Crichton was abruptly ejected from bed.  He hit the floor hard, rolled over twice, and slammed up
against a bulkhead.  

Moya seemed to be performing gymnastics … or break dancing.  

“Again?  We’re under attack again?”  He staggered to his feet and headed for Command.  

Everyone else was already there, yelling, demanding an explanation.

Pilot appeared in the clamshell, looking calm.  “According to the leviathan calendar, it has been
exactly one cycle since the control collar was removed and we escaped from the Peacekeepers.  
Moya is celebrating.”

“Pilot,” D’Argo said, sounding exasperated, “next time, could you at least warn us in advance?”

* ~ * ~ * ~* ~ *
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