Serendipity and Procrustes -- Chapter 4: Common Threads

         Crais let the shower's water pummel him for nearly an arn. The ferocity of the workout made every muscle in his body ache. His soul was in almost as much pain. Telling Senna about his ruin at the hands of Scorpius had been excruciating. Explaining his decision to take Talyn made his throat constrict with embarrassment. He must surely be losing his good sense. Only once before in his life had he swallowed his pride and justified himself to another person: the human, John Crichton.
          Senna accepted his story without judgment. She listened quietly, her face wreathed in genuine sympathy despite the cruelty she'd experienced thus far at his hands. Just as Crichton had forgiven him and welcomed him as part of Moya's crew. Humans--if these two could be taken as an example--were an incomprehensible species.
          As for this woman, he would never understand her, not if he lived to be a thousand cycles. She was a puzzle he could never hope to solve. He wasn't entirely sure if he even cared to.
          He turned off the taps and allowed the last of the water to dribble over his bent head. His long, black curls surrounded his face as he stepped out and reached for the towel. Swinging his hair back from his face, he saw her sitting on the end of his bed. He hurriedly wrapped the towel around his waist.
         "What are you doing in here?" he stormed. "You are never to enter my quarters uninvited!"
         "I'm sorry," she sighed but did not make a move to leave.
         "Get out! Now," he ordered as he tucked the towel more securely around himself.
         "It's not as if I've never seen a naked man before," She laughed a little as she respectfully averted her gaze. "You're right. We do need to come to an understanding if I'm to stay on this ship."
          Crais saw the neural transponder on the table near his bed and made to reach for it. His sore muscles betrayed him and he winced visibly. The biceps and rotator cuff of his right arm felt torn. He relented to the humiliating pain and spared her a murderous glare.
"You are not welcome in my private quarters," he hissed as the pain blossomed and spread like a fire throughout his upper back.
          Senna rose from the bed and took the neural transponder from the table, holding it in her hand as delicately as an egg. Crais attempted to lunge for it but his pain cut him short. The towel, loosened by his movement, began to sag. He adjusted it furiously.
         "Just calm down, Bialar." She said softly coming toward him. She reached to pull his hair aside causing him to try to jerk away from her. He grunted from the effort.
         "Do not touch me!" he hissed again silently cursing the agony in his muscles. "Give me that device or I will kill you."
          She chuckled at his remark making him growl between clenched teeth. He reached to snatch it from her, once again forced to stop short because of the pain.
          "Bialar, for once in your life unbend an inch and let someone help you." She said, a soft smile creasing her face.
          He glowered dangerously at her, but she held her ground. He knew that one day he would have to kill her with his bare hands just to salvage his sanity.
          Groaning, he moved slowly and with great care to the chair beside his console. He sat down cautiously, never taking his eyes from her reflection in the mirror before them. She made no sudden movements for which he was grateful. She stepped behind him, lifting his wet hair gently with one hand. She inserted the neural transponder gingerly into the socket at the nape of his neck. Talyn's senses rushed over him in an instant.
          "Do you have any type of liniment or muscle balm?" she asked as she opened the drawers of his console.
          "There," he motioned with his left hand at the bedside table. "Bottom drawer."
          She retrieved the ointment and was standing behind him again. She gingerly twisted his hair out of the way of the injured muscles. He flinched at her hot touch and she heaved a sigh of exasperation.
          "Bialar," she said. "Whether you choose to believe it or not, I'm not going to bite the hand that feeds me, okay? Besides, I used to make my living as a massage therapist. I had to put myself through college and being a street corner musician didn't pay the bills."
          He could smell the tang of astringent in the ointment as she rubbed it between her palms. Her hands began below his right ear and worked in ever widening circles down to his elbow and across his shoulders and back. As her delicate fingers stroked and kneaded she softly spoke to him, not in any way provocative, but he found himself mesmerized.
          "You said you grew up in a farming commune," she began. "A few years after my father died, my mother married my stepfather. He was a hippie from San Francisco and convinced her to join a free love commune in Oregon. She wasn't the smartest woman in our family and I think she secretly wanted to leave the whole Gypsy stigma behind."
          "Jeepzee?"
          "Now that's a can of worms," she smiled meeting his gaze in the mirror. "Gypsy, Gitano. Actually we're called the Rom people. There are all sorts of speculation about our tribal roots and how we migrated around the world. Suffice it to say we've always been outsiders. Outcasts, hated and accused of every crime known to mankind. The Nazis even tried to wipe us out in concentration camps along with the Jews during World War II. My own grandfather escaped from one when he was just a boy. His parents were fleeing one fascist dictator when they left our ancestral home in Andalusia, only to fall into the clutches of another.
          "The one thing they underestimated about the Rom is our ability to adapt and survive. When things get too hot, we know to pull up stakes and hit the road to greener pastures. We're not cowards. We're just extremely adept at knowing when to make an exit.
          "What most people miss in their haste to judge us is our enormous capacity for love and loyalty. And no one knows how to dance, drink and live as hard as we do. I was always proud of my heritage." she explained, the look in her eyes now very far off. "I was crushed when Mom took my sisters and I away from the family. And of course our clan officially shunned her when she married a gadje, a payo. . .a non-Rom. Thank God my grandparents didn't include me in that judgment."
          She finished the massage and found his tinaba wood comb on the console. She began to carefully run it through his tangled curls.
          "I used to travel with their caravan during the winter after the crops had been harvested at the commune," she went on, her voice taking on an almost dreamlike tone. "It was my grandfather who taught me the Flamenco guitar and my grandmother the danzas. . .dance itself. She was beautiful, even into her seventies. Her skin was like polished wood and her salt and pepper hair in waves down to her waist. At all the juergas, the parties, men would follow her with their hungry eyes when she danced. Her feet would stomp out the rhythm like thunder while my grandfather would play and sing. The people would scream out 'Viva la maquina esciber!'--long live the typewriter--from the sound her heels made on the floor. She was lightning fast, you see."
          "And the music," Crais said quietly, his eyes on her reflection before him. "Why is it so. . .compelling. Never have I heard such. . .pain."
          "It's said that the songs are inspired by pain," she explained meeting his gaze in the mirror with a sad smile. "They express the emotions that words can't. The cantes, songs, are like the contents of your heart if you could rip it open and let it pour out.
          "I took leave from work the summer before the Tirysp. . .acquired me," she continued. "I spent it with the clan. I guess I knew I would never see them again. My fondest memories are still of that time with them."
          "You sound as though you led a happy life," Crais said, closing his eyes and finally allowing himself to take pleasure in her gentle touch.
          "With my grandparents and the rest of my clan, yes." She admitted as she finished combing his hair. "My mother made my life a living hell. She hated my attachment to the old ways and tried in every way imaginable to make me forget them."
         "I understand," Crais said simply, sighing.
         "There," she said as she smoothed her hands over his hair. "You'd be a lot more comfortable if you wore it down, you know."
          He opened his eyes as he heard her moving from behind him. She placed the comb atop his console and returned the ointment to its drawer beside the bed. She walked to the door and as it slid aside she spoke over her shoulder to him.
          "Bialar, I want to apologize for the stupid, selfish things I've done since I've been aboard. I realize now that you've only ever tried to help me." She told him solemnly. "I would never deliberately do anything to bring harm to you or Talyn. From now on. . .whatever you say goes. No questions asked."
          He sat mute as she left him alone. His mind shouted suspicion. His heart was beginning to disagree.



          "Talyn, set indicator one zero nine silka vector mark four through eight seven luma." Crais commanded as he watched the holographic image of the nearest system. It swirled with vibrant red color in the center of the Gunship's command.
          After they successfully escaped detection by the Freydahl's marauder crew, Crais went back to work mapping the Uncharted Territories. It was a painstaking task, but fulfilled him in unexpected ways. He sensed that Talyn found it boring at times. His warrior nature longed for battle; the one thing Crais vowed to keep from him. After a quiet month in this sector they were ready to move on.
         "Have the Peacekeepers explored this far out?" Senna asked standing near the main portal.
         "Not while I was in command of the Mhultaan," he answered still concentrating on the three dimensional map. "Of course, the marauder crew's presence on that commerce planet would seem to indicate the Expeditionary Division is moving farther afield. I don't think it's a matter of spreading their influence, but making sure the Nebari haven't moved into the Uncharted Territories."
          "The Nebari?" she asked.
          "Probably the principal threat to Peacekeeper interests since Admiral EL-Vashti defeated the Scarrans," Crais explained, turning off the hologram and walking to Talyn's navigation panel. "I've always suspected it was the Nebari who took down the Zelbinion. No one else would have had the firepower. . .or the resourcefulness."
          "What's the Zelbinion?"
          "The greatest ship of the line in the history of the Peacekeepers. It was the largest, fastest and most powerful of all our command carriers. It was a cultural treasure and a legend. All captains once dreamed of commanding it. It was attacked and ravaged nearly a hundred cycles ago. All hands were lost." Crais explained, a hint of longing in his tone. At last he said bitterly, "I found it in my search for Crichton. It was fit only for salvage scavengers."
          "Have the Peacekeepers ever actually known. . .well. . . peace?" she asked him with a frown.
          He chuckled at her expression as much as the irony of the question. Smiling, he said: "Not in all the cycles I served them."
          "Ah, I see," she smiled in return. "An oxymoron. . .like Army Intelligence."
          He laughed at her humor, understanding it for once. He programmed the coordinates for starburst into the navigation panel before turning to face her.
         "We're finished here. Time to move on to the next system for mapping. Prepare for starburst," he told her and she took hold of the portal for support. "Talyn, engage."



          Crais watched as Senna connected her computer to a holographic imager. He agreed to examine the schematics she had designed for her AI division back on earth. His knowledge was rudimentary at best, but she assured him any help he might offer was welcome. It seemed important to her so he complied with her wishes.
          As he sat at the conference table in his quarters, he noticed a series of images on her computer's screen. He tapped one and it enlarged to fill the viewing area. It was a strikingly beautiful woman, long black hair falling in waves almost to her knees. The dress she wore was sparkling red, falling in graduated ruffles from her knees to the floor. A spidery black shawl trickled over the sensuous gown, its fringe caught in mid air from the motion of the woman as she danced. Her slender olive arms arched gracefully over her head, her delicate face caught in profile.
          "Who is the woman in this image?" he asked pointing to her computer screen. "Your grandmother?"
          She put down the cables she had been working on and came to look at the screen. She bit her lip and hit a single button on the keyboard. The image abruptly disappeared. Sighing heavily she returned to her work.
          "Well, is it?" he prompted not unkindly.
          "No," she said turning away. "It's me."
          Crais looked at Senna with bald disbelief.
          "It was taken the summer before I left with the Tirysp." She explained rearranging the connections a final time, her profile to him. "I always hoped I would age as gracefully as my grandmother. But, I suppose the last two cycles haven't been my best."
          "Your hair?" Crais asked tentatively.
          "As you've seen," she replied sheepishly. "I'm not the most cooperative slave. They shaved my head as a punishment."
          Crais considered this with a tight frown. He observed her features as she busied herself looking through a stack of discs. The freshness of youth was definitely absent, but the delicate features were the same. Her hair was growing out and now framed her face in a way he found compelling. For not the first time he thought of her ordeal with the Tirysp and what it must have cost her. He wouldn't wish it on his worst enemy. Though he did have to admit the notion of that mivonks-crushing nixar, EL-Vashti, enduring Senna's torment did amuse him.
          "What?" She asked head tilted quizzically at the far off expression on his face.
          "Oh, nothing," he replied, then admitted. "Just thinking of an old enemy."
          "Hope it wasn't something I said," she laughed.
          Inserting a disc into the computer's drive drawer she pushed a series of keys. She laughed with delight as the schematics swirled into life above the holographic imager. His office was bathed in a red glow nearly as bright as her dress in the picture. He narrowed his eyes and tried to read the holographic image.
         "As you can see, our AI work isn't nearly as advanced as the neural transponder," she began using her finger to point to various connections.



          Five months with their unexpected visitor aboard Talyn gave Crais time to fall into a new routine. Mornings were his alone as he prepared for his day by consulting with Talyn and setting the Gunship's tasks. Senna went about her chores of cleaning and cooking, often playing her guitar and singing when she was done. The tone of her voice and the melodies were of a different nature entirely now. He could not be certain what it meant, but the feelings it elicited left him uncomfortable.
          Midday brought them together for a light meal and conversation in the galley. He told her about his life with the Peacekeepers, always leaving it impersonal. He still could not trust her enough to share his emotions. Those only Tauvo, Larell and now Talyn knew. She would try to explain earth customs and traditions to him, though most were ludicrous in his opinion. Afterward, Crais would return to his work in Talyn's command mapping each sector they visited. Senna would often accompany him once Talyn approved of her presence on command. She would watch spellbound, touching nothing.
          Before the evening meal Crais would lead her through drill after drill in the combat room. She would never be a soldier, but his instruction left her more competent at defending herself against attack. No matter how difficult or how painful these sessions, she would hold her tongue. Long gone were her profane outbursts common before the close call with the marauder crew. He wasn't sure what made him more uncomfortable: the animosity at the beginning of her stay, or the quiet understanding they now shared.
          He couldn't say with certainty when his good sense abandoned him, but recognized it had taken flight somewhere along the line. Why else would he be doing what he was doing now? Morbid curiosity? Desire? His reasons were too unclear even to himself.
          Their daily workout was finished. They should be going their separate ways to shower and eat dinner, but this unfortunate compulsion was beyond his control. As he watched her sweat drenched face, flushed with exertion, he moved toward her wordlessly. With gentle fingers he keyed the unlock sequence on the prisoner control collar and carefully removed it from her neck. She rubbed the skin and smiled her appreciation.
          Before she could speak, he positioned her facing him in the middle of the combat room. He raised her hands between them and placed their palms together. For once he found it easy to ignore their oppressive heat.
          "Bialar?" she questioned, brows knitted. "Meditation?"
          "Don't speak," he told her quietly as he closed his eyes. "Just follow me. Do everything as I do. First, synchronize your breathing with mine, never removing your hands from against mine."
          He heard her sigh in resignation. When he was certain she was relaxed, he began the traditional movements. First circling their hands to his right, then to his left. It took only a few microts before he felt her surrender her will over to him, his strength alone making their motions. No woman had ever given in to him so quickly. EL-Vashti never had. His mind was filled with a thousand questions. Did she understand what was happening? Was she being submissive to gain his trust? Was this the appalling mistake he sensed it could be?
          As he relaxed the pressure of his hands against hers, she took up the movement. Circling their hands to her left then right as he had done. He opened his eyes to look hard at her only to find her face slack and eyes closed. If she was playing him for a fool, she was an excellent actress.
          Position after position they moved in unison, smoothly as if made to be together. From soldier's pose to rising star, mutual triangles to trees intertwined she silently followed him. Her breath joined his until neither took notice of it. As tradition dictated, some portion of their bodies touched at all times; hands, arms, even their feet. It was a sensual dance perfected over the course of countless thousands of cycles.
          Beginning the final movement Crais sat across from her on the mat and spread his legs into a wide 'v.' She imitated his position, placing the soles of her bare feet against his without prompting. They clasped each other's wrists and bent into the traditional motions of trust, forward and then back allowing the other to bear their partner's weight. She purred her delight as he pulled her forward over her spread legs.
          "Oh, God that stretch feels great," she sighed as her forehead reached the mat between her legs.
          Any sense of arousal Crais felt shriveled as though doused by ice water. He looked harshly at her as he shoved her upright. Why would she speak if she understood what was happening? Surely she must understand since she never missed a motion or single nuance.
          "What?" She asked seeming to sense his sudden anger.
          "Why did you speak?" he questioned roughly as he let her hands slip from his.
          "What? Talking is forbidden in Sebacean Yoga?" she laughed as she gathered her feet under herself and stood up.
          "That word has no meaning to me," he snapped, rising to stand before her.
          "Moving meditation," she explained with a smile. "I guess some things are just universal."
          "Yes," he said as he watched her retrieve her towel and mop her face with it. She did not understand. At least he was saved that humiliation. It was a mistake he would not repeat.
          "I'm making chumulk latkes tonight," she called after him as he reached the doorway.
          "You will be dining alone," he told her without looking back. "I am not hungry."