Salvage

by Misha

(C) 1999 Misha

Fandom: Blake 7

Pairing: Avon/Tarrant

Rating: NC-17

Summary: An adult story with explicit m/m sex. It is an AU featuring Avon and Tarrant during the 2nd season.

Note: It was originally published in Liberator Fantasies

Salvage
by Misha

*Information.*

Avon looked up slowly from the wiring panel. It hardly matters when I get this done, does it? So what if I can operate weapons from the pilot's station? I'm probably better off leaving the piloting to Zen in an emergency, anyway.

"What is it, Zen?"

*A single Federation pursuit ship entered maximum sensor range one-point-one-seven minutes ago.*

Avon slapped Orac's key into its slot and snarled as the machine hummed into life.

"Orac, why didn't you inform me of that pursuit ship?"

*You requested that I alert you to Space Command flight profiles. That ship did not file a mission profile and has not checked in with Flight Control Authorization Centers at any point.*

"The FCACs have been reporting an uncleared ship heading our way, and you didn't bother to inform me?"

*You did not request that I waste my time reporting every bit of trivia to you, Avon. You must be more specific in your instructions.*

Avon stood. "Here are some specific instructions, Orac. Run a complete systems evaluation on that ship and make sure it's standard issue. Then scramble it, like the last four. If you can't disable all flight, communications, and weaponry controls, including secondaries, notify me immediately. Otherwise, find out who's on board and how he managed to get here without clearance. And don't stop digging, even if he's dead by the time you find out."

*

"Distance, Zen?"

*Four hundred spatials. Fifteen seconds to communications range, two-point-five minutes to weapons range.*

"Ready to bring him down, Orac?"

*I will be ready in forty-five seconds, Kerr Avon, as you know quite well from the last four times--*

"Shut up, Orac. I get the point. Proceed when ready." Avon settled into the pilot's seat.

*Incoming communication from pursuit vessel.*

"On the main viewer, Zen."

A pinpoint of light appeared, rapidly expanding to reveal the flight deck of a standard Federation three-man flyer. The helm and nav stations were unoccupied, however. In the captain's chair sat a young man of about twenty, tall and thin, in standard Space Command garb. Avon noted the absence of any insignia of rank.

"This is Officer Del Tarrant of Space Command. There is a warrant outstanding for the arrest of one Kerr Avon on charges of grand theft, embezzlement, deliberate falsification of records, violation of privacy statutes, malicious destruction of property and manslaughter. Your ship is subject to seizure under Regulation 347 re: Use of Spacegoing Vessels in Commission of Felonies. Please surrender peacefully and I will escort you to Federation Security Facility 221 where you will be held until trial proceedings can be scheduled. You have one minute to--"

The screen went blank.

*Communication terminated prematurely.*

"Thank you, Zen, I would never have guessed. Track the hulk until it burns up."

*Understood.*

"Very well, Orac, what do you have on our Officer Del Tarrant?"

*There is no such person as Officer Del Tarrant.*

"Well, have you found out his real name? You have the visual."

*The name of the pilot of the pursuit vessel was Del Tarrant.*

Avon rolled his eyes as he stood and walked to the stand bearing the Plexiglas box. "Well, Orac, which is it?"

*Cadet Tarrant has completed all requirements for graduation from Federation Space Academy, but neither his commencement nor swearing-in ceremonies have yet taken place. Consequently, he will not be eligible to refer to himself as a Space Command Officer for two standard months.*

Avon turned away from Orac. "You mean would not have been eligible. Zen, how far has burn-up progressed?"

*Burn-up progress is currently less than 15%.*

Avon looked up at Zen's fascia. "Less than 15%? That's impossible. Give me a visual."

He turned to face the screen. The ship's hull was thoroughly scorched and had caved in in numerous places, but the ship was still holding together, all things said. Its flight path was erratic, but it wasn't rolling or tumbling.

"Can you give me a structural integrity estimate, Zen?"

*Forty-one percent.*

"Amazing. Altitude and airspeed?"

*Nine units elevation, airspeed six-hundred equivalent land units per standard hour.*

"Orac, is there any possibility of usable salvage surviving the crash?"

*Highly unlikely, but not impossible. If there is a high-security vault aboard some of its contents might survive. Medical supplies, specialized equipment, power cells, if packed securely.*

Avon rubbed his chin. "Zen, track the ship to landing and locate any pieces greater than four meters in length. Orac, find Tarrant's FSA pilot-school records."

*Confirmed.*

*

*The debris is scattered over an area zero-point-five units wide by two-point-five long. The only sizable sections, except for the engines, are more localized. The engines are unlikely to contain any salvageable material and continue to burn at danger levels.*

"And the remaining sizable sections?"

*Three sections, one consisting of approximately 23% of the cargo hold, another consisting of approximately 32% of the flight deck, nose, and radome, and a third partial hull section of undetermined source. Containment and repair facilities are all off-line, but environmental exposure for periods of under two standard hours poses no sizable risk.*

"Very good, Zen." Avon rose and sealed the final clasps on his environment suit. He turned toward Orac. "This Tarrant fellow has an interesting record, doesn't he?"

*On the contrary, I consider it tedious and a waste of research time.*

"The question was rhetorical, Orac. Put me down at the location specified by Zen, and keep looking for data on Tarrant and on any flight activity in this subsec. Notify me immediately if you find anything. If you do not hear from me in one hour, bring me up."

*Very well.*

Avon checked his teleport bracelets, the one on his wrist and the emergency spare in his toolkit, then looked up at Orac.

"For a machine with a synthesized voice, Orac, you do an excellent impression of a human dying of boredom. Put me down."

*

Avon tracked down the unidentified hull section first. It held some access corridors and electronic ganglia, but nothing of value -- a quick inspection confirmed that every inch of wiring had been fused and every tariel cell vaporized.

The cargo hold section was about zero-point-four variance away. It did, indeed, contain part of a high-security vault, but if it had once contained anything of value there was no longer any trace of it.

The nose section was in much better condition than Avon had expected. Not that that made a difference -- the radome itself might have been reparable, but the detectors inside were thoroughly fried. The odds of stumbling across a Federation pursuit ship with no radome but close-to-functional detectors seemed highly unlikely, and the probability that Avon would want one even more remote.

The flight deck itself may have held together until impact, but it had lost any structural integrity by now. There were some support pylons and even hull armor still in place, but the gaping holes in floors, walls, and ceilings far outnumbered the standing structure. It looked like a ship in the early stages of construction by a crew of Deltas who had had too much soma, using second-hand parts stolen from a junk dealer under cover of darkness. He didn't need to open up the consoles, as none of them had intact casings -- in fact, none of them had even stayed attached to the bulkheads. Clearly useless.

And there was the body. Most of the tunic had been ripped open. Avon found himself almost smiling -- the blood matted to his chest revealed that Tarrant's chest hair was fine and sparse. Still hadn't reached his full growth, perhaps. Then the smile faded. Or else it was burnt off first.

Avon forced his eyes to the man's legs. The right one seemed to be in surprisingly good condition, considering that most of the trouser fabric was missing. The left was quite another matter. The amount of blood made it difficult to tell if there was any uniform left at all. Or any leg.

Then Avon drew his breath and his blaster. He had heard something, and it wasn't just the wreckage settling. It was a sort of...gurgling.

He looked at Tarrant's face. Fresh blood dribbled from the corner of his mouth. His throat moved.

"Orac, bring me up."

*

Avon surprised himself by how quickly he was able to jury-rig the med unit equipment and teleport it back down. Tarrant still appeared to be alive. He started with the containment field, then the neural regulator, and finally the voice synthesizer unit. He had gotten him back up to the ship and half-way to the med unit when the neural regulator and voice synthesizer finally synchronized. Time to find out if his brain is functioning.

"Being conscious in your condition is going to hurt like nothing you've ever dreamed of, Tarrant. Say something coherent and say it fast."

Tarrant's eyes blinked, and turned in Avon's direction. That's a good sign. Dilated, but not uncoordinated.

Tarrant couldn't actually move his vocal organs inside the containment field, but Avon could sense him trying to speak through the synthesizer almost as if he had physical evidence. Two or three failed tries.

"Come on, you bastard. You clearly weren't using your brain when you came after me. Use it now."

Finally a faint whisper issued from the synthesizer.

*There is a warrant outstanding for the arrest of one...*

Avon clicked the neural regulator control and Tarrant slipped instantly back into unconsciousness. Avon just stared for a moment. Then he smiled broadly.

"Well, it appears that I have a potential survivor on my hands. He'll probably remember what I did to his ship, and feel duty-bound to report back to Space Command. Now I suppose I'll have to figure out what to do with him."

Then he began to laugh.

"Avon, your humanitarian impulses always get you into trouble."

*

Avon rested a fingertip on one of the containment rings, lightly, just barely in contact with the metalloy surface, as if his skin was touching the force wall itself. It had taken six days, but the cell regenerator had finally finished its work; the burn marks were gone, the skin smooth and unscarred. Once the blood and the remnants of cloth had been cleared away, Avon had quickly determined that no major appendages had been lost. The internal damage was all reversible; soon he could be removed from the containment field and allowed to heal on his own.

The FSA records proved he was an excellent pilot, with an A6 rating even before graduation, a level of proficiency normally attained only by the most talented pilots after years of service. Clearly, he was also phenomenally lucky.

The skin was still deathly pale, of course, between shock and blood loss. Zen's synthetic plasma was sufficient to keep Tarrant's circulatory system functioning, but it didn't give the skin the proper cast, and Avon had limited his own donation to two pints. He had, however, extracted the proper tones from Tarrant's brief transmission and medical records, and ran a visual overlay on the unconscious body. With the proper complexion he seemed merely to be sleeping, a smooth rosy-cheeked confection. The random patches of missing body hair were noticeable, but the hair was fine and pale in general, so it wouldn't jar while it grew back.

Not even to the touch.

The hair on his scalp was in better shape, with no bald patches -- trim the singed curls and it would be good as new. And the line of hair from his navel to his groin was also undamaged: thicker, darker, and lusher, leading to the coiled forest and smooth cock between his legs.

He had been alone a very long time. Even Aristo seemed an eternity ago, and since Ensor's death he had had barely any human contact, certainly not anything long term. And as for -- he cast a quick glance at Tarrant's groin -- not since Anna and Del....

Avon's gaze shifted to Tarrant's face as he smiled. All this time, and only now had the coincidence occurred to him.

"Your friends didn't stick around. But you knew that."

Avon rested heavily on the containment rings, his eyes closed. He opened them, inhaled deeply, and reached for the neural regulator control. He watched Tarrant's face, but Avon wasn't smiling now.

He clicked the control. Tarrant's breathing deepened; slowly, his eyelids fluttered open. As his vision focused on Avon, they grew wide with surprise.

"Kerr Avon?"

Avon's eyes were iron-hard, but a slight smirk decorated his lips. "You seemed to recognize me before."

"I...." Tarrant paused. "I wasn't expecting to see you."

"Sorry, Tarrant. You aren't in heaven."

*

When Tarrant awakened this time it felt...different. He remembered being awake before, but each time it had been like awakening from night terrors, rushing instantaneously from non-REM sleep to wakefulness, with a searing bright light and a searing burst of pain, too overwhelming to be localized. This time it was more gradual, a slowly-growing awareness. And something else was different. Something about what he saw.

He raised his right hand and was instantly treated to a flood of pain that washed up his arm and ignited more pain in his shoulders, his back, his chest. But he could handle it, he realized. It was nothing like the pain from the earlier times. He forced his arm upwards until it was directly above him.

"That's right. The containment rings are gone."

Tarrant refused to be startled. He knew a sharp movement would hurt like hell, and he knew who it was, anyway. He turned his head to the left very slowly. Even so, he became dizzy, and his vision blurry -- or was it tears in his eyes?

Gradually his eyes refocused. A figure seated nearby, dressed in black.

Pretend it's a G-force coma exam. You've come out of a blackout of indeterminate length, flight status unknown. He was top of his class at this, dammit! He had that ultimate pilot's knack, an instinctive connection between his senses of sight and touch. Every aspect of the controls in his hands -- shape, size, texture, tension, even temperature -- combining to give him instant knowledge and permit instant, precise adjustments, all without having to take his eyes off his visual scanners. And, in reverse, the tiniest visual clues giving him instant tactile impressions.

A chair and a table, pewter-colored, likely some poly-metalloy, the tabletop no doubt maintaining ambient room temperature, smooth to the touch, but textured just slightly to keep objects in place. The chair's surface was probably a woven or extruded form of the same substance, to grant it some give for the comfort of the occupant.

That occupant sat cross-legged, in heavy leather boots strapped with silver rings. The textured soles and heels showed little sign of wear, although bits of debris caught in the ridges suggested they were used in non-environment-controlled areas. Leather trousers, properly supple; the texture of the musculature underneath suggested Avon kept physically fit. Probably not gymnastics or dance, from the looks of the legs. Hurdles? Sprinting? Running? The shirt was black, but made of thin silk. From the drape, butter-soft. A crew neck, long sleeves.

Tarrant's examination was interrupted by a soft, even voice, with just a hint of mocking sarcasm to it.

"Will that do?"

"No more containment field," Tarrant said, harkening back to Avon's earlier statement.

"Your body can survive on its own, now. You'll probably begin to get restless. Start slow -- sitting upright for ten minutes is probably enough to wear you out for the rest of the day."

Tarrant began to shift, but Avon stopped him.

"No. You'll need my help."

Avon rose from his chair. Tarrant observed the curve of the man's rump. Too hemispherical for a distance runner or hurdler; probably a sprinter. He perched on the edge of Tarrant's couch, gently lifting Tarrant's left arm and laying it across his shoulders. Tarrant winced; he knew it would get worse when Avon slid his own arm behind Tarrant's back. He closed his eyes and focused his attention elsewhere -- Avon's shirt was, indeed, as soft as Tarrant had guessed. He felt the muscles moving in Avon's back, rather than his own -- he did some form of upper body workout as well, endurance training rather than strength training.

Avon slid his left hand under Tarrant's right, inviting him to take hold of his arm.

"Ready, Tarrant?"

"Yes."

Even with Avon's assistance, Tarrant found himself instinctively digging his fingers into Avon's arm and shoulder at the pain. It felt as if it blotted everything else out at times -- there seemed to be gaps in his movement to a sitting position. Avon was sitting next to him, still supporting his back, with Tarrant leaning his weight on him. After settling into place for what seemed to be several minutes, he began to feel the pain ebbing. Tarrant took a few long, deep, breaths.

"Better?" The voice remained flat and emotionless.

"Yes."

"Then you can unclench your fists."

Tarrant realized his fingers were still digging into Avon's skin with all the strength he could muster. He forced them to open; slowly, they responded.

"Sorry."

"Quite all right. You don't have much grip strength back."

"Why did you rescue me?"

"Why did you try to land your ship?"

"I wanted to live."

"It seems to me that wasn't very good judgment. Burning up in the atmosphere at that speed would have been instantaneous and painless. You couldn't expect to gain anything but a more prolonged and exceedingly painful demise."

"I might have done better."

Avon turned his face upwards. "Zen, viewer on. Display Federation pursuit ship descent to planet surface."

*Acknowledged.* It was a computer voice, issuing from an indeterminate location.

Tarrant watched the monitor. "I held it more stable than I thought," Tarrant muttered. The visual continued, with Tarrant eyeing the data bars and stats around the edge of the screen, his face darkening with each passing moment. He tensed just for an instant at the moment of impact.

"Well, Tarrant, what do you think?"

"I'm glad I didn't have any visuals or data at the time. I was probably better off not knowing how bad it was."

"You knew how bad it was."

Tarrant paused, wetting his lips. "Yes."

"So why did you try?"

"I'm a pilot, dammit! I couldn't just stop piloting!"

Avon smiled. His voice finally had some emotion in it, even if it was laughter.

"That I can believe."

"How about my question? Why did you rescue me?"

Avon's response left Tarrant at a lack for words.

"I could use an A6-rated pilot."

*

Tarrant's instinctive response was to flinch away from Avon. This was a serious mistake in his current physical condition, but Avon had anticipated it, holding Tarrant gently but firmly by his shoulder and rearranging his arm so that both back and head were supported. Tarrant winced from the pain anyway, even as he realized that Avon's grip was meant to protect him and not restrain him.

Well, at least mostly to protect him. Tarrant knew quite well that Avon must have carefully planned the sequence of events to put his prisoner at the greatest disadvantage. He turned the wince into a snarling smile and slowly turned to look Avon in the eye.

"And why should I pilot for you?"

"You have no choice in the matter, do you?"

Tarrant's snarl grew darker. "Don't I? You have to sleep sometime. You can't leave the computers in control -- if they were good enough to handle an emergency, you wouldn't need a pilot. What's to stop me from flying this ship straight to the nearest Federation Security Facility and turning you in?

"You are." Avon's voice was again even and emotionless.

Tarrant was somewhat taken aback. "What do you mean?"

"I've done a lot of research on you, Tarrant. You are a man of honor. I have saved your life, and you owe me. You won't turn me in."

"That wouldn't stop you," Tarrant said, his words coming in sharp, over-enunciated bursts of fury.

"Ah," smiled Avon, "but you are not me, are you?"

"That's ridiculous! You are a wanted criminal. I came here to capture you, and I will do so by any means necessary."

"No, Tarrant, not by any means. You assigned yourself a suicide mission, with no authorization. You are still a Cadet, and consequentially have no jurisdiction. You stole a Space Command Vessel, as serious an offense as any I have committed. You violated Flight Control regulations and refused to follow FCAC instructions, also very serious offenses. As I recall, you can potentially be held liable not only for the loss of your own ship, but for any ships which may have potentially been lost as a result of your unauthorized use of space lanes. Quite a few more manslaughter charges than I've ever been charged with."

"What kind of a pilot do you think I am! I didn't pose a danger to any ships! I plotted my course very carefully!"

"I do not recall that piloting credentials or safety measures are considered relevant in such cases."

Tarrant tried to move away from Avon, in more deliberate fashion, but Avon's grip held him firmly in place.

"Ah, but you must be tired." Avon's smile had a touch of smugness that made Tarrant furious. And enough cordiality to make him wary. He had the look of a predator who knows his prey is trapped and unable to strike a dangerous blow.

And there was also something ghastly about it, half lonely and half malicious.

"Yes, I'm exhausted." It was true, and it was an excuse to stop this discussion. He needed time to think.

Avon lowered him onto his back, wiped the sweat from his forehead, and covered him with a blanket.

On his way out, Avon waved his hand in front of a sensor and the light dimmed to night settings. He turned before leaving the room.

"You seem to have left quite a long trail of unanswered FCAC hails on your way. It may be tricky, but I can attempt to alter the records, if you like."

Tarrant gritted his teeth. "No thank you."

"As you like. Anything for a fellow innocent unjustly branded a criminal."

*

The heat was unbearable. Tarrant tore at the fabric covering him, feeling the sweat soaking his skin even as the artificial fabric tried to whisk it away.

He rose and stumbled toward the reddish light, shielding his eyes from the brighter sparks in the diffuse glow.

The man was standing, facing away from him, in black leather trousers and boots, but stripped to the waist. Not perspiring heavily, as Tarrant was, in spite of his nearness to the furnace. He seemed to be holding some sort of tube in front of his mouth. Tarrant watched the muscles in his back and shoulders move; he appeared to be turning the tube in his hands.

Then a change in the pattern of movement. The man turned and held the glass object, still glowing hot, for Tarrant to see. Elegant curves and lines, with the flow of motion destined to remain even as the glass hardened. An incredible ship; Tarrant's mouth watered with a desire to be inside it.

"I gather it's to your liking, then. Long ago, in Old Calendar times, they used to talk about the Four Elements; fire, air, water, earth. They weren't all that far wrong, really. What does it take to create something? Well, fire, yes; not just the furnace, but the intensity in your heart, in your blood. And air, to breathe life into it." He ran a finger down Tarrant's sweat-soaked chest. "And water is our blood as well, our toil, our effort."

Tarrant watched the glass spaceship rotate. "And earth?"

"That's all the glass is, really, without the rest. Just sand. Sand, or dust, or clay; that's what we all are, aren't we?"

Then the ground came rushing toward them -- Tarrant could imagine the scream of the crash alarms. Within two seconds he had the rate of descent and elevation calculated. The dark earth swallowed up the furnace, blotting out every spark of light.

"Let me tell you a story, young man. It is called Ming I, which means 'Intelligence Wounded'. There was a land whose sovereign was weak and unheeding of the counsel of the few good advisors around him. A young officer petitioned to go forth in the service of his country, but the sovereign was unsympathetic. The young man went off notwithstanding, but as a wounded bird with drooping wings.

"Recognizing his predicament, the young man went aside from his course for three days, to fast and think on how to proceed. And those behind spoke derisively of him, and his abandoning his post and his duties. And the young man came to be injured by an arrow through the thigh, that he could not walk, but a swift horse came and rescued him.

"And the horse carried him far to the south, to the domain of the Great Chief of the Darkness. And he wished to be a great hunter, and snare all his prey, and make all correct at once, but he knew that it was unwise to move in haste. Thus moving with care, he came to escape the Land of Darkness with but small injury.

"And yet, before he could return, an even greater darkness had fallen on his land. His sovereign, who was weak and yet wished to be as the sun, enlightening all things from on high, had instead gone down beneath the earth, and all manner of evil was growing. Thus did he learn to be wary of haste in his reckoning of the Great Chief of the Darkness, even while biding patiently his time to take action."

Tarrant awoke to find his arms crossed tightly across his chest, his fingers biting into his arms, sweat burning his eyes. He retrieved his blanket from the floor and mopped his damp face and chest. He shouldn't try to lower the room temperature if he was feverish; instead, he dampened the blanket in the basin by the couch and dabbed gently at his skin, until exhaustion overcame adrenaline and he faded back into sleep.

*

"Fifty percent illumination."

The lighting increased from night levels. Avon lay on his bunk, flat on his back, his fingers twined at the back of his neck. He unlaced them and rose, slowly and precisely, and reached without looking for his satin robe, delicate red tongues of flame on a black background. Slippers on, he was out the door and walking down the corridor.

He passed the galley by and went straight to the exercise room, settling onto a reclining chair and placing the two stimulation electrodes on his shoulders, one to each side, three centimeters back and four out from his neck. He placed the regulator on his left thigh and gently rested a fingertip on the control, turning up the intensity of the alternating electric pulses, triggering his muscles to flex and release rapidly but gently. Ten or fifteen minutes should be sufficient to wear them out, and then he might be able to sleep soundly, shoulders relaxed from the inescapable forced exercise.

"Zen, view of med bay patient."

The image sprang into Avon's view. Still having night fevers from the look of him, thought Avon. The robe was discarded, the blanket draped lazily across the man at an angle, a long leg and narrow hip visible on the left side, bare throat and chest down to just past the nipple on the right. No need for concern; the temperature controls would adjust to avoid any ill effects, and medical treatment would begin automatically while signaling Avon if his body temperature rose unexpectedly.

Avon hardly knew what he thought on the present viewing. Tarrant's first image on the flight deck of his ship had triggered amusement at most, his irritation being more directed at Orac than at the attacker. The man's false identification as an officer and unusual history had piqued Avon's curiosity, in spite of the fact that he had no expectation of Tarrant having any hope of survival at the time.

Finding him alive, albeit barely, was a surprise to Avon; he could only ascribe his extreme efforts to save the lad to instinct. Had he thought about it at the time, he would likely have rated the potential dangers greater than any likely benefits.

Had he thought about it at the time, Tarrant would have died in the interim, and it would have been a moot point.

Then there was planning, and waiting to see if plans would bear fruit. Caution, naturally; impatience was inadvisable. Even a promising beginning could result in failure. Or worse.

And that other, disturbing, feeling. That attraction, first purely admiration of the man's physical beauty, then the intriguing absorption in his records and his past, stretching beyond the practical to the insatiable, and now the first forays into that deeper realm, the wrestling with his mind, the feel of his flesh.

And now Avon's grasp was firm. Ten days of attending Tarrant's every waking moment, of assisting his every step toward recovery, of continually probing the limits of his belief-system -- now Avon had staked his claim. Tarrant's eventual business cooperation was highly likely.

Unless Avon became careless and made mistakes, scattered his energies. Both he and his guest were proud, arrogant -- weaknesses Avon fully intended to exploit in bringing his captive around, but which could become his own undoing if he allowed them to.

And Avon had no intention of this venture becoming a disappointment.

*

Tarrant considered his position carefully. This possibility was not unknown to him; his FSA training included hostage situations. Now that his physical condition was improving, Avon wasn't at his side whenever he was conscious. He had begun to recover his pilot's knack for tracking the passage of time without external clues. He had to keep observant, stay mentally and physically active to the best of his abilities.

He was beginning to get a feel for his captor's schedule and patterns of behavior. Establishing a friendly rapport was always desirable, and for the most part this was succeeding, despite Avon's strategic attempts to provoke him. Friendly, while doing his best to maintain his personal dignity and integrity. Avon is still the enemy.

He knew his plan was a gamble, and to a large extent he had lost. His preexisting way of life was gone, no matter what he might be able to salvage. But there were other, unanticipated changes, and that was more troubling. Tarrant knew the deficiencies of his situation, the imperfections of Space Command, the questionable lengths they would go to. He had signed on to them, in fact, signed away his freedom in his oath to the Academy that was disturbingly fascist, and he knew the Space Command oath he was approaching. Deltas lacked the privileges, but even they had more rights than Space Command officers. Space Command promised a generous pension to the family of a casualty, but they owned his very body, whether for organ transplant or experimentation or whatever they liked.

But his talks with Avon were nonetheless upsetting his old notions. He was falsely accused, falsely imprisoned, oppressed either way. And either way he had given up his freedom of both body and mind.

Tarrant took a deep breath. A moment of respite in a long battle which had already left him weak and bloodied. But he was ready for the next assault.

If only he felt as sure that the boundaries he was defending weren't crumbling behind him.

*

Tarrant's robe was plastered to his sore legs by the time he got there, but he made it all the way to the flight deck. He was welcomed by flashes of light from the vidscreen as a Federation heavy cruiser mowed down half a dozen smaller ships. About twenty more continued their attack, scoring some impressive hits, but it was clear by now that the battle was lost; the last half dozen were probably only the most recent of at least twenty casualties, and the odds were vanishingly small that the remaining ships could do any serious damage. Why haven't they surrendered, or tried to escape? Why hasn't the cruiser demanded they surrender?

And why was Avon watching this calmly, sitting on the flight deck couch, and doing nothing about it?

Tarrant made his way to the pilot's seat, trying not to rush and overexert himself after having walked all the way from the med bay. But when he reached it he merely placed a hand on the seat back.

"That's a Federation training exercise."

Tarrant couldn't tell whether Avon was startled by his visitor. The body, armored in its black leather sheath, made no sudden movement of surprise, no movement at all. Only the head pivoted toward the pilot.

"I see you're up and about. I hope you haven't overdone it. You were supposed to stick with the treadmill."

"I got bored with the scenery."

"Always want to make your own way through the desert, Tarrant?"

"You hardly seem the one to talk, Avon. Somehow I don't picture you frolicking in the schoolyard with the other children."

A small laugh. "No. I take it your wandering about hasn't been too exhausting?"

"I'm fine." Tarrant immediately felt sheepish for lying about it. Surely Avon could see he was tired.

Avon rose and gestured at the pilot's seat with a wave of his hand. "Do have a seat."

Tarrant took him up on the offer. "You really should be more careful, Avon. I wouldn't have expected you to just let me wander onto the flight deck while your back was turned."

Avon came closer and rested a hand on the console. "It seems the one thing we have settled in all our discussions is that you won't turn me in."

Tarrant looked away from that infuriating smile. "Yes, that's true." He met Avon's eyes again. "But that doesn't mean I won't drop you off somewhere safe and take the ship back. I'll tell them you're dead, and have Zen destroy any records that might allow them to trace my course. You'll be safe, and they'll have the ship."

"Well, that does have the virtue of allowing you to fly her once."

Tarrant gritted his teeth. "That has nothing to do with anything."

"Of course," replied the low monotone. "You've never even thought about flying the ship once you'd captured it."

Avon's voice became slightly warmer, as if he were engaging in logical dialectics. "However, I would not be safe, as you well know, without this ship. Sooner or later, they'd discover I was still alive."

Tarrant took a deep breath and spoke calmly, smiling his own sweetest smile. "All right, then drop me off somewhere, as remote as you like, and I'll worry about getting back."

"Now that you know how I fend off attackers? I can't let that kind of information out." That damned voice, almost friendly in its logical elegance.

"I won't tell them."

"Won't? Tarrant, they no doubt consider you dead and are willing to be done with you. If you return, they'll want to know why you deserted."

Stay calm. "I didn't desert."

"You simply decided, without authority, to leave the FSA without permission, steal a pursuit ship, and head off with no filed flight plan, refusing to respond to any flight authorities. That looks an awful lot like desertion to me."

"Looks can be deceiving."

"Yes." Avon ran his eyes rapidly down Tarrant's body and up again. You bloody bastard. Don't pretend you wear that black leather getup and don't give a damn about how you look. And you didn't fabricate the look just for me. Tarrant ran his own eyes appraisingly over his captor, returning to Avon's face with a broad smile. "Honorable intentions can appear to be cowardly acts. Just as unpleasant truths can be wrapped up in pretty packages. But in both cases, scrutiny can bear out the truth."

"You have an admirable faith in the fairness and wisdom of military justice." Another smile and a brief laugh. "Or perhaps naiveté would be a better description."

"I'll take my chances."

The voice darkened sharply. "Not taking mine along with you." Then the voice lightened and the smile returned. "And you left the Academy at such an opportune time, just before beginning your term on active duty. One might think you were deliberately skipping out on your obligations after having taken advantage of FSA training."

He's just baiting you. "If one's thoughts were so inclined," Tarrant replied with a smile.

"Pity you didn't wait a few more months. The death benefit for an FSA cadet, even with your seniority, is miniscule compared to what you would have been eligible for after your induction into Space Command. I'm sure Deeta could have used it. Why the big hurry?"

Tarrant knew he shouldn't fall for it, but this was crossing the line. "Is this supposed to make me more trustworthy? It would be a pleasure to be forced to kill you in the line of duty."

Avon smiled again, a tone of ironic humor returning to his voice. "But it isn't your duty, remember."

"That won't matter. If I return with your head and this ship, I'll be welcomed with open arms."

"Pity you've ruled out that option, isn't it, Tarrant? Think how much easier it would make things. But I suppose then you'd be nothing more than an unprincipled opportunist."

Time for a strategic retreat. "I'm rather tired, Avon. I'd better go lie down."

"Of course," Avon smiled. He reached out a hand.

Damned if I'll take your hand. But Tarrant knew he needed it to make it back down to med bay.

And he also knew he wanted to touch him.

*

Three days later, Avon entered the med bay to find Tarrant curled on the floor, his knees pressed up against his chest, his arms wrapped around them.

"What the hell happened?"

"Doesn't ... matter." Tarrant squeezed the words out between clenched teeth. "I'm fine. Just give me a minute."

Avon was kneeling next to him. "Don't be an idiot, Tarrant."

"It's just a cramp," Tarrant panted. "Just give me a minute."

Avon ripped off his leather jacket - it won't do to go prodding the boy with metal studs, distracting as it might be from the pain. He looped his left arm around Tarrant's back; the robe was soaked with sweat. His right arm reached under Tarrant's knees.

"Don't be ridiculous, Avon. I'm too heavy."

Avon managed to rise to his feet with Tarrant in his arms long enough to settle him on the couch without jarring him. "Your empty-headedness made up for it. Now let me look at this."

Tarrant's long fingers were a bloodless white, matching the white impressions left on Tarrant's forearms when Avon managed to loosen their grip. The left leg was fine, but Tarrant's face knotted up when Avon tested his right leg for mobility. He wrapped his right hand gently around the ankle and opened Tarrant's robe to run the fingertips of his left along the slender hip. Some muscle spasms there, which Avon began to calm with strokes of his fingers. The ankle was fine, and the calf; the heaviest spasming was in the hamstring. It was as tense as a metal cable. A metal cable on a suspension bridge, vibrating in the wind, or on a giant musical instrument, throbbing like thunder.

Avon rested the calf on his own forearm and began massaging the underside of the thigh, slowly easing the leg straighter while moving it to the right to ease the collateral tension in the pelvis. It didn't feel as if there were any major muscle or cartilage damage.

The tension began to die down, and Avon settled the leg straight out on the table. It was visibly shorter than the other from the tension, but the rosy tone was beginning to return. Avon clipped a pair of electrodes to the thigh, one just behind the knee, the other where it flowed into his rump. He had beautiful legs, and in beautiful condition, even considering his injuries. The muscle tone was already returning, making his rump firm and neatly-drawn.

Avon shook his head and turned his mind back to business. Tarrant's frantic breathing had returned to almost normal, his pulse had slowed, and the taut lines in his face and neck had relaxed. Avon stroked sweat-soaked curls off his forehead, and the half-closed eyes opened and shone blue at him. The lips parted and revealed an even more dazzling smile.

"Thank you."

Avon just stared, his fingertips still resting lightly on his forehead, then bent closer, catching the sweet scent of Tarrant's breathing. He laid his lips gently on the other man's, then tried to draw back, but Tarrant's fingers were tangled in his hair, drawing him down into a hard, deep kiss.

Avon unwrapped himself from Tarrant's arms and straightened. Tarrant was smiling again, his eyes sleepily half-lidded, falling asleep in the aftermath of the stress to his system.

"I'll let you sleep," Avon said, just barely stammering. "Signal if you need me."

He drew Tarrant's robe closed over his legs and laid a blanket on him, ignoring the man's obvious arousal. He left the room without even retrieving his jacket from the floor.

*

They were working hard, digging in the earth. Tarrant stopped for a moment, leaning on his hoe, wiping the sweat from his forehead, and watched Avon continue, stripped to the waist as he was, digging away, the muscles in his back and shoulders moving smoothly and precisely under his pale skin. He tried to remember a snatch of a children's rhyme Deeta used to tell him. "Digging in the belly of Mother Earth, docile like an ox..." And something about a mare, tamed to the saddle and obedient to the rider's slightest touch. Del had never seen a horse at the time, not even in vids, but he knew about spaceships from the flight games he loved, and knew that feeling, that faint touch that signals just the right response.

Tarrant opened his eyes, breathing slowly and deeply while he brought himself back to his true surroundings and recalled the events of the morning.

Tarrant shook his head. So much for not getting attached to my captor.

Avon sat on his bunk. Oh, I knew exactly what I was doing. Or rather, he knew why he had done it.

Tarrant stepped out of the sonic shower. Out of the corner of his eye he glimpsed Avon's jacket, still crumpled on the floor where it was left three days earlier.

He picked up the fresh robe and snarled.

"Zen," he called out, in precise FSA tones, "where can I get different clothes?"

*The wardrobe room is in corridor 5D.*

A holographic map appeared in front of Tarrant, displaying the route.

"And there will be clothing in my size?"

*Adjustment to individual body conformation requires up to two point four standard minutes once design and materials have been selected, depending on the nature of the changes and the complexity of the design.*

"Thank you, Zen."

Tarrant slid an arm into one sleeve of the robe on the way out the door, then thought better of it and left the robe behind.

Tarrant smiled. If he ran into Avon on the way, it would be a pleasure to see him feign indifference.

*

Tarrant examined his selection in the mirrored chamber. Zen was right about the custom tailoring; Tarrant had wanted this jumpsuit to be form-fitting, and it fit like a second skin. An unbroken line of teal blue, from the Eton collar to the leather boots.

He liked the look and feel of it. Independent, for a change. Not in the least bit like an FSA or Space Command uniform, nor like anything Avon would wear. Sleekly functional and drop-dead gorgeous; immodest, perhaps, but that was his intention. No military trim on the epaulets, just a bit of gold filigree at the wrist and trailing down one narrow hip. The boots had to be functionally comfortable, of course, but the utilitarian leather was disguised by the teal color and the suede dentilations decorating the tops.

*Tarrant.*

He tapped the intercom. "Tarrant here, Avon. What can I do for you?"

*Flight deck.*

"On my way." With pleasure.

*

Avon was leaning over a console when he heard the booted footsteps on the flight deck stairs. Finally found the wardrobe, did you? He turned to face Tarrant.

"I think it's about time for you--"

Avon's first thought was: like a morning sky, bright and beautiful. His second: you're a bastard, Tarrant.

"--to learn to fly this ship." The pause was infinitesimal, but Avon couldn't be sure if Tarrant had caught it. He turned back to the console.

"To fly the ship? Do you really trust me that much?"

Avon turned to face him again. "It isn't necessary for me to trust you. We have established that you can't turn me in or throw me off the ship. Have you come up with an alternate plan?"

Tarrant's gaze wavered for a second. Good boy, thought Avon. Back on the defensive.

"No, Avon, I haven't. But I still haven't agreed to pilot for you."

"Nevertheless, learning to handle this ship couldn't do any harm, now could it?" Avon was smiling.

Tarrant returned a smile of his own. "If you mean, would the temptation of flying this ship cloud my judgment, no, it wouldn't."

"Then there's no harm, is there?"

The lessons ran rather quickly. Avon had spent so long working with Orac to absorb every aspect of the ship's manual control systems in his attempts to make it operable by a single person that he had the principles all laid out. With Zen's help, Tarrant rapidly reached the point where it was just a matter of practice and familiarization. Then he settled in for the duration, conversing with Avon while putting the ship through her paces.

"You haven't told me how you got hold of Blake's ship."

Avon smiled. "Did you think this was Liberator?"

Tarrant looked up sharply from the pilot's console. "You mean it isn't?"

"No. Blake is still on the loose, rallying the rabble."

"I never imagined there might be another one."

"No. It seems I was the only one who did, as far as I can tell. Only we two know this ship exists. Thus my extreme measures to ensure no one else finds out."

"How did you get hold of it? Are there more?"

"Not any more." Avon put down the circuit board he was fiddling with and leaned back. "I spent several months working with a reclusive scientist named Ensor."

"Inventor of the tariel cell."

"That's correct. He continued his work after dropping out of sight. Orac was his ultimate achievement."

"What happened to him?"

"He eventually died of heart problems. He didn't trust the Federation to supply medical treatment for him any more than I did, not even with Orac as payment. But rumors held that Liberator had amazing medical facilities. As you have seen first hand."

"And you tried to contact Blake."

"Not precisely. One of Orac's most powerful features is its ability to access and control tariel cells, and consequently any computer in use today. Liberator was clearly built by an alien technology, but that didn't rule out the possibility that Orac could interface with it as with any human-built computer. This was indeed the case.

"However, I didn't necessarily trust Blake any more than the Federation. But I reasoned that the creators of Liberator might still exist. Orac eventually contacted something called The System, infiltrated its operations, and stole another of their Deep-Space-Vehicles. The System became unstable, however. Neither the computer nor the third DSV are operational."

"And Ensor?"

"Unfortunately, it wasn't soon enough. By the time Orac had brought this ship to Aristo it was too late."

"So you have Orac, and this ship, and no one knows. Very neat."

Avon smiled and inclined his head slightly. "Thank you."

"Well, Avon, I would say I have the basics. Two weeks of practice and I should be quite good at it."

"Good. I have a proposition."

Now Tarrant smiled and cocked his head. "Indeed? And what would that be?"

"Think of it as a trial run. I have an assignment which I believe would interest both of us, ethical enough for your tastes and profitable enough for mine. I will fill you in on the details, and if you agree, we shall undertake to accomplish it. No future commitments beyond the one mission."

Avon watched the man in the teal jumpsuit eye him carefully. Always keep them on the defensive.

Tarrant sat at the pilot's chair and added a fifth empty cup to the carefully-balanced stack on the console. By the second cup he was no longer doing sensor checks himself, leaving it to Zen. By the third he had gone back to watching the vidcasts from Vanderal, small children playing on the beaches. By the fourth he had even loosened the collar of his teal jumpsuit, revealing a long, slender neck with a prominent Adam's apple and a collarbone which was less angular and pronounced than his build would lead one to expect.

It was not that Tarrant couldn't handle waiting -- that was part of a pilot's job. But Avon should be done by now. For all Tarrant knew, he was carefully avoiding any detection of the ship, which was wholly unnecessary given the absence of any other flight activity and the limitations of the planet's ground-based detectors, while Avon had run into...what? Federation guards? There weren't many at the Weather Control Station; most security was handled by the Vanderans. It was a sensible arrangement; while stealing Federation technology was lucrative, the Vanderans had the most to lose from security breaches.

Yet they trusted Avon. Tarrant knew enough about weather control command protocols to verify Avon's assessment of the transmissions Orac had intercepted -- they were part of the standard FSA computer and communications security curriculum. In seventy-two standard days a major storm system would traverse the planet, causing massive death and destruction and wiping out a sizable portion of the upcoming harvest. Tarrant didn't know whether the Vanderans had enough knowledge to verify it, but they had believed it enough to hire Avon to solve the problem, so they must have been desperate; letting a known computer criminal run free in your weather control system was an invitation to disaster.

Five empty cups. Tarrant sighed and gave up. "Status, Zen."

*All detectors read clear to maximum range.*

Highly anticlimactic, but Tarrant would have been disturbed if the report had been otherwise. A few seconds of diversion, and back to status quo.

He tapped a control and the vidcast reappeared. Still children on the beach. One was playing the age-old game of using a bucket as a mold for wet sand to build sand-castles. Tarrant smiled.

Then he looked more closely and the smile faded. The little girl had five molded blocks of sand and was carefully stacking them. Tarrant reddened slightly as he glanced at his own stack of empty cups, and began pitching them into the recycler across the room. Four hits and a miss. He strode across the deck, retrieved the cup from the floor, and disposed of it.

And then there was the reason behind the doomsday command aimed at Vanderal. The Federation Tax Authorities claimed that they had underpaid their taxes, which the Vanderans denied. Officially the freak storm would be called a terrible accident, with the mandatory reassurances that the error had been corrected, but the Vanderan government would understand the message.

It certainly made sense. Tarrant wasn't so naive as to think that that sort of political thuggery didn't occur. But why the tax underpayment? The Vanderans seemed to be sincerely certain that they were in the right. They couldn't afford to make up the difference now anyway, not until after the harvest. Avon's theory was that a tax inspector had embezzled the funds and faked the records. He thought he could get enough information while on Vanderal to lead him to the culprit, but he would need to access a Tax Authority computer directly to identify the false records and substitute his own fakes. There was no way of getting the ship within teleport range of a Tax Center undetected.

The intercom buzzed. Tarrant tapped the button. "Tarrant."

*Avon,* the speaker responded. *Orac is bringing us up. Prepare for immediate departure.*

*

Avon strode onto the flight deck without a word or glance to Tarrant, settled Orac onto a console, and slapped in the key. "Orac, continue research into tax audit database."

"It's good to see you too, Avon."

Avon turned to face him. "Are we under way?"

"Of course." He smiled. "Oh, I forgot, you can't tell just from the feel of the ship. Sorry to leave you in the dark."

Avon paused. "Ah. Hello, Tarrant."

"All went as planned, then."

"Yes." Avon turned to put down his toolkit. "The doomsday command will mysteriously fail to take effect. There is now a backdoor into their system. My apologies for taking longer than expected. I wanted to make certain they would be able to control it on their own in case the Federation makes another attempt."

Tarrant grinned mischievously. "Depriving yourself of repeat business?"

"When I do a job, I do it right." Tarrant was taken aback by the seriousness of Avon's tone. Where's that hint of a smile? Surely you haven't forgotten how to brag about your superiority. "Besides, I can't be everywhere," Avon continued. "I may not be around next time." Even more somber. Does he think I've figured out a way to turn him in? Or did he discover something else on Vanderal? Whatever it is, it's got him really worried.

Tarrant changed the subject. "And have you traced the cause of the underpayment?"

"Bureaucracy has its advantages. I believe I have all the information necessary to trace the discrepancy back to the original payment records and audit assessors. Orac will eventually make it possible for me to definitively prove what happened to the funds and who is responsible."

"And setting things to right?"

Avon turned back to the Plexiglas box. "As I feared, that will be somewhat more...complicated."

"I take it that by 'complicated' you mean it will require you to walk into a Federation Tax Center."

There was a pause. "Yes." Is that what's bothering him?, Tarrant wondered.

Avon continued to focus on the blinking lights inside the box.

"All right, Avon. I've been on duty far too long. I'm going to get some shut-eye."

Avon nodded silently.

"Listen, Avon. You left me alone here long enough to leave without you. From you, I'd say that suggests a degree of trust. If there's something more..."

Avon turned to face him. "Tarrant, Orac is capable of controlling Zen, and through Zen controlling the ship." He spoke through clenched teeth. "Don't overestimate my trust in you."

Tarrant eyed him silently for a moment.

"Very well, Avon. I stand corrected. As I said, it's time for me to go off-duty."

He turned and headed off the flight deck. Avon watched him go, clenching his fists as he observed the muscles moving in Tarrant's legs and rump, underneath the form-fitting suit. He continued to look when Tarrant was long gone. Eventually, however, he turned back to Orac.

"Any results?"

*As I have explained, Kerr Avon, tax information is very secure. It will take me some time to access it.*

"Yes, Orac. And the other matter?"

*I am continuing to search for that information as well. Federation security records also require extensive research. In addition, you made clear that the interrogation information is not required until Tarrant has proven himself on the tax matter.*

"That is not your concern, Orac. Just get the information."

*I should also point out that the heavy utilization you made of my processing capacity while on Vanderal would have prevented me from monitoring ship movements. It would therefore have been impossible for me to determine if any course changes were due to your instructions to avoid detection, or an attempt by Tarrant to leave you behind, let alone to override ship controls. He could have disabled autopiloting and most of Zen's functionality while still allowing manual flight.*

Avon snarled. "I know. Shut up, Orac."

*

The trousers and boots were, of course, a perfect fit, though nowhere as luxurious as the jumpsuit, but Space Command uniforms weren't intended to be. As comfortable as was reasonable given the requirement for adequate protection against harsh environmental conditions or hand-to-hand combat with hostiles. Not attractive, except in the way uniforms throughout the ages have been; the emotions it was intended to inspire were fear and respect rather than....

Not that it doesn't have that effect on some people, regardless, thought Tarrant. He smiled as he reached for the jacket.

And froze.

A scrap of material. It had been scanned to replicate the fabric, of course. A scrap of the uniform Tarrant was wearing when he'd tried to arrest Avon. It told its story like a book when Tarrant examined it: serious burn marks there, from a brief flash-fire or explosion, the sort that would have vaporized the cloth and flesh along with it had it lasted more than an instant. A scored edge indicating that it had been torn by a sharp metal fragment moving at high speed, different from the edge made when Avon had cut the cloth away to heal the damaged flesh underneath.

And, of course, blood. Dried now, but, like the bits of flesh still clinging to it, permanently fused to the fabric.

The door opened. "Tarrant, are you...?"

Tarrant turned to face Avon. "Not quite."

"I'm sorry. I had assumed you would be ready." Tarrant quietly tucked away Avon's visible signs of discomfort on finding him en dishabille.

"Just a second." Tarrant slid into the jacket and began working the fastenings. "I was...distracted."

"I would have expected impersonating a Space Command officer would be second nature to you by now."

"Very funny." Avon had regained his composure, somewhat to Tarrant's chagrin, but in Avon's case a brief flicker was sufficient sign.

"Avon, you look positively bureaucratic."

He inclined his head in a brief nod. "That is the idea."

Avon was wearing the typical politico's uniform -- more stylish than would be usual for a bureaucrat, but not so expensive as to suggest flagrant corruption. A tax inspector, yes, but an important one, with important friends and bolder ambitions.

Just the sort of thing to prevent Tax Center personnel from questioning his authenticity.

"You'll also be needing this."

Avon tossed him a standard Federation handgun.

Tarrant eyed it carefully. "I hope we won't need to use this. The ship will be a long way off. No teleporting out if things go sour."

"That's why things need to go perfectly. But with three civilian passenger ship voyages between here and TC-119, we'll have plenty of time to hone our impersonations."

"And will you be armed?"

Avon smiled. "That would be my preference. Unfortunately it would be too risky. You'll be Space Command, so you'll be permitted to carry your gun everywhere we'll be going. If I'm caught with one it will be very difficult to explain. Shall we?"

Tarrant tucked the gun into the belt holster as Avon headed out the door.

"Besides," Avon added, his back to Tarrant, "you're my bodyguard."

*

Tarrant glared at the washroom door as he stripped off his uniform. There's no need to be bad-tempered about it, Avon. It's standard procedure. You've had two nice comfortable flights on space-liners where you could close the partition in our suite and have your precious privacy. Well, this ship doesn't have suites, and I'm supposed to be your bodyguard, so we'd damned well better share a Pullman.

As if on cue, Avon emerged from the washroom, wearing a silk shirt and shorts. And the sneer as well, at least until he saw Tarrant half out of his pants. Avon's expression slipped infinitesimally. Avon, you're getting much too good at hiding your reactions to my body. Avon turned away and began readying his bed.

All right, Avon, if that's how you want it. Tarrant slipped into his pseudocotton T-shirt and shorts slowly, his eyes taking in Avon's muscled legs, the movement of his rump under the silk boxers; neat and compact. Like a cat.

"I'm simply playing my role, Tarrant." Tarrant looked up and wondered how long Avon had been watching him. There was a smile instead of a sneer on his lips now.

"I'm an important tax adjuster, an up-and-comer. Of course I'm going to take umbrage at quarters not befitting my status."

Tarrant checked the door lock, pulled down his own bed, and swung into it. "Don't get too involved in your role. I miss your normal sunny disposition."

There was a shudder, a roar, and a shock wave. The cabin lights went out. Tarrant was able to gauge the pitch of the impact and locate the hand grips in time to avoid toppling out of the bed. He activated the emergency lighting to find Avon hadn't been as quick and had tumbled to the floor.

That didn't seem to slow him down much, however; by the time Tarrant alit on the floor, Avon had already retrieved the handgun and was listening at the door.

"Just panic, Tarrant. No fighting in the corridor."

"No, that was an external impact. We haven't been boarded. Unless they have a teleport."

Avon turned a glare on him and fingered the lock. "Wait," Tarrant said, tossing him his jacket and slipping on his own. "We'd better have our papers. And I'd better have the gun."

"Not on your life, Tarrant."

"If you blow our cover it won't matter if the ship is boarded. We'll have lost either way."

Avon considered for a moment, then handed Tarrant the gun with a resigned snort. "Let's see if those FSA elocution lessons pay off."

They made it to the flight deck surprisingly quickly -- the passengers were heading aft for the life capsules, and the crew took one look at Tarrant's insignia and let him have his head. Perhaps it was a good thing this was a small passenger ship -- all the security personnel were junior grade. On a larger ship they would have given Tarrant more of a hassle.

He began barking orders the instant he hit the flight deck. "I'm Captain Tannar, Space Command. What's going on?"

"Amagons. Two ships. We're outmatched on both speed and firepower. Starboard stabilizers are out and we can't keep her level."

"Then don't try. It'll just give them a clear shot." Tarrant reached the pilot's console, diverted power to the inertial dampers, and cut the engines.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Taking over." He handed the pilot his gun as he pulled him from his seat. "You -- keep that man safe at all costs, or I'll have your hide." He took the seat and scanned the indicators. "What have we got in cargo that's flammable?"

"We have liquid fuel modules, but they're safe so far. We've been keeping fires away from that cargo bay."

"Have the Amagons been avoiding hitting them?"

"No, there've been a few close calls. Do you really want us in free fall, sir?"

"Absolutely. If the Amagons don't know about the fuel we've got a shot."

"You don't expect to be able to attack them with cargo, do you?"

"No. They'll just make a spectacular display when we crash."

"Now hold on! Space Command or no, you'd better start explaining yourself or you'll be in the brig."

"My apologies, Captain. If the Amagons think we're going down they'll hold off and come looking for salvage afterwards. We skirt the atmosphere, drop the fuel, and use the gravitational pull to swing around the planet. By the time they get to the crash site and realize they've been tricked we'll be long gone."

"I hope you can restart the engines in time--"

"No problem. Done it a thousand times. Prepare to drop cargo on my mark. Mark!"

A pillar of flame erupted from the surface as Tarrant reengaged the engines. The shock wave put them in a spin, but once clear of the planet's gravity he had them back on line.

"You should be able to handle everything from here. Contact Space Command and make sure they pick up those Amagons before they catch up with us." He retrieved his gun from the civilian pilot's hands and turned to Avon. "Are you all right, sir?"

Avon smiled calmly. "Just fine. Good job." He turned his gaze on the captain and the smile vanished. "I expect you to make up for lost time. And I do not intend to be delayed by pointless questions from security when we reach TC-119. They were already late for their job. They will not make me late for mine. Do I make myself clear?"

"Absolutely, sir."

*

Tarrant made another sweep of the secure console room. That made seven in the past hour. He had no reason to expect any trouble -- the whole idea of these rooms was to allow senior tax officials to work in an isolated area where no one could interfere with their work. But Avon had assured him that he was nearly done, and if modifying the records was taking this long, he could only think something must be wrong.

He paced around the work station once again. This time, as if purely to prove Tarrant's current train of thought incorrect, Avon looked up at him and announced, "Finished."

Tarrant almost asked, "what took so long?", but opted for a simple, "so the money is back in the Vanderan account, and the corruption has been exposed?"

"No."

"What do you mean, 'no'?"

"That would be suspicious. I've left the false accounting work done by the tax assessor intact. With two slight changes -- the very careful false trails he created have been redone with precise carelessness, so the auditors will turn up the anomaly in a matter of days and track things back to the culprit. I've also increased the amounts of the funds shift, so the Vanderans will actually receive a tax refund."

"I see. Your methodology sounds brilliant--"

"--but you question the tax refund. The Vanderans will need to pay for keeping a trained staff monitoring the Weather Control System and correcting any future attempts at sabotage."

Tarrant pursed his lips for a moment, then nodded. "All right. Point taken. Then our work is done."

"Yes." Avon rose from his seat. Just before he unsealed the security lock, he added, "They also need the money to pay my fee."

*

The forms of the two men coalesced into existence in the teleport chamber.

"I'll be on the flight deck, Tarrant."

Tarrant smiled. "Getting an update from Orac and Zen before anything else, of course. Suit yourself. I'm getting out of this uniform and into something more comfortable. We've earned it, after all."

"Quite true. An excellent job, Tarrant. You certainly are as good as your record."

"Why, Avon, you almost sound pleased. Are you feeling well?"

Avon said only, "I'll be on the flight deck." Tarrant couldn't see the expression on his face. He would have grabbed him by the shoulders and spun him around if he thought he could have done it fast enough to catch the expression before Avon could change it.

Tarrant was still smiling as he changed into his jumpsuit. He eyed the Space Command uniform carefully, and chose to fold it carefully and tuck it into the wardrobe in his cabin rather than throw it into the recycler.

And suddenly his smile faded.

Tarrant raced to the flight deck, but Avon had already left. Avon had also taken Orac with him.

Tarrant made his way to Avon's cabin.

*

"Avon. We need to talk. Now."

"Go away, Tarrant. I'm busy."

Tarrant punched the door sensor. The door was unlocked and slid open. Tarrant walked in and closed the door behind him, even though the entire ship's complement was already in the room.
Avon was seated at his desk, his back to the door. He had taken off his jacket, but was otherwise still wearing his tax assessor's disguise. The room lighting was set at 50%, but the crisp white shirt still seemed to shine in the grayness of the rest of the room, as if it was in communion with Orac's blinking lights while everything else waited in stasis.

"I said now, Avon," Tarrant growled.

"And I said go away," replied the low monotone.

"Your wild emotional extremes would be much more convincing if you could keep them straight from one minute to the next."

He grabbed Avon by the shoulder and spun him around to face him. Avon raised his eyes to him. They had a dark fire of their own. The mouth twisted into a grimace.

"Get out. Now."

Tarrant grabbed his shoulders. "Not until I get some answers."

Avon growled and leapt from the chair, forcing Tarrant back until his legs hit the edge of the bunk and he lost his footing. Avon had him pinned to the bed.

"Answers? How about some questions, instead? You still haven't explained how this all came about, Tarrant. Why did you steal a ship and ignore regulations to come after me, not even waiting for your swearing-in?"

Avon's voice was brimming with impatience. "Lost your taste for talk, Tarrant? Then get out."

"Oh, I'm not done talking, Avon. But we've been through that topic more than enough. We're through with those games."

"All the games but one, Tarrant, the game you're playing. Why, Tarrant? Why the hurry to destroy your career before graduation?"

Tarrant took a few deep breaths; his heart was beating rapidly. He wasn't even sure why he decided to answer. If I'm giving in because I'm worried about you, I should just strangle myself right now.

"That was my chance. If I had waited I'd have had to take whatever assignment they gave me. Then I was just biding time until commencement. Space Command likes to see results; if I scored a coup, they'd overlook how I did it and give me relatively free rein."

"And if you didn't, you'd be dead. Quite a gamble. What was so horrible that you had to avoid it at any cost?"

Tarrant looked into Avon's eyes. He saw his own face reflected, looking more confused than anything else. He was no longer even trying to free himself from Avon's grip.

"Space Command likes results. Space Commander Travis gets results. These days he gets whatever he asks for. And he needs pilots."

Avon's eyes turned slightly away from Tarrant's, as if he were searching his memory banks for what he knew about Travis. "Not a compassionate person, as I understand. Tends to become overenthusiastic about his job and doesn't worry about civilian casualties. It hardly sounds like a pleasant assignment, but how many are these days? You don't seem the type to relish a boring desk job."

Tarrant swallowed. Avon was still looking off to one side.

"Travis doesn't care for human crews. Especially not ones like me, who are apt to come to their own conclusions. Travis prefers mutoids."

Avon turned slowly to meet Tarrant's eyes. Tarrant thought Avon might have flinched, but his face was composed by the time it came into his view.

"Mutoids? I...see." He smiled slightly. "That would explain your apparent lack of concern over the foolishness of your expedition. It seems your blood was destined to be spilt in any event."

Tarrant swallowed hard. "It was just a possibility. I'm not ignorant of Space Command politics; I know people who were looking out for me, who had been ever since they found out I was a valuable asset. But the tide rises and falls. Even after Travis' recent failures, even after whatever they did to him...."

For a moment Tarrant didn't know how to continue, then looked Avon in the eyes. There was a soft warmth to them now, but the furious intensity was there as well.

"They did something to him. Reconditioning, at the very least. But they left his determination to catch Blake. Sometimes it seems like that's all they left him. And now he gets whatever resources he needs."

"Resources." Avon slowly pulled back, releasing his hold on Tarrant. "Yes. Whatever it takes. Friend or foe, it doesn't matter."

*Analysis is complete, Kerr Avon.*

Avon raised his head. "Conclusions, Orac?"

*Only strategy number five meets your specified constraints on probability of success and degree of risk.*

Avon considered, then came to a decision with a slight shake of his head. He looked back toward Tarrant, who was now sitting on the bunk.

"Congratulations, Tarrant. It appears you are going to get all the answers you could want. I can't do what comes next without your assistance, and the only leverage I have to get it from you is to tell all."

"And what assistance do you need?"

Avon looked away again -- not just from Tarrant, but seemingly from the whole ship, from the entire universe, in fact, except for his destination.

"I need you to take me to Earth."

*

Tarrant was pacing the flight deck when Avon arrived. He greeted him with a grimace.
"I thought you had agreed to full disclosure, Avon."

Avon glanced at him, but hardly seemed to be taking him in. His voice displayed no anger, only weariness. In spite of that, however, it was determined as always. "Orac's told you everything, Tarrant."

"Everything you asked him about. Orac says you've put a block on any further information gathering beyond your instructions."

Avon had not approached Tarrant, but instead made his way to the communications console. Tarrant had closed the gap between them, however. The fact that Avon was forced by this maneuver to look up at Tarrant leaning over him didn't break his stride. He turned his head slowly, and spoke equally so.

"Was there something you wanted to know, Tarrant?"

"Perhaps. I've had all the FSA courses. I know how the Interrogation Division operates. I might find something you missed."

Avon turned his gaze back to the comm station to verify the calibration of the subdermal transmitter. "There's no time."

"There's no hurry."

"I know Shrinker's current location. I can't risk losing him now."

"For someone as cautious as you are, Avon, you seem to have a very poor sense of timing. Have you been saving up all your foolhardiness for now?"

Avon's head swiveled back to Tarrant. "I suppose I should take your assessment seriously, Tarrant, as you've proven yourself to be an expert in reckless behavior. Nevertheless, I'm going and I'm going now."

Tarrant straightened and took a half-step away from the console, seeing that the work was almost finished. Sure enough, Avon shortly did likewise.

"Then at least take the block off now. I need something to entertain myself with while you're allowing yourself to be tortured to death. Staring at that readout is going to get tiresome after a while."

"Very well, Tarrant. Orac, add Tarrant to authorized voiceprints for security blocks 227643, 139966, and 22367. It appears you won't be having a vacation after all."

*

Tarrant tapped a finger against the teleport control panel. This wait shouldn't be difficult. This time I know Shrinker's the prisoner and Avon's the torturer.

But Tarrant was impatient. He had the information in hand. He'd had it for the last two days Avon was being tortured, waiting for Shrinker. But Avon hadn't been interested in hearing it -- not when Tarrant had gone down to get the two of them, not after Avon had taken the briefest time to eat and wash and dress before taking Shrinker to his future home.

And he still wasn't back. Why hadn't he slept? Why didn't I force him to? In his condition, Shrinker could have overpowered him--

"Avon. Bring me up."

Tarrant pressed the recall button and sped around the console. He handed Avon an adrenaline and soma as he stepped out of the teleport bay.

"Is it done?"

Avon paused before answering, as if considering the matter. "Yes and no."

Then he already knows some of it. "I take it Shrinker told you about Bartholomew, then?"

Avon turned to meet Tarrant's eyes. "So you did find out something. Remarkable."

That's what I've been trying to tell you, you pig-headed idiot. "This is serious, Avon. You were in way over your head on this one. They had a whole HUMIC operation running on you."

"HUMIC?"

"Human Intelligence Collection. They get in close to you and keep tabs on everything you say and do and anyone who comes near you. Magnitudes more expensive than surveillance equipment, but worth it if it's successful. And this wasn't just any operation. Bartholomew was the top covert operative in Central Security; he even did internal investigations. In essence, only the President and the head of CSec knew his true identity, and he had free reign to do whatever he judged necessary to do the job."

"As you have been so successful, perhaps you have an idea how we are going to identify Bartholomew?"

"Actually, I do. There's a man named Chesku who is currently serving as Federation Representative on Albian. He appears to have been the liaison between the President and CSec back when Servalan was heading CSec."

Avon's brow furrowed. "The same Servalan who is now Supreme Commander, and so intent on catching Blake?"

"--and Chesku's been riding her coattails all the way. But the President doesn't see eye to eye with Servalan -- she's no closer to catching Blake than she was a year ago, Travis has embarrassed her repeatedly, and it's common knowledge that she'd do away with the entire civilian government if she had the option. Chesku was one of her supporters, and the President has been trying to move the whole lot of them away from Earth. Hence the assignment on Albian."

Avon was quiet for a long time, but Tarrant refrained from moving the discussion along. Finally, Avon spoke.

"In that case, I'd say our next destination is Albian.".

*

Tarrant's eyes flicked back and forth across the readouts.

"I've got the teleport coordinates, Avon, but there seems to be a problem. The governmental residences are deserted."

Avon strode to the console, looked over the readings, then slapped Orac's key into place. More forcefully than usual, thought Tarrant.

"Orac, why are the governmental residences empty?"

*Rebel activity on Albian has been increasing. All nonessential Federation personnel have been evacuated. Those remaining are now housed within the defense complex.*

"What about Chesku?"

*Representative Chesku is still engaged in negotiations with the Albian Independence Party. He only leaves the complex for negotiation sessions, and then only with a heavy military escort. It is unlikely that he will remain on Albian long, as negotiations are at a standstill and rebel assaults are an increasing threat to the defense complex. He will undoubtedly be evacuated when the outer defense perimeter is breached.*

Tarrant was at Avon's side. "How long will that be?"

*Seven to ten standard days.*

Tarrant looked at Avon. "In other words, the complex must already be on Level Four Alert. Unless we teleported into the same room with him, we'd be captured before we even got our bearings."

Avon looked up from Orac to meet the pilot's eyes. "Then we'll need to contact the rebels."

"Contact them? And say what? 'Hello, we are a wanted criminal and an FSA cadet, and we'd like to interrupt your fight for freedom so that we can carry out a personal vendetta'? This isn't Vanderal, Avon; the Vanderans only trusted you because they didn't have a choice."

"Hmmm. Perhaps it is Vanderal, in a way. Orac, I need something to offer the rebels. They seem to be winning the war, so it isn't military support. There must be some technical expertise they require. Find it."

*That is a trivial exercise, Kerr Avon.*

"I'm not interested, Orac. Just do it."

*The answer is obvious. It is well known to everyone on Albian that the Federation has installed a solium radiation device which would destroy all human life on the planet. The activation mechanism is undoubtedly situated in the most secure area of the complex. The only person who would know the entire defense network is the senior Space Command officer, Space Major Provine. As he has not been captured by the rebels, they cannot be certain of their ability to deactivate the device.*

"Ah. In that case, I would say we have our opportunity. Orac, find out everything you can about the device. Tarrant, find us a way to contact the resistance leaders."

Avon snapped up Orac's key and headed for the corridor.

"And what are you going to do, Avon?"

Avon turned back to the pilot. "I am going to get some sleep, Tarrant." He turned away again.

"Avon."

He stopped sharply this time, turning only his head. His tone was equally sharp. "Good night, Tarrant."

He didn't turn away again, however, and Tarrant kept his gaze leveled on him, raising his chin slightly. Half smiling, he said, "aren't you forgetting something, Avon?"

Avon appeared to pause and consider before a half-smile of his own appeared. He tossed Orac's key to Tarrant. "Have a good time."

"Pleasant dreams."

Avon's smile broadened slightly as he turned back down the corridor, but Tarrant saw no pleasure in it. At best, Avon was amused by the grim absurdity of those two words. What a ridiculous notion, that any dreams Avon had could be pleasant. Tarrant watched him go in silence. He continued to watch long after Avon had passed beyond reach of Tarrant's eyes and ears. Then he slipped Orac's key into its slot.

"Orac, locate a computer equipped with a psychostrategy data analysis package and run a Psychological Stress Profile on Avon. Give me the results and purge any trace of it."

*

She began to stir, not because she had had her fill of sleep, but because of sounds, voices. Whether they were the ones inside her head or without, she couldn't say. But she was fully awake for the sound that was both her greatest fear and her only hope, the sound of the cell door opening.

In the past, she had instinctively cringed into the corner at that sound, but she was too weary now for even that. She watched as from the calm of the dead as the door opened.

He stepped inside, and her eyes grew wide. She tried to speak, but her throat was frozen until his own voice unlocked it for her.

"Anna."

"Kerr."

Her mind told her she was rushing to the door to meet him, but she barely had the strength to make it to her feet when he wrapped his arms about her. Was the salty taste of his lips his tears or mine? Her arm snaked up his back. She tangled her fingers in his hair and pulled his head back, sacrificing even his kisses to see his eyes, warm and brown. They held her as firmly as his arms. Can I live inside those eyes? Can the rest of the world cease to be, except for those eyes?

Her other hand had finally worked its way into his leather tunic. Memory flooded back then, swept in by the familiarity of his chest, the texture of his skin, the temperature just slightly warmer than hers, the hair that hypnotically drew her to rest her hand flat on his chest, close her fingers, and tug at the strands.

As she did it, his lips parted slightly, his eyes closed, his head drew back unaided by her fingers in his hair. She opened his tunic completely and slipped it off his left shoulder, so she could see his skin in the light, its paleness belying its warmth. Her fingers brushed his nipple, and she heard a low moan escape his throat. A single fingertip traced a circle around it, just at the edge of the hair, then flicked roughly against it, drawing out a gasp to accompany the moans.

She pulled his head towards her this time and gazed long on his face, as if committing the already-familiar features to memory, then rested her cheek against his, then nuzzled his neck to take in the scent of his skin. Not enough; she ran her tongue along his collarbone to taste his damp skin.

She gave his nipple a final squeeze, then ran her hand down his torso and inside his pants to feel his cock as it strained against the leather, to feel it spring erect as she freed it. She wrapped her fingers around his cock, milking it slowly as she buried her teeth in his shoulder until she could taste his blood. His moans became periodic staccatos of airless gasps joined by shuddering spasms of his body, set off each time she coaxed a spurt from his cock and each time she bit harder into his skin. He sank to his knees and she followed him down. His gasps were quieter know, dry and rasping, only audible to her ear touching his lips, but she felt them in his throat, just as she felt his pulse quieting as his arteries spurted their last drops, just as his cock softened as she pumped its last drops.

She gently lowered him to the ground. She placed her palm against his chest to feel the sticky wetness, drew it back to look at his blood, clenched her fist.

"Avon," she said.

Then, even louder, "Avon!"

"AVON!"

Avon opened his eyes. Tarrant was shaking him.

"Avon! Are you all right?"

He laid his hand flat on his chest and felt the sticky dampness. Slowly, he drew it back to see it. Even in the low lighting he could see it well enough. He had been sweating heavily. He clenched his fist and lowered it.

"Avon!"

He looked up at Tarrant again. "What are you doing in my cabin, Tarrant?"

Tarrant let go of Avon's shoulders and backed off slightly, his look of concern replaced with wide-eyed confusion. "I...I told Zen to monitor your life signs and alert me if they became erratic."

"I see." Avon looked away for a moment as he considered, then looked back at Tarrant. "We'll discuss that in the morning."

He reached up for Tarrant's shoulders and pulled him down onto the bed. Tangling his fingers into Tarrant's hair, he guided their lips together. Tarrant's mouth opened slightly as the kiss deepened , and Avon worked his tongue between Tarrant's lips.

Tarrant drew back. "Avon! I mean...you are awake, aren't you?"

"Yes, I'm awake."

"And you--"

"I know exactly what's going on, Tarrant."

"And you--"

"Do you have any objection, Tarrant?"

Tarrant paused for a moment, wetting his lips. "No."

"Good." Avon drew their lips together. He ran his hand across Tarrant's chest, spreading his robe open, feeling the soft golden hair, teasing the nipples to draw small gasps from Tarrant's captive mouth, then traveling down the long body to find his firmly-erect cock. Tarrant moaned as Avon wrapped his fingers around it, placing two fingertips on the underside right at the base and stroking the sensitive spot.

Avon released the pressure on Tarrant's head and Tarrant slowly drew it back, gasping in air. Only a moment's respite before Avon rolled Tarrant onto his back and wrapped his lips around Tarrant's cock, taking two-thirds of its length into his mouth. He began moving his head up and down, sliding Tarrant's cock along his lips and tongue, still stroking the underside of the base with his fingertips. Tarrant clutched at the sheets and tried to buck, but Avon held him down, immobilizing his hips. As he felt Tarrant approaching climax he quickened the pace of his stroking and laughed into Tarrant's cock, eliciting first a sharp gasp and then a shuddering orgasm. Avon pumped Tarrant's cock, first with his mouth, then his fingers, until his writhing subsided and his whole body relaxed into the bed.

Avon returned to the head of the bed. Tarrant tried but failed to speak, but Avon took in the quizzical expression and answered the unspoken question.

"I didn't say we were done yet."

Avon rolled the pilot onto his stomach, and the pilot raised his hips to allow him to slide a pillow under him. Avon tapped the sensor on his night stand and the drawer slid open. With a single, fluid motion Avon reached inside, pulled out a tube of lubricant, and tapped the sensor again.

Avon's fingers slid deep inside Tarrant as he applied the lube, drawing a nearly-continuous moan from the young man's lips. The moaning increased as he slid his cock inside Tarrant's arse and slowly began to pump in and out. Tarrant showed no indications of discomfort, and Avon quickened his pace, plunging his cock deep into the hole, pistoning his hips. As his own moans deepened he reached beneath Tarrant to stroke his once again erect cock. As he came inside Tarrant he milked his cock more rapidly, bringing him to the start of his second orgasm as he poured out the last drops of his own.

Avon maneuvered Tarrant's unmoving body into a more comfortable sleeping position, then settled in himself.

"If you tell me I have to go sleep in my cabin," mumbled Tarrant, "I'll just have to kill you."

"Good night, Tarrant."

*

Avon eyed his empty breakfast plate. I can't say the boy hasn't helped my appetite.
Or my sleep. And not before time.

Avon left the rest room and headed for the flight deck. Nor can I deny that my subconscious has an overactive imagination. A different nightmare every time. How many ways can you say, "They came for me, not for Anna"?

Avon's face twisted into a grim half-smile. I imagine Tarrant would see nothing more than ego in an 'A' blazoned on my chest.

Avon shook his head from side to side. At least this nightmare was an improvement. At least this time I died in that cell instead of her.

As he stepped onto the flight deck, Zen's fascia blinked at him.

*Information.*

"Go ahead, Zen."

*Reply has been received from Albian Independence Party. Proposed face-to-face meeting has been agreed to. Teleport coordinates received.*

Tarrant stretched lazily on the bed, plastering his whole body against its surface. That was what led to his awakening; his sense of touch was too delicate not to notice the different feel of this bed, and the dissonance increased little by little from a whisper to a roar. And when he awoke, he began to laugh.

Avon's side of the bed had been carefully rearranged while Tarrant was asleep. Every detail was specifically chosen to convey the impression that Tarrant had been the only person in the bed. Did Avon really think I would doubt my memory of what had happened? It was real; Tarrant had no doubts about that.

Tarrant could tell by the scent that the shower had been used and cleaned, and not very long ago. He showered quickly and began to dress.

"Zen, where is Avon?" asked Tarrant, tugging on his right boot.

*Avon is in the teleport room.*

Teleport? He glanced at the chronometer. Unless Avon or the Albians had changed the time from Tarrant's proposal, there was just barely time for him to get there before Avon left. He pulled on the other boot and raced out the door.

*

"Avon! Wait!" Tarrant was short of breath when he charged into the teleport room. Avon was about to leave.

"I don't have time to wait, Tarrant. You've got seventy-two seconds."

"You were going to go alone?"

"I am going alone, Tarrant."

"That's absurd. You aren't even armed."

"Those are their terms."

"Surely there's room for negotiation."

"There's no time for negotiation. Once Chesku takes off, we've lost him."

"Then we had better get a move on. Surely the Albians didn't insist on you going down alone."
Avon hesitated. Tarrant smiled. "Aha! I didn't think you would lie about it. I'm going with you, Avon."

"NO!" Tarrant was stunned by the intensity of it, by the tension in Avon's face. I suppose I'm lucky he isn't armed. He would have pulled a gun on me. He might even have shot me.
In a few seconds, however, Tarrant regained his composure. "All right, Avon. Now you're trapped by the clock. Give me a real reason, a convincing one, or I'm going with you."

Avon's eyes flicked left and right for a moment, as if he were searching for another exit.

"Full disclosure, Avon."

Avon wet his lips. "It is no longer possible for you to take part in this, Tarrant. What Del Grant and I had is long over. He told me so in no uncertain terms. With Anna, however, there was no...ending. What should be long-dead still haunts me, and will continue to do so until Bartholomew is dead." He stopped and moistened his lips again. "If you come with me, you become part of that...ghost that must die with Bartholomew. I will not permit that to happen."

Tarrant just stared. The teleport controls began moving by themselves in response to Orac's invisible touch.

And Tarrant continued to stare at the empty teleport bay.

*

The room Avon materialized in was windowless and sparsely furnished with a battered desk and four chairs. Three people sat on the opposite side of the desk; one empty chair was left on his side.

The man in the center seat stood and offered his hand. "Welcome, Avon. My name is Cauder. I'm head of the Albian Independence Party. These are two of my associates...." He gestured toward the woman at his right, then the man at his left. "Ralli...Vetnor."

Avon shook hands with all of them and took his own seat as Cauder continued. "Vetnor has reviewed the materials you've given us." He turned to his left.

"I'm no expert," said Vetnor, "but I'm convinced these are authentic. Based on your instructions, I'm sure I can disarm it, even if they've made some modifications. Which leaves us with just two problems."

Avon nodded. "Finding it and getting to it." He turned toward Cauder. "The activation mechanism and the solium device itself may be separated by as much as ten thousand kilometers."

Cauder turned to his right. "Ralli?"

"The main control area for the defense complex is the likeliest place for the trigger. We have some clues to the location, but it's the most heavily defended and secure area. We won't know more than that until we get inside."

"The computers on my ship will be able to detect the device, but not until it's activated. Once that happens we can teleport you there, but that means you won't have much time to defuse it."

"Understood," said Cauder. "Our tactical leader has worked out an assault plan consistent with those basic assumptions. Now comes our part of the bargain. Who is it you're trying to find?"

"A Federation undercover operative codenamed Bartholomew. The only people who know his true identity are the President, the Supreme Commander, and Chesku."

"Chesku?" Ralli twined her fingers together. "That may be a problem. The bulk of my information on the interior layout of the defense complex comes from an informant. A civilian in Chesku's employ. He'll be joining Chesku when they evacuate. Nothing must prevent Chesku from boarding that ship."

"I can't allow that," Avon snarled. "I can't risk letting Chesku escape. His ship will be guarded by pursuit ships. The odds of being able to capture him alive become vanishingly small."

"We'll try to contact our informant and arrange an alternate plan. But we can't promise anything at this point."

Avon rose. "Nor can I. You have the schematics. When you have arranged for the safety of your mole we can discuss our promises." He raised the teleport bracelet to his mouth.

"Going so soon, Avon?"

Avon's head jerked upwards at the familiar voice. He hadn't heard anyone entering. He turned to the man behind him.

"Del?"

Del Grant waved off the others. "If you'll excuse us, I'd like to discuss some things with Avon in private."

Cauder, Ralli, and Vetnor left as Grant circled the table and took the middle seat.

"Aren't you going to sit down, Avon?" He poked his tongue into his cheek as he watched Avon take the seat.

"What are you doing here, Del?"

"I've been hired to win their war. What do you want from this Bartholomew?"

"His life."

"And how much does that pay?"

"This isn't about money, Del."

"No, of course it isn't."

Avon's voice hardened. "You have no right to talk, mercenary."

"Don't I? Once the deal is made, I stick by it. I'll be here to the end, even if that's a solium detonation. I vouched for you, Avon. I told them you wouldn't sell them out. I didn't say you wouldn't run off if things got dicey. You just be careful what you promise."

"I intend to."

"These people have fought long and hard for their freedom. If you ruin it, I will hunt you down."

"Not if you're stupid enough to stick around for the solium device to detonate."

"I suppose loyalty is just one of my weaknesses. I hope you feel fortunate to be spared from it."

"Disloyalty is not one of my faults, Del, but pigheadedness is certainly one of yours. I would have come back for her. I was unconscious."

"Yes, yes." Grant hung his head. "I've heard it, Kerr. No more."

Avon said nothing.

"Why do you want Bartholomew dead?"

"He killed Anna."

Grant's head came up. "What? I thought I was obsessive. Do you realize you're risking the lives of every person on this planet for your personal vengeance?"

"And you don't care about it?"

"Of course I do. But it won't bring Anna back. Albian has to come first."

"I've already given them technical information that is invaluable to them. I wouldn't even be here if not for Chesku."

"They should feel blessed, every man, woman, and child. Where are you on the death-list, Avon? I want to see that one."

Avon's eyes smoldered. "Give your employers whatever advice you like about me. They know how to contact me when they've made their decision." He raised the teleport bracelet to his lips. "Orac, bring me up."

*

Tarrant took one deep breath, then another. Stay calm. Letting off steam isn't going to help anyone.

He read through the instructions again, as if they might be different this time. They weren't. Why isn't Avon here yet? He watched Orac's lights, and the lights on the teleport controls. Orac's doing all the work, anyway. I'm just 'emergency backup'.

Avon marched into the teleport room, sparing Tarrant no more than a quick glance as he stepped into the bay.

"Hello, Avon. Are you going to speak to me while we're waiting, or shall we just stand here in silence?"

"Do you know what to do?"

"Of course I know what to do -- stand here like a fence-post while Orac handles everything."
"Unless something goes awry."

"Orac's clever enough to work out alternatives."

"Clever, yes. Trustworthy, not necessarily."

"But I'm trustworthy."

Avon paused and glanced away for a moment, then looked at Tarrant again.

"Yes. I trust you to obey the spirit of the agreement, not just the letter."

"Fine." Tarrant waved the instructions. "If Cauder and Ralli pinpoint the central control room and can't get to it, we teleport their strike team there. Perfectly reasonable. Orac monitors for transmissions from the solium device until he pinpoints its location, then teleports Vetnor and Grant there to disarm it. Very intelligent. Ralli's agent has two transmitters, one to identify himself and one to pinpoint Chesku. When he activates the first we know he's safe; if requested we teleport him here for safekeeping. When he activates the second, that means Chesku is alone and we teleport you there. If the solium device has not been activated, we teleport Grant there as well."

Avon simply said, "fine."

"That's it? Fine? It's a ridiculous idea. Teleporting you blind into a room with Chesku because an informant you've never met says it's safe? You're slipping badly, Avon. And Grant's suddenly become stupid enough to go with you! You can't be serious!"

"That is the arrangement."

Before Tarrant could reply, Orac teleported Avon into the defense complex.

*

"Chesku."

The diplomat turned and eyed Avon up and down, taking note of both the drawn gun and the facial expression, calm but not in the least serene.

"Yes, I'm Representative Chesku. What can I do for you?"

"I want information."

Chesku gave Avon a soothing motion of his head. "I'm afraid you've come to the wrong person. I undoubtedly know less about the solium device than you do. You'll want Major Provine."

"Not about Albian."

"Ah." Chesku's face brightened. "At least someone remembers I had a career once."

Chesku's eyes shifted to the right as Del Grant teleported into the room.

"I thought I'd noticed strange phenomena when you suddenly appeared. Looks to be a fascinating means of transportation. How does it work?"

"You're not here to ask questions," Avon reminded him, "just to answer them."

Chesku's gaze returned to Avon's gun. "Of course. My apologies. The legacy of a life in politics and diplomacy. The politician's profession is talking."

"And keeping secrets."

"Not to mention doing everything in my power to achieve a peaceful settlement before the gunfire starts. What can I tell you?"

"I'm looking for Bartholomew."

"We're interested in Bartholomew," Grant corrected.

"Bartholomew? My, we are talking distant past. Over three years ago."

"Three years is not very long."

"In politics it is an eternity."

"In revenge it is less than a night's sleep away."

Chesku closed his eyes for a moment. "Yes, I understand." He opened them. "Would you be willing to tell me who the alleged victim was?"

"Her name was Anna Grant."

Chesku raised an eyebrow. "Anna Grant? Then you two must be the brother and the lover."

"Perhaps three years is not so very long after all."

Avon and Grant pointed their guns at the door at the sound of the lock clicking. The green diodes on their wristbands blinked.

"It's Ralli's man," Grant said, lowering his gun.

Avon kept his gun trained on the door. "Not necessarily alone."

Anna was alone. She stood frozen as the door slid shut behind her, her gun still raised.

"Avon...Del?"

Avon's voice was flat, drained of any inflection. "Hello, Anna."

"Clearly no introductions are necessary," said Chesku. "Shall I be on my way, then?"

"No! Stay right there."

Anna advanced and threw an arm around each of them. Del glanced at Avon. Avon flinched. All three seemed to back away from each other simultaneously.

"What's the matter with you two?" she asked.

"When I returned, Del told me you were dead."

"I saw them take you, Anna. I tried everything to get you released. I was sure you were dead."

"Well, as you can see, I'm not."

"As I can see," said Avon.

"What then? What's wrong? Why won't you touch me?"

"Perhaps because I can't believe that it's you," said Avon.

"Have I changed so much?"

"I don't know," Del replied. "Have you, Anna?"

"Nothing's changed. You can see I've been working with the Independence Party. I love you both dearly. I want you to know that. You must see that. Please look at me."

"Anyone you so much as looked at was marked for collection," Avon muttered, eyes cast down, his gun hand dropped to his side. He backed away and looked at her.

"How did you get away, Anna? Where did you run to?"

Del Grant also moved away from her. "Yes, Anna. Who hid you?"

"Chesku did." She suddenly turned and fired. Chesku crumpled to the floor.

"He was...he was about to shoot."

"He was unarmed," Del said, his voice stern.

"I thought...I was sure...he was my husband, and he had political power then. He rescued me. I had no other choice."

Avon stared at Chesku. "And he knew who Bartholomew was--"

"Avon!" Del shouted. Avon turned, raising his gun. The room seemed to spin slowly, as if he were watching the tableau from very far away, from a long time ago. Anna's gun aimed at him. He heard the blast fire and fired at its source, almost involuntarily. By the time his brain had caught up, they were both lying on the floor.

Avon kneeled between the bodies and grasped them both by the hand. Both hands were rapidly growing cold from shock.

"Kerr...I misjudged you," Del gasped. "I'm sorry."

Avon had nothing to say. He lowered his head and kissed him. For a moment, the color and warmth flowed back into Del's face.

Only for a moment. Then they were both gone.

*

"Time, Orac?"

After Tarrant's last threat, Orac made no complaint about being used as a mere timepiece. *Eight-hundred-eighty-two seconds.*

Tarrant tapped the comm button. "Still no contact, Vetnor."

"Well, get somebody down here. I can't do this on my own."

"Acknowledged." He tapped another button. "Grant, this is Tarrant. Countdown has begun. Please respond."

Silence.

"Avon, report. Where is Del Grant?"

Tarrant jabbed the button with his fist.

"Orac, have you gotten a fix on either of them?"

*Neither Del Grant nor Kerr Avon can be located.*

Tarrant grabbed a handgun and stepped into the teleport bay. "Put me down at their last known location." He kept his finger on the trigger.

He rematerialized and turned completely around. No enemies. Just a room full of corpses.
Not all corpses. Avon sat huddled in a corner, his wrists resting on his knees, his head bowed. He'd removed his teleport bracelet. Tarrant kneeled in front of him.

"Avon, are you all right?"

No response.

"Avon!"

Tarrant grabbed Avon's chin and tilted his head up. Avon's eyes looked right through him. The corpses look better than you do.

"Avon, the solium device has been activated. Vetnor can't deactivate it alone. He needs your help."

Avon just stared blankly ahead. Tarrant released his chin, and he just kept staring.

"Avon!"

Tarrant slapped him across the cheek. Avon's right hand came up to grab Tarrant's wrist. His face twisted into a snarl.

"Avon, Grant's dead. Vetnor needs your help."

The grip loosened, followed by the snarl. Suddenly Avon released Tarrant's wrist, stood, and grabbed his bracelet.

"Get those two bodies up to the ship and into stasis." He tapped the bracelet. "Orac, teleport me to Vetnor's location."

He was gone before Tarrant could say a word.

*

Tarrant ran his eyes over the comm panel. No signal yet.

Twenty-two days waiting for a window of opportunity to bring Avon back to Earth again. At least this time his objective was not to be captured.

*

It would have been easier in daylight, of course, but cover of darkness made it unlikely he would be seen. If there happened to be anyone around to see him. If he had to choose between the mercies of the Federation and those of Mount Tuitui, he would go with the mountain.

So he climbed. It was cold, at night and away from the artificial weather of the Domes. Earth had no value agriculturally, so there was no point in having Weather Control satellites. The weather on the Outside was whatever it chose to be. Avon didn't know what season it was; he guessed mid-autumn and thanked his environment suit, a compromise between ease of movement and protection from the elements. He wasn't freezing to death, he wasn't sweating to a degree which would prevent him from continuing, and he hadn't missed a handhold and fallen to his death.

So he climbed. And climbed. He had forgotten what climbing alone was like. In fact, he'd never gotten this far on Tuitui alone. If he were being sensible, he would have stopped for a break earlier, but he knew he wasn't being sensible. He stopped when he had no choice. It was a wide enough ledge that he could rest comfortably.

He nearly toppled off anyway.

So what if it was night? He had chosen an ascent he knew. But he'd let exhaustion distract him, allow him to unintentionally end up on this ledge.

Where he couldn't help but think of Anna.

He pulled his gear together and resumed the climb.

*

Even if it had been daytime, Avon had gone deep enough into the cave that artificial light would still have been necessary. He had set up three lamps, one at the back end of the cavern with the beacon, the others ten meters further out, three meters to either side of the flat stone upon which he was seated. He tapped the activator with his finger and watched the flashing blue light on the beacon meld into the reddish light of the lamps.

And he also began his mental countdown. Tarrant is putting the bodies in their coffins now. He's sealing the lids. Now he's moving them to the teleport room. Any moment now.

The white flash of the teleport momentarily joined the lamps and the beacon. Avon rose as Tarrant turned and the two men switched places, Avon standing over the coffins while Tarrant watched.

The blinking blue light danced over the plaques on the coffins, sparking off the beveled edges of the engraved lettering. Avon knelt between them, tracing the letters with his fingers. Tarrant watched Avon's back and shoulders carefully, trying to discern whether he was speaking too softly for him to hear, or crying, but he could tell nothing.

After the long silence, Avon breathed deeply and rose to his feet. He raised his arms over the coffins and let two handfuls of sand sift through his fingers. He turned and deactivated the beacon, then collapsed it and carried it to his stone seat, placing it carefully inside his backpack. He turned to face the coffins and took his seat.

The silence continued, Avon gazing at the coffins in the scarlet glow. Tarrant allowed him his silence, growing increasingly edgy as the time passed. It seemed too long, and Avon displayed not the slightest movement, as if he were dead as well, his spirit chased away by his will.

"Avon? Is there something you'd like to say before we go?"

Silence.

"Avon?"

The voice was low and heavy. "No."

And more silence. Finally Tarrant stepped closer and rested his hands on Avon's shoulders. The older man didn't move a muscle.

"All right, Avon. You've already had the opportunity to watch me crash and burn and then resurrect me from the dead. Now it's my turn."

Tarrant didn't need to see Avon's face -- he could hear the demonic grin in his voice.

"Paying off old debts. Go right ahead, Tarrant. Take the ship. You can claim it fairly now. And don't fret over whether you can keep me a secret if you decide to go back to Space Command. It really doesn't matter."

"Shut up, Avon. I don't care what you owe, or think you owe, either of them. From what I've heard, they had just as much to feel guilty over. You've paid your debts. Your debts to them, at least. As I see it, I'm the one you owe big, and I intend to collect."

Avon stood and turned to look at him, then grabbed the backpack and tossed it to him. He picked up one lamp. "Grab the other one." Tarrant turned and did so.

When he turned back, he saw that Avon had his handgun out. "If you intend to kill either me or yourself, Avon, rest assured that it won't stop me from hounding you. You're stuck with me now."

Avon smiled, turned toward the coffins, and fired at the ceiling. A torrent of rocks and dust sealed off the end of the cavern, coffins, lamp, and all. Avon holstered the gun and spoke into his bracelet.

"Orac, bring us up. And find us someone with a problem and lots of money."

END