In Dependence, Part 1
In the continuing effort to move most of my Farscape fic to my LJ, I'm adding my favorite story. It's called In Dependence.
Title: In Dependence
Rating: R
Disclaimer: The Jim Henson Co. owns the Farscape universe and characters. I'm just having some angsty fun.
Setting/Spoilers: Through SnS in S3
Summary: John and D'Argo are stuck on Telas Prime, the industrial planet Pilot banished them to. The planet's dry and D'Argo isn't speaking to him, and that's just the beginning.
Note: Originally planned as a cheery, get well John and D'Argo buddy fic for a friend who was going to be recuperating from surgery, things took a detour as I thought about when to set the story. I settled on the time right after SnS, intending to relate the madcap adventures of MJ and D on the industrial planet. So much for original intentions. Please let me know what you think.
In Dependence
Eight days.
They were stuck for eight frelling days on a planet Pilot had euphemistically called industrial-a bit of an understatement-the place was more like one giant superfund site. The air had a reddish brown tint to it, there was a constant sulfuric odor wafting in the occasional breeze, and the runoff from the previous day’s rainstorm had an oily film to it.
On top of that there wasn’t much to do. He could stay in the dingy room he and D’Argo had rented or he could go out and breathe the questionable air and wander the shops in the market. That was it. And with the setting of the sun even that much fun was out of the question-turns out the planet had a strictly enforced dusk-till-dawn curfew, something Pilot forget to mention when he’d booked their mandatory vacation to Telas Prime, the polar opposite of LoMo’s pleasure planet, anything goes atmosphere. As for his plan to pass the majority of his stay on Telas in a drunken stupor-shot to hell-the entire planet was dry, as in no alcohol allowed. John was sure Pilot forgot to mention that little tidbit on purpose.
Two days earlier Chiana had dumped them off at the spaceport with some snarky remark about playing nice with the locals-as if she could talk-and took the pod back to Moya, effectively cutting him off from his own secret stash of home made booze. Down on one of Moya’s lower tiers he’d recently perfected the fine art of food cube brewery and distillation. He had plenty of time to kill and there was no sense in running out of hooch between commerce planets. Besides, with the way D’Argo and Chiana and even Jool drank, the good stuff never lasted long. Best to be prepared.
John got up off the unkempt bed and walked over to the window, looking down at the bustling marketplace that surrounded the spaceport and where off-world travelers were restricted during there stay on Telas Prime. He was bored and he’d kill for a drink about now, just something to end the tedium, to help him forget why they were here in the first place-the pissing contest he and D’Argo had been involved in ever since Moya and Talyn had parted company. If Pilot’s plan was to force them to get along, it wasn’t working. He and D’Argo were still at odds.
The big guy was currently giving him the silent treatment, which was almost a relief from the near constant bitching and moaning he’d been spewing on Moya lately, except there was more to D’Argo’s silence than general Luxan grouchiness. He was angry-near hyper-rage territory. Turns out their lovely digs were near a black market slave operation that trafficked in young alien boys and girls, sold them for work or pleasure. D’Argo wanted to do something about it. John wanted to leave well enough alone.
“I can’t believe you think we shouldn’t get involved!” D’Argo had bellowed at him the day before. “They are selling children to a life of slavery or worse!”
“And just what is there to do, D?” he’d yelled back. “If you haven’t noticed, we’re not exactly equipped to take on a den of vicious slave traders. Besides, our track record’s not that great. Remember Jocacea. Remember Rovhu. And before you mention LoMo, we were just lucky. Let’s not make a career out of it.”
But D’Argo would not listen to reason. He’d just harrumphed at his arguments derisively then snarled his final argument in his oh so Luxan way, “You wouldn’t be saying that if it were Chiana being sold…or Aeryn.”
Low blow. John had jumped up from the one chair in the room and strode angrily at his friend. D’Argo had just broken their tacit agreement. No mention of Aeryn. It was like rubbing salt in an open wound. Well, two could play that game.
“No. But should we charge in there without a plan? Without backup? Like you did at the Shadow Depository when we were trying to buy Jothee out of slavery,” John yelled back, inches away from his face.
D’Argo winced at the mention of his son’s name. “This is not the same…”
“That’s exactly the point! And this is not our problem! Do you really think it’s our job to right every wrong in the Uncharted Territories, to be the scourge of every baddie from here to Timbuktu? News flash, buddy, we’re not the dynamic duo, ‘the great Crichton and D’Argo.’ We’re not the Justice League. Hell, we’re not even bush-league.” John raged at his friend, letting out all the latent bitterness and self loathing he’d felt since he’d killed Aeryn, since Zhaan’s sacrifice, since Kaarvok doubled his worthless ass and the other John jumped ship with the woman he loved. Feeling suddenly deflated, John stepped back and plopped down on the bed and sighed. “Maybe if things were different...but…all I want to do right now is to get through the rest of our stay here in one piece then high tail it back to Moya. Sorry to disappoint you but I’m not feeling like much of a hero right now.”
“No.” D’Argo shook his head in agreement and disappointment. “No. You’re not.” With that D’Argo had stormed out of the room, returning right before curfew-and hadn’t said a word to him since. At first light D’Argo left again.
John considered taking a walk in the morning. See the sights. Tour a factory or two. But decided he didn’t feel up to it. In fact, he felt like dren and couldn’t put the constant worry-the nagging feeling in the back of his head that he was supposed to be somewhere else-out of him mind.
Evening approached and the falling rays of the sun turned the low hanging smog a brilliant red, its momentary beauty contrasting against the otherwise desolate landscape-grey factories and tenements as far as the eye could see. John stood at the window rubbing his face from fatigue, his hands sweaty and trembling slightly. It must be from not eating. He’d been too nauseous from the near constant headache he’d had since getting here, or maybe it was the bad air, or the fact that he hadn’t slept well in days.
“Your ability for self delusion is impressive, John,” the cadaverous voice of Harvey whispered from his mind.
“What do you know, Harvey.”
Suddenly John found himself in a nondescript classroom. Harvey stood at the front dressed in a brown tweed jacket with suede elbow patches over a rumpled white oxford, blue jeans and brown loafers. “It’s quite simple. You’re going through alcohol withdrawal.”
“Yeah, right,” John laughed.
The neural clone reached up for one of the large white boards suspended on the front wall and pushed it up, revealing another white board behind it. Across the top, written in large letters it read, ‘Symptoms of Alcohol Withdrawal.’ Below it, bulleted in a neat list were the symptoms.
“Excessive sweating. Check. Rapid heartbeat. Check,” Harvey said as he tapped the board with a long wooden pointer.
“It’s damn hot on this planet and it’s got heavier than standard gravity. Of course my heart’s beating faster and I’m sweating buckets. I’m getting a damn workout just standing here.” That was fudging the truth a little. The gravity was a tenth of a point higher than earth standard, but well within the standard deviation out in the UT’s.
Harvey rolled his eyes and continued down the list. “Hand tremors. I see you’ve already noticed that symptom.”
“I’m just tired. You know I haven’t been sleeping well since…”
“Insomnia. Check.”
“Real funny, Harv. Lesson over.” John walked up to the front of the classroom and grabbed a dry eraser, wiping the rest of the symptoms off the board. He was not in the mood for his own bizarro Jiminy Cricket’s spin on his current state of mind.
“I’m only trying to help you, John.” Harvey persisted in a voice dripping with sympathy. “Recognition is the first step towards recovery, and I want you to know that I’m here for you.” With this Harvey placed a hand on John’s shoulder.
John jerked at the touch, rounding on the neural clone. “Don’t touch me! How many times do I have to tell you? Do not touch me!” John grabbed Harvey by the lapels and threw him against the wall.
“Physical agitation. Check,” Harvey replied calmly. “Are you sure there’s nothing wrong? You seem excessively anxious, another sign…”
A wave of anxiety struck him, centering on Aeryn, on wormholes, on the fact that Scorpius was still out there. With effort he pushed these fears aside. “Not buying it, Harvey. I’ve always been a bit of a worrier. Nothing new.”
“What about transient visual, tactile or auditory hallucinations. Illusions.”
John laughed, “Don’t think you count, Harv. Like I said, I’m fine.”
“What about me, John?” The unmistakable voice of Aeryn Sun said somewhere off to his right near the door. John turned towards the sound and saw Aeryn standing in the doorway, a look of concern on her face.
“Aeryn?” The pounding in his head, centered behind his eyes, got suddenly worse. He took an unsteady step towards her, confused. “How did you….”
“Grand Mal seizures. Check,” he heard Harvey’s voice whisper in his ear right before his vision blurred then blacked out completely.
*******
John came to with a start. He was on the floor between the window and the bed. D’Argo was crouching over him, shaking him roughly and repeating his name. John brought his hands weakly up to his head, as if holding his head tightly enough could keep it from falling to pieces.
“S’Okay, I’m awake,” John said as he cracked open his eyes. At least the room wasn’t spinning.
“You look like dren. What are you doing on the floor?” D’Argo demanded gruffly as he moved back to give John room to get up.
“Nothing.” John waved off the muted concern. And Harvey was simply imagining things; he wasn’t going through alcohol withdrawal-only homeless bums got the shakes. “Must’a just dozed off.” D’Argo gave him a narrow look and was about to press. Best cut this line of conversation off at the pass, John thought as he gave D’Argo one of his patented disarming smiles. “I see you’re talking to me again.”
It worked. D’Argo stood up, his face immediately clouding. He pulled a data chip out of a pocket and tossed it to the floor. John picked it up, looking at it closely. It was a fairly standard data storage device. “What’s on this? Another bounty?”
“It’s a recording. It shows our rescue of Chiana and Jool from Fe’Tor’s freslin auction house.”
“No frell.”
“Yes frell. It seems Kabaah had more than a few eyeballs out that night.”
John scrambled to his feet and moved across the room to the replay console and loaded the chip. Sitting down on the edge of the bed he watched the events of their last night on Lo’Mo unfold-from their entrance to the point when things went predictably pear shaped. He lost the bid; so much for plan A. Then D’Argo lost his cool and his disguise. The usual firefight with security came next-cue the stampeding crowd screaming and running for the doors.
Through all the mayhem, the camera eye (literally) zoomed in on the lone figure of John Crichton walking calmly down the steps to the auction room floor, pulse pistol drawn and held at the ready. He approached the tripod where Chiana hung limply, her buyer too involved in pawing over his latest possession to notice Crichton’s approach until he was staring Winona’s ugly stepsister down the barrel. Chi, never one to pass up an opportunity to pass on a little payback, kneed the guy squarely in the nuts as John adjusted his sights and hit the lights.
Despite the darkness, Kabaah’s eyecams tracked him to the milking room where they met up with D’Argo, Jool, and Raxil and he watched himself get sucker punched by that bastard Fe’Tor. He felt like cheering as he watched Chiana give Fe’Tor a freslin bath, fittingly hoisted by his own petard. The clip ended on the shadowy figures of Chiana and himself running out the darkened auction room before fading to black.
“Damn.” John shook his head and looked up at his friend. “You know, we really could have used this on Moya. Pilot might have believed me. Where’d you get this thing anyway?”
“In the market. It’s everywhere. And it’s the topic of every conversation. John Crichton busted up the freslin market. John Crichton freed the freslin slaves. John Crichton stole the secret freslin production designs."
“We destroyed that chip!” John exclaimed. “Great! No wonder I’m becoming the Uncharted Territories biggest outlaw.”
“I’m surprised I haven’t been recognized.” D’Argo said with frustration as he began pacing the room. “You certainly would be. It’s a good thing you’ve stayed in here brooding…”
“I’m not brooding.”
“Yes, you are.”
“No. I’m not.” John protested. Feeling sorry for himself, maybe. Brooding? No way.
“You’ve been shut up in this room like some love sick Tresnak.” D’Argo took the data chip out the console, holding it in his hand.
John sat on the bed, tired, the pounding in his head unrelenting. “I’m just not feeling a hundred percent. Not brooding.”
“Whatever.” D’Argo thankfully let that subject drop. “What I am saying is you are sure to be recognized. Moya is...”
“…still out of contact. Pilot made that clear. I believe his exact words were, ‘Moya will be cataloging a nearby nebula and will consequently be out of contact for the duration of your stay on Telas. I suggest you exercise discretion, Commander.’” John said in his best Pilot impersonation before shooting a look back up at his friend. “Do you think busting up the slave market’s still such a great idea?”
D’Argo didn’t have a ready answer.
“Yeah, I thought so.” John concluded.
“You know, you can be a real bastard sometimes.” D’Argo retorted angrily. “And yes, I do think…with the element of surprise….”
“Fat chance that happening now.”
“Yes. Well, given the situation, I think it best that you remain in our room until Moya returns.” D’Argo tossed a small satchel at him, hitting him squarely in the chest. John grabbed it and looked inside-there was a small loaf of bread, some fresh fruit and cheese. “And eat something, you haven’t eaten in days.”
“Yes, mother.” John said dully, the thought of food still not appealing despite his obvious hunger. Best choke some of it down. “Anything else, Mr. Good News?”
Before D’Argo could answer there was a knock at the door. John stood quickly, dropping the satchel to the floor and drawing his pulse pistol. D’Argo grabbed his qualta blade from its holster. There was another knock. John motioned with his head for D’Argo to answer while he moved to cover the opening, hiding in the dim light as best he could. With his right hand holding his blade D’Argo opened the door in one quick motion and stepped back, bringing his own weapon to bear. A lone person stood in the darkened hallway, their face obscured by a hood.
“Who are you and what do you want?” D’Argo ordered.
“My name is K’lexa and…and I am looking for the one called Crichton,” the person said with a light, feminine voice-at least it sounded female.
John kept his pistol trained on the woman while D’Argo motioned her into the room and closed the door immediately behind her. She lowered her hood and turned towards John. Though he’d spent three days on the planet he hadn’t actually seen one of the locals up close until now. The woman looked like a cross between a cat and a parrot, with large jade green eyes set wide apart and a body and face similar to the Veniks but feathered not furred. D’Argo looked at him, waiting for his response.
“What do you want with John Crichton?” he said, lowering his gun but keeping it in his hand.
“I come to beg your assistance,” the woman pleaded. “No one else will help me.”
“Help me Obiwan Kenobi.” Harvey voice whispered in falsetto mockingly at his side, appearing in his peripheral vision dressed in a long white belted dress complete with huge black hair buns pinned to the sides of his black leather skull cap. “You’d think there’d be some originality left in the universe. How come every damsel in distress sounds the same?”
“Go away.” John hissed at Harvey.
It soon became apparent that he’d spoken out loud because the green cat-bird lady fell immediately to her knees and began sobbing, “Please. Don’t send me away. Please. My daughter…she’s only twelve cycles. Please. They’ll sell her to some off worlder…to use as a slave….Please.”
Great. Just great. “No. I didn’t mean…hell…It’s just…” Harvey chuckled softly in his ear.
D’Argo shot John a withering look. “Of course we’ll listen,” he interjected before John could finish. He pulled up the only chair and extended a hand to the quivering mass on the floor. “Please, have a seat.”
The woman hesitated for a moment, looking up at D’Argo before taking his hand and allowing him to lead her to the chair. John holstered his pistol and stood against the wall, arms folding, jaw clenched tightly against any further outbursts.
“This should be entertaining at the very least.” Harvey chattered away, leaning up against the wall near him. “It’s always so heartbreaking when you disappoint the deluded souls who’ve come to think of you as some sort of…savior.”
“Can it, Harvey, or I’m gonna throw you back in the trash where you belong.” John muttered.
Harvey took a sharp intake of breath. “You can’t possibly be thinking…”
“No. I’m not.”
“You should, John.” Aeryn’s gravelly voice suddenly sounded from across the room. He looked up and there she stood, in what he called her rest position, thumbs tucked casually in her weapons belt, just over the exposed flesh of her taut stomach, her hair pulled back in the tight military style braid she’d favored since the ice planet. Her grey blue eyes met his and held them.
“This is not happening.” John shut his eyes tight against the new specter in the room.
“All we are doing is listening to this poor woman. What has gotten into you?” D’Argo hissed sub voce, knocking his shoulder into John as he brushed to retrieve his pack, returning with a small water skin and a mug which he filled and handed to their guest. “Please,” D’Argo said encouragingly, taking a seat across from her on the bed. “Continue.”
The woman took a tentative sip, her green feathers making a soft ruffling sound as she calmed down at D’Argo’s gentle words and John silence. With a tired voice, obviously weighed down with sorrow, she began her tale. “My family is very poor…ever since my husband died in a factory accident. Ten days ago a man came offering work, said there was plenty of jobs for young boys and girls who were willing to work hard. I’d heard rumors....”
John looked over at the green alien and shook his head. There was nothing new under the sun. Evil was evil no matter the species or planet. The parrot-cat lady’s story sounded just like some exposé on Dateline NBC about child sex slaves in Bangkok he’d watched years ago. But he barely heard her tale of woe, his eyes riveted instead on the pale figment of his imagination crossing the room towards him.
“Do you mean to tell me,” the Aeryn hallucination said as she got closer, “that this sort of thing happens on your home planet? Isn’t that against the law? Aren’t there governments, police forces to prevent the sexual abuse and enslavement of children?”
“Tsk. Tsk. Officer Sun. As you should know, the strong always prey on the weak.” Harvey said to the approaching illusion. “It’s quite amazing, John. Your hallucination of Officer Sun is almost as naïve as the real McCoy.”
“…and when she didn’t contact me as promised, I became worried….”
“You do not get to talk about Aeryn! Get lost! I mean it!” John grabbed Harvey and tossed him into the corner. D’Argo glared daggers at him again. If his life wasn’t already off the rails John thought he might be in danger of completely loosing it.
“No need to get so testy, John.” Harvey said as he dusted himself off before vanishing.
Three plus cycles in the Uncharted Territories had certainly taken the shine off any of the remaining ‘why can’t we all just get along’ attitude he’d brought with him through the wormhole. These days, Aeryn’s usual solution sounded more rational-kill the bastards. John moved to the window and turned his back to the room, to the woman crying out her story to an attentive D’Argo, to the specter standing a few feet away.
“….and it’s my fault. If I…I hadn’t sent her…but we needed the money. Now she’s in the hands of the slavers…”
He heard Aeryn come up behind him and even though he knew it wasn’t really her, he couldn’t help himself. He turned around. She turned up the corners of her mouth in a slight smile, “I know you, John. You want to help. It’s the right thing to do.” She took another step forward and he swore he could smell her. “Didn’t you once say that evil flourishes when good people do nothing?”
“…I went to the local officials…”
“But what happens, Aeryn, when the good guy screws up?” John broke her steady gaze and hung his head. “People die. Zhaan dies. You die.”
“…said that they could do nothing. Without proof…”
Her phantom hand, cool and strong stroked his cheek and gently lifted his head upwards to meet her gaze. “True, you’ve made mistakes, John.”
“…and in two days they will be sold to a …”
“But, isn’t failure better than standing idly by? Would things be better otherwise?”
“I don’t know, Aeryn,” John answered tiredly. “I don’t know anymore. The only thing I know for sure is-things would be better if you were here.”
Aeryn trailed her hand down to his chest and rested it over his breast bone; his heart rate quicken at her touch. “I’m here, John.”
John shook his head in denial. “You’re not real.”
The Aeryn hallucination pressed the length of her body against his, cradled his head between her hands and angled her head forwards to kiss him. John closed his eyes as she approached and felt the cool, wet touch of her lips against his. He gasped; it felt so real. She trailed her lips and nose across his face and he trembled, tears spilling down his cheeks. “But your love for me is real, isn’t it?” she said softly in his ear.
“Yes,” he whispered back.
“You agree?” D’Argo voice boomed nearby. John opened his eyes. The phantom Aeryn was gone; instead D’Argo stood in front of him expectantly. John looked over at the cat-bird lady and her tear stained feathered face strained with desperation. “You agree to help?” D’Argo repeated.
John rubbed his face quickly to hide the tears, to give him a moment to think. What would Aeryn do? He laughed internally at the image of a black T with WWAD written in large red letters across the front. He knew. She wouldn’t hesitate, not if there was a chance. John looked back up at D’Argo and nodded. “We can at least check it out, see if there’s anything that can be done.”
“Thank you! Thank you!” the woman said repeatedly.
“Don’t thank me yet. There might not be anything we can do,” John replied. “Come back first thing in the morning. Nothing to do tonight but sleep.”
The woman bowed her head quickly, “Of course.” With that she replaced her hood and opened the door. She paused briefly in the doorway. “And I understand…all hope may be lost. I thank you for trying nevertheless.”
*******
Another night.
Another night spent tossing in bed next to the slumbering bulk that was D’Argo. Another night with his mind run away with doubts, regurgitating the past and finding only fault, wishing that fate or whatever passed for a deity in this part of the universe would give him a chance to make things right. Another night hearing his heart beat in his ears as he indulged in his desires for Aeryn until he finally dropped off into a fitful sleep only to wake feeling tired and unwell and craving anything with alcohol. Another night lying awake, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the darkness to give way to the sun and the long shadows it cast across the room signaling the start to another day.
John stood outside the front of the off-worlder’s hostel where their room was. He wore a dark cloak, the hood pulled forward to obscure his face and keep him dry. It was raining. In the sprawling market there were shops catering to the needs of travelers: foodcube purveyors hawking their wares next to arms dealers, repair shops, clothiers, and gadget and gizmo warehouses. And though it wasn’t lit up like a whorehouse in Amsterdam, it being technically illegal on this planet, there was also a brothel.
It was in a fairly non-descript building, its grey concrete-like outer walls and utilitarian architecture in keeping with the surrounding buildings. What set it apart as a brothel was the unmistakable sight of hookers plying their trade despite the weather and the ominous looking enforcers standing in the background keeping watch over their ‘goods.’ Though he didn’t know Telasian physiology well enough to accurately guess the ages of the working girls in front, they couldn’t be very old. They never were. Had he even been to planet that didn’t have a place like this somewhere? Not that he could remember.
According to D’Argo, this building not only served as a brothel, but as a sex slave clearinghouse, a sort of intergalactic Pimps R Us organization, and it was run by a man by the name of Maar’l. He held K’lexa’s daughter and God knows how many other young Telasian youth inside. Sometime tomorrow, rumor had it, a buyer was coming. If they were going to do something, it had to be now. But just as he feared the night before, there was nothing they could do.
The place was secure. No backdoor as far as he could tell. No sewer intake-they didn’t have the benefit of the complete layout of the place like they did with the Shadow Depository. A direct assault on the main entrance would be suicide. Besides the muscle on the street, the main entrance was guarded by two obviously armed guards as well as guards on top of the building with clear sight lines to the entrance. Unfortunately, not every bad guy in the universe was as stupid as Fe’Tor.
“Harvey,” John mentally paged. Though he didn’t believe the neural clone’s assessment would be any different than his, Harvey often had a unique viewpoint that helped on occasion. “Front and center.”
“You rang?” Harvey responded somewhat petulantly.
John ignored the clone’s pouting and asked, “What do you think? Can we do this?”
“You certainly don’t need me to tell you this entire venture is a waste of time. Without better intelligence on the building’s structure and layout and the numbers of combatants, you might as well put a pulse pistol to your head and end my suffering.”
“Yeah, I understand the situation, Harv. I just wanted to know if I’d missed anything, some weakness that I’ve overlooked.”
“As much as I believe your current condition has clouded your judgment…”
“We are not going there again.” John interrupted.
Harvey smirked back at John, “I see no obvious weaknesses.”
“You sure?” John pressed. Seeing those girls across the street turned his stomach.
Harvey followed John’s gaze to the streetwalkers and smiled lecherously. “Of course, we could always avail ourselves of a few of their services…gain vital information about their interior structures…”
“Keep your sick fantasies out of my head. Now get lost.”
Harvey vanished just as D’Argo came striding through the crowd towards him. He didn’t look very happy.
“Anything?” John asked.
“No. I even checked with a Luxan dealer I met in the market. No one has or is willing to help us get plans to the building.” D’Argo said with frustration. “They are too afraid. Apparently, this Maar’l character has a reputation for ruthlessness. People who cross him end up dead or missing.”
“So, what do you think we should do?”
D’Argo bit back a growl of frustration. “We should send that worthless piece of dren to Hezmana.”
John agreed with the sentiment but doubted their ability to follow through. “And exactly how’re we gonna do that?” D’Argo didn’t answer. There was none. He knew it. “I think it’s time we started talking plan B.”
“And what’s that?”
“See if we can buy K’lexa’s daughter back and call it a day.” Though he wasn’t completely happy about not being able to help the other slaves, John was also somewhat relieved. He just didn’t feel like launching an assault in the rain, not when he’d rather be in bed…or on Moya with a jug of whatever intoxicant was available. All that was left was to return to their room and inform one worried sick mother that there wasn’t a damn thing they could do to bring the slavers down.
“Come on, D,” John said, hitting his friend’s shoulder with his fist. “Let’s get this over with.” He turned to head back to their room, when all of a sudden an ear piercing siren sounded, coming, it seemed from everywhere. All around him people-feathered and otherwise-began running helter-skelter through the marketplace.
“What the hell is going on?” John asked to no one in particular, hands over his ears to block the noise, too distracted to notice the huge ground transports racing down the middle of the market square behind him. D’Argo grabbed him and threw him against the wall of the nearest building.
John looked at where he had stood a moment before, a bit dazed. “Thanks.”
“Pay attention, you frellnik,” D’Argo chided him.
Out of the transports poured dozens of Telasian government forces of some sort-wearing what looked like EVA suits. They rushed into the server area, fanning out to completely encircle the building before moving forward, taking into custody everyone left within the tightening circle.
John grabbed a fleeing Telasian by the arm, “Do you know what’s going on? Is this some sort of bomb squad?”
“It’s the alcohol interdiction police,” the red feathered Telasian man said as he pulled his arm out of John grip. The man ran down the nearest alley as fast as he could.
John was puzzled. “Wow. I knew they’d banned all the rot-gut, but…don’t you think this is a bit extreme?” He said to D’Argo.
D’Argo shook his head at John in mild disgust. “You don’t remember, do you?”
“Remember what?”
“You were too drunk during the requisite orientation for off worlders-they explained all this in detail.” D’Argo started for the hostel.
John trotted after him. “I wasn’t too drunk…I just fell asleep. It was boring as hell.”
“Uh huh.” D’Argo kept walking.
“Oh, come on, D’Argo. Just tell me what this is all about.”
“Possession of alcohol is illegal…
“I got that part.” John interjected. D’Argo paused, annoyed at the interruption. “Okay, shutting up now.”
“Anyone caught in the presence of alcohol is subject to arrest. Anyone in possession of alcohol faces punishment ranging from fines to possible execution, off worlders included. The city has extensive sensors spread throughout, all calibrated to detect alcohol. There was two more arns of dren like that. Any more questions?”
“No.”
“Good. Then lets get back to the hostel, as you said before, it’s time for plan B.” D’Argo started off again. John took a few steps, before stopping and turning to look back at the interdiction forces dragging out every last person in the targeted building. An idea was forming in his brain.
“Damn.” John mused out loud. “If we could just get our hands on some booze…with enough time we could even make our own…cause if we did…”
D’Argo stopped and turned to look at his friend as if he were insane. “We could what? Get drunk and get arrested on this planet too?”
“No.” John answered. “We could break up Maar’l secret slaver operation. We’ll get drunk later. But…”
John and D’Argo’s private comms frequency chirped and a microt later Pilot’s voice, with just a touch of anxiety in it, sounded in their ears. “Commander Crichton. Ka D’Argo. Are you there? Respond, please.”
“Yeah, Pilot. We’re here.” John replied while he and D’Argo exchanged a look of surprise. “We thought you were going to be out of contact for another four days.”
“Pilot and Moya were…were a little worried about you guys,” Chiana interjected. “Seems Moya intercepted a holocast…something about John Crichton busting up the freslin trade on LoMo.”
“Moya and I believe,” Pilot began again before Chiana finished, “that you have had sufficient time to consider your past behavior and we trust it will not be repeated.”
“No.” John and D’Argo responded simultaneously.
“We’ve learned our lesson. We’ll be model crewmates. Scout’s honor.” John promised, holding his right hand up in a Boy Scout salute.
“You have my word as a Luxan warrior.” D’Argo promised as well.
“In that case,” Pilot continued. “You may return to Moya when she returns. We’ll be in transport range in four arns.”
“That’s great, Pilot.” John said with genuine happiness. In a little over four arns, he could open one of his bottles of home brew and get plastered.
“Four arns should be enough time for us to finish taking care of business down here.” D’Argo added.
John snapped back to the present, realizing that for a moment that he’d completely forgot about the slavers. He shook his head. He did not have a problem and he was going to prove it.
“Actually, Pilot, we’re going to need more time than that.” John started rubbing his lower lip deep in thought, unmindful of the rain dripping down his cloak and soaking through his leathers, or the fact that his hands were still trembling, or that his headache continued unabated, or the fact that Aeryn stood a few feet to his left looking at him encouragingly. “We’ve got a bit of a situation down here.”
********
Continues in Part 2 http://seattlescaper.livejournal.com/7249.html#cutid1
Title: In Dependence
Rating: R
Disclaimer: The Jim Henson Co. owns the Farscape universe and characters. I'm just having some angsty fun.
Setting/Spoilers: Through SnS in S3
Summary: John and D'Argo are stuck on Telas Prime, the industrial planet Pilot banished them to. The planet's dry and D'Argo isn't speaking to him, and that's just the beginning.
Note: Originally planned as a cheery, get well John and D'Argo buddy fic for a friend who was going to be recuperating from surgery, things took a detour as I thought about when to set the story. I settled on the time right after SnS, intending to relate the madcap adventures of MJ and D on the industrial planet. So much for original intentions. Please let me know what you think.
In Dependence
Eight days.
They were stuck for eight frelling days on a planet Pilot had euphemistically called industrial-a bit of an understatement-the place was more like one giant superfund site. The air had a reddish brown tint to it, there was a constant sulfuric odor wafting in the occasional breeze, and the runoff from the previous day’s rainstorm had an oily film to it.
On top of that there wasn’t much to do. He could stay in the dingy room he and D’Argo had rented or he could go out and breathe the questionable air and wander the shops in the market. That was it. And with the setting of the sun even that much fun was out of the question-turns out the planet had a strictly enforced dusk-till-dawn curfew, something Pilot forget to mention when he’d booked their mandatory vacation to Telas Prime, the polar opposite of LoMo’s pleasure planet, anything goes atmosphere. As for his plan to pass the majority of his stay on Telas in a drunken stupor-shot to hell-the entire planet was dry, as in no alcohol allowed. John was sure Pilot forgot to mention that little tidbit on purpose.
Two days earlier Chiana had dumped them off at the spaceport with some snarky remark about playing nice with the locals-as if she could talk-and took the pod back to Moya, effectively cutting him off from his own secret stash of home made booze. Down on one of Moya’s lower tiers he’d recently perfected the fine art of food cube brewery and distillation. He had plenty of time to kill and there was no sense in running out of hooch between commerce planets. Besides, with the way D’Argo and Chiana and even Jool drank, the good stuff never lasted long. Best to be prepared.
John got up off the unkempt bed and walked over to the window, looking down at the bustling marketplace that surrounded the spaceport and where off-world travelers were restricted during there stay on Telas Prime. He was bored and he’d kill for a drink about now, just something to end the tedium, to help him forget why they were here in the first place-the pissing contest he and D’Argo had been involved in ever since Moya and Talyn had parted company. If Pilot’s plan was to force them to get along, it wasn’t working. He and D’Argo were still at odds.
The big guy was currently giving him the silent treatment, which was almost a relief from the near constant bitching and moaning he’d been spewing on Moya lately, except there was more to D’Argo’s silence than general Luxan grouchiness. He was angry-near hyper-rage territory. Turns out their lovely digs were near a black market slave operation that trafficked in young alien boys and girls, sold them for work or pleasure. D’Argo wanted to do something about it. John wanted to leave well enough alone.
“I can’t believe you think we shouldn’t get involved!” D’Argo had bellowed at him the day before. “They are selling children to a life of slavery or worse!”
“And just what is there to do, D?” he’d yelled back. “If you haven’t noticed, we’re not exactly equipped to take on a den of vicious slave traders. Besides, our track record’s not that great. Remember Jocacea. Remember Rovhu. And before you mention LoMo, we were just lucky. Let’s not make a career out of it.”
But D’Argo would not listen to reason. He’d just harrumphed at his arguments derisively then snarled his final argument in his oh so Luxan way, “You wouldn’t be saying that if it were Chiana being sold…or Aeryn.”
Low blow. John had jumped up from the one chair in the room and strode angrily at his friend. D’Argo had just broken their tacit agreement. No mention of Aeryn. It was like rubbing salt in an open wound. Well, two could play that game.
“No. But should we charge in there without a plan? Without backup? Like you did at the Shadow Depository when we were trying to buy Jothee out of slavery,” John yelled back, inches away from his face.
D’Argo winced at the mention of his son’s name. “This is not the same…”
“That’s exactly the point! And this is not our problem! Do you really think it’s our job to right every wrong in the Uncharted Territories, to be the scourge of every baddie from here to Timbuktu? News flash, buddy, we’re not the dynamic duo, ‘the great Crichton and D’Argo.’ We’re not the Justice League. Hell, we’re not even bush-league.” John raged at his friend, letting out all the latent bitterness and self loathing he’d felt since he’d killed Aeryn, since Zhaan’s sacrifice, since Kaarvok doubled his worthless ass and the other John jumped ship with the woman he loved. Feeling suddenly deflated, John stepped back and plopped down on the bed and sighed. “Maybe if things were different...but…all I want to do right now is to get through the rest of our stay here in one piece then high tail it back to Moya. Sorry to disappoint you but I’m not feeling like much of a hero right now.”
“No.” D’Argo shook his head in agreement and disappointment. “No. You’re not.” With that D’Argo had stormed out of the room, returning right before curfew-and hadn’t said a word to him since. At first light D’Argo left again.
John considered taking a walk in the morning. See the sights. Tour a factory or two. But decided he didn’t feel up to it. In fact, he felt like dren and couldn’t put the constant worry-the nagging feeling in the back of his head that he was supposed to be somewhere else-out of him mind.
Evening approached and the falling rays of the sun turned the low hanging smog a brilliant red, its momentary beauty contrasting against the otherwise desolate landscape-grey factories and tenements as far as the eye could see. John stood at the window rubbing his face from fatigue, his hands sweaty and trembling slightly. It must be from not eating. He’d been too nauseous from the near constant headache he’d had since getting here, or maybe it was the bad air, or the fact that he hadn’t slept well in days.
“Your ability for self delusion is impressive, John,” the cadaverous voice of Harvey whispered from his mind.
“What do you know, Harvey.”
Suddenly John found himself in a nondescript classroom. Harvey stood at the front dressed in a brown tweed jacket with suede elbow patches over a rumpled white oxford, blue jeans and brown loafers. “It’s quite simple. You’re going through alcohol withdrawal.”
“Yeah, right,” John laughed.
The neural clone reached up for one of the large white boards suspended on the front wall and pushed it up, revealing another white board behind it. Across the top, written in large letters it read, ‘Symptoms of Alcohol Withdrawal.’ Below it, bulleted in a neat list were the symptoms.
“Excessive sweating. Check. Rapid heartbeat. Check,” Harvey said as he tapped the board with a long wooden pointer.
“It’s damn hot on this planet and it’s got heavier than standard gravity. Of course my heart’s beating faster and I’m sweating buckets. I’m getting a damn workout just standing here.” That was fudging the truth a little. The gravity was a tenth of a point higher than earth standard, but well within the standard deviation out in the UT’s.
Harvey rolled his eyes and continued down the list. “Hand tremors. I see you’ve already noticed that symptom.”
“I’m just tired. You know I haven’t been sleeping well since…”
“Insomnia. Check.”
“Real funny, Harv. Lesson over.” John walked up to the front of the classroom and grabbed a dry eraser, wiping the rest of the symptoms off the board. He was not in the mood for his own bizarro Jiminy Cricket’s spin on his current state of mind.
“I’m only trying to help you, John.” Harvey persisted in a voice dripping with sympathy. “Recognition is the first step towards recovery, and I want you to know that I’m here for you.” With this Harvey placed a hand on John’s shoulder.
John jerked at the touch, rounding on the neural clone. “Don’t touch me! How many times do I have to tell you? Do not touch me!” John grabbed Harvey by the lapels and threw him against the wall.
“Physical agitation. Check,” Harvey replied calmly. “Are you sure there’s nothing wrong? You seem excessively anxious, another sign…”
A wave of anxiety struck him, centering on Aeryn, on wormholes, on the fact that Scorpius was still out there. With effort he pushed these fears aside. “Not buying it, Harvey. I’ve always been a bit of a worrier. Nothing new.”
“What about transient visual, tactile or auditory hallucinations. Illusions.”
John laughed, “Don’t think you count, Harv. Like I said, I’m fine.”
“What about me, John?” The unmistakable voice of Aeryn Sun said somewhere off to his right near the door. John turned towards the sound and saw Aeryn standing in the doorway, a look of concern on her face.
“Aeryn?” The pounding in his head, centered behind his eyes, got suddenly worse. He took an unsteady step towards her, confused. “How did you….”
“Grand Mal seizures. Check,” he heard Harvey’s voice whisper in his ear right before his vision blurred then blacked out completely.
*******
John came to with a start. He was on the floor between the window and the bed. D’Argo was crouching over him, shaking him roughly and repeating his name. John brought his hands weakly up to his head, as if holding his head tightly enough could keep it from falling to pieces.
“S’Okay, I’m awake,” John said as he cracked open his eyes. At least the room wasn’t spinning.
“You look like dren. What are you doing on the floor?” D’Argo demanded gruffly as he moved back to give John room to get up.
“Nothing.” John waved off the muted concern. And Harvey was simply imagining things; he wasn’t going through alcohol withdrawal-only homeless bums got the shakes. “Must’a just dozed off.” D’Argo gave him a narrow look and was about to press. Best cut this line of conversation off at the pass, John thought as he gave D’Argo one of his patented disarming smiles. “I see you’re talking to me again.”
It worked. D’Argo stood up, his face immediately clouding. He pulled a data chip out of a pocket and tossed it to the floor. John picked it up, looking at it closely. It was a fairly standard data storage device. “What’s on this? Another bounty?”
“It’s a recording. It shows our rescue of Chiana and Jool from Fe’Tor’s freslin auction house.”
“No frell.”
“Yes frell. It seems Kabaah had more than a few eyeballs out that night.”
John scrambled to his feet and moved across the room to the replay console and loaded the chip. Sitting down on the edge of the bed he watched the events of their last night on Lo’Mo unfold-from their entrance to the point when things went predictably pear shaped. He lost the bid; so much for plan A. Then D’Argo lost his cool and his disguise. The usual firefight with security came next-cue the stampeding crowd screaming and running for the doors.
Through all the mayhem, the camera eye (literally) zoomed in on the lone figure of John Crichton walking calmly down the steps to the auction room floor, pulse pistol drawn and held at the ready. He approached the tripod where Chiana hung limply, her buyer too involved in pawing over his latest possession to notice Crichton’s approach until he was staring Winona’s ugly stepsister down the barrel. Chi, never one to pass up an opportunity to pass on a little payback, kneed the guy squarely in the nuts as John adjusted his sights and hit the lights.
Despite the darkness, Kabaah’s eyecams tracked him to the milking room where they met up with D’Argo, Jool, and Raxil and he watched himself get sucker punched by that bastard Fe’Tor. He felt like cheering as he watched Chiana give Fe’Tor a freslin bath, fittingly hoisted by his own petard. The clip ended on the shadowy figures of Chiana and himself running out the darkened auction room before fading to black.
“Damn.” John shook his head and looked up at his friend. “You know, we really could have used this on Moya. Pilot might have believed me. Where’d you get this thing anyway?”
“In the market. It’s everywhere. And it’s the topic of every conversation. John Crichton busted up the freslin market. John Crichton freed the freslin slaves. John Crichton stole the secret freslin production designs."
“We destroyed that chip!” John exclaimed. “Great! No wonder I’m becoming the Uncharted Territories biggest outlaw.”
“I’m surprised I haven’t been recognized.” D’Argo said with frustration as he began pacing the room. “You certainly would be. It’s a good thing you’ve stayed in here brooding…”
“I’m not brooding.”
“Yes, you are.”
“No. I’m not.” John protested. Feeling sorry for himself, maybe. Brooding? No way.
“You’ve been shut up in this room like some love sick Tresnak.” D’Argo took the data chip out the console, holding it in his hand.
John sat on the bed, tired, the pounding in his head unrelenting. “I’m just not feeling a hundred percent. Not brooding.”
“Whatever.” D’Argo thankfully let that subject drop. “What I am saying is you are sure to be recognized. Moya is...”
“…still out of contact. Pilot made that clear. I believe his exact words were, ‘Moya will be cataloging a nearby nebula and will consequently be out of contact for the duration of your stay on Telas. I suggest you exercise discretion, Commander.’” John said in his best Pilot impersonation before shooting a look back up at his friend. “Do you think busting up the slave market’s still such a great idea?”
D’Argo didn’t have a ready answer.
“Yeah, I thought so.” John concluded.
“You know, you can be a real bastard sometimes.” D’Argo retorted angrily. “And yes, I do think…with the element of surprise….”
“Fat chance that happening now.”
“Yes. Well, given the situation, I think it best that you remain in our room until Moya returns.” D’Argo tossed a small satchel at him, hitting him squarely in the chest. John grabbed it and looked inside-there was a small loaf of bread, some fresh fruit and cheese. “And eat something, you haven’t eaten in days.”
“Yes, mother.” John said dully, the thought of food still not appealing despite his obvious hunger. Best choke some of it down. “Anything else, Mr. Good News?”
Before D’Argo could answer there was a knock at the door. John stood quickly, dropping the satchel to the floor and drawing his pulse pistol. D’Argo grabbed his qualta blade from its holster. There was another knock. John motioned with his head for D’Argo to answer while he moved to cover the opening, hiding in the dim light as best he could. With his right hand holding his blade D’Argo opened the door in one quick motion and stepped back, bringing his own weapon to bear. A lone person stood in the darkened hallway, their face obscured by a hood.
“Who are you and what do you want?” D’Argo ordered.
“My name is K’lexa and…and I am looking for the one called Crichton,” the person said with a light, feminine voice-at least it sounded female.
John kept his pistol trained on the woman while D’Argo motioned her into the room and closed the door immediately behind her. She lowered her hood and turned towards John. Though he’d spent three days on the planet he hadn’t actually seen one of the locals up close until now. The woman looked like a cross between a cat and a parrot, with large jade green eyes set wide apart and a body and face similar to the Veniks but feathered not furred. D’Argo looked at him, waiting for his response.
“What do you want with John Crichton?” he said, lowering his gun but keeping it in his hand.
“I come to beg your assistance,” the woman pleaded. “No one else will help me.”
“Help me Obiwan Kenobi.” Harvey voice whispered in falsetto mockingly at his side, appearing in his peripheral vision dressed in a long white belted dress complete with huge black hair buns pinned to the sides of his black leather skull cap. “You’d think there’d be some originality left in the universe. How come every damsel in distress sounds the same?”
“Go away.” John hissed at Harvey.
It soon became apparent that he’d spoken out loud because the green cat-bird lady fell immediately to her knees and began sobbing, “Please. Don’t send me away. Please. My daughter…she’s only twelve cycles. Please. They’ll sell her to some off worlder…to use as a slave….Please.”
Great. Just great. “No. I didn’t mean…hell…It’s just…” Harvey chuckled softly in his ear.
D’Argo shot John a withering look. “Of course we’ll listen,” he interjected before John could finish. He pulled up the only chair and extended a hand to the quivering mass on the floor. “Please, have a seat.”
The woman hesitated for a moment, looking up at D’Argo before taking his hand and allowing him to lead her to the chair. John holstered his pistol and stood against the wall, arms folding, jaw clenched tightly against any further outbursts.
“This should be entertaining at the very least.” Harvey chattered away, leaning up against the wall near him. “It’s always so heartbreaking when you disappoint the deluded souls who’ve come to think of you as some sort of…savior.”
“Can it, Harvey, or I’m gonna throw you back in the trash where you belong.” John muttered.
Harvey took a sharp intake of breath. “You can’t possibly be thinking…”
“No. I’m not.”
“You should, John.” Aeryn’s gravelly voice suddenly sounded from across the room. He looked up and there she stood, in what he called her rest position, thumbs tucked casually in her weapons belt, just over the exposed flesh of her taut stomach, her hair pulled back in the tight military style braid she’d favored since the ice planet. Her grey blue eyes met his and held them.
“This is not happening.” John shut his eyes tight against the new specter in the room.
“All we are doing is listening to this poor woman. What has gotten into you?” D’Argo hissed sub voce, knocking his shoulder into John as he brushed to retrieve his pack, returning with a small water skin and a mug which he filled and handed to their guest. “Please,” D’Argo said encouragingly, taking a seat across from her on the bed. “Continue.”
The woman took a tentative sip, her green feathers making a soft ruffling sound as she calmed down at D’Argo’s gentle words and John silence. With a tired voice, obviously weighed down with sorrow, she began her tale. “My family is very poor…ever since my husband died in a factory accident. Ten days ago a man came offering work, said there was plenty of jobs for young boys and girls who were willing to work hard. I’d heard rumors....”
John looked over at the green alien and shook his head. There was nothing new under the sun. Evil was evil no matter the species or planet. The parrot-cat lady’s story sounded just like some exposé on Dateline NBC about child sex slaves in Bangkok he’d watched years ago. But he barely heard her tale of woe, his eyes riveted instead on the pale figment of his imagination crossing the room towards him.
“Do you mean to tell me,” the Aeryn hallucination said as she got closer, “that this sort of thing happens on your home planet? Isn’t that against the law? Aren’t there governments, police forces to prevent the sexual abuse and enslavement of children?”
“Tsk. Tsk. Officer Sun. As you should know, the strong always prey on the weak.” Harvey said to the approaching illusion. “It’s quite amazing, John. Your hallucination of Officer Sun is almost as naïve as the real McCoy.”
“…and when she didn’t contact me as promised, I became worried….”
“You do not get to talk about Aeryn! Get lost! I mean it!” John grabbed Harvey and tossed him into the corner. D’Argo glared daggers at him again. If his life wasn’t already off the rails John thought he might be in danger of completely loosing it.
“No need to get so testy, John.” Harvey said as he dusted himself off before vanishing.
Three plus cycles in the Uncharted Territories had certainly taken the shine off any of the remaining ‘why can’t we all just get along’ attitude he’d brought with him through the wormhole. These days, Aeryn’s usual solution sounded more rational-kill the bastards. John moved to the window and turned his back to the room, to the woman crying out her story to an attentive D’Argo, to the specter standing a few feet away.
“….and it’s my fault. If I…I hadn’t sent her…but we needed the money. Now she’s in the hands of the slavers…”
He heard Aeryn come up behind him and even though he knew it wasn’t really her, he couldn’t help himself. He turned around. She turned up the corners of her mouth in a slight smile, “I know you, John. You want to help. It’s the right thing to do.” She took another step forward and he swore he could smell her. “Didn’t you once say that evil flourishes when good people do nothing?”
“…I went to the local officials…”
“But what happens, Aeryn, when the good guy screws up?” John broke her steady gaze and hung his head. “People die. Zhaan dies. You die.”
“…said that they could do nothing. Without proof…”
Her phantom hand, cool and strong stroked his cheek and gently lifted his head upwards to meet her gaze. “True, you’ve made mistakes, John.”
“…and in two days they will be sold to a …”
“But, isn’t failure better than standing idly by? Would things be better otherwise?”
“I don’t know, Aeryn,” John answered tiredly. “I don’t know anymore. The only thing I know for sure is-things would be better if you were here.”
Aeryn trailed her hand down to his chest and rested it over his breast bone; his heart rate quicken at her touch. “I’m here, John.”
John shook his head in denial. “You’re not real.”
The Aeryn hallucination pressed the length of her body against his, cradled his head between her hands and angled her head forwards to kiss him. John closed his eyes as she approached and felt the cool, wet touch of her lips against his. He gasped; it felt so real. She trailed her lips and nose across his face and he trembled, tears spilling down his cheeks. “But your love for me is real, isn’t it?” she said softly in his ear.
“Yes,” he whispered back.
“You agree?” D’Argo voice boomed nearby. John opened his eyes. The phantom Aeryn was gone; instead D’Argo stood in front of him expectantly. John looked over at the cat-bird lady and her tear stained feathered face strained with desperation. “You agree to help?” D’Argo repeated.
John rubbed his face quickly to hide the tears, to give him a moment to think. What would Aeryn do? He laughed internally at the image of a black T with WWAD written in large red letters across the front. He knew. She wouldn’t hesitate, not if there was a chance. John looked back up at D’Argo and nodded. “We can at least check it out, see if there’s anything that can be done.”
“Thank you! Thank you!” the woman said repeatedly.
“Don’t thank me yet. There might not be anything we can do,” John replied. “Come back first thing in the morning. Nothing to do tonight but sleep.”
The woman bowed her head quickly, “Of course.” With that she replaced her hood and opened the door. She paused briefly in the doorway. “And I understand…all hope may be lost. I thank you for trying nevertheless.”
*******
Another night.
Another night spent tossing in bed next to the slumbering bulk that was D’Argo. Another night with his mind run away with doubts, regurgitating the past and finding only fault, wishing that fate or whatever passed for a deity in this part of the universe would give him a chance to make things right. Another night hearing his heart beat in his ears as he indulged in his desires for Aeryn until he finally dropped off into a fitful sleep only to wake feeling tired and unwell and craving anything with alcohol. Another night lying awake, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the darkness to give way to the sun and the long shadows it cast across the room signaling the start to another day.
John stood outside the front of the off-worlder’s hostel where their room was. He wore a dark cloak, the hood pulled forward to obscure his face and keep him dry. It was raining. In the sprawling market there were shops catering to the needs of travelers: foodcube purveyors hawking their wares next to arms dealers, repair shops, clothiers, and gadget and gizmo warehouses. And though it wasn’t lit up like a whorehouse in Amsterdam, it being technically illegal on this planet, there was also a brothel.
It was in a fairly non-descript building, its grey concrete-like outer walls and utilitarian architecture in keeping with the surrounding buildings. What set it apart as a brothel was the unmistakable sight of hookers plying their trade despite the weather and the ominous looking enforcers standing in the background keeping watch over their ‘goods.’ Though he didn’t know Telasian physiology well enough to accurately guess the ages of the working girls in front, they couldn’t be very old. They never were. Had he even been to planet that didn’t have a place like this somewhere? Not that he could remember.
According to D’Argo, this building not only served as a brothel, but as a sex slave clearinghouse, a sort of intergalactic Pimps R Us organization, and it was run by a man by the name of Maar’l. He held K’lexa’s daughter and God knows how many other young Telasian youth inside. Sometime tomorrow, rumor had it, a buyer was coming. If they were going to do something, it had to be now. But just as he feared the night before, there was nothing they could do.
The place was secure. No backdoor as far as he could tell. No sewer intake-they didn’t have the benefit of the complete layout of the place like they did with the Shadow Depository. A direct assault on the main entrance would be suicide. Besides the muscle on the street, the main entrance was guarded by two obviously armed guards as well as guards on top of the building with clear sight lines to the entrance. Unfortunately, not every bad guy in the universe was as stupid as Fe’Tor.
“Harvey,” John mentally paged. Though he didn’t believe the neural clone’s assessment would be any different than his, Harvey often had a unique viewpoint that helped on occasion. “Front and center.”
“You rang?” Harvey responded somewhat petulantly.
John ignored the clone’s pouting and asked, “What do you think? Can we do this?”
“You certainly don’t need me to tell you this entire venture is a waste of time. Without better intelligence on the building’s structure and layout and the numbers of combatants, you might as well put a pulse pistol to your head and end my suffering.”
“Yeah, I understand the situation, Harv. I just wanted to know if I’d missed anything, some weakness that I’ve overlooked.”
“As much as I believe your current condition has clouded your judgment…”
“We are not going there again.” John interrupted.
Harvey smirked back at John, “I see no obvious weaknesses.”
“You sure?” John pressed. Seeing those girls across the street turned his stomach.
Harvey followed John’s gaze to the streetwalkers and smiled lecherously. “Of course, we could always avail ourselves of a few of their services…gain vital information about their interior structures…”
“Keep your sick fantasies out of my head. Now get lost.”
Harvey vanished just as D’Argo came striding through the crowd towards him. He didn’t look very happy.
“Anything?” John asked.
“No. I even checked with a Luxan dealer I met in the market. No one has or is willing to help us get plans to the building.” D’Argo said with frustration. “They are too afraid. Apparently, this Maar’l character has a reputation for ruthlessness. People who cross him end up dead or missing.”
“So, what do you think we should do?”
D’Argo bit back a growl of frustration. “We should send that worthless piece of dren to Hezmana.”
John agreed with the sentiment but doubted their ability to follow through. “And exactly how’re we gonna do that?” D’Argo didn’t answer. There was none. He knew it. “I think it’s time we started talking plan B.”
“And what’s that?”
“See if we can buy K’lexa’s daughter back and call it a day.” Though he wasn’t completely happy about not being able to help the other slaves, John was also somewhat relieved. He just didn’t feel like launching an assault in the rain, not when he’d rather be in bed…or on Moya with a jug of whatever intoxicant was available. All that was left was to return to their room and inform one worried sick mother that there wasn’t a damn thing they could do to bring the slavers down.
“Come on, D,” John said, hitting his friend’s shoulder with his fist. “Let’s get this over with.” He turned to head back to their room, when all of a sudden an ear piercing siren sounded, coming, it seemed from everywhere. All around him people-feathered and otherwise-began running helter-skelter through the marketplace.
“What the hell is going on?” John asked to no one in particular, hands over his ears to block the noise, too distracted to notice the huge ground transports racing down the middle of the market square behind him. D’Argo grabbed him and threw him against the wall of the nearest building.
John looked at where he had stood a moment before, a bit dazed. “Thanks.”
“Pay attention, you frellnik,” D’Argo chided him.
Out of the transports poured dozens of Telasian government forces of some sort-wearing what looked like EVA suits. They rushed into the server area, fanning out to completely encircle the building before moving forward, taking into custody everyone left within the tightening circle.
John grabbed a fleeing Telasian by the arm, “Do you know what’s going on? Is this some sort of bomb squad?”
“It’s the alcohol interdiction police,” the red feathered Telasian man said as he pulled his arm out of John grip. The man ran down the nearest alley as fast as he could.
John was puzzled. “Wow. I knew they’d banned all the rot-gut, but…don’t you think this is a bit extreme?” He said to D’Argo.
D’Argo shook his head at John in mild disgust. “You don’t remember, do you?”
“Remember what?”
“You were too drunk during the requisite orientation for off worlders-they explained all this in detail.” D’Argo started for the hostel.
John trotted after him. “I wasn’t too drunk…I just fell asleep. It was boring as hell.”
“Uh huh.” D’Argo kept walking.
“Oh, come on, D’Argo. Just tell me what this is all about.”
“Possession of alcohol is illegal…
“I got that part.” John interjected. D’Argo paused, annoyed at the interruption. “Okay, shutting up now.”
“Anyone caught in the presence of alcohol is subject to arrest. Anyone in possession of alcohol faces punishment ranging from fines to possible execution, off worlders included. The city has extensive sensors spread throughout, all calibrated to detect alcohol. There was two more arns of dren like that. Any more questions?”
“No.”
“Good. Then lets get back to the hostel, as you said before, it’s time for plan B.” D’Argo started off again. John took a few steps, before stopping and turning to look back at the interdiction forces dragging out every last person in the targeted building. An idea was forming in his brain.
“Damn.” John mused out loud. “If we could just get our hands on some booze…with enough time we could even make our own…cause if we did…”
D’Argo stopped and turned to look at his friend as if he were insane. “We could what? Get drunk and get arrested on this planet too?”
“No.” John answered. “We could break up Maar’l secret slaver operation. We’ll get drunk later. But…”
John and D’Argo’s private comms frequency chirped and a microt later Pilot’s voice, with just a touch of anxiety in it, sounded in their ears. “Commander Crichton. Ka D’Argo. Are you there? Respond, please.”
“Yeah, Pilot. We’re here.” John replied while he and D’Argo exchanged a look of surprise. “We thought you were going to be out of contact for another four days.”
“Pilot and Moya were…were a little worried about you guys,” Chiana interjected. “Seems Moya intercepted a holocast…something about John Crichton busting up the freslin trade on LoMo.”
“Moya and I believe,” Pilot began again before Chiana finished, “that you have had sufficient time to consider your past behavior and we trust it will not be repeated.”
“No.” John and D’Argo responded simultaneously.
“We’ve learned our lesson. We’ll be model crewmates. Scout’s honor.” John promised, holding his right hand up in a Boy Scout salute.
“You have my word as a Luxan warrior.” D’Argo promised as well.
“In that case,” Pilot continued. “You may return to Moya when she returns. We’ll be in transport range in four arns.”
“That’s great, Pilot.” John said with genuine happiness. In a little over four arns, he could open one of his bottles of home brew and get plastered.
“Four arns should be enough time for us to finish taking care of business down here.” D’Argo added.
John snapped back to the present, realizing that for a moment that he’d completely forgot about the slavers. He shook his head. He did not have a problem and he was going to prove it.
“Actually, Pilot, we’re going to need more time than that.” John started rubbing his lower lip deep in thought, unmindful of the rain dripping down his cloak and soaking through his leathers, or the fact that his hands were still trembling, or that his headache continued unabated, or the fact that Aeryn stood a few feet to his left looking at him encouragingly. “We’ve got a bit of a situation down here.”
********
Continues in Part 2 http://seattlescaper.livejournal.com/7249.html#cutid1