Echoes

By A. Hutchinson
e-mail: ahutch@bignet.net

Archiving: Please contact me first- I'll probably say yes, but I like to
know where it's going.

Rating: PG

Summary: Post DMD, John Crichton tries to put the pieces of his life
together again.

Spoilers: DMD and small references to a number of other episodes,
especially The Locket and the Princess Trilogy.

Author's notes: Thank you Sarah for both inspiration and serious beta
reading help. Anybody who knows me well knows that I couldn't resist this
fic opportunity-- John Crichton with aphasia and memory deficits! My
favorite fictional astronaut and neuropsychology! Woo hoo! Yes, I'm a
sick, sick woman. Anyway, this is my take on one way the events of DMD
could affect John Crichton.

Disclaimer: Farscape belongs to Jim Henson Co., Number Nine Australia and
Sci-Fi Channel. No copyright infringement is intended.

---

Echoes
By A. Hutchinson

He had fled.

The others were probably concerned by his abrupt departure, but Crichton
didn't care. He couldn't take the frustration of trying to communicate
with them, trying to make them comprehend the questions he so desperately
needed answered.

They just didn't understand. His inability to speak his thoughts was
obvious, but he couldn't tell them about his broken memories. Random
pieces of his mind, lost. He usually didn't know what was missing, but he
could feel startling gaps when he looked at his friends or tried to follow
their conversations. Sometimes he detected the tell-tale echo of a thought
that had once been fully-formed, now ethereal and otherworldly like a ghost
haunting his mind, preventing him from grasping even a shard of its content.

At least Moya was still familiar to him. Whatever that cadaverous
bastard's chip had done to him, it hadn't robbed him of the comfort he felt
when he was aboard the leviathan. Even as he sprinted away from his
friends' concerned looks, the constant thrumming of the great beast and her
warm tan-gold mottled walls soothed him, made him feel safe and at home.

Yet as he ran, he couldn't shake the feeling of grief that permeated every
inch of the leviathan. Grief over Moya's burnt tiers, grief over his lost
speech, and grief over some loss he could neither recall nor ask about. A
loss so great that even Rygel was subdued. It marked each crewmember like
an indelible stain. Chiana, D'Argo and Zhaan wore matching hollow
expressions, going through their daily routines only out of obligation to
Moya's upkeep. Aeryn had kept to herself since his return, probably
working through her emotional distress by beating on the attack dummy in
her training room or tinkering with her Prowler. Even the newcomers, Stark
and Jothee, appeared unusually somber. The Center Chamber had stunk of
their collective grief - and his own - when he had appeared for the mid-day
meal, and he had found himself on his feet sprinting away before his
distress could fully form.

He had hoped that the mindless exertion would chase the ghosts and grief
away, but they stayed with him stride for stride, even as he struggled to
catch his breath. He slowed as he neared his quarters, deciding to seek
sanctuary there. After spending his first night back in Zhaan's apothecary
getting the once-over from the Delvian, he had avoided visiting his own
quarters, afraid to face reminders of a life he could barely recall. But
he could not stay away forever, he realized. Taking a deep breath to calm
his trepidation, he entered the converted cell that served as his home and
then swiped the controls to close himself inside. He slumped against the
door and squeezed his eyes shut.

God, his head hurt. Logically, he knew it was not a direct consequence of
the surgery: the human brain did not have pain receptors, and the late
surgeon had insisted that the chip removal had not required more than a
microscopic incision. Rather, the pain seemed to stem from his attempts to
control the roiling confusion in his mind. But he persisted; he couldn't
live as the incomplete being he was now. If he couldn't ask for the
others' help, he would have to help himself fill in the blanks. It was all
he could do until he made them understand, he realized bleakly.

Sighing, he pushed himself from the door frame and scanned the room. His
orange flight suit, one of his few remaining possessions from Earth, caught
his eye immediately. He crossed the room and plucked it from its place on
the coat rack he had fashioned not long after his arrival in this demented
side of the universe. Running his finger absently over the stiff material,
he let his mind wander where it would. Snatches of memory surfaced:
clutching the flight suit following his primitive-self's sacrifice,
strolling through an alien marketplace, climbing the steps of the launch
pad at Canaveral with his father, flopping to the sandy ground believing
himself to be home, encountering D'Argo and Zhaan for the first time
following his capture by the DRDs.

Closing his eyes, he tried to reassemble the memories in chronological
order, starting with the launch from Earth. Those memories, at least,
seemed intact. But when he tried to recall how he had found himself aboard
Moya, he drew a blank. A vague recollection of launching from the Collary
and a vivid pang of fear and awe as he first caught sight of Moya were all
he could recall, yet he was certain that he had once known the full story
of his arrival.

Shaking his head, he replaced the suit on its hook and shifted his
attention to the shelves that lined the back of his room. Looking at his
sparse belongings, he was reminded of a conversation about material goods
that he had once had with that strange green alien - what was her name?
Ro'Na? That had been shortly before she double-crossed him and surrendered
him to Scorpius. Crichton shuddered. Of all things he didn't care to
remember, the half-Scarran freak topped the list, yet so many of his
remaining recent memories led back to that ruthless SOB. Of course, that
was what Scorpius had wanted - a parting gift for the human who had caused
him so much trouble.

Swallowing forcibly, Crichton put thoughts of Scorpius aside and examined
the clothes on the first shelf, a neat pile of t-shirts and replicas of the
boxer shorts he had worn under his flight suit. He idly wondered what had
happened to the original pair, but that was yet another memory beyond his
reach. The shelf below contained his stash of old clothes, from the
remains of his IASA khakis to the cargo-style pants that replaced them
after he had trashed the khakis during his quarter-cycle stay on
Acquara. He looked at his current outfit - leather pants, black tee shirt,
maroon leather vest, utility belt, and empty holster (Winona had been
confiscated for his own safety) - and wondered what had prompted his recent
fashion makeover. Perhaps he had wanted to appear more like a
Peacekeeper? Maybe, but he couldn't shake the feeling that there was more
to it than that. He fingered the IASA patch on his khaki jacket as he
worked at retrieving the thought, but he was distracted when he spotted
something tucked behind the stack of clothes. Tossing the jacket aside, he
pushed the folded clothes forward and plucked the object - a small
container about the size of his kid sister's first jewelry box - from its
hiding place. Nothing about it stood out as remarkable other than the fact
that he had no recollection of this particular item, yet he must have been
the one who had hidden it away so carefully.

Crichton found the latch and eased the lid open, feeling as though he were
invading somebody else's private property despite the fact that the box was
clearly his own. Inside were pieces of a life he didn't recognize - a
flask of oil from Zhaan's apothecary, an antique locket, a lock of long,
dark hair, and a small vial of compatibility serum from the Royal
Planet. These were keepsakes of something - or somebody - but who and
what? He had never been one to collect souvenirs, although the care he had
taken in hiding them away suggested that these mementos had significant
personal meaning. And now they meant nothing to him - just a reminder of
what had been taken from him.

A wave of frustration overcame him, and he only managed to restrain himself
long enough to place the box safely on the top shelf before releasing an
inarticulate yell and pounding the wall with his open hand until it felt
numb. The not-so-stealthy DRD who had been assigned to keep an eye on him
beeped in surprise, and he flashed it a quick smile to let it and Pilot
know that the Human wasn't actually cracking up - not yet, anyway. After a
long sigh and several ragged breaths, he managed to reign in his anger and
self-pity, allowing him to focus on the task at hand. He needed answers
more than he needed to dwell in the despair that haunted him.

Turning his attention back to the box of mementos, he picked up the small,
clear vial, which still contained a small amount of the amber compatibility
serum. It was the only one of the keepsakes that he recalled clearly, yet
its presence there mystified him. Certainly he had no reason to
memorialize his "marriage" to Princess Katralla. His stay on the Royal
Planet had brought him nothing but grief and more than one near-death
experience, not to mention a daughter he had no chance of ever meeting. He
wondered briefly if the vial was meant to remind him of the Peacekeeper
Jenavia Chatto, but he dismissed the idea, remembering that he had rejected
her invitation of a kiss. In any case, the lock of hair in the box was of
a much darker color than either Jena or Katralla's. He rotated the small
vial between his fingers, searching his memory for something
more. Although his recollection of the Royal Planet seemed to contain few
of the gaps that peppered many of his other thoughts, he still did not
understand the vial's personal significance to him.

He shifted his focus to the lock of dark hair, twining the silky strands
around his index finger. Definitely not Jena or Katralla, and not Gilina,
either. Gilina. He hadn't loved her like she had loved him, and he still
felt guilty about that. "Do you think that if things had been different
that you could have loved me?" she had asked as she lay dying, and he had
agreed. What things? Different how? Why hadn't he loved her? Had he
loved this other dark-haired woman instead? Why didn't he remember? He
rubbed the hair against his cheek, sending shivers of pleasure down his
spine. Her hair had been one of her best features, he realized
suddenly. Had been? He tried to focus on the echo of the memory but the
more he concentrated on it, the more remote the feeling became. Sighing,
he tucked the small lock into his vest pocket with hopes of asking D'Argo
about it later and moved on to the remaining two items in the box.

The large locket was an antique, and it did not budge when he tried to pry
it open. Its outside lent few clues to the identity of its owner or its
sentimental value. He had an aching desire to peek at any picture it might
contain, but its clasp stubbornly held fast no matter how much elbow grease
he applied to opening it. Defeated, he snatched the final item in the case
and examined it. The oil was one of Zhaan's potions, its elegant blue
flask similar to others he had obtained from her in the past. Crichton
removed the stopper, sniffing experimentally, and was immediately overcome
by warm arousal and the memory of soft lips against his own. He grunted in
surprise and inhaled its scent more deeply, but he was unable to call up
any other, more substantial fragments of memory beyond what he already knew
of the mystery woman - she had raven-colored hair and was an incredible
kisser. He took one final sniff of the sweet oil and replaced the stopper,
setting the flask back among the rest of the mementos of a woman who must
have meant something to him. But what? More than a friend, obviously. A
lover? He smirked at the term... it seemed inappropriate somehow. What,
then? His love? What had compelled him to tuck these four items away with
such care?

Closing the box's lid, he ran his fingers over each surface, hoping to find
some clue - any clue - about its origins and the meaning of its
contents. Just as he was about to return it to its hiding place, he felt a
rough carving on the bottom. Turning the case over carefully so as not to
disturb its contents, he located hastily inscribed English letters,
removing any doubt that the box belonged to anybody else. They were barely
legible, apparently carved with a relatively blunt instrument into the soft
balsa-like wood: "RIP". He stared numbly at the letters, running his
fingers over each one. 'Rest in peace.' The grief he felt earlier
returned, clawing at him from the inside out, making it difficult to
breathe. He staggered towards his door, leaving the box of keepsakes on
top of his shelves, and headed towards the Center Chamber. He needed
answers, and he was going to find a way to convince the others to tell him
those answers, damaged speech centers be damned.

***

No one was in the Center Chamber, and the Maintenance Bay was a bust as
well, but Crichton struck pay dirt in the Command. D'Argo was manning the
main control panel, arguing with Rygel over their remaining stolen funds
while Chiana conversed with Zhaan and Pilot over the clamshell. Neither
Stark nor Jothee were visible, but he hadn't expected or needed to find
them. He had expected to find Aeryn there supervising Rygel as he made
plans for their currency. Crichton's memory of the ex-Peacekeeper was
somewhat sketchy, but he recalled that she preferred to keep a close eye on
Napoleon's scheming. He shrugged, reminding himself to stay focused on the
task at hand: finding a way to ask the others about this mystery woman.

He watched his friends as they worked, hoping that the familiar scene would
trigger some of his lost memories. After a few minutes of observation, he
stepped out of the massive door's shadow, still unsure of how to approach
his friends. Normally, he'd call out a greeting, but he was afraid of what
his frelled brain would come up with when he tried to put his thoughts into
words. Instead, he cleared his throat. D'Argo turned around, then Chiana
and Rygel.

"John, how are you feeling?" asked Zhaan from the clamshell.

Crichton replied with a non-committal "Mmm." He had found that although
his words always came out garbled, if at all, he could use intonation to
communicate simple messages.

He turned his attention to D'Argo and removed the dark lock of hair from
his pocket, extending his hand for his friend to see. The Luxan's sharp
intake of air confirmed his suspicion that the lock's owner was
dead. Still holding the small bundle of hair in his outstretched hand, he
pointed at it and then arranged his face in what he hoped would be
perceived as a questioning gaze.

"I’m sorry, John," D'Argo replied, his voice thick with grief. "I know you
two were... close." The last word prompted another echo of emotion, strong
enough to make him shudder. A large hand clasped over his shoulder. "It
wasn't your fault," he added.

Crichton looked up sharply at the Luxan, wondering what he meant but unable
to voice the question.

"It wasn't you, John. She knew it wasn't you," Chiana emphasized, glancing
up sideways in a way that was uniquely Chiana. "She loved you," she
continued somberly. "Even at the end."

Crichton looked at the young grey-skinned Nebari, his eyes filling with
tears at her words. Chiana swiveled her head again, her eyes never leaving
his in a gesture that he realized reflected her sadness. How could he so
easily read this alien's body language, but not even recall the face of
this woman who had loved him? He wondered again how he had felt about
her. Had he loved her, too?

"She was just so scared, y'know," Chiana confided with a rueful
chuckle. "Big bad Peacekeeper, scared of the way she felt about a
primitive human."

For some reason, that brought a small smile to his lips, even as he felt
tears spill down his face. He wanted to know more about her, but he
couldn't figure out how to convey his questions. What other Peacekeepers
had they run into? Besides Aeryn...

Aeryn. He hadn't seen her since his return, and she had dark
hair. Suddenly he felt a heavy coldness grip his gut, and he tasted bile
in the back of his throat. Oh, God. Aeryn. He looked from Chiana to
D'Argo, trying to confirm what he couldn't voice even if his brain would
allow him to speak, but all he could see was sadness.

He didn't remember turning or running away but found himself sprinting down
the corridor again as fast as his legs could carry him. Instead of the
comfort that the familiar hallways had previously lent, he felt as if the
arching walls were closing in around him. He continued, desperate to keep
the demons that haunted him at bay, until finally his legs gave out beneath
him and he sprawled out across the warm deck. It didn't matter. He
couldn't outrun them, couldn't even put a name or face to them. Grief
seized him, closing his throat as he tried to breathe, curling him into a
painful, sobbing ball.

He didn't know how long he lay there, overcome with emotions that belonged
to memories that were no longer his. The pain seemed to emanate from
nowhere and everywhere all at once, and he was defenseless against it. As
far as he could recall, Aeryn Sun had been a friend, a shipmate. She had
taught him hand-to-hand combat skills, and he had taught her how to curse
in English. Friends. Shipmates. Yet, judging from his reaction, she had
meant something to him, something more than just a shipmate, or even a
friend. Chiana said that Aeryn had loved him, and the box he found
suggested that he had loved her. And he had killed her - or, more likely,
the chip in his head had killed her - but it was all the same. She was
dead. And he didn't even have an adequate memory of her. He had nothing
but the reminders in a keepsake box that did little to help him remember
her. A box of lost memories and a mind devoid of everything but her echo.

Swallowing past the lump that had formed in his throat when he had realized
the truth about Aeryn, he pulled himself into a sitting position and leaned
against the bulkhead, trying to retrieve his bearings. He didn't
immediately recognize the hallway, but he hadn't run far enough to be
completely lost. He took a deep, shuddering breath, wincing at the
pounding headache left in the wake of his emotional outburst.

Now what, he wondered. What was left for
him? Anger? Grief? Self-pity? None of those choices were appealing to
him. But without his memories, his past was a fragmented mess, and without
speech, he had no way to put it back together. 'Replace you normal,' the
surgeon had promised shortly before Scorpius murdered him. Well, who
wanted to be normal anyway?

A squawk at the end of the hall alerted him that his trusty DRD shadow had
found him again. Its presence somehow comforted him, and he held out his
hand to it as it approached.

"...'lo," he managed, his voice rusty after a day of disuse. The syllable
was inexact and sounded slightly slurred, but it was a start. He tried
again. "La...Ha... hehl... hel...lo. Hel-lo."

The DRD's antennae twitched as if it were pleased. Crichton certainly
was. It hadn't been much, but it was better than the slurred gibberish he
had been producing before. Maybe there was a chance he could make them
understand, that he could recover some of what he had lost. It wasn't much
to go on, but it was more than he had before. It was hope.

With a glance at the DRD, he rose to his feet and stretched his stiff
muscles. "Ca... co... come…me," he ordered, beckoning with his hand to
emphasize his meaning. The DRD whirred to life, taking the lead down one of
the corridors. John Crichton, IASA astronaut and the lone Human in the
Uncharted Territories, did not go down without a fight, and it was high
time he started swinging again. Otherwise, Scorpius would win, and he
refused to let that Scarran abomination take anything else from
him. Besides, he owed it to himself, and to Aeryn, to take back as much of
his stolen memory as possible, no matter how much it hurt. It was all he
had left.

fin