Quarrus held a new and dubious honor as the wettest and most
miserable planet Kerr Avon had ever seen. He had just spent the
past half hour telling Blake so, in less than amiable terms, while
Gan and Cally slogged unappreciatively behind, trying
unsuccessfully to ward off the assault of moisture from the
moss-laden trees.

"Why don't you give up, Blake? There's nothing here -- there
probably never was!"

Blake, curls pressed limp to his forehead, ignored the remark
and paused to consult the pulsating red light on his teleport
bracelet. "Zen's still receiving the signal." He nodded toward
the wall of dripping green that faced them. "And it's coming from
somewhere in there."

Avon scowled. "A remarkable display of flawless directional
accuracy -- 'somewhere in there.' Something to tell your
shipwrecked rabble when we've rescued them, provided we do not
drown in the attempt."

Blake ignored that, too, making Avon's scowl deepen. He had
failed thus far at every turn to convince the rebel leader that
distress calls were one of the Federation's favorite ruses, and
even if the signal were genuine, probabilities were high that it
was no more than an automated beacon, its programmers long since
dead. As usual, Blake stubbornly refused to be persuaded.
Foolhardiness, Avon decided, must be a staple sub-trait of rampant
idealism.

"We may have better luck if we split up," Blake was saying
over the mutter of thunder from overhead. "Check in every quarter
hour with the bracelets."

Cally, her own curls a damp tangle, nodded. "I agree."

Gan had been peering at the colorless sky suspiciously. "So
do I," he said.

As though the matter had thus been decided, Blake made to move
away. Avon stopped him with an irritated warning. "If it is a
trap, we stand a better chance together."

Yet again, Blake pretended not to hear him. "We meet back
here in an hour," he said to the others. "Unless one of us finds
anything. Stay in contact." This with a meaningful glance at
Avon. "All of you."

"Damn it, Blake, will you--"

"Perhaps you hadn't noticed," the other man interrupted, and
his tone was that of a stern parent correcting an errant child,
"but you've just been outvoted. Back here, one hour." With that
he pivoted and strode away, if one could be said to stride through
the muck underfoot. Gan and Cally, choosing different directions,
had done the same, and no sooner had the three of them vanished
into the trees than the clouds unleashed a drenching downpour. Jaw
set, Avon stood his ground for several moments before selecting a
path some meters west of the others and forging into the trees on
his own.

The temptation to call Vila and simply teleport back to
Liberator nagged him with every labored step. He'd been a fool to
let Blake order him down here in the first place -- let the
blundering oaf get lost and fall into a bog and the other two as
well, he was going back to a quiet cabin, warm air, and dry
clothes, and to hell with Blake's bloody distress signal.

The bracelet chimed before he could depress the control.
"Vila--" he started to say to it, but another, harsher voice
responded instead, cutting him off."

"This is Blake. Prepare for teleport; we're going to wait and
try searching again when the rain's let up."

Avon glowered wetly at the bracelet. "High time," he
complained, but Blake had switched frequencies, and under the crack
of a renewed thunder assault, he heard the beginning of an order
for Vila to teleport. The words cut off in mid-sentence, lost, he
assumed, to the temporary interference of the atmospheric
disturbance. Avon bade Quarrus an unfond farewell and stood ready
for the teleport's energy field to reclaim him.

He waited.

Nothing happened.

"Vila..." He slapped at the bracelet's control switch in
consternation. "Vila, you halfwit, bring us up!"

The only response was the diminishing patter of the rain as
the cloudburst, spent, surrendered.

Avon shifted frequencies and tried again. "Blake... Cally,
Gan. Are you receiving?"

Silence, and the surrounding drip-drip-drip of run-off from
the irregular canopy of moss and vine above him. Nothing else.

"Liberator! Zen, this is Avon. I require teleport, do you
receive? Repeat, I require tele--"

The loud report of something snapping underfoot brought Avon's
blaster instantly to hand. He dived for the nearest cover -- a
fallen tree -- and rolled over to right himself and peer out at the
semi-clearing. If this was Blake coming back, he might just
cheerfully shoot the man and have done with it. Four months in his
company had done absolutely nothing to improve Avon's
interrogation-frayed nerves, and a future subordinated to Blake's
prating, crusade-mentality was not one that he relished, either.
Better to--

Something hard and cold pressed itself to the back of his
neck. "Put the gun down, friend."

He obeyed the request, hoping beyond probable reason that this
was merely one of Blake's shipwrecked mariners, and an overcautious
one at that. Two more of them materialized from the trees as he
got to his feet, all armed, all dressed in soiled fatigues the
color, more or less, of the forest undergrowth. Not Federation...

The man nearest him -- the one who had spoken -- held his
ancient projectile rifle firmly in hand and pointed with a stubbled
chin at Avon's wrist. "What's that then?" he demanded. "Some kind
of radio?"

Avon met the too-narrow eyes with scorn and took the
offensive. "Who are you? What do you want?"

The stubbled face broke into a gap-toothed grin, a soundless
mirth shared by the other two. "Parn's my name. And you're what
I want, friend." The grin broadened, thin lips pulling back from
yellowed teeth. "This 'ere's Lorka, that one's name's Dunne, an'
now that we're all nice and formal like, yours'd be Avon, now
wouldn' it?"

"I think you've--"

"Made a mistake?" Parn finished mockingly. "Not very
original, are you? We just heard you call roll into that piece of
jewelry on your arm. You can take that off too, while we're at
it." The gun came up to threaten him. "Oh and... then be so kind
as to turn around...and put your hands behind your back."

Avon surrendered the inoperative bracelet, then with a glance
at Parn's silent compatriots and the weapons they held, grudgingly
obeyed the second command. Immediately, chill metal clamped itself
around his wrists, binding them together by a brief length of
chain. Parn tugged at the bonds experimentally before spinning his
captive back around to face him. His ugly grin remained firmly in
place.

"Comfy?" he asked.

Avon frosted the three of them with a look, but it had no
visible effect.

Lorka, scratching at a dirty neck, cracked a smile greedy
enough to rival a Terra Nostra crimelord's. "How much is he worth,
Parn?"

The question surprised Avon, not because it confirmed his
suspicion that the trio were bounty hunters, but because he'd had
no inkling, until Lorka had spoken, that she was female.

"Big time money, this one." Parn was leering. "A million
cees, according to Circe, and there're five more where he came
from."

Avon watched their eyes widen appreciatively at the simple
arithmetic of dividing six million credits three ways, and wondered
why this Circe had been uninformed (or perhaps simply
uninformative?) about the additional reward offered by the
Federation for Liberator. Blake, Cally and Gan, if they were still
on the surface at all, had somehow escaped notice, which meant that
they had probably teleported on schedule, and only Avon's bracelet
had failed to function. Which further meant that Liberator might
well already be on its way out of the system. If Blake could fail
to notice Cally's absence after teleport, no doubt he could also
overlook Avon's. Perhaps he'd even intended to. But then, there
was that distress call, still irritating both Zen's circuitry and
Blake's conscience...

Parn's rifle was dancing an arc through the dripping mist.
"After you, friend," he said unctuously, and the others chortled at
the false amenity. Avon affected his best bored expression, shook
several layers of muck from his boots, and walked in the direction
Parn's gun had indicated.

There was little conversation amongst the three over the
ensuing twenty minutes, but enough was exchanged for Avon to gather
that A) they were native to this mudhole of a planet and B) Circe
was a contact they had made over primitive shortwave on the
surface, a contact to whom they were now herding their prize.
It followed, of course, that Circe would be a Federation agent
of one degree or another. Mentally, Avon cursed the faulty
bracelet, Blake, the Federation, and his own careless stupidity,
none of which helped at all other than to pass the time.

Navigating over the wet, uneven terrain without benefit of
free hands for balance proved more difficult than he'd imagined --
he fell twice, and suffered the indignity of being manhandled by
the grimy and foul-tempered Dunne. He might have been relieved
when they came at last within sight of their goal, except that the
goal proved not to be the backward clutter of native buildings he
had expected, not the cell with antique locks that his hidden pick
might have jimmied, but a ship, modern, sleek, and grounded
imposingly on a flat expanse of meadow. Avon had the sick feeling
that he had just been led to the source of Blake's distress signal.

Black-clad figures stood, statue-like, on either side of the
landing ramp. Mutoids, Avon realized as they approached. One
male, one female, or they had been once. It scarcely mattered any
more, to them or anyone else, what sex they had been before
'modification' had rendered them automatons and placed them in
unquestioning, mindless service to Federation Space Command. The
only concerns they had now were obeying their masters and keeping
their feeder tubes supplied with blood plasma. In that order.

"You!" Parn barked at the male on the left side of the ramp.
"Go tell Circe in there we got a package for her."

The mutoid did not react for a moment, though Avon noted the
gloved fingers tightening on the paragun it held.

"My mistress is already aware of your presence," it answered
at length.

"Oh?" Parn obviously failed to fathom how that was possible.
"Well then tell her we agreed on a million apiece, and we'll
collect for this one now and the rest when he tells her where to
find 'em." He shoved the muzzle of the rifle into Avon's ribs for
emphasis. "We'll wait here."

"That will not be necessary," the female said, and Parn pulled
the gun back to stare at her over its raised barrel.

"How's that?"

"We have been instructed to render your payment."

Parn's toothy grin reasserted itself. "Well that's more like
it. Where is it then?"

He hadn't quite finished his question when the answer slammed
into him, courtesy of the male mutoid's paragun. Dunne fell in the
same instant, a cry of disbelief strangling in his throat, and
Lorka's attempt to turn and run got her nowhere -- a second shot
from the female's weapon cut her down less than four yards away.

Standing impassive amidst the melee, Avon silently thanked the
unseen Circe for her payment, then allowed himself to be led up the
ramp and into the bowels of the waiting ship.

Whatever he'd thought he might find aboard, it was certainly
not the lavish elegance which met his eyes: the ship's interior
reflected a hedonism that would have given the wealthiest Alpha
pause. Neither was the 'cell' what he'd anticipated -- the mutoids
led him to a cabin, ushered him inside, and after removing Parn's
restraints from his wrists, departed and locked the door. Avon
gave the mechanism a cursory inspection before concluding that his
pick would be no help against magno-circuitry this sophisticated.
He turned to survey the room.

Mirrors, draped on either side by red lace fabric. Furniture,
opulent gold gilt, antique by the look of it. Crystal decanter
filled with red wine, glittering in the subdued light beside a
single flower, also red, in a gold-tone vase. Upholstered chairs,
patterned carpet -- red and gold, -- the scent of a dusky, floral
perfume... And the dominant feature of the oversized room, the
bed, festooned in overstuffed pillows and shining gold silk.

The most expensive pleasure houses in all of the Alpha dome
levels had never spoken more eloquently of seduction. Avon, tired,
puzzled and muddy, stood dripping on the expensive rug,
feeling more conspicuously out of place than a Delta ditch-laborer
at an inaugural ball.

When nothing and no one interrupted the ongoing silence to
resolve his bewilderment, he squelched across the carpet to inspect
the only other door in the room, and discovered the thoroughly
modern convenience of a sono-shower ensconced in the otherwise
antique decor of a spacious bathroom. That his unseen hostess had
been expecting a male visitor was all the more apparent by the suit
of clothes laid out on the dressing table inside the bathroom door.
Clean boots, shiny black and of real leather, stood waiting beside
black trousers, overshirt and belt -- and a simple open-necked
tunic with a bright silver sheen. All in his size and
unquestionably to his taste. Someone had gone to a great deal of
trouble to cheat Parn and his friends of their reward money.

Someone also, disconcertingly, knew of his Alpha-bred penchant for
a rather flashy wardrobe.

Inwardly, Avon shrugged. As interrogations went, this
promised so far to be the most painless of his brief criminal
career. Presumably, his hostess planned to appear and state her
terms once he had made himself presentable. Well, to that much he
certainly had no objection. Indulging the ghost of an ironic
smile, he turned on the shower and began to strip off the wet,
soiled clothing.

She was there, as predicted, lounging in one of the chairs
with a glass of wine when he emerged in the clean clothes. Why it
hadn't occurred to him sooner he couldn't have said, but the
identity of his new 'keeper' took Avon aback for a moment. He'd
seen her in many a Federation viscast; there was no mistaking those
deceptively 'innocent' eyes, and the severe haircut that had become
her personal trademark. He hesitated in the doorway, slurring her
name into one distasteful drawl.

"Servalan."

Her eyes raked him like a slave-market buyer's, and the smile
followed, tight-lipped and cunning. "Avon." She pronounced the
name with a breathy resonance, nasalizing the second syllable.
After that she seemed content merely to study him for several
moments.

Avon stared back despite himself. He'd never had occasion to
notice, from the viscasts, just how damnably beautiful she was.
Somehow the Supreme Commander of the Galactic Federation Fleet
lacked even the semblance of threat, wearing as she was a thin
silver-white gown that did little to hide her rather considerable
feminine attributes. Avon's eyes made their own appraisal in turn,
and reached a mutually favorable conclusion.

"I really can't believe my good fortune." Her long fingers
curled and uncurled around the base of the crystal wine glass. "Of
all of them, you were the one I'd have chosen. The one most likely
to be... reasonable. And here you are."

"So it would seem." He had no idea what the 'reasonable'
remark implied, but he was not averse, for the moment, to playing
her game. He assumed, however, that the 'chosen' business was a
lie. Surely it was Blake she had intended to snare with all of
this; the clothes must have been re-selected in haste once she'd
learned who her hirelings were bringing her.

Arrogant confidence firmly in place, Avon strolled to the
opposite chair and paused there to regard her with undisguised
admiration. "As I recall the reference, Circe excelled at turning
men into swine." He allowed his eyes to explore her candidly,
asking the pertinent question of her intent, but her gaze returned
only amusement, and a sidelong glance toward the sono-shower.

"I do appear to have fulfilled the legend... albeit somewhat
in reverse. I should perhaps have taken closer stock of Blake's
associates before this. You're an incredibly attractive man,
Avon."

Feeling no particular need either to confirm or parry that, he
instead defied what he presumed her expectation would be, and
bypassed the chair, coming to stand with practiced indifference at
the end of the oversized bed.

"What do you want, Servalan?"

She sipped at the wine, then set the glass aside and folded
graceful hands in front of her, the slender forefingers extended,
touching. "I've quite a simple proposition, really. I want
Liberator, and I want Blake. The others are of no consequence.
You may do with them as you like."

He pretended to consider that, inclining his head slightly in
a life-long habit indulged whenever he had need to stall for
tactical advantage. At length, he said, "And what, as they say,
would be in it for me?"

Her lithe form unfolded itself from the chair, and the frost
white perfection of her moved within a few alluring inches, green
eyes brimming calm reassurance. "Your freedom, a full pardon, and
under specified conditions, virtually any amount of money you care
to name."

He looked down at her, sternly denying the impulse to reach
out and take what she so clearly offered in addition to her words.
"A tempting overture," he said, aware of, but unconcerned with the
double entendre. "A pity it comes without a guarantee."

"Oh, but there is one." She closed the space between them,
molding herself easily to him, one finger coming up to tease the
outline of his lips. "You're the only man in the galaxy who truly
understands that ship. Only you could begin to duplicate
Liberator, its computers, the teleport... Your mind is your
insurance, Avon."

He arrested her attempt to kiss him with one hand clamped to
the back of her short-cropped hair. A moment later, having thus
established control, he drew her to him with a savage grip and
forcefully claimed her mouth for his own.

* * *

The overt sensuality of silk against flesh was a pleasure Kerr
Avon had long since counted lost with the rest of his life in the
domes. Drinking in the warm air's heady scent, he sighed, turned
over -- and sat up in the bed with a stifled curse. He'd never
intended falling asleep, but somehow he had, and now there were two
matters immediately apparent that might not otherwise have come
about: he was alone in the cabin, and Servalan's ship was in
flight.

He redressed in the black clothes and discarded silver tunic,
all the while unsure of the reason for his haste -- the Supreme
Commander had left him precisely where she very much wanted him,
and the door would undoubtedly be locked.

But it wasn't.

No one challenged his exit or his progress to the
easily-located flight deck, where he found her enthroned in a
spherical command chair, surrounded by her silently efficient crew
of mutoids. The chair swivelled to face him when he arrived.

"Good morning," she said huskily. "I trust you slept well?"
The cliche evoked a glare at once both sultry and disdainful.

Servalan affected not to notice, and the mutoids were oblivious by
design.

"You're only just in time," she added, and rose to approach a
control console, trailing the faultless white of her floor-length
gown behind her.

"For...?"

"The first phase of our... agreement." At her touch, the
ship's central viewscreen flickered and resolved into the image of
Quarrus' murky ionosphere, a fraction of the planet's curvature,
and the dwarfed-by-distance shape of Liberator in stationary orbit.

Avon wondered if it remained there due to his disappearance --
or the as-yet unsolved mystery of Zen's elusive distress signal.
"And what phase is that?" Better to stay in the game now, he
supposed. Even if Servalan did hold all the cards. He had to
admit he found her wanton amorality easier to deal with by far than
Blake's deluded idealism, and her taste in living quarters,
clothing -- and men -- all had something to say for them as well.
A life of unparalleled wealth was something that had always
appealed to him, and now, once again, it loomed within his grasp.
Reachable... for a price. And, he considered, all that she had
offered for his betrayal might just be obtainable, if he
manipulated things with proper care. If he made certain that she
would continue to need him...

Servalan activated a series of controls to bring the ship's
computer on line, and his attention was drawn to the smaller
datascreens, glowing blue and fluctuating with the rapid-fire
patterns of systems checks.

"The first phase," she said in answer to his question, "of
boarding and taking Liberator. You will use this terminal to
contact Zen. Tell it to blind the sensor scans, open the aft bay
doors and take this ship aboard -- all without alerting Blake or
anyone else in the crew."

He flashed her a rare, if discomfited, smile. "It could be
you overestimate my talents, just a bit."

"Oh, I don't think so." Her tone of voice was lilting,
feline, and bespoke talents other than those to which he had
referred.

"All right. Let us say then that I find your guarantee of my
personal safety somewhat... tenuous, to say the least. I would
prefer to negotiate slightly different terms."

She lounged against the console, irritatingly confident. "Go
on."

"I will sell you Blake and the Liberator in return for
exclusive claim to the contents of its strongroom. The rest of the
crew you will put off on a neutral planet. As to my guarantee..."

Suitably annoyed at his hesitation, she thrust an upturned
hand toward him. "Yes?"

"Replication of the teleport facility is impossible without
extensive knowledge of the Zen computer and most particularly
without access codes which I have programmed and which are known
only to myself. I will agree to fit your ships with teleport
facilities, one at a time, provided I am given full command of
Liberator and free reign to do with it as I please."

Servalan was nonplused by the proposal. "And what guarantee
would I have against you and Liberator simply vanishing into
space?"

"You're welcome to stay aboard, if you like." The look that
had elicited had made the entire verbal gambit worthwhile.
"Barring that, I suppose you will just have to trust me."

She shook her head. "Oh no. You can't have what you aren't
willing to give, Avon."

"Well those are my terms. Take them or leave them, the choice
is yours."

He watched her consider alternatives, every one of which ran
up against the block wall of his solitary claim to knowledge of the
teleport's function. And she wanted the teleport -- that and that
alone, he surmised, was the crux of her interest here. Blake and
the Liberator itself were incidental.

"I'll make you a counter offer," she said at last, and now it
was his turn to wait. "Your terms, with the addition of a crew of
three which I shall put aboard and who will assure that the terms
of the agreement are kept."

He forestalled his own objection to that. What did it matter
if she crewed Liberator with three of her thick-witted commandos?

He could always kill them later.

"All right," he said. "I agree."

Coming regally upright from the console, she swept a
white-sheathed arm toward it in an expansive gesture.

"The computer is yours."

* * *

Manipulating Zen was child's play when you knew your way
around its failsafes, and Avon knew his way quite well indeed.
He'd made it his business, over the past few months, to know the
machine down to its proverbial component atoms, anticipating that
the information might be crucial one day.

One day appeared to have arrived.

Liberator's hold yawned silently open to accept Servalan's
cruiser, and the mutoid pilots set down somewhat less than
gracefully between the painted guide lines striping the deck. The
Supreme Commander watched impatiently while her crew awaited
confirmation that the hold had repressurized. When at last it
came, she turned to Avon with a smile.

"Safe aboard and no alarms. You've done well... so far."

He gave the loaded compliment an appropriate look of contempt
and in equally mendacious tones, replied, "I'm glad you approve."

She gestured once again to the computer console. "Tell Zen to
open the inner hatch."

He heard the whine of the landing ramp going down, and the
grinding of the portside doors as they were drawn into the hull.
Under Servalan's watchful gaze, his hands danced over the controls
-- and shut the system down.

Anger flared in the amber-green eyes. "What are you doing?!"

"The inner hatch is manually operated," he informed her
calmly, and rose from the console. "Shall we go?"

She assessed him warily for a moment, but didn't move.
Instead, she extended her right hand toward the mutoids and snapped
her fingers twice, whereupon all four modifieds obediently
scrambled to line themselves up in front of her.

"One and two," she said to them, though her eyes never left
Avon, "arm yourselves and come with me. "Three and four, remain
with the ship pending further instructions."

While they regrouped to obey her orders, Servalan produced a
diminutive hand weapon of her own from a receptacle in the command
console. Staging no further pretense of trust, she brought it
soberly to bear on Avon.

"Now," she said, "we shall go."

Avon shot a weary look at the waiting armed escort. "They
will not be necessary," he grated. "You will not need weapons to
take Liberator."

"Won't I? And just how did you think I was going to take it?"

"Environmental control's main circuitry housing is just down
the corridor outside that door. From there, I can instruct Zen to
seal and exempt this level, then shut down life suppport on all the
others -- until Blake surrenders."

"And if he doesn't?"

Avon's eyes regarded the decking for a prolonged moment.
"Either way, you get what you want."

"And you would have no wearisome qualms about betraying,
possibly killing, your friends."

He wouldn't look at her. It made the half-truth easier to
utter. "Perhaps because I have none."

In fact, it hadn't occurred to him that Blake might actually
be bull-headed enough to die before surrendering the ship. But if
the self-made rebel leader should resort to such extremes, blame
could hardly be placed at Avon's door. Besides, he doubted the
others would willingly give up breathing in the name of Blake's
revered Cause.

"All right." Servalan's gun dipped toward the ship's
computer. "Turn off the life support from here."

"I can't. Environmental systems are immune to outside
influence."

The gun snapped back to point at him. "If you're lying to
me..."

Avon raised his hands in mute surrender, though he wasn't --
she would have to continue accepting his terms, however much it
chafed.

Angrily, she waved the tiny weapon at the exit corridor.
"Move," she said, and before he could comply, added, "and Avon...
At the first sign of trouble, I assure you I will kill you,
teleport or no teleport. Remember that."

He gave her a half-smile that was more akin to a grimace. "I
shall try."

She kept behind him, escort included, all the way down the
ramp and across the bay deck to the hatch. Liberator's power
systems hummed obliviously around them, no less ignorant of his
intentions when he keyed the autolock and spun the latch wheel to
'open.' The heavy door swung outward at his deliberately
flourished push, and he turned back to Madame Supreme Commander
with a gentlemanly gesture indicating that she might now wish to
take the lead.

"Oh, no." Suspicion still clouded her every syllable. "After
you, Avon. Just remember, please, who's holding the gun."

Acquiescing, Avon stepped through the oval doorframe.
The sharp whine of one of Liberator's blasters caught him
totally off guard. Heated air seared past him toward the doorway;

Servalan and the mutoid escorts scattered to dive for cover inside
the bay, and Avon barely spun out of the way of the closing door.
It slammed with a resounding thud, pushed from behind by the last
person on board from whom Avon would ever have expected heroics.

"Vila!"

The thief finished tripping the override lock without looking
at it. His eyes, and his gun, were both on Avon.

"Sorry to break up your little boarding party." All vestige
of the usual fool's humor was missing from Vila's tone, though the
words tumbled out as rapidly as ever. "But I thought I'd just come
down and rescue you -- from yourself -- before you got in any
deeper. Ask me why and I might still change my mind, though.
Because if no one's ever told you before, I will. You're a
bastard, Avon."

The gun trembled in his hand as he spoke, but remained pointed
surely enough in the general direction of Avon's midsection.
Whether Vila had nerve enough to fire it...

Avon rejected that line of thought in favor of a bluff. "You
don't understand," he began, but Vila cut him off.

"Better than you think. There's a telltale on the weapons
console linked to the cargo and landing bay doors. Didn't know
about that, did you? Thought not. Anyway, I knew fiddling Zen's
sensors like that, it couldn't be anyone but you. I just didn't
figure on a Federation cruiser... oh, and Madame Dragonfly in
there."

The sound of repeated paragun fire came from beyond the hatch,
audible even through the thickness of the bulkhead. Servalan had
obviously launched a full scale assault against the door, a
contingency that Vila clearly hadn't counted on.

"You're too late to stop it," Avon told him with more
confidence than he felt. "But," he added more cajolingly, "not too
late to see reason. Play along, and we might be persuaded to be
generous with all of that wealth in the storeroom."

Vila snorted. "Play along... With Servalan? I'd sooner cozy
up to a tarantula."

Avon's head tilted in a subtle shrug. "Suit yourself," he
replied, and the words were punctuated by more muffled gunfire
barraging the inside of the door.

Vila's eyes narrowed. "And what about Blake and the others,
then?"

"We dump them." Avon wasted no time pouncing on Vila's
apparent weakening. "And Servalan as well, once we're clear."

"You'd really dump Blake?" Vila sounded incredulous, as though
he'd assumed four months under Blake's moral tyranny might somehow
have reformed Avon's character. It hadn't, nor was it destined to.
"Just like that?"

"Just like that. Make up your mind, Vila -- that door will
not hold much longer."

The thief shook his head, and the handgun lifted toward Avon.
"I never un-made it. I'm not doing anything like that to Blake,
and neither are you."

"Why?" Avon snapped at him, frustration making the words come
out gun-report sharp. "What's Blake to you?"

Vila moved around him to the control panels beside the hatch,
the gun still pointed all the while, and eyed him with a peculiar
mixture of contempt and pity. "Blake's a friend of mine. And
where I come from, that means something."

Avon watched in dismay as Vila's deft fingers proceeded to
activate a code sequence on the panel. The final switch he
depressed was that of the intercom.

"Madame Servalan," he said to the pick-up in stentorian tones,
and the gunfire inside the bay cut off abruptly. "We do not regret
to announce that the term of your visit with us has been canceled.
In precisely four point three-seven minutes, landing bay two will
recycle for launch procedure. If I were you, I'd be back aboard
your ship some time before then."

"Avon," the intercom hissed, haughtily discounting Vila's
threat for the moment. "Sooner or later, I'll see you pay for
this."

Shoulder to shoulder with Vila now, Avon addressed the
intercom from the opposite side. "Don't hold your breath," he
advised it drolly. "It's of very little use in attempting to
breathe vacuum."

Frigid silence answered him, then the speaker picked up the
angry click of retreating heels closely followed by the tramping of
combat boots. In a moment, they could also hear the rumble of the
landing ramp retracting. When the roar of the ship's rotation and
launch thrusters began, Avon cut the circuit.

"She's leaving," he said.

Vila was glaring at him, his Liberator weapon still in hand,
though it pointed upward now. "No thanks to you."

Avon met the smaller man's hostility with an avaricious
half-smile. "It can still be ours, Vila. Yours and mine."

"It's already mine. Well part of it, anyway. Better poor and
safe than greedy and dead, I always say."

The intercom precluded Avon's intended response: this time it
was Gan's voice coming threadily over the intraship frequency.
"Vila?"

Still glowering at Avon, the Delta thief punched the call
button. "Yes?"

"Blake and Jenna just came up," the bass voice replied. "You
and I are on search detail next."

Vila looked disgusted. "Tell Blake to never mind. I've found
Avon."

"You what?" That was Blake, sounding tired, annoyed, and
decidedly soggy.

"We're at landing bay two, if you'd care to say hello." Vila
cut the circuit on Blake's sputter of incomprehension.

"Search detail..." Avon quoted acidly. "Still hunting for the
mythical shipwrecked crew?"

Vila shook his head. "No. For you. Blake has a naive idea
the people in this crew have some allegiance to each other. He
doesn't know you'd sell him out for a pretty face and thirty pieces of
silver."

"But you, I suppose, will be more than happy to enlighten
him."

Vila's cagey look and lack of response unnerved Avon more than
he would have admitted. Of all the so-called crew, Vila was the
last he'd have expected to find incorruptible. What Blake's
reaction might be he found still less pleasant to divine. The
man's tiresome morals aside, turning Avon in for the reward might
well be deemed a fitting retribution in his eyes. End game to
Blake, no countermatch. All the wealth and all the clever verbal
sparring in the universe would not be enough to corrupt him.
Crusaders like Blake embraced sainthood by hallowed decree.
The saint in question, mud-covered and rain slick from his
most recent surface foray, clumped around a juncture at that moment
to confront them, narrowed eyes at once taking in Avon's clean
silver tunic -- and the air of tension hanging in the corridor.
"Vila, how did...?"

"Hell if I know." The gun had vanished into its holster, and
the cringing whine was back, full persona, in Vila's voice. But it
was his words rather than his inflection that made Avon's gaze dart
to him in astonishment. "I got a warning light on the weapons
console that a ship was landing in bay two, and when I got here,
there he was. Said he found a ride... with some friends."

Blake's reply was swift and merciless. "He hasn't got any."

Still maintaining the pretense that Avon was not there at all, he
shouldered past them, knuckled three buttons on the control board,
and pulled back the hatch door.

The landing bay yawned in front of him, cycled, repressurized,
and shipless. Even the burn marks from Servalan's thwarted assault
were gone, obliterated by the zeal of Liberator's auto-repair
system.

While Blake gaped, Vila traded looks with Avon behind the
rebel leader's back. The thief's smug smile and glittering eyes
spoke volumes, none of which Avon would particularly relish
reading. Not that he appeared to have a choice...

"All right." Blake had turned back from the door, and his
words were directed to Avon this time. Apparently he existed after
all. "Perhaps we should start from the beginning. What happened
to you down there?"

"Teleport malfunction," Avon answered crisply, and before
Blake could impart further demands, added, "It's rather a long
story."

Blake's hands rested obstinately on his hips. "I have plenty
of time."

As though to belie his statement, the intercom erupted with
Cally's anxious tones. "Blake, are you there? Zen is picking up a
Federation cruiser in the vicinity."

Well, that was on cue. Avon had programmed the sensor-blind
to dissolve in forty minutes, no more and no less time than would
be necessary. Only now it was redeeming him for what might be the
second occasion.

"On my way," Blake told the speaker, and made to go, turning
back just long enough to deliver a parting comment to Avon. "I'm
sure you'll find time, later, to explain all of this, including
just how you got aboard?"

"Naturally," Avon replied, and cast Vila a conspiratorial
glance.

Their damp but intrepid 'leader' scowled at them, then shook
his head wearily and went on his way.

Avon waited only until Blake had vanished round the juncture.
Then he turned on Vila with thinly-repressed rage.

"Well?"

Feigned innocence laced the reply. "Well? Well what?"

"Don't play the idiot with me," Avon growled at him. "What do
you want, Vila?"

The Delta thief looked contemplative, then broke into a sly
grin, all semblance of the fool completely gone again.

"Oh," he mused, irritatingly evasive, "I imagine I'll think of
something. Eventually. Meanwhile, I think you ought to practice
being very nice to me, Avon."

And with that, he walked away.