Havens

Croesus dwarfed the lone rebel shuttle suspended from her starboard docking port. Earth's grey-blue sphere stretched beneath both of them: to one, the planet was a newly-conquered home. To the other, it was nothing more than a place to divest a particularly valuable hostage.

Avon watched the tiny ship's link-up maneuvers over the shoulder of a disinterested crew member. By Jenna's instruction, the shuttle carried only two: a pilot, and the new Republic's freshly-appointed secretary, a cadaverous woman named Chalmers who came marching out of the airlock like a parade-ground soldier, singled Jenna out immediately, and without preamble demanded, "Where is he?"

Not far from the airlock, Avon stood alone in an alcove of the command center, arms folded in neutral anticipation as both sides of the ransom arrangement came face to face with verbal weapons primed. He would rather have been anywhere else just at the moment. But Jenna had insisted.

"Well?" Chalmers huffed at Jenna's non-response to her initial question. "I was told that President Vaylan would be here when I arrived."

Jenna's derisive laugh nettled the bureaucrat, as it had no doubt been meant to do. "And I was told you'd have the money with you."

Mutual distrust became pregnant silence while the adversaries sized one another up. Avon wondered just how often Jenna had performed ransom deals in the past. If he read the signs correctly, she was far from comfortable with this one.

Not that he was.

Her demand that he be present for this had not exactly pleased him. Par Vaylan knew his identity and could, with a word, easily destroy the fragile cover Jenna had provided him. Her assurances to the contrary had mystified him, until she'd at last volunteered the reason.

"I simply agreed to keep my ships out of Earth sector in future," she'd said with a clear touch of pride. "That, and I promised to keep a lid on the truth about Vaylan's capture and ransom. Silence isn't difficult to buy, on those terms."

Disbelief had laced Avon's reply. "I'd no idea you were so formidable a threat." The sarcasm had earned him a smirk.

"Vaylan thinks so."

"And you trust him to keep his word?"

"He's a dead man if he doesn't. He knows that, too."

"I admire your confidence. But I would nonetheless prefer..."

"I want you there, Avon. I want Vaylan to know you're with me, because he knows we have Orac as well, and that constitutes a triple threat."

Avon had almost, but not quite, smiled. "Insurance." It hadn't been a question.

Jenna's lip curled. "I'll see you on the flight deck at 0900."

She glanced past him at Orac, eyeing the activated computer for a long moment before she turned to go.

This time, she'd left the cabin door unlocked.

The sound of Chalmers' piping voice dragged Avon back into the present. She'd called out a name, and in response, the shuttle pilot emerged hesitantly from the airlock. He was a rabbity little man with a sweating face and dirty hair, and he gripped a battered vinyl satchel in both fists by its soiled plastic handle. He did not look to Avon like anyone who ought to be trusted with several million credits worth of currency.

Without waiting for Jenna's nod, Ries moved out to intercept the man. She diverted the bag to a dormant console, where she eagerly flipped open the clasps to inspect the contents. Brows climbing, she looked back at Jenna and said, "Looks like everything is here. In lovely, non-aligned Beleron currency, just the way you asked for it."

The pilot had flinched at Ries' cavalier handling of the satchel, and now he was eyeing it with a wariness that sent instant warning signals to Avon's inherently suspicious nature. Something in the bag...

Chalmers was glaring at Jenna. "Well?"

Croesus' captain made an abrupt and soundless gesture. Instantly, someone triggered a door control and Dekker appeared, holding a slightly rumpled Par Vaylan at gunpoint.

The Republic's new President looked anything but overjoyed at the occasion of his negotiated release. The green eyes found Avon first of all, and smoldered in duressed silence. The computer tech returned the stare in kind, gratified when Vaylan broke the contact first, walked boldly away from Dekker's gun and addressed Chalmers.

"Paying off the crooks and pirates these days, Morra? If nothing else, I might have asked for a more charming bail-bondsman."

Chalmers colored, but it was Jenna who answered the rebel leader's insult.

"You'd best be civil to her, President Vaylan," she said. "According to the reports, she's been appointed your new Secretary of State."

Vaylan looked like a man with a mouthful of rancid food and no place to spit. "Let's get the hell out of here," he said, and started for the airlock, brushing past Chalmers' bony shoulder on the way.

"Not just yet."

Avon saw Jenna's eyes widen at his interruption, but he did not meet her gaze directly. Instead, he pushed the sweating shuttle pilot aside and reached toward the open satchel. Ries hovered protectively over the money and looked as though she might try to stop him, but at Jenna's nod she retreated, leaving him an open path. Deliberately, Avon waited for her to step out of the way, then cautiously pulled the edges of the bag apart to peer inside. He saw neatly banded stacks of yellow-gold currency piled several deep. Nothing else.

"You think we're amateurs?" Ries snarled at him sotto voce. "We scanned it for every explosive in the known worlds before they so much as set foot out of the airlock."

Avon ignored her completely and studied the contents of the carryall with renewed interest. There was definitely something...

When his hand moved to trace the vinyl strip banding the case, Chalmers' pilot took two rapid steps backward and bumped squarely into Dekker's gun. He started at the contact, but his eyes never once left the satchel.

Avon's hand had come instantly away from the suspicious band at the pilot's reaction. The tech glanced at Chalmers and Vaylan, both wearing annoyed expressions. Then he bent at the knees and knelt to inspect the band visually.

A moment later, Jenna was beside him.

"What is it, Avon? Ries just told you the case was scanned before--"

"I don't know yet." His answer was a series of clipped, succinct syllables, uttered as he tried to find any abnormality in the innocuous brown stripping.

"I think we've delayed long enough," Chalmers protested. "You have your money and we have President Vaylan. Our business is concluded. We'd like to leave now."

Avon listened to the thready voice without looking up. Had there been a hint of nervousness there, beneath the impatience and hauteur? Difficult to be certain...

He extended a forefinger to delicately trace the vinyl piping, following its path to the back side of the satchel where the seams had been joined. Procuring a laser-lance from under the console, he then carefully began to peel away the outer layer of the thin tubing. From the corner of his eye, he saw the sweating pilot panic and bolt, heedless of Dekker's gun, toward the airlock. Chalmers caught him midway by the scruff of his stained collar, dragged him backward, and with surprising strength for a woman of her frail appearance, backhanded him hard enough to send him reeling.

Vaylan entered the fray with an oath and physically restrained her from striking the man again. "What in damnation are you--?"

He stopped, distracted by the sudden realization that the three of them had just been ringed by a small cadre of armed pirates with well-aimed rifles. Jenna Stannis had moved to join them.

"We can't possibly miss a target your size at this range," Avon heard her boast, and then dropping all sarcasm, "What's in the bag?"

"Nothing!" Chalmers nearly spat the word at her.

Inspection concluded, Avon straightened and addressed Jenna. "I would hardly call Rembilt radiation poisoning 'nothing.'" Several heads turned immediately in his direction, dismay written on nearly every face. "There's a miniature capsule concealed in the piping," he went on. "Probably time-released. They didn't even bother to remove the old Federation identity markings."

"Careless of them," Jenna said tellingly. "Is it safe to remove the money?"

"Yes."

Ries gingerly proceeded to do just that while Vaylan turned on Chalmers, teeth clenched in rage.

"You imbeciles! I ought to kill you myself!"

"Dekker." Jenna's command intersected Vaylan's threat. "Escort Secretary Chalmers and her pilot back to their shuttle." She inclined her head toward Vaylan. "That one stays."

The new President went red. "I will not! You've been paid your bloody ransom, I demand that--"

"I wouldn't complain too loudly if I were you," Jenna cut him off, then held out a hand to Ries, who cautiously passed over the empty carryall. "They'll be taking this along, you see."

Vaylan closed his mouth, stepping back without further objection as Dekker accepted the bag from Jenna and herded the Secretary and her sputtering pilot into the airlock. The door whisked shut on dead silence, which condition persisted while interminable seconds measured past. At long last, the lock cycled open again, and Dekker reappeared alone. He'd scarcely resealed the door when the panel above lit up with red lights warning of linkage detachment. The vibration of the shuttle's departure was a murmur through the bulkhead moments later.

"Visual," Jenna ordered, and as one they turned toward the bank of screens that had earlier shown Avon Mirage's demise. The fleeing shuttle was instantly centered on all of them.

"Let's see just how fast they can jettison a little unwanted cargo, shall we?"

No one responded to Jenna's comment: all eyes were on the erratically moving little ship as it pulled away from Croesus. Avon fully expected to see the shuttle's airlock cycle immediately open to eject its deadly contents. Instead, the shuttle described a sudden erratic arc and rolled starboard, losing its heading entirely and drifting nose-down toward Earth's ionosphere.

Jenna's expression was unreadable as she turned to one of the technicians at the instrument boards. "Life readings," she said without inflection.

The reply was equally emotionless. "None, Captain."

Jenna gave Vaylan a hard look. "It seems your friends hadn't planned to let us enjoy our reward for very long."

"So you've outlived them." Vaylan shot a resentful glance at Avon. "You still have the money, and Orac."

"I also still have you."

Avon could see Jenna reveling in Vaylan's reaction to that. She let him stew for several moments before she called on Dekker once again. The man came forward with his rifle still comfortably cradled under one arm, as though it had grown there naturally and had always been an extension of his rib cage.

Vaylan interpreted the move as the precursor of an execution. Jenna had, after all, threatened to kill him if the ransom instructions were not carried out precisely. He backed away from Dekker's approach.

"You can't..." he began, and his voice broke on the second word.

Jenna's smile was harder than neutronium. "Dekker," she said levelly, "President Vaylan appears to have missed his shuttle. See that he's escorted down to a safe but remote location. We can tell his friends where to find him after we're well away."

"Right." Dekker swept his free hand toward the exit corridor and with mock politeness, said to Vaylan, "After you."

The President flushed, then with a stiffened back, walked off the flight deck as though none of the preceding humiliation had occurred. When the crew broke into spontaneous laughter moments later, neither Avon nor Jenna could resist joining in.

"Hey!"

After the fourth dizzying tilt to port, Vila was definitely beginning to see why Flyer 459 had been consigned to mechanical sickbay.

"Cut it out, will ya? That isn't funny!" Vila rubbed his head where it had struck the port side window. The rapid flash of passing dawn-lit greenery did nothing whatever to help -- it only made him giddier.

~I can assure you that humor was in no way intended,~ 459 said apologetically. ~My portside guidance gyros--~

"Are in need of repair, yes, so you said." Vila groaned as the speeding craft dipped, righting itself again with a sickening wobble. "How much farther do we have to go?" he queried shakily. "Oh... I think I'm going to be sick."

~There are three point seven seven two terrestrial miles remaining. Your second statement is not understood. And as a point of information, there are two craft approaching our stern at a rate of--~

The rest of the sentence was lost in the explosion and blinding flare of a laser bolt. With a cry, Vila grabbed the controls and hung on for dear life while Flyer 459 rolled a perfect 360 and came upright again in time to dodge a second bolt. There was no chance to look back: Vila had no idea who was shooting at him and less time to care. He rattled the booster control in futile desperation, but if anything the little flyer was slowing down instead of gaining speed.

"Oh no. Don't tell me you can't go any faster than this?! These people aren't exactly friendly, in case you hadn't noticed!"

~I'm sorry,~ the flyer apologized effusively. ~I have main engine shutdown and zero restart capacity due to damage sustained in--~

"Never mind that!" Vila shouted. "Can you get us down safe?"

His only answer was a sputter and a shower of sparks from the control panel. Smoke was beginning to fill the cramped cockpit, making him cough.

"Oh, no," he said again. "Oh, don't die on me now!" He pounded the console with an open palm. "I need you, you worthless pile of flying junk! Wake up!"

Flyer 459 emitted a diminutive electronic burp and repeated, ~I'm sorry,~ in an anemically contrite voice. Then it faded into static and was gone. Vila had to grab the console for support once again as they flew at a madly skewed angle over a thicket of tangled underbrush. Branches clawed at the hull beneath him. Sparks shot from the floor: more smoke rose to choke and blind him. There was a loud crack, and then...

Vila opened his eyes on a wild criss-cross of brambles and thorns just over his head. More of what must be the same penetrated the clothing at his back, stabbing him with a thousand prickly needles. It was cold and damp and smelled of singed straw. The smoking ruin of the flyer sat upside down, door hanging by one broken hinge. He didn't remember landing -- or being thrown free. He must have blacked out for a moment...

Panic clutched at him along with the realization. Blacked out. How long had it been? Where were the gunships?

The crisp report of twigs snapping under feet brought him upright in a flash, heedless of the thorns' attempt to lay claim to his clothes. Company, he thought, and chewed his lower lip while he listened for the direction. Don't think I'll stay around for tea, just the same.

The snapping came again, making him start. There... It had come from over there.

Breath coming in clouds, he started in the opposite direction, paused, changed bearings when he heard voices, then darted into the shadowy protection of the thorny trees.

He stopped only once, to listen.

They were definitely behind him now. But not because he had left them behind.

No longer caring that his own feet where breaking the undergrowth with far too much noise, Vila changed directions yet again and plunged on at breakneck speed. He didn't have to stop again to know that there were still sounds -- crashing footsteps and loud voices -- in his wake.

Whoever they were, they were following.

For no particular reason, Tarrant had elected to spend his afternoon rummaging through storage kiosks near the flight hangars. His efforts to contact someone -- anyone -- over the comm-system had come to naught, though that annoying little shielded signal had continued to crop up and disappear again periodically. He still couldn't determine just where it was coming from, though the locaters claimed it wasn't far. He hated unsolved mysteries, but this one had stumped him: whoever or whatever it was did not respond to his efforts to reply.

Neither were the kiosks and open hangars giving him much hope. No sign of a flyer anywhere, and nothing he could hope to put together, either. Vila must have pilfered the last serviceable piece of equipment on the base, and left Tarrant with nothing but the prospect of a very long walk indeed.

Damn him.

The pilot kicked the nearest crate in exasperation, regretting the action in the same instant when the box proved to contain something heavy and metal. Machine parts. Nothing he recognized. If only he could come across a nice supply of anti-grav units...

The distant rumble of ship's engines caught his ear immediately: Tarrant was out onto the tarmac in an instant, searching the horizon with one hand shielding his eyes from the sun. From the western sky, the noise grew louder -- and quickly became the piercing shriek of overstressed stabilizers.

It was a ship all right, but as ill luck would have it, one that was in trouble.

When the first flash of sunlight on its hull pinpointed it for him, he saw just how much trouble. Black smoke trailed from its aft engines in oily tendrils. And the configuration was equally discouraging: Federation starburst class pursuit ship.

It was beginning to look like all his luck was bad today.

The grinding screech grew to deafening proportions as the little ship descended at a precarious angle. The pilot was trying for the tarmac. Worse luck! Didn't the idiot know he had a better chance ditching her in the water -- or at least in the grassland alongside the airstrip?

Apparently not.

Tarrant scrambled for cover away from the pursuit ship's trajectory, moving as far into one of the hangars as he could go. The impending crash was still visible from here, almost perfectly framed by the hangar bay doors.

Despite having covered his ears, he still found the noise painful: the scream of a dying ship could penetrate just about anything.

It was going to miss the strip. He could tell by the angle. Whoever was flying her was green, or possibly wounded, but missing the tarmac would give him an even chance at survival, anyhow. If he didn't land her nose first...

The impact was an anticlimactic whump that shook the ground and rattled the walls of the hangar around him. The engine's squeal died at once, but it was immediately replaced by the popping sound of small explosions. That would be what was left of her fuel supply.

Tarrant was up and running, sprinting across the strip toward the gully that had swallowed the ship. The flames were visible from here, gouts of brilliant orange belching more clouds of black smoke, the heat of the fire bending the landscape beyond it. Tarrant skidded off the runway and down the slope in a half-sitting position, pausing at the bottom only long enough to pull out his handgun. No sense letting heroics overcome caution; he'd learned that lesson hard and well.

The hatch was open, sticking straight up into the air beside the shattered ruin of her starboard wing. Over the crackle of the flames he could hear someone coughing -- then he saw the gloved hand desperately trying to grasp the edge of the doorway.

By the time he'd found a way around the fire to the top of the fuselage, a second hand had appeared; neither held a weapon. Tarrant hastily put away his own and reached to haul the struggling man out through the opening. There did not look to be any other passengers, but the intense heat prevented a closer inspection and another fuel explosion sent both men fleeing over the side and into the protective shielding of the nearby rocks.

The massive explosion Tarrant had expected didn't come, but a new series of smaller ones made short work of what remained of the pursuit ship. When he peered over the rock once more, the starburst was a blackened hulk proceeding to collapse in upon itself. The fires were already beginning to burn themselves out.

Not until after the main fuselage had given way did Tarrant turn to look at the man he had pulled from the wreckage, who lay face up in the grass, gulping in lungsful of fresh air, dignified somehow despite the grimy smudges that covered his grey and blue clothing.

Tarrant groaned again.

The last time he had seen that face, it had been surrendering to Par Vaylan's forces on galaxy-wide viscast from Earth. Ex-president Falco, or as Avon and Vila knew him better, former Federation psychostrategist Carnell.

The face looked over at him from the grass, and with every semblance of sincerity, said, "Thank you."

Tarrant's only acknowledgment was a grim nod. If he had to be marooned with a deposed Federation president, he would far rather it be the late unlamented Servalan than this strutting, overdressed, toothy puppeteer.

The latter pulled himself painfully to his feet and brushed futilely at the smudges on his trousers. "Oh dear," he said earnestly, and clucked at the smoldering remains of the starburst. "I did make rather a muck of that, didn't I?"

Tarrant rolled his eyes heavenward, turned his back deliberately and stalked away toward the compound.

His luck had just gone from bad to abysmal.

Vila's lungs were threatening to collapse at any moment. He couldn't stop, couldn't hesitate even for a breath of air. They were too close, and still coming, behind him, always just behind him. They'd never slowed down even once and gods, oh gods, it hurt. His barely-healed hands were raw and bleeding, the syntheskin at his chest had torn with the exertion of running... but he had to keep running.

He had to get away.

They were Federation. He'd seen them on the last rise when he'd fallen, clutched at the sliding rocks for support, and glanced down long enough to spot the green rims of their helmets, three bright refractions against the starker black of their too-familiar uniforms.

They couldn't know who he was. They couldn't possibly know. But they were after him all the same, half a breath over his shoulder and still coming -- only he wasn't going to let them catch him. Not again.

Yet another rockfall conspired to undermine his footing halfway up the next incline, and he tumbled, crying out when his ribs struck the jagged shale. Something whined past his ear, twice, three times: the heat of the third shot singed the torn fabric of his sleeve.

Vila righted himself and grabbed at the sparse brush around him for support. It provided little. The thin branches snapped off at his touch, thorns tearing more at his brutalized hands, and his effort to scramble further up the slope came to nothing.

Another blaster shot forced him to ground: more of the loose rock and soil gave way beneath him and he slid several precious yards downward.

He wasn't going to make it.

Panicked, he tried again to grab for anything that would support his weight. There was nothing.

From not far below him, a filtered voice demanded that he freeze.

That was a joke. Almost too funny to bear. He'd been freezing to death from the start, lost out here in this thorn-infested wasteland, and now he was hot and frozen both at the same time: his lungs on fire and his hands too numb to feel anything at all.

Freeze, indeed.

He made one last, foolishly defiant effort to crawl on up the slope. The simultaneous report of three Federation pararifles promptly saw to it that he gave up the effort.

Vila lay shivering, face down amid the rocks while three pairs of booted feet marched systematically up the hillside.

He stifled a whimper when the barrel of one rifle jabbed him cruelly in the back.

Then two pairs of hands yanked him by either shoulder and spun him over. Vila tried to raise his hands in surrender, but they were both pinned by iron grips. He tried to say 'All right, I give up, there's no need for violence, really,' but the words were caught somewhere in his still-heaving lungs.

"What were you doing in a Federation flyer craft?" one of the three looming shapes demanded, and when Vila couldn't answer he was prodded again with the rifle.

"Why did you ignore our warning beacon, not to mention several warning shots?"

"Where did you come from?"

"What were you running away from?"

"Who are you?"

The questions were fired at him too rapidly to be answered. Still fighting for air, Vila managed a polite, if desperate "please." It availed him a rifle stock in the ribs. His yelp of pain was overridden by the virulent cursing of one of his three captors.

"This son of a bitch was half dead before you ran him to ground, Kurtz."

"Yeah? Looks healthy enough to talk to me."

"Pfaugh. Shoot him and have done with it."

"Not just yet. There may not be any garrisons left on planet, but that flyer was Federation. If there's a ship where it came from..."

"Buggering dreamer."

"Shut yer yap then, and let me get on with it!"

Gloved fingers snatched a handful of Vila's hair and forced his head up.

"Tell me where you got it," the filtered voice ordered, shaking him like a doll when he didn't answer. "Who'd you steal it from? Come on, you bastard, tell me!"

The shaking set off a racking cough that Vila was helpless to control. The leather-clad grip released him, backhanded him once for good measure and then retreated. The black shape of its owner rose to rejoin his companions, snorting derisively.

"If enough of that damned flight computer was intact, we might be able to trace it back."

"That's a mighty big if."

"Always the pessimist, aren't ye? Well it's better odds than we've got here by a damn sight. Or do you want t'spend the rest of yer life on this rock pile?"

"All right, all right. But it's a long hike back and my feet are killing me. Think I'd fancy a bivouac first off."

One pair of boots crunched away down the slope. Another came to stand very near Vila's head: he could see himself dimly in their shiny surface, despite the dust and scratches.

"Whatta we do with this one then?"

"Oh, the humane thing, I think." With horror, Vila watched the tip of a pararifle come down to hover just inches above his heart. "We put it out of its misery."

No!

Though his mind screamed the word, his lips would not, except in silent, mocking parody. The man behind the gun never noticed.

Vila squeezed his eyes shut and prayed to a god he'd forgotten, only to find that the images behind his eyelids were not gods at all, but well-remembered faces.

Blake.

Gan.

Cally...

When the shot came, he forced the darkness away just long enough to wonder why it hadn't hurt as much as he knew it should. Then he wondered why they'd wasted two more shots.

Surely one would have been enough...

*I have not yet correlated sufficient data to adequately answer your question!*

Orac's waspish tones echoed faintly in Croesus' oversized cabin. Avon leaned back in the chair and deliberated on the booted feet he had just placed on the tabletop. Par Vaylan had been delivered to Earth, Jenna had safely collected his ransom, and it was the first opportunity Avon had had to sit down and thoroughly interrogate Orac about the state of galactic affairs. For all the upheavals in government of late, it seemed damned little had changed. And that news served to feed a nagging little worry he had harbored ever since the Andromedan war...

"Give me a prospectus, then. How long before cross-correlative reasoning can supply you with an answer?"

Orac clicked rapidly, manifestly displeased with the demand. *I fail to comprehend the purpose of this inquiry to begin with,* it complained. *The Federation's Central Control was destroyed in the Andromedan attack on the planet Star One. All available computer data thus far corroborates this information.*

"Attribute it to... extrapolative curiosity, then," Avon told the little machine acidly. "How long?"

*One-hundred-twenty-three point zero-seven hours,* Orac huffed. *That is hypothetically speaking, of course. The variables in such a sizable equation do not allow for precise--*

"Perhaps I wasn't clear." Avon took his feet from the table and sat upright, towering over the flashing computer like a menacing bird of prey. The effect, though undoubtedly lost on Orac, served to bolster his own determination. "You are to engage all of your circuits in the resolution of this problem."

The computer emitted a consternated whine. *That,* it opined, *would not be advisable.*

"Nevertheless, you will do it."

*My research requires that--*

"Do it!" Avon's formerly quiet tones became a roar. "I will expect an answer within forty hours. Is that clear?"

When the only reply was a petulant buzzing, Avon brought both hands to rest firmly on the plex casing and repeated with deceptive calm, "Is that clear, Orac?"

Three heartbeats and an agitated hum or two later, the small machine hissed curtly, *Yes!*

"Good." Avon snatched the key with a savage gesture, sliding the small plex rectangle into his pocket by sheer habit as he rose to pace across the room.

There was something he had missed in all of this. Something from the very beginning that should have been obvious and yet, somehow, had not been. If his suspicion proved correct, it was a thing both childishly simple and at the same time diabolical; which further meant, only naturally, that Servalan had to have been behind it.

Even dead, she continued to threaten him.

Hadn't he told Vila once -- told all of them -- that he needed to kill her himself?

Avon paced.

Perhaps it was what he still needed.

The sound of the door signal interrupted his morbid reverie. Annoyingly, Jenna let herself in before he had time to respond.

Avon glowered. Her ship or not, he would have to have a talk with her about privacy taboos. His own were both legion and inviolate, and he intended to keep them that way.

"How is it going?" She'd halted a few steps inside the door, hands to her hips again, blonde hair glittering in the diffused light from the overheads. In all that time aboard the Liberator, he'd somehow managed to overlook the fact that in her own diamond-hard way, Jenna was beautiful. Odd, that. He wasn't usually so unobservant.

"It's going fine," he said noncommitally. "But in future, I would prefer the override codes on that door remain exclusive to me."

Jenna's eyebrows rose. "Nervous?"

"If you like."

She sauntered toward the table and Orac, apparently dismissing his demand for the time being. "So what word do we have on the twelfth sector shipping lanes?"

Avon's momentary blank look vanished beneath a thin, fleeting smile. "Nothing, as yet."

Jenna's expression made the query without need of words.

Avon spread his hands, defensive but adamant. "Orac will see to the matter... as soon as its circuits are free."

Suspicion clouded the pretty face across from him, and clear threat lurked in her words. "I wouldn't like to think you'd already tried to double-cross me, Avon."

Grimacing at that, he pulled the key from his pocket and tossed it at her with a short, expansive gesture of his hand. "Ask it yourself then."

Jenna did, slamming the key home with an angry little flair of her own. "All right Orac. What's all this about not having any circuits free?"

Immediately, the small raspy voice bit back, *You have just answered your own interrogative. Now kindly go away and leave me to my research!*

"And just exactly what research is that, Orac?"

Avon kept his expression carefully neutral as Orac expelled an all-too-human sigh and replied, *If you must know, I am endeavoring to cross-correlate intragalactic data-base input for factors y3, x2 and Q20, to wit that all currently operating tarial-based systems will subsequently disclose central access data via coded overrides DMC and PVAC. The primary alpha-numerical override sequence necessary to initiate interface is K655--*

"Yes, all right," Jenna finally interrupted it. "How long before you'll have any circuits free, then?"

The computer's response made Avon's eyes widen ever-so-slightly. Croeses' captain didn't notice. *Approximately forty hours.*

"Thank you, Orac." Jenna pulled the key and handed it back to him, sour-faced. "I never knew how you could stand to work with it. Obnoxious little bugger. Always was."

Avon's head tilted in unspoken agreement. "It's all in knowing how to ask the right questions." Or the wrong ones, he added to himself.

"You'll get it working on that soon then? A little piracy isn't much good if you've nothing to pirate from, you know."

"Yes of course." He said it absently, more out of desire to be rid of her than anything else, and thankfully, it worked. She departed as abruptly as she'd come, though not without a final look that clearly wondered whether she would ever be able to trust him completely.

It might be best, for her, if she didn't.

After staring at the closed door for some time, Avon resumed his pacing.

The burnished cabin wall gave back a hazy reflection of his lean form: he paused to study it momentarily, reflecting in his own right that it still did not resemble his continued self-image very much at all. Had he really changed that much?

Croesus' antiquated power systems rumbled through the deck as though to confirm the thought, and in the same moment, a soft and richly-accented voice inquired, Are we grasping at straws now, Avon?

"Perhaps," he told the hazy distortion in the wall. "And... perhaps not."

If there had been more than Star One, the other voice ventured on, if there had been a second Central Control, surely we'd have known.

"Orac does know. And it will tell me -- in time."

Don't be so certain.

As you have asked them?

"Yes."

Useless anyway, Blake's voice whispered disconsolately. There's no longer any point to your revenge.

Avon scowled. "There is, however, a point to solving mysteries, and this one implies that there had to be a reason why, in spite of the war, in spite of Star One, in spite of everything, the Federation -- Servalan -- always managed to retain power. How?"

Nobility still fails to become you, Blake chided, and there was a hint of the broken, defeated man he'd faced on Gauda Prime in what followed. Whatever legacy she may have left, it is someone else's worry now. The Federation is no more.

"Really? One would have a difficult time telling." Who had said, once, that the more things changed, the more they were the same?

It's no longer our concern. Leave it, Avon.

"Leave it? That is strange advice indeed, coming from Blake... from the leader of the Great Crusade."

The rather cryptic reply was prefaced by a lengthy silence. You may learn more than you wanted to know.

"Meaning what, exactly?"

Only that revenge is a pitiful substitute for morality. Servalan is gone.

Avon's tightly clenched smile became a white blur on the grey metal wall.

"Perhaps," he said very slowly. "...and... perhaps not..."

"Damn!"

Tarrant dropped the t-spanner for what must have been the tenth time that morning, shook his wounded fingers and finally gave them refuge in his mouth. When Carnell glanced up from his parts-sorting duties below, it was to see Tarrant's left hand still hovering near the gun he'd placed beside the starburst's charred communications board.

The deposed president broke into an all-too-easy grin. "I can assure you, Captain, that I am thoroughly, unimpeachably harmless," he effused, velvet and vermouth. "If we're going to work together, we really had ought to establish some small modicum of trust, wouldn't you agree?"

With a disgusted smirk, Tarrant shook his bruised fingers in the air for a moment, then re-assigned them to salvaging whatever else he could from the remains of the pursuit ship's cockpit. "Only as far as I can see you," he muttered, not looking at the other man at all. "And it's Tarrant. Not Captain."

"Ah yes. I do apologize." Carnell's penitence held no sincerity whatsoever, which further convinced Tarrant that he'd used the title as a deliberate goad. For a former Federation psychostrategist, he lacked a certain requisite sublety. That probably explained the 'former' part, if nothing else.

When the blackened stump of a subspace transmitter coil staunchly refused to come free, Tarrant finally tossed the wrench away and swore in frustration. Assembling anything that could fly from this mess would be nothing short of a miracle. Getting off this planet, period, looked to offer the same chances, which was to say none at all.

Carnell had looked up again at the outburst: Tarrant ignored him and moved to shift his precarious position on the wreckage. Midway through the action, something sputtered to life on the comm board with a sudden, ear-piercing shriek.

Startled, Tarrant lost his footing and fell away from the unit. The handgun tumbled over the side. He saw Carnell moving even as he dived to follow the weapon's path. The gun struck ground and went off before either of them could reach it, beam flashing outward to the airfield. It sounded... well, wrong somehow, as though it had struck something. Tarrant had no time to consider the matter. He landed hard and rolled toward the gun, snatching it up seconds before Carnell could reach the spot. By the time the blond puppeteer arrived, Tarrant had retrieved the pistol and brought it to bear on the smoke-stained presidential tunic.

"I wouldn't," he said through his teeth.

Carnell drew up short, then presented both hands in surrender. "Really, Capt-- Tarrant... You mistake me." The neon smile did a reprise, all charm and beguiling innocence.

Repressing the urge to pull the trigger was almost more than Tarrant could stand. "You're beginning to make me sorry I pulled you out of this wreck. Now get back over there and finish sorting--"

Another squeal from the shattered transmitter cut him off. This time the feedback subsided quickly -- and resolved into the unmistakable formation of recognizable syllables.

#Tar-rant...#

The pilot very nearly dropped his newly-regained weapon. Carnell, equally surprised, had turned to stare up at the source of the unexpected noise, disbelief plainly written on his face.

#Tar-rant,# the transmitter sputtered again.

Confrontation with Carnell forgotten, Tarrant clamored back over the hulk of the starburst's keel to get at the squawking comm unit and at once began throwing what switches he could still control. Most of them were molten lumps, but some of the toggles still operated.

"Who the hell is this and what are you doing on this frequency?" he demanded impatiently. And when only static responded, "Vila, is that you? Sober up and answer me, damn it, I haven't got all day!" Oh, gods, that was brilliant. Where did he come up with these bon mots of ironic wisdom, anyway? "Vila!"

The voice that answered him at last proved even more of a shock than Vila's might have been. Over a persistent scratch of static, a familiar feminine sigh murmured, #I'm sorry, Tarrant. I have been unable to make contact due to damage sustained in--#

"You??? How in the name of--?" Tarrant's gaze flew automatically to the tarmack just beyond, to the spot Mirage had occupied, and saw -- absolutely nothing. "If this is some sort of game," he said haltingly, "I'm afraid I don't understand."

#I'm sorry,# the voice apologized again. #Servo-units have just completed repairs to fire-damaged circuits that will now enable dissolution of my camouflage field. My signal communications were effectively blocked until a few moments ago, when laser fire pierced the intermesh screening. All prior efforts to contact you were--#

"Those signals were coming from you?" Tarrant glanced sheepishly at the gun in his hand. "And you've been here -- right here -- all along?"

"Do please forgive my asking," came Carnell's polite query from below, "but who are you talking to?"

Tarrant waved him back to silence as Mirage announced that her circuits were now clear. #De-resolution of camouflage screening in ten seconds. Nine seconds. Eight... seven... six...#

"Have you quite thought this through?" Carnell persisted, misunderstanding. "If someone is coming here, it might be wise to find some sort of cover and..."

#...three... two... one. De-res sequence initiated.#

Carnell's protest trailed off and he followed Tarrant's gaze to the tarmac, where the heat ripples had suddenly transformed themselves into a major distortion of the landscape. With a decelerating whistle that vibrated through the earth beneath them and echoed itself on the transmitter, the sleek outline of Mirage melted into being on the airstrip. No longer the sorry little freighter Tarrant had watched the pirate 'destroy,' she took on her true form now: angular fuselage and broad-based 'wings' tapering back to her round engine housing. The vision evoked Tarrant's grin for the first time in days.

"Mirage," he said to the comm unit, "you're a sight for sore eyes."

Static crackled over the speaker for a prolonged beat. #Translation?# it asked plaintively.

Tarrant rose to make his way back over the debris. "It means," he called back over his shoulder, "that you're a beautiful lady and I think I love you after all."

He'd begun hiking toward the strip before the pride-filled answer, brimming with affection, reached his ears.

#Oh, any time,# it beamed, and with a lengthy electronic sigh, added lovingly, #Tarrant.#

Cold.

Frozen air lanced into his lungs with every strained breath. Vila fought to remain in unfeeling limbo, unconscious, but the comfort was perversely denied him. When he was sure he'd convinced his eyes to open, he blinked in confusion at a black expanse of sky strewn with gleaming stars. When had it got dark? And why was he still here, lying on the rocky slope, still alive...?

Off to his right, someone moved, scuffing gravel.

So they're not gone, he thought dismally. Stayed behind to finish me off, I suppose. Why take so long to do it then? What are they waiting for?

Another noise, loud and mechanical, made him start, and the movement set off a new bout of coughing. He realized in the same instant that something soft cushioned the back of his head against the rocks. Now that was an odd concession for Federation troopers. Make the prisoner comfortable before you execute him...?

Something strange was going on here.

The mechanical sound came again, then the growl of a vehicle's engine starting.

"Will you get a move on?" a deep voice grumbled, half-swallowed by the motor's sputtering idle. "I can't hang about here the whole damn night, you know."

Vila frowned at the stars in bewilderment when the reply came from his right, a soft, unmistakably female query.

"Is it done?"

"Whatta you care?"

"Is it done?" she persisted, and Vila tried to turn his head to catch a glimpse of her. All he could see were vague shadows; the outline of the scrub brush against the hillside, and the silhouette of a thin, small something that might have been a person. But it was far too dark to tell. Didn't this bloody planet have a moon or three someplace? Vila could have sworn he'd seen a moon...

"They're put where the worms'll find 'em," the masculine voice answered coldly. "Nobody else, though. Now come on!"

Oh no, Vila thought, near panic. They're leaving...

A surge of pure terror coursing through him, he tried to call out. All he heard was an anemic croaking that would have been laughable -- if it hadn't hurt so much.

The silhouette drifted closer. A delicate hand placed cool fingers to his forehead.  "It's all right."  Her voice was as small as the hand -- almost like a child's.  "Can you stand? We have to leave now."

We?

Vila reveled in the embrace of her arms as she knelt to help him sit up. He wasn't sure his legs would hold him just yet, but he leaned in to her arms and let her assist as much as he dared. If it weren't for all the pain and misery, he could almost get to like this...

They stumbled together twice on the way down the hill. Whoever the male voice had belonged to did not present himself to offer any aid. The engine noise grew louder as they descended until Vila could make out the boxy shape of an ancient paneled transport. At least, it sounded ancient. Combustion engine with cylinders, half of which weren't firing, judging by the racket it was putting out.

"Get in back," the invisible male companion barked at them from the shadows of the driver's cabin. "And hurry it up! This isn't a frigging picnic!"

Despite a painful protest from his hands, Vila managed to hoist himself onto the vehicle's creaking tailgate and slide, with the woman's help, deeper into the blackness of the cavernous enclosure. By the time she'd drawn the gate up with a rattle and clanking of chains, they'd already begun to move, bumping over the uneven terrain so roughly that Vila had to huddle into the corner to keep from being thrown from side to side. Their uncordial driver had presumably switched on the headlamps; amber running lights flickered on around the rectangle that remained open to the night air. It bathed the lorrie's interior in harsh yellow. It also illuminated his companion for the first time, and Vila failed utterly to repress his stare.

She was even prettier than her voice. A little on the thin side, maybe, but beautiful. No argument there. So what was she doing out here in the middle of nowhere with that ill-tempered fellow, rescuing an errant thief from certain death at the hands of three renegade troopers?

Vila moaned. Just thinking about that made his head ache so fiercely that he had to close his eyes again.

His groan brought her to his side almost at once. The cold rim of a flask was pressed against his lips: disappointingly, it dispensed mere water, but the touch of her hands being equally curative, it hardly mattered. Well, not much anyhow.

"Are you in pain?" she asked, and the words were rich with an accent he didn't recognize. Vila kept his eyes shut and nodded hopefully. Maybe she had another flask...

The only reward his ruse gained him was the light stroke of her fingers again on his forehead. Somehow it did seem to ease the aches in his hands and chest and throat. The water had helped, too. When she tipped the bottle for him agian, Vila drank greedily, and opened his eyes this time to admire the view closer on. He couldn't see much for the flask, but there was a crown of jet black hair, limned in gold from the lights, and a pair of eyes, dark and shining.

The truck lurched and some of the water spilled, but he didn't care, so long as she kept her hand on his brow like that. She lowered the drink and smiled at him, a wan little smile as thin as the rest of her. Vila squinted at the odd shadow darkening her right cheek, and his sudden scrutiny made her draw back, turning her face away.

"Don't stop. Please..." The words came out hoarse and barely above a whisper, but they had the desired effect. She turned back, and with chagrin, he realized the shadow beneath her eye was no shadow at all. He didn't get the hand back, but he accepted another swallow of water, thankful for the soothing of his parched throat.

"Thank you," he said when she'd withdrawn the water. And then, because he could think of nothing else to say in the ensuing awkward silence, "I didn't mean to stare, exactly. I mean, I... well I never saw anyone like you. You're native to this planet, are you?"

She looked puzzled, then suddenly suspicious. "And you are not? Were you one of them? A deserter? Is that why they were chasing you?"

Vila blinked at the barrage of questions. "What? Me, in the Federation space patrol? That's one I've never been accused of."

"You're wanted by them then."

"Well, I..." Vila peered at her through narrowed eyelids. "I didn't catch your name...?"

Cunning replaced the suspicion; her smile this time showed genuine amusement. "Nor I yours."

"My friends call me Vila. Well, most of them, anyway."

"Pri."

"Is that all? Just Pri?"

"Is it just Vila?"

Suddenly uncomfortable, he shifted position to lean against the 'starboard' side of the juncture. "Cagey one, aren't you? All right, I can take a hint. D'you mind if I ask what you were doing out there? I mean, not that I'm ungrateful, or anything..."

"We were on our way to Havna from the markets in Kurafe. Duram spotted the troopers and decided to find out what... or who... they were tracking."

It was hardly an adequate answer, but better than nothing. "Oh," Vila muttered. "Well I'm glad for that, only..."

He trailed off when the truck suddenly swayed to a halt, brakes squealing. The chains on the tailgate clattered, and he heard the muffled whump of a door slamming. The amber lights stayed lit, and in a moment a pale, heavy-set man dressed in a dirty tan burnoose hove into view around the corner of the enclosure. He glared at the two of them for a prolonged moment before he reached to lower the tailgate. Pri retreated to the opposite corner as Duram shifted his considerable weight onto the truck bed and came toward Vila.

The thief found himself staring up at a human mountain. This one stared back, though, in a way that reminded him entirely too much of a butcher shop patron sizing up a cut of meat.

"What's yer name?"

"Larn," Vila lied, appalled that the name Servalan had given him should come so easily to mind. Duram looked less than convinced anyway, which somehow wasn't surprising.

"M-hm. You on the Federation's wanted lists, maybe?"

Vila tried very hard to smile. "There isn't any Federation anymore. Or hadn't you heard?"

Duram's laugh was not a pleasant sound. "They call it by a different name now. Same wanted list, though. Same bounties, too, 'cept some of 'em are even bigger. Yours'd maybe be one of those. I've seen you before..."

"Not likely," Vila said too quickly. "A lot of people say that. I mean I have one of those faces, you know, that everyone thinks--"

"Get up."

"Eh?"

An enormous fist wadded the collar of his tunic and hauled him upright, then spun him and pushed his face into the corner. His hands were pulled roughly behind him; something cold and metal clamped tightly over either wrist. Vila bit back a cry at the renewed assault to his injured hands.

"Let's just keep you in one place till we find out about that, shall we?"

Vila heard another metallic snap before Duram shoved him back to the wall. Chain links rattled behind him and nearly pulled him up short before he slid all the way to the floor. He looked up to see Duram tucking a key into the folds of soiled cloth over his huge stomach.

Chortling, the big man turned his back and made his way to the tailgate, the truck swaying visibly with each of his broad steps. Vila watched until he'd disappeared from view, then stared at nothing in particular until the truck's engine had rumbled to life once again.

"Wonderful," he said then, to no one in particular either. And to himself, he added, For a man of your talents, Vila Restal, why is it your best one is for getting yourself into fixes like this???

"Your forty hours are up, Orac."

*Up?* the sarcastic echo came promptly on the heels of Avon's statement. *I gather this colloquialism has a particularly relevant significance with regard to--*

"You know what it means." In no mood to trifle, Avon stood with his arms crossed, barely suppressing the sudden desire his right foot had acquired to tap impatiently on the deck flooring. "I want an answer. Now."

*The answer to your postulative interrogative is unattainable.*

Avon's eyes narrowed, immediately suspicious of the response. "Explain."

Something in the pattern of the computer's oscillation was... different; Avon couldn't quite identify it.

*The existence of an auxiliary control complex cannot be proven via the interrogation of extant Federation computer systems. They are devoid of any data on the subject.*

"Are you then saying that the secondary control does not exist?"

*No! I said--*

"That it could not be proven." Avon smiled. "Naturally." He chose his next words with precision. "Do you therefore believe that it does not exist?"

*As I must deal with available data and not with the human propensity for extrapolative fantasy, I would therefore so conclude, yes.*

The odd tone in Orac's whine persisted, and out of nowhere, an echo of something Blake had once said to the computer teased Avon's memory.

Well you're capable of evasion, anyway.

The right question. It all hinged on asking the right question.

In short, clipped words, he said, "That is not what I asked."

*I am not afflicted with the human irrationality allowing faith in that which is intangible!* Orac snapped.

Somewhere, Avon was sure Blake's ghost was chortling at that.

He rephrased the question. "Based upon the evidence, then, can you continue to postulate that a control must still exist?"

Orac's irritated whir dropped a quarter tone and slowed. *I do not need to postulate,* it said bluntly.

Avon blinked, frown deepening. "And why is that?"

*The statement is self-explanatory. There is no need.*

Only it wasn't self-explanatory. Or... was it?

Wrong question: Orac was capable of evasion.

Right question...

"Is there a secondary control, Orac?"

*I have just told you that such cannot be proven via--*

"Is there a secondary control? Answer the question."

Orac's operating whine surrendered to dead silence before the reply came, a succinct and unmistakably bitter admission.

*Yes.*

Avon stared.

The right question.

"How long have you been aware of that?"

*For some time now.*

"Precisely how long?"

*Six Earth standard years, four months, nine days and forty-five point one-nine-one hours. Now if you are quite finished wasting my time with such frivolous--*

"Oh, not by a long shot!" Mind reeling, Avon held the activator key firmly in place. Orac's customary buzzing had resumed the moment the definitive 'yes' had been wrung from it.

Six years?

It wasn't possible.

Six years would mean that before Star One, before Blake and Cally had first encountered Ensor, from the moment of its very creation, in fact, Orac had known...

And said nothing.

But then, it had never been asked, had it?

Not properly.

Avon paced away and back again.  "Where?"

*'Where' is an imprecise inter--*

"I want the exact location of the auxiliary control complex. And I want it now."

*The complex,* with an unexplained emphasis on the word, *is located at co-ordinates 626-049-509 in the Tardak System.*

Avon went rigid, as though Orac had fired back a plasma bolt rather than a simple reply.

Caphtor lay in the Tardak System. Caphtor and a certain berillium mining colony run by a man who called himself Lan Troas.

Servalan's fine hand showing itself yet again. It had to be. So she had known all along as well. Even about Tav...

There must be a pattern, a connection. Coincidence was a force in which Kerr Avon had never placed any faith.

Carefully, he placed his hands atop Orac's casing once again. "Are you capable of diverting this ship to the previously designated co-ordinates?"

*As I have already explained, this vessel is not equipped with tarial cell technology.*

"Can you change our course, yes or no?"

*No!*

"Then give me the best probable option for my changing it."

*There is a computer terminal locked behind the bulkhead panel to your immediate left,* Orac snipped. *Given the ability to bypass both the locking mechanism and the security coding, and given my assisting expertise in reprogramming the navigational controls, there is no reason whatever to assume that it should not be possible to--*

"Shut up, Orac."

Laser probe already in hand, Avon turned for the bulkhead.

Croesus was about to take an unscheduled detour to Tardak.

Tarrant reveled in the opportunity to once again sit behind Mirage's control console. Five hours remained before her servo-robots would complete repairs, and they would be flight capable at long last.

It was nearly perfect.

Nearly.

He had the ship to himself and the entire galaxy to roam, without a care. Except, that is, for two nagging little problems: namely what had become of both Avon and Vila.

And then of course, there was that other little matter of just what to do with Carnell...

When had life got to be so bloody complicated, anyhow?

At least on Dauban, he'd never had to worry about anything more complex than where to dig for water the following day. Most of the time...

"Anything I can do?"

The puppeteer's artificially pleasant voice floated in through the main hatch, inspiring Tarrant's aggravated sneer.

"Yes. Stay the hell off my ship."

"Now now." Carnell hovered on the gangplank just outside the main entryway, not quite ready to dare Tarrant's wrath by crossing the threshold. "There's really no need to be unpleasant. I'm certain we can come to some agreement."

"We already have," Tarrant clipped, not looking at him. "You're staying here."

Carnell's long lashes eclipsed his eyes twice before he said, "That wasn't precisely the arrangement I was hoping to negotiate."

Feigning a pre-occupation with the console, Tarrant spared him a jaundiced glance. "I wasn't aware you had anything to negotiate with."

"Oh, but I have. Perhaps the location of your missing comrade would interest you?"

"Which one?"

"Avon."

"You know where Avon's got to?"

"I know where behavioral analysis says he will be within a certain reasonable length of time. Presidents, you see, no matter how brief their length of term, are privy to certain... er... state secrets, shall we say?"

Tarrant smirked. "That's all very fascinating I'm sure, but it isn't good enough. Mirage?"

#Yes, Tarrant?#

"Are you still monitoring the Orac carrier wave, and can its location be pinpointed?"

#Yes, to both questions,# the ship replied cheerfully.

Tarrant's grin wasn't quite so pleasant. "Where Orac is, Avon is," he said to Carnell, "and I don't need you to find either. You're one strike down. Want to try again?"

The puppeteer wore a wry face; the gamester about to play a final card on which his life and livelihood might rest. "Perhaps the Federation's best-kept secret might be of interest to you, then."

"I doubt it."

"The location of Central Control."

"It was destroyed in the war. Or hadn't you noticed?"

"The first one was destroyed. There is another, still concealed, still operating. And I can take you to it."

Tarrant leaned back to regard the other man with open hostility. "Why should you do that?"

"In the interest of either reprogramming or destroying it -- whichever proves more feasible. My 'control' has been taken from me as well -- or hadn't you noticed?" Carnell sighed, long and meaningfully. "My dear Cap-- Tarrant, we are working toward the same goal, you and I. Is that so terribly difficult to accept?"

The pilot sat upright, still scowling. "All right," he said grudgingly, and his hand rested tellingly over his holstered gun. "Come aboard. The unoccupied cabins are starboard and aft. And Carnell--"

The blond man turned back from his attempt to make a hasty escape down Mirage's central accessway.

"Yes?"

"One last thing."

Carnell waited, forcing a smile.

"If you call me Captain one more time -- I'm going to shoot you. Clear?"

The smile widened. "Quite."

He disappeared down the corridor. Tarrant could have sworn he heard the diminishing echo of someone whistling a tune...

Vila groaned when the truck hit a particularly nasty bump, making the manacles bite further into his wrists. There really wasn't any justice left in the universe. Someday, he just had to find a place where he could live in peace and quiet, and where everyone wasn't determined to shoot at, capture, torture, incarcerate or order him around.

"Ow!"

The next lurch slammed him into the truck wall, and his startled yelp brought Pri back to his side with the water. Vila refused it.

"Oh, go away!" he snapped temperamentally. "A fat lot of help you've been! Leave me alone, can't you? At least let me be miserable in peace."

She retreated with such a hurt look that he at once regretted the words. Before he could say so, though, the lorrie bounced over yet another crater in the so-called road -- and the engine sputtered to a grinding halt. The lights flickered off. Vila breathed a heart-felt sigh of relief at the welcome stillness, all the while trying to ignore the slamming, banging and cursing coming from beyond the separating wall.

Pri had curled disconsolately against the tailgate; there were tears glistening on her cheeks. Vila felt a sharp pang of guilt at that, realizing in the same moment that he could see her tears, even though the lights were out.

The sun must be coming up.

"Oh, look," he said, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that, not really. I, uh... don't suppose you know how to unlock...?" The dark eyes merely glistened back at him in denial. Vila sighed. "Thought not." He squirmed against the bonds in search of a more comfortable sitting position, only to discover that there wasn't one. If he could just find something to use as a lock pick...

His gaze fell on the water flask she had dropped in the process of fleeing back across the truck bed. It had a short length of chain attached to either side of the metal throat by two s-shaped wires.

"Er..." Vila tried turning on his smile. When all else failed, well, there was always charm. "I think I would like a bit more water after all. Do you mind?"

She obliged, though not without some hesitation. Duram's muffled curses floated through the wall again, from further away this time. Vila could hear the creak of rusty springs and the thunking of a support rod seeking purchase in the truck's dented bonnet.

"Please..." he said abruptly when Pri made to withdraw again. "Would you mind awfully much pouring some of that on my hands? I'd be ever so grateful if you could just..."

"I do not need your gratitude," she said bluntly, with a sudden coolness that reminded him uncomfortably of Avon. One delicate hand grasped his shoulder and pulled him forward just far enough to allow her room for the flask. Vila jumped in spite of himself when the cold water trickled onto his wrists. It stung rather fiercely, but he had to pretend otherwise or this was never going to work.

"Ah," he said a shade too succinctly for comfort. Then, twisting his left hand just far enough to get a grip on the small container -- and by pleasant consequence, three of her fingers -- he added a polite, "May I?" and slipped it from her hand. "Thank you so very much," he effused, and while he held her eyes with yet another smile, he turned so that she was forced to withdraw her arm from behind him. "Oh, yes," he murmured, pretending to pour more water. "That's much better. Just a bit more, I think..."

Well, that had all gone smoothly enough. Now to coax the deadened fingers of his right hand to work one of the wires loose.

"How did you burn your hands?" she asked with a genuine sympathy that immediately warmed Vila's heart. "Were you in a fire?"

"Fire?" Now how had she known that? "Er, no, not exactly. That is..." Those eyes were so penetrating that he was certain she could see straight through him to the rapidly surrendering wire. "There was a bit of an explosion. Nasty business. And then those bloody thorns you call a forest, and the sharp rocks, and oh yes -- Mr. Charisma out there with his manacles." He steered promptly off that track by interrupting himself. "How'd you know about that? The burns, I mean?"

She sat back, and there was a warmth in her eyes when she replied, "My family were healers."

"Oh. Miss them, do you?"

The eyes hardened. "They are all dead now. Killed in the final siege against the Federation."

"Oh," Vila said again, stupidly. "I'm sorry. How did you... er... that is... if you don't mind my asking...?"

"Duram owns my bond," she said. "I ran away from the so-called 'medical career' the Federation had chosen for me. My reward for that was a Gamma level bordello. Duram 'bought' me there eight months ago. So you could say I owe him. For that much."

Vila had to admire the toughness she'd imparted to that abbreviated account. For all her frail appearance, Pri had obviously been a determined (and successful) survivor. He knew the conditions only too well. No matter how you had to do it, you stayed alive -- because to give up and die was just never an alternative.

The wire snapped free of its mooring: he coughed to cover the sound and gently probed with the broken tip until he found the lock on the left cuff. The awkward position hurt, but he schooled his face not to show it, and hoped she had forgotten about the water bottle.

Birds chittered out there in the morning, and the chill was dissipating along with the dark. He could see Pri with almost total clarity now -- well enough to approve enthusiastically of every pretty inch. Except for that cheek...

"Did he do that?" he blurted, tactless but desperate, all the same, to keep her talking -- and distracted.

She gave him a thin, humorless smile. "He wanted to buy a catamite in Kurafi. I objected."

The thief had to search disused vocabulary for the term, found it, and failed to quite discourage the resultant blush. If Duram's tastes were that eclectic... Vila found he was acquiring a whole new appreciation for his status on the most-wanted list. When lust and greed competed, the latter nearly always won.

He cleared his throat and said, "I... uh... take it you won?"

This time there was pride in the widening smile. "I paid a competitor to outbid him."

"Eh?" Vila coughed again when the primitive tumbler clicked and he had to shift over to the other cuff. "How?"

"I stole part of Duram's purse to do it. That's why..." Her hand strayed to the bruise for a moment, then dropped away as though to dismiss the thought. Outside, Duram's banging and imprecations on the truck's hypothetical ancestry were both growing louder. Pri inclined her head toward the noise. "You know, when he says he's seen you on a wanted list, he probably has. So tell me, 'Just Vila,' how did you get there? Did you murder someone?"

"Me?" He had almost dropped the pick-wire. Working left-handed was always harder, especially when half your fingers refused to feel anything. "Do I look like a cold-blooded murderer to you??"

She actually laughed at that, and surprisingly, he found the implication more than a little insulting.

"Well, it's not as though I couldn't be," he said inanely. "But I'm not!"

"Well, what are you then? Pirate? Gunfighter? An infamous intergalactic smuggler, perhaps?"

"Er... not quite," he hedged. "But you could say I work in a related field. I'm a recognized expert at... uh... 'appropriations engineering.'"

Her laughter swelled until she was obliged to clamp a hand over her mouth to keep Duram from overhearing. Vila had the clear impression that she hadn't laughed at all in a good long while.

The last tumbler clicked over.

"I like you, Vila," she said, another frank admission he hadn't expected. "You make me feel..." She leaned closer. "...happy."

When her lips found his, Vila abandoned any further hope of concealment, allowed the dangling shackles to drop, and wrapped his arms around her. Pri's 'surprised' response was a deeper kiss, followed by an admonition whispered playfully in his ear.

"Took you long enough," she said.

Vila's indignant "What?" was drowned by the roar of the truck's restarting engine. Pri jumped, but Vila prevented her pulling away by holding the embrace a moment longer.

"Pardon me, Madame," he said into her ear, "but would you care to accompany me on a bid for freedom?"

Leaping off the back end of a moving truck wasn't Vila's idea of fun at the best of times: it became twice as difficult when you had to convince a terrified companion to jump with you. He'd spared little thought, either, for just what they would do out there. Putting distance between Duram and themselves took the only priority, for the moment. If he could make his way back to the base... There was a good chance Tarrant would still be there. But then, who knew? A spaceship might already have happened by. Miracles had been known to happen. Tarrant might have got lucky...

They must have been walking for hours. It felt more like days. Vila only knew that his feet hurt far more than the rest of him, which had been hurting for quite a while already. They'd trudged halfway across a dreadfully boring, flat yellow plain between two mountain ranges, heading for the shelter of a towering pile of boulders that marked the only break in the dull expanse of land. They weren't quite close enough to run for it when Vila heard the truck's engine.

He turned and froze for several wasted seconds before it occurred to him that Duram's broken down old wreck was making very good time on flat land -- and making it straight for them.

With a horrified shriek, Pri bolted for the rock formation. She'd never make it in time, but Vila pounded after her anyway, adrenaline blotting out all thought of tired feet. The truck roared closer. When he dared risk a glance over his shoulder, it loomed less than six yards behind, bearing down on him like a hungry black hole, and he could see Duram's fury-reddened face behind the wheel. Heart leaping, Vila coaxed his legs to run faster.

It wasn't enough... Not nearly enough!

Pri, in her panic, had veered left, but the truck kept coming directly at Vila. That made a vicious, proprietary kind of sense. Duram could always pick Pri up later, punish her accordingly. Vila, on the other hand, had offended the 'master' twofold: he'd both escaped and taken a valuable item with him. And then there was the reward for his capture, which was still collectible regardless of whether he was turned in breathing...

Or dead.

He stumbled, fell, rolled to one side and scrambled up again to keep on running, startled when the truck screamed past him and skidded in the dry soil, fishtailing until it finally halted and faced him again. It lay between him and the boulders now. He was cut off.

And Duram knew it.

Not much point in running anymore.

Vila stood staring at the truck's dirt-encrusted windscreen, panting, trying desperately to think and coming up with no answers at all.

Gears clunked. The engine raced, shifted again. Tires spewing sand, the truck came barrelling toward him.

Vila ran because there was nothing else to do. Because just standing there made it too easy. Because just giving up and dying was never an alternative.

Then the impossible happened.

He wasn't given to hallucinations as a rule. But he could have sworn that rock formation had just fired a plasma bolt over their heads.

If Duram had noticed at all, he paid no heed. The lorrie was still gaining on Vila by rapid degrees, with plainly murderous intent.

Until a second plasma burst struck it broadside and turned it into a brief, brilliant fireball.

Duram hadn't even had time to scream.

Vila sat down where he was, barely out of the corona of the truck's burning remains, and fought to get his breath back. Within the space of three gasps, the boulders dissolved themselves and reformed into something he'd never thought to see again.

So Tarrant had got lucky after all.

Vila rested his head on his knees, too weary even to move for the moment. Let them come to him, damn it; he'd risked life and limb enough for one day. He scarcely acknowledged even Pri's presence when she came back to sit quietly beside him, one hand twined gently with his own. Presumably, she was content to wait for explanations, too.

Embers were still crackling in the truck's hulk when footsteps came crunching across the plain toward them, and Vila glanced up to find a smug-looking Tarrant, gun in hand, gazing down at them.

"You just never can tell who you're going to run into these days," the pilot joked.

"Very funny," Vila sighed, unhumored. "You were there all that time, and you didn't do anything until now? Heart failure amuses you, does it?"

"Not really." Tarrant cast a nervous glance at Pri. "I had wanted it to be a surprise. I just hadn't counted on your friend with the antique tank."

Pri was on her feet, staring at Mirage with open amazement. "What is it? How did you--?"

"How did you find us?" Vila interrupted. "Not even Mirage is that smart."

"She's a lot smarter than any of us thought. We went looking for lone humanoids within a ten mile radius and finding none, took two as the next best option. And here you are. You want the full encyclopedia now, or would you perhaps rather get the hell out of here?"

Vila took Pri by the hand and headed toward the waiting ship.

"I would perhaps rather," he half-echoed wearily. Warm thoughts of a shower, a med unit, a clean bed and a nice tall glass of soma were already filling his head.

She should have killed him when she had the chance.

Jenna palmed open the door to Avon's cabin, overriding his override for the third time. Croesus recognized her palm print over any other, but that was small consolation when, in spite of it, a mad computer genius had just successfully hijacked your ship.

"All right, Avon." He was already standing when she stalked in, almost as though to protect the terminal behind him. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

The answer came too fast, too easily. "Pursuing that wealth you speak of so fondly."

"Oh, of course you are. I want control of the ship back. Now."

This time he hesitated for a fraction of a moment, as though he hadn't quite expected so direct an approach. His reply was direct enough though, if less than sincere.

"Sorry."

When she walked toward the terminal he caught her by the arm and held fast, a stern, determined grip. Jenna burned him with her eyes. "Let go of me."

He took the other arm in answer, pulling her roughly to him. The kiss shocked her less for its brutal approach than for its invasion of personal space. The Avon she remembered would never have considered breaching that wall -- with anyone.  Still, ever since that business with Meegat on Cephlon, it had been apparent that a number of women found something about Avon irresistably sensual.

Jenna simply wasn't one of them.

He broke the hold at once when she pressed the muzzle of her gun to the side of his head. No trace of any fear showed in his eyes, though, and that rankled her more than a little. She held the gun on him even after he'd backed off a few feet, tilting his head in that annoying habit he so often used to connote challenge. Jenna was prepared to meet it.

"You'll release control of this ship now, or so help me I'll shoot you where you stand."

*That,* said a piping voice from the center of the room, *would be extremely foolish.*

Avon's gaze wandered slowly in Orac's direction. Jenna's remained aligned with her gun. "I didn't ask you," she said.

*Nevertheless, I am compelled to point out that following the course you suggest would result in catastrophic consequences.*

She didn't like the smug look on Avon's face. "What are you talking about, Orac?"

*Croesus has been programmed to self-destruct precisely thirty seconds after my notification that Kerr Avon has been harmed in any way. I would advise you to exercise extreme caution, as there is no possible countermand.*

Quelling outrage, she lowered the gun, finally putting it away altogether. Now that threats had failed, she would merely be forced to try another tactic. Even diplomacy could sometimes be a weapon...

"All right," she said tightly. "So you've won. For now. I at least have the right to know where you're taking us. And why."

He turned and calmly sat back down to tap out something on the keyboard, as though none of the preceding had occurred to interrupt him.  "Well," he said, with the same toneless inflection she remembered -- and detested, "all you had to do was ask."

Mirage's med unit was a little bit of heaven. Her soma was in good supply, the bed was comfortable, the tissue regenerator had done wonders for his hands... And then there was Pri, whose forehead massages were certainly more marvellous now that he was in a position to properly appreciate them.

Vila luxuriated in the sheer hedonism of it all, stretched out on the med cot with a tall glass of soma on one side and Pri seated on the other. Would that this moment could go on forever!

"Who is this Avon they speak of?" Pri asked suddenly, shattering the rather bawdy fantasy that had been stirring under his eyelids.

Vila winched open a reluctant eye. "Who?" he said lazily, and reached to draw her hand back to his forehead. "Oh, no one very important, really. Just some would-be embezzler we picked up once. Blake kept him around just to fiddle the computers whenever we needed it." He yawned expansively through the latter part of the sentence.

Pri's voice held a smile. "Is that why your friends are so anxious to find him?"

Despairing of any further quiet, he opened both eyes. "Well it's not him so much. It's this plastic pain-in-the-bum he's got with him named Orac, and everybody wants Orac, and then there's the Federation's real control complex on Caphtor that Carnell supposedly knows about, and if all that isn't complicated enough for you, whatta you know but Mirage goes and figures we're all about to converge in the same damned place. I don't think I even want to know what's going on anymore." Vila sat up in the bed, arms crossed in consternation. He still hadn't straightened out just how and why Carnell was aboard, and why their pilot hadn't shot the man on sight. Some of Dauban's rocks must have found their way into Tarrant's head.

"My luck," he grumbled, "to end up with a pair of ego-bloated, toothy Alphas for crew. As if Avon weren't bad enough."

"You speak as though they were not your friends."

"They're not! And don't you turn your back on them either, especially Tarrant. Especially the other one, too, come to think of it. I wouldn't trust him with two tenths of a credit."

She frowned. "If they are not your friends, why do you stay with them?"

Vila hated complex philosophical questions. "Long story," he said dismissively.

"You do not value their friendship?"

"It's not a question of friendship, exactly. We watch each other's backs. Most of the time. It's sort of an old habit."

"Duram used to say that anything and anyone could be bought for a price. Another man I knew once, though, told me that Earthers have a saying. 'The best things in life are free.'"

Vila pulled a face. "Whoever said that just hasn't been caught yet."

Pri didn't laugh. Her look of discomfort, in fact, worried him just a bit. Women always got that look when they had something 'important' on their minds.

"When you find this Avon, and this Control place," she said hesitantly, "what will you do then?"

Vila shifted positions a bit. "I... uh... hadn't really thought about it yet. Well, surviving from one day to the next has been hard enough lately, hasn't it?" The hurt look coming into her eyes spurred him onward. "You could stay on as long as you like, though. There wouldn't be any problem. When this is over, whatever it is, we'll take you anywhere you want to go. Anywhere at all."

Her voice had become so faint he could scarcely hear it. "I want to go with..." She trailed off abruptly, rose and rushed across the room, compelling a bewildered Vila to get up and follow. If he lived to be a thousand, it would never be long enough to learn to understand women. Like them, yes. Understand them...

"Now what's the matter?" he asked plaintively. "Did I say something wrong?"

"No, of course not."

"Then why are you...?" She was crying. Vila put cautious hands on her shoulders. "I told you, this ship can go just about anyplace. We'll take you. I promise."

She turned, the lovely face he had just helped to repair with the regen-unit streaked now with tears. "I don't want to go anywhere. Don't you understand? There isn't anywhere... anyone..."

Vila blinked, staring dumbly. "Oh," he said, and then again, when the thought had sunk well and truly in, "Oh." Why had he assumed she would have a place to go? Stupid of him. But then of course, the alternative was to...

Vila let his grin spread slowly and purposely. "Well, that's not so terrible, then, is it? The idea of being stuck with me for a while?"

There were remnants of both fear and doubt still lingering in her eyes, in the small pout of her lips. Well, he knew one guaranteed cure for that.

Vila gathered her into his arms and kissed her.

Caphtor had not changed.

Neither had the offices of the Troas Beryllium Mining Corporation, to which Orac's co-ordinates, not surprisingly, had led.

Coincidence had ceased to be any sort of possibility.

Coincidence didn't exist.

Avon moved rapidly down the broad, carpeted hall, Orac in hand, Jenna keeping pace alongside. He would have preferred that she stay behind -- but he'd found that his preferences held very little sway over the Croesus' intractable captain. Even his mention of personal matters which did not concern her had been no deterrent.

Well, if nothing else, the extra gun might well be useful.

Workers traversing the same corridor paused and stared, ultimately backstepping out of the way, after which they stood and stared some more. Avon barely noticed them.

His mind was on matters far more ponderous: the ramifications of Servalan's having installed Control here in the first place; whether she had known of Lan Troas' original identity; how the computers might be reprogrammed to at least approximate Blake's dream of a liberated galaxy. And the possibility he least wanted to consider: whether Lan... Tav... had been a willing participant in all of this, in league with Servalan from the start.

You may learn more, Blake's ghost had warned, than you want to know.

Guile. Deception. Manipulation. Betrayal masking still more betrayal. All of these things had conspired with fate to dominate his life, more often than not in an effort to end it. Soon -- perhaps today -- they would finally succeed.

The receptionist's desk barring entry to the executive suites was abandoned, but as he hadn't intended to stop anyway, he bypassed it without comment.

"Avon..."

Jenna's cry, faintly tinged with alarm, made him turn back, Orac whirring impatiently in his arms.

*We are now fourteen point two-seven meters from the Control Complex entrance,* the computer reported. *I would not recommend any further delay.*

Avon, watching Jenna, ignored it. The desk, it seemed, hadn't been abandoned after all. The body of a pale young woman lay sprawled on the floor behind it. Even from this distance, the laser burns on her clothing were evident.

Orac's bulk, suspended by one lucite 'handle,' shifted promptly to Avon's left hand. The right quietly snicked his gun from its holster.

He swung toward the door bearing Lan Troas' name. It stood partially open, and voices -- one voice -- floated from the other side.

"One way or another," it said, "I'm going to get in. So why don't you just be reasonable, eh? She gave you the code word. I'm sure of that."

Avon exchanged an incredulous look with Jenna. The last time either of them had heard that voice, it had been boarding a shuttle from Croesus and returning to Earth, by way of a well-paid ransom.

Avon shoved the door back, going in gun first.

What confronted him afforded no time for thought. He caught a glimpse of Tav, bound to a chair beside the glassine table, and Par Vaylan standing over him with something in his hand. He spun at Avon's intrusion, raising the weapon as he turned.

Avon shot him.

Vaylan uttered a choking, startled cry, one hand clutching at his heart, the other spasming as the object Avon had taken for a gun tumbled and rolled away across the floor.

Laser probe...

The alcove in the left wall of the office, mirrored and tiered with crystal decanters, had opened outward to reveal a door -- and the winking lights of a computerized lock. Avon glanced once at Jenna. Without need for words, she retreated to the front door, and gun in hand, put forth the unconvincing pretense of guarding the entrance.

Vaylan already forgotten, Avon crossed swiftly to Tav, deposited Orac on the table, and bent to untie the man's bruised and bleeding hands. He was still alive, though the burns on his face and clothing gave the condition little hope of continuing long. Pain-fogged eyes struggled to focus on Avon, recognition dawning slowly.

"You should have stayed away," he whispered.

As unsure as he might have been with a stranger, Avon kept his gun in a neutral but prominent position. "Why?" he demanded simply.

Tav's gaze traveled back across the room, to the desk where the holo-cubes were still displayed. "You don't really imagine that I had any choice?"

The smiling faces in the cubes stared accusingly back at them. Avon could think of nothing to say.

"She took them to Morrad," Tav said hoarsely. "Two systems away, but it might as well have been a thousand. We were allowed one vis-screen communication a month -- as long as I co-operated. Then you came... and I let you go. She..." His voice caught and stopped, very nearly becoming a sob.

Avon slipped his gun back into its holster, a half-conscious gesture of grim acceptance. "I'm sorry," he said flatly.

Empty words, without meaning for either of them.

"I never saw them after that. She told me one had lived. If I wanted to know which, to see or talk to them, all I had to do... was find a way to bring you back here. With Orac. Couldn't have done that if I'd wanted to... One was alive, she said. I never knew if it was true. She could be very convincing, your Servalan..."

"Yes," Avon agreed, letting the possessive pronoun slide. "But she won't be convincing any longer. She's dead."

Tav's gaze had fixed itself on nothing, and there was an ominous, liquid sound to his breathing. "I'm glad," he said. He seemed to rally long enough to glance toward the uncovered door, where sequenced lights continued to blink expectantly. "I never knew the word. She never..." He had begun to tremble violently; Avon's hands went out to steady him, and caught him instead as he fell from the chair.

The trembling had ceased abruptly as Avon lowered him to the floor. So had the labored breathing...

*The requisite code word for access to the Complex is presidency,* Orac announced with callous precision from the tabletop. *And I must once again recommend haste. The outer worlds are already suffering chaos and the outbreak of numerous civil wars. Reprogramming and completion of the Control facility is vital!*

Presidency...

A word she would have chosen. A thing that had meant more to her than countless lives, entire worlds... or one man's family on a tiny, frontier mining planet.

Avon entered the numerical equivalent on the keypad below the flashing lights, two questions stirring in the back of his mind.

How had Orac obtained that code word?

And what had it meant by 'completion?'

Jenna, perhaps sensing the same foreboding, had drifted back into the room. "And what 'completion' is that exactly?" she asked the flashing device on the table. Orac sat clicking furiously to itself and ignored her. Jenna scowled. "Avon..."

The door hadn't opened.

Assuming the code word to be correct; assuming the numerical analog... Or perhaps not. It was a new lock but an old computer system, a Ceti 800 design, and it was just possible...

Avon keyed in the alphabetical sequence, paused expectantly... and was rewarded with nothing at all. He raised a forestalling hand to Jenna's more urgent repitition of his name.

An old system...

With every awareness of Servalan's lingering influence in all of this, he struck the ENTER key and backed away.

With a hiss of surrendering pressure, the sheet metal door vanished into the wall. The room beyond was small, a vault with silvertone sides, each lined with operating computer systems. A thin empty dais stood alone in the center.

Little doubt what that was for. She'd plotted from the start to install Orac here, to use it to further her own ends in ruling the galaxy. Now it would be used instead to free the worlds she'd conquered, and to destroy the very last vestiges of the old Federation.

Avon intended to see to it.

"Avon," Jenna said again when he turned to retrieve Orac from the table, "I don't think you ought to go in there. I don't like any of this somehow. If there's--"

She whirled toward the sound of footsteps -- and came gun to gun with Tarrant, an entourage of three at his heels. Avon saw Vila's eyes widen in dismay, lips mouthing Jenna's name in disbelief as his hand went out to stay Tarrant's weapon. Carnell, whatever he might be doing here, and a woman Avon had never seen brought up the rear. It had suddenly become rather crowded in here...

Avon hefted Orac and turned back to the newly-opened door, pre-empting both Tarrant and Jenna's simultaneous objections with a short, "Stay here."

"That room could be a deathtrap," Jenna persisted. "At least let me--"

She'd begun to come after him, but Avon had no sooner crossed Control's threshold than the door sliced shut again, cutting Jenna's protest off in mid-sentence.

Exactly the sort of move he'd have expected of Servalan. The opening gambit. He didn't doubt that the code word would now fail to re-open the door, from either side. Had she counted, he wondered, on the improbable factor of Vila's presence? Even he might find this particular lock difficult. And had she assumed that Kerr Avon wouldn't be capable of reprogramming Control? She had lured him here deliberately, of that much he was certain. But how much she may or may not have underestimated his abilities remained to be seen. Security codes could be broken and bypassed; traps found and defeated. And there existed no Federation-built computer system that he could not reprogram -- eventually.

He paused only long enough to check the transparent podium for explosives, then rather delicately sat Orac down.

The lights dimmed.

He stepped back automatically as a new light source streamed from the ceiling beyond the dais. The shimmering beam flared brilliant white before reshaping itself into the one-time President and Supreme Commander of the Terran Federation. Clad in bare-shouldered white gown and feather boa, she smiled with sanguine lips, folded her hands before her, and said, "Avon. I had meant to be here in person when you arrived, but as you can see..." The slender fingers parted, spread in dismissal, refolded themselves. "I must thank you for bringing Orac. By now it will be fully engaged in reprogramming the ancillary systems in order to assume the universal control for which it was always intended."

So much for the meaning of 'completion.'

Uncannily, the hologram matched Avon's steps back to the dais, where Orac's interior lights raced fervently.

"I'm afraid you'll find it is no longer possible to remove the activator," she said, stopping his hand just above the key. The field emitted by its electrical charge was tangible, even an inch away.

Dusky eyes that couldn't see him looked directly into his all the same, sparks flying in the crackle of the energy pillar. "We've partaken of ultimate rule together after all, you and I. We've completed Ensor's program. The original one. Orac was designed for this purpose, you see. My predecessor commissioned it three years before Ensor stole away with the plans and went into hiding. When at last it was built, and began to operate as part of Control despite Ensor's attempts at interference, he tried continually to reprogram its function. Even he could not succeed. From the moment of its first activation, Orac was linked with Star One and with the computers now located in this room. From the beginning, in fact, Orac has been in partial control, to one degree or another, of all the systems on all the worlds in all the galaxy. It required only one last thing -- the physical proximity you have now kindly provided -- to complete its programming. For that, the Federation -- and I -- will owe you a very great debt indeed."

The manicured hands fell to her sides, blood-red nails shimmering against the flawless white gown as she pivoted, gliding away to the wall and swinging round again. The energized pillar seemed to follow rather than contain her, a spotlight for the command performance.

"It really is a pity you refused my offer after Star One, Avon. I might be inclined to extend it again -- but I'm very much afraid that, by the time I arrive, it shall be too late."

So here it came at last. Challenge followed by the laying of the trap. Grimacing, he waited for her to go on.

"This room is shielded as well as hermetically sealed. The air supply is good for perhaps twelve hours, though it will hardly matter. At ten minute intervals, the vault will be bombarded with moderate doses of sobar radiation. The effects of repeated exposure vary with the individual." The smile returned, triumphant and sleekly reptilian. "It shall be most fascinating, I'm sure, to view Orac's full vis-scan report on your... duration."

More fascinating still, he thought perversely, to know just how you would receive it -- in hell.

"Good-bye, Avon," the hologram said, and the glowing beam swept itself back into the ceiling with a crackling hiss. The room brightened at once, in tacit denial of any lethal intent.

"Orac..."

Over its accelerated hum, the computer sounded more perturbed than ever. *Yes?*

Avon spoke rapidly and concisely. "Confirm presence of sobar radiation."

*There is no detectable measurement of such radiation.*

"Confirm programming for the release of sobar radiation."

*You have just been informed of that function via system-controlled projection,* the computer huffed arrogantly. *Do not waste my time with needless--*

"Override and cancel release program. And open the door."

It couldn't, of course, have been that easy. Orac clattered for a moment before the prissy voice responded, *I think not.*

"Explain," Avon demanded. His tone was sharp, but lacked anxiety. Each twist she imparted was merely another new phase of the game. Challenge, parry, and challenge anew. Dare him to defeat the program.

*The directive is not expedient,* Orac replied.

Avon moved to the nearest perimeter console and activated its monitor screen. "Why is it not expedient?"

*Because you are the one individual capable of threatening primary Control programming. Your removal is therefore expedient.*

Not surprisingly, the keyboard failed to respond to his touch. Avon pried the lower panel free and began pulling circuit boards, checking each for signs of further sabotage before he freed it.

"Your reasoning, as usual, is erroneous," he told Orac as he worked. "There are at least five individuals besides myself who are now aware of Control's location. One well-placed bomb..." He edged to the next panel, removed it and went searching again. "...would presumably do more than 'threaten' your Control."

*Access would have to be gained first. That is now humanly impossible.*

Avon had a fleeting vision of Vila bent to the task just outside the sealed door. "Would you care to make book on that?"

*Book?* Orac echoed imperiously. *You will explain the reference.*

Gratified at the computer's increasingly agitated whine, Avon echoed in his own right, "I... think not." He pulled the next panel free.

*If you are attempting,* Orac said churlishly, *to locate release-timing circuitry, I must advise you of the presence of defensive mechanisms.*

"I'm touched by your concern." He probed lightly with one finger at the first circuit board inside the cabinet, grasped it and began to pull...

Only the sharpened reflexes of the long-hunted could have warned him of the danger in time. The emerald beam that seared from the opposite wall missed his right hand by millimeters, and burned a smoking path down the sleeve of his tunic. He rolled away, coming back to his feet in the same instant that the room lights shifted crimson.

Something high in the ceiling vibrated faintly, then quieted again as the lighting returned to normal.

Moderate doses at ten minute intervals, she had said. Prolonged exposure...

A soft power hum drew his attention back to the exposed panel -- and the laser beam that continued to bisect the room, not quite touching the pedestal of Orac's perch, and disappearing into some immune receptacle between the circuit boards.

"That," he said half to himself, "would seem to answer the question of where the release hardware is located."

*And said hardware is inaccessible,* Orac insisted. *You would be wise to heed my warning in that regard.*

Contemplatively, Avon drew his sidearm and adjusted the setting for narrow beam. "And you," he said, "would be wise to abdicate. Propoganda, for one thing, is definitely not your strong suit."

Quelling a strong temptation to fire at the dais and its occupant, he drew a bead on the laser's source instead, aimed with precision, and squeezed the trigger.

With the sizzle and pop of breaking glass, the beam vanished.

Moments later, the timing circuitry met a similar fate.

"And now..." He returned to the dais with his gun still raised, though the intimidation was probably lost on Orac. "...let us discuss this Control program."

*There is nothing to discuss!* came the rapid parry. *The program is complete.*

"To what end? Servalan is dead. The Federation no longer exists -- and the leader of your so-called 'republic' lies dead outside this door. So tell me, who rules the unwashed masses now?"

The answer was an obvious foregone conclusion. *A political successor to Par Vaylan has already been installed on Earth. The selection of figurehead is, however, of little consequence. As of the completion, I am the ultimate arbiter of human affairs in this galaxy.*

Avon blinked at the candid admission. But then, there was no longer need for Orac to evade the issue, was there? No wonder Ensor's creation had always maintained such a haughtily superior attitude.

"God in the machine," he quoted to himself.

Orac buzzed noisily. *Your reference,* it complained, *is obscure.*

"No doubt. And if humanity should choose not to be so governed? What then?"

*The question is immaterial. Access to this room has been permanently sealed.* Avon glanced involuntarily at the door. *Human intervention will no longer be possible.*

This conversation grew more bizarre with every passing moment. "For a device of such incomparable magnitude, your reasoning is rather faulty," he countered. "Or had it perhaps not occurred to you that mankind is more than capable of destroying this complex -- or the entire planet -- without access to this room at all?"

*The armament necessary for such action is universally computer controlled,* Orac snapped with condescending overtones. *It is therefore your logic which is fallible. Furthermore, destruction of this complex would indirectly result in the loss of more than forty billion human lives on environmentally controlled worlds.*

Avon winced at the memory of an identical argument once presented to Blake -- before Star One.

"Well now," he said slowly. "It is entirely possible that humanity..." He felt suddenly loath to use the word. "...would consider it worth the price."

And they would be wrong, Avon. As I was wrong.

The intrusion of Blake's voice startled him, no less so than the movement that caught his eye from the left and just behind...

Avon spun toward it with the gun, checking in time to avoid firing at his own reflection in the shiny metal wall. He realized in the same moment that his mirror image had a companion -- a reflection of something not there.

Blake.

The ghost regarded him with half a gaze, garbed in the bulky attire of a bounty hunter; the man he had last faced on Gauda Prime. Distrusting his own eyes, Avon reasoned that the radiation burst might be inducing hallucinations. Somehow, he couldn't quite convince himself that it was true.

Nothing to say? the phantom asked with every inch the commanding, dominant personality he remembered as Blake. Blake, who could convince entire planets to follow him in revolution, and whom Liberator's crew had found capable of lasting trust... as well as occasional deception.

"You knew," Avon told the reflection. It was a statement of fact, neither accusation nor query.

The ephemeral Blake shook his head slowly. Not until after Star One. It was too late to warn you then. And it wouldn't have made any difference.

"It might have made a great deal of difference -- to me." The pawn in the game found bitter acrimony in the revelation that he had been used as such by both sides of the conflict.

You are only one man, Avon. In the greater scheme of things, of little consequence. The image paused, as though waiting for a response that didn't come. Then it said, It had to be this way. In the end, it was the only answer.

Avon's anger broke free in vehement denial. "No. You were a traitor to your own cause, Blake. And I will not accept that anything 'had to be!'"

He turned and brought the weapon to bear against Orac's casing, precisely where he had long ago installed a small explosive charge -- to protect the computer from telepathic interference. Now it would serve to protect the galaxy from Orac.

He pressed the trigger three times before being forced to concede that the gun would no longer function. It, too, contained tarial circuitry...

From the wall, Blake's one-eyed stare balefully accused him of cowardice. The apparition said nothing more.

Orac, of course, was another matter.

*I will not inquire,* it fumed, *as to the significance or lack there-of inherent in your last three statements. Your weapon will no longer function. What threat you have posed to this complex is effectively neutralized. I now have a number of highly urgent matters to which to attend -- vocal circuits are therefore shutting down.*

With a brusque, electronic yowl, the computer did precisely that. Avon lowered the useless gun, noting as he did so that Blake's image was gradually fading from the wall, until only his own reflection remained.

"Fools come in many forms," he said aloud to the mirror of himself, "but each is perhaps equally guilty of underestimating the other."

Gauntlet thrown, though nothing but the wall had heard it, he went back to the open computer panels on a new quest. Primary control had been located here until the moment of Orac's arrival. That which could be completed could logically be uncompleted -- provided you knew how to cross-circuit what.

First, he needed access to an unlocked keyboard...

Four of the consoles yielded laser probes of varying sizes. The dismantled gun provided metal spanning and fine wire; the heel of his shoe, by long habit, concealed a serviceable lock pick.

It took twelve minutes, had anyone been counting, to unfreeze the keyboard; a mere four more to isolate the control linkage. It was located next to the holographic projection board, and its removal triggered the bright pillar of light anew, bringing Servalan back to glowing, artificial life.

"Avon..." the recording parroted again. He turned his back on it and continued working, using the floor for a workbench. The last two bypasses would be D to F, and A to...

*You must not complete that connection!* Orac's strident voice reasserted itself from the dais. Servalan stood just behind it, repeating her story of Ensor's plight to the air.

"If you were capable of stopping me," Avon replied with probe poised above the circuit board, "you would have done by now. Therefore..."

*This action will result in the loss of uncountable lives!* Orac protested over the hologram's continuing drone.

Avon smiled. "Incorrect. This action will interrupt your linkage and reinstate primary control to the ancillary system."

Orac harrumphed. *A useless gesture,* it opined.

"It's a beginning." The probe moved.

*We might at least discuss your reasons.* Was that a note of desperation he could hear in the computer's rising tone?

"If you are offering terms, I have only one demand." Avon lifted the laser probe, glancing back at the remaining boards in the rack.

*Yes?*

"You will reprogram the primaries for the gradual introduction of autonomy on each of the 'federated' worlds."

*Inadvisable,* Orac returned as Servalan strolled to the wall.

"Either you do it your way," Avon said, "or I do it mine. Your choice."

*You would prefer anarchy to organized control? That is madness!* the computer argued.

"Probably. Choose."

Orac whirred angrily, lights competing with the hologram's sparkling image. *Very well,* it said at last. *The program you request is instated. Now kindly return the primary control circuit to its proper place!*

Avon obliged, watching Servalan's smiling explanation of the radiation hazard. The control board back in place, he applied the laser to its nearest neighbor, carefully chose a contact point, and pressed the activator stud.

Servalan was at once engulfed in a satisfying display of fireworks as the hologram, arcing brilliant blue, dissolved into so many negative ions.

Avon rose, dropping the probe on the console. The only sound in the chamber now was Orac's somewhat-dampened whine.

"I will of course expect proof that the program is instated," he said.

Petulantly, Orac complied. *Visual diagrams will be displayed on screen H,* it informed him.

Avon scarcely glanced at the result. "Thank you," he said. "Now open the door."

Orac buzzed in a maddeningly familiar tone. *That was not a condition of the agreement.*

Somewhere there simply had to be an ultimate reward in store for those who pitted patience against the vagaries of electronic minds. Avon retrieved the probe without comment. The board controlling locking systems shouldn't be all that difficult to find...

*An experiment in governmental autonomy might be fascinating at that,* Orac pontificated from behind him. *If, however, it should prove a failure within a reasonable length of time...*

"You will be here to take over?"

*Of course.*

"Well," Avon said absently, pulling more circuitry, "we shall see about that." His head ached, and the first tinges of nausea were beginning to nag at his stomach. A brief visit to Croesus' med unit and a few hours' rest certainly wouldn't come amiss just now.

*If I interpret that statement correctly,* Orac said, *it is non sequitur. Only a complex of equal or greater magnitude could possibly override this one. You will be incapable of interfering.*

Another board pulled, replaced. "We shall see about that as well."

*Assuming you were able to leave this room,* the computer theorized, *the time and vast monetary resources necessary to build an analog to this system would be beyond even your capabilities.*

That sounded remarkably like an overture. "You're certain of that, are you?"

*Since the door to this complex cannot be re-opened, the question is academic.*

In point of fact, the door's control circuit was not located with the rest, prompting Avon to hunt instead for yet another strategy. "Perhaps you would find a small wager of interest, then."

Orac's clicking slowed considerably. *Of what possible use could wagers be to me?* it queried.

"Consider it a challenge. My abilities versus your initial control programming. Say we grant the autonomy... and my resources... seven years. At the end of that time, control will fall either to you, or..." He deliberately left the sentence unfinished.

*My design and construction required twenty-one-point-nine years,* Orac said with audible hauteur. *Do you presume a sufficient intellect to surpass even Ensor's capabilities?*

"Perhaps. But then I have had the advantage of a rather close study of his prize creation. In any case, you'll never know, will you? Unless you open the door."

That gambit occupied less than twenty seconds' worth of Orac's pondering capacity. *I believe your proposal to be what is known in Earth vernacular as a bluff,* it said.

Perhaps a more direct approach. "Open the door," Avon demanded.

Orac hummed. *I think not.*

Directly on top of its statement, the door in question hissed, creaked, and withdrew under obvious protest into the wall. A triumphant Vila stood rubbing his hands together on the other side, and was nearly bowled over by the others' rush to enter the room with him. Only Carnell hung back, bodily blocking the door.

"Should have known you were too mean even for one of Servalan's traps to kill," Vila said amid the clatter of questions Avon wasn't answering. The thief surveyed the litter of makeshift tools and electronic carnage with a smug smile. "Giving old Plastic Brain here his comeuppance, were you?"

Avon favored him with a scathing look before crossing to the newly-opened door. He wheeled again to regard the dais as though none of the others had intervened.

"Well, Orac?"

For once, the flashing box did not question his meaning. *I shall reconsider your proposition,* it conceded with all the aplomb of a surrendering warlord.

"You do that."

Avon marched into the outer office with a bombardment of questions again at his heels. It was Jenna's he ultimately deigned to answer, turning back from the entrance to survey them all with a keen and newly-honed patience. After Orac, it was just possible he really could cope with anything.

Presidents, wars, rivals, ghosts... Even the spectre of his own past. The name of the endgame was still survival, whether it turned out to be your own or the rest of the galaxy's. Salvaging both was a contingency he could live with.

"What exactly are you planning to do?" Jenna had asked in her typically blunt, no-nonsense manner.

Avon's smile might almost have rivaled the brightness of Orac's winking lights.

"Well now," he said. "I find the idea of being wealthy rather appealing..."
 

The End