The Road to HellSuzan Lovett(Author's note: This is an alternate-universe story based on the episode, "Hostage." It starts taking liberties with the established story-line shortly after Avon, on the hillside, contacts Blake through the teleport bracelet, and totally disregards the rest of the episode. Mea Culpa. Adrienne and Annette, thank you for all your help and work, given so willingly and ably. Kathy, thanks for the emotional support.)
The Liberator entered the Sol system from above the elliptic plane. It dropped out of deep space into the concealing shadow of an agricultural satellite, long-abandoned, drifting: a navigation hazard. The Federation traffic stayed away from the area. Jenna Stannis edged the ship carefully around the hulking derelict, then readied it for a prearranged, fast, and totally unconventional orbital pass around Terra. None of the crew had pleasant memories of their last stop there. Gan's empty chair was still a silent reminder. Alone on the flight deck, Jenna kept the controls firmly in her hands as Zen kept watch on the Federation patrols in the vicinity, and Orac listened along tarial paths for the slightest indication that the Liberator had been spotted. For the second time in the last days, the detector shield seemed to be serving its purpose. So far. Just a little longer, she prayed, to no one in particular, while the blue and white planet grew larger on the screen. One more pass, and perhaps their only chance. Jenna was still astonished that Avon had agreed to take this one chance. Agreed? He had damn near commanded it. And that was too uncharacteristic of him for the pilot's peace of mind, if such a thing could exist with Kerr Avon in residence. His inexplicable behavior pattern had started while the Liberator was in orbit around Exbar. Avon, the same Avon who firmly believed that people should be given plenty of rope if they insisted on hanging themselves, had been almost obsessive about safety measures before Blake had teleported down. Even then he had seemed unable to relax, and had suddenly jumped up to announce he was following Blake. Later he had summoned Vila down to the planet as well. Shortly afterwards, all hell had broken loose when four pursuit ships and one command ship had popped out of time distort, practically on top of the Liberator. Jenna had been too busy trying to stay ahead of disaster, but still close to Exbar for the teleport to operate, to find out exactly what had been happening on the planet. She had later gathered that Cally had retrieved Vila quickly, but Avon had been delayed.. There had been no sign of Blake, a situation unchanged since then. After some eavesdropping, Orac had informed them that the command ship had landed on Exbar and left it again, with a prisoner. Another ship - Travis', by all indications - had taken off from the planet, followed by two pursuit ships. The Liberator still had to deal with the two remaining Federation vessels, and by the time one was immobilized and the other one destroyed, Avon had been tersely requesting to be teleported back up. When Avon - looking disheveled, scratched and breathless as if he had been running at a breakneck pace through bushes - had barged onto the flight deck, he had informed them that the prisoner taken away by the command ship was Blake. Jenna had wondered how to make him agree to a rescue attempt. But Avon had not waited to be persuaded or forced. He had demanded immediate pursuit of the command ship, only to be told by Zen that the nearly-depleted energy banks had to be recharged first. The pilot had listened, with her mouth hanging open, as he had promptly threatened to reduce Orac to its components if it lost Blake's trail in the meantime. Orac had finally led them to Earth two days ago, over five days behind the command ship. Anything could have happened to Blake in that time. Jenna spared a hand to open a channel to the teleport section. "Almost there, Cally. Get ready." It was Vila who answered. "She's been ready. Any more ready and she's likely to freeze there permanently." "Shut up, Vila." Cally's voice drifted through, a tight edge to its usual softness. "Ready, Jenna. Just give the word." "Right. In about three minutes." Orac was sure Blake had been taken to the Interrogation Section of the Federation Security Complex, a sprawling annex to the largest dome-city in the Northern Hemisphere. Jenna would have preferred to be the one to infiltrate it, but her piloting skills bound her to the flight console. Cally had volunteered immediately, although she had to know her unfamiliarity with Earth was a major handicap. Even Vila had managed to mutter something that sounded like he might be willing to go along. Avon, already outfitted, had brought all discussion to a halt by striding in, announcing that he'd be the one to go, period, and disappearing into the teleport effect before anybody had a chance to say a word, leaving it up to Orac to direct the crew according to his instructions. And, coming from Avon, that was simply too unbelievable. The man was nobody's martyr. Although concern and loyalty might not be foreign concepts to him, he chose not to acknowledge his acquaintance with them. Cally seemed to understand what was driving Avon this time, but she wasn't talking beyond the cryptic. She did keep assuring Jenna that once Avon decided to do something he didn't do it by halves, and that was true, but exactly what Avon had decided to do, and why, was still questionable. Jenna couldn't trust the man. It was hard to trust someone who went out of his way to prove he didn't care to be trusted - heaven forbid, he might have to live up to it one fine day. There. "Now, Cally," Jenna said into the intercom, then held her breath.
Cally punched the buttons and pulled the levers, her motions quick, precise, sure - conflicting reactions tumbled in as the teleport functioned. Two forms materialized, one supporting the other, and Cally was relieved. Apprehension followed when one form solidified into Avon, but the other was clad in the black uniform and the masked helmet of a Federation guard. For a split second, she hoped the slumped figure Avon was holding upright was Blake, but his bulk could not have possibly fit into that uniform. She lost all hope when Avon dumped the man onto the deck with less concern than he would have given to a sack of potatoes.
Only silence was coming through the intercom. Jenna couldn't take it for another second. "Cally! Do we have them? Is Blake back?" "Uh, no, Avon's here, but ... Avon, what happened? Who's that?" "Who's who? Avon!" Jenna shouted. "Where's Blake?" "Not here," Avon's voice issued from the console. "Not yet. Take us out quick. We're going to make another circuit. Cally, help me. Vila, bring Orac to the medical unit. Be careful with the uniform, Cally. I'm going to need it." Jenna clamped down on her immediate need to know and swung the Liberator around. First she had to get the ship to a safe distance.
Heading into the medical section, Jenna could hear Avon arguing with Orac. "Don't be difficult, Orac. I need his palm prints. Short of cutting off his hands and carrying them with me, how do I...?" "You can't!" a desperate voice, a stranger's, interrupted hysterically. Then Jenna was in the room and could see its owner: a young man, stripped to basics, under heavy restraint on one of the examination tables. "No, please, no, you can't!" "Oh, yes, I can," Avon informed him matter-of-factly, without so much as a glance at the terrified man. "Except it'll be damned inconvenient, not to mention conspicuous. So shut up and don't push your luck." "Who is that?" Jenna asked. "Someone who can get into places I can't," Avon supplied shortly. "Well, Orac?" *As I have informed you before, 'well' is not a ...* "Orac, I'm not in a particularly tolerant frame of mind." Even the machine seemed to know when it was unwise to push one's luck with Avon. *Very well. The surest way to utilize his palm print and avoid detection is, of course, skin grafts.* Jenna saw Avon clench his hands...protectively? He sighed. "I was afraid you were going to say that. Won't rejection be a problem? I have to be alert; I don't need suppressants slowing me down." *Not if your own tissue is used. Sufficient amounts can be grown from a culture in thirty hours.* "I don't have thirty hours," Avon objected. He did have thirty hours and more, Jenna knew. It was Blake who might not have it. She was finding it very hard to adjust to Avon's new attitude. There had to be a catch to it. *In that case,* Orac continued, *the skin will have to be removed from your body, from the inner thigh, I should think, to afford the right texture and sensitivity, then molded and imprinted with the 'signature' you require prior to grafting. The tissue regenerator can be programmed to alter tissue patterns as well.* "How long will it take? I'll have to have full use of my hands and we have precious little time." *Once you have modified the tissue regenerator in the manner I shall specify, the surgery itself should not take longer than an hour. You will have full use of your hands as soon as the local anesthetic wears off in another hour or so. After all, the trauma will be little more than skin deep.* "Avon," Cally asked softly, "are you sure you want to...?" "No, I don't want to, but as I couldn't find any other way to get into the Rehabilitation Center in two days, I will have to try the only option remaining." "The Rehabilitation Center!?" Jenna burst out. A misnomer if there ever was one. "Is that where Blake is?" "I'm afraid so." Something lodged in Jenna's throat. It took a few tries to get her voice past it. "Avon, in that case, there may not be...anyone...left worth going back for." She hated saying it, but she was a very practical woman. Immediately, predictably, Cally objected. "We don't know that." It seemed Vila was in agreement with the Auron. "That's right, and anyway, reconditioning didn't take on Blake the last time they tried it, at least not for long, and it never worked on me, and believe me, they tried, so we can't know..." "We can't know anything if we stand here chattering," Avon cut in. "If you don't mind, I'm not looking forward to this. I'd prefer it to be over and done as soon as possible. Let's get on with it." Jenna noticed how tired Avon looked. "Why don't you rest a while then, Avon? I'll help Cally set up in here." Why was she sounding concerned for the man? No, she really didn't know how to deal with this Avon, and that annoyed her. Avon ignored the first part of her suggestion anyway. "Vila, help Jenna. Cally, I need answers from this man. Get them." Silence followed, but Jenna glanced at the guard and saw his eyes widen, then reflect utter fright. She knew Cally was speaking into his mind, telling him she could rip out the information, but would prefer not to damage him unless he preferred otherwise. She could do nothing of the sort, of course, but the ploy usually worked. Also, Avon would soon introduce him to the lie-detector capabilities of Orac. He'd talk.
On the flight deck, Vila was giving Avon some last-minute instructions on the use of lock-picking tools the computer expert was carefully tucking away into parts of the black uniform. Alternately, Avon was giving his own last minutes instructions to Orac. "Seven minutes to teleport coordinates," Jenna warned, unsettled by the sight of Avon dressed like a Federation guard. The uniform brought forth the underlying air of menace Avon naturally carried, to the extent that made Jenna glad he was on their side. Theoretically. For the moment. Cally, on the other hand, seemed all concern for the man. "How do you feel?" she asked. "Any discomfort?" Avon flexed his fingers, then pulled on the gloves. "No. It feels slightly strange, that's all." His hands had been reshaped by artificial implants that would be removed once it was all over, but with unexpected insight Jenna suspected that Avon was really talking about a sense of loss of identity. He was too acutely conscious and fiercely jealous of his individuality to ignore the slightest threat to it. That, she could sympathize with. "Are you sure you won't take Orac with you?" Cally was asking. "It could be an immeasurable help down there." All traces of sympathy in Jenna vanished. Right, Cally. Do we want to offer him our lives' blood as well? Never mind we might have use of it ourselves. "Positive," Avon answered. "Too bulky. Besides, if something goes wrong, I'd rather it was safely here, coordinating my rescue." He turned to Jenna. "A pass in twenty four hours initially, then once every twelve hours." "Right," she confirmed, hoping no more than one would be needed. ""What do we do with the guard?" "Hold on to him. We'll worry about it later." Avon put on the helmet as he left the flight deck, followed by Cally and Vila. "Good luck," Jenna called out after them.
The computer expert took his position at the teleport pad as Cally went to the console. Avon, Her soft tones sounded inside his head, try not to abandon rational thought. "I never do," he snapped, indignant at the suggestion. Normally. Don't let guilt lead you into something rash. She couldn't know, but he was aware that she had sensed something amiss from the start. Avon noticed Vila looking from one to the other with a curious expression, and refrained from saying any more. He glared at Cally, realized he was wasting it from behind the mask, settled for an imposing stance and waited to be teleported down as soon as Jenna gave the word.
At the Security Complex, Avon found out that people were not inclined to look closely at the forbidding black-clad figures of the Federation guards. The anonymity of the uniform - useful but disturbing; he wasn't accustomed to being ignored - the palm prints, the guard's ID patch and the detailed information he had supplied all served to put the computer expert into one of the surveillance vaults of the Rehabilitation Center. For the time being, he could only make preparations. Getting Blake out would be best attempted as close to the Liberator's next pass as was safe. Through the computer, Avon confirmed the rebel's location, checked the routines, noted the blind spots. Then he systematically started altering the programs, using Orac's presupplied instructions and the microcomponents he had brought for the task. When he completed the initial stage, the surveillance receptors were supplied with a remote override system. At the flip of a switch the monitors would start displaying bogus images until someone noticed prerecorded material was looping on itself. It should take an hour or two at least. The alarms went off just as he was taking a breath to start the next stage. He had his gun out and was about to run through the door when he realized the alert did not involve him, but a section of the cell block. He holstered the gun as an urgent call for medical assistance came over the loudspeakers. The cell number registered. He could do nothing except watch on the screen as a medical team quickly responded to the call and disappeared into Blake's cell, followed by guards. He had no visual access to the inside of the cells, but he realized that someone else must. If he got back to the ship without Blake because of it, the young guard was going to live only long enough to regret withholding that information. Suddenly, there was a commotion at the cell door left open. A guard tumbled backwards out of it, then Avon got his first look at Blake in more than a week. He came through the door with a guard clinging to him, whom he shook off easily, sent a med-tech sprawling, and took off down the corridor. Trust the man to make a hash of one's impeccably formulated plans! With a heartfelt curse, Avon reached for his gun again, on the point of rushing out to meet him, suspecting it was the most idiotic thing he could possibly do with the Liberator so far out of reach. Don't let guilt lead you into something rash, Cally's warning echoed, bringing him to his senses. He restrained himself and watched. Blake didn't seem to be in any immediate danger. The guards stalking him were numerous now, but not one had reached for a weapon. They appeared intent on catching the man without causing harm. Blake, on the other hand, acted indifferent to his own welfare; he was damn near begging to be hurt. Avon saw that Blake's right forearm was covered with blood, dripping profusely down his fingers. It was probably the loss of blood as much as the guards that slowed Blake enough to be overpowered and held down. A doctor rushed in and leaned over him. When Blake became visible again, there was a pressure pack strapped to his wrist. He was carried back into the cell, the furor died away. Avon considered. Obviously, Blake was not being kept docile by drugs. Just as obviously, he hadn't been subjected to reconditioning again. That was a vast relief. However, there were other considerations. Instead of the usual prison garb, Blake had been wearing paper-analog coveralls, and nothing else, which had been shredded to pieces during the struggle with the guards. That, and the torn wrist which may have been the cause for the medical emergency - had the bloody fool been making repeated attempts to kill himself? And if he was already being protected from his own suicidal intentions, how had he inflicted that wound? If he had managed to get hold of a sharp object, someone as determined as Blake would have gone for the carotid artery in his neck. So what had he used to tear into his wrists? His teeth? Avon suppressed a shudder and postponed worrying about Blake's sanity - a relative thing anyway, under the best of circumstances. He went to work again. The various surveillance receptors and terminals of the complex were controlled by a central register. It was painstaking work to find inroads to it, but not impossible. He imposed a loop circuit on the cell-interior monitors as well, then installed a time-delay interruption switch on the building's electronic interference shielding. It would briefly interrupt a small portion of the shielding close to the roof. Anything more would set off alarms. He would have to get himself and Blake to the roof on time.
Avon located the remotely-situated maintenance crawlway leading to the air ducts that would eventually take them up to the roof. He freed the grille, then replaced it so it could be opened easily. When he judged the time to be right, he headed for the morgue to get one of the free-floating anti-grav carriers, euphemistically called 'collection carts'. People didn't look closely at dead bodies maneuvered through the corridors by the guards, especially in this place. Passing by a supply cabinet, he secured some large-sized clothes. It was almost morning and the halls were empty. The loop tapes were already running on the surveillance monitors; Avon only had to worry about the patrols. If the guards stuck to schedule, there should be plenty of time. He knew the palm prints that had gotten him this far would be useless to gain entrance into an important prisoner's cell. He used Vila's tools to work on the door, the intricacy of the work making him doubly aware of the strangeness of his reshaped hands. He remembered Blake dealing with the guards earlier and hoped he would have enough time to identify himself. He need not have worried. Blake was on the cot, unmoving even when the door opened. Avon quickly pulled the cart in, pushed the door until it closed, then went to shake the man awake, and realized Blake was not asleep, just disassociated. "Blake?" No response. "Blake, it's me, Avon. Blake!" The rebel gave a start, blinked, and his eyes tried to focus, looking like he was struggling to bring himself back from some faraway place. "A...Avon?" He still looked lost, so Avon raised the face plate of his helmet briefly. "Yes, I'm here. The question is, are you?" For another second Blake looked confused, then his eyes cleared. "Avon." "We already established that. Now, pull yourself together and move. We have exactly twenty-eight minutes to get to the roof if we're not to miss the Liberator." One thing about Blake, he acted when action was needed. He bounded off the cot. He appeared well except for the wide bandage on his wrist. "Get on the cart," Avon directed. "Now lie absolutely still until I say otherwise. Breathe as shallowly as you can." He covered the man completely with a sheet, giving thanks to the contraption that brought Blake's considerable weight down to nothing.
After one last look around, Avon freed the grille, yanked the sheet off Blake and motioned him into the crawlway, passing the man a teleport bracelet at the same time. "Veer to your left. You should come to a junction in about twenty meters. Wait there. I'll join you as soon as I get rid of this cart. Oh, yes." He grabbed the bundle of clothes off the cart to thrust into Blake's arms. "That flimsy thing is not going to survive the climb. Put these on if you don't want to materialize on the ship half-naked." He parked the cart in an inconspicuous corner and hurried back. He crawled in, and spent some precious minutes tightening the grille from the inside using a magnetic driver, just in case search started prematurely. He followed Blake, only then noticing how narrow the tunnel was. Blake must have had one hell of a time squeezing through it. The tunnel suddenly opened up to a junction, but the darkness steadily deepened. "We have to get to a parallel shaft," Avon directed, rising to his feet. "Follow the..." Blake was not there. Avon heaved an exasperated sigh which threatened to turn into sneezes in the dusty enclosure. Why couldn't the man once, just once, if for nothing but a blessed change, do as he had been told? And where the hell was he? There were only sixteen minutes left. Avon spent one of them calming down and keeping his eyes closed, hoping to improve his vision. He opened his eyes, looking directly at the floor, and detected the disturbances in the layer of dust. Going in the wrong direction. Of course. The ducts were high enough to stay upright, but not wide enough to dash through. Now there were outlets overhead, allowing some light in along the way; he could follow the trail. He spotted Blake just around an old heating shaft, and lunged to grab the man's shoulder, dragging him back. "That's the wrong way!" he hissed. "The roof, I said. In case you've never noticed, you usually go up to it." By pressing himself into some pipes he managed to shove Blake ahead of him, noticing the man hadn't bothered changing clothes. Well, that was his problem. "Hurry." Blake let Avon push him along. His meek attitude was starting to bother the computer expert, but he couldn't spare it much thought at the moment. Nine minutes, twenty-three seconds, the luminous face of the chrono on his wrist informed him. The first two gigantic overhead fans that they came to were in operation. The third was still. Avon clasped his hands in front of him to give Blake a lift up, gritting his teeth when the rebel's weight made him realize Orac had been too optimistic about the healing time of his hands. Blake wedged himself through the opening between two blades, then braced on one to reach for Avon. First he offered his right hand only to pull it back quickly and extend the other one. Avon jumped high enough to let Blake catch and pull him by the wrist. Six minutes, eighteen seconds. A latticework of struts took them past three more levels. Four more left to the roof. Two minutes fifty-eight seconds. A horizontal shaft brought the two men directly under the portion of the roof that would be free of shielding in another minute. For no more than two minutes. A minute's grace period on each side of mark-zero before the auto-repair mended the breach. Rungs were sunk into the walls. They used them to go up two more levels before Avon reached to tap Blake's ankle. "Stop at the next landing. We're high enough." When he joined Blake on the metal ledge, his chrono was displaying two digit numbers. He leaned heavily into the rails lining one side, trying to catch his breath, slow the pace of his heart. In the light of the dawn spilling in from the mesh covering on the roof, he glanced at Blake. His head down, the rebel was still, except for his heaving chest, and he had slid his left hand through a tear in the coveralls to press against his ribs. Not that there was much covering left on his body. Well, Jenna might actually appreciate it, and Vila would be amused, while Cally would run around trying to cover their fearless leader's dignity. Avon concluded he was lightheaded from the adrenalin drain, or he wouldn't be having such flighty thoughts. "We'll be..." he clamped down on the word 'home'. The dizzying relief wasn't going to make him that whimsical, "...on the ship soon." Blake raised his head, and looked directly at Avon. "Yes, we will." Then he looked away again. Something in his eyes, a too-gentle, almost tolerant expression, something Avon wasn't used to seeing - at least not directed at himself - and a slight ironic tone in the utterance... Sheer instinct made him grab Blake's hand and yank it out of concealment. The folds of the coverall tore all too easily. Blake's wrist was bare. "Where's your...." Avon glimpsed at the number - single number - displayed at his own wrist, knew there was no time. Eight...seven... "Damn you, why!" Six... He shoved Blake away, reached for his own bracelet, five... four.... Blake came at him, trying to restrain him. Three... Purposefully, Avon chopped down with the side of his hand directly on the bandage. Two... Blake gasped with pain, and jerked back. One... Avon yanked off the bracelet. Almost immediately he felt the slight vibration against his fingertips that signaled teleport activation just as the chrono flashed zero. Perfect synchronization. For damn all. The two men stared at each other, Blake cradling his hand, Avon gripping the rails because he didn't want his hands unrestrained at the moment. "Well, now that you've managed to throw away our best chance," he said, his voice incongruously calm, "would you mind telling me...?" Now Blake sounded frantic. "It's not too late, Avon. They're still in range. Use the communicator. You can be gone before..." "No, not until I know why." The rebel looked ready to come at him again. "Don't, Blake! Or one of us is going to have a long way to fall." "Avon, please." And he was actually, sincerely pleading. "Get out while you still can." "The idea was for both of us to get out." "No." Eyes locked, they stood still, at an impasse, until their contention became a moot point. Avon took a deep breath, and eased off the railing. "That's settled for the next twelve hours." He added at Blake's look, "The next rendezvous, if Jenna can manage yet one more miracle. We should be safe here for, oh, maybe another hour, but we must start thinking of getting out soon. For now," he pointed across the struts toward another shaft, "that way." The rebel didn't move. "Blake, I'm tired. Unless you want me on your lap - and I don't want me on your lap - we need more space." Blake offered no more resistance. They found what seemed to be a used crane housing, almost directly under the landing pad on the roof. Avon sank down into a corner, pried off the helmet, and leaned back. "You said something about an hour?" Blake prompted, sitting across from Avon, who tersely gave him a rundown on their situation. "So your cover is secure for now. You can simply walk out of the complex if you leave quickly." Avon lifted his head. "Where will that leave you?" "Since when have you started worrying about me? Do us both a favor and go away. I'd appreciate it if you'll leave me the gun, though." "Are you trying to be funny, Blake? If you actually expect me to consider you and a gun simultaneously, try acting like you're marginally rational first." "All right, keep the gun. Just go away." "Forget it." Blake's voice dropped down to that quietly intense level which Avon had come to resent automatically; it made him abandon all sense too often. "It's what you've always wanted. I'm out of your hair, and the Liberator is yours. Nobody can say you didn't try your best, not even the conscience you claim not to have. Don't you see, it's..." Avon's temper snapped. He interrupted harshly. "What do you know of what I want?" "You keep telling me." "Yes, and you keep listening." "What's that supposed to mean?" "Nothing." He pushed off the wall to rise to his knees, which let him look down at the large man. "Listen to this, Blake. You want to commit suicide, be my guest - any other time. You can stand up, let them hunt you, trap you, torture you, kill you, anything your heart desires. But not this time. Not this time." "What's so special about this time?" Avon wasn't ready for a confessional at the moment, but he found he couldn't keep meeting the too-penetrating eyes. He sat back on his heels, looked away. "I didn't go through all this trouble to indulge some self-sacrificial drivel, that's what. Especially when I don't understand why." "You don't have to understand. Just accept that I won't be going back." "Why not?" He felt like shaking the man. "I'm risking my life to get you out of this mess. There are three more people on the ship putting theirs on the line. The last person we expected opposition from is you. Come to your senses." "You were late." "Well, I'm sure we all humbly apologize, but it wasn't for want of trying, damn you!" "Avon, you don't understand. That wasn't a reproach. I'm grateful. I'm even more grateful that you came in time to give me a choice, you have no idea how grateful. But now, just leave me. I promise you they won't get their hands on me again." "Dammit, Blake, what's the matter with you? I was even prepared to find a mindless automation, but you're undamaged..." Something seemed to snap in Blake. "Undamaged? Undamaged!" He held out his bandaged arm. "So? Whatever that is, it's obviously not crippling." Now Blake was on his knees, leaning forward, intruding on the other man's personal space. "Would you like to see what it is, Avon? Would you?" He started tearing at the bandages with a violence that startled Avon. "Blake, stop, you're going to hurt yourself." He reached a restraining hand only to have it swept away. "Don't, you'll start bleeding. Or get it infected. Blake, stop it!" "No, you're going to look at it. Then maybe you'll leave me in peace." 'All right, all right, I'll look at it, but take it ea-" The bandages came away at that moment and Avon's words caught in his throat. He stared at the metal housing and the intracath sunk into Blake's wrist over the major arteries, the sharp point of the spring-action needle glittering like a diamond chip on the edge of it. "Oh, hell," came out with the breath he expelled as if he had been punched in the stomach. Blake didn't spare him. He touched the spring and the needle shot out to full extension. Instinctively, Avon flinched away, Blake gave a mocking laugh, bitter, then made the needle retreat. "Now you know. Give me the gun and go away." Incapable of any response, Avon sat frozen, staring at the implant. Only when Blake reached for the gun did he snap out of immobility. He jerked back, remembered to breathe. "No." "All right." Suddenly he knew Blake was going to rip out the intracath to expose the artery, and he grabbed his hands. "Don't! "Avon, can't you understand?" "No, I don't understand. They couldn't have modified you. You know me, dammit! A mutoid has no memories." "Oh, that. Just a slight reversal of procedure. You see, they still wanted to know about the Liberator, so they didn't want to blank me yet. They performed the biological modification first." Avon felt weak with relief, but didn't dare release Blake's hands. "Then it's all right." "Nothing is all right. Do you seriously propose to take a vampire back to the Liberator?" Blake attempted to shake off his grip, but Avon hung on stubbornly. He was steady now, felt capable of dealing with the situation. "Don't be so bloody dramatic. You're supposed to be an intelligent man, not a superstitious savage. Use the mind they left you. When we get back to the ship we'll see if the modification can be reversed. Until then, you can stop pitying yourself and live with it." Blake had stopped struggling against his hold. Avon thought he was getting through to the man and carelessly loosened his hands. He was abruptly thrust away, hard enough to slam back into the wall, and he knew he should have seen it coming. Blake jumped to his feet. "Don't patronize me, you smug bastard!" He started to leave the enclosure, but Avon was the more agile of the two. He rolled and came to his feet in one continuous motion, straight into Blake's path, who looked ready to go through him. Avon's lips parted over his teeth in a predatory smile, anticipating the sheer physical confrontation that had never taken place between them but had been bound to arrive. Then sanity prevailed and he realized it was no place for a brawl, even if he weren't too tired to have an advantage over the large man. He erased the challenging expression off his face and stepped aside. As Blake passed him by, he softly uttered a single carefully calculated word, one Blake had never heard from him, and probably never would again. "Please?" It stopped Blake in his tracks. Avon pressed his advantage. "Listen to me. If I believed they turned you into one of those monsters, I wouldn't bother handing you the gun. I'd kill you myself. I owe you that much. But it hasn't happened. There's no need for it. Be sensible, Blake, you know me. I'm not given to deluding myself - or you. Isn't that what infuriates you most about me? Do you, for one minute, think I'd tell you pretty tales just to spare you?" Blake's back was still turned, but he no longer seemed intent on leaving. "This is just like you," Avon continued. "Hell bent on a destructive course when you don't have all the facts, let alone giving them the proper consideration. For once in your life, while you still have one, will you stop and think?" "All right, Avon," Blake said after a minute, "with a provision. If the condition cannot be reversed, you will not stand in my way." Now it was Avon's turn to be silently stubborn. Blake whirled on him. "I expect your word." "Blake, as long as your mind wasn't modified, what difference does it make? It's only a biological change. Well, yes, your nutrition needs have changed, but if you strip away the superstition and the myth, what's the big difference between meat and blood? We can synthesize one as well as the other. If you think about it, it's actually no more than an already processed and concentrated form of..." "It makes a difference to me!" Blake interrupted savagely. "Just because you've maneuvered me into listening to you, do not presume to make decisions on my life." Look who's talking, Avon refrained from saying. It wasn't the time to push Blake too hard. He had to settle for temporary concessions for the moment. "I'm still waiting," Blake prompted. "All right, Blake, have it your way. Now can we give some thought to getting the hell out of here?" "You," Blake approached, pointed directly at Avon's breastbone, "will simply walk out and get yourself somewhere you can safely wait. I'll find my own way out." Avon tried to hold onto his temper. He truly did. "We're getting out together." "No, and that's final." The hold slipped. Avon abruptly placed his palms on the wide chest and pushed. It sent Blake staggering back into the enclosure, much to Avon's satisfaction. "What is it with you, Blake? Do you think you'll be emasculated if you don't control anything and everything all the time?" Suddenly, his words reminded him of an aspect of mutoids. He stopped, fearing his tongue had run away with him again and he might have said something terribly wrong at the worst time. But Blake didn't react past the glare he had been directing at Avon for being shoved. That could mean the modification had not been radical. Or it could mean Blake was unaware of it. "You run my life often enough," he continued. "For once return the bloody favor." Blake kept glaring at him resolutely. Avon shook his head. "All right. At least I'm rational enough to recognize an impossibility when I've been living with one. How do you feel about cooperation?" Blake snorted. "I'll think about it when I can believe you're suggesting it seriously." "For now. Don't presume too much." "I wouldn't dream of it." He lowered himself to the floor. "I'll listen." He leaned back. "For now." Had to add that, Avon thought, just had to echo me, didn't you? Never even a sliver of a quarter given. On either side. Maybe that was what kept them going. If a resolution ever became possible, whatever held them together would have no more reason to exist and might dissolve of anonymity. As he sat down it occurred to Avon that, in that case, he was also doing his share to keep the status quo. To end the game there had to be a loser as well as a winner. Would it be so galling to let himself capitulate if the consolation prize was to be free of Blake? Somehow, he wasn't ready to concede the victory to the other man yet. Of course, one day Blake might go too far and Avon might be willing to pay any price to be free of him. For now, though .... "Presumably I can still move around for a little longer," he started. "Where did you leave the clothes and the teleport bracelet?" "Inside one of those obsolete humidifier units in the shaft I took right off the first junction. There are only two of them there, and it's the second one." "All right. I'll get those. There's a landing pad right over us. If I can get to a computer maybe I can arrange it so that we can openly take a patrol skimmer under the guise of a guard escorting a prisoner. Then there are the disposal chutes for refuse, and the conveyers out of the morgue. We need more information, though, and for that I need access to a terminal. One last thing, do you happen to know where they keep the serum?" Blake looked nauseous, but answered equably. "In the medical section, I would assume." "Well, 1'll just have to see how far this uniform will take me. Now, is it too much to ask for you to sit here quietly and wait for me to return?" "Until you return, no." Avon rose. "In other words, you'll reserve your veto." "Right." "Depending on?" "First, on whether you make it back or not." "What an utterly charming thought." "Second, on the options we might or might not have if you do make it back." "Better and better," Avon said, just to have the last word. He was almost out of the crane housing when he remembered the last time Blake had stood in the middle of the flight deck to solemnly promise to all concerned that he would pull out if the mission proved dangerous - only to barge on anyway, managing to kill Gan in the process. Blake always did as he damn well pleased, and wasn't above biding his time until he could get his own way. But Avon couldn't babysit right then, even if he were so inclined. If the man was that set on self-destruction, there was nothing to be done. Or maybe there was. Avon paused briefly to turn, unclipping his gun. "Blake, here." He tossed the weapon, had the pleasure of seeing Blake's surprise and his fumbling to catch it, then left quickly. The rebel got him to dance to his tune often enough by granting the choice to Avon - it would do him good to have a dose of his own medicine. Blake stared at the gun that had been thrown at him so unexpectedly, shaking his head. Avon seemed to be learning by example. And that, he decided, could be dangerous. Not to mention uncomfortable. He put the weapon down and proceeded to wait. It worked, Avon. This time.
Avon returned sooner than Blake expected, even before the rebel had had a chance to worry or fidget. One look at the man's face and Blake started to worry anyway. He lowered the gun he'd picked up at the sounds and backed into the enclosure. "What's wrong?" Whatever it was, it didn't seem to necessitate hurry. Avon followed, dropped the bundle of clothes, sank down and rested his forearms on his drawn-up knees. "Do you want the good news or the bad news?" "All of it, if you please." His tone made it clear that what pleased Avon had better be what pleased Blake. "Your absence has been noted." It startled the rebel. The crawlways were remote but not soundproof. They had had to be quiet during the climb. Now they were far enough from the offices and under the landing pad which should drown out normal noises, but a full-scale alert should have been heard. "Why can't we hear the alarms?" "There aren't any. From what I was able to hear, just a lot of very worried people waiting for Servalan's axe to fall, but no alarms and no search. And that's the best and the worst news, all in one." Blake frowned in puzzlement, saw Avon regarding him as if he were a dull-witted child. "Why do you suppose they aren't tearing this place up right now looking for you?" Comprehension took only another second. "They must think I'm already out of their reach - but, Avon, that means..." "Exactly." "...the Liberator must've been spotted," Blake finished unnecessarily. "Congratulations. Yes, that's the most probable assumption. In fact, they must have spotted the ship then looked for you, or the alarms would have gone off anyway." With a deep breath, he rested his head against the wall. "I suppose it was bound to happen. We pushed the odds too many times, and the detector shield is not a foolproof system." He had an apologetic tone. For a man who professed such arrogant regard for himself and his capabilities, Avon apologized for shortcomings all too often. It intrigued Blake as usual, but just at the moment he had more immediate concerns. "Damn! " "You can say that again. We can no longer rely on the next rendezvous, or the Liberator at all." "Is that all you can think of?" "In a word, yes." "Avon, they could be dead, or captured, or fighting for their lives right now." "Don't make any mistake, Blake, so are we. I couldn't even leave the crawlways. They might not be conducting a search, but security is as tight as it gets. We have no way out of this trap." He extended his legs, then slid forward to stretch out on the floor. "So, unless you have any brilliant suggestions, I'm going to rest." "What! "I've had perhaps ten hours of sleep in the last three days. On the purloined letter principle, this is as safe a place as it's likely to get for the time being. We might have to try to fight our way out. I'm tired and I'm going to rest while I can." With that he folded his arms on his chest and closed his eyes. Blake stared at him for a long minute. "I do have one suggestion, Avon. We should separate." "Why?" "If they start a search, we'll be harder to find if we're apart." One corner of Avon's mouth quirked. "You're a terrible liar, Blake. I don't know why the others cannot see through you." He condescended to part his eyelids slightly to peer at the rebel. "No, obviously I'm not worried. You should know something about my instincts for self-preservation by now. Consider that before you make a tiresomely noble gesture, then suit yourself. If you want to leave, I can't stop you. Although I'd prefer that you stayed and kept watch." He plainly thought that was the end of that and closed his eyes. Why wasn't Avon worried? Blake was. He didn't know how long they had to stay in close confinement. Neither did he know what would happen when he got...what? Was 'hungry' still an applicable word? They hadn't deprived him at all, forcing him to feed himself even though he would have preferred to starve. He knew mutoids indiscriminately fed on anything and everything available, except those they were programmed to obey. But he wasn't programmed in any way. Avon was obviously counting on that, or he wouldn't be lying within arm's reach, going to sleep. Blake picked up the clothes. He had no idea if it was psychological or a fact of his altered constitution, but he was always cold since the operation, and the metal floor he was sitting on wasn't helping any. Before he got any farther, though, it occurred to him that the floor was also hard. Deciding he was already used to being cold, and doubting the clothes would make all that much of a difference anyway, he shifted to slide the bundle under Avon's head. Avon was still awake, but didn't give a start at Blake's approach, didn't even bother to open his eyes. He took the bundle by feel and placed it himself. Blake sat back, gnawing on his knuckles abstractedly, hoping the implied faith was justified. As long as his mind was his own, why shouldn't it be? Still, he pulled the gun closer to himself. With the extra guarantee, he went back to worrying about the Liberator. "I hope they're all right." He only realized he'd spoken aloud when Avon said, "Worrying about it isn't going to help, and I can't say wishing is going to be a lot more productive." "No, but if they are captured, we might be at the right place to be of help." "You're a fool, Blake. If you're going to hope for anything, hope that they either got clean away or were destroyed totally." Blake stared at the motionless form incredulously. "And why is that?" "If they are taken alive Servalan will soon know where we are." That was nothing Blake wished to hear. "You know, Avon, I don't like you very much." "Don't let it bother you, Blake. The feeling is more than mutual. Now, if you must worry, do it quietly. I do need to rest." Blake couldn't leave it alone. "What do you hope for then? Ironic, isn't it? Without the Liberator, I won't last long, but then you can't have the ship anyway." Avon didn't respond, but Blake suddenly knew that, if the dark eyes were open, he'd see that shuttered look drop into place. He was left with a mere feeling of having had the last word. Somehow, it was a hollow one.
"You shouldn't have turned, told you shouldn't have turned, should've kept going," Vila said for maybe the tenth time as the ship lurched violently again. If Jenna had had a hand free she would have cheerfully strangled the man. They may have had a better chance on their original course, would have certainly been in deep space by now, but she hadn't been about to reveal the route that had put them into Earth orbit successfully three times. If they got out of this in one piece, she wanted to be able to use those coordinates again. It was the only way they could, with luck, find their shipmates. Four more pursuit ships appeared out of nowhere, bringing the number up to...she had lost track. The only consolation was that the enemy ships were getting so thick that now they were a little shy about firing, afraid of hitting one of their own, especially after one of Jenna's maneuvers which had trapped two pursuit ships in crossfire. The ship rocked again. And again. Vila was whining in the background. Again. Zen reported on the damage and the energy levels. Cally was scolding Vila, saying he could have gotten one of the enemy ships if he hadn't been so busy complaining. "No," Jenna interrupted as she sent the ship into a spiral and out of the way of another plasma bolt, "we can't afford to fire anymore. Zen, divert power from the neutron blasters to ... oh, hell, to whatever needs it most." As the spiral tightened, she rolled the ship once, and came out of it with the forward thrusters abruptly cut off and all power fed into reverse. The ship protested mightily, the groan of the pylons clearly audible even on the flight deck, the gravity stabilizers fluctuating. "You're tearing it apart!" Vila screamed. "Be quiet, Vila." Cally still sounded calm. The pursuit ships, in a dive to follow the Liberator, couldn't pull up in time and shot past. Jenna took advantage of the breathing space. "Orac, those prefigurations I asked for, now." Schematic upon schematic of options flashed on the screen, too fast for any of them but Jenna to comprehend the intricacies of individual maneuvers. But nobody could miss that in each case the large blue circle representing the Liberator broke into fragments. "We're dead!" The wail came from Vila, predictably. "Not yet," Jenna said stubbornly. "Clear the screen, Orac. Zen, scanner sweep, three-sixty orbital." After a check of their present situation, she sent the ship into a high arc, at the top of which she switched to the forward thrusters again so they were once more facing where they were going. That might give the pursuit ship pilots a pause of sheer disbelief. "Are you out of your mind? Now we're heading back to Earth. Cally, she's heading back to Earth!" "It's all right, Vila. Jenna knows what she's doing.," The pilot disassociated herself from the background chatter. The asteroid belt was ahead and below. Her concentration up to this point would be nothing compared to what was going to be required of her in another ten seconds. "Zen, seal in the flight deck. Cut off all auxiliary systems, including auto-repair on everything except scanners and engines. Priority one: mobility, two: visibility, three: forcewall. Drop the forcewall if you have to." Six more seconds, and with a downward swoop she sent the Liberator diving into the asteroid belt. Now let them try and follow. She hadn't spent most of her life running blockades for nothing. Of course, she had also learned that in a high stakes gamble one had to be prepared, in advance, to lose.
Avon woke up to silence. There was no traffic on the landing pad. The whole place had to be holding its breath, waiting for Servalan's arrival from headquarters. Quietly, he turned his head to check on Blake. In one corner, his brow furrowed in concentration, absentmindedly worrying his fingernails, the rebel was drawing something on the dusty floor. His intense expression made him look like an oversized, rather slow but determined-to-be industrious child. Impatiently, Avon banished the image. There was nothing childlike about Blake, except maybe his habit of chewing his nails, fingers, and knuckles. Huddled, Blake took the hand away from his mouth, and used it to rub one arm up and down. Avon got the impression that Blake was cold. He lifted his head from the bundle of clothes, wondering why the damn fool had parted with them if he were uncomfortable. Avon didn't like generous gestures. He tended to resent them, in fact. They seemed to require a response. The movement drew Blake's attention. He opened his mouth, thought better of it with an upwards glance, and motioned the computer expert closer. Avon looked at the diagram on the floor, his head almost touching the curly one. "What is it?" "A very old sewer system," Blake whispered back. "We used it once, to break into this place. I think I remember it correctly." Avon refrained from pointing out he wasn't happy about trusting Blake's memory. "If they didn't block it since then," he said instead. Blake shrugged, indicating it was a chance they had to take. "Where does it lead?" "To the city." "Oh, marvelous. How do you expect to stay hidden there, with a monitor every few meters, and guards thicker than that?" "The Epsilon quarter." "No!" The objection came out with more force than was seemly, and he had to hurry up and find practical reasons when Blake looked at him questioningly. "People who don't belong there won't live long, you know that. At the very least, someone will figure we're worth selling to somebody." That was true enough. The Epsilon section had been built to serve the very basic needs of...cattle, there being no other way to think of the dregs of humanity crammed into it: one big communal sty. At least, that had been the intention. In reality, since nobody had thought the barely-intelligent creatures clawing for existence there needed much monitoring, and the patrols studiously avoided the dark, damp holes with their foul stench and slime, the criminal element had found fertile ground and flourished unchecked. There was no vice that couldn't be had in the Epsilon quarter, nothing that couldn't be bought, if one was desperate enough to risk his life. As Avon had been once, for two visas. But that memory didn't deter him. Had he been alone, he would have taken the chance again. He could blend in; Blake couldn't. They were both overtly, innately Alpha, but Avon could restrain his sensibilities if he had to. Blake not only couldn't restrain them, he wouldn't restrain them. And as he was now, he'd be in double jeopardy. To keep the other man from prying, Avon went on the offensive. "Also, while you were hatching this brilliant escape, did you bother to think I'm the one wearing the uniform of a guard? Imagine the welcome I'll get. Or is this your way of getting rid of me without dirtying your own hands?" Blake looked wounded and offended at the same time. "I assumed you were wearing something else under all that." "Well, you assumed wrong, as usual." And now he couldn't so much as undo a snap on the miserable uniform. "Besides, I have no intention of letting you drag me anywhere near the domes. Some of us still dehydrate. I brought nutra-tabs from the ship, but I need water, and not the drugged kind." "My apologies for being thoughtless," Blake got from between clenched teeth. "What brilliant solutions do you offer?" Avon congratulated himself. He had sidestepped the issue without having to say that one glimpse of Blake's implant, and the man would have been torn to pieces in the Epsilon quarter. Mutoids weren't welcome anywhere, least of all where fear and hate ran rampant alongside violence. Trust Blake not to consider that. "How old are these sewers, do you know?" "Not exactly, no." "Outdating the domes?" "By many centuries, easily." "If they existed before conversion technology, they probably outlet into the river. Let's hope so anyway. After this trip, I think we'll be in desperate need of cleansing. Get dressed and let's get out of here. I'm starting to feel like a rat trapped in a maze." The rebel obliterated the diagram, rose, tore off the remnants of the coverall and dressed. Avon noted that Blake had no operation scars, no alterations visible except the implant, which may or may not mean anything, depending on how conscientious the surgeons were ordered to be. Another thing he noted was the slow, careful movements and how heavily the man sat down to pull on the boots. He hesitated, then decided to plunge right into it. "How often do you need transfusions?" he whispered. For a long moment he thought he wasn't going to get an answer, then Blake spoke. "How often do I need them? I don't know." "What kind of a schedule did they have you on?" "Once every eight hours." "And the last time?" "Last night." "So you've missed one already. How do you feel?" "Fine. " "Don't give me that, Blake! I have eyes. This is no time for your tedious invulnerable hero pose. We can only deal with it if you..." "And how the hell do you expect me to answer?" Blake interrupted, a tight edge to his whisper. "How do I feel? I don't bloody know. I woke up five days ago in a recovery chamber, and since then I've been a stranger in my own body. I don't recognize its signals anymore. I don't even know what terms still apply to describe its sensations even when they do feel somewhat familiar. I've been cold constantly, but for all I know that could indicate I was in the pink of health. Don't you understand? I have no orientation point, not for this." He cast Avon a sideways glance. "No, obviously you can't, not while you're still human, at least as human as you get, so why don't you just leave me alone? I promise to let you know if I'm on the verge of jeopardizing your precious skin. Until then, leave me be." He turned, finished pulling on the boots, then rose, heading out. "Coming?" Avon followed. Wordlessly. It took them hours to figure out which portion of the construction might offer access to the ancient sewer system. Neither was an architect, and all they had to rely on was Blake's certainty that there had to be a way, sometime, somewhere. The rebel was astounded Avon was going along, minus acerbic comments. Minus any kind of comments, for that matter. At first he assumed the man was waiting for a beauty of a screw-up to let loose with righteous justification. When Avon let opportunity after opportunity go past after wrong turns and backtracking, Blake decided he was just sulking. Only slowly did he realize he had been granted just what he had asked for: he was being left alone. He should have been careful with that wish. He was lightheaded, numbness was creeping into his extremities, and each step required more and more concentration. And somewhere in the background was the distracting, annoying absence of the sense of hunger his conditioned sensibilities insisted he should experience. He gritted his teeth, determined to ignore it all until he stumbled and fell. Dropping out of an access hatch, he couldn't control his landing, did stumble, but didn't fall. Avon steadied him, then let go immediately as if he wished to disassociate himself from the impulse. Instinctively, Blake reached to hold him by the arm, only then identifying what was bothering him as guilt. "Avon, wait." The stiffening under his fingers warned him to let go and he did, but rushed to get his piece off his chest. "I'm sorry. That was uncalled for and totally unfair. There is no excuse for it, and I do apologize." He was studied briefly, the expression in the dark eyes still remote, then Avon walked away, without any indication of accepting or rejecting the apology. Blake followed, resigned to the fact that with Avon it was never that easy. They came to a junction where the metal walls gave way to stone, acquired a downward slope, and eventually terminated where the roof had fallen in. Avon studied the obstruction. "Do we clear it?" At least Avon was speaking to him again. Blake nodded. "Yes. This should be the way." Tumbling away some of the rocks revealed an intact passageway on the other side, unexpectedly bright. Blake blinked in surprise, then realized the light came from a natural source: phosphorous lichen. "Well, at least we're getting close to some sort of moisture," Avon commented. They started to clear a space to climb through. "You're right, you know," Avon said, in a casually conversational tone. "Intellectually, I have a better perspective and I can be impartial. But I can't possibly know what it's like to live with it. I'll keep that in mind." "Thank you," Blake mumbled, at more of a loss with a benevolent-sounding Avon than he would have been with a difficult one. The next time Avon spoke they were over the obstruction. "You do realize that there might be advantages to pooling resources and all available data, don't you?" He walked off, abruptly enough to discourage an answer. The rebel shook his head. Who but Avon would choose such an obscure way to ask: can I help? It was just as well, though. Blake wasn't sure he was ready to let him. The passageway led to an arched enclosure with crumbling foundation pillars, fortified by newer materials. Suddenly the fragmented recollections connected and Blake knew exactly where he was. "This way." He preceded Avon until they came to a row of rusty metal coverings on the ground. Most of them were sealed into place by centuries of disuse. One, probably the one the rebels had used, took concentrated effort - which was fast getting beyond Blake - but came loose. He caught his breath, let it out again in a hurry, and contemplated not breathing again. At least nothing seemed to be wrong with his olfactory sense, although he no longer seemed to have a gag reflex. He glanced at Avon, who actually smiled at him wickedly and slid the face plate of the helmet down. Of course, the filter units. Blake felt distinctly envious as he lowered himself into the hole. Avon joined him, then they reached to slide the cover back into place. Now it was dark again. Trying not to cringe, Blake touched the wall to guide himself, remembering that Avon - damn him - also had gloves. He toyed with the idea of not offering the man his hand, knowing Avon would never take it on his own, and letting him follow by sound alone, then decided not to be petty and reached back. "At least it has dried up," he consoled himself, starting off with Avon in tow. "Let's hope you'll find a place that hasn't. Or we can assume it no longer connects with the river." Reminded anew of his purpose, Blake pushed up, trying to judge which point would be best to turn away from the city toward open land, hoping he had enough energy to get there.
The sewers did connect to the river, in quite a few places. Once they realized that, they ran alongside the river that followed the tunnels, figuring it was best to emerge as far from the complex as possible. At one point, the ancient structure had crumbled badly enough to impede progress and they had to get out. Grimacing, Avon studied the murky water lapping at their feet. There was a sudden drop into it, no telling how deep. In less than a meter the side tunnel terminated, but the exit was barred. There had once been a mesh across the bars as well, but only bits of that remained. Behind it, through the narrow opening over the water, the surface of the river was visible under dusk light. Experimentally, Avon checked the incline. It was a slick, steep surface, affording no way to keep his footing. He held out his hand to use Blake as an anchor. The rebel first found a niche in the rocks to wedge himself in place, then complied. It told Avon he no longer trusted his strength. Actually, he had thought Blake would exhaust himself long before now. However, it seemed the man hit a certain plateau and stayed there, functioning laboriously but steadily from then on. Avon lowered himself in the water. At full extension he could reach the bars. They weren't all that firmly embedded, but it would still take time and effort to pry them loose. They felt looser lower down and he thought there might be a better way. The river had a strong enough current to have eroded the bottom considerably. The question was, how far? it took Avon a while to persuade himself to find out. The sewers hadn't been used for centuries and right here, unlike the stagnant pools they had had to slosh through along the way, the moving water had since cleansed the area, but the overwhelming revulsion at the idea of putting his head into it was instinctive. He finally ordered himself to get on with it, and tugged for Blake to release his hand. He couldn't get loose, and glanced back. Eyes screwed shut, the rebel had concentrated all his efforts on the anchoring hold. "Let go, Blake. I'm going to check something out." It took a few seconds for the man to comprehend, and a few more to loosen his grip, as though the brain impulses reached the muscles only sluggishly. "Are you all right?" Avon asked, knowing it was an absurd question, also knowing the answer even before it was uttered. "Yes, of course." That was bravado, but Blake had promised to let him know if the situation got beyond his ability to handle. Avon paid attention to his task. There was a large enough opening at the bottom. Avon surfaced and climbed up. The helmet that had been useful earlier was now a hindrance. He attached it to a belt loop. "There's plenty of space down there. We can just swim out." Blake was staring at the water uneasily. "Don't worry, it's not that bad. In fact, it's cleaner than anything else we've been in today. You can even see reasonably well." Blake didn't look reassured. "You do swim, don't you?" "I'll manage." Oh. Avon took off his belt, hooked it through one loop and fastened it to form a circle hanging off his waist. He made sure the buckle was on the outside so it wouldn't catch on the loop. Now, if necessary, he could unsnap it and it would slip away, leaving him free. "Hold onto that. I'll lead. Come on, Blake, while it's still light. "It won't take long, but don't surface too soon," he warned before they went under. "Let me check what's out there first." Blake contributed more than impeded and it wasn't difficult. Once past the bars, Avon turned to the bank and stood up as soon as he could. The area was deserted, mostly flat, except for some outcroppings further upstream. He tugged on the belt to let Blake know it was safe to come up, and waited long enough to see his head break water.' "There, under cover," he said, pointing, starting that way as soon as his belt was released. He had never particularly cared for large bodies of water, and the uniform was getting unbearably heavy against the current, even in the shallows. As he was climbing out he glanced around and found himself alone. He turned quickly, at first seeing only the unbroken surface of the water, then spotted Blake, further downstream than where they had surfaced, going with the current. He called out, was back in the water without waiting to see if he would get a reaction. Why did the damned idiot let go if he had been on the verge of collapse? It seemed to take interminably long to cover the distance between them. Unceremoniously, he got his fingers firmly into the sodden curls as soon as he could reach that far and pulled toward the bank. Once there, he braced, hauled Blake up by the arms, rolling him onto his stomach, only partially out of the water. After a minute it was clear that Blake hadn't swallowed water. And he was breathing, however shallow. He just seemed to be...out. He was also pale and cold enough for alarm. Feeling helpless, Avon looked around. Night wasn't coming for a while yet and he felt exposed in the open. Any skimmer could spot them, but there was no way he could carry Blake to the overhang. With a heartfelt sigh, he rolled Blake's body back into the water, wading out with it. When the water reached his waist, he trudged upstream, holding Blake securely at his side. Getting the man's waterlogged weight under the ledge almost defied Avon, but he finally managed it. He took off the uniform top and placed it under Blake's head. His wet black shirt underneath clung to him unpleasantly. He tried to rouse the rebel. Calling his name, shaking, and careful slaps failed to elicit any response. Frustrated, he gave up, sat back, gathered his knees with his arms and glared at the unconscious man, feeling distinctly hostile. "Damn you, Blake, what am I supposed to do with you now?" Silly question. He knew what he was supposed to do. He just didn't know if he wanted to do it. No, he even knew that, but not wanting to do things had been pretty much irrelevant for the past week. In fact, it had been irrelevant for damn near two years, ever since he had been unfortunate enough to draw the attention of this self-appointed, latter-day messiah of the masses. Mentally, he checked himself out. He was weary and he ached, yes, but that was just the result of exertion. Nothing some rest wouldn't take care of. He knew he still had a store of energy to draw from; he had always been able to keep going long after others had to quit, often out of sheer tenacity. The nutra-tabs had all the necessary nutrients, if not the volume, and now water was plentiful. He was all right. Blake, on the other hand... Taking a deep breath, he rose. "This is all your fault," he informed the insensible figure. "But just to keep the record straight, I'm not doing this for you anyway. I'm doing it because I made a stupid mistake." He went to kneel by the river. He washed his hands and forearms, using a sandy portion of the soil to scrub with. It wasn't the best cleaning process, but it was all that was available. Blake hadn't stirred by the time he returned. He picked up the gun. Throwing some twigs together, he aimed a minute charge at them until they caught fire. He pulled one out, burning at the end, took a firm hold of Blake's wrist, keeping the hand bent back out of the way, released the needle and carefully held it to the tiny flame. The next step was awkward. It took more tries than he cared to think of to insert the needle properly. From then on it became simpler. The suction mechanism was automatic and all he had to do was to keep steady. He closed his eyes, telling his suddenly-too-active imagination to be sensible, that it really didn't feel like he was being drained, that a human body could part with quite a bit of blood without undue harm, that it was a regenerating commodity, that... A moan from Blake brought him out of himself. He gripped the wrist tighter, braced to forestall any sudden moves. Yes, the rebel was definitely waking up. "Blake, don't move. Don't move. Don't move." He kept repeating it so it would reach the man before any other impulse as he regained his senses. It worked. "Avon, what...? " Obediently, he hadn't so much as moved a muscle. "It's all right. Just stay still. You can open your eyes if you want to, but remember, any move you make is likely to hurt me a hell of a lot more than it'll hurt you." Blake's eyes first found Avon's, dropped to their hands, stayed blank for an instant, then widened in comprehension. "Don't!" Avon shouted, feeling the muscles under his hand tense. They stayed tense, but now he could tell the effort was directed against the impulse to jerk away. "No, Avon, don't.... "Sssh. "Don't, please, don't. Dammit, Avon, stop!" "It's all right. It's drawing slowly. I'm fine so far. Just don't move." Blake's free hand came up weakly, as if to push Avon away, then fell back without touching. His breath was coming in short gasps, catching in his throat. "Are you all right?" Avon inquired. "Avon, stop it, please. I hate this." He spoke evenly to counter Blake's distress. "Well, I can't say I'm having the time of my life, either, but it must be easier than lugging your impossible weight around. However, while we're on the subject, how do you stop it?" That had to be automatic as well, but he didn't know for sure. He didn't want to chance pulling away, in case the needle drew air into Blake's artery. "It's...automatic." "I thought so. And just how much do you normally draw?" The rebel tossed his head, agitated. "Blake, think. I need to know. You must have seen the containers. How much did they hold? Blake, answer me!" "It said ... point seven five liters on them." "Okay. I can handle that, so just relax. Come on, Blake, there's nothing to do until it's over, so relax." Blake had turned his face to one side and covered it with his free arm. He was still breathing strangely. It took Avon a moment to put that together with the shuddering motions of the chest the man was trying desperately to control. He could understand how impotent and humiliated Blake had to be feeling at the moment, but he wouldn't thank Avon for noticing. He turned away as much as their contact would permit to give the rebel some privacy. Eventually, the pulling sensation at his wrist stopped. Carefully, he disengaged himself and Blake withdrew his hand immediately. Avon put pressure on the tiny puncture with his thumb and climbed to his feet. Although he hadn't felt undue discomfort during the procedure, he was dizzy and slightly queasy as soon as he got up. Stubbornly, he kept from swaying and took himself to the river to clean up some more. After a while, Blake joined him, started washing up as best as he could, then found a stick to scrape at his boots. It was some time before he broke the terse silence. "Don't ever do that to me again." Avon hadn't expected a thank you. After all, he wouldn't have thanked someone himself for doing something he hadn't asked for. But this was a bit too much. "Look, I realize you feel put upon..." "Put upon? Your words lack impact." "All right, you have all the natural symptoms of being victimized: you're angry, you're guilty, you feel helpless and you want to strike out. But don't take it out on me, Blake..." It dawned on him that, in a way, he deserved it. "...just because I happen to be on hand," he finished lamely. Blake wouldn't look at him, kept scraping at the boots "Thank you...I think," he mumbled finally. "You're welcome...I think." Another minute passed. "We will not keep doing this, however," Blake said, firmly. "We will do what is necessary," Avon responded just as assertively. They glared at each other, neither willing to back down, and simultaneously decided to postpone the confrontation. For the time being. They both gave their attention to cleaning up. Avon was becoming more and more aware of a stinging sensation traveling up his forearms. His skin felt slightly hot and perhaps a little swollen. He must have gotten a bit too enthusiastic while scrubbing. He shrugged to himself and plunged his hands up to the elbow into the water. "You could've saved me a lot of trouble by telling me you felt bad enough to pass out," he said for future reference. "What did you think, I wouldn't notice? Or did you assume I'd just walk away and leave you?" "It seems I don't always assume wrong," Blake said pointedly. He continued before Avon could figure out what he was referring to. "But no, I didn't assume that. I didn't have any warning. I wasn't getting any weaker. It just happened suddenly." "I see. So your system functions at diminished capacity for about twenty-four hours, then the energy drains at once." "It depends, I suspect. I think I can go a lot longer than that if I'm not exerting myself." It was definitely getting dark, and the wind was coming up, making it an effort for Avon not to shiver. "It's going to be a long night." Blake was studying the area. "We're outside the dome, close to water. Scattered along these paths should be hidden survival packs. Can't be hard to locate one." "Surv...why?" "For the deserters from the city." "Ah. To make sure they live long enough to swell the ranks of resistance, so they can go ahead and die in the name of the cause. One of your ideas, was it?" Blake didn't answer. Avon got to his feet, trying not to think of how little he relished another hike. "What should I look out for?" "I'll go. You need to rest, and I can locate them more readily." "Not that long ago you were out. If there's a survival pack to be had, I'd like to make sure it got to me." "It will. The energy seems to come back as fast as it drains; I'm fit." That made sense, actually. With a relief he wouldn't admit to under torture, Avon shrugged impartially. "Very well." Blake followed him to the overhang. "Who keeps the gun?" "Take it." "I wouldn't want to leave you without a weapon." Avon sat down to pull off one of the boots. From between it and the pants a handgun slipped out. "Did you think I'd have only one?" "No, especially not after you left it with me, but I didn't want to, uh, make the wrong assumption again." Suddenly Avon caught on. He glanced down at his shirt revealed by the removal of the jacket. "Okay, I got the point. Now can we drop it?" he bristled. Blake didn't belabor the issue. "I'll be back as soon as I can."
It was no use. Jenna couldn't focus anymore, and her brain felt so fuzzy that, if she continued, she was going to connect something wrong. Besides, her hands were shaking with fatigue. She rose from behind the navigation console and instantly had to lean into it. She realized Cally was on the flight deck when the Auron's supporting arms came around her. "It is enough, Jenna. The ship needs to recover, and so do you." She offered a token protest as she was led to the couch. "We missed one rendezvous already." "And there's nothing that can be done about it. Rest." Jenna stretched out on the couch, but couldn't shut off. "How bad is it out there?" "We have life support on this deck only. The hull was breached in more places than I can count. Those areas are sealed and inaccessible. I told Zen to leave them alone and concentrate on the essentials." "The teleport. How's the teleport?" "In surprisingly good condition. I think Zen has a priority programming to keep that section safe." "Good." "You sleep now. I'll see if I can fix the communications console." "Never mind that," Jenna objected, her eyes closing of their own volition. "Orac can take its place. See what you can do with the astro-navigation system. Where's Vila?" "He's donned a life support suit and went to see where he can give Zen some assistance." "Heaven help us all." "Don't be ungenerous, Jenna," Cally reproached. "He's got very clever hands, and he's doing his best." "Well, I suppose I should be grateful he's not somewhere drinking himself into a stupor," Jenna mumbled. Sleep was coming whether she wanted it or not. She fought it a little longer. "Cally, we must...send a message...somehow." "We're too far away." "Check with Orac." ."All right, I will. Sleep now." She didn't seem to have much choice.
There were hands on him and they weren't his. Avon snapped out of sleep ready to fight, only to find Blake tucking a blanket around him. "It's only me," the rebel assured hastily. "You underestimate yourself," Avon snarled, furious with himself for falling asleep despite all intentions to the contrary. Sleep was an elusive thing for him under the best of circumstances and this was a most perverse time for a change. "I found a survival pack." "Needless to say." Avon sat up to yank the blanket away and wrap it around himself. "Must we use the light?" It didn't exactly put out a burst of illumination, but it was enough to make Avon peer uneasily at the darkness behind it. "I didn't want to trip over you." Blake turned it off. "As long as you're awake, do you want something to eat? Field rations, I'm afraid." "I don't see how I have much choice. Anything with bulk." Nutra-tabs were fine, but his body might need more to replace the blood, and the gnawing in his stomach was distracting. He heard the popping sound of a cover being removed, then a container was placed in his hand along with a spoon. Mostly by feel he got some into his mouth, instantly deciding that it was just as well he didn't have to see it. Blake had withdrawn to a corner, a darker shadow in the dark, quiet. Avon saw a flash of white about his wrist and realized he had found something to wrap around the implant, wondered if it was simply to conceal it. He forced himself to finish the tasteless lumps of whatever, then thought of something. "Blake?" "Yes?" "Can you eat? At all?" "I don't know. I expect not. I know I have no desire to do so." "Try. " A long pause. "Why?" "Indulge me." He could just make out Blake's groping in what seemed to be a backpack. Then the man sat back, motionless. "Well?" "There's...I feel a resistance. No, more like revulsion." "With the offerings on hand, no wonder. Try it anyway." "Is there a point to this, Avon?" "There might be." "All right." It was more a sigh than an utterance. His hand went to his mouth and stayed there, as if he had to keep the food in by force. "This isn't fun, Avon." His voice was muffled. "Suppose you tell me why." "There should be two ways to perform a biological modification, apart from genetic manipulation which doesn't apply. Radical surgery, or reconditioning. I'm trying to figure out which one they used on you. If the latter, the suppressants and the like were probably in the plasma. They could be working out of your system." "I can't," Blake said after a while. "It's nauseating." He spat. Avon detected a note of dismay. It might mean nothing. The suppressants might still be in effect. "Can you swallow?" "Swallow what?" "In general. Your saliva glands are working, aren't they?" "Yes, but instead of the food getting moist, it, was drying my mouth. I'd have choked if I tried swallowing." The saliva glands were working just enough to moisten the mouth then. Avon could tell the whole thing was annoying Blake. "I trust the research is over," the man said as if in confirmation. Avon pushed a little more. "Something easier then. You can try swallowing some water." "I can, but I don't care to." It was a definite warning to drop the subject. In such cases, it took real aggravation to make Blake conform. Avon supplied it. "I'm sorry, I didn't realize you had taken to cowering." "Maybe I don't have the stomach for it anymore," Blake snapped, self-depreciatingly. "That's what I'm trying to find out." There was a flurry of motion as Blake dug into the backpack, raised a container to his mouth, and lowered it. Then he made a strangled sound, spewed out the water and doubled over. Moving totally on impulse, Avon got to his knees to hold the man's shoulders as he retched. Shortly, Blake collected himself to push him away. "Satisfied?" As a matter of fact, he was. There was a muscle in there, contracting, probably the same one that customarily kept the food from coming up the esophagus. Contracting at the wrong time, but it was there. "Believe it or not, I'm not trying to cause you discomfort. I'm attempting to figure out what was done to your insides." "And when you do find out, what do you propose to do about it?" Avon couldn't answer that. There was nothing to be done here and now. Why he needed to know despite that was an even tougher question. "I thought you'd care to know," he said before it could be raised. "Fine. If you have objections, we'll forget it." He backed into his corner, rewrapping the blanket tightly around himself. "Why should I object to being a specimen? I should be used to it by now," Blake kept harping. "Any other aspect of my bodily functions I can enlighten you about?" Avon opened his mouth to put a stop to the tirade with a particularly nasty retort, and closed it without a sound. Maybe Blake was desperate to know himself, but asking in any way except under guise of protest might be admitting a need for help. Something to be avoided, Avon could understand. He kept quiet and allowed the man to ask in his own way. "Let's see what I can tell you. Oh yes, I don't seem to have much use for sleep. I don't get hungry, at least in the normal sense, whatever normal means now. Contrary to your opinion, I still sweat, and the rest of the elimination systems works too, although don't ask me why." "It would have to, albeit less," Avon supplied informatively, wondering where his sudden supply of patience had come from. "Your blood still carries by-products from various organs as waste, and blood cells themselves die regularly. Bone marrow rectifies that by producing more, but yours probably doesn't anymore. Thus the transfusions. Or rather, for the transfusions, to leave room for the extra blood. When you passed out, it may have been shock brought on by acute anemia." He felt pedantic and patronizing. Anybody who had had basic biology ought to know all that. Surely Blake did too, but the man, silent and still in the shadows, gave the impression of listening avidly. So Avon continued, "You don't need much sleep because your body has a larger supply of energy. You no longer use any of it on the digestive process or the energy production itself. Also, your nervous system must be more active now. For example, digesting certain substances prompt bile production, and you still need that or waste systems will shut down. When you lack natural stimulants, the nervous system will take over and stimulate it. Those are no more than alterations on existing systems, nothing radical." "What would be the radical alterations?" Caught up in the subject, Blake had apparently forgotten to keep up his hostile pose. "The digestive organs and glands, of course. Probably the adrenal gland as well." From what he knew of mutoids, they did the most violent things with utter calm. "And?" Enough, Avon decided. "End of speculation. I trust you realize it is all speculation. " "Don't evade, Avon," Blake insisted. "I may not be informed, but I've heard enough insults hurled at mutoids." So it was going to be unavoidable. "Well, yes, I also heard the..." he searched for as innocuous a word as possible, "'neuter' comments, but people tend to get vicious when they fear. Prejudices leave no room for reason or fact." This wasn't like him at all. He didn't spare people's feelings - least of all Blake's - didn't even care to concern himself with them. This whole miserable business was playing havoc with him. "It would make sense, though," Blake commented. "Yes, it would." Who needed a mutoid's balance upset by sex urges kicking-in? Avon wished Blake didn't sound so artless. He had been far more comfortable with the rebel's quarrelsome mood. "Pointless to dwell on any of it now, as you've said." Give Orac a chance, he was about to add, but bit it back. Oh, no, that was definitely too much. Now he was into pipedreams. Orac might not even exist anymore. Abruptly, he slid down and rolled to his side with his back to Blake, hoping to discourage further conversation. Not quite. Blake chose to close the subject in his own way. "It does help to know something about it. Thank you." Of all the times for the man to turn courteous and appreciative. Avon gritted his teeth. "I didn't tell you anything new. It isn't like you to seek confirmation on things you already know - or things you don't know, for that matter. "I didn't know, Avon. Not really." "Come on, Blake. Surely you've had elementary biology." "I must have." That made Avon roll around to face him, not that it made much of a difference in the night. "You don't remember? Something as basic as that?" And we let this man lead us to hell and back, he despaired. We deserve everything we get. "Just how wide are these gaps in memory"? "How do you tell what you don't remember when you don't remember it? Certainly, there are things I know I should remember, but...I'm an engineer. I was trained at Moonbase High Tech. I can build you, say, an interface capacitor from scratch." "I'm impressed, but that's not the point." "The point is, I can do that, but don't ask me how a holograph image works. A second grade Beta student can tell you that, but I can't, not without looking it up. There are gaps, things that don't connect, or things that float around, all there, but out of sequence, and won't fall into the right order." Avon had thought he couldn't imagine living with a mutoid's body. Living with an incapacitated brain was an even more horrifying prospect. "Why didn't you ever try to see if Orac could do something about it? It's capable of...." "No!" The vehemence didn't startle Avon. It had to be difficult for Blake to contemplate anything hooked into his brain again. "I'd be scared of losing what I do have," the rebel finished, more evenly. "What's wrong?" he then asked, out of the blue. Puzzled at first, Avon realized he had been alternately rubbing and scratching his hands and arms. "Nothing. I scrubbed too hard. I think I'm getting a rash." He forced himself to ignore the itchy feeling. "Why don't you rest?" Blake suggested. "I'll keep watch." Avon squinted at the backpack. "I take it there's only one blanket." "Yes. "Come here then." "I'm all right." "Blake, it would conserve immeasurable energy if we didn't have to bicker over every little point. Our clothes are barely dry, it's cold, there's one blanket, get over here." Blake obeyed. They both found acceptable positions, Blake on his back and Avon on his side, facing away. "Are you asleep?" the rebel asked in a few minutes. Avon had always considered that a particularly self-defeating question. Or a self-serving one, depending on the point of view. "Obviously not." "I'd like to ask you something." "Don't let me stop you - you never do." "Why did you come after me?" "Three against one aren't great odds," Avon chose to say. As worded, it was true. That it didn't apply was nobody's business. "You're not going to tell me," Blake concluded. Long minutes later, he asked again. "Why do you stay?" Avon stifled a sigh. "Just at the moment, I can't think of a place to go." "You know what I mean. Why do you stay with the Liberator?" "You've just answered your own question - to stay with the Liberator." "It doesn't work, Avon. You had that chance already." Avon couldn't help a barb. After all, Blake had brought up the subject. "As you seem to know and guard against, I play the odds. I didn't like them in that case." "What, two hours' head start wasn't enough for you? With the Liberator's speed?" Indignant, Avon glared over his shoulder. "Have you been checking up on me?" "I was curious. I asked Zen a few questions. So why?" "If you can conduct your own investigations, you can damn well draw your own conclusions." The Federation interrogators were wasting their time in thinking up tortures; close confinement with Blake was all they would ever need. To add insult to injury, what was annoying him no end seemed to be cheering up Blake. "What else can I do, if you 'won't tell me?" the rebel said lightly. "However, if you told me why you stay, I might not jump to wrong conclusions." "Certainly not for the sake of peace and privacy," Avon snapped, then suggested, "Inertia?" Blake chuckled. "Okay, don't tell me that either." "Maybe I'm waiting for a good offer." "Which I believe you've already had." "What?" "At XK72. Don't tell me they didn't jump at the chance of gaining someone of your caliber." "As a matter of fact, they did." Avon wondered why he kept talking. Perhaps to keep at bay the sleep, which was again creeping up on him, annoying him almost as much as Blake. "But other considerations came up. Just as well. It became an unhealthy place, if you'll remember." "You didn't know that at the time. You took a big gamble on the chance that the Liberator would make it." Okay. If the man insisted on figuring out puzzles, he should have a real one, Avon decided. "Quite the contrary, I came back on the chance that the Liberator might not make it." There. That ought to keep Blake's brain circuits in more of a mess for a while. And maybe, just maybe, on the off, off - impossible, really - chance that he actually worked through that to understanding, then perhaps not only Blake but also Avon would have the answer to the question of why he stayed. Blake seemed to be mulling it over. "How badly will I offend you if I said I find that hard to believe?" Well, he had already labeled the chance impossible. "Not in the least," Avon replied, firmly quelling a small pang he refused to acknowledge as disappointment. "I only said that for the sake of accuracy. I don't expect you to believe. Why don't you leave the abstracts alone and concentrate on the immediate realities. As in where the hell do we go from here?" Prospects weren't numerous, let alone attractive. "We'll hook up with the resistance group." Avon snorted. "Wasn't this Kasabi's sector? If a sixteen year old girl was able to patch together anything resembling a resistance group in a few months, who knows where they'll be. We have no transportation to venture far." "They'll find us." "Oh, of course, your all-knowing, all-seeing followers. Where were they this past week then?" "I left a message." Avon bolted upright. "You did what!" "A message, I left a message." "And why in hell would you do something like that?" "It's customary. The deserters from the city wouldn't know the lay of the land. They're instructed to leave messages. Our people check the hiding places regularly." Avon had stopped listening, was already on his feet. "Dammit, Blake, how did you manage to live so long? Come on, move! We're leaving." He yanked the blanket away. "What is the...?" "I'll tell you," he interrupted, throwing things together. "Your rebels, if they're still out there, harbor more spies than ideals. If you've forgotten your experiences, I haven't." He put on the jacket. "Besides, where's the guarantee they'll be the ones to get your message? If I were running the security around here, I'd leave the survival packs alone to trap the deserters myself by... " Suddenly, he froze. "Oh, hell! How did I manage to live so long? Leave everything, except what we came with." Blake was also up, but looking lost. "Why?" "Because the other thing I'd do is hide tracers in the survival packs, and we don't have time to search. Why the hell didn't I think of that sooner? Come on, Blake. It might already be too late."
The whine of the patrol vehicles reached them shortly after dawn.
Vila came to the flight deck, loudly complaining of his trials and tribulations. "Sssh," Cally admonished. "Jenna is sleeping." "Lucky Jenna." He launched into complaints once more, but in a lower voice, stripping off the bulky life-support suit. Cally interrupted. "Zen says the way to the medical unit is clear now. We should check on the guard." "Uh, yeah, well, do we really have to do that? I mean, it may not be a pretty sight." "Don't worry, Vila. Life support in the medical unit operates on emergency generators. He may not have enjoyed the ride, but he should be in one piece." "Oh, in that case...well, I'll just trot on over there and see if all's in order. We might need the facilities, you know. Who knows what shape Avon will be in, or Blake, I mean, after all this time. Gotta make sure we're ready to..." Cally interrupted again. "I'm sure your motives are inspiring, Vila. All the same, I'll see to the medical unit. Stay here and keep an eye on the scanners." "Do bring back some adrenalin and soma, Cally," Vila was begging as she left the flight deck. "It is for medicinal purposes. I am expiring."
Blake had been falling back for a while and Avon had slackened his pace as well. Still, as soon as they made it into the woods, he found himself running alone. He turned to see the rebel leaning heavily against a tree and gasping for breath. "Go on," Blake panted, waving him away when Avon backtracked. "It can't be more than a kilometer or two." They had been heading for a deserted mine - theoretically. "We're not going to make it, Blake. Every time we go a kilometer or two, you claim it's another couple of kilometers. Face it, you don't remember." Blake looked downcast enough to make him add, "Or it's been covered up." Judging by the hum of engines, the patrols were tightening a circular search pattern. It was impossible to tell whether the two men would eventually be caught in its parameters, but the sound of one engine had been getting steadily, insistently closer. "Come on, Blake." Avon tugged urgently at his arm. "I'm slowing you down. Go on ahead." Avon didn't waste his breath; simply yanked. Blake resisted. "Listen. Even if they know it's me they're following, chances are they don't know about you. I can draw them off." It should have been a perfectly reasonable suggestion. Why should they both be in danger? Besides, wasn't it Blake's fault anyway that the patrols were after them? However, Avon was surprised to discover that a reasonable suggestion wasn't always an acceptable one. "You might be right, but we'll use that in a different way," he said, unhooking from his belt the helmet he had been stubbornly keeping. "I'm tired of dashing about like a hunted animal. I want that skimmer. Get out just to the edge of the clearing. Maybe you can tempt them to land and follow you in here." As the rebel left, Avon slid on the helmet, tried to make the uniform look as proper as possible, then positioned himself behind a tree. The skimmer finally became visible. It was low, its forward momentum lessened by a pendulum-like motion that expanded its area of search with each upward swing. Blake waited for it to get closer, then broke cover from behind a boulder and ran back into the trees. The skimmer's nose instantly zeroed in. Blake stopped long enough to see where Avon was, then ducked behind another large tree, and pulled the handgun out. "It's a two-seater." "Yes, I can tell. Come on, come on." They would have reported the sighting; the backup wouldn't be far behind the lone skimmer. The time was likely to be awfully short. At least the vehicle was landing. It touched ground, then slid forward right up to the trees. The hatches on either side lifted like the wings of a bird. The guards had to be tempted to come out into the open, somehow. The presence of another guard might do it. "I'm going to step out," Avon mouthed at Blake. "The uniform should give them pause. Don't waste it." He saw Blake's acknowledging nod, and moved out,. The ploy was unnecessary. Two figures were already jumping out of the vehicle. Avon's movement drew their attention. The uniform did give them pause, but their appearance also gave Avon pause. A man and a woman. Both in rumpled fatigues. No helmets. The hesitation lasted a brief instant. "It's a trap!" the woman shouted, then lifted her weapon. Avon immediately went into a crouch, took aim, hoping Blake would take care of the man. "HOLD IT!" Blake's authoritative shout froze everybody as the rebel revealed himself. Each side inspected the other, everyone except Blake crouching protectively with fingers poised on triggers. "Who are you?" the woman demanded after a beat, addressing Blake, but her eyes never left Avon. "My name is Blake. He's with me. The uniform is just a disguise." The woman's eyes flickered briefly toward the rebel. "Blake? Roj Blake?" "Yes, he is, Maya." The confirmation came from her companion, exultantly. "I recognize him." "Who is he?" The woman indicated Avon. Avon jumped in before Blake could obligingly introduce him. "I have a better question. Who are you?" The young man seemed to be the more gregarious of the two. "We're from the North-East Sector resistance. This is Maya, I'm Karl. You're Roj Blake!" he exclaimed, his worshipful tone instantly making Avon nauseous. "How come...? What are you...? We didn't know you were coming. The patrols are after you." "We know that," Avon snapped, relaxing his grip on the rifle as the woman lowered hers. "What we don't know is what you are doing in a Federation patrol skimmer." "Oh, we stole that a long time ago. We always do this," the man supplied, sounding awfully proud. "When a large number of patrols are out following somebody, we just sidle in from the edges and they think we're one of them. We've been able to snatch a lot of people from right under their..." "I'm sure," Avon interrupted impatiently. He wasn't sure about Blake's rebels, but they were getting trapped. "And if you don't want to spoil your record, I suggest we go, now." The woman was obviously more practical. She was already in the vehicle, turning it. Avon climbed up the hatch she had left open and squeezed into the tiny space behind her seat. She craned her neck to look at him. "And you are?" "My name is Avon." "Take off the helmet, Avon." She looked at him closely when he complied, then turned back to the instruments. Blake and Karl were also in the vehicle, the rebel trying to gather information on this particular portion of his rabble, the young man babbling on adoringly. Avon decided it was going to be a long trip.
"Were you able to send a message?" was the first thing Jenna wanted to know when Cally awakened her. Vila, despite a dose of vitalizer -not quite the mixture he had asked for - was already dozing at one end of the couch. The Auron didn't think she could stay on her feet any longer herself "Out of range, Jenna," she supplied, dropping into the place the pilot vacated. "Orac says the signal can be boosted through a Federation satellite, but we might give away our location as well as theirs." "Well, not a message then, but...how about just pulses to activate the communicators? That'll be considered a stray interference on the frequency." "By Avon, too," Cally pointed out. "It's better than nothing. Not by much, I know, but let's try anyway." Jenna headed for Orac and Cally gratefully put her head down. "You can send a message if you can send pulses." That came from Vila, who obviously hadn't been all that deeply asleep. "Any message they'll comprehend, the Federation might, too." "Maybe not, I think there's a way. Might not work, though. There was this old guy when I was little, used to tell stories, but he called them history. Funny old coot. Could break into anywhere, but he'd break into libraries and archives. To read, he used to say. I don't know what he..." "Vila," Jenna interrupted impatiently, "if you know something, say it." "Like I said, might not work, or Avon might not understand it, but, well, you see, a very long time ago, at least that's what he said..." "Vila!" Jenna's threatening voice was the las |