archiving older fic: Way Station
Oct. 14th, 2002 06:44 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
eve11Way Station
Farscape Peripheral Character fic, futurefic, thanks cofax and KodiakkeMax for the beta. Small spoilers for Into the Lion's Den 1 & 2
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The way station is a sliver hanging in empty space, like a hundred others Harfan has seen deep within Peacekeeper territories. A wide, smooth arch and gutted ends are the only testament to its violent past. It was a Command Carrier-- part of one at least. Maybe it was towed from the battle of Six Moons. Maybe not; at last word they were only six million metras from Ravan two, where High Command lost three carriers to the Scarrans in a single day.
Not that Harfan really cares where it came from. Thinking about it is just a way to pass the time. The main bay viewscreen gives him something to look at, even if it is just a way station.
The transport banks into its docking vector. Behind him Harfan hears Raineer regiment stir-- the creak of leather as officers shake long days of travel from their bones, the crisp 'tak' of bootheels on the metal-grated floor as someone-- Merova, of course-- steps up silently to join him at the viewscreen.
In the background he catches the wary, low muttering of the techs on break from Prowler maintenance. Techs hate way stations; the decay and battle scars jar their psyches. But that is because techs are nervous, weak, and not bred for war. There is no reason to waste time and resources to pretty things up. The pieces are still intact, still serviceable, and that suffices for soldiers.
As usual, Besha's voice rises above the growing murmur.
"Haven't we been here before?" he asks.
"Frelled if I know," Harfan says, playing the old joke. "I lost track."
Thin chuckles echo through the bay, though in reality no-one likes to be reminded of Raineer's perpetual reserve status. They have been shuttling between front lines for cycles -- fifteen solar days of hetch ten on the shortest vector across Peacekeeper space, or the stagger-steps of starburst from collared Leviathans. And lately they have seen more way stations than war.
From beside him comes a terse, "No, we haven't," and Harfan turns toward Merova in surprise. But her stance betrays nothing. Feet apart and head up, with her dark hair drawn tightly away from her face into the standard whip-tail and her gloved hands clasped behind her back-- she may as well be surveying battle terrain.
"Good work, Officer!" Besha's over-loud tone echoes through the bay. "Soon you'll be promoted to guarding techs and supply routes."
Merova tilts her head, narrows her eyes in almost a sneer. Harfan studies her, follows her as she turns stiffly around. She is impeccably uniformed, as she has been for the entire twelve-day
journey. As she always is.
"This station is six outer ring tiers, sections Premno two to five of a Sattha class Command Carrier," she says. "They've been decommissioned for forty cycles and this is the first one we've seen."
Lounging against a bulkhead, Besha gestures casually toward the viewscreen. "Funny, it looks like slag to me."
"Any mindless grot could tell the difference." Merova hefts her bag, shoulders her rifle, and leaves.
As he debarks with the rest of the company, Harfan scans the docking bay and sees nothing new.
----------
Fight. Flight. Way station. Flight. Way station. Flight. Fight.
Harfan accepts this pattern without question; High Command knows what it is doing and Raineer regiment goes where it is told. But in the stillness of the way station barracks, he wonders if the prefects at High Command know how hard it is to be an idle soldier. Harfan is known as a poor gambler and a clumsy lover, and they have thirty-five arns to wait for the next scheduled transport.
Disassemble pulse rifle, clean components, reassemble. Repeat.
----------
It takes some time before he notices Merova's absence. When he does it is the difference between solitary and alone; the same feeling as moving from secure terrain to hostile territory. No visible line crossed, but within a few steps something is lost.
It's not that he needs her, he tells himself. It's not like they talk or recreate. But he has grown used to having her at his back. He searches one hundred and eighty rows of the barracks room, followed by whispers and echoes, but she is not with anyone from Raineer regiment.
He finds her one tier up in a cramped, dusty hallway. Debris litters the floor. Scorch marks blacken the gray walls. Sitting there in her pristine leathers, Merova is a shiny splash of red. She doesn't tell him to leave so he sits across from her, wordless, for a while.
"How old are you, Harfan?" she finally asks. Her voice is crisp and close.
He fidgets, but he eventually answers. "Twenty-six."
"Hmf. You wouldn't remember, then."
He knows she is older but this is the first time he sees the age in her face -- fine lines shadowing dark eyes, two faint wrinkles surviving a quick, sad smile.
"Sattha class Command Carriers?" he asks, and instantly regrets it. After all, they don't talk. He should have stayed in the barracks. He doesn't know why he sought her out.
She shakes her head. "This Sattha class Command Carrier. High Command's finest frell-up. I . . . I was a cadet here."
Merova falls silent and Harfan can't answer. High Command knows what it is doing, he tells himself. High Command doesn't frell up.
"It was destroyed by sabotage." She picks at her gloves. "I didn't think even this much survived."
Sabotage. An ugly word. Sabotage means confidence, infiltration and betrayal. There is no honor in battles lost this way; Peacekeepers are trained from birth to recognize spies.
"Anyway, there's no reason for soldiers and grots to remember those kinds of failures," she adds.
Harfan silently agrees. Still, neither of them moves from the corridor.
"Raineer regiment," she says after a while. "Are you satisfied with it? With reserves and way stations?"
"Yes," he says automatically. It is not a soldier's place to be dissatisfied. But even as he speaks his eyes trace the line of her neck down to her collar, and he follows the hint of curves underneath the stiff uniform. Merova doesn't recreate with anyone. Harfan has heard the rumors; her wounds shame her. With a past tainted by sabotage -- it is no wonder she keeps her scars covered.
Harfan blinks. He doesn't want to see those scars either, he reminds himself. He doesn't want to know. He should have stayed in the barracks.
She takes in the decaying corridor with a glance. "I was going to be a Prowler pilot. Icarian Company. Then I barely made it out alive. And certainly not . . ."
She stops. For a microt he thinks he sees flames leaping and dancing in her eyes. But it is a trick of the light -- it's just the crimson blaze of her tunic reflecting on her face in the dim corridor. Then he realizes her gaze is tracking the scorch marks on the walls.
"Not unscathed," she finishes.
He wants to leave. Merova is a soldier in Raineer regiment, his silent comrade. She is not a frightened cadet, not anymore. She has survived the Scarran war for longer than Harfan's been alive; she has lived stone-faced through bloody battles, she has saved his life and he hers, and this here, this is just a way station.
He wants to leave, but instead he pounds a fist into the wall.
"It's just metal! Air. Barracks. It's nothing."
Merova stares at him. Past him. He can't tell what she sees.
"They should have left this one to burn."
"You sound like a tech." He spits the word with more malice than he intends. It startles both of them to silence. Merova blinks away whatever was in her vision, shifts her position. Harfan studies the floor.
When he looks up again it is to a flash of pale at the corner of his eye. Training reflexes click in, and he tracks the motion like he would pulse fire.
She has taken off her gloves. In six cycles he has never seen her without her gloves. She starts to stand.
"We're better than this, Harfan."
Her white hands flutter at her side like dying shilka moths.
"No--"
"Haven't you . . . haven't you ever wanted something more?"
"No!" He scrambles to his feet. She reaches out, and he backs against the wall. Empty gloves and bare hands fill the space between them until he is sure he will suffocate.
"Harfan--"
"We should go." Back to the barracks, the transports, the usual. He doesn't want to see Merova's scars. Insubordination -- she's breaking ranks, she's succumbing to battle fatigue, he should report her to Officer Urs.
"Look!" Merova pushes him back against the wall-- too close, brings her left hand denches in front of his face. One thin white line snakes across the palm.
"It's fine." Her words are not quite a snarl. "This one almost healed."
Battle fatigue. He doesn't want to report her to the psych screen. He reaches blindly for his holster, grips the first solid thing he feels.
Insubordination. He doesn't want to shoot her.
He comes up, not with his pulse pistol but with his timepiece. He stares at the symbols for four microts before they make sense.
"Forget this," he says. "Twelve arns. Only twelve more arns."
There is a breath of statue stillness, and then her hands fall to her side. She is stone-faced again, and they are two soldiers in a corridor like a hundred others.
"You're right, we should go."
Merova puts on her gloves and they go back to the barracks in the usual silence. Twelve more arns and the next transport arrives. Twelve more arns, and Harfan will leave this way station behind.
--------------
Farscape Peripheral Character fic, futurefic, thanks cofax and KodiakkeMax for the beta. Small spoilers for Into the Lion's Den 1 & 2
--------------
The way station is a sliver hanging in empty space, like a hundred others Harfan has seen deep within Peacekeeper territories. A wide, smooth arch and gutted ends are the only testament to its violent past. It was a Command Carrier-- part of one at least. Maybe it was towed from the battle of Six Moons. Maybe not; at last word they were only six million metras from Ravan two, where High Command lost three carriers to the Scarrans in a single day.
Not that Harfan really cares where it came from. Thinking about it is just a way to pass the time. The main bay viewscreen gives him something to look at, even if it is just a way station.
The transport banks into its docking vector. Behind him Harfan hears Raineer regiment stir-- the creak of leather as officers shake long days of travel from their bones, the crisp 'tak' of bootheels on the metal-grated floor as someone-- Merova, of course-- steps up silently to join him at the viewscreen.
In the background he catches the wary, low muttering of the techs on break from Prowler maintenance. Techs hate way stations; the decay and battle scars jar their psyches. But that is because techs are nervous, weak, and not bred for war. There is no reason to waste time and resources to pretty things up. The pieces are still intact, still serviceable, and that suffices for soldiers.
As usual, Besha's voice rises above the growing murmur.
"Haven't we been here before?" he asks.
"Frelled if I know," Harfan says, playing the old joke. "I lost track."
Thin chuckles echo through the bay, though in reality no-one likes to be reminded of Raineer's perpetual reserve status. They have been shuttling between front lines for cycles -- fifteen solar days of hetch ten on the shortest vector across Peacekeeper space, or the stagger-steps of starburst from collared Leviathans. And lately they have seen more way stations than war.
From beside him comes a terse, "No, we haven't," and Harfan turns toward Merova in surprise. But her stance betrays nothing. Feet apart and head up, with her dark hair drawn tightly away from her face into the standard whip-tail and her gloved hands clasped behind her back-- she may as well be surveying battle terrain.
"Good work, Officer!" Besha's over-loud tone echoes through the bay. "Soon you'll be promoted to guarding techs and supply routes."
Merova tilts her head, narrows her eyes in almost a sneer. Harfan studies her, follows her as she turns stiffly around. She is impeccably uniformed, as she has been for the entire twelve-day
journey. As she always is.
"This station is six outer ring tiers, sections Premno two to five of a Sattha class Command Carrier," she says. "They've been decommissioned for forty cycles and this is the first one we've seen."
Lounging against a bulkhead, Besha gestures casually toward the viewscreen. "Funny, it looks like slag to me."
"Any mindless grot could tell the difference." Merova hefts her bag, shoulders her rifle, and leaves.
As he debarks with the rest of the company, Harfan scans the docking bay and sees nothing new.
----------
Fight. Flight. Way station. Flight. Way station. Flight. Fight.
Harfan accepts this pattern without question; High Command knows what it is doing and Raineer regiment goes where it is told. But in the stillness of the way station barracks, he wonders if the prefects at High Command know how hard it is to be an idle soldier. Harfan is known as a poor gambler and a clumsy lover, and they have thirty-five arns to wait for the next scheduled transport.
Disassemble pulse rifle, clean components, reassemble. Repeat.
----------
It takes some time before he notices Merova's absence. When he does it is the difference between solitary and alone; the same feeling as moving from secure terrain to hostile territory. No visible line crossed, but within a few steps something is lost.
It's not that he needs her, he tells himself. It's not like they talk or recreate. But he has grown used to having her at his back. He searches one hundred and eighty rows of the barracks room, followed by whispers and echoes, but she is not with anyone from Raineer regiment.
He finds her one tier up in a cramped, dusty hallway. Debris litters the floor. Scorch marks blacken the gray walls. Sitting there in her pristine leathers, Merova is a shiny splash of red. She doesn't tell him to leave so he sits across from her, wordless, for a while.
"How old are you, Harfan?" she finally asks. Her voice is crisp and close.
He fidgets, but he eventually answers. "Twenty-six."
"Hmf. You wouldn't remember, then."
He knows she is older but this is the first time he sees the age in her face -- fine lines shadowing dark eyes, two faint wrinkles surviving a quick, sad smile.
"Sattha class Command Carriers?" he asks, and instantly regrets it. After all, they don't talk. He should have stayed in the barracks. He doesn't know why he sought her out.
She shakes her head. "This Sattha class Command Carrier. High Command's finest frell-up. I . . . I was a cadet here."
Merova falls silent and Harfan can't answer. High Command knows what it is doing, he tells himself. High Command doesn't frell up.
"It was destroyed by sabotage." She picks at her gloves. "I didn't think even this much survived."
Sabotage. An ugly word. Sabotage means confidence, infiltration and betrayal. There is no honor in battles lost this way; Peacekeepers are trained from birth to recognize spies.
"Anyway, there's no reason for soldiers and grots to remember those kinds of failures," she adds.
Harfan silently agrees. Still, neither of them moves from the corridor.
"Raineer regiment," she says after a while. "Are you satisfied with it? With reserves and way stations?"
"Yes," he says automatically. It is not a soldier's place to be dissatisfied. But even as he speaks his eyes trace the line of her neck down to her collar, and he follows the hint of curves underneath the stiff uniform. Merova doesn't recreate with anyone. Harfan has heard the rumors; her wounds shame her. With a past tainted by sabotage -- it is no wonder she keeps her scars covered.
Harfan blinks. He doesn't want to see those scars either, he reminds himself. He doesn't want to know. He should have stayed in the barracks.
She takes in the decaying corridor with a glance. "I was going to be a Prowler pilot. Icarian Company. Then I barely made it out alive. And certainly not . . ."
She stops. For a microt he thinks he sees flames leaping and dancing in her eyes. But it is a trick of the light -- it's just the crimson blaze of her tunic reflecting on her face in the dim corridor. Then he realizes her gaze is tracking the scorch marks on the walls.
"Not unscathed," she finishes.
He wants to leave. Merova is a soldier in Raineer regiment, his silent comrade. She is not a frightened cadet, not anymore. She has survived the Scarran war for longer than Harfan's been alive; she has lived stone-faced through bloody battles, she has saved his life and he hers, and this here, this is just a way station.
He wants to leave, but instead he pounds a fist into the wall.
"It's just metal! Air. Barracks. It's nothing."
Merova stares at him. Past him. He can't tell what she sees.
"They should have left this one to burn."
"You sound like a tech." He spits the word with more malice than he intends. It startles both of them to silence. Merova blinks away whatever was in her vision, shifts her position. Harfan studies the floor.
When he looks up again it is to a flash of pale at the corner of his eye. Training reflexes click in, and he tracks the motion like he would pulse fire.
She has taken off her gloves. In six cycles he has never seen her without her gloves. She starts to stand.
"We're better than this, Harfan."
Her white hands flutter at her side like dying shilka moths.
"No--"
"Haven't you . . . haven't you ever wanted something more?"
"No!" He scrambles to his feet. She reaches out, and he backs against the wall. Empty gloves and bare hands fill the space between them until he is sure he will suffocate.
"Harfan--"
"We should go." Back to the barracks, the transports, the usual. He doesn't want to see Merova's scars. Insubordination -- she's breaking ranks, she's succumbing to battle fatigue, he should report her to Officer Urs.
"Look!" Merova pushes him back against the wall-- too close, brings her left hand denches in front of his face. One thin white line snakes across the palm.
"It's fine." Her words are not quite a snarl. "This one almost healed."
Battle fatigue. He doesn't want to report her to the psych screen. He reaches blindly for his holster, grips the first solid thing he feels.
Insubordination. He doesn't want to shoot her.
He comes up, not with his pulse pistol but with his timepiece. He stares at the symbols for four microts before they make sense.
"Forget this," he says. "Twelve arns. Only twelve more arns."
There is a breath of statue stillness, and then her hands fall to her side. She is stone-faced again, and they are two soldiers in a corridor like a hundred others.
"You're right, we should go."
Merova puts on her gloves and they go back to the barracks in the usual silence. Twelve more arns and the next transport arrives. Twelve more arns, and Harfan will leave this way station behind.
--------------
