Dr. Sanda Lloyd sat next to the still-unconscious--and unidentified--patient, one eye on him and one on the monitoring screens above his head. The surgery was over, the desperate race to save his life before it leaked away had been won, but barely. She would watch him for the next four hours, then it would be Dr. Ehr's turn. Those eight hours would tell if the race had ultimately been run in vain.
The young doctor frowned. Everything about this mission confused her, from the way Commissioner Sleer--that arrogant bitch--had commandeered Dr. Ehr from one of the other ships to care for this patient when it became clear that Dr. Lloyd would not be able to perform the surgery on her own, to the fact that this ship and her two, smaller escorts were running under strict radio silence, not even communicating with each other on the journey back to Earth. It was not only confusing, it was disturbing, perhaps even frightening, but Lloyd found herself too indignant to feel fear just yet. Commissioner Sleer's arrogance might work well on the military drones, but she had no right to treat the medical staff like mutoids or delta-class slaves. Especially when she needed them to keep this prisoner alive, whoever he was.
Lloyd frowned again as she leaned forward in her seat in order to more closely examine her patient's face. She'd had neither the time nor the inclination to do more than note gross details during the grueling hours of surgery with Dr. Ehr. The good eye was closed, of course, just like its permanently closed companion, and had been since he was first carried into her sickbay. She itched to examine the scarred eye, but kept herself from doing so out of the sure knowledge that his body had enough to deal with right now; that wound was old, it could certainly wait until he recovered from more recent bodily outrages.
Her eyes moved to the close-cropped hair curling damply around the edges of his face, slick with sweat and a few, random streaks of blood no one had bothered to clear away, and her unconscious frown deepened. She reached for a basin and clean cloth to take care of that oversight, her hands moving automatically to clean up the patient's face while her eyes continued their abstracted study of his almost-familiar features. Why did that eye and that hair bother her, why did they seem unreal, not quite part of the man she was looking at? With two good eyes and the hair worn longer, she thought she might recognize him, although she wasn't sure she wanted to. He was obviously a crimo of some sort, the mission had been so top-secret that she hadn't been informed of any of the details, not where they were going, not why, not who any of the prisoners were. She knew there was at least one other prisoner on board before they even left their home base, which brought it to a total of seven, including the man lying in front of her. Prisoners, crimos, perhaps even rebels...
She gasped and leaned back abruptly in her seat. "Roj Blake," she murmured in sudden realization of his identity. No wonder the mission had been so secret; if Commissioner Sleer pulled off such a coup as to bring in the notorious rebel and his entire crew, her ticket to power was all but assured. And power, the doctor sensed, was something the dark-eyed woman craved the way others craved love or acceptance.
"How very perceptive of you." Dr. Lloyd jumped at the sound of that unexpected voice, turned with a gasp to face the intruder.
It was Sleer, appearing as if summoned by the doctor's thoughts. "I trust you are as discreet as you are perceptive," the Commissioner murmured as she stepped around Lloyd's chair and peered critically at first the patient--the prisoner--and then at his medical read-outs.
"Of course," Lloyd stammered, unnerved by the Commissioner's sudden appearance; she hadn't even heard the door open behind her, so preoccupied had she been with her own thoughts. "After all," she added as she forced her voice under control, "who would I tell? And what would be the point? You'll be putting him on trial soon enough." She waited, barely breathing, to see if the Commissioner would accept her placating words.
"Indeed," Sleer replied, but the danger was still there, in her eyes and barely concealed in her voice. "He seems to be doing well." She nodded at Blake's unconscious form, her voice now filled with satisfaction. "I'm pleased. Your work will not go unrewarded."
Ah, first the subtle threat, now the more obvious bribe. "That's very good to know," the doctor replied, her voice carefully balanced between professional pride and gratitude. With just a dash of greed thrown in to show she appreciated the bribe as well as she understood the threat. She allowed none of her fear or dislike to show, although she was aware that she had already made that mistake when Sleer called during the surgery. But now there was nothing else for her to concentrate on; let Sleer think her earlier words had been spoken in the heat of the moment, that the doctor was remembering her place.
It seemed to work. Sleer nodded, visibly dismissing the doctor from her thoughts as her eyes returned to their gloating study of the unconscious man lying in front of them. Dr. Lloyd remained on her feet, stiffly aware of how hazardous a moment she had just negotiated, and suddenly afraid for her patient. Blake was a dangerous fugitive, a rebel, a terrorist, and he therefore deserved to have justice served, but she knew that justice was not what Sleer was after, that justice was, to the other woman, only useful as a means to an end. And power was that end.
XXX
Servalan forced herself to move at a leisurely pace as she returned to her quarters, forced her mind away from the new problem it had just been handed until she reached the privacy of the captain's cabin--which had been graciously "donated" to the Commissioner by a less intransigent Captain Tesch at the beginning of this mission. The mission that was the first step in her return to power. She ignored the two guards standing outside her door, brought with her to ensure her privacy, merely brushed past them as if they weren't there. She was used to them by now, confident that the extra money she gave them every week was enough to buy their continued loyalty. They lived much better lives, when off-duty, than their peers. And when they were no longer useful, it would be a simple matter to use that unexplained luxury against them--a double insurance on their loyalty, one she'd already made quite clear. Betray her, and they would pay for it. She was quite satisfied with the arrangement.
However, there were other matters she was not so happy about. When the door shut behind her, Servalan allowed the disdainful facade to disappear, allowed her irritation with Dr. Lloyd--and her continued vexation with Tesch--to show. Tesch would wait, but Lloyd was going to have to be dealt with, and soon; although Servalan had itched to shoot the younger woman the moment she realized Blake's identity, she'd restrained herself, merely waited to see what Lloyd would do with the information. The doctor's control of herself was impressive; she had obviously known what danger she was in the moment she spoke to "Commissioner Sleer" in the infirmary. Clever, the former president of the Federation was willing to concede, but certainly not clever enough to realize that Sleer was aware of a certain communication the doctor had received at the beginning of this mission, before radio silence was mandated. A communication that could bring her loyalties into question.
Servalan paced around the room, her mind racing as she studied the problem Lloyd's knowledge represented. It wasn't only her knowledge of Blake's identity and therefore her ability to extrapolate the identities of the other prisoners, but also her knowledge of the Federation's plans for her home colony. There was always the chance that Lloyd's knowledge of Blake's identity would pose no threat to Servalan or her carefully laid plans, but she had never been the type to trust her fellow humans--or leave anything to chance. Especially where her own skin was concerned. So she swiftly dismissed the idea of leaving Lloyd alone, if only because she'd already laid the groundwork for taking care of the doctor. It was always best to plan ahead.
Servalan counted herself fortunate that the communication from Lloyd's cousin had been intercepted; now she could use that as evidence that the doctor had been collaborating with the rebels, and her death would be that much easier to explain away. But she would still have to be careful, which was the only reason the doctor was still alive now. Captain Tesch was far too by-the-book for anything less than solid evidence of Lloyd's treachery to convince him that Sleer's actions were justified; she would have to make it obvious that Lloyd was trying to help Blake's people, manipulate her into a situation where the only action that could logically be taken was either to kill or incarcerate her. Then make it necessary to eliminate the second choice.
Tesch had been correct about one thing, she conceded as she returned to an earlier irritant; outside rescue attempts would be their greatest worry on the voyage back to Earth, and even that was almost too remote to seriously consider. Although Blake and Avalon were believed to be in contact before the coup, a simultaneous raid on the other rebel leader's newest headquarters was currently underway. Of all the rebel factions, she was the only one in a position or inclined to help; Avon certainly hadn't spent his tenure in Blake's shoes in making friends, either personally or for the rebellion. Vila was cuffed, and Tesch had no doubt already taken care of pumping the sedative into the three cells to make certain the prisoners remained helpless.
A frown creased the former President's brow as she allowed herself to feel concern for Avon. He simply didn't look well, either mentally or physically, and she wondered if the sedative might have a negative effect on him--other than knocking him out, of course. Did he have a strong enough heart?
With a laugh Servalan forced her concerns away. Of course he did; one didn't go about committing acts of terrorism with a bad heart. Besides, what did it matter? The glimpse of insanity she'd seen lurking behind his eyes while he stood amid the carnage at Gauda Prime told her his mental state was more to be feared for than his physical. And not even that would matter, not for long. Not once she was back in power. And Avon, whatever his mental state, had handed her the key to that return to power. Not by surrendering to the inevitable when the soldiers had surrounded him and the bodies of his stunned comrades, but by his actions afterward.
When he surrendered Orac's key.
Orac's key was hers, and she'd located Orac itself with very little trouble. It was obvious Avon had other things on his mind when he picked the ridiculously simple hiding place for the supercomputer. She gathered from that small oversight that he hadn't actually expected the ambush, that he'd truly believed that Blake wouldn't betray him. Of course, he'd been right, but Avon of all people should have realized that the reunion of the Federation's two most wanted rebels would hardly go unnoticed. More fool he, since she now had Orac.
Now it was time to let the computer know it served a new master. She rose to her feet, plucked the computer's clear plasteel casing from its hiding place, and placed it in the center of her desk before inserting the key. The casing lit up and a querulous voice demanded to know where it was and to whom it was speaking.
Servalan raised an amused eyebrow at the peremptory demand, then decided to respond. "You are talking to Commissioner Sleer--"
"Then I am talking to Servalan," Orac interrupted rudely. "In which case I deduce that either Kerr Avon or the entire Scorpio crew are your prisoners or deceased. Very well. What do you want from me? If it is merely to establish your credentials," it added without waiting for a response, "you may consider it done and allow me to return to my research."
Servalan gaped at the box for a moment, taken aback by the computer's tone, not to mention the contents of its little speech. "Am I to believe that you accept me as your new controller just like that?"
"Unlike the illogical, emotional humans I constantly find myself surrounded by, I deal strictly with facts," Orac replied haughtily. "If my facts are incorrect, then I shall adjust my information accordingly. But I judge that my facts are, indeed, correct in this matter. I am aware that there is no way that any of my former 'controllers'," he repeated Servalan's word sneeringly, "would allow you access to me of their own volition. Therefore, you have gained control of me by subduing or killing them. Which confirms my original conclusion, and justifies my original request. Either ask something of me, or allow me to return to my research."
"I shall have to do something about that insolent tone," Servalan murmured to herself. "But you are correct; I wished to speak with you merely to establish my credentials. Since you have acknowledge my control, I will do as you ask. But I will be requiring your services shortly," she warned. "I expect you to follow my orders without argument."
What sounded suspiciously like an impatient sigh issued from the box. "Very well, Servalan--"
"You will refer to me as Commissioner Sleer," she interrupted sharply. "Even when we are alone. That is an order, do you understand?"
"Very well, Commissioner Sleer," Orac conceded. "I shall do as you require in this matter."
Servalan yanked the key out and tucked it into the pocket she'd had sewn into this dress for just that purpose. She gazed at Orac's casing, breathing rather more heavily than she should be--from annoyance, of course. Dealing with Ensor's machine was going to be more difficult than she'd estimated, but she had confidence in her ability to manage it, just as she had confidence in her ability to manage situations and people. The super computer seemed to bear no loyalty to Avon or his crew, and that suited her purposes just fine, but she would have to be very careful not to allow anyone else access to it, for she could expect the same lack of loyalty toward herself. Fine, she was used to that, to watching her back, and since no one else knew she had Orac--except Avon, of course, who was hardly in a position to do anything about it and would be dead shortly after they reached Earth--she shouldn't ever have to worry about the extent of that loyalty.
Everything was going according to plan.