Fusion Reaction

By: CindyR

Fandom: Blake's 7

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This story follows the events detailed in the story Whom the Gods Destroy. It is recommended that you read that one first.

Fusion Reaction

By CindyR

Hurts. Oh, God, it hurts. Hard … to breathe. Why? What’s—?

***

What happened? I must have passed out again. Mustn’t move. They must not know … I’m awake yet. Yes … that’s it, just through the lashes. I—

Where am I? I … can’t seem to … remember. Someone’s coming. Good. Now I can at least see them.

Oh, my--! Bl-Blake?! It’s Blake? But … Blake … is….

***

"Roj, I think he's starting to wake up '"

Blake snapped out of the light half-sleep into which he'd dropped, and struggled to his feet. He was so tired. The quick evac from Gauda Prime, the long hours waiting for Avon to recover consciousness, coupled with his own still-healing injuries, were starting to take a heavy toll on his already diminished strength. When was the last time he'd slept? He had been unconscious, yes, but asleep? Yesterday? The day before, perhaps.

Come on, Avon, Blake thought, open your eyes. Tell me this was all some horrible mistake. Make me understand you're not the mad dog the stories make you out to be.

Blake moved quickly to the side of the narrow cot, then stood looking down at the unconscious man. I have heard the stories, my friend. I know you're … not well. But please open your eyes and tell me there's at least a chance. I need some hope now, Avon. Please.

Blake scrubbed tired brown eyes roughly. Has it only been -- what? -- thirty-six hours since I first met Arlen? Lousy Federation spy cost me a lot of good people -- a lot of friends. I don't know how I'll ever replace Jaron. He was the best space-drive engineer this side of Caprica. And Deva … God, Deva. I've known ...knew him over twenty years. We started the Freedom Party together. I know his wife, his children. How am I ever going to be able to tell them what happened? I’ll miss you, old friend. Just like I’ll miss...

Oh, Vila. I' m so sorry. If only I hadn't let you find me. If only I'd been more careful about Arlen. If only...

Mischievous brown eyes seemed to wink at him, a merry chuckle sounded in his ears. Vila. There had been no smile on Vila's lips when they met on Gauda Prime; no welcome in those brown eyes. He died thinking me a traitor, Blake thought sadly. Thinking that I'd sold him out too. The Vila Restal I used to know would have believed better of me. What happened to you, Vila? What made you, of all people, ready to believe a friend capable of such betrayal?

Blake closed his eyes, attempting to shut out the ghosts which danced in front of him, but they only moved behind his eyelids. Eight shots echoed within his skull -- the first one nearly killed Avon on the spot: God alone knew how he survived long enough for Blake to get him to the auxiliary base and medical attention. Then seven more shots -- insurance against any one of Blake's people surviving the massacre. Vila, Deva, Klyn, Tarrant, those two women of Avon's -- then Arlen. Blake felt a surge of hatred for the small, impish woman; sorry she had died so quickly and easily. She had cost him heavily -- friends, companions. There were so few left to him, no one close to him at all, except Jack, of course. He had known Jack Sullivan since he was a child -- good friend to have. He still had Jack and...

He opened his eyes, forcing away the ghosts temporarily. How much of you do I have back, Avon? And why can't I hate you for what you did? You tried to kill me! I ... but I can't hate you because if I do I have nothing left.

Nothing. Blake sat down heavily on the side of the cot. So empty inside. So ... so cold and empty. Nothing left? Nothing but you, Avon, and so little left of you.

If I'd never heard those stories about you -- never heard that you’d become homicidal -- a psychopathic killer -- would I have handled you differently? Would I have said the right words to reach you? Been able to give you whatever it was you needed hear? And would it have made a difference?

It was the stories. Please understand -- I had to test you; test you all. There are hundreds of lives depending on me; relying on me to make the right decisions. If you and your crew were what they said you were, I couldn't risk the rest of my people. Not even for you, my Avon. Not ...even for ... you. The rebel clenched his teeth, fighting down a tidal wave of despair. Is there nothing left for me at all?

"He’s slipping off again, Roj," Sullivan reported from the monitor. "He was awake for a minute, but..."

"Avon, wake up." Blake reached down, touching the other's face gently, careful not to jar the heavy bandages which swathed Avon's entire right shoulder and chest. "Avon." Midnight black eyes snapped open, wild terror evident in their depths. Avon cringed away from the hand touching his cheek, the movement forcing a whimper of pain between clenched teeth. "Easy, Avon, don't try to move," Blake soothed, "You're safe now. Safe." The words had no effect on the almost palpable fear exuded by the other. Another flinching movement, another low cry of pain and Blake stepped back, confused and frightened by the man's anxious gasping for breath. "Jack! Jack, he can’t breathe! Do something!"

Sullivan hurried to his side, a spray hypo in hand. "Pain killer and tranquilizer. It'll stop him from--"

'"No." The cry was a hoarse whisper, barely audible, but so filled with agony and terror that both men instinctively froze.

"I’m a doctor." Sullivan collected himself with an effort. "I’m not going to hurt you. This will only take the pain away. Do you understand?"

The dilated black eyes stared wildly around the room seeking escape. Reading his companion well, Blake moved quickly, one hand firmly grasping the uninjured shoulder, the other across the man's waist. "Come on, Jack, hurry up!"

Avon screamed then, something gasping, primal, animal, and Blake was hard pressed not to pull away in alarm. He held on grimly until the hypo plunged home and the near-silent scream faded into a series of hoarse whimpers and then finally silence. Blake slowly released the now quiescent body, allowing Sullivan to draw him to his feet. His own wounds were barely regenerated, his strength still uncertain.

"Easy, Roj. Here, sit down. Breathe deeply… Good. Again… Right. How do you feel?"

"He didn't know me, Jack." Blake’s mind whirled, "l … don’t think he even knew me."

"Come on, easy, Roj. Drink this."

The soothing words and tranquilizing drink eventually had their desired effect and the quaking in Blake's body subsided to a mild tremor. The rebel leader slumped heavily in the physician’s chair while turning worried eyes up to the man who was both his oldest friend and Chief Medical Officer. "I was right, wasn't I?" Blake's words were far calmer than were his thoughts. "He really is …mad." Nothing left to me. Nothing left. . . Nothing . . .

Sullivan hesitated, searching the other's face while replacing the now empty glass on the desk. "I think you knew that the first time you laid eyes on him. Didn't you?" Blake, dropped his eyes. "Yes, I can see you did. You knew that when you brought him here."

"What do you think I should have done with him?" Defensive anger ignited two spots of color on the rebel's pale face. "You think I should have killed him then? Is that what you think?"

"I think you’d better consider well before you give him access to your computer and defense systems." The stout man shook a finger in the rebel’s face, "And I’ll tell you something else, too, since you're soliciting my opinion."

"Sarcasm doesn't become you, Jack," Blake muttered acidly, threading his fingers through his curly hair..

"Maybe not," Sullivan smiled humorlessly, "but you’d better listen to me anyway, my friend. This man is dangerous, perhaps uncontrollable, and I want you to think long and hard before you turn him loose among the people here on Keeva." He circled the chair until he could face the rebel leader directly. "They're scientists, not soldiers. There's a very good chance he’ll kill someone if he escapes confinement."

Blake fingered the ragged scar on his face, tracing it from hairline to jaw. "You mean there’s a good chance he’ll kill me."

"I mean especially you." Sullivan's hand rested lightly on Blake's shoulder, his grip familiar. "I also think he's your friend and you're going to do the right thing by him."

"The right thing?" Blake shrugged off the hand and rose to pace restlessly. "What is the right thing? I'm not sure anymore. It was so easy, back on Gauda Prime. I'd bring him here: his shoulder and lungs would heal and he could work here safe -- for as long as was needed. But--"

"But now you're not so sure you can control him, are you?" Sullivan ran one hand through his thinning, silver hair, making it stand up in two directions. "I'm no psychologist, Roj. I don't know what to tell you. But I've arranged for Dr. Marsden to meet us here to consult. She’s been counseling some of the displaced families on Gammon IV and should be here by morning."

"Marsden? Hmmm. Yes, I think I met her once. Imposing old bird."

"Dr. Marsden," Sullivan interposed sternly, "is an excellent psychiatrist. If anyone can help your friend, she can. That is, assuming you still want to?"

Blake's eyes hardened. "What do you mean by that?"

Sullivan looked away though his stance was apologetic and forthright at once.. "It’s going to take time -- a lot of time, Roj. That is, assuming he can be helped at all. Time away from the Rebellion, and he-he's dangerous. He tried, well, blast it all, he tried to kill you! Or did you forget that?"

Blake unconsciously touched the new skin on his chest and stomach through his brown tunic. "I haven't forgotten anything, Jack."

"No, I don't suppose you have." Sullivan shot him a keen look, gauging the rebel's thoughts and emotions in that single all-encompassing glance. "All right, Roj, I know what he means to you. I'll set up some security measures, and when Dr. Marsden gets here, she'll be better able to evaluate his mental condition. In the meantime, I'm going to have to immobilize him as much as possible. It took me six hours to restructure his shoulder, such as it is, and it's going to take him about thirty seconds to undo it all if he's left unrestrained. Not to mention his lungs."

"But you said they were regenerated," Blake protested.

"I said they were regenerating. The right one was pretty well destroyed and the left one was badly injured as well. It takes time for damage that massive to repair itself, my friend."

There was a brief silence while the younger man digested the information, his brown eyes growing sad. "Will he always have that much trouble breathing?"

Sullivan paused, then met Blake's gaze unflinchingly. "Roj, you mustn't equate the human body with some kind of a mechanical construct. You cannot totally destroy parts of it and simply insert spares. You're going to have to deal with the fact that some injuries leave permanent effect."

Blake winced slightly. "I know, Jack. You told me his shoulder was broken badly..."

"The man's shoulder was shattered, Roj," Sullivan corrected. "I've put it into some semblance of what a shoulder should look like, but that's about the best I -- or anyone else -- can do. He'll regain some use of his arm and hand, but he'll never have the mobility he used to have. There was just too much damage for that. The lungs were badly seared by the laser as well. It traveled down from the shoulder and clavicle into the upper right lung; shock and hemorrhage damaged the lower right and upper left lobes. I've repaired most of the less-damaged left already, but the right lung will never work the way it's supposed to."

"He's not in any danger from it?" the other pursued, some note of desperation entering his voice that softened the tones of the other.

"Well, he won't exactly be as good as new," Sullivan admitted with a clap on the shoulder, "but once it's started functioning again he should be able to lead a fairly normal life, provided he's sensible and doesn't exert himself too much. He'll have chronic pain in his shoulder the rest of his life, I'm afraid, but I can prescribe some medication to handle that."

The words were meant to be encouraging, but Blake heard them through a veil of despair. Vulnerability would not set well with the difficult computer expert. Avon would perceive himself as crippled, dependent, a situation which that independent spirit would find intolerable.

The depression washed over him again. He moved closer to the bedside, stood gazing down at the ashen face of the man who had somehow become as close to family as Blake felt himself ever likely to have again. He reached dawn to touch the dark hair gently, hesitantly, as though afraid even a breath would shatter the man, fragile as glass. Avon stirred slightly under the touch, turning his face into the warm hand. "Sleep well, brother," Blake whispered. "You're safe now. You'll always be safe -- with me."

***

I can’t move. Can’t … think. Still hurts. I--

B-Blake? I saw… No, I couldn’t have. Blake is dead. Dead. Blake is …

Then how…? It’s so hard to think. What have they done to me? Light hurts my eyes. Have to open my eyes. I need to know.

Surgical unit. Straps – that’s why I can’ move. So I’m a prisoner. It hurts. My … chest. Can’t … breathe. What have they done to me?

No. Can’t breathe. C-cant’….

Who…? A doctor. No, don’t touch me! No more drugs. I— I …. It’s him! Can’t be. He’s dead. I’m a prisoner. Trick, it’s all a trick. I’ll kill you. Kill you all!

Blake, please help me!

Easier to breathe. Can’t think. So … tired….

***

"Dr. Elsa Marsden -- Roj Blake."

Short, plump and beginning to wrinkle heavily around the eyes and mouth, Dr. Marsden accepted Blake's hand reluctantly, as though he were offering her a live snake instead, "I’ve heard of you, Blake," she said curtly. "Many of the families I work with speak of you."

"Do they?" Blake responded vaguely. He studied her openly, summing the woman up. Dr. Elsa Marsden was short, stout and considered a brilliant socio-psychoanalyst. The gruff exterior concealed a mind piercingly quick; intuitively understanding the-face-behind-the-face most people present to the world. Cool grey eyes accepted and returned Blake's examination, and Blake was struck with the uncomfortable feeling that the woman had learned far more about him than he had about her. What was it Jenna once said? 'To be totally known.' She had found it a joyous experience. Blake only felt wary and uneasy. It took him a moment to realize that Jack Sullivan was speaking again. "What?"

"I said why don't you tell Dr. Marsden what you know about Avon so she'll be prepared when she meets him?"

"No." Marsden shook her head. "I'd prefer to meet the patient first; get an unbiased impression of his mental/emotional responses before I begin to gather data on him. What is his name again? Kerr?"

"Kerr Avon," Blake answered, leading the way to the door. "He prefers to be called Avon."

She preceded him into the hall then stepped aside to let him pass. "I'd prefer to see Avon first."

"As you wish, Doctor." Blake led the way down the hallway toward the small security section of the sick bay. He was dimly aware of Marsden and Sullivan talking behind him.

"You should be aware, Dr. Marsden, that the subject is considered violent, possibly homicidal. You'll find him under restraints in a high security lock-up." As if he were some kind of animal, Blake thought irritably.

The woman paused mid-step to stare at her fellow physician before resuming the trip. "Locked up and restrained? Jack, how dangerous is this man?"

The note of apology returned to Sullivan’s gruff tone though there was no bend in his words. "I’m afraid it's necessary. Serious injuries make it imperative that we keep the patient immobile for the next several days."

"That's going to make it more difficult, especially if he’s been interrogated or tortured in the past. Has he? ''

That last was directed to Blake. "Yes," he returned after a moment. "At least twice. First, at the time of his arrest four years ago. The second, five days under Federation torture, was last year."

"I never heard about that." "How did you find out, Roj?" Sullivan's voice was immediately sympathetic, moved to pity for anyone 'questioned' by those butchers in Security.

The other lifted one shoulder. "I told you I've heard, reports, rumors. Once Avon's identity was discovered, the story spread like nuclear fire through the underground. They say he was out to avenge a woman's death."

"Hmmm." Marsden digested the information, reminding Blake for all the world of a computer; of ...Avon.

"Here we are, Doctor." A technician dampened the force field barrier, reinstating it after the trio had entered. They now could be released only by the medic/guard watching the monitors without. Blake had far too much respect for Avon's skills than to take chances with him.

Stiffening his back, and his resolve, Blake stepped forward to greet the glittering, mad eyes of the man who had once been called 'friend.'

***

Someone is coming. Who … can’t see. I can’t … uh, it hurts to move. Have to try. Can’t lie here … not helpless … not again.

They’re coming. Shrinker? Is it Shrinker again? No more … please … no more.

No, it’s for Anna. Have to hold out for An-- But she’s dead, too. I remember that.

Who? A woman? Who’s-- What’s she saying? Dr. … a psychologist? Of course! A psycho-strategist! Who else would she be? I won’t tell her anything. Try your best … I didn’t tell you anything before…. Won’t tell you … No more. Please, don’t …

Bl-Blake. Please help me. I—

Blake? You’re dead!

Trick. Servalan’s trick. Not this time, Servalan. Not this time. Not—

***

The three conferred later that day, nursing glasses of the contraband brandy Sullivan had been saving. Dr. Marsden sat back wearily, stretching her short legs out in front of her. "Ah, I haven't had real brandy in years, Sullivan. Where ever did you find it?"

The white haired man smacked his lips noisily. "Trader from Alderberon. He brought us supplies a couple months ago and I talked him into sharing some of his...er, 'special' cargo. Cost me a bundle."

"I’ll bet. Worth it though."

"What about Avon?" Blake broke in impatiently, his own drink sitting untouched on the desk.

Marsden shot the rebel a knowing look. "Close friend of yours, was he?"

Blake met that look squarely. "Yes."

"Good." She nodded approvingly. "Most important factor in the treatment of the mentally ill…" Blake winced at the term. "…is support from family and friends. Think of me as a guide," she gestured slightly, "but only as a guide. The actual work is going to have to be done by the patient, himself. Assistance from those he cares about can prove invaluable as the treatment continues.

"From the preliminary exam and from what you've told me already, I'd say the man is a paranoid schizophrenia," she went on curtly. "The breakdown was probably quite a while in coming. I wonder why his former companions didn't seek psychiatric help for him before it progressed to this stage." Yes, Vila, why, Blake wandered. "He must have been telegraphing danger signals for months at least."

"That's a pretty fast diagnosis, Doctor." Sullivan cocked his head inquiringly. "How could you determine so much when he never even said a word or responded to any of your questions?"

"That's a tentative diagnosis, Dr. Sullivan," Marsden protested with some asperity. "If you doubt my abilities..."

"No, no." Sullivan turned on his not inconsiderable charm, striving to soothe the ruffled feathers. "I was only curious as to your technique." Marsden was seemingly placated, but Blake had the oddest feeling that the woman wasn't really insulted, merely testing, probing the personalities of the men with her as a surgeon might test the tools he plans to operate with. For some reason the thought gave Blake confidence.

"You may have noticed," she sniffed, "I asked the patient..."

"Avon."

"What?"

"His name is Avon." Blake was growing tired of the impersonal references to his friend.

Marsden stared at him for a beat, then continued as if he’d not spoken. "...questions on several subjects."

"He didn't answer any of them."

"Oh, yes he did." The woman looked pleased with herself. "Not verbally, perhaps, but his reactions were quite clear. You'll have noticed that I checked the function indicators with each question; heartbeat, blood pressure, brain wave activity. I was able to tell which subjects agitated the pa-- Avon the most, revealing weak points in his psychological make-up."

"Which subjects did ‘agitate' him the most?" Sullivan asked with professional curiosity.

"You did, Blake." Marsden renewed her study of the rebel leader over the rim of her glass. "Just seeing you threw the indicators right off the scale."

"Did … did Jack tell you about...?"

"Gauda Prime? He told me. But why don’t you tell me anyway? I'd like to hear your version."

Blake took a deep breath. He didn't want to talk about Gauda Prime. Didn't want to remember it. His mind shied away from the subject, but he forced it to return with iron brutality. "Gauda Prime," he repeated slowly. "I was running a cover operation there, playing the part of a bounty hunter. I'd bring in a few recruits that way, not many, but a few. Mostly, the base allowed liaison with non-affiliated agents, contacts we couldn't entirely trust deeper in the organization. Everyone who ever progressed to the next security level had been thoroughly tested. We allowed no one who didn't pass to learn that there was more to Alpha base than met the eye."

"I was in the field when Scorpio, that, was the name of Avon's ship, crashed. I found a member of the crew, Del Tarrant, in the wreck. I knew who he was, of course. Avon's never made a secret out of his movements."

"So you decided to test this Tarrant?" she asked, pushing her glass toward Sullivan, who promptly refilled it.

"I had to!" Blake turned pleading eyes toward the carefully neutral woman. "Don't you see? I'd heard what these people were like -- heard what Avon was like. They say he was mad -- out of control! How could I know that the rest of his crew weren't criminals as well? I have the responsibility to safeguard hundreds of lives. I had to be sure."

Marsden's impassive mien never changed an iota, even before this impassioned speech. "Of course," she murmured.

How can her voice be soothing, encouraging and gruff all at one time, Blake wondered idly. Then he dismissed the thought and went on with his story. "I was testing Tarrant... he escaped, told Avon I was betraying him, turning them all in for the bounty. Avon ...shot me..."

"You seem to have made a rather remarkable recovery," the woman noted wryly, "or is this man that bad a shot?"

the rebel scratched at his chest and the still healing skin. "Body armor. I'm not a total fool."

"Hmmm." She shrugged noncommittally. "You said Avon shot you. Describe it."

Resentment flared. "Describe--? What do you want, Doctor, all those gruesome, little details, is that right? Shall I tell you what it was like to face a man I hadn't seen in over two years -- a friend -- to look into his eyes and see my own death? Because that's exactly what I did see, Doctor, my own death . . . and his."

"Ah." Marsden leaned forward, ghoulishly, Blake thought. "His death as well, you say? Then you didn't get the impression that this was an emotionless experience for him? It was instinctual, rather than calculated?"

Blake laughed, a humorless rumble deep in his chest. Sullivan leaned forward, resting a firm hand on the other man s shoulder, sympathy glowing in the crystal blue eyes. "Easy, Roj. She has to know everything she can if she's going to help Avon."

Blake regained control with an effort. "I know, Jack. To answer your question, Doctor, if there's one thing this whole experience hasn't been, it's emotionless. For either of us." He stared at his hand, opening and closing the fist tightly. "I’ve never seen him like that," the rebel went on wonderingly. "He was so desperate, so ... out of control. He ...I knew then that something inside of him had... broken."

"I tell you, Doctor," Blake continued after a minute, "when I say I saw both our deaths in his eyes, that's exactly what I mean. He wanted to die, then and there, and then the Federation burst in. He didn't even try to escape or surrender. Just welcomed them, welcomed dying. He would have died then, if not for me."

"So, he's suicidal as well," the other murmured thoughtfully. "Bad combination to treat."

"Can you help him, Dr. Marsden?" The pleading note had crept back unnoticed into Blake's voice, softening even Marsden's stern mien.

"I’m sure we can accomplish something, Blake. The hard part will be convincing him that all of this is real, not some kind of Federation trick. Those interrogations he's endured in the past are going to make it difficult; worse, since we’re going to have to watch him every minute to prevent him hurting someone or even himself. Security measures don’t sit well with a paranoid personality. I do have some medication which will make him more suggestible to the treatment; it’ll break down his barriers a bit, allow him to see beyond the reality he's built for himself. And, of course, suppressants to control any violent tendencies."

''You should know that they've tried drugs on Avon before. He’s unusually resistant to them."

''No one can resist forever, Blake. You of all people should know that. " Blake shot her an irritated glare. He did know that, blast her, and how well he did know that. "One last thing," Dr Marsden went on. ''How much help can I expect from you? Breaking through to this man could be time consuming, and I understand you have other duties."

"Other duties?" For a single instant Blake hated his 'Cause' and wanted to give it up -- give all of it up -- and just rest. By the seven ancient gods, he was so tired. The moment passed quickly as it had come, and the rebel leader was in control again. "I do have other duties, some of them quite crucial to the resistance. Most of them can be handled right here on Keeva. The rest, most of the rest, I can delegate to my lieutenants. I’ll assign Avalon to that supply problem and...." He trailed off wearily. "Don't worry, Doctor, I'll be there when Avon needs me. At least, as much as I can."

"Make up your mind, Mister." The acid was back in the woman's voice. "Either you'll be there or you won t. He can either trust you or he can t. You decide."

"Other lives are at stake, Doctor." Blake's expression was stone. "I’ll do what I can. "

"Fine. And I’ll do what I can to put that man back together. With you or over you, Blake."

Blake found himself smiling irresistibly at the woman and, after a heartbeat, she reluctantly smiled back. If anyone could-help his Avon, it was this irascible, abrasive little psychologist, Blake thought, and for the first time in a long, long while, he felt a glimmer of hope.

***

Here he comes again, the man with Blake’s face. Haven’t they finished that game yet? Servalan must know by now it won’t work. Why do they…? Of course, they must think I don’t remember what … … what happened to Blake.

I should kill him. I-I can kill him. I … He’s got Blake’s face. The blood….

***

What happened? Why is he … shaking me? I … it hurts, you fool. Leave me alone.

Funny, I never noticed how tired he looks. How worried. About me? No, of course not. Why would he be worried about me? About failing, no doubt. Servalan will punish him for failure, poor fool. Got to remember he’s not really—

What? What did he say? How did he know? No one knew that but….

Bl-Blake? Could it really be…? No. Stop it. It’s a trick. I know it is. A trick.

He’s going. I… Gone. I did want him to go … didn’t I? But at least he’s better than another session with that fool woman.

Maybe he’ll … come back … later?

***

"Blake? I asked you where you wanted the supply exchange made."

Blake snapped back to attention, gradually becoming aware that all eyes were fixed upon him. With an effort he brought his concentration back to bear on the matter at hand. "I’m sorry Pax. The … uh, exchange. We're going to make a direct rendezvous this time. Ships will converge on these coordinates." Blake punched some numbers into the terminal in front of him and a starscape appeared above the table, gridded and labeled. "K'Tar's ship will be broadcasting on an extremely low-frequency band. You won’t be able to pick them up until you're within a thousand spacials. Home in and follow him to the prearranged drop point. Load and return as quickly as possible. Some of those supplies are parts for the defense computer system."

"Right." Pax pocketed a computer disk copy of the time-space coordinates. "You've already arranged payment for this shipment?"

"Done. Avalon will transfer payment after I decided the supplies are acceptable. I'm not taking a chance on paying for defective goods again."

Pax ran a hand through his thick red beard. "That was bad. Lost us a lot of money."

"And lives. I won’t allow that to happen again."

There was a pause while the man regarded his leader through lowered lashes. "You're sure Avalon will pass on that much money?"

In the act of turning off the star maps, Blake turned to stare at the older man with drawn brows. "Of course she will. Why wouldn't she?"

Pax rubbed his beard again nervously, but met Blake's hard gaze directly enough. "She wasn't too happy when you took over Shamir's organization after he was killed. You know she expected to take over the number one spot. There are rumors she might split off on her own."

Blake sighed and slammed his hand home; the star map vanished. "In-fighting is not something we need. She'll do her job or I’ll replace her, that's all there is to it." He rubbed tired eyes, then sat back wearily. "Did you need anything else before you leave?"

"No." Pax hesitated, examining his leader with some concern. "You look exhausted, Roj. When was the last time you slept?"

A tired smile lit the rebel's features briefly, then disappeared. "I’ll be fine, my friend. Schedule’s just a little tight lately."

"Avon?"

"Avon." Blake rubbed his eyes again. "He's well enough to be out of bed for a while each day, so I've been spending as much time with him as I can, just talking mostly. Dr. Marsden said that that could be the most effective treatment for a while. She's giving him some drugs to break down his psychological barriers a bit -- make him more suggestible -- but it's a long, slow process. Man's stubborn as a jackass."

"You must have made an interesting combination then."

Blake, surprised by the quick smile on the other's normally dour lips, felt himself relax a bit. "We will be again. Dr. Marsden says all we need is a breach in just one of his defenses and the rest of his armor should crumble too. Just one..."

Pax almost-smiled again, resting a leathery hand on the rebel's shoulder. "It’ll come, Blake. Just like a break in the Federation's armor will come. We have to keep believing that."

"I do believe it -- I have to believe it. We've fought too long -- too hard to give up now."

Pax drew back a little, startled at the muted passion in his leader's voice. "Are you talking about the Rebellion? Or Kerr Avon?"

Blake smiled again, mirthlessly. "In some areas, my friend, we may be talking about the same thing."

***

Isn’t he here yet? It’s past time, I’m sure. Maybe he won’t come. But he always comes. He would have been here by now though, wouldn’t he?

He—It doesn’t matter. I don’t need him. He’s just … an amusement. I don’t care if he shows up or not.

Where is he? Wait … there he is! He did come. I knew you would … knew you’d come back ... Blake?

***

It was a clear, sunny day, so Blake had wheeled Avon out into the fresh air. This had become a habit for them of late, to sit outside when the weather permitted. Usually they would sit in shade of a large tree on the far side of the compound's enclosure. There Blake would chat on the Rebellion, his life, both on Earth and after he left Liberator. Blake talked about Jenna and how he had finally found the courage to express his feelings to her before she died. He discussed his hopes and dreams, the direction the Rebellion was taking and would take in the future.

Blake reminisced often, "...and that time you showed up on Horizon, gun blazing away! ...I have to laugh every time I remember..." There was never a reply, but an answering smile, deep in Avon's eyes, encouraged Blake to go on. To keep trying. To keep hoping.

Sometimes Blake would run out of words to say, feelings to express. Unlike Vila, he hadn't the capacity to chatter incessantly. Then a silence would descend. At one time it was an uncomfortable, wary silence; two predators eyeing each other nervously. Of late, however, the silences which stretched between them were more companionable, the warmth of a slowly re-establishing, if wary, trust.

Today, Blake headed for another part of the grounds, towards some tables that had been set up in the sun. On one of the tables sat a shrouded, box-like object, almost familiar, despite its concealing cover.

Blake wheeled the chair up near the table, meeting Avon's quizzical look with a sheepish grin. "Surprise for you. My men were exploring the ruins of my base on Gauda Prime and..." He whipped the light cover off with a flourish, never taking his eyes off the puzzled black ones of his friend.

"Orac!" Avon's voice was hoarse, rusty with disuse, but to Blake it sounded clear and sweet as bells. "You found Orac!" Avon stood shakily, one part of his mind amazed at the weakness in his legs, the other filled with the sight of that burned and broken plastiglass cube, now dully reflecting the sunlight. He took the necessary three steps, closing the distance between himself and the little computer, and reached out to touch it caressingly. He raised shining eyes to meet Blake's.

"My men stumbled across it in the ruins. They thought it might be important. Errr, don't you think you ought to sit down?" This last was in response to the suddenly labored breathing which afflicted the computer expert. Avon leaned heavily against the table, gasping for the now-elusive oxygen. "BI.-Blake!"

Blake snagged the front of the other’s brown jumpsuit just as his legs buckled, using the grip to ease him down onto a bench. "Easy, Avon. .Breathe deeply, ..slowly, ..easy does it;... Blake supported the other with gentle hands until Avon was able to breathe more easily; the thundering of his heart eventually slowing to more tolerable levels. Finally the blackness receded leaving Avon leaning back against Blake's bracing arm, too exhausted to pull away. When he was able to breathe more normally again, the computer tech forced himself erect, away from the gentle hands holding him; and propping himself against the table.

"All right, now?" The concern in Blake's voice broke through Avon's misery; his chest and shoulder ached abominably, as usual, and it was still hard to breathe. Avon gazed up at the other man, puzzled and vulnerable. "Blake?"

"Yes, Avon?"

"I need...to know about...Vila."

Blake reached out once again, placing a warm hand on the other's shoulder, encouraged when Avon didn't flinch away. "I 'm sorry. The Federation ...they invaded my base. Vila was killed in that first attack."

"I. . .remember him. . .failing. . .I think."

"He died quickly, Avon, without pain. My word on that."

There was a silence while this was digested. "The others?" It was getting hard to breathe again.

His distress must have been apparent to Blake, because the rebel tightened his grip, concern coloring his voice. "Are you all right? Perhaps you should rest now and ..." The black eyes met the brown once again, fleetingly; desperate with the need to know, causing Blake to relent instantly before their mute appeal. "The same. They all died in that first attack."

"Did you. ..check? Do you know they were...? If they've fallen into . . . Federation . . . hands . . . "

"I’m sure. They were dead."

The black eyes searched his face again, reading the surety, the incontrovertible truth. Then they slipped away, over bright with pain and grief; turning inward again. "No one left? No ...one. Alone . ..I..."

"No. " Blake tightened his grip almost brutally on the uninjured shoulder, using the other hand to force Avon's head up and back, willing the man to meet his eyes. "I’m here. You're not alone. Not while I'm here. And I am here, Avon." Blake's voice softened. He stood studying the thin, pale face, the anguished eyes, for a long moment before pulling the other man to him in a fierce embrace. "You're not alone; Avon, and. God help me, neither am I."

The warmth, the affection, was a narcotic, soothing a million hurts, easing the pain of an aching heart. Avon buried his face in the other's cloth jacket and allowed the embrace, though he couldn't, quite, bring himself to return it. Vila gone? It was almost beyond belief! It felt as if a part of Avon, himself, had been ripped away, lost to himself.

And yet, the warm arms holding him so tightly began to fill the void he’d only recently become aware of; an empty, cold space that had sung its mournful song for far, far too long. The void could be filled, but Avon needed to know just one thing first. "Blake?" He pulled back, albeit reluctantly, forcing himself to meet the compassionate eyes above him. "Why?"

It was Blake's turn to look puzzled. "Why what?"

"Why don't you..." He gestured helplessly. "Why don’t you ...hate me?"

''Hate you?" The rebel kept his voice carefully neutral, allowing only the kindness to shine through. The wild elation which surged in his heart, however, was kept tightly in check. "I don’t hate you, Avon. I never have. You should know that."

"But I . . . what I did on … on --"

He can't even say it, Blake noticed when the other trailed off helplessly. "What happened on Gauda Prime wasn't the fault of either of us, Avon. Circumstances, it seems, were against us from the start. "

"What 'circumstances’?"

"There had been stories, rumors circulating about you and the crew of the Scorpio, stories I couldn't ignore, not with so many lives hanging on my every decision. I had to test you all out, see whether you were the same man I'd left behind two years ago. The stories said you were ...unwell."

For the first time a wry smile quirked the other’s thin lips. "That phrase seems to lack impact, somehow."

"I had to be sure," Blake plowed on. "I couldn't know you were so close to the edge. I'm...I'm sorry."

Avon paused, considering. "You'd be a fool to trust me now, Blake. You must know that."

"Maybe. But let me ask you this. Do you want to kill me now?"

Avon hesitated uncertainly. "N-no, but that doesn't mean I won’t once I'm no longer being fed these suppressants." He glowered making the other man actually laugh at that touch of returning defiance.

"You're not on suppressants," he answered, giving Orac’s frame a tap. "Not any more. We took you off them weeks ago."

An answering smile quirked at the corners of Avon's mouth; then silence fell again, lasting long minutes. "It looks like we both made quite a mess of things, didn’t we Blake? Servalan must be laughing herself sick about now over this."

"Servalan?" Blake pulled back a step in shock. "Servalan is dead. She died nearly a year ago."

"Servalan," Avon spat the name, "is now known as Commissioner Sleer."

Blake was silently thoughtful, a deep anger burned in his brown eyes, lighting them from within with a golden fire. "And Commissioner Sleer is the new head of Federation Security, the one who ordered Arlen to infiltrate my base. "

The golden fire sparked an answering light, an ebon one. Fire touched fire when their eyes met. "I want her, Blake. More than anything I've ever wanted, I want her."

"She's got a lot to answer for," Blake growled, "and I’ll make sure that she does."

"Not without me." A new determination filled Avon's voice, strengthening it with a sense of purpose which had been absent previously. "We’ll both make sure she pays."

Blake hesitated. One step at a time, he reminded himself. Let’s just get Avon well first, then... He was spared the necessity of answering, though, by a muted beep and a weak flicker of light.

"Orac?" Avon's eyes began to shine again. "Blake, Orac’s carrying a charge! "

"He always said that casing was practically indestructible. I guess he was right."

"It was right," Avon corrected absently, caressing the battered case again. "Get me some tools, Blake. We're going to need Orac fully functional if we're going up against, Servalan again."

"Right."

"And, Blake." The velvet voice stopped Blake dead, mid-turn. "I am going after Servalan, with or without you. I don’t; advise you to try to stop me."

"Point noted," Blake answered noncommittally. Revenge would come later. For now, there was hope and healing and renewal. For now would come -- a new beginning.

end