snippets in space
Highlander AU/Andromeda--Richie and Amanda
*
So.
Richie looked over his schedule. One package from Depot to Howron, two packages from Howron to Day's World--wouldn't even need the slipstream for that one--then over to the new Plager settlement on Supra Nine to take a certified letter back to Depot. Piece of cake. And he really wanted to see the Plager settlement; the first stages of terraforming were supposed to be really neat.
Somewhere, in the past whatever centuries, he'd become a science geek. Mac would be so proud.
And on top of that, he still had two hours to kill before he had to get going. Sweet.
He strolled over to the flyer bar near the hangar, one where most of the clientele was Human. There was a Nightsider bar as well: ecch. Maybe it was racist or something, but six-foot rats gave him the creeps, even if they did wear lacy dresses and big feathery hats.
Neon letters. Home away from home. "Marta's Bar," glowing in Common and etched underneath in English. English: a dead language mostly used by Humans who'd been born on Earth. He'd never thought he'd see the day. That is--he thought he'd see the day where Humans left Earth and spread out across the galaxies, but he hadn't considered that he might not know the language. Or that someone would be there first. Or that Humans might not be in charge.
He blamed it on Star Trek. Science fiction left him unprepared for the real world and it was all Roddenberry's fault.
"Beer," he told the bartender.
"You're still not funny, Richards."
"No, but I'm adorable." He gave her his biggest smile.
She rolled her eyes. "What kind of beer, Bunny Foo-Foo?"
"Anything Martian." Low gravity made the beer all funny. He'd wavered for about fifty years before deciding funny = good.
"You get Guinness."
"Okay." He grinned again. He didn't stand a chance, but, you know. You had to stay in practice.
He took his beer back to a corner table by a window overlooking the Chasm. He never got tired of it: the cold, dusty air crawling across the flat plains, then dropping down into the Chasm, touching the hot core and shooting back up in a miles-high thermal plume. The Chasm meant that Depot-based cargo ships didn't have to waste a lot of engine power on the initial gravity break; they just had to trundle out onto the bouyant winds and glide their way out of orbit.
Once you got off-Earth? Physics was *cool*.
Maybe he should go to school. There wasn't really anything he didn't know about slipstream mechanics, but it would be nice to have a degree to wrap it all up. *Dr.* Richie--oh wait, the Vedran title was "Sankarit." Sankarit Richie.
Nah.
Or he could go the other way, join the High Guard...
Richie laughed into his beer. There were a couple of High Guard spacers over near the door, loopy Perseids with their noses in a scanner and their khroi going cold. Yeah, he'd last a whole twenty *minutes* in a High Guard unit, sure, up until someone asked why an alien would be born on Earth. Even *Humans* had to explain actually coming from Earth. Earth was unfashionable--but it was *home,* and he *liked* it, and he'd gotten into more than a few fistfights over it in the past who-knows-how-long.
And--aw, crap. Presence.
This was not a planet for a fight. Outside you had the nice violent one hundred degrees above *absolute* zero carbon dioxide winds, and inside Depot Management had the whole place bugged, because *they* didn't trust couriers that much either. Now, most Immortals could be counted on to keep a level head and make a freaking appointment, but every so often some punk-ass new kid with brains made of chocolate pudding tried to make a point of things.
A "point" of things. Heh.
At least he had his sword. He didn't carry it on jobs, where security scans were frequently an issue and he ran into other Immortals so infrequently that it didn't really matter. He hadn't been in a fight in twenty years. Hard to remember those first few years when he got into a fight every couple of *months.*
Richie watched the door. His best bet, if things looked ugly, was probably just to scream for help. Crazy-ass Perseids or no, High Guard would help him out--and then he could deal with the whole "sword? oh that sword?" issue later. Life had taught him that pretty much any situation could be gotten out of if you still had your head.
Someone paused in the door, outlined by the brighter hall lights. A womany someone. A short-haired, buxom someone who looked very familiar--"Amanda!" he shouted. The Perseids looked up, but so did she.
"Richie!" Amanda swept across the bar and plumped down in the chair across from him. "It is Richie this year, right?" she whispered.
"Ryan Richards. We're fine."
"Fab. I'm Amanda Dearborn for now. So what's up? How long has it been?"
"It's been about two years, remember? The Than vote. And what's up is that in--" He checked his watch. "--an hour and a half, I'm going to work."
"Sounds exciting," Amanda said, eyes a-glitter.
"No... it's the same courier work I was doing last time. Since when do you get excited over an honest week's work for an honest week's pay?"
Amanda wrinkled her nose at him. "Since I started reading up on ships and discovered what a sweet little ride you have. Dual Gauda engines? Reflective nose shielding?"
"And last month? I put in deflector tiles, so those bastard Nightsider pirates can't see me properly," said Richie, who was a little ridiculously proud of his ship. "*And* she can haul 75 percent mass up to 25 PSL, and do 36.57 PSL when it's offloaded right down to fumes--and you *so* don't care," he said, seeing Amanda's eyes glaze over.
"I care!"
"No, you really don't. Why do I get the feeling we're not running into each other by accident?" He lowered his voice to a murmur so sensitive Perseid ears wouldn't eavesdrop.
"Richie! When did you get so suspicious?"
"When I was four?"
"That's terrible," she said, laying her hand on top of his.
"*You're* terrible," Richie replied. "I guess you want a ride someplace?"
"If you're not busy..."
"Where?"
"Supra Nine?"
"Of course you know I'm already going there," Richie sighed.
"You are?" Amanda widened her eyes.
"Do I want to know what you're running away from?"
She smirked, dropping the act for a moment. "Probably not."
"Is it going to be chasing after me, firing big nasty missiles that would vaporize my cute little head?" He'd actually probably survive a full-on attack, but the chance of surviving in the middle of open space didn't really thrill him.
"Definitely not." Her face was serious, so he believed her.
"Okay." Richie tossed back the rest of his beer. "The sooner the better."
"Knew you wouldn't let me down," she said, flashing him another dazzling smile. He stood up and she took his arm.
The Perseids looked up as they headed for the door. "Excuse me?" the female one said. "What are you?"
"Your average Joe," Richie replied, getting nervous. Perseid as they may be, they were High Guard and he surely had a wanted criminal on his arm.
They looked at each other. "If you mean Human," the male said, "you certainly are not that. In fact, you are not in our database." He held up the scanner on the tabletop. Oh. So that's what that was.
Amanda leaned over him. "We're from the planet Zeist," she said, "it blew up a long time ago, and we were--we're kind of--I'm sorry--Mama!" She burst into tears.
"Oh, honey--there, there," Richie soothed, hustling her out of the bar. Her tears turned to giggles as he whisked them into an elevator. "Planet *Zeist*?"
"Ex-boyfriend."
He stared at her.
"Name of his cat," she said, and leaned against him giggling her head off.
On the whole, Richie decided, he'd missed her.
*
"Oh, you don't have to go to Howron first..."
"Yes I DO!"
"Look, slipstream makes everything the same distance."
"Don't even. Don't even touch that. I'll tape you to the hull. I'm serious, Amanda!"
"Richie! *Okay.*"
*
"I can't believe you tried to break my thumblock."
"Bypass, Richie, not the same thing. And I would have brought it back."
"I'm not talking to you."
*
"Supra Nine, coming right up..."
"Mmf!"
"Wow. Look at that cloud cover. You can *see* the little algae guys eating up that methane."
"Mmf."
"I'll untie you *after* we land."
"Mmmmmmf."
"I can throw you pretty far. And I don't trust you as far as that."
"Mmf! Mmf. *Mmf.*"
*
She stole his wallet as soon as she had a hand free, but he was pretty much expecting that. The entertainment was worth the price of admission.
She had *really* expressive mmphing noises. He felt like he'd learned a few new words.
Amanda's Presence wavered in and out as Richie hoofed it across the main settlement dome. No fancy delivery systems here; if you had to move something, you did it with antigrav hand trucks, and if you wanted to say something, you walked over and said it. There was another dome on the same continent below the equator, spreading algae and molds into the other main wind system. The effects were clear and surprisingly fast. in another couple of decades, Supra Nine would have an atmosphere, topsoil, and a self-governing colony ready to give it a new name and enter the Commonwealth.
He rang the buzzer at the World Manager's office. Big title, but the office was all press-stone and exposed wiring; there were only a few hundred people on-planet yet. "State your name," said the computer voice in exquisite Vedran-accented Common.
"Ryan Richards, Commonwealth Couriers."
"Enter." The door slid open.
Inside, the secretary to the World Manager was shuffling through files. "Just a minute," he said.
"M--" Richie clapped his hand over his mouth. "Hi," he said into his hand.
Methos looked up. "Well, well. I wasn't expecting you for another half-day."
"Well, I was motivated." He checked out Methos' nameplate. "Adam Ploss, going legit. I never would have thought it of you."
"Richie, what in our past history suggests that I'm averse to an honest week's pay for an honest's week's work? I was writing hundred-page papers on the semiotics of tapioca pudding when you were still playing about with gasoline-fueled motor scooters." Methos pulled out a plexi and waved it triumphantly. "Finally! Bloody thing."
"Motor*cycles*, and what *is* tapioca anyway?" Something about Methos' phrasing struck him as strange. "Say, has--"
"Starch derived from the cassava plant. Come on, then." Methos got up and opened the door into the inner office, where Richie was not at all surprised to see Amanda sitting on Duncan MacLeod's desk. Not at, *on,* with Richie's wallet in her hands and her boots on Mac's nameplate.
"Richie! Good to see you." Mac edged around his desk--out of Amanda's arm reach, if he recognized that edgy walk, which he was pretty sure he did--and hugged him.
"You too, Mac." Mac smelled like algae, which was weird but nice--kind of green. "Still got my head."
"Bravo," Methos said.
So he was *never* going to be as old as the old guy, and blah blah blah, and shut up, Methos, but Methos had saved his butt pretty dramatically less than a century ago so he didn't bait the guy. "It's not all that hard these days. Have you noticed we're getting scarcer? Apart from Amanda and you guys I haven't run into any Immortals in the past ten years."
"How many people do you really get near to in space?"
"Well--okay, but still. Ten years."
"We're only born on Earth," Methos said. "The Watchers haven't discovered anyone born off-planet. They thought they found one girl, but it turned out her records were altered."
"But so what?" Richie said.
"So we have a pre-Industrial Revolution population on Earth with Commonwealth-era distribution into the galaxies," Mac said.
Amanda tapped Richie's wallet on her knee. "We're like an endangered species. Think the Vedrans would zoo us if they found out?"
"We're sentient!" Mac exclaimed.
"So are Quosian thinking clouds, and there's *still* one drifting around the Queen's throne cathedral," Amanda shot back.
"That's--voluntary," Mac said, but his face said he didn't quite believe it.
Methos leaned against the door frame. "Don't worry. If they put you guys in a people farm, I'll break you out."
They all looked at him. He raised his eyebrows. "Well, they won't catch *me.* I'm the gingerbread man."
Which was, dammit, the living end. "I've eaten plenty of gingerbread men," Richie said.
"It's a metaphor."
"It's a *dumb*--"
"Well!" Amanda broke in. "Let's all go out for dinner. I'm buying."
Richie growled and grabbed back his wallet.
*
They ended up at Mac's house--which was also Methos' house, and Richie *so* didn't want to know--because, as Mac put it, "go out *where*?" Mac made an African peanut stew, sort of. The peanuts were *conceptually* peanuts. Richie was pretty sure they were technically nuts.
The wine was definitely wine, though. "I put every language I knew into the All-Systems Library," Mac said, "and I made Methos do it too. Makes me feel better."
Methos kicked Mac's ankle. "Nostalgia is a killer. Let the dead die."
"Shut up, Mr 'My Pen Slipped And Wrote Hieroglyphics.'"
Methos rolled his eyes. "I slipped and wrote demotic, you great ninny." He stretched out on the couch and rested his feet on Mac's thigh.
"Do they know about us?" Richie asked. "I mean, for real?"
Methos shook his head. "Not officially. A few people, here and there. The Watchers keep things quiet and the Vedrans honestly don't care--what's one more alien more or less?"
They had that look--Vedrans did--it went right through you, like you weren't even there. Which--the Vedrans had conquered the known universe two thousand years before even Methos was born, so maybe there was a reason. Maybe non-Vedrans just *didn't* compute. Maybe that was how they did it. "Keeps us safe," Richie said.
Methos nodded.
"Safety isn't everything it's cracked up to be," Amanda said.
Methos looked at her. "Sure it is."
*
He was definitely drunk. He could tell he was drunk because he was lying on the floor.
So was everyone else, though. Mac had a really nice floor.
Mac was curled around Methos. Amanda was... thigh. Thigh. *His* thigh. Not baaaaaad.
"So the thing. Thing. The thing is... I don't know when my birthday is," Richie said.
Mac snorted into Methos' hair. "November the seventeenth, 1975. Duh, Rich."
"YEAH. I knew that part! But what year is that? What year is that... *now*? See. That is the stumper. Because it's 77 um 64."
"Oh. I get it," Methos said, because he was smart *and* annoying. Annoying *and* smart. "1975 was... something else in Commonwealth years, and Commonwealth years aren't Earth years."
"Yeah." Richie thought about it and sniffled. "I don't know when my birthday is! I don't know how old I am."
"Earth joined the Commonwealth in 7085," said Methos. "You were what, 150 then? So you're coming up on 850 now."
"No. No no no. Doesn't work. Mixing years." He waved his fingers in the air, expressing that Earth years weren't the same length as Commonwealth years, and therefore he still had a deep existential uncertainty. Eighty years ago he'd raced in the Milky Way Amateur and won--beating Mac by a full twentieth of an hour--and he'd wanted to say to Mac afterwards, "remember how we said we'd race starships together?"--but he couldn't figure out how long ago that was, and it bothered him so much that he'd just sat there with his beer.
But Methos bothered him more. "Yes, well. Join the bloody club. I can't even remember being your age," Methos scoffed.
Hitting him would mean moving. Moving would mean no more Amanda. And thigh. "Can so."
"Can not."
"Can so."
*
The next morning he felt like he'd been beaten up from all the toxins working their way out of his system. Better than a hangover, though.
He walked very, very slowly to his ship. When he was in eyesight of her, he was not surprised to see Amanda leaning against her. "Need a getaway vehicle?" he asked. "I'm going back to Depot." The letter was already locked up safe in his ship.
"Well, as it happens, I'm going nowhere special." She tilted her head.
Richie was very, very tired. "I don't know if my route heads there."
"Richie. You're not listening." She stepped forward and cupped his crotch.
Richie swallowed. "Not where my ears are..."
"Don't listen with your ears." She licked his neck.
So. Processing. She was pants-on-fire to come to Supra Nine, where she saw--Mac curled around Methos, natch, so Mac was not available for Amanda consumption. So she turned to... him, the consolation prize?
She purred against his throat and he forgot to be upset about that.
Besides. They were safer than they ever had been. He had a little money saved up, and a sweet ship to carry them around. He was officially old enough not to know how old he was. Time for adventure, right?
Right.
"Strap in, Space Kitten," he growled, imitating Huha Herhe, star of the Space Needle. Amanda didn't bounce and giggle, but laughed and threw strong arms around his neck--but that was fine, because it meant the adventure was all theirs.
Rock and roll.
*
House and Cuddy do the nasty.
*
So, he had a hangover.
A doozy.
A humdinger.
A gollywhollop, you might say, if that were a word, which House was fairly certain that it wasn't.
And... there was someone in his room, which could be good or it could be bad. He remembered... tequila. That wasn't a good sign. Was this even his room? He cracked an eye. Yes, this was his bedroom, his bed, his window, his--
House gasped and sat bolt upright, clutching the sheets higher on his body.
His BOSS. Standing. There. Fastening her bra. Looking at him.
"That was a really girly move," Cuddy said.
"You're *naked*," House pointed out, not fully processing this yet. Well, semi-naked. And adjusting her breasts in her bra, good GOD.
"We're not discussing this."
"*Breasts*," House said, gesturing.
"We're never discussing this." Cuddy picked up her blouse.
He slept with Cuddy. Slept with *Cuddy.* Of all the women in all the gin joints in all the world, he had to--"My GOD. You know how big my dick is now."
She looked up as she pulled her skirt up her legs and smiled broadly. "Yes. Yes I do."
"I quit," House said.
"You are not."
"I HAVE TO." He thumped the bed for emphasis.
She raised her eyebrows. "Sleep it off."
He hid his face in his hands. "You measured, didn't you? You have a ruler in your purse and a little black book. You'll write about me in your blog. Paparazzi will hound me. I'll end up a drunk and alone in Tijuana."
"Your fantasies frighten and repel me. I'll see you Monday."
"I'm hanging myself as soon as it's light out," House said, uncovering his eyes so Cuddy could see his sincerity.
She looked up at the ceiling. "From what? This is drywall." And she strutted out, jacket and purse in hand.
Well, she had a point. Damn that modern construction. House flopped backwards and winced. God, his head... his leg... his pride... this time, when he swore off tequila, he really meant it.
*
Wilson was staring at him. House looked at the rising elevator numbers.
"Wow," Wilson said, "that must have been *epic*."
House jerked. "What?"
"The bar? After I got paged? At which point you switched to tequila? You haven't trimmed your beard since Thursday and it's starting to curl. You hate that," Wilson said, damn his observant eyes.
"Ah." The doors opened. House ventured forth and Wilson followed him, of course. He could smell the blood in the water.
"Come on! What kind of friend are you if I can't live vicariously through your liquor-soaked antics?"
"It is possible," House said, "that I had entirely too much to drink." He fished out his keys and unlocked his office. Wilson nudged him in the ribs. "It's also possible," House said, "that at some point, a humorous animal or possibly a sombrero were involved, but I couldn't honestly tell you."
"Oh *that* kind of night."
"That kind of night," House acknowledged.
"Remind me to tell you about the third of May, 1984, some time," Wilson said, clapping him on the shoulder and leaving it at that.
House sat at his desk twirling his beard between his fingers for a bit. When Cuddy came in, he put his most pathetic look on. "I'm mourning my boyish innocence," he said.
She smirked slightly. "Well, if you're done, we have a kid downstairs with blue lips, hives, and a rash in the shape of a hand on his stomach. Come on."
House raised an eyebrow and stood up. "A hand?"
"A hand." Cuddy wiggled her hand in emphasis.
*
The Justice League gets split in two.
*
"Sooo." Wally rubbed the back of his neck. "Um. Plaid, huh?"
Clark looked down and gestured at himself. "I was raised on a farm. This is what I wear at home."
"Hey, that must have been useful. Your parents hitch you to the plow?"
"Sometimes," Clark said, grinning. "Coveralls?"
"I'm a mechanic. And proud of it!" Wally raised his wrench with pride. He'd scrubbed before he left for the Watchtower--it was just a *thing*, he couldn't be grubby around Wonder Woman, even if he was wearing gloves--but there was the grime again, outlining his nails and fingerprints. Somehow, having the dirt zapped back on was weirder than having the costume zapped off.
And why the heck was he holding his wrench, anyway? He slipped it back onto his tool belt.
"I wouldn't have pictured mechanic," Clark said.
"I would have put money on McDonald's," John said. Wally stuck his tongue out at him.
John, of course, looked like Shaft. Wally hadn't been that polished for *prom.*
"So me and Superman are our secret identities? Kind of?" Wally asked. "But I don't know what's up with Batman..."
J'onn started singing and they all turned. He was cradling the little boy in his arms, singing in Martian. He'd reverted back to his pointy-headed bug-alien form, so the effect was kind of disturbingly science fiction movie-y. Beside him, Diana, dressed in a toga, was doing something with a rock. Neither of them seemed to speak English; they'd both been yelling in Foreign when they all came around and found themselves stuck in this busted-out hole.
Batman was the little boy. He hadn't looked at anyone, hadn't responded, just knelt limply on the ground until J'onn picked him up.
Wally blinked. "J'onn needs to cut a record, man." His singing was freaky but he could *not* stop listening.
"It can't just be that they robbed us of our powers, because Batman doesn't have any--and my powers and J'onn's are just part of what we are," Clark said.
"No. We're what we are without the costume," John said. "The costumes are what's fighting up there." He pointed.
Wally and Clark looked up at the lights in the sky. Too much, too many to follow, just red and green and blue and boom. "This is bad," Wally said. "That's just Speed Force up there? Without me?"
"I think so." John met his eyes. "Where did you get your powers?"
Wally bit his lip. "Industrial accident and a bolt of lightning?" he ventured. John narrowed his eyes and Wally caved. "Which opened a conduit, I think. To something. Big. That talks to me when I sleep."
"Flash," Clark said gently, "you could have talked to us if you were having problems with your powers."
"No, I'm not! It's not a problem. I mean, it's not a big thing, it's just, you know, it says blah blah, you could take over the world, and I'm all, I live with my aunt, I don't even want my own apartment, you know, what do I want with a whole planet? And then it starts showing me hot girls and stuff, but, you know, I do okay," Wally said, blushing a little, looking down a little, totally lying about that last part. "I don't think it really knows what I want, so it just keeps trying the same old stuff. I think, like, it's trapped? And it wants to control me? And it can't. Only now it's out of my body."
"We have to get it back," John said. He and Clark and Wally looked at the twenty-foot walls around them.
"Yeah, we'll go get our powers back as soon as we get our powers back," Wally said.
Clark sighed. "We could dig, maybe?"
They were trapped in the burned-out foundation of some kind of building. Probably Gotham--Wally sniffed the air--definitely Gotham. They could ask Batman, but... "Okay, seriously, why did Batman turn into a little kid?"
"You didn't look him up, did you, when you found out his name?" Clark said.
"Well DUH! He's Bruce Wayne! My aunt gets People Magazine! He's in it like every *month*." Stupid question, but oops, Superman there, even in a plaid flannel shirt, so maybe it wasn't a stupid question after all.
"His parents were murdered right in front of him when he was eight," Clark said. "They never found the killers. About a month later, he started training to be Batman. So I guess--you take away the costume, and.." His voice trailed off. J'onn was still singing to little Bruce.
The kid was in a crisp white shirt, blue sweater-vest, and gray pants with black stains all down his shins. J'onn rocked him gently like Wally's aunt did with his cousin's baby. '
*
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