"Any luck?" Soolin asked Dayna as the other woman returned to the Xenon Base control room.

Dayna shook her head, saying, "If Vila's here, I can't find him."

"Well he didn't vanish into thin air." Tapping her fingers on Orac's casing, Soolin considered the possibilities. "There are lots of places for him to hide."

"But why should he do that?"

"You tell me."

Dayna couldn't though. "It doesn't make any sense. I know he's been behaving...oddly--"

"Even for Vila."

"--but I can't see why he'd run off and hide the instant Avon and Tarrant leave."

Placing that slight emphasis on the word was interesting, Soolin thought, maybe even significant. Frankly, from what she had observed lately, Vila was far more likely to hide when Avon was on the premises.

It struck her as thoroughly unlikely that Vila would be out on the surface; the few times he had been outside, he hadn't seemed to like it much. He certainly wouldn't go outside and promptly got lost. Could he have been forcibly removed? Well, the Seska were history, and the Hommiks had moved on--and surely they would have been alerted had a ship set down on the surface. So, that line of investigation looked to be closed, although it would have to be reopened if all other avenues led nowhere.

Giving Dayna a level look, Soolin said, "If Vila was on the base, would you have found him?"

"Yes," Dayna was unhesitating in her assurance. "There's no way he could hide from me like this."

Which left the least likely possibility, although Soolin was blessed if she could see how Vila had worked it. Giving Orac a thoughtful look, she decided there was nothing to lose, and slid the key into place. "Orac, do you know where Vila Restal is?"

*Of course I do.*

The women exchanged looks at the admission, although Soolin supposed they ought to have expected it: Vila would have required an accomplice to pull off this stunt, and given the circumstances, Orac was the only one who met all the specifications.

"Look, would somebody mind filling me in?" Dayna asked. "What's this all about?"

"Yes, Orac, do tell. Where is Vila?"

*Presumably on the planet Gauda Prime.*

"Gauda Prime?"

Dayna touched her arm. "What is it? Do you know that planet?"

"Yes, I know it. It's a bad place to be." And why did Vila have to home in on GP, of all places? Soolin asked herself, not appreciating this turn of events in the least.

Gathering her thoughts, and shoving memories of GP far to the back, Soolin went on quizzing Orac, drawing out the whole story of how Vila had stowed away on Scorpio, indulging in a spot of Orac-directed sabotage so the ship would have to put down on a civilized world where Vila could make his exit. Soolin guessed GP could just about fit the bill.

Perhaps it was paranoia, or something, but Soolin couldn't help thinking Orac appeared to have slanted things towards GP. Which was surely ridiculous. The computer had only selected the nearest planet, en route to Betafarl, that met Vila's criteria. That was all; Orac could have no purpose in picking GP out of the galactic haystack.

"I think we'd better tell Avon about this," Dayna said. "Assuming he doesn't already know."

There was that. Orac couldn't know if Vila's plan had come off as intended; he might well have been discovered. Still, that didn't entirely dispel Soolin's sense of ambiguity, her reluctance to interfere in Vila's plans in case it had worked out as he'd wanted. If this was the thief's choice, what right did any of them have to go GP and haul him back? Had it been anywhere other than Gauda Prime, Soolin thought her decision would have been to let well enough alone, but she would have been reluctant to leave Avon stuck on that hellhole.

Reaching for the communications link to the ship, she activated it. "This is Xenon calling Scorpio, come in."

***

Avon was not amused, Tarrant could tell--and the pilot didn't entirely blame him. Vila had done some half-witted things before, but this was the topper. What could have been going through his, alleged, mind? Nor could Tarrant help thinking Avon might know a lot more about this than he was willing to say. Certainly things had seemed strained between Avon and Vila just lately, since Malodaar. Tarrant had his suspicions of what had gone on aboard that shuttle, but that's all they were, because neither of the two men were willing to say a word about it. Clearly they believed it was between them, and maybe Vila thought this was the best solution all around.

It didn't strike Tarrant as much of an idea, however, nor did he care for what Soolin had had to say about Gauda Prime. Well, all right, she hadn't said much of anything actually, but something in her tone had conveyed a great deal of antipathy towards the planet. Coming from Soolin, that amounted to a major indictment. And if she believed it was a planet best avoided, then Vila could have no possible business being there.

"We have to go back for him."

Avon looked at him. "Do we."

Tarrant had been afraid of this. To some extent he could even sympathize with Avon, since this meeting with the warlord Zukan could be extremely important in an anti-Federation alliance. If it went as planned. Given the way Avon's plans had a way of turning out, however, the pilot wouldn't have been quick to place a wager on the outcome. For all the potential positives, he could see some important negatives as well, not least of which was the compromised security of having Zukan and the other warlords gather at Xenon. In fact...

"And suppose Vila gets caught?" he protested. "Your warlord alliance won't amount to much if Federation troops storm the base." Avon could hardly counter with the conviction Vila wouldn't talk if captured.

"The alliance won't amount to anything without Zukan," Avon stated. "We cannot risk offending him."

Tarrant gave him an incredulous look. "Since when did being offensive bother you?"

Avon snapped back, "Since there's quite a lot riding on this."

"Vila deserves our concern, too."

"He's opted out--he's his own concern now. We are going to Betafarl."

"After we go back for Vila. You heard what Soolin said about the planet."

"I don't give a damn what Soolin said."

+Excuse me, master,+ Slave said, oblivious to both men turning to glare at it for interrupting, +but a fault has developed in the drive system.+

"What do you mean?" Tarrant demanded. "There wasn't anything wrong before."

+I am sorry, sir,+ Slave replied, sounding even more obsequious than usual. +lt is rather mysterious.+

Pulling up short, Avon favored the computer with a dumbfounded stare. "What do you mean, it's mysterious?"

Had Slave been able to shrug, Tarrant thought it would have. Instead it said, +Your most gracious pardon is asked, master, but it's impossible to answer your question.+

"Oh, is it?" Avon wasn't having any of it. "When I get my hands on Vila...Tarrant!"

A slow grin spreading over his face, the pilot went back to his position. "Shall I set a course for Gauda Prime?" he asked, receiving a particularly baleful glare in reply. "I'll take that as a yes."

"Take it however you like, just do it." Then to Slave, "I assume we will be able to reach Gauda Prime?"

+Oh yes, master. That is well within the parameters.+

"Yes, but whose parameters are we talking about," Avon murmured, mostly to himself.

+I'm afraid I couldn't say, master.+

Turning a thoughtful look on the computer, the tech said, "No, I don't suppose you can, Slave."

Watching him, Tarrant could tell something had occurred to him. "What is it?"

"What Soolin said, how it almost seemed as if Orac were pursuing its own agenda."

"You think Orac's behind all this? Why should Orac want us on Gauda Prime?"

"I have no idea."

And Avon hated not knowing what was going on.

***

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Did she? Soolin wondered, accepting the glass of wine Dayna had poured out. "Not really," she admitted, "but I think maybe you have a right to know." True confessions weren't usually her thing, she'd only told Dorian a fraction of her life story. These people were different though, maybe because they had respected her privacy, even while accepting her as one of them. A very curious assortment of social misfits, and it always came as a surprise that she really rather liked them--even when she felt that some skewed cosmic force had appointed her their nanny.

"I was born on GP--Gauda Prime," she said. "It was an agricultural world then. Settlers had gone there from Earth to raise crops and timber: my family were latecomers, but they took it up as if it was what they'd done all their lives." How could she put all that into words? It would sound too idyllic to be believed, those first eight years of her life. "We were very happy," was all she said in the end.

Raising her glass to her lips, she sipped the wine, and considered what words could describe what had come in the wake of that precious idyll. Of all of them though, she supposed Dayna was the most likely to understand--Dayna, who had no memory of her mother, whose father had been murdered by Servalan. They all really ought to pay more attention to Dayna, discover if there was anything she needed to talk about. True confessions all around, Soolin reflected, with a wry smile quirking her mouth, considering there was a certain computer expert she would enjoy playing truth or dare with--just to see what he'd do.

"When I was eight," she continued, her expression becoming introspective, trying to keep her voice even and matter-of-fact, to maintain the mask of cool pragmatism she'd worn so long now, "someone discovered there was more wealth to be had under the ground than in it, and to get around all the troublesome details of buying it from the farmers," there was a bitter twist to her mouth, "they took it by declaring GP an open planet--all laws thrown to the wind. The mining corporations moved in and moved out the farmers, and if the farmers wouldn't go..." Odd how vivid the memory was, all these years later. She could hear the door crashing open, the sound of booted feet on the stairs, her parent's bedroom door crashing open--the thunderclap of gunshots blended with screams... She flinched at the sight playing through her mind, now hearing the footsteps cross the hall, to Jamie's room, the sound of a struggle, then another shot. Meggie wailing, and the steps crossing to the baby's room--one more ear-splitting shot...and then silence. After a very long time she had crawled out from under her bed, not remembering how she'd got there, her chest aching from trying to hold her breath so long, afraid to make any noise. She could recall feeling...disconnected, somehow, not numb exactly, more as if it was all happening to someone else. Maybe that was how she'd survived what she'd found as she moved from room to room. Everyone dead, so much blood everywhere...the baby...there'd hardly been anything left of the baby...

"Oh god..."

Yanked back to the present, Soolin looked over at Dayna, seeing the distress in her face, a hand raised to her mouth, tears spilling down her cheeks. Oh lord, had she actually spoken all that out loud? She'd been so caught up in reliving it, she hadn't realized.

Getting up, Soolin moved to sit. beside the younger woman and clasp one of her hands. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said all that. It must've sounded brutal."

"Not more brutal than living it," Dayna said, sniffing and swiping at the tears. "How could you have stood that?"

"I don't know," Soolin said, shrugging. "There wasn't much of a choice really." She let go Dayna's hand and sat back in her own space. "You know the rest, more or less." And it had better be less, for now; she doubted Dayna was up for the graphic details of how an 8-year-old girl had survived on the world Gauda Prime had become. Come to that, she wasn't all that keen on dwelling on it, herself. She'd done what she had to, and come through well enough. That was all that mattered. "I always tried to keep it in perspective," she added after a few moments, thinking that was something Dayna ought to hear. "It was a job I had to do, but I never expected it to change anything--to undo any of what had happened."

Dayna looked at her curiously. "When it was finished, how did you feel?"

That was a tough one, and she didn't want to give Dayna bad ideas. "I felt...transformed, by everything I'd been through. I had to confront aspects of myself that weren't always easy to accept." Shrugging, she ran a hand through her golden hair. "I didn't let my thirst for justice consume me though."

"Is that a subtle hint?"

"How about friendly advice?"

A signal from the communications board interrupted further conversation--and Soolin had to admit she rather welcomed it; there was only so much soul-baring she was up to at one time. Returning to the control room, she answered the call. "This is Xenon Base. Have you found Vila?"

"Eh? This is Vila," came the thief's voice back at her.

"And you're even still alive," said Dayna.

"Why shouldn't I be alive?"

"Well I would have thought Avon--"

"Is Avon there?"

Soolin and Dayna exchanged looks, Soolin saying, "Isn't Avon there? Where exactly are you, Vila?"

"I'm on Gauda Prime, and no, Avon's not here. He and Tarrant are still heading for Betafarl then?"

"You should be so lucky," Dayna told him. "We figured out what you did, Vila--Avon and Tarrant are on their way to Gauda Prime for you."

"They are? That's all right then."

Well, he sounded awfully chipper, Soolin thought, for a man on the verge of imminent death. "Vila, what do you know that we don't?" she asked, hoping he had a good explanation for all this.

***

Of course that all depended upon one's point of view, and Vila was all for glossing over how he'd wound up on Gauda Prime, preferring to emphasize that he'd found Blake. Dayna and Soolin didn't exactly sound like they were doing handsprings at that announcement, but Vila supposed that was to be expected as neither of them knew Roj Blake yet.

"I thought he was dead," Dayna said.

"According to Servalan. Think about that." Glancing up at Blake, hovering at his shoulder and radiating impatience, Vila hurried on, "So Avon and Tarrant are headed this way then? That'll save some time." Funny it had turned out that way. If Avon had a clue Blake could be found on GP, Vila had no doubt the tech would break records getting here; hard to believe he and Tarrant would hightail it back out of concern for a runaway thief.

Telling Dayna and Soolin to hold on for a minute, Vila asked Blake, "So what do you want to do now?"

Chewing his thumb, the rebel was considering possibilities--at least Vila always assumed that was a contemplative pose, not mere mortal nerves.

"We should contact Avon," Blake said. "Arrange to meet him."

What a surprise. Vila got Soolin and Dayna back, asking them to patch him through to Scorpio. After what seemed too long a wait, he asked, "What's going on?"

Soolin's voice came back to him, something in her cool tone bothering him. "We can't reach Scorpio, even with Orac."

Well... "That doesn't have to mean anything...you know... Maybe they're already here. They could have left the ship--"

"You don't understand, Vila," Dayna chipped in. "Orac should be able to contact Slave, no matter where Avon and Tarrant are."

"And he can't?"

"No."

Oh dear.

***

Smoke rising from the wreckage of Scorpio mingled with the early morning mist that wreathed the forest. The only sounds were the chirps and whistles of birds, a few creaks and groans as the wreckage settled. The two men sitting over on a mossy log, staring at what remained of their ship, were too pissed off for words.

After awhile longer, Tarrant ventured, "Looks like this is going to be one of those days, doesn't it?"

Avon sighed. "More like one of those lives." He supposed they really ought to get up and go see what there was to be done about the ship, little as that was likely to be. Of course one could look on the bright side, appreciate that he and Tarrant had come through the crash relatively unscathed. Although Avon believed that owed more to Tarrant's piloting skills than to any act of providence. With anyone of lesser caliber at the controls, they and the ship would have been scattered over this forest.

"Who do you suppose tried to shoot us down?" Tarrant wondered aloud after another lull in conversation.

"Does it matter?"

"Probably not. It's just that we didn't have any trouble before," Tarrant said, shrugging, and wincing at a pain in his shoulder.

"What's wrong?"

"It's just a little sore."

Looking at him, Avon wondered if that was entirely true--not that there was a lot to do about it. They were both bruised and bloody from minor scrapes. His left leg ached, a bad bruise showing through the ripped cloth, and the muscles in his back were twinging. He guessed Tarrant was in roughly the same shape; the cut on his palm was the worst injury, but it looked like it had stopped bleeding.

After a couple more minutes, Avon gingerly levered himself up, finding it wasn't too painful to put weight on his leg--and never mind how it might feel a few miles from now. "Well?" he reached a hand down to Tarrant.

Accepting the offer, the pilot gripped Avon's hand with his own good one, leaning a little heavily on the tech for a few seconds, then straightening and standing on his own. He fell into step beside the older man as they crossed the clearing to where Scorpio nestled, half on its side, where it had plowed into a grassy hillock after skidding along the forest floor--scorched ground and uprooted trees marking the path. The two men shared a doubtful look, before squeezing through the hatch that had been wedged open, to be met by the discouraging sight of torn and twisted metal, wires exposed and dangling, some still hissing and sparking; Slave dark and silent.

The computer had been trying to tell them something as they approached Gauda Prime, Avon recalled, how the signal needed to be... What? he wondered, and supposed they would never know now. Perhaps he shouldn't have told the computer to keep quiet, after all.

"How far are we from Port Dunbar?"

Tarrant started to lean against a bulkhead, thought better of it, and said, "I'm guessing, but I think we came down somewhere southeast of the town, maybe...twenty miles?"

More or less, and with this topography it was going to be quite a hike, no matter what. Some alternate form of transport might present itself en route, however, this region couldn't be completely uninhabited. Although if there had been anyone nearby, it was hard to believe Scorpio crashing would have gone unnoticed; someone would surely have come for a look by now.

Avon was also beginning to wish he'd acquired a little more information on this planet from Soolin and Orac.

Later, after a meager breakfast of rations and water, they set out, alert for signs of civilization--or indications they were being tracked. Knowing there could be bounty hunters prowling this forest was not a comforting thought for two men with substantial prices on their heads.

"When we find Vila," Tarrant said in a conversational tone, when they had stopped for a rest, "what shall we do with him?"

Relaxing against the trunk of a grand old oak, taking the weight of a leg that was beginning to ache, Avon smiled. "Well now, the imagination overflows with possibilities, doesn't it?"

"Drawing and quartering might be extreme, I suppose." Tarrant sank down in the grass, back braced against the tree.

"Would it?"

"Tarring and feathering?"

"Sell him for parts, to those Chengans?"

"Give him to Servalan for a pet?"

"Let Soolin and Dayna use him for target practice?"

Grinning, Tarrant leaned his head back against the rough bark, gazing up at the bright blue sky, streaked with wispy clouds. "Avon."

"What?"

"Does that look like smoke?"

It did. "Come on." Avon pushed off the tree, negotiating a path through thigh-high grass, clambering up a ridge of rock that pushed out of the earth and overhung a clearing. Below, breaking camp around a smoldering campfire, three rough-looking men were heaving supplies into a flyer.

Looking at Tarrant sprawled beside him on the rock, Avon whispered, "I believe our luck's just changed," and shared a wolfish grin with the pilot.

***

"Oi, Skragg! Whatcher reckon that was last night?" one of the bounty hunters said, sucking in his gut to buckle his holster.

"Told you last night, Jonder," said the red-bearded one, checking the edge on a knife before sliding it into his boot. "It was just a meteor."

"Genko doesn't know what's talking about, Jonder," said the one called Skragg, taller and leaner and marginally more hygienic. "I think that was a ship that tried to run the blockade and didn't make it."

"Might be worth checking out then."

"Waste of time," was Genko's assessment. "No way anybody woulda survived that."

"But we don't care if anybody survived, do we?" Skragg said. "Long as there's something to scavenge."

"Reckon there'd be much?" Jonder asked.

"Won't know if we don't look," Skragg told him.

"And s'posin' we lose our quarry cuz we're poking around some wreck?" Genko objected.

"It's on our way, Genko," said Skragg. "Quit being a stiff."

Grumbling to himself, Genko walked around behind the flyer, opening the door to stow his rifle. Something rustled in the bushes and he turned to see a tall, curly-haired young man coming toward him. Snatching his knife from its sheath, Genko slashed out at the boy- -but the tall stranger was too quick for him, grabbing his wrist and twisting until the bounty hunter cried out and dropped the knife. As the young man kicked the knife out of reach, Genko took advantage of the moment's distractions to wrench free and dive far the flyer and his gun; but the boy was right there, jerking him around by his beard and driving the air from his lungs with a solid blow to his solar plexus. Gasping and choking on the ground, the heavier man was aware of some commotion, his attacker moving away, turning his back on him--Genko drew another knife from an arm sheath, pushed himself to his feet and rushed the bay, intent on burying the knife to its hilt between those shoulder blades. Someone yelled, "Tarrant!" and the young man spun around, a gun in his hand, blasting Genko in midstep. Momentum carried the bounty hunter forward a few more steps, then he crashed to the ground and lay still.

Skragg and Jonder had heard the commotion, and guns drawn, had started to go see what their companion was carrying on about, when a voice behind them called, "Hey!" Turning, they were confronted by one man, a soft Alpha by the looks of him, no danger for certain.

"Oi, Genko?" Jonder called. "Come lookit what we found!" Moving closer, he asked the stranger, "What's your name, then? Pretty little thing like you shouldn't be wandering around all alone and--" Quicker than should have been possible, the 'pretty little thing' had drawn a gun, aimed, and fired.

Before Jonder's body hit the ground, before his partner's gun had cleared its holster, the stranger got off another shot that slammed into Skragg's chest, sprawling him backwards in the grass.

***

"Tarrant!" Avon checked his shot as he saw the pilot had taken care of the third bounty hunter. "Are you all right?"

Nodding, Tarrant holstered his gun. "You?"

"Fine. Can you fly this?"

For a moment Tarrant looked like he might make some noise about a decent burial for the recently deceased, quickly reconsidered, and said, "Yes, there's nothing much to it."

"Then let's go," Avon ordered, climbing into the flyer, waiting impatiently for the pilot to settle at the controls and look things over. "It would be preferable to be in Port Dunbar before nightfall."

The younger man tossed him an annoyed look. "Then shut up and let me figure out how to get there, will you?"

It was only a few minutes before Tarrant had everything sorted cut to his satisfaction, and had them up in the air, skimming over the forest, in a northwesterly direction.

***

Blake knew he ought to eat, but couldn't summon enough interest to do more than shove food around on the plate. How long could it take to locate a possible crash site? he wondered for about the hundredth time.

Vila popped into the commissary and Blake looked over at him hopefully, but the thief only shook his head, picking up a tray and coming over join him. Spooning up soup, he said, "Bet they're sitting somewhere all cozy right now. Well," he took a bite of bread, "actually, they're probably carving on at each other and making a spectacle of themselves. You really ought to appreciate the quiet, Blake--you'll never know it again when those two show up."

"I don't know what it's like now," Blake snapped crossly, instantly regretting when Vila's face fell. "I'm sorry, Vila, it's just..." He shrugged, not knowing how to explain how he felt, being so close to finding Avon, only to be frustrated by these delays. Expressing the fear that this latest twist of fate may have taken Avon's life was even more difficult.

"Yeah, I know," Vila nodded. "There's nothing like waiting to frazzle your mind, is there?"

Blake dredged up a smile. "Well it's not quite that bad." Not yet. "There ought to be some news soon."

As though that had been his cue, Deva came in, carrying a compboard and making a beeline for Blake's table. "I think we've found it," he said, holding out the compboard and pointing to the map displayed on the screen. "We lucked out really. Klyn picked up some chatter to Port Dunbar, someone bragging about shooting down a ship that corresponds to Scorpio's description." Shoving his hair out of his eyes, Deva indicated an area on the map, southeast of Port Dunbar. "We calculate that's where they came down. He hesitated a moment, then, "It's not the best terrain for a crash landing; you would have to be a hell of a pilot to pull it off."

Looking like he hated to admit it, Vila said, "Tarrant's good--one of the two best I know." Something else occurred to him. "So how come, the first time, we got through this blockade and landed at Port Dunbar without any kind of trouble?"

"You said Orac was your co-conspirator?" Blake mused, scratching his knuckles against his chin. "Maybe Orac found out the codes used to identify company craft so they can safely get through the blockade. The first time, Orac sent those codes to Slave, but Slave wasn't able to manage it this second time. Does it break down a lot?"

"Not really. It kind've gets on your nerves though, and we tell it to shut up a lot."

"So maybe Avon or Tarrant gave Slave the wrong order, at the wrong time," Deva concluded. "Well, whatever the case, I'm sending out a rescue team--"

Blake interrupted, "No, I'll go. Get a flyer ready--and have medical on standby alert."

Deva's protest was immediate. "You're not going out."

Standing, unconsciously making maximum use of his size, Blake replied in no uncertain terms, "I'll be damned if I'm going to sit quietly and wait another minute. Go see to the flyer, Deva." He didn't meant to be curt, and he didn't mean to push Deva around...but it was Avon out there.

The projected crash site wasn't far off, by air, and within an hour Blake was craning his neck for a visual sighting, thinking he should be able to see something by now. Checking the map coordinates again, the rebel leader confirmed that this was the pinpointed area. So where the hel-- Wait a minute, over there, by the hill, there was a flash of sunlight of f something down on the ground. Taking the flyer lower, Blake confirmed it: a ship plowed into the hill and matching up with the wanderer class specs he punched up on the compboard. He didn't want to get his hopes up, but it looked to be pretty much intact, and that had to count towards the occupants surviving. On the other hand, there was no one outside, on the ground... So all that meant, he told himself, was that Avon and Tarrant were off scouting the area, or inside working on the ship. No need to attach ominous meanings to everything.

Putting the flyer down in the clearing, Blake climbed out and--suppressing the urge to yell out that he was here--strode over to the wreck. He wedged a shoulder in the hatch, head cocked for the sound of someone busily at work, verbal racket at least, but there was nothing. Bothered by that, telling himself he was braced for the worst, he squeezed on through the opening...only to find more mangled metal, and an aura of desertion. It wasn't what he had most feared discovering, but it still came as a letdown, and now he did call out, "Avon! It's Blake! Avon! Tarrant!" But only silence answered him.

Making his way around the flight deck, he paused to poke at what must have been the ship's computer, then moved on to a sort of alcove, crouching to pick up one of the bracelets that had spilled across the deck. Teleport bracelet? he wondered, cocking a curious eyebrow and fitting it on his wrist. Vila hadn't mentioned Scorpio being outfitted with a working teleport, but it didn't surprise him that Avon had been able to duplicate the process. He would have wanted to salvage Scorpio in any event, but the teleport system raised its priority considerably.

Salvaging Avon and Tarrant was top of his list, however, and Blake switched his attention to the flight positions, frowning at the drops of blood that were spattered over the console at the pilot's position. Part of a bloody hand-print was on the headrest of the seat, as if someone had gripped it. Following the splatters of blood back to the hatch, he found another, larger smear on the bulkhead there. Cursing himself for not being more careful in approaching the ship, Blake scanned the ground for more.... Yes, a few more drops of blood, and more importantly footprints. There seemed to be two trails, one that led over to an old, moss-covered log. It looked like they had spent quite a bit of time here, Blake thought as he examined the debris left behind--giving each other some first aid, having a meal; Blake had never been happier to come across the rubbish left behind by a pair of messy campers. This had to mean neither of them had been too badly hurt. Now the question was: where had they gone?

Scouting around for, and picking up the second trail, Blake had also never been more grateful for the survival skills Ushton had taught him. It looked like Avon and Tarrant were headed for Port Dunbar, and they couldn't be that far ahead--not on foot, and with some minor injuries. It would be too easy to miss them if he took the flyer up though, better to try and catch up with them on the ground. That decided, Blake set out at a brisk pace.

***

"Something wrong?" Vila asked, coming into the tracking gallery and seeing Deva and Klyn looking worried.

"We can't reach Blake," the petite woman told him. "He was supposed to check in every fifteen minutes."

"And it's nearly as hour since his last report," Deva finished.

"Oh, well, if he's found Avon he's probably got more important things on his mind." Hmm, Vila reflected he could have phrased that a bit more diplomatically; he could tell Deva and Klyn weren't too thrilled at the prospect of being relegated to supporting cast, now Avon was back in the picture. There wasn't much help for it, in Vila's experience: the only thing that didn't come after Avon in Blake's universe, was the revolution. So his fellow rebels might as well start getting used to it.

"Just relax," he advised them. "I'm sure everything's all right." He sure wasn't going to sit around, worrying myself to death.

Well, not just yet, anyway.

Blake couldn't say he regretted the deaths of Genko, Jonder, and Skragg--they had been exceptionally nasty pieces of work, worse than most of the people they had gone after. Among other things, they had often sold their prisoners to the slavers out of Domo, if that price was better. Besides, he had no doubt it had been provoked, and not only because Avon and Tarrant had sought to acquire alternate transportation.

That the two men had taken a flyer put a somewhat different wrinkle on things though, since they were probably in Port Dunbar by now. Still, it was not exactly a sprawling metropolis, and they wouldn't exactly be inconspicuous if they went around looking for Vila. Blake hoped they would have the sense to exercise some circumspection, however; everywhere on Gauda Prime was dangerous for someone on the Federation's most wanted list.

It was a caution he should have kept a little more uppermost in his own mind, as he retraced his steps to the Scorpio crash site. Had he done so, it might not have come as quite such a surprise when two bounty hunters--neither familiar to him--came out from behind his flyer, guns leveled at him, and a third slipped from the Scorpio wreckage to jam a rifle barrel in his back.

"Is it Blake?" asked the one behind him.

The blond, with the eyepatch, was checking a compboard, squinting his good eye for a better look at Blake's face. "Yeah, it's Blake," he finally decided.

"Looks like our client had it right then," said the tall, bald one. "I think we just got set for life, mates."

Blake really hadn't meant to do anything stupid, like trying to get away when the odds were so much against him. Much better to go along quietly and wait for a better opportunity. But he must have made some involuntary movement, some little twitch of tensed muscles, because something hard cracked across his shoulders and sent him to the ground. Stunned, Blake could only stare up as the blond man raised a pistol and fired point blank into his chest.

***

Port Dunbar was an actual seaport, but its docks had been pretty well deserted since the mining corporations had taken over. That made them an ideal place, however, for a pair of fugitives to stash a stolen flyer and consider their next move.

Of course Tarrant had to point out, "Vila might not even be here now. He's had time to have moved on."

Avon supposed that was possible, but didn't think it likely. "Assuming there was somewhere for him to go, he'd need money, and he can't have brought that much with him. Even Vila would need some time to come by sufficient funds."

"We don't really know what he had in mind."

"I doubt he knew himself," Avon said, although he had a better idea than Tarrant did of what had precipitated this move on Vila's part. He could look back now and see that, merely because Vila hadn't carried on about what had happened aboard that shuttle, that didn't mean it hadn't been on his mind--that he'd forgotten about it. No one could pardon such an action, but Avon thought Vila would have dealt with things in a different manner. Had the other man been afraid to come to him, to say that he wanted out? The thief had been...quieter, a little wary, but the tech hadn't chosen to pay a lot of attention to any of that.

And this was the result, he supposed. For the time being there wasn't much to be done about any of it, besides carry on with an uneasy conscience. When he found...well, they would just have to wait and see. Frankly he had a few other things on his mind just at the moment, and in some ways his runaway thief was the least of his worries.

"So how much money do we have?" Tarrant wanted to know, and it was actually a relevant point.

Being without funds was something Avon always sought to avoid, although currency had been far less abundant since the loss of Liberator. He was far from destitute, however, nor was Tarrant suffering pecuniary woes, judging by the assortment of notes and coins he produced from various pockets.

"I trust you've no objections to pooling our resources?" Avon said, adding his own money to the pile on the flyer seat and beginning to count it out.

"Naturally not, under the circumstances. You do that very well," Tarrant commented.

"I should." Avon smiled at the memory. "I worked in the Federation Banking System for six months; they started me out in currency exchange."

"Was that before or after your bank fraud?"

"During, actually." Done with counting, Avon announced, "This should work out to around five hundred Federation credits."

"Well, it won't exactly set us up in a lavish life-style," Tarrant thumbed through a wad of currency notes, "but I suppose we'll manage."

"I mean to do more than manage, Tarrant. I don't intend to spend the rest of my life on Gauda Prime."

"It's not a prospect that fills me with abounding joy, Avon, but we may not have a lot of choice. Finding Vila's all well and good, but have you given any thought to what we're going to do about Scorpio?"

"Don't be thick. What do you suppose I'm thinking of? Besides, you're the one who insisted on coming back here for Vila."

"As I recall, we didn't have a lot of choice."

Yes, Tarrant had a point there, and Avon still meant to find out if there was anything to that. What possible purpose could Orac have in engineering their presence on Gauda Prime?

"Is there any way we can get a message to Dayna and Soolin?"

"I don't know. I'd prefer to de it via Orac, but that requires my having access to a computer. Well," Avon gathered up the money and closed the flyer, "I think we should get started. Do you need medical attention?"

"Well--"

"Don't be brave and noble; I don't need you becoming a liability."

"Thank you for your compassionate concern. I was going to say we should both go get checked out."

"I agree. Let's go."

***

Cold. That was the first thing Blake was aware of as he drifted back to consciousness. Other sensations began seeping in then a stiffness in his neck and shoulders, a dull headache, and a burning sensation in his chest. Remembering the eye-patched bounty hunter shooting him, Blake reached a cautious hand to his chest. From the way he felt, he suspected he'd been shot with a trank pellet--and sure enough, his fingers found a tiny lump embedded in bruised and tender flesh. Wincing as he probed it, he knew it wouldn't do him any further harm, in a few more hours it would be absorbed into his body, but in the meantime it would give him some discomfort--especially if he kept messing with it.

Since he'd expected the bounty hunter to deal him a much more lethal shot, he decided not to complain too much about this outcome. He ought to have known his captors would far prefer that he be brought in alive, and Blake had to admit to some mixed feelings about that.

So long as there was a chance of escape, he would welcome every second of life. But if all hopes of liberty were lost, if he was faced with having his mind raped again and the information used to destroy others--if it was that choice or death...well then there was no choice. Suicide had never appealed to him as a solution to problems, or as a means of expressing defiance, but that was because he'd never found himself stripped of all options. This time he knew what was coming, and while he hoped it wasn't a choice he'd have to make, if dying by his own hand was the only way to save the others, then it was a step he was prepared to take.

Only...some nagging little voice at the back of his mind jeered that it was easy to declare such brave and noble intentions now. When the time actually came, he might have nothing at all to say about it; the Federation could have him dancing on its strings before he even knew what hit him. Funny how that little voice sounded so much like Avon, Blake reflected with a rueful smile. And he had to admit this did all rather prove the man's contention that Fate was a twisted bitch.

Getting to his feet, Blake began a prowl of his prison, feeling frustrated more than anything. To have gotten so close to finding Avon, only to have it end up like this... If he had a taste for bittersweet irony, he supposed there could be some humor derived from this. Unlike Avon though, he couldn't find anything very amusing in this tragedy of errors.

As he was neither beaten or dead as yet, he had better put all of that from his mind and concentrate on discovering if there was some way out of this mess. Near as he could tell, he had been dumped in the cellar of a house; the windows were pretty well grimed over or obscured by vegetation, but from the minuscule glimpse they did grant of the outside world, Blake judged it was coming on towards evening. There was no kind of landmark to tell him where he was, although it seemed reasonable to assume it was somewhere in the vicinity of Port Dunbar--one of those old-style mansions, perhaps.

Knowing there probably wasn't much point, he tried each of the windows to see if any of them might be unlocked--even contemplated breaking the glass. Opened or broken though, there was no way he'd ever be able to squeeze through. So that was out.

Just on the off chance, he climbed the stairs and tried the door. Locked, of course. He supposed he could break it down, but that wouldn't achieve much if there was an armed guard on the other side. So he would reserve that for last resort time, preferably after he'd had a chance to suss things out.

All right, was there anything stashed down here that might serve him as a weapon? he wondered, and turned his attention to the assortment of boxes and trunks that had been dumped here. Mostly it was musty old clothes, tattered books, junked household items; his hopes momentarily rose when one trunk yielded up an antique firearm President Sarkoff might have fancied: a genuine, pre-atomic bolt-action rifle, very possibly in working order. Provided there had been some ammunition to go with it. Rooting around further though, Blake was unable to turn up anything even remotely appropriate. Well, if he couldn't shoot it, maybe he could whack someone with it so he'd try and keep it handy just in case--and in lieu of being able to cobble anything else together.

Shoving a stack of empty crates side, he discovered another door, this one leading directly outside--and, darnit, just as securely locked! Needing to vent his frustration, Blake thumped the door, and again...the tiniest squidge of optimism starting to flicker as he felt the door yield. Not much, just a little...but if he put all his weight into it...

About to throw himself against the old wood, he heard the other door open and footsteps creaking on the steps. Quickly moving away from his possible escape route, Blake was sprawled on the cold floor when the steps stopped beside him and someone kicked him in the side. Opening his eyes, feigning grogginess, Blake looked up at a dark haired woman in Federation military uniform, two helmeted troopers at her back.

"On your feet, scum," she ordered.

Seeing no points to gain in defiance at just this moment, Blake complied, having a feeling he'd seen this woman somewhere before.

She must have noticed him studying her, but rather than provoking anger it seemed to amuse her. "Yes," she said, "I'm the one you've been gathering information on--interesting the way things work out, isn't it?"

Ironic as hell, he thought--and placed her face with a name. "Arlen--you're Veta Arlen, convicted of anti-Federation activities." Deva had compiled quite a file on her, and Blake had intended to begin tracking her as soon as Deva confirmed her presence in the area.

"Lieutenant Arlen, scum--Federation officer."

***

The sense of triumph Arlen had felt at the capture of Roj Blake was beginning to evaporate, thwarted by the man's single-minded determination not to cooperate. Was he a masochist or a misguided martyr? Threats of violence made no impression, carrying through with the promised beating brought nothing in return. And this was only a taste of what awaited him. He knew that, he knew what lay ahead of him--the physical pain, the humiliation. What sort of person would refuse the chance to spare himself all that, especially when the means to his release was so easily obtained? All he had to was tell them what they wanted to know, and there would be no more suffering for him. What was wrong with him, that he refused that? Was he insane? That had to be it, nothing else made sense. Only someone who was sick--mentally ill--could look at a civilized and orderly world, and want it destroyed.

Mad, or merely evil--some kind of atavistic savage?

It was beyond Arlen, and best left to psychiatrists. Blake could perform at least one constructive public service: by studying him and his followers, they could learn what produced such disturbed and dangerous outcasts. There must be a cure for such destructive behavior, or a means of preventing their development so that decent, law-abiding citizens needn't be fearful.

Best to turn him over to Commissioner Sleer, someone far more accustomed to dealing with such people. Arlen had been willing, even eager, to carry out the Commissioner's orders to capture Blake, but had to admit to a certain relief that it would no longer be necessary. Barsaad's plan had worked out just as he'd said it would though, changing everything.

Instructing her personnel to remain on alert--Barsaad had reminded her there was no limit to what Blake's followers would go to if they thought they could free him--Arlen hurried to her flyer, anxious not to be late meeting Sleer at the spaceport.

***

Two guards dragged Blake down the hall by the legs, heedless of his head bumping along the hardwood floor. A third held open the cellar door, the other jerking the prisoner upright and pushing him through the door, where he wobbled precariously on the landing, barely conscious--then one of them gave him a shove that sent him tumbling down the stairs. Laughing, they slammed the door shut and locked it.

***

For a long time, Blake lay in a heap at the foot of the stairs, pain screaming in every part of his body. Shameless tears started in his eyes, and he made no attempt to hold back any cry of pain as he tried to move. Giving up on that for the moment, he lay still and concentrated on clearing his mind, waiting for the pain to abate somewhat. He didn't think he'd really been hurt all that badly...well, he'd been hurt a good deal worse than this anyway, by far more practiced and professional thugs. Commonplace beatings like this weren't anything he couldn't stand.

He had a feeling Arlen meant to call in reinforcements, however, and that could mean something a lot more efficiently nasty was headed his way. If he was going to make good his escape, it was going to have to be now, he decided, and made another abortive effort to rise.

All right, it would have to be soon, he amended as he sank back down to the floor. Closing his eyes, he tried to relax, to rest. There was time, there had to be time.

***

Servalan had anticipated hearing from Lt. Arlen--eventually. She'd hardly expected the woman to report that Blake was already in custody, and wasn't entirely certain she believed it. Could Arlen have mistaken someone else for Blake? It seemed unlikely, but then so did the prospect of Blake simply stumbling into some bounty hunter's snare. After all this time it actually struck her as rather ludicrous, that Roj Blake should be caught by accident.

Still, if Arlen did have him it would be well worth postponing her plans to rendezvous with Zukan. Capturing Avon was still vital, of course, but--what a charming thought--this stopover on Gauda Prime could prove helpful in that regard. What better bait to entrap Kerr Avon, after all, than the one thing--the one person--he valued above all else? Servalan knew who that was; any doubts had been erased at Terminal--and Terminal would provide the answer now. All that would be necessary was to create some doubt in Avon's mind, present him with proof that Blake still lived...that Blake needed him...and the chase would finally be done.

Smiling with a sweet secretiveness, Servalan found it a prospect almost too wonderful to bear.

***

Coming out of the bathroom, Tarrant found a note from Avon propped on the dresser; deciphering the tech's scrawl, he learned that Avon had gone out on some errand and would return whenever it suited him. Well bully for him, Del thought, deciding this is what he got for letting Avon be first in the fresher.

He finished toweling his hair dry then reached for his new black pullover, tucked into matching trousers, and finished off with a leather jacket that was in pretty good shape for being second hand. After he and Avon had stopped in at the clinic and gotten fixed up, they had hunted up a second hand clothing store to get kitted out with replacements for their own torn and scruffed up gear. Avon hadn't been able to find anything his size in black though, and had had to settle for something in gun metal gray.

Feeling better now he was cleaned up, Tarrant became acutely aware of an empty and growling stomach, and decided to check out the restaurant downstairs. As he relaxed into one of the booths, he studied the menu and had a casual look 'round for Vila. This inn seemed like the sort of place the thief might frequent if given a chance; at least the few times Tarrant had accompanied Vila on a pub crawl, it had usually included an establishment like this--and invariably ended up in an absolute dive. Well, there had been that...'house' on Qwartarry that they'd discovered; that had possessed certain points of interest--and, oh lord, the look on Avon's face when they'd all run into each other at check-out time. Grinning at the memory, Tarrant wondered if it might be worth having a look at Port Dunbar's brothels; given it was Vila they where looking for, there was no telling where he might turn up.

He looked over at the entrance, to see if there was any sign of Avon, and was just in time to spot a very eye-catching couple coming in. The woman was an absolute stunner: tall, with a blonde mane, every generous curve hugged by bronze leather. The man with her was also blond, fastidious in dusty blue trousers and tunic that ought to have made him look dull and mousy--there was an energy about him though that made him a good match for the woman.

With the couple settled in the booth next to Tarrant's, the waitress stooped at his table and whispered, "Did you ever see such a thing? D'you suppose those eyelashes of his are real?"

Tarrant didn't have the faintest. He'd wager anything the woman was completely authentic. To discover otherwise would have been profoundly disappointing. "Are they regular customers?" he asked the waitress--Molly, by her nametag--deciding it could be useful to chat her up a little; she didn't seem to mind.

"I've seen her around before," Molly wrinkled a pert and freckled nose as though she didn't think much of the woman. "Always tarted up something awful. Never seen him before." Clearly the waitress wouldn't mind seeing more of the man. "You're new around here, too," she observed, giving an Tarrant an approving look.

'Yes, I'm meeting some associates. Maybe you've seen one of them," he added, and tried to describe Vila.

Thinking about it, Molly finally shook her strawberry curls. "He might of been around, but he doesn't sound like anyone I would of noticed."

Which would have done wonders for Vila's ego.

"Do you want to order now?" Molly asked.

Since there was no telling when Avon would be back from his errand- -which no doubt involved hijacking a computer--Tarrant saw no reason to sit here and starve. Giving Molly his order, he relaxed and enjoyed the view as she walked away.

Tarrant had finished his main course, some kind of grilled meat (the menu--and Molly--claimed it was actual beef, but Tarrant wasn't convinced), and was starting on an overgenerous slice of chocolate cake, when a man came in and hurried over to the table occupied by the blond couple. This fellow was young, on the small side, with dark hair and pale complexion, clad in a mis-matched assortment of clothes. Ordinarily Tarrant wouldn't have paid him any attention, but he couldn't help overhearing what the man said to the blond couple--one word anyway, something about Vila.

Scooting over in the seat to try and get in a better position for eavesdropping, Tarrant still only picked up fragments... Something about how bounty hunters had caught someone--Vila?--and these people wanting to get him back (so they could collect the reward themselves?); Vila had said he wouldn't...something. Dammit, it was getting too noisy in here to eavesdrop properly, but Tarrant didn't at all like the sound of what he could overhear. Vila appeared to have got himself into quite a bit of trouble.

The trio were on their feet, heading for the door. Tossing a handful of notes on the table, Tarrant quickly followed, making himself as unobtrusive as possible as he trailed along the twilit streets in their wake. He tried to keep an eye out for Avon, but the tech was nowhere to be seen. An extra gun would have been useful, but Tarrant believed he could handle this on his own.

It was cold down on the docks, the tang of salt water sharp in the air. But for the mist rolling in off the sea, the waterfront would have been bathed in the light of a full moon; as it was, the mist diffused the moonlight, casting everything with a surreal aspect.

Or perhaps his imagination was working overtime, Tarrant thought as he cast about for some sign of his quarry. He'd lost them among the piers and abandoned, graffiti-covered warehouses, lost them in the fog. Holding very still, head cocked to listen, he thought sound ought to travel well in this atmosphere, every sigh and whisper magnified. Someone with a bad cough was headed this way, and the pilot pressed deeper into the shadows of a doorway as some derelict shambled into view, waiting impatiently for the man to move on. What was that? Tarrant thought he'd heard something, a door closing and the purr of a flyer powering up. Pinpointing the direction of the sound, he edged along, gun drawn, silently slipping into a private boat house that had been converted to a flyer garage.

An old-style light bulb hung naked from the ceiling, spilling a single pool of yellow light onto a flyer where the two blonds were oblivious to everything but readying for departure. Their gaze was intent on the roof, and Tarrant spared a glance that way, seeing a skylight rolling back to provide an exit. Clever idea, he thought, and was about to step up and confront the pair, when there was a movement behind him and the muzzle of a gun pressed into his back.

"Got him?" the woman called.

"Got him," confirmed Tarrant's captor--the third party, by his voice.

"Bring him," ordered the woman, keeping Tarrant covered as the other man revealed himself to be the derelict who'd been getting on Tarrant's nerves.

"Don't look so crestfallen," the woman told Tarrant. "You're not half bad actually," the look in her hazel eyes put a second meaning on that as she looked him up and down. "We're just extra edgy tonight," she added.

The blond man was looking him over as well, more as if was some specimen on a slide. "I know you," he said--which was news to Del. "You're Del Tarrant--I have quite a file on you," the man went on, smiling.

"What do you mean you have a file on me?"

"Oh, it's just my little hobby."

"Chris," the woman interrupted, "this isn't playtime. You're sure he's Tarrant?"

"Positive."

"Then we'd better bring him with us." To Tarrant, "Get in, we've got things to do."

Not having much to say about it, Tarrant did as he was told, thinking this was turning out to be a really lousy day.

***

It had struck Avon that the likeliest place for him to find the kind of computer he needed would be at the spaceport, and that was where his errand had taken him. Perhaps if he were able to get enough time on one, he might be able to do more than have a chat with Orac. Getting off Gauda Prime and back to Xenon was top priority, but it couldn't be accomplished via commercial transport--besides which, he meant to salvage Scorpio, if possible. Finding a way to recover the ship and move it somewhere to be worked on--one of these hangars, for instance--would be a very good idea. Additional funds would not be unwelcome either, as what he and Tarrant had was not going to go very far. Odd, wasn't it, all the bolt-holes he'd considered, yet he'd never given much thought to how it could be, getting stranded somewhere against his will, with no contingency planning to fall back on. Perhaps that was how it had been with Blake, after Star One: he could have simply found himself stuck somewhere, with no resources. Was that what Jevron had been, some backwater hellhole that Blake couldn't escape? Avon had never looked at it that way before; not that it mattered of course, at this late date.

Pushing that to the back of his mind, he concentrated on getting past the locked door of the administration building, and about had it when a familiar voice came to him:

"That is all well and good, Lt. Arlen, but it doesn't get us inside his base, does it?"

"No, ma'am."

"Well, we'll talk about that later."

"Yes, ma'am."

Scarcely believing it, Avon risked a look around the corner to confirm it--yes, there she was, tricked out in some costume more suited to the boudoir than the battlefield. And anywhere that she went became a battlefield of some kind.

What the hell was Servalan doing on Gauda Prime?

Could it have anything to do with Vila? If the thief had been captured it could certainly be of interest to the Commissioner. What was the talk about a base though--a plan to infiltrate Xenon? Not bloody likely, no matter what Vila told them. Come to that, could Vila actually pinpoint the location of Xenon for someone? Avon honestly did not know, but it wasn't a risk he meant to take, whatever the case.

There was no time to get Tarrant, no time for anything but figuring out how he was going to follow Servalan. If he went after her in a flyer he would surely be spotted... Ah, perhaps it wouldn't be that difficult after all--Servalan and the officer were headed for a troop transport flyer, with ample room for a stowaway.

Avon snaked along after the women, anxious for an opportunity to get himself ensconced within the transport. He only needed a few seconds, but even he couldn't manage such a maneuver in full view of Servalan.

Chance intervened, helpfully for once, as some lackey scurried up, claiming the Commissioner's attention for the few crucial seconds Avon needed to open the rear compartment of the transport and wedge himself down between the seats. He held very still, tensed, as the door opened again--but the lackey merely tossed in some baggage, never looking to see if someone was there.

In a couple more minutes Avon heard Servalan and the other woman get in, felt the transport power up, the floorboard vibrating against his cheek. The only real drawback was that he couldn't make out what the women were saying-- it was just disjointed words and phrases. He only hoped this wouldn't be a long ride.

***

Breaking down the outside door was just a little tougher, Blake was finding, when every muscle in his body ached, when each blow of his body against the wood jarred him to the bone. He ignored the pain though, drew on the need to escape, worried the guards might hear him and came down.

One more time, he thought, putting his shoulder to the door, feeling it give a little more. And again--it was cracking... Once more-- The stairs creaked under a footstep, and Blake looked over to see someone coming down. He sank to the floor in exhausted defeat, realizing it was all over.

***

As soon as he was sure Servalan and the Federation officer were gone, Avon slipped from his hiding place, kneeling in the overgrown grass as he brushed himself down and massaged a crick in his neck. Taking stock of his surroundings, he noted a glimmer of lights off to the south that must be Port Dunbar; he suspected they were dimmed less by distance than by the fog creeping in from the sea. This estate must be on the coast, he thought, making his way to a cliff edge, the water frothing on lethal rocks below. Someone had hacked steps out of the stone, providing a precarious access to the beach--a narrow, partially overgrown path was down there, too, above tidewater, hugging the cliff and leading...well, somewhere. He couldn't see around the curve of the cliff, but he meant to remember how to get back here; this could be an excellent escape mute. And if Vila made noises about being afraid of heights or something, bloody tough.

Taking a cautious path back to the house, alert for patrols, Avon considered how to gain entry. The whole place could be tricked out with alarms, but he was going to have to take the chance that it wasn't, he decided, prowling. Slinking up to a lighted ground floor window, Avon sneaked a peek, seeing Servalan enthroned behind a handsome desk, addressing the Federation officer--who kept looking at the toes of her boots. That's right, Servalan, he thought, spread joy and comfort wherever you go.

So long as Servalan was occupied with calling the other woman on the carpet however...

Avon slipped around the corner, hoisted himself over a stone wall to a patio. Going over to the French windows, he found them latched, but hardly impenetrable. With minimal jimmying, they gave way and swung open to him. Leaving it slightly ajar, he padded across the carpet, cracked open the door to see if anyone lurked in the hallway. It was empty, and he stepped out, grateful for the dimmed lights, pausing to listen. Someone was coming, and Avon ducked into an alcove, watching as a trooper passed by and went into the room Servalan had taken over. The door had been left open, allowing Avon to hear that Servalan wanted the prisoner brought to her.

How considerate, Avon thought, smiling. He'd save a lot of time with a guide to show him the way.

***

Trooper Cam had the funniest feeling someone was watching him, but guessed it was just on account of that Commissioner Sleer being here, and guarding Blake. Bound to make a man jumpy.

He was within sight of the confinement area now, Remy lounging against the wall as if he hadn't a care. Stupid sod, didn't he know Sleer's reputation? Anybody she caught being slack got read the riot act, and then some. Meaning to have a word with Remy, Cam was distracted by...a whistle.

Eh? Cam stopped, looked around, saw a man in civilian garb beckoning him over. Must be one of the Commissioner's retinue, he thoughts approaching the man, about to demand what he wanted--the words never uttered as the man pointed a pistol at him and pulled the trigger.

What was that? Remy wondered, hearing a POP!; not loud, just odd enough to warrant investigation. "That you, Cam?" he asked, sauntering along--realizing too late there something wrong about a civilian pointing a gun at him.

***

Dragging the bodies into a room, Avon closed the door, and made a note to tell Dayna her new silencer worked just fine. Having appropriated a set of old-fashioned keys from one of the guards, Avon chocked that the corridor was still empty, then went up to the cellar door. It took a couple of tries to find the right key, before the lock clicked. Pausing on the landing to let his eyes adjust, he could hear someone down below, thumping against something. He started down the steps, wondering what Vila thought he was doing.

At the sound of his approach, the thumping stopped, and he heard an in-drawn breath--like a ragged sob. Reaching the bottom, Avon looked around and spotted a huddled heap over by a wall. It didn't really look like Vila, but... "Vila? Vila, it's all right now," he called in as reassuring a tone as he could manage. The figure stiffened at the sound of his voice. "Vila come on, it's Av--" Omigahd. The huddled form had raised its head at last, a head full of brown curls matted with blood, sweat, and dirt...warm eyes wide in astonishment, beginning to crinkle with a smile.

"...Blake...?"

The next thing the stunned tech knew, Roj Blake was on his feet, his strong arms enveloping him in a ferocious hug that Avon found he didn't mind in the least. In another moment, he was returning the embrace, almost wanting to resist when the rebel set him back a step, drinking in the sight of him. Avon wondered which of them wore the more dumbfounded expression.

"Avon, what's wrong?" Blake asked, voice gentle.

"She said you were dead," Avon whispered, reaching to touch him again, affirm his reality. "Servalan saw your body burned on Jevron."

"She lied."

It certainly looked that way. "It's really you?" Avon met his eyes, searching, afraid to let himself believe.

"Really me," Blake promised.

Avon took a deep breath, closed his eyes--opened them to find the rebel still there. "I'm going to kill her."

Blake's smile was a little wistful. "Let it go, please--she's not worth it," he said, drawing Avon to him again. He was indulging himself, taking advantage of Avon's loss of equilibrium--and Avon didn't give a damn.

Except... "Blake, she's upstairs."

"Then let's get the hell out of here."

***

Impatient, and meaning to have words with these so-called troopers, Servalan swept down the hall to where Arlen said Blake was being held. The cellar door stood wide open, and upon stepping through she felt a damp draft from the other door, splintered and hanging from a hinge.

"Ma'am?"

Returning to the hall, Servalan found Arlen looking down at the bodies of two guards.

"They were in--" Arlen began, then stopped at the look of barely reined fury on the Commissioner's face. "Ma'am?"

"Blake's gone, lieutenant, escaped."

"That's not possible," Arlen protested.

The fury broke. "Everything is possible with Blake," Servalan hissed, striking Arlen across the face. "Is this the best of the Federation? You're incompetent fools! Oh god, what I wouldn't give to have Travis back!" Grabbing the dazed, younger officer, she dragged her to the cellar door, down the stairs, shoved her through the shattered door. "Find him, if you value your pathetic life!"

"But, ma'am," Arlen was looking around at the dark, mist-shrouded grounds, "he could be anywhere by now. We'll never find him in this. We need to wait until morning--"

Servalan hit her again, hard enough that Arlen stumbled and cracked her head against the brick wall that enclosed this areaway. Heedless of the girl slumping unconscious to the ground, Servalan took her gun, and lifting her skirt in one hand climbed the worn steps.

Blake couldn't have got that far, she thought, he'd be at the same disadvantage in this fog--more, since he could hardly be in the best condition. This wasn't something that could be left for morning. She'd had enough: enough of being hindered by idiots, of abasing herself by currying favor with sycophants, and most especially of being forever plagued by nettlesome gadflys like Blake and Avon. How could two men wreak such havoc with a person's life, and never be called to answer for it? Every time she believed them taken care of, disposed of, they slid through her fingers to continue their torment.

She hated them. Hated them with a passion that both frightened and exhilarated her. It was the most violent, fierce emotion she had ever known--and it created a desperate need for consummation.

Her gown snagged on a branch, she ripped it free, straining for calm, for quiet. All she needed was a labored breath, an exhausted body stumbling in the dark... There, over there--she heard voices... Oh, oh no, this was too sweet. Was she really so close? Were Blake and Avon together even now? Of course, of course--how else could Blake have gotten away? Somehow Avon had found him and come for him.

Composed and resolute, Servalan walked towards the cliffs.

***

"Where're we going?" Blake wanted to know, needing to stop to catch his breath. It wasn't that he didn't appreciate this, but he wasn't sure how much more he was up to, and he hated the thought of being a liability, of endangering Avon.

"There's a path down here," Avon told him, offering support. "I think if we follow it we can get out of here."

Well, Blake was all for that, but--peering over the cliff--he had to ask, "Down where, exactly?"

Avon grinned, "Trust me."

Blake returned the smile. "Don't I always?" If Avon thought this was a way out, he was ready to believe it too. Following the tech along though, he couldn't help viewing the steps with some wariness. "You are sure about this?"

"Well," Avon took in the jagged rocks, the foaming water, the fog, "fairly sure," he qualified. "Perhaps you should go first, so I'll have something to fall on."

"And it's good to see you again too," Blake replied. But he would have led the descent if Avon had let him.

As it was, Avon started down, saying, "It is slippery--be careful," and offering a hand for guidance.

It was an experience Blake hoped never to repeat--moments when they both teetered on the edge of nothing, trying to cling to slick, cold rock, salt spray drenching them: abused muscles protesting and threatening to give out. Any instant that it had seemed too much though, that he wasn't going to make it, Avon was right there--not letting him falter, not letting him quit. That was something Blake wouldn't have missed for anything.

Now he sat on the sandy, weed-grown path, allowed the luxury of a brief rest while Avon scouted ahead. "How's it look?" he called to the other man, standing out on the headland.

"The path continues along the cliff," Avon said, coming back, scrambling over the rocks that formed a natural wall. "It looks like it leads to some kind of cave--"

The shot cracked through the night quiet and Avon went down, flung backwards and tumbling down to the beach. "Avon!" Pushing to his feet, Blake was over at the seawall, looking down at the body sprawled so tranquil in the sand, the cold sea splashing over him. "Avon!"

The laugh came to him then, a woman's laugh, and he looked up the cliff to where Servalan stood on the steps. "Damn you," he whispered, his throat constricted. He coughed, shouted, "Well finish it! I'm unarmed!"

"Yes, I can see that." She did raise her gun and aim it, but then, "No, I want you together. Go on, Blake, go to Avon--it's what you want, a tender good-bye in case he's not quite gone yet."

It was what he wanted, he didn't need her goading. What more could she do to him? Disregarding Servalan, Blake climbed and skidded down to the beach, dropping to his knees in the surf beside Avon. Gently turning him face upward and laying his fingers against his throat--feeling a bittersweet joy at the strong pulse thrumming there.

"Avon?" Blake sank back on his heels, carefully cradling Avon to him, not caring about the water, just wanting Servalan to get it over with. "I'm here, Avon," he whispered, letting his head rest against Avon's. "You're not alone." However unjust the rest of it was, at least they were together; Fate had blessed them with that much at least.

When he heard the scream, at first he thought it was a sea bird.

***

Her victory should have felt glorious, this moment should have been rich with delicious irony. Why did she feel cheated? As though, even now, Blake and Avon were the ones who had triumphed?

She just wanted it over, let the sea take their bodies and be done with it. She'd have to get closer, she realized, and carefully made her way down the steps, uneasy at the sheer drop here--just a little further along and she would be past the worst of it though. Dammit. Her skirt had snagged on something again.

Wrenching it free, Servalan lost her balance, her heel skidding on the slick rock. Scrabbling for something to hold onto, her hands struck out at the air, and she fell, screaming.

***

It seemed to take an eternity for her to fall, Blake thought, unable to look away, even at the last, when the rocks welcomed her.

"Blake?"

The voice was weak, pained, but the most welcome sound in the world. Forgetting Servalan, Blake looked into Avon's muzzy eyes. "Hello."

"What the hell happened?" Avon said, sounding more cross than anything.

Smiling, Blake told him, "It was Servalan."

"It would be. Where is she?"

"Dead."

Avon looked surprised. "You killed her?"

"No."

"Who then?"

Blake's mouth quirked. "Fate?"

"Fate's a bitch."

Looking over at the rocks, Blake shook his head. "Not always, Avon, not always."

He straightened up a little, easing his back, looking around for a dry strip of land--half afraid to move Avon. "How do you feel?"

Avon gave him a look. "I've had better days. But I think I'll live."

"You'd better," Blake told him in no uncertain terms. "I don't suppose you have any kind of communicator?" Arlen had confiscated the teleport bracelet he'd glommed at the Scorpio wreck.

"Just my teleport bracelet," Avon said, and looked surprised that he hadn't remembered that earlier (Blake felt better for not having thought of it either). "We could get Tarrant--if he's got his."

"Let's try." Blake fumbled the bracelet off Avon's wrist. "How's it work?"

Sighing, Avon took it from him.

***

Everyone looked at Tarrant when he beeped.

"What's that?" the small young man asked.

"Nothing," Tarrant lied, and beeped again. He put his hand over the bracelet, trying to smother it, but the young man grabbed his wrist and took off the bracelet.

"Hey, I've seen something like this before," he exclaimed.

"No you haven't," Tarrant tried to snatch it back.

"Yeah I did. When I was on the Liberator."

Tarrant gawped. "And just when were you on the Liberator?" The nerve of some people...

"Long time ago, with Blake. He took me and my sister aboard, to save us from the Terra Nostra--didn't do much good for Hannah... 'course that wasn't Blake's fault."

Tarrant had the feeling of walking in on something already in progress, and not having a clue about what was going on. "Blake? You knew Blake? Who are you?"

"Bek. That's Carnell," he indicated the blond man.

"And I'm Jenna Stannis," said the woman. "Answer the bracelet."

***

"Any more surprises?" Avon inquired, still resting against Blake as they watched the sky.

"Well they won't be surprises if I tell you," Blake teased. "Nothing too amazing really."

Avon had his doubts about that, but he was much too tired to think about it right now. Yawning, he let his head rest against Blake's shoulder. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

"Umm hmm."

Naturally. Never mind that they were soaked and freezing, that Blake was banged up, that he had a painful wound in his shoulder... if Servalan's aim had been just a little better... But Blake was as happy as a guild of village idiots. Avon yawned again, closed his eyes, murmured, "Wake me when it's over."

Checking his pulse, Blake relaxed and smiled; Avon had simply had enough for one day. Frankly he intended to enjoy a nice long nap himself, just as soon as Avon was seen to. And it was about time Jenna and the others were getting here, he was thinking, scanning the sky, hearing the approach of a flyer before he saw the headlamps slice through the mist, pass over them, then swing back around and come in for a landing just a little further up the beach.

Jenna, Bek, and Carnell poured out of the flyer--and Blake assumed the tall, gawky young man was Del Tarrant. As the other three clustered around, Tarrant hung back a little, a lot more subdued than Blake would have expected going by Carnell's profile of him.

Letting Bek and Carnell take Avon, and accepting a helping hand from Jenna, the rebel went over to Tarrant--approving the suspicious look in the blue eyes and the way they softened with concern as they rested on Avon's pale face. He held out a hand saying, "Hello. I'm Roj Blake." His mouth skewed with an ironic smile. "Welcome to Gauda Prime."

Tarrant hesitated an instant, then returned the smile and handshake. "I'm Del Tarrant. It's...interesting to meet you."

Finding that funny, Blake laughed, "It's not always like this."

"No," Jenna said, steering him over to the flyer. "Sometimes it's really exciting." She was frowning as she looked Blake over, shaking her head. "Is it worse than it looks?"

"How does it look?"

"Pitiful."

"It's about the same way it looks then." Blake caught Carnell's eye. "You were right, Servalan was here."

"Was she? I knew she was still alive. And she is calling herself Sleer?"

Blake nodded, climbing into the flyer beside Avon. "I'd still like to know how you worked that out."

The strategist's shrug was off hand. "Cause and effect. Where is she?"

With a sigh, the rebel pointed, "Over there," indicating the rocks at the foot of the cliff.

Carnell looked at him, frowned, took a couple of steps forward, then, "No, I don't think I will."

Blake didn't blame him; the rocks couldn't have been kind to her. "Let's get out of here, shall we?"

"Just a minute," Tarrant put a hand on his arm. "We came here looking for Vila. Do you any of you know where he is?"

"In a dither back at base, the last I heard," said Jenna. "Now is everybody ready?" She looked around, checking, and then took the flyer up again, swinging inland.

***

Groaning, Arlen sat up slowly, sore and stiff from the damp cold, stumbling to her feet and holding onto the wall as she climbed out of the area. How long had she been out? she wondered, seeing the sky rosy with sunrise.

She paused to lean against the wall, getting her bearings, wondering where everyone was. The Commissioner... Where had the Commissioner gone?

"Lt. Arlen!" She looked around at the voice, squinting to see Trooper Xane coming towards her. "We've been looking everywhere for you. Do you need medical attention?"

Probably, but not now, later. "Where's the Commissioner? Have you found the prisoner?"

"No sign of Blake," Xane told her. "Or the Commis--"

"Xane! You got the lieutenant?" Tarkin called.

"Got her!"

"Then get over here, quick."

Arlen followed Xane at a slow pace, still wobbly on her feet. Reaching the cliffs, she said, "What is it, Tarkin?"

"Down there, ma'am," the trooper said, pointing.

At first Arlen couldn't see anything...then a wave washed over the rock, moving some of the seaweed that had been deposited there, and she saw a leg, white as snow against the rock. Looking closer, she saw more of the body, the black dress in tatters, the white limbs splayed gracelessly, all strewn with seaweed...a small crab was crouched near the face..."Oh god..." Arlen put a hand to her mouth, retching.

***

Tired of resting, Blake got out of bed, grabbed his robe, and padded barefoot over to Avon's bed, sitting in the visitor's chair. The doctor's verdict had been encouraging, if disagreeably delivered; the way some people carried on, you'd think he and Avon went out of their way to get hurt.

Well, a little bit of rest probably wouldn't come amiss, Blake reflected, especially for Avon--his wounding had been a nearer thing than they had realized. Which was more reason not to regret what happened to Servalan. Maybe that was harsh...and he wasn't proud of feeling that way...but he couldn't help thinking the cosmos was a little cleaner and brighter without her.

It didn't solve anything, of course, didn't come close to being the finish Servalan had only been a particularly malignant manifestation of the Federation But Blake did feel a little more confident now that it would all come out right. Having Avon back shouldn't make that much of a difference, he told himself; it wasn't logical...wasn't reasonable. But then when had logic and reason ever factored into the equation of their friendship: he thought, smiling fondly at the man lying oblivious to such sentimental musings.

No doubt the first thing on Avon's agenda would be Scorpio and those girls back at Xenon. Tarrant would be leading an expedition out to the crash site later this morning, and had already been in touch with Dayna and Soolin. As soon as they were back on their feet, Blake thought it might be interesting to accompany Avon back to Xenon; if the tech was agreeable, it sounded like the planet could make a good auxiliary base.

Scrunching down in the chair, he tried to get a little more comfortable, dozing lightly, waiting for Avon to wake up. There was a lot to talk about.

THE END

Instant karma's gonna get you

Gonna knock you around the head

You better get yourself together

Pretty soon you're gonna be dead

What in the world are you thinking of

Laughing in the face of love

What an earth are you trying to do

It's up to you, yes you

Instant karma's gonna get you

Gonna look you right in the face

Better get yourself together, darlin'

Join the human race

How in the world are you gonna see

Laughing at fools like me

Who on earth do you think you are

A superstar, well right you are

Instant karma's gonna get you

Gonna knock you off your feet

Better recognize your brothers

Everyone you meet

Why in the world are we here

Surely not to live in pain and fear

Why on earth are you there

When you're everywhere

Gonna get your share...

-John Lennon

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