Birthday Fic for Feldman
Apr. 13th, 2006 10:51 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
itsallovernowOn the occasion of ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
rubberneck's birthday, we wrote fic using themes that made us think of you. (This is actually one long story). Hope you enjoy.
Title: Plucked from the Rushes: A Cautionary Tale
Authors: Crankygrrl, Kernezelda, Stars Go Blue, Scrubschick, and Thea.
With love support and approval from CretKid, Scapeartist, and the ever watchful adoration of FBF.
Notes: Season 2. No real spoilers for anything.
Rating: Let's say PG-13. No sex, very little swearing, but there are squishy bits.
Disclaimer: We do not own them. And for that, I'm sure they are grateful.
On the first sweep, it registered as floating debris with an odd energy signature, possibly trash from a larger ship swept out into space. A violation of trading laws, but no one out here was likely to enforce such regulations. Even as a Peacekeeper, Aeryn had rarely seen anyone cited for trash violations unless it was a way to secure further charges.
But something about the trajectory of the object caught her eye, the way it spun lazily, but moved with purpose.
"Pilot, can you scan that piece of debris to your Hammond side, about 5000 motras ahead of us?" she asked, hands braced against the console, waiting for the readings. Madium steel, and a faint, very faint pulse of energy. A potential life sign.
She pursed her mouth. It was floating out there where it couldn't hurt them. The life signs could be a trap. No one was calling for help. She frowned. That, in and of itself, was actually a point in favor of the debris.
"Is there anyone else awake, Pilot?" She ran her thumb over her lip, checked the readings again. Let it go, she said to herself, let it pass by.
"D’Argo and Chiana are…"
She cut off that sentence. "Fine, anyone else."
Pilot paused. "Crichton is… in the galley." She bit her lip. He should be fast asleep, not haunting their mess. Sighing, she tapped her comm. "John, can you come up to command, please?"
*
The ship was barely as big as his module, tinny-looking and cylindrical and covered in dirt. Aeryn held her pulse rifle in one hand, the other resting on the butt of her pistol as John chipped away at the door with the edge of a blade. Sliding his fingers into the gap between the seal and the door, he fumbled along the edge, then stopped. His brow furrowed. He tugged hard, fingers slipping off the metal, and then jumped back as the ship hissed and the door folded outward.
Her gaze steady on the opening door, Aeryn’s body tensed, ready to shoot whatever was bound to tumble out and reach for them. In the corner of her eye, she saw John braced, gun at the ready. It comforted her in a way, relief to see him prepared, despite his exhaustion, despite whatever was pulling down his mobile mouth, capturing his thoughts.
The door settled onto Moya's flooring with a thunk, atmospheric steam curling into the air around the small battered ship. They waited. He looked at her, and she shrugged, not lowering her weapon, not dropping her guard. It didn't surprise her that John gave in to temptation, holstered his pistol and took a step toward the opening. What did surprise her was his pause, his hesitation. He scrubbed at his mouth, wrinkling his nose.
"Doesn't smell like atmo." He glanced at Aeryn over his shoulder and she sniffed, narrowed her eyes. There was a tinge of… something mixed in with the stale scent of recycled oxygen. Something sharp and sweet and slightly foul.
"Let's just space it," she said. "If there was anything there, anyone in there, they'd have called out by now. I don't like this."
He nodded, but stepped forward again, a footstep closer, then froze as a tiny wail erupted from the open doorway, a long mournful waaaah. It paused, hiccoughed in the air and then burst forth again, the sound a tiny agony in the huge bay.
"Shit," John said and stumbled ahead. "That's a baby."
*
The inside of the tiny ship was covered in a weird grimy film, making him loath to let his skin brush against anything. He could barely stand upright, had to hunch and squat while Aeryn lurked on the outside, pulse rifle nosed into the opening, ready to shoot on a microt's notice.
Tucked up into a hollowed corner, the baby had been secured with a restraint and swaddled in a filthy blanket. The tiny face was scrunched up, hands flailing under the cloth, skin pinkish and mottled.
John made soothing noises at the baby, squatted next to it and unhooked the restraints, hiking the bundle of crying kid up into his arms. The wailing continued as he backed out of the ship, trying not to jiggle his burden. At the very edge, his boot caught and he flailed back, knocking into Aeryn, jamming her up against the sharp edge of the door.
She hissed in pain, swearing, and shoved at him, catching him reflexively before he fell.
He steadied himself, shifting the life-sized air-raid siren away from his ears, then caught sight of Aeryn rubbing at her upper arm. The skin was raw and scraped from the door edging, a thin trickle of blood appearing along the curve of the bruise.
"Sorry," he said, but she shook her head and moved closer to see.
"What the frell?" Aeryn breathed, not lowering the gun. She looked at the child in John’s arms, moved in to peer at its face, arm brushing against John's. As quick as it started, the crying stopped. The child opened its eyes, revealing glassy black pupils, dark as Chiana's and a wide pink mouth. Its skin was flecked, spotted, and it clearly wasn't Sebacean. Its tiny nose tilted, facing angling toward Aeryn, hands reaching, fighting free of the swaddling cloth.
"There's no one else in there," John offered. "Should I check and see if there's a note, food? Who the hell would leave a baby floating out in space?" His voice was angry, and he shifted the child, preparing to hand it to Aeryn. She stared at him, brow arched, eyes flicking back down at the baby.
"I'll check the pod." She ducked back inside.
*
It didn't take long to make a thorough search of the tiny ship – it contained nothing that would be of any use. No supplies, no vid chips, no coordinates or messages logged in what passed for a minimal comms system. The emergency beacon hadn't been activated.
Either the baby's parents hadn't had time to do anything more than secure their offspring and launch the pod… or something here wasn't right. Either way, it only meant trouble.
She could hear John stomping around the maintenance bay. "Seriously, Aeryn. Who the hell would space a baby?"
"Depends on the baby," she muttered, too low for him to hear, as the wailing began again. She ducked out of the pod, made a half-hearted attempt to brush away the dust that settled everywhere – in the crease of her leathers, coating the scratch on her arm. "Technically, they didn't space it. They jettisoned it."
"Semantics," he grumbled. He looked ridiculous, bouncing at the knees, joggling the squalling infant. Whatever technique he was using, it was clearly ineffective.
"Not really," she disagreed. "Someone wanted it to survive. Otherwise why put it in an emergency pod?"
Aeryn moved closer, running a critical eye over the dull grey blanket wrapped around the baby. The rough weave and cheap fibers could have come from any of dozens of agricultural worlds or any decent commerce planet. No clues there.
Once again, the baby quieted at her approach, turning its head and whuffling against the blanket. John took advantage of the infant's distraction to hook a finger in the blanket, tenting it away from the small stomach. "It's a boy… I think."
A mottled pink-blue-grey fist waved in the air, then slid into the tiny maw. The baby gummed quietly, flat black eyes staring up at Aeryn, unblinking. John continued his inspection. "Ten toes, no webbing. Guess Rygel's not the daddy."
"It doesn't look like any species I've seen," Aeryn said doubtfully. "We should take it to Zhaan."
"In a minute." John retrieved the second hand; little fingers immediately curled around his. "Ouch! Junior's got a grip on him." He peeled away the digits, frowning. "What the…"
Aeryn bent to look at his hand; circular marks were visible, tiny ridged welts forming. "Zhaan. Now."
John caught the tattered end of the blanket and tucked the baby's arm back into the dirty bundle. "Yeah. And let's have Pilot run a check on any octopus people."
*
“And then he did this thing with his tongue--”
“Please, Chiana, I do not need to know--”
“What, you never…?” The white head cocked to one side. “Before I got here, you two….?”
Chiana broke off and slid from Zhaan’s work-bench the moment John and Aeryn entered the apothecary. Her head tilted in half-hostile curiosity. “Where’d you guys get a baby?” Her nose wrinkled. “Shah! It stinks!”
“Someone left it in a life pod out there.” John followed Zhaan’s wordless beckoning and laid the bundle on the table. “There’s no way of knowing for how long.” The baby wailed again, its cry weaker than before. His little fists clenched and opened.
Zhaan ran the scanner slowly and thoroughly over the wriggling body, watching the screen nearby to track the collected data. She put the scanner down and frowned at the baby. “The vital signs are all but imperceptible,” she finally said in response to Crichton’s increasing impatience and Aeryn’s tapping finger. “The child looks like it needs a good feeding, and definitely a bath will be required.”
Chiana eased back over, peering around John’s arm. “Someone just left their baby? Abandoned it?” She sounded more outraged at the act than concerned with the victim, keeping well out of range of any emissions.
Zhaan frowned. She stretched down a hand, curled a knuckle into the open mouth until the baby’s tongue flapped against her. It sucked vigorously for a few microts, tiny hands reaching up with surprising accuracy to grip her finger. Then the small mouth opened wide again in another ear-bursting wail, and fists flailed against Zhaan. The already mottled face colored more sharply, spots of white growing more prominent, as if dyes were running together under the skin.
John drew in a sharp breath. “Frell!” It looked like an allergic reaction, or as if the baby had tasted pure skunk-juice. He gathered the boy up against his chest and shhh’d at him, adopting a slightly less bouncy sway to try to calm the kid down.
“Zhaan, I’ll, ah, I’ll come back later.” With a pained stare, Chiana sidled from the chamber and vanished.
Aeryn glanced at John and the unhappy baby and stepped further away, turning to the Delvian. “Do you know what species it is? Maybe Pilot can tell us where we might locate its people.”
“I’m afraid I do, Aeryn.” Zhaan sighed. “I am not as familiar with the races in this part of space, but I believe, based on just this brief examination, that this child is of the T’tierile species. And if that is so, then we may only have prolonged its agony by our actions.”
“What?!” John stared at her, wide-eyed. Aeryn appeared equally puzzled when he searched out her expression.
“This species, if I recall correctly, is highly specialized, and can subsist on only a very particular diet. Their homeworld was destroyed by a solar disaster several hundred cycles ago, when I was but a girl. Since then, the T’tierile have become little more than vagabonds, no race willing to take them in as refugees.” Her mouth curled into a moue, fingers twisting in the fabric of her gown without her seeming to notice.
“What, have they got some kind of disease, or are they an aggressive species?” Aeryn’s eyebrows drew together and she tightened her grip on the pistol at her thigh.
John rolled his eyes. “He’s a baby, Aeryn,” he drawled out the word. “A baayyybeeee!”
She visibly bit back her response and turned smartly to Zhaan. “So, what can we feed it until we find someone to take him off our hands?”
The Delvian’s gaze swung up from the finally quiet bundle in John’s arms. “The child is dehydrated; it appears to have been left alone for several days. If you hadn’t interfered, it might have slipped naturally into a starvation-coma and died painlessly in its sleep.”
“We’re not lettin’ him die if we can help him, Zhaan.” John’s mouth set in a stubborn line, even as he kept his motions slow and gentle.
Aeryn sighed. “So, what food does a young T’tierile require?”
Zhaan folded her hands together. “Neural tissue. Specifically, the neural tissue of sentient beings. The fresher the better, and in the best case scenario – alive.”
Silence fell in the apothecary.
John broke it with a hushed exclamation. "I don't know nothin' 'bout feedin' brains to no baby!" He peered down at the child, who stared back at him with limpid dark eyes. Hungry eyes.
Zhaan and Aeryn exchanged a long glance.
Aeryn tapped her comms. “Pilot?”
“Yes, Officer Sun?”
“We need to get to the nearest commerce station that supplies trelkez.”
*
"Eight solar days!" John looked down at the baby. He'd fashioned a bottle for the kid out an empty fellip bottle, the finger of one of Zhaan's rubber gloves and a washer. It was crazy how fast the old skills came back -- John swayed gently, holding the bottle while Frankenbaby suckled -- just like riding a bike.
"Trelkez are very rare in this sector, Commander. It took me some time to locate a commerce station that specialized in exotic foodstuff."
"Exotic foo-?" John glanced up at the galley’s clamshell and shook his head. "Nevermind. Pilot, are you sure there's nowhere closer? Little Frankie here is going to be screaming the place down in a few hours, forget days."
"Frankie?" Sitting beside John, but facing outward, Aeryn cocked her head at him.
"It's a long story."
She rolled her eyes. "Of course."
"I'm sorry, Commander. Baeb'zurus is the nearest commerce station stocking the trelkez birds."
"Frell." John turned to Aeryn and Zhaan. "What do we do now?"
Aeryn and Zhaan exchanged a look across the table. Aeryn leaned back against it, resting her weight on her arms behind her. "He seems fine for the moment."
"Until he realizes all he's gonna get to eat is sugar water." The T’tierile drained the bottle. John shifted the baby to his shoulder and began to pat between Frankie's shoulder blades. He let loose a loud, rolling belch, and John smiled proudly.
"You surprise me, John," Zhaan said. "I did not realize you were so adept at caring for younglings."
He shrugged. "Spent a lot of time babysitting my sister's kid while she was in the Gulf. Taking care of babies s'like riding a bike -- you never really forget how."
"If you say so," Aeryn muttered.
"So," John shifted Frankie further up his shoulder to rest the baby's head against the curve of his neck. "What do we do about getting this kid fed? There's got to be another source of neural tissue in the galaxy."
"Sentient neural tissue," Aeryn reminded him. "Living sentient neural tissue. It's not a child, it's a parasite."
"I have to agree with Aeryn, John -- your desire to save the child is commendable but--"
"No buts. We're not letting him starve to death." John tightened his arm around Frankie. "We can't."
"Can't what?" D’Argo asked from the hatchway, "Chiana said you'd found a child."
"A T’tierile child," Zhaan corrected.
D’Argo frowned, peering at the baby over John's shoulders. "I thought the T’tierile were a myth, a bedtime story to frighten Luxan children."
"Apparently not," Aeryn said dryly. "Crichton wants to keep it."
D’Argo pushed the child's nose like a button with a branch-like finger. "I don't think T’tierile make good pets."
The baby's gummy mouth clamped down on the finger like a pressure vice. D’Argo yelped and yanked his finger out, growling curses in Luxan. Frankie, deprived of his toy, began to cry.
"Damn it, D’Argo, I just got him calmed down."
"He bit me!" D’Argo clasped the offended digit to his chest.
"He's just hungry." John picked up a rubber gasket he'd scrounged and waved it in front of the baby's eyes.
"Hey, Frankie," he crooned. "Bite down on this, huh?"
John looked at his shipmates. "We need to find something to feed this kid."
"The T’tierile feast on the brains of their still living enemies," D’Argo said, pointing at the baby from safely beyond Frankie's reach. "I am not letting that thing eat my brains!"
The sound of D’Argo's voice set off another emergency siren wail from the baby.
"Nice, D. You scared him." John glared.
"He bit me. Anyway, I don't see you offering it your brains."
"He doesn't have any to spare," Aeryn piped up behind them.
John shot her a wan look over his shoulder, saying, "Him, not 'it.’ And his name is Frankie."
"Frankie?" D’Argo raised an eyebrow.
"Don't ask," Aeryn said.
“People, this is not helping.” The infant gummed his fist, quieting at last. “What are we going to feed him? Zhaan, you can mix up something that will simulate brains, right? Some sort of forebrain formula? Cerebral Similac? I mean, without using any of our brains, that is. Just something to get us by for a few days.”
Zhaan hesitated, then shook her head sadly before speaking gently. “I have no resources with which to make such a substance. John, have you considered that perhaps the best thing to do would be to put him out of his misery?” She looked contrite but determined. “Surely a peaceful passing would be preferable to slow starvation.”
Crichton cuddled the baby closer, curling his head protectively over the smaller one. “It’s a baby, Zhaan! You don’t just put it down like a rabid dog! A baby is potential. Hope for the future. Faith that there will be a future. We’re not killing him. So think of something else.”
The infant whimpered at the anger and desperation in his tone and John shushed him quietly, stood up and turned his back on the others, pacing steadily along the perimeter of the galley and then retracing his steps. He looked to the Luxan for support. “D, you’re a dad. You can’t think euthanasia is the answer here!”
“Unfortunately for all of us, I agree with Crichton,” said D’Argo. “We assumed responsibility for this child the moment we brought his lifepod on board. We can neither destroy nor abandon him without attempting to sustain him. Pilot, are there any habitable planets closer than four solar days? Somewhere I could hunt for a suitable animal?”
“D’Argo, a suitable animal would have to be sentient on the order of yourself to supply sufficient nutrition.”
“For growth maybe, Zhaan. But surely any neural tissue will satisfy him to some degree, support him until we can find him a better source.”
“Yeah. Like a granola bar. Or carrot sticks. Not really food but it’s something to fill your stomach ‘til you get to the next McDonald’s.”
"C'mon guys, there's got to be something we can do to tide the little guy over until we reach Babes-R-Us. Zhaan…" John turned to her, an idea forming in his head, "Do you know how to do a spinal tap?"
"I am not familiar with that procedure," Zhaan began. John cut her off.
"Spinal tap, lumbar puncture -- you stick a needle into the spinal column and draw off a few CCs of cerebro-spinal fluid." He looked down a Frankie, gumming the ring. "It's not brains, but it might keep him going until we can find something better."
"I'm sorry John, the procedure you describe is not one I would be comfortable performing. If I miscalculated, I could paralyze you."
"Not me," John said, eyes bright. "Moya."
Aeryn stood swiftly. "You are not cannibalizing Moya to feed to that… child."
*
It didn't take long for the disagreement to turn from Mexican standoff to full on war.
"That…"Aeryn growled, striding toward Pilot’s den, "should have been left to die. We are not going to let him feed on Moya."
"He's a fraction of her size!! She probably won't even notice. And besides, you're the one who voted to pull in the pod!" John followed hot on her heels and yelled back. After a cycle and a half on Moya, fighting dirty was a way of life.
She glared over her shoulder, hand riding hard on her pistol. "We made the decision to bring in that ship, yes. And we should be the ones to send that child back out there."
"You'll play step-mom to a goddamn warship, but you won't even help give this kid a chance?"
"It's not a good trade-off," she growled back. "Any risk to Moya is not worth it, certainly not for that..."
Curling the baby closer John snarled back at her. "He's a kid, Aeryn. An infant. Aside from having really disgusting dietary needs, he hasn't done anything that warrants abandonment or a slow death by starvation."
His arms closed protectively around the child as he jiggled him up and down, coming to a halt in front of Pilot’s console. Big golden eyes stared down at them, eye-ridges lifting before drawing together.
"John," D’Argo's voice from behind them was calmer, resigned. "We don't have the resources to sustain …him. It is… much to ask of Moya. Perhaps too much."
"Frelling right it's too much," Aeryn muttered.
D'Argo continued, "Trelkez are expensive, and at best it will simply tide him over. And we certainly can't afford to raise the creature. Do you not remember M'Lee?"
“I do,” Zhaan sighed, walking along the bridge toward them. Chi and Rygel were right behind her, the Nebari wide-eyed and intensely curious as she slipped up to curl on the console. The thronesled whirred and whizzed up out of her reach when she batted at Rygel playfully.
“Pilot, there’s got to be something closer. Check again.”
“I’m sorry, Commander, but the nearest commerce planet is still eight solar days away and even so, there is only one trader there who might actually have some in stock. There is no guarantee that the planet will have anything else the child can eat. This sector is particularly poor in…livestock.” Pilot watched the tiny creature bouncing on Crichton’s shoulder with a wary eye and was disturbed to see the infant returning the glance with the look of a starving man at an unreachable feast. He shuddered at the thought that, of all the brains on Moya, his was undoubtedly the largest. Flashing to the betrayal of a Qualta blade severing his arm, he relived the moment in horrifying detail. Would it occur to the others that perhaps, of all the crew, Pilot had the most neural tissue to spare?
“He won’t last that long! There’s got to be something closer!” The infant wailed in apparent agreement, refusing the nipple of the water bottle, prodding Crichton to resume his hypnotic bouncing up and down, back and forth as he tried to get him to drink.
“I say we feed him Froggie,” Chiana piped up from her seat on Pilot’s console. “We don’t need him for anything and his tiny brain might be enough to get the narl by until we can find him something bigger, smarter,” As Rygel sputtered for a response, she added, “And better tasting.”
“Rygel wouldn’t meet the requirements,” said Aeryn, suppressing a smile. “Zhaan specified sentient neural tissue.”
“I’ve got more cognition in my third toe than you do in your entire brain, you ignorant grot!” He puffed himself up in his chair, a futile attempt at regal bearing. “I am Dominar to over six billion. I say we start with a useless Nebari or an ex-Peacekeeper in need of a mind-cleansing.” His throne sled dodged up out of Aeryn’s reach, narrowly avoiding her fist.
She stepped further into John’s space. "Anyway, once it grows out of infancy, I’d guess that trelkez brains will no longer be enough.”
John shot Zhaan a look and she nodded in confirmation. “This… species likely needs neural tissue that is a similar match to its own. They are exiles because they are a danger to most bipedal races," she replied softly.
D’Argo reached out, stroking carefully along the infant's mottled head. "Rival factions have been known to hire them to scare their enemies, have used them in war, if the stories are true."
"Gotta a whole frickin' race of zombies running loose around the universe, and now you tell me about this?" John muttered to himself. "Moya can afford to lose a little fluid and it'll buy us some time to decide… ow, what the…"
Frankie's mouth was fastened onto his ear, gumming and sucking with strong jaws. "D', a little help here."
D’Argo grabbed the baby and tugged, bringing John's head along with it.
"Oh for…" Aeryn stepped forward, one hand pressing against the side of John's head, the other wiggling between the lips of the child.
"Let go," she ordered. Frankie held on tight. "Let go now or we will drop you into the bat dren," she said, a fierce humorless smile on her face. Nothing. She glared at the baby; the flat hungry eyes of the T’tierile glared back. "Fine," she hissed. Pinching shut his nose, she held tight while D’Argo pulled until finally they all popped free of each other. The silence held for a fraction of a microt, and then the air raid siren started up again.
"Your options," John hollered over the din, "Find out if Moya's willing to spare a little fluid, or deal with this until he passes out from exhaustion. We're not spacing him."
"I think I might have another solution," Aeryn yelled back.
She climbed over the console to stand beside Pilot. One hand absently rested against his side as she began reviewing Moya’s data on their immediate vicinity.
“There is a penal colony on an ore planet three point four days away. If they should happen to have a pending execution, we could make use of the neural tissue.”
“Huh?” Crichton paled, leaning against the console, and the infant quieted, reaching out a suckered hand to Pilot. “You would feed him dead prisoners?”
“Of course. Although live would be preferable, according to Zhaan.”
“Are you insane?” The human’s eyebrows rose with his tone of voice.
“What part of that upsets you, John?” asked Zhaan. “In several societies, his people are employed for just such a purpose. Once the initial entry is established, the procedure is painless and humane.”
“Humane?? What could possibly be humane about having your brains sucked out?”
Exasperated, Aeryn broke in. “Crichton, the fact of the matter is that the universe is not nice. This child’s very existence proves that point, and aside from letting him die, this is a humane choice." Her voice softened slightly, the steel edge wrapped in a tinge of understanding, "If you plan to save him, then you must feed him. And what he eats is… us. Sentient neural tissue. It’s not nice. It’s not pretty. It just is.”
As Crichton digested this, he looked down at the child, considering. At last he nodded. “OK. Get ‘em on the horn, Pilot, and let’s see if they’ve got any spare brains.” Muttered to the baby, “Where’s Abby Normal when you need him, huh, Igor?”
*
The spokesperson for the Numschalls Penal System granted Moya passage after only two arns of Zhaan’s reasoning and Rygel’s offering trade, and John’s appealing to his common alien-ity. At a good Hetch Five, it would take three solar days to reach the prison planet. In the meantime, however, John had a brand-new mouth to feed – and to keep from feeding on him… At least he could count on his shipmates to help, although he suspected it was as much to silence him as the baby.
"No."
"Your qualta blade has more range," she argued. "With less chance of damaging Moya."
"So then why," D’Argo gritted, "am I the one out there with the net instead of the one trying to frighten the trill bats?"
Aeryn tilted up her eyebrow. "Because you didn't want to hold the… baby."
"Neither did you," he grumbled.
She grimaced. "That little… it tried to chew on my skin. I believe it may have swallowed some of the blood from…"
D’Argo held up his hand, "That is just… please don't. We don't need anymore vomit." He looked down at his tunic, which still bore the marks of Frankie's final reaction to the sugar water.
"Patsy," she muttered.
"What? That can't possibly be what he said. It makes no sense in any sort of context."
From the circle of DRDs watching Frankie, John finally looked up with a startled expression.
"Pussy. I called you a pussy…" He took in Aeryn's curious gaze, D’Argo's mouth turned in the ‘I'm really about to argue about that term’ face. "Never mind. Will you two stop bitching and go find one of those… bats?"
"Fine." Aeryn turned on her heel, D’Argo following, and John sat back to watch Frankie stalk the DRD's.
"You lost," he could hear Aeryn say. "You always lose because you always choose rock. I shoot, you catch."
*
"This had better work." D’Argo growled, as Aeryn extended one arm to help haul him back over the lip of the bilge.
"You should have been more careful," she reproved him, unsympathetic. "Can't you use a net and watch where you're going at the same time?"
"If you had shot straight –"
"Guys – it'll work. And D, um, could you go stand over there? You'll drip that crap all over the baby." John dropped to the floor and crossed his legs, settling Frankie in his lap.
"As if he could stink any worse," Aeryn said sourly. "Here, don't be such a patsy, Crichton…"
"Pussy," he muttered.
"Patsy, pussy, just take it. It's already dead."
John grimaced; the black leathery body still dripped fresh blood, trickling in rivulets down Aeryn's arm to the floor. Between D’Argo's misfortune and the baby's feeding habits, the DRDs were going to be cleaning up for arns.
He reached up and took it gingerly, pinching a wing between thumb and forefinger; the next moment, Frankie ripped it from his grasp. Wiggling and snuffling, the baby shoved the entire head into his mouth; John caught a pale, pearly flash as two tiny cone-shaped teeth protruded from the gumline. With a brittle crunch, the T'tierile punctured the bat's skull; John was hard-pressed not to gag at the grotesque slurping and gulping sounds that followed.
He could see his own queasy expression mirrored in Frankie's wide black pupils. Even D’Argo looked a little green; no mean feat, considering his immersion in the blue-black bat dren that pooled in Moya's bilges.
Aeryn turned away, wiping her bloodied hand on her leathers. "Let's hope his system tolerates that better than your first feeding attempt."
"If he does, you'd better think of some other way to catch those frelling bats," D’Argo said flatly. "Or next time I shoot and you hold the net."
"Yeah, yeah… I think he likes it. Hey, Frankie." John looked from Aeryn to D. "Okay, if I'm gonna build a better bat trap, someone's gonna have to pull babysitting duty. Aeryn."
“What? Why me?" Aeryn swung back around, braid whipping. "No."
"D's gotta go change his clothes." John managed to keep a straight face. "I reckon he's already gone above and beyond the call of his duty – unless you know how to reprogram the DRDs to emit sonar pulses?"
She glared at him, lips a thin line, hands on hips and chin thrust out aggressively. "It can't be that hard, if you think you can do it."
John sighed. "Fine, I'll talk you through it." He shifted Frankie more comfortably in the crook of his arm. "But first, you should probably go catch yourself a DRD." He gestured to the suddenly-empty chamber. "They went that-a-way."
*
The sonar worked like a charm, and for three days, John had the dubious pleasure of offering their foundling living, squirming bats about five times a day. Fortunately, Frankie’s appetite was less voracious than it was frequent, and after each pair of bats (or bats and a half), the small black eyes would close and for a few arns, John could grab his own shut-eye – at least as much as he could while keeping one eye open.
The kid didn’t like to sleep alone in any way, shape or form. John reckoned he might be pretty clingy too if he’d been left on his lonesome and strapped down in the dark for days. Frankie slept best cradled between John’s arm and body, secure and mostly immobile. When he did crawl, it was to make a beeline for John’s neck. More than once, he’d wakened to find the little sucker’s suckered hands wrapped securely around his neck, soft, cool breathing against his ear. Only once had an actual bite spurred him off the bed and onto his feet in a flash, hands automatically pulling Frankie away – to find the kid still fast asleep.
That had been the second night, and now it was the third day, and Numschalls was on the line with Pilot while John got Little Boy Grey and a makeshift cage of bats ready to go. He checked the kid’s diaper one last time, wrapped the blanket more securely around the momentarily quiescent body, and hefted up the cage sitting outside his quarters. Aeryn met him in the corridor and wordlessly took the cage.
“It’s for the best,” she said after a moment, her best brisk reassurance.
John nodded. “I know.”
“Fine.” She bit her lip, and their arms brushed briefly. John raised his chin and kept walking, the only sound that of their boots striking the floor in close rhythm.
“It’s just…”
Aeryn glanced at him. “It’s not fair?” She turned her face forward. “I know. At least this time, our unexpected passenger is still alive.”
John’s steps slowed for a microt or two, but Aeryn kept going. He hurried to catch up. “It’s not the same,” he said firmly, and thought he caught the faint upward turn of her lip as they walked on. It eased the knot of tension between his shoulders, and the silence grew easier as they headed for the hangar bay.
While Aeryn piloted the transport pod down to the surface, John sat in the back, bouncing Frankie lightly. The child gurgled drowsily. The two tiny teeth glinted as he gummed the makeshift rattle, and dark eyes blinked slowly, as if the little guy was thinking deep thoughts – or maybe just contemplating his last meal’s disposition. John hummed under his breath.
“Hush little baby, don’t you cry
Johnny’s gonna get you--”
He broke off into a mutter. “A great big juicy hunk of brains.” Shaking his head, he watched Aeryn land the pod with her usual six-point flair, all the legs settling down and gripping without even a jolt. She stood up smoothly and wiped her palms on her thighs, then turned to John. Without expression, she watched him gather up the cage and Frankie.
“The warden said that the T’tierile on staff here would know what to do.”
He sighed. “I know.”
“Let’s go, John.” Aeryn’s voice softened, and he nodded, then followed her out and down the steps to the tarmac, steam from the pod’s vents billowing around them. Armed guards met them within fifteen paces. Out from between the wall of brown uniforms, a figure in a grey hooded robe made its way forward.
Wind lifted the edge of the hood, and John sucked in a breath. “What is this, Star Trek meets “Night of the Living Dead”?” The alien had a withered visage, grey skin mottled with splotches of color like running camouflage paint; a mouth that resembled a lamprey’s, breathing in wet wheezes. John’s grip on Frankie tightened.
Aeryn’s hand hovered over her pistol as she watched the guards, but she flicked a sharp elbow into John’s side. The woman had peripheral vision like an eagle, and was just as fierce. John stepped forward with the baby.
*
John had survived bats, bat-dren and Ozzie's latest convert. He'd dealt with baby puke and baby shit and an alien baby gnawing on his neck and on his shipmates and on their ship, and he'd accepted the very concept of this zombie Moses floating lost in space, but he had to draw the line somewhere.
Actually his stomach drew the line, which is how Aeryn ended up awkwardly holding the kid, feeding it bits of still warm brain that had formerly resided inside a skull. Somehow, the bats had been easier to take. They were less… jiggly. And they just smelled like crap, didn't smell… meaty,juicy like. As he ate, Frankie's skin coloring smoothed out, the mottles widening and softening; his eyes glowed.
The full-grown T’tierile watched them impassively while the warden tapped his four sets of knuckles against the table. "You wish us to take this child. Raise it here?"
John tightened his mouth.
Aeryn looked steadily across the table and kept her fingers far clear of Frankie's mouth. "We lack the resources to provide for him. At least here, he'd have access to food, possible shelter. He'd serve a purpose when he gets older, and …" her eyes flicked darkly to the T'tierile. "At least you have someone here who is familiar with his… culture… his needs."
The T'tierile spoke finally, his voice a thin vibrato. "This is not the place to raise a child. People come here to serve out their days."
Leaning forward, John put his elbows on the table. "We pulled this kid in from space. He was alone, jettisoned. Whoever he belonged to… they couldn't take care of him." He bit his lip, looked over at Aeryn. Her eyes were wide, dark. He didn't know how to read anything he saw there. "We can't take care of him. We don't have the currency, the personnel…"
"Why not return him to the ship you found him in?" The T'tierile's voice was honestly surprised and John felt his gorge rise. He understood his shipmates’ reactions, and clearly Frankie couldn't live on bats forever, but this guy… this guy was the same species.
"From what I hear, you guys are dying out," he said, voice hard. "This kid is a chance to help propagate your species. Hell, how do you know he's not gonna save your species?"
Aeryn snorted and the T'tierile narrowed his flat eyes. "Okay, not such a great point. Too many Easters spent watching Chuck Heston."
The T'tierile leaned forward, matching John's postures. "I have worked for cycles to control my needs, to match my hunger with our execution cycles. That is the life this child will face if left here. We are not… parents."
Swallowing hard, John nodded. "It's a chance for him though, right?"
Frankie burbled, and John glanced down, saw him snuggled against Aeryn, mouth greasy and tiny hands curled into her hair, fisted against her neck. Her mouth was turned up with distaste, but her hand rested possessively on Frankie's back.
"We get… short-termers," the warden said slowly. "People here mostly for the Peacekeepers who are outwaiting exile. It is possible that someone might be able to help find him a more… suitable home."
"That is…" Aeryn shifted in her seat, handed the baby to John to burp. "All we can ask."
He let the kid do his thing, trashed the remnants, then cleaned the small face while trying not to smell its meal. “Frankie,” he whispered, “it’s time to say bye-bye.” He pressed his lips to the smooth grey forehead and straightened.
*
They were quiet on the return journey.
"Think he'll be okay?" he asked finally, because he had to. Had to say it out loud.
Aeryn shrugged. "I think it's the best of all possible options. You saw him after eating those brains. He was a different child."
He scrubbed at the back of his neck. "Yeah, but kids need stimulation… they need love to thrive. Doesn't seem like he'll get much there."
"We couldn't feed him, John. Frell, some weeks we can barely feed ourselves. I don't know what we would have had to barter to purchase the trelkez, or what you would have had to barter…" she let that sentence lie, but her mouth twitched slightly.
"Ha ha," he bit back. "Yeah, I know, I just…"
She tapped the comms array, interrupting. "Please open the bay doors, Pilot."
John sighed, sat back in his seat, rubbed the mark on his fingers from Frankie's suckers. "I know the universe isn't always pretty, Aeryn, but Christ, sometimes it's just frelling ludicrous."
"This is a happy ending, John. The child will likely survive, possibly even thrive. Don't be a patsy."
"Pussy," he shot back, mouth twitching.
She shook her head. "That still makes no sense. I don't understand how it can mean someone cowardly and also mean…"
He recognized the kindness in her attempt to distract, the curiosity that laced it. John reached out, fingers on her wrist, and tried not to grin.
rubberneck's birthday, we wrote fic using themes that made us think of you. (This is actually one long story). Hope you enjoy.Title: Plucked from the Rushes: A Cautionary Tale
Authors: Crankygrrl, Kernezelda, Stars Go Blue, Scrubschick, and Thea.
With love support and approval from CretKid, Scapeartist, and the ever watchful adoration of FBF.
Notes: Season 2. No real spoilers for anything.
Rating: Let's say PG-13. No sex, very little swearing, but there are squishy bits.
Disclaimer: We do not own them. And for that, I'm sure they are grateful.
On the first sweep, it registered as floating debris with an odd energy signature, possibly trash from a larger ship swept out into space. A violation of trading laws, but no one out here was likely to enforce such regulations. Even as a Peacekeeper, Aeryn had rarely seen anyone cited for trash violations unless it was a way to secure further charges.
But something about the trajectory of the object caught her eye, the way it spun lazily, but moved with purpose.
"Pilot, can you scan that piece of debris to your Hammond side, about 5000 motras ahead of us?" she asked, hands braced against the console, waiting for the readings. Madium steel, and a faint, very faint pulse of energy. A potential life sign.
She pursed her mouth. It was floating out there where it couldn't hurt them. The life signs could be a trap. No one was calling for help. She frowned. That, in and of itself, was actually a point in favor of the debris.
"Is there anyone else awake, Pilot?" She ran her thumb over her lip, checked the readings again. Let it go, she said to herself, let it pass by.
"D’Argo and Chiana are…"
She cut off that sentence. "Fine, anyone else."
Pilot paused. "Crichton is… in the galley." She bit her lip. He should be fast asleep, not haunting their mess. Sighing, she tapped her comm. "John, can you come up to command, please?"
*
The ship was barely as big as his module, tinny-looking and cylindrical and covered in dirt. Aeryn held her pulse rifle in one hand, the other resting on the butt of her pistol as John chipped away at the door with the edge of a blade. Sliding his fingers into the gap between the seal and the door, he fumbled along the edge, then stopped. His brow furrowed. He tugged hard, fingers slipping off the metal, and then jumped back as the ship hissed and the door folded outward.
Her gaze steady on the opening door, Aeryn’s body tensed, ready to shoot whatever was bound to tumble out and reach for them. In the corner of her eye, she saw John braced, gun at the ready. It comforted her in a way, relief to see him prepared, despite his exhaustion, despite whatever was pulling down his mobile mouth, capturing his thoughts.
The door settled onto Moya's flooring with a thunk, atmospheric steam curling into the air around the small battered ship. They waited. He looked at her, and she shrugged, not lowering her weapon, not dropping her guard. It didn't surprise her that John gave in to temptation, holstered his pistol and took a step toward the opening. What did surprise her was his pause, his hesitation. He scrubbed at his mouth, wrinkling his nose.
"Doesn't smell like atmo." He glanced at Aeryn over his shoulder and she sniffed, narrowed her eyes. There was a tinge of… something mixed in with the stale scent of recycled oxygen. Something sharp and sweet and slightly foul.
"Let's just space it," she said. "If there was anything there, anyone in there, they'd have called out by now. I don't like this."
He nodded, but stepped forward again, a footstep closer, then froze as a tiny wail erupted from the open doorway, a long mournful waaaah. It paused, hiccoughed in the air and then burst forth again, the sound a tiny agony in the huge bay.
"Shit," John said and stumbled ahead. "That's a baby."
*
The inside of the tiny ship was covered in a weird grimy film, making him loath to let his skin brush against anything. He could barely stand upright, had to hunch and squat while Aeryn lurked on the outside, pulse rifle nosed into the opening, ready to shoot on a microt's notice.
Tucked up into a hollowed corner, the baby had been secured with a restraint and swaddled in a filthy blanket. The tiny face was scrunched up, hands flailing under the cloth, skin pinkish and mottled.
John made soothing noises at the baby, squatted next to it and unhooked the restraints, hiking the bundle of crying kid up into his arms. The wailing continued as he backed out of the ship, trying not to jiggle his burden. At the very edge, his boot caught and he flailed back, knocking into Aeryn, jamming her up against the sharp edge of the door.
She hissed in pain, swearing, and shoved at him, catching him reflexively before he fell.
He steadied himself, shifting the life-sized air-raid siren away from his ears, then caught sight of Aeryn rubbing at her upper arm. The skin was raw and scraped from the door edging, a thin trickle of blood appearing along the curve of the bruise.
"Sorry," he said, but she shook her head and moved closer to see.
"What the frell?" Aeryn breathed, not lowering the gun. She looked at the child in John’s arms, moved in to peer at its face, arm brushing against John's. As quick as it started, the crying stopped. The child opened its eyes, revealing glassy black pupils, dark as Chiana's and a wide pink mouth. Its skin was flecked, spotted, and it clearly wasn't Sebacean. Its tiny nose tilted, facing angling toward Aeryn, hands reaching, fighting free of the swaddling cloth.
"There's no one else in there," John offered. "Should I check and see if there's a note, food? Who the hell would leave a baby floating out in space?" His voice was angry, and he shifted the child, preparing to hand it to Aeryn. She stared at him, brow arched, eyes flicking back down at the baby.
"I'll check the pod." She ducked back inside.
*
It didn't take long to make a thorough search of the tiny ship – it contained nothing that would be of any use. No supplies, no vid chips, no coordinates or messages logged in what passed for a minimal comms system. The emergency beacon hadn't been activated.
Either the baby's parents hadn't had time to do anything more than secure their offspring and launch the pod… or something here wasn't right. Either way, it only meant trouble.
She could hear John stomping around the maintenance bay. "Seriously, Aeryn. Who the hell would space a baby?"
"Depends on the baby," she muttered, too low for him to hear, as the wailing began again. She ducked out of the pod, made a half-hearted attempt to brush away the dust that settled everywhere – in the crease of her leathers, coating the scratch on her arm. "Technically, they didn't space it. They jettisoned it."
"Semantics," he grumbled. He looked ridiculous, bouncing at the knees, joggling the squalling infant. Whatever technique he was using, it was clearly ineffective.
"Not really," she disagreed. "Someone wanted it to survive. Otherwise why put it in an emergency pod?"
Aeryn moved closer, running a critical eye over the dull grey blanket wrapped around the baby. The rough weave and cheap fibers could have come from any of dozens of agricultural worlds or any decent commerce planet. No clues there.
Once again, the baby quieted at her approach, turning its head and whuffling against the blanket. John took advantage of the infant's distraction to hook a finger in the blanket, tenting it away from the small stomach. "It's a boy… I think."
A mottled pink-blue-grey fist waved in the air, then slid into the tiny maw. The baby gummed quietly, flat black eyes staring up at Aeryn, unblinking. John continued his inspection. "Ten toes, no webbing. Guess Rygel's not the daddy."
"It doesn't look like any species I've seen," Aeryn said doubtfully. "We should take it to Zhaan."
"In a minute." John retrieved the second hand; little fingers immediately curled around his. "Ouch! Junior's got a grip on him." He peeled away the digits, frowning. "What the…"
Aeryn bent to look at his hand; circular marks were visible, tiny ridged welts forming. "Zhaan. Now."
John caught the tattered end of the blanket and tucked the baby's arm back into the dirty bundle. "Yeah. And let's have Pilot run a check on any octopus people."
*
“And then he did this thing with his tongue--”
“Please, Chiana, I do not need to know--”
“What, you never…?” The white head cocked to one side. “Before I got here, you two….?”
Chiana broke off and slid from Zhaan’s work-bench the moment John and Aeryn entered the apothecary. Her head tilted in half-hostile curiosity. “Where’d you guys get a baby?” Her nose wrinkled. “Shah! It stinks!”
“Someone left it in a life pod out there.” John followed Zhaan’s wordless beckoning and laid the bundle on the table. “There’s no way of knowing for how long.” The baby wailed again, its cry weaker than before. His little fists clenched and opened.
Zhaan ran the scanner slowly and thoroughly over the wriggling body, watching the screen nearby to track the collected data. She put the scanner down and frowned at the baby. “The vital signs are all but imperceptible,” she finally said in response to Crichton’s increasing impatience and Aeryn’s tapping finger. “The child looks like it needs a good feeding, and definitely a bath will be required.”
Chiana eased back over, peering around John’s arm. “Someone just left their baby? Abandoned it?” She sounded more outraged at the act than concerned with the victim, keeping well out of range of any emissions.
Zhaan frowned. She stretched down a hand, curled a knuckle into the open mouth until the baby’s tongue flapped against her. It sucked vigorously for a few microts, tiny hands reaching up with surprising accuracy to grip her finger. Then the small mouth opened wide again in another ear-bursting wail, and fists flailed against Zhaan. The already mottled face colored more sharply, spots of white growing more prominent, as if dyes were running together under the skin.
John drew in a sharp breath. “Frell!” It looked like an allergic reaction, or as if the baby had tasted pure skunk-juice. He gathered the boy up against his chest and shhh’d at him, adopting a slightly less bouncy sway to try to calm the kid down.
“Zhaan, I’ll, ah, I’ll come back later.” With a pained stare, Chiana sidled from the chamber and vanished.
Aeryn glanced at John and the unhappy baby and stepped further away, turning to the Delvian. “Do you know what species it is? Maybe Pilot can tell us where we might locate its people.”
“I’m afraid I do, Aeryn.” Zhaan sighed. “I am not as familiar with the races in this part of space, but I believe, based on just this brief examination, that this child is of the T’tierile species. And if that is so, then we may only have prolonged its agony by our actions.”
“What?!” John stared at her, wide-eyed. Aeryn appeared equally puzzled when he searched out her expression.
“This species, if I recall correctly, is highly specialized, and can subsist on only a very particular diet. Their homeworld was destroyed by a solar disaster several hundred cycles ago, when I was but a girl. Since then, the T’tierile have become little more than vagabonds, no race willing to take them in as refugees.” Her mouth curled into a moue, fingers twisting in the fabric of her gown without her seeming to notice.
“What, have they got some kind of disease, or are they an aggressive species?” Aeryn’s eyebrows drew together and she tightened her grip on the pistol at her thigh.
John rolled his eyes. “He’s a baby, Aeryn,” he drawled out the word. “A baayyybeeee!”
She visibly bit back her response and turned smartly to Zhaan. “So, what can we feed it until we find someone to take him off our hands?”
The Delvian’s gaze swung up from the finally quiet bundle in John’s arms. “The child is dehydrated; it appears to have been left alone for several days. If you hadn’t interfered, it might have slipped naturally into a starvation-coma and died painlessly in its sleep.”
“We’re not lettin’ him die if we can help him, Zhaan.” John’s mouth set in a stubborn line, even as he kept his motions slow and gentle.
Aeryn sighed. “So, what food does a young T’tierile require?”
Zhaan folded her hands together. “Neural tissue. Specifically, the neural tissue of sentient beings. The fresher the better, and in the best case scenario – alive.”
Silence fell in the apothecary.
John broke it with a hushed exclamation. "I don't know nothin' 'bout feedin' brains to no baby!" He peered down at the child, who stared back at him with limpid dark eyes. Hungry eyes.
Zhaan and Aeryn exchanged a long glance.
Aeryn tapped her comms. “Pilot?”
“Yes, Officer Sun?”
“We need to get to the nearest commerce station that supplies trelkez.”
*
"Eight solar days!" John looked down at the baby. He'd fashioned a bottle for the kid out an empty fellip bottle, the finger of one of Zhaan's rubber gloves and a washer. It was crazy how fast the old skills came back -- John swayed gently, holding the bottle while Frankenbaby suckled -- just like riding a bike.
"Trelkez are very rare in this sector, Commander. It took me some time to locate a commerce station that specialized in exotic foodstuff."
"Exotic foo-?" John glanced up at the galley’s clamshell and shook his head. "Nevermind. Pilot, are you sure there's nowhere closer? Little Frankie here is going to be screaming the place down in a few hours, forget days."
"Frankie?" Sitting beside John, but facing outward, Aeryn cocked her head at him.
"It's a long story."
She rolled her eyes. "Of course."
"I'm sorry, Commander. Baeb'zurus is the nearest commerce station stocking the trelkez birds."
"Frell." John turned to Aeryn and Zhaan. "What do we do now?"
Aeryn and Zhaan exchanged a look across the table. Aeryn leaned back against it, resting her weight on her arms behind her. "He seems fine for the moment."
"Until he realizes all he's gonna get to eat is sugar water." The T’tierile drained the bottle. John shifted the baby to his shoulder and began to pat between Frankie's shoulder blades. He let loose a loud, rolling belch, and John smiled proudly.
"You surprise me, John," Zhaan said. "I did not realize you were so adept at caring for younglings."
He shrugged. "Spent a lot of time babysitting my sister's kid while she was in the Gulf. Taking care of babies s'like riding a bike -- you never really forget how."
"If you say so," Aeryn muttered.
"So," John shifted Frankie further up his shoulder to rest the baby's head against the curve of his neck. "What do we do about getting this kid fed? There's got to be another source of neural tissue in the galaxy."
"Sentient neural tissue," Aeryn reminded him. "Living sentient neural tissue. It's not a child, it's a parasite."
"I have to agree with Aeryn, John -- your desire to save the child is commendable but--"
"No buts. We're not letting him starve to death." John tightened his arm around Frankie. "We can't."
"Can't what?" D’Argo asked from the hatchway, "Chiana said you'd found a child."
"A T’tierile child," Zhaan corrected.
D’Argo frowned, peering at the baby over John's shoulders. "I thought the T’tierile were a myth, a bedtime story to frighten Luxan children."
"Apparently not," Aeryn said dryly. "Crichton wants to keep it."
D’Argo pushed the child's nose like a button with a branch-like finger. "I don't think T’tierile make good pets."
The baby's gummy mouth clamped down on the finger like a pressure vice. D’Argo yelped and yanked his finger out, growling curses in Luxan. Frankie, deprived of his toy, began to cry.
"Damn it, D’Argo, I just got him calmed down."
"He bit me!" D’Argo clasped the offended digit to his chest.
"He's just hungry." John picked up a rubber gasket he'd scrounged and waved it in front of the baby's eyes.
"Hey, Frankie," he crooned. "Bite down on this, huh?"
John looked at his shipmates. "We need to find something to feed this kid."
"The T’tierile feast on the brains of their still living enemies," D’Argo said, pointing at the baby from safely beyond Frankie's reach. "I am not letting that thing eat my brains!"
The sound of D’Argo's voice set off another emergency siren wail from the baby.
"Nice, D. You scared him." John glared.
"He bit me. Anyway, I don't see you offering it your brains."
"He doesn't have any to spare," Aeryn piped up behind them.
John shot her a wan look over his shoulder, saying, "Him, not 'it.’ And his name is Frankie."
"Frankie?" D’Argo raised an eyebrow.
"Don't ask," Aeryn said.
“People, this is not helping.” The infant gummed his fist, quieting at last. “What are we going to feed him? Zhaan, you can mix up something that will simulate brains, right? Some sort of forebrain formula? Cerebral Similac? I mean, without using any of our brains, that is. Just something to get us by for a few days.”
Zhaan hesitated, then shook her head sadly before speaking gently. “I have no resources with which to make such a substance. John, have you considered that perhaps the best thing to do would be to put him out of his misery?” She looked contrite but determined. “Surely a peaceful passing would be preferable to slow starvation.”
Crichton cuddled the baby closer, curling his head protectively over the smaller one. “It’s a baby, Zhaan! You don’t just put it down like a rabid dog! A baby is potential. Hope for the future. Faith that there will be a future. We’re not killing him. So think of something else.”
The infant whimpered at the anger and desperation in his tone and John shushed him quietly, stood up and turned his back on the others, pacing steadily along the perimeter of the galley and then retracing his steps. He looked to the Luxan for support. “D, you’re a dad. You can’t think euthanasia is the answer here!”
“Unfortunately for all of us, I agree with Crichton,” said D’Argo. “We assumed responsibility for this child the moment we brought his lifepod on board. We can neither destroy nor abandon him without attempting to sustain him. Pilot, are there any habitable planets closer than four solar days? Somewhere I could hunt for a suitable animal?”
“D’Argo, a suitable animal would have to be sentient on the order of yourself to supply sufficient nutrition.”
“For growth maybe, Zhaan. But surely any neural tissue will satisfy him to some degree, support him until we can find him a better source.”
“Yeah. Like a granola bar. Or carrot sticks. Not really food but it’s something to fill your stomach ‘til you get to the next McDonald’s.”
"C'mon guys, there's got to be something we can do to tide the little guy over until we reach Babes-R-Us. Zhaan…" John turned to her, an idea forming in his head, "Do you know how to do a spinal tap?"
"I am not familiar with that procedure," Zhaan began. John cut her off.
"Spinal tap, lumbar puncture -- you stick a needle into the spinal column and draw off a few CCs of cerebro-spinal fluid." He looked down a Frankie, gumming the ring. "It's not brains, but it might keep him going until we can find something better."
"I'm sorry John, the procedure you describe is not one I would be comfortable performing. If I miscalculated, I could paralyze you."
"Not me," John said, eyes bright. "Moya."
Aeryn stood swiftly. "You are not cannibalizing Moya to feed to that… child."
*
It didn't take long for the disagreement to turn from Mexican standoff to full on war.
"That…"Aeryn growled, striding toward Pilot’s den, "should have been left to die. We are not going to let him feed on Moya."
"He's a fraction of her size!! She probably won't even notice. And besides, you're the one who voted to pull in the pod!" John followed hot on her heels and yelled back. After a cycle and a half on Moya, fighting dirty was a way of life.
She glared over her shoulder, hand riding hard on her pistol. "We made the decision to bring in that ship, yes. And we should be the ones to send that child back out there."
"You'll play step-mom to a goddamn warship, but you won't even help give this kid a chance?"
"It's not a good trade-off," she growled back. "Any risk to Moya is not worth it, certainly not for that..."
Curling the baby closer John snarled back at her. "He's a kid, Aeryn. An infant. Aside from having really disgusting dietary needs, he hasn't done anything that warrants abandonment or a slow death by starvation."
His arms closed protectively around the child as he jiggled him up and down, coming to a halt in front of Pilot’s console. Big golden eyes stared down at them, eye-ridges lifting before drawing together.
"John," D’Argo's voice from behind them was calmer, resigned. "We don't have the resources to sustain …him. It is… much to ask of Moya. Perhaps too much."
"Frelling right it's too much," Aeryn muttered.
D'Argo continued, "Trelkez are expensive, and at best it will simply tide him over. And we certainly can't afford to raise the creature. Do you not remember M'Lee?"
“I do,” Zhaan sighed, walking along the bridge toward them. Chi and Rygel were right behind her, the Nebari wide-eyed and intensely curious as she slipped up to curl on the console. The thronesled whirred and whizzed up out of her reach when she batted at Rygel playfully.
“Pilot, there’s got to be something closer. Check again.”
“I’m sorry, Commander, but the nearest commerce planet is still eight solar days away and even so, there is only one trader there who might actually have some in stock. There is no guarantee that the planet will have anything else the child can eat. This sector is particularly poor in…livestock.” Pilot watched the tiny creature bouncing on Crichton’s shoulder with a wary eye and was disturbed to see the infant returning the glance with the look of a starving man at an unreachable feast. He shuddered at the thought that, of all the brains on Moya, his was undoubtedly the largest. Flashing to the betrayal of a Qualta blade severing his arm, he relived the moment in horrifying detail. Would it occur to the others that perhaps, of all the crew, Pilot had the most neural tissue to spare?
“He won’t last that long! There’s got to be something closer!” The infant wailed in apparent agreement, refusing the nipple of the water bottle, prodding Crichton to resume his hypnotic bouncing up and down, back and forth as he tried to get him to drink.
“I say we feed him Froggie,” Chiana piped up from her seat on Pilot’s console. “We don’t need him for anything and his tiny brain might be enough to get the narl by until we can find him something bigger, smarter,” As Rygel sputtered for a response, she added, “And better tasting.”
“Rygel wouldn’t meet the requirements,” said Aeryn, suppressing a smile. “Zhaan specified sentient neural tissue.”
“I’ve got more cognition in my third toe than you do in your entire brain, you ignorant grot!” He puffed himself up in his chair, a futile attempt at regal bearing. “I am Dominar to over six billion. I say we start with a useless Nebari or an ex-Peacekeeper in need of a mind-cleansing.” His throne sled dodged up out of Aeryn’s reach, narrowly avoiding her fist.
She stepped further into John’s space. "Anyway, once it grows out of infancy, I’d guess that trelkez brains will no longer be enough.”
John shot Zhaan a look and she nodded in confirmation. “This… species likely needs neural tissue that is a similar match to its own. They are exiles because they are a danger to most bipedal races," she replied softly.
D’Argo reached out, stroking carefully along the infant's mottled head. "Rival factions have been known to hire them to scare their enemies, have used them in war, if the stories are true."
"Gotta a whole frickin' race of zombies running loose around the universe, and now you tell me about this?" John muttered to himself. "Moya can afford to lose a little fluid and it'll buy us some time to decide… ow, what the…"
Frankie's mouth was fastened onto his ear, gumming and sucking with strong jaws. "D', a little help here."
D’Argo grabbed the baby and tugged, bringing John's head along with it.
"Oh for…" Aeryn stepped forward, one hand pressing against the side of John's head, the other wiggling between the lips of the child.
"Let go," she ordered. Frankie held on tight. "Let go now or we will drop you into the bat dren," she said, a fierce humorless smile on her face. Nothing. She glared at the baby; the flat hungry eyes of the T’tierile glared back. "Fine," she hissed. Pinching shut his nose, she held tight while D’Argo pulled until finally they all popped free of each other. The silence held for a fraction of a microt, and then the air raid siren started up again.
"Your options," John hollered over the din, "Find out if Moya's willing to spare a little fluid, or deal with this until he passes out from exhaustion. We're not spacing him."
"I think I might have another solution," Aeryn yelled back.
She climbed over the console to stand beside Pilot. One hand absently rested against his side as she began reviewing Moya’s data on their immediate vicinity.
“There is a penal colony on an ore planet three point four days away. If they should happen to have a pending execution, we could make use of the neural tissue.”
“Huh?” Crichton paled, leaning against the console, and the infant quieted, reaching out a suckered hand to Pilot. “You would feed him dead prisoners?”
“Of course. Although live would be preferable, according to Zhaan.”
“Are you insane?” The human’s eyebrows rose with his tone of voice.
“What part of that upsets you, John?” asked Zhaan. “In several societies, his people are employed for just such a purpose. Once the initial entry is established, the procedure is painless and humane.”
“Humane?? What could possibly be humane about having your brains sucked out?”
Exasperated, Aeryn broke in. “Crichton, the fact of the matter is that the universe is not nice. This child’s very existence proves that point, and aside from letting him die, this is a humane choice." Her voice softened slightly, the steel edge wrapped in a tinge of understanding, "If you plan to save him, then you must feed him. And what he eats is… us. Sentient neural tissue. It’s not nice. It’s not pretty. It just is.”
As Crichton digested this, he looked down at the child, considering. At last he nodded. “OK. Get ‘em on the horn, Pilot, and let’s see if they’ve got any spare brains.” Muttered to the baby, “Where’s Abby Normal when you need him, huh, Igor?”
*
The spokesperson for the Numschalls Penal System granted Moya passage after only two arns of Zhaan’s reasoning and Rygel’s offering trade, and John’s appealing to his common alien-ity. At a good Hetch Five, it would take three solar days to reach the prison planet. In the meantime, however, John had a brand-new mouth to feed – and to keep from feeding on him… At least he could count on his shipmates to help, although he suspected it was as much to silence him as the baby.
"No."
"Your qualta blade has more range," she argued. "With less chance of damaging Moya."
"So then why," D’Argo gritted, "am I the one out there with the net instead of the one trying to frighten the trill bats?"
Aeryn tilted up her eyebrow. "Because you didn't want to hold the… baby."
"Neither did you," he grumbled.
She grimaced. "That little… it tried to chew on my skin. I believe it may have swallowed some of the blood from…"
D’Argo held up his hand, "That is just… please don't. We don't need anymore vomit." He looked down at his tunic, which still bore the marks of Frankie's final reaction to the sugar water.
"Patsy," she muttered.
"What? That can't possibly be what he said. It makes no sense in any sort of context."
From the circle of DRDs watching Frankie, John finally looked up with a startled expression.
"Pussy. I called you a pussy…" He took in Aeryn's curious gaze, D’Argo's mouth turned in the ‘I'm really about to argue about that term’ face. "Never mind. Will you two stop bitching and go find one of those… bats?"
"Fine." Aeryn turned on her heel, D’Argo following, and John sat back to watch Frankie stalk the DRD's.
"You lost," he could hear Aeryn say. "You always lose because you always choose rock. I shoot, you catch."
*
"This had better work." D’Argo growled, as Aeryn extended one arm to help haul him back over the lip of the bilge.
"You should have been more careful," she reproved him, unsympathetic. "Can't you use a net and watch where you're going at the same time?"
"If you had shot straight –"
"Guys – it'll work. And D, um, could you go stand over there? You'll drip that crap all over the baby." John dropped to the floor and crossed his legs, settling Frankie in his lap.
"As if he could stink any worse," Aeryn said sourly. "Here, don't be such a patsy, Crichton…"
"Pussy," he muttered.
"Patsy, pussy, just take it. It's already dead."
John grimaced; the black leathery body still dripped fresh blood, trickling in rivulets down Aeryn's arm to the floor. Between D’Argo's misfortune and the baby's feeding habits, the DRDs were going to be cleaning up for arns.
He reached up and took it gingerly, pinching a wing between thumb and forefinger; the next moment, Frankie ripped it from his grasp. Wiggling and snuffling, the baby shoved the entire head into his mouth; John caught a pale, pearly flash as two tiny cone-shaped teeth protruded from the gumline. With a brittle crunch, the T'tierile punctured the bat's skull; John was hard-pressed not to gag at the grotesque slurping and gulping sounds that followed.
He could see his own queasy expression mirrored in Frankie's wide black pupils. Even D’Argo looked a little green; no mean feat, considering his immersion in the blue-black bat dren that pooled in Moya's bilges.
Aeryn turned away, wiping her bloodied hand on her leathers. "Let's hope his system tolerates that better than your first feeding attempt."
"If he does, you'd better think of some other way to catch those frelling bats," D’Argo said flatly. "Or next time I shoot and you hold the net."
"Yeah, yeah… I think he likes it. Hey, Frankie." John looked from Aeryn to D. "Okay, if I'm gonna build a better bat trap, someone's gonna have to pull babysitting duty. Aeryn."
“What? Why me?" Aeryn swung back around, braid whipping. "No."
"D's gotta go change his clothes." John managed to keep a straight face. "I reckon he's already gone above and beyond the call of his duty – unless you know how to reprogram the DRDs to emit sonar pulses?"
She glared at him, lips a thin line, hands on hips and chin thrust out aggressively. "It can't be that hard, if you think you can do it."
John sighed. "Fine, I'll talk you through it." He shifted Frankie more comfortably in the crook of his arm. "But first, you should probably go catch yourself a DRD." He gestured to the suddenly-empty chamber. "They went that-a-way."
*
The sonar worked like a charm, and for three days, John had the dubious pleasure of offering their foundling living, squirming bats about five times a day. Fortunately, Frankie’s appetite was less voracious than it was frequent, and after each pair of bats (or bats and a half), the small black eyes would close and for a few arns, John could grab his own shut-eye – at least as much as he could while keeping one eye open.
The kid didn’t like to sleep alone in any way, shape or form. John reckoned he might be pretty clingy too if he’d been left on his lonesome and strapped down in the dark for days. Frankie slept best cradled between John’s arm and body, secure and mostly immobile. When he did crawl, it was to make a beeline for John’s neck. More than once, he’d wakened to find the little sucker’s suckered hands wrapped securely around his neck, soft, cool breathing against his ear. Only once had an actual bite spurred him off the bed and onto his feet in a flash, hands automatically pulling Frankie away – to find the kid still fast asleep.
That had been the second night, and now it was the third day, and Numschalls was on the line with Pilot while John got Little Boy Grey and a makeshift cage of bats ready to go. He checked the kid’s diaper one last time, wrapped the blanket more securely around the momentarily quiescent body, and hefted up the cage sitting outside his quarters. Aeryn met him in the corridor and wordlessly took the cage.
“It’s for the best,” she said after a moment, her best brisk reassurance.
John nodded. “I know.”
“Fine.” She bit her lip, and their arms brushed briefly. John raised his chin and kept walking, the only sound that of their boots striking the floor in close rhythm.
“It’s just…”
Aeryn glanced at him. “It’s not fair?” She turned her face forward. “I know. At least this time, our unexpected passenger is still alive.”
John’s steps slowed for a microt or two, but Aeryn kept going. He hurried to catch up. “It’s not the same,” he said firmly, and thought he caught the faint upward turn of her lip as they walked on. It eased the knot of tension between his shoulders, and the silence grew easier as they headed for the hangar bay.
While Aeryn piloted the transport pod down to the surface, John sat in the back, bouncing Frankie lightly. The child gurgled drowsily. The two tiny teeth glinted as he gummed the makeshift rattle, and dark eyes blinked slowly, as if the little guy was thinking deep thoughts – or maybe just contemplating his last meal’s disposition. John hummed under his breath.
“Hush little baby, don’t you cry
Johnny’s gonna get you--”
He broke off into a mutter. “A great big juicy hunk of brains.” Shaking his head, he watched Aeryn land the pod with her usual six-point flair, all the legs settling down and gripping without even a jolt. She stood up smoothly and wiped her palms on her thighs, then turned to John. Without expression, she watched him gather up the cage and Frankie.
“The warden said that the T’tierile on staff here would know what to do.”
He sighed. “I know.”
“Let’s go, John.” Aeryn’s voice softened, and he nodded, then followed her out and down the steps to the tarmac, steam from the pod’s vents billowing around them. Armed guards met them within fifteen paces. Out from between the wall of brown uniforms, a figure in a grey hooded robe made its way forward.
Wind lifted the edge of the hood, and John sucked in a breath. “What is this, Star Trek meets “Night of the Living Dead”?” The alien had a withered visage, grey skin mottled with splotches of color like running camouflage paint; a mouth that resembled a lamprey’s, breathing in wet wheezes. John’s grip on Frankie tightened.
Aeryn’s hand hovered over her pistol as she watched the guards, but she flicked a sharp elbow into John’s side. The woman had peripheral vision like an eagle, and was just as fierce. John stepped forward with the baby.
*
John had survived bats, bat-dren and Ozzie's latest convert. He'd dealt with baby puke and baby shit and an alien baby gnawing on his neck and on his shipmates and on their ship, and he'd accepted the very concept of this zombie Moses floating lost in space, but he had to draw the line somewhere.
Actually his stomach drew the line, which is how Aeryn ended up awkwardly holding the kid, feeding it bits of still warm brain that had formerly resided inside a skull. Somehow, the bats had been easier to take. They were less… jiggly. And they just smelled like crap, didn't smell… meaty,juicy like. As he ate, Frankie's skin coloring smoothed out, the mottles widening and softening; his eyes glowed.
The full-grown T’tierile watched them impassively while the warden tapped his four sets of knuckles against the table. "You wish us to take this child. Raise it here?"
John tightened his mouth.
Aeryn looked steadily across the table and kept her fingers far clear of Frankie's mouth. "We lack the resources to provide for him. At least here, he'd have access to food, possible shelter. He'd serve a purpose when he gets older, and …" her eyes flicked darkly to the T'tierile. "At least you have someone here who is familiar with his… culture… his needs."
The T'tierile spoke finally, his voice a thin vibrato. "This is not the place to raise a child. People come here to serve out their days."
Leaning forward, John put his elbows on the table. "We pulled this kid in from space. He was alone, jettisoned. Whoever he belonged to… they couldn't take care of him." He bit his lip, looked over at Aeryn. Her eyes were wide, dark. He didn't know how to read anything he saw there. "We can't take care of him. We don't have the currency, the personnel…"
"Why not return him to the ship you found him in?" The T'tierile's voice was honestly surprised and John felt his gorge rise. He understood his shipmates’ reactions, and clearly Frankie couldn't live on bats forever, but this guy… this guy was the same species.
"From what I hear, you guys are dying out," he said, voice hard. "This kid is a chance to help propagate your species. Hell, how do you know he's not gonna save your species?"
Aeryn snorted and the T'tierile narrowed his flat eyes. "Okay, not such a great point. Too many Easters spent watching Chuck Heston."
The T'tierile leaned forward, matching John's postures. "I have worked for cycles to control my needs, to match my hunger with our execution cycles. That is the life this child will face if left here. We are not… parents."
Swallowing hard, John nodded. "It's a chance for him though, right?"
Frankie burbled, and John glanced down, saw him snuggled against Aeryn, mouth greasy and tiny hands curled into her hair, fisted against her neck. Her mouth was turned up with distaste, but her hand rested possessively on Frankie's back.
"We get… short-termers," the warden said slowly. "People here mostly for the Peacekeepers who are outwaiting exile. It is possible that someone might be able to help find him a more… suitable home."
"That is…" Aeryn shifted in her seat, handed the baby to John to burp. "All we can ask."
He let the kid do his thing, trashed the remnants, then cleaned the small face while trying not to smell its meal. “Frankie,” he whispered, “it’s time to say bye-bye.” He pressed his lips to the smooth grey forehead and straightened.
*
They were quiet on the return journey.
"Think he'll be okay?" he asked finally, because he had to. Had to say it out loud.
Aeryn shrugged. "I think it's the best of all possible options. You saw him after eating those brains. He was a different child."
He scrubbed at the back of his neck. "Yeah, but kids need stimulation… they need love to thrive. Doesn't seem like he'll get much there."
"We couldn't feed him, John. Frell, some weeks we can barely feed ourselves. I don't know what we would have had to barter to purchase the trelkez, or what you would have had to barter…" she let that sentence lie, but her mouth twitched slightly.
"Ha ha," he bit back. "Yeah, I know, I just…"
She tapped the comms array, interrupting. "Please open the bay doors, Pilot."
John sighed, sat back in his seat, rubbed the mark on his fingers from Frankie's suckers. "I know the universe isn't always pretty, Aeryn, but Christ, sometimes it's just frelling ludicrous."
"This is a happy ending, John. The child will likely survive, possibly even thrive. Don't be a patsy."
"Pussy," he shot back, mouth twitching.
She shook her head. "That still makes no sense. I don't understand how it can mean someone cowardly and also mean…"
He recognized the kindness in her attempt to distract, the curiosity that laced it. John reached out, fingers on her wrist, and tried not to grin.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2006-04-13 06:34 pm (UTC)It could be an advertising slogan, no?
"When you think of unexpectedly touching brain-eating fic - think of Feldman."
Fine work by all concerned.
no subject
Date: 2006-04-13 06:43 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-13 06:42 pm (UTC)*claps and whistles*
ZombieBaby! And batbrains! And daddies!
*collapses into a queasy pile of dead-by-cute*
no subject
Date: 2006-04-13 06:43 pm (UTC)Loves you utterly.
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Date: 2006-04-13 06:44 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-13 07:36 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-13 07:44 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-13 07:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-13 07:54 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-13 08:11 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-13 07:19 pm (UTC)Belated Happy Birthday, FeldMom2B! Love you lots!
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Date: 2006-04-13 07:45 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-13 07:41 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-13 07:44 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-13 09:09 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-13 11:23 pm (UTC)and the title alone makes me grin like a fiend. *perfect*. as is the way these wonderful characters navigate the whole situation. *bg*
and happy birthday feldman!
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Date: 2006-04-14 05:18 am (UTC)John is such a softie, and so is Aeryn. Just don't tell her I said so..
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Date: 2006-04-14 08:47 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-18 04:56 am (UTC)