Down but not safe
"Sorry, Arlen," said Vila, straightening up with the Federation officer's gun in his hand.
There was a bang and something hit him hard in the back, causing his arms and upper body to jerk so violently and uncontrollably they took him over backwards. He lay there, puzzled, until he heard more gunfire and realised what had just happened to him. The thought was terrifying, but lying face-upwards and exposed in the middle of a battle was even more so. He started to roll over so that he could crawl to safety, but the searing pain at the first movement was so agonising he froze in position, his wide, shocked eyes staring up at the ceiling and his hands half-lifted from the floor.
Distantly, he heard Tarrant shout Avon's name, and someone turned off the alarm, and perhaps the lighting too; it seemed to be getting darker. There were some more shots, then he heard a woman call out nearby.
"No, don't kill him! That's Avon! They'll want him alive."
Arlen. First time he'd ever hit someone smaller or weaker than himself—not that that was saying much, he'd never gone in for violence—and he couldn't even get that right. So much for Gan's lessons. Sorry, Gan... sorry, Dayna. Vila closed his eyes against the increasing darkness.
"In fact, keep as many alive as possible. We didn't just flush out Blake here, we got his old crew too. Putting this scum— " Arlen kicked Vila viciously in the ribs, "—on trial will knock the rebels right back."
Vila barely felt the blow. A vast dizziness swamped him and he floated into velvet darkness. He welcomed it. An end at last to all the pain, fear, loneliness, and contempt.
***
"Oh, well done." Servalan smiled at the austere young woman displayed on her screen. "And you are?"
"Lieutenant Arlen of Undercover Operations, Commissioner Sleer."
"Captain, I rather think."
Arlen drew herself up proudly. "Thank you, commissioner."
"Pity about Blake. It would have been nice to parade him." Servalan leaned back, idly toying with her wine glass. "Still, the squalid little bounty-hunter game he was playing will make superb propaganda. Not to mention the delightful bonus of him being killed by a friend. Oh, yes." Her smile widened. "Avon is the real prize here."
"Oh?"
"Avon and Orac." Servalan sat up straight at the thought. "I assume you have Orac?"
"Orac, commissioner?" Arlen blinked, puzzled.
"His computer. Or, more accurately, mine." Servalan put her glass down and leaned forward. "If not, I suggest you locate it by the time the survivors are picked up. Lieutenant."
"Yes, commissioner." Arlen said stiffly.
"Oh, and don't damage Avon—any more than at present, anyway. He is far too valuable. We'll pick up him and his crew; UC Ops can do what it likes with the others."
"Noted, commissioner. Are we to expect you in person?"
Gauda Prime sounded as savage as that ghastly place she had first encountered the Mellanby girl, but she would have been on her way within the hour if it weren't for Bercol being there as representative of the High Council. He would recognise her immediately; she would have to forego the pleasure of being in on the final victory over the rebels . "Oh, I think not. One of my staff officers, Major Chen, will handle it." She looked away to hide her annoyance at having to delegate this. "He'll contact you," she said languidly, severing communications.
***
On Camelot base, Sil Rydan yawned and groped for her coffee mug, keeping her eyes on the screen. She blinked and tried to focus on the Federation messages scrolling up it as they were decoded. Most would be analysed by computer for importance, but a human observer was always on duty in case anything requiring immediate attention showed up. Rydan drained her coffee and put her feet up on the desk beside the monitor. Space Fleet movements, promotions, legion budgets; most of the stuff sent on the few Federation codes they had cracked was fairly routine.
Hang on though—what was that? Rydan sat up, paused the display, and ran it back. Yes, there it was. Blake. And Gauda Prime.
"Hey, Varshovski."
"Yeah?" The comms officer swivelled his chair towards her.
"Can you raise the GP base?"
"Why would you want—"
"Just do it." Rydan leaned forward and read the rest of the message. If her dark complexion had been capable of it, she would have gone pale.
"Nothing." Varshovski sounded worried. "No response at all. Think we should call Avalon?"
"Oh, yes," Rydan said softly.
Avalon sighed. "It was bound to happen sooner or later. I did warn him." She shook her head as if to clear it. "All right, what do we have on this Major Chen?"
Rydan was ready with plastisheet printouts. "He's on the personal staff of Commissioner Sleer. These are his official Space Fleet details and photo."
Avalon raised her eyebrows at the picture, that of a man with a smooth, almost soft face, dark almond-shaped eyes, high cheekbones, and full lips. "Well, well," she said. Then she and Rydan spoke together: "Lynx!"
"Put in a call," said Avalon, "and mark it urgent."
***
Vila was somewhat disappointed to wake up. Going by the last year, and for that matter, the last day, things could only get worse. He stared up at the grey ceiling for a while in dull resignation, then finally mustered the energy and will to turn his head to the right. A mistake. Avon was the last person he wanted to see, even if he was unconscious and surrounded by tubes.
As he himself was. Wonderful. Vila slowly turned his head the other way to see Tarrant, also unconscious, bruises dark on his ashen face. Beyond him, as he suspected, was a bored-looking guard in Federation black.
Vila closed his eyes. At least it didn't hurt too much. Surreptitiously he took stock: he could move his arms slightly, but they were held down, probably by the same sort of cuffs he'd seen on Avon and Tarrant. His legs he couldn't even feel, let alone move. Even if he could somehow get one of the drips out of his arm and pick the cuffs open with it, he wasn't going anywhere.
So this was it. Wasn't fair. Years of being scared and doing his best, even if it wasn't a very good best, all to be sold out by Blake. And he'd liked Blake. Well, to be fair, either Blake had betrayed them all—and it seemed that way—or Avon had murdered an innocent unarmed man. Either way, it hurt.
Either way, it made everything they'd gone though bloody meaningless.
At least he had one card left up his sleeve. A way out, an escape no one could prevent. Except that this time there wouldn't be a way back.
Lynx makes an appearance
Avalon's comms unit beeped, and the stylised image of a cat with tufted ears appeared on the screen. Relieved, Avalon punched the accept button, and a human face replaced it.
"You wanted to speak to me?"
"Yes, Lynx. It's Blake." Avalon explained about the intercepted report of his death.
Lynx's eyes closed briefly in pain. "Blake was a good friend. I told him..."
"I know. We all did." Avalon sighed and pushed her hair back. "The best thing we can do for him now is to get Avon and Restal out of there, and anyone else we can. We can't let the Federation have them or their knowledge."
"Right. What do you want me to do?"
"This is an image of Major Chen who is due to pick them up in two days."
"Ah." Lynx raised a sardonic eyebrow. "I take it you think we look alike."
"Of course." Avalon paused, disconcerted at Lynx's reaction, a flicker of amusement as if at some secret joke. Oh. Perhaps it was that old racist cliché. "Look, if Chen happened to be a woman with long blonde hair, then I'd hardly think of you—"
For an instant, Lynx's mouth twitched into a brief amused smile.
"—but in this case you're similar enough to Chen, and Space Fleet ID photos are bad enough for you to carry it off if no one's actually met him." She regarded Lynx's shock of black hair thoughtfully. "A military style, slicked back; that should do it."
As do the torture twins
Avon slowly became aware of light and a distant pain, dulled and held at bay by drugs. He opened his eyes cautiously. As he suspected, he was lying on a bed, hooked up to life-support. The room was well-lit and silent except for the soft hums, clicks, and beeps of the medical equipment—and a snuffling noise.
It was Vila. He lay in the bed next to Avon, staring up at the ceiling, his face screwed up with the effort not to cry.
"Vila."
Vila immediately stopped sniffing. "Shut up, Avon," he said bitterly.
"Are you all right?" Stupid question.
"No."
Oddly enough, that one short word had much more impact than Vila's usual litany of complaints would have.
Avon closed his eyes, but Blake's face rose before him, eyes hurt and pleading. I set all this up. Avon, I was waiting for you. Could those words have another meaning? No, Tarrant had said Blake had sold them, and it was all too easy to believe after all the other betrayals. So many, including one he was responsible for on a particular shuttle. Please let it not be that he had betrayed Blake too. Was that why Vila sounded so angry? What was it he had said, so long ago when Avon had asked why he stayed? I like him. Avon had said it wasn't a good enough reason, but it had been for Vila.
Why had Vila stayed with Avon since? Because he liked him? That might have been true at first, but not after that business over Malodar. Perhaps not even after Cally...
What point was there in thinking about that? Regret was a waste of time.
Avon opened his eyes again and looked around. Beyond Vila was another bed, also occupied, and a guard sprawled in a chair. Cautiously, Avon raised his head, surprised at the effort it took. It was Tarrant, pale, bruised, and unconscious. Along the opposite wall were three more beds. In one Soolin lay, her head swathed in bandages and her face almost as white as the dressings. Next to her was a light-haired man who looked vaguely familiar. The last bed was empty, but it looked as if it had been occupied recently. Dayna? Blake?
At the far end of the room was something Avon remembered from his arrest. A device known as 'the rack', whose neural field could be set to anything from mild disorientation to unbearable agony. He looked away; the sight reminded him of how long he had tortured himself with how he had imagined Anna had died, and also of Blake—Blake and Jenna had been subjected to the rack on Horizon. No, he didn't want to think of him, of how much he had changed. Or of how much he himself had.
The door opened and a sharp-faced young woman came in, followed by two men. Arlen, now in the uniform she was so proud of.
"Surely one of them's awake now," she said to the guard.
He nodded towards the end of the room. "Avon and Restal."
"Perfect." She went to stand beside Avon's bed, her arms folded and her head on one side. "I don't suppose you'll tell us where Orac is, will you?"
"You are correct."
"I didn't think you would. And you're lucky. Brommell and Todhunter here would soon have it out of you. They're a bit annoyed that woman Klyn died before they could talk to her." Arlen paused. "That doesn't seem to bother you."
"Should it?"
"Perhaps she meant nothing to you. All right, what about Restal here?"
Avon's face remained expressionless.
"No." Arlen allowed a sneer to cross her face. "I don't suppose I can expect sentimentality from a man who would kill an old comrade." She turned to Vila, who was watching her silently. "What about you? Know where Orac is?"
Avon held his breath.
"No," Vila said flatly.
What, no nervous babbling, no desperate excuses?
Arlen raised her eyebrows at the men who had come in with her. "Well?"
The dark one grinned. "He knows. You can always tell. There's a flicker in their eyes if you know what to look for."
"Good. Do what you must, then. Avon will be taken to be questioned at HQ, but this one has no value." She looked at the rack with distaste. "I'll leave you to it." She turned and went out.
Avon watched the dark man wheel the rack over to the foot of Vila's bed, while the blond one began to disconnect various tubes and monitors from Vila. Part of Avon was appalled at what they were about to do, and he found himself almost hoping Vila would tell them quickly while another, colder, much more logical part disapproved of their short-sighted stupidity. Vila had considerable knowledge of the teleport and stardrive from all the work he had done on them with Avon, and they were about to waste a valuable resource.
Then again, Orac would be worth any price.
Why had he got Vila to help him hide Orac? Yes, he might have come in useful—after all, Vila had broken into the flyer's controls in the first place—but he knew part of the reason had been a sort of apology, a reassurance to Vila that he was still valued. Stupid sentiment. Vila would remember the coordinates they had set. He would tell them where the flyer was, and where Orac was hidden on board.
He willed Vila to look at him, but Vila's attention was on the two interrogators now by his bed.
"Where are our manners? We should introduce ourselves, Restal. I'm Brommell," said the short man with untidy black hair and round face.
"And I'm Todhunter." The other man was tall, blond, well-groomed, and would have been quite good-looking but for the petulance of his soft features.
"You wouldn't like to change your mind before we begin?" Brommell asked.
"You can, you know," said Todhunter. "Though I'd be very disappointed."
"You know me," said Vila. "Well, actually, you don't, but I'll tell you right now, I don't have a mind to change. Should've read your notes a bit better. Just a stupid Delta, me, what would I know?"
Brommell smiled, revealing small, crooked, discoloured teeth. "Oh, a challenge. I do enjoy my work." He nodded to Todhunter. "One, two, three," he said and they transferred Vila from the bed to the rack. Vila shouted out in pain.
"Did that hurt?" Todhunter asked with mock concern.
"Yes," Vila whispered.
"That's nothing compared to what's in store. We've got the field set quite high. Oh, and we've adjusted it to compensate for your spinal injury. Clever us!"
"You wouldn't want to tell us about Orac before we start?" Brommell asked.
"No."
"All right then," Todhunter said with mock disappointment. "Did you know, Brommell old chap, that this fellow has a habit of going into a coma under... retraining?"
Vila's wide eyes followed the conversation from one man to the other.
"I did read that in his file, yes. Not this time, though, Restal. We've made advances—"
"Behold—the cortical stimulator!" Todhunter giggled as he adjusted a metallic hoop over Vila's head. "New and improved. Keeps you awake and alert even under the most difficult circumstances."
"Shall we begin, Toddy?"
"I think so. Just an appetiser."
Brommell flicked a switch, and Vila's upper body stiffened and convulsed, then collapsed as he turned the field off. Vila lay pale and sweating, gasping for breath.
Avon stared, unable to look away. Vila couldn't hold out. Not Vila.
"Now, then," said Brommell. "Where's Orac?"
Todhunter leaned over him. "Hidden? Still in orbit? Enquiring minds want to know."
So, they didn't know about Scorpio? That was something. Not very much though, once they had Orac. Damn. If only he'd hidden the bloody thing before he'd met up with Vila and the others.
"Well?"
Vila stared up at Brommell and Todhunter. Then he smiled.
Escapes of more than one kind
This was it, Vila thought. No point in putting it off any longer. "Got something to tell you," he said.
The two interrogators eagerly leaned in closer, and Vila kept his gaze firmly between them, on the wall behind them. Didn't want them—or Avon for that matter—to be the last thing he saw.
"Life hasn't been much fun lately," he said conversationally. "Not for quite a while, actually. In fact, I think it's a bit overrated myself. So I've decided it's time to leave." His smile widened. "Goodbye." He closed his eyes.
Avon lifted his head to get a better view. Brommell and Todhunter stared at Vila, then at the readout on the cortical stimulator strapped to his head, then at each other.
"He can't do that!" said Todhunter.
"He just did." Brommell gave the stimulator a sharp whack. "Damned thing can't be working."
"No. It's Restal. He's done it before." Todhunter slapped Vila viciously, knocking his head to one side, still with a faint and peaceful smile on its lips. "Come on, there's nothing else to do here."
They slung Vila unceremoniously back onto his bed. Todhunter raised his eyebrows at Brommell. "The subject's injuries proved too severe for the session to be productive?"
Brommell shrugged. "Works for me."
Avon watched them leave and turned back to Vila, whom they had not bothered to reconnect to life-support. "Vila? Vila!"
Vila lay askew on the bed, his head twisted away from Avon. What had he done? That 'goodbye' had sounded so final.
"Vila," said Avon, very softly.
Vila did not answer. Avon was surprised at how much it mattered.
It had been a while since he'd been there, but Vila was back in that magical place he had fled to so often as a child, and sometimes later when reality hurt too much. Back in his very own treasure room, full of the happiest and best of his memories.
Start with the first.
He lay enveloped in warmth and love, looking up at the vast blurred face above him, hearing huge soft words whose meaning he did not know but which were spoken just for him. He smiled and waved his tiny, dimpled hands and the sweet-smelling person holding him laughed.
He was warm. Safe. Loved.
Under what he supposed was constantly-injected sedation, Avon slept on and off. He was unsure how much time had passed between his awakenings, but the guard at the end of the room had changed at some point, and someone had reconnected Vila's life-support, but had not bothered to straighten his limbs or head. Avon had given up trying to get him to respond.
Neither Tarrant nor Soolin, nor the ginger-haired man beside her, had shown any signs of life, though the readouts above them showed they still lived. Avon found himself regretting that, for himself as well. Death—or whatever Vila had chosen—would be preferable to what was in store for them.
Avon began to doze off again, but was roused by the sound of booted footsteps and voices in the corridor. The door opened to admit a tall young Federation officer complete with a retinue of two junior officers and several troopers with Arlen in pursuit, looking flustered.
"You weren't expected until tomorrow, Major Chen," she said.
The officer stopped and turned to face her. "Quite. And given that our communications have often proved to be insecure, wouldn't you say it was a good idea to arrive well before a possible rebel interception?"
Arlen scowled. "Yes, Major," she muttered.
Chen's dark, slanted eyes met Avon's and held them for a few seconds, then passed over the others in the room. "This is all you retrieved of the famous Blake's Seven? Avon, Restal, Tarrant? What about Stannis, Cally, the Mellanby girl?"
"I don't know about the others. They weren't here, but Mellanby was dead before she hit the floor." Arlen smiled briefly. "I'm a good shot."
"Then I'm pleased you restricted yourself to one target. Commissioner Sleer was hoping for rather more to show her superiors. Is this—" Chen looked around "—all?"
Arlen dropped her eyes. "We haven't found Orac yet," she said sullenly. "The Commissioner said not to question Avon, and I'm told Restal was too badly wounded to interrogate properly."
Chen turned to the two junior officers, "Check Restal out, then the others," then went over to look at Soolin and the man. "Who are these two?"
"He's called Deva. I don't know her name." Arlen shrugged. "Another one of Blake's people."
The woman who was checking Vila straightened up. "Major, this man has a severe back injury which has been deliberately left untreated."
For the first time, Avon saw emotion on Chen's face: a sudden flash of anger, quickly hidden.
"Oh?" Chen turned to Arlen. "Why is that?"
"It was my idea, Major." Arlen looked pleased with herself. "Restal is an escape artist, but he's not going anywhere while he's paralysed."
"That is inhumane, Lieutenant. And in direct contravention of Space Fleet protocol."
"He's only a Delta, and a common criminal at that. And rules of war hardly apply to terrorists."
Suppressing the disconcerting anger he felt at Vila's treatment, Avon concentrated on Chen. The man appeared to be a decent sort. They existed at all levels of the Federation except the very top, but it was surprising that Servalan employed one. Chen's face remained impassive but Avon was interested to note a tightly-clenched fist where Arlen could not see it.
"Right." Chen nodded at the troopers. "Ready them for transport. Blake's people too."
"What?" Arlen stepped forward in protest as they quickly and efficiently began to attach anti-grav lifters to the beds. "They're mine!"
"I beg your pardon, Lieutenant?" Chen looked down at her haughtily.
"Major, you were only authorised to pick up Avon and his crew. Blake was my operation."
"Commissioner Sleer has decided otherwise, Lieutenant. Now stop wasting my time."
The troopers began to float the beds out of the room. Chen walked beside Avon's as it was guided down the corridor outside, and Avon stared up at the almost unnaturally calm face and opaque black eyes. Were they in better hands, or was this self-possessed young man more dangerous than Arlen and her interrogators?
Arlen trotted officiously alongside Chen. "Then you won't mind if I check with the Commissioner?" she said. "Standard Space Fleet regulations when orders are changed."
Chen's voice was even. "You appeared not to care about those regulations in Restal's case."
"All the same, I would prefer to check. I am in charge of the prisoners."
"I think you'll find that Sleer doesn't like her orders questioned." Suddenly Chen drew a small handgun without breaking stride, and fired. "And neither do I."
Arlen's eyes widened in shock as she fell back against the wall.
"I'm quite a good shot too, Lieutenant," said Chen, as Arlen's eyes glazed over and she slid to the floor. Avon lifted his head to see as he was borne away. Ironically, in death her face showed the same expression of outrage as Dayna's had.
"Hurry it up," Chen said crisply, "before someone else stops us."
Chen's ship was a somewhat battered B-19 cruiser; another piece to add to the jigsaw. Would Servalan's personal staff travel in something like that? On the other hand, after the destruction of so many vessels in the Andromedan war, it was quite possible.
As soon as Avon and the others had been made secure, the ship lifted off. There was a large viewscreen on one wall, and Avon turned his head to look at the tree-clad hills and sky it showed as they rose.
"We made it," said Chen, and several of the troopers removed their helmets and masks, grinning with relief.
The intercom chimed. "Lynx? We're in position."
"Ground view," said Chen, eyes on the screen.
The display changed to show the trees below them and the cleared patch of earth in front of the entrance to the underground bunker.
Chen turned to Avon. "I'm a friend. My name is Lynx."
Oh, yes? Another obvious and overly fanciful alias, like that of Avalon? Who did they think they were fooling with their romantic idealistic games? At least Blake—no don't think of him now.
"Is Orac on that base?"
Avon did not answer. Perhaps Chen or Lynx, or whatever his name was, was a rebel, perhaps this was also an elaborate ploy.
"Yes or no, before I destroy it. Is Orac there?"
"No."
"Good." Lynx turned back towards the screen. "Fire."
The view whited out briefly, then filled with roiling dark clouds lit with flame.
"There. That one was for Blake," Lynx said to Avon. "And for Vila. You can tell him when he wakes up."
If he does. Avon closed his eyes. Servalan had said once she had seen Blake's body burned. A lie at the time if only he'd known it, but now it seemed to be true.
It was some time later that he realised that Lynx had called Vila by his first name. Perhaps it was not significant—so had Servalan and Travis. But even if this Lynx was a rebel who had known Blake, that didn't make the situation any less dangerous. In fact, quite the reverse.
Avon decided to watch carefully and say as little as possible.
She stood at the bench, humming a wordless song, long gold-blonde hair falling forward to hide her face. Vila sat on a chair in the warm kitchen, swinging his short legs happily as he savoured the wonderful smell.
"Toast," his mother said, turning to him, smiling. "Hot toast for me and my little man." She picked Vila up, swung him towards the ceiling, then hugged him tightly before settling him on her hip. She picked up the slice of thick brown toast. "One bite for me," she took a small nibble, "and one for you."
Vila grinned at her and bit into it. "Mmm, yum."
She kissed him, tasting all warm and nutty and buttery like the toast.
***
Arrivals
Avon now had a room of his own, but it was hardly a privilege.
When they had first arrived at the rebel base, they were all put in the same large medical ward. As soon as he saw Avalon, Avon knew that he must have made a mistake on Gauda Prime—either that, or this was another Avalon android, and he rather doubted that.
He pretended greater drowsiness than he felt to avoid having to speak to anyone while the medical staff examined them all. When they noticed the unusual pattern of Vila's brain activity readings—or lack thereof, he thought sardonically—they took him away. Then they brought him back and took Soolin away, and returned her some time later with her head re-bandaged. Then they came and got him, and when he woke up, Vila was gone again, for much longer this time. He now lay next to Avon again, pale, still, ram-rod straight in a back brace, while Avon considered his options.
Soolin never knew Blake and would—probably—back him up. Tarrant had believed Blake was selling them, and was therefore complicit in what had happened and would, if he were sensible, avoid talking about either of their parts in it. If he or Soolin woke first, Avon would surely be able to warn them with some well-chosen words. Let's see now—we've been rescued by rebels and it appears Blake was only pretending to be a bounty hunter—yes, that might do it. Vila, he was not at all sure about, but he was unlikely to come out of his trance, as Avalon's people were calling it, for some time.
As it was, misfortune had it that the fair-haired man woke first. Apparently he was known to the rebels, for at the first sign of movement, they sent for Avalon.
"Blake..." he whispered, "dead..."
"Yes, we know, Deva," Avalon said soothingly.
"Killed him." Deva clutched at Avalon, and caught sight of Avon beyond her. His eyes widened. "He did it!" He struggled to sit, and fell back, coughing.
"Shh, Deva, it's all right."
"No, he killed him, Avon. Murderer!"
Now Avon remembered where he had seen the man before. "The Federation officer told you that," he said, abandoning all pretence of semi-consciousness. "Would you take her word over mine?" Not a lie, just a question.
But Avalon was watching him, eyes narrowed. "Separate them all," she said. "I want to get to the bottom of this."
So Avon now had a room to himself.
It was small, windowless, and the door, as he could hear every time it was opened, had a heavy bolt on the other side as well as an electronic lock, not that he could get through one without either tools or Vila. It was, in effect, a cell.
***
Del Tarrant lay in his room, white and shaking.
They had just come and asked him why Avon had killed Blake. He had seen no point in denying it, as they obviously knew, so he had explained how he had thought Blake had sold them all.
Now they were gone, and he had nothing to do but lie there and think about why he had misread Blake—and Avon—so badly. Oh, there was some reason for it, but Blake had tested him rather obviously when he had found him on Scorpio. So didn't it make sense that he had continued to do so?
Reason however did not explain the hot, blind hatred that had risen in him in when they had all found Blake in that gallery. He had wanted Blake dead. More than that, he had wanted Avon and Vila dead, the others too; wanted to make them suffer, hurt them, kill them all, He had been filled with utter contempt for them and everything they stood for.
And he liked them.
Why had he done it? He thought he might know, and it terrified him.
***
Soolin lifted her hand to her head, feeling bandages instead of hair. They said she was going to be all right. They said the dressings would come off the next day. They had been very kind, given that they now knew she had been with the man who had killed their figurehead.
They had asked her why, and she had explained how everyone had betrayed them, that it was only what they had expected, just part of the pattern. A logical extrapolation.
She wondered what these people would do with them. Perhaps they would let her leave. If so, would she? This mismatched group had come to mean rather more to her than she was comfortable with.
That in fact might be a good enough reason to go.
***
Vila lay still, pale, silent, only the readouts above his head and the barely perceptible rise and fall of his chest showing he lived.
He was Outside.
The first time had been an accident, just another locked door opened to escape the bullies. He'd heard it was a frightening place, but it wasn't at all. There were no people there to scare him, just trees and a river like in his favourite books, and the sky—a vast, blue and white Dome overhead.
He came often now it was summer, even though it was illegal. Once, months ago, he had been enchanted to find everything covered in icy lace, but it had been too cold to stay out long.
Now he lay in the sweet-smelling grass, somnolent in the sun, listening to the soft hum of insects. An iridescent blue bug settled on the fine golden hairs of his arm, and Vila smiled in delight as it tentatively explored. He carefully bent a blade of grass into its path and watched it crawl onto it. It sat there, shining like a bright jewel in the sun, and Vila wondered sleepily if it had any perception of the giant watching it.
He was getting very hot. Soon he would slip into the river, cool and clear and clean here upstream of the Dome. He would paddle around and squish his toes in the mud, splash the water into airy brightness, submerge and pretend he was part of the strange silent world under it, try to touch the fleet silvery fish and tickle their backs as they flashed by, then, when he was cold, climb out and dry off under a tree in the dappled shade.
His mum was at work; he could stay here all day. And for a nine-year-old boy, a day was for ever.
Departures
Major Bai Chen looked at the still-smoking ruins of the base and considered his options. Reporting back to Sleer would probably not be good for his health; she did not tolerate failure well. He looked back at his pilot, who was sitting glumly in the entrance hatch of their ship watching their troopers search the area. Donek had been with Chen for a while, and since they had been assigned to Commissioner Sleer, they had often discussed the abnormal rate of attrition among her officers.
"Could be time for plan D," said Chen.
Donek raised her eyebrows. "D for departure? As in a rapid one in a direct course away from HQ?"
"Considering D for Desertion doesn't spell out a particularly good future for our families, I'd say it's—"
"D for dead hero," Donek finished in chorus with him. She grinned. "I'll start working on my last words."
Chen lifted his communicator. "Lieutenant Klepner?"
"Yes, Major?" One of the distant figures waved.
"We've just been informed by what passes for flight control on this planet that a ship lifted off from here just before we arrived. We have its details and we're off in pursuit. We'll contact you later. Chen out."
***
Sebastian Carnell felt an unaccustomed and pleasurable anticipation as he packed. He had not felt this interested in a case since he had left the Federation's employ, rather more quickly than he had planned. None of the assignments he had undertaken for various parties since—rebels, neutral worlds, petty warlords—had the stimulating complexity of those given him by Space Command or Internal Security, and he no longer had access to subjects' psychological profiles. In fact, most did not even possess them.
With luck, he might get his hands on Orac and thus an enormous amount of Federation and other data, but even that was secondary to meeting those most fascinating of men, Kerr Avon and Vila Restal. He had studied them extensively since they had joined Blake's rebellion, and neither had done what he had predicted.
Avon ought to have either left the first chance he got (and it seemed there were many) or taken control of the Liberator from Blake and used it for his own ends. However, when he did finally have possession of the ship, he had at first drifted, reacting to outside stimuli instead of initiating action, and then abruptly taken up Blake's cause. Why then had he shot Blake? That mystery aside, it would be an unaccustomed novelty to speak to someone of Avon's intelligence.
Restal also should have left. Unlike Avon, he was a gregarious and friendly individual who enjoyed and needed the company of others, but Carnell would have estimated his desire for safety as taking precedence. He would also have thought that Restal would hardly have fitted into such a group. Yet he too had stayed, and had shown greater courage than Carnell would have expected. Why? The bonds formed among those who have endured great stress together, as observed in active military units? Possibly.
Restal's case had always interested Carnell: the seemingly ordinary Delta grade who had resisted all attempts at readjustment. And this was a chance to find out exactly how, as he had apparently avoided torture by voluntarily invoking an unusual mental state as he seemed to have done several times in the past.
Carnell smiled as he closed his suitcase.
Entrancement
"Tarrant seems to think it was his fault. Soolin regards it as logical to assume that anyone from your past would betray you, going by previous events."
Avon strove not to wince.
"That must say something about you," said Lynx.
Avon stared back with what he hoped was an equally cold lack of expression.
"However they all agree that Blake was unarmed, and that you didn't even give him a chance to explain. I'd put the entire blame at your door, myself."
Lynx was leaning against the opposite wall, arms crossed. Avon regarded him dispassionately. He seemed to be ridiculously young, with his smooth face and slender long-legged build, but Avon was not sufficiently familiar with the racial type to be able to estimate his age, and Lynx showed a toughness and confidence at odds with his apparent youth.
Avon looked away and pretended interest in the meagre contents of his bedside tabletop.
"If I had my way, I'd get rid of you, but Avalon seems to think you're useful. She thinks you're all the victims of extreme stress." Lynx's upper lip curled slightly. "Pity you didn't make do with a headache or an ulcer like the rest of us. But Avalon seems to think you're worth salvaging."
Avon poured a drink of water. Get to the point.
"She's got an expert on the way. Rather him than me, but in the meantime I've been put in charge of you lot. And regardless of what I think of you, I'd like to help Vila."
Avon stiffened, his drink halfway to his mouth. Damn. Showed too much. He lifted the tumbler and sipped calmly.
"Ah. So he does matter to you?"
Avon said nothing.
"Do you want to let him die?"
Avon turned slowly and spoke for the first time in days. "Why? What's wrong with him?"
Lynx showed no satisfaction at Avon breaking his silence, but answered quite naturally. "We don't know. But nothing we do can get him out of that trance he's in."
Avon looked away. "Perhaps he prefers to stay that way."
"Perhaps. It's a very long and slow way to die though."
Avon found his fingers had tightened on the soft plastic of the tumbler, deforming its sides. He put it down. "All right. Show me."
Vila looked much as he had when Avon had last seen him. Avon looked away from his remote and peaceful face and out the window. Incongruously, for someone who could not appreciate it, Vila had a view of a carefully-tended flower garden, a stretch of lawn, and a belt of trees. "Surely he can be maintained indefinitely."
The doctor, a woman called Eldine, spoke from behind him. "Under the assumption that he will wake up eventually? Perhaps, but the likelihood that he will be crippled increases the longer we wait."
"Explain."
"We've given him a new section of spine, but the hard part is the attachment of new nerves and muscles. We need the cooperation and feedback of the patient for this to be successful. The longer we leave it, the less likely it is that the connections to his existing nervous system will work."
Avon stared at the trees.
Beside him, Lynx sighed. "Do you know anything at all about what Vila did?"
"Only that he has done something similar several times in the past to avoid... readjustment."
"He told you about it?"
"No."
"Ah. Then I assume you read his files using Orac?"
Of course he had. It made sense to find out as much as he could about his crewmates, and Blake would have done so too, if he had any intelligence. And he was certain Vila had taken the opportunity to snoop.
"He must have come out of these trances, or whatever they are, on his own," said Lynx.
"Obviously."
"Do you know how?"
"No."
"Would Orac?"
"I have no idea. It would depend on what it could find out and whether there was sufficient information for it to make logical deductions."
Lynx spoke softly. "Would you be willing to try?"
Avon looked down at Vila. He was annoying, an unwanted responsibility, but the thought of him like that for the rest of his life, or paralysed was... unacceptable.
"All right. On one condition."
Lynx smiled without warmth. "We have our own conditions too. Shall we negotiate?"
***
Carnell stepped back from the brain-activity readouts over Restal's bed. "I'm entranced," he said, savouring the wordplay. Unfortunately, none of the medical staff gathered around seemed to appreciate it. Pity. From what he had learned about him, Restal might have.
"Then you know what it is?" Dr Eldine asked.
"Not really, no." Carnell smiled at her, but she just tightened her lips. Ah yes, annoyed at the introduction of an outside expert into her domain, that much was obvious from their first meeting, but there was, he suspected, rather more than that. She was a capable and highly intelligent person who had pushed private desires aside for what she regarded as more important—whether the 'cause' or her profession—and resented it. Not an uncommon story. Nevertheless, Eldine was not his concern. "There are similarities to the dream-state, as you've already noted, but there are also distinct points in common with self-induced trances observed in followers of certain arcane religious practices."
Eldine frowned. "I rather doubt that Restal was an advanced yogi."
"Ah, but I didn't say that. There are similarities only. He's in a profound dream state, yes, but the emotional centres of his brain are very much engaged. And look here." Carnell indicated part of the display. "The reticular activating system."
"Yes. So?"
"It’s operating, monitoring everything he hears. Almost as if he were awake."
"You mean he can hear everything we say?"
"No, not at all. The main function of the RAS is to edit sensory input and choose only what interests us. Otherwise we would be overwhelmed with irrelevant data. It's what lets us hear our names spoken in a crowd." Carnell smiled down at the uneducated man with the unusual brain. This trip was very much worth it. "It means that Restal has a link with reality. He is, in effect, off-stage waiting for his cue."
Vila spread his arms out and laughed in delight as he was spun round and round. The noise was deafening as he was borne around the flight deck, the other convicts cheering wildly, clapping him on the back and legs.
High point in his life, this, in more ways than one. He was a winner: fifteen years old, and pilot of the hijacked freighter Swansea, on its way to freedom from the CF1 penal colony.
And on his way home.
No, don't think about that, what waited there. Or who didn't.
Don't even think about why he was the pilot, not for this one shining moment of glory.
Replay the scene and add the convict who had been meant to fly the ship, free, alive, and cheering with the others. Why not? It was his memory, he could do what he liked with it.
And maybe when he got home, his mother would be there.
***
Soolin sat still as a nurse carefully unwrapped the bandage on her head while Eldine watched. "Will there be any impairment of motor function?" she asked calmly. She had practised drawing an imaginary gun with either hand, and could not detect any.
"There shouldn't be," Eldine said crisply.
"Any other effects?" It was like getting blood out of a stone, talking to this woman. She really could be quite attractive though if she abandoned that tightly-drawn-back hairstyle which pulled her thin eyebrows up in perpetual surprise.
"No."
"There must have been some damage."
"A shot grazed your skull and destroyed part of the bone, and depressed another section, causing pressure. That was relieved, and the missing section was replaced."
"You were lucky," said the nurse. "Another centimetre or so and you'd have been in trouble."
"Another centimetre and I'd have been missed altogether," Soolin said dryly. The nurse seemed more forthcoming. She turned her attention to him. "How are the others? Can I see them?"
"Restal's still out, but the other two are up and about. I don't see why you couldn't—"
Eldine, who was inspecting the side of Soolin's head, frowned. "You may see Del Tarrant," she said, then nodded in approval of her own work. "That is all." She stood up to leave.
Soolin blinked. "You mean he's the only one, or you've finished here?"
Eldine did not even look back on her way out. "Both."
"Wait—" Soolin halted in exasperation and turned to the nurse. "Are we prisoners?"
"No." He looked puzzled. "That Avon fellow's under guard, but I think the rest of you can do what you like."
"Good." It would be nice to see Tarrant again at least, though not like this. Soolin raised a hand to her matted hair. "Look, you couldn't get me a brush and mirror, could you?" She tentatively touched the site of her wound and stiffened with horror. "What have you done? You shaved me!"
"Of course we did; what did you expect?"
Soolin stared at him, momentarily unable to speak. She forced herself to appear calm. "Get me a brush and comb, a mirror, and some scissors. Now."
***
"Our people found Orac, just where you said." Lynx put the computer down on Avon's table in his new, roomier, quarters and touched the depression in the top. "There should be a key though, shouldn't there? They searched the flyer and the ground around it for something that would fit, but—"
Avon lifted a finger. "Get me my tools."
Lynx looked annoyed but went to get them from Avon's workroom in his new and roomier quarters, while Avon regarded Orac thoughtfully.
It had been Vila's idea, really. They had programmed the flyer to travel a random route to a set of coordinates in the forest, then had lifted a section of the deck to hide Orac. Avon had hesitated, the key in his hand. It seemed safest to leave it with Orac so both could be recovered later, but where to put it? Vila had silently taken it from him and deftly wedged it right inside the computer, where it simply looked like another component. Impressed, Avon had expected a quip or a boast, but Vila had just given him a sullen look before climbing out of the flyer.
Lynx returned with the tools, and Avon carefully dislodged the key with a probe, then withdrew it with a pair of tweezers.
"Oh, very clever." Lynx sat down opposite him.
"Yes."
***
Soolin had not cried since she was a child, and she had no intention of doing so now. But all the same, as she grabbed a hunk of hair and hacked it off at chin-level, the tears began to roll down her cheeks, and continued to flow as she cut.
They had both had long hair, she and Ilka, long, shining, and blonde, just like their mother. They used to take turns brushing each other's in the evenings, out on the veranda in the long summer dusk, or inside, all cosy by the fire in winter. And for special occasions and their weekly day off, Mummy had done their hair in elaborate styles, with ribbons woven through, or fresh daisies, or dried wild flowers, or bits of lace or fancy clips and clasps of horn or polished wood, bought on their monthly trips to town. There wasn't anyone much to see them out there on the farm, but it was a silly family tradition, performed with much giggling and followed by poses for their admiring, laughing father. "My three beautiful girls," he'd say.
After... after what happened, she had left her hair long and it had become a ritual of remembrance to wind and weave it into the styles Mummy and Ilka had done for her once.
And now she couldn't, not with that great ugly bare patch. Sobbing now, Soolin cut the last piece, and let it hang, straight, blunt, savage, and visibly thinner on one side.
Stupid really, but she felt as if she had just cut her last ties to the past. "I'm sorry, Mum," she whispered, and curled up on the bed, pulling the covers up over her head. She cried herself to sleep, crying for everything she had ever lost.
Trust
"Orac," said Avon.
"What is it now?"
Avon closed his eyes briefly. "I need some information, and considering that you are responsible for Scorpio's destruction, I suggest you do it with a minimum of fuss."
"Oh, very well."
"I need to know how Vila evaded conditioning."
"That is a statement, not a question."
"Is he always like this?" Lynx asked, chin on fist.
"'It', not 'he'. And yes." Avon turned back to the computer. "All right, Orac. What brought Vila out of his trance the first time?"
"Might I remind you that I am not—"
"You may not. Just do it.."
"I do not know about this 'first time'. It is logical to assume that Vila was already practised at the technique by the time he was admitted to the Juvenile Detention Wards at age eleven, therefore—"
Avon gritted his teeth. "Then we will discuss that time. How long was he unconscious?"
"Three hours."
"And under what circumstances did he wake up?"
"His mother, Jandy Restal, was called in to remove him."
"Oh!" Lynx sat up straighter. "Then she said some sort of trigger word?"
"There is no reason to assume that," said Orac.
"I agree," said Avon. "Her voice may have been enough. And the next time, Orac?"
"That was five hours later, and—"
Lynx frowned. "The poor kid."
"It was standard practice," said Orac, "even if rare. In the case of failure, three attempts are to be made."
Avon ignored Lynx's wince. "And each time his mother was there when he woke up?"
"Correct."
"There were later attempts."
"If you know that, then why do you—"
"Just tell us about them, Orac."
"The next was at fourteen, following his second arrest. After the treatment's failure to have any lasting effect on him, Vila was sent to Correctional Facility One."
"And he awoke that time because his mother was there again?"
"Correct."
Lynx sighed. "Then his only chance is for us to get hold of her? That's going to be hard."
"Impossible, I'd say." Avon smiled humourlessly. "She died shortly afterwards."
"Then what do we do?"
"The Federation doesn't like defeat, which I assume is one reason Vila eventually got such a severe sentence. I'm certain they tried to readjust him again before they sent him to Cygnus Alpha. Did they, Orac?"
"Correct."
"Ah." Avon leaned forward. "And who was with Vila when he woke up?"
"The event was not observed."
Avon frowned. "There must have been someone there. Did he have visitors?"
"None."
"Did any of his fellow patients have visitors?"
"Not while Vila was there."
Avon bit his lip in thought. "Was there anyone in the ward or area whom he knew previously?"
"No."
Orac sounded suspiciously smug. Avon narrowed his eyes. "Then list every person who might have been there," he said softly. "We'll start with the patients."
"Oh, very well." Orac said sulkily. "In bed one, Glin Landa; in bed three, Pol Sharp; in bed four, Vila Restal; in bed five, Del Prentiss; in bed six, Olag Gan; in bed—"
"Gan!" Avon jumped to his feet.
"That is what I said."
"Then," Avon began to pace, thinking, "Gan was near Vila—"
"Adjacent. The beds were numbered from the door, odd numbers on the right and—"
"—and they talked. Yes!" Avon stopped and looked at Lynx. "Vila would talk to anyone, especially a captive audience."
"They were friends, those two," said Lynx.
"Oh?" Avon was distracted. How would Lynx know that?
Lynx looked slightly uncomfortable. "Blake said so."
"Ah." Avon resumed his pacing. "Friends, acquaintances, whatever. Someone Vila liked. Trusted."
"If that's so, then you could wake him up."
Avon halted and stood for a moment, looking into space. "Oh, I don't think so," he said quietly.
"No." Lynx's lip curled briefly in contempt. "Perhaps not. Vila liked Blake, didn't he."
***
"Not me," said Tarrant, looking a bit shamefaced. "Vila never trusted me."
Lynx frowned at him. "Why not?"
Tarrant shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "I almost got him killed once, not that it was intentional like when A— It's not something you forget in a hurry, I suppose." He flashed a nervous smile.
"Would Vila trust Soolin?"
"I don't know. Perhaps." Tarrant shrugged. "As far as I know she never gave him any reason not to."
Lynx looked disapproving. "And I suppose that amounts to a close friendship with you lot?"
"Well, Vila didn't exactly fit in." Seeing the look on Lynx's face, Tarrant felt the need to defend himself. "Look, I'm a Federation officer, and frankly, none of them were ideal crew. We did the best we could with what we had." He smiled and kept smiling until Lynx had left.
He sat back, appalled. Whatever had possessed him to use the present tense?
***
Lynx found Soolin also in her room, and awake now. She was sitting by her window, head bowed, blunt-cut chin-length blonde hair falling forwards. She looked tired, pale, and depressed. As Lynx explained the situation however, she slowly looked up.
"... so we think Vila might respond to someone he likes and trusts," Lynx finished.
"And that's me?"
"I don't think there's anyone else."
"Oh. I can't say we were friends, but..." Soolin started to push her hair back, then thought better of it and stood up. "All right. I'll give it a try."
That was then
Soolin sat beside Vila's bed. He looked very like that time she and Dayna had found him, dead drunk—almost literally—after that shuttle incident. He'd never really recovered from that. In fact, he'd been so depressed, they had both made an effort never to leave him alone for too long, and had tried to cheer him up by getting out some of Dorian's games to play with him. Even then, she couldn't remember him smiling again. No, that was wrong. He had, just once, on the way to GP when he realised Avon had found Blake.
He'd liked Blake, she knew that. He must have believed things would be all right if they found Blake. It must have crushed the last of what little hope he had left to see Avon shoot him down.
She wondered where Vila was now. He had mentioned 'running away in his head' during the attempts they had made to reprogram him. He said he went to 'a safe place'. Was he there now, or just lost?
The good memories were further apart now. It was harder to find one untainted by fear, sadness, or loneliness. Maybe he could pick the best moments and string them all together like shining jewels on a necklace.
Blake saying, "Good, Vila. Very good." Him and Blake, that time on Centero, working together like a team, Blake saying, "Nice going," the amusement in his eyes at Vila's jokes. Blake telling Avalon's man, "He knows his job." Blake saying he trusted Vila with that explosive collar, agreeing he was a genius.
Jenna sharing a joke on the London, Jenna smiling and waving goodbye on the teleport bay. Not much, but you take what you can get.
Gan, well, Gan just being there. Knew where you were with Gan. Sitting quietly with him on the flight deck or in the rest room, no need to impress or amuse, just at ease and comfortable with each other. Gan grinning at his jokes, telling him about Zephron, bringing him a drink when he was tired. Gan, solid, dependable, like a rock. Rock salt of the earth.
Avon... he hesitated. Yes, Avon too. Playing chess with Avon, chatting to him while he worked, the sudden warmth in his eyes... or had he imagined that? Avon saying, "Well done, Vila," and "I'm impressed," and "Welcome back, Vila." All right, so long as he didn't think too much about the circumstances. Avon smiling at him after he and Orac confused that giant brain—just as if he really liked him. That was a good one.
Cally's face lit up with delight when she found him on Chenga. Cally happy to see him when he and Kerril stepped out of that 'vault'. Cally laughing as Vila chased her off the flight deck.
Kerril hugging him, Kerril smiling at him admiringly, Kerril in that long golden afternoon when for several magical hours he was wanted and loved...
"Speak to him," said the blond man called Carnell.
Soolin cleared her throat. "Vila?"
... Dayna leaning over him, her eyes concerned instead of mocking, dabbing gently at his forehead. Thought he'd died and gone to heaven. Dayna laughing, flash-flash-flash, one picture after another, laughing at him half the time, but she was a joy to look at, so alive, so full of energy...
"Vila?"
Soolin.
Soolin sitting opposite him, smiling slightly, raising her glass. Was that a good memory? Bittersweet anyway. Lovely Soolin, let me pretend you're my friend...
Vila showed no sign of hearing her, but Eldine, peering at the readouts on the display over his head, said, "There's a reaction! A definite response to your voice. Try again."
Soolin leaned forward. "Vila? It's Soolin." She waited, holding her breath.
"Keep talking."
Soolin looked at Eldine and Carnell and Lynx, all standing there expectantly. What was she supposed to say, especially with them listening?
Carnell, understanding, stepped back, and motioned the others away. "We'll be just outside if you need us," he said. "Just talk to him, tell him he's safe."
Soolin watched them file out, then looked at the smoked glass window beside the door. She knew that behind it was the observation station used to monitor the intensive care rooms, and that they were all probably there, still watching. She changed her position and inclined her head so that they could not see her face. This was something private, and she was particularly wary of that Carnell with his charming smile and watchful eyes. The less people knew of her the better, especially him.
She looked at Vila, and remembered.
The first time she had met him, she hadn't thought much of him. About the only thing she'd noticed about him before dismissing him as harmless was the appreciative look he'd given her—and it would have been noteworthy only if he hadn't—and the fact that he'd downed the extra drink on her tray, joking but looking like he needed it
After Dorian's death, she had hidden, watching them all through Dorian's surveillance system, installed long ago to watch his 'guests'. She had been angry with herself for staying with Dorian, intrigued by his charisma and mystery, and she wanted to make sure of this new group before she joined them—or decided to abandon them to their fate. Pity she didn't know how to get into the landing bay.
She had seen Vila drunk in his room with silent tears running down his cheeks; Avon still and alone in his, his face dark and thunderous; Dayna sullen and coiled tight like a spring; and Tarrant frustrated and throwing himself into action, perhaps to avoid thinking. She wondered about the missing member of the crew and just how cohesive this lot were. Dorian had said they were bonded by what they had been through together, but she couldn't see much evidence of that.
She had listened, amused, when Vila talked to Pella. So he was a thief from an early age, a hardened criminal. Well, perhaps not so hardened. So soft in fact that Pella was abnormally friendly to him, even going so far as to apologise. And why not? He was not exactly the threat Pella—and Soolin—usually regarded men as.
'Harmless' Vila had said to Arlen. And harmless and useless Soolin had considered him back then, so it was to him, forlornly abandoned by the teleport, that she had revealed herself.
It was only a couple of days later that she began to realise there was more to him.
The food stores were low, and to tide them over till they did a supply run to Onus 2, they had harvested and brought back all the ripe fruit and vegetables in the Seska greenhouses. Vila had kept up a running list of complaints during the trips to and fro, muttering about the weight of his loads, the flatness of his feet and the weakness of his chest, so Soolin was surprised when she saw him coming back later with a tray of soil.
She followed him to the kitchen, where he set it down in a corner of the bench, then crouched down and peered at it, his eyes level with the top.
Soolin folded her arms and leant against the wall. "You know, Vila, your obsession with that tray of dirt is beginning to bother me a little."
Startled, Vila jumped up and gave her a wide-eyed earnest look. "I've got the makings of a dozen wheat fields here." He poked at the soil. "If I can get them to germinate."
"I don't see you as the back-to-nature type somehow," Soolin said dryly.
"If we're going to be here as long as Avon reckons, then we might as well be comfortable." Vila looked wistful. "I keep dreaming about toast."
"Toast?"
"A delicacy!" Vila kissed his fingertips.
Soolin rolled her eyes. "I know what it is. And we do have bread you know, in the freezer."
"I know." Vila shot her a sly look, then opened a cupboard and with a flourish removed a loaf.
Despite herself, Soolin laughed. "You were joking all along!"
Vila grinned. "All I need is a mill and a bakery and a few slaves to do the work."
Shaking her head, Soolin sat down at the table and rested her chin on her hands. She was willing to bet Tarrant and Dayna would have taken his foolishness at face value. "So, what's really in the tray then?"
"Dunno. Could be tomatoes or chillies or potatoes or wheat. I've never watched anything grow before, thought it might be interesting." He smiled. "Might even be something pretty, like flowers."
"I doubt it. Flowers aren't very useful."
"No. You never know, though." Sighing, Vila took a bread knife from a drawer. "Want some toast? I can do you cheese, cheese and onion, cheese and tomato—"
"Just buttered, thanks."
"Ah. That's how my mum used to make it," Vila said dreamily. "Reminds me of home." Soolin's face became cold and shuttered, but Vila, engaged in slicing, was oblivious. Speaking of which, where's yours?" he continued. "Home, I mean."
"Darlon 4," Soolin said stiffly. And it was true enough; that was where she had spent her first two years.
"Oh? Still got family there?" Vila slid the bread under the grill.
"They were all murdered."
That was usually enough to forestall any further enquiries. People either said they were sorry—hypocrites—or they changed the subject, either too embarrassed or put off by Soolin's manner to pursue it.
Vila stared at her, his soft brown eyes sympathetic. "Oh. I'm sorry."
True to form, though he really did sound as if he meant it; most didn't. "Why?" Soolin folded her arms. "You didn't know them."
"Maybe not, but I know what it's like to lose someone."
So what? So did most people. But then he said something so unexpected and wonderful and right.
"What were they like? Tell me about them so there'll be someone else to remember them."
For a moment, Soolin was unable to speak through her suddenly tight throat. She stood up, composing herself. "Another time perhaps." She turned and left. Her last glimpse was of Vila standing there with the butter in one hand, a slice of toast in the other, and a chagrined look on his face.
Soolin did not remember the anniversary of her family's murder. It was not a date she had ever committed to memory, and it usually passed unnoticed.
Her birthday however was another matter. This time it fell not long after the debacle of Dayna's old tutor.
The whole thing had been odd. Dayna couldn't have been older than fifteen, if that, when she first met Justin, so what had it been? A childhood crush? Tarrant had seemed slightly annoyed about it, but Soolin had never figured out whether there had been anything between them, or whether Tarrant just wished there were. She had nothing to go on but what she saw, and the little she had learned before Dorian's surveillance on the private quarters had been altered to a normal comms link. Probably by Avon or Vila, going by their technical expertise. A pity. She liked to know where allegiances and rifts lay so that she could plan accordingly.
She had sat, apart and detached, on the flight deck after they teleported back from Bucol 2, watching them all. Dayna had been sobbing uncontrollably, Avon looked exasperated and angry at her weakness, Tarrant was concentrating a little too hard on setting the course back, and Soolin certainly wasn't going to do anything; in Dayna's position, she would rather be left alone. But then Vila had got up, gone to Dayna, knelt beside her, and silently put his arms around her. Dayna had stiffened, then slowly her arms had gone around him, and she had cried on his shoulder like a heart-broken child while Vila rocked her gently. Soolin had looked away, obscurely angry with herself. Idiots, both of them. You didn't survive by being soft.
And not long after, it was her birthday month. The day itself fell on the 15th, but just as the excitement had built up from the beginning of the month when she was a child, so the sadness would take hold then, every year since the killings. She had withdrawn, spent more time on her own—though she doubted anyone had noticed—wishing she could forget the memories, wishing they did not hurt so much.
She used to search the house for presents, paw at them to feel the shape under the wrapping, shake them with her ear to them, weigh them in her hands, trying to guess what they'd bought or made for her. Big sister Ilka had laughed, saying, "Stupid girl! Why d'you want to spoil the surprise? That's the best part!" But Soolin had enjoyed wondering what the gifts were, gathering clues, trying to build up a picture. If she'd really wanted to know, she could have unwrapped them and resealed them. Ilka and Mummy and Daddy had taken to hiding them in more and more difficult places, out in the barns, in the attic inside chests, on the highest shelves in the pantry. Had it been just to thwart her, or had they enjoyed the game too? Now Soolin would never know.
Then her birthday came, here on this sterile underground base. She had stayed in her room and missed breakfast. No one had come to find out where she was; had they even noticed? She missed lunch too, curled up on her bed, reliving all the family parties: birthdays, Harvest, the Green Festival of Light, New Year, spring planting...
There was a knock on her door. It wasn't hard to guess who it would be, given the scene on board ship after Justin died. All the same, she asked.
"Who is it?"
"Vila."
"Go away."
"No. Not till I know you're all right."
"Just go away."
There was a pause, then another knock. Grimly, Soolin got up, opened the door, and glared at him.
"You all right?"
"I will be tomorrow." Soolin leant against the doorway, arms folded.
Vila looked nervous. "Look, I know you're upset, have been for days. You could, um, tell me about it. Never know, it might help."
"Oh, you think so, do you?" Soolin snapped, and so, briefly, did her self-control. "And what would you understand about how I feel, with my whole family murdered and burned? Have you any idea what that's like, and having to survive on your own at eight?" She bit her lip and looked away. Damn! What had possessed her? Too much wallowing was not good for one's restraint.
Vila looked as if he had been slapped, but stood his ground. "I do, actually. Well, I mean, I don't know, but I do know