Return to Kill Furlow Index
Damage Control
Rating: PG-13. Violence is implied, but not described.
Spoilers: Nothing specific, although knowledge of the series up to and including Fractures is assumed.
Disclaimer: Nothing about Farscape belongs to me; I'm just borrowing it for a bit of fun.
Notes: This is in answer to Aeryncrichton's "kill furlow!" challenge (I had to rise to the bait when someone wrote that I didn't have bloodthirsty impulses ;-)), and to those who wanted to see more of Jena. Thanks to AC for proposing the challenge, and giving this a read-over for me. Also thanks for letting me bend the rules... the challenge stipulated that Aeryn be involved. And she is sort of involved, since she was the one who set these events in motion. This fic makes more sense if you've read my Jenavian fic, "Disruption." For those who haven't, all you really need to know is that Jena doesn't know about the twinning, and that Aeryn dropped a hint in her ear that Furlow was the wormhole expert responsible for the destruction of the Scarran dreadnaught at DamDaBa.
*****
As boltholes went, it was pretty dire. The lights were unsteady, even at full power flickering with a high-pitched whine that had quickly gotten on my nerves. That was all right, though. Dark worked better for my purposes, and the nauseatingly grey light only served to prove what I already knew -- that this was one of the shoddiest dives I'd ever had the displeasure to occupy. And that's saying a lot.
Fortunately for me, it wasn't my bolthole. This time out, I didn’t have to pretend to be something I wasn’t. Not for me the single low pallet, welded to the floor on the chance that whoever lodged here was desperate enough to try to steal it. When this night's work was over, I would return to a rather elegant suite in an old lodging house in the Rakthen quarter. I would have the host bring up a plate of spiced Nijaric stew and a bar of thek-oil soap. I'd eaten only sparingly since arriving on this planet, and I was looking forward to the kind of meal I used as my personal ritual to mark the successful completion of an assignment. The stew would be perfect for the occasion, and there was a nice birna from this region of space that would complement it nicely. The soap... well, the soap was the best thing I'd found for removing blood stains from the skin. It even removed the smell at the first pass. I hadn't yet found a species whose blood couldn't be washed away by hot water and thek-oil soap. There was a lesson in that, somewhere, for those of a philosophical turn of mind.
Unfortunately for the person whose bolthole it was, she was making me wait in the disgusting room far longer than I had any desire to do so.
Not that I'm squeamish. I've seen and done a lot of things that would send most sentient beings searching for their own bolthole. Some of them just in the last few solar days. I can take discomfort, can handle pain. I don't particularly mind dirt, or blood, or infestations of insects or vermin. I don't, however, like smells. And this place smelled.
It reeked of engine oil and grease and some sweaty sweetish stale odor that clogged my nose and made my eyes burn. It smelled like poverty, and desperation. There were waste units down the hall, but it didn't tax my investigative skills overmuch to conclude that the single basin that passed for a cleansing unit would do double service as a toilet if lodgers didn't feel safe enough to venture out. And this place was anything but safe. I was proof enough of that.
It was far different, I knew, than the place my target would have chosen for herself. She would have splashed out on something expensive and prided herself on appreciating the finer things. Rather pathetic, really. She wouldn’t know a birna from a birk root, and all the money in the uncharted territories would never be able to buy her taste or class. She was out of options at the moment, however, and nearly out of currency. And that, more than anything, was bound to make her desperate.
I'd let it be known around the town that I was looking for her. It wasn't the kind of place that most women would feel comfortable alone; it was a refugee enclave, filled with the tag-ends of defeated mercenaries, destitute colonists, and criminals. But then, I wasn't most women, and it hadn't taken them long to figure that out. Only a few bodies necessary before they accepted the message that a Peacekeeper female, no name given, thank you very much, was looking for Furlow.
I'd done my groundwork. She would come back here, and then she would deal with me. There was no one left for her to deal with. The side of the room that wasn't taken up by the sleeping pallet had been filled with a table and chairs, obviously arranged for the meeting she’d planned for the morning. That she'd hold the auction here, a place that so obviously advertised her poverty and desperation, spoke to either her stupidity or her need. I'd cleared away all the chairs but two -- she wouldn't need them -- and sat with my back to the wall, facing the door, waiting.
The door creaked open, revealing the garish yellow light from the hallway. Finally.
I leaned back in the shadows, my pulse pistol ready, level. She was checking behind her in the hallway, not thinking to check the room itself before entering. She trusted the frankly amateurish safety devices she'd put in place to alert her of any intruder. It had been a first-year trainee's task to spot them and reset them after I'd entered.
She closed the door behind her, leaned on it with a sigh of relief.
I let her take that first breath, relax. All the more of a shock when I spoke.
"It's about time. I was getting tired of waiting."
She jolted upright, grabbing around herself for her gun. She was too slow, though. I keyed the light above her head, the one I'd carefully chosen. She was illuminated, I was still in darkness.
"I would advise you not to reach for your weapon," I said. "I'm here to talk."
She peered into the darkness for a long moment, trying to make me out -- a futile attempt. Then she simply nodded, hooked her thumbs into the front of her belt. The body language was clear enough. Non-threatening, yet defiant. She wasn't going to cause trouble, but she didn't want me to think that she couldn't, if she wanted to.
I leaned forward and pressed the lighting control; her eyes narrowed as she finally was able to examine me. Her head tilted, and I saw the expression on her face. Gone in an instant, but clear enough while it lasted. Relief. "Well, you're not who I was expecting, but you'll do."
"You were expecting someone else?"
She slouched a little more, becoming more comfortable. I let her. "You're the Peacekeeper who was lookin' for me?"
"That's right. My name is Jenavian."
"Nice name." She sniffed disdainfully. "Nice and delicate. Suits you."
I holstered my pulse pistol, gave her a smile. "You can call me Jena, seeing as we'll be getting to know each other."
"Will we?" She shuffled forward, lowered herself into the seat opposite me. Back to the door. Stupid woman.
"I hear you have some information you're selling."
"Well," she said, leaning back in her chair. "Hate to tell you, girly, but you're early. Sale doesn't start until tomorrow. So, much as I would love to share your charming company, you're gonna have to leave."
"I don't think so."
She blinked, and her jaw set. I suppose she thought she looked intimidating. "I said—"
"And I said, I don't think so. There will be no sale tomorrow."
"If you're not gonna meet my price, you can't stop me from finding another buyer who will."
She was far too confident. This was going to be fun. "Perhaps not. But I can stop buyers from finding you."
She laughed. "I've been threatened by Peacekeeper grunts before, blondie. You don't scare me. The others will be here in the morning, and I'll sell the technology to who I please."
"Actually, the Nebari won't be joining us. They've been... unfortunately detained. The Charrids... well, their ground transport met with a rather unpleasant accident. And as for the Scarrans," I kept my voice cool, casual. "I'm afraid they're not going to be anywhere except at the bottom of the refuse dump for a long time to come."
"I don't believe you." She regarded me contemptuously through yellow eyes. "You want me to believe that a slip of a girl like you took down a Scarran?"
"Two Scarrans. The third was blind and missing half of his entrails when he managed to crawl away. I'd add him to my tally, but it might be premature, and it would be *so* embarrassing if it turned out I'd exaggerated."
"Makin' a lie bigger don't make it more believable, Jena."
I simply looked at her for a moment, then reached into my belt pouch and tossed a cloth-wrapped package onto the table between us.
"What's that? A snack? 'Cause it ain't big enough to be holdin' the kind of currency I'm lookin' for."
"Open it."
She didn't like this. She was uncertain and off balance and I wasn't who she'd expected and she didn't know what I was. But she reached forward for the bundle anyway, drawing it to her and pulling back the folds with an attempt at unconcern.
When she saw what was inside, she froze, and swallowed. Then swallowed again. I was afraid, for a moment, that she was going to vomit. Just what the room's aroma needed. But she pulled herself together and looked up at me.
For the first time, she looked scared. Very scared. "So... you're not a standard issue Peacekeeper, are you?"
It was my turn to laugh. "My dear Furlow, I never said I was. And while I came here to get information, I did *not* come here to pay you for it." I regarded her coolly. "I'll give you one chance to tell me your story before things start getting... stressful. Shall we begin?"
****
She finished, finally. I'd remained motionless, silent, watching her intently as she spoke. Although she did her best to hide it, I could read her nervousness in the small sideways glances, measuring the distance from her chair to the door, estimating the possibility of being able to reach it and lock it behind her before I reached her. The probability was nonexistent, and she knew it.
"Ah." I broke the silence. "So, based on the story you told me, I’m to think that the person you were expecting was Aeryn Sun." I smiled. "You must be *so* relieved."
I let the irony soak through my tone. Revenge... she could wish for simple revenge, hot and fast and brutal. But unfortunately for her, I didn't hate her. I just wanted information. I needed to know if she had the information she claimed, and if she'd sold it elsewhere. I needed to know how far it went. I needed a story that made sense, and fit with the facts that I already knew. And I would take my time, and I would get what I wanted. There was nothing hot about me at the moment. It was all cool distance, the necessary deliberation that I needed when I did things like this. I made a point of doing these things slowly, taking my time and making sure I did the job right.
No excuse for doing a job badly.
She swallowed. "We can make a deal, Jena."
I tilted my head, inclined my chin slightly. Just enough to be looking down at her. "Not unless you start telling me the truth."
"What?" She looked shocked. "I did tell you the truth—"
"You told me one lie after another. I saw John Crichton three weekens ago. He's alive and well and on his Leviathan. Where he has been for the past three cycles."
"Well, then, maybe he escaped..." I made no effort to hide my disbelief, and she shifted uncomfortably. "He *was* on Dam-Da-Ba. He was the one who built the wormhole, who destroyed the Scarran dreadnaught..."
"Crichton was too busy getting drunk in a pleasure hall on LoMo to have anything to do with the Scarrans. Would you like to see the video record? It’s quite entertaining."
"But I was there—"
"Perhaps. But Crichton wasn't. Do you think that Peacekeeper High Command hasn't kept a very close watch over Moya's movements? I know where that ship has been for the past cycle. And it has not been anywhere near Dam-Da-Ba."
"But—"
"So if I were you, I would consider your next words very carefully indeed." I reached into my belt, drew my knife. "The subject is wormhole technology."
She was flustered, near panic. "Look, Jena..."
"Things aren't so friendly anymore, Furlow. Call me Jenavian."
"Jenavian." She was frightened now. She held the cloth bundle clutched in her hand, although she hadn't looked at it again.
"Crichton isn't dead. Why did you want me to think he was?"
"I—"
"I'll tell you, shall I? With Crichton dead, you'd be more valuable. Information isn't worth as much if you’re not the exclusive source. As it is, John Crichton is still top of our list. As far as sources of information go, I'll take the honorable idealist over the greedy mercenary any day. I'm sure you'll agree that Crichton is much more reliable. You're just... well, I don't know what you are." I tested the edge of the blade against my thumb. "But I'll find out."
"I told you—"
"Your story doesn’t make sense, Furlow. But the odd thing is, your lies don’t, either. You want me to think that Crichton is dead, and that you’re the source of wormhole data. But then you want me to believe that he’s the one who created the wormhole weapon. So... what’s the truth? Can you build a wormhole weapon, or not? And if you can’t why do you want me to think you can? And if you can, why do you want me to think you can’t? And why are you so convinced of my stupidity that you’d try to get me to believe both at once?"
She chuckled, a last desperate attempt at nonchalance. "A lot of questions. But the bottom line is, you need me. You came here to get the wormhole data."
"That's where you're wrong." I paused, watching her reaction carefully. "My mission isn't to get wormhole technology. It's to make sure that the Scarrans *don't* get it."
Her eyes widened as the meaning of my words sank in. It didn’t really matter to me whether or not Furlow really knew anything. I just needed to make sure that if she did know something, she wasn’t in a position to share it. And if there were others I needed to track down after I was done here.
She swallowed with difficulty before speaking. "I don't suppose you ever... well, change your mission?"
I smiled, collecting myself for what was to come. "Shall we examine your story again, in detail?"
*****
I slipped out the back, avoiding the main thoroughfare. Not that anyone would bother me in my current state. But I'd raise a few eyebrows, and I was tired. I wondered, idly, how long it would be before she was discovered. Probably a few solar days, at least; I'd covered the room bill until the next weeken. No longer than that, which was a good thing. The reek of the place had been bad enough when I'd arrived; the events of the last few arns hadn't added much to its charm. Any longer than a few days, and the place would be unusable.
She hadn't died easily, or gracefully. She'd begged, at the end. Still offering money, still hoping to buy me.
She hadn't understood that this wasn't about money, that it never had been. It was about survival, about my race, about my job. She disgusted me. Not only without loyalties, but using the loyalties of others as leverage to line her own pockets. If she hadn't tried to buy me at the end, I might have allowed her to live. As it was... even if her knowledge could have been an asset to us, it was next to useless. If money was all she cared for, there would never be anything more to her than that. And no matter what we paid her, there would always be someone who could pay her more.
I'd been wrong. She hadn’t been stupid -- not exactly. She was just smart enough that she didn't imagine that others might just be smarter. Which was just as bad as being stupid. In her cynicism, she'd become convinced that, at the base of them, everyone operated according to her rules. She'd thought she could set herself up between opposing groups struggling for survival and somehow make it all be about money. She thought she could stay in control, use the desire for wormhole knowledge to control us all.
She should have taken a lesson from Crichton, who understood the price and penalties better than she could ever hope to, and run, as far and as fast as she could.
Her one chance to live had been to discover that fear — fear of me — and the desire for survival was more powerful than greed. Perhaps she did know it, at the end. But she still thought that she could use money to make the fear go away.
Money can't buy off fear, or joy, or grief. No matter how much money you have, those things still touch you. I know, because I've made a career out of touching those who thought themselves insulated from such things.
But now I was tired. Sleepy. In the end, she'd told so many stories, tried so many different angles, all impossible to reconcile. But it wasn't my job to figure out wormhole tech. I'd done my job -- if she had known anything substantial about wormholes, now she'd never share it with the Scarrans. I could already taste the Nijaric stew. I looked down at my hands. But first, a hot bath with thek-oil soap.
