A Simple Kind of Mirror 1:A Trail of Tidal Pools
Obligatory disclaimer: The following is in no way intended to infringe upon any copyrights; those belong to Sci Fi Channel, Jim Henson Co., Hallmark Entertainment, Nine Network Australia, the Farscape writers, producers, etc. This is for entertainment purposes only and is NOT FOR PROFIT, so please don’t sue me.
This story takes place between Jeremiah Crichton and Durka Returns.
This story is dedicated with gratitude to Laura Folden (Kitsah) for her unflagging support, beta-reading, and so many other things, not the least of which is her friendship. Also thanks to Kelly (ceallaig) for beta-reading, and Rick for editing.
Questions? Comments? Chocolate? Email me at the address above.
(c)2000 Roshni Santiago
"When the ebbing tide retreats / Along the rocky shoreline / It leaves a trail of tidal pools / In a short-lived galaxy / Each microcosmic planet / A complete society / A simple kind of mirror / To reflect upon our own / All the busy little creatures / Chasing out their destinies / Living in their pools / They soon forget about the sea… / Wheels within wheels / In a spiral array / Patterns so grand / And complex/ Time after time / We lose sight of the way / Our causes can't see / Their effects" ~"Natural Science," Neil Peart, Rush (Permanent Waves, 1979).
"This moment may be brief / but it can be so bright / reflected in another source of light / when the moment dies / the spark still flies / reflected in another pair of eyes…" ~"Chain Lightning," Neil Peart, Rush (Presto, 1989).
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Part One: A Trail of Tidal Pools
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Aboard Moya: three weeks from Haidar
It was the dream again, the one that choked her with fear. Only this time it was different—very different. She no longer trusted her senses, so she did not know what to make of the visions. Lacking vital confidence, she feared the dream with greater intensity.
She had thought herself safe from the madness after leaving the New Moon of Delvia behind, but ever since she had helped Crichton enter the Dream of Endless Light, she had dreamed restlessly, always waking fearful and bitter at what she believed was impending doom. Each night the dreams had grown worse. But this had been different… before it had always been the same old fears, the same enemies. This time there had been something entirely new, and she was not quite sure whether or not she had conjured it herself—unless she was already mad, which was a prospect she could not face...
Zhaan picked her way across the pale, rocky surface of the New Moon of Delvia, toward the wizened figure in the orchard.
The priest squinted at her approach. "Took you long enough."
"I had to get up the nerve," she heard herself say. Pausing to gather her thoughts, she chose her words carefully.
"I know who you are." The Delvian greeted her formally; he appeared lucid.
"I know who you are," she responded, inclining her head. She offered him a small salute with joined palms. "I do respect your teachings, Pau Tuzak."
"And I respect your choice of murder victims," he replied sardonically.
That hurt. She felt the bitterness of the memory surface under his ironic scrutiny. She forced herself to speak. "What are you doing here?"
"The young refuse to tend the orchard. Sanctity Roots don't grow on trees, my dear." He chuckled a bit at his own joke.
"I need your advice."
He stared at her in surprise. "Oh, I have tasted of my darker impulse, I'm insane."
"What I am contemplating, is also a little insane." She could almost hear the resignation in her own voice; perhaps she had already made up her mind?
"Pau. Ninth Level?" he asked, with a sidelong glance. She nodded.
"When the darkness rises up from inside, that is normal," he said in the tone of a patient instructor. Then, his manner subtly changed; it became a grim warning. "It's when you reach down to pull it up," his voice rose savagely before he was able to bring himself under control. "—that the noxious warning sounds." His words hung ominously in the air. She blinked at him in surprise and then frowned.
Pau Tuzak wilted like a diseased vine, and he collapsed to the rocky ground in a puddle of bluish-grey slime, only to rise up molded into the reddish-skinned form of Liko with his untamed mass of hair. He was haloed by a dark shadow. Those gentle eyes gazed at her filled with compassion. He stretched out a hand to her that she reflexively reached out to meet. She watched their palms approach, his red skin stark against her blue, but as they touched, she felt a violent spasm of pain stab through her entire body. Her eyes widened as she realized that the dark shadow cloaking Liko had become the malevolent specter of what she instinctively knew was Maldis, his arms spread wide as he loomed head and shoulders above Liko, his mouth stretched into a widening maw of evil glee.
She jerked away and crumpled to the ground, staring at the vision in horror. Impassively Liko returned her stare and his mouth opened. But shockingly it was her own voice, her own words that she heard on his lips: "We all visit the precipice. Each one of us must find our own way down."
She clambered away from Liko's outstretched hand, lightning from Maldis crackling around his fingers, until she bumped into something behind her. Turning on her hands and knees, her horror escalated as she realized she had stumbled onto the cold, lifeless body of Pau Tuzak, laid out before her, with his hands crossed over his torso. The closed eyelids popped open with a startling suddenness, and she saw that it was no longer Tuzak who lay before her—it was herself. Madness-reddened eyes stared up at her expressionlessly. Zhaan knew that she was gazing upon her own corpse, poisoned by the tissue bile that had leaked into her brain.
"You tried to destroy me, priest!" she heard Maldis grate behind her. "But guess what? You failed. You tried to stop the madness but you can’t stop the evil from rising up inside you! And when the madness has taken you over, I am going to eat your soul!" His maniacal laugh echoed harshly in her ears.
"No," she gasped in despair. " I must not go mad! I cannot—" Darkness swirled around her like a rising wind, whipping at her robes. "I must atone…" she whispered brokenly. "Goddess, I will atone!" The anguished voice of her one-time lover—no, murdered lover—amongst all the others she had harmed since then—cried out to her as a shriek. Weeping, she lifted her hands to press vainly against her head, as though she could block out the sights and sounds of the anger and violence that raged at her core—as though she could send these visions away. Inwardly, she curled into herself, while outwardly she stretched out her body, supine with her arms wide, over the non-distinct ground in the most humble expression of supplication that she knew. A tiny part of her recognized the dream for what it was, but the uncertainty and confusion of her spirit left her helpless.
She lifted her eyes to see a figure emerge from the scintillating curtains of light that suddenly swept about her. The storm had abruptly died away, leaving the faint sound of chimes hovering in the air, within mist and shadow…
It was the human. So simple and often child-like, she thought, but he had been her safety net once. Now, he scrambled toward her like he once had, concern etched in his face.
"Fight it," Crichton told her, the conviction and courage strong in his voice. "Fight all the things that betray you." He settled close to her, lifting her head into his lap. Amazing that this primitive creature could soothe her churning soul. She gazed up at him with something like thanksgiving in her eyes, and she lifted a hand to touch his cheek. He looked down at her with a mixture of anxiety and steadfast compassion.
"The Goddess has sent you to me," she murmured softly.
"Perhaps," Crichton's mouth spoke, but in a different voice, a female voice. "Perhaps not."
Zhaan's brow furrowed. Not again! Puzzled, she looked up at Crichton, only to see his face become hazy and transparent, like mist burning off in the strong light of midday, and another's appeared. It was a strong face, yet gentle and alien-featured—she did not recognize the species—with rusty hair hanging in two braids on either side of her dark golden-skinned face. Her eyes were huge and vivid green, slanting upwards surrounded by bold black markings that swept around her eyes and beyond to disappear into her hairline. She was remarkably striking, and very beautiful, Zhaan decided. Her astonishment faded, only to be replaced by a warm sense of well being.
"Who are you?" she asked.
The being hesitated for only an instant, barely noticeable. "My name...is Paala." Her microbe-translated words had an unusual accent that was as unfamiliar to Zhaan as the female’s face.
"Your soul is in great distress, Zhaan. It troubles me to feel your pain. If you...come to me...I can help you."
"I have little trust left," Zhaan replied tiredly, with a dismissive wave of one beringed hand.
"I will not betray you, Zhaan. Your need cried out to me over great distance! I only want to help you..." She paused. "Your control is slipping, Zhaan. Come to me, before it is too late..."
Zhaan woke and stared into darkness, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes. Paralyzed by fear, she opened her mouth to pray the familiar mantra that always soothed her. "Kahalen..."
She stopped, the words dying in her throat. She was so frightened she could not even pray. Instead she shivered, oblivious to the tears that wet her face.
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A Mer island on planet Meridea: the same day
Paala opened her eyes to the dawn-streaked sky and frowned. She breathed deeply as she emerged from trance. It was with some small effort that she tried to ease the troubled expression from her face. Below, the sea glistened deepest blue and gleaming silver as it rushed against the shore, but it provided her with no solace for the sudden turmoil that churned within. When she had sent her spirit skyward, the tide had only just begun to roll in; now she heard it much nearer, thundering ominously as it crashed on the beach beneath the dunes, underlining her own uneasiness.
She had come here in the dimness of pre-dawn and settled herself comfortably in the hollow of a dune for her daily voyage, free from the confines of this small planet and the watchers who hid beyond the bowl of the sky. She had felt herself rise up, up, beyond the planet's atmosphere and beyond its orbiting electronic eyes. She had turned, as was her wont, for a backward glance at the mist-shrouded sphere that had been her home for so many cycles, before she sent her spirit out into the darkness of the system, out into the cosmos. Those morning jaunts had become habit for her, as her body bathed in the warmth of the nearby star's first pale flush of dawn...
She reached out, sending herself out beyond the solar system, the sheer delight of the incalculable speed thrilling her to the core of her being, as she swept through the particles of space. She was capable of riding outwards a great distance; her need to travel had stretched her abilities beyond that of perhaps all but the most learned and elite of the Sisters. But today, she had no need for distance or for exotic locales and unfamiliar peoples. This morning, she had felt something tugging at her; she had felt a mind and a need beckoning to her over the distance. Fear tinged with despair had broadcast amongst the stars and cried out to her spirit, in search of solace and peace.
Drawn to it like a beacon she found herself gazing upon the huge Leviathan. She knew that it was not the ship that had attracted her, although there was something not quite right about it. She could sense the unborn offspring slumbering within the giant biomechanoid mother. Warily she realized that there was something about the offspring that its mother didn't know, something that startled and frightened her—something she had never seen before in a Leviathan. It was an effort to force her attention away toward what had drawn her here. There was something—someone else.
She pushed farther, extending herself tendril-like, until it was suddenly there before her, like a huge glowing, pulsating nexus, a misty spiraled column of life-force energy. It was old, yet strong and vital; the shimmering light was tinged with the darkness of uncertainty and violence that threatened to consume the radiant whole. She could both feel and See the battle for dominance between the light and dark. This was what had called out to her.
Vaguely she sensed the other life-forces aboard the Leviathan whose name she now knew was Moya, but she did not want to be distracted from that which had drawn her. On the periphery of her projection, she assimilated them into her awareness: a Luxan, Ka D'Argo, a Sebacean, Aeryn Sun, a Hynerian, Rygel XVI, and something that she'd never encountered before…she absently plucked the words from his sleeping mind: a Human? John Crichton. She felt their anxiety, a fear of being captured by Peacekeepers; she understood that concern. She filed their information away while simultaneously soothing the giant Leviathan and erasing any evidence of her visit from the creature's consciousness, lulling its Pilot into a semi-somnolent stage so her visit would not be detected through Moya's sensors. She maintained her focus on the being who had first captured her attention; she could always come back to the others. It was the Delvian, the one called Zhaan whose spirit had cried out into the darkness of space.
She drifted closer, brushing the edges of Zhaan's consciousness gently, until suddenly she was there, within. Curtains of misty pale blue liberally streaked with edges of darkness had pulsated about her yet she pushed further through them, searching for the center, for the core of consciousness with a deft touch. She watched only for a short while before urgency took hold: she made contact…
Now, once more within her body, she blinked up at the sky and reflected on the experience with a strange sense of forbidding—she wondered what the coming days would bring to her sheltered island shores.
She had no more opportunity to reflect as she shuddered then and gasped as the pain suddenly took her, stabbing through her every fiber as she curled into herself on the sand. When the pain finally subsided, she breathlessly considered its meaning. She stretched out her hand against the sand and fear-struck, she saw the brilliant glow emanate from her limb. She squeezed her eyes shut, and when she opened them again, the glow was gone. She lay there wonderingly, distracted from her contact with the alien, Zhaan, by this recent manifestation of her own intermittent illness. It felt like...she was changing...inside. Somehow, transforming. It frightened her that she had not yet determined what was causing it, much less how to cure it.
Uttering a quick prayer for forgiveness and protection, her conviction firmed: there were strange, fearful days ahead.
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Research facility on Ridean continent, planet Meridea: the same day
"There it is again, sir." The young Ridean looked up at her expectantly as she bent to peer over his shoulder at the crystal display screen.
"As you can see, it’s the same energy signature that we saw here—" He brought up the saved time frame, "and here." He turned his head, and then sprang back as he bumped his nose against her face; he flushed in embarrassment at the contact, but she continued to study the screen impassively.
"This is the same anomaly that Wist Station was tracking? You’re sure," she prodded at his quick nod.
"Yes, sir. Wist forwarded their data just before Prefect Yassyr ordered them shut down for resource mismanagement and corruption." There was a note of concern in his voice, which she ignored. Yes, they are all a bunch of weak-minded fools!
"Every dawn...twice every dawn," she said mused aloud. "Have you located its origin yet?"
Reluctantly he shook his head. "We have a bead on the general area, but nothing specific yet."
"What is the grid?" she asked patiently, trying not to grit her teeth. It wasn't Ry's fault that their data was incomplete. She watched as he called it up on screen and she studied it for a brief instant before swearing softly beneath her breath. Ry heard it, of course, as her lips nearly touched his left ear, but he at least did not flinch at the savagery of her curse. "It is in the middle of the sea!" she exclaimed quietly, now careful that only Ry could hear her.
"Yes, sir, that appears to be the case."
"Amongst the savages," she murmured.
"Yes, sir."
With hooded eyes she studied the vast network of islands beneath the grid, before straightening. "Download it all. Rip a cryptcase," she ordered watching intently as he complied. Surreptitiously, he handed her the tile—a small dot, no larger than the tip of her finger, safe inside a clear case; it contained all the data they had just finished examining.
"Stash the data, Ry—triple encryption, stand-alone storage," she said in a low voice. He turned to look up at her over his shoulder.
"Yes, sir," he responded crisply without flickering an eyelid. She nodded peremptorily, and then met his eyes finally. "I’m trusting you," she breathed, before turning on her heel. Without a backward glance she strode from the crowded control room.
Damn fools, she raged inwardly, maintaining her outward impassive expression. Wist had tracked this anomaly for over a cycle after the new satellite sensor system had gone online, and their efforts had been repaid by shutdown as soon as the Prefectory Council had discovered their "transgression." Now she was convinced that the reason they had been shut down had nothing to do with wasting resources, and much more to do with the origin of that anomaly—which seemed to correlate directly to the Mers.
Wist had tracked it to the Islands, and that had spelled their doom. The Council wanted to pretend that the Islands didn’t exist, and so they had punished the scientists at Wist, who had discovered and then traced the signal. It was a foolish attitude—what exactly were they afraid of? Arousing the ire of the Mers? There had been zero contact between Continent and Island for over three hundred cycles—officially, that is. Unofficially, there had always been a bit of trickle between Cont and Isl to which CoastNav was conveniently blind. Her late father had been an unpopular advocate of allowing trickle to continue, while hard-liners insisted that it was poor social management to allow Rideans to defect to the Islands as well as allowing certain Mers to assimilate into their own carefully maintained society.
Of course she had disagreed with Father; trickle was bad policy, unofficial or not. But it wasn’t until after Kel had disappeared that her anger at the Council’s complacency had exploded. She’d known he was unhappy, but that was no excuse for abandoning his vocation and friends for...for...abomination. She didn’t even bother to suppress her shudder of revulsion at the idea of Kel living amongst those savages on the islands. He belonged here, among their own people, working at the tasks for which they had been bred. He should never have been permitted to leave, and she held the Council responsible. If they chose to assert their authority, they could see that trickle was abolished. The Mers would be confined to their islands, and her people and her culture would remain pure and unsoiled by their filthy ways.
She came to a halt before the access panel, and she bent forward to be scanned. The panel flashed her name and rank in acknowledgement.
"Captain Vri," said a deep voice as she stepped through the entry. Automatically she came to attention, her eyes locked onto a spot on the far wall.
She heard a chuckle and then, "At ease, Eri." She stood down and turned toward the voice.
"Milo," she said warmly.
The elder Ridean, tall and immaculate in civil service uniform, smiled down at her affectionately as he approached. "I hadn't thought to see you this afternoon," he said.
"I have information that might interest you." You was a euphemism; she meant The Watch, but no one ever said that.
"Really?" He moved toward the bar where he proceeded to pour drinks for the two of them. She waited patiently until he turned and proffered a glass. With a smile and murmured thanks she accepted, and the exchange was made; she barely noticed him palm the cryptcase. She relaxed slightly. Occasionally she had to remind herself that she was doing this for Kel, but this was not one of those times. It was fully within her means to function as a Watch operator, so she did—it was as simple as that.
She was convinced that the anomaly they'd tracked was something very wrong and now that she knew it came from the Mers, she knew that whatever it was, it had to be stamped out for the good of her people. She felt no compunctions for serving those ends. She could only be grateful that she had found someone to whom to turn who understood her feelings about Mers.
Milo's people knew how to avoid scrutiny, and they would put the information to good use. Action would be taken. It was about time that someone taught those Mers a lesson, and Milo's people were just the ones to provide the education. Those dirty uncivilized Mers weren't going to spread their social disease to the Continent and suck the life from Ridean like they had stolen Kel away. Not if she could help it.
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Four days later
She found him in the hangar, rubbing a cloth across the grey-white surface of the pod he called Farscape I. A clumsy craft, to be sure, but his devotion to the primitive machine was remarkable. For some time now she knew that he had been working on improvements to the pod—Moya’s biomechanoid technology had proved useful in making the upgrades. As far as she was concerned, none of that really mattered, though. Crichton was just trying to keep himself busy and hopeful for the day he might return to his homeworld. If it kept him happy and occupied, it was all the better for the rest of them. She just wished that Rygel might find a similar occupation: his fits of boredom inevitably became her problem.
She tried to compose her thoughts as she watched Crichton polishing away. She had come to the realization that she needed to talk to someone, to try to tell someone what had been happening to her. It had been four standard days now that she had been plagued by those terrible dreams that each ended the same way: an unknown entity would urge Zhaan to come to her for healing. Each time, Zhaan woke increasingly more distraught than the last, and she was beginning to feel like she was at the end of her tether.
"John? John, I…may I speak with you?"
Crichton straightened and frowned at her quizzically. "Is everything all right, Zhaan?" He reached down for a clean rag and began wiping his hands as he walked over toward her.
"I'm not sure." She tried to laugh. "You see, I've been having these dreams…"
"Whoa, ho, hold on right there. What kind of dreams, Zhaan—nothing X-rated, right?" There was a mischievous grin on his face.
"X-rated?" She blinked at him curiously.
"You know…sex dreams. Well, never mind," he went on hastily at her blank expression. "It's probably just a human guy thing. Sorry, Zhaan, go on."
She smiled despite herself. "I think I understand. Delvians have these X-rated dreams, too. I find them quite pleasant actually."
"You would," he muttered. "But that's not what you came to talk to me about."
"No," she agreed. She paused. "Have you been dreaming lately, John?"
He looked at her oddly. "As a matter of fact, I have. Bad dreams. Ever since we left that damn planet behind."
"So have I," she nodded.
"At first, I thought it was just part of all that—you know—almost-dying stuff. But I still have those nightmares every time I sleep," he said, almost to himself. He laughed suddenly, bitterly. "It's beginning to make me a little crazy."
"I have been dreaming as well, John. They have been terrible." She winced at the memory. "I thought…perhaps they are a by-product of having touched the Dream of Endless Light."
"I’m pretty sure that Aeryn has been having them, too. Besides, she's been looking really tired and run-down lately—I don't think she's recovering too well…if we’re all having bad dreams, then you might be on to something, Zhaan."
"Yes, perhaps," she replied absently, suddenly very tired. "I-I have to go, John." She found herself unable to speak of those nightmares; John would certainly think she had gone mad. She turned abruptly, leaving a preoccupied Crichton in her wake.
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The following morning
She opened her eyes from dazzling whiteness and blinked slowly, painfully, as the world came into focus. A shape hovered over her, until Zhaan's face crystallized.
"Aeryn!" the Delvian cried out in a broken voice. Fuzzily, Aeryn noted the wet sheen that glistened on Zhaan's sculpted blue features.
"Z-zhaan," she croaked. "Wh-what's…" Alarm flared as she saw Zhaan's gaze flicker to the side and her face crumple.
"Oh, Aeryn, I'm sorry," Zhaan replied brokenly. "There was nothing I could do…"
"Wh-what do you mean? What's going on?" She turned her head to the side and first saw her arm stretched out across the space between her bed and the next, her hand clasped firmly—
"Crichton!" She released his hand and watched his arm flop limply down against the side of his bed. She attempted to prop herself up, ignoring the angry upheavals curling in her belly, and she pushed herself up off the bed. The waves of nausea gripped her, and her head swam, but she fought it as she lurched forward to land heavily on the edge of Crichton's bed. In fear and desperation she gazed down at him as he lay there, gray and frighteningly still. Aeryn Sun, former Peacekeeper Officer, had seen death enough times to know it when it lay before her. She turned her head away, but she was unable to suppress a low cry of pure anguish…this isn't happening…this can't be happening…she felt the hand on her shoulder through the haze of pain.
"He's gone, Aeryn. I’m so sorry."
"H-how long?" Her voice came out as a savage whisper.
"Not long," Zhaan replied. "He entered the Dream to save your life, Aeryn."
Nooooo…"And now he's dead!" She looked back down at him and reached out toward his face—
—and Crichton's eyes flew open and his arm snapped up to grab her wrist.
"That's right, Aeryn," he said in a metallic, distorted voice. "Thanks to you, now I'm dead!"
Horrified she scrambled backwards…"No…" But he rose up, grey and drawn, with his staring lifeless eyes wide and penetrating.
"No! This isn't happening, this isn't-"
—and her eyes snapped open. "…happening," she finished weakly.
"Aeryn? Are you all right?"
Crichton came into focus above her. She frowned and squeezed her eyes shut.
A dream? Not again...
"Aeryn?"
Blindly she reached out and grasped his forearm.
"You're alive…" she breathed, barely audible. Her eyes flickered open and she released him.
"Yeah, Aeryn, I'm fine." Was that fear mixed with anxiety she'd seen ripple across his face? He composed his features quickly so she couldn't be sure. "I stopped by to check on you, and you were thrashing around…everything okay?" There was an odd tone to his voice.
"You're alive," she repeated, now in relief.
"Yeah, Aeryn, I'm alive. Sorry to dash your hopes, darlin,' but I'm still kicking." He smiled as she opened her eyes and met his frank blue gaze.
Her own fear and anguish melted away in a sudden rush of emotion, and she pushed herself up. Crichton didn't move away, so their shoulders touched, but she didn't shrink from the contact. She just sat there, stiff-backed with her face shrouded by long dark hair as she bowed her head. She sensed rather than saw John's face turn toward her, and then she heard his quiet voice, very near her ear.
"You're still having nightmares, aren't you?"
She was silent for a long moment before she could answer. "Bad dreams, yes." Don't push me on this, Crichton. Please.
She felt him shift on the low bed, and she squeezed her eyes shut behind the curtain of dark hair. She didn't want to have a conversation about her feelings. The aftermath of her recovery from the virus had proved to be difficult and confusing. The uncontrollable bouts of tears and anxiety had left her feeling helpless and weak, not to mention her struggle with the physical effects of withdrawal from the Dream.
She felt a touch, light as a soft sigh, and her breath caught for a long second. John very gently swept the hair back from her face and tucked it behind her ear. His gentle fingers lingered for just an instant longer than was necessary before his hand dropped away.
"Aeryn," he began quietly and she started breathing again. The tenderness in his small gesture was…comforting.
"I'm fine, Crichton," she said, forcing herself to face him. Their eyes met, and the expression in his eyes was like a knife twisting in her chest. She saw her own barely suppressed emotions reflected in his gaze. Too much pure oxygen, Aeryn…
Crichton looked away first, his face suddenly tired and drawn. Standing, he reached out and briefly squeezed her almost-bare shoulder, and then he was gone.
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Later that evening, John found himself sitting near a porthole, gazing through the clear membrane that separated him from the vacuum of space beyond, lost in thought. He toyed with the almost empty cup before him, swirling the dregs in an absent motion. The alcoholic beverage was not unpleasant, and it was certainly welcome in his state of mind. It provided him with a numbness that took the edge off the mental turmoil that had plagued him since he'd woken in a cold sweat in the early arns. Not again! He'd taken off running for Aeryn's chamber before he could stop himself, and he had to force himself to slow down, to walk, to take a deep breath before barging in, only to find her in the grips of what he suspected was something similar to his own experience.
He'd dreamed she was dead—that he'd awoken from that damned Endless Light dren to find Aeryn cold and still beside him, with a tearful Zhaan hovering over him. He could still feel the vestiges of the bolt of anguish that had woken him in a panic of fear and grief. It was just a dream, John. Yeah, that's what they'd called that damned virus, and it had nearly killed both of them. Some dream.
The physical symptoms had all but faded in the intervening time since he and Aeryn had recovered enough to return to Moya. They were only a few weeks from the system with its unusual Sebacean colony and its nasty virus-catalyst, and John was glad to be heading in the opposite direction…
They had gone down to the surface, he and Aeryn, for much-needed supplies, and they had gotten much worse than they had bargained for. Aeryn had fallen into a mysterious coma that the local Sebaceans called the Dream of Endless Light, a peaceful state of being that stole the mind from the body. Faced with Aeryn’s imminent death if she did not soon awaken, John had entered the Dream with Zhaan’s assistance, in an attempt to convince her to return to the land of the living. The return had proved difficult for them both, and when, after some time, they each had finally returned to consciousness, their bodies and minds had been seriously affected. It had taken this much time to return somewhat to normal. Except for the nightmares, of course.
How many times was this now that he'd almost died? Worse, that he'd almost lost Aeryn…
How could he live like this, he wondered, as he tossed back the remainder of the dark blue liquid in his cup. It burned pleasantly as it went down, dulling the sharp edges of the black mood that had seized him since leaving Aeryn's chamber. He had tried to distract himself with chores all day long, but the black mood had only grown as Moya hurtled through the darkness of space. How could any of them live like this? This wasn't how his life was supposed to be.
Stolidly, he reached for the carafe and began to pour another cup, half-hoping that someone would stop him. As if on cue, he heard the soft thud of boots on Moya's surface, and he immediately recognized the familiar tread. He didn't need to turn around. He left his cup half-filled and thumped the carafe down onto the table's surface. He raised his cup as he heard the hiss of the refrigeration unit being opened, and he mockingly saluted in her direction.
"You've been avoiding me, Aeryn." Again.
The footsteps drew near until he saw her in his peripheral vision. He turned his head to find her studying him with an inscrutable expression, a shiny metallic packet and a flask in her hands. She carefully placed them on the table and then turned on her heel. She returned with a cup that was twin to the one cradled between his own hands.
"So what if I have?" she finally said, with a wry smile. She settled herself opposite him and reached for his carafe. He watched as she poured a steady stream of the blue liquid into her cup. He finally noticed the sheen of sweat that glistened on the bare skin of her arms. She was clad simply in the familiar gray tank-top and the loose black trousers she favored for her workouts. There were dark damp patches where she had sweated through the tank above the swell of her breasts. Immediately John diverted his gaze, looking up to find Aeryn's eyes on him. She raised her cup and returned his mocking salute.
John peered at her with a puzzled frown. "Do you mind telling me what exactly I've done this time?"
Instead of answering, Aeryn fixed him with an almost taunting gaze, and she tipped the cup back. John watched in amazement as she drained its contents in one long draught—he watched her throat contract as she gulped back the alcohol. The cup slammed down onto the table, and she reached for the carafe, pouring for herself again. Only this time, there was only enough left to fill the cup part-ways. With a philosophical shrug she dropped the carafe and gave it a little push off to the side. Again, she raised the cup to her lips, never breaking eye contact with John. But before she could swallow, he reached out and touched her arm.
"Aeryn?" he asked, confused by her uncharacteristic reaction.
She paused and lifted a single eyebrow in response, but she knocked the second cup back nonetheless. Lowering it to the table, she reached out for the flask she'd brought and pushed it over to him with a challenge in her eyes. John felt something shift fuzzily as a wave of frustration and defiance hit him. Fine, he thought. If this is the way she wants to play it…
He tipped back his cup and emptied it before pouring from the flask. A sweet-smelling greenish-yellow liquid streamed into his cup and noting the color, John was thankful his cup wasn't clear so he wouldn't have to look at what he was drinking.
He pushed the flask back at her, and then tilted his head quizzically to one side as she filled her own cup for the third time.
"So what are we going to do, see who can out-drink who?" he finally asked a bit fuzzily, in an effort to break the silence that stretched between them.
"I've had a bad day," she responded acerbically.
"Yeah," he in a flat tone. "I can see that."
To hell with it! He slowly brought the cup to his mouth and sniffed delicately. It actually smelled quite good. Sweet. She eyed him, once more issuing the silent challenge, so he knocked it back, and then brought the cup down slowly in surprise.
"Wow…that's very…good…stuff," he said finally when he was able to speak. The liquid was sweet and amazingly delicious. It also packed a wallop that went straight to his head. Suddenly he felt really, really good. Dimly he recalled what they had always said about mixing liquors…
"It's called dringmar," Aeryn said with a tiny smile after draining her own cup again. "And it is good, isn't it? Quite potent."
"Um, yeah," John responded, shaking his head slightly to clear it. "Tasty."
Then he cocked his head at her. "So are you gonna tell me what's going on?"
"No." He stared at her quizzically. "We're not going to talk," she said with a sneer. "We're going to get drunk." Shockingly, her mouth stretched into a beautiful grin.
Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe not. His astonishment dissolved as he shrugged philosophically. If you can't beat 'em, join 'em, eh, John? He reached out for the flask and poured himself some more. He'd get her talking yet.
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When John woke into darkness the following day, he had a hazy recollection of Aeryn talking and talking and talking. For some reason he thought that he had been unable to shut her up! That couldn't be right…Or maybe he'd been the one talking. He couldn't quite remember anymore. Something about her trying to prop him up, or had that been the other way around? The details were all jumbled up and he couldn't recall what she'd been going on about.
None of that mattered though, when his head felt like she’d used it for her punching bag. He forced himself up to look around, and he frowned. For some reason, his quarters didn't look quite right…
What the hell—?
He rolled over gingerly and found himself face to face with Aeryn Sun. A completely unconscious Aeryn Sun, he discovered. He held his breath and somehow managed to back away off the bed without disturbing her. She lay there, pale and luminous in the dim light, dark hair spilling over the bare skin of her folded arms that pillowed her head on the otherwise pillowless low bed. Suddenly there was an ache in John's throat from the mere sight of her. He turned away a mite too quickly and immediately he regretted the sudden movement.
Fuzzy recollection was returning to him of them wandering about, arm in arm, giggling, after way too much dringmar. Perhaps he’d been assisting a thoroughly inebriated ex-Peacekeeper back to her room—? He couldn’t be sure; his memory had fogged once again. He tried to make a mental note to never touch that sweet stuff again. It packed more wallop than Appalachian moonshine! He was relieved to note that they were both still fully dressed, but this was very definitely Aeryn's quarters. He was sure that she would be less than pleased to find him asleep beside her in the morning as proof of her lapse of judgment. Especially if she woke with even a fraction of the head he was suddenly clutching. He felt his stomach lurch as he forced himself to back away towards the entrance. He hesitated there for a moment to gaze at the long slim lines of her sleeping body. He'd never seen her so utterly relaxed and…peaceful. But then again, he had never watched her sleep before. Reluctantly he turned away, and clasping his head, he waved the gate open and stumbled out into the corridor.
He wasn't quite paying attention to his route as he tried to make his way back to his own quarters. In fact most of the time he wasn't looking at all. He lurched forward with his left hand over his eyes and his right hand trailing along the wall of the curving corridor. Then, through his misery, he felt a prickling along his spine and his hand fell away, as he concentrated fuzzily on the crouching form not ten paces away. Everything suddenly sprang into sharp focus.
"Zhaan!" He took one step in her direction and then abruptly stopped as she lifted her head weakly and thrust out a trembling hand to stop him. "Your eyes…" He could only stare at her in horror and then fearful concern. "The madness—"
"Yes, John," she said staring at him helplessly, her voice anguished. "It has returned. I have tried—Goddess forgive me, I have tried so hard to stave it off, but I…" she trailed off.
Head down, she was almost on her hands and knees and shaking. John's head was suddenly quite clear.
"What can I do?" John demanded fiercely as he moved to her side. His hands contracted into fists unconsciously, as though this was a battle that could be won with a quick one-two punch.
"Help me…" Zhaan lifted her head, red eyes pinning him with her desperation. "Help me, John…" And she softly collapsed.
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The following day
Zhaan looked up at his approach and smiled at him warmly.
"Hello, John," she said.
"Uh, hi, Zhaan," he replied, averting his gaze. The Delvian was entirely nude. "I came to see how you were feeling."
"How I'm feeling? I feel fine, John. In fact, I've never felt better. I was thinking…" she trailed off as a confused expression crossed her face.
"Zhaan? Hello? You were thinking that maybe you wanted to put some clothes on?" he prompted after several microts of silence.
She recovered with a start. "Hello, John." He nodded and waited expectantly for her to finish, trying very hard not to look at her below the chin. She just blinked her red eyes at him. The silence stretched until she frowned slightly.
"Did you need something, John?"
He stared at her open-mouthed and then sighed. "Yeah, Zhaan—you were about to tell me what you were thinking. And you were going to put that on." He gestured at her robe across the low bed.
She cocked her head at him and her full lips quirked upwards.
"Hmm…do you really want to know what I’m thinking, John?" she murmured in a low, husky voice as she glided toward him. She lay one beringed hand against the center of his chest, and she smiled up at him coyly.
John had a bad feeling about this.
"I'm thinking," she whispered, as she leaned closer. "That I could velk you—" He frowned and tried to back away, but Moya’s warm surface sprang up hard against his shoulder blades. "—until you couldn't walk anymore." She laughed softly, breathily, and then her demeanor changed like quicksilver. Her gaze hardened and her mouth thinned. "And then….I would break you in two," she spat. Her other hand shot out and seized him by the throat in a crushing grip. John's eyes bulged and his hands reached up in a vain attempt to loosen Zhaan's grip. He choked for air and his mouth flapped open as he tried to soundlessly protest, but his quickly fading efforts were to no avail.
Then he heard and felt something like a whip crack past his ear, and the vise around his throat loosened immediately and then fell away as he watched Zhaan crumple to the ground. John stumbled backward, one hand at his throat, before he lost his balance and landed hard on his butt. Painfully, he swiveled his head to see what had saved him.
D'Argo lowered into a squat beside him, watching Zhaan's inert form warily. Finally he turned his gaze toward John.
"Did she injure you?"
He shook his head weakly. "Thanks…big guy.." he managed at last. D'Argo nodded.
"I think she wanted to kill me," John said, massaging his throat gently. It would definitely be bruised, he decided.
"I believe she would have killed you eventually, had I not intervened," D'Argo agreed. "It is a good thing that I came by."
"You'll get no argument from me," he replied.
"Delvians, particularly priests, are known for their strength and speed. Their pacifist ways are often mistaken for weakness, but their enemies are quickly disabused of that notion." There was a note of admiration in D'Argo's voice.
"Yeah, she's a regular warrior woman," John muttered. "But she just tried to kill me, D'Argo!"
The Luxan shook his head. "If she had wanted you dead just now, you would be dead, Crichton. No, she was toying with you, saving your death for later." He straightened and moved forward. With one smooth motion, he hefted Zhaan in his arms and lowered her to the low bed, tenderly pulling a shiny golden sheet over her limp form.
"Great! Just great, Zhaan’s turned into a homicidal maniac and it’s my skin she happens to be gunning for. We have to do something to help her—before she kills one of us or the madness kills her."
"I don't think there is a cure for the madness," D'Argo replied slowly in surprise as he turned toward him. "How can we help her if we don't know the cure?"
"I don't know, D'Argo. The last time this happened, I joined her in Unity, which brought her back. But in her present state of mind—strike that—make that lack of mind, I think I'd wind up dead long before we even made it to the Unity part. And personally, I'm not ready to die quite yet."
D'Argo studied her with a hint of sorrow. "If one of us were ill, Zhaan would know how to help us," he said softly. "I do not want to see our comrade die. But I do not know how to stop it." John looked up bleakly to meet D'Argo's eyes. The Luxan returned his gaze steadily for several long microts before fury streaked across his features, and he turned in a sudden explosion of movement. He stormed out of the chamber in a swirl of tentacles, braids, and skirted coat. John could have sworn that D'Argo had been cursing in untranslatable Luxan on his way out as the faint guttural sounds reached him from the corridor. He looked over his shoulder and was surprised to see Aeryn standing in the shadows beyond the entrance hatch, wariness in her posture. She wasn't looking at him, though. Her eyes were fixed on Zhaan's face.
"Did you see all that?" he asked quietly, returning his gaze to Zhaan. He took her grunted response as an affirmation. "What did she mean, when she said she'd like to velk me?" he asked absently, but when no reply was forthcoming, he turned to see Aeryn staring at Zhaan with very wide bright eyes, and a tiny smile hovering around the corners of her mouth. Suddenly he had an inkling of what Zhaan had meant, so he didn't press the question, although he noticed a flicker of her eyes in his direction before she returned to her impassive study of Zhaan's inert form.
Hesitantly Crichton crawled forward and reaching out, he gently lifted one blue eyelid to reveal Zhaan's still-red eye. He sighed and then shifted back. When he turned to find Aeryn again, she was gone.
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Aeryn left Crichton in Zhaan’s quarters and stalked to the den to confer with Pilot. Just then Rygel emerged from a side corridor perched atop his throne sled and sporting a decidedly disagreeable expression.
"What the yotz is going on?" he demanded petulantly.
"Obviously nothing that concerns you, Your Lowness," she replied shortly, not slowing her pace. "We called you eight times!"
"I was sleeping," came his grumbling answer, as he sped his throne sled to keep up with her.
She didn’t reply, trying to suppress the futile anger that threatened to overflow toward the small Hynerian.
"So?" he went on. "What was so important?" Unbelievably, he was actually looking down at her with the impatience of a commanding officer for a green trainee.
Aeryn rounded on him in fury, causing him to speed past her several paces before he was able to halt the throne sled and turn around. "Zhaan has succumbed to the madness once again, and she is unconscious. If we don’t come up with something soon, she will probably die." She was unable to keep the worry from her voice.
"Oh." His broad wrinkled face fell, and he had the grace to look abashed. "Why didn’t anyone tell me?" he mumbled.
Aeryn resumed her pace, forcing him to catch up with her. "We tried."
"Well how the yotz was I supposed to know that it was something serious? There’s always something, you know. You people disturb me for every last thing—"
She ignored him and kept walking. She couldn’t sit back and do nothing. There was only one other who might have an answer...
"I’m sorry, Officer Sun, but Moya’s databanks do not contain any information on how to cure this kind of madness in a Delvian." Pilot’s giant body drooped, and he sighed. "I don’t know what else we can do." He blinked his enormous round eyes at her in consternation.
Aeryn sagged against Pilot’s console in defeat. What could they do? Crichton had mentioned that Unity with him had given her the strength to repel the madness before, but that was useless in her current homicidal state. Determinedly, her hands tightened their grip on the console. They had to find a way!
Sleep that night did not come easily for Aeryn. Worry for Zhaan had permeated the day for all of them, leaving them frustrated and anxious. She lay there in the dark, the shiny gold sheet bedcovering pulled up to her chin, and suddenly a slow hot flush spread over her as memory struck. She’d gotten drunk with Crichton. All day she’d been avoiding it, but in the dark it was inescapable. She’d made an utter and complete fool of herself, of that much she felt certain. She had some sort of strange recollection of mindless babbling, and singing! —except now she realized that it had been her! She wasn’t sure what had possessed her to do such a thing, to get dren-faced with the human, but it had felt right at the time. Unfortunately, she hadn’t felt better in the morning, waking alone and cold, with a foul taste in her mouth, and Crichton’s scent all over her clothes combined with the liberal perfume of spilled dringmar. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried very hard not to think about it.
Finally in her worry and confusion she drifted to sleep, as though a fog had suddenly taken her, and she found herself standing in a misty place. It was lit only by a flickering blue-white light; it was gentle, and it flashed and sheeted, offering eerie illumination. By that strange light she realized she wasn't alone.
D'Argo stood across from her with Crichton on her right, both of them slowly turning in confusion, plucking at their garments. They were strangely garbed, in nothing Aeryn had ever seen before: D'Argo wore a deep green tunic belted over loose brown trousers that came short of his bare feet, while Crichton was garbed in his customary "T-shirt," as he called it, and trousers, only they were stark white. They looked about as disoriented as she felt; also, they had a curious insubstantial look about them, as though they might fade away at a moment's notice. Immediately she adjusted into a posture of wariness, almost rising up on her toes in anticipation of danger. Her internal alarms were sending off loud klaxons, and she felt her insides twist slightly. Then she looked down and her eyes widened.
Zhaan lay before them on a low bier of some sort, clad in the shiny gold vestments of a Pau. Aeryn frowned and watched as John stepped forward and dropped into a crouch beside the bier and reached out to touch the motionless Delvian. Like he had earlier, he lifted an eyelid to reveal a single bright red eye. He made a small despairing sound in the back of his throat and vaguely slumped back onto his heels. Then he looked up and across Zhaan and seemed to notice Aeryn for the first time. He started violently, falling backwards on one out-flung arm, and he scrambled to his feet. Staring around wildly, he started again at the sight of D'Argo, and he backed away from all of them. He opened his mouth, which flapped soundlessly—
"What the hezmana is going on?" D'Argo demanded as he looked from Aeryn to Crichton both in bewilderment and frustration, his eyes constantly being drawn back to the seemingly unconscious Zhaan.
Aeryn frowned again. "I don't know," she responded, and then swallowed. Her hand crept to her leg holster only to find it gone, gun and all. Instead her fingers encountered a soft expanse of silky fabric, which drew her attention. She gaped as she looked down to see a gown hanging from her shoulders, sleeveless and pale, skimming her torso in a thin sheath to fall in smooth folds that touched the top of her bare feet. Her head snapped up in horror, and her hands rose automatically, one clenched at the fabric covering her abdomen while the other slapped against her chest, touching the bare skin above her bosom.
It all felt real. Stricken, she raised her eyes to find Crichton's gaze on her. "What the frell is this?" she burst in outrage.
"I don't know," he said quickly with a shake of his head. "If I didn't know better, I would say it was a dream…"
"A dream?" D'Argo scoffed. "What—this? I very much doubt it, Crichton." He had his hands on his hips, staring down his Luxan nose at the human.
"Then, what, D'Argo," Crichton threw back in clipped tones. "You have a better explanation? I mean, what's Zhaan doing here—and it's all misty and why are you two here, if I'm not dreaming? Huh? Granted, I wouldn't have chosen exactly this kind of dream, but who knows what the hell my subconscious is trying to assimilate. It's not as though my brain doesn't have enough to figure out, you know…" he was muttering by the time he trailed off, scrubbing his hands through short-cropped hair and beginning to pace.
"Crichton, what are you talking about it?" Aeryn finally managed, putting aside her own disorientation. It was almost a relief to have someone upon whom she could vent her irritation.
"This makes perfect sense, you know," he stared at her with a crazy grin.. "You know, the more I think about it, anyway. See, I've been worried sick about Zhaan, so that's why she's here, and I can't seem to do anything to help her. And you!" He burst into a peal of laughter, that grin suddenly rakish and a touch embarrassed. "It's not like you're a stranger in my dreams, Aeryn," he said softly. But then the mirth vanished as he wheeled on D'Argo, who was staring at him as though at an insane and slightly dangerous creature, his large hands flexing defensively. "But you," Crichton began, his gaze sliding sideways in puzzlement. "I don't know why you're here. Maybe you represent a threat to my masculinity." Then he shrugged and barked another laugh. "Freud would have a field day with this one!"
"Crichton!" D'Argo broke into the human's reverie, jerking John’s attention back up at the huge Luxan warrior. He deliberately folded his arms across his broad chest and stared down at him with a mixture of annoyance and amusement. "Will you shut up?"
"Whatever you say, big guy," Crichton muttered, but kept silent, although his mouth had a sour twist to it.
Ignoring him, D'Argo met Aeryn's eyes. "Crichton," he began disdainfully, "thinks that we are a part of his dream, Aeryn. Now I don't know about you, but I don't feel like a part of anyone's dream. I think," D'Argo broke off to throw a disgusted glare at Crichton. "Both of you are part of my dream!"
"Now look here—!" Crichton broke in heatedly.
"Will you both just shut up!" Open-mouthed they turned back to her, perhaps finally seeing her for the first time. "Let me get this straight," she began irritably, waving irritably in Crichton's direction. "You think you're dreaming about me, so…what? I'm supposed to be dreaming about you two dreaming about me—? No, wait, I've got it. D'Argo is dreaming about me dreaming about you dreaming about me. Is that it? Wait. No, no, I said wait!" she snapped as Crichton opened his mouth again. "You know what? None of that matters—I have more important things to worry about! Where the frell is my gun!"
Crichton's mouth quirked up at the corners but he hastily suppressed the smile as she swung her head in his direction. D'Argo cleared his throat, drawing her attention.
The Luxan gazed at her quietly, his eyes suddenly soft as they swept her from head to toe and back up again. Aeryn became very aware of the thin garment she wore beneath his eyes, and she remembered the holoimage of D'Argo's Sebacean wife. Crichton's gaze darted from D'Argo to her and then back to D'Argo again.
"Now you wait just one cotton-pickin' minute, D'Argo," he burst out, fists balled at his sides. "This is my dream, not yours! You just keep your eyes to yourself!" He assumed a swagger as he walked toward her, ignoring the Luxan's glare.
"Hey, baby," he drawled in a low voice. "Haven't I see you in my dreams before?" He grinned at her with boyish charm..
Aeryn stared at both of them as though they had just grown three new heads, and backed away, her right hand still inching down her thigh toward the absent gun, while she cursed under her breath. She had no idea what was going on, but this was utter frelling dren!
Crichton followed her with that stupid grin on his face, and suddenly she just wanted to smack him and wipe that grin away. She wasn't even paying attention to what he was saying anymore—she just wanted him to go away! And sure enough, D'Argo was close on Crichton's heels, flowery Luxan poetry on his lips, but she wasn't listening. She'd had quite enough of this nonsense, and it was about time she put an end to it.
She gritted her teeth. "Why, unh," she jabbed, and twisted. "Won't. You. Just. Unh," she flipped and swung hard. "Leave. Me. Unh." Another jab and a head butt. "The Frell. Alone!"
She looked down at the two groaning bodies through flat eyes and felt a wave of satisfaction. She wiped her palms against the smooth fabric over her thighs, and realized she'd taken them both down while wearing that frelling sack. She began to stalk away from them, but not before she heard Crichton grumble to D'Argo:
"I guess that solves it, big guy. We're in her dream."
Shaking her head in frustration, she turned away and then started back at the sight of a shimmering figure close by as she turned.
"Peace."
They all stared at the female figure, dumbstruck. Once again, Aeryn assumed a wary pose, her right hand automatically searching for her missing weapon.
"Who are you?" D'Argo demanded from the other side of Zhaan's inert form. From the corner of her eye she noted his wide-legged stance with his arms hanging loosely at his sides. Even clad in the garments of a farmer, D'Argo cut a deadly figure.
The female glided nearer and spread her hands out at waist level, palms upward, as if to indicate a lack of intent to harm.
"My name is Paala," she said quietly.
"Well, Paala," she said, trying to seize control of the situation. "Suppose you tell us where we are and what is going on, hmmm?" She shared a quick glance with D'Argo and Crichton who both nodded in agreement.
"Are you responsible for all this Wait—are we still asleep? Did you bring us here?" Crichton added, gesturing vaguely. Aeryn frowned at him—she didn't want him to start talking and give away any advantage they might possess. Crichton talked too much.
The female paused for a few microts and then nodded her head.
"Your friend, Zhaan," she began, "is very ill—"
"Yes, we know that," Aeryn broke in impatiently. "But what does that have to do with you?"
"I can help her," Paala replied simply.
"Help her?" Crichton echoed. Aeryn turned to see him gaze at the female consideringly. "Help her how?"
They all returned their gaze to Paala.
"I possess powers that some might find…extraordinary. I have seen your friend's dreams, and I know the fears that haunt her. In fact," she said thoughtfully, almost to herself, "we may even have a common enemy." She appeared troubled, but then she refocused her attention on the three of them, jerking her eyes up from Zhaan's body. "I can help Zhaan to heal her mind." She held up a hand to halt their questions and continued, nonplussed. "I have been watching Zhaan's dreams for a few solar days. It called out to me in pain over space and time, and I have been drawn to it. She has been greatly troubled…
"She feared that the madness would overcome her once more—that she would no longer have the strength to fight it off. And indeed her own fears gave power to the madness and allowed it to grow strong. Now it is so strong that her dark impulses are unleashed and she has become a danger to you all. Worse, the madness is slowly poisoning her. Unchecked, the madness will ravage her until she is dead within as few as fifteen solar days."
Aeryn found herself staring at Paala in silence along with the others until finally Crichton spoke:
"You know all this from watching her dreams? How—I shouldn’t even bother asking this anymore but—how the hell did you do that? Some kind of telepathy?"
"Mmm, yes," she replied, watching Zhaan distractedly.
"How do we know we can trust you?" Crichton asked more soberly, echoing Aeryn thoughts.
Paala’s figure seemed to wilt for a brief instant, too quick for Aeryn to be sure because she responded so strongly.
"I am afraid there is no way for you to pre-determine my verity. You will have to judge my actions for yourselves. But know this: I have made it my life’s work to help other beings. I have done nothing to harm Zhaan, yet by my inaction she will surely die and I will have failed. Please allow me to do what I can for her—for all of you."
Her words hung in the air and Aeryn suddenly felt very cold...I have made it my life’s work to help other beings...Paala’s words struck at a darkness deep inside her that she had tried to forget. In another lifetime it had been her life’s work to be the perfect Peacekeeper—a gifted pilot—a soldier trained to obey, to do whatever was necessary to fulfill her destiny. One among many, she had told Crichton, without any concern for irrelevancies like morality or compassion. Yes, it had been her life’s work to be a Peacekeeper, and all that entailed, and as such, she knew now, she had done great harm to other beings. It had been all that she had known—all that she had permitted herself to know.
The world was a different place now. Here she was, cheek by jowl with species that she would have shunned, even executed, in that other life. And within her body swam foreign DNA that another Aeryn Sun would have considered pollution—an abomination. In this life, she had somehow developed strange, inexplicable bonds to her shipmates—bonds that she feared for their hold over her but that she found herself unable to sever.
It was with some effort that she returned her attention to Paala, who now knelt above Zhaan, her hands cupping the Delvian’s blue skull. She saw that both D’Argo and Crichton had come close to her and were studying her expectantly.
"What do you think Aeryn?" D’Argo asked, with a backward glance at the alien female.
"About what?" she asked crisply in an attempt to hide her momentary lack of focus.
"Should we go to this…Paala? See if maybe she can help Zhaan the way she says she can? Or maybe it's too risky and we should let it run its course." Crichton supplied.
She looked at both of them in turn. "Are there any other options?" A flicker of hope sprang to life as she searched their faces and then died as they both reluctantly shook their heads at her. "I have already asked Pilot for assistance, but he has no alternatives either," she said in defeat. She jerked her head in sudden anger and then met Crichton's eyes.
Frozen, Aeryn found herself staring at John helplessly, hating him, hating them all for making her feel so useless. Irrational, yes, but the ice and fury raged, unabated. She wanted to smash something. Then D'Argo spoke heavily into the silence.
"It would seem we have no choice."
Continued in Part 2: Chasing Destiny