Prisoners: The Shattering

"My only love sprung from my only hate...."

        The flight deck was austere and silent. Vila reclined languorously on the flight couch, fast asleep after a bout with some adrenaline and soma. Cally meditated at her position, eyelids half-closed. Dayna brooded in silence, flicking a switch or two at her console just to relieve the interminable boredom. Tarrant paced back and forth between Zen's blank countenance and the flight couch. The only sound was Vila's increasingly sonorous snoring.

        The Liberator's course was set for the eighth sector, where a good deal of nothing lay. For three eternal days, hardly anyone spoke, and for three eternal days, Avon had taken leave of all his functions aboard the Liberator and secluded himself in his cabin. It was only three long days ago that he had gunned down his lover whom he'd thought long dead. The whole ship seemed to have taken on mourning and the attitude of a wake. Even Orac was silent.

        Tarrant abruptly ceased his pacing and announced to the occupants of the flight deck, "I'm going to see him. Someone has to."

        Dayna was startled out of her reverie of flicking switches and buttons and indignantly bolted down from her station, confronting the pilot with an anxious frown. "I don't think you should, Tarrant. Leave him be. It takes time and we owe him that, at least."

        "Come on, Dayna. You can't believe that locking yourself away for three days accomplishes anything. We've decisions to make and whether I like it or not, Avon's in command. He's going to have to face up to his responsibilities sooner or later. Preferably sooner."

        "Or you'll do it for him?" Dayna retorted defiantly. "I know what grief is, Tarrant."

        "And you think I don't?" Tarrant replied loudly and with more emotion than he'd wanted to convey, awakening Vila and rousing Cally from her meditation.

        Dayna's hard glare softened and she looked at Tarrant almost sympathetically, knowing she and Avon shared a thing Tarrant couldn't possibly fathom. "Who have you lost lately, Tarrant? And what's worse, have you experienced a monumental betrayal on top of that? Leave him be for a while longer. We'll manage."

        The weapons technician turned and abruptly retreated to her station before Tarrant could convince her that Avon should be disturbed. Her passive protectiveness annoyed the pilot, precisely because it was innately unobtrusive. Tarrant could not tolerate inaction for any length of time.

        He merely shook his head and made for the corridor. At the top of the stairs he turned and said, "Believe it or not, it's him I'm thinking about. He needs to come out of himself and rejoin the living."

        Vila, slightly more awake and listening with weary interest to the interchange, leaned back into his cushions and murmured, "If you call this living," and attempted to close his eyes again, determined to recapture the dream in which he'd been immersed before Tarrant and Dayna decided to interrupt the ships's silence with their arguments.

        Dayna still wasn't willing to leave Tarrant to his own devices. The thought of what a grieving, irrational Avon might do to him frightened her. "Oh, and you're the one to accomplish this feat?," she queried incredulously. "Cally or I can try later, but you're the last person he'd want to see right now."

        Tarrant gave them all a weak smile and said, "Yes, I think I can help him. At least, I can try." With that conviction, he disappeared down the corridor before Dayna could say another word.

        "Good luck," Vila muttered from the couch as he retreated from consciousness once again.

        Cally and Dayna stared at each other and could find nothing to say, though both women appeared worried and apprehensive. No one had attempted to communicate with Avon following that fateful episode three days ago, and no one knew quite what state Tarrant was liable to find him in.

        Tarrant found, much to his surprise, that Avon's cabin was unlocked. He'd knocked repeatedly and received no response, so he simply laid his hand on the printlock and the door opened. Uncharacteristically careless of Avon, especially if he desired a modicum of privacy. Tarrant slowly entered Avon's darkened quarters, again surprised that the dimness was illuminated sporadically by candles, of all things. At least three tall, ancient and aromatic wax tapers kept watch over Avon's disheveled form on the bed. With no little trepidation, Tarrant proceeded in Avon's direction. He found the Liberator's resident computer genius not asleep at all, but with his eyes wide open and riveted on the ceiling where the reflected flames danced and flickered in a random hypnotic pattern. In this coarse illumination, Avon resembled nothing so much as an alabaster memento man, a breathing monument to the dead, seemingly carved from the seine marble sarcophagi Tarrant had seen in museums long ago. Avon lay completely immobile except for the erratic and slow blinking of his eyes, which glistened in the candle light. Tears? Tarrant stood nonplussed for a few moments before moving even closer, wondering if the man would perhaps take a moment from his obvious grief to hurl him through the bulkhead for daring to disturb his private rites of mourning. Despite his sense of mission, the fact that he'd gotten this far into Avon's private sanctum disturbed him. Avon obviously noticed he was here, yet said and did nothing.

        As Tarrant hovered nervously for several long moments, desperately trying to decide on a convincing argument, Avon very slowly curled himself into a semi-reclining position and pinioned Tarrant with the oddest expression the pilot had ever seen on Avon's face. The diffuse and flickering light from the tapers enhanced the shadows of Avon's pronounced cheekbones, but could not hide the drying salt of old tears. The residue glimmered like diamond dust on velvet. And his eyes! Tarrant had seen the eyes of men in the heat of battle testifying to their fear and courage, and he'd seen the eyes of men in the throes of defeat, lust, and love. But he'd never quite witnessed the quality of raw vulnerability that he saw this moment in Avon's eyes. Knowing the man as he did, he couldn't quite believe it. This was Avon, seemingly invulnerable to the onslaughts of crass emotion.

        "Close the door, Tarrant. The light from the corridor is hurting my eyes," the computer tech whispered with extreme exhaustion.

        Tarrant did so, much surprised that he hadn't been summarily dismissed with an acid taunt or a cuff to the head. Despite his vaunted bravado, he still entertained a healthy respect for Avon. The man interested him and his own emotions were in turmoil just at this moment. He'd not been kickedout and Avon's demeanor was almost one of welcome and relief. Very curious. And Tarrant was nothing if not curious.

        The pilot managed to find a chair and brought it close to the bed. Without an invitation, he sat down and tried to frame what he was going to say to Avon, though the words he'd decided upon on his way to the cabin were leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. All the fine justifications he'd haphazardly prepared didn't seem to suffice, and he seemed at a loss. All of his bravado had diminished in the wake of the palpable pain emanating from the man lying there in semi-repose. Maybe Dayna had been right, but it was too late for retreat, dignified or not.

        "Well, Tarrant," Avon said more softly than Tarrant had ever heard him speak, "You must have a good reason for storming in here. I'd like to hear it." Avon shifted in his bed a bit lethargically, and his intentions seemed unagressive. Tarrant had been prepared for a volcano exploding, but not for this reticence, this near diffidence from the man who'd challenged him at every opportunity for the leadership of the ship they were on. Avon seemed pallid and nearly ethereal, his eyes dark, haunted bruises. And Tarrant admitted to himself that he really wasn't very good at this kind of thing, even with the knowledge of what Avon must be going through, having witnessed the entire event on Earth, in Servalan's palace.

        Tarrant cleared his throat and decided to forge ahead. "We've been talking, the crew and I," Tarrant lied skillfully, and we felt it was time for someone to come speak to you. Avon, it's been three days and...decisions need to be made, action needs to be taken. We can't just hang here in space, going nowhere...." The words came quickly and as dispassionately as he could contrive to deliver them, but he trailed off as Avon abruptly sat up and gripped his arm roughly. He was quite strong despite his lack of nourishment the past three days.

        "And you drew the short straw, did you, Tarrant?" Avon made a show of teeth and ungently released the pilot's arm. "I'd have thought you'd coerce Vila into it, or Cally," Avon drawled with a milder sarcasm than Tarrant had ever heard from his lips. "What's going on anyway, a crisis you can't handle without me? I just...want... a little peace, Tarrant." Avon glared up at him with all the defiance he could manage to muster in his spent condition. "Just a little peace. That's why I ordered a course into the eighth sector. Nothing there to distract us..." Avon trailed off, introspective and seemingly lost in his own thoughts. Tarrant felt acutely uncomfortable. He was seeing a side of the intractable computer expert that he had never imagined existed, an almost soft and weary side. Tarrant was surprised to learn that Avon was as susceptible as any ordinary mortal to betrayal and pain. Avon was full of surprises, as the pilot had come to know in the past, and was only too aware of at this moment.

        Unable to just sit, Tarrant rose and began to pace nervously. Avon's demeanor was languorous and his eyes followed the anxious pilot around the small cabin, fascinated in a remote fashion by the pilot's discomfort and diffidence. Tarrant spent a long few moments trying to compose his words, but Avon beat him to it.

        "Tarrant, sit down. I'm quite tired and you're making me dizzy. Do you have a problem with the eighth sector? If so, say it now and change course for somewhere that will provide more excitement for you. I really don't care at the moment." Avon shifted to lie down on his bed and resumed his examination of the upper bulkhead.

        Tarrant abruptly stopped his pacing and came close to Avon, presumptuously sitting on the bed, assiduously trying to minimize physical contact. "That's just it," said Tarrant softly, "You don't care. Can you believe how bizarre I sound to myself right now? Here's my big chance, and I'm sitting here trying to convince you that you have to come back to the flight deck and take command. I'm not quite sure I believe I'm doing this. But..." Tarrant announced breathlessly, "everyone is quite worried about you." Avon shifted and watched him expectantly, "Myself included."

        Avon managed a weak and morose smile, "Again, I thank you for your concern, Tarrant." The same old sarcasm, but without quite the same bite. Perhaps it was a small improvement, Tarrant thought.

        "I am concerned, Avon," Tarrant said as vigorously and sincerely as he could to reinforce the reality of his feelings.

        Avon didn't respond. No real surprise there. It was obvious that the man was extremely tired, not only physically. His spirit seemed spent, too. Avon's waxlike gauntness seemed even more prominent now, in the light of the guttering candles.

        "Are you up to talking about it?" Tarrant asked lightly.

        Avon's sorry attempt at a scowl was a small comfort, and Tarrant wondered why he'd bothered to dare ask the question. Avon's response certainly surprised him, though he still managed to evade the issue. "If you're so determined to stay here, why don't you make yourself useful and get a bottle from the cabinet? The key is in the drawer of my desk," Avon pointed to a darkened alcove, "and a couple of glasses. I'm parched."

        Tarrant did as he was bidden and discovered a fine collection of liqueurs in the cabinet to which Avon had directed him. Amazing that Vila hadn't pilfered it, he thought, as he brought out a fine brandy and offered it for Avon's approval. The computer expert nodded and Tarrant found two glasses and poured, handing one to Avon. They drained the first glass in silence and Tarrant poured another, silently and fruitlessly waiting for Avon to begin the conversation. The warmth of the liquor took the edge off the pilot's nervousness and enhanced his bravado.

        At a loss for a profound conversational gambit, Tarrant opted for small talk, saying, "This is good, very good," as he settled into the chair.

        "Of course, only the best," Avon responded dryly as he downed the contents of his own glass in two gulps.

        "Watch this stuff, Avon, it's pretty strong and..." Tarrant started, then thought better of finishing his comment. Avon ignored him anyway. Maybe this was exactly what Avon needed, a few good belts to loosen him up, release some of all that pent-up emotion. Funny, he'd rarely ever seen Avon touch the stuff, but the cupboard was stocked with the very best-as Avon said-most expensive liquors and wines money could buy. It certainly beat the hell out of Vila's rancid adrenaline/soma/and gods knew what else homebrew. Perhaps a decent bender would prove cathartic for both of them.

        Tarrant stopped sipping and chugged the fine brandy until his gut was aflame and poured himself another. Avon was already well into his third glass and beginning to sway a little as he sat silently, in his own world, on the edge of the bed. Tarrant noted that Avon seemed quite content to stare into the depths of his glass and decided the silence was too ominous and uncomfortable. Besides, his own speedy consumption was beginning to manifest itself in a manic desire to voice his concern for the computer expert's mental health as stridently and vocally as possible. Sitting here, staring into nothingness together, was hardly accomplishing anything.

       "Believe it or not, Avon, I'm a fairly goody listener," Tarrant said, opting for diplomacy over stridency.

        Avon took another long drink of the brandy and looked curiously at the pilot, twirling the glass slowly in his hand. "Perhaps, Tarrant. But right now, I'd like another drink, if you don't mind." Avon's voice and manner seemed as distant as the stars, but Tarrant poured another draught for each of them and they both drank quickly and quietly.

        The silence was companionable but uninformative until Avon, again on his back and seemingly staring at the ceiling, asked Tarrant, "Have you ever loved anyone so much that it ached?"

        The pilot noticed a very slight slur to Avon's words and felt a bit more confident, even if it was the confidence of the fine brandy Avon so willingly provided. The pilot was also shocked and thrilled to the marrow that Avon would even contemplate such an unexpected question. "As a matter of fact...yes." Tarrant's own words were beginning to slur, and he somehow managed to avoid an embarrassing stutter. The brandy was stronger than he'd thought. Both men seemed caught up in a reverie of memories just beyond the realm of articulation, as Tarrant poured yet another glass for each of them. It was undeniably relaxing and mellowing, this liquor. Tarrant's anxiety dissipated as he relaxed in the chair next to Avon's bed.

        "Well," Tarrant started again, "I mean, there've been many women, but none to which I'd formed a real attachment." Tarrant tried to dredge up a broken romance to provide some kind of analog for Avon's suffering, but found that nothing in his experience could truly rival the betrayal of a singular love, except... "My brother, well, I loved him more than anything. Perhaps it's not the same..." Tarrant trailed off as he desperately tried to grasp the realities of his own relationship in order to relate them to Avon.

        "Go on, Tarrant, tell me about your brother," Avon said distantly, but with wistful sincerity, his depleted faculties further diminished by the brandy.

        Tarrant started and hesitated, "He was rather difficult. I mean, I loved him and I think he loved me, but he was...distant. And sometimes, well, he was very hurtful, highly critical. Perhaps I was too young, or I didn't know him very well, but he meant the world to me, despite his cruelties. He could be that...quite cruel, so absorbed in himself. But he was all I had and I loved him."

        "Loved? Is he dead?" Avon asked tentatively.

        "No, I don't think so. I mean, I think I would have heard about it...I think..." Tarrant trailed off again with considerably more emotion than he would have revealed, had he not been drinking Avon's very potent brandy.

        Avon then reached over to the table by the bed where Tarrant had placed the bottle and poured them both another glass. The computer expert's eyes, even in the dying candle light, were already glazed, and his hand tremulous. Tarrant accepted the glass, not quite as bewildered, but still somewhat apprehensive, by the fact that he was sitting here getting drunk with Avon, discussing the impossible and improbable. Avon, by contrast, was completely unincredulous and seemingly accepting of Tarrant's revelations, almost mellow. Tarrant was finding this unlikely scenario oddly comfortable as more of the liquor burned its way down his throat, numbing his sensibilities.

        Avon was not at all oblivious to the effects of the brandy. Despite his much vaunted reserves he was physically exhausted, and his mind raced erratically. He hadn't slept, nor had he eaten, for three days. The brandy was calming him and nauseating him slightly at the sane time, but it felt right and comfortable. Even Tarrant's presence and story was a comfort of sorts. Deep inside himself, Avon didn't want to believe he was the only creature in the universe who felt so betrayed and miserable. His precious barriers were being dissolved by the liquor, but just at this moment he didn't care to maintain them. He was hopeful of discerning a model for his own pain in someone else's, and somehow find a way of dealing with it. Never in his experience, not even in the aftermath of that once certain knowledge of Anna's torture and death, had he felt so marked by the cold hard despondency that was his world at the moment, that seemed would be his world from now on. But, he was very nearly comfortably numb, now. That's how he wanted to stay, and he wanted Tarrant to keep talking, even if his ramblings provided only the background noise against which Avon could suffer. He could almost smile at that unbidden thought, as Tarrant was always given to talking far too much. Now, the pilot was strangely and incongruously silent for some reason.

        "It's a very bad time to shut up, Tarrant," Avon drawled drunkenly and suppressed a nearly irresistible urge to giggle. Avon averted his eyes from the pilot, afraid that the sight of Tarrant's indignation would cause the computer technician to burst into either uncontrollable tears or laughter. "I'm really well and truly out of control," Avon whispered, barely coherently, to himself. He couldn't, however, find the strength to care.

        "What? Oh...well...I was just thinking of Deeta. He's my brother," Tarrant affirmed to Avon with an exaggerated nod. "Damn...What an unadult...undera...uh...right bastard he was, too, now that I think of it. Why, in the name of all the bloody gods," Tarrant rambled and stared into the middle distance, "do we find anything lovable about...these people?" Tarrant made an expansive and graceless gesture with his arms. The pilot was now virtually sprawled on his chair, legs askew and arms flailing haphazardly to make his point. He noticed his not-quite-empty glass on the table, grabbed it and tossed the remaining brandy down in one swallow.

        "Do you hate him then?" Avon barely managed to ask. "What I mean to say...is could you kill him for...doing whatever he did to you?" Avon's head was beginning to throb and the room was beginning to spin. "I think I...need another drink," Avon rumbled and reached unsteadily over to the table, missing the bottle on the first try. The second attempt was more successful, and he sloshed more of the dark sweet brandy into his glass, and a good deal more of it onto the floor. Tarrant watched Avon's struggle with the bottle in fascinated detachment, trying to formulate an answer to Avon's question. Since nothing was forthcoming for the moment, it seemed wise to follow suit and pour himself another drink, as well. To his chagrin, he, too, drained most of the drink onto the floor and onto his trousers.

        Avon's response to Tarrant's discomfiture and annoyance was a drunken, glazed, but very expectant stare. It occurred to Tarrant that the whole scenario could be construed as comedic if Avon's doleful expression and his own soggy apparel hadn't driven home the tragedy of bitter memories. He remembered, as if it were yesterday, the horror of being seven years old and thrown, naked, shivering and crying in misery and fear, into a swift- running semi-frozen river. The imagery of roiling, glacially cold, diamond sharp and numbing ice-water drawing him into the darkest depths, the frantic struggle as his lungs seemed to burst and burn from the lack of air, and in the distance, Deeta's laughter from the rocks, aroused the deepest of hurts and betrayals. Deeta had been the only family he could remember since their parents had died when he was only two. The thought of his total dependence upon Deeta, his virtual worship of the person who should have been his protector, sickened him now.

        The incident at the lake was merely representative, but was the first indication in his child's mind that love was not unconditional and that treachery lurked in those one loved more than life. Deeta had finally fished him out of the frigid water, blue, numb to the bone, lacerated by sharp rocks and swift-flowing miniature icebergs, nauseous from the frigid water he'd swallowed, and barely conscious. He vaguely remembered Deeta mumbling something, in harsh and bitter tones, as he was being wrapped in a warm blanket, about needing to be toughened up and prepared for the unpleasant realities of life. In retrospect, Deeta was even more of a cynic than Avon appeared to be. In a way, Tarrant thought, he could now afford to be more philosophical about the needless viciousness of his brother, since much of Tarrant's experience since then had proved Deeta correct. It was indeed a brutal education his brother had bequeathed him, and it hurt; but Tarrant's memories of his upbringing were mixed with a paradoxical admiration and love for the man who'd reared him.

        Harsh lessons had been intertwined with occasional tenderness. It was somehow unreal that Deeta had only been seven years older than he; the elder Tarrant had seemed ancient and ageless, and occasionally wise, to the youngster who knew no other caregiver or model for behavior. Tarrant discovered that he was hard-pressed to sort out all the very strong emotions, especially in his present inebriated state, and Avon waited expectantly for an answer to his question. How could he answer, when part of him wanted to cold-bloodedly obliterate Deeta Tarrant for his betrayal of innocent trust, and another part wanted to embrace him lovingly? It was all too confusing. But Deeta had always demanded responsibility, even in one's most vulnerable moments; and responsible Del Tarrant would be.

        "There were...many times when I wanted to kill him. I might have done...eventually...if he hadn't left me to my own devices," Tarrant managed to articulate. "I love him, I hate him. I don't know what I feel anymore." Tarrant swayed on the chair as he took another gulp of his drink.

        After a silence of interminable length, Avon responded. "Anna and I...I was a complete fool, Tarrant. I didn't see the signs. And the really stupid thing is...I still love her. Even when I knew she was dead, I wanted to bring her back with me. Even when Servalan held the gun to my head, I could only think of how badly I wanted to hold her. I wanted to breathe life back into her and hope that the whole sorry mess was just a misunderstanding, a joke, a bad dream..." Avon's voice was rough with strain and emotion and strong liquor. In the dying candlelight, his eyes were glazed not only from drink, but from tears still left unshed. "...Or join her in whatever oblivion I consigned her to...and I hate her for what she's made me." Avon hung his head and sobbed, his drink wobbling precariously in a trembling hand.

        Tarrant reached over and, sympathetically, placed an unsteady hand on Avon's shoulder. He didn't consider the possible consequences of such a bold action. They were beyond that now. He whispered, "I understand, Avon...truly." Avon's shoulders were shaking perceptibly now as he wept silently, and Tarrant was becoming desperately uncomfortable, despite the drink and his own vulnerabilities. Deeta's "practical" lessons, and Tarrant's own techniques for recovery, were assailing him. Avon needed succor, desperately, but he also needed to go on, a reason to live. A distraction, a catharsis. But Tarrant's liquor-fogged brain was at a loss. Until he spotted the innocuous disposal unit on the far wall of Avon's cabin. Tarrant abruptly disengaged himself from his chair and staggered over to the unit and pulled the handle to open it wide. He looked back at Avon, who had composed himself and was silently watching him.

        "Things can't be so bad, Tarrant, that you're considering throwing yourself into the disposal chute," Avon drawled, sounding so much like his usual sardonic self that Tarrant was very nearly startled into sobriety. The very idea of Avon's laconic suggestion did, however, cause Tarrant to burst into laughter.

        "Target practice is what I had in mind, actually," Tarrant said as he returned to his perch nest to Avon's bed. Avon wiped his eyes with the palm of his hand, poignantly reminiscent of how a small child would rid himself of the evidence of tears, and with considerable self control and genuine curiosity, said, "Enlighten me, Tarrant."

        Tarrant smiled crookedly and picked up his half-empty glass, gulped the contents, and proceeded to toss the glass at the disposal from across the cabin. The resounding crash of glass against Liberator's herculaneum-enforced hull was deafening. Tarrant, of course, had missed his target and the shattered remains of his glass scattered across the floor of Avon's room.

        "Well," Tarrant sniffed, "that was meant to be Deeta."

        Avon gaped incredulously at the pilot and then at the bulkhead. "Which was he, the glass or the wall?"

        Tarrant's mouth formed a large "O" as he looked at Avon in acute embarrassment and said, "The glass, actually."

        Avon smiled wolfishly (or as wolfishly as he could manage under the influence of so much fine Cetian brandy) and benevolently slapped Tarrant's back rather hard. "Good man. Smashed the hell out of him!" Avon then picked up his own glass and lobbed it forcefully in the general direction of the disposal unit, nicking the edge, but it was ultimately and miraculously swallowed with a thud, and then the satisfying shatter of glass echoed into the bowels of the ship.

        "That was Anna!" Avon enthused for a moment, and then gazed at Tarrant in desperation. "I need...to let her go," he said sadly, but with certain conviction.

        Tarrant nodded vacantly, but wasn't going to be outdone. He got up and wandered over to Avon's drinks cabinet to remove a few more glasses. Before Avon could open his mouth, Tarrant viciously pitched one into the chute, not missing his mark this time. "That...was Jarvik!" Tarrant virtually yelled as the crystal shattered distantly. He handed a glass to Avon, who turned the fine crystal over in his hands. He seemed to think for a moment and swiftly volleyed the glass toward the chute. It shattered on the bulkhead. The force and angle of the collision caused a shower of shards to rain closely to both men.

        "That," Avon said with some surprise, "was Servalan." He gingerly picked up a shard that had landed on the bed and tossed it to the floor with the remains of the ruined crystal. A thin stream of blood welled up on his hand from the jagged cut and Avon gazed at the spreading crimson fluid. A few drops already spattered the coverlet with small dark rosettes. "Just the mention of that viper's name draws blood," Avon said quietly and sadly.

        Tarrant bent over to pick up a shard and kicked the rest of the glass into a corner. He turned it over and over in one hand. The crystal seemed to swallow the meager light of sputtering candles and the incandescence reflected from the strange material permeating the bulkheads. Everything seemed suspended in this one fragment, all the light, the pain, the silence. The cabin itself shimmered with suspense and tension, all focused on a thin slice of glass. It seemed to Tarrant that a thousand years passed by him and through the shard and back again. With casual ease, he pressed the glass to his palm until his blood obliterated the hypnotic light and he returned to the now of his presence on the Liberator and his attendance at Avon's living wake. Tarrant looked up to see Avon hovering unsteadily over him with an expression as brittle as the crystal impaling his hand, his deep brown eyes reflecting another nuance that Tarrant had never noticed before - need.

        The pilot stood and, very deliberately, pressed his own bloodied palm to Avon's, an interpretation of and response to his companion's need. Blood mingled, time stood still, and then there was something entirely new between them, something electric, but as familiar and comforting as choosing just the right word at the right time. It was as if something lost for too long was unexpectedly dropped at one's feet. No explanations were necessary because the sheer delight of the discovery obliterated all sense of loss. It was a sense of coming home, a perfect harmonic played on a violin. Too sweet for words, it shattered and filled the soul. Tarrant's mind groped for analogies as Avon's blood washed over his own.

        "What now?" Avon whispered as if flame had lodged in his throat. His voice had such a raw quality, Tarrant thought. Avon's lips were parted very slightly, very vulnerably. The fragile light created deep shadows on the planes of Avon's fine features and melancholy created such an illusion of softness that Tarrant was compelled to touch Avon's cheek lightly. Seemingly of its own volition, Tarrant's hand trailed down Avon's throat to the pulse point.

        Avon was perfectly still as Tarrant touched him. The intimacy of the moment, the tenderness, lacerated him viscerally. His emotions were so friable that he closed his eyes and leaned into Tarrant's caress. "This," Tarrant answered Avon's question and softly brushed Avon's lips with his own. Avon's hand tightened its grip on Tarrant's, more blood mingled as Avon stroked the pilot's palm and fingers in a sensuous massage. Tarrant could feel the rapid pulse in Avon's throat as he dared to deepen the kiss. Avon's lips parted fully and their tongues began the same dance as their fingers.

        Avon pulled the pilot down to the bed, his lips and tongue having moved from Tarrant's lips to his throat. Avon's groin was pinioned against Tarrant's and he began a slow pumping motion. His unbloodied hand stroked and kneaded Tarrant's buttocks until Tarrant's motions synchronized with his own. Breathing became nearly superfluous as both men began stroking each other's clothed bodies, careless of blood and dignity.

        The tenderness of a few moments ago became ignited by a desire so heated and powerful that Tarrant found himself tearing at Avon's clothing. The tech's eyes were glazed with passion and seduction, inviting Tarrant to strip him right down to his soul. It was fortunate that Avon was wearing a loose soft tunic and trousers in place of his normal leather armor. Tarrant, in his ardor, virtually ripped the tunic from Avon's shoulders, revealing a slender, but well-muscled chest. Avon's arms were flung over his head and his smile was the most seductive thing that Tarrant had ever seen. Avon sensuously lifted his hips for Tarrant to undo the trousers and pull them off, leaving only Avon's briefs. Avon's erection was all too evident and Tarrant softly caressed it through the thin material. Avon's hips thrust into Tarrant's hands and the pilot reached inside to stroke the shaft that was aching for release. With a sultry smile to match Avon's, Tarrant bent to suck Avon's nipples as his hands worked magic on Avon's penis and testicles with slow languid strokes. Tarrant could feel the tech's trembling muscles, the control which just barely held his climax in check, as he licked his way down Avon's torso to his groin.

        Avon felt any control that he had slipping as Tarrant's tongue grazed his chest. This was madness, but a madness so erotic and pleasurable that he could lie like this forever, allowing Tarrant to meld his synapses into ecstatic oblivion. Missing was the pleasure of Tarrant's flesh on his own. Avon gathered all his reserves and grasped Tarrant's hands and head as the pilot's tongue approached Avon's nexus of pleasure, startling Tarrant into stunned stasis. "Strip, Tarrant, or I'll do it for you," Avon managed to rasp, quite aware of his own physical desperation, but unwilling to meet his partner on unequal ground.

        "Do it for me," Tarrant raggedly whispered in Avon's ear and then languorously inserted his tongue to punctuate the invitation. Avon flipped Tarrant over and straddled him. The tech's erection bobbing over Tarrant's torso was the object of Tarrant's gaze, whose tongue slowly and sensuously circled his own lips in anticipation. Avon, wild with lust and Tarrant's desire for him, peeled the clothing off with ease. Avon wasted no time and firmly circled Tarrant's erection with his lips and sucked as if he could only survive by extruding Tarrant's life-force into himself. Tarrant thrust repeatedly into Avon's mouth, almost jamming the engorged shaft down Avon's throat. The salty elixir jetted and Avon swallowed as he stroked the base of Tarrant's shaft, slick with the nectar of passion.

        Tarrant appeared to contract into an acute languor as Avon looked down at his sweat-slicked body. Tarrant was heavy-lidded and breathless. Avon smiled his secret smile and laid his head on Tarrant's chest. Even in pleasure, Avon assured himself that he could best anyone.

        Old habits of dominance died hard. But even in this small triumph, Avon was aware of his own aching flesh and guided his pilot's hand to his own rigid penis. As Tarrant stroked, Avon rocked his hips rhythmically, his arms straddling both sides of Tarrant's head. Tarrant became bolder. A wicked and mischievous gleam in his eyes, a trick of light perhaps, should have warned Avon of Tarrant's tender treachery. Avon was becoming lost in the sensations of Tarrant's palm and fingers when a sudden squeeze of the sensitive scrotum sent him off balance. A recovered Tarrant tumbled the dark-haired man over to the side and onto his stomach. Tarrant deftly straddled Avon's buttocks, long legs effectively pinioning him to the bed. Avon gasped in consternation, more for the loss of the very pleasurable sensations of Tarrant's strokes than his sudden change of orientation. Tarrant chuckled lasciviously and bent down to whisper, "Turnabout's fair play, Avon." Avon moaned into the bedclothes as Tarrant reached beneath the tech to pick up where he left off. Tarrant's legs loosened their grip and Avon's hips rose to accommodate the pilot's skillful hand on his quivering flesh. Avon spread his legs to gain purchase for his knees and bucked in rhythm to Tarrant's stroking. Tarrant began to stroke Avon faster with one hand as he kneaded the tender white flesh of Avon's buttocks with the other. The sight of the computer tech so vulnerable to him in lust, the sound of Avon's low guttural moans of pleasure and need, filled Tarrant with fierce awe and desire. Tarrant was engrossed in the absolute necessity of pleasuring this man writhing in his hands. Tarrant eased himself down Avon's body, loosening the grip of his legs further. While bestowing full attention to pleasuring Avon in front, Tarrant's other hand spread the taut muscular cheeks. Finding the bud, Tarrant inserted a long finger, advancing oh-so-slowly and sensuously into the tight hot cavern. Tarrant bent to lick the tender skin adjoining Avon's back and hips. Avon bucked and went rigid against Tarrant and finally came in a torrential shudder into the pilot's hand. The musk and salt smell of Avon's orgasm drove Tarrant into a frenzy. He drove his finger deeper as Avon's life juices jetted endlessly. The tech abetted him by crushing his buttocks against Tarrant's hand, inviting deeper penetration. Tarrant was hard as rock again, aching for the hot hole that his finger had aroused.

        Avon writhed in ecstacy as he shuddered in the throes of the most delicious orgasm he could remember. The sensation of Tarrant's hand on his shaft and finger encased in him drove him to the edge of oblivion. Avon wanted everything; he wanted the length of Tarrant inside him; he wanted fucking. He could feel and hear Tarrant's moist hot breath, a panting of longing. Avon knew the pilot wanted him badly. No longer pinned mercilessly by the pilot's legs, Avon rose fully to his knees, his back to Tarrant's chest. The tech's arms reached back to slowly and sensuously caress the pilot's neck, shoulders and torso. He leaned into the long frame and whispered huskily, "Fuck me, Del. I want you inside me, now."

        The admission and invitation made, Avon bent over, presenting himself for the pilot's penetration. Avon felt a perverse delight in the submission and awaited Tarrant's invasion of his body. To Avon's surprise, Tarrant turned him over, kissed him hungrily, and murmured that he wanted to look at the computer tech's face, into his eyes, as he took him. Avon was melting in anticipation. He spread his legs as Tarrant lifted his hips. Avon saw awful desire and fear in Tarrant's glazed eyes. Avon sultrily took Tarrant's rigid shaft in his hands and covered it with his own cum, stroking gently, feeling the shudder of Tarrant's entire body as he sought control. Avon threw his legs over Tarrant's shoulders and extended the invitation again in his most sensuous voice, inviting Tarrant to screw him into senselessness.

        Assent given, Tarrant went wild with lust. Avon was the most luscious, beautiful creature in the universe and Tarrant had to have him. Avon's dark, lustrous hair was a tangled halo on the bed, his alabaster skin was coated with a sheen of sweat, illuminating him with an unearthly light. His eyes were yawning abysses, burning craters of passion. There was nothing about Avon that wasn't perfect, and now he belonged entirely to Tarrant. Avon's body was completely open to him, his to plunder, and Tarrant inched his shaft into that delicious tightness. Avon's arms were flung over his head in surrender and ecstatic abandon as Tarrant plunged deeper. Avon's small groan of pain enthralled the pilot as it gave way to frenzied and repeated cries of delight. Avon assailed him with erotic encouragement, words breathlessly begging Tarrant to go deeper, faster. Avon arched his back, enticing Tarrant to plunge and retreat to the hilt. Tarrant screwed the tech, savaging him as deeply as humanly possible, giving them what they both wanted, savoring the ecstacy of the pain/pleasure of each brutal, loving thrust. The pilot's thrusts became faster and more vicious while Avon pleaded to be fucked into oblivion. Tarrant came thunderously and vocally at the same moment that Avon exploded into a rapturous orgasm, more profound than the one before it. Avon's mouth twisted into a soundless cry of pleasure and trailed off in a long sensual moan. He continued to come as Tarrant rolled off him, his mind in awe of the power of the shockwaves coursing through his body.

        Avon's legs fell from Tarrant's shoulders as the pilot fell on top of Avon in exhaustion. Both were nearly spent, but the acute smell of sex was heady as Avon and Tarrant lay trembling in each other's arms. Avon discovered that he wasn't finished with the pilot, nor Tarrant with him. Both men melted into each other with a passionate play of tongues, a duel seeking to continue the act of penetration and possession. Hands roamed over each other as if for the first time, deftly exploring the pleasure places each had come to know intimately. Avon wanted to fuck Tarrant as he'd been fucked, to give him that incandescent pleasure, whether the pilot would allow it or not. But Avon thought he might, as he positioned him in much the same manner in which he had submitted completely to the pilot. Avon couldn't believe how hard he was again, so soon after the delectable screwing Tarrant had given him. It was delicious, it was unquenchable, this lust. If this was a dream, Avon never wanted to wake from it. There was nothing else in the world except Tarrant, his long, sensuous arms and legs embracing him, the feel and smell of his thick curls, the rough sweetness of his tongue, not to mention his brilliance in the field of fucking him senseless. Nothing else made sense to Avon but spending the rest of his life in this bed with Tarrant either beneath him or above him. Dominance games didn't seem to matter at all anymore. He'd surrendered completely and it brought a delirium of pleasure to be able to give oneself over entirely to another.

        Amazing, thought Tarrant, that they'd said barely a word to each other through all this. It was another language, it seemed, that allowed both of them to soar to the greatest pinnacle of pleasure and delight. Avon was positioning him, touching him, flinging his legs over his shoulders, preparing him. Tarrant, too, was hard again, awaiting release in the hands of this most capable of lovers. Yes, he could call them lovers, now. The word could have at once time seemed an odd way to describe them, but it was right. Tarrant never wanted to leave this bed. The Liberator contained nothing but them and nothing but this moment.

        Avon had somehow discovered an ointment of some kind and was carefully applying it to his penis. He was flushed with lust as he stared down at the pilot. Avon's hands gently began to caress the tender flesh of Tarrant's inner thighs as he worked his way ever so slowly to his burgeoning erection. Tarrant moaned in rapture as Avon worked his way to Tarrant's shaft and stroked it evenly, attacking his balls with feathery touches, even as he positioned himself to enter him. The double torment would almost be too much to bear, and Tarrant prepared himself for pleasure as he'd never known it. Avon poised himself at the opening of Tarrant's flesh and plunged himself in as he squeezed the pilot's penis. Tarrant wanted to scream at the marvelous sensation, but contented himself with a low throaty growl. He heard himself echoing Avon's pleadings to fuck him deeper and harder and faster. Avon obliged with a wickedly salacious grin. The tech plunged himself into Tarrant as deep as he could go, then extracted himself completely in order to plunge in again and again. Avon filled him and stroked him until he couldn't last a moment longer. Tarrant came volubly even as Avon rode him in a frenzy, impaling him viciously and repeatedly until Avon exploded within him with a power so agonizing and corrosive that Tarrant screamed. In Tarrant's fogged brain, it was as if that ineffable nexus defining sublime love and unspeakable cruelty had been indelibly marked upon his flesh. Somehow, it was familiar to him - pleasure could only be purchased with pain. Avon's loving was so fierce that it nearly obliterated him.

        Avon was lying on top of him, breathless and still heaving from lust and the labor of penetration. Tarrant could smell the sweet pheromonal residue, admixed with the hot sweat and the musky, acrid smell of sex.

        Finally, Avon rolled off the pilot and propped himself up on an elbow. He fondled Tarrant's thigh. "I hope I didn't hurt you too much," Avon said as he managed to catch his breath. The tech smiled, and somehow it reminded the pilot of something sharklike and seductive at the same time. It was usually easy to interpret one of Avon's smiles, but this one eluded Tarrant. Before Tarrant could think of a reply, Avon had wrapped his arms around him and possessively kissed him as if he were sucking the life out of him. Something had changed in the midst of their lovemaking that had somehow distorted the initial sense of mutuality. Avon's kiss was now hard and proprietary. Had he kissed Anna this way, Tarrant wondered.

        ...He had.