Summary: Two John Crichtons, without the convenient sudden death of one in IP:IA, a 'What If', with a sting. This is not a happy-happy story. You have been warned. Goes heavily AU at Infinite Possibilities: Icarus Abides, but works its way back at Dog With Two Bones.
Author Note: The chapter titles form a full poem called 'Parting' by Emily Dickinson.
Disclaimer: Mine, all mine. Really. What do you mean you don't believe me? Yeah, okay, okay, busted. Theirs, all theirs.
Thank you: Catluckey for the ideas and encouragement, ScaperRed for the wonderful betaing. (She make English me write gud.) and Kazbaby for all of the above.
----
We Hynerians have a word the translator microbes never fail to frell up; given their general inadequacy I suppose it's not surprising. They are able to apply themselves to any language, even ones not stored in the ship's database, if given a brief moment to map the synapses of meaning and connotation in their host's brain. Yet they are utterly unable to give a suitable version of this one simple word.
I thought the lesser races didn't have the intelligence to understand the concept at all, after attempts to explain it to the few ambassadors I allowed on the sovereign planet failed utterly. A hundred and thirty cycles on a prison ship later, I discovered I might have been mistaken. Peacekeepers, for one, are masters of a craft they don't even have the sense to name. I discovered Luxan poetry is close but, by the yotz, it takes them five arns of unending, torturous metaphor to grasp it, and even then they dance around the simplest point.
To the unwashed and unenlightened that constitutes the rest of the universe, it might seem odd that Hynerians have this word, but they forget how we live. They forget that we break each other for sport and occasionally out of sheer boredom. From the lowliest slave to the highest of my advisors - especially the highest of my advisors - we play games with each other's lives. My cousin, may his stomachs never be full, considered it a kindness to send me to the Zelbinion.
The word is n'ebrok.
Understand. There is mind, there is body and, as the blue bitch could never be convinced to stop talking about, there is spirit. Soul. The invisible core of life within that most of the universe seems to agree exists in one form or another. We Hynerians spend our lives gratifying all three in preparation for the pleasures of the afterlife. After all, you wouldn't want to enter eternity unpractised.
A broken mind is nothing to speak of; a quick death and the properly performed rituals will send it to the afterlife in one piece.
A broken body can be mended by a loved one's tending, or those who are owed money by the unfortunate afflicted will usually bring about another quick death if it can't. Again the afterlife will see them whole and fit to enjoy the pleasures available.
A broken spirit will never know peace or rest. What decent afterlife would accept it? Some lesser race's, perhaps; I hear Luxans will let practically anyone in. But, on the whole and after due consideration, it's frelled. And, because the mind is still intact, it knows it. What is there to lose after that?
It's hard to break a spirit until it shatters but leave the mind and body intact, and I should know. It was a pastime of mine, almost a tradition for Dominars.
You can see it in the eyes, the moment of shattering, and understand that it's a satisfying thing to see in an enemy; a terrible thing to see in the eyes of an ally, even one as intrinsically flawed and unwelcome as he. Or something very, very like it at least.
I can't really blame the others for not noticing it. I intended to, and at length, but I never found a moment when I needed to hurt them so badly. I should have understood faster though, and when I did I shouldn't have denied it, even in the state I was in. Not for his health, you understand, for mine. They are unpredictable once the n'ebrok is complete. Dangerous. I'd been waiting for it from the moment Talyn reported Moya was in the system and closing on the call of sand that had the nerve to call itself a planet, of which we were currently guests.
He would step off the transport and see her in his arms. After a fashion.
Of course, I did have half a mortar shell in my stomachs and the entire Charrid nation attempting to kill me, so clearly they were all to blame. Having no notion of n'ebrok is no excuse.
I didn't see them land; I can only guess what happened, but it is an experienced guess. There would have been those long looks and swallowed words they really think the rest of us won't notice; all three of them in their own little world of angst and vomit inducing longing. I do wonder what colour the sky was there - something suitably melodramatic, no doubt.
The Crichton that had been the bane of my life most recently would have tried to hold his mate close, challenging his other self without a word. Aeryn would have wavered between them, unable to be cruel and with no way to be kind. D'Argo would have patted any handy shoulder with his customary ease in those situations - which is to say someone undoubtedly came away with bruises. Chiana would have flitted foreground to background, trying to make conversation when no one was listening. Then, I imagine, the Charrids wouldn't have tolerated such moments the way we do and opened fire on the lot of them. Thank the yotz.
Of course, I wasn't thinking so clearly at the time, rather more preoccupied with attempting to find out which parts of metal imbedded in my royal flesh could be safely removed, and wondering if Stark had had the foresight to keep some of the curative weeds around. Between that and the mortar shells, I didn't even notice when the turret door opened, just felt a touch on my ear.
"Hey, Sparky. Whoa! Put the pointy bit of metal down. You swing like my gran'ma."
"Well, you shouldn't sneak up behind me. Which one are you?"
He looked down at his green shirt and tugged at it with a strange little smile I couldn't quite identify. Still can't. There are a hundred and one things I don't feel an immense need to know about the human - either human - and that was merely one of them. "Momma Crichton's original baby boy … what happened to you, Ryg'?"
"I vacationed with my wives on a pleasure planet, what does it look like, you dim frelnik?"
"It looks like you've taken one in the gut, little man. C'mon, let me see."
"Get your hands off me you … " The rest died in a hiss as he probed. I dislike showing weakness. Complaining about the smaller things makes me feel better, if nothing else, but when I am truly in bad health, I will not show it. An excellent survival instinct, in my mind.
It was then I actually looked at him. He was muttering to himself, rambling in those strange words the microbes cannot translate. His touch as he worked was admittedly as gentle as he could make it with those unwieldy paws of his. At least it was unlikely he'd end up sewing my robes into the wound. But he would not look me in the eye, hadn't yet. Unusual. Humans, like Sebaceans, appeared to favour eye contact as a means of communication, lacking a far superior ability to express themselves through a flick of the ear or a twitch of the tail.
I suppose that should have been the first warning.
"Well, will I live?"
"I dunno, man. Did you really need that third stomach?"
I was on the brink of biting him before I realised he was hiding a grin with his head ducked down and hands still industriously busy. I considered biting him anyway, but the effort seemed more trouble than he was worth. Besides, dignity is important in these situations.
"If you're quite done poking at me, there's one or two Charrids I haven't killed yet."
"No need. That screaming sound you can't hear anymore was a lot of bad guys heading into the sunset."
"Sunset? What sunset?"
"Figure of speech, Buckwheat. Moya did a flyby over their shiny little heads; turns out low flying Leviathan can offend. They tucked tail and ran, probably for a piece yet. I'm just cab service back to Furlow's place."
"Then what the frell are we still doing here? Get me out!"
That was when he looked up. In the middle of a desert, it was winter in his eyes. Somehow the fact he replied in the same light tone made it all the worse.
"I figured I'd give them some … you know … time."
I don't think I wanted to see it. I can blame the others, but I knew it was there, then. I think I just nodded, maybe even dozed. I don't faint, you understand. I doze.
When I awoke, somewhat refreshed by my entirely voluntary nap, it was back at that miserable Furlow's pit. No new bruises, so at least he didn't drop me. Not the most pleasant surroundings, but infinitely better than the turret. A war council appeared to have been convened.
I must have missed the best parts, the preceding bickering and accusation, as they seemed to have actually decided on some form of plan. I had to have been unconscious for several arns, at least, for that to happen. Only D'Argo's grumbling reluctance remained, so naturally it would be a plan I could support.
"What the frell is going on?" My voice was barely a croaked whisper, which would never do. I put more force into my repeated attempt, and was satisfied when silence fell. It's always an accomplishment to command the attention of a room.
"Go back to sleep, Rygel. Stark will check on you in a microt."
"Are you farbot, woman? That mad man will see me dead!"
Aeryn's doubtless inane reply was drowned out under Stark's protests. Excellent, my self-allotted portion of bickering and accusation wouldn't be wasted.
"Cut it out, kids, or I'm turning this planet right around and we're going home. Crais, how're the peepers doing?"
Ah, that would be our Crichton; the other one would never manage to speak to Crais with so little bite in his voice. Well, Talyn's Crichton, at any rate; Aeryn's certainly. 'Our' might be a stretch. I never wanted him. I never wanted either of them. But no one ever listens to wisdom these days.
"If you mean my eyes, they are recovering. Talyn has regained rudimentary sensors; the transfusion from Moya is speeding up the process as anticipated."
"Then it's good news boys, and girls. Jack, how's the bomb? Can we name it? How about Fat Man…"
A shadow over me startled me enough that I lost track of the conversation momentarily. I had been worried the looming figure was Stark, but the now familiar green shirt quieted my nerves and ceased my mind's attempt to flash my life before my eyes. Briefly. He settled on my bed cross-legged without even asking permission.
"What?"
"What, what?"
"Shouldn't you be out there planning a glorious victory? Or at least coming up with a Plan B for when it invariably goes wrong?"
"Nah, it looks like I've got it all covered." There was a mocking sound to his voice, and again he was avoiding looking at me, just staring into one of the many patches of shadow around us.
Now, I wonder why he sought me out. We had never been friends, not really, in either of his incarnations. I don't have friends. I have subjects.
I would have thought he would rather have been alone, but he sought me out instead. Was there something I could have said, was he waiting to hear something? Or was it simply because we were not friends. It wasn't as if he'd have to compete with his other self for my attention.
Then, I just found him as irritating as ever.
"Well, I don't want you here, go and annoy someone else."
Anger would have been comforting, a snide retort. Anything. But he just stood with a shrug and walked away.
I went back to sleep. Wouldn't you?
Author Note: The chapter titles form a full poem called 'Parting' by Emily Dickinson.
Disclaimer: Mine, all mine. Really. What do you mean you don't believe me? Yeah, okay, okay, busted. Theirs, all theirs.
Thank you: Catluckey for the ideas and encouragement, ScaperRed for the wonderful betaing. (She make English me write gud.) and Kazbaby for all of the above.
----
We Hynerians have a word the translator microbes never fail to frell up; given their general inadequacy I suppose it's not surprising. They are able to apply themselves to any language, even ones not stored in the ship's database, if given a brief moment to map the synapses of meaning and connotation in their host's brain. Yet they are utterly unable to give a suitable version of this one simple word.
I thought the lesser races didn't have the intelligence to understand the concept at all, after attempts to explain it to the few ambassadors I allowed on the sovereign planet failed utterly. A hundred and thirty cycles on a prison ship later, I discovered I might have been mistaken. Peacekeepers, for one, are masters of a craft they don't even have the sense to name. I discovered Luxan poetry is close but, by the yotz, it takes them five arns of unending, torturous metaphor to grasp it, and even then they dance around the simplest point.
To the unwashed and unenlightened that constitutes the rest of the universe, it might seem odd that Hynerians have this word, but they forget how we live. They forget that we break each other for sport and occasionally out of sheer boredom. From the lowliest slave to the highest of my advisors - especially the highest of my advisors - we play games with each other's lives. My cousin, may his stomachs never be full, considered it a kindness to send me to the Zelbinion.
The word is n'ebrok.
Understand. There is mind, there is body and, as the blue bitch could never be convinced to stop talking about, there is spirit. Soul. The invisible core of life within that most of the universe seems to agree exists in one form or another. We Hynerians spend our lives gratifying all three in preparation for the pleasures of the afterlife. After all, you wouldn't want to enter eternity unpractised.
A broken mind is nothing to speak of; a quick death and the properly performed rituals will send it to the afterlife in one piece.
A broken body can be mended by a loved one's tending, or those who are owed money by the unfortunate afflicted will usually bring about another quick death if it can't. Again the afterlife will see them whole and fit to enjoy the pleasures available.
A broken spirit will never know peace or rest. What decent afterlife would accept it? Some lesser race's, perhaps; I hear Luxans will let practically anyone in. But, on the whole and after due consideration, it's frelled. And, because the mind is still intact, it knows it. What is there to lose after that?
It's hard to break a spirit until it shatters but leave the mind and body intact, and I should know. It was a pastime of mine, almost a tradition for Dominars.
You can see it in the eyes, the moment of shattering, and understand that it's a satisfying thing to see in an enemy; a terrible thing to see in the eyes of an ally, even one as intrinsically flawed and unwelcome as he. Or something very, very like it at least.
I can't really blame the others for not noticing it. I intended to, and at length, but I never found a moment when I needed to hurt them so badly. I should have understood faster though, and when I did I shouldn't have denied it, even in the state I was in. Not for his health, you understand, for mine. They are unpredictable once the n'ebrok is complete. Dangerous. I'd been waiting for it from the moment Talyn reported Moya was in the system and closing on the call of sand that had the nerve to call itself a planet, of which we were currently guests.
He would step off the transport and see her in his arms. After a fashion.
Of course, I did have half a mortar shell in my stomachs and the entire Charrid nation attempting to kill me, so clearly they were all to blame. Having no notion of n'ebrok is no excuse.
I didn't see them land; I can only guess what happened, but it is an experienced guess. There would have been those long looks and swallowed words they really think the rest of us won't notice; all three of them in their own little world of angst and vomit inducing longing. I do wonder what colour the sky was there - something suitably melodramatic, no doubt.
The Crichton that had been the bane of my life most recently would have tried to hold his mate close, challenging his other self without a word. Aeryn would have wavered between them, unable to be cruel and with no way to be kind. D'Argo would have patted any handy shoulder with his customary ease in those situations - which is to say someone undoubtedly came away with bruises. Chiana would have flitted foreground to background, trying to make conversation when no one was listening. Then, I imagine, the Charrids wouldn't have tolerated such moments the way we do and opened fire on the lot of them. Thank the yotz.
Of course, I wasn't thinking so clearly at the time, rather more preoccupied with attempting to find out which parts of metal imbedded in my royal flesh could be safely removed, and wondering if Stark had had the foresight to keep some of the curative weeds around. Between that and the mortar shells, I didn't even notice when the turret door opened, just felt a touch on my ear.
"Hey, Sparky. Whoa! Put the pointy bit of metal down. You swing like my gran'ma."
"Well, you shouldn't sneak up behind me. Which one are you?"
He looked down at his green shirt and tugged at it with a strange little smile I couldn't quite identify. Still can't. There are a hundred and one things I don't feel an immense need to know about the human - either human - and that was merely one of them. "Momma Crichton's original baby boy … what happened to you, Ryg'?"
"I vacationed with my wives on a pleasure planet, what does it look like, you dim frelnik?"
"It looks like you've taken one in the gut, little man. C'mon, let me see."
"Get your hands off me you … " The rest died in a hiss as he probed. I dislike showing weakness. Complaining about the smaller things makes me feel better, if nothing else, but when I am truly in bad health, I will not show it. An excellent survival instinct, in my mind.
It was then I actually looked at him. He was muttering to himself, rambling in those strange words the microbes cannot translate. His touch as he worked was admittedly as gentle as he could make it with those unwieldy paws of his. At least it was unlikely he'd end up sewing my robes into the wound. But he would not look me in the eye, hadn't yet. Unusual. Humans, like Sebaceans, appeared to favour eye contact as a means of communication, lacking a far superior ability to express themselves through a flick of the ear or a twitch of the tail.
I suppose that should have been the first warning.
"Well, will I live?"
"I dunno, man. Did you really need that third stomach?"
I was on the brink of biting him before I realised he was hiding a grin with his head ducked down and hands still industriously busy. I considered biting him anyway, but the effort seemed more trouble than he was worth. Besides, dignity is important in these situations.
"If you're quite done poking at me, there's one or two Charrids I haven't killed yet."
"No need. That screaming sound you can't hear anymore was a lot of bad guys heading into the sunset."
"Sunset? What sunset?"
"Figure of speech, Buckwheat. Moya did a flyby over their shiny little heads; turns out low flying Leviathan can offend. They tucked tail and ran, probably for a piece yet. I'm just cab service back to Furlow's place."
"Then what the frell are we still doing here? Get me out!"
That was when he looked up. In the middle of a desert, it was winter in his eyes. Somehow the fact he replied in the same light tone made it all the worse.
"I figured I'd give them some … you know … time."
I don't think I wanted to see it. I can blame the others, but I knew it was there, then. I think I just nodded, maybe even dozed. I don't faint, you understand. I doze.
When I awoke, somewhat refreshed by my entirely voluntary nap, it was back at that miserable Furlow's pit. No new bruises, so at least he didn't drop me. Not the most pleasant surroundings, but infinitely better than the turret. A war council appeared to have been convened.
I must have missed the best parts, the preceding bickering and accusation, as they seemed to have actually decided on some form of plan. I had to have been unconscious for several arns, at least, for that to happen. Only D'Argo's grumbling reluctance remained, so naturally it would be a plan I could support.
"What the frell is going on?" My voice was barely a croaked whisper, which would never do. I put more force into my repeated attempt, and was satisfied when silence fell. It's always an accomplishment to command the attention of a room.
"Go back to sleep, Rygel. Stark will check on you in a microt."
"Are you farbot, woman? That mad man will see me dead!"
Aeryn's doubtless inane reply was drowned out under Stark's protests. Excellent, my self-allotted portion of bickering and accusation wouldn't be wasted.
"Cut it out, kids, or I'm turning this planet right around and we're going home. Crais, how're the peepers doing?"
Ah, that would be our Crichton; the other one would never manage to speak to Crais with so little bite in his voice. Well, Talyn's Crichton, at any rate; Aeryn's certainly. 'Our' might be a stretch. I never wanted him. I never wanted either of them. But no one ever listens to wisdom these days.
"If you mean my eyes, they are recovering. Talyn has regained rudimentary sensors; the transfusion from Moya is speeding up the process as anticipated."
"Then it's good news boys, and girls. Jack, how's the bomb? Can we name it? How about Fat Man…"
A shadow over me startled me enough that I lost track of the conversation momentarily. I had been worried the looming figure was Stark, but the now familiar green shirt quieted my nerves and ceased my mind's attempt to flash my life before my eyes. Briefly. He settled on my bed cross-legged without even asking permission.
"What?"
"What, what?"
"Shouldn't you be out there planning a glorious victory? Or at least coming up with a Plan B for when it invariably goes wrong?"
"Nah, it looks like I've got it all covered." There was a mocking sound to his voice, and again he was avoiding looking at me, just staring into one of the many patches of shadow around us.
Now, I wonder why he sought me out. We had never been friends, not really, in either of his incarnations. I don't have friends. I have subjects.
I would have thought he would rather have been alone, but he sought me out instead. Was there something I could have said, was he waiting to hear something? Or was it simply because we were not friends. It wasn't as if he'd have to compete with his other self for my attention.
Then, I just found him as irritating as ever.
"Well, I don't want you here, go and annoy someone else."
Anger would have been comforting, a snide retort. Anything. But he just stood with a shrug and walked away.
I went back to sleep. Wouldn't you?