Shoot the Moon -- holiday fic #4
This one is for jebbypal, who requested Veronica Mars/Farscape.
I hope you find this entertaining, jebbypal. Happy Christmas. :)
Shoot the Moon
Fandom -- Farscape/Veronica Mars
Rating -- MH (mostly harmless)
Spoilers -- Farscape: general series, nothing big. Could be called a fourth season AU. Or UR, if you prefer. Veronica Mars: General first half of season two.
Poem snippet by John Masefield
***
One thirty-seven a.m. Laptop open, Chaucer essay mostly done, surveillance quiet, ex-boyfriend about to require emergency surgery to remove his zippo from his nostril.
Veronica Mars could have come up with a number of ways she'd rather spend the evening (twenty-four at last count). Nowhere on that list was surveilling Rosa's Market, because Rosa refused to hire security ("they're all crooks"), and trusted only Keith Mars to solve the mystery of the missing Yagermeister. Nor was quietly surveilling the market, working on homework, only to have Logan Echolls (ex-boyfriend, eternal pain in the ass) show up. He'd arrived, ostensibly, to get an update on her investigation into who was framing him for killing a PCHer. So, she'd given him the update, and then a less than subtle hint to get lost. That was an hour ago.
Schting, fchick, clenk. Schting, fchick, clenk. Schting, fchick, clenk.
"So help me God, if you don't stop with the lighter, I'm going to shove that thing someplace the doctors in the ER will talk about for years to come. It'll be a tale they pass down through the generations."
Schting, fchick, clenk.
Logan smirked and flicked his lighter shut one last time with a flourish.
"Will there be song?" he asked in a mock hopeful tone, leaning back, lighter-less hand rubbing thoughtfully at his chin.
"You won't live long enough to hear them," Veronica promised.
"Yanno, Ronnie, some might say you're a coldhearted bitch."
"And that cold heart would break."
Logan smiled and opened his mouth to reply, but at a movement on the street outside, Veronica clapped a firm hand over his mouth.
"Save it for later, snarkmeister," she hissed. Leaning over, shoving his leg aside, she pulled her camera off the floor and moved to get out of her car.
Logan grabbed her arm as she opened the door. "I'd ask you to tell me you're not stupid enough to interrupt a burglary, but I'd probably be disappointed."
"What I'll actually tell you is that I'm not prepared to listen to a lecture on dangerous behavior from the idiot packing heat." She paused and gave him a hard look, trying to yank her arm out of his grip. "You'd better not have that on you."
"You've disarmed me, Veronica Mars," he told her brightly, a sardonic twist to his lips.
Rolling her eyes, she pulled at her arm again, and reached for the door handle. "Stay here."
Logan tapped a finger on his lips and shook his head. "Um, no. It's not fair of you to keep the fun do-gooding all to yourself. Save some for the rest of the kids." He let her arm go and opened his door.
Veronica bolted out of her car, and scrambled to the other side before Logan could begin to cross the street. She grabbed the back of his jacket and tried to slow him down. "So, you're gonna just run right in? And you lecture me?" She snorted and angled him off to the side, away from the storefront.
Eyes sweeping the street, he shoved his hands in his pockets and jerked his chin towards the shop. "What's the story here?"
Sighing, Veronica pushed him against the building next door, and leaned back to try and look through the market's painted windows.
"Rosa thinks her grandson's got a bad case of sticky fingers and a fondness for the liquor section. She doesn't want the police involved, she just wants pictures." She turned back and jabbed a finger in his chest. "Which means, this is surveillance, not wild kingdom, so shelve the manly chest thumping."
"You'll let me know when it is wild kingdom, though, right? I'd hate to miss the leopard print bikini."
Veronica ground her teeth and tried not to give in to the urge to give back as good as she got. That was the problem with him -- well, one of the endless problems -- she was not one to back down from a challenge, and he did nothing but challenge her. Ignoring that, or stepping away from that was not exactly easy, it felt like weakness, and she couldn't allow herself that anymore. But, she had a job to do. The quicker she got a picture of Rosa's nephew boosting booze, the quicker she could shed her irritant.
"Zip it. You want to help, do me a favor and go around to the delivery door, make sure it's secure."
"And leave you alone?" His voice dropped, low and tight, suddenly serious. "What if it's not the nephew?"
Veronica sighed wearily; she just couldn't put up with his mood swings right now. "Fine, whatever. I just want this picture and then I want to go home. Just ... God. Just don't get in the way."
Stalking away from him, she approached the shop's corner door. Bending low, shuffling along the front wall, she tried to stay out of sight and get a look through the windows at the same time. It wasn't particularly easy. The security lights were out, and the market's only illumination came from the weak neon light of a large beer company clock over the coolers, and a cigarette company clock over the register.
Veronica paused short of the door, and knelt down onto the cold pavement. Pulling her camera out, she considered her position, the lighting on the street, the best angle for a shot. With the windows covered in sale prices, paintings of chickens happy to be fried, and smiling daisies, and the front entrance dark and on an angle to the street, there was no clear shot from her car. Which was the good news -- truthfully, she'd only wanted out of the car before she strangled Logan, and hadn't entirely thought through the best position for her shot. She was relieved she hadn't blown it.
The problem now, was getting the shot without tipping off the person inside. Pressing her back against the rough, brick wall, Veronica pushed slowly to stand, moving inch by inch until she could find a decent, clear view inside. She was at the door before she found what she was after. And there he was. And, oh crap, it wasn't Rosa's nephew. Unless he'd grown about a foot overnight.
Logan hissed behind her, and, without turning, she waved him into silence. Or, she tried to wave him into silence.
"That's not him, is it?" he whispered in her ear.
"No."
"Then I think this little op is over."
"I don't think it's your business to tell me how to do my job," she snarled angrily.
Turning to glare at him over her shoulder, she froze when a shadow detached itself from around the building's corner. Logan muttered a bitter curse, and a leather clad arm reached around Veronica to pull the camera from her hands.
"What is this?" The arm's owner asked in a throaty, heavily accented voice.
"What?" Veronica asked dumbly, trying to stall for enough time for her madly scrambling brain to come up with a plan. Turning slowly she examined the intruder. Long black leather coat, black shirt, black leather trousers, black leather boots, big black gun, long black hair. There was a theme here.
"This." The woman shook Veronica's camera at her.
"It's a camera." Next to her, Logan was shifting his weight, probably about to do something deeply stupid. Reaching out, she grabbed a handful of his shirt and tugged him off balance, forcing him to stumble back against the side window.
The woman stepped back, turning the camera over in her hands, examining it as if it was something entirely unfamiliar. A wry smile touched the woman's lips, and she shook her head. "Primitive," she muttered, handing the camera back to Veronica. "Crichton, we have a problem."
Behind them, the door to the shop swung open, the bell above jingling cheerily, and the man Veronica had spotted earlier, stepped out. Tall, long black coat, black shirt, black leather trousers, black leather boots, big black gun, short-cropped light brown hair. Well, at least they were nearly a matched set.
"What's the--" He stopped when he saw Veronica and Logan. With a heavy sigh, he pressed his fingertips to his eyes. "Little late to be out casing the joint, isn't it?"
"What better time to case a joint?" Logan said, trying for humor above his own clear irritation. "Saturday night and the fun never stops in Neptune. We're thinking of lurking outside a 7-11 next."
The man dropped his hands and cocked and eyebrow at Logan. "Right. Let me have the camera." He held out a hand, prompting Veronica to turn it over. She gave it to him with a great deal of reluctance, but the big black guns were plenty of incentive not to push things.
"Did you get a picture of either of us?"
"No. I didn't have time."
He nodded and considered the back of the camera. "Digital." Fumbling with the buttons for a moment, he eventually managed to scan through the pictures on the card. After a moment he looked up at Veronica, his face a mixture of amusment and disbelief. "So, you stalk for fun or profit?"
"My father's a private investigator."
"Profit. Nice work if you can get it, I guess." He handed back the camera. "No pictures." Turning he headed back into the shop.
Veronica frowned at his back, then over to the woman who appeared both bored and amused. Before she could talk herself out of it, she pushed away from the wall and followed the man into the shop.
"Who are you?"
"What, exactly, do you think you're doing?" The man turned on her with a growl, putting his hands on his hips and making a disturbingly good impression of concerned parent. It was unsettling. "I could be a junkie. A murderer. A gang banger. You look like you weigh about 90 pounds soaking wet."
"I can't just let you burg Rosa's place," Veronica said weakly, realizing her actions were a bit indefensible at the moment. This wasn't really going any way she could have anticipated, and understanding just how much danger she could be in, wasn't helping. Her father was going to kill her.
"And how would you stop me?" The man sighed and scrubbed his hands through his hair. "I paid." He waved a hand over to the register counter, where a pile of metallic chips and dully glittering stones sat. "I just need a couple of things, then I'll get out of Rosa's hair."
He pulled a radio off a shelf, some batteries, a small toolkit, a couple bottles of water, and a few other bits. Shoving it all into a bag, he went about his business while Veronica watched, bemused.
"I suppose it would be too much to ask for a name," she asked after a moment.
"Commander John Crichton," he replied promptly.
"Commander? Commander of what? The Hell's Angels?"
He smirked and grabbed a couple of Twinkies. "You have any idea how long its been since I've had one of these?"
"Not a favorite of mine."
"Mine either, I'm a cupcake guy, really. But, it's been so long, I'll even choke down one of these. You never really appreciate cream filling until you don't have it anymore." He dropped the cake into a black rucksack. "Look me up, sometime."
Veronica blinked at the sudden change in subject, hoping that wasn't some sort of creepy pick-up line. "Look you up?"
"I'm sure I'm on the internet there somewhere." The Commander dug through the rucksack, looked thoughtfully at the surrounding shelves, grabbed another small radio and a roll of duct tape. "What's your name, darlin'?"
"Veronica."
"Pretty. Who's your boy?"
"You don't know him?"
"Should I?"
She shrugged, relived and sort of confused. It wasn't often these days that she ran into somebody who didn't know the sordid history of the Echolls clan. "His name's Logan. And he's not my boy. Who's your girl?"
Laughing, the Commander nodded at her. "Man, I've missed this place. Aeryn. Her name's Aeryn."
"You almost done?"
"Itching to call the cops?"
"What if I am? Gonna shoot me?"
The Commander gave her a hard look, his lips pressed into a grim line. "Nope. You got lucky tonight. You tell anybody you saw us, I guarantee they won't believe you."
"And why would that be?"
"Look me up, Veronica." Hefting the sack, he started for the door, but paused when he came even with her. "Do me a favor, huh? Don't do something like this again. You're what? 18? You've got a lot of life to live, don't throw it away on some tweaker who wants twelve bucks and cheese nips at three a.m. I promise you it's not worth it."
At a loss for words, Veronica followed him out of the shop, watching as he carefully locked the door behind them.
"Well," coughed Logan, still warily eyeing the woman. "It's been bizarre. Veronica, you always introduce me to the nicest, heavily armed people."
"You're welcome to stop tagging along." God, she missed Wallace.
"And miss all this?" He waved his hand at the black-clad pair. "My life would be so dull."
The Commander laughed dryly and handed the rucksack to Aeryn, who pulled it open, examining the contents.
"He reminds me of you," Aeryn muttered. "He didn't shut up the entire time you were inside." She pulled out a radio and looked it over closely.
"Thanks for not shooting him."
"I wouldn't have. A pantak jab, on the other hand ... much more likely."
Shaking his head, smiling fondly, the Commander took a deep breath and looked up at the sky. "Anybody got the time?"
"Five after two," Logan said brusquely, chafing at being talked about as he stood there.
"Time to go." With a sigh, the Commander eyed the young pair. "Nice to meet you."
"Yeah," Veronica agreed flatly.
"Go ahead and report this if it'll make you feel better," the Commander said with suspicious amusement. "And tell Rosa she can take my payment to a jeweler. I couldn't exactly get to an ATM."
With a nod and a laugh, the pair started off down the street, melting into the shadows with frightening ease. Veronica and Logan watched them quietly for a long moment, then went their separate ways, barely a word spoken between them.
***
Telling my father what I'd been up to the night before, with a few details judiciously removed or altered slightly, was a painful process that ended with the worst form of punishment he could mete out -- the disapproving frown. I shudder to remember it.
Rosa called later that morning, wondering what the story was with the missing goods and the pile of metal tiles on her counter. After a trip to the jeweler, she discovered the pile was worth a small fortune. We encouraged her to put some of that cash towards a security camera or two. She agreed, and I installed the system myself that afternoon. Two nights later, Rosa's nephew was caught on tape horking a box of Coronas. He never was the brightest crayon in the box.
Logan and I aren't exactly chatting buddies, but for some reason that night is a subject we particularly avoid. He's passed up many an opportunity to mock my stupidity, and I've passed up many an opportunity to goad him into it. I'd mentioned the man's name on the slow walk back to my car, and I think Logan probably looked him up, too. And what, exactly, do you say after that?
I'm not sure what I'd expected when I put the name into the search engine, maybe some rogue military vet leading an outlaw biker gang, or some kind of spook. The first two links were to conspiracy sites, but the third was to IASA.gov. He's right, nobody would believe me.
A memorial page for a space shuttle mission more than six years ago. STS-96, Farscape One. Commander John Crichton in one of those astronaut shots, the orange flight suit, helmet under one arm, mission logo and American flag behind him. Compared to the man I'd met, this looked like a baby picture. Not that the man had looked old, but whatever innocence was in the picture had been burned away. It was a little creepy, and a little sad.
Commander John Crichton, 35. A specialist on two previous shuttle missions, Cmdr. Crichton's third mission was an ambitious one -- to test a craft of his own design. The Farscape module was engineered to be the first step toward interstellar travel.
Forty seconds into the first test of the module, the craft was struck by an electromagnetic wave. Despite all attempts, communication was never reestablished with the Farscape module. Neither the Commander nor his ship were ever recovered. (Farscape accident report [pdf])
Commander Crichton leaves behind his father, pioneering astronaut Colonel Jack Crichton, and two sisters.
I could not sleep for thinking of the sky,
The unending sky, with all its million suns
Which turn their planets everlastingly in nothing,
Through which the fire-haired comet runs
I heard a rumor later the next day that there'd been a break-in at the naval air station just a few miles up the coast. The place was locked down pretty tight after that, and I couldn't get any real details, but, I could at least take a pretty educated guess on who was behind it.
All told, that was one of my stranger nights ever. Where had Commander Crichton disappeared to for all those years? Who was the woman? Why'd they come back and where were they going? What's the deal with the extreme black leather fetish?
Honestly, I don't think I believe myself.
##
I hope you find this entertaining, jebbypal. Happy Christmas. :)
Shoot the Moon
Fandom -- Farscape/Veronica Mars
Rating -- MH (mostly harmless)
Spoilers -- Farscape: general series, nothing big. Could be called a fourth season AU. Or UR, if you prefer. Veronica Mars: General first half of season two.
Poem snippet by John Masefield
***
One thirty-seven a.m. Laptop open, Chaucer essay mostly done, surveillance quiet, ex-boyfriend about to require emergency surgery to remove his zippo from his nostril.
Veronica Mars could have come up with a number of ways she'd rather spend the evening (twenty-four at last count). Nowhere on that list was surveilling Rosa's Market, because Rosa refused to hire security ("they're all crooks"), and trusted only Keith Mars to solve the mystery of the missing Yagermeister. Nor was quietly surveilling the market, working on homework, only to have Logan Echolls (ex-boyfriend, eternal pain in the ass) show up. He'd arrived, ostensibly, to get an update on her investigation into who was framing him for killing a PCHer. So, she'd given him the update, and then a less than subtle hint to get lost. That was an hour ago.
Schting, fchick, clenk. Schting, fchick, clenk. Schting, fchick, clenk.
"So help me God, if you don't stop with the lighter, I'm going to shove that thing someplace the doctors in the ER will talk about for years to come. It'll be a tale they pass down through the generations."
Schting, fchick, clenk.
Logan smirked and flicked his lighter shut one last time with a flourish.
"Will there be song?" he asked in a mock hopeful tone, leaning back, lighter-less hand rubbing thoughtfully at his chin.
"You won't live long enough to hear them," Veronica promised.
"Yanno, Ronnie, some might say you're a coldhearted bitch."
"And that cold heart would break."
Logan smiled and opened his mouth to reply, but at a movement on the street outside, Veronica clapped a firm hand over his mouth.
"Save it for later, snarkmeister," she hissed. Leaning over, shoving his leg aside, she pulled her camera off the floor and moved to get out of her car.
Logan grabbed her arm as she opened the door. "I'd ask you to tell me you're not stupid enough to interrupt a burglary, but I'd probably be disappointed."
"What I'll actually tell you is that I'm not prepared to listen to a lecture on dangerous behavior from the idiot packing heat." She paused and gave him a hard look, trying to yank her arm out of his grip. "You'd better not have that on you."
"You've disarmed me, Veronica Mars," he told her brightly, a sardonic twist to his lips.
Rolling her eyes, she pulled at her arm again, and reached for the door handle. "Stay here."
Logan tapped a finger on his lips and shook his head. "Um, no. It's not fair of you to keep the fun do-gooding all to yourself. Save some for the rest of the kids." He let her arm go and opened his door.
Veronica bolted out of her car, and scrambled to the other side before Logan could begin to cross the street. She grabbed the back of his jacket and tried to slow him down. "So, you're gonna just run right in? And you lecture me?" She snorted and angled him off to the side, away from the storefront.
Eyes sweeping the street, he shoved his hands in his pockets and jerked his chin towards the shop. "What's the story here?"
Sighing, Veronica pushed him against the building next door, and leaned back to try and look through the market's painted windows.
"Rosa thinks her grandson's got a bad case of sticky fingers and a fondness for the liquor section. She doesn't want the police involved, she just wants pictures." She turned back and jabbed a finger in his chest. "Which means, this is surveillance, not wild kingdom, so shelve the manly chest thumping."
"You'll let me know when it is wild kingdom, though, right? I'd hate to miss the leopard print bikini."
Veronica ground her teeth and tried not to give in to the urge to give back as good as she got. That was the problem with him -- well, one of the endless problems -- she was not one to back down from a challenge, and he did nothing but challenge her. Ignoring that, or stepping away from that was not exactly easy, it felt like weakness, and she couldn't allow herself that anymore. But, she had a job to do. The quicker she got a picture of Rosa's nephew boosting booze, the quicker she could shed her irritant.
"Zip it. You want to help, do me a favor and go around to the delivery door, make sure it's secure."
"And leave you alone?" His voice dropped, low and tight, suddenly serious. "What if it's not the nephew?"
Veronica sighed wearily; she just couldn't put up with his mood swings right now. "Fine, whatever. I just want this picture and then I want to go home. Just ... God. Just don't get in the way."
Stalking away from him, she approached the shop's corner door. Bending low, shuffling along the front wall, she tried to stay out of sight and get a look through the windows at the same time. It wasn't particularly easy. The security lights were out, and the market's only illumination came from the weak neon light of a large beer company clock over the coolers, and a cigarette company clock over the register.
Veronica paused short of the door, and knelt down onto the cold pavement. Pulling her camera out, she considered her position, the lighting on the street, the best angle for a shot. With the windows covered in sale prices, paintings of chickens happy to be fried, and smiling daisies, and the front entrance dark and on an angle to the street, there was no clear shot from her car. Which was the good news -- truthfully, she'd only wanted out of the car before she strangled Logan, and hadn't entirely thought through the best position for her shot. She was relieved she hadn't blown it.
The problem now, was getting the shot without tipping off the person inside. Pressing her back against the rough, brick wall, Veronica pushed slowly to stand, moving inch by inch until she could find a decent, clear view inside. She was at the door before she found what she was after. And there he was. And, oh crap, it wasn't Rosa's nephew. Unless he'd grown about a foot overnight.
Logan hissed behind her, and, without turning, she waved him into silence. Or, she tried to wave him into silence.
"That's not him, is it?" he whispered in her ear.
"No."
"Then I think this little op is over."
"I don't think it's your business to tell me how to do my job," she snarled angrily.
Turning to glare at him over her shoulder, she froze when a shadow detached itself from around the building's corner. Logan muttered a bitter curse, and a leather clad arm reached around Veronica to pull the camera from her hands.
"What is this?" The arm's owner asked in a throaty, heavily accented voice.
"What?" Veronica asked dumbly, trying to stall for enough time for her madly scrambling brain to come up with a plan. Turning slowly she examined the intruder. Long black leather coat, black shirt, black leather trousers, black leather boots, big black gun, long black hair. There was a theme here.
"This." The woman shook Veronica's camera at her.
"It's a camera." Next to her, Logan was shifting his weight, probably about to do something deeply stupid. Reaching out, she grabbed a handful of his shirt and tugged him off balance, forcing him to stumble back against the side window.
The woman stepped back, turning the camera over in her hands, examining it as if it was something entirely unfamiliar. A wry smile touched the woman's lips, and she shook her head. "Primitive," she muttered, handing the camera back to Veronica. "Crichton, we have a problem."
Behind them, the door to the shop swung open, the bell above jingling cheerily, and the man Veronica had spotted earlier, stepped out. Tall, long black coat, black shirt, black leather trousers, black leather boots, big black gun, short-cropped light brown hair. Well, at least they were nearly a matched set.
"What's the--" He stopped when he saw Veronica and Logan. With a heavy sigh, he pressed his fingertips to his eyes. "Little late to be out casing the joint, isn't it?"
"What better time to case a joint?" Logan said, trying for humor above his own clear irritation. "Saturday night and the fun never stops in Neptune. We're thinking of lurking outside a 7-11 next."
The man dropped his hands and cocked and eyebrow at Logan. "Right. Let me have the camera." He held out a hand, prompting Veronica to turn it over. She gave it to him with a great deal of reluctance, but the big black guns were plenty of incentive not to push things.
"Did you get a picture of either of us?"
"No. I didn't have time."
He nodded and considered the back of the camera. "Digital." Fumbling with the buttons for a moment, he eventually managed to scan through the pictures on the card. After a moment he looked up at Veronica, his face a mixture of amusment and disbelief. "So, you stalk for fun or profit?"
"My father's a private investigator."
"Profit. Nice work if you can get it, I guess." He handed back the camera. "No pictures." Turning he headed back into the shop.
Veronica frowned at his back, then over to the woman who appeared both bored and amused. Before she could talk herself out of it, she pushed away from the wall and followed the man into the shop.
"Who are you?"
"What, exactly, do you think you're doing?" The man turned on her with a growl, putting his hands on his hips and making a disturbingly good impression of concerned parent. It was unsettling. "I could be a junkie. A murderer. A gang banger. You look like you weigh about 90 pounds soaking wet."
"I can't just let you burg Rosa's place," Veronica said weakly, realizing her actions were a bit indefensible at the moment. This wasn't really going any way she could have anticipated, and understanding just how much danger she could be in, wasn't helping. Her father was going to kill her.
"And how would you stop me?" The man sighed and scrubbed his hands through his hair. "I paid." He waved a hand over to the register counter, where a pile of metallic chips and dully glittering stones sat. "I just need a couple of things, then I'll get out of Rosa's hair."
He pulled a radio off a shelf, some batteries, a small toolkit, a couple bottles of water, and a few other bits. Shoving it all into a bag, he went about his business while Veronica watched, bemused.
"I suppose it would be too much to ask for a name," she asked after a moment.
"Commander John Crichton," he replied promptly.
"Commander? Commander of what? The Hell's Angels?"
He smirked and grabbed a couple of Twinkies. "You have any idea how long its been since I've had one of these?"
"Not a favorite of mine."
"Mine either, I'm a cupcake guy, really. But, it's been so long, I'll even choke down one of these. You never really appreciate cream filling until you don't have it anymore." He dropped the cake into a black rucksack. "Look me up, sometime."
Veronica blinked at the sudden change in subject, hoping that wasn't some sort of creepy pick-up line. "Look you up?"
"I'm sure I'm on the internet there somewhere." The Commander dug through the rucksack, looked thoughtfully at the surrounding shelves, grabbed another small radio and a roll of duct tape. "What's your name, darlin'?"
"Veronica."
"Pretty. Who's your boy?"
"You don't know him?"
"Should I?"
She shrugged, relived and sort of confused. It wasn't often these days that she ran into somebody who didn't know the sordid history of the Echolls clan. "His name's Logan. And he's not my boy. Who's your girl?"
Laughing, the Commander nodded at her. "Man, I've missed this place. Aeryn. Her name's Aeryn."
"You almost done?"
"Itching to call the cops?"
"What if I am? Gonna shoot me?"
The Commander gave her a hard look, his lips pressed into a grim line. "Nope. You got lucky tonight. You tell anybody you saw us, I guarantee they won't believe you."
"And why would that be?"
"Look me up, Veronica." Hefting the sack, he started for the door, but paused when he came even with her. "Do me a favor, huh? Don't do something like this again. You're what? 18? You've got a lot of life to live, don't throw it away on some tweaker who wants twelve bucks and cheese nips at three a.m. I promise you it's not worth it."
At a loss for words, Veronica followed him out of the shop, watching as he carefully locked the door behind them.
"Well," coughed Logan, still warily eyeing the woman. "It's been bizarre. Veronica, you always introduce me to the nicest, heavily armed people."
"You're welcome to stop tagging along." God, she missed Wallace.
"And miss all this?" He waved his hand at the black-clad pair. "My life would be so dull."
The Commander laughed dryly and handed the rucksack to Aeryn, who pulled it open, examining the contents.
"He reminds me of you," Aeryn muttered. "He didn't shut up the entire time you were inside." She pulled out a radio and looked it over closely.
"Thanks for not shooting him."
"I wouldn't have. A pantak jab, on the other hand ... much more likely."
Shaking his head, smiling fondly, the Commander took a deep breath and looked up at the sky. "Anybody got the time?"
"Five after two," Logan said brusquely, chafing at being talked about as he stood there.
"Time to go." With a sigh, the Commander eyed the young pair. "Nice to meet you."
"Yeah," Veronica agreed flatly.
"Go ahead and report this if it'll make you feel better," the Commander said with suspicious amusement. "And tell Rosa she can take my payment to a jeweler. I couldn't exactly get to an ATM."
With a nod and a laugh, the pair started off down the street, melting into the shadows with frightening ease. Veronica and Logan watched them quietly for a long moment, then went their separate ways, barely a word spoken between them.
***
Telling my father what I'd been up to the night before, with a few details judiciously removed or altered slightly, was a painful process that ended with the worst form of punishment he could mete out -- the disapproving frown. I shudder to remember it.
Rosa called later that morning, wondering what the story was with the missing goods and the pile of metal tiles on her counter. After a trip to the jeweler, she discovered the pile was worth a small fortune. We encouraged her to put some of that cash towards a security camera or two. She agreed, and I installed the system myself that afternoon. Two nights later, Rosa's nephew was caught on tape horking a box of Coronas. He never was the brightest crayon in the box.
Logan and I aren't exactly chatting buddies, but for some reason that night is a subject we particularly avoid. He's passed up many an opportunity to mock my stupidity, and I've passed up many an opportunity to goad him into it. I'd mentioned the man's name on the slow walk back to my car, and I think Logan probably looked him up, too. And what, exactly, do you say after that?
I'm not sure what I'd expected when I put the name into the search engine, maybe some rogue military vet leading an outlaw biker gang, or some kind of spook. The first two links were to conspiracy sites, but the third was to IASA.gov. He's right, nobody would believe me.
A memorial page for a space shuttle mission more than six years ago. STS-96, Farscape One. Commander John Crichton in one of those astronaut shots, the orange flight suit, helmet under one arm, mission logo and American flag behind him. Compared to the man I'd met, this looked like a baby picture. Not that the man had looked old, but whatever innocence was in the picture had been burned away. It was a little creepy, and a little sad.
Commander John Crichton, 35. A specialist on two previous shuttle missions, Cmdr. Crichton's third mission was an ambitious one -- to test a craft of his own design. The Farscape module was engineered to be the first step toward interstellar travel.
Forty seconds into the first test of the module, the craft was struck by an electromagnetic wave. Despite all attempts, communication was never reestablished with the Farscape module. Neither the Commander nor his ship were ever recovered. (Farscape accident report [pdf])
Commander Crichton leaves behind his father, pioneering astronaut Colonel Jack Crichton, and two sisters.
I could not sleep for thinking of the sky,
The unending sky, with all its million suns
Which turn their planets everlastingly in nothing,
Through which the fire-haired comet runs
I heard a rumor later the next day that there'd been a break-in at the naval air station just a few miles up the coast. The place was locked down pretty tight after that, and I couldn't get any real details, but, I could at least take a pretty educated guess on who was behind it.
All told, that was one of my stranger nights ever. Where had Commander Crichton disappeared to for all those years? Who was the woman? Why'd they come back and where were they going? What's the deal with the extreme black leather fetish?
Honestly, I don't think I believe myself.
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