Disclaimer: Blake's 7 doesn't belong me. It was the genius of Terry Nation and belongs to the BBC. I just play in their Universe occasionally.
Author's Note: Sorry it has taken me so long to post the second chapter. This is all the fault of Torchwood plot bunnies who unrelentingly occupied my head with Ultraviolet for six months. Hopefully postings should be more regular now – although the plot bunnies are always hopping on the fringes...
Thanks to Orion Lyonesse for beta-ing overnight to allow me to post this today.
Needless to say reviews, good or bad, are always welcome, indeed they are eagerly anticipated. Thanks for reading...
Resurrection
Dayna shoved Servalan down the corridor toward the docking bay, the barrel of the gun planted firmly and painfully against her lower back. Dayna's pace was fast and she stumbled. Avon caught her arm and roughly pulled her upright. For a second their eyes met, and Servalan thought she saw a look of pity in his eyes mingled with something else she couldn't identify, but it was quickly replaced with cold contempt.
"You don't have a ship, Avon," she mocked. "How do you expect to get off this godforsaken planet? What is more, without the power of the Liberator or Scorpio, you will be caught immediately." Avon merely smiled coolly, retaining a tight grip on her arm. He gave a curt nod to Dayna. She immediately fell back a couple of paces until Tarrant, Soolin and Vila, who had been keeping their distance, locked in serious discussion, drew level.
"She does have a point you, know; we can't leave here without a ship," Tarrant mused. "What is Avon planning to do? Rampage in a cargo transport?"
"I don't understand. Why we are keeping her alive anyway?" Dayna interjected angrily, hardly hearing Tarrant's words. "She's no good to us, and it's long past time I settled my score with her." She directed a scowl at Servalan's back, her finger twitching on the trigger of the gun she carried. It would be so easy, to end it now. But she had a feeling if she did so, her life might end a second later. When it came to Servalan, Avon was unpredictable.
Soolin saw Dayna's hand twitch and asked quickly, directing the question to Dayna, "What I don't understand is why Avon didn't tell us about the set up? I mean, relying on Vila to save him is not one of his brightest ideas. Why not one of us?"
But it was Vila who answered. "It worked, didn't it? What are you complaining for?" he said indignantly. "Anyway, the answer is really very simple and I am surprised you don't see it yourselves," he concluded triumphantly.
"All right, Vila, since you are so very clever, tell us poor foolish mortals the answers to all questions," Dayna said, her voice dangerously sweet.
Vila took one look at Dayna's glowering face and gulped. "All right. If this plan has been in operation as long as I suspect it has, Blake and Avon would have made sure there was a ship here of sufficient speed for our purpose, probably with teleport facilities. And as for Servalan, Avon is keeping her alive for two reasons, the first being he can turn her over to the Federation and use her as a bargaining piece. However much the Federation want us, 'Commissioner Sleer' is far more valuable. Secondly, and probably at this point more importantly, Avon is in love with her. Or as near as he is capable of, anyway," Vila reasoned, almost sadly.
"You're talking rubbish, Vila. We all know he hates her," Tarrant scoffed.
"You haven't seen what I've seen," Vila continued, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "I've known Avon for a very long time, longer than any of you realise, and I'm not stupid."
"You do a pretty good impression," Soolin interjected icily.
Vila glared at her, then continued, "In all this time, all these years, he has never killed her. He's had the opportunity, more than once, but he's never been able to pull the trigger. And let's not forget that time on Earth when he actually set her free. If that isn't love, albeit seriously twisted, I don't know what is."
"I hate to admit it, but Vila could be right. It does make sense...sort of," Soolin admitted. Dayna nodded in agreement and shot a look of disgust at Avon's back.
Tarrant merely shrugged. "Maybe, but you haven't answered Soolin's question yet, and this is an answer I'm interested in hearing."
A pace behind him Vila stuck his tongue out childishly. "This is the easiest question of all to answer. Avon didn't tell us because he doesn't trust us to carry out his plans. Since he wanted us to react normally, whatever that may be, he decided that the best way to ensure that was not to tell us. Let's be honest, when does he ever tell us his plans? We never know what is going on in his head." Vila's brow furrowed. "I don't know why he was so sure I would duck when the shooting started, though."
Dayna gave Vila an appraising stare, then smiled. "If I thought that was a serious question, I would be seriously worried about you."
"My apologies, Vila," Soolin said admiringly. "You are not entirely the Delta fool I supposed."
"Your graciousness overwhelms me," Vila replied smoothly, bowing low.
"Do you intend to do anything of use today?" Avon's voice cut scathingly into their conversation.
"Perhaps if you told us where we were going, we might actually be able to do something. What are you up to, Avon?" Dayna asked sharply.
Before she could obtain a reply, Avon halted beside a closed door signed as Docking Bay 4. He quickly entered a six-figure code into the keypad on the wall beside it with his free hand, the other still clamped uncompromisingly about Servalan's arm. There was a series of high-pitched beeps and the keypad surround glowed momentarily green. A quiet hissing sound accompanied the door as it slid sideways, retreating into the wall. Avon manoeuvred Servalan roughly through the doorway, the others following quickly before the door could slide back into place.
The docking bay was a contradiction of light and shadow. Vast in size, the furthest reaches were lost in deep shadow. In the central section, however, hidden spotlights lanced down from metal gantries stories high above, forming perfect circles of white light on the stained, concrete-like surface of the floor. But it was the spectacle the docking bay contained that reduced them to stunned silence. Towering above them, floating on air jets just above the ground, was the gleaming, snow-white, three-pronged hull of the Liberator, its green energy sphere pulsating gently. Dayna, Tarrant and Vila gaped, mouths open in disbelief. Only Soolin looked on with unconcerned interest. She recognised the ship from the descriptions of the others but, unlike them, it had never been her home.
Servalan broke the awed silence first. "But the Liberator was destroyed. I was on her. I only just escaped." The disbelief in her voice was evident.
"More's the pity," muttered Dayna, loud enough for all to hear.
Avon ignored her. "Of course this isn't the original Liberator. This is just a copy. Not identical though, the original Liberator was far too advanced to be copied in every detail, but the most important systems are there, including the teleport and the auto repair facility. The drives however have been modified to accommodate Dr. Plaxton's Photonic Drive. So you see, Servalan, we are neither grounded nor helpless after all."
"How did you do this, Avon, if the Liberator and the Scorpio were destroyed?" Tarrant asked, unable to tear his eyes from the Liberator's gleaming hull.
Avon raised his eyebrows, somewhat amused by Tarrant's question. "Orac remembered," he said briefly. "Shall we go aboard, or are we going to stand here all day?"
The interior of the Liberator was much as Vila remembered it, a comforting warren of softly lit hexagonal hallways, almost silent but for a low melodic hum. Vila remembered how, even when the engines had been at full power, the Liberator had been almost eerily quiet, the hum only emphasising the alien nature of the ship. Now the quiet hum was a sign that he had returned home, a balm to his shattered nerves. Splitting away from the others, who had been given the task of escorting Servalan to her new secure quarters with strict instructions not to kill her no matter what the provocation, Vila and Avon traced the route burnt into their memories and emerged at the top of the flight of stairs leading down to the flight deck. It was like stepping back in time. The multi-level control consoles stood in majestic array along the rear wall, the high backed stations standing guard above the couch which arched around a circular holotable, the scene of so many arguments and intense discussions that had shaped their lives to this point. Despite the contra-indications given by his words and manner, maybe Avon was a sentimentalist after all. There may be hope for him yet, Vila reflected hopefully. To Vila's eyes, nothing about the Liberator had changed since the beginning, except for the crew, and as they walked down the steps to the main floor, Vila looked up, half expecting the flashing lights and friendly booming voice of Zen welcoming him on board. He even tentatively spoke Zen's name but, although the flashing lights appeared as they had in the past, the answering voice was somewhat different, higher pitched, less friendly, and definitely cantankerous.
"AS YOU ARE WELL AWARE, VILA, MY NAME IS ORAC. KINDLY USE IT. I AM CURRENTLY ENGAGED IN RUNNING PREFLIGHT DIAGNOSTIC CHECKS, ALTHOUGH WHY I SHOULD CONCERN MYSELF WITH SUCH TRIVIALITIES AS THESE IS BEYOND EVEN MY EXTENSIVE COMPREHENSION."
"Avon, did you have to install that thing as our not-so-friendly neighbourhood computer," Vila complained, his voice plaintive. "I've had warmer conversations with a food dispenser!"
"Food dispensers can't fly a ship or engage Federation pursuit ships in head-on combat," Avon reminded him dryly. He was engrossed in readouts at the lead control station and barely even raised his eyes.
"Orac," Avon continued, confidently pressing a number of buttons on the control console. "Take us into orbit. Then set a course for Carillion, in the ninth sector, Time Distort 8. Set the long-range scanners at three-sixty degrees. I don't want the Federation to know where we are. If you pick up any ships, make the appropriate course deviation to avoid being picked up. Do you understand?"
"OF COURSE I DO," Orac snapped. "ALTHOUGH I DO NOT SEE WHY I..."
"Just do it, Orac. I have to see an old friend," Avon said wearily.
"IF YOU INSIST," Orac grumbled.
"You're going to see her, aren't you?" Vila said quietly, his hand on Avon's arm effectively blocking his exit from the flight deck.
"A very astute deduction," Avon replied mockingly, but his eyes were weary, lacking their usual coldness, and even his pithy tone seemed diminished.
"Please don't underestimate her, Avon," Vila warned him in a worried voice. "You know she's at her most dangerous when she's cornered."
"You feel you're qualified to give me advice now?" Avon replied, the coldness returning to his voice, his eyes narrowing.
Vila gave a brief bleak smile and released Avon's arm, stepping back out of Avon's path. "I thought maybe I'd earned the right by now, as your friend if nothing else, but I see I'm wrong." He continued, his voice becoming uncharacteristically cold. "Do what the hell you want, Avon, if you're so hell bent on your own destruction. Just don't expect me to help you on your way."
Avon took a step and then paused. For a moment it seemed he was about to speak and Vila felt a spark of hope that maybe his words had reached him. But almost at the same instant, the shuttered expression returned to Avon's face and, without a word, he stalked from the flight deck, leaving a desolate Vila staring helplessly after him.
The engines came to life, their quiet hum resounding through the ship, setting up a low, almost imperceptible, vibration. Tarrant had forgotten what it felt like, and he revelled in it. It was less than forty-eight hours since the Scorpio had crashed and he had been convinced he would die. At the memory of it, the wounds inflicted by the crash and pushed to the back of his mind by the extraordinary events of the day resurfaced and began to throb painfully. He took a deep breath, exhaling slowly, mentally dispersing the pain as he did so. When they were in the air, he would attend to his injuries. First though he felt an almost primal need to watch the ship take off and feel the accompanying surge of adrenalin. He hurried to the flight deck, not wanting to miss even a second of the thrill. He pushed past Vila smiling at him with excitement. He was so engrossed in his eagerness to witness the launch that he didn't noticing the thief's lack of response, or the grey pallor of his skin. Taking his old seat at the controls, and put the forward view on visual. He watched in wonder as the docking bay doors slid apart slowly, revealing an ever widening strip of grey sky beyond. There was a muted hollow clang as the massive doors came to rest in the fully open position. Immediately the ship moved forward gently, the interior of the docking bay slipping to either side of the forward view, until there was no sign of the metal structure, only the vastness of Gauda Prime's empty sky filling the screen. There was a surge as the manoeuvring thrusters brought the nose of the ship up until it was pointed skywards. With the featureless grey sky it was impossible to tell how fast they were moving and it was only when the view screen seemed to fog that Tarrant realised they were already cutting through the cloud cover. At that moment, the main engines fired, the acceleration throwing Tarrant back in his seat. For a single second, Tarrant felt an incredible pressure, as though his skull was about to explode, then the G-force compensators kicked in and the ship seemed to stop. As he watched, the Liberator tore through the grey wispy clouds, passing into the upper levels of the atmosphere. Then they hit the outer atmosphere, the hull glowing bronze as the outside temperature soared. After less than a second, the Liberator was spit from the atmosphere as though it were an unpalatable morsel and finally broke orbit, surrounded by the blackness of space, punctuated by vivid points of light.
"I can see the stars," Tarrant murmured. He had honestly believed that it was a sight he would never see again.
"What did you say?" Vila asked testily, picking himself up from the floor where he had been unceremoniously flung by the force of the thrusters, and rubbing his bruised shoulder.
"Nothing important."
Avon had just entered the corridor leading to the holding cell when the sudden burst of acceleration sent him crashing into the wall and onto the floor.
"Orac!" he shouted bitterly at the intercom, rubbing the arm on which he had somewhat painfully landed. "Next time, some bloody warning would be nice!"
Orac didn't deign to reply, not that Avon had honestly thought he would. The machine's arrogance was second to none. Avon slammed his fist against the wall in frustrated anger, but only succeeded in bruising his hand on the smooth metal. Swearing loudly, he pulled himself to his feet, and, limping slightly, continued on his way. When he reached the cell, Dayna and Soolin were stood at either side of the door, heavily armed and voicing much the same sentiments. Dayna held her arm gingerly, while Soolin was rubbing her shin briskly.
"I've had smoother take-offs," Dayna complained.
"I'm just happy that we're alive to take off at all," Soolin pointed out. "Saying that, I think Orac could do with some lessons."
Avon didn't smile at the joke. His face was set, his eyes hooded. "I want to talk to her. Dayna, take Soolin to the flight deck and show her the flight controls. It's different to the Scorpio and I want to be sure we're ready by the time we get there," he said shortly.
"For the last time, Avon, get where?" Soolin asked, exasperated beyond measure with Avon's stonewalling. Avon did not answer her, and in truth didn't even look as though he had heard her question. He merely opened the door to the holding cell and went inside, closing the door swiftly behind him. Soolin and Dayna looked at each other, shrugged, and left him alone.
Servalan was perched on a padded bench at the far side of the room, her back ram-rod straight. Her eyes darted from side to side nervously, the only sign of the turmoil and fear inside her. She rose to her feet as Avon entered and stood before him, a statue of gleaming marble, her dark close-cropped hair and panther eyes the only vestige of colour. She was very beautiful, Avon admitted dispassionately, studying the creature before him; it was a pity they had to be enemies. But that was what they were. Enemies. Vila had been right about one thing: she was at her most dangerous when her back was up against the wall. It was time to show her exactly who was in charge here.
Without addressing a word to her, he walked towards her and pulled her roughly to him. Almost of their own volition, their mouths met, and this time there was no hint of the savagery or anger that had accompanied their earlier kiss. This time it was long, controlled, and surprisingly gentle. Servalan wrapped her arms around him, entwining her fingers in his dark hair, staking her claim on him, preventing him from leaving her side. Her lips parted, giving him access, her tongue flicking out to meet his, never letting his claim her completely. Avon pushed her down along the length of the bench, his hands moving gently down the length of her back, his lips leaving hers to caress the hollow at the base of her neck and the angular planes of her shoulders before returning to the gentle exploration of her mouth. Servalan in turn allowed her fingers to wander down his back, digging her nails into the leather of his jacket, claiming her territory. She lay, eyes closed, uncaring, defenceless, and oblivious to everything except the heated, luxurious feelings Avon was stirring in her belly.
Avon abruptly drew away, out of her arms. "Open your eyes Servalan," he said quietly, his voice showing no hint of passion.
Startled by his words, Servalan's eyelids fluttered open. Avon's face was very close above hers. His eyes were dark and unmoving and horribly, horribly blank. In them she could see the reflection of her flushed face, for once soft, staring back at her. She felt trapped, almost suffocated by the closeness of him. Avon drew back still further, standing up and taking a few steps back, as if he too needed to distance himself from her. Her pulse began to slow and, drawing on those inner reserves of strength upon which she relied, she slowly sat up. She tried to school her features back into her implacable mask of distain.
"So you do have some feeling after all; I was beginning to wonder. I almost betrayed my friends for you. I came so close. How close you will never know," Avon said slowly, shaking his head. Each word sent an icy shiver down her spine. "I can't bring myself to kill you, Servalan. I suppose you find that ironic. It is, after all, a victory for you. Then again, you can't kill me either, can you? Even on the day Anna died when I would have been glad if you had. We are the same, Servalan, you and I, two facets of the same being. But only one of us can really exist in the end and that person will be me." Avon's voice dropped to a whisper, cold and harsh. "I want you, Servalan, even now. What is more, you want me too. Your response made that obvious. It scares you, doesn't it? Wanting, even needing, someone that much? Especially me, someone who actually knows how that scheming evil mind of yours works. Someone who understands, even shares, that overwhelming need for absolute power. We have been through a lot together, you and I, and so I will tell you what I am going to do." His smile was cold as he cocked his head. "I am going to let you go. You will return safe to your Federation, for a price, of course, and then, when the Federation is in tatters and you are powerless and alone, I will hunt you down. And when I find you, be under no illusions, I will kill you. On my terms." Avon paused for a second, watching Servalan's ashen face with satisfaction. "And you will know that the only person who ever really understood you and wanted you - you Servalan, not just your power and position - is going to mercilessly hunt you down for the rest of your life. It's a lonely existence, Servalan. I know. You made sure of that."
Avon dropped his eyes and turned away from her. He had said more than he'd intended, more than he'd even realised was true. The knowledge of his feelings shocked him; he hadn't though he was capable of such emotion. He had spent his life suppressing every feeling, burying every emotion deeply, hiding behind his armour of cold indifference. Emotion was dangerous. It made him vulnerable, and that was something he couldn't afford to be. He'd paid dearly for showing his emotions in the past. He wasn't about to make that mistake again.
Servalan watched his retreating form, trembling uncontrollably. She felt more unnerved than she had ever been before. It was hard to say what scared her more, the man before her, or the feelings she'd thought long since buried, that he seemed able to stir within her. Flustered, she took the only form of defence she knew, attack.
"It will be torture for you too, Avon. Do you really think you can endure it for much longer?" she said, her voice unsteady.
"I don't know," Avon replied in a rare moment of honesty, not turning to face her.
The walls suddenly seemed to press in, the small cell becoming airless; he needed to escape, to find somewhere he could regain his equilibrium. He found himself practically running the few steps to the door. As the metal panel slid shut behind him and the locking mechanism whirred, signalling that he was out of the room, out of her sphere of influence, Avon gave a deep sigh. He was not sure how he was going to survive the course in front of him. What is more, he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to. His eyes haunted and his shoulders slumping with an invisible burden of defeat greater than he had ever thought possible, he walked slowly towards the flight deck.
As Avon bolted from the room, Servalan felt the sudden urge to run after him, to plead, for the first time, in her life, for forgiveness. But no! She had to be strong to survive this, she told herself; she had to show Avon that he could not break her. She had been the President of the Federation. She had held the fate of every man, woman and child in the palm of her hand, the decisions of their lives had been hers to command. Avon was just one man, and, like all men, he could be crushed. Even as she tried to convince herself of her superiority, she felt a single tear roll down her cheek, the first tear soon joined by a second, and then a third. Though she did not know why they were there, they would not stop.
