Figment

The first thing John Crichton realized as consciousness returned was that his mouth tasted like dren—if dren had the taste and texture of rotting food cubes. He searched his dim awareness for the cause, but was distracted by the sound of voices murmuring nearby. Who was in his quarters, and more importantly, why? And why was waking up so difficult this morning? He tried to roll over into a more comfortable position that would usher him back to the oblivion of unconsciousness, but protests from sore muscles stopped him. What kind of trouble had he gotten himself into this time? It was vaguely disturbing that he could not remember. His musing was interrupted by a bright light briefly shining into his recently pried-open left eye. An instant later his right eye was similarly assaulted.

"Hey, Zhaan, cut it out," he croaked, turning his face away from the prodding hand. He cracked his eyes open to find blurry forms in front of him. Several rapid blinks coaxed enough tears back into his eyes to allow him to focus, revealing two humanoid shapes. Sebacean shapes, in fact. A woman and a man. Shit. He scanned his room uneasily, looking for some clue of where he was, how he got there, and the best possibility for escape. Nothing obvious jumped out. The room was spartan and smelled strongly of disinfectant. There was a window on the far wall, but draperies blocked the view. He couldn't even tell if it was night or day, or if there was a night or day to be noted. The man, who was dressed in dark clothes that did not adequately cover his bulk, glanced at him impassively then retreated to stand in front of the room's one door.

Crichton returned his gaze to the woman, who wore a white lab coat covering a uniform of some sort. "Where am I?" he demanded, sitting up carefully. "What did you do with the others?"

"Calm down, Commander Crichton. You're safe."

Aw, hell. They knew his name. He was really in trouble now. He drew his legs towards his chest and pressed his body against the wall behind him, ignoring the aches that radiated through his body with his movement. "Who are you people? Peacekeepers?" They weren't dressed like Peacekeepers, but who else could they be?

The woman stepped closer, so she stood near the side of his bed. Crichton reflexively balled himself tighter, and the woman backed off slightly, surprise evident in her chestnut brown eyes. "My name is Dr. Kanaar. Your module malfunctioned during orbital maneuvers, and you nearly burned up in the atmosphere. Took you for quite a ride, but you managed to stabilize your dive before losing consciousness."

Something about the way she spoke seemed out of place, but he couldn't put his finger on it. "My module…." He looked at her in confusion. Had he crash landed on some remote Sebacean colony? He relaxed fractionally. At least they weren't aiming pulse rifles at him, for once.

"Your module was recovered, and from what I've heard, the Farscape is doing better than its pilot. You were unconscious for nearly two days."

Two days? If he'd been here—wherever that was—for two days, then where were the others? Had they tried to rescue him? Did he need rescuing? "Am I a prisoner here?"

The doctor's eyes gleamed with amusement. "Of course not, Commander. You're free to go when I'm satisfied that you're fit." Crichton eyed the silent, burly man standing by the door. Dr. Kanaar followed his gaze. "Mr. Hysni is here for security purposes. To ensure your safety."

Crichton regarded the security man skeptically. One thing his time in the Uncharted Territories had ingrained in him was to take all information from unknown sources with a large grain of salt. A salt-lick, even. Well, if the Sebacean doctor was to be believed, at least his module was relatively undamaged. He shuddered to think of what repairing it would cost this time. Finding replacement parts for Aeryn's Prowler was difficult enough… Aeryn. Had she been flying copilot when he hit the apparently unexpected turbulence?

"Is my copilot okay? Is she here, too?"

Dr. Kanaar frowned at him. "Commander, it was a solo mission." She paused, then continued more uncertainly. "What is the last thing you remember before losing consciousness?"

Crichton felt an uneasy stirring in his stomach. Something here didn't add up. He regarded his room and its occupants again, this time more carefully. His eyes fell upon the badge clipped to Dr. Kanaar's lapel, and he realized with sudden disorientation that he could read the name printed in 20-point block letters. His world did a rapid one-eighty. "Earth," he half-gasped, half-whispered. The doctor's lips pursed slightly, but she said nothing.

"Where am I? What hospital?" he asked, his tone urgent.

"You're in the infirmary at Edwards Air Force Base."

Okay, Earth. Humans, not Sebaceans. His heart stood down its adrenaline panic, and he relaxed a bit more, tucking his legs back under the covers as he tried to make sense of the situation. How the hell did he get here? The doctor had mentioned his module—something must have gone wrong. But where was Moya? On the other side of an opportune wormhole? And why wasn't Aeryn here with him? Would he have left without her if he had the chance to go home for real? He didn't think so. He had once told her that he would never leave her, and he meant it. What if she had come with him and IASA had figured out that she wasn't human? His heart resumed its double-time march. God, please let her be safe, wherever she was. Aeryn might have escaped before they captured her, he reasoned, but if anything happened to her…. He felt his throat constrict at the thought. He was already responsible for screwing up her life, now he could be responsible for her death… or worse. He shuddered.

Of course, this could be yet another simulation, he realized. Or maybe he had finally lost it for good and this was some sort of homesick delusion. Then why did he feel like crap in his own delusion?

Something nudged at his consciousness, momentarily interrupting his brooding. Something still wasn't right. The doctor had said 'orbital maneuvers'. What did she mean by that? If he had been trying to land, he certainly wouldn't have engaged in

'orbital maneuvers'. Not with the biomechanoid add-ons that enhanced the module. He only used those maneuvers when he was studying wormhole formation. An unlikely thought materialized among the cacophony in his mind, demanding a spotlight. Before he knew it, another question escaped his lips.

"What's the date?"

"I believe that these are questions I should be asking you, Commander Crichton." Her expression was stern, but a hint of amusement touched her eyes.

"Forget the neuro exam, doc," Crichton replied testily. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to keep his impatience under control. Pissing the doctor off wouldn't get him anywhere. "Obviously I'm going to fail it, so please just answer my question," he requested through clenched teeth.

The doctor conceded with a slight nod. "March 7."

March 7. Three days after the launch if the year was 1999. He wasn't entirely certain how much time had passed since he unwittingly became the unofficial Earth ambassador to the Uncharted Territories, but he knew it was slightly less than a full 'cycle', which he estimated as about four-fifths of an Earth solar year.

"1999." He had meant it to be a question, but even as he said it he knew it was a statement of fact.

The doctor's mouth twitched slightly, either in puzzlement or concern, but she nodded confirmation.

What the hell was going on?

Crichton evaded the doctor's further questions and feigned fatigue to encourage her departure. He needed time to think, to figure out what was real.

Unfortunately, two hours of turning it around in his mind didn't bring clarity or enlightenment, and his brain felt like it had completed the spin cycle in a washing machine. He needed more information to determine if this was another simulation or if he had finally, once and for all, gone around the bend. It was even money at this point.

A knock at the door was a welcome interruption. At this point he would rather sit through Dr. Kanaar's poking and prodding even if he wasn't certain how to answer her questions without raising her suspicions. Simulation or delusion, he didn't need a trip to the locked floor with the padded rooms. At least, he didn't think so.

"Welcome back, son."

"Dad!" For an instant, the jumble of thoughts churning inside his head quieted and his breath caught in his throat. Crichton tried to remind himself not to get his hopes up, especially after the last time, but he couldn't suppress the sudden exhilaration he felt in seeing his father again.

"You gave us quite a scare," Colonel Crichton remarked, crossing the room to embrace his son.

"Oh God, Dad. I missed you so much," the younger Crichton replied, hugging his father fiercely. 'Not real,' whispered a voice at the back of his mind. Crichton ignored it, letting himself be momentarily enveloped by the illusion that he was home.

Colonel Crichton chuckled. "It hasn't even been a week, son. You were never this glad to see me after a whole semester in college."

"I know, Dad. It just… seemed longer." He released his father and blinked back tears.

"Hey, it's okay, son. You're home now."

"Home," he repeated, still trying to make sense of it. If only it really were.

"DK wanted to come with me," his father continued, "but the brass want him to get started analyzing the data from the flight recorder right away. Plus, they asked him to handle the press."

"DK agreed to do press conferences?" Crichton asked, incredulous, forgetting his own confusion for a moment. "He hates public speaking. He used to break out in a cold sweat every day before speech class."

"Well, from what I hear, the press loves him. If astrophysics doesn't work out, he's got a promising career in public relations."

A comfortable pause fell on the conversation as father and son took stock of each other. Colonel Crichton's smile faded slightly, and his expression grew serious. "How are you doing, son?"

"I'm fine, Dad, really. Guess I got thrown around a little up there. Nothing serious."

Colonel Crichton raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

"I know you're worried, Dad, but I feel fine. Okay, I'm a little sore here and there, but it's nothing to worry about."

"I talked to your doctor a little while ago. She said you were pretty disoriented when you woke up."

"Yeah, I guess I was."

"Still having trouble remembering the flight?"

Crichton regarded his father, deciding how to answer. He needed information, and he had to trust someone to get it. He paused, searching for the best way to explain. Everything he reviewed in his mind sounded equally nuts. Finally, he replied, "My memory's fine. I just remember it… differently."

"Differently? How?"

"When I began the slingshot maneuver, I hit some kind of electromagnetic wave, right?"

"Yeah, a solar flare most likely."

"And that's when I lost control of my module and began the dive."

"Yes, that's our best guess. We'll know more once DK has had a chance to look at the flight recorder data."

"That's not what happened, Dad." Crichton bit his lip. 'Here goes nothing,' he mused silently. "When I hit the EM wave at the apex of the slingshot, I opened up some kind of wormhole. My module got sucked into it, and after a ride that made 'Twister' look like a spring breeze, the Farscape and I were deposited somewhere—well, I don't exactly know where—but somewhere far from here. Dad, I've been trying to find a way home for nearly a year."

The elder Crichton shook his head. "A year? But—"

"Yeah, I know it sounds crazy, but, I don't know… it…." Crichton shrugged, at a loss for words. How the hell could he convince his father that he wasn't out of his mind when it didn't even make sense to him? "It was real," he affirmed, his voice almost a whisper.

Colonel Crichton shifted uncomfortably. "You're home now, John," he replied after a pause.

Crichton sighed. "You don't believe me."

"It's not that, son. I believe that you believe it. It's just that it's…."

"Unbelievable?" he offered.

"I guess you could put it that way," his father replied, clasping a hand on Crichton's arm and squeezing it lightly. "John, we only lost radio contact with the module for a short time, and satellite tracking was maintained throughout."

"I know, Dad. It doesn't make sense to me, either." He hesitated, uncertain about how to continue. "I don't know what's real anymore. My memories from Moya—that was the ship that rescued me—feel as real to me as my memories of growing up. What I can't remember is how I got back here."

"What is the last thing you do remember?"

Crichton considered for a moment, sifting through the confusion in his mind. "I was on Moya, eating dinner in the mess with the rest of the crew." He paused, allowing the memory to play in his mind before recounting it. "It was a real dinner for once, not one that was square-shaped." He smiled as his father's features quirked in confusion. How many times had his human expressions engendered a similar look on his Moya crewmates?

"Never mind," Crichton continued. "It's not important." He paused again, trying to find his place. "It was quiet—I remember that much. Quieter than it's been in a while. We had had a really close call with a bunch of commandos and a virus that qualified for Mensa, so after that we were all glad to catch our breath. Everybody was in pretty good spirits, especially Aeryn." He smiled as he recalled his favorite Sebacean. "She was telling the others how I had crossed-wired the hetch drive controls in the Farscape's console and nearly electrocuted myself. Oh, she was plenty concerned for me at the time, but she was all 'that human nonsense' in front of the others," Crichton continued, mimicking his shipmate. "I had a brilliant comeback planned, but… I don't know. I don't remember anything after that."

Colonel Crichton sat silently for a moment, absorbing what his son had just told him. Crichton was about to say something to fill the void when his father spoke.

"Sounds like a very vivid dream."

"It wasn't a dream, Dad," he replied, frustrated. "My subconscious could never come up with some of the things I've seen out there. It was—is—real. I know it sounds crazy. It sounds crazy to me. But trust me, this is beyond even my wildest dreams."

"I know it feels real to you, John. But you've been unconscious for two days, and before that, you were shaken around pretty violently. They still don't know the effects of zero-g on human physiology. Isn't it possible that what you remember never really happened?"

"I guess it's possible, Dad. But I'm not ready to write off the last nine months of my life as a dream. Not until I have some proof, something that will make sense to me. Something that…

"Hey, Dad," Crichton said, switching gears mid-thought as an idea grabbed him. "Do you still speak any Greek?"

"A little. I'm a bit rusty, though. Why?"

Crichton smiled. "Because I don't. Say something. Anything."

Colonel Crichton looked at him doubtfully, but complied. "Ela, re. Tikanes? S'arapoh."

Nothing. The words sounded foreign and had no meaning. "Say it again."

His father repeated the phrase, but still nothing. Crichton's heart sank.

"What was that about?"

"My last hope, I guess. When I came aboard Moya, they injected me with alien microbes that colonize in the brain and translate alien languages for the host. That's how I could understand everybody. But they aren't there anymore. I couldn't understand you."

"I'm sorry, son."

After twenty-four hours of observation, Dr. Kanaar released Crichton with a clean bill of health. Her tests concluded that he harbored no alien microbes—translator or otherwise. He returned to Florida with his father, recounting as much of his Moya experience as he could during the cross-country flight. He didn't know if his father was simply humoring him, but after a while the elder Crichton seemed enthralled by the narrative. "Well, no matter the origin of these experiences, you've had yourself quite an adventure," he remarked upon landing in Orlando. "Son, even if these memories aren't real, at least not in the sense that you experienced them first-hand, they are a part of you."

After wading through the crowd of reporters and curious on-lookers that had gathered to get a glimpse at the recently returned astronaut, Crichton and his father headed towards Cape Canaveral. Crichton opened the passenger-side window and reveled in the feel of the cool spring wind over his face as he and his father sped down the Beeline Expressway towards the Cape. Despite the demonstration denying the existence of his translator microbes, Crichton had insisted on seeing the Farscape to convince himself of the truth. He didn't know what it would prove, and when Colonel Crichton dropped him off at the Kennedy Space Center hangar, he approached the damaged pod with equal parts anticipation and dread.

The module contained no evidence of alien technology. No hetch drive. No biomechanoid add-ons. He even found the small IASA bag packed with a spare change of clothes that he and DK had jokingly stowed for the "long trip home" after the Farscape successfully proved their slingshot theory. Crichton unzipped the bag and fingered the grey tee-shirt and white boxers absently, remembering how handy his facetious foresight had been. At least until Aeryn had swiped the boxers. He smiled, this time in memory of her dressed in them as sleepwear. Underneath the clothes, Crichton found his tape recorder. He pressed the play button, a tiny glimmer of hope rising in the back of his mind, but the tape was empty. He carefully placed the recorder back, folding the clothes on top of it, his smile fading as he returned the bag to the module.

"Guess you didn't get to use those this time, huh?" boomed DK's voice behind him.

"You'd be surprised, Bro," Crichton replied, turning to greet his friend, who was standing on the other side of the bay. Crichton watched as DK hurried across the hangar to join him at the module. "Good to see you," he said as he hugged his friend tightly.

"Yeah, your dad told me about your adventure."

Crichton searched his friend's expression, trying to decide how to proceed. "So, are you going to haul me to the funny farm?" Crichton asked tentatively, only half-joking. He didn't want his best friend in the world to think that he was a loon.

"Can't blame a guy for what he dreams while he's unconscious," DK replied. "I'm just glad you're okay."

"Yeah, I guess I am," he said slowly, shaking his head. He might be confused as hell, but all things considering, he was "okay". At least for now. "It's good to be home," he added as an afterthought, the truth sinking in slowly. He was home. Why did it feel so strange to him, then?

DK grinned devilishly. "I think I can sneak out for a few hours. You want a beer?"

"What I want, DK, is a nice, juicy hamburger. And a tall milkshake with an extra scoop of ice cream in it. Delusion or not, I feel like I haven't had real food in nine months."

DK drove Crichton down the coast to Coco Beach, pulling up to a beachside café. The parking lot was crowded with Jeeps, small SUV's, and compact Japanese cars with license plates representing nearly every state from the Midwest to the Southeast, evidence of the influx of spring-breakers. Crichton sensed DK's amusement as he ordered a hamburger with everything on it, a chili cheese dog, fries, a large coke and a chocolate milkshake. "Hey, I'm hungry, okay?" he said defensively. DK ordered only a beer, announcing that he would have plenty to eat with Crichton's leftovers. When the food was ready, the pair carried the trays to a sandy table on the beach, kicking their shoes off as they sat down. Crichton repeated his story as he wolfed his food down. When he finished his binge, leaving very little for DK to scavenge, Crichton ordered a beer and continued telling his story as the sun began its descent to the horizon behind the beach.

"My favorite part is when you hid from the big guy with tentacles for three days after he left the ship," DK noted as Crichton finished.

"D'Argo. And you would have done the same thing if nearly seven feet of Luxan were after you in a hyper-rage. Did I tell you what he could do with his tongue?"

"I'm sure the more interesting story is how you know what he can do with his tongue," DK replied quickly, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.

Crichton rolled his eyes, remembering his first lesson in Luxan tongue physiology. "I wouldn't know. I was unconscious at the time." That prompted more eyebrow waggling, but DK wisely decided to leave it at that. Both men took a long draw from their drinks and watched the tide recede.

"So, who's this Aeryn?"

"What do you mean? I told you, she's the Sebacean Peacekeeper who…"

"No, I mean, what's the deal with her? And you?"

"What do you mean?" Crichton repeated. He had edited a few of the more personal details from his narrative.

"I've known you twenty-five years, Bro. You obviously have a thing for her."

Crichton considered denying it, but decided against it. "Yeah, I guess I do. Did. Will? Jeez, this is so confusing," Crichton said, laughing. More seriously, he added, "I never thought I'd be here without her." He sipped his beer again. "I can't tell you how many times I dreamed about coming home. After a while, I always imagined bringing her with me. Because of me, she's got nowhere else to go. She could easily pass for human, just like everybody always thought I was Sebacean. I wanted to show her Earth, introduce her to ice cream sundaes, rock-n-roll, sunsets on the beach, rock-climbing, Christmas, and all that jazz.

"I realized it would be dangerous, especially after our experience with the false Earth, and if I couldn't figure out a way to bring her with me safely, I don't think I would have come home at all. Or at least, I wouldn't have stayed."

"That serious, huh?"

"I don't know. I'll never know, now," Crichton said, anger and frustration creeping into his tone. He kicked some sand with a bare foot and watched the pale pink light of the sunset reflected in the surf. "She doesn't even exist," he added quietly, the realization more painful than he would have imagined.

DK dropped Crichton off at his small flat long after the sun had set. Crichton had lived there for three years, ever since he had moved to Florida to work on the Farscape project. It was longer than he could recall living in any one place, even as a child, and it felt like home to him. Now it seemed unreal to walk around his apartment after all these months. In some part of his mind, Crichton had accepted the fact that he would never see this place again. He had been missing too long.

He put his keys down on the table near the door and picked up the picture of his mother that was sitting there, flipping the overhead light on as an afterthought. For months he had wished for some memento of his family, like the crystal D'Argo had sealed under his flesh for safekeeping. He looked at the image of his mother, noting absently that the frame had barely gathered a thin layer of dust in his absence, further evidence that his time on Moya was just his imagination working overtime. It didn't make it feel any less real. It didn't make him miss the others less, either.

He set the photograph down and wandered through the rest of the flat, eventually finding his way to his bedroom. 'I should be happy to be home,' Crichton mused as he regarded his haggard reflection in the mirror over his dresser. He was happy to see his dad and DK, and it was nice to be one among billions again, rather than the lone human in some God-forsaken end of the universe. But home wasn't the same anymore. Something had changed in him, even if his experience wasn't real. It shouldn't matter, but somehow it did.

He opened a dresser drawer at random and smiled as he found his stock of blue jeans. Boy, he had missed those. He looked down at the IASA khakis he wore, remembering how he had ruined them during his quarter cycle on Acquara. After that, he had been relegated to wearing the Peacekeeper civvies he could find on board or on commerce planets. Nothing he had scavenged or bought was ever as soft or as comfortable as good ol' Earth cotton. He smoothed his hand over the material once before tucking the jeans back in the drawer.

Crichton picked his way around several stacks of unread journal articles and half-completed projects that colonized his bedroom floor until he stood in front of the sliding glass door. He pulled the shades open and unlocked the latch, padding onto his small balcony. He sat heavily on a lawn chair and propped his feet against the railing, inspecting the starscape that seemed out of place in its familiarity. How many times had he dreamt of lounging on this very balcony watching the constellations of Earth march overhead? Night in his dreamland was always perfectly clear with no moon or light pollution from nearby Orlando to obscure his view of the Milky Way directly overhead. He would awake each morning with a renewed sense of homesickness and the nagging question of whether Moya was even traveling among the pale swath of light he had spied in his dreaming mind's eye.

Now he felt the same sensation in reverse. He studied the stars above and wondered where Moya was. 'In my mind,' Crichton reminded himself, frowning. Suddenly stargazing wasn't so appealing. He stepped back inside and sat on his bed, an unaccustomed indecisiveness settling over him. He sat there for seconds or minutes, he couldn't tell which, feeling the solitude of his surroundings. It was an alien sensation, and it darkened his mood further. Finally, he crawled under the covers, not bothering to remove or even change his clothes, allowing the oblivion of sleep to claim him once again.