Whispers - Chapter 7
“Why is it that every time something goes wrong with Moya or Talyn, someone shoves me into a maintenance
space and expects me to locate the malfunction?” Rygel’s endless grousing flooded the comms channel.
Somewhere deep within Moya, he was maneuvering his Throne Sled through a tightly constricted access
tunnel, headed for a rarely used chamber. “Crichton fit in this passageway when Moya became pregnant three
cycles ago. Why can’t Chiana or Jool come down here and check?”
“We saved the most important task for you, Rygel,” Chiana’s voice blared. “You’re the expert on twisted
internal organs.”
“Neither one of those is true,” he shot back, sounding intensely insulted. “You stuffed me into this tunnel
because you knew I wouldn’t fight back.”
Aeryn cut in before he could continue. “We stuffed you into that tunnel because everyone else is busy!
Chiana’s on Tier One with Naj Gil, shutting off the flow from the Kyelligg, and Jool is backtracking the flood to
figure out where the problem starts. So shut up and make sure Moya’s not pregnant again!”
“I already told you that there has been no opportunity for her to become impregnated,” Jool’s high-pitched
voice joined in insistently, rising to a whine by the end of her protest.
In the Den, Aeryn started to depress the circuit that would shut off the comms, tired of the chatter and endless
complaints. Her hand hovered over the wide plunger then drifted away. It had taken several hundred microts
to remember the combination of controls that would activate internal comms without broadcasting their
conversations into space. The instinctual knowledge remained securely embedded in her DNA, but the correct
sequences were proving elusive, coming to the surface stubbornly as a result of her half-cycle absence from
Moya.
The neural interface on Talyn had been so much easier to use. It had required little more than a push of her
mind, as though trying to flick away an insect using her thoughts alone, to access any portion of the gunship’s
systems. By comparison, Moya’s systems bordered on unwieldy. Aeryn had never perceived them that way
until she experienced the ease of control produced by the transponder. John had hated that she had accepted
the implantation … “Yes! It's new! It's improved! It's the Finger of Friendship! $19.95. But wait kids, there's
more!" … and had lashed out with his customary stream of incoherent comments.
The errant thought was no less hurtful than a knife wound to the belly. Larraq’s blade had not caused nearly
as much pain or damage as the injury she had sustained more recently. The desire to wallow in her memories
plagued her day and night, whether awake or asleep, tempting her to revisit those heady, wonderful moments
when love made every microt a paradise to experience. And each memory brought with it the unendurable
grief. Aeryn shook her head and pushed the thoughts to the side, deliberately using her concern for Pilot to
banish the memories.
Her hand hovered over the slide that would silence the internal comms. “Better leave that the way it is,” she
murmured, and left the channel open.
“Was that for us?” Chiana’s voice responded to her comment. “I hope not, because Magra-Muscles already
closed the valve and we’re on our way to the Den.”
“No, I was talking to myself,” Aeryn called. “Jool? Any change?”
“The main corridor on Tier Four is three denches deep with this hideous mess, and it’s oozing into every fissure
and crevice. It doesn’t seem to be flowing as fast though.” There was a quiet yelp, several microts of rapid,
frantic sounding squeals and splashes, and then a louder impact. The Den was filled with the metal-melting
scream of an outraged interion. Too late to save her hearing from the entire assault, Aeryn clapped both
hands over her ears and waited impatiently for the piercing shriek to come to an end.
“I warned her three times.” Chiana, still laughing over Jool’s mishap, hurried into the Den with Naj Gil trailing
behind her. The pulse rifle was propped comfortably against her hip, muzzle pointed toward the ceiling, ready
to hand but no longer pointed at the scarran.
“Aer -- Aeryn?” Pilot’s heavy, shell-armored head came up slowly as the last of Jool’s shrieks echoed and
faded into the depths of the neural plexus. “Officer Sun,” he groaned, looking around in open-mouthed
bewilderment. “I will … I will open a comms channel to check on Commander Crichton and Ka D’Argo.”
“We discussed that almost an arn ago, Pilot.” Aeryn caught the wandering arm in both of her hands and
guided the claw to one side where he couldn’t disrupt what she had accomplished so far. “Tell us what’s going
on, Pilot. Is this an illness or is something attacking you?”
Wide cranial shell wobbling from side to side, bulging eyes coasting across his displays without any sign of
comprehension, Pilot pondered her question. “Aaaa-attack? Are we being attacked?” His mumbles faded
away in time with the increasing ill-directed movements. All four arms slowly settled at his sides and his head
sank down onto his shoulders, coming to rest in gradual stages.
“He’s no use,” Chiana said morosely. “We’re going to have to figure this out on our own.”
“Pilot! Pilot, wake up!” Aeryn ducked under the forward edge of his cranial shell, craning her head to see if his
eyes were open. “Stay with us, Pilot. We need your help to find out what’s wrong.” There was no response.
“Frell! He’s been doing that every four or five hundred microts. I haven’t gotten a single coherent sentence out
of him so far.” She straightened up and glared at the displays ranged around her, faced with an overwhelming
amount of data that would have to be deciphered if they were to help Pilot.
“Aeryn?” Rygel’s voice was calm, suggesting that he had forgotten his outrage and was working as hard as
everyone else to remedy the mysterious problems plaguing ship and pilot.
“Any luck?” Aeryn asked.
“That depends on what you were hoping for. There’s no sign of a baby. There are only a couple of DRDs
performing what looks like standard maintenance, and the first signs of that liquefied dren seeping into the
chamber. Do you want me to check anything else while I’m down here?”
“No. Why don’t you head for Command? We’ll need someone to keep an eye on Moya’s sensors from there if I
can’t get any help from Pilot.” Aeryn eased past the motionless body to manipulate several slides and levers,
consulting the readouts to check the results of her adjustments.
“What about Moya? Is this affecting her?” the Dominar’s gruff voice inquired.
“She seems to be all right physically. There’s no way of knowing how she is holding up emotionally. There
hasn’t been any outward sign that she’s distressed.”
“What the frell is wrong with Pilot if it isn’t another pregnancy? Is this just like the first time?” Chiana ignored
the hovering presence of Naj Gil and clambered up on Pilot’s consoles where she could see what Aeryn was
doing.
Aeryn gestured toward the scarran. “Keep an eye on him.”
“He’s not so bad.” Chiana waved the pulse rifle carelessly in his direction. “He hasn’t made the slightest move
to get loose. Where would he go anyway? Concentrate on Moya and Pilot for now. Why did you think she was
pregnant?”
Aeryn glared at Chiana in irritation, then softened her expression when she remembered that the younger
woman hadn’t been on board the leviathan during the first days of her gestation. “Moya shut down every
system except those supplying energy and nutrients to the baby -- including life support, atmospherics, and the
systems that keep Pilot alive. This is similar, except Pilot is worse off this time and the rest of the ship is
unaffected. The readouts show that he is still receiving neural impulses from Moya, but he is being deprived of
liquid nutrients. He is starving to death and it’s not happening slowly. If we don’t fix what’s happening, and fix it
soon, he is going to die.”
“So what do we do? How’d you fix it the last time?”
Aeryn thought about that day, letting the memories stream past her, setting loose recollections of anger,
laughter, sadness, and the overwhelming elation when they’d finally determined the cause of the mysterious
ship-wide malfunctions.
“Crichton fig … John figured it out.” At the thought of him, the uncomfortable knot in her stomach returned.
There was someone aboard the Kyelligg who looked and sounded and acted like the John Crichton she had
been falling in love with all those cycles ago, and yet he wasn’t the same person she had spent half a cycle
loving aboard Talyn. Her thoughts descended into the familiar depressing spiral. It was John, it wasn’t; it was,
he wasn’t; he had been on Moya from the first day, he hadn’t, he had, she knew him, she didn’t. It went round
and round endlessly, never resolving itself, never bringing her any closer to making the decision that she didn’t
want to have to make.
“Call him. Maybe he can help this time too.”
Aeryn caught her lower lip between her teeth, resisting the desire to have him by her side. She wanted his
strength, his protective aura, and most of all, his sharp intellect beside her as she attempted to track down
whatever was killing Pilot. And she knew if he was there, she would be able to think of nothing except him, who
he was, and who he wasn’t.
“He’s trying to solve his own problem, Chiana. We have to figure this one out ourselves. Let’s see what we can
do about providing some nutrients to Pilot directly. We need to buy him some time until we can locate the
problem.” Aeryn pointed at Naj Gil. “You! Come with me. I’ve got an idea how we might help Pilot.”
* * * * *
Crichton, D’Argo and Hox wandered from one artery of the station into another, and then another. They took
their time, winding their way through the cheerful, tuneful crowds, searching for the elusive, abnormal touch of
one infectious mind. Hox continued to work with John, convinced that he had the latent ability to control his
telepathy on his own. The silent training was interspersed with mostly trivial conversations, Crichton serving as
interpreter for D’Argo.
The visit to the facility holding the infected hvisk hadn’t accomplished what Hox had hoped. No matter how hard
he concentrated, John hadn’t been able to detect anything at all in the mind of the hissing, snapping prisoner.
Hox had tried repeatedly to guide him to the damaged thought processes, in the end exhibiting un-hvisk-like
frustration with Crichton’s inability to discern the misdirected thought patterns.
The trip had been an education in a different respect, however. The prisoner had tried to attack his observers
without any regard for the damage he was inflicting on himself. He had lashed out wildly in their direction with
the gleaming cockspur John had noticed during the first meeting with the hvisk. Crazed black eyes fastened on
Crichton and the next slashing swing was aimed at his throat. John’s fast shuffle backward was instinctive,
seeking to put more distance between him and the aggressive jabs even though he had been standing out of
range to start.
Hox sang mournfully, “You see now. You see why we must do whatever is necessary to stop this from
spreading.”
Until that moment, John had been treating the search as nothing more than a time consuming nuisance, a
risk-free waste of valuable time during which he could be doing something more important if it weren’t for the
psychic blackmail. In a single microt, he discovered that the mild temperament of the hvisk was missing from
those suffering from the disorder that had Hox so concerned. Depending on how much of the population had
been infected, he and D’Argo might need reinforcements before the search was over.
“How sharp is that thing?” he asked, pointing at the cockspur.
The two guards waited for the next futile attack, then darted forward and captured the prisoner’s arms. They
turned one arm so the underside of the wrist was visible, and the furious squawks increased to a constant,
ear-piercing screech. John and D’Argo moved in together, quickly examined the projection of bone and then
retreated. It had been sharpened to a curved needle-sharp tip that looked as though it would slice through
leather as well as flesh. D’Argo hissed, shook his head, and pulled his Qualta blade out of its scabbard and
began converting it to a rifle.
Three arns later, the heavy weapon remained cradled in the crook of D’Argo’s arm, at the ready as they worked
their way up another of the secondary avenues. He had been carrying it tirelessly the entire time since they
had left the holding facility.
“Try again,” Hox encouraged John. “The ability exists within. You must only learn how to use it.” The loaned
control eased away in stages, pausing frequently to ensure that the human disciple wasn’t overwhelmed.
“There,” he confirmed as John felt the noise battering at him and pushed it away. “That is the place where you
will find the ability. Do you feel that place in your mind?”
John shook his head. “All I feel is everyone trying to get inside my skull.”
A different kind of inquiry brushed across his thoughts, and he answered the question that D’Argo hadn’t asked
aloud. “He hasn’t given up on the idea that I can control it myself, big guy. He’s still trying to show me how.”
The tsunami of thoughts gained strength, shoved his weak resistance side, and threatened to smash him under
its weight. Hox’s control exerted itself, quieting the roar to a whisper.
“Again,” Hox ordered. “Try again.”
The mental grasp eased away, no different than a fist releasing its hold incrementally. Crichton closed his eyes
to help himself focus and tried to envision pushing the encroaching bedlam away from him with his mind. The
sphere of sound and confusion hovered, neither contracting nor expanding, seemingly held at bay by magic
rather than by something he was doing. A small pang, resembling the first twinges of a headache, created an
unpleasant metallic taste in his mouth. John tried to concentrate on the location of that small flavor.
“Is that it?” he whispered, fearful that a louder noise would destroy his scant control. “Is that the part I’m
supposed to be using?”
Hox’s answer arrived without the usual whistling accompaniment. It consisted of a mild pressure against his
thoughts, encouraging him to move toward the metallic taste. The silent voice suggested that he pay attention
to it and backtrack to where the source was located.
A large hand latched onto his arm above the elbow and steered him to one side, then yanked him back on
course. “Thanks, D’Argo,” he said without bothering to open his eyes. He spared a sliver of concentration just
long enough to assume he had been guided around a person or an obstacle, then returned to his quest. The
flavor of melted aluminum hadn’t dissipated. John found it, sensed the thread leading from some portion of his
brain to the sensors in his mouth, and carefully pulled himself along that fragile connection. He arrived at the
spot in his mind that Hox had been trying to show him for over three arns, and examined the tightly constrained
knot.
“Attempt to listen while keeping it under control,” he was silently encouraged.
His mind spun outward. Pushing aside the invasive thoughts of millions of hvisk, he reached across the short
distance that separated him from D’Argo, and tried to hear what his friend was thinking. He sailed right past,
unable to stop at his intended goal, and kept going. For a split microt he was an arrow, loosed blindly into the
air to find its own trajectory, seeking its own destination. He felt something familiar and let himself fall into the
target.
John lies on the floor of Moya, supporting his weight on his elbows as he carefully dissolves purple adhesive
from around her fingers. “Happy place, Aeryn. Go to your happy place,” he urges, making as little sense as
usual. She is impatient, annoyed, angry, and if her hand weren’t bonded to the floor she would be tempted to
hit him if only to get him to shut up. But his body heat radiates warmly against her shoulder as she crouches
beside him, and there’s a tingling rush along her spine whenever he laughs. The sensations are pleasurable,
foreign, desired and confusing, and she doesn’t know how to react. She wants to stay beside him, listening to
his inane prattle for arns, and as soon as she can rip her hand free she hurries away, the muddle of conflicting
emotions driving her away from him until she can figure out how she is supposed to respond.
“Crap!” John staggered, ripping his mind away from the inadvertent contact. Everything went silent. The
shutdown was immediate and complete. “Thanks,” he gasped to Hox. “Must have had more than my fair share
of Wheaties this morning. I really over did it.”
“The silence is not mine. This time it is your effort that quiets the voices,” came an amused reply.
“I’m doing it?” The walls inside his head wobbled, momentarily disrupted by surprise. “Use the force, John,” he
coached himself in a panting growl, struggling to recover.
“It’s going to be harder to doubt you in the future.” Crichton grins in a way that leaves her short of breath with
happiness and ready to explode with pride at the same time. “I apologize for my strengths.” She runs toward
Command confident of her genetically-stored abilities, and strangely ecstatic that this disaster has occurred.
She is worried about Moya and Pilot, but she finds the challenge of responding to the crisis as exhilarating as
flying the Prowler. It has to do with Crichton. He is having this peculiar effect on her more and more
frequently. She wonders how he might react if she starts calling him ‘John’.
Images, sounds, tastes, smells: the memories are almost more real than her current surroundings for their
intensity. There is happiness waiting for her there, lurking in her recall, promising to banish the sick-making
knot in her stomach that seems to be the only thing she can feel anymore. The present holds the constant
threat of tears, the tightness in her throat, and the unbearable knowledge that if he died once, he can die
again. The past soothes her, but her memories can’t ease her passage through the present. She turns her
attention to …
John tore himself away from the contact, frantic to stop the flood of stolen thoughts. In his rush, he demolished
the barrier it had taken him so much effort to erect, and had less than a split-microt to brace himself for the
onslaught that always followed. Erected in a heartbeat, the buffer flicked into place before the weight of millions
of hvisk thoughts could crush him.
“You are improving,” Hox whistled. “I only assisted. You did most of that yourself.”
“Getting better at this,” John summarized for D’Argo’s benefit, deliberately omitting whose thoughts he had
inadvertently visited.
They turned into a smaller street. Their route took them through another of the perception twisting changes in
gravity. In five steps they were walking along what only moments earlier he would have considered a wall. Top
and bottom had become sides, and vice versa. A waterfall tumbled through a lush, plant-filled ravine, plunged
into a pool, and then flowed out at an impossible angle, feeding a stream in the portion of the station they’d just
left.
John paused long enough to turn in a circle, enjoying the mild disorientation that came from the oddly arranged
landscape. “Escher would have loved this place,” he said.
Annoyance buzzes along his spine, mixed with tolerance because Crichton is under more strain than usual.
“Remember Who’s On First?” he asked D’Argo.
“All too well.” It was a growl of remembered irritation.
The comedy routine hadn’t translated well into Luxan. He had spent arns trying to show D’Argo how funny it
was once the audience understood the source of the confusion, only to have his friend treat him to the same
look of disgust that he had given him before John had attempted the lengthy explanation.
“Imagine that turned into a painting,” John suggested while waving his hand at the scenery.
“It would make even less sense than you do, Crichton. No portion would be completed correctly.”
“My point exactly.”
The warrior’s confusion was like getting slapped with a pillow: there was the solid impact of D’Argo’s inability to
understand what he was talking about, softened by his attempt to envision what that mind-twisting conversation
might look like once it was placed on a canvas. D’Argo stopped walking and looked around him more carefully,
trying to match his surroundings to the annoyingly nonsensical dialogue that his human friend had taught him.
Crichton could feel every thought, as well as the battle to keep frustration from drowning the first hints of
understanding. John smothered a laugh and gestured for them to continue their search.
* * * * *
Aeryn scrambled up one of the ladders leading to the Den and vaulted up to perch beside Pilot. She jostled
the heavily armored head. “No change,” she muttered when there was no flicker of a response, and slid down
to stand alongside him. Slides and levers were manipulated with little conscious effort, the embedded
knowledge flowing without hindrance after arns of practice, and she consulted the displays once again.
“Any improvement?” Chiana’s shout floated up from the level below the Den.
“He’s stabilized, that’s all. The flow we’ve created is keeping him alive, nothing more. Whatever is causing this,
it’s getting worse.” Aeryn slapped a circuit shut, cringed when the loud crack of her palm against the surface
echoed around the otherwise quiet chamber, and then consulted the readouts one more time. “Come on,
Pilot,” she exhorted the motionless occupant of the Den. “All we need is for you to wake up long enough to tell
us what’s wrong. We can’t do this on our own.”
An attempt to get the DRDs to lead them to the source of the problem had resulted in ten or twelve of the
drones scattering in different directions, each one squeaking and chirruping with equal levels of mechanical
distress. Aeryn had recalled them and tried again, with almost the same results. The only difference the
second time around was that every single DRD in the Den at the time -- more than twenty-five of them -- had
fired off into the tiers, each in a different direction. Perplexed, the assembled group of biological crewmembers
had waited impatiently while Aeryn recalled the DRDs, and this time ordered a single robot per person to lead
them to the source of whatever was ailing Pilot.
Each individual had been led to a different portion of Moya.
“Should they stop?” Rygel’s inquiry brought Aeryn out of her depressed reverie. The hynerian was hovering to
one side of the center island where he could view both Aeryn and the long drop to the bottom of the neural
cluster.
“No, have them keep going. It’s the only thing keeping Pilot alive at this point.” One tier below the Den, Naj Gil,
despite his weakened state, was tirelessly pumping critical nutrients and fluids into Pilot’s circulatory system.
Setting up the hand pump and the lines to the tanks of recently loaded fluids had taken less than a quarter arn,
and had been completed none too soon. The shelled symbiote had turned an unpleasant shade of greenish-
brown by the time they’d finished arranging the makeshift system, and Moya had begun letting out hull-shaking
groans of distress.
Another of the leviathan’s rumbling moans reverberated through the central neural plexus, echoed by the shrill
cries of the bat swarms residing in the great cavern.
“We’re not going to let him die,” Aeryn called to the ship around her. “We’re going to figure this out, Moya.” A
single DRD appeared out of the shadows and coasted to a stop at her feet. It let out a single short chirp,
calling into question her ability to carry out her promise, and motored back into the gloom. Aeryn sought to
assure the mentality directing the small robot. “Yes, we are going to figure this out. I promise. We need some
help though, Moya. There has to be a way for you to show us where the problem is located.”
Several DRDs appeared out of the dark and once again sallied out of the Den in different directions. “No better
than before,” Rygel said. “She’s more confused that Pilot at this point. It’s all very good for you to tell those
lies to Moya, but what do we do now?”
Aeryn glared at the hovering Dominar for a microt, then turned her attention to the displays without indulging in
a comeback. “Those weren’t lies. I meant what I told her.” All motion behind the consoles stopped as she
considered the dilemma. “I have an idea, but I’m not sure it will work. And it’s risky.”
“What are you going to do?” Rygel asked.
“Not me. It has to be Crichton.”
* * * * *
The success was intoxicating. John could tell to the microt whenever Hox relaxed his vigilance, and reveled in
his own ability to manipulate the new talent. He played with it, letting in the sound of a single hvisk mind, then
another and another, until the rush and roar of their thoughts was deafening, and then shut them all out with
only the smallest of battles. For more than an arn, he had been searching the station with his mind alone,
questing further away from his body with each successful foray.
Hox continued to coach him through each encounter, always riding along with John’s mind in case he lost
control. The whistling encouragement continued. “Excellent. However, you must not overestimate your ability.
You still have much to learn. It will take very little for you to be overwhelmed.” He cocked his head and stepped
closer to John, black eyes peering into blue ones with curiosity. “Explain this Obi-Wan Kenobi?” he asked on a
four-note harmonious trill of humor.
“Oh crap,” John mumbled. It had been the cadence of Hox’s delivery as much as his choice of words that had
triggered the images. He hadn’t meant for that particular thought to get loose, and wasn’t sure if Hox had been
insulted by the comparison. As good as he was getting at hearing other minds, it remained an erratic
capability. Catching coherent images tended to be a hit and miss venture relying more on the strength of the
sender than his ability to sort things out.
“Problem?” D’Argo asked.
John glanced at D’Argo. His luxan friend paced along beside him without complaint, following him everywhere
just in case his strength or protection was needed. His friend was left out of a majority of the discussion, and
yet there wasn’t the smallest hint of dissatisfaction or hurt feelings in the small flashes he was catching from the
luxan. D’Argo’s emotions were far easier to catch than Hox’s. John had no idea whether that was attributable
to Hox’s control or the fact that he was friends with D’Argo.
Crichton didn’t realize how lost he had become in the wash of emotions and thoughts until the question was
repeated. “Is there a problem, John?”
He shook himself to clear his mind, and began walking again. “Not really. I’m having trouble figuring out how to
explain Star Wars to him.” It had taken endless arns of descriptions before D’Argo understood his references
to the movie. John wondered if his telepathic link to Hox could shorten that to something in the range of
microts, and began searching for the right place to begin the explanation.
“Thinking about that Degoba place?” D’Argo asked. Fondness for his friend’s peculiar behaviors. Pleasure
that he knows something about Crichton that this bird-like creature does not. Jealousy.
“No. Old Ben. The hermit, mystic guy living in the desert,” John explained, putting it into terms he knew D’Argo
would understand. “D’Argo --”
He wanted to tell this gentle-spirited warrior not to envy the temporary mental bond he had developed with Hox,
not to worry that their friendship might become less important because of what was happening on this station,
and didn’t know how to put it into words. He delivered a firm thump against D’Argo’s shoulder instead, letting
his fist linger there for a microt before stepping away. “I need you here. I can’t do this without you, D’Argo.”
He didn’t need telepathy to know that he had done and said the right thing. The smile and D’Argo’s familiar way
of looking down his nose at him was all John needed to know that he had dispelled the small insecurity.
Desperation. Concern bordering on full-blown anxiety. Her knowledge is not enough.
“There’s something wrong aboard Moya,” John blurted. “Aeryn’s been trying to take care of it herself, but she
can’t fix the problem.”
“John? D’Argo?” Aeryn’s voice blared over his comms before he finished explaining what he had caught from
her.
“What’s wrong, Aeryn?”
“Have the hvisk fixed whatever they did to you yet?”
John glanced first at Hox, finding little insight in the black eyes above the expressionless beak, and then at
D’Argo, locating no more help there than he had from Hox. Aeryn’s question didn’t match the fast flash of
emotions he had received from her just prior to her transmission. He shrugged, assuming he had interpreted
the overheard thoughts incorrectly, and answered her. “No. There’s been a little hitch in that plan.”
“Then I need your help aboard Moya. There’s something wrong with Pilot.”
John looked up from where he had been staring at his boots. D’Argo looked every bit as surprised as he felt.
No one knew more about the complexities of Moya and Pilot than Aeryn. If she didn’t know what was affecting
Pilot, then it was unlikely that either one of them was going to do any better.
“What kind of wrong?” D’Argo asked.
“He is being starved and he’s lost consciousness. I’ve checked the neural readouts, and everything indicates
that he is no longer interacting with Moya. She’s starting to get worried. If we don’t do something fast, she is
going to start to panic.”
John asked, “Aeryn, is there any chance she’s pregnant again? Have you checked for a baby?”
“That’s the first thing I considered,” she transmitted back. “We’ve checked everything. Moya isn’t doing this to
Pilot, at least not deliberately.” There was a pause. “John, I can’t find the problem. I need your help. If this
gets any worse, Pilot might die -- [i]He’s so bright, so like the other one. He knows how to figure things out, not
like me. He’ll know[/i] -- and if Moya panics while she’s docked with the Kyelligg, there’s no telling how badly
she might injure herself if she tries to pull away.”
“We’re on our way, Aeryn,” D’Argo called.
Crichton turned toward Hox, intending to explain that Moya and Pilot had to come first, and that he would return
to find the source of the hvisk infection as soon as they took care of their own crisis. Before he could put
together a coherent thought to depict what was going on, a motion six motras behind Hox distracted him from
the latest crisis. A pair of hvisk flitted from behind a pillar, glanced in his direction and then moved fast, coming
toward them at a run.
In the short time he had been aboard the Kyelligg, not once had he seen an adult hvisk move at anything more
than a fast walk. The smaller children scampered about in complex flitting patterns, but even they didn’t
actually run. They tended to bounce, intermixing odd little hops in with fast skittering rushes. The two males
coming toward them were lunging across the short distance with aggressive intent, shoving bystanders roughly
aside in their haste. John reached for D’Argo’s arm to get his attention, his eyes fixed on the rapidly
approaching pair.
“Hox!” He had intended to ask for help touching their minds. It wasn’t necessary. The constantly improving
ability lanced out on its own, touched one mind and then the other, and retreated.
There was nothing to feel.
The two figures -- one with a bright green crest and the other with a bright blue one that suggested they had
barely attained adulthood -- had almost reached the spot where he stood with Hox and D’Argo. They were
alive, material and tangible, and yet there was nothing inside them. They were empty shells with none of the
roiling mixture of thoughts and emotions that he had come to expect from a living being.
“Look out!” Crichton shoved Hox to one side, away from the attackers, and grabbed for Winona. Both pairs of
black eyes fastened on him, and too late he realized that he had been the target all along, not Hox. “D’Argo!”
The first hvisk barreled into him, the gleaming wrist-barb slashing toward his eyes. They went down together
under the force of the impact, pulse pistol pinned under the combined weight of their bodies, and he felt his
attacker’s feet scraping along his legs. It was trying to get its legs up to wield the hooked fourth toe, seeking to
disembowel him. He clutched the squirming body against him, trying to deny his assailant enough room to get
its legs up between their bodies.
The hvisk squawked a rasping cry at him. Its beak opened wide and its tongue, nearly luxan in its speed and
reach, lashed out toward John’s face. Vicious overlapping layers of barbs struck at him, brushed against his
cheek, and he rolled his head to the side, barely getting clear before it yanked back. The hvisk lunged at him
again, tongue flickering out too fast to be seen. John threw one hand up to protect his face, willingly sacrificing
a portion of his grip on the writhing body. Barbs caught at his glove, bit deep, ripped away shreds of black
leather. The tongue lashed out a third time and tore more leather from his glove.
“Barbs?” he yelled. “Why doesn’t anyone tell me about these things?” The rest of his complaint was forgotten,
lost to the struggle to stay alive.
Feet and three-fingered hands thrust at him in concert. The hvisk levered itself out of his one-armed grasp,
tongue and claws continuing to search for an opening. The space between them increased and Crichton
grappled desperately at the squirming body, coming up with nothing more than a fistful of shifting robes, and
knew that he was in danger of losing his intestines. A hooked claw gouged at his belly, skittered with a squeal
across his belt buckle and then raked across the thick leather of his gunbelt. Claws swept upward with the
same result, beating at his midsection seeking soft tissue and vulnerable organs. The foot came up again.
Viciously slashing toes slid along his leathered thigh, and he rolled to one side, accepting lacerated muscles if it
would save him from being eviscerated. Bone squealed against metal and alloy. The hooked claw screeched
across Winona and snagged at the holster before breaking free with a fast snap.
“D’Argo!” he yelled again, dodging his head to one side to avoid another attack from the hvisk’s darting
tongue. “D’Argo, get this guy off me!” Somewhere beyond his own frantic battle, he heard the cracking boom
of the Qualta rifle drowning out the non-stop squawking of an upset hvisk, then he was too busy avoiding claws,
slashing spurs, and barbed tongue to register what was going on around him.
John beat at the jabbing head with his free hand. He hit only the rock-hard beak. The heavy clawed feet were
scrabbling at his thighs and lower body, sliding across the leather, one hard gouge away from slicing into his
belly. And in the midst of all the confusion, he saw the wrist barb coming at him again, swinging in from the
side, this time aiming for his throat.
“D’ARGO!!!”
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
“Why is it that every time something goes wrong with Moya or Talyn, someone shoves me into a maintenance
space and expects me to locate the malfunction?” Rygel’s endless grousing flooded the comms channel.
Somewhere deep within Moya, he was maneuvering his Throne Sled through a tightly constricted access
tunnel, headed for a rarely used chamber. “Crichton fit in this passageway when Moya became pregnant three
cycles ago. Why can’t Chiana or Jool come down here and check?”
“We saved the most important task for you, Rygel,” Chiana’s voice blared. “You’re the expert on twisted
internal organs.”
“Neither one of those is true,” he shot back, sounding intensely insulted. “You stuffed me into this tunnel
because you knew I wouldn’t fight back.”
Aeryn cut in before he could continue. “We stuffed you into that tunnel because everyone else is busy!
Chiana’s on Tier One with Naj Gil, shutting off the flow from the Kyelligg, and Jool is backtracking the flood to
figure out where the problem starts. So shut up and make sure Moya’s not pregnant again!”
“I already told you that there has been no opportunity for her to become impregnated,” Jool’s high-pitched
voice joined in insistently, rising to a whine by the end of her protest.
In the Den, Aeryn started to depress the circuit that would shut off the comms, tired of the chatter and endless
complaints. Her hand hovered over the wide plunger then drifted away. It had taken several hundred microts
to remember the combination of controls that would activate internal comms without broadcasting their
conversations into space. The instinctual knowledge remained securely embedded in her DNA, but the correct
sequences were proving elusive, coming to the surface stubbornly as a result of her half-cycle absence from
Moya.
The neural interface on Talyn had been so much easier to use. It had required little more than a push of her
mind, as though trying to flick away an insect using her thoughts alone, to access any portion of the gunship’s
systems. By comparison, Moya’s systems bordered on unwieldy. Aeryn had never perceived them that way
until she experienced the ease of control produced by the transponder. John had hated that she had accepted
the implantation … “Yes! It's new! It's improved! It's the Finger of Friendship! $19.95. But wait kids, there's
more!" … and had lashed out with his customary stream of incoherent comments.
The errant thought was no less hurtful than a knife wound to the belly. Larraq’s blade had not caused nearly
as much pain or damage as the injury she had sustained more recently. The desire to wallow in her memories
plagued her day and night, whether awake or asleep, tempting her to revisit those heady, wonderful moments
when love made every microt a paradise to experience. And each memory brought with it the unendurable
grief. Aeryn shook her head and pushed the thoughts to the side, deliberately using her concern for Pilot to
banish the memories.
Her hand hovered over the slide that would silence the internal comms. “Better leave that the way it is,” she
murmured, and left the channel open.
“Was that for us?” Chiana’s voice responded to her comment. “I hope not, because Magra-Muscles already
closed the valve and we’re on our way to the Den.”
“No, I was talking to myself,” Aeryn called. “Jool? Any change?”
“The main corridor on Tier Four is three denches deep with this hideous mess, and it’s oozing into every fissure
and crevice. It doesn’t seem to be flowing as fast though.” There was a quiet yelp, several microts of rapid,
frantic sounding squeals and splashes, and then a louder impact. The Den was filled with the metal-melting
scream of an outraged interion. Too late to save her hearing from the entire assault, Aeryn clapped both
hands over her ears and waited impatiently for the piercing shriek to come to an end.
“I warned her three times.” Chiana, still laughing over Jool’s mishap, hurried into the Den with Naj Gil trailing
behind her. The pulse rifle was propped comfortably against her hip, muzzle pointed toward the ceiling, ready
to hand but no longer pointed at the scarran.
“Aer -- Aeryn?” Pilot’s heavy, shell-armored head came up slowly as the last of Jool’s shrieks echoed and
faded into the depths of the neural plexus. “Officer Sun,” he groaned, looking around in open-mouthed
bewilderment. “I will … I will open a comms channel to check on Commander Crichton and Ka D’Argo.”
“We discussed that almost an arn ago, Pilot.” Aeryn caught the wandering arm in both of her hands and
guided the claw to one side where he couldn’t disrupt what she had accomplished so far. “Tell us what’s going
on, Pilot. Is this an illness or is something attacking you?”
Wide cranial shell wobbling from side to side, bulging eyes coasting across his displays without any sign of
comprehension, Pilot pondered her question. “Aaaa-attack? Are we being attacked?” His mumbles faded
away in time with the increasing ill-directed movements. All four arms slowly settled at his sides and his head
sank down onto his shoulders, coming to rest in gradual stages.
“He’s no use,” Chiana said morosely. “We’re going to have to figure this out on our own.”
“Pilot! Pilot, wake up!” Aeryn ducked under the forward edge of his cranial shell, craning her head to see if his
eyes were open. “Stay with us, Pilot. We need your help to find out what’s wrong.” There was no response.
“Frell! He’s been doing that every four or five hundred microts. I haven’t gotten a single coherent sentence out
of him so far.” She straightened up and glared at the displays ranged around her, faced with an overwhelming
amount of data that would have to be deciphered if they were to help Pilot.
“Aeryn?” Rygel’s voice was calm, suggesting that he had forgotten his outrage and was working as hard as
everyone else to remedy the mysterious problems plaguing ship and pilot.
“Any luck?” Aeryn asked.
“That depends on what you were hoping for. There’s no sign of a baby. There are only a couple of DRDs
performing what looks like standard maintenance, and the first signs of that liquefied dren seeping into the
chamber. Do you want me to check anything else while I’m down here?”
“No. Why don’t you head for Command? We’ll need someone to keep an eye on Moya’s sensors from there if I
can’t get any help from Pilot.” Aeryn eased past the motionless body to manipulate several slides and levers,
consulting the readouts to check the results of her adjustments.
“What about Moya? Is this affecting her?” the Dominar’s gruff voice inquired.
“She seems to be all right physically. There’s no way of knowing how she is holding up emotionally. There
hasn’t been any outward sign that she’s distressed.”
“What the frell is wrong with Pilot if it isn’t another pregnancy? Is this just like the first time?” Chiana ignored
the hovering presence of Naj Gil and clambered up on Pilot’s consoles where she could see what Aeryn was
doing.
Aeryn gestured toward the scarran. “Keep an eye on him.”
“He’s not so bad.” Chiana waved the pulse rifle carelessly in his direction. “He hasn’t made the slightest move
to get loose. Where would he go anyway? Concentrate on Moya and Pilot for now. Why did you think she was
pregnant?”
Aeryn glared at Chiana in irritation, then softened her expression when she remembered that the younger
woman hadn’t been on board the leviathan during the first days of her gestation. “Moya shut down every
system except those supplying energy and nutrients to the baby -- including life support, atmospherics, and the
systems that keep Pilot alive. This is similar, except Pilot is worse off this time and the rest of the ship is
unaffected. The readouts show that he is still receiving neural impulses from Moya, but he is being deprived of
liquid nutrients. He is starving to death and it’s not happening slowly. If we don’t fix what’s happening, and fix it
soon, he is going to die.”
“So what do we do? How’d you fix it the last time?”
Aeryn thought about that day, letting the memories stream past her, setting loose recollections of anger,
laughter, sadness, and the overwhelming elation when they’d finally determined the cause of the mysterious
ship-wide malfunctions.
“Crichton fig … John figured it out.” At the thought of him, the uncomfortable knot in her stomach returned.
There was someone aboard the Kyelligg who looked and sounded and acted like the John Crichton she had
been falling in love with all those cycles ago, and yet he wasn’t the same person she had spent half a cycle
loving aboard Talyn. Her thoughts descended into the familiar depressing spiral. It was John, it wasn’t; it was,
he wasn’t; he had been on Moya from the first day, he hadn’t, he had, she knew him, she didn’t. It went round
and round endlessly, never resolving itself, never bringing her any closer to making the decision that she didn’t
want to have to make.
“Call him. Maybe he can help this time too.”
Aeryn caught her lower lip between her teeth, resisting the desire to have him by her side. She wanted his
strength, his protective aura, and most of all, his sharp intellect beside her as she attempted to track down
whatever was killing Pilot. And she knew if he was there, she would be able to think of nothing except him, who
he was, and who he wasn’t.
“He’s trying to solve his own problem, Chiana. We have to figure this one out ourselves. Let’s see what we can
do about providing some nutrients to Pilot directly. We need to buy him some time until we can locate the
problem.” Aeryn pointed at Naj Gil. “You! Come with me. I’ve got an idea how we might help Pilot.”
* * * * *
Crichton, D’Argo and Hox wandered from one artery of the station into another, and then another. They took
their time, winding their way through the cheerful, tuneful crowds, searching for the elusive, abnormal touch of
one infectious mind. Hox continued to work with John, convinced that he had the latent ability to control his
telepathy on his own. The silent training was interspersed with mostly trivial conversations, Crichton serving as
interpreter for D’Argo.
The visit to the facility holding the infected hvisk hadn’t accomplished what Hox had hoped. No matter how hard
he concentrated, John hadn’t been able to detect anything at all in the mind of the hissing, snapping prisoner.
Hox had tried repeatedly to guide him to the damaged thought processes, in the end exhibiting un-hvisk-like
frustration with Crichton’s inability to discern the misdirected thought patterns.
The trip had been an education in a different respect, however. The prisoner had tried to attack his observers
without any regard for the damage he was inflicting on himself. He had lashed out wildly in their direction with
the gleaming cockspur John had noticed during the first meeting with the hvisk. Crazed black eyes fastened on
Crichton and the next slashing swing was aimed at his throat. John’s fast shuffle backward was instinctive,
seeking to put more distance between him and the aggressive jabs even though he had been standing out of
range to start.
Hox sang mournfully, “You see now. You see why we must do whatever is necessary to stop this from
spreading.”
Until that moment, John had been treating the search as nothing more than a time consuming nuisance, a
risk-free waste of valuable time during which he could be doing something more important if it weren’t for the
psychic blackmail. In a single microt, he discovered that the mild temperament of the hvisk was missing from
those suffering from the disorder that had Hox so concerned. Depending on how much of the population had
been infected, he and D’Argo might need reinforcements before the search was over.
“How sharp is that thing?” he asked, pointing at the cockspur.
The two guards waited for the next futile attack, then darted forward and captured the prisoner’s arms. They
turned one arm so the underside of the wrist was visible, and the furious squawks increased to a constant,
ear-piercing screech. John and D’Argo moved in together, quickly examined the projection of bone and then
retreated. It had been sharpened to a curved needle-sharp tip that looked as though it would slice through
leather as well as flesh. D’Argo hissed, shook his head, and pulled his Qualta blade out of its scabbard and
began converting it to a rifle.
Three arns later, the heavy weapon remained cradled in the crook of D’Argo’s arm, at the ready as they worked
their way up another of the secondary avenues. He had been carrying it tirelessly the entire time since they
had left the holding facility.
“Try again,” Hox encouraged John. “The ability exists within. You must only learn how to use it.” The loaned
control eased away in stages, pausing frequently to ensure that the human disciple wasn’t overwhelmed.
“There,” he confirmed as John felt the noise battering at him and pushed it away. “That is the place where you
will find the ability. Do you feel that place in your mind?”
John shook his head. “All I feel is everyone trying to get inside my skull.”
A different kind of inquiry brushed across his thoughts, and he answered the question that D’Argo hadn’t asked
aloud. “He hasn’t given up on the idea that I can control it myself, big guy. He’s still trying to show me how.”
The tsunami of thoughts gained strength, shoved his weak resistance side, and threatened to smash him under
its weight. Hox’s control exerted itself, quieting the roar to a whisper.
“Again,” Hox ordered. “Try again.”
The mental grasp eased away, no different than a fist releasing its hold incrementally. Crichton closed his eyes
to help himself focus and tried to envision pushing the encroaching bedlam away from him with his mind. The
sphere of sound and confusion hovered, neither contracting nor expanding, seemingly held at bay by magic
rather than by something he was doing. A small pang, resembling the first twinges of a headache, created an
unpleasant metallic taste in his mouth. John tried to concentrate on the location of that small flavor.
“Is that it?” he whispered, fearful that a louder noise would destroy his scant control. “Is that the part I’m
supposed to be using?”
Hox’s answer arrived without the usual whistling accompaniment. It consisted of a mild pressure against his
thoughts, encouraging him to move toward the metallic taste. The silent voice suggested that he pay attention
to it and backtrack to where the source was located.
A large hand latched onto his arm above the elbow and steered him to one side, then yanked him back on
course. “Thanks, D’Argo,” he said without bothering to open his eyes. He spared a sliver of concentration just
long enough to assume he had been guided around a person or an obstacle, then returned to his quest. The
flavor of melted aluminum hadn’t dissipated. John found it, sensed the thread leading from some portion of his
brain to the sensors in his mouth, and carefully pulled himself along that fragile connection. He arrived at the
spot in his mind that Hox had been trying to show him for over three arns, and examined the tightly constrained
knot.
“Attempt to listen while keeping it under control,” he was silently encouraged.
His mind spun outward. Pushing aside the invasive thoughts of millions of hvisk, he reached across the short
distance that separated him from D’Argo, and tried to hear what his friend was thinking. He sailed right past,
unable to stop at his intended goal, and kept going. For a split microt he was an arrow, loosed blindly into the
air to find its own trajectory, seeking its own destination. He felt something familiar and let himself fall into the
target.
John lies on the floor of Moya, supporting his weight on his elbows as he carefully dissolves purple adhesive
from around her fingers. “Happy place, Aeryn. Go to your happy place,” he urges, making as little sense as
usual. She is impatient, annoyed, angry, and if her hand weren’t bonded to the floor she would be tempted to
hit him if only to get him to shut up. But his body heat radiates warmly against her shoulder as she crouches
beside him, and there’s a tingling rush along her spine whenever he laughs. The sensations are pleasurable,
foreign, desired and confusing, and she doesn’t know how to react. She wants to stay beside him, listening to
his inane prattle for arns, and as soon as she can rip her hand free she hurries away, the muddle of conflicting
emotions driving her away from him until she can figure out how she is supposed to respond.
“Crap!” John staggered, ripping his mind away from the inadvertent contact. Everything went silent. The
shutdown was immediate and complete. “Thanks,” he gasped to Hox. “Must have had more than my fair share
of Wheaties this morning. I really over did it.”
“The silence is not mine. This time it is your effort that quiets the voices,” came an amused reply.
“I’m doing it?” The walls inside his head wobbled, momentarily disrupted by surprise. “Use the force, John,” he
coached himself in a panting growl, struggling to recover.
“It’s going to be harder to doubt you in the future.” Crichton grins in a way that leaves her short of breath with
happiness and ready to explode with pride at the same time. “I apologize for my strengths.” She runs toward
Command confident of her genetically-stored abilities, and strangely ecstatic that this disaster has occurred.
She is worried about Moya and Pilot, but she finds the challenge of responding to the crisis as exhilarating as
flying the Prowler. It has to do with Crichton. He is having this peculiar effect on her more and more
frequently. She wonders how he might react if she starts calling him ‘John’.
Images, sounds, tastes, smells: the memories are almost more real than her current surroundings for their
intensity. There is happiness waiting for her there, lurking in her recall, promising to banish the sick-making
knot in her stomach that seems to be the only thing she can feel anymore. The present holds the constant
threat of tears, the tightness in her throat, and the unbearable knowledge that if he died once, he can die
again. The past soothes her, but her memories can’t ease her passage through the present. She turns her
attention to …
John tore himself away from the contact, frantic to stop the flood of stolen thoughts. In his rush, he demolished
the barrier it had taken him so much effort to erect, and had less than a split-microt to brace himself for the
onslaught that always followed. Erected in a heartbeat, the buffer flicked into place before the weight of millions
of hvisk thoughts could crush him.
“You are improving,” Hox whistled. “I only assisted. You did most of that yourself.”
“Getting better at this,” John summarized for D’Argo’s benefit, deliberately omitting whose thoughts he had
inadvertently visited.
They turned into a smaller street. Their route took them through another of the perception twisting changes in
gravity. In five steps they were walking along what only moments earlier he would have considered a wall. Top
and bottom had become sides, and vice versa. A waterfall tumbled through a lush, plant-filled ravine, plunged
into a pool, and then flowed out at an impossible angle, feeding a stream in the portion of the station they’d just
left.
John paused long enough to turn in a circle, enjoying the mild disorientation that came from the oddly arranged
landscape. “Escher would have loved this place,” he said.
Annoyance buzzes along his spine, mixed with tolerance because Crichton is under more strain than usual.
“Remember Who’s On First?” he asked D’Argo.
“All too well.” It was a growl of remembered irritation.
The comedy routine hadn’t translated well into Luxan. He had spent arns trying to show D’Argo how funny it
was once the audience understood the source of the confusion, only to have his friend treat him to the same
look of disgust that he had given him before John had attempted the lengthy explanation.
“Imagine that turned into a painting,” John suggested while waving his hand at the scenery.
“It would make even less sense than you do, Crichton. No portion would be completed correctly.”
“My point exactly.”
The warrior’s confusion was like getting slapped with a pillow: there was the solid impact of D’Argo’s inability to
understand what he was talking about, softened by his attempt to envision what that mind-twisting conversation
might look like once it was placed on a canvas. D’Argo stopped walking and looked around him more carefully,
trying to match his surroundings to the annoyingly nonsensical dialogue that his human friend had taught him.
Crichton could feel every thought, as well as the battle to keep frustration from drowning the first hints of
understanding. John smothered a laugh and gestured for them to continue their search.
* * * * *
Aeryn scrambled up one of the ladders leading to the Den and vaulted up to perch beside Pilot. She jostled
the heavily armored head. “No change,” she muttered when there was no flicker of a response, and slid down
to stand alongside him. Slides and levers were manipulated with little conscious effort, the embedded
knowledge flowing without hindrance after arns of practice, and she consulted the displays once again.
“Any improvement?” Chiana’s shout floated up from the level below the Den.
“He’s stabilized, that’s all. The flow we’ve created is keeping him alive, nothing more. Whatever is causing this,
it’s getting worse.” Aeryn slapped a circuit shut, cringed when the loud crack of her palm against the surface
echoed around the otherwise quiet chamber, and then consulted the readouts one more time. “Come on,
Pilot,” she exhorted the motionless occupant of the Den. “All we need is for you to wake up long enough to tell
us what’s wrong. We can’t do this on our own.”
An attempt to get the DRDs to lead them to the source of the problem had resulted in ten or twelve of the
drones scattering in different directions, each one squeaking and chirruping with equal levels of mechanical
distress. Aeryn had recalled them and tried again, with almost the same results. The only difference the
second time around was that every single DRD in the Den at the time -- more than twenty-five of them -- had
fired off into the tiers, each in a different direction. Perplexed, the assembled group of biological crewmembers
had waited impatiently while Aeryn recalled the DRDs, and this time ordered a single robot per person to lead
them to the source of whatever was ailing Pilot.
Each individual had been led to a different portion of Moya.
“Should they stop?” Rygel’s inquiry brought Aeryn out of her depressed reverie. The hynerian was hovering to
one side of the center island where he could view both Aeryn and the long drop to the bottom of the neural
cluster.
“No, have them keep going. It’s the only thing keeping Pilot alive at this point.” One tier below the Den, Naj Gil,
despite his weakened state, was tirelessly pumping critical nutrients and fluids into Pilot’s circulatory system.
Setting up the hand pump and the lines to the tanks of recently loaded fluids had taken less than a quarter arn,
and had been completed none too soon. The shelled symbiote had turned an unpleasant shade of greenish-
brown by the time they’d finished arranging the makeshift system, and Moya had begun letting out hull-shaking
groans of distress.
Another of the leviathan’s rumbling moans reverberated through the central neural plexus, echoed by the shrill
cries of the bat swarms residing in the great cavern.
“We’re not going to let him die,” Aeryn called to the ship around her. “We’re going to figure this out, Moya.” A
single DRD appeared out of the shadows and coasted to a stop at her feet. It let out a single short chirp,
calling into question her ability to carry out her promise, and motored back into the gloom. Aeryn sought to
assure the mentality directing the small robot. “Yes, we are going to figure this out. I promise. We need some
help though, Moya. There has to be a way for you to show us where the problem is located.”
Several DRDs appeared out of the dark and once again sallied out of the Den in different directions. “No better
than before,” Rygel said. “She’s more confused that Pilot at this point. It’s all very good for you to tell those
lies to Moya, but what do we do now?”
Aeryn glared at the hovering Dominar for a microt, then turned her attention to the displays without indulging in
a comeback. “Those weren’t lies. I meant what I told her.” All motion behind the consoles stopped as she
considered the dilemma. “I have an idea, but I’m not sure it will work. And it’s risky.”
“What are you going to do?” Rygel asked.
“Not me. It has to be Crichton.”
* * * * *
The success was intoxicating. John could tell to the microt whenever Hox relaxed his vigilance, and reveled in
his own ability to manipulate the new talent. He played with it, letting in the sound of a single hvisk mind, then
another and another, until the rush and roar of their thoughts was deafening, and then shut them all out with
only the smallest of battles. For more than an arn, he had been searching the station with his mind alone,
questing further away from his body with each successful foray.
Hox continued to coach him through each encounter, always riding along with John’s mind in case he lost
control. The whistling encouragement continued. “Excellent. However, you must not overestimate your ability.
You still have much to learn. It will take very little for you to be overwhelmed.” He cocked his head and stepped
closer to John, black eyes peering into blue ones with curiosity. “Explain this Obi-Wan Kenobi?” he asked on a
four-note harmonious trill of humor.
“Oh crap,” John mumbled. It had been the cadence of Hox’s delivery as much as his choice of words that had
triggered the images. He hadn’t meant for that particular thought to get loose, and wasn’t sure if Hox had been
insulted by the comparison. As good as he was getting at hearing other minds, it remained an erratic
capability. Catching coherent images tended to be a hit and miss venture relying more on the strength of the
sender than his ability to sort things out.
“Problem?” D’Argo asked.
John glanced at D’Argo. His luxan friend paced along beside him without complaint, following him everywhere
just in case his strength or protection was needed. His friend was left out of a majority of the discussion, and
yet there wasn’t the smallest hint of dissatisfaction or hurt feelings in the small flashes he was catching from the
luxan. D’Argo’s emotions were far easier to catch than Hox’s. John had no idea whether that was attributable
to Hox’s control or the fact that he was friends with D’Argo.
Crichton didn’t realize how lost he had become in the wash of emotions and thoughts until the question was
repeated. “Is there a problem, John?”
He shook himself to clear his mind, and began walking again. “Not really. I’m having trouble figuring out how to
explain Star Wars to him.” It had taken endless arns of descriptions before D’Argo understood his references
to the movie. John wondered if his telepathic link to Hox could shorten that to something in the range of
microts, and began searching for the right place to begin the explanation.
“Thinking about that Degoba place?” D’Argo asked. Fondness for his friend’s peculiar behaviors. Pleasure
that he knows something about Crichton that this bird-like creature does not. Jealousy.
“No. Old Ben. The hermit, mystic guy living in the desert,” John explained, putting it into terms he knew D’Argo
would understand. “D’Argo --”
He wanted to tell this gentle-spirited warrior not to envy the temporary mental bond he had developed with Hox,
not to worry that their friendship might become less important because of what was happening on this station,
and didn’t know how to put it into words. He delivered a firm thump against D’Argo’s shoulder instead, letting
his fist linger there for a microt before stepping away. “I need you here. I can’t do this without you, D’Argo.”
He didn’t need telepathy to know that he had done and said the right thing. The smile and D’Argo’s familiar way
of looking down his nose at him was all John needed to know that he had dispelled the small insecurity.
Desperation. Concern bordering on full-blown anxiety. Her knowledge is not enough.
“There’s something wrong aboard Moya,” John blurted. “Aeryn’s been trying to take care of it herself, but she
can’t fix the problem.”
“John? D’Argo?” Aeryn’s voice blared over his comms before he finished explaining what he had caught from
her.
“What’s wrong, Aeryn?”
“Have the hvisk fixed whatever they did to you yet?”
John glanced first at Hox, finding little insight in the black eyes above the expressionless beak, and then at
D’Argo, locating no more help there than he had from Hox. Aeryn’s question didn’t match the fast flash of
emotions he had received from her just prior to her transmission. He shrugged, assuming he had interpreted
the overheard thoughts incorrectly, and answered her. “No. There’s been a little hitch in that plan.”
“Then I need your help aboard Moya. There’s something wrong with Pilot.”
John looked up from where he had been staring at his boots. D’Argo looked every bit as surprised as he felt.
No one knew more about the complexities of Moya and Pilot than Aeryn. If she didn’t know what was affecting
Pilot, then it was unlikely that either one of them was going to do any better.
“What kind of wrong?” D’Argo asked.
“He is being starved and he’s lost consciousness. I’ve checked the neural readouts, and everything indicates
that he is no longer interacting with Moya. She’s starting to get worried. If we don’t do something fast, she is
going to start to panic.”
John asked, “Aeryn, is there any chance she’s pregnant again? Have you checked for a baby?”
“That’s the first thing I considered,” she transmitted back. “We’ve checked everything. Moya isn’t doing this to
Pilot, at least not deliberately.” There was a pause. “John, I can’t find the problem. I need your help. If this
gets any worse, Pilot might die -- [i]He’s so bright, so like the other one. He knows how to figure things out, not
like me. He’ll know[/i] -- and if Moya panics while she’s docked with the Kyelligg, there’s no telling how badly
she might injure herself if she tries to pull away.”
“We’re on our way, Aeryn,” D’Argo called.
Crichton turned toward Hox, intending to explain that Moya and Pilot had to come first, and that he would return
to find the source of the hvisk infection as soon as they took care of their own crisis. Before he could put
together a coherent thought to depict what was going on, a motion six motras behind Hox distracted him from
the latest crisis. A pair of hvisk flitted from behind a pillar, glanced in his direction and then moved fast, coming
toward them at a run.
In the short time he had been aboard the Kyelligg, not once had he seen an adult hvisk move at anything more
than a fast walk. The smaller children scampered about in complex flitting patterns, but even they didn’t
actually run. They tended to bounce, intermixing odd little hops in with fast skittering rushes. The two males
coming toward them were lunging across the short distance with aggressive intent, shoving bystanders roughly
aside in their haste. John reached for D’Argo’s arm to get his attention, his eyes fixed on the rapidly
approaching pair.
“Hox!” He had intended to ask for help touching their minds. It wasn’t necessary. The constantly improving
ability lanced out on its own, touched one mind and then the other, and retreated.
There was nothing to feel.
The two figures -- one with a bright green crest and the other with a bright blue one that suggested they had
barely attained adulthood -- had almost reached the spot where he stood with Hox and D’Argo. They were
alive, material and tangible, and yet there was nothing inside them. They were empty shells with none of the
roiling mixture of thoughts and emotions that he had come to expect from a living being.
“Look out!” Crichton shoved Hox to one side, away from the attackers, and grabbed for Winona. Both pairs of
black eyes fastened on him, and too late he realized that he had been the target all along, not Hox. “D’Argo!”
The first hvisk barreled into him, the gleaming wrist-barb slashing toward his eyes. They went down together
under the force of the impact, pulse pistol pinned under the combined weight of their bodies, and he felt his
attacker’s feet scraping along his legs. It was trying to get its legs up to wield the hooked fourth toe, seeking to
disembowel him. He clutched the squirming body against him, trying to deny his assailant enough room to get
its legs up between their bodies.
The hvisk squawked a rasping cry at him. Its beak opened wide and its tongue, nearly luxan in its speed and
reach, lashed out toward John’s face. Vicious overlapping layers of barbs struck at him, brushed against his
cheek, and he rolled his head to the side, barely getting clear before it yanked back. The hvisk lunged at him
again, tongue flickering out too fast to be seen. John threw one hand up to protect his face, willingly sacrificing
a portion of his grip on the writhing body. Barbs caught at his glove, bit deep, ripped away shreds of black
leather. The tongue lashed out a third time and tore more leather from his glove.
“Barbs?” he yelled. “Why doesn’t anyone tell me about these things?” The rest of his complaint was forgotten,
lost to the struggle to stay alive.
Feet and three-fingered hands thrust at him in concert. The hvisk levered itself out of his one-armed grasp,
tongue and claws continuing to search for an opening. The space between them increased and Crichton
grappled desperately at the squirming body, coming up with nothing more than a fistful of shifting robes, and
knew that he was in danger of losing his intestines. A hooked claw gouged at his belly, skittered with a squeal
across his belt buckle and then raked across the thick leather of his gunbelt. Claws swept upward with the
same result, beating at his midsection seeking soft tissue and vulnerable organs. The foot came up again.
Viciously slashing toes slid along his leathered thigh, and he rolled to one side, accepting lacerated muscles if it
would save him from being eviscerated. Bone squealed against metal and alloy. The hooked claw screeched
across Winona and snagged at the holster before breaking free with a fast snap.
“D’Argo!” he yelled again, dodging his head to one side to avoid another attack from the hvisk’s darting
tongue. “D’Argo, get this guy off me!” Somewhere beyond his own frantic battle, he heard the cracking boom
of the Qualta rifle drowning out the non-stop squawking of an upset hvisk, then he was too busy avoiding claws,
slashing spurs, and barbed tongue to register what was going on around him.
John beat at the jabbing head with his free hand. He hit only the rock-hard beak. The heavy clawed feet were
scrabbling at his thighs and lower body, sliding across the leather, one hard gouge away from slicing into his
belly. And in the midst of all the confusion, he saw the wrist barb coming at him again, swinging in from the
side, this time aiming for his throat.
“D’ARGO!!!”
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15