In the final issue of its run, the Farscape magazine published a piece of fiction written by series creator Rockne S. O’Bannon. Set a long time after the end of the fourth season, this details the subsequent adventures of the Moya crew. Since “Horizons” was written before the Peacekeeper Wars miniseries, there are some plot inconsistencies. I have seen so many people ask to read the story – and I myself wanted to read it again – so here it is. Published in Farscape: The Official Magazine by Titan Books, Issue 12 April/May 2003. Any transcription errors are mine.
HORIZONS
by Rockne S. O’Bannon
Crichton awoke moments after the first sun crested the horizon. He had purposely never put a covering over the north-facing portal because he liked awakening naturally and the gentle light of the first sun did the job perfectly. One of the countless reasons he had chosen this planet on which to build his home.
The structure was no more than five cycles old, built by Crichton himself – with occasional help from some Jash-nak laborers he hired to help with the bigger tasks like transporting wall slabs and shaping the foundation. It was simple in design and function, in the natural colors and style of the American southwest. Crichton wasn’t sure why he decided to build it this way – but it seemed to best fit the rusty clay soil and stark green vegetation of the expansive valley where it resided.
The furnishings were as spartan as the six-room dwelling itself. Having been a man on the run for so many cycles, he’d long ago become used to maintaining very few personal possessions. If there was one thing he’d learned living the vast majority of his life at this end of the universe it was that simple, basic, functional things were always most effective. His first glimpse of that was his early days out here in what used to be known as the Uncharted Territories. Those first cycles spent aboard Moya he dedicated every spare moment to studying the remarkably elegant functionality of the living ship. The thought of Moya gently nudged him back to today’s events.
“You’re losing it, John. Mind wandering like that. You’re acting like an 80-year-old man…”
Which John Crichton certainly wasn’t.
He was 311 years old.
As Crichton rose from the bed, he felt the usual stiffness in his joints – elbows, knees especially – and his back always ached for the first arn or so after getting up. But considering he lived nearly four times as long as he would have if he’d never taken that fateful ride into orbit around Earth back in – what Earth year was it? 1999 – he wasn’t going to complain.
The extension of one’s natural life was one of the unknown benefits of Translator Microbes. Well, unknown to Crichton, at least, in those early days at this end of the universe. It seems Translator Microbes have long life spans of their own, and when their host’s body begins to age, the microbes go to work, repairing failing systems, fighting off any pesky debilitating diseases. Crichton’s little guys and gals had been performing this function on his behalf for nearly three hundred cycles.
Crichton moved across the Nebari Tecca rug – a gift from a very dear, old friend – and gazed out the portal. The valley was brightening – the second sun, the larger of the two, was just below the crest of the distant mesas, its rich copper light already splashing across the magnificent unspoiled vista that sprawled before Crichton’s view.
Growing up in North Carolina, Crichton truly loved his family home. As with all adults – well, human adults, he couldn’t speak for the myriad other species he’d met over the centuries – but like human adults, Crichton thought such a warm, comforting cocoon of family and home was something only a young child could experience. But here he was at the other end of his life – and he had that once again. He loved this house he built. For the longest time he thought he might never have a place to call home again. Yet here he stood. There was only one thing missing to make it perfect. One person. As Crichton stared out, the second sun began to appear in earnest, the light very bright, but Crichton didn’t look away. He was lost in a reverie and it was only someone’s face he saw before him. Finally the sun cleared the mesa completely and Crichton blinked, his reverie broken.
And the importance of this particular day returned to him. He had a funeral to attend.
“Rygel˛” he said to himself softly.
From the last message he had received, Moya would be coming for him today. It would be good to see her again. And Pilot. And any of the others they had managed to contact.
He hurried to change, anxious to be ready for the living ship’s arrival.
********
Crichton stepped from the transport pod into Moya’s transport hanger and immediately felt foolish. Did he really expect everybody aboard to drop everything and be waiting down here for him?
All several hundred of them?
Crichton hefted his tak bag and headed into the maintenance bay where a group of Ulstran students clustered around one of the workbenches. A couple of them glanced up as he passed. It took a few minutes before recognition dawned, and their expressions immediately shifted. They quickly began nudging the others. Soon, all the students were staring at him, whispering to each other.
Crichton was used to this reaction by now, but he still wasn’t comfortable with it. He expected that he never would be. He was now grateful that no one had made his arrival anything special. He gave the students a small acknowledging nod and quickly moved on into the passageway.
The passage way was teeming with activity. Beings from dozens of different worlds going about their business. It wasn’t crowded really, but Crichton remembered the many years when there were only he and a few others living aboard.
“Commander Crichton!”
A tall lean figure hurried his way, slaloming past the slower beings around him. The figure was a full 6 inches taller than Crichton, his skin dark brown and creased, the top of his head formed into a protective carapace. The eyes were large and expressive – and Crichton smiled in instant recognition.
“Hello, Pilot,” Crichton said as the tall figure arrived before him. The figure held out a familiar pincer-like hand, Crichton shook the pincer, grinning widely.
“I wanted to be in the hanger to greet you!’
“That’s alright, Pilot.” Crichton remembered the many cycles when Pilot wouldn’t have been able to meet him in the hanger, or here in the passageway, or anywhere. That was before they had discovered the Builders˛ home world and spent the better part of a cycle there. During that time the Builders perfected a two-armed, two-legged bio-mechanoid Pilot hybrid into which they were able to transfer Pilot’s consciousness. Pilot still had his all-important symbiotic relationship with Moya, still helped maintain her systems, communicated on her behalf, but no longer needed to be physically connected to her.
Just as Moya had served as Pilot’s means of leaving his home world and seeing the galaxy, now Pilot could return the favor for Moya – often venturing down onto planets, walking among civilizations, studying their cultures, experiencing them to their fullest, all of which he was able to share symbiotically with Moya.
“Moya needed me,”˛ Pilot explained. “’She is experiencing a little dyspepsia, I’m afraid her calorics are off. Because of…you know…word about Rygel.”
Crichton nodded.
Some of the others in the passageway were beginning to look his way and whisper. Pilot noticed and laid a pincer hand on Crichton’s shoulder.
“There’s no way to stop word from spreading that you were coming aboard.”
“I understand, don’t sweat it, Pilot,” then Crichton asked, “Is there anybody else, any of the others who…?”
“Chiana and her husbands are aboard.”
“Really, that’s great.”
Pilot leaned closer, lowering his voice.
“She wasn’t here two arns and she tried to seduce me.”
Crichton tried to suppress the laugh, but it broke in his throat despite his best efforts.
“I wouldn’t worry, Pilot. She’s got two husbands already – I doubt she’s looking for a third. It’s just you know, her way.”
“But, Commander – she’s so…so female. Certainly she knows better than that…”
Crichton nodded, literally having to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling too hard.
Poor Pilot looked so worried about this. But then he always looked worried – he had from the first day Crichton had met him.
“And what of Officer Sun? Is she with you? Or…?” Pilot froze in mid question as he saw the look on Crichton’s face.
“Crichton!” A delighted voice suddenly pierced through the din in the passageway. Crichton spun to see Chiana charging his way. She leapt, taking flight the last twenty feet. Crichton girded himself for impact – but, hell, the girl was as light as a feather, just as she always had been. She smothered his face in kisses, then slid down to her feet.
“Hot damn! Isn’t that the earth expression?” she stood back and looked him over. “Frell me, it’s good to see you! How long has it been?”
“A dozen cycles.”
“More like 15, I believe, Commander,” Pilot corrected.
“15 cycles, and look at you. You look…well…”
Crichton smiled.
“Not that you look bad or anything,” Chiana said quickly. “I mean with the white hair, you’re starting to look more and more like a Nebari every day.”
“I hear you’re here with your husbands,” Crichton said.
“Yes, I’ve got Hespie right here.”
She reached down to the locket around her neck. Crichton was a great admirer of Dr. Hespin; he was a highly intelligent researcher and scientist of considerable renown. And Chiana doted on him – well, to the degree that Chiana could dote. But theirs was a strong union based on great love.
It didn’t matter in the least that Dr. Hespin was microscopic.
A small image screen on the front of the locket flickered and Hespin’s elongated, insect-like face looked up from the work he was engaged in. Of his two mouths it was the lower that smiled first, followed a moment later by the other.
“John, how good to see you.” Hespin spoke from both mouths simultaneously, creating a wonderful mellifluous voice. ”I only wish it were under other circumstances.”
Chiana turned the locket so she could speak directly to the image screen.
“Don’t be maudlin, Hespie. You know Rygel chose his time to pass over. We’re going to Hyneria to honor his memory, not mourn him.”
“I know, Chiana dear, I keep forgetting that you have a familiarity with death that we others do not.”
Crichton, Chiana and Pilot all exchanged a look. A knowing look – like soldiers who have been through a war together and survived to tell about it.
“John, I’m hoping we’ll have a chance to talk later,” Hespin said, “I’m engaged in some research here that I think you’ll find especially interesting.”
“I’d like that…”
Chiana made eye contact with her husband, “Are you settling down inside there? How’s your stomach? Still feeling motion sickness?”
“Well, it’s not the same as being in my laboratory at home, my darling, but I’m doing fine, thanks.”
Pilot stepped forward so Hespin could see him. “When you’re ready to eat something, doctor, we have a delicious selection of nano nutrients…”
“I think I’ll give my stomach a little while longer. But thank you, Pilot.”
“Bheaton?” Chiana said with a squeal, “I’d almost forgotten. He’s just dying to meet you, John.”
“Bheaton?”
Pilot leaned closer and whispered into Crichton’s ear. “He’s husband number two.”
“He’s in the central chamber. He never has an eating problem,” Chiana grinned. ‘Well, he’s gotta keep his strength up.”
The innuendo was obvious, and Crichton’s eyes eventually flicked to the locket at Chiana’s neck.
“Don’t worry about Hespie. He knows I have needs. I mean, c’mon, after all he is microscopic!”
The tiniest look passed between Crichton and Pilot.
“Speaking of mates – where’s Aeryn?” Chiana asked. Crichton’s expression shifted. But before he could respond, Pilot stiffened, as if suddenly alert to something.
“Pilot, what is it?”
“It’s Moya. She…she has just detected a…a Skellac ship o’war bearing directly on us!”
Instinct kicked in instantly. Without a thought, the three of them took off running for the command.
“Attention, Leviathan! Do not attempt starburst. Stand fast and prepare to be boarded!”
The voice boomed throughout the ship. Crichton and Chiana watched the heavily armed Skellac ship o’war close on them, filling the command’s forward portal. Pilot stood at a navigation panel rapidly working the controls.
“Pilot, what’s their weapons status?” Crichton called over his shoulder. “Are they charged?”
“Moya isn’t detecting any charged weapons, Commander. But the ship’s sure as hezmana armed to the teeth!”
Crichton moved closer to the portal. The ship o’war just hung outside, looking every inch as dangerous as Crichton knew it was.
The booming voice returned. ‘We expect no resistance. We will board you. And once you have been boarded, you’d best have some Marjools and crispy grolack ready. A repast to honor our fallen comrade!”
Chiana stepped up beside Crichton. Their heads turned, their eyes met, and they both said simultaneously:
“D’Argo?”
Crichton took three big strides over to Pilot, reached out and triggered his comms.
“D’Argo, is that you?”
“That’s Superion D’Argo, if you don’t mind”˛ And then came a resonant laugh that was so very familiar to all of them.
A dozen Skellac prey warriors fanned out into the passageway, their Qualta blades at the ready. Once they were in position, D’Argo emerged.
Crichton stood waiting for him. He couldn’t help reacting to D’Argo’s appearance. His skin, which had always been such a rich brown tone, was now a deep rust color. His tentacles were past his waist in length, pinned in three places to keep them manageable. He wore a tight vest and a kilt-like wrapping around his loins. Most disconcerting was his left arm – which was now prosthetic, made of some clear material, the mechanisms within visible as they worked. It looked extremely strong.
Crichton’s surprise at any physical changes were instantly dispelled by the sheer joy of seeing his old friend once again.
“Well, well…Big D…” Crichton said, moving to hug the huge Luxan. The prey warriors instantly leapt forward, Qualta blades swinging upward threateningly.
D’Argo growled at them. “Stand away!” The warriors were fast to follow his orders, though they stepped back with obvious reluctance, and more than a little continued wariness toward Crichton.
D’Argo reached out and pulled Crichton to him. Crichton felt the greater strength in his new arm as he hugged him. Crichton hugged back, trying to give as good as he got – although it wasn’t really a fair contest.
A family of refugees moved down the hallway. The prey warriors eyed them suspiciously. But the family’s attention was riveted on the human and the Luxan. The eldest child, a boy of around 16, stared openly, then turned and whispered something to his mother.
“Yes, I believe that is them,” she replied to him, her voice carrying the same awe that was evident in each of the family members˛ eyes.
When the family had disappeared round the corner, Crichton and D’Argo looked at each other and laughed.
“D’you ever get used to that?” D’Argo asked.
“Never. You?”
D’Argo shook his head, “’The curse of fame.”
Crichton’s eyes flicked to the prey warriors. ‘What’s with the Skellac ship? And the goon squad?”
“Oh, just a little assassination problem I’m dealing with at the moment. Nobody’s better at protection than the Skellacs. Or more loyal, if the price is right!”
Crichton’s face betrayed his concern. D’Argo shrugged.
“No need to worry. It’s no big deal, really. Got a dozen or so regimes that would just love to see my head dripping from the end of a jinka pole. That’s all.” He said it with such abject casualness there was no mistaking this for false bravado. He’d obviously been through this many, many, many times over the years. It was just part of the life he had chosen for himself.
Crichton had actually been part of that life for several cycles. Freedom fighters was what many had called them. They cut a swath through the Uncharted Territories, taking up the cause of any who couldn’t fight for themselves. The more impossible the odds, the greater gusto with which they entered the fray. Which is why the refugee family reacted how they did. As a team, Crichton and D’Argo had grown to be rather legendary, the two of them.
Well, three of them, really. Crichton, D’Argo and Aeryn.
Despite his advancing cycles, D’Argo had continued the fight. He was now a superion, a commander, and the troops that fought under his leadership spread to star systems in every corner of this quadrant of the galaxy.
“Who else is coming?” D’Argo asked.
“I’m not really sure. But Chiana’s already here.”
“Chiana? Aboard now?” D’Argo said this with a small smile and more than a hint of lust.
“She’s with her two husbands, D’Argo.”
D’Argo looked at Crichton a moment, then held up two fingers with a questioning look. Crichton nodded. D’Argo considered this and then he laughed so loud that even the stoic Skellac warriors winced from the volume.
As the laugh wound down, a new thought struck D’Argo, and he asked, “And where’s Aeryn?”
Crichton took a deep breath. It was a long moment before he finally told his friend, “The morning after we heard of Rygel’s passing, I woke up and – she was gone.”
D’Argo frowned.
“No vid-message, no note. She’s been gone almost five solar days now…”
“Aeryn has always been impulsive, John.”
“Don’t I know it. I could tell Rygel’s passing affected her. They had grown very close – well, you know, ever since Rygel’s role in the birth of our fist son.”
“JT,” D’Argo spoke the boy’s name. He chuckled, remembering the events of the boy’s birth, and Rygel’s contribution as extremely reluctant, albeit surprisingly effective, midwife.
“I thought Aeryn might be gone one solar day, maybe two,” Crichton said, “but five…?”
Crichton was the only male with whom D’Argo was ever able to discuss the subject of women. Sober, drunk, hurt, angry, horny…he and Crichton must have considered the subject through a thousand serpentine discussions – and still they had only scratched the surface. If even that. Crichton’s struggle continued this very moment, because he chose all those cycles ago to partner with the most complex female D’Argo had ever known.
“Aeryn has always walked her own path, John. Especially when it came to emotional issues.” D’Argo rested his hand on Crichton’s shoulder. “She’ll be there waiting for you when you return home. I’m certain of it.”
Crichton nodded. D’Argo counseling him about Aeryn – just like old times. And just like old times, despite D’Argo’s assurances, Crichton was far from certain.
*****
The trip to Hyneria took Moya a full three solar days. In that time, Crichton spoke to a number of student groups aboard, helped with the refugees, and spent a great deal of time catching up with D’Argo and Chiana. He also met Chiana’s other husband, Bheaton, a huge-shouldered Yhegh male with a layer of fine golden hair covering his powerfully-muscled body. As was the custom with Yheghs, he wore no clothes, which was more than a little disconcerting with a male of Bheaton’s…size. He wasn’t exactly the brightest penny, Crichton quickly concluded after talking to him for only a short while, but he was a kind, thoughtful fellow, who loved Chiana as deeply as did Dr. Hespin. Leave it to Chiana to require two males to ultimately provide her complete satisfaction.
It was the middle of the night in the capital city of Rygelaan when Moya established orbit around the Hynerian ruling planet. Despite the hour, Rygel the XVII had a server contingent of over 100 waiting in a parade formation to welcome them.
After all the formalities, including the protracted greetings of court and ceremonial exchange of gifts (Pilot of course, remembered this custom – none of the others had – and brought the prefect offerings, elaborately wrapped and ready for presentation), they were finally ferried to their rooms at the palace.
Crichton’s accommodations were a mini palace in themselves – with enough space and bedrooms to house twenty with ease. Crichton knew Rygel the XVII was merely trying to graciously provide maximum luxury, but it wasn’t like Rygel to miscalculate the needs of a guest. Or his comfort level. Because having this all to himself had the opposite effect on Crichton – it made him feel decidedly uncomfortable. Crichton was glad to be here – for Rygel’s sake – but he longed to be home again in his simple valley abode. Plus he wouldn’t know until he arrived home if Aeryn was waiting for him.
He lifted a piece of liba fruit – perfectly ripe, of course – from a gilded bowl and bounced it in his hands as he considered his palatial surroundings. Quite a fantastic difference from his first visit to this planet, he thought. His first contact with Hyneria was also at night, but it involved a surreptitious glide landing – no engines, no lights into a temper swamp a good 50 metras from the capital city itself. He had come with Rygel – his Rygel – to assist in retaking the Hynerian throne from Rygel’s cousin, Bishan. The temper swamp was the most hospitable aspect of the first half of that venture. But they ultimately prevailed, Bishan was deposed, and Crichton and the others were able to leave with Rygel once again ruler of the vast Hynerian empire, a far wiser, kinder and more generous Dominar than when he had ruled the first time around.
So long ago, Crichton thought to himself, so long…
“Hello, John…”
Crichton recognized the voice immediately. Deep tone, measured cadence. Although it came from behind him, Crichton didn’t turn immediately. That was because he had heard that voice originating in his own mind for so many cycles. But it had been gone from his mind for nearly two centuries now. He turned.
Scorpius stood just inside the doorway, head cocked to one side, an almost imperceptible smile on his thin lips.
Crichton took a deep breath. ‘Well, well, you’re up late, Scorpi”’
“Always.”
Scorpius first came to Hyneria at the same time as Crichton and the others, back on that temper swamp trip. Once Rygel regained his throne, the diminutive Dominar asked the Sebacean-Scarren half breed to stay on as his Wor-Ghn Counselor. For some reason the image of Rasputin always popped into Crichton’s mind when he thought about this arrangement. And Scorpius standing before him now in a set of quite elaborate black robes with ceremonial sashes of red and yellow only supported this image.
Crichton long ago made his peace with Scorpius – born, he supposed from the fact that with the Scarrens no longer a threat, Scorpius had, here on Hyneria, finally found for himself a new place of purpose. And of acceptance.
Scorpius stayed that night until dawn. He and Crichton sat on the balcony, enjoying the temperate Hynerian night, breathing in the sweet scent of night blooming Teinan, and talking on many subjects. Scorpius explained in greater detail how Rygel came to choose this time to pass. His health was failing, he was beginning to make poor decisions on behalf of his people – a turn of events he simply would not allow to continue – so he transferred power to his chosen heir, a bright young female (the first-ever to be Hynerian Dominar) and proceeded to die in his chosen manner.
“And how was that?” Crichton asked.
“By over eating of course.”
It took Crichton a moment to absorb this, then he shook his head and smiled. “Rygel ate to death?”
“In all, he needed a full 20 solar days to complete the task,” Scorpius said, “but he relished every moment of it.”’
Crichton looked to the horizon, saw the first purple hues of the Hynerian sun beginning to show themselves. “I wish I’d had a chance to visit him, speak with him, before…”
“You’ll see him again, John. Speak with him as often as you wish. You know that…”
And Crichton looked over at Scorpius with that same knowing look that he shared with Chiana and Pilot back on Moya.
After Scorpius left, Crichton went to the nearest bedroom – probably not the largest, but Crichton didn’t care, in fact he preferred that it not be the largest – and lay down on the bed. Despite that he had not slept in nearly 20 arns, he found it impossible to drift off. And he knew the reason. After a couple of arns of tossing and turning, he gave up, and rose to bathe and dress in anticipation of the feast of tribute scheduled for mid-day.
When Crichton arrived at the royal dining hall, D’Argo, Chiana and Pilot were already seated at the serpentine table reserved for honored guests. Every delicacy imaginable – both Hynerian and off world – was represented, and more were being rushed to service from the multiple kitchens. Not long after Crichton found his place beside Pilot, Scorpius arrived, escorting her royal highness Dominar Rygel the XVII.
Crichton found the new Rygel every bit as bright and charming as Scorpius had described. Crichton asked after some of the others who he thought might be coming to honor Rygel. Stark, he knew, crossed over many cycles ago. And Jool, dear Jool, was too infirm to make the trip, but sent a very touching vid-message. Of the many others who had come and gone aboard Moya over the many cycles – Kalash, Immaan, Sikozu, Noranti, Lihhima, Natira – all had fallen out of contact with Moya long ago. Crichton didn’t really expect them to be here, but he inquired after them all the same.
The memorial service wasn’t to begin until the end of the day, so after luncheon Crichton went for a walk through the streets of the city. Effigies of Rygel were everywhere – statues, banners, Rygel-shaped balloons carried by the Hynerian young. Crichton stopped at the Rygel the XVI hall of history – an enormous edifice that, until recently, had obviously been some other sort of museum and arts plaza. Crichton strolled from room to room, wing to wing, viewing what seemed like every microt of Rygel’s life celebrated, if not in vid-image recreation, then in the reading of epic poems, or live stage presentations. Even puppetry was represented. When Crichton walked in on Rygel – the prison years – a stage production where Rygel was portrayed by a heavily muscled young Hynerian who play the exiled Dominar as a latter-day Spartacus, selflessly leading his fellow prisoners to freedom – Crichton had seen enough.
As he stepped back onto the street, he shielded his eyes and looked skyward. Ships of all shapes and sizes crisscrossed the violet sky, some on their way off planet, others just arriving. He knew it would be ridiculous to think that among the arriving ships he could pick out one in particular. Or that the ship he was looking for was even within several million metres of here.
Crichton drew his gaze from the sky and started across the busy boulevard, heading back to the palace. Suddenly a voice called, “Mr. Crichton! John Crichton!”
Crichton saw the young man hurrying his way through the throng on the pedestrian way. He was an off worlder, close to Crichton’s size, though weighing probably 400 pounds. One look and Crichton instantly knew what the young man wanted – the anxious look in his eye and the vid-corder hanging around his neck gave him away.
“Sorry, I don’t speak to journa-voyants…” Crichton said as he continued down the street. The young man hurried after him, using his girth to cut a swath and keep pace with Crichton.
“Please, Mr. Crichton…uh, Commander Crichton. I’m not just any journa-voyant, I’m Dasker Oskagh, maybe you’ve heard of me.”
“Sorry.” Crichton tried to cut across the boulevard, but the traffic was too thick at the moment.
“My powers extend to 60 star systems, Commander. My thought stories reach a subscriber base of over a hundred million.”
Crichton knew what was coming next.
“You’ve had so many incredible adventures, have so many great stories to tell. But there’s one you’ve never spoken of…” The young man drew in an excited breath. “You’ve taken the journey, haven’t you, Commander? That’s what the legend says. That you made the passage and returned to tell about it. Only – you won’t tell.”
Crichton stared forward. He’d been queried about this a thousand times – probably more – by everyone from multi-system monarchs to rummy-eyed bar gargs who could barely get the question out. They’d all heard the story, the legend, and they all wanted to know if it was true. Wanted to know the one unknown among all sentient beings.
“Commander Crichton, of all the exploits you and your fellow voyagers on Moya are rightfully famous for, this is renowned as your greatest adventure. They say that what you saw there is the reason Dominar Rygel wasn’t afraid to die.”
The journa-voyant leaned closer, his breath smelling of haba cabbage and yestan ale.
“The legend is that at one point you and the others crossed the horizon into death itself. And returned. Others claim to do so spiritually, but you traveled there physically. Death isn’t a state, is it commander? It’s a place.”
Over time Crichton had developed a hundred retorts to the question. Some witty, some thoughtful, some dismissive– well, all of them dismissive, ultimately. Because the one thing he and the others all agreed after the event in question; they would never tell.
What happened during that journey was indeed, their greatest adventure. And what they discovered wasn’t meant to be known until each individual took his or her own very personal voyage upon cessation of physical life.
“Why won’t you share it commander? Why?”
Crichton knew why, but to answer would open a flood gate that was meant to remain closed.
“I’m sorry young man. My advice to your subscribers – and to you; live your life – here, now. To its fullest. The rest of it you’ll discover soon enough…”
“But…”
Crichton wasn’t going to say any more. Actually, he’d already said more than he usually did. He saw an opening and stepped into the boulevard. The young journa-voyant looked at the fast moving traffic and didn’t dare follow, not with his girth. That’s what Crichton was counting on.
More than half a million Hynerians packed the seemingly dimensionless grand Rygelaan Cathedral. Five times that number crowded in the streets surrounding the spired structure.
Crichton was escorted to his place of honor in the front-most pew. D’Argo and Pilot were to one side of him, Chiana and her husbands to the other.
On the altar rested a jewel-encrusted sarcophagus, the likes of which Crichton had never seen.
“Don’t cry for me Hyneria…” Crichton sung softly to himself as he looked around at the spectacle of it all.
The 200 piece Royal Hynerian Orchestra began to play softly. The din of the half million filling the cathedral started to subside. The ceremonies were commencing. Crichton glanced over, noting that the seating between Chiana and himself was still vacant. Interesting considering that the place was jammed to capacity. A quick look behind him revealed almost an entire pew roped off and unoccupied.
Crichton turned back in his seat, eyes settling onto the altar. Her highness Rygel the XVII had now assumed her place on her throne. Her royal court, including Wor-Ghn counselor Scorpius, were all in attendance, fanning out on either side of her.
It was then that Crichton noticed – Rygel the XVII was staring directly at him. And even more odd – there was a trace of a smile on her lips. Crichton frowned in curiosity. Why was she staring at him and what was she smiling about?
A moment then, her gaze moved from him to the rear of the cathedral. Crichton shifted in his seat and looked for himself.
The light through the multi-story cathedral shone brightly, so at first it was difficult to see exactly what had captured her highness’s attention. Then he saw a cluster of later arrivals being escorted down the center aisle. It looked like perhaps 10 or 12 of them in all mostly adults, but some children, as well. Crichton couldn’t make out the faces, they were no more than silhouettes against the brightness of the doorway behind them.
But there was one silhouette – a female form at the head of the group – that Crichton recognized immediately.
The group was shown to the pew where Crichton sat.
“Is this seat taken?”
Crichton rose quickly, almost toppling in his shock.
And the radiant Aeryn Sun leaned forward and kissed him softly.
“I thought you…you…” Crichton stammered.
“I didn’t believe it should be just you and me here,” Aeryn whispered, raising her hand to motion to the others being ushered into the vacant pew behind him.
His and Aeryn’s first son, JT looked over at Crichton and smiled. JT’s beautiful wife and their three children – Crichton’s first grandchildren were beside him. Crichton and Aeryn’s other two children – middle son Aeric, and youngest daughter Kella – eased into the pew with their families, as well.
D’Argo, Chiana and Pilot were all grinning broadly. Aeryn quickly leaned over and kissed and hugged them all. Crichton glanced at the altar, where Rygel the XVII was watching them smiling warmly. She’d obviously known all along what Aeryn was planning.
Crichton turned back to Aeryn. “Why the big secret?” he asked.
Aeryn didn’t answer. Instead her gaze fell to one last family member gliding into her place at the end of the pew. A striking woman in flowing finery.
Crichton had only met her once before, many cycles ago, but the recognition came instantly to him. “Katrana..” he said in hushed tones. She was his daughter, his first child, although she was chronologically younger than his son JT. She was his daughter by princess Katralla, sired all those cycles ago in the breakaway colonies.
Aeryn saw the tears at the corners of Crichton’s eyes. “It was such a long journey to collect everyone, I knew you would protest and offer a million reasons not to do it. So no discussion, I just did it.”
Their cheeks brushed as she put her lips close to his ear. “I thought,” she added softly, “that all our children should be with us. For Rygel…”
Crichton looked into Aeryn’s eyes. The cathedral lights were dimmed now. The orchestra’s overture had risen to a fanfare. Aeryn gripped Crichton’s hand and together they took their seats.
The ceremony lasted four and a half arns – shorter, really than any of them expected – but in the end, it was a grand and fitting celebration. And throughout it all, the hands of John Crichton and Aeryn Sun never parted…
That evening, Crichton and his extended family returned to his rooms. Now Rygel the XVII’s choice of such large quarters for him made perfect sense. The expansive suite accommodated all the Crichton’s magnificently. It was a warm wonderful family reunion. Not only having Crichton’s entire family together with him, but his other family as well – D’Argo, Chiana, Pilot and Scorpius.
And that night Crichton retired to the same bed he occupied the night before. But this time he slept soundly. Because this night he had Aeryn at his side once again.
*****
The journey home aboard Moya was a welcome respite after the emotional rollercoaster of Rygel’s services and the whirl wind reunion with kids and grandkids.
When the last farewell was said the last hug given, Crichton rode the transport pod back into his valley. It would take Aeryn no more than a few solar days to return the children to their respective lives. Then she would be back here – back home – as well.
In his kitchen, Crichton reached into the preservation chamber and pulled out a cold bottle of fellip nectar. He took it out onto the porch where two chairs rested side by side. Crichton eased into the chair that was his, cracked open the fellip, and took a sip.
Across the valley, the two suns were setting, three quarters of the larger sun already dipped behind the horizon, the smaller not far behind. In a very short while the day would be over.
Crichton looked out across the valley. He thought about Rygel. Then other faces drifted across his consciousness. Dear departed Zhaan… and Crais… and Stark… his own father and mother, his grandparents, and everyone he’d known on Earth who were surely long since departed of this existence.
He knew only the barest tip of what was to come – he had been there, after all – but of one thing he was certain – he would be seeing them all again, and there were countless adventures still to come.
The larger sun was completely gone now, its smaller brother just brushing the horizon. The valley before him was taking on an unearthly crimson hue.
Unearthly. There was a word he hadn’t thought of in a very, very long time.
Before long the smaller sun had disappeared, too. As it’s light faded, the moons of this planet became visible, three of them, standing out in the milky relief against the rich black canopy of space and the splash of millions of stars.
As he stared out at the vista, something his father had told him long ago came to mind. ‘Be your own kind of hero John’
Hero? Crichton would always be uneasy applying that term to himself. But he had helped a lot of beings in his long life out here. In a way, large or small, he’d made a difference. He hoped it was a life that made his father proud.
Crichton took another sip of fellip. His mind, at last wandered back to those early times aboard Moya, when all he wanted with the greatest desperation was to get back to Earth. To get home.
Sitting here tonight, on this porch, looking out at the stars, waiting for Aeryn to return – he knew that he had accomplished that very thing.
John Crichton was home.