Whispers
Chapter 4
Lo’lann turns, smiling, loosened hair flowing across her shoulders in shining sheets, Jothee perched on her
hip. He opens his arms wide to embrace them and she spins away, the pair laughing together as they dance
away, giggling and teasing him. He dodges around a pillar in pursuit. Her graceful body sways to one side,
effortlessly evading his hug one more time, and they are all laughing together. The room twists, darkens, flows
around him, and she’s lying on the floor in an expanding lake of blood. Somewhere nearby his son is
screaming for his mother.
Crichton took in a long gasping breath and woke abruptly. “Whoa! Too much.” The dream had left behind a
mild sense of impropriety, as though he had been eavesdropping on D’Argo’s life, sifting through the luxan’s
storehouse of memories without permission. The emotions he had encountered in the brief nightmare lingered,
intruding on his waking world, every bit as tangible as the headache that pounded behind his eyes. He had
been able to feel D’Argo’s grief in the split-microt between sleep and waking. The emotional agony
transcended sorrow by several degrees. It was as though someone had ripped his heart out, leaving only pain
and longing in its place.
He turned restlessly, trying to find a comfortable position. His headache had started shortly after he had
regaining consciousness upside down over D’Argo’s shoulder. At first he had attributed it to just that: being
carried upside down. Except the pain had continued to mount throughout the brief argument in the Den and
had even increased while he was asleep until it now felt like someone had stuffed a star’s supply of heat and
radiation into the tight confines of his skull. John pulled a pillow over his eyes, blocking out the last vestiges of
light filtering through his eyelids, and sighed when that adjustment provided a small measure of relief.
“Don’t go there again,” he ordered his subconscious, instructing it to stay away from any further conjecture
about D’Argo’s past. He spent several microts finding something simple to focus his thoughts on, finally
choosing the smells and sounds of his mother making breakfast when he was a kid, fixed it firmly in his mind’s
eye, and fell asleep hoping he would feel better when he woke up.
Kellor waits for him by the pool, dainty feet whispering on the stone walkway, the pastel green tones of her skin
turned to silver by the cold light of Hyneria’s moon. She turns to greet him, earbrows flexing upward with
excitement because this meeting is forbidden, and then the light is suddenly gone, the moon obscured, the
scenery morphing into a darker night when he finds her body floating there in the pool, slain by his father’s
master-at-arms in order to ensure that the future Dominar does not squander his love on a commoner.
Shrubbery turns to buildings. Where there were trees, there now stand hordes of nebari, and Nerri is turning
away, glancing over his shoulder one last time, mouthing the word ‘sister’ at her, and then she is standing
alone, surrounded by the crush of thousands on this heavily populated planet, and she doesn’t know what to do
or how to live because he has always been there to take care of her. Only she wakes to find out that she has
been frozen for twenty-two cycles, and her cousins are dead, one murdered to save the life of a deficient
species, and she is alone with no way of finding her way home.
Crichton turned in his sleep, wracked by the flowing collage of dreams, sighed deeply and descended into
another strange collage of borrowed images.
The collarbone rings are an agony, the bone and skin not yet healed from their insertion. He bellows out his
fury anyway, jerks against the chains until the blood flows from the wounds, deliberately battering himself as
much to obliterate the memory of Lo’lann’s dead body as to announce his defiance to his jailers. Leviathan
walls fade, twist, glow, turn into the palace Throne Room. His father sneers down at him from the vantage point
of his jewel encrusted couch, calling him weak for falling in love with a mere servant. He silently vows that he
will learn the lessons of power in the quest to usurp the aging Dominar’s empire before the old man is ready to
step down, but underneath, he wants only vengeance for Kellor. Cold determination curls within, shifting over
several notches to become chilly fatalism and a willingness to do whatever is necessary to go on living, because
what was once fun is now business, and she has learned to survive on her own, but she always watches the
faces, hoping that some day it will be Nerri’s smile coming toward her through the crowd.
John snapped awake all at once, his headache worse than before, barely able to see against the throbbing
agony behind his eyes. The lights in the corridor were dimmed, which meant that it was still ‘nighttime’ aboard
the leviathan and everyone was most likely asleep. He tried to organize his thoughts long enough to think of
someone to comm for help, but the nightmarish collection of dreams and the unrelenting discomfort had
combined to scattered his thoughts into tangled fragments. Instead, he turned back into the pillows, one tiny
protesting cry getting loose as another jolt of pain rocketed from temple to temple, and sought refuge in sleep.
* * * * *
Aeryn finished buckling her pulse pistol into place, checked her braid one more time to make sure that it was
tight and even, and waved her hand past the door controls. She stepped into the corridor and almost ran into
Chiana. “Sorry,” she apologized in a mumble, disturbed that she had been so distracted she hadn’t noticed the
other woman approaching. Her training had taught her to be vigilant, always aware of her surroundings.
Coming that close to a collision meant that her thoughts were focused on something several light years away
from her body. She was preoccupied to a dangerous degree.
“No farm, no foul!” Chiana said brightly. Aeryn paused. It brought Chiana’s headlong rush to a halt as well.
“What’s the matter?”
Aeryn cocked her head, considering the mangled phrase. “Isn’t that ‘No harm, no foul’?” she asked. It was the
first humanism she had repeated since her return to Moya. The peculiar expression emerged like a second-
hand sound, echoing the memory of John’s voice. But the memory was one from Talyn. She stuffed it back
down where it had been stored, slamming the doors of her mind behind it. Reliving those moments only caused
misery.
“Fowl belong on a farm,” Chiana was saying. She confirmed her reasoning with an emphatic jerk of her head.
“So it must mean if there isn’t a farm, there aren’t any birds.” She spun around and headed away. After
several steps she looked behind her to check that Aeryn was there. “How’s Crichton this morning? Feeling
better?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t seen him.” She had meant to stop by his quarters before heading to the Center
Chamber for First Meal, but her feet had continued past the appropriate corridor without any inclination to turn
down that passageway. Her body had begun operating on its own in that manner with increasing frequency.
Reason said that it was her emotions getting the best of the more logical side of her mind, but it didn’t feel that
way when her boots took over and continued past the corridor leading to John’s cell, not when she had
originally intended to check on him. It felt more like encroaching insanity; either that or a new form of
cowardice.
Aeryn took another step and nearly ran into Chiana again. The nebari had stopped without warning; she
whirled around, outrage radiating from the cocked elbows and twitching shoulders. “Haven’t seen him? You
haven’t even bothered to check on him?” She stalked even closer, glaring at Aeryn from a distance of barely
two denches. “You can’t be bothered to check on Crichton? In that case, it probably won’t worry you that a few
arns ago I found him sleeping on the floor next to the waste funnel. He’s been sick most of the night, Aeryn,
puking his guts out. But maybe you don’t care about little details like that.”
Chiana stepped away, surveying the stunned ex-Peacekeeper from head to toe. “I know you’ve been hurt, but
he deserves better than this from you. If you won’t make sure he’s all right, then I’ll do it.” She shoved Aeryn to
one side and headed back the way they had come.
Aeryn snared her by one arm. “No, I’ll check on him.” They remained that way for several microts, Chiana
pulling away and Aeryn holding her in place, conducting a silent battle. The smaller woman finally relented and
stopped struggling to get loose. Aeryn let go, and said, “You go on ahead to get something to eat. I’ll go back.”
“You’re sure?” It was an aggressive query, more challenge than question.
Aeryn jerked her head toward the Center Chamber, silently ordering Chiana to continue in that direction. A
moment later the gray figure was gone, leaving Aeryn to retrace her steps toward Crichton’s cell. Instead, she
stood frozen in the middle of the corridor, stunned to immobility by the vehemence of the accusation. She did
care about Crichton. She was worried to distraction about whatever the hvisk had done to him and his odd
behavior in the Den. But she had watched John Crichton lying weakened and sapped of energy once already,
and couldn’t bear to travel that route a second time. She looked toward the corridor leading to his room, the
junction no more than five motras behind her, and couldn’t get herself to move.
In the end, it was uncertainty that unstuck her boots from the floor, driving her step by slow step toward his cell.
Although Chiana had said he was sick, she hadn’t included any details and she hadn’t explained why she had
left him alone if he was that ill. Solitude was a balm under some circumstances, but being sick and miserable
was worse if it had to be endured alone. Aeryn decided that she would make sure John was comfortable and
cared for, possibly with Pilot watching over him by way of the transmissions from a DRD, and then she could go
back to her planned ritual of performing small chores around the leviathan.
* * * * *
“I don’t hurt. I … I did some good things. I’m proud of my life. And I’m with you. Don’t worry about me. I’ve
never felt better.”
John bolted upright on his bed, sweating and inexplicably short of breath. The words from his dream
reverberated in his mind as though someone had just recited them in his quarters. But the only noises around
him were Moya’s thumps and rumbles. He flopped back, and realized with a small jolt of surprise that his
headache was gone. The lights in the corridor had increased to their usual ‘daytime’ intensity although his own
cell remained dark, which meant it was Moya’s version of morning. He looked deliberately into the glare of one
of the lights in the corridor, expecting more of the stabbing, skull-splitting retribution he had experienced during
the night. Although there was a mild twinge as his eyes adjusted to the brightness, it lacked the radiating
agony that had disturbed his sleep. Whatever had caused the problem was over.
He went back to staring at the ceiling, sorting out real memories from the avalanche of dream images. Chiana
had come in at some point, he remembered. Caught up in the misery of vomiting, he hadn’t heard her enter
the cell. She had simply been there all at once, steadying him through a bout of retching, and had stayed
alongside him providing what little assistance she could until it stopped. She had helped him clean up, guided
his stumbling progress back to bed, and then had stayed with him, slowly rubbing his shoulders and back until
he had been able to go back to sleep.
Some portions he remembered more clearly than the rest, such as her offer to get either Jool or Aeryn to help.
He had turned down both suggestions, wanting neither the interion’s chattering nor Aeryn’s stony silence near
his bed as he rode out the nausea and discomfort. The quiet drone of Chiana’s voice and her hand moving up
and down his back had been all he had needed to get through it, providing the assurance that someone still
cared what happened to him.
John closed his eyes and replayed the image that had gripped him just before waking up. He had been
observing from somewhere inside Talyn, from a place that had allowed him to watch his own blue eyes staring
sightlessly into an infinite distance. He had watched the last bit of life fade out of that blind stare, and been
utterly overwhelmed by grief. He shifted restlessly, trying to make some sense of the stolen image. It had been
a memory that didn’t belong in his mind and yet a small portion of his psyche insisted that it was real.
The meandering, half-waking deliberations were sidetracked by a new idea. “Aeryn?”
A shadow detached itself from the dark masking one side of the corridor, moved silently through the open
doors to his cell, and drifted to the side of his bed. “I was on my way to the Center Chamber to get something
to eat. I was … I was about to come in to see how you were feeling this morning.”
“Good. I’m fine. Still me. No additions or subtractions this time as far as I can tell.”
Aeryn moved restlessly about his chamber, not quite touching each item as she moved past it. She drifted to
his overcoat. Her fingertips brushed against the sleeve for a microt, and then she turned her back on it and
focused on John instead. “I … I just wanted to make sure … after what happened yesterday,” she said,
stumbling her way through the small sentence. “Chiana said that you were sick.”
He tried to reassure her. “I’m better this morning. The headache got worse, but it’s gone now.” He chose his
words carefully, knowing that almost anything he said these days hurt her in ways he couldn’t begin to
understand. Every conversation with Aeryn was like trying to walk through a minefield where the mines
constantly changed position. There was no way of knowing what would or wouldn’t cause an explosion, and
even if he did discover a safe comment, there was no guarantee it wouldn’t wound her the next time he used it.
He continued cautiously, hoping he was saying the right thing. “I don’t know what they were trying to
accomplish, Aeryn, but it seems like you got there in time. I’m okay. I promise.”
“I’m glad, John.”
It sounded as though some great force had squeezed his name out of her despite Aeryn’s best efforts to keep
the single syllable from emerging -- as though she thought the sound didn’t belong in this chamber. It was then
that he understood how every one of his words, no matter how insignificant, had the potential to wound. The
two of them seemed to be spending all their time doing nothing but hurting each other; every movement and
syllable carried the potential for another small bit of destruction.
He watched Aeryn begin another orbit of his quarters, and considered the odd perspective of his last dream
one more time. His mind had played the scene from her viewpoint. Somehow in his sleep, his brain had put
together all the small comments contributed by Crais and Rygel and Aeryn, resulting in an approximation of
what Aeryn had gone through. He could still see his own dead body, propped up with one foot tucked beneath
the other knee, and couldn’t begin to comprehend what it had been like for her to endure that loss.
He opened his mouth to tell her something beginning with ‘I’m sorry’ -- something about how he wished she
hadn’t had to live through that, or how he wished the other one hadn’t died before her eyes, or perhaps how he
wished that he had been there to comfort her. Aeryn turned to look at him, one of the few direct stares she had
bestowed on him since she had returned to Moya, and he knew with complete certainty that she was praying to
herself that he would say anything at all except ‘I’m sorry’.
“First Meal?” he asked instead, although he was feeling distinctly not hungry. Eating had become a chore
since Aeryn had returned. Food was a necessity to be swallowed quickly, barely noticing what he was forcing
past the perpetual tight feeling in his chest or the occasional lump in his throat, for the sole purpose of keeping
his body alive.
“Do you need some help or can I meet you up there?” She was already headed for the door.
“I’m fine. Go ahead.” He waved her away. She gave him another thin smile and hurried from the cell. John
watched the corridor long after she disappeared, wondering about the forces that had drawn her to his quarters
to check on him when it was obviously not where she wanted to be. His brain refused to provide any insights no
matter how he looked at it. Eventually he sighed and swung his legs over the side of his bed, sitting poised on
the edge for several microts as the entire chamber seemed to spin around him several times.
“Whoa,” he muttered, thinking that his ‘I’m fine’ assessment might have been overly optimistic. Moya’s curved
walls made one last erratic orbit and then settled back where they belonged, the wave of dizziness passing at
last. He made the transition to the shower cautiously, steadied himself against the wall long enough to pull his
shirt and shorts off, then stepped under the floods of hot water and did his best to rinse away the last grief-
laden dregs of his dreams.
* * * * *
By the time Crichton made it to the Center Chamber for First Meal, only Rygel remained. It had taken John
longer than he had expected to shower and dress. His thoughts had been wandering across a wider gamut of
topics than usual, which had repeatedly interrupted his progress. More than once he had found himself
standing motionless, some small revelation or insight consuming his full attention to the point that he came to a
complete stop. In the end, he had talked his way through getting his boots on and laced, coaching himself
through the normally mindless process. It wasn’t an entirely new phenomenon to him, but he had seldom been
sidetracked so often in such a short period of time. Lack of sleep and the previous day’s events was more than
enough reason to excuse his absent-mindedness, however, and he shrugged off the vague sense of unease
as the result of a bad night’s sleep.
“Hoover!” he greeted the Dominar. “Suckin’ down the munchies as usual.” The hynerian was sitting with the
detritus of his meal scattered across a full motra of table to either side of him.
“Who or what is this ‘Hoover’?” Rygel grumbled around a mouthful of food.
“Vacuum cleaner.” John stuck his head in the warmer, searching for something appetizing to eat. “I suppose I
should use the name of a garbage disposal, but In-Sink-Erator doesn’t seem to flow, does it?” He rummaged
through the selections. A loud belch emanated from behind him. John let the lid drop into place with a rap.
“Nothing left?” Rygel lolled back in his chair. “There should be. D’Argo threatened my life if I didn’t leave
something for you. Although, if you’re going to sleep late, I don’t see why we are required to save --”
“Not hungry all of a sudden,” John said, cutting off the beginning of what he suspected would turn into one of
the hynerian’s arrogant monologues. The grumbling emptiness in his stomach had disappeared, buried under
a mounting sensation that he was overly full. Rygel began eating again, drifting up and down the table,
scavenging the last remnants of the meal. John contributed a quiet burp to the non-stop slurping symphony of
Rygel’s voracious appetite, and left the chamber quickly, his appetite destroyed.
He was halfway to Command before he remembered that Moya was docked with the Kyelligg. It meant that their
usual habit of monitoring their progress was unnecessary this morning. John paused in an intersection of two
corridors, considering his options. After several microts of deliberation, he continued toward Command simply
because there was nowhere better for him to go. Their mission to buy information from the hvisk had been a
failure, which meant that they’d have to wait for Crais and Talyn to return. Assuming that the hvisk were no
threat to them while they were within the confines of Moya, the time could be spent relaxing for once, providing
some much-needed peace and quiet.
Aeryn was sitting at the strategy table, staring out the forward view portal at the intricate, branching arms of the
Kyelligg. “Hey,” he greeted her with reserve.
“You missed First Meal.”
“Not hungry.” His stomach growled. It was a low-pitched testimony that his appetite had returned now that he
was no longer near Rygel or the food. “I wasn’t hungry when I got to the center chamber,” he rephrased in light
of the grumbling. Aeryn merely nodded and continued to stare at the Kyelligg.
John watched the unmoving body for several microts, the ache building where her earlier guarded concern had
restored a small measure of comfort. The silence stretched out, becoming increasingly uncomfortable with
each passing microt. “I’ll go.”
“You don’t have to.” Aeryn turned toward him before he could retreat. “Don’t leave.”
Choosing a spot on the far side of Command where he could both watch Aeryn and still allow her all the space
she seemed to need of late, he propped a shoulder against one of the thick bulkhead supports and waited.
“I don’t mean to be this way,” she said.
He couldn’t think of an answer. Instead, John strolled toward one of the consoles and leaned on it. The
patterns shifting across the displays went unnoticed as he tried to understand what she was going through.
For a split microt he thought he could feel the tangle of her emotions: loss, despair, worry that it might happen
again, and a rigid self-control that said she would never let the tidal wave sweep her loose ever again. It was
there and gone in a flash, moving too quickly to separate out all the intricacies or even appreciate the depth of
the heartache.
There were no words in his lexicon that could offer comfort for that kind of sorrow. He snuck a glance at
Aeryn’s unmoving figure and understood for the first time that her coldness wasn’t dislike; it was a precarious
balance between holding herself together and reaching out the small distance necessary just to be around
him. He searched for the words to let her know that he could wait until she was ready.
F
A
L
L
I
N
G
John grabbed frantically at the nav console. His fingers scrabbled at the sharp edges for several microts
before latching on, knuckles gone white as he gripped the surface desperately. Aeryn turned to look at him.
She opened her mouth to say something.
Neurons fire in patterns never intended by genetics, sending mystical jolts through complaining muscles,
jerking the long angular body into awkward patterns. Stumbling. The floor seems to shift beneath destabilized
feet. A flash, darkness, an awakening, another bright scintillation burrowing deep into the synapses, blindness,
and then a vision.
Falling. Someone’s feet teeter for a single microt; boot soles squeal as they start to slide over the edge. Pilot
calls out a warning. FALLING. Moya’s glowing neural energy turns to flickering indicators of acceleration as he
heads for the bottom of the neural plexus.
Crichton shook his head. His vision cleared slowly, eventually revealing that he was hugging the nav console
with both arms. Command waltzed from left to right several times, then executed a slow, elegant pirouette
before settling down into its usual placid location beneath his feet. Aeryn was four steps closer, watching him
the way he had watched his neighbor’s pit bull the time the dog had gotten loose from its pen. He had stood
absolutely still, asking “Nice doggie … By the way, were you planning on ripping my throat out?” Aeryn had that
same look of frightened fascination.
That look of enraptured alarm remained in place for the length of time it took him to unclamp himself from the
console. “What’s the matter? What just happened?” she asked.
“Chiana. She’s -- I think she’s going to fall into the central neural plexus.” He looked around, trying to sort out
the fast images he had experienced. “Chiana!” he called over his comms.
“Crichton!” the nebari’s alarmed yell drowned out his transmission. “I saw you falling. Where are you?”
“Command. There’s nothing up here to fall from, Chiana. It’s you who’s going to fall into the neural plexus.
Stay the hell out of Pilot’s Den. Where are you now?” John pushed himself up straight and headed for the
door, focused on the threat to Chiana’s life.
There was a five-microt silence before she answered, “I’m in the Den.”
He swore and started to run.
“Don’t come up here, Crichton. It was you I saw falling!” But Crichton was already out of Command and
headed toward the Den.
Aeryn, mystified by the anxious exchange between Crichton and Chiana, stayed where she was for several
microts, staring at the empty doorway. Then she went after him, accelerating to a flat out run in order to catch
up.
* * * * *
When John ran into the Den, Chiana was leaning against Pilot’s station, as far away from the edge of the
platform as possible with D’Argo standing protectively between her and the drop off. Crichton slowed as he
approached the narrow span across the neural plexus, eyeing the void and comparing it to the confused vision
he had experienced. No matter who had gone over the edge, he was positive they had fallen from the side
nearest Pilot.
Aeryn came to a stop next to him. “What’s going on?”
He gave her a fast summary of their encounter with the Energy Riders, covering only the most basic details and
the aftermath of being inhabited by one of the invasive creatures. He finished the account with, “Chiana’s been
seeing flashes of the future for about a quarter cycle. It looks like it’s catching. I’m sure I saw her falling into
Moya’s neural plexus.”
“Don’t!” Chiana called the moment he set foot on the bridge. She started toward the edge of the platform,
waving Crichton to stay on the other side. D’Argo snared her around the waist and pulled her back. John
made the transition quickly and without incident with Aeryn following close on his heels. Once on the other
side, the pair moved a safe distance from the drop off.
D’Argo grimaced and gestured at the small group with both hands. “That was brilliant. Now everyone is in the
worst place possible instead of just half of us!”
John shook his head. “It was Chiana. It’s her we have to worry about.”
“No, it isn’t. I saw -- I saw you, Crichton,” the distraught nebari insisted. “I saw you off balance and falling.”
“John, you’ve never had the visions before. Are you absolutely sure of what you saw?” D’Argo asked.
“I know it was Chiana, and I know someone was falling. Pilot, you had one of those things inside you almost as
long as Pip. Are you picking anything up?”
“Nothing at all, Crichton. Moya’s sensors detect nothing unusual either. There is no reason that either of you
should lose your balance or fall over the edge. We remained securely docked with the Kyelligg. Moya’s
orientation is more stable than usual.”
“It’s been almost a tenth of an arn since we both saw something,” John said. “Pip, what’s the longest interval
you’ve had between a premonition and it coming true?” Chiana’s answer was lost to him, drowned beneath an
unfathomable wave of confused impressions.
His body transmutates into something made of living metals, seething with strange compounds and mixtures no
anthromorphic biped has ever pumped through its veins. A migrating burst of radiation strikes his outer skin,
flattens as the particles impact, then oozes around him to rejoin on the other side of his body and continues its
journey.
Crichton took a deep breath, held it for several microts while he waited for the strange sensation to fade, and
then let it out on an extended sigh. The dizzying flash had been so fast it was close to subliminal. But it had
lingered long enough for his brain to share its brief delusion with his arms and legs, imparting a fat, overly warm
feeling to his fingers and toes. His body didn’t feel right. It felt weak and insubstantial. He took another long
breath and the peculiar sensation faded to the point that he could ignore it.
“John looks like he’s ready to keel over. Weak human. He should get some more rest.”
Crichton turned, intending to fire an angry, smart-mouthed remark at D’Argo. The luxan had his head down,
staring at the floor. He was listening to Chiana, who was voicing another anxious argument that they all needed
to be careful until the precognition was fulfilled. Aeryn was watching John, looking concerned, and it was clear
from her expression that no one in the group had been talking to him. John wandered a motra to one side,
wondering if perhaps the clone had perfected a new trick of emulating other people’s voices. He started to turn
his concentration inward to check. But the idea that he might have to contend with a new form of deception was
too much for him to consider at that particular moment. He turned away from the area of his mind where Harvey
resided, and took another step to the side, seeking a quiet spot where he could pull himself together.
Moya’s internal rumbles soothed him, lulling him into a relaxed mental state. He concentrated on the peaceful
creature for several dozen microts. Closing out the ongoing argument between his crewmates, he watched the
flow of energy streaming through the maze of conduits and breathed in Moya’s complex fragrance of sharp
metallic tang overlain by the more subtle, musty organic scents. He let his senses spool outward, trying to take
in every nuance of her peace and tranquility, and then, without conscious effort on his part, he seemed to
expand even further to find more and more of her inner workings.
He slides without friction between two gravity wells, finding the balance like a bird soaring between sun and
earth, no effort required as he moves along the point where nothing pulls at him. He spins, flinging particles off
his hull sliding sandpaper soft until they release with a quiet slurry of noise felt rather than heard leaving behind
the tickling presence of subatomic particles piercing him to appear on the other side using the spaces between
his molecules to move through him without hindrance. But his body was never intended to experience these
sensations, and he can smell the roar of the sunlight, hear the tickle of someone’s fingertips rapping the insides
of his ribs as they walk through his tiers, taste the voices ringing inside his caverns as they argue and carry on
their lives within him, and he can’t begin to surround the sensations as they blossom within his mind, expanding
to fill every synapse with their energy.
Something slides along his skin, scraping him from shoulder to hip, then bounces away, spinning silently into
eternal darkness.
What’s that? What’s that? he cries inside his mind, senses overloaded by the single tactile sensation. Debris,
he knows suddenly, the knowledge formless inside his head. It was a small bit of rock tumbling along his hull, a
chance encounter with an inanimate interstellar traveler. It’s gone, spiraling erratically toward the next star, and
he remains, floating comfortably within a web of gravitational impulses that most living creatures can’t even
detect. Except his body doesn’t consist of a metallic outer skin grown over an intricate interlacing of biological
and mechanoid parts, thrumming with energy, a non-living shell that grows with every passing cycle to
encompass new tiers. He isn’t a peaceful creature consisting of both living tissue and unfeeling construction.
And yet he is.
He flows through Moya’s systems, everywhere at once, a misty diaspora expanding too fast to hold on to
himself, his awareness fragmenting even as it grows, until he’s unsure where his consciousness begins or
ends. His body stands frozen in the Den, hands tucked inside his belt as he stares unblinking into the dark
cavern below, chest unmoving beneath the black shirt as he freezes, realizing that he’s looking at himself from
outside his own body. The DRD spins away, cutting off the view and he abandons that single viewpoint to
search for a way back, uncertain exactly what is happening.
He finds a DRD in Command that swivels its eyestalks to consider the barking laughter of the floating hynerian
while two more work near the ion backwash chamber to replace a bit of worn inner hull plating with the quiet
pang of soldering tin smell running in his mouth to be drowned out by the noise of the reclamation system which
can’t overwhelm the wafting blues and greens of air circulation telling him that the vents need to be opened
further and he can see every chamber with a DRD in it at the same time except his attention is held by the
burning fire of starburst energy being held deep in his belly waiting for release and he’s confused because
there are DRDs everywhere and he sees every one of them and there’s a mechanical burst somewhere within
his bowels to goad the drive system only he’s docked so he can’t soar can’t stream with the lines of force
encircling a planet to find the perfect trajectory only it’s restful here snuggled in where it’s safe for a few arns
and every small sensation from the glow of radiation on his skin to the cramping pinch of the cold docking
clamp is clear in the silence of his mind.
Moya!! he screams. The sound bursts into silence, shattering before it is given form so the leviathan can never
hear his cry of love.
“D’Argo!” Pilot waved urgently with all four claws. “Catch him, D’Argo! He’s going to fall over the edge.”
John’s eyes rolled back in his head, his body beginning to convulse, and he toppled toward the long drop to the
bottom of the central neural cluster.
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
Chapter 4
Lo’lann turns, smiling, loosened hair flowing across her shoulders in shining sheets, Jothee perched on her
hip. He opens his arms wide to embrace them and she spins away, the pair laughing together as they dance
away, giggling and teasing him. He dodges around a pillar in pursuit. Her graceful body sways to one side,
effortlessly evading his hug one more time, and they are all laughing together. The room twists, darkens, flows
around him, and she’s lying on the floor in an expanding lake of blood. Somewhere nearby his son is
screaming for his mother.
Crichton took in a long gasping breath and woke abruptly. “Whoa! Too much.” The dream had left behind a
mild sense of impropriety, as though he had been eavesdropping on D’Argo’s life, sifting through the luxan’s
storehouse of memories without permission. The emotions he had encountered in the brief nightmare lingered,
intruding on his waking world, every bit as tangible as the headache that pounded behind his eyes. He had
been able to feel D’Argo’s grief in the split-microt between sleep and waking. The emotional agony
transcended sorrow by several degrees. It was as though someone had ripped his heart out, leaving only pain
and longing in its place.
He turned restlessly, trying to find a comfortable position. His headache had started shortly after he had
regaining consciousness upside down over D’Argo’s shoulder. At first he had attributed it to just that: being
carried upside down. Except the pain had continued to mount throughout the brief argument in the Den and
had even increased while he was asleep until it now felt like someone had stuffed a star’s supply of heat and
radiation into the tight confines of his skull. John pulled a pillow over his eyes, blocking out the last vestiges of
light filtering through his eyelids, and sighed when that adjustment provided a small measure of relief.
“Don’t go there again,” he ordered his subconscious, instructing it to stay away from any further conjecture
about D’Argo’s past. He spent several microts finding something simple to focus his thoughts on, finally
choosing the smells and sounds of his mother making breakfast when he was a kid, fixed it firmly in his mind’s
eye, and fell asleep hoping he would feel better when he woke up.
Kellor waits for him by the pool, dainty feet whispering on the stone walkway, the pastel green tones of her skin
turned to silver by the cold light of Hyneria’s moon. She turns to greet him, earbrows flexing upward with
excitement because this meeting is forbidden, and then the light is suddenly gone, the moon obscured, the
scenery morphing into a darker night when he finds her body floating there in the pool, slain by his father’s
master-at-arms in order to ensure that the future Dominar does not squander his love on a commoner.
Shrubbery turns to buildings. Where there were trees, there now stand hordes of nebari, and Nerri is turning
away, glancing over his shoulder one last time, mouthing the word ‘sister’ at her, and then she is standing
alone, surrounded by the crush of thousands on this heavily populated planet, and she doesn’t know what to do
or how to live because he has always been there to take care of her. Only she wakes to find out that she has
been frozen for twenty-two cycles, and her cousins are dead, one murdered to save the life of a deficient
species, and she is alone with no way of finding her way home.
Crichton turned in his sleep, wracked by the flowing collage of dreams, sighed deeply and descended into
another strange collage of borrowed images.
The collarbone rings are an agony, the bone and skin not yet healed from their insertion. He bellows out his
fury anyway, jerks against the chains until the blood flows from the wounds, deliberately battering himself as
much to obliterate the memory of Lo’lann’s dead body as to announce his defiance to his jailers. Leviathan
walls fade, twist, glow, turn into the palace Throne Room. His father sneers down at him from the vantage point
of his jewel encrusted couch, calling him weak for falling in love with a mere servant. He silently vows that he
will learn the lessons of power in the quest to usurp the aging Dominar’s empire before the old man is ready to
step down, but underneath, he wants only vengeance for Kellor. Cold determination curls within, shifting over
several notches to become chilly fatalism and a willingness to do whatever is necessary to go on living, because
what was once fun is now business, and she has learned to survive on her own, but she always watches the
faces, hoping that some day it will be Nerri’s smile coming toward her through the crowd.
John snapped awake all at once, his headache worse than before, barely able to see against the throbbing
agony behind his eyes. The lights in the corridor were dimmed, which meant that it was still ‘nighttime’ aboard
the leviathan and everyone was most likely asleep. He tried to organize his thoughts long enough to think of
someone to comm for help, but the nightmarish collection of dreams and the unrelenting discomfort had
combined to scattered his thoughts into tangled fragments. Instead, he turned back into the pillows, one tiny
protesting cry getting loose as another jolt of pain rocketed from temple to temple, and sought refuge in sleep.
* * * * *
Aeryn finished buckling her pulse pistol into place, checked her braid one more time to make sure that it was
tight and even, and waved her hand past the door controls. She stepped into the corridor and almost ran into
Chiana. “Sorry,” she apologized in a mumble, disturbed that she had been so distracted she hadn’t noticed the
other woman approaching. Her training had taught her to be vigilant, always aware of her surroundings.
Coming that close to a collision meant that her thoughts were focused on something several light years away
from her body. She was preoccupied to a dangerous degree.
“No farm, no foul!” Chiana said brightly. Aeryn paused. It brought Chiana’s headlong rush to a halt as well.
“What’s the matter?”
Aeryn cocked her head, considering the mangled phrase. “Isn’t that ‘No harm, no foul’?” she asked. It was the
first humanism she had repeated since her return to Moya. The peculiar expression emerged like a second-
hand sound, echoing the memory of John’s voice. But the memory was one from Talyn. She stuffed it back
down where it had been stored, slamming the doors of her mind behind it. Reliving those moments only caused
misery.
“Fowl belong on a farm,” Chiana was saying. She confirmed her reasoning with an emphatic jerk of her head.
“So it must mean if there isn’t a farm, there aren’t any birds.” She spun around and headed away. After
several steps she looked behind her to check that Aeryn was there. “How’s Crichton this morning? Feeling
better?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t seen him.” She had meant to stop by his quarters before heading to the Center
Chamber for First Meal, but her feet had continued past the appropriate corridor without any inclination to turn
down that passageway. Her body had begun operating on its own in that manner with increasing frequency.
Reason said that it was her emotions getting the best of the more logical side of her mind, but it didn’t feel that
way when her boots took over and continued past the corridor leading to John’s cell, not when she had
originally intended to check on him. It felt more like encroaching insanity; either that or a new form of
cowardice.
Aeryn took another step and nearly ran into Chiana again. The nebari had stopped without warning; she
whirled around, outrage radiating from the cocked elbows and twitching shoulders. “Haven’t seen him? You
haven’t even bothered to check on him?” She stalked even closer, glaring at Aeryn from a distance of barely
two denches. “You can’t be bothered to check on Crichton? In that case, it probably won’t worry you that a few
arns ago I found him sleeping on the floor next to the waste funnel. He’s been sick most of the night, Aeryn,
puking his guts out. But maybe you don’t care about little details like that.”
Chiana stepped away, surveying the stunned ex-Peacekeeper from head to toe. “I know you’ve been hurt, but
he deserves better than this from you. If you won’t make sure he’s all right, then I’ll do it.” She shoved Aeryn to
one side and headed back the way they had come.
Aeryn snared her by one arm. “No, I’ll check on him.” They remained that way for several microts, Chiana
pulling away and Aeryn holding her in place, conducting a silent battle. The smaller woman finally relented and
stopped struggling to get loose. Aeryn let go, and said, “You go on ahead to get something to eat. I’ll go back.”
“You’re sure?” It was an aggressive query, more challenge than question.
Aeryn jerked her head toward the Center Chamber, silently ordering Chiana to continue in that direction. A
moment later the gray figure was gone, leaving Aeryn to retrace her steps toward Crichton’s cell. Instead, she
stood frozen in the middle of the corridor, stunned to immobility by the vehemence of the accusation. She did
care about Crichton. She was worried to distraction about whatever the hvisk had done to him and his odd
behavior in the Den. But she had watched John Crichton lying weakened and sapped of energy once already,
and couldn’t bear to travel that route a second time. She looked toward the corridor leading to his room, the
junction no more than five motras behind her, and couldn’t get herself to move.
In the end, it was uncertainty that unstuck her boots from the floor, driving her step by slow step toward his cell.
Although Chiana had said he was sick, she hadn’t included any details and she hadn’t explained why she had
left him alone if he was that ill. Solitude was a balm under some circumstances, but being sick and miserable
was worse if it had to be endured alone. Aeryn decided that she would make sure John was comfortable and
cared for, possibly with Pilot watching over him by way of the transmissions from a DRD, and then she could go
back to her planned ritual of performing small chores around the leviathan.
* * * * *
“I don’t hurt. I … I did some good things. I’m proud of my life. And I’m with you. Don’t worry about me. I’ve
never felt better.”
John bolted upright on his bed, sweating and inexplicably short of breath. The words from his dream
reverberated in his mind as though someone had just recited them in his quarters. But the only noises around
him were Moya’s thumps and rumbles. He flopped back, and realized with a small jolt of surprise that his
headache was gone. The lights in the corridor had increased to their usual ‘daytime’ intensity although his own
cell remained dark, which meant it was Moya’s version of morning. He looked deliberately into the glare of one
of the lights in the corridor, expecting more of the stabbing, skull-splitting retribution he had experienced during
the night. Although there was a mild twinge as his eyes adjusted to the brightness, it lacked the radiating
agony that had disturbed his sleep. Whatever had caused the problem was over.
He went back to staring at the ceiling, sorting out real memories from the avalanche of dream images. Chiana
had come in at some point, he remembered. Caught up in the misery of vomiting, he hadn’t heard her enter
the cell. She had simply been there all at once, steadying him through a bout of retching, and had stayed
alongside him providing what little assistance she could until it stopped. She had helped him clean up, guided
his stumbling progress back to bed, and then had stayed with him, slowly rubbing his shoulders and back until
he had been able to go back to sleep.
Some portions he remembered more clearly than the rest, such as her offer to get either Jool or Aeryn to help.
He had turned down both suggestions, wanting neither the interion’s chattering nor Aeryn’s stony silence near
his bed as he rode out the nausea and discomfort. The quiet drone of Chiana’s voice and her hand moving up
and down his back had been all he had needed to get through it, providing the assurance that someone still
cared what happened to him.
John closed his eyes and replayed the image that had gripped him just before waking up. He had been
observing from somewhere inside Talyn, from a place that had allowed him to watch his own blue eyes staring
sightlessly into an infinite distance. He had watched the last bit of life fade out of that blind stare, and been
utterly overwhelmed by grief. He shifted restlessly, trying to make some sense of the stolen image. It had been
a memory that didn’t belong in his mind and yet a small portion of his psyche insisted that it was real.
The meandering, half-waking deliberations were sidetracked by a new idea. “Aeryn?”
A shadow detached itself from the dark masking one side of the corridor, moved silently through the open
doors to his cell, and drifted to the side of his bed. “I was on my way to the Center Chamber to get something
to eat. I was … I was about to come in to see how you were feeling this morning.”
“Good. I’m fine. Still me. No additions or subtractions this time as far as I can tell.”
Aeryn moved restlessly about his chamber, not quite touching each item as she moved past it. She drifted to
his overcoat. Her fingertips brushed against the sleeve for a microt, and then she turned her back on it and
focused on John instead. “I … I just wanted to make sure … after what happened yesterday,” she said,
stumbling her way through the small sentence. “Chiana said that you were sick.”
He tried to reassure her. “I’m better this morning. The headache got worse, but it’s gone now.” He chose his
words carefully, knowing that almost anything he said these days hurt her in ways he couldn’t begin to
understand. Every conversation with Aeryn was like trying to walk through a minefield where the mines
constantly changed position. There was no way of knowing what would or wouldn’t cause an explosion, and
even if he did discover a safe comment, there was no guarantee it wouldn’t wound her the next time he used it.
He continued cautiously, hoping he was saying the right thing. “I don’t know what they were trying to
accomplish, Aeryn, but it seems like you got there in time. I’m okay. I promise.”
“I’m glad, John.”
It sounded as though some great force had squeezed his name out of her despite Aeryn’s best efforts to keep
the single syllable from emerging -- as though she thought the sound didn’t belong in this chamber. It was then
that he understood how every one of his words, no matter how insignificant, had the potential to wound. The
two of them seemed to be spending all their time doing nothing but hurting each other; every movement and
syllable carried the potential for another small bit of destruction.
He watched Aeryn begin another orbit of his quarters, and considered the odd perspective of his last dream
one more time. His mind had played the scene from her viewpoint. Somehow in his sleep, his brain had put
together all the small comments contributed by Crais and Rygel and Aeryn, resulting in an approximation of
what Aeryn had gone through. He could still see his own dead body, propped up with one foot tucked beneath
the other knee, and couldn’t begin to comprehend what it had been like for her to endure that loss.
He opened his mouth to tell her something beginning with ‘I’m sorry’ -- something about how he wished she
hadn’t had to live through that, or how he wished the other one hadn’t died before her eyes, or perhaps how he
wished that he had been there to comfort her. Aeryn turned to look at him, one of the few direct stares she had
bestowed on him since she had returned to Moya, and he knew with complete certainty that she was praying to
herself that he would say anything at all except ‘I’m sorry’.
“First Meal?” he asked instead, although he was feeling distinctly not hungry. Eating had become a chore
since Aeryn had returned. Food was a necessity to be swallowed quickly, barely noticing what he was forcing
past the perpetual tight feeling in his chest or the occasional lump in his throat, for the sole purpose of keeping
his body alive.
“Do you need some help or can I meet you up there?” She was already headed for the door.
“I’m fine. Go ahead.” He waved her away. She gave him another thin smile and hurried from the cell. John
watched the corridor long after she disappeared, wondering about the forces that had drawn her to his quarters
to check on him when it was obviously not where she wanted to be. His brain refused to provide any insights no
matter how he looked at it. Eventually he sighed and swung his legs over the side of his bed, sitting poised on
the edge for several microts as the entire chamber seemed to spin around him several times.
“Whoa,” he muttered, thinking that his ‘I’m fine’ assessment might have been overly optimistic. Moya’s curved
walls made one last erratic orbit and then settled back where they belonged, the wave of dizziness passing at
last. He made the transition to the shower cautiously, steadied himself against the wall long enough to pull his
shirt and shorts off, then stepped under the floods of hot water and did his best to rinse away the last grief-
laden dregs of his dreams.
* * * * *
By the time Crichton made it to the Center Chamber for First Meal, only Rygel remained. It had taken John
longer than he had expected to shower and dress. His thoughts had been wandering across a wider gamut of
topics than usual, which had repeatedly interrupted his progress. More than once he had found himself
standing motionless, some small revelation or insight consuming his full attention to the point that he came to a
complete stop. In the end, he had talked his way through getting his boots on and laced, coaching himself
through the normally mindless process. It wasn’t an entirely new phenomenon to him, but he had seldom been
sidetracked so often in such a short period of time. Lack of sleep and the previous day’s events was more than
enough reason to excuse his absent-mindedness, however, and he shrugged off the vague sense of unease
as the result of a bad night’s sleep.
“Hoover!” he greeted the Dominar. “Suckin’ down the munchies as usual.” The hynerian was sitting with the
detritus of his meal scattered across a full motra of table to either side of him.
“Who or what is this ‘Hoover’?” Rygel grumbled around a mouthful of food.
“Vacuum cleaner.” John stuck his head in the warmer, searching for something appetizing to eat. “I suppose I
should use the name of a garbage disposal, but In-Sink-Erator doesn’t seem to flow, does it?” He rummaged
through the selections. A loud belch emanated from behind him. John let the lid drop into place with a rap.
“Nothing left?” Rygel lolled back in his chair. “There should be. D’Argo threatened my life if I didn’t leave
something for you. Although, if you’re going to sleep late, I don’t see why we are required to save --”
“Not hungry all of a sudden,” John said, cutting off the beginning of what he suspected would turn into one of
the hynerian’s arrogant monologues. The grumbling emptiness in his stomach had disappeared, buried under
a mounting sensation that he was overly full. Rygel began eating again, drifting up and down the table,
scavenging the last remnants of the meal. John contributed a quiet burp to the non-stop slurping symphony of
Rygel’s voracious appetite, and left the chamber quickly, his appetite destroyed.
He was halfway to Command before he remembered that Moya was docked with the Kyelligg. It meant that their
usual habit of monitoring their progress was unnecessary this morning. John paused in an intersection of two
corridors, considering his options. After several microts of deliberation, he continued toward Command simply
because there was nowhere better for him to go. Their mission to buy information from the hvisk had been a
failure, which meant that they’d have to wait for Crais and Talyn to return. Assuming that the hvisk were no
threat to them while they were within the confines of Moya, the time could be spent relaxing for once, providing
some much-needed peace and quiet.
Aeryn was sitting at the strategy table, staring out the forward view portal at the intricate, branching arms of the
Kyelligg. “Hey,” he greeted her with reserve.
“You missed First Meal.”
“Not hungry.” His stomach growled. It was a low-pitched testimony that his appetite had returned now that he
was no longer near Rygel or the food. “I wasn’t hungry when I got to the center chamber,” he rephrased in light
of the grumbling. Aeryn merely nodded and continued to stare at the Kyelligg.
John watched the unmoving body for several microts, the ache building where her earlier guarded concern had
restored a small measure of comfort. The silence stretched out, becoming increasingly uncomfortable with
each passing microt. “I’ll go.”
“You don’t have to.” Aeryn turned toward him before he could retreat. “Don’t leave.”
Choosing a spot on the far side of Command where he could both watch Aeryn and still allow her all the space
she seemed to need of late, he propped a shoulder against one of the thick bulkhead supports and waited.
“I don’t mean to be this way,” she said.
He couldn’t think of an answer. Instead, John strolled toward one of the consoles and leaned on it. The
patterns shifting across the displays went unnoticed as he tried to understand what she was going through.
For a split microt he thought he could feel the tangle of her emotions: loss, despair, worry that it might happen
again, and a rigid self-control that said she would never let the tidal wave sweep her loose ever again. It was
there and gone in a flash, moving too quickly to separate out all the intricacies or even appreciate the depth of
the heartache.
There were no words in his lexicon that could offer comfort for that kind of sorrow. He snuck a glance at
Aeryn’s unmoving figure and understood for the first time that her coldness wasn’t dislike; it was a precarious
balance between holding herself together and reaching out the small distance necessary just to be around
him. He searched for the words to let her know that he could wait until she was ready.
F
A
L
L
I
N
G
John grabbed frantically at the nav console. His fingers scrabbled at the sharp edges for several microts
before latching on, knuckles gone white as he gripped the surface desperately. Aeryn turned to look at him.
She opened her mouth to say something.
Neurons fire in patterns never intended by genetics, sending mystical jolts through complaining muscles,
jerking the long angular body into awkward patterns. Stumbling. The floor seems to shift beneath destabilized
feet. A flash, darkness, an awakening, another bright scintillation burrowing deep into the synapses, blindness,
and then a vision.
Falling. Someone’s feet teeter for a single microt; boot soles squeal as they start to slide over the edge. Pilot
calls out a warning. FALLING. Moya’s glowing neural energy turns to flickering indicators of acceleration as he
heads for the bottom of the neural plexus.
Crichton shook his head. His vision cleared slowly, eventually revealing that he was hugging the nav console
with both arms. Command waltzed from left to right several times, then executed a slow, elegant pirouette
before settling down into its usual placid location beneath his feet. Aeryn was four steps closer, watching him
the way he had watched his neighbor’s pit bull the time the dog had gotten loose from its pen. He had stood
absolutely still, asking “Nice doggie … By the way, were you planning on ripping my throat out?” Aeryn had that
same look of frightened fascination.
That look of enraptured alarm remained in place for the length of time it took him to unclamp himself from the
console. “What’s the matter? What just happened?” she asked.
“Chiana. She’s -- I think she’s going to fall into the central neural plexus.” He looked around, trying to sort out
the fast images he had experienced. “Chiana!” he called over his comms.
“Crichton!” the nebari’s alarmed yell drowned out his transmission. “I saw you falling. Where are you?”
“Command. There’s nothing up here to fall from, Chiana. It’s you who’s going to fall into the neural plexus.
Stay the hell out of Pilot’s Den. Where are you now?” John pushed himself up straight and headed for the
door, focused on the threat to Chiana’s life.
There was a five-microt silence before she answered, “I’m in the Den.”
He swore and started to run.
“Don’t come up here, Crichton. It was you I saw falling!” But Crichton was already out of Command and
headed toward the Den.
Aeryn, mystified by the anxious exchange between Crichton and Chiana, stayed where she was for several
microts, staring at the empty doorway. Then she went after him, accelerating to a flat out run in order to catch
up.
* * * * *
When John ran into the Den, Chiana was leaning against Pilot’s station, as far away from the edge of the
platform as possible with D’Argo standing protectively between her and the drop off. Crichton slowed as he
approached the narrow span across the neural plexus, eyeing the void and comparing it to the confused vision
he had experienced. No matter who had gone over the edge, he was positive they had fallen from the side
nearest Pilot.
Aeryn came to a stop next to him. “What’s going on?”
He gave her a fast summary of their encounter with the Energy Riders, covering only the most basic details and
the aftermath of being inhabited by one of the invasive creatures. He finished the account with, “Chiana’s been
seeing flashes of the future for about a quarter cycle. It looks like it’s catching. I’m sure I saw her falling into
Moya’s neural plexus.”
“Don’t!” Chiana called the moment he set foot on the bridge. She started toward the edge of the platform,
waving Crichton to stay on the other side. D’Argo snared her around the waist and pulled her back. John
made the transition quickly and without incident with Aeryn following close on his heels. Once on the other
side, the pair moved a safe distance from the drop off.
D’Argo grimaced and gestured at the small group with both hands. “That was brilliant. Now everyone is in the
worst place possible instead of just half of us!”
John shook his head. “It was Chiana. It’s her we have to worry about.”
“No, it isn’t. I saw -- I saw you, Crichton,” the distraught nebari insisted. “I saw you off balance and falling.”
“John, you’ve never had the visions before. Are you absolutely sure of what you saw?” D’Argo asked.
“I know it was Chiana, and I know someone was falling. Pilot, you had one of those things inside you almost as
long as Pip. Are you picking anything up?”
“Nothing at all, Crichton. Moya’s sensors detect nothing unusual either. There is no reason that either of you
should lose your balance or fall over the edge. We remained securely docked with the Kyelligg. Moya’s
orientation is more stable than usual.”
“It’s been almost a tenth of an arn since we both saw something,” John said. “Pip, what’s the longest interval
you’ve had between a premonition and it coming true?” Chiana’s answer was lost to him, drowned beneath an
unfathomable wave of confused impressions.
His body transmutates into something made of living metals, seething with strange compounds and mixtures no
anthromorphic biped has ever pumped through its veins. A migrating burst of radiation strikes his outer skin,
flattens as the particles impact, then oozes around him to rejoin on the other side of his body and continues its
journey.
Crichton took a deep breath, held it for several microts while he waited for the strange sensation to fade, and
then let it out on an extended sigh. The dizzying flash had been so fast it was close to subliminal. But it had
lingered long enough for his brain to share its brief delusion with his arms and legs, imparting a fat, overly warm
feeling to his fingers and toes. His body didn’t feel right. It felt weak and insubstantial. He took another long
breath and the peculiar sensation faded to the point that he could ignore it.
“John looks like he’s ready to keel over. Weak human. He should get some more rest.”
Crichton turned, intending to fire an angry, smart-mouthed remark at D’Argo. The luxan had his head down,
staring at the floor. He was listening to Chiana, who was voicing another anxious argument that they all needed
to be careful until the precognition was fulfilled. Aeryn was watching John, looking concerned, and it was clear
from her expression that no one in the group had been talking to him. John wandered a motra to one side,
wondering if perhaps the clone had perfected a new trick of emulating other people’s voices. He started to turn
his concentration inward to check. But the idea that he might have to contend with a new form of deception was
too much for him to consider at that particular moment. He turned away from the area of his mind where Harvey
resided, and took another step to the side, seeking a quiet spot where he could pull himself together.
Moya’s internal rumbles soothed him, lulling him into a relaxed mental state. He concentrated on the peaceful
creature for several dozen microts. Closing out the ongoing argument between his crewmates, he watched the
flow of energy streaming through the maze of conduits and breathed in Moya’s complex fragrance of sharp
metallic tang overlain by the more subtle, musty organic scents. He let his senses spool outward, trying to take
in every nuance of her peace and tranquility, and then, without conscious effort on his part, he seemed to
expand even further to find more and more of her inner workings.
He slides without friction between two gravity wells, finding the balance like a bird soaring between sun and
earth, no effort required as he moves along the point where nothing pulls at him. He spins, flinging particles off
his hull sliding sandpaper soft until they release with a quiet slurry of noise felt rather than heard leaving behind
the tickling presence of subatomic particles piercing him to appear on the other side using the spaces between
his molecules to move through him without hindrance. But his body was never intended to experience these
sensations, and he can smell the roar of the sunlight, hear the tickle of someone’s fingertips rapping the insides
of his ribs as they walk through his tiers, taste the voices ringing inside his caverns as they argue and carry on
their lives within him, and he can’t begin to surround the sensations as they blossom within his mind, expanding
to fill every synapse with their energy.
Something slides along his skin, scraping him from shoulder to hip, then bounces away, spinning silently into
eternal darkness.
What’s that? What’s that? he cries inside his mind, senses overloaded by the single tactile sensation. Debris,
he knows suddenly, the knowledge formless inside his head. It was a small bit of rock tumbling along his hull, a
chance encounter with an inanimate interstellar traveler. It’s gone, spiraling erratically toward the next star, and
he remains, floating comfortably within a web of gravitational impulses that most living creatures can’t even
detect. Except his body doesn’t consist of a metallic outer skin grown over an intricate interlacing of biological
and mechanoid parts, thrumming with energy, a non-living shell that grows with every passing cycle to
encompass new tiers. He isn’t a peaceful creature consisting of both living tissue and unfeeling construction.
And yet he is.
He flows through Moya’s systems, everywhere at once, a misty diaspora expanding too fast to hold on to
himself, his awareness fragmenting even as it grows, until he’s unsure where his consciousness begins or
ends. His body stands frozen in the Den, hands tucked inside his belt as he stares unblinking into the dark
cavern below, chest unmoving beneath the black shirt as he freezes, realizing that he’s looking at himself from
outside his own body. The DRD spins away, cutting off the view and he abandons that single viewpoint to
search for a way back, uncertain exactly what is happening.
He finds a DRD in Command that swivels its eyestalks to consider the barking laughter of the floating hynerian
while two more work near the ion backwash chamber to replace a bit of worn inner hull plating with the quiet
pang of soldering tin smell running in his mouth to be drowned out by the noise of the reclamation system which
can’t overwhelm the wafting blues and greens of air circulation telling him that the vents need to be opened
further and he can see every chamber with a DRD in it at the same time except his attention is held by the
burning fire of starburst energy being held deep in his belly waiting for release and he’s confused because
there are DRDs everywhere and he sees every one of them and there’s a mechanical burst somewhere within
his bowels to goad the drive system only he’s docked so he can’t soar can’t stream with the lines of force
encircling a planet to find the perfect trajectory only it’s restful here snuggled in where it’s safe for a few arns
and every small sensation from the glow of radiation on his skin to the cramping pinch of the cold docking
clamp is clear in the silence of his mind.
Moya!! he screams. The sound bursts into silence, shattering before it is given form so the leviathan can never
hear his cry of love.
“D’Argo!” Pilot waved urgently with all four claws. “Catch him, D’Argo! He’s going to fall over the edge.”
John’s eyes rolled back in his head, his body beginning to convulse, and he toppled toward the long drop to the
bottom of the central neural cluster.
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
