There was little communication between them on the flight down to the planet, and Aeryn was glad when it was over. The old quips and jokes that had once peppered their conversation were gone, replaced by a subdued silence that was only punctuated by necessary commentary. Crichton had tried to talk to her several times since his return to Moya, but she just wasn’t ready yet. At least she wasn’t ready for the kind of conversation that Crichton wanted to have.

She landed the transport very gently on the landing pad, and then sprang from her seat with a nod at Crichton who just sat there, his eyes following her as she moved.

"Aren’t you coming?" She couldn’t keep the note of impatience out of her voice.

"Yeah, Aeryn…I’m coming."

Then she was stepping out of the pod into chill air and too-bright sun—make that two suns—shine. She looked up briefly and noted the larger, closer one and the other, much smaller brilliant shape in the rose-tinted sky. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Crichton gazing upwards as well in something like admiration. Sometimes she just wanted to smack that slack-jawed expression off his face—didn’t he realize how stupid it made him look? With a quick glance around to get her bearings, she marched off in search of a transport vehicle.

They were at what amounted to a space port on the outskirts of a commerce center called Fell, where Rygel had set up the trade for their supplies. Under her black Peacekeeper uniform jacket, which she’d donned against the chill per Pilot’s instruction, was a small pouch filled with six violet-hued hovarian crystals—surprisingly their contact’s only price. It amused her to know that the fossilized waste deposits of the hovar insect were worth something somewhere. Well, that and how much purchasing power they possessed—according to Rygel, the crystals would buy a payload much larger than what they could normally afford.

Aeryn was inexplicably glad for this time away from the Leviathan. She thought she was beginning to understand why Crichton had taken off in his module all those months ago. She’d never before felt claustrophobic on board a ship—ship life was the only life she’d ever known—she’d always been around many more people than the mere six of them, but...

Maybe it was just Crichton. When he had been lost, Moya had seemed vast and empty. There was no one to share a meal with or a joke; in her worry over the missing human, she didn’t feel like being very friendly with Zhaan or D’Argo. In fact, when she wasn’t working in Command, taking refuge in physical conditioning, or otherwise occupied with duties aboard Moya, she’d spent what little free time she had left with Pilot, learning as much as she could about their host Leviathan. There was a rapport between them, she realized, despite the great disparity between their species. Despite the fact that she was an ex-Peacekeeper. Somehow, she didn’t feel like she had to put up walls around Pilot, like she did around the others. Pilot’s company allowed her the luxury of silence.

And then Crichton had returned and all of a sudden she was supposed to talk. Talk, talk— the human talked too much! Suddenly Moya felt cramped, and constricted, tight with people, with questions, and agendas and arguments and.…sometimes she felt like she couldn’t breathe. She just wanted to be left alone for a bit. Why couldn’t Crichton understand that? Why did he keep seeking her out, trying to win her forgiveness, trying to coax her into conversation? She didn’t want that right now—she had to accustom herself to having him back, after she’d almost resigned herself to his irrevocable loss. Her Peacekeeper training had not prepared her for this—this confusion, the bite of fear that she might lose this new ‘family,’ which was all she had left now. Her practicality was deserting her, and instead she was being consumed by the knowledge that all this, the little she had left, could all be destroyed so easily, it could all be lost. She didn’t want to feel that knifing pain again—the pain she’d felt when she knew that the life she loved, she would have to leave behind, forever. It was the same pain she’d felt when Crichton had been lost—in his absence, a gaping hole had opened up in the new life she’d been attempting to stitch together.

It didn’t matter how many times she told herself that she was a soldier, and that these new, bewildering emotions were unworthy of her, of her training and heritage. Try as she might to fend them off, they encroached upon her until she nearly choked. So she kept her distance—from Crichton, from everyone.

*****

John looked up at the two suns burning in the rosy sky, and then his eyes were drawn to the magnificent structure that rose before them.

The commerce center of Fell was clustered around the base of a vast white structure, seemingly built against living rock that gleamed in the suns’ light. It had the appearance of a hillside monastery or a palace compound he’d once seen in India: high outer walls formed a perimeter around the base of the sprawling structure; there were terraces and domes and intricately carved stone screens within arched window frames. It reminded him of a Mogul palace, only instead of red sandstone, it was dazzlingly white, constructed of some kind of pale stone that captured and reflected all the colors of the visible spectrum. It practically sparkled.

Then his eyes dropped to Aeryn’s back, swiftly moving among the maze of parked vehicles. He made after her, increasing his pace to catch up.

"Hey, Aeryn, would you wait up?" he called out after her, hurrying his steps a bit as she passed just out of sight beyond what looked like a helicopter. Then he saw her further ahead in brief conversation with one of the locals, who nodded, apparently in response to something the Sebacean female had asked, and gesticulated expansively. John assumed she was asking for directions. He couldn’t help but grin—he was half a universe from home, and females still asked for directions! Somehow he didn’t think D’Argo would bother.

He caught up to her as she turned away from the thin fellow, but not before he caught a flash of something on the fellow’s face as he looked at both of them. It was like...pity—but it was immediately shuttered behind a blank smile and a friendly nod. Puzzled, Crichton followed Aeryn as she next approached a withered old biped with tusk-like protrusions that curved from either side of his mouth back to where ears would be on a human. Crichton thought they looked a little like ram’s horns. Interestingly enough, he saw the same strange pitying expression cross the old fellow’s face, before he, too, became blank. This one stood beside a contraption that looked like a motorized rickshaw. Aeryn spoke to him quietly, and Crichton heard random words—

"Granaea….warehouse…upper Fell…Wallside." The fellow nodded quickly and gestured to them, including Crichton in the motion. Aeryn moved to climb in.

Whoa, John thought as he followed suit. The tiny seating area with its buggy-like roof was incredibly cramped as he squeezed in beside the Sebacean female. The driver hopped onto his seat in front of them and they were off on a jolting, dizzying ride that forced them to sway heavily with the movement of each hasty turn and fall uncomfortably against one another. John braced himself with one hand by gripping the edge of the small roof overhead. As they zigzagged through narrow winding streets and alleys, John turned his head fractionally to look at Aeryn.

"So this guy knows where we’re going?" he asked over the loud grind of the motor.

"What? Yes," she replied briefly.

"Right." He stole another look at her, but she was staring straight ahead at the road before them, the breeze riffling her long dark hair. John decided to risk another attempt at conversation.

"Look, how long are you gonna be mad at me?"

"Mad? Me? Angry with you?" He saw the surprise flash across her features. It was his turn to be puzzled.

"Yeah. That is why you’ve been giving me the cold shoulder, isn’t it?"

"Cold shoulder?"

"Yeah, you’ve been avoiding me, you won’t talk to me, you act as though I practically don’t exist anymore!"

"I see." Her tone was even, and she was still staring straight ahead.

"Well? What gives, Aeryn? What’s going on here?"

"Look, I—" she faltered to a stop, uncertainty in her voice and expression. "I mean I—I just need—I want to—" she finally ground to a halt. "Look, I don’t want to talk about it right now." Her tone left no room for appeal. "Is that all right with you?" She glanced over at him with an arched eyebrow, and then turned to look out the side of the rickshaw, ignoring him again.

"Yeah. Sure." He passed the fingers of his right hand over his eyes, rubbing them in frustration. It was clear that there was something more complicated going on here than he’d realized, but he didn’t know how to approach it when she wouldn’t talk to him. Frankly, he wasn’t sure how much more of this ‘distant Aeryn’ crap he could take. To redirect his attention, he decided to follow her example and take in the neighborhood along their route.

Fell was a colorful place and remarkably clean, in comparison to many such townships they had passed through. In an effort to cheer the worn, dull exteriors of the buildings, the residents had taken to hanging brightly colored banners from just about anything they could find—from poles over doorways, from balconies; they flew as pennants on rooftops and hung as smaller drops of cloth from beneath arched windows. It gave the rabbit-warren city a festive aura that was nice to see, especially in his mood.

John noted that there were few people in the streets, and that those he did see were dressed warmly against the chill air. Per Pilot’s recommendation, he had donned his orange IASA flight suit, and he was glad for it. Actually the cold air was welcome—it reminded him of a month long camping expedition he’d gone on in northern Canada. It had been awhile since they’d been planetside during a cold season.

The ride through maze of narrow streets had changed, Crichton realized. They were speeding down a wide avenue with a high wall one side and large warehouse-like buildings on the other. He wondered if this was what Aeryn had described earlier when she’d mentioned ‘Wallside’ and ‘Upper Fell’ to their driver.

Finally, the jolting ride was over as the vehicle came to an abrupt halt. Aeryn sprang out and reached into a pocket for currency when the driver stopped her with a curt gesture. "No," he said quickly. He shook his head firmly and looked over his shoulder with impatience as he waited for Crichton to climb out. John looked at the wizened Fellite in puzzlement before unfolding himself from the tight quarters and stepping out onto golden-hued pavement. As soon as he was clear the rickshaw sped away.

"What the hell was that?" he asked, cocking his head at Aeryn. She was quiet as she surveyed the dust cloud left by the disappearing vehicle with a strange expression etched across her features. Curiously, he watched her as she swayed once, twice, her eyes strangely clouded. Crichton felt a small stab of alarm, but then she seemed to steady herself, drawing herself up and stiffening her spine.

"I don’t know," she said finally, and she then turned to face their destination.

The rickshaw had left them on the side of a wide deserted avenue before another high wall with a gated entrance. It seemed incongruous after what he’d seen of the dusty desert-like town. The walls were made of clean gray brick-like stone, neatly masoned while the gate was a gleaming mass of intricate silverwork. Through the gate he could see lush foliage, and behind the property he could see the white-stone compound he’d seen earlier rising up along the hillside. He leaned into the recessed entranceway and looked for something like a doorbell, but as he did, the gate swung inwards and he looked up to see a small (as they all were) Fellite, female apparently, slender and fragile looking, with smaller, more delicate tusks than those he’d seen on the males. She beckoned to them to follow her inside.

Aeryn stepped forward with Crichton at her heels. But something was off in her stride…she didn’t have quite the same cocky PK saunter about her. John frowned, and then pulled his eyes upwards from her…he forced himself to focus instead on the back of the female Fellite who led them along a curving path through brilliant vegetation. They did not enter the house…if it could be called a house. As they walked along its perimeter, Crichton eyed it with admiration. While not as magnificent as the vast white compound rising up behind this property, it was still a beautiful structure, replete with the eye-pleasing arched windows with daintily carved screens and exterior decorative carving along many of the outer surfaces. While on his left the house loomed, on his right there was a bubbling stream, flowing through a thick carpet of lavender grass-like vegetation. Their supplier must be pretty damn wealthy to have all this in what appeared to be an arid region.

Aeryn stopped short behind their halted guide and stumbled. Not paying attention, Crichton almost ploughed into her but managed to catch himself. Instead, he was forced to reach out and grab the Sebacean female by the waist as she wobbled dangerously. A few microts later he heard her say, "I’m fine." He let his hands dropped and watched her spine straighten once more and the angle of her head change as she lifted her chin in what he suspected was defiance of the misstep. Okay, now that was weird—Aeryn stumbled? He didn’t have a chance to think about it though, as they were suddenly facing who Crichton believed must be their supplier.

She was tall, much taller than what John had seen of Fellites, and willowy. Like their young female guide, she was delicate in appearance, but with an underlying steel in the fine bones of her frame. Her elegantly curving tusks were banded and tipped by silver. Her skin was covered in a fine, dense green-gray hair and she had huge, entirely black almond-shaped eyes with no iris whatsoever. She fixed him with her straightforward liquid gaze, her eyes floating from Crichton to Aeryn slowly as she inclined her head and spread her arms. She wore a gauzy azure gown through which her sleek greenish-gray-fur was visible.

"Welcome. I am Granaea," she said finally, her voice low and musical. "You must be the offworlders from the Leviathan, yes?"

"Yes," Aeryn stepped forward with quiet authority. "Our companion Rygel made arrangements with you for our supplies."

"Yes," the Fellite female replied, once more inclining her head. "But he did not tell me he was sending two Sebaceans." She was shaking her head, and her voice was heavy with regret. "Now I am afraid it is too late."

Alarm flared through John as her words registered and he saw the pity in Granaea’s face.

"What are you talking about?" he demanded, stepping forward. The handmaid hissed and John drew up short. Granaea’s eyes were on Aeryn, and she continued to shake her head in what Crichton believed was sorrow. The Fellite female began plucking at her gown seemingly in distress.

Just then, Aeryn made a small soft sound that drew Crichton’s eyes. He watched as a huge shudder seemed to ripple through her, and then she was turning, sagging. She stood there, swaying for a moment, before she looked over at him. She was deathly white, and her eyes fastened on him. She stretched out one hand in a blind, groping gesture—

"Crichton," she choked breathlessly. He sprang towards her. "Aeryn!" And she collapsed heavily into his arms.

*****

Their eyes were locked, Fellite black, Delvian pale and human blue, three points of a triangle. They leaned over the high narrow slab where Aeryn was laid out, limp and unconscious. Crichton and Zhaan faced Granaea across the Sebacean’s body, forming a united front.

"What have you done to her?" Crichton demanded savagely.

Granaea lowered her gaze, her wide black pools wandering over Aeryn’s form.

"It is not my doing," she finally said. "You don’t realize how you insult me, and for that I forgive you."

"I don’t care if I insult—" Crichton began heatedly. Zhaan raised a hand to hush him and interrupted, "If you are not responsible, then what causes our friend’s condition, Granaea?" Her voice was urgently quiet and she turned her pale gaze warningly at Crichton as if to say be silent.

"They call it…" Granaea hesitated. "The Dream of Endless Light." The Delvian locked eyes with the Fellite.

"What is that?" Zhaan asked, with a slight frown.

"We must take your friend to the Cloister," the Fellite said quickly.

"The Cloister?" Crichton broke in, earning another stern glance from Zhaan for the interruption.

Granaea gestured through the window behind them and John’s eyes were immediately drawn to the white structure he’d been admiring earlier. "Wait—that’s the Cloister? What the hell is it? Can they help her?"

Granaea held up her forelimbs to forestall further questions. "It is where we must go."

Fear and fury exploded in Crichton’s brain and he rushed around the slab to Granaea’s side and grabbed her by her upper forelimbs.

"John!" Zhaan cried out in protest, but he ignored her.

"No, Granaea, you tell us what’s going on now! Why do we have to take her there? What’s wrong with Aeryn?" He released her roughly and tried to pull himself together. "You people have been looking at us funny since we got here, and I want to know why! What do you know?"

Granaea bowed her head and drew the edges of her robe together. "I will forgive you that, young Sebacean, for I understand your concern for your comrade. But I warn you—do not handle me again, or you will force me to regrettable action!" The steel in her voice quelled the heat of Crichton’s attack.

He sighed and looked down at Aeryn again, the fear knotting inside him. She was so pale…His shoulders slumped then in defeat as he leaned against the slab. He turned his head slightly toward the Fellite female. "Look, I’m sorry. I just want to know what’s going on."

"I understand, young Sebacean. We must take your friend to the Cloister quickly."

"Fine." He pushed himself away from the slab and met Zhaan’s eyes, before looking back at Granaea. "By the way," he continued as an aside, "I’m not Sebacean. I only look like one…I’m human."

Granaea hissed at his words. "You’re not Sebacean?" Her voice was thick with disbelief.

"No." Questioningly he cocked his head at her and then exchanged a puzzled glance with Zhaan. The Fellite was looking around agitatedly and moving her forelimbs. "So that is why you remain unaffected," she murmured.

"You mean…" Zhaan began, her eyes widening.

"…it’s because she’s Sebacean?" Crichton finished. They both turned their gaze toward Granaea. She met their eyes and then quickly nodded her head.

"But what—?" Zhaan began.

"But how—" John started, but Granaea once again stopped them both with a gesture and a firm shake of her head. "Not now, not here. We must take her to the Cloister immediately. Please remain with your friend until I arrange transport."

*****

John stared across Aeryn’s body at Zhaan with unseeing eyes. He couldn’t keep the fear and worry from his expression, so he’d given up trying. He and Zhaan were seated across from one another on low benches built into the sides of the transport airbus, with Aeryn strapped to a gurney-like contraption between them. They were jostled about in the rattling compartment as the bus ascended the winding road to the Cloister, the air generator below their feet generating noise as well as the air cushion on which they rode. Finally, the vehicle came to a halt and Crichton sprang to his feet and pushed the doors at the rear open to face a small crowd of human-like people in white robes.

They’re all Sebacean, he realized as he stared at them in surprise. As he stepped down, with Zhaan close behind, the Sebaceans parted to allow a tall figure through, also clad in the white robe, but with a silver pendant hanging from a long chain around his neck. He had peppery hair and deep-set piercingly blue eyes.

"Welcome," he said in a quiet voice. "I see you have brought us another pilgrim."

"She needs your help," Crichton said. "The Fellites say you are healers."

"Yes, we are." He studied him briefly, his blue eyes flicking to Zhaan and then back to Crichton. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Steppan."

"I am called Zhaan," the blue female responded. "And this is John Crichton."

Steppan nodded at both of them, while Crichton still studied him with a mixture of distrust, suspicion and hope.

He gestured, and two of the robes moved forward past Crichton and Zhaan to pull Aeryn from the bus. He watched as they lifted the slab from the bus and pulled it forward. Between them, they carried it easily and began to move past the taller robe when Crichton stopped them with a hand.

"Wait. Where are you taking her?" he asked suspiciously.

"Into the Cloister, young friend. We will care for her. She will be safe."

"We can see her in there, right?"

"Of course. Just as soon as she has been purified, you may see her."

"Purified?" Zhaan asked, cocking her head in curiosity.

"Yes. All those who Dream are bathed when they enter the Cloister. It is a very simple procedure." He paused, studying her thoughtfully. "You are a Delvian Pa’u?"

The blue-skinned female drew herself up and inclined her head. "I once was. Tenth level." Crichton smiled inwardly at that—it was a good sign that Zhaan would embrace her priesthood again—and soon hopefully. He hadn’t missed the tinge of pride in her words.

"You may supervise then, if you wish."

Crichton exchanged a glance with Zhaan, and then nodded shortly. The Delvian moved to follow the white robes with Aeryn.

"Come, John Crichton," Steppan said. "Let us go within, and address this further."

The two of them followed the small crowd into a huge arched entranceway. John looked about him with wonder as they mounted a short flight of steps. He whirled on his heel to look out over what lay below: the city of Fell was spread out before him, forming a magnificent view. The dry plain extended to the horizon, where golden plain met rose-tinted sky, and the entirety of it was bathed in the glow of two suns.

With a final look, he turned to find his host watching him carefully. He bowed to John and motioned him in. John stepped forward into the warm interior, which was a pleasant contrast to the chill outside. Once again, he was awed by the vast vaulted chamber with its high airy dome and arched windows with the now-familiar carved screens. It was all made of the same dazzling white stone as the rest of the structure, and resplendent where light struck it at the right angle, sending up a shower of brilliance.

John followed Steppan through a series of passages, until they reached a long room lined with arched windows on one side and flooded with suns’ shine. The older Sebacean gestured to him to sit among the blue floor cushions in one corner. John gingerly followed suit as Steppan lowered himself to the ground and settled himself comfortably.

"Do you know what’s wrong with her?" Crichton asked as soon as Steppan was seated.

"Yes." And?

"Granaea told us that her people call it the Dream of Endless Light," he prompted the older Sebacean.

"As do we."

"…and that means what exactly?" Crichton asked impatiently.

"Before I answer that, may I ask you a question?"

Crichton grimaced in frustration. "Fine."

"How do you feel, young Sebacean?" His tone was curious. Right.

"Oh, that. I’m not Sebacean which is why I’m not affected by whatever’s got Aeryn." John rubbed his fingers across his eyes tiredly.

"I…see. It’s just that you look—"

"I know, I know, I look Sebacean. Well, surprise! I’m not. I’m a human, from the planet Earth. You’ve never heard of it. But you know what? I’ve never heard of you, so we’re even. But that’s neither here nor there. Look, I don’t have time to play twenty questions, okay? Just tell me what exactly is wrong with Aeryn?" And more importantly, can you help her?

Steppan closed his eyes and lay his hands, palms up, on each knee of his crossed legs. A long moment of silence stretched between them and Crichton grew more impatient as he waited.

"This planet is a remarkable sphere, young Crichton." Steppan’s eyes had not opened. John waited with increasing impatience. Why does everything have to take so blasted long? Aeryn needs help now, damnit!

Steppan’s eyes popped open suddenly, and Crichton met his disconcertingly direct gaze. Finally he spoke.

"We came to this planet many cycles ago as part of colonization project—not of this sphere, you understand. We were only halfway to our destination when we were attacked by pirates. Our colony ship was crippled, and we were forced to take refuge here. After landing, we discovered that one by one, our complement was falling ill. The Cloister began as a hospice to care for them."

"What caused their illness?" Crichton asked.

"The planet."

"Wh-the planet?" John was a bit befuddled by that answer. "But—how?"

Steppan sighed. "We Sebaceans carry a sort of bacteria in our bodies that under normal conditions never causes symptoms. But when we came here...well, something in this planet’s atmosphere, which we have not yet been able to isolate, activated the bacteria, and caused symptoms to appear."

"What are the symptoms?"

"There is only one, really. The affected individual loses consciousness, and enters a dreaming state. Physically, there is nothing wrong—in fact, even brain functions appear normal."

"I hear a ‘but’ coming," John interjected. "Obviously something is wrong if one minute they’re conscious and the next they aren’t."

"Yes, human. You are correct. Something is wrong, or rather, something is very right."

"Wait—w-what do you mean by that?" John had a very bad feeling about this.

Steppan stared at him without blinking for several heartbeats. John’s sense of dread mounted.

"Wait a second—you can help her, right? There are drugs she can take, or—" He sputtered to a halt as Steppan raised one hand to stop him.

"The Cloister exists because of people like your friend, young human. But we learned a very long time ago our limitations in dealing with this condition." He paused before continuing, trapping John’s eyes. "You must understand that we no longer look upon the Dream of Endless Light as an illness. Rather, it is an enlightenment. A perfection. It is a state of mind, that many long for but few achieve. This planet has allowed us to attain that bliss.

"Any Sebacean who enters this planet’s atmosphere will eventually succumb to the Dream. Some are taken quickly, as was your friend, and some are affected more slowly. But no one is spared."

"But—" John frowned. "If every Sebacean is affected by it, then, it is possible to recover, right? I mean, you’re conscious—the others out there—" He gestured randomly.

"Yes, some do, as you say, recover."

"Is there a percentage rate? How likely is it that Aeryn will recover?"

Steppan tilted his head to one side and gave Crichton a long considering look. "One in ten may regain consciousness."

"That’s it? How is it possible that you Sebaceans with all your technology and superiority haven’t been able to beat this thing?" He was reeling from the figure—Aeryn only had a ten- percent chance of survival?

"It is very simple, human. We don’t want to. Once, in the beginning, when we didn’t understand the Dream, we tried to cure it. We tried to prevent the Dream from taking hold, but it was to no avail. Our condition proved resistant to everything we tried. Now we have learned not to fight it."

"Why?"

"The Dream is inside us, waiting to happen. This remarkable planet sets it free, and once the Dream is loose within us, it sets us free..."

"I don’t understand."

"Those of us who are no longer part of the Dream, chose to return to this world, human."

"Chose? What do you mean you chose—you get to choose to wake up?"

"You must understand—the Dream is intoxicating—it is Life itself, distilled and pure. It is a state of pure being, without any distractions. It is peace and happiness. It is perfection."

Sounds like Heaven, Crichton thought. Who’d want to leave that? "So what you’re telling me is that you had all that, and you had to choose to leave the Dream?"

"Yes. It was my duty to return to this life; I had dedicated my life to the service of others, so I sacrificed the Dream to continue on that path. It was an intensely difficult decision—I could never make you understand how hard it was to turn away from such bliss. Some days, it is only my memory of it that sustains me in my decision."

"So...what happens if you don’t choose to leave the Dream?"

Steppan bowed his head and spread his hands with an expression of pity for Crichton’s lack of understanding… "The spirit moves on. Within the Dream, the vessel decays."

Oh, God…"How long does she have?" he asked quietly.

Steppan shook his head. "It is different for each individual. For some it is days—for others, weeks."

Crichton’s face twisted. "So what you’re telling me is that this planet activates this otherwise dormant bacteria, so you’re on a comatose happy acid trip that you have to choose to wake up from or you die. Did I leave anything out?" He glared at the Sebacean, and then looked away with a mixture of anger and despair. "No? Didn’t think so." He rubbed his eyes again.

Think, he had to think. There had to be something he could do to help her, despite whatever Steppan believed.

"I need to contact my ship and let them know what’s happening," Crichton said finally. Steppan nodded his assent and smoothly rose. His slippered feet were silent as he padded from the long chamber.

"D’Argo! You there?" He bent his head to speak into the communication badge.

"Yes, Crichton. I’m here." It was good to hear the big guy’s voice.

"Good. I’ve got news."

"How is Aeryn?" Crichton was surprised to hear genuine concern in the Luxan’s voice. Too bad he didn’t have better news to report. Maybe between the two of them they could think of something. He had no idea what, but two heads were always better than one. He rubbed his hand in agitation through his short-cropped hair and expelled his breath noisily, not bothering to keep the worry from his voice.

"Not good, D’Argo. Not good at all…"