The Official Farscape Magazine No.12
Exclusive interviews with Gigi (Chiana) Edgley and Rockne S. O'Bannon An episode guide to the entire series, including synopses, trivia and commentary by some of the behind-the-scenes "Farscape" brains Massive cast poster featuring every Farscape character (almost)! "Farscape" readers poll results including acceptance speeches from the winning actors Executive producer David Kemper’s final column, in which he answers readers' questions about the series 'Goodbye' speeches to the "Farscape" Magazine readers from some of the main cast Gorgeously illustrated features on the show’s Creature Shop and the art of "Farscape"!
"HORIZONS"
A Farscape short story by Rockne S. O'Bannon(This story takes place long after the end of season four)
Crichton awoke moments after the first sun crested the horizon. He had purposely never put a covering over the north facing portal because he liked awakening naturally and the gentle light of the first sun did the job perfectly. One of the countless reasons he had chosen this planet on which to build his home.
The structure was no more than five cycles old, built by Crichton himself - with occasional help from some Jash-nak labourers he hired to help with the bigger tasks like transporting wall slabs and shaping the foundation. It was simple in design and function, in the natural colours and style of the American southwest. Crichton wasn't sure why he decided to build it this way - but it seemed to best fit the rusty clay soil and stark green vegetation of the expansive valley where it resided.
The furnishings were as spartan as the six-room dwelling itself. Having been a man on the run for so many cycles, he'd long ago become used to maintaining very few personal possessions. If there was one thing he'd learned living the vast majority of his life at this end of the universe it was that simple, basic, functional things were always most effective. His first glimpse of that was his early days out here in what used to be known as the Uncharted Territories. Those first cycles spent aboard Moya he dedicated every spare moment to studying the remarkably elegant functionality of the living ship.
The thought of Moya gently nudged him back to today's events.
"You're losing it, John. Mind wandering like that. You're acting like an 80-year-old man..." Which John Crichton certainly wasn't.
He was 311 years old.
As Crichton rose from the bed, he felt the usual stiffness in his joints - elbows, knees especially - and his back always ached for the first arn or so after getting up. But considering he lived nearly four times as long as he would have if he'd never taken that fateful ride into orbit around Earth back in - what Earth year was it? 1999 - he wasn't going to complain.
The extension of one's natural life was one of the unknown benefits of Translator Microbes. Well, unknown to Crichton, at least, in those early days at this end of the universe. It seems Translator Microbes have long life spans of their own, and when their host's body begins to age, the microbes go to work, repairing failing systems, fighting off any pesky debilitating diseases. Crichton's little guys and gals had been performing this function on his behalf for nearly three hundred cycles.
Crichton moved across the Nebari Tecca rug - a gift from a very dear, old friend - and gazed out the portal. The valley was brightening - the second sun, the larger of the two, was just below the crest of the distant mesas, its rich copper light already splashing across the magnificent unspoiled vista that sprawled before Crichton's view.
Growing up in North Carolina, Crichton truly loved his family home. As with all adults - well, human adults, he couldn't speak for the myriad other species he'd met over the centuries - but like human adults, Crichton thought such a warm, comforting cocoon of family and home was something only a young child could experience. But here he was at the other end of his life - and he had that once again. He loved this house he built. For the longest time he thought he might never have a place to call home again. Yet here he stood. There was only one thing missing to make it perfect. One person.
As Crichton stared out, the second sun began to appear in earnest, the light very bright, but Crichton didn't look away. He was lost in a reverie and it was only someone's face he saw before him. Finally the sun cleared the mesa completely and Crichton blinked, his reverie broken.
And the importance of this particular day returned to him. He had a funeral to attend.
Farscape: The Official Magazine No.12
Published every two months by Titan Magazines
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