grabbed Crichton’s vest, arresting a slow left-right swaying that had begun to develop. “Later, John.
We have to get off the Kyelligg quickly. There’s been a problem. Can you walk?”
“I think so.” Crichton pushed himself off the wall and stepped forward as his large friend backed away. The
simple process of walking went awry. His foot somehow missed the floor entirely, and he started to go down,
falling into D’Argo’s arms. The pair floundering together for a moment before D’Argo could recover and get
them both back on their feet. John clung to the broad shoulder, relying on the grasp around his waist to keep
him from tilting off to the side. When he looked for Aeryn she was three motras away with her back turned.
He turned away from the sight of the stiff, unmoving shoulders, choosing to focus instead on the person holding
him up. “Shuffle-oh on down to Buffalo,” he told D’Argo.
“John, does that mean --”
“Yeah. Sorry, D. Let’s get out of here. I’ve got one hell of a headache.”
Aeryn tucked the pulse rifle under her arm, scanned around them to make sure that no one was following the
staggering pair, and moved after them. She kept an eye on the shifting crowds, checking for any sign of
pursuit, and used the otherwise unoccupied time to consider her lack of reaction when John almost fallen.
When one part of her had wanted to leap forward to catch him, she hadn’t moved a muscle. She had stood
rooted to one spot, and let D’Argo take the full brunt of John’s weight even though it had nearly driven both
men to the ground.
It was another of the many unbidden memories that had frozen her in place. She had seen that sort of
uncoordinated attempt by John to regain his balance once before, and the reminder had left her chilled and
with a lump forming in her throat. It had been too reminiscent of the moment when she had watched her John
slide down the side of the module and collapse at her feet, bringing back all the dread and the sense of
inevitability. This time they might not know what the hvisk had done to him for arns or even days. Until they
determined what the hvisk had been trying to achieve with their machines, she would have to face the fact that
the stumbling feet ahead of her might once again turn into something far worse.
The thought made it hard to breathe. The dread caught at her chest and her throat: it tightened the first until
she wasn’t sure she could draw another breath, and clogged the second until what little air made its way into
her lungs whistled painfully through an impossibly narrow passageway. “No,” she said to herself so quietly she
barely heard the small word herself. “He’ll be fine.” He would recover. They had gotten there soon enough.
He would survive.
The two men stopped so D’Argo could get a better grip on John. Waiting impatiently for them to begin moving
again, she realized that her hesitation was creating an unacceptable risk. They would be able to travel much
faster if she helped, and that would get them back to Moya and safety sooner. She switched the rifle to the
crook of her left arm, and moved forward to slide under John’s arm, bolstering him up. He jumped when she
moved into place, looking at her first in surprise and then with a quiet smile that showed mostly in his eyes.
“We need to hurry,” she explained. “We’re vulnerable to another attack.”
“Of course. Sound tactical reasoning.” Crichton faced forward, eyes studiously averted from hers. The hand
that gripped her shoulder let go. He continued to lean on her, but no longer held her securely in place against
the side of his body. A quick pang of disappointment lingered for a microt, then it was smothered beneath the
need to concentrate on the route as they retraced the endless turns she had originally taken at a run.
* * * * *
Crichton was walking on his own by the time they reached Pilot’s Den, steadied by D’Argo’s hand under his
elbow but otherwise recovered from the mysterious attack. They had tried repeatedly to steer him toward the
medical bay so Jool could examine him for injuries. John had stubbornly refused, arguing that their first priority
was to decide whether Moya should detach from the Kyelligg and leave. Entering the Den, Aeryn stepped
aside to let the two men go first. She hung back to watch as John, with D’Argo following close behind,
unsteadily traversed the long bridge to Pilot’s central platform. Although the luxan’s hovering attentiveness was
reassuring, he would not be able to keep John from falling if he stumbled and slipped off the walkway.
“Careful,” she said. He flapped a hand, casually dismissing her concern, and finished the journey without
trouble. Inexplicably, the motion annoyed her. Aeryn turned her back on the center of the Den where the
entire crew was gathered in front of Pilot. Several deep breaths helped get the irritation under control, after
which she went to join them.
John was rubbing his temples with the heels of his hands, slowly massaging both sides of his head. Without
bothering to look up, John asked, “Pilot, any sign of bad guys out there?”
“We are detecting nothing that would suggest a threat, Commander. There are no unexplained transmissions,
no coded communications traffic, no navigational pulses which would be used to guide a ship to the station.
Moya’s sensors are picking up nothing out of the ordinary.”
“Finding you and getting you out of there was extremely easy, John,” Aeryn said quietly into the silence
following Pilot’s announcement. “If they meant to keep you prisoner, they aren’t very good at it. Are you sure
you didn’t do something to cause this?”
“Do something to cause what, Aeryn? We still don’t know what they wanted. I say we get the hell out of here
before we find out that they aren’t as inept as we think.” He was leaning against the ridged outer bulwarks of
Pilot’s station, now rubbing his forehead. “It feels like you stopped another damned mind frell. I’m glad you got
there before it started.”
D’Argo and Aeryn exchanged fast glances, silently sharing the thought that the hvisk attack, whatever its
purpose, had been well underway by the time they had found him.
Jool was the next to break the short silence that had fallen over the Den. “Are they still pumping fluids into
Moya?”
Pilot referred to his readouts. “Yes, Joolushko. When we first determined that Commander Crichton was
missing, I signaled the Kyelligg and requested that they stop delivery, but it has continued without interruption.”
He tapped several controls. “If they continue at the current rate, it will take just over twelve arns to complete
the transfer.”
Crichton raised his head, looking worried. “Are they delivering the right stuff to Moya? Maybe this was an
attempt at a diversion so you wouldn’t notice if they slipped her a mickey.”
“Mickey?” several voices asked together.
“Something to knock her out. Leviathan-sized Sominex. Sleep formula of some sort,” he explained.
“Moya has not detected any substances entering her systems other than the ones bargained for by Chiana and
Jool,” Pilot said after a brief conference with the leviathan.
Aeryn clambered up alongside Pilot to view the displays for herself. “If there isn’t any sign of danger, then
perhaps we should stay until Moya gets the supplies she needs. The docking clamps are still secured to her
hull. Unless we can convince the hvisk to release the grapples, she would have to rip away.”
“John was attacked!” D’Argo countered. “We should leave now.”
“We paid perfectly good currency for those supplies,” Rygel entered the conversation. “It makes no sense to
flee when no one is after anyone except Crichton.”
“Thanks for the support, Buckwheat!” John spat out angrily. “We are at risk, and more importantly, Moya is at
risk. I say we should see if we can get loose without injuring Moya and beat feet as soon as possible. We can
meet Talyn and Crais at the backup rendezvous spot.”
The discussion broke down into bickering, the combined voices merging into a single strident yammering.
Aeryn watched silently from her vantage point atop Pilot’s consoles. Chiana, Jool, and D’Argo were moving
about restlessly, arms, hair, tanktas, and red ringlets jouncing or flailing with the energy of their argument.
Rygel soared from one spot to the next, inserting caustic observations and self-serving suggestions whenever
he could find a lull in the noise. John continued to lean on the wall directly in front of Pilot, looking increasingly
distracted and weary, but periodically finding the energy to interject his demand for a hasty departure.
Pilot placed one claw on Aeryn’s knee, drawing her attention away from the squabbling group. “Officer Sun,
Moya does not want to leave yet. She is concerned for Commander Crichton’s welfare, as well as that of
everyone on board, but she is very worried about the damage she will sustain if she pulls away, and would
prefer to finish taking on supplies as long as the hvisk continue to provide what we purchased.” He looked at
the arguing crewmembers with his customary resigned dismay.
“Then that’s what we’ll do, Pilot.” Aeryn gave him a smile and left her perch, sliding down alongside Jool with a
quiet thump. “Moya doesn’t want to leave yet!” she yelled into the ruckus. “We’re staying.”
“Aeryn --” John began.
“Moya wants to wait,” she repeated more quietly, and turned to face him. “She wants to stay.”
John’s shoulders started to slump. It was his body’s signal that he was giving in, transmitting the surrender long
before he would be willing to actually say it. “And what they did to me counts for nothing?”
“They attacked John!” D’Argo insisted, but he sounded less confident of his position than he had just microts
earlier.
John turned on the warrior angrily. “Well, thanks a bunch!”
“I was agreeing with you,” D’Argo protested.
“Sure you were. Right up until the part about how I was over reacting to whatever the hvisk did to me, and I’m
being selfish!”
“I said no such thing, Crichton!” D’Argo took a step back, retreating in confusion before John’s furious glare.
“I’m not deaf, D’Argo. I heard what you said!” John flicked his hand at his friend’s gesture of protest,
dismissing anything D’Argo had to say before he could utter the words.
“Crichton, you’re fahrbot!” Chiana entered the squabble. “D’Argo didn’t say anything like that.” She looked
around at the others, seeking reassurance. They were all beginning to nod their heads, a silent chorus of
agreement. “He didn’t,” she repeated.
“Great! Now you’re teaming up to play tricks on the deficient human,” Crichton said. He rubbed his forehead,
looking tired and depressed. “Fine. Do whatever the hell you want. I’ve got the mother of all headaches. I’m
going to my quarters for a while and see if I can sleep this off.” He stumbled slightly as he stepped around
Chiana, caught his balance and pulled away from her attempt to steady him, yanking his arm away from her
outstretched hands. “Back off, Chiana,” he growled.
The group watched without a word while John traversed the bridge and disappeared through the doorway, his
shoulders bowed and head hanging under the combined weight of depression and the mystery of whatever had
been done to him. Silence continued to reign for several microts even after he had disappeared from sight,
broken only by Moya’s pulsing rumbles and the quiet whine of Rygel’s hovering throne sled.
“I do not understand what just happened,” Pilot inquired of the group. “Ka D’Argo did not say anything remotely
similar to what Crichton accused him of saying.”
“Jool, I think you need to check John to see what the hvisk did to him,” Aeryn said.
“The scanner will only detect physical alterations. If this is psychological, it won’t pick anything up,” the interion
reminded her.
“Maybe he was just tired,” Chiana said hopefully. “I do odd things whenever I get really tired, maybe that’s all it
was.”
“You do odd things even when you’re not tired.” D’Argo’s accusation was delivered with a look of tolerant
indulgence, letting everyone know that he was teasing her. Chiana bumped against him with one hip, a tiny
physical chastisement, and then turned back to the conversation.
“Perhaps the clone has gained strength and has begun taking over his mind,” Rygel theorized. “We should
lock him up now, just to be safe.”
Aeryn shook her head. “That was not like anything the clone has ever done before. Crichton has always
known when the clone was communicating with him. That was closer to an auditory hallucination.” She looked
over her shoulder at the now empty doorway where John had disappeared into the corridor, gnawing on her
lower lip for a brief moment. “Today may have been one attack on his mind too many for him to withstand.
Pilot? Have there been any transmissions from the hvisk since we’ve returned? Any clue why they took
Crichton?”
“No, Officer Sun. If anything, there has been a reduction in signals, but it may be coincidental. There have
been no events over the last arn that would require any sort of transmission.” Pilot tended to his controls,
watching his visitors simultaneously as he issued a new set of commands to a DRD. One of the units sitting in a
corner came to life, and zipped across the same bridge that Crichton had taken. “I have instructed the DRD to
proceed to Crichton’s quarters, where it will maintain surveillance on him for any additional abnormal
behaviors. It will send a constant video signal to Moya’s datastores.”
“That’s all we can do for right now,” D’Argo agreed. “What about the information we were trying to get from the
hvisk?”
“I am not going back on that station again,” Rygel said. “There is no information important enough to take a
chance that another one of us might get abducted by those unintelligible excuses for barterers.”
D’Argo folded his arms across his chest and peered down his nose at the hynerian. “For once I have to agree
with Rygel. We should wait to see how John is when he wakes up, and what the hvisk do next. After that we
can make a decision.”
“Agreed,” Aeryn nodded. “In the meantime perhaps we should all get some rest.” She turned and led the way
out of the Den.
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
Chapter 3
D’Argo breathed shallowly as he leaned over Crichton trying to find a pulse. The acrid smoke coming from the
burnt circuitry caught at the back of his throat and struck painfully at his nasal passages, masking out all other
odors. Aside from being physically painful, the stench of blasted electronic equipment made it impossible for
him to determine if John was giving off the unpleasant, mildly sour scent that the human normally exuded
whenever he was injured. D’Argo located one of John’s major arteries, pressed carefully against the side of his
friend’s neck, and was rewarded with a slow and steady ticking beneath his fingertips.
“Crichton,” D’Argo said, keeping his voice low. There was no response to his quiet summons. He shifted to the
other side of the circular bed. From there he could search for some way to detach the netting holding Crichton
in place and still keep an eye on the other occupants of the room. The hvisk were gathered in front of the
destroyed equipment, whistling to each other in rapid arpeggios that began to intertwine into a single complex
theme of distress. One hvisk left the group and tried to approach Crichton, its crest lifting and falling anxiously.
A menacing swing from Aeryn’s pulse rifle stopped its advance.
“How is he?” she asked, keeping her gaze fixed on the hvisk. She trained the weapon on its chest and jabbed
the muzzle in its direction. The lone individual retreated reluctantly.
“Unconscious. But at least he’s breathing and his pulse is strong. That was foolish, Aeryn. There was no way
to know what destroying that machine would do to him.” D’Argo leaned closer, peering through the smog to see
what had happened to the wire-thin probes. “We’re in luck. The needles have retracted. At least we don’t
have to figure out how to get those out of him.” He went back to feeling around the edge of the platform for a
release mechanism.
Aeryn backed away from the hvisk until she could spare a fast downward glance at the unconscious figure.
“There might be more of them coming. We need to get him out of here.”
D’Argo nodded, snatched his knife from his belt and slashed through the straps holding Crichton down. The
hvisk quartet began a new melody, bobbing nervously and gesticulating first at the door and then at Crichton.
D’Argo tossed the ruined netting in their direction and jostled the unconscious human, hoping for at least a
mumbled complaint. John’s body slopped from side to side. There wasn’t even the most basic muscular
resistance to the manhandling. The fear that Aeryn’s abrupt solution had critically injured Crichton increased,
squeezing his own two hearts until he thought he knew how Aeryn must have felt that horrible day aboard
Talyn. “He’s not waking up.”
Aeryn didn’t seem to hear his comment. Her focus on the hvisk didn’t waver for a microt. “These four aren’t
much of a threat, but if there were more of them, they might try to stop us. Can you carry him?”
D’Argo settled on a quiet snort to let her know that it was a ridiculous question. He had carried Crichton more
than once, and if she had been thinking clearly she would have remembered and wouldn’t have bothered to
ask. It meant that despite her outward show of control, Aeryn was every bit as worried as he was. His Qualta
blade slid into its sheath with its familiar metallic rasp, and he gathered the limp body into his arms, struggling
with the unwieldy burden until he managed to get John to the edge of the mattress. “Let’s go,” he said on a
grunt. He levered himself and his cargo upright. “When he wakes up after being hurt, he whines about it
incessantly. I want to get him back to Moya before that happens.” D’Argo hefted his load, trying to get Crichton
settled more securely in his grasp.
“When was he whining about being hurt?” Aeryn was maneuvering to let D’Argo reach the door first while she
kept the hvisk covered with the pulse rifle. The little group had stopped trying to communicate and was
bunched together in the corner, watching mournfully as their captive was taken away.
“When he --” D’Argo hesitated, too late considering that John might not want Aeryn to know about the accident
that had almost killed him. “I think John should be the one to tell you about that.” He began to walk faster,
hoping she would drop the subject.
So much remained unsaid between his two friends, their relationship damaged nearly beyond comprehension,
let alone repair. D’Argo looked down at the motionless features resting against his shoulder and wondered how
he would have coped if this John Crichton had been the one to die and the other one had returned to stand by
his side -- whether he could have accepted that other person as the friend he had come to value so deeply or
whether he, like Aeryn, would find it difficult to accept the other in this one's stead.
“You should ask him yourself when he wakes up.” [i]If he wakes up,[/i] D’Argo added silently to himself.
* * * * *
Aeryn jogged along behind D’Argo, scanning the crowds around them for any further threat from the hvisk.
She was repeatedly distracted from her surveillance by the sight of John’s left hand swinging laxly from side to
side in time with D’Argo’s stride. The curled fingers brushed lightly across the luxan’s back on each pass,
nudged the scabbard of the Qualta blade and then reversed course without so much as a hint of intervention
from the person who was supposed to inhabit that body. There was no guarantee that the situation would ever
change, and much of her concentration was going into burying the thought that her hasty destruction of the
equipment may have injured John … perhaps permanently.
Despite his strength and stamina, D’Argo had been forced to stop within microts of leaving the medical facility to
adjust the way he had been carrying John. The unconscious body was too unwieldy to carry in his arms as
they wove through the crowded streets. The dangling legs had caught on every corner, shrub, and
pedestrian. She had helped him lower Crichton’s feet to the floor, then had strained to support his weight long
enough for D’Argo to get one shoulder into his stomach and lift him again, draped over D’Argo’s shoulders this
time.
John hadn’t stirred throughout the change, and there hadn’t been a single sign of life since she had pulled the
trigger on her pulse rifle. Prior to that instant, he had been making a few noises and small movements. The
first stirring of fear uncoiled deep in her stomach and wandered leisurely up her spine: fear that D’Argo was
right and she had injured John when she had rashly destroyed the hvisk machinery. Aeryn shook her head,
banishing the thought-warping concern. John’s mind had been invaded too many times over the last three
cycles. She had seen the relief in his slowly expanding smile when the neural clone had been destroyed, and
was certain he wouldn’t want another species meddling with his brain, no matter what it took to make it stop.
“Almost there,” D’Argo said, breaking into her thoughts. “Any change?”
She was about to say ‘no’ when John’s hand closed into an awkward fist. “I think he’s awake.” Aeryn moved
closer to grab the reflexively clenched fingers. The hand fumbled at hers for several microts, finally managing
to close around just her thumb.
“He doesn’t feel like a sack of raw Gelsarit wheat anymore. He’s conscious,” D’Argo confirmed. He stepped out
of the stream of pedestrians and stopped near a cluster of shrubs.
“John, can you hear me?” Aeryn shifted her hand within his, turning it into a normal grip, and crouched down to
see if his eyes were open. His fingers closed more tightly around hers and he mumbled unintelligibly into
D’Argo’s back. “Can you stand?” she asked, slowly pulling her hand out of his.
“I think so,” the inverted figure said weakly. “Put me down.”
D’Argo lowered John’s feet to the floor and started to move away. He leaped forward again when Crichton’s
knees buckled. The warrior grabbed him around the chest and hauled him back up. John grabbed at him
drunkenly, trying to steady himself. “Maybe not,” John revised his condition. “What happened?”
“You don’t remember?” D’Argo propped the weaving astronaut against the wall and held him in place. John’s
eyes crossed and he began to slide down the wall. D’Argo grabbed him more securely and pulled him back up,
shoving him against the wall with a thump designed to help him concentrate.
“Thanks,” Crichton acknowledged the save. He held one hand to his forehead, stilling his wobbling head by
pressing it back against the wall. “I remember … there … there was a cute little guy kazooing at me --”
“Ka-sooing?” Aeryn’s microbes refused to translate the word even on the second try. She shook her head in
frustration.
Without moving his head, John swiveled his eyes in her direction and gazed at her. It looked as though he had
just noticed an object he thought was lost forever and had come across by accident. He took a deep breath,
went back to staring at D’Argo, who was still propping him up, and tried again. “I remember walking by the lake,
and then there’s nothing until I came to with your shoulder doing its best to give me a Heimlich.” He stood up
straighter, paying more attention to their surroundings. “Where are we? What’s going on?”
D’Argo grabbed Crichton’s vest, arresting a slow left-right swaying that had begun to develop. “Later, John.
We have to get off the Kyelligg quickly. There’s been a problem. Can you walk?”
“I think so.” Crichton pushed himself off the wall and stepped forward as his large friend backed away. The
simple process of walking went awry. His foot somehow missed the floor entirely, and he started to go down,
falling into D’Argo’s arms. The pair floundering together for a moment before D’Argo could recover and get
them both back on their feet. John clung to the broad shoulder, relying on the grasp around his waist to keep
him from tilting off to the side. When he looked for Aeryn she was three motras away with her back turned.
He turned away from the sight of the stiff, unmoving shoulders, choosing to focus instead on the person holding
him up. “Shuffle-oh on down to Buffalo,” he told D’Argo.
“John, does that mean --”
“Yeah. Sorry, D. Let’s get out of here. I’ve got one hell of a headache.”
Aeryn tucked the pulse rifle under her arm, scanned around them to make sure that no one was following the
staggering pair, and moved after them. She kept an eye on the shifting crowds, checking for any sign of
pursuit, and used the otherwise unoccupied time to consider her lack of reaction when John almost fallen.
When one part of her had wanted to leap forward to catch him, she hadn’t moved a muscle. She had stood
rooted to one spot, and let D’Argo take the full brunt of John’s weight even though it had nearly driven both
men to the ground.
It was another of the many unbidden memories that had frozen her in place. She had seen that sort of
uncoordinated attempt by John to regain his balance once before, and the reminder had left her chilled and
with a lump forming in her throat. It had been too reminiscent of the moment when she had watched her John
slide down the side of the module and collapse at her feet, bringing back all the dread and the sense of
inevitability. This time they might not know what the hvisk had done to him for arns or even days. Until they
determined what the hvisk had been trying to achieve with their machines, she would have to face the fact that
the stumbling feet ahead of her might once again turn into something far worse.
The thought made it hard to breathe. The dread caught at her chest and her throat: it tightened the first until
she wasn’t sure she could draw another breath, and clogged the second until what little air made its way into
her lungs whistled painfully through an impossibly narrow passageway. “No,” she said to herself so quietly she
barely heard the small word herself. “He’ll be fine.” He would recover. They had gotten there soon enough.
He would survive.
The two men stopped so D’Argo could get a better grip on John. Waiting impatiently for them to begin moving
again, she realized that her hesitation was creating an unacceptable risk. They would be able to travel much
faster if she helped, and that would get them back to Moya and safety sooner. She switched the rifle to the
crook of her left arm, and moved forward to slide under John’s arm, bolstering him up. He jumped when she
moved into place, looking at her first in surprise and then with a quiet smile that showed mostly in his eyes.
“We need to hurry,” she explained. “We’re vulnerable to another attack.”
“Of course. Sound tactical reasoning.” Crichton faced forward, eyes studiously averted from hers. The hand
that gripped her shoulder let go. He continued to lean on her, but no longer held her securely in place against
the side of his body. A quick pang of disappointment lingered for a microt, then it was smothered beneath the
need to concentrate on the route as they retraced the endless turns she had originally taken at a run.
* * * * *
Crichton was walking on his own by the time they reached Pilot’s Den, steadied by D’Argo’s hand under his
elbow but otherwise recovered from the mysterious attack. They had tried repeatedly to steer him toward the
medical bay so Jool could examine him for injuries. John had stubbornly refused, arguing that their first priority
was to decide whether Moya should detach from the Kyelligg and leave. Entering the Den, Aeryn stepped
aside to let the two men go first. She hung back to watch as John, with D’Argo following close behind,
unsteadily traversed the long bridge to Pilot’s central platform. Although the luxan’s hovering attentiveness was
reassuring, he would not be able to keep John from falling if he stumbled and slipped off the walkway.
“Careful,” she said. He flapped a hand, casually dismissing her concern, and finished the journey without
trouble. Inexplicably, the motion annoyed her. Aeryn turned her back on the center of the Den where the
entire crew was gathered in front of Pilot. Several deep breaths helped get the irritation under control, after
which she went to join them.
John was rubbing his temples with the heels of his hands, slowly massaging both sides of his head. Without
bothering to look up, John asked, “Pilot, any sign of bad guys out there?”
“We are detecting nothing that would suggest a threat, Commander. There are no unexplained transmissions,
no coded communications traffic, no navigational pulses which would be used to guide a ship to the station.
Moya’s sensors are picking up nothing out of the ordinary.”
“Finding you and getting you out of there was extremely easy, John,” Aeryn said quietly into the silence
following Pilot’s announcement. “If they meant to keep you prisoner, they aren’t very good at it. Are you sure
you didn’t do something to cause this?”
“Do something to cause what, Aeryn? We still don’t know what they wanted. I say we get the hell out of here
before we find out that they aren’t as inept as we think.” He was leaning against the ridged outer bulwarks of
Pilot’s station, now rubbing his forehead. “It feels like you stopped another damned mind frell. I’m glad you got
there before it started.”
D’Argo and Aeryn exchanged fast glances, silently sharing the thought that the hvisk attack, whatever its
purpose, had been well underway by the time they had found him.
Jool was the next to break the short silence that had fallen over the Den. “Are they still pumping fluids into
Moya?”
Pilot referred to his readouts. “Yes, Joolushko. When we first determined that Commander Crichton was
missing, I signaled the Kyelligg and requested that they stop delivery, but it has continued without interruption.”
He tapped several controls. “If they continue at the current rate, it will take just over twelve arns to complete
the transfer.”
Crichton raised his head, looking worried. “Are they delivering the right stuff to Moya? Maybe this was an
attempt at a diversion so you wouldn’t notice if they slipped her a mickey.”
“Mickey?” several voices asked together.
“Something to knock her out. Leviathan-sized Sominex. Sleep formula of some sort,” he explained.
“Moya has not detected any substances entering her systems other than the ones bargained for by Chiana and
Jool,” Pilot said after a brief conference with the leviathan.
Aeryn clambered up alongside Pilot to view the displays for herself. “If there isn’t any sign of danger, then
perhaps we should stay until Moya gets the supplies she needs. The docking clamps are still secured to her
hull. Unless we can convince the hvisk to release the grapples, she would have to rip away.”
“John was attacked!” D’Argo countered. “We should leave now.”
“We paid perfectly good currency for those supplies,” Rygel entered the conversation. “It makes no sense to
flee when no one is after anyone except Crichton.”
“Thanks for the support, Buckwheat!” John spat out angrily. “We are at risk, and more importantly, Moya is at
risk. I say we should see if we can get loose without injuring Moya and beat feet as soon as possible. We can
meet Talyn and Crais at the backup rendezvous spot.”
The discussion broke down into bickering, the combined voices merging into a single strident yammering.
Aeryn watched silently from her vantage point atop Pilot’s consoles. Chiana, Jool, and D’Argo were moving
about restlessly, arms, hair, tanktas, and red ringlets jouncing or flailing with the energy of their argument.
Rygel soared from one spot to the next, inserting caustic observations and self-serving suggestions whenever
he could find a lull in the noise. John continued to lean on the wall directly in front of Pilot, looking increasingly
distracted and weary, but periodically finding the energy to interject his demand for a hasty departure.
Pilot placed one claw on Aeryn’s knee, drawing her attention away from the squabbling group. “Officer Sun,
Moya does not want to leave yet. She is concerned for Commander Crichton’s welfare, as well as that of
everyone on board, but she is very worried about the damage she will sustain if she pulls away, and would
prefer to finish taking on supplies as long as the hvisk continue to provide what we purchased.” He looked at
the arguing crewmembers with his customary resigned dismay.
“Then that’s what we’ll do, Pilot.” Aeryn gave him a smile and left her perch, sliding down alongside Jool with a
quiet thump. “Moya doesn’t want to leave yet!” she yelled into the ruckus. “We’re staying.”
“Aeryn --” John began.
“Moya wants to wait,” she repeated more quietly, and turned to face him. “She wants to stay.”
John’s shoulders started to slump. It was his body’s signal that he was giving in, transmitting the surrender long
before he would be willing to actually say it. “And what they did to me counts for nothing?”
“They attacked John!” D’Argo insisted, but he sounded less confident of his position than he had just microts
earlier.
John turned on the warrior angrily. “Well, thanks a bunch!”
“I was agreeing with you,” D’Argo protested.
“Sure you were. Right up until the part about how I was over reacting to whatever the hvisk did to me, and I’m
being selfish!”
“I said no such thing, Crichton!” D’Argo took a step back, retreating in confusion before John’s furious glare.
“I’m not deaf, D’Argo. I heard what you said!” John flicked his hand at his friend’s gesture of protest,
dismissing anything D’Argo had to say before he could utter the words.
“Crichton, you’re fahrbot!” Chiana entered the squabble. “D’Argo didn’t say anything like that.” She looked
around at the others, seeking reassurance. They were all beginning to nod their heads, a silent chorus of
agreement. “He didn’t,” she repeated.
“Great! Now you’re teaming up to play tricks on the deficient human,” Crichton said. He rubbed his forehead,
looking tired and depressed. “Fine. Do whatever the hell you want. I’ve got the mother of all headaches. I’m
going to my quarters for a while and see if I can sleep this off.” He stumbled slightly as he stepped around
Chiana, caught his balance and pulled away from her attempt to steady him, yanking his arm away from her
outstretched hands. “Back off, Chiana,” he growled.
The group watched without a word while John traversed the bridge and disappeared through the doorway, his
shoulders bowed and head hanging under the combined weight of depression and the mystery of whatever had
been done to him. Silence continued to reign for several microts even after he had disappeared from sight,
broken only by Moya’s pulsing rumbles and the quiet whine of Rygel’s hovering throne sled.
“I do not understand what just happened,” Pilot inquired of the group. “Ka D’Argo did not say anything remotely
similar to what Crichton accused him of saying.”
“Jool, I think you need to check John to see what the hvisk did to him,” Aeryn said.
“The scanner will only detect physical alterations. If this is psychological, it won’t pick anything up,” the interion
reminded her.
“Maybe he was just tired,” Chiana said hopefully. “I do odd things whenever I get really tired, maybe that’s all it
was.”
“You do odd things even when you’re not tired.” D’Argo’s accusation was delivered with a look of tolerant
indulgence, letting everyone know that he was teasing her. Chiana bumped against him with one hip, a tiny
physical chastisement, and then turned back to the conversation.
“Perhaps the clone has gained strength and has begun taking over his mind,” Rygel theorized. “We should
lock him up now, just to be safe.”
Aeryn shook her head. “That was not like anything the clone has ever done before. Crichton has always
known when the clone was communicating with him. That was closer to an auditory hallucination.” She looked
over her shoulder at the now empty doorway where John had disappeared into the corridor, gnawing on her
lower lip for a brief moment. “Today may have been one attack on his mind too many for him to withstand.
Pilot? Have there been any transmissions from the hvisk since we’ve returned? Any clue why they took
Crichton?”
“No, Officer Sun. If anything, there has been a reduction in signals, but it may be coincidental. There have
been no events over the last arn that would require any sort of transmission.” Pilot tended to his controls,
watching his visitors simultaneously as he issued a new set of commands to a DRD. One of the units sitting in a
corner came to life, and zipped across the same bridge that Crichton had taken. “I have instructed the DRD to
proceed to Crichton’s quarters, where it will maintain surveillance on him for any additional abnormal
behaviors. It will send a constant video signal to Moya’s datastores.”
“That’s all we can do for right now,” D’Argo agreed. “What about the information we were trying to get from the
hvisk?”
“I am not going back on that station again,” Rygel said. “There is no information important enough to take a
chance that another one of us might get abducted by those unintelligible excuses for barterers.”
D’Argo folded his arms across his chest and peered down his nose at the hynerian. “For once I have to agree
with Rygel. We should wait to see how John is when he wakes up, and what the hvisk do next. After that we
can make a decision.”
“Agreed,” Aeryn nodded. “In the meantime perhaps we should all get some rest.” She turned and led the way
out of the Den.
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
