Part II

Rachel Northway stumbled along the corridor on hollow legs. Her stomach was a squirming knot. Her heart stuttered within the confines of her rib cage. Behind her was the creature out of the Saturday afternoon "Creature Feature." Scarran he had called himself. Displeased with her pace, he brutishly nudged her forward. Rachel cringed at the thought of the foul-smelling beast touching her. That in itself was impetus enough to comply.

This cannot be happening… this cannot be happening… this cannot—

 She felt the current of her fear slip around her like a swift rapids, seeking to rob her tenuous control. Rachel pushed out against it.

Easy, girl. Get a grip. You won't do DK any good if you flip out.

Instead she tried to focus on the details of this strange place. Anything that would give the comfort of the familiar, but nothing was forthcoming. The place was like a maze of passages. The narrow hallway appeared to be carved from the same stone that composed the walls of the hot, dark holding cell where DK remained, his life possibly failing with each passing moment.

DK… DK. Shit.

Steeling herself, she turned mid-stride and walked backwards, keeping one pace ahead of the beast.

"My friend…back there." She pointed back over his imposing, scaly shoulder. "Doctor Kaiser… he's hurt. He needs medical attention."

The Scarran stopped. Rachel halted, waiting, as her heart ascended her throat. It was impossible to tell what this beast was thinking. The features were fixed in a permanent sneer of jutting teeth and a misshapen jaw. The pupil-less eyes did nothing to soften the expression.

She licked her lips, judging her options. "I'm a medical doctor. I can help him."

"Healer," the Scarran rattled, stepping closer.

Rachel stood her ground. "Yes. That's right. If you just-"

Its clawed hand was instantly at her throat, forcing her back into the rough hewn wall. She released a startled yelp that was quickly silenced as her airway was forced closed.

"You may need medikul atenshun yourself… dok-tor."  He jabbed a bony finger at her sternum. "No more talking. No more talking unless Tavik Ngortiwan asks questions."

Explosive dots of light flashed before her eyes. Her feet beat a useless staccato against the wall. Starving heart raving in her ears, she nodded her head. The pressure at her throat relaxed and she dropped to the floor, gasping for air. The Scarran grabbed her upper arm and lifted to her feet.

"This way, dok-tor."

#

 When he was twelve, DK, prompted by the dare of John Crichton, attempted to climb a drain pipe to the roof of a three story building near their school. Halfway through his ascent, the pipe's rusted brackets gave away, sending him to a painful collision with the earth. Even the agony of the three broken ribs he had suffered were nothing compared to this.

"Fuck," he cursed. DK drew his knees up to his chest as he lay on his side. It somewhat slackened the pulsating pain nestled in his abdomen. He shivered despite the heat, feeling the cold sweat trickle down the crease of his back.

The quiet dark remained, understanding of his anguish. This was not the first of such bleary pain-filled exclamations it had heard, though probably not from a human. It was content to listen. It did not measure time on such limited terms as its companion.

 "Just wanted a closer look," he muttered. "Just a closer… look."

Well, son. You've got yourself an eyeful. John said. He leaned a casual shoulder against the wall as he picked at the cuff of his flight suit. You screwed up big time, hoss.

Of all the things he imagined what would constitute the end of his life, DK would have never considered this option. Waiting in the oppressive heat of an alien room, talking to the product of pain induced delirium, the shadow of his friend as he reminisced about childhood tragedies.

That was rich! DK laughed, regardless of the pain it refreshed. But he quickly stopped when he heard its echo. If he did not know any better, he would have thought it sounded lunatic.

x it. Suck it up, DK, cause you're hell and gone from home. John folded his arms and began to pace the length of the wall.  Think. Use that head for more than a hat rack.

"I'm trying, hoss." DK answered, barely above a whisper. "I'm trying…"

#

"Miss Northway!"

Rachel opened her eyes. Her head lay against something cool, flat. Her hazy vision sharpened to focus on a pattern: simulated wood grain in an anemic shade. Etched into the wood with a feminine hand: WC + RN. She stared at it thickly, waiting for her brain to catch up.

"Miss Northway! Am I keeping you awake?"

A subdued wave of giggles ensued.

Startled, Rachel sat up, triggering an avalanche of books. The chair she was sitting in was oddly constricting. A desk. A school desk. She looked around.

Classroom. Seventh grade. English Lit.

In the front of the class, Miss Dauterive tapped her pen impatiently, prim in her artificially black hair, her glasses pushed down to a gravity defying angle on the bridge of her prudish nose. The only teacher that had ever given Rachel less than an A on anything in her entire educational carrier.

"Have you completed your assignment, Miss Northway?"

"Um," Rachel stammered, her mind raced for a hand hold in some murky depth. It was hard to think. Yet a part of her totally accepted this place this time with the absurd certainty that propelled sleepwalkers. "My… um… my assignment, ma'm?"

"You are to deliver your report about the phenomenon…"

"Phenomenon…" Rachel repeated, stalling, certain that an answer would swim to the surface.

"Wormholes, Miss Northway."

She felt the blood build along her neck and face. The eyes of the other students where a torrent of pin pricks. They were ones that whispered behind her back, always careful to point out when "The Brain" screwed up. It did not help matters. Very bright for her age, Rachel was forever two years younger than the other kids. Forever an outsider. Forever the token in the private school for rich white children.

 "I… um… don't think I have it, Miss Dauterive. Why would you--"

 A fuzzy, nebulous anxiety bubbled up. It was a shadowy sense of urgency. Her heart beat faster. Something was not right here. But what?

Remember, girl. Come on. But it was as though before the present moment nothing existed. The harder she pushed, the more the milky puddle of memory receded.

"I see. Perhaps some time at the principal's office would--"

This brought a disconnected, primitive fright. "No… um.. wait. I can tell you… um… my report."

"That's better. Come to the front of the class then." Miss Dauterive tilted her head, satisfied. The thick glasses were pushed back onto her nose with stern finality. She had always reminded Rachel of an iguana with her dangling wrinkled neck and her eyes made unnaturally large by the reading glasses.

Rachel looked around the room. The two girls seated in the row beside her with their hateful blond hair, shining in the pre-lunch time sunlight, turned and giggled to each other.

"Don't choke, Brainiac," came a baleful whisper somewhere at Rachel's back. It was the corner where the jocks had laid claim.

Nervously Rachel cleared her throat and squeezed out of the ridiculously small desk. She walked to the front of the classroom, realizing that she was not wearing her uniform, the hideous tartan skirt and white blouse. In its place were the dull green scrubs of a surgical intern and her rumpled white lab coat. But no one else seemed to notice this.

She looked around the small room at their bored, glassy-eyed stares. A thought nagged at her, begging for her attention. It swam beneath the surface before diving back into the depths. An odd sensation crept over her scalp, like wave of prickling heat.

Something not right… something… wrong with the picture… a picture's worth a thousand words… worth a better look… wanting a closer look…. She shook her head, warding off the strange sensation momentarily.

"Wormholes…" Rachel cleared her throat again. Some where at the back of the classroom, some one simulated the sound of snore. The room giggled. Rachel ignored them. "The Kruskal formula for wormholes… or white holes.."

No. Not right at all… Her concentration lagged. Her voice drifted to a whisper.

"Eh-hem." Dauterive folded her arms and scowled. Rachel felt the dour woman's stare and began again.

Worth a look… wanting a closer look…

"The Kruskal formulas disproved the possibility of a Schwarzschild wormhole. The tidal forces are too great. Even it were possible that one maintained integrity, it would not be possible for travel-"

"No. No. No. Not theory," Dauterive interrupted, impatiently. "Your report was to be about the ionization variant that a craft must produce--"

Rachel felt more vague unease. Brow furrowed, she turned on her. "Miss Dauterive, you've always taught English Lit. As long as I remember. Why would you want to know about wormholes?"

At that moment the door flew open, stuttering against its hinges. Rachel jumped, whirling. A team of nurses ran in, smocks fluttering madly, clustered around a gurney.

One of them threw Rachel a scornful look. "Aren't you on call? There was a code blue paged."

"Oh… sure." Rachel stammered. She looked apologetically at Dauterive.

"Don't think this lets you off the hook, young lady," she answered, giving a grudging nod of permission. "I still want that report…"

Rachel turned to fall doggedly into place with the critical care team as they spirited back out to the hallway at an impossible pace. She looked down at the bed, expecting to see the usually appointed AED.

In its place was a flight data recorder. A bright blue circular sticker was plastered to the side: Property of IASA.

Rachel slowed, and then stopped altogether. The nurses left her behind. They disappeared behind another set of double doors. The unease returned as she took in her new surroundings. The hallway looked more like the IASA compound at Canaveral than East Jefferson High School or Cook County for that matter, she noted with hazy acceptance.

What am I doing here? I should have never let DK talk me into this… Just wanting to know… to see… to find him. And bring him back. It's time to come home.

She shook her head again, trying to clear the jagged mix and swirl of memory. Nonsense. The thoughts were disjointed, unattached to anything else, like someone flipping through the radio stations on a car's stereo. Rachel rubbed at her temples. A dull ache had started behind her eyes.

"Doctor!"

A nurse grabbed her wrist and dragged her along the hallway. Over her shoulder, Rachel could see beyond into the annex hangar. The Farscape Two module lay in pieces inside, its innards on display like a gutted fish. A team of surgeons scampered around it, barking instructions to each other. Other nurses darted back and forth. It was a parody of a trauma ward.

"You'll need to decipher the readings so we can know how to induce the polarity," the woman continued frantically. "You'll have to tell us how the--"

Rachel stopped, wrenching her arm away. She looked at the young nurse. The petite blonde was vaguely familiar. But the name did not come with this revelation, only the sense that the woman was out of place.

Not right. None of this was right.

"No. This isn't right," Rachel stammered.

"You mean the formula? You're going to have to write this down."

She pressed a piece of yellow chalk into her hand. Rachel looked up.

The nurse and the hangar were gone.

Dauterive classroom. Again. Now it was empty. The green chalkboard seemed to stretch for miles before her, filled with incomplete formulas, some of which she vaguely recognized. At her back the afternoon soon squinted through the ancient metal blinds.

She rolled the chalk into her fist. It made her think of crude drawings on sidewalks… hopscotch… games. 

Games! That was it! This is some kind of game. A puzzle. But how? Come on. Think! The odd sensation of heat trampled her scalp again, more insistent.

"They're playing games," Rachel muttered, dropping the chalk as though it were a hot coal. She squinted up at the litter of symbols and numbers scrawled across the board. "I'm not the right one to play this."

"Then who? Who will know?" A commanding voice erupted behind her.

Rachel pivoted and immediately backed into the board. Warren Cisco leaned against the battered top of Dauterive's vacant desk, as poised and articulate as ever. Everything about Warren was on purpose.

"That sorry SOB, Kaiser?" he prodded. His handsome face crumpled into a dissatisfied frown. Warren folded his arms.

"Why do you want to know?" She swallowed. Rachel slipped around the desk.

Warren moved into her path. "Miss Northway, for the record. Please state your affiliation with the IASA."

"You already know." She dodged the other way. Warren countered her move once more.

Not Warren. This isn't Warren. He went back to South Carolina...

"You understand that you can held in contemp--"

"I understand… that you shouldn't be here." Rachel spat. She tried to fight the tremor in her voice. "What's going on here?"

She looked around at the dull green walls, not sure what she was looking for. "Is this a test? Some sort of … game?"

"Who is the anomaly expert? Who?" Warren demanded, the cords straining in his neck. His voice seemed to deepen, pulling into a growl.

Rachel backed away. "You're not Warren. Warren left. Why are you doing this? What the hell is this?"

But even as she said, she felt the strange eddy of heat over her skin. It trigged an avalanche though her thoughts, sending up snippets of light and sound. To resist it was impossible. The torrent wove through her mind, burrowing, leaving her a powerless by-stander. Finally, it paused, seizing a kernel of memory with invisible fangs.

"Hey, Rach! What's the hold up? Come on. I'm dying here!"

Rachel whirled. Shit. Shit. Shit. NO!!

DK leaned in the doorway of the classroom.  "Let's get some chow, huh?"

Warren stepped into her line of sight. He turned to regard DK. "Him? Is this the expert?"

"No. You leave him alone." Rachel blurted. "You deal with me, alright?"

He looked back at her, head cocked to the side, in a very un-Warren manner. "That's enough."

And the world vanished.

#

"No. No. Absolutely not! I lost three men procuring what you wanted… including a medic. This is… insulting!" Lucien Ix turned angrily for the doorway, hinged between storming off and the undeniable need to acquire.

Tavik Ruvicam merely folded his arms and waited for the Sebacean to end the latest of his tantrums. Ruvicam was far more patient than any of his compatriots at the Scarran outpost, a curse that often made him the only one to deal with the primitives and the rogue Sebaceans like Ix that would trade with them.  

"There are only four containers of Novitron gas," Ix complained. He held up a disfigured hand of three fingers and a thumb. "That is half of our agreed price, Ruvicam! You do not expect me to starve, do you? I am a business man-"

"One does not eat Novitron gas, Ix." Ruvicam interrupted, purposefully misunderstanding the Sebacean's expression. For a moment, he entertained the idea of adjusting the room's atmospherics to its original Scarran temperature to further the trader's discomfort.

His legendary patience was growing thin. But with ones like Ix, it was best to be cautious. This particular "businessman" had far reaching power in this corner of the Uncharted Territories and Ruvicam's outpost was not very well fortified to avoid Peacekeeper detection. It was monens from any source of reinforcements. Such arrangements forged the strangest of partnerships.

"Friend… friend." Ix said, leaning on the pitted surface of the table. He granted Ruvicam a plastic smile. "Our problem is simple. I quoted you a price. And you have failed to pay that price… therefore you leave me no choice than to seek other… interested parties."

"Interested parties." Ruvicam repeated. He shifted warily.

"I don't pretend to know what it is you do here, Tavik. I don't even care, for that matter. " He shrugged and looked around at the cragged stone walls. "But it would be a shame to have all of your hard earned… research… fall to a Peacekeeper raid, no?"

Ruvicam regarded the annoying Sebacean in seething silence. His first impulse was to reach across the table and crush the trader's throat. But it would not be wise. There was no way to tell what loyalties he commanded from other mercenaries in the region. Ix was clever enough to have insurance in place in the instance of his "unlikely demise." After all, Ix believed in vengeance the same way other species regarded their deities.

"What do you want, Ix?" he growled finally.

"What do you have, Tavik?" Ix smirked.

#

 "…the ship exited the stable dimensional arc. They must have known about the-"

 "I told you the primitive is useless, Ngortiwan. It is possible they were experimental animals."

 The impact of her body against the stone floor was a disconnected buffet that barely registered. A buzzing sound filled her ears. Sinister pain tasted the base of her skull before spreading down her shoulders. Her eyes felt like dry hot marbles. Experimentally she opened her eyelids the tiniest sliver.

 The room was blessedly dim, but hot. Two voices, engaged in an uneasy counter balance of an argument, filtered through the buzz. She recognized the meaty grumbling immediately. Squinting into the dimness, she could see their two shadows. One of them was her jailor.

 Scarrans. Creature Feature.

 Rachel opened her mouth to speak, hateful demands at the ready. Only a weak groan came out. Her body was devoid of energy. It was impossible to command her muscles in any semblance of movement.

 "Dispose of this one. The male is not worth further investigation."

 "No. Only this one was useless. The neural mapping disclosed nothing of value. All questioning lead to the other. He will be next."

 Rachel shut her eyes, feeling her throat constrict with tears. It was a long time before she heard the Scarran approach. There was no fight left. Her arms and legs were dead weights. There was no fear. Only exhaustion mingled with agony and the regret she had failed her friend for the last time.

 Oh God. DK. I tried. I'm sorry. Jack, I'm sorry. I'm sorry I didn't believe you.

 Rough scaly hands enveloped her shoulders. Her upper body was lifted from the floor.

 "Wait."

 The creature paused and she was at the mercy of his painful grip. She felt her arm suspended gracelessly in his grasp, her body dangling like a lifeless doll. The blood rushed to her head, pounding behind her eyes. She felt a warm trickle slip from her nostril across her lip. Opening her eyes she watched a small perfect circle of crimson meet the stone floor. Rachel regarded it, her soul as flat as the surface.

 "Ruvicam can use her to get rid of the Sebacean."

 #

 Lucien regarded the remains of the small, awkward craft and laughed. "This? This piece of dren is to take the place of my missing weapons?"

 "Yes…and the remainder of the Izlouth." Ruvicam replied. “There is—“

 "I didn't think Scarrans had a sense of humor," he mocked. Ix waved a hand at the vessel's battered side, decorated in garish red and white lines. "You think that this is going to replace Novitron gas? The only way that this could be a weapon is if it were used as a projectile."

 The three heavily armed Zenetians that composed Ix’s entourage snickered. But the mirth was short-lived. His patience for the Scarran's game had ended. He pivoted on his men. "What the Hezmana is so funny! This Scarran is insulting us and you're laughing?"

 The Zenetians regarded each other in confused silence, mouths snapping shut. They shifted nervously, hands playing over their weapons for some sense of comfort.

 Ruvicam answered. "The vessel's components are worth-"

 "Scrap?!" Ix barked. He stepped up to the Scarran, seemingly ignorant that the creature towered over him. "Lucien Ix does not deal in salvage! Absolutely not!"

 "No? Then you would not want the female healer who owns this vessel…" The Scarran turned to the corner of the cramped hangar, gesturing to his second.

 Lucien watched as Ngortiwan half-dragged a floundering humanoid from the corridor. Roughly the Scarran shoved her forward. She stumbled along, but only after hissing some unintelligible curse at her captor. "Hands off, Godzilla!"

 At first glance, Ix assumed this was some luckless Sebacean female who ended up in their custody. But as they drew closer, he realized differently. She was clad in an absurdly large garment in a hideous hue, the sleeves of which were decorated with the same strange icons as the vessel. Her skin was an inviting dark brown. This in itself was an intriguing feature.

 "Sebacean?" he asked, feigning disinterest. It would not do to let the Scarrans know he was entertaining their offer.

 "Genetically inconsistent. Not Sebacean." Ruvicam replied.

 His brow furrowed. Again he felt the familiar battle between acquisition and practicalities. "What good would-"

 "Not Sebacean… but most unique," Ruvicam purred. "An unknown species. Very rare."

 "Rare." Lucien said under his breath. He looked back up to Ruvicam. "You said she's some sort of healer?"

 #

 Wavering on her feet, Rachel watched the receding backs of the two Scarrans. Their unnatural gait made them seem even more like dinosaurs, trained to walk upright. As relieved as she was to be rid of them, a vague new worry began to take shape.

 "Are you… human?" she ventured, turning to the motley crew of men before here. Three of them were dressed in grungy dark red tunics, their faces plastered with thick black tattoos. Their shaven heads made her think of monks or priests. But from the menacing looking equipment they carried, Rachel sensed they were no pacifists.

 One stepped forward from the middle of the group. He appeared to be more refined than the rest, but no less dangerous. By his bearing, she could only guess he was their leader.

 "Human," he returned, stepped closer peering into her face. His voice was protracted as though he had just discovered some amazing distraction. "No. I don't know what a human is. Is that what you call yourself… your.. species?"

 Rachel stepped back. "Who the hell are you?"

 "My name is Lucien Ix."

 Before she could react he was curiously tugging at the zipper on her sleeve. Rachel quickly moved her arm away. Immediately she sensed one of the men behind Ix step forward protectively.

 "What… what just happened?" she stammered, her attention bounced between the very human looking Lucien Ix and squat sweaty fat man at his side.

 "You were just sold," Ix replied with a tone reserved for addressing the incredibly dull-witted. He began to walk around her in a slow circle.

 "I was just... what?" She felt an indignant fury well within her. It vanquished her prior pain and exhaustion. Rachel turned with Ix, keeping her body square with him. Her hands balled into fists. She drew in a deep breath and lowered her head.

 “Now… listen to me.” Her voice was low, but potent with anger. "I have been… launched into space…sucked through an anomaly that cannot possibly exist. I've been knocked out. Kidnapped. Shot full of alien microbes. Interrogated by my seventh grade English teacher. And partially strangled."

 Rachel looked up, skewering Ix with her gaze. "You did not just BUY ME! I DO NOT FUCKING THINK SO!"

 Ix granted her a small smile, canting his head to the side. His amusement only made the acid fury burn more quickly through her veins. Rachel stepped forward, uncertain as to her actions, but knowing that it involved the physical removal of the expression from his face.

 A weapon was lowered between her and Ix. She looked up at its owner, the short bald stub of a creature. He granted her a dangerous grin filled with decayed teeth.

 "You are trained in healing arts, no?" Ix asked, unimpressed with her outburst.

 Rachel looked at Ix. "I graduated in the top ten percent at Johns Hopkins. My training focused on medical research for genetic--"

 He waved her off impatiently. His tone was deliberate and slow. "If we brought you a man with pulse gun wounds, could you help him?"

 She folded her arms. "That depends…"

 "Upon?"

 "What the hell is a pulse gun?"

 The weapon in Baldy's hand emitted a sinister high-pitched whine. He turned and pointed it at the wall. A powerful ball of yellow light created a considerable crater in its smooth surface. He raised its muzzle to her temple. Rachel did not grant him the satisfaction of flinching.

 She looked from the scarred wall to Ix. Rachel tried to keep her voice low, even.  "I swore an oath to help the dying and heal the sick if it's at all in my power. So… yes. I would help… or try to."

 Without changing the meter of her words, she turned on Baldy. "And get that thing away from my head, before I make you eat it!"

 At this Baldy chuckled, displaying more derelict teeth. "I like her, Luc."

 "Shut up, Liet." Ix replied. He regarded Rachel with another long measuring gaze. “You’ll have to do… temporarily.”

 "Those Scarran bastards are turning raising the temperature in here... I can feel it." He pivoted for the hangar's only other exit, gesturing over his shoulder for the others to follow. "Let's go. Liet… bring her.”

 The tattooed henchman obediently turned to Rachel, grabbing her upper arm. “Come on.”

 "No." Rachel said, planting her feet. Her arms remained folded defiantly across her chest. "I am not going anywhere. I refuse."

 "You.. what?" Liet said, incredulous. Defiance was apparently an alien concept to him. "Are you mentally damaged?"

 "I'm not going anywhere. No." Rachel stepped back, dragging him with her.

 "Listen, healer. Ix is doing you a favor. Understand?” Liet licked his lips and regarded the dimly lit corners of the hanger. He continued in an intimating whisper. "Do you know what Scarrans do to prisoners… female prisoners in particular?"

 "I don't care," Rachel said. She regarded him. This one seemed to be somewhat sensitive beyond the menacing facade. "My co-pilot is here. He needs-"

 "Your co-pilot is as good as dead," Liet hissed, dismissing the rest of her argument. He dragged her forward, intending to follow his boss.

 Ix was a silhouette in the mouth of the hangar, when he called back to them. "Liet… why am I waiting?"

 "Please," Rachel pled. She tried to pull herself free of Liet's, firm grip. “You don’t understand.”

 “I'm sorry.” Liet muttered, rummaging through the folds of his dingy tunic. He paused to look at her. "Nothing personal, alright?"

 "What-"

 He moved with deceptive speed. Rachel felt a nearly painless jolt beneath her jaw. For the second time that day, the word, the hateful, strange place that it had become, abandoned her to the blackness.

The story of Rachel Northway continues with

Nemesis Part Three