Pretty in Punk 1/6 by Thea and feldman
Jun. 21st, 2005 02:20 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
feldmanSPOILERS: Peacekeeper Wars
SUMMARY: Tactical family planning; set 13 years after PKW. Prequel to "The Break-out Club".
NOTES: beta by the caped crusader, Crankygrrl
EMAIL: thassalia@yahoo.com; mochaphine @ gmail.com
DISCLAIMER HAIKU:
Though we love them so
and they are fun to to play with
we do not own them
Pretty in Punk
by Thea and feldman
"Once upon a time..."
"Dude," D'Argo humphs, annoyed. "Just tell me the frelling story, dad."
John makes a noise halfway between a snort and a stifled bark of laughter. "Okay, okay."
He clears his throat and looks at his son, dark hair falling over his eyes as he bends over a set of complex vector problems, ticking off flight ratios and gravity aspects as he reaches for an equation at the end of the limit. Calc at thirteen because he'd breezed through geometry and trig and he needed 3D math more than good old Pythagoras.
Pride hits him with a low blow, hard and tight like a heart attack and he wishes Aeryn were here to share this moment, to see their kid with his mind racing like a hamster wheel, impatient with his dad, impatient with the utter slowness of the adults in his orbit. It was such a good thing. "So we had you, and the universe signed a deal to not destroy itself because of a few bad play dates, and then we were kind of jobless. Which was good."
D'Argo isn't really paying attention, used to his dad's chatter as white noise, and John knows he can thread some truth in among the softened edges of his story.
"Once upon a time..." He says, low and lulling, halfway under his breath. "There was a man and a woman and they had a child and they didn't destroy the universe." His voice picks up tone and speed. "And once they had the whole baby thing figured out, minimizing the risk, learning out how to shop and keep track of the kid, how to live in a giant living ship that could grow baby guards but still had weird crap on the floors that the little boy liked to put in his mouth, much to the disgust of his mom--but what does she know, she still thinks food cubes are actual food--the man and the woman decided they needed jobs."
"Dude, that makes no sense."
"Stop interrupting. Anyway, we did need jobs. Your mom was going stir crazy, and piracy wasn't very profitable and neither was hauling cargo, and our house wanted to go explore the not so safe regions of distant space and we'd ended up on a planet with a seriously fucked up caste system."
"Ha! My point. You owe me a krindar."
"Nope, the swear word equals money policy went out the window last time Chi taught you something obscene in Luxan and you used it at a state dinner."
"Dren. But it was the Xylians, right?"
"A whole race of the dispossessed," he says, soft now. "People who'd had a government, had some equity and some order, a structure of their own and had been enslaved and then abandoned by one of the Peacekeeper's less than ethical allies. And we were in the weird position of being able to help. They were just a small band of fighters really, and they just wanted a few tactics in exchange for giving us some sanctuary. Your mom voted yes, and I voted okay if we have to."
"Mom taught 'em to shoot and blow things up."
"No, not so much." John rubs his lip, remembering, still thinking of the time with a soft distant haze of fear and awe. "She taught them how to be quiet, how to look, lurk and listen, and to strike only when necessary. To walk softly and carry a big pulse cannon. To only fight for what they believed in if the outcome had a chance of being better than the current situation. It could have a been a disaster, but it turned out okay."
"Why didn't you want to help?"
"I didn't want any of us to get hurt, didn't want them to die or us to get arrested, didn't want to take the risk of helping people whose story we didn't know."
"So why did you?"
D' has abandoned the vectors for the moment to look at John with serious grey eyes. After a few microts have passed he says, "Families," sussing out the answer on his own.
John nods. "Families. Like us, just with bigger mouths and weird eyes. But people who deserved a chance at rebuilding and self determination. And if my wife wanted to be the one to help them with the determining, I wasn't gonna say no."
"It's kind of cool." D'Argo twirls his stylus, turning back to his math.
Yeah, John thinks. It is.
***
Even on its best day Keratos was dry and dusty, a grey haze filtering over the small community of planets, choking the life out of anything not kiris grain or protected in sealed hydroponic reserves, and she's mostly forgotten the feel of grass, even the simulated kind here on the recreation deck of a refurbished command carrier.
She's spent six weekens making nascent combat fighters out of undisciplined civilians and amateur militia, time spent frustrated and challenged, her and a few staff a heart of order amidst the chaos of a developing organization. She's been fighting off a searing headache for the last ten days, no doubt the result of spending most of her time away in space, eating bad food even by her standards, sleeping in metal bunks, and repeating herself to resistant weeken-warriors.
She knew she'd grown soft living on Moya, but finds that she minds that less than she should. She has missed her bed, missed her husband and her son, and it's been a long six weekens since she's seen either of them.
She lingers a few more microts under the ultraviolet sim, enjoying the momentary peace and quiet of the deck, soaking up the light and greenery freshened air. Voices carry in the light fan breeze, a child's shout, grownup laughter, and she is unable to wait any longer.
Aeryn comes up over the ridge of grass, making her way to the building that houses the training pool, butted up to the massive bulkhead at the very edge of the lawn. She palms the glass, waiting for it to read her code and slide open with a soft snick, allowing her to slip into the open observation area above the pool. She stands there for a few microts, braced against the railing, to watch the controlled pandemonium inside.
John wears swim trunks and a grey t-shirt, a whistle around his neck and a wide grin. His bare feet pace back and forth along the side of the pool as he yells good-natured insults and honest encouragement to the swimmers. Her belly thrills at the sight of him, her body recognizing his even at the distance, tendrils of lust and tenderness snaking up as if she could already smell him and feel him.
He needs a haircut. Aeryn's hand tightens on the rail. She'd like to slide her mouth against the nape of his neck, to suckle at the salt-sweet of his skin, to feel his heat and weight against hers, his voice in her ear and thrumming through her body. Frell, she's missed him. Her stomach growls, rolls a little, and she wills it still. This is something else that can be dealt with later.
She scans the pool, eyes sharp on the young quick bodies until she finds the one she's looking for - dark hair and pale, freckled skin, gangly frame cutting cleanly through the water. Her heart beats hard, thudding in her chest, full with her pride, with the presence of her love. Difficult to believe, even here and even now, that these two are hers.
The knowledge that she would do anything to keep them safe is a tenet of her daily existence, a solid presence of thought that she shelters. She couldn't even begin to think of questioning that certainty. But her surety may be tested by the instability of the current peace, showing signs of wear in too many places around the galaxy. Keratos was relatively steady when she left, but they're the newest program, started despite the longest local history of violence yet, and her experience tells her that without commitment on both sides, the program will fail. Things may be more fragile on Keratos, but the problem is endemic.
Sometimes it's easier to fight than to work out the continuing problem of living in peace.
Aeryn tries to push those thoughts aside, thinks about going to wait for her family outside on the grass when John spots her. His eyes go wide and he whistles loud, fingers in his mouth.
"Hey sailor," he calls out. "Lookin' for a hot time?"
She shakes her head, slides her lip into her mouth and runs her teeth along the soft flesh. He puts his hand over his heart and smiles, just for her.
***
D'Argo's hair is still damp, curling raggedly at the ends. He hugs her, reluctant, looking around to make sure that none of the other swimmers can see him but he doesn't back away when she keeps him close, pressing him firmly to her body. He smells like bromine and water and boy. His clothes are a little stale, a little musky. Likely, John's let the laundry slide since she left. She wasn't due back for another two days.
D'Argo pushes out of her grasp and shrugs his satchel more firmly up his shoulder, "Hey Mom."
"Hey, mom." John echoes, coming up behind his son and shaking him gently.
"We're gonna start a team," D'Argo says, then looks longingly at the mixed species group of boys and girls on the hill, all of them gawking at something held in the palm of a small Kai.
"Go," she says. "Three hundred microts though. I'm starving."
John stands over her, looming a little, then brushes his knuckles over her cheek, fingers slipping over her temple, behind her ear and down her neck. She shivers a little, leaning in to the touch.
"Weren't a pack of kids over there, I'd drag you down, ravage you right here." His voice is throaty and she knows he's not exactly joking. "Missed you baby." He slides his hand down to find hers, fingers tangling. "Glad you're home early."
She squeezes his hand. "I've missed you too."
"You look tired."
She shrugs, nods. "Four squads of young recruits, half of whom were un-trainable, the other half barely competent, lead by militia leaders more intent on rebellion than learning. The ones who made it..." She lifts her shoulders.
"Not a lot of faith in the local leadership?"
"It's likely an unworkable situation, John, made worse by the attitudes of the local Peacekeeper garrison. They're supportive to the letter of their orders, threatened and belligerent. They withhold assistance to the militia program and the local government, then are forced to retrench and overcompensate, which ends up just as bad."
"Bureaucratic guerilla tactics." High Command can see the benefit in letting the colonies raise their own militias, another source of warm bodies with guns should the uneasy alliance with the Scarrans crumble, and many colony governments are eager for more autonomy. Most of High Command's perestroika moves have been motivated by the cold war with the Scarrans; nothing like hot lizard breath down your neck to change your point of view on little things like genetic contamination and who should be armed. The guys and gals on the ground have sometimes been harder to convince; the only threat they perceive is to their beloved status quo. "Same as on Menir and Avenicia."
"Posturing and territorial dren." Her fingers ache but she's not willing to let him go, knows that her voice is carrying with too much earnest investment, too much fear for the future, all of it shaded by this new thing she suspects. "Things were stable when I left Keratos, but I doubt it will last."
He nods, face grave, the lines around the corners of his eyes deep. She reaches forward to smooth the delicate skin and he turns his face, kisses her palm.
"Yeah, well, I haven't seen my wife in a hell of a long time. Let's work on saving the universe tomorrow."
***
"Just your luck, to come back on biscuits and gravy night."
Aeryn slides another forkful of sauced hisona-bread into her mouth, soft and familiar, the first thing she's found in over a weeken that doesn't make her stomach roll in protest. They eat at the visiting squadron tables, her son snickering at the other end of the section with the friends he's made on the Carrier.
John's apparently finished eating, abandoning the last square of hisona on his plate in order to watch her. She reaches, snurches, and polishes off his meal as well.
He jokes, "I haven't seen you eat like that since we tucked D'Argo back inside. Food that bad on Keratos?"
She sighs against her full stomach. She'd much rather tell him after she's gotten all the facts but she knows better. She shares her uncertainly reluctantly, but she does share it. "I think I might have fallen pregnant."
For a moment it simply lays on the table between them. D'Argo's laugh carries over the murmur of the other soldiers in the mess, quickly hushed to a furtive snicker that probably only his parents can still pick out. There was a brother years ago, and Aeryn knows that John is thinking of this ghost child, the infant Aeryn couldn't give life to, the one who instead nearly dragged her into death along with him. Geometric pregnancy was more dangerous than they'd realized, when the father isn't carrier born.
D'Argo had been six, and nearly orphaned. They had decided against the risk and taken precautions accordingly.
John clears his throat. "I thought the implant was supposed to keep that from happening?"
"I don't know for sure." She shrugs, eyeing the plate before her and trying not to pick it up to lick off the sauce. "But if so, then it failed."
"Medbay?"
"That was my plan."
"I'll let D' know we're running errands, then."
Aeryn nods, swiping her finger through the puddle of sauce as John talks to their son.
***
"Your dad has a singularity of focus that is very rare."
"You mean stubborn, right?" They sprawl out on the big sleeping platform, neither of them interested in working at the tiny console desk.
"I was trying to be nice, but yes, that's part of what I meant. It's not just stubbornness, though. He's focused. You've worked the sensors on our shuttle pod, the way you can lever down the field to a tight beam and only display that small section of space? Your dad is like that, he can narrow down to the most important things and keep priority on them no matter what else is happening around him."
D'Argo tucks a socked foot under hers, datapad clicking in automatic shutoff. "Like what?"
"Oh, the usual distractions." She sets her own work aside, shoving a pillow under her as she props her head on her hand. "Political crises, shipboard emergencies. Pulse blasts."
"Like when I was born."
"Exactly. Nothing else mattered but you and me at that point. Then all that mattered was getting back to Moya."
Her son nods. It's his story after all, he could probably tell it himself, at least the birth and the firefight. The bigger picture is still vague, the fact that his father nearly wiped out the universe and that his mother had put the weapon in his hand, that his home ship provided the seed energy for the ultimate ultimatum--that he almost lived his whole lifetime in less than a day, these are details they haven't given him yet. He smiles at her.
"It's the bigger picture that he sometimes has a problem with. You can focus on a small thing, but you can never take it out of the greater context. You have to account for the universe, fit yourself into it. Sometimes you have to act for the greater good."
"Dad doesn't like to get involved."
"He comes around to it eventually. There's no one I'd rather have on my side."
***
"How?"
She loves him, she honestly does, and she hasn't seen him in a very long time and she reminds herself of these facts as she clenches and unclenches her fists. He told her once that there were no stupid questions. She didn't agree with him then, and he proves her point now.
The medtech shrugs. "It happens. Not often, but... We can only guarantee its effectiveness when both parties are Sebacean." She tries not to roll her eyes at the universal eema covering of the medical establishment. The tech continues. "When was the last time you had it checked?"
John looks at her for an answer and she shrugs.
"A cycle ago, most likely. I don't remember offhand." A cycle sounds right though, the last time she'd had any sort of check-up at a facility equipped for the needs of shipborn Peacekeepers.
"It happens, that's all you're giving us?"
John's clearly still fixated on the ridiculous, his shoulders a hard, rigid line. Her headache beats behind her eyes like the aftershocks of a pulse blast.
The med tech ignores him, looks at Aeryn. "The implant has slowed down the growth of the fetus. You'll need to have it removed in order for the growth to continue, but you need to make a decision soon. Otherwise, it won't be viable."
She nods, pain searing behind her eyes. This was not the homecoming she'd anticipated.
The tech looks over his data pad. "The tests say the fetus is female, currently healthy. But it will grow geometrically once the implant is removed and it looks like you've had some...difficulties with that sort of pregnancy in the past. That is something to consider."
"Thank you," she says absently, and gets off the table, reaching past John for her coat.
He doesn't say anything until they're outside the facility.
"Feels like we've been here before." His voice is soft, but not quite kind.
She nods, walking beside him, their strides matching. She doesn't want to think about this now. She wants a shower, sleep, more food, time with her son, time naked and sweating with her husband. She doesn't want a fight. She's not certain of whether or not she wants another child. But when had the universe been terribly cognizant of her wants?
That aside, what she needs right now is something more than John's fears. "Where are your quarters?"
"Aeryn, we need to talk about this."
She stops in the middle of the hallway, turns to face him. "Yes. But..." she rubs at the bridge of her nose, breathes out heavily, "later."
His eyes darken with stubborn resolve, worse than a dhoiesin with a rodent. He's unable to let things go, a lasting after-effect of their early years together, their shared history as much curse as blessing at times.
He bites his lip, eyes sweeping up and down her body, and relents. "Later, then."
They walk a circuitous route up through the tiers until they reach a level of converted officer's quarters. John palms the door, and she steps in. The red and black has been replaced by cooler tones, blues and pale yellows, wax candles tucked into nooks. It's ridiculously clean for any place that John has occupied for six weekens, and a half smile tugs at her mouth. He's cleaned it for her arrival. A lone sock peeks out from under the bed, but the covers are pulled up, tucked around the bed neatly and the room smells like clean sheets and citrus.
She knows better than to look in any of the drawers, but it's the thought that counts.
She turns towards him and he reaches for the zipper on her tight uniform coat, slides it down and carefully slips the coat off her shoulders, laying it over the small table.
She takes her hair down, some of the tension leaching out of her neck, the headache receding slightly. She leans over to undo her boots while he watches, takes off her socks and stands, meeting his gaze.
They stand barefoot and consider each other, this new thing still between them the same as at dinner, only now it's tangible, a barrier. She'd said later, but now that the pregnancy is a fact she's having a hard time shoving it aside for later. She strides toward him and gives him a hard push onto the bed, falling with him, limbs hooking and tangling.
She breathes in the scent of him, the scent of home underneath the bromine from the pool. He buries his face in her hair and pulls her close.
She'd planned on frelling his brains out when she got home. It turns out differently, feels more like a goodbye than a return. Afterward they shower and dress, aware that the boy could show up at any microt. He sits back against the black headboard and tucks her between his legs, arms wrapped around her, cheek resting against hers.
It's later, but she doesn't know how to begin, so she tells him, "Talk to me."
He breathes deep but doesn't speak for a moment. "I figure we've already had this discussion. We decided not to take the risk."
"And now?"
"No different."
She pulls herself from his embrace to face him fully. "Of course this is different."
"The risk is the same, Aeryn. You dying."
"You'd terminate."
"I'd love to have another kid, you know that." He scrubs his face with one hand. "But we've already learned to live without that possibility because it's too damned dangerous."
"You act as if we know how it will turn out. I had no trouble with D'Argo."
"And the second baby almost killed you. That's a pretty big odds spread."
"We're on a Command Carrier with a full complement of med personnel."
"And we were leaving as soon as you came back."
"Plans can change."
"We're not talking about what to have for dinner here, Aeryn, we're talking about life and d--"
They turn as the door slides open.
D'Argo stops just inside, eyeing them warily. If he had antennae they'd be vibrating.
"I've got a boatload of grading to catch up on," John stands and gets his shoes, aiming the last bit pointedly at Aeryn, "why don't you spend some quality time with your son? He's missed his mom."
***
Her son has so much of John in him. She has to take a step back when they go round the bend and he pauses, gives her a look both thrilled and dubious, vibrating with curiosity, but holding himself in check like he's waiting to gauge her reaction.
Is she really ready to navigate the personality of another child, another example of her genes mingling with John's? Yes, she thinks. She wants an antidote to the strife out there, wants another example of the things she and John do well to shine forth.
She knows better than to put an arm around her son, to show the easy affection that he used to accept as a boy, but it doesn't still the itch in her fingers to stroke his hair, examine him for unseen hurts, to ask if he's changed his socks since she left.
But he also has John's easy generosity and the knowledge that his mother is slightly cooler than other kid's mothers. Or at least so she's been told. She's fairly certain he's introduced the "cool" into his peer group; the fact that it's an incredibly vulgar word in Hynerian helped to spread its popularity.
"Kai-sen's dad came in on a new ship," he says, settling back into his young body, his expression finally matching his age. "Wanna see it?"
"Yes," she says. "I'd love to."
He practically quivers in joy as he explains the ins and outs of the Kirilian flier, how fast, how far, how much G-force, the microts between punching the accelerator and feeling it jump, faster than hetch but not quite a speed that bends time.
When he was ten she had to tell him that he couldn't fly combat; she'd known for cycles that he didn't have the reflex speed, and the sooner he accepted it the better. It didn't matter so much then, except to him. Aside from a few minor skirmishes at the borders of the Uncharted Territories, peace was holding. Now, it might matter, to more than a solemn eyed little boy who'd watched his dreams deteriorate. That had been the last major fight she'd had with John. She had a feeling that it would seem minor in comparison to what they were gearing up for.
"Kai-sen said his dad might give us a ride. That'd be so cool. I told him you could still kick his dad's ass in your Prowler though."
He's bouncing on his toes, mouth wide and a little devious. She'd lay odds he had a bet riding on it, an exchange of something infinitely precious, maybe even that game box he'd been ogling earlier in Kai-sen's hands.
"That ship's very fast," she says, eyeing its clean lines.
"Yeah," says her son, smile wolfish and sweet. "But it's you flying the Prowler."
She's done business with the Kai cooperative a few times before, and found Kai-tyil (Kai-sen's father, for lack of a better Sebacean term for the being from which Kai-sen had budded) more arrogant than his skill warranted. She runs a hand along the Kirilian flier's hull. "Is Kai-tyil aware of this wager?"
D'Argo gleefully fidgets. Aeryn takes that as a yes.
"And the ratings in your current training modules?"
He rattles off acceptable ratings for his level, though he could be doing better in the history and culture modules if he weren't so enthralled with maths. Didn't get the reflexes, but he's not short on brains.
"Hmmm." She knows that the Carrier has docked into a still position for the next few days. If they're still operating on standard procedure--and small things like that seem to be the most entrenched even after the recent changes in Peacekeeper discipline--slalom beacons will have been set up for the practice of flight squads. She hums again.
"Well?"
"What do I get out of it if we win?"
He tosses back to her one of her well-worn phrases, unable to control the smirk. "Pride in a job well done?"
She musses his hair roughly, using it as an excuse to touch him in public. "I'll see what I can arrange with the deck officer."
The smirk blooms into a grin, and she responds with not only a smile but a gift.
"I think this one time, considering your stake in the venture, you can ride in the jump seat."
His whoop bounces off the distant bulkheads, putting everyone in the cavernous bay on alert.
She corrals him, pulling him close and stilling him. "Remember where we are."
Chagrined, he forgets to squirm out of her embrace, and they walk out of the docking bay with her arm draped over his shoulders.
His hair is darkening, and she thinks he might have grown a few denches since she left. Only six weekens, but she can see the changes. How long before game consoles are replaced by more physical kinds of recreation and more tangible challenges; how long before he's no longer a boy, but a young man making his own way in the universe?
He's the only one of his kind.
Aeryn remembers her visits to Earth, seeing John's family through the perspective of time, parents and children. Siblings. She might have genetic siblings in the Peacekeepers, perhaps even on this carrier, other soldiers sired by Talyn before he decided to make an illicit child with Xhalax, but she has no brothers, no sisters. What she knows of it comes mainly from Chiana and from John.
She could give D'Argo a sibling. A sister. She's already been made, she just needs to be kept. Or discarded. John thinks that it's a choice between who dies, her or the child, perhaps both.
Aeryn isn't convinced it's that dire of a risk, isn't convinced she shouldn't take the chance. D'Argo was a chance she took from the moment she found out about him, aboard a Command Carrier just like this, one that wouldn't exist a mere handful of days later.
If she ever takes that risk again, her chance is right now.
But, for the moment, she's willing to focus on slimmer chances.
It takes less than an arn to inform the techs responsible for monitoring the slalom lines and to issue a slightly more formal challenge to Kai-tyil. She and her son are strapped into the Prowler before she can change her mind, launching out of the hanger bay to round the first set of marks.
He bounces in the jump seat behind her, bony keens jamming into the back of the pilot seat. "C'mon, c'mon. He's gonna beat us."
She smiles. "D'Argo, it's hardly a risk. Don't worry so much."
It's been cycles since she's participated in this sort of venture, betting her skill against another pilot's and she knows in her bones that it's barely a challenge. The Kai's ship is beautiful, fast and capable, but it's a travesty to put that sort of power in the hands of someone who can't fly his way out of his own eema.
"Better to bide our time, make him think he can win," she counsels as she gently taps the thrusters. "It's all part of the game."
He taps on the seat, drumming out a rhythm of nervous exhilaration, and when Kai-tyil gets just far enough ahead to convince him of his victory, she hits her thrusters, flies full out, uses her acceleration and his lack of knowledge to tear around the 3rd quarter slalom.
Nervous, her competitor falters around the bend and she grins, laughs and slides effortlessly under his ship, coming up from underneath to leave him in her wake.
Power and speed, G-forces pressing on them hard enough for her son to whoop breathlessly as they race past the finish line with enough momentum to push the monitoring marauder back until it's denches away from the Carrier. She gives her own brief yell of victory and amusement, body singing with the thrill of pure flight.
***
"Dude, Mom, that was so frelling cool!" He drops onto the deck, still flying on the rush of the win, still coasting high on speed and thrust and his mom kicking Kai-sen's dad's *ass* in the race, still dizzy from the acceleration and inertia, his body far less familiar with the principles his mind can calculate with ease.
She corrals him with a firm grip on his collar, neatly keeping him from stumbling across the deck and he grins at her, feels like his smile is a beam lighting across his face and shining back from hers. For a moment he basks in that answering grin, her approval thrumming through him.
He can't contain himself, gives a little hop to loosen her grip, wants to run across the docking bay. He settles for hooting a battle cry, victory echoing in the bay like it does in the pool arena. He spots Kai-sen over in the corner crowd, near his dad and a small group of allied guests. He knows most of them by sight, parents of other telacademy kids mostly, but not all. The elder Kai looks disgruntled, a little angry, but not terribly surprised.
"Got beat bad," the large Scorvian says, tentacles lying thick and fat against his head as he razzes the Kai.
"Frell you," he growls back, a good-natured smirk tempering the venom.
D'Argo slides into Kai-sen, punching him lightly on a ventral arm, unable to resist adding, "Told you. She's the best pilot around."
Kai-tyil grunts, and raises his odd ridged eyes at Aeryn's approach.
"It's a beautiful ship," she says again, slipping her strong fingers back into D'Argo's collar and jerking him to a standstill.
It's probably a good thing, since Kai-sen looks hot and flushed, humid in a way that suggests anger, maybe embarrassment. Good, D'Argo thinks, see how you like it. Kai-sen slides a hand over the place where D'Argo tapped his arm and a flash of shame settles him into his mother's grip for a few microts. He gives Kai-sen a tentative grin. We still friends?
Kai-sen rolls his eyes in his father's direction. Yeah, still friends.
Meanwhile, the father is still speechless, moving his mouth around in a way that says more about his petulance than any sort of gracious losing. Finally he says, “Should never have bet with a Peacekeeper."
"I'm not a Peacekeeper anymore," Aeryn says, voice steely smooth, level, almost amused.
Across the hangar, D'Argo spots two of the PK guards who were monitoring the slaloms. One of them had given them all the go ahead to race.
"No," Kai-tyil says slowly, and with great deliberation. "You aren't a Peacekeeper now." His eyes shift to the gun on Aeryn's thigh. D'Argo traces the glance, looks up at his mom who doesn't show much of anything.
"It doesn't much matter what you think of me," she says. "As long as you don't renege on the bet."
Kai-tyil lays two hands on his chest and sketches a bow. "Never would have occurred to me."
"She's the best pilot on this ship," D'Argo says, wriggling. She lets him go with a slight shake.
Kai-tyil chews his lower lip. "Yes. She probably is."
The PK's are much closer know, close enough to hear the last exchange but Kai-tyil ignores them. "I'll take the children out sometime in the next few days," he says. With a raised eye ridge he adds, "They should have the chance to see the interior amenities and superior capabilities of a first class ship."
"Yes," Aeryn doesn't respond to the dig. "They should."
One of the PKs barks out a laugh, stopping in front of the group. "Seems a waste for a backwater treznot like you to own a fine ship like that."
The tension in the air shifts, ramps up to serious instead of joking and uneasy.
"At least I'm not stuck on a declassified piece of dren command carrier," Kai-tyil hisses back and the PK puffs up like a Hynerian's first course.
D'Argo feels his mother tug ever so gently at his collar, a signal to leave at the first opportunity. She doesn't correct the Kai, doesn't try to explain how the handful of xeno-classification carriers in the PK fleet might have older equipment, but they're far from decommissioned. They should all know this, it's part of the allied treaties but no one speaks up, they all just let the insult stand, watching.
"Got your eema squashed by a piece of dren Peacekeeper vessel," the PK finally says, voice low in his throat and chest, body unnaturally still. "So I'd be careful about what you insult around here."
"Frell you," Kai-tyil clenches his fists. The threat in the room has clicked higher, no trace left of the joking of a moment before.
D'Argo shifts for a better look, backing into his mom, feet angled toward the doors. She clears her throat, subtle but loud in the tense stillness.
"It was an unfair race," she says, her tone suggesting it was nothing of the kind, but good-naturedly. "I'm a trained pilot and I've been flying combat for most of my life. But it is a beautiful ship."
Neither side is placated. The quiet PK taps his rifle against his breast plate and gives Aeryn and D'Argo a studying look. His mom rests her other hand on her gun and holds her position, her fingers in his collar steady, one thumb caressing the back of his neck, soothing. The air thins, a triangulation of rage and calculation between the soldiers, Kai-tyil and his friends, and Aeryn, each representing their own space, their own interests.
Usually, D'Argo feels at home with telacademy kids, but right now, he feels how much distance there is between himself and his folks, and everyone else on the carrier. No one else without PK rank wears a gun. Only Aeryn Sun. Not even his dad has that privilege, although it doesn't seem to bother him much.
The quiet one speaks, voice soft and chiding. "Shouldn't be hanging around these lowlife civilians, Officer Sun.”
"They might say the same thing about you," she replies, carefully with an edge of ice, but she doesn't correct the rank. "Or maybe they agree." She shrugs. D'Argo looks to Kai-sen, but his friend won't break his stare down at the deck, face flushed dark, temples wet with emotion.
"Officer Tarka, Sub-Officer Du!"
Both commandos straighten, do a military about face at the voice of their superior.
"Back to your stations," he barks. "These...guests deserve all the courtesies they are afforded. But I want a full report on why you decided it was acceptable to allow a...contest to be conducted in the training space!"
The lieutenant pauses as his two guards march back to their stations, then turns to Aeryn. "I take it you won."
D'Argo whoops again, as much from the release of tension as from the win.
The lieutenant grunts and turns abruptly, ignoring the rest of the assembled crowd.
Aeryn pushes gently at D'Argo's back and he gets the message. He finally catches Kai-sen's eyes and shares a rolled-eyed smile, then jogs forward.
***
John keys off his console as Aeryn pulls off her boots. "I heard you were draggin' on the strip."
"Dragging what?"
"Dragging a Kai's ass across the floor and handing it to him."
She smiles wicked and fast.
"I had to peel the boy from the ceiling; I thought he wasn't pilot material?"
"We have an understanding, this was something special we shared."
"A one-time deal."
"Yes." The next part comes out as more of a challenge than she'd meant. "He bet on me and I wanted him there when he won."
"With your skill it's a sucker's bet." He moves a stack of flimsies aside and sets his forearm across the desk. "Listen, I can't tell you what to do with this. It's your body and your decision. It's always been."
She sits down on the bed, the last dregs of excitement dissolving.
"But there's a lot riding on this decision, and you're risking more than yourself. You're risking our whole family."
She props her elbows on her knees, hands dangling in the air between her thighs. Her first pregnancy was a haze of danger, food and sleep, ending in a paroxysm of determination and fear. Her second pregnancy started more pleasantly and ended much worse. She realizes now that if she decides to have the implant removed and not the embryo, the physical danger could be nothing compared to how much she'll hurt John. He's scared.
He rubs the back of his neck and unlaces his boots, strips off his pants without looking at her.
She doesn't want this fight, doesn't want to level pain on him, and for a few microts at least she allows herself the luxury of watching him, his grace and the way he pulls into himself, his antidote to offering her a decision he desperately wants a part of.
He hikes his shirt off over the back of his head and then stands, stretching out his back, body long and lovely and mostly bare for her perusal.
He finally catches her eye, mouth tilting up with effort. "Seein' something you like?"
She undresses, pants and shirt folded and placed on a chair, bra and shorts stripped off and she pulls back the covers, crawling in between the sheets. "Clean?"
"I do occasionally get around to the laundry, ya know"
She laughs, low and rich. "You've been saving them until I came back haven't you?"
He smiles, still a little distant, a little angry and martyred but six weekens were six weekens and it's been a long separation.
She pulls the sheet up over her breasts, stretches her arms above her head and pops her back, propping her hands behind her head.
It's too much for him and he crawls over the covers, straddles her hips and wraps his hands around her upper arms, thumbs pressing into the delicate flesh layered over her triceps, pressing her arms back into the pillows.
"Been gone a long time, baby."
She looks up at him, layers of conflicting emotion lacing her reactions. She wants him, wants his body wrapped around hers, his heat and his weight, his easy love and his uneasy approval. Frell. This is not how she wanted to come home, bringing up old hurts and old wounds and decisions that shouldn't feel like a lancing, should feel like joy or care or something warm. Not like this, not like being alone and desperate and searching.
"I'm not ready to concede, and I'm not ready to decide," she says, meeting his eyes.
"I know it's not easy." His eyes are dark, mouth far less sweet than she'd like.
"It's never easy." The rule of their continued existence.
"Yeah." But he can't help himself, he leans down, letting his weight go slack, pushing her into the mattress and kisses her. His lips are warm, sweet and musky and she shrugs out of his grip, slides hands into his hair, an arm around his neck pulling him so tight he makes a slight noise, a pain pleasure gasp of surprise.
His body responds, hardening against her thigh, enticing her through the sheets and she slides her hands down his back, reveling in the feel of his skin, the muscle and bone underneath, conscious that something of the two of them rests inside her, waiting for its fate. He groans again, grinding his hips against her, whispering desire against her neck, whispering need and anger and moments spent resentfully apart until she rolls on top of him. The sheet is shoved down and she takes him inside her body with very little preamble, thrusting against him until their cries rise up between them, desperate and wanton and full of the cycles and moments they've shared.
She collapses on his chest, spent and still uncertain, still wanting one thing and knowing that the choice holds so much more resonance than she wants to believe.
She goes to sleep sated and thoughtful, mindful of the life she's been living with her husband and son. She wakes up furious.
***
Her husband never gets up first, always has to be poked and prodded and taunted out of bed. He's learned how to be a soldier but not to live like one. Their son is the same way, rooting into his pillow in the morning, willfully ignoring her until he resentfully tumbles out of the bed to start his day.
It's just an everyday part of their lives, this small bit of routine, and she's been known to let John bemuse her into staying put, staying tucked into the sheets with him, against his body and his warmth, enjoying the first early morning stirs of their mingled desire and the slow, seductive stoking of it.
Last night she'd dreamt of water and of children, of a firefight with everything at stake, memories and possibilities chasing her through the night cycle. She woke just as torn in the decisions stretching out before them, antsy and frustrated with John for laying the choice at her feet and looking at her with the weight of all his want and resentment and concern, expecting her to just take everything up, somehow make a decision they could all live with.
She'd wanted to wake up to him lying next to her, wanted to watch his chest rise and fall, watch him dream behind soft lids, wanted to trace the lines of his back and shoulders while he slept, feel him banked and quiet and hers, maybe wake him up with kindness and sex. She remembers this from the second pregnancy, the insatiability of her appetites, for food, for flight, for frelling.
His absence pushes at her, stokes her anger. He's avoiding her, avoiding the issue. She does not want to make this decision alone, nor does she want to have to navigate John's coping mechanisms while doing so. Coupling that with the fact that she hasn't been back a day, that he couldn't even wake her to say good morning or good bye or I'll see you at lunch and she feels the heat and burn of rage tingling in her muscles.
That she understands his need for space and solitude, his desire to avoid the issue doesn't make it better.
She gets out of the bed, fumbling on the table opposite for her comm, for her weapon, for anything to help tamp down some of this rage. She barks her shin on the chair and the pain slices up and out and through and she breathes past it, swearing and growling, comes through the other side calmer, more in control.
First things first, she needs to find her husband. She showers, dresses and finally checks the carrier broadcasts and realizes that some of her anger is unjustified. It's practically mid-morning. She hasn't slept that long since... Frell.
She has some time, can get a light morning meal, find the gym and pound on something non-sentient for a while, perhaps see the med tech again. John and D'Argo would both be in class until mid-afternoon, the final lessons of the term. She will seek them out when she's done, has time perhaps to plan something for the three of them to do to celebrate the completion of the courses. She braids her hair, straps on her weapon. She has special dispensation to wear it here, something not granted to everyone and she is still enough of a soldier to take advantage of her special status.
She strokes the barrel of the pistol, roughly amused for a microt at the dichotomy of her life, her gun at hand, thoughts of cakes and gifts mingling in her mind, layering over the larger, heavier issues of life and death and the fracturing peace outside the safety of this carrier.
She is not displeased with this revelation, with the small moments she's found in this larger picture.
***
D'Argo runs along ahead, game console shoved into his pocket, having spotted not only the gold blanket spread out on the grass but the thermal case next to where his mother sits cross-legged with a datapad in her hand. School's out for summer, or at least for a weeken or two for the non-Carrier kids like D'Argo. The ship's kids have simply switched to a heavier load of military training modules.
His kid ain't military, so he gets to wallow in a basket of fried gondrila in the grass. Aeryn smiles up at him as he stops at the edge of the blanket, but he sees that it doesn't reach her eyes. She turns back to D'Argo. "And the object of this game?"
"You tweak your Sprek so that they're better survivors, but when you level the terrain changes, and they have to evolve again. Kai-sen and I are patched in and I've been beating the snot out of him since last night, three levels ago."
John reaches into the thermal case and pulls out a gondrila haunch, settling onto the blanket to watch the two of them huddle over the game console. He's heard about Sprek for six weekens straight, and his enthusiasm for educational games has waned accordingly, but seeing the two of them together, mother and son under artificial sun and breeze, soothes him.
"And this one?"
"It's another Sprek; it's one I modified for a predator niche, isn't he cool?"
"The teeth are impressive, but his hindquarters are very vulnerable."
D'Argo's brow scrunches in an echo of his mother's as he works the keys of the console. Hard to argue with good tactics. Game well in hand, he sets down the console and starts helping John demolish the picnic basket.
Aeryn picks but doesn't eat. When D'Argo's had his fill of food and family, John lets him free with the minimum reminders of good behavior and lights-out time.
She watches the boy disappear over the knoll, then waits another moment before she speaks. "I went to the med bay this morning."
John moves next to her, laying an arm over her shoulders and pulling her close. It was a hard decision to make, but it was the only real choice. He wishes she'd have waited and let him be there with her, but done is done. He inhales the scent of her hair and then kisses her head. "Oh, babe. I'm sorry."
"The implant has failed completely. I need to make a decision by tomorrow night at the latest."
The gondrila turns solid and cold in his stomach. A part of him suspects where this is heading, has always sensed that her indecision isn't genuine, but merely a feint for his benefit while she softens him up to do what she wants.
She pulls away, sits straight and looks him in the eye. "I spoke with the techs about what I'd need to see this through--"
He stands, knees popping. "No."
She looks incredulous, mouth open in the middle of a word. He presses the advantage.
"I can't let you do this. I won't stand by and let you take this risk."
She looks up at him, defiance gathering. "She's already growing at a geometric rate--"
"There is no 'she', Aeryn--this is about you and me and our son. We need you, us, right here in the flesh. You've been gone for six weeks, you may think we can get along fine without you, but I swear to God if you let this pregnancy kill you I'll--"
It's the look on her face, the direction of her eyes that stops him cold. John spots the game console on the blanket and then turns, straightening.
D'Argo becomes paler as he stands rooted, slotting what he'd heard into place in a visible progression. His eyes flick down toward his mother, become wider still, then track back to John. They weren't telling him for a reason, and now that's blown to hell. It's suddenly real in a way that it wasn't before, heavier, harder to carry.
His mother in front of his eyes, or an abstract sister; there's no way out of this without at least one death in the family.
So much for that idyllic childhood they'd worked so hard to provide.
Aeryn stands, game console in hand, and follows after their son, frustration and fury evident in her stride. John doesn't move to join them, doesn't trust her anger to stay contained, to not lash them both. This is a battle as much as anything, and Aeryn is fiercely protective of the boy. Hell, they both are, but a man would have to be stupid to interfere with that Mama bear even if she wasn't packing some serious heat. Papa bear was no exception to that rule and now he'd pissed her off twice.
There wasn't much recourse, and he couldn't dismiss his fear, couldn't ignore the slow rise of anger at what she was willing to risk, at how even now, even this many cycles later, it was still a concession to include him in her decisions. Part of it was lifestyle, so few ways to keep going out here and still find some purpose, some peace. They both get edgy even now, antsy, constantly looking over their collective shoulder, soothed by their son, but never quite at ease.
So Aeryn taught bright-eyed militia boys and girls to fly combat missions, protect their home turfs against the cold war Scarran threat, and he taught Physics and theoretical science and they both played nice with the PKs and the Scarrans when they had to, and avoided the Nebari whenever possible. They stayed out of local land wars, sea wars and star wars. They were the occasional ambassadors for 'not quite as hostile as they used to be' species, but that was only when necessary and only when guilt or favors were involved. Aeryn was good at bargaining political favors, surprisingly--it turned out to be her brand of nice. That was the key to their continued existence. They played nice, played conciliators, and yeah, every once in a while 'nice' broke down and Aeryn got to break some bones and he got to unholster Winona and put the fear of god into some poor shmuck who'd heard the stories and wanted a piece of John Crichton or Aeryn Sun or both.
They lived a good life out here, as good as possible. They were raising a great kid and had stopped running for their lives. Sure, they'd made sure D' knew how to handle a weapon as soon as a suitable one fit his small fingers, knew where to hide and how to run and how to fly if he had to, but hell, those were normal skills for a kid out here. He'd embraced them eagerly, not knowing anything else, bitching and moaning about drills and about chores and practicing, and it was as close to a regular kid life as either of his parents would be able to give him.
And now, she was willing to risk all of that. The fury turned ashy and hot in his mouth. She didn't have the right to risk abandoning them both, no matter what she thought. Her obligations had shifted, to him and to D'Argo, and he couldn't believe that it was so easy for her to take the risk.
He gets up and fold the blanket, stuffing it in the thermal basket and heading off to find his family.
Kai-sen's father is taking some sun on the recreation deck, stretched out on a chair like a lizard in the heat, watching the activities. He grunts in acknowledgement as John walks by, oddly shaped eyes narrowing.
John, pissed off already, can't help seeking out a little restitution. Kai-tyil had been a pain in the eema since they got to the carrier. "Heard my wife beat the pants off of you last night."
Kai-tyil cocks his head, soft drawl of a voice cracking on the words. "We may not be quite done with that bet."
John laughs, bitter and honestly amused. "Kai, don't push Aeryn. You're never gonna beat her, and you're just gonna get your ass handed to you again."
Kai shrugs. The gesture raises John's hackles, but he dismisses the response and keeps walking.
He's not surprised to see them sitting in the stands by the pool. The boy would live in water if he had gills, it's little wonder he headed back to the pool as a safe place.
Aeryn has taken off her coat and sat next to her son, her knee pressed to the long bone of his thigh. They both get still when they're angry or hurt or scared, they both pull up and pull in, expressions grave. His son had his wife's serious intensity and his own need for laughter, and it never ceases to astonish him that he and Aeryn, two forces of destruction, had created something so damn good. Wasn't much he wouldn't do to keep that child safe, give him everything he needed.
"I don't want you to die." His voice breaks a little in his attempt to sound authoritative, to not sound scared.
"I'm not going to."
"Dad said..."
Aeryn blows out her breath, an angry huff of air. "We're making a decision about whether or not to have another child, D'Argo. But I'm not going to take unnecessary risks."
He raises his chin, as stubborn as she is. Aeryn grimaces and rubs her forehead.
"Your bet, yesterday. That was technically riskier than having another child. Anything could have gone wrong, engine failure, thruster malfunctions, in my ship or the other one."
"Yeah," D'Argo says, teenager obvious, "but you were flying."
"Well, I'll be flying this time, too." Aeryn chides him gently, hand on his back soothing up and down as if he were still an infant in a sling.
John circles around to the side of the bleachers, and when he sees the look on her face he knows he's lost the argument. She's going to go through with this.
He meets her gaze over the curved shoulders of their son as the boy takes advantage of the empty natatorium to tuck himself against his mom.
She mouths words to John, and he's heard enough Sebacean from her lips, caught enough words through firefights and in the vacuum of space that he catches her meaning as clear as if she'd whispered it into his ear: "Give me a chance."
John sets his mouth in a grim line. He wonders darkly if it's the challenge that's driving this, if it's more about the time before and proving to herself that she's not only strong enough to endure it, but to face it down again and win. He looks at her, leaning slowly side to side as her son sighs and basks in her touch like a plant in the sun. He feels grief again for his own mom.
It's the way of things for parents to go before you, but his kid is too damned young to bear that.
"Give me a chance." Her eyes are open wide, steady as she goes and that's saying something. If it were only a matter of her will he'd be with her in the med bay right now talking about names.
Her hand skims the arc of the boy's spine like a ship hugging the orbital curve of a planet. "Give me a chance."
He closes his eyes, fists clenched at his sides. He opens them, engraving his mind with the image before him, a sidelong view of Madonna and child in the theme of black hair and lanky limbs.
John sets his boot on the lowest tread and D'Argo flinches his head away from his mom's shoulder, hyperaware of his rep until he spots his father. John sits down beside them, framing the boy between.
He looks at the pool for a long moment, humming a bit of John Lennon to himself as he trudges the first mental steps down the road he didn't want to take. All she is saying, is give her a chance. He turns to them, eyes of storm blue and storm grey watchful. He doesn't wear the pants in his family, but he does have weight. He didn't get to make the decision, didn't get to influence it at all it seems, but he can set the tone.
This might be the end of Aeryn, the last his boy will have of his mom. He can't ruin that.
"We're going to do this as a family." He clears his throat. "She's the pilot on this run, we're her flight crew."
Aeryn leans against their son and John leans back, the boy in the middle caught in both the embrace and a realization. "I'm gonna have a sister."
He sounds so happy, and Aeryn's smile seems equally thrilled. John tries to keep the gravity out of his voice, tamp down the feeling in the pit of his stomach that they're taking a reckless chance. "That's the mission, son. That's the plan."
~*~con't tomorrow~*~
Next part here
SUMMARY: Tactical family planning; set 13 years after PKW. Prequel to "The Break-out Club".
NOTES: beta by the caped crusader, Crankygrrl
EMAIL: thassalia@yahoo.com; mochaphine @ gmail.com
DISCLAIMER HAIKU:
Though we love them so
and they are fun to to play with
we do not own them
Pretty in Punk
by Thea and feldman
"Once upon a time..."
"Dude," D'Argo humphs, annoyed. "Just tell me the frelling story, dad."
John makes a noise halfway between a snort and a stifled bark of laughter. "Okay, okay."
He clears his throat and looks at his son, dark hair falling over his eyes as he bends over a set of complex vector problems, ticking off flight ratios and gravity aspects as he reaches for an equation at the end of the limit. Calc at thirteen because he'd breezed through geometry and trig and he needed 3D math more than good old Pythagoras.
Pride hits him with a low blow, hard and tight like a heart attack and he wishes Aeryn were here to share this moment, to see their kid with his mind racing like a hamster wheel, impatient with his dad, impatient with the utter slowness of the adults in his orbit. It was such a good thing. "So we had you, and the universe signed a deal to not destroy itself because of a few bad play dates, and then we were kind of jobless. Which was good."
D'Argo isn't really paying attention, used to his dad's chatter as white noise, and John knows he can thread some truth in among the softened edges of his story.
"Once upon a time..." He says, low and lulling, halfway under his breath. "There was a man and a woman and they had a child and they didn't destroy the universe." His voice picks up tone and speed. "And once they had the whole baby thing figured out, minimizing the risk, learning out how to shop and keep track of the kid, how to live in a giant living ship that could grow baby guards but still had weird crap on the floors that the little boy liked to put in his mouth, much to the disgust of his mom--but what does she know, she still thinks food cubes are actual food--the man and the woman decided they needed jobs."
"Dude, that makes no sense."
"Stop interrupting. Anyway, we did need jobs. Your mom was going stir crazy, and piracy wasn't very profitable and neither was hauling cargo, and our house wanted to go explore the not so safe regions of distant space and we'd ended up on a planet with a seriously fucked up caste system."
"Ha! My point. You owe me a krindar."
"Nope, the swear word equals money policy went out the window last time Chi taught you something obscene in Luxan and you used it at a state dinner."
"Dren. But it was the Xylians, right?"
"A whole race of the dispossessed," he says, soft now. "People who'd had a government, had some equity and some order, a structure of their own and had been enslaved and then abandoned by one of the Peacekeeper's less than ethical allies. And we were in the weird position of being able to help. They were just a small band of fighters really, and they just wanted a few tactics in exchange for giving us some sanctuary. Your mom voted yes, and I voted okay if we have to."
"Mom taught 'em to shoot and blow things up."
"No, not so much." John rubs his lip, remembering, still thinking of the time with a soft distant haze of fear and awe. "She taught them how to be quiet, how to look, lurk and listen, and to strike only when necessary. To walk softly and carry a big pulse cannon. To only fight for what they believed in if the outcome had a chance of being better than the current situation. It could have a been a disaster, but it turned out okay."
"Why didn't you want to help?"
"I didn't want any of us to get hurt, didn't want them to die or us to get arrested, didn't want to take the risk of helping people whose story we didn't know."
"So why did you?"
D' has abandoned the vectors for the moment to look at John with serious grey eyes. After a few microts have passed he says, "Families," sussing out the answer on his own.
John nods. "Families. Like us, just with bigger mouths and weird eyes. But people who deserved a chance at rebuilding and self determination. And if my wife wanted to be the one to help them with the determining, I wasn't gonna say no."
"It's kind of cool." D'Argo twirls his stylus, turning back to his math.
Yeah, John thinks. It is.
***
Even on its best day Keratos was dry and dusty, a grey haze filtering over the small community of planets, choking the life out of anything not kiris grain or protected in sealed hydroponic reserves, and she's mostly forgotten the feel of grass, even the simulated kind here on the recreation deck of a refurbished command carrier.
She's spent six weekens making nascent combat fighters out of undisciplined civilians and amateur militia, time spent frustrated and challenged, her and a few staff a heart of order amidst the chaos of a developing organization. She's been fighting off a searing headache for the last ten days, no doubt the result of spending most of her time away in space, eating bad food even by her standards, sleeping in metal bunks, and repeating herself to resistant weeken-warriors.
She knew she'd grown soft living on Moya, but finds that she minds that less than she should. She has missed her bed, missed her husband and her son, and it's been a long six weekens since she's seen either of them.
She lingers a few more microts under the ultraviolet sim, enjoying the momentary peace and quiet of the deck, soaking up the light and greenery freshened air. Voices carry in the light fan breeze, a child's shout, grownup laughter, and she is unable to wait any longer.
Aeryn comes up over the ridge of grass, making her way to the building that houses the training pool, butted up to the massive bulkhead at the very edge of the lawn. She palms the glass, waiting for it to read her code and slide open with a soft snick, allowing her to slip into the open observation area above the pool. She stands there for a few microts, braced against the railing, to watch the controlled pandemonium inside.
John wears swim trunks and a grey t-shirt, a whistle around his neck and a wide grin. His bare feet pace back and forth along the side of the pool as he yells good-natured insults and honest encouragement to the swimmers. Her belly thrills at the sight of him, her body recognizing his even at the distance, tendrils of lust and tenderness snaking up as if she could already smell him and feel him.
He needs a haircut. Aeryn's hand tightens on the rail. She'd like to slide her mouth against the nape of his neck, to suckle at the salt-sweet of his skin, to feel his heat and weight against hers, his voice in her ear and thrumming through her body. Frell, she's missed him. Her stomach growls, rolls a little, and she wills it still. This is something else that can be dealt with later.
She scans the pool, eyes sharp on the young quick bodies until she finds the one she's looking for - dark hair and pale, freckled skin, gangly frame cutting cleanly through the water. Her heart beats hard, thudding in her chest, full with her pride, with the presence of her love. Difficult to believe, even here and even now, that these two are hers.
The knowledge that she would do anything to keep them safe is a tenet of her daily existence, a solid presence of thought that she shelters. She couldn't even begin to think of questioning that certainty. But her surety may be tested by the instability of the current peace, showing signs of wear in too many places around the galaxy. Keratos was relatively steady when she left, but they're the newest program, started despite the longest local history of violence yet, and her experience tells her that without commitment on both sides, the program will fail. Things may be more fragile on Keratos, but the problem is endemic.
Sometimes it's easier to fight than to work out the continuing problem of living in peace.
Aeryn tries to push those thoughts aside, thinks about going to wait for her family outside on the grass when John spots her. His eyes go wide and he whistles loud, fingers in his mouth.
"Hey sailor," he calls out. "Lookin' for a hot time?"
She shakes her head, slides her lip into her mouth and runs her teeth along the soft flesh. He puts his hand over his heart and smiles, just for her.
***
D'Argo's hair is still damp, curling raggedly at the ends. He hugs her, reluctant, looking around to make sure that none of the other swimmers can see him but he doesn't back away when she keeps him close, pressing him firmly to her body. He smells like bromine and water and boy. His clothes are a little stale, a little musky. Likely, John's let the laundry slide since she left. She wasn't due back for another two days.
D'Argo pushes out of her grasp and shrugs his satchel more firmly up his shoulder, "Hey Mom."
"Hey, mom." John echoes, coming up behind his son and shaking him gently.
"We're gonna start a team," D'Argo says, then looks longingly at the mixed species group of boys and girls on the hill, all of them gawking at something held in the palm of a small Kai.
"Go," she says. "Three hundred microts though. I'm starving."
John stands over her, looming a little, then brushes his knuckles over her cheek, fingers slipping over her temple, behind her ear and down her neck. She shivers a little, leaning in to the touch.
"Weren't a pack of kids over there, I'd drag you down, ravage you right here." His voice is throaty and she knows he's not exactly joking. "Missed you baby." He slides his hand down to find hers, fingers tangling. "Glad you're home early."
She squeezes his hand. "I've missed you too."
"You look tired."
She shrugs, nods. "Four squads of young recruits, half of whom were un-trainable, the other half barely competent, lead by militia leaders more intent on rebellion than learning. The ones who made it..." She lifts her shoulders.
"Not a lot of faith in the local leadership?"
"It's likely an unworkable situation, John, made worse by the attitudes of the local Peacekeeper garrison. They're supportive to the letter of their orders, threatened and belligerent. They withhold assistance to the militia program and the local government, then are forced to retrench and overcompensate, which ends up just as bad."
"Bureaucratic guerilla tactics." High Command can see the benefit in letting the colonies raise their own militias, another source of warm bodies with guns should the uneasy alliance with the Scarrans crumble, and many colony governments are eager for more autonomy. Most of High Command's perestroika moves have been motivated by the cold war with the Scarrans; nothing like hot lizard breath down your neck to change your point of view on little things like genetic contamination and who should be armed. The guys and gals on the ground have sometimes been harder to convince; the only threat they perceive is to their beloved status quo. "Same as on Menir and Avenicia."
"Posturing and territorial dren." Her fingers ache but she's not willing to let him go, knows that her voice is carrying with too much earnest investment, too much fear for the future, all of it shaded by this new thing she suspects. "Things were stable when I left Keratos, but I doubt it will last."
He nods, face grave, the lines around the corners of his eyes deep. She reaches forward to smooth the delicate skin and he turns his face, kisses her palm.
"Yeah, well, I haven't seen my wife in a hell of a long time. Let's work on saving the universe tomorrow."
***
"Just your luck, to come back on biscuits and gravy night."
Aeryn slides another forkful of sauced hisona-bread into her mouth, soft and familiar, the first thing she's found in over a weeken that doesn't make her stomach roll in protest. They eat at the visiting squadron tables, her son snickering at the other end of the section with the friends he's made on the Carrier.
John's apparently finished eating, abandoning the last square of hisona on his plate in order to watch her. She reaches, snurches, and polishes off his meal as well.
He jokes, "I haven't seen you eat like that since we tucked D'Argo back inside. Food that bad on Keratos?"
She sighs against her full stomach. She'd much rather tell him after she's gotten all the facts but she knows better. She shares her uncertainly reluctantly, but she does share it. "I think I might have fallen pregnant."
For a moment it simply lays on the table between them. D'Argo's laugh carries over the murmur of the other soldiers in the mess, quickly hushed to a furtive snicker that probably only his parents can still pick out. There was a brother years ago, and Aeryn knows that John is thinking of this ghost child, the infant Aeryn couldn't give life to, the one who instead nearly dragged her into death along with him. Geometric pregnancy was more dangerous than they'd realized, when the father isn't carrier born.
D'Argo had been six, and nearly orphaned. They had decided against the risk and taken precautions accordingly.
John clears his throat. "I thought the implant was supposed to keep that from happening?"
"I don't know for sure." She shrugs, eyeing the plate before her and trying not to pick it up to lick off the sauce. "But if so, then it failed."
"Medbay?"
"That was my plan."
"I'll let D' know we're running errands, then."
Aeryn nods, swiping her finger through the puddle of sauce as John talks to their son.
***
"Your dad has a singularity of focus that is very rare."
"You mean stubborn, right?" They sprawl out on the big sleeping platform, neither of them interested in working at the tiny console desk.
"I was trying to be nice, but yes, that's part of what I meant. It's not just stubbornness, though. He's focused. You've worked the sensors on our shuttle pod, the way you can lever down the field to a tight beam and only display that small section of space? Your dad is like that, he can narrow down to the most important things and keep priority on them no matter what else is happening around him."
D'Argo tucks a socked foot under hers, datapad clicking in automatic shutoff. "Like what?"
"Oh, the usual distractions." She sets her own work aside, shoving a pillow under her as she props her head on her hand. "Political crises, shipboard emergencies. Pulse blasts."
"Like when I was born."
"Exactly. Nothing else mattered but you and me at that point. Then all that mattered was getting back to Moya."
Her son nods. It's his story after all, he could probably tell it himself, at least the birth and the firefight. The bigger picture is still vague, the fact that his father nearly wiped out the universe and that his mother had put the weapon in his hand, that his home ship provided the seed energy for the ultimate ultimatum--that he almost lived his whole lifetime in less than a day, these are details they haven't given him yet. He smiles at her.
"It's the bigger picture that he sometimes has a problem with. You can focus on a small thing, but you can never take it out of the greater context. You have to account for the universe, fit yourself into it. Sometimes you have to act for the greater good."
"Dad doesn't like to get involved."
"He comes around to it eventually. There's no one I'd rather have on my side."
***
"How?"
She loves him, she honestly does, and she hasn't seen him in a very long time and she reminds herself of these facts as she clenches and unclenches her fists. He told her once that there were no stupid questions. She didn't agree with him then, and he proves her point now.
The medtech shrugs. "It happens. Not often, but... We can only guarantee its effectiveness when both parties are Sebacean." She tries not to roll her eyes at the universal eema covering of the medical establishment. The tech continues. "When was the last time you had it checked?"
John looks at her for an answer and she shrugs.
"A cycle ago, most likely. I don't remember offhand." A cycle sounds right though, the last time she'd had any sort of check-up at a facility equipped for the needs of shipborn Peacekeepers.
"It happens, that's all you're giving us?"
John's clearly still fixated on the ridiculous, his shoulders a hard, rigid line. Her headache beats behind her eyes like the aftershocks of a pulse blast.
The med tech ignores him, looks at Aeryn. "The implant has slowed down the growth of the fetus. You'll need to have it removed in order for the growth to continue, but you need to make a decision soon. Otherwise, it won't be viable."
She nods, pain searing behind her eyes. This was not the homecoming she'd anticipated.
The tech looks over his data pad. "The tests say the fetus is female, currently healthy. But it will grow geometrically once the implant is removed and it looks like you've had some...difficulties with that sort of pregnancy in the past. That is something to consider."
"Thank you," she says absently, and gets off the table, reaching past John for her coat.
He doesn't say anything until they're outside the facility.
"Feels like we've been here before." His voice is soft, but not quite kind.
She nods, walking beside him, their strides matching. She doesn't want to think about this now. She wants a shower, sleep, more food, time with her son, time naked and sweating with her husband. She doesn't want a fight. She's not certain of whether or not she wants another child. But when had the universe been terribly cognizant of her wants?
That aside, what she needs right now is something more than John's fears. "Where are your quarters?"
"Aeryn, we need to talk about this."
She stops in the middle of the hallway, turns to face him. "Yes. But..." she rubs at the bridge of her nose, breathes out heavily, "later."
His eyes darken with stubborn resolve, worse than a dhoiesin with a rodent. He's unable to let things go, a lasting after-effect of their early years together, their shared history as much curse as blessing at times.
He bites his lip, eyes sweeping up and down her body, and relents. "Later, then."
They walk a circuitous route up through the tiers until they reach a level of converted officer's quarters. John palms the door, and she steps in. The red and black has been replaced by cooler tones, blues and pale yellows, wax candles tucked into nooks. It's ridiculously clean for any place that John has occupied for six weekens, and a half smile tugs at her mouth. He's cleaned it for her arrival. A lone sock peeks out from under the bed, but the covers are pulled up, tucked around the bed neatly and the room smells like clean sheets and citrus.
She knows better than to look in any of the drawers, but it's the thought that counts.
She turns towards him and he reaches for the zipper on her tight uniform coat, slides it down and carefully slips the coat off her shoulders, laying it over the small table.
She takes her hair down, some of the tension leaching out of her neck, the headache receding slightly. She leans over to undo her boots while he watches, takes off her socks and stands, meeting his gaze.
They stand barefoot and consider each other, this new thing still between them the same as at dinner, only now it's tangible, a barrier. She'd said later, but now that the pregnancy is a fact she's having a hard time shoving it aside for later. She strides toward him and gives him a hard push onto the bed, falling with him, limbs hooking and tangling.
She breathes in the scent of him, the scent of home underneath the bromine from the pool. He buries his face in her hair and pulls her close.
She'd planned on frelling his brains out when she got home. It turns out differently, feels more like a goodbye than a return. Afterward they shower and dress, aware that the boy could show up at any microt. He sits back against the black headboard and tucks her between his legs, arms wrapped around her, cheek resting against hers.
It's later, but she doesn't know how to begin, so she tells him, "Talk to me."
He breathes deep but doesn't speak for a moment. "I figure we've already had this discussion. We decided not to take the risk."
"And now?"
"No different."
She pulls herself from his embrace to face him fully. "Of course this is different."
"The risk is the same, Aeryn. You dying."
"You'd terminate."
"I'd love to have another kid, you know that." He scrubs his face with one hand. "But we've already learned to live without that possibility because it's too damned dangerous."
"You act as if we know how it will turn out. I had no trouble with D'Argo."
"And the second baby almost killed you. That's a pretty big odds spread."
"We're on a Command Carrier with a full complement of med personnel."
"And we were leaving as soon as you came back."
"Plans can change."
"We're not talking about what to have for dinner here, Aeryn, we're talking about life and d--"
They turn as the door slides open.
D'Argo stops just inside, eyeing them warily. If he had antennae they'd be vibrating.
"I've got a boatload of grading to catch up on," John stands and gets his shoes, aiming the last bit pointedly at Aeryn, "why don't you spend some quality time with your son? He's missed his mom."
***
Her son has so much of John in him. She has to take a step back when they go round the bend and he pauses, gives her a look both thrilled and dubious, vibrating with curiosity, but holding himself in check like he's waiting to gauge her reaction.
Is she really ready to navigate the personality of another child, another example of her genes mingling with John's? Yes, she thinks. She wants an antidote to the strife out there, wants another example of the things she and John do well to shine forth.
She knows better than to put an arm around her son, to show the easy affection that he used to accept as a boy, but it doesn't still the itch in her fingers to stroke his hair, examine him for unseen hurts, to ask if he's changed his socks since she left.
But he also has John's easy generosity and the knowledge that his mother is slightly cooler than other kid's mothers. Or at least so she's been told. She's fairly certain he's introduced the "cool" into his peer group; the fact that it's an incredibly vulgar word in Hynerian helped to spread its popularity.
"Kai-sen's dad came in on a new ship," he says, settling back into his young body, his expression finally matching his age. "Wanna see it?"
"Yes," she says. "I'd love to."
He practically quivers in joy as he explains the ins and outs of the Kirilian flier, how fast, how far, how much G-force, the microts between punching the accelerator and feeling it jump, faster than hetch but not quite a speed that bends time.
When he was ten she had to tell him that he couldn't fly combat; she'd known for cycles that he didn't have the reflex speed, and the sooner he accepted it the better. It didn't matter so much then, except to him. Aside from a few minor skirmishes at the borders of the Uncharted Territories, peace was holding. Now, it might matter, to more than a solemn eyed little boy who'd watched his dreams deteriorate. That had been the last major fight she'd had with John. She had a feeling that it would seem minor in comparison to what they were gearing up for.
"Kai-sen said his dad might give us a ride. That'd be so cool. I told him you could still kick his dad's ass in your Prowler though."
He's bouncing on his toes, mouth wide and a little devious. She'd lay odds he had a bet riding on it, an exchange of something infinitely precious, maybe even that game box he'd been ogling earlier in Kai-sen's hands.
"That ship's very fast," she says, eyeing its clean lines.
"Yeah," says her son, smile wolfish and sweet. "But it's you flying the Prowler."
She's done business with the Kai cooperative a few times before, and found Kai-tyil (Kai-sen's father, for lack of a better Sebacean term for the being from which Kai-sen had budded) more arrogant than his skill warranted. She runs a hand along the Kirilian flier's hull. "Is Kai-tyil aware of this wager?"
D'Argo gleefully fidgets. Aeryn takes that as a yes.
"And the ratings in your current training modules?"
He rattles off acceptable ratings for his level, though he could be doing better in the history and culture modules if he weren't so enthralled with maths. Didn't get the reflexes, but he's not short on brains.
"Hmmm." She knows that the Carrier has docked into a still position for the next few days. If they're still operating on standard procedure--and small things like that seem to be the most entrenched even after the recent changes in Peacekeeper discipline--slalom beacons will have been set up for the practice of flight squads. She hums again.
"Well?"
"What do I get out of it if we win?"
He tosses back to her one of her well-worn phrases, unable to control the smirk. "Pride in a job well done?"
She musses his hair roughly, using it as an excuse to touch him in public. "I'll see what I can arrange with the deck officer."
The smirk blooms into a grin, and she responds with not only a smile but a gift.
"I think this one time, considering your stake in the venture, you can ride in the jump seat."
His whoop bounces off the distant bulkheads, putting everyone in the cavernous bay on alert.
She corrals him, pulling him close and stilling him. "Remember where we are."
Chagrined, he forgets to squirm out of her embrace, and they walk out of the docking bay with her arm draped over his shoulders.
His hair is darkening, and she thinks he might have grown a few denches since she left. Only six weekens, but she can see the changes. How long before game consoles are replaced by more physical kinds of recreation and more tangible challenges; how long before he's no longer a boy, but a young man making his own way in the universe?
He's the only one of his kind.
Aeryn remembers her visits to Earth, seeing John's family through the perspective of time, parents and children. Siblings. She might have genetic siblings in the Peacekeepers, perhaps even on this carrier, other soldiers sired by Talyn before he decided to make an illicit child with Xhalax, but she has no brothers, no sisters. What she knows of it comes mainly from Chiana and from John.
She could give D'Argo a sibling. A sister. She's already been made, she just needs to be kept. Or discarded. John thinks that it's a choice between who dies, her or the child, perhaps both.
Aeryn isn't convinced it's that dire of a risk, isn't convinced she shouldn't take the chance. D'Argo was a chance she took from the moment she found out about him, aboard a Command Carrier just like this, one that wouldn't exist a mere handful of days later.
If she ever takes that risk again, her chance is right now.
But, for the moment, she's willing to focus on slimmer chances.
It takes less than an arn to inform the techs responsible for monitoring the slalom lines and to issue a slightly more formal challenge to Kai-tyil. She and her son are strapped into the Prowler before she can change her mind, launching out of the hanger bay to round the first set of marks.
He bounces in the jump seat behind her, bony keens jamming into the back of the pilot seat. "C'mon, c'mon. He's gonna beat us."
She smiles. "D'Argo, it's hardly a risk. Don't worry so much."
It's been cycles since she's participated in this sort of venture, betting her skill against another pilot's and she knows in her bones that it's barely a challenge. The Kai's ship is beautiful, fast and capable, but it's a travesty to put that sort of power in the hands of someone who can't fly his way out of his own eema.
"Better to bide our time, make him think he can win," she counsels as she gently taps the thrusters. "It's all part of the game."
He taps on the seat, drumming out a rhythm of nervous exhilaration, and when Kai-tyil gets just far enough ahead to convince him of his victory, she hits her thrusters, flies full out, uses her acceleration and his lack of knowledge to tear around the 3rd quarter slalom.
Nervous, her competitor falters around the bend and she grins, laughs and slides effortlessly under his ship, coming up from underneath to leave him in her wake.
Power and speed, G-forces pressing on them hard enough for her son to whoop breathlessly as they race past the finish line with enough momentum to push the monitoring marauder back until it's denches away from the Carrier. She gives her own brief yell of victory and amusement, body singing with the thrill of pure flight.
***
"Dude, Mom, that was so frelling cool!" He drops onto the deck, still flying on the rush of the win, still coasting high on speed and thrust and his mom kicking Kai-sen's dad's *ass* in the race, still dizzy from the acceleration and inertia, his body far less familiar with the principles his mind can calculate with ease.
She corrals him with a firm grip on his collar, neatly keeping him from stumbling across the deck and he grins at her, feels like his smile is a beam lighting across his face and shining back from hers. For a moment he basks in that answering grin, her approval thrumming through him.
He can't contain himself, gives a little hop to loosen her grip, wants to run across the docking bay. He settles for hooting a battle cry, victory echoing in the bay like it does in the pool arena. He spots Kai-sen over in the corner crowd, near his dad and a small group of allied guests. He knows most of them by sight, parents of other telacademy kids mostly, but not all. The elder Kai looks disgruntled, a little angry, but not terribly surprised.
"Got beat bad," the large Scorvian says, tentacles lying thick and fat against his head as he razzes the Kai.
"Frell you," he growls back, a good-natured smirk tempering the venom.
D'Argo slides into Kai-sen, punching him lightly on a ventral arm, unable to resist adding, "Told you. She's the best pilot around."
Kai-tyil grunts, and raises his odd ridged eyes at Aeryn's approach.
"It's a beautiful ship," she says again, slipping her strong fingers back into D'Argo's collar and jerking him to a standstill.
It's probably a good thing, since Kai-sen looks hot and flushed, humid in a way that suggests anger, maybe embarrassment. Good, D'Argo thinks, see how you like it. Kai-sen slides a hand over the place where D'Argo tapped his arm and a flash of shame settles him into his mother's grip for a few microts. He gives Kai-sen a tentative grin. We still friends?
Kai-sen rolls his eyes in his father's direction. Yeah, still friends.
Meanwhile, the father is still speechless, moving his mouth around in a way that says more about his petulance than any sort of gracious losing. Finally he says, “Should never have bet with a Peacekeeper."
"I'm not a Peacekeeper anymore," Aeryn says, voice steely smooth, level, almost amused.
Across the hangar, D'Argo spots two of the PK guards who were monitoring the slaloms. One of them had given them all the go ahead to race.
"No," Kai-tyil says slowly, and with great deliberation. "You aren't a Peacekeeper now." His eyes shift to the gun on Aeryn's thigh. D'Argo traces the glance, looks up at his mom who doesn't show much of anything.
"It doesn't much matter what you think of me," she says. "As long as you don't renege on the bet."
Kai-tyil lays two hands on his chest and sketches a bow. "Never would have occurred to me."
"She's the best pilot on this ship," D'Argo says, wriggling. She lets him go with a slight shake.
Kai-tyil chews his lower lip. "Yes. She probably is."
The PK's are much closer know, close enough to hear the last exchange but Kai-tyil ignores them. "I'll take the children out sometime in the next few days," he says. With a raised eye ridge he adds, "They should have the chance to see the interior amenities and superior capabilities of a first class ship."
"Yes," Aeryn doesn't respond to the dig. "They should."
One of the PKs barks out a laugh, stopping in front of the group. "Seems a waste for a backwater treznot like you to own a fine ship like that."
The tension in the air shifts, ramps up to serious instead of joking and uneasy.
"At least I'm not stuck on a declassified piece of dren command carrier," Kai-tyil hisses back and the PK puffs up like a Hynerian's first course.
D'Argo feels his mother tug ever so gently at his collar, a signal to leave at the first opportunity. She doesn't correct the Kai, doesn't try to explain how the handful of xeno-classification carriers in the PK fleet might have older equipment, but they're far from decommissioned. They should all know this, it's part of the allied treaties but no one speaks up, they all just let the insult stand, watching.
"Got your eema squashed by a piece of dren Peacekeeper vessel," the PK finally says, voice low in his throat and chest, body unnaturally still. "So I'd be careful about what you insult around here."
"Frell you," Kai-tyil clenches his fists. The threat in the room has clicked higher, no trace left of the joking of a moment before.
D'Argo shifts for a better look, backing into his mom, feet angled toward the doors. She clears her throat, subtle but loud in the tense stillness.
"It was an unfair race," she says, her tone suggesting it was nothing of the kind, but good-naturedly. "I'm a trained pilot and I've been flying combat for most of my life. But it is a beautiful ship."
Neither side is placated. The quiet PK taps his rifle against his breast plate and gives Aeryn and D'Argo a studying look. His mom rests her other hand on her gun and holds her position, her fingers in his collar steady, one thumb caressing the back of his neck, soothing. The air thins, a triangulation of rage and calculation between the soldiers, Kai-tyil and his friends, and Aeryn, each representing their own space, their own interests.
Usually, D'Argo feels at home with telacademy kids, but right now, he feels how much distance there is between himself and his folks, and everyone else on the carrier. No one else without PK rank wears a gun. Only Aeryn Sun. Not even his dad has that privilege, although it doesn't seem to bother him much.
The quiet one speaks, voice soft and chiding. "Shouldn't be hanging around these lowlife civilians, Officer Sun.”
"They might say the same thing about you," she replies, carefully with an edge of ice, but she doesn't correct the rank. "Or maybe they agree." She shrugs. D'Argo looks to Kai-sen, but his friend won't break his stare down at the deck, face flushed dark, temples wet with emotion.
"Officer Tarka, Sub-Officer Du!"
Both commandos straighten, do a military about face at the voice of their superior.
"Back to your stations," he barks. "These...guests deserve all the courtesies they are afforded. But I want a full report on why you decided it was acceptable to allow a...contest to be conducted in the training space!"
The lieutenant pauses as his two guards march back to their stations, then turns to Aeryn. "I take it you won."
D'Argo whoops again, as much from the release of tension as from the win.
The lieutenant grunts and turns abruptly, ignoring the rest of the assembled crowd.
Aeryn pushes gently at D'Argo's back and he gets the message. He finally catches Kai-sen's eyes and shares a rolled-eyed smile, then jogs forward.
***
John keys off his console as Aeryn pulls off her boots. "I heard you were draggin' on the strip."
"Dragging what?"
"Dragging a Kai's ass across the floor and handing it to him."
She smiles wicked and fast.
"I had to peel the boy from the ceiling; I thought he wasn't pilot material?"
"We have an understanding, this was something special we shared."
"A one-time deal."
"Yes." The next part comes out as more of a challenge than she'd meant. "He bet on me and I wanted him there when he won."
"With your skill it's a sucker's bet." He moves a stack of flimsies aside and sets his forearm across the desk. "Listen, I can't tell you what to do with this. It's your body and your decision. It's always been."
She sits down on the bed, the last dregs of excitement dissolving.
"But there's a lot riding on this decision, and you're risking more than yourself. You're risking our whole family."
She props her elbows on her knees, hands dangling in the air between her thighs. Her first pregnancy was a haze of danger, food and sleep, ending in a paroxysm of determination and fear. Her second pregnancy started more pleasantly and ended much worse. She realizes now that if she decides to have the implant removed and not the embryo, the physical danger could be nothing compared to how much she'll hurt John. He's scared.
He rubs the back of his neck and unlaces his boots, strips off his pants without looking at her.
She doesn't want this fight, doesn't want to level pain on him, and for a few microts at least she allows herself the luxury of watching him, his grace and the way he pulls into himself, his antidote to offering her a decision he desperately wants a part of.
He hikes his shirt off over the back of his head and then stands, stretching out his back, body long and lovely and mostly bare for her perusal.
He finally catches her eye, mouth tilting up with effort. "Seein' something you like?"
She undresses, pants and shirt folded and placed on a chair, bra and shorts stripped off and she pulls back the covers, crawling in between the sheets. "Clean?"
"I do occasionally get around to the laundry, ya know"
She laughs, low and rich. "You've been saving them until I came back haven't you?"
He smiles, still a little distant, a little angry and martyred but six weekens were six weekens and it's been a long separation.
She pulls the sheet up over her breasts, stretches her arms above her head and pops her back, propping her hands behind her head.
It's too much for him and he crawls over the covers, straddles her hips and wraps his hands around her upper arms, thumbs pressing into the delicate flesh layered over her triceps, pressing her arms back into the pillows.
"Been gone a long time, baby."
She looks up at him, layers of conflicting emotion lacing her reactions. She wants him, wants his body wrapped around hers, his heat and his weight, his easy love and his uneasy approval. Frell. This is not how she wanted to come home, bringing up old hurts and old wounds and decisions that shouldn't feel like a lancing, should feel like joy or care or something warm. Not like this, not like being alone and desperate and searching.
"I'm not ready to concede, and I'm not ready to decide," she says, meeting his eyes.
"I know it's not easy." His eyes are dark, mouth far less sweet than she'd like.
"It's never easy." The rule of their continued existence.
"Yeah." But he can't help himself, he leans down, letting his weight go slack, pushing her into the mattress and kisses her. His lips are warm, sweet and musky and she shrugs out of his grip, slides hands into his hair, an arm around his neck pulling him so tight he makes a slight noise, a pain pleasure gasp of surprise.
His body responds, hardening against her thigh, enticing her through the sheets and she slides her hands down his back, reveling in the feel of his skin, the muscle and bone underneath, conscious that something of the two of them rests inside her, waiting for its fate. He groans again, grinding his hips against her, whispering desire against her neck, whispering need and anger and moments spent resentfully apart until she rolls on top of him. The sheet is shoved down and she takes him inside her body with very little preamble, thrusting against him until their cries rise up between them, desperate and wanton and full of the cycles and moments they've shared.
She collapses on his chest, spent and still uncertain, still wanting one thing and knowing that the choice holds so much more resonance than she wants to believe.
She goes to sleep sated and thoughtful, mindful of the life she's been living with her husband and son. She wakes up furious.
***
Her husband never gets up first, always has to be poked and prodded and taunted out of bed. He's learned how to be a soldier but not to live like one. Their son is the same way, rooting into his pillow in the morning, willfully ignoring her until he resentfully tumbles out of the bed to start his day.
It's just an everyday part of their lives, this small bit of routine, and she's been known to let John bemuse her into staying put, staying tucked into the sheets with him, against his body and his warmth, enjoying the first early morning stirs of their mingled desire and the slow, seductive stoking of it.
Last night she'd dreamt of water and of children, of a firefight with everything at stake, memories and possibilities chasing her through the night cycle. She woke just as torn in the decisions stretching out before them, antsy and frustrated with John for laying the choice at her feet and looking at her with the weight of all his want and resentment and concern, expecting her to just take everything up, somehow make a decision they could all live with.
She'd wanted to wake up to him lying next to her, wanted to watch his chest rise and fall, watch him dream behind soft lids, wanted to trace the lines of his back and shoulders while he slept, feel him banked and quiet and hers, maybe wake him up with kindness and sex. She remembers this from the second pregnancy, the insatiability of her appetites, for food, for flight, for frelling.
His absence pushes at her, stokes her anger. He's avoiding her, avoiding the issue. She does not want to make this decision alone, nor does she want to have to navigate John's coping mechanisms while doing so. Coupling that with the fact that she hasn't been back a day, that he couldn't even wake her to say good morning or good bye or I'll see you at lunch and she feels the heat and burn of rage tingling in her muscles.
That she understands his need for space and solitude, his desire to avoid the issue doesn't make it better.
She gets out of the bed, fumbling on the table opposite for her comm, for her weapon, for anything to help tamp down some of this rage. She barks her shin on the chair and the pain slices up and out and through and she breathes past it, swearing and growling, comes through the other side calmer, more in control.
First things first, she needs to find her husband. She showers, dresses and finally checks the carrier broadcasts and realizes that some of her anger is unjustified. It's practically mid-morning. She hasn't slept that long since... Frell.
She has some time, can get a light morning meal, find the gym and pound on something non-sentient for a while, perhaps see the med tech again. John and D'Argo would both be in class until mid-afternoon, the final lessons of the term. She will seek them out when she's done, has time perhaps to plan something for the three of them to do to celebrate the completion of the courses. She braids her hair, straps on her weapon. She has special dispensation to wear it here, something not granted to everyone and she is still enough of a soldier to take advantage of her special status.
She strokes the barrel of the pistol, roughly amused for a microt at the dichotomy of her life, her gun at hand, thoughts of cakes and gifts mingling in her mind, layering over the larger, heavier issues of life and death and the fracturing peace outside the safety of this carrier.
She is not displeased with this revelation, with the small moments she's found in this larger picture.
***
D'Argo runs along ahead, game console shoved into his pocket, having spotted not only the gold blanket spread out on the grass but the thermal case next to where his mother sits cross-legged with a datapad in her hand. School's out for summer, or at least for a weeken or two for the non-Carrier kids like D'Argo. The ship's kids have simply switched to a heavier load of military training modules.
His kid ain't military, so he gets to wallow in a basket of fried gondrila in the grass. Aeryn smiles up at him as he stops at the edge of the blanket, but he sees that it doesn't reach her eyes. She turns back to D'Argo. "And the object of this game?"
"You tweak your Sprek so that they're better survivors, but when you level the terrain changes, and they have to evolve again. Kai-sen and I are patched in and I've been beating the snot out of him since last night, three levels ago."
John reaches into the thermal case and pulls out a gondrila haunch, settling onto the blanket to watch the two of them huddle over the game console. He's heard about Sprek for six weekens straight, and his enthusiasm for educational games has waned accordingly, but seeing the two of them together, mother and son under artificial sun and breeze, soothes him.
"And this one?"
"It's another Sprek; it's one I modified for a predator niche, isn't he cool?"
"The teeth are impressive, but his hindquarters are very vulnerable."
D'Argo's brow scrunches in an echo of his mother's as he works the keys of the console. Hard to argue with good tactics. Game well in hand, he sets down the console and starts helping John demolish the picnic basket.
Aeryn picks but doesn't eat. When D'Argo's had his fill of food and family, John lets him free with the minimum reminders of good behavior and lights-out time.
She watches the boy disappear over the knoll, then waits another moment before she speaks. "I went to the med bay this morning."
John moves next to her, laying an arm over her shoulders and pulling her close. It was a hard decision to make, but it was the only real choice. He wishes she'd have waited and let him be there with her, but done is done. He inhales the scent of her hair and then kisses her head. "Oh, babe. I'm sorry."
"The implant has failed completely. I need to make a decision by tomorrow night at the latest."
The gondrila turns solid and cold in his stomach. A part of him suspects where this is heading, has always sensed that her indecision isn't genuine, but merely a feint for his benefit while she softens him up to do what she wants.
She pulls away, sits straight and looks him in the eye. "I spoke with the techs about what I'd need to see this through--"
He stands, knees popping. "No."
She looks incredulous, mouth open in the middle of a word. He presses the advantage.
"I can't let you do this. I won't stand by and let you take this risk."
She looks up at him, defiance gathering. "She's already growing at a geometric rate--"
"There is no 'she', Aeryn--this is about you and me and our son. We need you, us, right here in the flesh. You've been gone for six weeks, you may think we can get along fine without you, but I swear to God if you let this pregnancy kill you I'll--"
It's the look on her face, the direction of her eyes that stops him cold. John spots the game console on the blanket and then turns, straightening.
D'Argo becomes paler as he stands rooted, slotting what he'd heard into place in a visible progression. His eyes flick down toward his mother, become wider still, then track back to John. They weren't telling him for a reason, and now that's blown to hell. It's suddenly real in a way that it wasn't before, heavier, harder to carry.
His mother in front of his eyes, or an abstract sister; there's no way out of this without at least one death in the family.
So much for that idyllic childhood they'd worked so hard to provide.
Aeryn stands, game console in hand, and follows after their son, frustration and fury evident in her stride. John doesn't move to join them, doesn't trust her anger to stay contained, to not lash them both. This is a battle as much as anything, and Aeryn is fiercely protective of the boy. Hell, they both are, but a man would have to be stupid to interfere with that Mama bear even if she wasn't packing some serious heat. Papa bear was no exception to that rule and now he'd pissed her off twice.
There wasn't much recourse, and he couldn't dismiss his fear, couldn't ignore the slow rise of anger at what she was willing to risk, at how even now, even this many cycles later, it was still a concession to include him in her decisions. Part of it was lifestyle, so few ways to keep going out here and still find some purpose, some peace. They both get edgy even now, antsy, constantly looking over their collective shoulder, soothed by their son, but never quite at ease.
So Aeryn taught bright-eyed militia boys and girls to fly combat missions, protect their home turfs against the cold war Scarran threat, and he taught Physics and theoretical science and they both played nice with the PKs and the Scarrans when they had to, and avoided the Nebari whenever possible. They stayed out of local land wars, sea wars and star wars. They were the occasional ambassadors for 'not quite as hostile as they used to be' species, but that was only when necessary and only when guilt or favors were involved. Aeryn was good at bargaining political favors, surprisingly--it turned out to be her brand of nice. That was the key to their continued existence. They played nice, played conciliators, and yeah, every once in a while 'nice' broke down and Aeryn got to break some bones and he got to unholster Winona and put the fear of god into some poor shmuck who'd heard the stories and wanted a piece of John Crichton or Aeryn Sun or both.
They lived a good life out here, as good as possible. They were raising a great kid and had stopped running for their lives. Sure, they'd made sure D' knew how to handle a weapon as soon as a suitable one fit his small fingers, knew where to hide and how to run and how to fly if he had to, but hell, those were normal skills for a kid out here. He'd embraced them eagerly, not knowing anything else, bitching and moaning about drills and about chores and practicing, and it was as close to a regular kid life as either of his parents would be able to give him.
And now, she was willing to risk all of that. The fury turned ashy and hot in his mouth. She didn't have the right to risk abandoning them both, no matter what she thought. Her obligations had shifted, to him and to D'Argo, and he couldn't believe that it was so easy for her to take the risk.
He gets up and fold the blanket, stuffing it in the thermal basket and heading off to find his family.
Kai-sen's father is taking some sun on the recreation deck, stretched out on a chair like a lizard in the heat, watching the activities. He grunts in acknowledgement as John walks by, oddly shaped eyes narrowing.
John, pissed off already, can't help seeking out a little restitution. Kai-tyil had been a pain in the eema since they got to the carrier. "Heard my wife beat the pants off of you last night."
Kai-tyil cocks his head, soft drawl of a voice cracking on the words. "We may not be quite done with that bet."
John laughs, bitter and honestly amused. "Kai, don't push Aeryn. You're never gonna beat her, and you're just gonna get your ass handed to you again."
Kai shrugs. The gesture raises John's hackles, but he dismisses the response and keeps walking.
He's not surprised to see them sitting in the stands by the pool. The boy would live in water if he had gills, it's little wonder he headed back to the pool as a safe place.
Aeryn has taken off her coat and sat next to her son, her knee pressed to the long bone of his thigh. They both get still when they're angry or hurt or scared, they both pull up and pull in, expressions grave. His son had his wife's serious intensity and his own need for laughter, and it never ceases to astonish him that he and Aeryn, two forces of destruction, had created something so damn good. Wasn't much he wouldn't do to keep that child safe, give him everything he needed.
"I don't want you to die." His voice breaks a little in his attempt to sound authoritative, to not sound scared.
"I'm not going to."
"Dad said..."
Aeryn blows out her breath, an angry huff of air. "We're making a decision about whether or not to have another child, D'Argo. But I'm not going to take unnecessary risks."
He raises his chin, as stubborn as she is. Aeryn grimaces and rubs her forehead.
"Your bet, yesterday. That was technically riskier than having another child. Anything could have gone wrong, engine failure, thruster malfunctions, in my ship or the other one."
"Yeah," D'Argo says, teenager obvious, "but you were flying."
"Well, I'll be flying this time, too." Aeryn chides him gently, hand on his back soothing up and down as if he were still an infant in a sling.
John circles around to the side of the bleachers, and when he sees the look on her face he knows he's lost the argument. She's going to go through with this.
He meets her gaze over the curved shoulders of their son as the boy takes advantage of the empty natatorium to tuck himself against his mom.
She mouths words to John, and he's heard enough Sebacean from her lips, caught enough words through firefights and in the vacuum of space that he catches her meaning as clear as if she'd whispered it into his ear: "Give me a chance."
John sets his mouth in a grim line. He wonders darkly if it's the challenge that's driving this, if it's more about the time before and proving to herself that she's not only strong enough to endure it, but to face it down again and win. He looks at her, leaning slowly side to side as her son sighs and basks in her touch like a plant in the sun. He feels grief again for his own mom.
It's the way of things for parents to go before you, but his kid is too damned young to bear that.
"Give me a chance." Her eyes are open wide, steady as she goes and that's saying something. If it were only a matter of her will he'd be with her in the med bay right now talking about names.
Her hand skims the arc of the boy's spine like a ship hugging the orbital curve of a planet. "Give me a chance."
He closes his eyes, fists clenched at his sides. He opens them, engraving his mind with the image before him, a sidelong view of Madonna and child in the theme of black hair and lanky limbs.
John sets his boot on the lowest tread and D'Argo flinches his head away from his mom's shoulder, hyperaware of his rep until he spots his father. John sits down beside them, framing the boy between.
He looks at the pool for a long moment, humming a bit of John Lennon to himself as he trudges the first mental steps down the road he didn't want to take. All she is saying, is give her a chance. He turns to them, eyes of storm blue and storm grey watchful. He doesn't wear the pants in his family, but he does have weight. He didn't get to make the decision, didn't get to influence it at all it seems, but he can set the tone.
This might be the end of Aeryn, the last his boy will have of his mom. He can't ruin that.
"We're going to do this as a family." He clears his throat. "She's the pilot on this run, we're her flight crew."
Aeryn leans against their son and John leans back, the boy in the middle caught in both the embrace and a realization. "I'm gonna have a sister."
He sounds so happy, and Aeryn's smile seems equally thrilled. John tries to keep the gravity out of his voice, tamp down the feeling in the pit of his stomach that they're taking a reckless chance. "That's the mission, son. That's the plan."
~*~con't tomorrow~*~
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