fic: Farscape: Left Behind, chapter 7
Left Behind
Timeline placement: earlyish season 3, spoilers for “Eat Me”
Rating: PG-13
Words: 2,500
Disclaimer: The Farscape universe, and all that is in it, is not mine, but rather belongs to the Jim Henson Company. This is a work of fiction based in that universe. No copyright infringement is intended and no money has been or will be collected. No betas were harmed in the writing of this fic. Previous chapter links at the end of the post.
in case you missed it, Left Behind, chapter 6
Chapter Seven
John stood in the more or less cleaned up Command area, chewing absent-mindedly at his thumb, thinking. Pilot had just advised him that they would arrive at the supply station in about half an arn, which was great, but he had also advised him that the frelling Xarai had long ago destroyed the controls to Rohvu’s docking clamps, probably in their voracious search for food. (John had supplied the frelling part.)
Here they were, half an arn away from food and supplies - particularly food - and they not only had no working docking clamps, but also no transport pods, and no EVA suits. Without a transport pod or EVA suits, they couldn’t fly from the ship to the station or even space-walk over to it. The transport pods had all been either used as escape vehicles or destroyed, back when Kaarvok had first escaped confinement. The EVA suits had been cut up over the years to make what passed for clothing for the Xarai.
“Perhaps when you arrive, John, you could call a cab.”
John’s eyes focused on the incongruous sight of Scorpius’ neural clone wearing a gray jacket that sported an embroidered “Harvey” on the left and “Yellow Cab Co.” on the right. There was a cheesy grin on the cadaverous face below a patent-leather brimmed hat.
“A cab…?” Although John’s tone was skeptical, Harvey had started the wheels turning. He could contact the station administrators and see if they had some sort of shuttle that could pick them up… Of course, he might be worried about nothing. If the station was big enough, they had to have some way of docking all sorts of ships, right?
“And while we’re on the subject,” Harvey continued as he leaned back on the main console, “what exactly are you going to do about procuring your supplies? You’re not exactly awash in coin.” The neural clone/New York cabbie gone wrong took a bite out of what looked like an apple. Golden Delicious, to be exact. Bastard.
John’s stomach growled and he felt a little faint. “Go away, Harvey,” he said wearily, looking around for the container of water he had brought with him - he remembered setting it down, but couldn’t recall where.
The bastard was right, though. They didn’t have much of value to exchange for the things they needed. A few comms badges that could possibly be reworked by someone to use independently of Rohvu. What amounted to a cheap copy of a Luxan Qualta blade, since it didn’t work as a rifle - he and Chiana had thought about leaving it with D’Argo, when they’d performed his last rites, but had decided Big D would’ve preferred the defective copy to go toward their survival, instead. Massive amounts of bat guano at the bottom of Pilot’s den that someone, somewhere could maybe use as a primitive fuel source. A pulse pistol that was running out of juice and that they couldn’t afford to trade, anyway.
Hell, the most valuable thing they had to barter with right now was themselves, and that wasn’t exactly saying much, in their current sorry condition.
He spotted his water on a table by the main console - it had been hidden behind Harvey, who had chosen to leave as abruptly as he had appeared. Grabbing the water, John took a long pull and then commed Chiana. “Hey, Pip. Come on up to Command. We need to put together our game plan.”
***
“John, the shuttle should arrive in approximately 200 microts.”
“Thanks, Pilot,” John replied, checking Winona’s chakan oil charge - it was registering at about half. He looked over his shoulder to see Chiana running into the bay. After he had cleaned and bandaged her wound as best he could, she had managed to remove most of the blood from the rest of her clothing and was looking relatively respectable.
“Where’s Belima?”
Chiana stopped and blinked at him. “I’ve got her locked up in one of the cells. She’s gonna be tinked when we get back, though…” She shook her head, fussing a bit with the separated edges of her tunic.
“You locked her in a cell?”
“Well, that’s what we talked about doing… Isn’t it?” She squirmed a little as he stared at her.
Knowing Chiana, he said, “Spill it, Chiana. What else did you do to her?”
“I kinda…I figured she might, you know, hurt Rohvu trying to get out of the cell.”
The possibilities danced in his head as he stared at the Nebari.
“I, uh, tied her up. And gagged her. Don’t look at me like that! She’d probably try to eat through the walls of her cell, if I hadn’t.”
He shook his head. Chiana was probably right, since Belima didn’t understand most of what they said to her, and thus couldn’t be trusted out of their sight on the station. The two of them had gone back and forth on that one. He had been rethinking the advisability of leaving her here, but Chiana had nixed that. They couldn’t risk taking her with them. Nor could they afford to let her roam free while they were gone.
“No, you’re right, Pip. We can’t risk it. We’ll just have to try to get our, uh, business transacted as quickly as we can.”
They both turned as a small shuttle pulled into the hangar and landed. According to what the station’s customer service rep had told John when he talked to him about transportation, it was unmanned. The vehicle was a boxy sort of thing, obviously not intended for atmospheric flight, at least not rapid atmospheric flight, but looked quite competent at transport functions in space. In fact, the darn thing looked a lot like the shuttles from the original Star Trek - he half expected Mr. Spock to pop his head out as a panel in the side of the thing slid open to allow them to enter.
While he hesitated, Chiana sauntered over to the shuttle. Halfway in, she turned around and said, “What’re you waiting for, Crichton? Let’s go shopping!”
***
Even though the old man was clearly still worried about her and even though her stomach hurt like hezmana, Chiana felt more at ease here on this supply station than she had in what seemed like monens. It was hard to wrap her mind around the fact that all the frelling nasty things that had happened to them recently had occurred in just under three solar days.
Right now, it was just her and Crichton, roaming through a bazaar set up in a huge open area at the center of the supply station, checking out the places that might have the things they needed. Of course, they needed everything, so it wasn’t hard to find a stall that looked useful.
With a quick check to make sure no one was looking right at her, she brushed lightly but deliberately against a prosperous looking man. She apologized as she passed him and he never realized that he no longer had the wallet in his pocket that had been there on his arrival.
Hah! she thought to herself. I’ve still got it.
Crichton could trade those zennid comms badges for a little coin, if he wanted. Her way was a lot faster and a lot less effort. Ducking into a stall that sold ready-to-eat food, her mouth watering and her stomach clenching with hunger, this time, instead of pain, Chiana opened her newly acquired wallet. She made a quick count of the money - about 200, not bad for five microts’ work - as she handed a bit to the proprietor and said, “One of those.” She pointed to some sort of roasted meat wrapped in what looked like a leaf.
Taking the food and her change from his outstretched hand, she forced herself to eat slowly, chewing before swallowing, while she pocketed the coins. She didn’t want to make a spectacle of herself…
***
John had lost Chiana in the crowd. No matter. They had their comms and they had a plan in place to meet up in a couple arns at the place Chi said was a clinic. He hadn’t recognized the symbol on the door, but apparently it was the UT version of a red cross. He just hoped she didn’t get herself caught - she hadn’t said it in so many words, but he was sure she would be out picking pockets until they met up again.
Ignoring his stomach, which was clamoring at him to get food first, he continued toward the pawn shop he had been directed to when they first hit the bazaar. He wanted to have as much cash on hand as possible to pay for stitches and whatever else they needed to get Chi healthy again. Stealing their supplies and food, if they had to, didn’t bother him too much - and what did that tell him about his stay in the Uncharteds? - but he drew the line at stealing a medic’s services.
Having arrived at the pawn shop, he pushed past a curtain to enter. The place was full of the sort of junk you’d expect in a pawn shop. Everything from jewelry to musical instruments to weapons crowded the shop’s walls, shelves and counters. John’s eye was caught by a lethal-looking pulse rifle - chakan oil clip clearly missing from the appropriate space, probably for safety purposes.
Behind a counter in the far corner of the small shop, with a clear and unobstructed view of the entire place, was a being of a type that John hadn’t encountered before. Very tall, very thin, very pale - though not white, like a Nebari - with a shock of orange “hair.” He couldn’t tell if it was male or female or something else entirely.
“May I help you?” The question was asked in a very high, thin voice. That figured. Still couldn’t tell if it was male or female, though he wasn’t sure that it mattered, either way.
“Beaker, man… Where’s the Professor?” John said, walking up to the counter.
“Pardon me?”
“Sorry, you remind me of someone I knew when I was a kid.”
“What can I do for you, sir? Are you here to buy, sell, or trade?” Beaker made an all-encompassing gesture toward the shop and merchandise.
“Well,” John said with a drawl. He pulled out the box of comms badges and carefully set it on the counter - he’d move on to the Qualta on his back later. He was kind of hoping that if he treated the comms like they were valuable, he might get a better price for them. “I’d like to sell these.” He opened the lid, exposing the gold badges within.
Beaker just as carefully lifted one from the box with his long, thin fingers, bringing it up to his somewhat protruding eyes for a closer look. He turned the badge over in his hand, sniffed it, then returned it to the box. “These look like a Leviathan’s communications badges.”
“You are right! Give the man a prize!”
“Where did you get them? I don’t see many things Leviathan in these parts.” John couldn’t tell if he sounded suspicious that they might’ve been stolen or not.
Leaning on the counter, the badge on his vest in plain view, he said, “We have a very small crew, so we don’t need all these comms. What we do need, is cash. I’d be willing to part with this whole box for, say, a hundred units of the local currency.” He tried to keep his expression and voice as neutral as possible.
The thin orange eyebrows rose much higher than John would’ve thought possible, as Beaker said, “One hundred-? I’m sorry, sir. Outside of the Leviathan who created them, these are of very limited utility. One hundred is far too much.”
Encouraged by the fact Beaker hadn’t laughed or told him to just plain get lost, John settled in for a rousing session of haggling. “Well, now, while I realize that, there’re still a lot of uses for these babies…”
***
Belima was angry. More angry than she had ever been in her life.
She didn’t know what Chiana and John were going to do, but Chiana had tricked her into entering this room and then ambushed her, tying her to one of the sitting things and putting a wadded up cloth in her mouth. They clearly didn’t want her with them. Tears sprang to her eyes as she struggled against the bindings.
The Pilot said something to her through the pretty on her shoulder, but she ignored it. She had no clue what he was saying, anyway.
Would they return for her? Would they ever come back to release her? Or would she starve to death here? She was hurt - she had thought that at least John liked her - and she was angry and she was very, very hungry.
She tugged hard, trying to free one arm, but only succeeded in scraping off some of the skin and making herself bleed.
***
Just over a quarter arn after he’d entered, John walked out of the shop with a spring in his step, quite pleased with himself. He had managed to finagle 63 units of currency - he still didn’t know what that currency was called - out of Herr Beaker, in exchange for a box that contained about a dozen or so comms. That was way more than he had expected. He’d gotten another 178 for the more-or-less useless Qualta blade.
Looking first left then right, he made his way out into the foot traffic, heading toward a vendor Beaker had said would be able to provide decent, if unexciting, food for a good price. Probably food cubes, John guessed. He planned to work out a deal and a delivery method and see if he could actually pay for the provisions later, after he’d hooked back up with Chiana and they had a chance to figure out how much they had between them.
Before John made it more than a dozen steps, though, the tantalizing aroma of roasted meat drifted his way from a nearby stall. His stomach growled like a grizzly and he decided maybe he’d better get some food now. That way he wouldn’t be bargaining for more on an empty stomach. Entering the stall, he thought he saw a familiar gray girl in the distance, “working” the crowd, but he couldn’t be sure.
There was one person ahead of him in the line. He couldn’t make out the details of her order, as she placed it, but the sound of the voice nagged at him. Dirty-looking coveralls that might once have been white. Dishwater hair escaping from what looked like a pilot’s flight cap. Head cocked toward her right shoulder as she spoke. Short, stocky frame with her head only coming up to his chin.
His suspicion was confirmed when she turned around, taking what looked like a bottled beverage with her. Nearly colorless eyes met blue.
“Johnny-boy! Fancy meetin’ you here!”
“Furlow.”
Left Behind, chapter 8
Timeline placement: earlyish season 3, spoilers for “Eat Me”
Rating: PG-13
Words: 2,500
Disclaimer: The Farscape universe, and all that is in it, is not mine, but rather belongs to the Jim Henson Company. This is a work of fiction based in that universe. No copyright infringement is intended and no money has been or will be collected. No betas were harmed in the writing of this fic. Previous chapter links at the end of the post.
in case you missed it, Left Behind, chapter 6
Chapter Seven
John stood in the more or less cleaned up Command area, chewing absent-mindedly at his thumb, thinking. Pilot had just advised him that they would arrive at the supply station in about half an arn, which was great, but he had also advised him that the frelling Xarai had long ago destroyed the controls to Rohvu’s docking clamps, probably in their voracious search for food. (John had supplied the frelling part.)
Here they were, half an arn away from food and supplies - particularly food - and they not only had no working docking clamps, but also no transport pods, and no EVA suits. Without a transport pod or EVA suits, they couldn’t fly from the ship to the station or even space-walk over to it. The transport pods had all been either used as escape vehicles or destroyed, back when Kaarvok had first escaped confinement. The EVA suits had been cut up over the years to make what passed for clothing for the Xarai.
“Perhaps when you arrive, John, you could call a cab.”
John’s eyes focused on the incongruous sight of Scorpius’ neural clone wearing a gray jacket that sported an embroidered “Harvey” on the left and “Yellow Cab Co.” on the right. There was a cheesy grin on the cadaverous face below a patent-leather brimmed hat.
“A cab…?” Although John’s tone was skeptical, Harvey had started the wheels turning. He could contact the station administrators and see if they had some sort of shuttle that could pick them up… Of course, he might be worried about nothing. If the station was big enough, they had to have some way of docking all sorts of ships, right?
“And while we’re on the subject,” Harvey continued as he leaned back on the main console, “what exactly are you going to do about procuring your supplies? You’re not exactly awash in coin.” The neural clone/New York cabbie gone wrong took a bite out of what looked like an apple. Golden Delicious, to be exact. Bastard.
John’s stomach growled and he felt a little faint. “Go away, Harvey,” he said wearily, looking around for the container of water he had brought with him - he remembered setting it down, but couldn’t recall where.
The bastard was right, though. They didn’t have much of value to exchange for the things they needed. A few comms badges that could possibly be reworked by someone to use independently of Rohvu. What amounted to a cheap copy of a Luxan Qualta blade, since it didn’t work as a rifle - he and Chiana had thought about leaving it with D’Argo, when they’d performed his last rites, but had decided Big D would’ve preferred the defective copy to go toward their survival, instead. Massive amounts of bat guano at the bottom of Pilot’s den that someone, somewhere could maybe use as a primitive fuel source. A pulse pistol that was running out of juice and that they couldn’t afford to trade, anyway.
Hell, the most valuable thing they had to barter with right now was themselves, and that wasn’t exactly saying much, in their current sorry condition.
He spotted his water on a table by the main console - it had been hidden behind Harvey, who had chosen to leave as abruptly as he had appeared. Grabbing the water, John took a long pull and then commed Chiana. “Hey, Pip. Come on up to Command. We need to put together our game plan.”
***
“John, the shuttle should arrive in approximately 200 microts.”
“Thanks, Pilot,” John replied, checking Winona’s chakan oil charge - it was registering at about half. He looked over his shoulder to see Chiana running into the bay. After he had cleaned and bandaged her wound as best he could, she had managed to remove most of the blood from the rest of her clothing and was looking relatively respectable.
“Where’s Belima?”
Chiana stopped and blinked at him. “I’ve got her locked up in one of the cells. She’s gonna be tinked when we get back, though…” She shook her head, fussing a bit with the separated edges of her tunic.
“You locked her in a cell?”
“Well, that’s what we talked about doing… Isn’t it?” She squirmed a little as he stared at her.
Knowing Chiana, he said, “Spill it, Chiana. What else did you do to her?”
“I kinda…I figured she might, you know, hurt Rohvu trying to get out of the cell.”
The possibilities danced in his head as he stared at the Nebari.
“I, uh, tied her up. And gagged her. Don’t look at me like that! She’d probably try to eat through the walls of her cell, if I hadn’t.”
He shook his head. Chiana was probably right, since Belima didn’t understand most of what they said to her, and thus couldn’t be trusted out of their sight on the station. The two of them had gone back and forth on that one. He had been rethinking the advisability of leaving her here, but Chiana had nixed that. They couldn’t risk taking her with them. Nor could they afford to let her roam free while they were gone.
“No, you’re right, Pip. We can’t risk it. We’ll just have to try to get our, uh, business transacted as quickly as we can.”
They both turned as a small shuttle pulled into the hangar and landed. According to what the station’s customer service rep had told John when he talked to him about transportation, it was unmanned. The vehicle was a boxy sort of thing, obviously not intended for atmospheric flight, at least not rapid atmospheric flight, but looked quite competent at transport functions in space. In fact, the darn thing looked a lot like the shuttles from the original Star Trek - he half expected Mr. Spock to pop his head out as a panel in the side of the thing slid open to allow them to enter.
While he hesitated, Chiana sauntered over to the shuttle. Halfway in, she turned around and said, “What’re you waiting for, Crichton? Let’s go shopping!”
***
Even though the old man was clearly still worried about her and even though her stomach hurt like hezmana, Chiana felt more at ease here on this supply station than she had in what seemed like monens. It was hard to wrap her mind around the fact that all the frelling nasty things that had happened to them recently had occurred in just under three solar days.
Right now, it was just her and Crichton, roaming through a bazaar set up in a huge open area at the center of the supply station, checking out the places that might have the things they needed. Of course, they needed everything, so it wasn’t hard to find a stall that looked useful.
With a quick check to make sure no one was looking right at her, she brushed lightly but deliberately against a prosperous looking man. She apologized as she passed him and he never realized that he no longer had the wallet in his pocket that had been there on his arrival.
Hah! she thought to herself. I’ve still got it.
Crichton could trade those zennid comms badges for a little coin, if he wanted. Her way was a lot faster and a lot less effort. Ducking into a stall that sold ready-to-eat food, her mouth watering and her stomach clenching with hunger, this time, instead of pain, Chiana opened her newly acquired wallet. She made a quick count of the money - about 200, not bad for five microts’ work - as she handed a bit to the proprietor and said, “One of those.” She pointed to some sort of roasted meat wrapped in what looked like a leaf.
Taking the food and her change from his outstretched hand, she forced herself to eat slowly, chewing before swallowing, while she pocketed the coins. She didn’t want to make a spectacle of herself…
***
John had lost Chiana in the crowd. No matter. They had their comms and they had a plan in place to meet up in a couple arns at the place Chi said was a clinic. He hadn’t recognized the symbol on the door, but apparently it was the UT version of a red cross. He just hoped she didn’t get herself caught - she hadn’t said it in so many words, but he was sure she would be out picking pockets until they met up again.
Ignoring his stomach, which was clamoring at him to get food first, he continued toward the pawn shop he had been directed to when they first hit the bazaar. He wanted to have as much cash on hand as possible to pay for stitches and whatever else they needed to get Chi healthy again. Stealing their supplies and food, if they had to, didn’t bother him too much - and what did that tell him about his stay in the Uncharteds? - but he drew the line at stealing a medic’s services.
Having arrived at the pawn shop, he pushed past a curtain to enter. The place was full of the sort of junk you’d expect in a pawn shop. Everything from jewelry to musical instruments to weapons crowded the shop’s walls, shelves and counters. John’s eye was caught by a lethal-looking pulse rifle - chakan oil clip clearly missing from the appropriate space, probably for safety purposes.
Behind a counter in the far corner of the small shop, with a clear and unobstructed view of the entire place, was a being of a type that John hadn’t encountered before. Very tall, very thin, very pale - though not white, like a Nebari - with a shock of orange “hair.” He couldn’t tell if it was male or female or something else entirely.
“May I help you?” The question was asked in a very high, thin voice. That figured. Still couldn’t tell if it was male or female, though he wasn’t sure that it mattered, either way.
“Beaker, man… Where’s the Professor?” John said, walking up to the counter.
“Pardon me?”
“Sorry, you remind me of someone I knew when I was a kid.”
“What can I do for you, sir? Are you here to buy, sell, or trade?” Beaker made an all-encompassing gesture toward the shop and merchandise.
“Well,” John said with a drawl. He pulled out the box of comms badges and carefully set it on the counter - he’d move on to the Qualta on his back later. He was kind of hoping that if he treated the comms like they were valuable, he might get a better price for them. “I’d like to sell these.” He opened the lid, exposing the gold badges within.
Beaker just as carefully lifted one from the box with his long, thin fingers, bringing it up to his somewhat protruding eyes for a closer look. He turned the badge over in his hand, sniffed it, then returned it to the box. “These look like a Leviathan’s communications badges.”
“You are right! Give the man a prize!”
“Where did you get them? I don’t see many things Leviathan in these parts.” John couldn’t tell if he sounded suspicious that they might’ve been stolen or not.
Leaning on the counter, the badge on his vest in plain view, he said, “We have a very small crew, so we don’t need all these comms. What we do need, is cash. I’d be willing to part with this whole box for, say, a hundred units of the local currency.” He tried to keep his expression and voice as neutral as possible.
The thin orange eyebrows rose much higher than John would’ve thought possible, as Beaker said, “One hundred-? I’m sorry, sir. Outside of the Leviathan who created them, these are of very limited utility. One hundred is far too much.”
Encouraged by the fact Beaker hadn’t laughed or told him to just plain get lost, John settled in for a rousing session of haggling. “Well, now, while I realize that, there’re still a lot of uses for these babies…”
***
Belima was angry. More angry than she had ever been in her life.
She didn’t know what Chiana and John were going to do, but Chiana had tricked her into entering this room and then ambushed her, tying her to one of the sitting things and putting a wadded up cloth in her mouth. They clearly didn’t want her with them. Tears sprang to her eyes as she struggled against the bindings.
The Pilot said something to her through the pretty on her shoulder, but she ignored it. She had no clue what he was saying, anyway.
Would they return for her? Would they ever come back to release her? Or would she starve to death here? She was hurt - she had thought that at least John liked her - and she was angry and she was very, very hungry.
She tugged hard, trying to free one arm, but only succeeded in scraping off some of the skin and making herself bleed.
***
Just over a quarter arn after he’d entered, John walked out of the shop with a spring in his step, quite pleased with himself. He had managed to finagle 63 units of currency - he still didn’t know what that currency was called - out of Herr Beaker, in exchange for a box that contained about a dozen or so comms. That was way more than he had expected. He’d gotten another 178 for the more-or-less useless Qualta blade.
Looking first left then right, he made his way out into the foot traffic, heading toward a vendor Beaker had said would be able to provide decent, if unexciting, food for a good price. Probably food cubes, John guessed. He planned to work out a deal and a delivery method and see if he could actually pay for the provisions later, after he’d hooked back up with Chiana and they had a chance to figure out how much they had between them.
Before John made it more than a dozen steps, though, the tantalizing aroma of roasted meat drifted his way from a nearby stall. His stomach growled like a grizzly and he decided maybe he’d better get some food now. That way he wouldn’t be bargaining for more on an empty stomach. Entering the stall, he thought he saw a familiar gray girl in the distance, “working” the crowd, but he couldn’t be sure.
There was one person ahead of him in the line. He couldn’t make out the details of her order, as she placed it, but the sound of the voice nagged at him. Dirty-looking coveralls that might once have been white. Dishwater hair escaping from what looked like a pilot’s flight cap. Head cocked toward her right shoulder as she spoke. Short, stocky frame with her head only coming up to his chin.
His suspicion was confirmed when she turned around, taking what looked like a bottled beverage with her. Nearly colorless eyes met blue.
“Johnny-boy! Fancy meetin’ you here!”
“Furlow.”
Left Behind, chapter 8