Over a year ago, I jokingly suggested a crossover to my wife, Gabriella, and she evinced an immediate desire to assist me; it thus became an inevitable rather than a potential project.

We think it will be highly entertaining; and, who knows, it may even inspire a few people who've been resisting hitherto to check out this incredibly addictive show—if only on DVD, now.

Commander John Crichton didn't often dream…

…and when he did, they usually weren't the good kind—the kind that, if uninterrupted, had you grinning for days afterward.

This one, though, had real potential.

In it, Officer Aeryn Sun, former Peacekeeper, current shipmate, and the woman he knew he'd love forever, was leaning on his ship… and very forthrightly explaining her position. Gone were the stern leathers she'd always worn, and in their place was a pretty little silken sundress, white with a floral print. The bluebells matched her eyes…and the spiked, strapless pumps were an excellent touch.

"You know," she was saying, "I've been giving it some thought… and I've decided that your efficiency would improve immensely were we to have sex on a regular basis; all this pre-pubescent mooning would disappear, and you could act your age."

Aeryn twirled a strand of dark hair around her finger, and approached him with intent. Her thin lips curled into a smile; her severe but lovely features softened.

"Besides, I have to admit… you're pretty cute."

She embraced Crichton, turning him so his back was pressed against the cool metal of his shuttle, Farscape One; her body molded itself against his… he reached for her… she whispered…

"…prepare for immediate starburst!"

"Huh?! Wha–?!… ow! Damn it!"

The transition was quite unwelcome, but it least it had the virtue of being quick; in a second, Crichton went from pleasantly pinned against his ship to unpleasantly crushed against the floor in his quarters.

He struggled upright, shook himself fully awake, and then demanded, "Pilot, what the hell is g–… whoa!"

The sudden, violent lurch to starboard slammed him into the bulkhead and left him deposited right back where he'd begun—his bunk.

The appeal, though, had worn thin.

"Pilot!" he roared.

The response was just as loud… and held a hint of real panic.

"Crichton, it's a Peacekeeper squadron. They were concealed in the asteroid field orbiting the commerce planet!

"They're all around us!"

***

Scorpius didn’t often smile… and when he did, it didn't bode well for anyone else.

The particular expression was not one that held much meaning for him. He was rarely happy, so a demonstration of joy—which is its primary purpose—wasn’t often necessary. He felt no need or desire to make those around him more comfortable; thus, its second, that of reassurance, was equally as rare.

Now that feature has a number of stunted relatives, and Scorpius was familiar and adept with them all: Sneers; grimaces; even malevolent grins—especially malevolent grins, which come with particular ease to a pasty-faced, black-clad cadaver… all had their place in his repertoire.

But a smile—a genuine one—was a real rarity.

Scorpius was smiling now.

Around him, the bridge of his command carrier was a vision of frenetic purpose, those present well knowing that their very lives hinged on the efficiency of their performance.

Motivated self-interest, Scorpius thought, is the most effective of suasions.

As his ship approached the vessel Moya, the desperate leviathan began a series of evasive maneuvers… but was not a craft known for her agility. The efforts were worthy, but ultimately fruitless.

One of the newer staff members, a lieutenant whose exuberance hadn't yet been weathered into the careful theatricality of the other officers with whom he served, approached, polished and precise, and snapped to rigid attention.

"You may give your report," Scorpius allowed, amused at the display.

"Prowlers launched and closing on target; main batteries primed and ready to fire as we reach optimum range; boarding contingent prepared to embark.

"Further orders, sir?"

For a moment, Scorpius considered the young man before him. It might be interesting to see whether he could be molded into his idea of the perfect officer—one who possessed the ruthlessness and innovation to be left to his own devices, but who understood ambition that didn't coincide with his master's purpose was not to be tolerated, or even considered.

That balance was difficult for even him to find, let alone maintain. The fact that others had the temerity to possess minds and wills of their own was a source of constant irritation. Yet he acknowledged that it was a necessary evil; while automatons had their place, they had their limits, as well.

"Not at this time, Lieutenant. Continue operations."

"Sir!" the boy acknowledged, and withdrew to his station, there to throw himself into refining whatever portion of the assault was his.

In a moment, all the elements were in place, awaiting Scorpius' final order to attack.

As the noose, however, began to tighten, Moya's tail sparkled with a charge of electric plasma. The effect worked its way forward, suffusing the great leviathan with incandescence. She looked as if she'd been dipped in liquid light.

Finally, in an explosion of energy, she was gone.

The bridge was immediately, carefully silent. No one wanted Scorpius' attention—especially not now.

Well, with one exception.

"Sir… the leviathan has executed starburst.

"We've lost her."

Ah, a young military mind, the half-Scaran reflected. A grasp of the obvious, and a desperate need to express it—however imprudent such might be at any given moment.

"Thank you, Lieutenant," Scorpius granted wryly. "Secure from combat readiness; plot the most likely directional vectors the leviathan would have employed, and present your findings to me within the hour."

"Sir… yes, sir!"

Moya—and John Crichton—had escaped him again, it seemed… yet if his Peacekeeper brethren could have looked into the labyrinth that was his mind, they would have found Scorpius dwelling on but a single word.

Excellent.

***

Some people, Molly Ainsworth knew, adhered religiously to a mode of reassurance called "comfort food." They ate it, whatever it happened to be for each individual, to make themselves feel better when things weren't going well. Judging by the number of men and women she'd encountered who needed to lose a few pounds… or a few dozen… it was, no pun intended, a widespread viewpoint—whether people wanted to admit it or not.

Right now, things weren't going very well at all for Liberty and her crew… and she wagered the replicators were working overtime.

Fortunately for Molly's waistline and hips, however, she didn't subscribe to this philosophy. Instead she'd long ago adapted, as her panacea, "comfort prose"—stories she would read again and again when life grew too difficult, or even frightening, to easily endure.

And being stranded with no idea where home was qualified as frightening to her.

She'd never been able to sleep immediately after a shift, anyway—even the 16-hour ones everyone had been working for four days. Downtime, for her, was not only desirable, but absolutely necessary: If she couldn't withdraw into a realm of her choice, however briefly, on a regular basis, she gradually handled the real world with less and less grace.

And so, with more reason than she'd perhaps ever had, Molly Ainsworth read her stories.

One such tale—"Kaa's Hunting" by Rudyard Kipling—lay on her lap, open to one of Molly's favorite scenes: The mighty, venerable python, impressed with the "wolf" cub Mowgli's comportment, hisses the compliment, "A brave heart and a courteous tongue… These will take thee far in the jungle..."

For some reason, she'd read that line over and over again for the last five minutes, until it had become a mantra—nearly, she supposed, a brief litany.

"Molly"… "Mowgli"… funny I never noticed that before in thirty years of reading.

Mowgli the Frog…

It was in that moment she had a minor epiphany.

So that's why Brett King always calls me "Froggy"!

Hmmph.

Before she could begin planning her literary vengeance, however, thoughts of another piece written by the incredibly clever, annoyingly partisan Englishman Kipling intervened. It was another philosophical meander—one, on reflection, Molly was surprised Starfleet had never adapted as an unofficial motto. Reaching for another of her antique volumes, she leafed through it with practiced ease, and began to read aloud.

"'If you can keep your head when all about you are losing theirs and blaming it on you…'"

Her comm badge beeped.

"T'Laris to Ainsworth. Report to sickbay immediately."

Speaking of someone who'd probably like to see me lose my head… via decapitation, that is...

"I'll be there in five minutes, Sub-commander."

I can't wait to hear this.

***

T'Laris was sitting up in a bed strewn with PADDS and tricorders—despite specific medical instructions, Molly wagered. Irritation was graven on her features… but, considering how well the two got along customarily, Liberty's linguist managed to take it, for the most part, as a natural consequence of their proximity.

Sort of like two pieces of uranium.

The Romulan greeted her coolly.

"Lieutenant… stand at ease."

Compliance had been easy: Molly hadn't been at attention, anyway.

"You wanted to see me, ma'am?"

"Say rather," T'Laris corrected, "that I required your presence."

Whoops… walked right into that one.

"As you know, our personnel situation is… problematic. Manpower shortages are already beginning to take a toll on efficiency and… morale…"

The infinitesimal hesitation before and after the word let Ainsworth know that T'Laris was not particularly impressed with having to concern herself with the latter. Romulans were notoriously, rigidly stoic in their concepts of commitment to duty, and personal contentment was not at all a major consideration for them. To her credit, though, the X-O was addressing it with this crew—however distasteful she found it.

"…and the lack of individuals capable of rendering assistance along those lines must be rectified.

"To that end," she continued, "I have scrutinized our personnel files, examining in detail both educational accomplishments and inherent adaptability—as well as giving serious consideration to personality traits.

"Inconceivable though this may be to you in light of that last, Lieutenant Ainsworth, as it certainly was to me, you are the person remaining aboard that is most qualified to serve in the function of ship's counselor."

Molly blinked at her.

"I beg your pardon?"

T'Laris actually smiled then. If raptors could change expression just before the kill, Ainsworth imagined it would look something like that.

"The human tendency to beg, while apropos in relation to Romulan superiors—a redundancy, that, actually—will not serve you with me. As of this moment, you are ship's counselor, with brevet rank of lieutenant commander. I have taken the time to prepare a reading list for you; no doubt you will wish to augment it with selections of your own.

"'No doubt,'" Molly echoed.

"You will report to the bridge at 0655 hours for your shift, which will continue until Captain Mantovanni releases you. Familiarize yourself with the duties to which you've been assigned when we are finished here.

"For now, I shall continue your martial arts lessons."

"Huh? You're sick in bed."

"Infirmity does not excuse me my responsibilities. We shall practice hand strikes and upper body katas. Mobility is not required for these.

"Now…" and she carefully set her electronic "paperwork" aside, "…demonstrate for me the hv'raill strike. Ready…?"

She hadn't been, but managed to prepare in the instant before T'Laris continued.

"Chavah!"

No wonder she wanted a private room, Molly thought.

The better to torture me.

After only twenty minutes, though—a twenty minutes that nevertheless left Molly sweaty and frustrated—T'Laris called a halt.

"That will be sufficient for today."

Then, the Romulan said something which left Molly incredulous… and, ten minutes later, practically exuberant.

"Your technique is slowly improving. You no longer make me tremble with disgust.

"Dismissed."

Wow, she thought while walking down the corridor of deck five only minutes later, a compliment from T'Laris—well, such as it was.

Something made her glance at her wrist chronometer.

0648.

Lieutenant Commander Molly Ainsworth—sweat-soaked, exhausted and aggravated—became suddenly aware that she was due on the bridge in seven minutes.

That bitch! She did this on purpose!

As she broke into a frantic sprint towards the turbolift, Molly's mind savored agonies for her Romulan tormentor…

…and, in the midst of showering, changing, and dashing for the bridge, actually managed to devise one.

In the midst of far greater considerations, Luciano Mantovanni recalled T'Laris' guarantee that Liberty's new counselor would not be late for her first shift…

…and just then, the compact tornado that was Molly Ainsworth blew off the turbolift and practically launched herself over the railing, to reach and settle into her seat even as the chronometer shifted to read 0655.

As good as your word, ladies.

"Good morning, Commander."

For a moment, she didn't answer. He arched a brow, and prodded, "Commander Ainsworth?"

She affixed rather bleary eyes on him, then seemed to suddenly recognize that she was Commander Ainsworth, and blurted, "Good morning, Captain."

It was interesting to see the woman a bit off her game; usually, she was a quip a minute, much like the incorrigible Brett King, now at weapons control.

Today, evidently, "groggy" was the operative word.

Parihn glanced back from conn.

"Sir… Sera reports we're ready to activate the drive, at your convenience."

For a long moment, Luciano Mantovanni considered his options… then had an amusing thought.

He abruptly asked, "Any advice at this juncture, Counselor?"

Molly replied with a tight, "Close your eyes and grip your chair really hard."

Liberty’s captain glanced at her for the first time in some minutes, and smothered a smile at noting that Ainsworth was doing just that herself.

He whispered, "I like an officer with the confidence to take her own advice."

Mantovanni wasn't quite sure whether she'd actually muttered, "Wise ass," under her breath… but considering the fact that it was an accurate description, he simply nodded, suppressed another grin, and turned to more important matters.

"Parihn… go."

***

Six million years ago, a certain ape—proto-proto hominid, at best—decided he wanted to see how the other half lived.

He climbed down from the tree in which he'd been perching, first to examine the forest floor, and then to commence an unsteady lope towards the sunshine-drenched grasslands on the very border of which he lived.

He didn't stay on the ground long, since the lion he encountered halfway towards his goal had other priorities than to let him complete his journey. Suddenly the trees had seemed much safer, if not as interesting.

But the seed of desire had been planted.

He had to know what was out there.

Six millennia ago, an entirely too young, entirely too thoughtful warrior had stood on the periphery of his village—the only world he had ever known—glanced back…

…and then moved forward into the unknown.

Six centuries ago, a grizzled but determined Scottish chieftain, stirred perhaps by the blood of his Viking forbears, had set out from the Orkney Islands in a boat to seek new lands—though many had called him mad and sworn he would sail off the edge of the Earth.

Still, he had gone.

Six decades ago, a young boy had looked at the moon, and confidently declared that he would someday stand on it.

He, too, had gone.

Six years ago, the descendant of all these adventurers, one John Crichton, had stood and argued passionately to his father and the doubtful members of his organization that the Farscape project was a viable one…

…and, when they'd refused to listen, had at first moved forward without them.

Six months ago, that same man had learned that the price of advancing knowledge was facing the monsters that lurked just off the map's borders, past the margin in which careful writing declared, "Here be dragons."

Six weeks ago, the monsters—or, at least, his own personal demon—had caught him…

…and in the Aurora Chair, he had learned that strength, resolve, and perhaps even love, were at times powerless in the face of determined evil.

Six days ago, he had escaped falling into the hands of that monster yet again, fleeing further into the Uncharted Territories along with his companions aboard Moya.

Six hours ago, he had once dreamed of Aeryn.

Six minutes ago, she had rejected him again.

Six seconds ago, he had wandered onto Moya's bridge, thinking of science fiction, science fact, and the science of his heart's desire.

In six seconds, he will wonder if the science of his philosophy can truly cope with what he's seeing.

WORK ON THIS STORY HAS BEEN SUSPENDED

AND WILL PROBABLY RESUME IN SPRING/SUMMER 2006