"Bets down, please. All bets on the table!"
The croupier's strident cry seemed to follow Del Tarrant as
he turned away from the lighted table and tucked his meager
winnings into a pocket. He passed clusters of eager gamblers
squandering their ill-gotten gains on various games of chance, and
eventually found an unoccupied booth in the bar section, where he
slid into the padded seat and looked for the cocktail waitress.
She materialized almost immediately, a brunette vision in feathers
and silver-blue spangles. Minda. Yes, that was her name. He'd
made it a point to ask her that last week.
"What can I do for you today, Adair?"
Tarrant smiled faintly at her familiar use of his chosen
alias. "Gorlan ale, I think. Straight up." He dropped a single
gold coin onto her tray. It was more than six times what the drink
would cost. "And..." He saw refusal in her eyes and realized she
had misinterpreted the gesture. "...some information," he finished
innocently, and flashed her his most disarming grin.
A knowing laugh accompanied the coin's disappearance into
some unknown fold of her sparse costume. "Same thing you asked
Linni about yesterday, and Serete the day before that?"
"The same," he echoed, never turning off the grin. "You
never know. One of these days, I may get lucky."
"They all say that around here." She vanished back into the
milieu of flashing lights and gamblers, leaving Tarrant to
contemplate the scratch-worn table top. Two weeks. For two weeks
he had roamed the casinos, the bars, the "pleasure houses" of Regis
Spaceport, waiting for some word. He'd hoped -- probably
unrealistically -- for at least a message from Dayna or Soolin or
Vila. He knew it would not come from Avon. But surely one of the
others would have tried to find him, or at least contact him?
Unless Avon hadn't told them...
Tarrant scowled suddenly. That would be just like Avon.
Carry a grudge to the bitter end and refuse to let the others
interfere. And only Avon knew where he'd abandoned his pilot. Two
weeks ago.
Haunting the landing field had gained him nothing. The berth
Scorpio had briefly occupied had hosted a dozen ships since, but
never his.
Odd, how he'd come to think of her as "his."
Though he hated to admit it, Tarrant had been harboring the
frail hope that Avon might somehow put aside their little...
disagreement... and return for him. It was a futile hope, of
course. Above all else, Avon's disposition certainly did not
include a forgiving nature.
*As ever,* he chided himself angrily, *you opened your big
mouth and put your foot full in. Only this time you went all the
way to amputation. Rather more than you intended, wasn't it?*
Still and all, given the circumstances, Tarrant wasn't at all
sure he'd have done it any differently... Scorpio had very nearly
been forced to crash land on Regis' open field. Only Tarrant's
consummate skills had saved her; he did not consider it immodest to
point out that no other pilot in the Federated worlds could likely
have brought her down safely with the damage she'd sustained. It
had by no means been an easy feat.
But Avon, being Avon, had not only refused to appreciate the
accomplishment, he'd insisted on blaming Tarrant for their having
been forced to land at all.
The storm hadn't broken until well after the fact, of course,
and that was also typical of Avon. Tarrant might have recognized
the danger signals, but he'd been too involved in trying to repair
the crippled star drive at the time. As a free port on an
unaligned planet, Regis was safe only to a point -- every moment
they remained increased the risk that Scorpio might be recognized.
That time constraint had been Tarrant's only concern when Avon had
quietly entered the engine compartment. Without looking up from
his work, Tarrant had asked, "Did you reach Base?"
Avon's reply was hard-edged. "Even if the communications
links were working, that would hardly be wise."
Something in his tone made Tarrant stop working. He stared
hard at the drive's burned and pitted relay circuitry and kept his
voice level with an effort. "All right, Avon. You came in here
for a reason. Let's have it."
"How long before the primary drive is operational?"
"We'll have full recharge in two hours at the outside." For
the first time, Tarrant looked up. His fist tightened unwittingly
over the laser probe he held. "Is that all?"
Avon moved closer, visually examining the damaged relays.
"We'll need at least half power in order to achieve primary orbit."
"Thank you," Tarrant rejoined acidly. "I might never have
worked that out on my own."
"That I don't doubt. Just as you failed, up there, to work
out a simple evasive maneuver. We might have avoided landing at
all if you had listened--"
"I did everything I could," Tarrant interrupted hotly. "And
I did it correctly. I can hardly be held responsible for the
actions of a trigger-happy Federation pursuit ship captain, can I?
I'm a pilot, not a clairvoyant."
"A debatable issue, on either hand. If you had changed
course a mere two degrees starboard and cut in the main drives, we
would never have tangled with him in the first place."
"You're out of your league, Avon." Tarrant made a derisive
sound that was not quite a laugh. "He'd have flown straight down
our throats."
"He managed that anyway."
"I don't know what you're all worked up about," Tarrant said,
exasperated. "I paid him back in kind. There's nothing left but
scattering atoms and space debris."
"Precisely," Avon seethed. "An explosion undoubtedly picked
up by the planetary long-range sensors. When they learn what it
was, every ship in this port will be suspect, every crew
questioned. We might just as well have planted a beacon telling
them exactly where to find us."
Clutching the probe still tighter, Tarrant slowly rose from
the engine, coming level with Avon's smoldering gaze. "We're
alive, and Scorpio is reparable," he said, still forcing a calm
that he didn't feel.
Avon's eyes were unrelenting. "No thanks to you."
"Anyone else would have lost her, and you know it."
"Any fifth grade ignorant would have had the sense to stay
out of strike range in the first place."
Disgusted, Tarrant flipped the laser probe onto the drive
housing in front of Avon. "All right. Let's stop mincing words,
shall we? My skills and my judgment brought this ship -- and us -
- down safe and intact. Whereas your maneuver would likely have
got us killed. You may be entertaining some half-mad death wish,
but I'd much prefer staying alive a while longer. So if you have
any more suicidal strategies to test out on the Federation, kindly
try them without me."
Deadly calm, Avon said, "That can easily be arranged."
A more-composed Tarrant might have heard the warning in the
other man's tone. But his temper had long since gotten the better
of him.
"You could have done better, I suppose."
"So do I."
Fury made the words come sharp and unguarded. Tarrant had no
thought to restrain them. "You can't allow yourself to trust
anyone, can you? And after all this time I think I finally know
why. Are you interested in hearing my theory?"
"Not particularly." Avon's monotone was an omen, but Tarrant
ignored it.
"Everyone you ever trusted -- everyone who ever trusted you
-- is dead. Anna and Cally and Blake as well, if Servalan's to be
believed. They were all stupid enough to let you do their thinking
for them, and look where it got them. They may have trusted you,
believed in you. I don't."
He'd been unprepared for a violent reaction to the goading.
The laser probe had flashed upward off the housing, activated, and
come dangerously close to searing through the front of Tarrant's
tunic. Reflex carried him backward in time to avoid the short
beam, but the fire in Avon's eyes was every bit as threatening. It
subsided quickly, along with the beam, and Avon let the probe drop
again. Tarrant watched control seep back into the black eyes,
almost like a blast shield coming down.
"Finish the drive circuitry repair and get us underway," Avon
ordered. The voice still held a toneless threat.
Foolhardily, Tarrant met the challenge. "Maybe I'd rather
just see how well you can manage on your own." He strode
confidently toward the hatch. "I've got this sudden yen to visit
the portside taverns. Came up all of a sudden. Oddest thing."
Avon turned slowly to look at him. "You could be
recognized."
"I doubt it. After all, I'm not quite the notorious
terrorist you are, am I?"
When the jibe produced no visible result, he lifted the wrist
that wore the teleport/communications bracelet and said, "When you
need me, just call."
Again, the tone of ominous warning. "Don't count on it."
Tarrant had flashed him a disbelieving smile, and then headed
for the outer hatch. The vehemence of those last four words had
surprised Tarrant. In retrospect, it seemed such a tame
confrontation: nothing at all to compare with the verbal battles
he'd often fought with Avon aboard Liberator. But then, Avon had
changed of late. Ever since Liberator's loss, and Cally's death...
Morose, Tarrant slouched deeper into the corner of the booth,
damning Avon for his unrelenting pride and himself for never
knowing when to leave well enough alone.
He could have hired a ship, of course. He had enough money.
But there were three insurmountable problems with that course of
action that he couldn't resolve. It meant revealing Xenon's
location to an unknown party. It was also a surrender that his own
pride was not prepared to make. Completely apart from that,
however, he was not at all certain that he could trust Avon not to
blow him out of the sky. Xenon's defenses were certainly capable
of it, and Avon... Avon was probably capable of it, too.
The fact that he wanted to go back also surprised Tarrant.
The contentious relationship with Avon notwithstanding, he'd come
to think of Xenon -- and Scorpio -- as home. He belonged. He was
needed.
Damn it, he was needed. Why wouldn't Avon ever admit to the
fact?
Because Avon never admitted to needing anyone. With the
occasional exception of Vila, and never then in the thief's
presence. The game had rules, and Avon seldom broke them.
The thought of Vila brought a thin smile to Tarrant's lips.
Oddly enough, it was Vila he found he missed most, and that was
something he'd never have expected to admit to himself. The memory
of their last exchange, on Xenon, widened Tarrant's smile. He
remembered Vila sitting in the ops room, the omnipresent bottle
propped on the console in front of him, regaling Dayna and Soolin
with bawdy stories, fabricated exploits and other alcohol- enhanced
tales, probably equally apocryphal. Tarrant had turned from his
computer checks just as the thief had launched into an entirely new
line of illogic.
"You know, in one of my past lives, on Old Earth, I'm sure I
was a knight." At Dayna and Soolin's titters, Vila had drawn
himself up indignantly. "No, I mean it. I distinctly remember
dying valiantly -- for a lady's honor."
Tarrant had not been able to resist intervening, maliciously
aware that he was treading on Vila's punch line. "Don't tell me,"
he'd said, eyes glittering. "She wanted to keep it."
While the rest of his erstwhile audience had been reduced to
uncontrollable giggles, the thief had merely glowered at Tarrant,
snatched up the bottle and with an exaggerated weave, left the
room. Watching him go, Tarrant had broken into a laugh of his own.
The arrival of his drink startled him out of his reverie.
The befeathered Minda slipped a note into his hand, and made a show
of holding the grip for a long moment.
"Enjoy your drink." She squeezed his hand, and her green eyes
smiled. They were filled with the unmistakable promise of
something more now.
Tarrant returned both the smile and the look. "Thank you."
"Will I see you later?"
Contemplating the unopened message, Tarrant said pleasantly,
"I'll let you know."
When she had gone, he turned his full attention to the note.
In hastily-scrawled script, it read simply, "Landing Field 12G."
So Avon had come back after all. Or Scorpio had. Tarrant
wasted no time on speculation: it didn't matter who had come, only
that someone had. Leaving the unfinished drink on the table, he
went in search of landing field 12G. A hundred mismatched ships
littered Regis' huge landing area. From meteor-scarred freighters
to battered planet hoppers, they had all seen far better days. At
least, Tarrant noted with relief, there were no Federation pursuit
ships in evidence. Scorpio could easily blend in with this lot.
Perhaps Avon had decided he still needed a pilot after all. More
likely though, Dayna or Soolin had somehow located him, and had
come in spite of Avon.
He rounded the hull of an ancient starliner and checked
abruptly at the sight of field 12G.
The ship that occupied it wasn't Scorpio.
Confused, Tarrant double-checked the number on the concrete
marker. 12G. He looked again at the rumpled note, pulled hastily
from his pocket. 12G.
The small cruiser's grey hull sported the peeling blue legend
"Perseus." Tarrant had never seen her before. Not likely that
Soolin or Dayna would have come after him in that. So the only
other possibility ...
"Hello, Tarrant."
He started, and turned with his hand already inside the
pocket concealing his clip gun. He checked when he saw her,
surprise and disbelief both superceding his instinctive caution.
"Corinne?"
She smiled, gold-red hair framing a too-perfect face. The
last time he'd seen her she'd smiled that way, too; sad and a
little wistful. That had been... how long ago? The last night
they'd spent together, before he'd left for Space Academy...
"You're not an easy man to find, love," she said demurely.
"I try not to be." His flippant answer did little to conceal
his tenseness. "But then, if I'd known it was you looking..."
Her dazzling smile never wavered. "I wasn't actually. I saw
you last week at the Pearl & Ring and couldn't believe it was you.
But then last night I saw you again at Zak's, and I knew."
"Impressive," he said guardedly. "And perhaps just a bit too
much of a coincidence?"
Her laugh was the same as he remembered, deep, melodic,
infectuous. "Is that what becoming an outlaw does for you?" She
raised her hands. "I'm not armed. If you'd care to search...?"
Her words carried an implicit dual meaning that was hardly
lost on Tarrant. He grinned in spite of himself. "Same old
Corinne."
But he kept his right hand resting lightly on the hidden gun.
"You haven't changed, either." She lied as prettily as ever,
too.
"You just wanted to say hello, was that it?"
She nodded. "And a drink, if you want it. Aboard the
Perseus."
Tarrant eyed the waiting cruiser. "Your ship?"
Her green eyes caught the light as she repeated the nod.
"Truce?"
"I wasn't aware there was a war..."
"But you don't trust me. I'm crushed. I thought we were old
friends."
"Old friends have a habit of changing... when there's
potential profit involved."
She chose to ignore that, turning toward the Perseus
instead. "Come on aboard," she invited. "We'll... talk over
old times."
He didn't move to follow. "Who else is aboard?"
"No one." At his dubious look, she added, "Well there
isn't. You want search and seizure privileges? Be my guest. I've
nothing to hide."
His laugh came easier now, the sheerest hint of a more
relaxed tone just beginning to edge his voice. "You never did," he
said.
Her query was soft, almost playful. "Trust me?"
All flippancy aside, he drew the clipgun slowly and
deliberately out of its pocket, though he didn't aim it at her.
"I'll let you know."
Corinne gave a cavalier shrug, wheeled and headed for
Perseus' open hatch. After a prolonged moment, Tarrant followed
her.
"Don't you think this has gone far enough?"
In Xenon base's ops room, Dayna Mellanby took a chair beside
Avon, who had pointedly ignored both her and the question she'd
asked. His eyes never left the computer monitor in front of him,
its screen a mad jumble of calculations that Dayna found, as usual,
indecipherable.
Avon's non-response to her query did nothing to deter her;
she was used to his moods, had long since come to recognize the
"invulnerability shield" he hid behind. Where once the defense
mechanism had puzzled her, it had never -- to Avon's probable
consternation -- intimidated her at all.
"Sooner or later you're going to answer me, Avon."
He looked at her for the first time,eyes wide with a wry,
unspoken, Am I?
"Is there some reason you don't want to tell us what
happened? Are you so sure we wouldn't understand?"
His attention returned to the figures on the screen. "I've
already told you precisely what happened. Tarrant elected to stay
behind. There is nothing more to tell."
"Except possibly just where it was that he elected to stay?"
Avon's long fingers moved rapidly over the console keyboard.
The diagrammed maze of calculations shifted and regrouped. "That
information would be of little use to you."
"Really? Is that why you suddenly found it necessary to put
Slave's navigational logs and the record of Scorpio's last
planetfall all under voice lock? Your voice lock?"
With a mirthless smile, he said, "Possibly."
"Avon--" Dayna stifled an angry retort, aware that it would
likely only damage her chances of dragging anything out of Avon.
Emotional arguments would neither impress nor sway him.
Dayna settled into a visible pout that spanned several long
moments of silence. The nearly inaudible power hum and the soft
clicking of the keyboard were the only sounds in the room.
Eventually, she became aware of Vila hovering near the door,
looking as though he'd be prepared to bolt at the first hostile
word Avon fired in his direction. Not surprising. For the past
two weeks Vila had been the target of Avon's wrath rather more
excessively than usual. Almost, Dayna mused, as though Avon had
transferred to the thief all the vitriol he could no longer expend
on their missing pilot. Dayna wondered if this sudden immersion in
the computer system might be still another form of guilt evasion,
Avon-style.
"We'd like to hear Tarrant's reasons for leaving from
Tarrant," she said with a clandestine glance at Vila. "If you
don't mind."
"As it happens, I do."
"You'll have to answer us, you know." Vila forged bravely
into the room, echoing Dayna's earlier words. "Sooner or later.
You can't ignore us forever."
The computer expert cast him a look that clearly warned him
not to count on that. Then the eyes shifted to Dayna and affected
a bored expression. "I've a great deal of work to do. And I don't
think we have anything else to discuss."
He went back to his computations, the dismissal complete and
irrevocable.
Dayna and Vila were left to exchange exasperated sighs.
Corinne swept out of the Perseus cabin's wash cubicle and planted
a kiss on Tarrant's forehead as he finished refastening his own
tunic.
"Still as good as you remember?" she asked.
His smile was bright, though it still held wariness.
"Probably," he hedged. "But then, if I thought this was all you
really wanted..."
She feigned mock offense at that, until the look in his eyes
warned her that the time for banter had passed. He wanted serious
answers now; something a tad more convincing than "old times'
sake."
"All right," she acquiesced. "I had an ulterior motive.
It's hardly a sinister one. Honest."
"They never were, with you. But then, that was before." His
tone had lost all its playfulness. "What is it you want, Corinne?"
"What I need," she said, and came back to sit beside him on
the bed, "is a pilot. Mine left me in this god-forsaken hole a
week ago and I haven't been able to hire another. That's why I
couldn't believe my luck, seeing you."
Scepticism tinged Tarrant's answer. "Not a bit of a
coincidence."
She shrugged again. "Say no if you like. I'll only keep
looking for someone else. You looked like you might be free, so I
asked. That's all."
Cautiously, he said, "I'm not exactly someone you can hire on
and register with Federation Central. They have a rude habit of
frowning on ship's owners who hire wanted mercenaries."
Kissing him lightly, she said, "You think I care about that?
I need to get to Kaban to pick up an overdue cargo load. Strictly
speaking, it's not registerable either."
"Strictly speaking," he echoed. "You really haven't changed,
have you?"
Her lips sought another kiss, then wandered to his ear.
"Whoever you were waiting for," she said, "I don't think they're
coming. So why not go with me?"
Tarrant returned the kiss eagerly before pulling back to look
at her again. There was just the slightest hint of regret in his
eyes before he said, a little sadly, "Why not?" Perseus was slow,
almost clumsy by Scorpio's standards, but she was an effortless
ship to pilot. She wouldn't have survived a space battle, having
almost no armament to speak of, and she lacked the maneuverability
of her newer cousins in the starliner trade. But she made the
flight to Kaban in three days without incident, and that was all
her two occupants had required of her. Tarrant put her down outside
a sleepy little settlement on the dark side of the planet, after
having made radio contact with Corinne's suppliers. Three figures
stood waiting to board the moment Perseus' loading ramp was
lowered. While that operation was proceeding, Tarrant eyed Corinne
over the flight console.
"You never said just what our cargo was to be," he pointed
out.
"Oh, a very valuable cargo." She pressed the control to open
the main hatch, and before Tarrant could react, three men stepped
in, each holding a handgun levelled at him.
"Sorry, darling." From somewhere, Corinne had produced a
compact weapon of her own. "I really did need a pilot. I just
didn't expect to run into one worth quite so much money. If you
see what I mean."
Tarrant did not move from the flight position. His smile
returned, tight and sardonic now. "I wouldn't have expected
bounty-hunting to fall under your list of unenviable talents. But
then I suppose a million credits is temptation enough to anyone."
"Don't flatter yourself too much." There was a shrewd tone in
her voice that he had never heard before. She moved, sliding into
a seat opposite him. "It isn't just you. You're only the bait,
Tarrant my love. You're going to take us to Scorpio and the rest
of them. All 7 million credits worth."
He laughed, deliberately mocking her. "Is there anything
else I can do for you while I'm about it? Deliver the Nikonian
crown jewels, perhaps?"
"The location of your base will do."
He leaned back in the flight chair, folding his hands and
ignoring the trio still standing at the hatch. "Sorry. But I
can't quite see as there'd be anything in that for me. If you see
what I mean."
The small gun made circular motions in Corinne's manicured
hand. "You take us to them and I let you go. Good enough?"
"It might be... if I thought I could believe you."
One of the gunmen strode angrily forward to shove the muzzle
of his blaster into Tarrant's face. "I'll tell you something you
can believe, deserter." The last word was a resentful hiss. "You
program this flight computer to take us to your little band of
terrorists, or I'm going to blow your head off right here and now."
Feigning utter disinterest in the threat, Tarrant glanced
back at Corinne. "Oh come on now. That's really nothing but a
choice between dying now and dying later, courtesy of a Federation
death squad. Surely you can do better than that? Just a little?"
Corinne waved the overzealous gunman impatiently away. "Like
what, for instance?"
"Like maybe settling for 3 million. Possibly 4."
"The bounty on Kerr Avon," she supplied knowingly.
"And...?"
"And Orac, if he comes along."
"Comes where?"
Tarrant adopted a scheming look that admirably rivaled hers.
"I can bring Avon here. And Scorpio and very probably Orac. On
one condition."
A predatory smile now. "Of course. What condition?"
"That you and your... boyfriends... here take Perseus to the
other side of the planet and wait for my signal. When Scorpio is
mine, I'll let you know when and where to collect Avon."
"And you take the ship."
"That's the general idea. Well?"
Corinne considered, then shook her head slowly. "We'll take
Perseus a few kilometers away, out of sight. But I stay."
The gunman who had threatened Tarrant started to object.
Corinne silenced him with a look. "How will you bring Avon here?"
she asked.
Tarrant chewed his lip for a long moment before answering.
"I won't," he said at last. "Orac will."
Vila dozed over the monitoring panels in the ops room. Beside him,
Orac hummed quietly to itself, colored lights tracing random
patterns inside the transparent casing. Vila hated being left on
monitor watch, and when Orac was busy with one of Avon's projects,
even he was boring company.
The super-computer's strident voice startled Vila awake.
"I am receiving a message," it announced.
"Eh?" Vila yawned. "What are you on about? Message from who?
For who?"
"The message is addressed to Kerr Avon," Orac replied
testily. "It is being transmitted over my exclusive carrier
frequency. It is coded, but it is not signed."
Vila hadn't heard that last part. He'd sat up so suddenly
that the chair nearly tipped under him. Orac's exclusive carrier
frequency? Only three people had ever known that. Ensor was dead,
Avon was here and the third...
"Blake," Vila gasped aloud. "You're picking up a message
from Blake?"
"I have just told you the message was not signed," Orac
sniped. "Now will you kindly inform..."
Vila didn't let him finish. He slapped the intercom control
on the panel and said, "Avon... I think you'd better get in here."
Scant minutes later the computer expert strode into the room,
showing no signs of having been roused from a sound sleep. Soolin
and Dayna, coming in behind him, were far less alert but no less
curious.
"All right, Orac," Avon intoned when they were all gathered.
"What is it?"
"You had instructed me to maintain a wide-range scan for any
signals on my classified carrier frequency. I have done so."
Vila smiled at that. Still looking for Blake after all this
time, eh Avon?
"This signal," Orac continued, "has in fact been transmitted
on two bands. The second carrier frequency is CG 8 zero seven
four."
Avon glanced up sharply at that, though both Dayna and Soolin
looked baffled.
It was Vila who finally supplied the answer. "That was Zen's
frequency."
"Zen?" Soolin queried. "But you said it was destroyed."
"Along with Liberator," Avon replied thoughtfully. "But
Blake... assuming it is Blake... may not know that."
"Servalan knows it," Soolin pointed out.
"That Liberator was destroyed, yes," Avon said. "But not the
coded frequency for both Zen and Orac."
Dayna had a thought. "Wouldn't Tarrant have known them?"
"Zen's, yes." Avon's voice had grown suddenly distant. "But
Orac's..."
"Why would Tarrant send a message to Zen anyway?" Vila
argued. "He knows about Liberator."
"Yes." Avon's eyes narrowed. "Orac, what is the transmission
source?"
"Signal source is the planet Kaban."
"Give us the text of the message."
"It reads simply, 'Avon: Require your help at once. Please
come.' There is no signature."
"Then I don't suppose you can identify the sender?" Avon
wondered.
"Transmission medium was the communications computer aboard
the civilian space cruiser Perseus. That is the only confirmation
available."
"Well that's a whole lot of nothing," Vila complained. "You
should never trust a computer." At Avon's longsuffering glance, he
added, "Well they can be treacherous little buggers, whether you
want to admit it or not. It's a trap, Avon."
"Very probably.
"Fine. We can just ignore it then?"
"...but perhaps one worth investigating."
"I didn't think so somehow. You won't mind if I stay here?"
Avon pulled Orac's key, evoking a sharp decelerating whine.
"You are all staying here," he said.
Dayna stiffened. "Soolin and Vila can stay. I'm going with
you." She quelled his objection with an upraised hand. "No
arguments, Avon. I'm going."
Her determination seemed to take him aback for a moment.
Then he smiled crookedly, an almost-leer. "It's your life."
Vila watched her face Avon down and admired the icy calm with
which she matched his gaze.
"Yes," she said stubbornly after a long moment. "It is."
"Why send two signals?" Corinne sat with Tarrant on a hillside
overlooking the Perseus' original landing site. The ship was gone,
moved out of sight, but not far from where it had rested a small
abandoned cottage sat waiting in the midday sun. It waited for
Avon.
"Three, actually," Tarrant answered her. "The first was to
get their attention. The second was to convince them it might be
from Blake. The third..." he nodded toward the cottage. "A homing
beacon, also attuned to Orac's carrier wave. That's to assure he
finds us." He watched her scan the terrain below, anticipation and
avarice both readable in her eyes. If he worked this right, he and
Avon should be able to overpower her. If not... He didn't relish
the thought of actually handing them Avon. But if it came to
that...
Below, on the plain, a small pillar of light began to
shimmer.
"Get down!" Tarrant ducked for cover before the figure below
could solidify. When he cautiously peered over the hill's crest,
he saw Avon, armed and alone, approaching the cottage.
"Is that him?" Corinne demanded beside him.
"Oh yes," Tarrant said, and held out a hand. "Give me your
gun."
She stared. "Are you joking?"
"Not in the least. I take him. That was the agreement."
"Honor among terrorists?" she queried sarcastically.
His only answer was a sour look. The hand remained
outstretched. Below, Avon had entered the abandoned building.
After long deliberation, Corinne unclipped two weapons from
her belt. One, Tarrant's own, she carefully handed over. The
other, she trained on him.
"No tricks," she warned, and tapped his teleport bracelet
with the gun barrel. "I can still shoot both of you before that
can take you away."
"Unprofitable, all around," Tarrant quipped. He checked the
clipgun's magazine before heading quickly down the slope.
Avon was crouched, examining the homing beacon embedded in
the single room's dirt floor. Ordinarily, coming up on Avon
unawares would have been next to impossible. But Tarrant had
chosen this place with utmost care. The ground was soft enough to
make no noise at all underfoot. And the cottage had a back
entrance.
"Put the gun down, Avon."
When the other man came abruptly upright, weapon tensed,
Tarrant aimed his own straight out.
"Don't," he warned.
"Yes, don't," a female voice concurred from the front
doorway. Avon spun to face Corinne, who had sauntered in behind
her gun, a smug expression on her pretty face.
"Who the hell are you?" Avon sneered, allowing the clipgun to
fall.
"An old friend," Tarrant supplied. "Sorry, Avon. But I'm
afraid it came down to you or me, and as you were once fond of
saying, I look upon self-interest as my great strength."
He saw Corinne smirk at that, and was pleased to also see her
guard drop just a bit. Her gun had dipped, depending on his to
keep Avon covered. Just a little more, and...
Gunfire from outside startled all of them into action.
Corinne dived for the door, narrowly escaping Avon's effort to
tackle her. Tarrant broke into the open in time to see Corinne
vanishing behind the house -- and Dayna popping up from cover to
exchange fire with Perseus' three commandos. He should have
realized they would break the agreement.
Tarrant traded rapid shots with one of them, distracting him
just long enough for Dayna's shot to find its mark. While he
continued firing at the others, he saw Dayna head off in the
direction Corinne had gone. Now where had Avon got to?
Almost on top of his thought, one of the two remaining gunmen
stumbled out into the open, his weapon flying. Avon was
immediately on top of him, and the two of them rolled over in the
dirt, each struigling for a stranglehold. Tarrant took careful
aim, waited for an opening...
Something struck his wrist and the clipgun fell from numbed
fingers. He spun, wrenching out of the way scant seconds before a
rifle butt came crashing down where his head had been. He got a
brief glimpse of an enraged face, and recognized the member of
Corinne's armed trio that had threatened him aboard the Perseus.
The rifle rapidly reversed itself and aimed at him, muzzle
first. Tarrant lashed out with one foot to trip the other man,
sending him sprawling as the weapon discharged and struck the front
wall of the cottage. Flames erupted at once from the dry wood, but
Tarrant had no time to consider the consequences. His adversary
was regaining his footing, re-aiming the laser rifle.
Tarrant threw himself sideways. Searing heat tore across the
ground beside him, singeing the sleeve of his tunic. He landed on
something hard, scrabbled desperately at it with still- numb hands,
then recognized the shape. When he rolled over again, it was to
fire the clipgun upward, point blank.
The man screamed, a sound cut off almost the moment it began.
The charge had caught him in the throat. He fell away from
Tarrant, the rifle toppling from dead fingers, and lay still.
The only sound that remained was the fierce crackling of the
burning cottage.
Tarrant placed the clipgun back in position on his belt and
rubbed his eyes, coughing. He had to get up, get away from the
flames... But before he could move, the barrel of a laser rifle,
identical to the other, pressed itself firmly to his temple. The
voice that accompanied it, however, did not belong to the third
bounty hunter.
"Stand up."
Avon's words were sharp, savage. Tarrant's head came up,
regarding the gun for a protracted moment before he obeyed the
command. He came face to face with cold, unmittigated fury.
"Avon --"
The gun barrel repositioned itself squarely over his heart:
Tarrant had no doubt whatsoever that Avon was prepared to pull the
trigger.
They were locked in that deadly scenario when Dayna
reappeared from over the rise.
"She got away," she'd announced before seeing them. "She had
a ship over the--"
She halted then, blinked at the insane tableau of Avon about
to shoot Tarrant, and took a panicked step forward. "Avon, what
are you--?"
"Stay back!" The venom in Avon's warning stopped her.
Tarrant could see the pleading in her eyes, but knew it was wasted
on Avon. The gun pressed itself against his chest, an unrelenting
pressure. Awkward seconds dragged by while the fire roared and
greedily consumed the little wooden building.
"Well what are you waiting for then?" Tarrant let the words
tumble out, ill-hoping that bravado might conceal the tremor in his
voice. It didn't. "Apologies? Confessions?" When neither Avon nor
the gun moved, he drew in a cautious breath. "All right, so I've
played the ass -- again. And you've won -- again. Is that what
you wanted to hear?"
Silently, he cursed himself for the way it had come out,
sounding more like a plea than an apology. Not that it mattered.
Neither would likely dissuade Avon from killing him anyway.
Dayna's voice came again. "Avon, please."
He ignored her. "How did you know?" The demand was a half-
whisper, barely audible above the noise of the fire. "Only Blake
and I knew Orac's carrier frequency. I never gave it to you."
Tarrant forced a smile that he didn't feel. "Give me credit
for some ingenuity at least. Communications is a part of every
pilot's FSA training, after all. And you're not the only one who
knows how to cajole a computer into giving you what you want. Even
Orac."
He'd hoped the explanation might somehow defuse their
situation. But the point of the gun had not wavered.
The chime of the bracelet communicators startled all of
them. When Avon made no move to answer it, Dayna pressed the
control and Orac's sharp tones came immediately over the circuit.
"Scorpio is under attack," he proclaimed amid the squeal of
an alarm claxon. "Suggest immediate teleport."
"Attack!" Dayna echoed, alarmed. "Attack from where?"
"Corinne, I expect," Tarrant said tightly. "Which means
she's a better pilot than she let on." Over the gun, to Avon, he
added hopefully, "You may need me after all."
The rifle still did not budge, and the fire in Avon's eyes
outraged the inferno behind them.
"You must teleport now," Orac's voice said more urgently, but
Avon stood his ground. Tarrant wondered if he even heard it...
The pilot's patience dissolved abruptly. "Damn it, Avon,
make up your mind. Shoot me or bring me up, but--"
The gun barrel snapped abruptly up to a point even with his
nose. Tarrant took an involuntary step backward, checked, then
finished his sentence with a strained note of calm. "But first
convince me that given my choices, you wouldn't have done exactly
the same thing."
"Plasma bolt strikes on shields four and seven," Orac
reported over the distinct sound of an explosion. "Weaponry
systems will require human crew's presence to return fire. Will
you please respond!"
Dayna was beside Avon then, urgently trying to penetrate the
hatred in those eyes. "We need him, Avon!"
The gun moved, but only minutely. It came up to a point just
between Tarrant's eyes. Then, low and menacing, Avon's voice said,
"It seems I require a pilot after all. But cross me again
Tarrant... betray me again... and I will kill you."
The gun was snatched angrily away. A dazed Tarrant heard
Dayna shouting for Orac to teleport now...
Under the noise of the fire, the teleport beam began to hum.
Tarrant closed his eyes as it took him and kept them closed,
unwilling to see Avon when they came aboard. Avon still holding
the gun, and still pinning him with that half-mad glare.
"Slave! Weapons status!"
Tarrant couldn't hear the computer's response to Avon's
demand. The deck had suddenly lurched under them, sending the
alarms screaming once again.
"Shields to power!" Dayna called from her station. "Plasma
cannons tracking target at zero-zero-two."
"Then fire!" Avon shouted. "Now!"
Scorpio shuddered, her lights dimming with the power drain.
Tarrant's fingers danced over the pilot's console and conjured the
image of Perseus on the main screen just as Dayna's shot glanced
harmlessly off her port laser turret.
"Damn," he heard her curse, and the firing controls clicked
as she reset them. Tarrant manipulated controls of his, own,
pleased when Scorpio came to life under his hands.
"Coming to one-one-eight," he announced. "Send it right down
her throat this time..."
"One-one-eight," Dayna confirmed, eyes on her own screen.
"Firing."
The bolt struck Perseus amidships. She lurched and spun
under the more maneuverable Scorpio. Tarrant deliberately overflew
her, and set his controls to keep on going. But he turned aft
scanners on the damaged ship.
"Orac," Avon commanded. "Status of the attacking vessel."
"Damage sustained to primary drive mechanism. The ship is
operational, but will be unable to attain more than minimal
sublight speed."
Tarrant watched Perseus dwindling on his console screen. In
a moment, a shadow had fallen across his panel.
"Turn round," Avon's voice said coldly, "and finish it."
Deliberately, Tarrant stabbed the automatic flight control
button instead, locking in their present course -- to Xenon. He
did not meet Avon's gaze. "I've done all that I'm going to... for
now."
He stood, pointedly turned his back on the computer expert,
and moved to the rear control station where he slid into the chair
beside Dayna. A touch of one switch, and the dwindling image of
Perseus vanished from Scorpio's screens. Tarrant stared hard at
the blank video monitor.
*Good-bye, Corinne,* he thought bitterly. *Better hunting
elsewhere.*
"And now that's dealt with," he heard Dayna say, "will one of
you tell me exactly what was going on down there?"
For the first time since they'd come aboard, Tarrant's gaze
found Avon's, blue ice meeting black fire. Steam might easily have
formed in the intervening silence.
"Well?" Dayna demanded impatiently. "What happened?"
Tarrant spoke without looking at her. "Nothing," he muttered
finally.
Avon's eyes underwent a subtle change, fury becoming his
more-familiar contempt. "Nothing at all," he added tartly, and
spun abruptly away to feign sudden interest in Slave's computer
alcove.
Dayna's bewildered look found Tarrant. He mustered a taut
smile and shrugged. "There's really nothing to tell," he lied.
"Oh, of course not." She glanced nervously at Avon's back,
then lowered her voice to add, "But when Avon promises to kill you,
there's one small item you may like to keep in mind."
He let bravado widen his smile, not really caring what she
would say. It hardly mattered in the end. After all, he was home,
he was still alive, and he had bested Avon. Hadn't he?
"And what might that be?" he asked jocularly.
The smile Dayna gave him came very close to gloating.
"Avon," she said, "always keeps his word."