Crichton raced into Pilot's Den, stopping short at the sight of the purple creature sitting there. He couldn't begin to describe the destruction that death had wreaked upon Pilot's body, watching the hard exoskeleton slowly crumble into nothingness, blown away by the ventilation fans. Shell and lumpy flesh remained, piled in a shapeless heap.

It had all gone so quickly. One day Pilot was fine, with no knowledge of the disease coursing through his body, and the next… Crichton ran a hand along a curved section of claw. They were left with this. Pilot was dead. And that meant…

He spun around as the sound he had been hearing all along but until now, hadn't noticed penetrated his awareness. Moya was groaning in agony, lost and terrified without her Pilot. The sound of raw grief echoed through the chamber, bouncing over the walls and washing over the remains of her guide.

"It's going to be okay," Crichton shouted, wondering if she could hear him at all. "I promise, we're going to fix it." He ran a hand along Pilot's station, trying to convey some measure of comfort to the suffering ship. "We're going to fix it."

He didn't tell her that he had no bloody idea how.