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Rygel Ficathon assignment, mostly on time, though also unbetaed. Mild spoilers for Jeremiah Crichton.
For satan_pingu:
There Ain't No Good Chain Gang
by Eve11
----------------------------------------------
Rygel the Sixteenth reminded himself daily that he was a Dominar, a sovereign ruler over billions of subjects, but it had been many cycles since he had actually felt like one. That was why he would miss Acquara. True, shakloom jerky and rantha berry wine were only the riches of shipbound travelers and fugitives far from home. But presented with the proper respect and deference warranted by his position -- for that, he had been genuinely grateful to the Acquarans.
"Hey Buckwheat, is this the place?"
It had taken only six solar days' journey from Acquara before reality violently reasserted itself. By the time Pilot noticed the scan, four marauders had converged on them, firing to disable. Moya's evasives had given them fifteen microts of abject panic, enough time to lurch into Starburst and spill Rygel's last flagon of wine. His stomachs growled. He would miss that wine.
"Fluffy?"
They had escaped at the cost of Moya's hetch drive and amnexus reserves. Crippled, bleeding, it had taken almost all of Moya's remaining strength to get them into orbit around Sionne's commerce moon.
"Earth to Sparky..."
Rygel fidgeted on his thronesled, suppressing a growl. It had also taken Crichton and D'Argo forcing him headfirst down one of the sluice ducts to repair a breach. He still had stale amnexus fluid under his fingernails, between his toes, and in other... orifices. He adjusted his robes and hovered forward. Crichton peered uncomprehending at a plaque of text outside the rather large, stark establishment they had been directed to by the merchants at the town square.
"Cryaidian vernacular," Rygel said with a hint of disdain. Leave it to Moya's crew to saddle him with this illiterate, useless human when he was trying to negotiate business deals. He cleared his throat. "Seventy-fifth synthetics distribution conglomerate. Fuel, fluid, lubricants.'"
"That's what it says?"
"Among other, unimportant things."
"Right," Crichton said as they entered. "So these are the guys with the tankers full of O-neg."
The Seventy-fifth conglomerate's sales associate was a spindly Sionian named Yehal, and all of Rygel's charm and business savvy were needed to convince Yehal that they had the resources to pay for six lennarts of amnexus fluid. Rygel spent an arn negotiating -- which was a staggering feat when one had nothing to negotiate with -- and managed to get them to the brink of "politely excused," which was of course well within his plans.
Of course Crichton misunderstood. Of course he made things much worse.
"Look, I understand you want to make some money for the Walking Stick community, but we've got a Leviathan up there who will die without a transfusion!"
Rygel took a deep breath, trying to come up with a way to salvage the situation. Tactical suicide, that's what it was.
Yehal sat back for a few microts, then looked at them solemnly.
"Perhaps we may still be able to offer assistance," he said. "After all, we do value life."
Crichton -- idiot that he was -- smiled. "You do not know how nice it is to hear--"
"As a commodity," Yehal finished. "How many do you speak for?"
---------------
"They have what?" Aeryn's voice echoed over the comms in the building's large front hall. "They want what?"
Amazing how that woman could make Crichton squirm, even over vast distances. Not that the probakto didn't deserve it.
"I don't know the specifics. They have a database of some kind, that traces genetic lineage--"
"What the frell does that have to do with anything?"
"Aeryn--"
"We sent you down there to get amnexus fluid."
"I know--"
Rygel waited, relishing Crichton's discomfort for ten microts before finally interrupting.
"They are a non-violent expansionist collective," he said calmly. "They trade in subjects. Citizens."
"And tell me again what they want for the amnexus fluid?"
Crichton sighed. "They want Rygel."
"Aeryn!" came D'Argo's voice over the comms. "Pilot needs you on tier two!"
"On my way," To them, "I have to go. Work something out, and quickly. She's getting worse."
----------------
"Our database indicates that the Hynerian is royal lineage," Yehal said. "He speaks for many subjects. We will pay six lennarts of amnexus fluid in exchange for him."
Crichton paced the hall. "See, we can't agree to that--"
"Done," Rygel interrupted. "Six lennarts. Three days docking rights. I -- and the lives I speak for -- go with you."
"Wait," Crichton said. "You can't!"
"Caffra will oversee the amnexus transaction," Yehal said, pointing to an assistant who dutifully started escorting Crichton away. Turning to Rygel, he said, "You must follow me. No harm will come to you. As I said, we value life."
They had gone only a few motras before hearing a desperate "Wait!" and Crichton's echoing steps as he caught up with them.
"What if I told you he wasn't worth anything? That he speaks for no subjects, nobody listens, nobody cares about him?"
Yehal cocked his head. "Currency is perception as much as reality," he said. "While the database confirms, this transaction cements the value."
Crichton leaned down. "Rygel, you don't have to do this."
"Do you have a better plan? We are running out of time."
"But, Hyneria. Your throne. You can't -- we can't ask you to give up that hope."
Every so often, Crichton surprised him. And Rygel thought, maybe they weren't so different. Except for him being smarter and better looking. If Crichton would not make a good Dominar, he would make a loyal subject. But then, his mother always said that either of those roles was both.
"Moya can ask," Rygel said. "She's the one who's dying. Fix her, Crichton."
Caffra corralled his charge again. Yehal started forward, and Rygel turned away, following him down the hall.
"I'd be wrong!" Crichton called out.
Rygel stopped for a microt, listening.
"If I said you were worthless, I'd be wrong."
---------------
Two days later, Crichton was packing the last half-lennart of amnexus fluid from the seventy-fifth conglomerate of Sionne onto a transport pod. Two days, and he was still trying to figure out how even to find Rygel again, let alone rescue him, when he was confronted by a frowning Walking Stick, followed by another Walking Stick that must have passed for 'burly' to his species.
The first one frowned deeper and flashed some kind of ID. "Investigator Ryoda, Internal Revenue Service."
Crichton's eyes widened. "Out here? Hell, you guys are serious."
Ryoda ignored him. He clicked at a guard behind him, who upended a bag and unceremoniously dumped one Dominar of Hyneria, complete with thronesled, onto the ground.
"Does this belong to you?" Ryoda said.
Crichton took a defensive step back. "Well--"
"Because Sionne and its sister worlds do not take kindly to fraud," Ryoda said. The burly walking stick hefted its weapon.
"Look," Crichton put on his best smile, "I'm sure this is just a misunderstanding. What the database confirmed, our transaction cemented, right?"
"There is a mitigating circumstance in this case." Ryoda surveyed the pod disinterestedly. "We will have to confiscate the amnexus fluid acquired in this transaction."
"Well, see, most of it is already transfused--"
Ryoda stepped forward, right into Crichton's personal space. "Then we will have to extract payment, plus penalty, from you directly."
Out of the corner of his eye, Crichton caught sight of movement low to the ground.
"That really doesn't sound good," he said.
Behind Ryoda, the burly Walking Stick took a step forward. But then it let out a yelp, crashing to the ground. As Ryoda turned toward the sound, Crichton balled a fist and gave the Walking Stick the hardest punch he could on the side of its spindly head.
On the side of its spindly, extremely hard, head.
"OW!!!"
Ryoda growled and hit a comm. "Backup!!!"
"My fingers!"
"Quit complaining!" This from Rygel, who had disarmed the guard after tripping him and was climbing onto the thronesled. "Move!"
---------------
Rygel revved his sled and careened up the pod staircase, with Crichton denches behind.
"You thought I was seriously going to turn myself over to them?" he said, veering aft. "Not a chance."
"Oh, you knew they would throw you back?" Crichton dodged a stun blast and threw himself at the pod controls. The door hissed shut.
"You should learn to read, Crichton," Rygel pointed vaguely toward the Cryaidian plaque. "These idiots are members of the Consortium of Traow."
"Traow? That critter with the Tavloids?"
A muffled 'Surrender your craft immediately!' came from outside.
Rygel smiled as the engines thrummed to life. "Their supreme ruler already tried to endorse me once. Didn't do him any good."
Jotheb had warned him, the microt he was ransomed he would put a freeze on Dominar Rygel the Sixteenth across the entire Consortium of Traow. But bureaucracy was bureaucracy, be it six hundred billion subjects or ten million worlds. It took time for that news to reach the outer systems once Yehal tried to have Rygel registered. And of course, time was all they really needed.
"Guess they won't get fooled again," Crichton said. Projectiles pinged off the hull as they lifted off.
"Did Moya get enough fluid?" Rygel asked. "Is she healed? Can she get us out of here?"
"Thanks to you, mister Abignale, yes, yes, and yes."
"That's Dominar Am-ming-gail to you," Rygel bristled. "And don't you forget it."
Rygel the Sixteenth desperately missed being a Dominar. Acquara had reminded him, how every day of his life was one more stolen away before he could reclaim his rightful throne. But every miserable day, he would keep getting closer. Some days it was more useful to be worthless, that was all.
"How could I forget?" Crichton said. As the transport pod tore out of the atmosphere, heading toward Moya and away from yet another reason for them to run, he sat back, shaking his head, smiling.
"I mean, Sparky, you sneaky little son of a Congressional check, you bounced!"
---------------------
End
For satan_pingu who requested Rygel used as currency.
"There ain't no good in an evil hearted woman,
And I ain't cut out to be no Jesse James,
And you don't go writing hot checks, down in Mississippi,
And there ain't no good chain gang."
--Johnny Cash
For satan_pingu:
There Ain't No Good Chain Gang
by Eve11
----------------------------------------------
Rygel the Sixteenth reminded himself daily that he was a Dominar, a sovereign ruler over billions of subjects, but it had been many cycles since he had actually felt like one. That was why he would miss Acquara. True, shakloom jerky and rantha berry wine were only the riches of shipbound travelers and fugitives far from home. But presented with the proper respect and deference warranted by his position -- for that, he had been genuinely grateful to the Acquarans.
"Hey Buckwheat, is this the place?"
It had taken only six solar days' journey from Acquara before reality violently reasserted itself. By the time Pilot noticed the scan, four marauders had converged on them, firing to disable. Moya's evasives had given them fifteen microts of abject panic, enough time to lurch into Starburst and spill Rygel's last flagon of wine. His stomachs growled. He would miss that wine.
"Fluffy?"
They had escaped at the cost of Moya's hetch drive and amnexus reserves. Crippled, bleeding, it had taken almost all of Moya's remaining strength to get them into orbit around Sionne's commerce moon.
"Earth to Sparky..."
Rygel fidgeted on his thronesled, suppressing a growl. It had also taken Crichton and D'Argo forcing him headfirst down one of the sluice ducts to repair a breach. He still had stale amnexus fluid under his fingernails, between his toes, and in other... orifices. He adjusted his robes and hovered forward. Crichton peered uncomprehending at a plaque of text outside the rather large, stark establishment they had been directed to by the merchants at the town square.
"Cryaidian vernacular," Rygel said with a hint of disdain. Leave it to Moya's crew to saddle him with this illiterate, useless human when he was trying to negotiate business deals. He cleared his throat. "Seventy-fifth synthetics distribution conglomerate. Fuel, fluid, lubricants.'"
"That's what it says?"
"Among other, unimportant things."
"Right," Crichton said as they entered. "So these are the guys with the tankers full of O-neg."
The Seventy-fifth conglomerate's sales associate was a spindly Sionian named Yehal, and all of Rygel's charm and business savvy were needed to convince Yehal that they had the resources to pay for six lennarts of amnexus fluid. Rygel spent an arn negotiating -- which was a staggering feat when one had nothing to negotiate with -- and managed to get them to the brink of "politely excused," which was of course well within his plans.
Of course Crichton misunderstood. Of course he made things much worse.
"Look, I understand you want to make some money for the Walking Stick community, but we've got a Leviathan up there who will die without a transfusion!"
Rygel took a deep breath, trying to come up with a way to salvage the situation. Tactical suicide, that's what it was.
Yehal sat back for a few microts, then looked at them solemnly.
"Perhaps we may still be able to offer assistance," he said. "After all, we do value life."
Crichton -- idiot that he was -- smiled. "You do not know how nice it is to hear--"
"As a commodity," Yehal finished. "How many do you speak for?"
---------------
"They have what?" Aeryn's voice echoed over the comms in the building's large front hall. "They want what?"
Amazing how that woman could make Crichton squirm, even over vast distances. Not that the probakto didn't deserve it.
"I don't know the specifics. They have a database of some kind, that traces genetic lineage--"
"What the frell does that have to do with anything?"
"Aeryn--"
"We sent you down there to get amnexus fluid."
"I know--"
Rygel waited, relishing Crichton's discomfort for ten microts before finally interrupting.
"They are a non-violent expansionist collective," he said calmly. "They trade in subjects. Citizens."
"And tell me again what they want for the amnexus fluid?"
Crichton sighed. "They want Rygel."
"Aeryn!" came D'Argo's voice over the comms. "Pilot needs you on tier two!"
"On my way," To them, "I have to go. Work something out, and quickly. She's getting worse."
----------------
"Our database indicates that the Hynerian is royal lineage," Yehal said. "He speaks for many subjects. We will pay six lennarts of amnexus fluid in exchange for him."
Crichton paced the hall. "See, we can't agree to that--"
"Done," Rygel interrupted. "Six lennarts. Three days docking rights. I -- and the lives I speak for -- go with you."
"Wait," Crichton said. "You can't!"
"Caffra will oversee the amnexus transaction," Yehal said, pointing to an assistant who dutifully started escorting Crichton away. Turning to Rygel, he said, "You must follow me. No harm will come to you. As I said, we value life."
They had gone only a few motras before hearing a desperate "Wait!" and Crichton's echoing steps as he caught up with them.
"What if I told you he wasn't worth anything? That he speaks for no subjects, nobody listens, nobody cares about him?"
Yehal cocked his head. "Currency is perception as much as reality," he said. "While the database confirms, this transaction cements the value."
Crichton leaned down. "Rygel, you don't have to do this."
"Do you have a better plan? We are running out of time."
"But, Hyneria. Your throne. You can't -- we can't ask you to give up that hope."
Every so often, Crichton surprised him. And Rygel thought, maybe they weren't so different. Except for him being smarter and better looking. If Crichton would not make a good Dominar, he would make a loyal subject. But then, his mother always said that either of those roles was both.
"Moya can ask," Rygel said. "She's the one who's dying. Fix her, Crichton."
Caffra corralled his charge again. Yehal started forward, and Rygel turned away, following him down the hall.
"I'd be wrong!" Crichton called out.
Rygel stopped for a microt, listening.
"If I said you were worthless, I'd be wrong."
---------------
Two days later, Crichton was packing the last half-lennart of amnexus fluid from the seventy-fifth conglomerate of Sionne onto a transport pod. Two days, and he was still trying to figure out how even to find Rygel again, let alone rescue him, when he was confronted by a frowning Walking Stick, followed by another Walking Stick that must have passed for 'burly' to his species.
The first one frowned deeper and flashed some kind of ID. "Investigator Ryoda, Internal Revenue Service."
Crichton's eyes widened. "Out here? Hell, you guys are serious."
Ryoda ignored him. He clicked at a guard behind him, who upended a bag and unceremoniously dumped one Dominar of Hyneria, complete with thronesled, onto the ground.
"Does this belong to you?" Ryoda said.
Crichton took a defensive step back. "Well--"
"Because Sionne and its sister worlds do not take kindly to fraud," Ryoda said. The burly walking stick hefted its weapon.
"Look," Crichton put on his best smile, "I'm sure this is just a misunderstanding. What the database confirmed, our transaction cemented, right?"
"There is a mitigating circumstance in this case." Ryoda surveyed the pod disinterestedly. "We will have to confiscate the amnexus fluid acquired in this transaction."
"Well, see, most of it is already transfused--"
Ryoda stepped forward, right into Crichton's personal space. "Then we will have to extract payment, plus penalty, from you directly."
Out of the corner of his eye, Crichton caught sight of movement low to the ground.
"That really doesn't sound good," he said.
Behind Ryoda, the burly Walking Stick took a step forward. But then it let out a yelp, crashing to the ground. As Ryoda turned toward the sound, Crichton balled a fist and gave the Walking Stick the hardest punch he could on the side of its spindly head.
On the side of its spindly, extremely hard, head.
"OW!!!"
Ryoda growled and hit a comm. "Backup!!!"
"My fingers!"
"Quit complaining!" This from Rygel, who had disarmed the guard after tripping him and was climbing onto the thronesled. "Move!"
---------------
Rygel revved his sled and careened up the pod staircase, with Crichton denches behind.
"You thought I was seriously going to turn myself over to them?" he said, veering aft. "Not a chance."
"Oh, you knew they would throw you back?" Crichton dodged a stun blast and threw himself at the pod controls. The door hissed shut.
"You should learn to read, Crichton," Rygel pointed vaguely toward the Cryaidian plaque. "These idiots are members of the Consortium of Traow."
"Traow? That critter with the Tavloids?"
A muffled 'Surrender your craft immediately!' came from outside.
Rygel smiled as the engines thrummed to life. "Their supreme ruler already tried to endorse me once. Didn't do him any good."
Jotheb had warned him, the microt he was ransomed he would put a freeze on Dominar Rygel the Sixteenth across the entire Consortium of Traow. But bureaucracy was bureaucracy, be it six hundred billion subjects or ten million worlds. It took time for that news to reach the outer systems once Yehal tried to have Rygel registered. And of course, time was all they really needed.
"Guess they won't get fooled again," Crichton said. Projectiles pinged off the hull as they lifted off.
"Did Moya get enough fluid?" Rygel asked. "Is she healed? Can she get us out of here?"
"Thanks to you, mister Abignale, yes, yes, and yes."
"That's Dominar Am-ming-gail to you," Rygel bristled. "And don't you forget it."
Rygel the Sixteenth desperately missed being a Dominar. Acquara had reminded him, how every day of his life was one more stolen away before he could reclaim his rightful throne. But every miserable day, he would keep getting closer. Some days it was more useful to be worthless, that was all.
"How could I forget?" Crichton said. As the transport pod tore out of the atmosphere, heading toward Moya and away from yet another reason for them to run, he sat back, shaking his head, smiling.
"I mean, Sparky, you sneaky little son of a Congressional check, you bounced!"
---------------------
End
For satan_pingu who requested Rygel used as currency.
"There ain't no good in an evil hearted woman,
And I ain't cut out to be no Jesse James,
And you don't go writing hot checks, down in Mississippi,
And there ain't no good chain gang."
--Johnny Cash