Return to Ficlet Index
Disclaimer: Of course, I don’t own any of the Farscape characters or worlds. I borrow them for fun, not for profit, and hope for the indulgence of Henson, et al.
Time frame: see who’s in the story, and pick one that suits your fancy. Call it AU.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Bronze: An alloy of copper, known from antiquity. It is harder than the pure metal and more suitable for use in tools and weapons.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
John Crichton sat in the darkened lecture hall, staring at the historical timeline, which spanned the wall above the blackboard. In this room, he had listened to Prof. Joshua Carlisle expound upon the history of civilization.
Carlisle’s specialty, and his passion, was the Bronze Age. Indeed, to him, bronze was a metaphor for the march of human civilization. “Civilization owes its very existence to the Power of Impurity,” he had said. “Pure Idealism is a prescription for failure, unless it is accompanied by a measure of pragmatism. And, even as the strength and sharpness of bronze arose from its impurity, so the great men of history have always drawn their power and tenacity from that inner darkness which, left unchecked, breeds monsters.”
Monsters… John knew about monsters. Sometimes they were obvious. At other times they seemed benign, until they bit you… like the ones who currently held Aeryn and Jool hostage, demanding a ransom that could not be paid. But some monsters had their uses…
“Harvey, front!” he called.
“I’m rather busy, right now,” came the reply. “Perhaps later.”
“NOW!!” John’s voice thundered in the darkness; Harvey suddenly appeared, looking stunned.
Shaking his head, Harvey collected himself and gazed at the human. “I’m impressed, John,” he said. “You haven’t exercised such control over me for quite some time. Now that I’m here, what do you want?”
“I’m sick and tired of you lurking around in my head and popping up whenever it suits you,” said John. “It’s time to change that.”
“But John,” replied Harvey, “haven’t I proven my worth to you? Tell me, how many times have you benefited from my advice? Face it, John. Without me, you’d have been dead long ago.
“Besides,” Harvey continued, “I’m not that easy to get rid of. Your twin was only able to destroy mine with the help of the Ancient, Jack. And Jack is dead.”
“They’re BOTH dead,” said John, grimly, “Jack and the other me. My twin got rid of you… and what happened? He got suckered by Furlow, and died. I can’t let that happen to me! You’re a poisonous, cold-hearted bastard, Harvey, and a master of intimidation and self-preservation. I hate to say it, but right now I need those qualities.”
“Ah, yes,” said Harvey. “You hope to rescue your shipmates and you need my advice. You excel at self-sacrifice, John, but you cannot save them that way. Their captors are clever, cruel, and ruthless. To prevail you must beat them at their own game. Frankly, you are too soft hearted to do what is required. Unless…” a look of suppressed excitement appeared on Harvey’s face. “Are you proposing that I take a more ACTIVE role in this affair?”
“Not exactly,” said John, eyes gleaming. “You see: I find that, by long association, I have absorbed some of your personality. But, to accomplish what I must, and to survive, I need more. In fact, I need it all.”
Harvey began backing away. John moved towards him, growing larger with each step.
“My twin tried to push you out,” said John. “I’m not going to repeat that mistake, Harvey. I’m going to embrace you, assimilate you, and add your strengths to my own.”
“You, you can’t, you aren’t strong enough,” stammered Harvey. His eyes darted about, seeking an escape route. Finding none, he bared his teeth; an animal noise rose in this throat.
“You’re wrong,” John said, softly. “Oh, I couldn’t do it with Scorpius, in the flesh. But you’re only an echo of his personality: his unwitting gift to me. You’re already part of me: a part that thinks it’s someone else.”
“No!” snarled Harvey, lunging towards John, grabbing his throat in a strangler’s grip.
John brushed the hands aside and grasped Harvey by the head. “You can’t hurt me,” said John, “and you can’t stop me. It’s only when I push you away that you’re strong.” John’s mouth formed an ironic smile as he said, “resistance is futile.”
Harvey’s legs buckled and he fell to his knees. “Please,” he whimpered, incapable of resisting further.
“It’s time,” said John, as he knelt in front of the now-pathetic figure in black. He kissed its forehead and enfolded it in his arms. “Don’t be afraid,” he whispered, “I won’t hurt you… It’ll be all right.”
With these words, the figure seemed to shrivel. As he continued to caress and comfort it, the whimpering grew weaker. The thing faded until it became an insubstantial wraith… and then it was gone.
John opened his eyes. “When will they be here, D’Argo?” he asked.
“They’re here now,” replied the Luxan.
“Well,” said John, “let’s receive them properly.”
Three men entered the transport pod. The first two were clearly bodyguards; the third, older, but also well armed, bore himself like one accustomed to respect and obedience.
“I am Nyal-Tak,” he said. “Are you prepared to meet my demands?”
“Why have you done this?” asked Crichton. “We answered your distress call and offered assistance. And in return you kidnap our people… Why?”
“Because I can,” replied Nyal-Tak, “because I want your ship. Oh, the distress call was genuine, but you were far too trusting. You took no precautions, and why should I settle for rescue, when I can have so much more?”
“How do I know they’re even alive?” asked John. “We’ve heard nothing from them since they landed.”
“You don’t,” sneered Nyal-Tak. He tossed John two locks of hair, one dark and one copper. “If you insist, I’d be happy to send warm body parts, one from each, every arn, until you agree to hand over the ship. Or you can agree now, and I’ll transport you all to the nearest commerce planet.”
John looked at the two locks of hair in his left hand, and sighed. “It seems we’ve no choice, D’Argo,” he said, and flung the locks straight in Nyal-Tak’s face.
As Nyal-Tak’s hands rose in a protective reflex, John drew Winona and sent two shots into the unprotected abdomen. Simultaneously, D’Argo exploded into action cleaving one guard nearly in two with a single blow of his Qualta blade. The second guard, frozen momentarily by the suddenness and ferocity of the attack, fell to John’s pulse pistol before the Luxan could reach him.
John turned his attention back to the leader, who was fumbling with his weapon. John kicked it away and holstered Winona. Then he turned to D’Argo and held out his hand. The Luxan looked strangely at him, then slowly handed over his Qualta blade.
Gazing down at his mortally wounded adversary, John shook his head. “You simple fool!” he said. “All you had to do was let us help you. We wanted to help you!”
Nyal-Tak struggled to his knees, his contorted face ashen. His mouth worked, but no sound came forth. A stroke from the Qualta blade ended the agony, and his head rolled upon the deck plates.
John sent the severed head, along with those of the two guards, back to their people demanding that they release the hostages, unharmed. He placed the blame solely on Nyal-Tak, and renewed the offer of assistance to the survivors.
It turned out that Nyal-Tak had gambled, hoping to score big. There had been only nine survivors of the shipwreck: Nyal-Tak and his two sons, now dead, their wives, and three small grandchildren. Nyal-Tak’s widow, Min-Tak-a, delivered the prisoners herself. Then she prostrated herself before John, to beg for the lives of her remaining family.
“I don’t blame you for your husband’s actions,” said John, helping her to her feet. “I am not your enemy, nor am I a monster, who would take revenge upon children. I did only what was forced upon me. Now, let’s see if we can repair your ship.”
The repairs went well. Min-Tak-a and her kinswomen proved to be talented engineers and able ship handlers. Salvaged components from a derelict freighter got the wrecked ship up and running, and a navigational update put them on course for home.
That evening, as the crew met for dinner, the mood was mixed. All were relieved that Jool and Aeryn were safely back aboard, but the others seemed unsure of how to act towards Crichton. He seemed somehow changed, almost a stranger. John, himself, was quiet-- preoccupied with the day’s events. After a short time, he excused himself, pleading fatigue, and went to his quarters.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
John Crichton lay in his darkened quarters, thinking about bronze. In it’s most common form, it is about 90% copper and 10% tin. But the earliest bronze was copper and arsenic, and the ancient smiths who worked it were eventually crippled by the cumulative effect of that poison.
He had taken Harvey into himself and become something like bronze. He knew he had done the right thing, this time. But what would become of his conscience… his soul? Would it remain intact, or would it eventually become crippled, twisting him into… what? The question echoed in his mind: Was Harvey tin, or was he arsenic?
The question hung, unanswered. But, in the darkness, a faint, familiar voice seemed to whisper, “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
