Farscape fic: Morning Sickness (pg-13), part 1
This was my very first fanfic ever. Before this? Nada. I'd never written more than a paragraph or two that never went anywhere. I'd never even heard of fandom before Farscape, even though I watched X-Files religiously. But that s4 cliff-hanger... I was traumatized, not only by the end of Bad Timing, but by the cancellation of the series and the thought that we'd never get a resolution, and so I wrote my own. Hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it and scrubschick was just an awesome person to have as a beta, full of encouragement and guidance without ever blowing smoke up my ass. *hugsyoulots*
In case you couldn't tell from the introduction, there are spoilers through the end of the series. :)
Morning Sickness
Timeline placement: right after Bad Timing (4.22)
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 and is merely an attempt at catharsis following the gut-wrenching season 4 finale. No copyright infringement is intended and no money has been or will be collected.
Previously on Farscape…
He would have been content to simply sit in the rowboat - created for him by Moya from plans he had obtained on their visit to Earth - enjoying the breeze and the gentle sway of the water, drinking in the sight and scent of the woman he loved, but…
“We have some unfinished business,” John Crichton said to the raven-haired woman sitting across from him.
Aeryn Sun leaned toward him and replied, in that low, husky voice that was so dear to him, “Yes, we have.” It was said with such conviction that it almost made him hesitate at what he was about to say. Almost. This was something that had to be done or he would never be able to be at peace with himself or his “new” world.
“A year ago, we let a coin,” he held up his right hand, between the thumb and forefinger of which he held a coin, “make our decision for us.” His eyes never left hers as he fiddled with the coin.
Aeryn shook her head, a look of - what? trepidation? horror? - in her beautiful gray eyes, her long black hair rippling with the motion of her head. “Never again.”
He cocked his head, his expression unchanging. “Call it.”
With a flash of silver metal and blur of black leather, John flung the six-sided coin high into the air. Again, his eyes remained fixed on Aeryn’s face as she tracked the motion of the coin. His attention was so focused on her that the coin seemed to be moving in slow motion, flipping over and over as it moved higher into the air. Juxtaposed over the image of Aeryn Sun, here and now, was the image in his mind’s eye of Aeryn Sun from a year ago, watching just such a coin tumbling through the air. He held his breath.
The coin fell into the water with an anticlimactic splash, neither of them moving a muscle to catch it.
A sigh escaped Aeryn as John scooted forward from his seated position, close enough to take her in his arms, if he chose to.
“Aeryn, I have a question…”
“Can I go first?” she interrupted. She sounded the way he felt - as if she would never get it out if she didn’t do it right now.
“Yeah.” John was only a little worried about what she might have to say. Really. Just a little.
He watched warily as she braced herself with a nod of her head and a hard swallow. “When I was on the Command Carrier, I went to see a surgeon.” Another hard swallow. “I was really worried about what the Scarrens did to me.” She paused again, marshalling her thoughts, trying to come up with just the right words. In the end, though, she continued like the soldier she had once been, blunt and straight to the point. “The fetus has been released from its stasis. So…I’m having a baby.”
“You okay?” She looked a little green around the gills. He couldn’t tell if it was the difficulty of saying what she had to say, given all that had come between them in the past year, or the motion of the rowboat while in the early stages of pregnancy.
She responded to his concerned question first with a shake of her head, but then seemed to make the connection with what he was asking her and changed it to a nod. Yes, she was okay.
“And the baby?”
“It’s yours. I just wanted to tell you. Hope it doesn’t change anything.” She sounded a little too nonchalant. It made him want to mess with her head - just a little. Especially after so many months of knowing she was pregnant, but her not willing to talk to him about it.
He looked away from her, his jaw working a bit as he thought up what to say to her to get her goat. Okay, it was just petty revenge for what she had put him through with that original coin toss crap, but what the hell? It’d make Harvey happy, anyway.
“Hmm. Well. It changes everything.” He deliberately kept his tone of voice flat, no emotion allowed to escape.
Seated somewhat uncomfortably in the rocking boat, Aeryn went suddenly very still. Her beautiful face seemed to close and the intensity of her eyes began to dim.
Unable to contain his elation at her news any longer, particularly as it seemed his weak joke was causing her pain, John stood, throwing his hands up in the air. “We are gonna have…a baby!” he shouted to anyone who could hear. “Yeah! Frell you!” He flipped the bird to the Peacekeepers, the Scarrens, the Nebari, to the universe at large - any and all who had put distance and barriers between himself and the woman seated across from him in the boat, holding on for dear life as his exuberance threatened to capsize the small craft. “We’re having a baby!”
The grip of one hand remaining tight on the side of the rowboat, Aeryn reached for John, laughing and trying to pull him back down before he drowned them both. “Sit down before you fall down!”
“Ahh! Hah!” As her words sank in, he obediently sat.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“Yeah!” He knew he had a sappy grin on his face, but he just could not help it.
“Are you happy?” He had not looked directly at her since she pulled him back down, and she sounded a little worried.
“Yeah!” Still grinning like a fool, his eyes met hers.
“What was your question?” she asked.
Momentarily confused, it dawned on him just why he had brought her out here in the first place. “Oh, God…” he moved from his seat, onto his knees. Reaching for her hands, nervous as hell, he breathlessly asked, “Will you marry me?”
Her smooth forehead began to develop wrinkles - in fact her whole face seemed to be crumpling, and he began to worry again - but she said, “Yes.” Tears were forming in her eyes as she repeated her answer, nodding as though she couldn’t stop.
A sigh escaped John as he relaxed. He began to laugh and Aeryn started to cry, even as she smiled and wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him closer. Kneeling in front of him, she kissed him. Thoroughly.
After a moment, Aeryn leaned back to return to her seat, but John stopped her.
“Wait.” Reaching into a pocket, he pulled a box out, opened it, removed its contents, and took Aeryn’s left hand in his. He slipped the diamond ring that had been his mother’s - the one that his sister Olivia, who somehow seemed to know his plans, had given him just before he left Earth - onto Aeryn’s finger. It fit perfectly.
He gently kissed that finger, just above where the diamonds sparkled and caught the sunlight. Aeryn leaned forward and, kneeling together in the bottom of the rowboat, they kissed. He could not recall ever feeling quite so…whole…since he had been in the Uncharted Territories.
Aeryn broke off the kiss as a large shadow and an even larger whooshing noise flew over their heads, close enough to whip her long hair around them both. Tracking the shadow and noise, they watched the alien craft that had just buzzed them turn for another pass.
“John! Aeryn! Get inside!” D’Argo’s voice over their comms sounded almost frantic.
“D’Argo, do you know what it is?” Aeryn asked, her arms still resting on John’s shoulders.
“I have no idea whatsoever. Just come back inside.” His voice was adamant.
“Gimme a break,” John replied, “we’re in a boat!” No way they were going to get back inside Moya from here before that craft made its second pass. Which it was, in fact, in the process of doing just then.
As the craft came swiftly closer, D’Argo screamed over the comms, “Hatch doors are open! Hurry!”
Neither John nor Aeryn made a move toward the oars. Instead, she turned John’s face to hers, her hands on either side. She sighed deeply, shaking her head. “You and your timing.”
He smiled ruefully. “I love you.”
Knowing there was nothing that could be done, Aeryn wrapped herself around John. Even as the alien craft bore down on them, even as something shot out of the craft toward them, trailing a white vapor behind, they kissed as though nothing else existed.
At first, when the vapor reached them, John and Aeryn seemed to be enveloped in some slick, clear coating. But after a few seconds, they seemed flow together and then shattered into a million brilliant shards, heaped in a colorful, glittering pile in the middle of the rowboat. A few of the pieces dropped into the water as the alien craft flew away.
Suddenly unmanned, the little rowboat bobbed gently on the surface of the vast sea. The only thing that remained of John Crichton, Aeryn Sun, and their unborn child was a crystalline pile of dust and shards, and a diamond ring.
***
And now, on Farscape…
“Aeryn, honey, you know I love you, but, damn! Couldn’t you have waited a while to release the stasis?!” John Crichton knew the frustration in his voice was evident, but he could not help it. It was the fourth time in as many arns he had puked his guts out - or at least tried to. There was nothing left for his poor, abused stomach to void.
Aeryn Sun gently stroked John’s shoulders. She was sorry he had what he called “morning sickness” - Peacekeepers had no such term for the nausea that sometimes came with pregnancy - but she could not find it in herself to feel sorry that she was not going through it. She had, in fact, experienced a bit of the nausea prior to their current situation. It had not occurred early in the day, as the Earth term for it implied, but it had not seemed nearly as bad as what John was going through.
“John, you really should speak to the old woman. I trust her no more than you do in matters involving powders or chemicals, but I do believe she could concoct something to help you with this morning sickness.”
He shot her a look as he stood back from the basin he had been leaning over for the past several hundred microts. “No drugs. Pregnant fathers, er, mothers…Aw, frell! I’m not supposed to be the one who’s pregnant!” He ran a somewhat shaky hand through his short brown hair, leaving it standing in all directions, and tried again. “Pregnancy and drugs don’t mix. I don’t want any more risk to our baby.”
Almost two monens had passed since the Qujagans had “neutralized” Aeryn and John for analysis, and the little issue of “improper reintegration” had still not been resolved. In spite of the oddities the Qujagans had found in their DNA sequences, the aliens had put the pieces back together as best they could. Human DNA was entirely unknown to them, although there was a passing familiarity with Sebacean DNA structures. They were a bit taken aback, though, when they discovered Pilot DNA sequences thrown into the mix. The recordings taken during the neutralization pass had shown what looked like two Sebaceans in the vessel, so three different and distinct types of DNA, one of which was a total mystery, were quite unexpected.
From the DNA sequences and their own limited knowledge of the species involved, the Qujagans had decided there was an equal probability the baby belonged with John as with Aeryn. Unfortunately, they chose incorrectly - John shuddered to think that something as random as a coin toss might have decided their fate for them again. He wished the Qujagans had thought to talk to someone - anyone - on Moya before reintegration, but they had stubbornly ignored all attempts at communication from D’Argo and Pilot.
***
The neutralization process itself had not been at all painful or even uncomfortable - one instant they had been in the rowboat engaging in what might very well be their last kiss, an alien craft plunging rapidly toward them. The next they were in what appeared to be a small, dimly lit laboratory, each lying on some sort of platform or table - not Serta, by any means, but not a cold concrete floor, either.
John had started to sit up, but an alien - yet another in a long line of weird-ass beings he had met over the past few cycles - had stopped him. “Do not move or speak until the scan is complete. We wish to be certain nothing was missed during reintegration.”
The tall, leathery-looking critter with the big head walked over to some sort of control panel and punched a couple of buttons, causing a faint background hum to fade into silence. John had not even realized the faint noise was there until it was gone. “I am Koraj Garn. You will be released to your companions when we have determined that it is safe for us to do so.” He punched another button, which caused some sort of screen to pop up at the foot of Aeryn’s platform.
“The scan is complete. Reintegration based on DNA analysis of your component particles is successful.” Koraj Garn’s voice was deep and gravelly, with a resonating quality, almost as though more than one voice were speaking the same words at the same time, not quite in harmony. “Our initial analysis of your particles indicated that you are not an immediate threat to Qujaga,” he continued, as he read what must have been the results of the most recent scan from the screen.
“Where are the others, our companions?” Aeryn asked, her intense grey eyes following the Qujagan as he moved around her platform, releasing the restraints holding her arms and legs in place. The view was partially obscured by his body as the alien moved between the platforms, but John realized that the last restraint - the one holding Aeryn’s right arm in place - was being unfastened, leaving her free to move.
“Big mistake, Koraj,” John said, wincing in sympathy when Aeryn’s strong fingers grasped the top-heavy alien by the throat as she swung her legs gracefully over the side of the platform. “That’s gonna leave a mark.”
“What, exactly, have you done to us?” Aeryn was using her scary Peacekeeper voice, but John heard the underlying worry for their baby in the tone.
“Aeryn, don’t squeeze too hard,” John said as Koraj gasped for air. “We might need Leather Lips to find our way back to Moya.”
She shot him a look that said, quite eloquently, “Don’t be a drannit. Of course, I’m not going to harm him. Permanently.”
With Aeryn’s attention momentarily on John, the alien’s hands flew to the Sebacean fingers tightening around his throat in an attempt to pry them loose. Startled, Aeryn’s grip loosened slightly, but only enough for the Qujagan to suck in enough air to scream. John was pretty sure it was not the guy’s hands that had distracted Aeryn enough for that little alarm to sound, though - the scream brought a brief flash of the android in “Alien” to mind - but rather the sight of that leathery head splitting apart at what John realized must be actual seams, allowing what looked like another eye on a flexible stalk to lunge out of the newly opened cavity. Neat trick, that. The cavity itself appeared to be more-or-less lined with eyes, although the others seemed to be of the non-telescoping variety.
Hoping to find a weakness he could exploit, John struggled against his own restraints, but there was no slack to be found. Somewhere outside the lab, coming rapidly closer, he heard what sounded like pounding feet. “This can’t be good,” he said to himself, then, more loudly, “Aeryn…”
He was interrupted by the hiss of a door sliding open, although he could not see it from the angle at which he lay. Aeryn had regained her grip on the Qujagan, who was now down on his knees in front of her, still fighting to break free. Peripherally, John saw several Qujagans in some sort of uniform pour into the room, weapons ready and pointed directly at the ex-Peacekeeper.
“Don’t shoot!” John yelled, figuring it might not help but it sure could not hurt the situation - besides, he wasn’t much good for anything else at the moment. Four nasty-looking rifles of some sort remained trained on Aeryn and Koraj Garn.
***
Koraj Garn suddenly found it much easier to breathe as the Sebacean released her hold on his throat and took a step back, raising her arms in a gesture of surrender. Corporal Kreetaq stepped forward, slinging his weapon, and roughly pulled her arms behind her back in what must have been a painful grip, despite the lack of expression on her face.
“I am not harmed,” Koraj wheezed in response to his superior’s unvoiced query. His words were vocalized, if not very strongly, due to the fact that he could not think past the pain in his throat to properly direct his response.
He pulled himself up to his feet, using the edge of the platform the Sebacean had previously been lying on. At the same time, he allowed his head to relax back into its more normal state, effectively silencing most of the cacophony of distressed voices echoing in his mind. He no longer felt the need for the added support and security to be gained from allowing his unit members to see and hear what was happening around him. After all, several of his unit were here now, themselves, and no longer had any need to see through his eyes.
Koraj shook his resealed head. One hand rose involuntarily to his damaged throat. The non-Sebacean had been correct, it had been a bad mistake to release the other without waiting for his unit to arrive or even consulting with them prior to his ill-advised action. Almost as though prompted by the thought, the non-Sebacean spoke again. Koraj looked over to see that the alien was looking up at the ceiling.
“Now that all the excitement is over, can someone please explain to us what the hell is going on?”
***
Now, after spending several days off and on in Koraj’s company as the Qujagan tech searched for a way to get the baby safely from John A to Aeryn B, John knew that he - it? - was hermaphroditic. All the Qujagans were hermaphroditic, reproducing more or less at will - tribbles? - John really did not want the details on that one. The concept still freaked him out a little, but he was getting used to the idea. A mildly alien concept was a lot easier to accept, after all, than the reality of that head-splitting-apart-to-reveal-more-eyes thing. And it kind of explained why they had not realized that John was not the proper “host” for the growing fetus, what with not having to deal with that whole male-female thing.
“Perhaps you should try to eat something,” Aeryn said, stepping back from him as he pushed himself up from the basin. She offered a hand to help him up.
He stared at her, ignoring the helping hand. “Are you crazy?”
“Sometimes nausea is easier to handle if there is actually something available for your stomach to void.” She let her hand drop to her side.
“I think I’ll take a pass on that one.” This was followed by a groan as he dropped down on their bed and stared up at the dark ceiling high above.
“Commander . . . ” Pilot’s voice sounded over the comms.
“Yeah, Pilot.”
“I have just received word from Captain D’Argo. He and Chiana are returning from the commerce planet.”
Aeryn pushed him back down when he tried to sit up. “Rest,” she told him. “Pilot, did he give you an estimate of when they will arrive?” She took John’s hand as she sat down beside him on the bed and leaned back against the wall.
“Yes, Officer Sun. He said they should be here in approximately three arns.”
“Time enough for you to sleep a bit,” she said in an aside to her exhausted mate. “Have you notified the Qujagans that they’re on their way?” she continued on to Pilot. She did not want D’Argo and Chiana to also be “neutralized for analysis” - the Qujagans as a whole were, as John so eloquently put it, twitchy.
“Yes, the Qujagan Defense Ministry is expecting them.”
“Good.” She leaned her head back against the wall, her eyes drifting over the electronic equipment ranged against the opposite wall. Something John called “classical music” swirled about the room. She noticed the DRD 1812 there, almost as though absorbing the notes.
“I will let you know when Lo’La is in range,” Pilot volunteered.
“Thanks, Pilot,” John replied, just to let them know he was still in the game. He turned toward Aeryn, resting his head on her leather-clad thigh as he closed his eyes. “Man, I wish this boat would stop rocking.” His right hand came to rest on her knee.
Aeryn did not respond to his words except to stroke his hair - she loved the feel of it against her skin. She looked down at his head and smiled to herself as she remembered just how much she loved the feel of his hair on places other than her hands, and wished she could stop Moya from rocking for him. The gentle, faint motion was not helping his nausea.
***
Moya floated in the soothing waters of Qujaga’s largest sea, still recovering from the harrowing flight from Katratzi and her even more terrifying separation from Pilot. Recovering both physically and emotionally. While she was grateful for the instant and unquestioning support she had received from Stark and the others during that awful and painful separation, she knew she would have the Leviathan equivalent of nightmares for cycles to come. It no longer mattered to her that Pilot had been forced on her after her previous pilot’s murder - that was no more his fault than it was Aeryn Sun’s - Pilot was Moya’s other half and she did not want to ever be without him again. She had never felt so alone.
While Pilot monitored the repairs still being made by her DRDs as well as the other day-to-day operations on board, Moya checked on the rest of her family. She would not be able to truly rest and heal until all of them were back on board. She had lost her beloved Talyn. She had lost gentle Zhaan. She had almost lost Aeryn Sun and John Crichton. Moya would not be able to rest until Captain D’Argo and Chiana were safely back on board. Once her crew was again whole, then she and Pilot could both relax.
The one called Noranti was in the galley with Dominar Rygel. Noranti was preparing a meal for the other biologics in Moya’s and Pilot’s care, while Rygel looked on and offered advice. Every time he reached for a taste, Noranti swatted him with one of her cooking implements. This, of course, did not stop the Hynerian from reaching again. And again.
All was as it should be in the galley.
The Banik Stykera, Stark, was asleep in his quarters, the chamber that had once been Zhaan’s. From the lack of movement, except for the rise and fall of his chest with each breath, it appeared to be a peaceful sleep.
No problems apparent there…
John Crichton also slept. He was in the quarters he now shared with Aeryn Sun, while the former Peacekeeper watched over him. Music they had brought back with them from the Commander’s home world was playing softly in the background from the electronic device he called a stereo. Under other circumstances, Moya would have enjoyed simply listening to that music, but at the moment she was too preoccupied to do more than make note of its presence.
With the possible exception of Chiana, who had still been blind when she and Captain D’Argo had left in Lo’La two days ago, Moya felt the greatest worry for Commander Crichton. On the surface, he and Aeryn Sun appeared to be as they were before the Qujagans’ neutralization process had disrupted their life functions, but Moya knew how deceptive those appearances were.
Part of Aeryn Sun had been taken from her - her child. Moya was well aware of the fear that could cause. That same child was now growing in John Crichton, and that should not be. As the child grew and matured, the situation became potentially more dangerous for both the baby and for its father. Each day it became more urgent that the Qujagans find a way to safely move the baby to Aeryn Sun, and they could not simply “neutralize” them all again and start over. According to the Qujagan Koraj Garn, the neutralization and reintegration process was relatively safe the first time it was used on someone, but became riskier each subsequent time, more likely to result in either death or permanent and debilitating damage at the cellular level.
Moya was distracted from her contemplation of John Crichton and Aeryn Sun by another in-coming communication from Captain D’Argo - it had been such a short time since the Captain had last spoken to them. She listened in as Pilot answered the Captain.
***
“No, Captain, there has been no progress from the Qujagans in regard to correcting their mistake with Commander Crichton and Officer Sun,” Pilot responded to Ka D’Argo, his calm voice filling the cockpit of the Luxan ship.
“We’re bringing a couple of guests with us, Pilot.” He reached up to flip a switch in response to a yellow light that appeared on his console. “We spoke to a Diagnosan who is certain he can help with John and the baby.”
“What about Chiana?” Pilot asked.
“I’m still blind, Pilot, but it’s getting better. I can see a little light, anyway.” The little Nebari lounged in the co-pilot’s chair next to D’Argo, trying to distract him by sliding a foot slowly up and down his leg.
“Was this Diagnosan able to determine what is causing your blindness?” Pilot’s question sounded concerned rather than merely curious.
“We’ll talk about it when we arrive, Pilot,” D’Argo interjected, effectively preventing Chiana from answering that question just yet. He preferred to tell the story - or listen to it - only once, when they were all back together on Moya. While the Diagnosan had given them hope in regard to a cure, the proposed remedy was not certain and he had yet to convince Chi that it was a viable option. He had hopes that the others on Moya might prevail where he had so far failed.
“In fact, Pilot, you can ask him your questions directly - Diagnosan Tikrel and his assistant are here with us on Lo’La.” Chiana followed this statement with a little laugh as she took her foot up along D’Argo’s leg far enough to make him gasp.
“Our previous ETA has not changed,” D’Argo said, grasping Chiana’s ankle to stop that annoying - well, more intriguing than truly annoying - motion of her foot.
“Moya and I look forward to your return.”
***
Aeryn gently extricated herself from under John’s head, trying hard not to wake him. She knew how exhausted he was - he desperately needed the peaceful sleep he seemed to have fallen into. Too often of late she had had to wake him from a nightmare, if not one of Scarrens torturing her on that freighter then one of Scarrens invading Earth in search of those frelling flowers, destroying whatever they could not enslave.
Good. She was successful - John remained asleep, even as his arms curled around the pillow she pushed toward him as a substitute. She pulled the cover over him, but her stomach chose that moment to gurgle, deafeningly to Aeryn’s ears. The noise did not wake him.
Obviously, she needed sustenance, but she also planned on bringing John something, even if she had to force him to eat it. And perhaps there was something in Moya’s stores that could lessen his nausea, rather than approaching the less-than-trustworthy old woman. If not, then perhaps D’Argo had obtained something on the commerce planet - that was one of the things on his limited “shopping” list - and he and Chiana were due back any time now.
Quietly she left in search of food, leaving John under the faithful watch of 1812. The red, white, and blue DRD meshed fairly well with Moya’s less colorful ones, but it seemed to have a distinct attachment to John.
When she reached the galley, she found not only Noranti there stirring one of her concoctions, as expected, but also Rygel and a sleepy-looking Stark. As she watched, the old woman handed a bowl of something steamy to Stark.
Noranti’s attention turned to Aeryn as she entered the room. “How is Crichton?” she asked.
“Asleep. What are you cooking? It smells good.” Aeryn was a bit surprised that this was so.
“Trevonian stew. Or rather, a reasonable facsimile, since we don’t have any Trevons in our stores.”
“Trevons?”
“Small rodents from Trask. They’re really quite delicious.” She added a bit of something to the stew, stirring the pot.
“Rodents, hmm? What have you used instead?” Sebaceans as a rule did not eat rodents or other types of vermin, but Aeryn had been away from the Peacekeepers and “civilized” territories for a long time. If the substitute was no worse than the original, she supposed she could pretend it was something else - maybe John’s “chicken” from earth.
Noranti’s reply was interrupted. “Officer Sun.”
“Yes, Pilot.”
“Lo’La is now within Moya’s sensor range. They should be aboard in approximately five hundred microts. Captain D’Argo has advised me that he and Chiana are bringing two guests with them - a Diagnosan and his assistant.”
“Thank you, Pilot,” Aeryn replied, spinning to retrace her steps through the galley door as she headed toward the great ship’s docking bay. She could eat later. “John, are you awake?” she asked through the comms. If D’Argo was bringing a Diagnosan back with him, it must be because of John and the baby. If he answered her comm, she would swing by their quarters for him; if not, she would let him sleep.
“Yeah, Aeryn. Where are you?” He sounded a little groggy, but not too bad.
“I’m on my way to the docking bay. D’Argo and Chiana will be here in five hundred microts. They have a Diagnosan with them.”
“’Kay. I’m on my way.”
None of them had known when D’Argo and Chiana left if the two would find a Diagnosan on the commerce planet one solar day beyond Qujaga, but they had all hoped. The Nebari’s blindness had gone on so long and the Qujagans were uncertain as to whether their own surgeons would be able to correct their mistake . . . .
Aeryn swung around the corner into the corridor on which their quarters were located to see John leaving their room, pulling a jacket on over his black shirt as he walked toward her. She was amused to see 1812 following closely behind. The little DRD from the Leviathan Elack never let him get too far away.
“Do we know how Chi is doing?” John asked, catching up to her at the corner.
He and Aeryn continued on together to the docking bay. “No, not yet, but I assume the Diagnosan is here as much for you as Chiana.”
He shot her a quick look from those blue eyes she could never get enough of looking at. “You think? I guess we’ll know soon enough.”
***
Sschi’itakhra of Paakri’i hovered over her master’s right shoulder as they waited for the hatch to open. She was a little bit nervous, truth be told, even though Chiana had assured her several times that there was nothing to be nervous about - too nervous, even, to land on his shoulder, which was her normal position when they traveled. She was afraid that she might knock his mask askew if she tried to land, as she was also generally quite clumsy when nervous, and that could have serious repercussions. Her diaphanous wings fluttered even faster in anticipation - she was nervous, yes, but not in a bad way - causing her small body to momentarily lift up closer to the top of her master’s head.
The tiny Paakrit had listened avidly as Chiana had related her symptoms to Diagnosan Tikrel, fueling her own interests even as she tried to keep track of everything for him. While she spoke, the old Diagnosan had circled the Nebari, occasionally making one- or two-word comments to Sschi’itakhra to be included in the notes, prior to the one-on-one session between the Nebari and the Diagnosan. It was during the one-on-one that the true business of diagnosis and possible treatments would be addressed, when Diagnosan Tikrel and Chiana could be in a sealed room. Then he could safely remove his mask without fear of unknown contaminants in the air causing him harm.
Sschi’itakhra had wound herself up so tightly, she could not suppress a little shriek when the hatch door swooshed open, revealing a Sebacean man and woman on the other side. She touched Diagnosan Tikrel’s shoulder lightly in unspoken apology, even though she realized he should be used to it by now. It was usually very hard for Sschi’itakhra to contain either her enthusiasm or her curiosity.
The air smelled much better than the last time Sschi’itakhra had been on a ship, excepting the Luxan ship, of course. That last transport - the only large ship she had been on in her life - had been a Zenetan cargo vessel, while D’Argo had told her this one was a living ship - a Leviathan. She supposed that might explain why it smelled better than the Zenetans’ ship, which had been rather unorganized and dirty. Of course, she had since discovered that the Zenetans were not traders at all, as she had originally believed, but rather pirates - she had been quite lucky to merely be stranded on a commerce planet.
Diagnosan Tikrel moved forward into the docking bay when he was introduced to the Sebaceans by D’Argo. Sschi’itakhra stayed where she was for a handful of microts, wings whirring against her yellow carapace. Then she saw Chiana motioning for her to come out as D’Argo said her name, so she took a deep breath and shot forward, almost colliding with the Sebacean man’s head.
“Oh! I’m so sorry!” she exclaimed. Her carapace faded from the cheerful, if nervous, yellow she had been sporting microts before to the deep purple of profound embarrassment. “Please forgive me!”
“No problem.” The Sebacean man had a soothing voice - her carapace faded to more of a blue color, but still with purple overtones. “I’m John Crichton, at your service.”
“Oh, no, Johncrichton! I am at your service!” He was not a Sebacean after all, but something called a Human, Sschi’itakhra suddenly recalled from D’Argo’s description of his friend.
“What’s your name, Sprite?”
He has such a nice smile, she thought as she watched his mobile face. The facial expressions of others always fascinated her, having none of her own. Her tough shell did not allow movement where it was not jointed. Then she realized she had not answered him and said, “Oh! I am Sschi’itakhra.”
“Sschi - whoa! That’s a tongue-twister if I ever heard one. We can’t call you Sschi - that’s a little too close to ‘Chi,’” he said, nodding toward the Nebari. Chiana was talking to the others, none of whom seemed to be paying any attention to the Paakrit or the Human. “Do you mind if I just call you Tinkerbell?”
“You may call me whatever you’d like, Johncrichton.” She was now entirely blue, since she was no longer feeling at all embarrassed, but rather a bit pleased with herself.
“Okay, Tink. Hop on.” He indicated his shoulder with a quick nod of his head. “Let’s go join the party.”
She barely hesitated before landing lightly on his shoulder, bracing herself with one hand on his ear as he walked over to the rest of the group in the enormous docking bay. His shoulder was much warmer against her bare feet than Diagnosan Tikrel’s, but it was otherwise just as comfortable a perch. Sschi’itakhra decided she liked Humans, if Johncrichton was a fair example.
***
John barely noticed when Ssch-Tinkerbell landed on his right shoulder. Well, he barely noticed her weight, anyway - she could not weigh more than a few ounces, tiny as she was - but he did notice a pleasant cinnamon scent. Or was it cloves? He felt the slightest breeze as the movement from her wings stirred his hair, reminding him that he needed a haircut. Glancing at her out of the corner of his eye, he decided she was a pretty little thing, kind of a cross between the Tinkerbell of Walt Disney fame and the dragonflies he and his sisters used to try to catch when they were kids. Her little hand felt cool on his ear as her grip tightened when he came to a stop with Aeryn and the others.
“Did we miss anything?” he asked of the group in general.
“I see you’ve met Sschi’itakhra,” D’Argo replied. “We were just discussing quarters for Diagnosan Tikrel and his assistant, since they will be here for two or three solar days.”
“Well, it’s not like there’s no room at the inn.”
“Captain, there is a chamber near to my den that could be made comfortable for the Diagnosan,” Pilot’s voice volunteered. “It can be sealed off from the rest of Moya’s atmosphere and the air inside purified for Diagnosan Tikrel’s comfort.”
The Diagnosan said something incomprehensible, which caused the little pixie to fly from John’s shoulder over to the healer. She hovered at his eye level, in an attitude of listening, then turned to the group and said, “Diagnosan Tikrel says that will be fine. He would like to acclimate himself to the motion of the ship and the room he will be using before he visits with Johncrichton.” She was doing that chameleon thing again while she spoke, John noticed, this time turning green. I wonder what the different colors mean, he thought, bemused.
“In that case,” Pilot responded, “I am sending a DRD to lead you and Diagnosan Tikrel to your quarters while you are on board Moya.” With that, a yellow DRD indeed came coasting into the docking bay, stopping just short of the Diagnosan’s feet, then wheeling around to go back the way it came. The Diagnosan and his assistant followed without hesitation.
Not one microt after the two passed through the doorway, a loud rumble filled the air with sound. Everyone turned to Aeryn, the source of the noise, who shrugged and said, “I’m hungry.”
“Well, what are we waiting for?” Chiana said, holding out a hand. “Let’s go! Somebody lead me to dinner.” Being the quintessential southern gentleman, John took Chi’s hand in the crook of his arm and led her off to the galley, Aeryn, D’Argo, and 1812 trailing behind.
***
The air in the chamber just did not smell right. It was not stale, exactly. It did not smell bad, exactly. Just not right. It did not even smell the same as the Diagnosan’s chamber back on the ice planet - that had been a much larger chamber and the atmospheric scrubbers there had been of an entirely different set up than the ones on Moya. For one thing, there was no movement of air through the vents in the room, which were closed off tight to prevent any outside air from getting in.
Sterile. That was the word for it. Like a hospital, but without all the chemical smells. That was a good thing, because John was pretty sure he would lose the little bit of Trevon stew Aeryn had forced him - okay, persuaded him, and pretty enjoyably, too - to eat if the room had smelled too much like a hospital back on Earth. And that was in spite of the “tonic” Diagnosan Tikrel had given him for the morning sickness.
John stood more or less in the center of the room as Diagnosan Tikrel walked around him. Tink was covered up in what looked like some sort of Barbie-sized EVA suit, complete with helmet. Something to do with her scent when she flies, he supposed, can’t have that cinnamon and cloves frelling with the diagnosis. Since her wings were presumably bottled up in the suit, she was sitting on the Diagnosan’s shoulder as she took notes.
Bored, John started whistling. It started out a tuneless thing, but shortly merged into the beginning riff of Billy Joel’s The Stranger and then melted into the theme from the Andy Griffith Show. Tinkerbell looked over at him, pausing in her note-taking, but quickly looked away again when she saw him watching her. Tikrel said something to her.
“I am sorry, Johncrichton, but please do not sing. The music is disturbing to Diagnosan Tikrel’s concentration.” Her voice sounded tinny and apologetic through the external speaker of her helmet.
“It’s called whistling. I’ll stop. Sorry.” He blew out a heavy sigh and tried to keep from fidgeting. It had only been a few minutes since the examination began, but it seemed like hours.
The room not only smelled different from the rest of Moya, it looked a little different, too, he decided. It was bronzy-brown and ribbed just as the rest, but for one thing, it had a solid door, so it had probably not been used as any sort of prison cell - nothing for a guard to look through. It was smaller than the former cells, but not by much. And there was what looked - and acted - like any run-of-the-mill ceiling fan back on Earth. It was moving the air in the sealed room, preventing it from becoming too stale. There was also what could pass for a writing desk along one wall. He opened his mouth to ask Pilot what the room had been under the Peacekeepers, but stopped himself before he could disturb the Diagnosan again.
Tikrel stopped in front of John, after what must have been his sixth circuit around him. The two studied each other in silence, while Tinkerbell waited to add more information to her notes. If the Diagnosan had had a recognizable nose, John was sure it would have been twitching. The tall alien abruptly knelt to bring his head down to the level of John’s abdomen, causing little Tink to grab onto his collar to keep from falling off. She emitted a squeak as she did so.
“Please, remain still, Johncrichton,” she politely commanded when he instinctively reached out to catch her if she fell. With her wings encased in the suit, it would have been a long and possibly painful drop for her.
He straightened up again and Tikrel continued his olfactory diagnosis. Just as abruptly as he had knelt down, the Diagnosan stood up, speaking to Tinkerbell in that trilling language of his. She turned toward John and said, “The examination is finished for now, Johncrichton.”
“It’s just John, Tink, or Crichton, but you don’t have to use both names.” Although he did think it was kind of cute the way she shoved all the syllables together into one word. He glanced over at the Diagnosan, who was replacing the mask/filter over his face. “Does this mean there’ll be more later?”
“Perhaps. Diagnosan Tikrel must go over the notes I have taken and compare them to the impressions he has received before he will be willing to say for certain.”
Fresh, albeit super-scrubbed, air began to flow into the room as the vents were opened, apparently in response to something Tikrel said into the comms Pilot had given him. Huh. Pilot must speak Diagnosan, because Tikrel’s words were definitely not in any language John’s microbes could handle. Or maybe Tikrel had just said something slowly and John missed it - he had not been paying much attention to the Diagnosan as his assistant spoke.
“I guess I’ll see you two later, then,” John said, punching the button to open the door.
“Yes, Johncri-John. I will see you soon to discuss Diagnosan Tikrel’s preliminary diagnosis.”
***
After the door closed behind the Human, Tikrel said to Sschi’itakhra, “This case is much more unusual than I anticipated.” He gently placed her on the desk so that she could more easily remove her environmental suit, without the worry of trying to keep her balance as he moved about the room. He had some thinking to do and he thought better when he was moving.
“In what way, Diagnosan Tikrel?” she answered, her voice a bit muffled by the removal of her helmet. She tossed it to the side and it rolled to a stop against the wall, very near the edge of the table. He heard her mutter “Frell!” under her breath and then her sigh of relief that she would not have to make the effort to prevent its fall to the floor and possible damage.
The Paakrit was a joy to work with, although he had never told her that. Her temperament could be a bit flighty at times, but she was very efficient and intelligent, for all that. She was becoming quite a good healer in her own right, absorbing everything she could from him. Obviously, there were things he could not teach her, nor would she be able to learn them even if they could be taught since she was not of the Diagnosan race, but she was very good at expanding on the ideas he gave her to put into his notes.
He stopped pacing. “At first, from what the Luxan and the Nebari said of his situation, I believed this would be a fairly simple ectopic pregnancy, albeit the female of most species carries the offspring, not the male.” The pacing started again. “The scent I am associating with the fetus is…wrong.”
Tikrel turned to look at his assistant, whose head was cocked to one side as she listened. As always, she seemed to be hanging on his every word. Her wings were free from the constricting suit, slowly moving in time with her breathing and wafting a faint spicy scent into the air, her color shifting slowly back and forth between the pale yellow of curiosity and the deeper orange of concern.
“The Human seems healthy,” he continued. “I am not familiar with his species, but his physiology seems very close to that of both Sebaceans and Interions…” His words trailed off. He would have to consult with the Leviathan’s pilot - a physical scan of the Human would be necessary. There was something very odd about the fetus, but he could not yet place it. It smelled sweet, as the unborn and very young always did, for him, but there was an undertone to the sweetness that he did not like, almost like decay.
“Ship’s…Pilot,” he said, slowing his speech to the point the translator microbes could do their job.
“Yes, Diagnosan.”
“Do you have…a scanner? I…must scan…John Crichton to complete…my diagnosis.”
“There is a scanner in the medical facility. I can have a DRD lead you there whenever you wish.”
“Thank…you.” He turned to his assistant and spoke to her normally, relieved to not have to concentrate so much on forming his words. He was quite thankful that Sschi’itakhra was able to understand Diagnosan so well. “Please find John Crichton and advise him that I must perform a scan. I presume he knows the location of the medical facility - have him meet me there in an arn.” That should give him time to go over his notes prior to the further examination of the Human.
“Should I return to help you?” She sounded hopeful that his reply would be no.
“If you wish to spend time with the others, you may.” He knew how much she enjoyed the company of others. The Paakrit were social creatures in general, but Sschi’itakhra seemed more so than most. “Then please accompany our patient to the medical facility.”
“If you are certain, Diagnosan Tikrel…”
“Go, little one.” He waved her toward the door. “Enjoy yourself.”
With that, she clapped her hands together and launched herself with a squeak from the table to the door controls. As the door opened, he saw a bright yellow blur as she streaked out of the room. He shook his head in amusement and closed the door behind her.
***
Continued here (the fic is too large)...
In case you couldn't tell from the introduction, there are spoilers through the end of the series. :)
Morning Sickness
Timeline placement: right after Bad Timing (4.22)
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 and is merely an attempt at catharsis following the gut-wrenching season 4 finale. No copyright infringement is intended and no money has been or will be collected.
Previously on Farscape…
He would have been content to simply sit in the rowboat - created for him by Moya from plans he had obtained on their visit to Earth - enjoying the breeze and the gentle sway of the water, drinking in the sight and scent of the woman he loved, but…
“We have some unfinished business,” John Crichton said to the raven-haired woman sitting across from him.
Aeryn Sun leaned toward him and replied, in that low, husky voice that was so dear to him, “Yes, we have.” It was said with such conviction that it almost made him hesitate at what he was about to say. Almost. This was something that had to be done or he would never be able to be at peace with himself or his “new” world.
“A year ago, we let a coin,” he held up his right hand, between the thumb and forefinger of which he held a coin, “make our decision for us.” His eyes never left hers as he fiddled with the coin.
Aeryn shook her head, a look of - what? trepidation? horror? - in her beautiful gray eyes, her long black hair rippling with the motion of her head. “Never again.”
He cocked his head, his expression unchanging. “Call it.”
With a flash of silver metal and blur of black leather, John flung the six-sided coin high into the air. Again, his eyes remained fixed on Aeryn’s face as she tracked the motion of the coin. His attention was so focused on her that the coin seemed to be moving in slow motion, flipping over and over as it moved higher into the air. Juxtaposed over the image of Aeryn Sun, here and now, was the image in his mind’s eye of Aeryn Sun from a year ago, watching just such a coin tumbling through the air. He held his breath.
The coin fell into the water with an anticlimactic splash, neither of them moving a muscle to catch it.
A sigh escaped Aeryn as John scooted forward from his seated position, close enough to take her in his arms, if he chose to.
“Aeryn, I have a question…”
“Can I go first?” she interrupted. She sounded the way he felt - as if she would never get it out if she didn’t do it right now.
“Yeah.” John was only a little worried about what she might have to say. Really. Just a little.
He watched warily as she braced herself with a nod of her head and a hard swallow. “When I was on the Command Carrier, I went to see a surgeon.” Another hard swallow. “I was really worried about what the Scarrens did to me.” She paused again, marshalling her thoughts, trying to come up with just the right words. In the end, though, she continued like the soldier she had once been, blunt and straight to the point. “The fetus has been released from its stasis. So…I’m having a baby.”
“You okay?” She looked a little green around the gills. He couldn’t tell if it was the difficulty of saying what she had to say, given all that had come between them in the past year, or the motion of the rowboat while in the early stages of pregnancy.
She responded to his concerned question first with a shake of her head, but then seemed to make the connection with what he was asking her and changed it to a nod. Yes, she was okay.
“And the baby?”
“It’s yours. I just wanted to tell you. Hope it doesn’t change anything.” She sounded a little too nonchalant. It made him want to mess with her head - just a little. Especially after so many months of knowing she was pregnant, but her not willing to talk to him about it.
He looked away from her, his jaw working a bit as he thought up what to say to her to get her goat. Okay, it was just petty revenge for what she had put him through with that original coin toss crap, but what the hell? It’d make Harvey happy, anyway.
“Hmm. Well. It changes everything.” He deliberately kept his tone of voice flat, no emotion allowed to escape.
Seated somewhat uncomfortably in the rocking boat, Aeryn went suddenly very still. Her beautiful face seemed to close and the intensity of her eyes began to dim.
Unable to contain his elation at her news any longer, particularly as it seemed his weak joke was causing her pain, John stood, throwing his hands up in the air. “We are gonna have…a baby!” he shouted to anyone who could hear. “Yeah! Frell you!” He flipped the bird to the Peacekeepers, the Scarrens, the Nebari, to the universe at large - any and all who had put distance and barriers between himself and the woman seated across from him in the boat, holding on for dear life as his exuberance threatened to capsize the small craft. “We’re having a baby!”
The grip of one hand remaining tight on the side of the rowboat, Aeryn reached for John, laughing and trying to pull him back down before he drowned them both. “Sit down before you fall down!”
“Ahh! Hah!” As her words sank in, he obediently sat.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“Yeah!” He knew he had a sappy grin on his face, but he just could not help it.
“Are you happy?” He had not looked directly at her since she pulled him back down, and she sounded a little worried.
“Yeah!” Still grinning like a fool, his eyes met hers.
“What was your question?” she asked.
Momentarily confused, it dawned on him just why he had brought her out here in the first place. “Oh, God…” he moved from his seat, onto his knees. Reaching for her hands, nervous as hell, he breathlessly asked, “Will you marry me?”
Her smooth forehead began to develop wrinkles - in fact her whole face seemed to be crumpling, and he began to worry again - but she said, “Yes.” Tears were forming in her eyes as she repeated her answer, nodding as though she couldn’t stop.
A sigh escaped John as he relaxed. He began to laugh and Aeryn started to cry, even as she smiled and wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him closer. Kneeling in front of him, she kissed him. Thoroughly.
After a moment, Aeryn leaned back to return to her seat, but John stopped her.
“Wait.” Reaching into a pocket, he pulled a box out, opened it, removed its contents, and took Aeryn’s left hand in his. He slipped the diamond ring that had been his mother’s - the one that his sister Olivia, who somehow seemed to know his plans, had given him just before he left Earth - onto Aeryn’s finger. It fit perfectly.
He gently kissed that finger, just above where the diamonds sparkled and caught the sunlight. Aeryn leaned forward and, kneeling together in the bottom of the rowboat, they kissed. He could not recall ever feeling quite so…whole…since he had been in the Uncharted Territories.
Aeryn broke off the kiss as a large shadow and an even larger whooshing noise flew over their heads, close enough to whip her long hair around them both. Tracking the shadow and noise, they watched the alien craft that had just buzzed them turn for another pass.
“John! Aeryn! Get inside!” D’Argo’s voice over their comms sounded almost frantic.
“D’Argo, do you know what it is?” Aeryn asked, her arms still resting on John’s shoulders.
“I have no idea whatsoever. Just come back inside.” His voice was adamant.
“Gimme a break,” John replied, “we’re in a boat!” No way they were going to get back inside Moya from here before that craft made its second pass. Which it was, in fact, in the process of doing just then.
As the craft came swiftly closer, D’Argo screamed over the comms, “Hatch doors are open! Hurry!”
Neither John nor Aeryn made a move toward the oars. Instead, she turned John’s face to hers, her hands on either side. She sighed deeply, shaking her head. “You and your timing.”
He smiled ruefully. “I love you.”
Knowing there was nothing that could be done, Aeryn wrapped herself around John. Even as the alien craft bore down on them, even as something shot out of the craft toward them, trailing a white vapor behind, they kissed as though nothing else existed.
At first, when the vapor reached them, John and Aeryn seemed to be enveloped in some slick, clear coating. But after a few seconds, they seemed flow together and then shattered into a million brilliant shards, heaped in a colorful, glittering pile in the middle of the rowboat. A few of the pieces dropped into the water as the alien craft flew away.
Suddenly unmanned, the little rowboat bobbed gently on the surface of the vast sea. The only thing that remained of John Crichton, Aeryn Sun, and their unborn child was a crystalline pile of dust and shards, and a diamond ring.
***
And now, on Farscape…
“Aeryn, honey, you know I love you, but, damn! Couldn’t you have waited a while to release the stasis?!” John Crichton knew the frustration in his voice was evident, but he could not help it. It was the fourth time in as many arns he had puked his guts out - or at least tried to. There was nothing left for his poor, abused stomach to void.
Aeryn Sun gently stroked John’s shoulders. She was sorry he had what he called “morning sickness” - Peacekeepers had no such term for the nausea that sometimes came with pregnancy - but she could not find it in herself to feel sorry that she was not going through it. She had, in fact, experienced a bit of the nausea prior to their current situation. It had not occurred early in the day, as the Earth term for it implied, but it had not seemed nearly as bad as what John was going through.
“John, you really should speak to the old woman. I trust her no more than you do in matters involving powders or chemicals, but I do believe she could concoct something to help you with this morning sickness.”
He shot her a look as he stood back from the basin he had been leaning over for the past several hundred microts. “No drugs. Pregnant fathers, er, mothers…Aw, frell! I’m not supposed to be the one who’s pregnant!” He ran a somewhat shaky hand through his short brown hair, leaving it standing in all directions, and tried again. “Pregnancy and drugs don’t mix. I don’t want any more risk to our baby.”
Almost two monens had passed since the Qujagans had “neutralized” Aeryn and John for analysis, and the little issue of “improper reintegration” had still not been resolved. In spite of the oddities the Qujagans had found in their DNA sequences, the aliens had put the pieces back together as best they could. Human DNA was entirely unknown to them, although there was a passing familiarity with Sebacean DNA structures. They were a bit taken aback, though, when they discovered Pilot DNA sequences thrown into the mix. The recordings taken during the neutralization pass had shown what looked like two Sebaceans in the vessel, so three different and distinct types of DNA, one of which was a total mystery, were quite unexpected.
From the DNA sequences and their own limited knowledge of the species involved, the Qujagans had decided there was an equal probability the baby belonged with John as with Aeryn. Unfortunately, they chose incorrectly - John shuddered to think that something as random as a coin toss might have decided their fate for them again. He wished the Qujagans had thought to talk to someone - anyone - on Moya before reintegration, but they had stubbornly ignored all attempts at communication from D’Argo and Pilot.
***
The neutralization process itself had not been at all painful or even uncomfortable - one instant they had been in the rowboat engaging in what might very well be their last kiss, an alien craft plunging rapidly toward them. The next they were in what appeared to be a small, dimly lit laboratory, each lying on some sort of platform or table - not Serta, by any means, but not a cold concrete floor, either.
John had started to sit up, but an alien - yet another in a long line of weird-ass beings he had met over the past few cycles - had stopped him. “Do not move or speak until the scan is complete. We wish to be certain nothing was missed during reintegration.”
The tall, leathery-looking critter with the big head walked over to some sort of control panel and punched a couple of buttons, causing a faint background hum to fade into silence. John had not even realized the faint noise was there until it was gone. “I am Koraj Garn. You will be released to your companions when we have determined that it is safe for us to do so.” He punched another button, which caused some sort of screen to pop up at the foot of Aeryn’s platform.
“The scan is complete. Reintegration based on DNA analysis of your component particles is successful.” Koraj Garn’s voice was deep and gravelly, with a resonating quality, almost as though more than one voice were speaking the same words at the same time, not quite in harmony. “Our initial analysis of your particles indicated that you are not an immediate threat to Qujaga,” he continued, as he read what must have been the results of the most recent scan from the screen.
“Where are the others, our companions?” Aeryn asked, her intense grey eyes following the Qujagan as he moved around her platform, releasing the restraints holding her arms and legs in place. The view was partially obscured by his body as the alien moved between the platforms, but John realized that the last restraint - the one holding Aeryn’s right arm in place - was being unfastened, leaving her free to move.
“Big mistake, Koraj,” John said, wincing in sympathy when Aeryn’s strong fingers grasped the top-heavy alien by the throat as she swung her legs gracefully over the side of the platform. “That’s gonna leave a mark.”
“What, exactly, have you done to us?” Aeryn was using her scary Peacekeeper voice, but John heard the underlying worry for their baby in the tone.
“Aeryn, don’t squeeze too hard,” John said as Koraj gasped for air. “We might need Leather Lips to find our way back to Moya.”
She shot him a look that said, quite eloquently, “Don’t be a drannit. Of course, I’m not going to harm him. Permanently.”
With Aeryn’s attention momentarily on John, the alien’s hands flew to the Sebacean fingers tightening around his throat in an attempt to pry them loose. Startled, Aeryn’s grip loosened slightly, but only enough for the Qujagan to suck in enough air to scream. John was pretty sure it was not the guy’s hands that had distracted Aeryn enough for that little alarm to sound, though - the scream brought a brief flash of the android in “Alien” to mind - but rather the sight of that leathery head splitting apart at what John realized must be actual seams, allowing what looked like another eye on a flexible stalk to lunge out of the newly opened cavity. Neat trick, that. The cavity itself appeared to be more-or-less lined with eyes, although the others seemed to be of the non-telescoping variety.
Hoping to find a weakness he could exploit, John struggled against his own restraints, but there was no slack to be found. Somewhere outside the lab, coming rapidly closer, he heard what sounded like pounding feet. “This can’t be good,” he said to himself, then, more loudly, “Aeryn…”
He was interrupted by the hiss of a door sliding open, although he could not see it from the angle at which he lay. Aeryn had regained her grip on the Qujagan, who was now down on his knees in front of her, still fighting to break free. Peripherally, John saw several Qujagans in some sort of uniform pour into the room, weapons ready and pointed directly at the ex-Peacekeeper.
“Don’t shoot!” John yelled, figuring it might not help but it sure could not hurt the situation - besides, he wasn’t much good for anything else at the moment. Four nasty-looking rifles of some sort remained trained on Aeryn and Koraj Garn.
***
Koraj Garn suddenly found it much easier to breathe as the Sebacean released her hold on his throat and took a step back, raising her arms in a gesture of surrender. Corporal Kreetaq stepped forward, slinging his weapon, and roughly pulled her arms behind her back in what must have been a painful grip, despite the lack of expression on her face.
“I am not harmed,” Koraj wheezed in response to his superior’s unvoiced query. His words were vocalized, if not very strongly, due to the fact that he could not think past the pain in his throat to properly direct his response.
He pulled himself up to his feet, using the edge of the platform the Sebacean had previously been lying on. At the same time, he allowed his head to relax back into its more normal state, effectively silencing most of the cacophony of distressed voices echoing in his mind. He no longer felt the need for the added support and security to be gained from allowing his unit members to see and hear what was happening around him. After all, several of his unit were here now, themselves, and no longer had any need to see through his eyes.
Koraj shook his resealed head. One hand rose involuntarily to his damaged throat. The non-Sebacean had been correct, it had been a bad mistake to release the other without waiting for his unit to arrive or even consulting with them prior to his ill-advised action. Almost as though prompted by the thought, the non-Sebacean spoke again. Koraj looked over to see that the alien was looking up at the ceiling.
“Now that all the excitement is over, can someone please explain to us what the hell is going on?”
***
Now, after spending several days off and on in Koraj’s company as the Qujagan tech searched for a way to get the baby safely from John A to Aeryn B, John knew that he - it? - was hermaphroditic. All the Qujagans were hermaphroditic, reproducing more or less at will - tribbles? - John really did not want the details on that one. The concept still freaked him out a little, but he was getting used to the idea. A mildly alien concept was a lot easier to accept, after all, than the reality of that head-splitting-apart-to-reveal-more-eyes thing. And it kind of explained why they had not realized that John was not the proper “host” for the growing fetus, what with not having to deal with that whole male-female thing.
“Perhaps you should try to eat something,” Aeryn said, stepping back from him as he pushed himself up from the basin. She offered a hand to help him up.
He stared at her, ignoring the helping hand. “Are you crazy?”
“Sometimes nausea is easier to handle if there is actually something available for your stomach to void.” She let her hand drop to her side.
“I think I’ll take a pass on that one.” This was followed by a groan as he dropped down on their bed and stared up at the dark ceiling high above.
“Commander . . . ” Pilot’s voice sounded over the comms.
“Yeah, Pilot.”
“I have just received word from Captain D’Argo. He and Chiana are returning from the commerce planet.”
Aeryn pushed him back down when he tried to sit up. “Rest,” she told him. “Pilot, did he give you an estimate of when they will arrive?” She took John’s hand as she sat down beside him on the bed and leaned back against the wall.
“Yes, Officer Sun. He said they should be here in approximately three arns.”
“Time enough for you to sleep a bit,” she said in an aside to her exhausted mate. “Have you notified the Qujagans that they’re on their way?” she continued on to Pilot. She did not want D’Argo and Chiana to also be “neutralized for analysis” - the Qujagans as a whole were, as John so eloquently put it, twitchy.
“Yes, the Qujagan Defense Ministry is expecting them.”
“Good.” She leaned her head back against the wall, her eyes drifting over the electronic equipment ranged against the opposite wall. Something John called “classical music” swirled about the room. She noticed the DRD 1812 there, almost as though absorbing the notes.
“I will let you know when Lo’La is in range,” Pilot volunteered.
“Thanks, Pilot,” John replied, just to let them know he was still in the game. He turned toward Aeryn, resting his head on her leather-clad thigh as he closed his eyes. “Man, I wish this boat would stop rocking.” His right hand came to rest on her knee.
Aeryn did not respond to his words except to stroke his hair - she loved the feel of it against her skin. She looked down at his head and smiled to herself as she remembered just how much she loved the feel of his hair on places other than her hands, and wished she could stop Moya from rocking for him. The gentle, faint motion was not helping his nausea.
***
Moya floated in the soothing waters of Qujaga’s largest sea, still recovering from the harrowing flight from Katratzi and her even more terrifying separation from Pilot. Recovering both physically and emotionally. While she was grateful for the instant and unquestioning support she had received from Stark and the others during that awful and painful separation, she knew she would have the Leviathan equivalent of nightmares for cycles to come. It no longer mattered to her that Pilot had been forced on her after her previous pilot’s murder - that was no more his fault than it was Aeryn Sun’s - Pilot was Moya’s other half and she did not want to ever be without him again. She had never felt so alone.
While Pilot monitored the repairs still being made by her DRDs as well as the other day-to-day operations on board, Moya checked on the rest of her family. She would not be able to truly rest and heal until all of them were back on board. She had lost her beloved Talyn. She had lost gentle Zhaan. She had almost lost Aeryn Sun and John Crichton. Moya would not be able to rest until Captain D’Argo and Chiana were safely back on board. Once her crew was again whole, then she and Pilot could both relax.
The one called Noranti was in the galley with Dominar Rygel. Noranti was preparing a meal for the other biologics in Moya’s and Pilot’s care, while Rygel looked on and offered advice. Every time he reached for a taste, Noranti swatted him with one of her cooking implements. This, of course, did not stop the Hynerian from reaching again. And again.
All was as it should be in the galley.
The Banik Stykera, Stark, was asleep in his quarters, the chamber that had once been Zhaan’s. From the lack of movement, except for the rise and fall of his chest with each breath, it appeared to be a peaceful sleep.
No problems apparent there…
John Crichton also slept. He was in the quarters he now shared with Aeryn Sun, while the former Peacekeeper watched over him. Music they had brought back with them from the Commander’s home world was playing softly in the background from the electronic device he called a stereo. Under other circumstances, Moya would have enjoyed simply listening to that music, but at the moment she was too preoccupied to do more than make note of its presence.
With the possible exception of Chiana, who had still been blind when she and Captain D’Argo had left in Lo’La two days ago, Moya felt the greatest worry for Commander Crichton. On the surface, he and Aeryn Sun appeared to be as they were before the Qujagans’ neutralization process had disrupted their life functions, but Moya knew how deceptive those appearances were.
Part of Aeryn Sun had been taken from her - her child. Moya was well aware of the fear that could cause. That same child was now growing in John Crichton, and that should not be. As the child grew and matured, the situation became potentially more dangerous for both the baby and for its father. Each day it became more urgent that the Qujagans find a way to safely move the baby to Aeryn Sun, and they could not simply “neutralize” them all again and start over. According to the Qujagan Koraj Garn, the neutralization and reintegration process was relatively safe the first time it was used on someone, but became riskier each subsequent time, more likely to result in either death or permanent and debilitating damage at the cellular level.
Moya was distracted from her contemplation of John Crichton and Aeryn Sun by another in-coming communication from Captain D’Argo - it had been such a short time since the Captain had last spoken to them. She listened in as Pilot answered the Captain.
***
“No, Captain, there has been no progress from the Qujagans in regard to correcting their mistake with Commander Crichton and Officer Sun,” Pilot responded to Ka D’Argo, his calm voice filling the cockpit of the Luxan ship.
“We’re bringing a couple of guests with us, Pilot.” He reached up to flip a switch in response to a yellow light that appeared on his console. “We spoke to a Diagnosan who is certain he can help with John and the baby.”
“What about Chiana?” Pilot asked.
“I’m still blind, Pilot, but it’s getting better. I can see a little light, anyway.” The little Nebari lounged in the co-pilot’s chair next to D’Argo, trying to distract him by sliding a foot slowly up and down his leg.
“Was this Diagnosan able to determine what is causing your blindness?” Pilot’s question sounded concerned rather than merely curious.
“We’ll talk about it when we arrive, Pilot,” D’Argo interjected, effectively preventing Chiana from answering that question just yet. He preferred to tell the story - or listen to it - only once, when they were all back together on Moya. While the Diagnosan had given them hope in regard to a cure, the proposed remedy was not certain and he had yet to convince Chi that it was a viable option. He had hopes that the others on Moya might prevail where he had so far failed.
“In fact, Pilot, you can ask him your questions directly - Diagnosan Tikrel and his assistant are here with us on Lo’La.” Chiana followed this statement with a little laugh as she took her foot up along D’Argo’s leg far enough to make him gasp.
“Our previous ETA has not changed,” D’Argo said, grasping Chiana’s ankle to stop that annoying - well, more intriguing than truly annoying - motion of her foot.
“Moya and I look forward to your return.”
***
Aeryn gently extricated herself from under John’s head, trying hard not to wake him. She knew how exhausted he was - he desperately needed the peaceful sleep he seemed to have fallen into. Too often of late she had had to wake him from a nightmare, if not one of Scarrens torturing her on that freighter then one of Scarrens invading Earth in search of those frelling flowers, destroying whatever they could not enslave.
Good. She was successful - John remained asleep, even as his arms curled around the pillow she pushed toward him as a substitute. She pulled the cover over him, but her stomach chose that moment to gurgle, deafeningly to Aeryn’s ears. The noise did not wake him.
Obviously, she needed sustenance, but she also planned on bringing John something, even if she had to force him to eat it. And perhaps there was something in Moya’s stores that could lessen his nausea, rather than approaching the less-than-trustworthy old woman. If not, then perhaps D’Argo had obtained something on the commerce planet - that was one of the things on his limited “shopping” list - and he and Chiana were due back any time now.
Quietly she left in search of food, leaving John under the faithful watch of 1812. The red, white, and blue DRD meshed fairly well with Moya’s less colorful ones, but it seemed to have a distinct attachment to John.
When she reached the galley, she found not only Noranti there stirring one of her concoctions, as expected, but also Rygel and a sleepy-looking Stark. As she watched, the old woman handed a bowl of something steamy to Stark.
Noranti’s attention turned to Aeryn as she entered the room. “How is Crichton?” she asked.
“Asleep. What are you cooking? It smells good.” Aeryn was a bit surprised that this was so.
“Trevonian stew. Or rather, a reasonable facsimile, since we don’t have any Trevons in our stores.”
“Trevons?”
“Small rodents from Trask. They’re really quite delicious.” She added a bit of something to the stew, stirring the pot.
“Rodents, hmm? What have you used instead?” Sebaceans as a rule did not eat rodents or other types of vermin, but Aeryn had been away from the Peacekeepers and “civilized” territories for a long time. If the substitute was no worse than the original, she supposed she could pretend it was something else - maybe John’s “chicken” from earth.
Noranti’s reply was interrupted. “Officer Sun.”
“Yes, Pilot.”
“Lo’La is now within Moya’s sensor range. They should be aboard in approximately five hundred microts. Captain D’Argo has advised me that he and Chiana are bringing two guests with them - a Diagnosan and his assistant.”
“Thank you, Pilot,” Aeryn replied, spinning to retrace her steps through the galley door as she headed toward the great ship’s docking bay. She could eat later. “John, are you awake?” she asked through the comms. If D’Argo was bringing a Diagnosan back with him, it must be because of John and the baby. If he answered her comm, she would swing by their quarters for him; if not, she would let him sleep.
“Yeah, Aeryn. Where are you?” He sounded a little groggy, but not too bad.
“I’m on my way to the docking bay. D’Argo and Chiana will be here in five hundred microts. They have a Diagnosan with them.”
“’Kay. I’m on my way.”
None of them had known when D’Argo and Chiana left if the two would find a Diagnosan on the commerce planet one solar day beyond Qujaga, but they had all hoped. The Nebari’s blindness had gone on so long and the Qujagans were uncertain as to whether their own surgeons would be able to correct their mistake . . . .
Aeryn swung around the corner into the corridor on which their quarters were located to see John leaving their room, pulling a jacket on over his black shirt as he walked toward her. She was amused to see 1812 following closely behind. The little DRD from the Leviathan Elack never let him get too far away.
“Do we know how Chi is doing?” John asked, catching up to her at the corner.
He and Aeryn continued on together to the docking bay. “No, not yet, but I assume the Diagnosan is here as much for you as Chiana.”
He shot her a quick look from those blue eyes she could never get enough of looking at. “You think? I guess we’ll know soon enough.”
***
Sschi’itakhra of Paakri’i hovered over her master’s right shoulder as they waited for the hatch to open. She was a little bit nervous, truth be told, even though Chiana had assured her several times that there was nothing to be nervous about - too nervous, even, to land on his shoulder, which was her normal position when they traveled. She was afraid that she might knock his mask askew if she tried to land, as she was also generally quite clumsy when nervous, and that could have serious repercussions. Her diaphanous wings fluttered even faster in anticipation - she was nervous, yes, but not in a bad way - causing her small body to momentarily lift up closer to the top of her master’s head.
The tiny Paakrit had listened avidly as Chiana had related her symptoms to Diagnosan Tikrel, fueling her own interests even as she tried to keep track of everything for him. While she spoke, the old Diagnosan had circled the Nebari, occasionally making one- or two-word comments to Sschi’itakhra to be included in the notes, prior to the one-on-one session between the Nebari and the Diagnosan. It was during the one-on-one that the true business of diagnosis and possible treatments would be addressed, when Diagnosan Tikrel and Chiana could be in a sealed room. Then he could safely remove his mask without fear of unknown contaminants in the air causing him harm.
Sschi’itakhra had wound herself up so tightly, she could not suppress a little shriek when the hatch door swooshed open, revealing a Sebacean man and woman on the other side. She touched Diagnosan Tikrel’s shoulder lightly in unspoken apology, even though she realized he should be used to it by now. It was usually very hard for Sschi’itakhra to contain either her enthusiasm or her curiosity.
The air smelled much better than the last time Sschi’itakhra had been on a ship, excepting the Luxan ship, of course. That last transport - the only large ship she had been on in her life - had been a Zenetan cargo vessel, while D’Argo had told her this one was a living ship - a Leviathan. She supposed that might explain why it smelled better than the Zenetans’ ship, which had been rather unorganized and dirty. Of course, she had since discovered that the Zenetans were not traders at all, as she had originally believed, but rather pirates - she had been quite lucky to merely be stranded on a commerce planet.
Diagnosan Tikrel moved forward into the docking bay when he was introduced to the Sebaceans by D’Argo. Sschi’itakhra stayed where she was for a handful of microts, wings whirring against her yellow carapace. Then she saw Chiana motioning for her to come out as D’Argo said her name, so she took a deep breath and shot forward, almost colliding with the Sebacean man’s head.
“Oh! I’m so sorry!” she exclaimed. Her carapace faded from the cheerful, if nervous, yellow she had been sporting microts before to the deep purple of profound embarrassment. “Please forgive me!”
“No problem.” The Sebacean man had a soothing voice - her carapace faded to more of a blue color, but still with purple overtones. “I’m John Crichton, at your service.”
“Oh, no, Johncrichton! I am at your service!” He was not a Sebacean after all, but something called a Human, Sschi’itakhra suddenly recalled from D’Argo’s description of his friend.
“What’s your name, Sprite?”
He has such a nice smile, she thought as she watched his mobile face. The facial expressions of others always fascinated her, having none of her own. Her tough shell did not allow movement where it was not jointed. Then she realized she had not answered him and said, “Oh! I am Sschi’itakhra.”
“Sschi - whoa! That’s a tongue-twister if I ever heard one. We can’t call you Sschi - that’s a little too close to ‘Chi,’” he said, nodding toward the Nebari. Chiana was talking to the others, none of whom seemed to be paying any attention to the Paakrit or the Human. “Do you mind if I just call you Tinkerbell?”
“You may call me whatever you’d like, Johncrichton.” She was now entirely blue, since she was no longer feeling at all embarrassed, but rather a bit pleased with herself.
“Okay, Tink. Hop on.” He indicated his shoulder with a quick nod of his head. “Let’s go join the party.”
She barely hesitated before landing lightly on his shoulder, bracing herself with one hand on his ear as he walked over to the rest of the group in the enormous docking bay. His shoulder was much warmer against her bare feet than Diagnosan Tikrel’s, but it was otherwise just as comfortable a perch. Sschi’itakhra decided she liked Humans, if Johncrichton was a fair example.
***
John barely noticed when Ssch-Tinkerbell landed on his right shoulder. Well, he barely noticed her weight, anyway - she could not weigh more than a few ounces, tiny as she was - but he did notice a pleasant cinnamon scent. Or was it cloves? He felt the slightest breeze as the movement from her wings stirred his hair, reminding him that he needed a haircut. Glancing at her out of the corner of his eye, he decided she was a pretty little thing, kind of a cross between the Tinkerbell of Walt Disney fame and the dragonflies he and his sisters used to try to catch when they were kids. Her little hand felt cool on his ear as her grip tightened when he came to a stop with Aeryn and the others.
“Did we miss anything?” he asked of the group in general.
“I see you’ve met Sschi’itakhra,” D’Argo replied. “We were just discussing quarters for Diagnosan Tikrel and his assistant, since they will be here for two or three solar days.”
“Well, it’s not like there’s no room at the inn.”
“Captain, there is a chamber near to my den that could be made comfortable for the Diagnosan,” Pilot’s voice volunteered. “It can be sealed off from the rest of Moya’s atmosphere and the air inside purified for Diagnosan Tikrel’s comfort.”
The Diagnosan said something incomprehensible, which caused the little pixie to fly from John’s shoulder over to the healer. She hovered at his eye level, in an attitude of listening, then turned to the group and said, “Diagnosan Tikrel says that will be fine. He would like to acclimate himself to the motion of the ship and the room he will be using before he visits with Johncrichton.” She was doing that chameleon thing again while she spoke, John noticed, this time turning green. I wonder what the different colors mean, he thought, bemused.
“In that case,” Pilot responded, “I am sending a DRD to lead you and Diagnosan Tikrel to your quarters while you are on board Moya.” With that, a yellow DRD indeed came coasting into the docking bay, stopping just short of the Diagnosan’s feet, then wheeling around to go back the way it came. The Diagnosan and his assistant followed without hesitation.
Not one microt after the two passed through the doorway, a loud rumble filled the air with sound. Everyone turned to Aeryn, the source of the noise, who shrugged and said, “I’m hungry.”
“Well, what are we waiting for?” Chiana said, holding out a hand. “Let’s go! Somebody lead me to dinner.” Being the quintessential southern gentleman, John took Chi’s hand in the crook of his arm and led her off to the galley, Aeryn, D’Argo, and 1812 trailing behind.
***
The air in the chamber just did not smell right. It was not stale, exactly. It did not smell bad, exactly. Just not right. It did not even smell the same as the Diagnosan’s chamber back on the ice planet - that had been a much larger chamber and the atmospheric scrubbers there had been of an entirely different set up than the ones on Moya. For one thing, there was no movement of air through the vents in the room, which were closed off tight to prevent any outside air from getting in.
Sterile. That was the word for it. Like a hospital, but without all the chemical smells. That was a good thing, because John was pretty sure he would lose the little bit of Trevon stew Aeryn had forced him - okay, persuaded him, and pretty enjoyably, too - to eat if the room had smelled too much like a hospital back on Earth. And that was in spite of the “tonic” Diagnosan Tikrel had given him for the morning sickness.
John stood more or less in the center of the room as Diagnosan Tikrel walked around him. Tink was covered up in what looked like some sort of Barbie-sized EVA suit, complete with helmet. Something to do with her scent when she flies, he supposed, can’t have that cinnamon and cloves frelling with the diagnosis. Since her wings were presumably bottled up in the suit, she was sitting on the Diagnosan’s shoulder as she took notes.
Bored, John started whistling. It started out a tuneless thing, but shortly merged into the beginning riff of Billy Joel’s The Stranger and then melted into the theme from the Andy Griffith Show. Tinkerbell looked over at him, pausing in her note-taking, but quickly looked away again when she saw him watching her. Tikrel said something to her.
“I am sorry, Johncrichton, but please do not sing. The music is disturbing to Diagnosan Tikrel’s concentration.” Her voice sounded tinny and apologetic through the external speaker of her helmet.
“It’s called whistling. I’ll stop. Sorry.” He blew out a heavy sigh and tried to keep from fidgeting. It had only been a few minutes since the examination began, but it seemed like hours.
The room not only smelled different from the rest of Moya, it looked a little different, too, he decided. It was bronzy-brown and ribbed just as the rest, but for one thing, it had a solid door, so it had probably not been used as any sort of prison cell - nothing for a guard to look through. It was smaller than the former cells, but not by much. And there was what looked - and acted - like any run-of-the-mill ceiling fan back on Earth. It was moving the air in the sealed room, preventing it from becoming too stale. There was also what could pass for a writing desk along one wall. He opened his mouth to ask Pilot what the room had been under the Peacekeepers, but stopped himself before he could disturb the Diagnosan again.
Tikrel stopped in front of John, after what must have been his sixth circuit around him. The two studied each other in silence, while Tinkerbell waited to add more information to her notes. If the Diagnosan had had a recognizable nose, John was sure it would have been twitching. The tall alien abruptly knelt to bring his head down to the level of John’s abdomen, causing little Tink to grab onto his collar to keep from falling off. She emitted a squeak as she did so.
“Please, remain still, Johncrichton,” she politely commanded when he instinctively reached out to catch her if she fell. With her wings encased in the suit, it would have been a long and possibly painful drop for her.
He straightened up again and Tikrel continued his olfactory diagnosis. Just as abruptly as he had knelt down, the Diagnosan stood up, speaking to Tinkerbell in that trilling language of his. She turned toward John and said, “The examination is finished for now, Johncrichton.”
“It’s just John, Tink, or Crichton, but you don’t have to use both names.” Although he did think it was kind of cute the way she shoved all the syllables together into one word. He glanced over at the Diagnosan, who was replacing the mask/filter over his face. “Does this mean there’ll be more later?”
“Perhaps. Diagnosan Tikrel must go over the notes I have taken and compare them to the impressions he has received before he will be willing to say for certain.”
Fresh, albeit super-scrubbed, air began to flow into the room as the vents were opened, apparently in response to something Tikrel said into the comms Pilot had given him. Huh. Pilot must speak Diagnosan, because Tikrel’s words were definitely not in any language John’s microbes could handle. Or maybe Tikrel had just said something slowly and John missed it - he had not been paying much attention to the Diagnosan as his assistant spoke.
“I guess I’ll see you two later, then,” John said, punching the button to open the door.
“Yes, Johncri-John. I will see you soon to discuss Diagnosan Tikrel’s preliminary diagnosis.”
***
After the door closed behind the Human, Tikrel said to Sschi’itakhra, “This case is much more unusual than I anticipated.” He gently placed her on the desk so that she could more easily remove her environmental suit, without the worry of trying to keep her balance as he moved about the room. He had some thinking to do and he thought better when he was moving.
“In what way, Diagnosan Tikrel?” she answered, her voice a bit muffled by the removal of her helmet. She tossed it to the side and it rolled to a stop against the wall, very near the edge of the table. He heard her mutter “Frell!” under her breath and then her sigh of relief that she would not have to make the effort to prevent its fall to the floor and possible damage.
The Paakrit was a joy to work with, although he had never told her that. Her temperament could be a bit flighty at times, but she was very efficient and intelligent, for all that. She was becoming quite a good healer in her own right, absorbing everything she could from him. Obviously, there were things he could not teach her, nor would she be able to learn them even if they could be taught since she was not of the Diagnosan race, but she was very good at expanding on the ideas he gave her to put into his notes.
He stopped pacing. “At first, from what the Luxan and the Nebari said of his situation, I believed this would be a fairly simple ectopic pregnancy, albeit the female of most species carries the offspring, not the male.” The pacing started again. “The scent I am associating with the fetus is…wrong.”
Tikrel turned to look at his assistant, whose head was cocked to one side as she listened. As always, she seemed to be hanging on his every word. Her wings were free from the constricting suit, slowly moving in time with her breathing and wafting a faint spicy scent into the air, her color shifting slowly back and forth between the pale yellow of curiosity and the deeper orange of concern.
“The Human seems healthy,” he continued. “I am not familiar with his species, but his physiology seems very close to that of both Sebaceans and Interions…” His words trailed off. He would have to consult with the Leviathan’s pilot - a physical scan of the Human would be necessary. There was something very odd about the fetus, but he could not yet place it. It smelled sweet, as the unborn and very young always did, for him, but there was an undertone to the sweetness that he did not like, almost like decay.
“Ship’s…Pilot,” he said, slowing his speech to the point the translator microbes could do their job.
“Yes, Diagnosan.”
“Do you have…a scanner? I…must scan…John Crichton to complete…my diagnosis.”
“There is a scanner in the medical facility. I can have a DRD lead you there whenever you wish.”
“Thank…you.” He turned to his assistant and spoke to her normally, relieved to not have to concentrate so much on forming his words. He was quite thankful that Sschi’itakhra was able to understand Diagnosan so well. “Please find John Crichton and advise him that I must perform a scan. I presume he knows the location of the medical facility - have him meet me there in an arn.” That should give him time to go over his notes prior to the further examination of the Human.
“Should I return to help you?” She sounded hopeful that his reply would be no.
“If you wish to spend time with the others, you may.” He knew how much she enjoyed the company of others. The Paakrit were social creatures in general, but Sschi’itakhra seemed more so than most. “Then please accompany our patient to the medical facility.”
“If you are certain, Diagnosan Tikrel…”
“Go, little one.” He waved her toward the door. “Enjoy yourself.”
With that, she clapped her hands together and launched herself with a squeak from the table to the door controls. As the door opened, he saw a bright yellow blur as she streaked out of the room. He shook his head in amusement and closed the door behind her.
***
Continued here (the fic is too large)...