The Way Forward
by Baker Lutgens
Prologue
"Stop! Is it true, Blake? Did you betray us? Did you betray ME?—Stand still!" Avon swung his rifle up to his side and pointed it at Blake.
Incredibly Blake kept advancing. "I set all this up," he said proudly, triumphantly. Avon lifted the rifle higher. Still Blake advanced, his hard-looking gun woman beside him. "I was waiting for YOU." He was smiling, advancing . . .
One! two! three! shots from Avon's rifle. Blake fell at his feet. His friend fell at his feet. Avon stared down at him for a few moments, rifle hanging limply at his side. With heavy finality, he placed one foot on either side of Blake and straddled his body. Oblivious to everything around him, he gazed down at Blake's unseeing eyes.
Federation troopers poured into the room and formed a circle around Avon, weapons pointed at his head. Now he understood: Blake hadn't betrayed him; they had both been betrayed. Avon looked up at the troopers. So slowly it didn't seem a threat, he raised his rifle to his shoulder, sighting on something—or someone?—directly in front of him. He began squeezing the trigger . . . and smiled.
NO!
Part 1 of 12
The lights were bright, and he couldn't see properly. A blurred face appeared close to his.
"Avon?"
Vila's voice. He struggled to focus. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out, as though his voice was too tired to try.
"Do you know me?" Vila asked softly.
Of course I know you; why are you asking me that? Avon thought. He tried again. "Vila," he whispered.
Vila turned his head and called to someone, "He knows me!" and to Avon, "You know me!"
"Avon?"
Dayna's voice. But Dayna was dead; he saw her die. Her face came close to his, smiling. He could see a little better now, and it was her face.
He whispered, "Interrogate . . ."
"No, Avon," Vila answered. We're not Federation interrogators. He turned his head to Dayna. "He thinks we're Federation interrogators."
"Idiot!" Avon hissed. "Here: cell?"
Dayna answered, "No, Avon, this isn't a cell. We're not in a Federation facility. We're all right, we're free."
"R'member . . . ship."
"Yes," she soothed. "We were on a spaceship, to get here from Gauda Prime."
A stranger, a sandy haired man, joined them. "I think he's had enough for now. I want to take a look at him and let him rest. He's pretty weak."
"All right, Doc," Vila said reluctantly. "You know best. I'll be back later, Avon. There's a lot to tell you." He left.
Dayna leaned over and stroked his cheek lightly. "I'm glad to have you back," she said softly and followed Vila.
"Doctor . . ." Avon asked.
"Jorn Tabor. I've been looking after you since your friends brought you here from Gauda Prime." He punched buttons on a monitor beside the bed and studied the results. "You had some injuries, but they're much better now. You've been in bed for three weeks. You'll be pretty weak for a while, but you're recovering; you've had good friends to help you."
"How?"
"Later. You need to rest some more now. This is the first time you've been aware of your surroundings since you were injured. It's a good sign."
Avon struggled to speak, but the doctor—Tabor, was it?—put his hand on his shoulder and said, "Just sleep now. You'll be stronger when you wake up, and you're never alone. One of your friends is always with you." He patted Avon's shoulder.
Avon's eyes drifted shut against his will. Friends. He still had some?
Vila and Dayna had been standing in the corridor outside Avon's room, looking through the observation window at Avon while Doctor Tabor had spoken with him. Both were encouraged by what had happened. Maybe now Avon would be all right. They had watched over him in turns since the awful slaughter at Gauda Prime.
They had gone to find Blake, who had been missing since the Andromedan War four years earlier. Vila had known him from the start, eight years ago. He had met Blake and Jenna in the holding cell before they were put on the prison ship London, enroute to the prison colony Cygnus Alpha. Jenna had been caught smuggling—she called it freetrading—black market goods, and Blake had been falsely convicted of interfering with children. He said it was false. Vila didn't really know whether to believe him until three and a half years later, when the deception was confirmed by one of the court officials. Vila was in the holding cell with Blake and Jenna because he'd been caught thieving. Since he was an adult this time, they'd given him a life sentence on a prison planet. No-one ever came back from prison planets. Vila had been so frightened that he'd muffed it when he tried, out of habit, to steal a sleeping Blake's watch. Jenna had seen him, and Blake had awakened. It was an odd way for three people to become allies, but they had.
On the prison ship, Vila had met Gan, who would become his best friend, and Avon, who would become—what? Vila always had trouble trying to decide what he and Avon were to each other. Avon wouldn't let himself have friends, wouldn't let himself care about people. At least that's what he said. "Sentiment breeds weakness," he'd say. No-one could get close to Avon the way the others had gotten close to each other. Yet Avon was always there for each of them, especially Blake.
Blake and Avon had a very peculiar friendship. They had alternately fought and—not made up, no. They either fought or got ready to fight. Blake alternated between declaring Avon his trusted friend or accusing him of deception and betrayal. For his part, Avon was consistent: he sneered at everyone—especially Blake. Sneering came naturally to Avon, Vila reflected, and he almost never smiled unless it was at another's misfortune.
Blake, Avon, and Jenna had escaped from the London and taken over a derelict ship the crew of the London had attempted to claim for the salvage prize money. Jenna had christened it the Liberator, accurately. They had rescued Vila and Gan from Cygnus Alpha and, later, Cally from Saurian Major. She was a rebel, like Blake, like Gan became, like Jenna tried to become.
Things had gone pretty well at first. They'd made some gains for the Rebellion; Blake had become a sort of folk hero, fetching handsome prices on all their heads. It was during that time they'd met Avalon, another resistance leader, in whose base they were now sheltering. Blake, Jenna, and Vila had rescued her from the Federation, from the trap laid by Supreme Commander Servalan and her mad dog, Travis.
In Vila's mind, it was right after they'd acquired the supercomputer Orac that things had started going wrong. Blake's schemes had begun getting riskier, the rewards smaller, and Blake began careening back and forth between emotional highs and lows. The Federation had begun to find them ever more often, and they didn't seem to be able to accomplish anything.
Blake came up with his most frightening, outrageous scheme of all: to take possession of Federation Central Control on Earth, the computer complex that monitored and directed activities on all the Federated Worlds. Climate control, navigation, banking systems, manufacturing, agriculture—entire economies—owed their existence and prosperity to Control. Untold billions of people depended on Control for their very lives. If Blake could command that, the Rebellion could succeed overnight.
That was a horrible fiasco. An entire rebel group was ambushed and killed getting Blake inside. Servalan and Travis had been waiting for them. Travis was always waiting for them somewhere; it was his specialty, and Blake knew that. Blake had always known that. Vila had tried to be fair about it, but Blake should have expected Travis.
And it was all for what? An empty room. A hoax. Control had been moved thirty years before, the secret kept all that time. An empty room, save for Servalan and Travis. If it hadn't been for Jenna, they'd have died there. Gan did.
Maybe that's why things had changed a little with Avon. He started letting Vila get a little close to him. Maybe he felt sorry for Vila losing his best friend, if Avon ever felt sorry for anyone.
After that spectacular failure on Earth, Blake became obsessed. He had to find Control, and he intended to destroy it—destroy it utterly, without a thought to the millions who would probably die when their planetary systems were disrupted. Looking back, Vila realized Blake had become completely unhinged. The only reason Blake hadn't succeeded was that Travis had gotten there first—it was his talent, wasn't it? Vengeful, insane Travis had beaten them to Star One, the uninhabited planet where Control really was. In his insanity, Travis allied himself with an invasion force from another galaxy. Nobody was ever sure why they were bent on the destruction of the human-populated galaxy. Self-protection? Xenophobia? Conquest?
That was what started the Andromedan War. Everyone who could fight, Federationists and rebels alike, had come together to defeat that vast invasion fleet. There were devastating loses on both sides, and the Andromedans had succeeded in destroying Control—they usurped Blake's obsession. The Liberator had held the breach until the Federation could reach the war zone. Avon had held the breach. Avon, who professed not to care about anyone but himself, who always said the rest of mankind could go to hell, Avon had held the breach. Blake had been wounded at Star One and hadn't contributed anything.
That Avon had prevented what would probably have been the slaughter of billions at the hands of the Andromedans should have become common knowledge except for Servalan. Having used the War to stage a bloody, but successful, coup, she was able to commit vast resources to hunting him down—and suppressing, amongst the Federation populations, his role in the War. She and Avon had some sort of contact during the war, during the time when he and his crew had been forced to temporarily abandon a crippled Liberator. Vila never knew the details, but Supreme Commander Servalan, now President Servalan, devoted herself to hunting him in earnest.
Avon picked up two new crew members, young survivors from the War, Tarrant and Dayna. Tarrant was a young deserter who had been running contraband in his stolen Federation ship, and Dayna was an even younger naif for whom Avon had taken responsibility. Blake and Jenna never made it back to the Liberator. The Liberator crew tried to follow Blake's trail but couldn't find him; it seemed they were always one step behind him. Of Jenna they'd had no word at all beyond her initial message that she didn't require immediate assistance. They couldn't find any clues to her whereabouts and had finally assumed she was dead.
They had hunted for Blake, and run from Servalan, for two years. Finally Avon received a message from Blake, a request for a rendezvous, a request he asked Avon to conceal from the rest of the crew. Avon should have known something was wrong about that, but he had become obsessed himself, obsessed with finding Blake. He had started to become a little unstable, a little extreme in his moods.
In his obsession for Blake, Avon had led the Liberator into the Supreme Empress Servalan's trap at Terminal. Oh, yes, she was "Supreme Empress" now. Blake wasn't there; the messages were a lure. The Liberator was destroyed, and Cally had died on Terminal. Another friend gone.
The last two years had almost run together in Vila's mind. Except for encountering a pretty young woman, Soolin, whom Avon hired as a bodyguard, every day of that time seemed the same to Vila: run or hide from the deposed Servalan, now masquerading as Commissioner Sleer; try to keep their junk heap ship Scorpio running; and try to tolerate a nearly psychopathic Avon. Avon made some attempts to bolster the Rebellion by recruiting scientists and specialists for them, but his efforts had failed because of his lack of resources. He had also continued a secret hunt for Blake, whom Dayna and Tarrant were convinced was dead.
Vila wished Avon had never found Blake. Finding him nearly killed them all. It did kill Soolin. They lost the Scorpio over Gauda Prime, shot down. Blake was supposed to have established a rebel base there. They should have been suspicious when they learned about the misbegotten planet—it was a ridiculously bad place for a rebel stronghold. But they ignored any misgivings and plunged ahead in Avon's zeal to find Blake and dump responsibilities for his benighted Cause back in his lap.
Another trap. Servalan/Sleer's trap undoubtedly. They walked right into it, and almost didn't walk out. Blake and Soolin were dead, Tarrant had been maimed, and Avon had succumbed to insanity. It occurred to Vila that Avon must have suffered what people used to label a nervous breakdown sometime in the last two or three years, and none of them had recognized it or done anything to help him. Avon had concealed it, as he always concealed weakness. They'd just sat back and let Avon shoulder all the burdens—which he was always ready to do. The anguish on Avon's face as he killed Blake had sickened Vila, and he had spent three weeks sitting at the bedside of a man who was lost somewhere in his own head.
Now—maybe—he had come back to them.
Avon's eyes flew open. Reality? What was this place? Murmuring in the background, featureless ceiling. He looked down at his side and saw Vila, his head resting on his arms against the edge of the bed, snoring softly. Vila, with his ever-innocent face now so tired looking.
He must have stirred because Vila woke up, his face worried, his eyes searching Avon's.
"Avon?" he asked softly.
"Yes, Vila." His voice was stronger this time. "Where are we?"
"In a medical unit, on Horizon. You remember when we went to Horizon before, when the rest of us got ourselves into trouble, and they made us work in the mines, and you had to come rescue us? It's all right, though. It's not a Federated world anymore. We're in a rebel base now, so we're among friends."
Avon's left arm felt wrong somehow, different, and he looked down. It was encased in an orthocrete splint. He moved it slightly, experimentally, and let his head drop back on the pillow. "How long have I been out?"
"Three weeks. You haven't been unconscious the whole time, not really. You were awake some at first, but you didn't know us—you didn't know anything. Do you remember? No, I guess not. I think you were in shock or something. The doctors said it was more than just getting hurt; they said you had retreated—" He stopped, looking unhappy. He'd said more than he meant to. "But you'll be better now."
"Dayna? Was she here before?" Avon hoped she was real.
"Yes, she's been here a lot. One of us is always here with you."
"They certainly are," smiled a brown haired woman. "I'm Anda Naylor. I've been helping to take care of you. Vila's been restricting your visitors. He hasn't let anyone but friends and medical staff see you. It's probably just as well; you're going to be very popular here." She moved around to the other side of the bed. Avon wished she hadn't. Now he'd have to turn his head back and forth between the two of them. He looked at his splinted arm and back to her.
"You took some high energy bolts—friendly fire, I'm afraid. The Federation troops had stun weapons, we didn't. It's healing well; you shouldn't have too much trouble with your arm, if any. Your back will take a little longer. Can't feel it? Good. It's covered in pain patches and a paralytic agent." She responded to the panic in his eyes, "Doctor Tabor did quite a lot of surgery around your lower spine, but he's satisfied it's healing. He just doesn't want you moving around for a while." She patted his shoulder. "I'll go and get him now."
Avon turned his head back to Vila, who displayed his own bandaged hand. "Broken. It doesn't hurt anymore, and the doc says I'll be okay too." The thief examined it critically. "Cramps my style though. Can't slide it into a mark's pocket with all this on it. Not that anyone here has much worth stealing. Rebels are a poor lot."
Tabor arrived and set a mug and spoon down on the table next to the bed. "You're awake again. Good. Doctor Naylor told you why you can't move about yet, didn't she? You took some energy bolts to your spine and arm. There was a lot of tissue and muscle damage and some fracturing in the spine; but I didn't see evidence of damage to the spinal cord, and the bolts were too low to damage your kidneys. You'll regain use of your legs." He took up Avon's wrist and held it several moments, checking his watch. Putting Avon's arm down, he pulled a pencil beam from his pocket and began peering into Avon's eyes. "Your arm should heal completely. You've had damage there before, haven't you? I saw evidence of old wounds." He put the pencil beam away and begin testing the adhesion of various patches placed on Avon's chest and arms, punching buttons on a monitor and studying the results. "I know you feel pretty helpless, but the splint can come off in a couple of days. We'll see about removing the paralytic patches in a week or so.
"There's some ice here that you can suck on. You can't have any solid food just yet; the pain patches would cause it to upset your stomach. I'll ask someone to get you some broth. For now, all you have to do is rest and get better." He patted Avon's shoulder and left.
Vila took up the spoon in his good hand and carefully shovelled up a piece of ice. "Open up, Avon. It'll feel good to have something wet in your mouth." He tilted the spoon just a little soon, and the ice slid off onto Avon's bare chest, nudging one of the monitor patches. The monitor began bleeping. "Oh! Sorry, Avon." He plucked the ice off, and the monitor silenced. He tried again. He tilted the spoon again. The ice slid slowly down Avon's chest, missing the monitor patches but chilling every nerve ending on the way down. "I'll get better, I promise."
"Vila, just use your fingers," Avon said, exasperated.
"All right, but don't tell the medics. They're real serious about germs and stuff." Vila looked around quickly and popped a piece of ice in Avon's mouth. It felt wonderful, and he sucked on it greedily. And another.
Briefly satisfied, he asked, "What about Soolin and Tarrant?"
Vila's face saddened. "Soolin didn't make it, Avon. The Feds were kill happy, or they panicked or something. She was hit with so many stun bolts it stopped her breathing. The medics didn't get to her in time." His eyes were moist. "Tarrant . . . Tarrant got hurt when the Scorpio crashed, remember? Then he took some friendly fire too. The energy bolts were going everywhere, Avon. It's a wonder we didn't all die." He swallowed hard. "Tarrant didn't come out so good as us. He lost an arm."
Lost an arm! Avon thought. All he knows is piloting. Gods, what have I done to him?
Vila continued, "The doctors fixed him up pretty good, and they say he'll be able to have a prosthetic arm if he wants one."
"If he wants one?"
Vila looked distressed. "He's having a lot of head problems, a lot of anger. Can't blame him, can you? Balance problems too, and that makes it all worse. I don't think he wants to go out where people can see him bumping into things, where they might feel sorry for him." Vila looked thoughtful. "He never seemed to me to be the kind of person who would give in so completely though. Just sits in his room sulking, being nasty to everyone—about like you on a good day." His attempt at humour fell flat. "There's a lot going on there; I don't know what. Anyway, that's why Doctor Naylor spends so much time with him. She's a psychologist."
"Has she been spending a lot of time with me?" Avon asked uncomfortably.
"She's been spending a lot of time with all of us. She doesn't think you're crazy anymore. Well, not much. I'm sorry, Avon. I didn't mean it that way. You're not a psychopath or anything; you just got . . . confused. 'Stress,' she said." He was embarrassed to be babbling. It wasn't helping.
"Avon!" Dayna called happily to him. "Here, I've brought you something better than ice." She carried a mug with a spoon in it. Reaching Avon's side, she frowned down at him. "Why is your chest wet? Vila, put that towel across him and lift the head of the bed some more. Wipe his chest first."
"It's just water, Dayna," Vila explained.
"Why did you give him water? You know he was only supposed to suck on ice chips. Really, Vila."
Vila kept his mouth shut from long practice.
When Avon was positioned to her satisfaction, she dribbled a little of the broth in his mouth. It was embarrassing to be treated like a child, but the broth tasted good. Dayna was better with spoons than Vila; she got quite a lot of the broth in him, not on him. Unfortunately, it had been so long since he had put anything in his stomach that he felt full very quickly. And tired.
Dayna saw that. She put the spoon back in the mug and set it down. Wetting a corner of the towel in the mug of melting ice, she dabbed at his mouth. "Stop squirming. I think you'd like to rest now." He nodded wearily. "Are you feeling cool? Would you like me to leave the towel over you?" He nodded again. "All right. Sleep now. One of us will always be nearby." She patted his shoulder and settled back in a chair.
Vila got up to leave. Exhausted, Avon whispered, "Vila, thank you." Vila's smile was blinding.
Vila hurried through the rebel base, looking for Doctor Naylor. He was frightened that telling Avon about Tarrant and Soolin had been a mistake and Avon would slide back into the safety of psychosis. Vila was under no illusions about his value to Avalon—none. It was Avon she was interested in; his genius for technology was probably unequalled in the Known Worlds. But he couldn't use it if he was existing in unreality. How long could Avalon afford to lavish resources on a broken man and his sometimes partner?
This base was the first place Vila had felt safe since his accidental involvement with the Rebellion eight years before. It was almost like living in London Dome again. He had lived most of his life there in the Delta Levels. Like the base, it had no windows, it was cramped, and everything was grey. As far as Vila was concerned, it was nearly perfect.
Windows were frightening. He always felt he was going to fall through them into unimaginable danger—unimaginable to someone who had never been outdoors until he was an adult. All manner of nasty surprises awaited him outside: storms, dangerous animals, vicious people—the people on Cygnus Alpha had certainly been vicious enough. Travelling in a spaceship was even more "outside." That's why Vila had never been tempted to look out the observation ports on spaceships. He hadn't looked out the ports on the London the entire eight months he was on it.
On the base, everyone lived in tiny spaces, just like the Delta Levels. It was easy to take care of a tiny space, easy to defend. No-one in the Delta Levels had much anyway; how much space does Nothing take? All Vila needed was a bed and enough room to turn around. Deltas didn't spend time in their rooms. After all, there was nothing there for entertainment. Entertainment was in the corridors and common areas: watching other Deltas, meeting friends, watching the viscasts on the common visboxes.
The walls, ceilings, and floors were grey in the Delta Levels, like the base. There was nothing wrong with grey. It made a nice background for the anonymous artists that brightened the walls in the Delta Levels. Periodically the walls were washed to dispose of the "vandalism." But that was all right because it made clean, new space for the next artist. Vila wondered when art would start appearing on the walls of Avalon's base.
And there were the people. In the Delta Levels there were people everywhere, shoulder to shoulder. It was always crowded, and that was good. You could hide in a crowd. Vila had been all too noticeable since leaving London Dome. He was convinced half the galaxy was out to get him. Realistically speaking, one quarter of the galaxy was probably more accurate, and that was only because his association with Blake and Avon had landed a large bounty on his head. The base was crowded like London Dome. That was fine with Vila.
Except for now, when he needed to find the doctor.
"I told him about Soolin and Tarrant. I'm sorry, Doctor," Vila said. "He asked, and I didn't know what else to say." His eyes pleaded with Naylor.
"That's all right, Vila. It would frustrate him not to get answers to his questions. He won't get any better if we lie to him. Did he ask about Blake?"
"No, and I'm glad. I don't know what I would say about that. I'm not sure I understand it myself, really. When did he start betraying us?"
"Carnell believes it had certainly started after he encountered Ven Glynd at Atlay. But it may have gone back as early as when he broke into Federation Central Control on Earth and discovered it was all a hoax."
"Gan died because of that."
"Yes, that may have contributed. Blake was probably always disturbed during the time you knew him, Vila."
"I guess that could explain some things," he said.
"Like what?"
"Like the way he would sometimes be a friend, and sometimes not. I mean, sometimes he could be really mean, and other times he could be real nice and understanding—not to me, though. He was just mean to me, now that I think about it. And he didn't seem to pay any attention at all to Gan."
"That was probably because he was born and raised an Alpha, with an Alpha's prejudices towards the service grades. But I think what you mean is that he treated the others in two very distinct ways."
"That's exactly it, Doctor. He would accuse Avon of betraying him and be very ugly about it; then he'd turn around and tell him how much he trusted him. He would hug Jenna and look happy; then he'd pay her no attention at all. It kept throwing me off."
"It would have thrown Avon off too. He would never have known how he was going to be treated at any given moment, what to expect. It must have been like always waiting for something to fall on him. From what you've told me about Avon, he may have unconsciously adopted some of Blake's patterns." When Vila looked alarmed, she soothed, "Don't worry, Vila. I know you said Avon is at turns nice and nasty, but he's not going to betray you. He's not the same as Blake. However 'crazy' you may think Avon's acted, he's still your friend. You said he's been betrayed several times; but he hasn't done it to anyone else, has he?"
"No, he hasn't." He thought for a moment. "Avon's an Alpha too, higher even than Blake; but he didn't act like Blake. Avon always talked like Gan and I were stupid, but he always listened to what we said. Blake didn't. I think Blake just wanted us to shut up and stop bothering him. Avon would say he wanted us to shut up and stop bothering him, but somehow it was different. Maybe that's why Gan never got angry with Avon, but he sometimes got angry with Blake."
She changed the subject. "When is Jenna due in?"
"Tomorrow, I think. Do you think I should tell him about her?"
"No, don't bring it up. If he asks, tell him, but keep it simple. She's not quite ready to see him yet. Why don't we let them wait until then?" Naylor laid her hand lightly on his arm. "I need to go see Tarrant now. Will you be all right?"
"Yes, I think so."
"Good. Go and get some rest so you can spell Dayna."
She watched him leave, thinking, Vila Restal must be one of the gentlest—and strongest—persons I've ever met.
Tarrant had spent his day in the usual way: brooding in his room. He had stopped leaving it except to visit the base mess hall for meal paks. If he could have had his way, he would have collected enough of them so that he wouldn't have to leave his room for a month. But they only let you have a few at a time, so he was compelled to venture out every three or four days. He tried to time his trips during periods of relative inactivity on the base because he'd grown sick of receiving pitying glances.
After collecting enough food for a few days, he divided his time between reading and sleeping, mostly sleeping. And when he couldn't sleep, he lay there staring at the underside of the storage shelf over the bed, thinking. Vila and Dayna had tried to visit him at first, but he had driven them away with his bitter attitude and sarcasm. That was good; it gave him more time to think.
They'd told him about Avon's injuries—both physical and mental. He was expected to recover physically. That was the only positive news Tarrant had received since waking up after surgery. At least he hadn't gotten Avon killed, although he nearly had. He'd crashed the Scorpio at Gauda Prime through his own overconfidence in his flying skills. Then he'd screwed up when Blake brought him to his base, shouting at Avon that Blake had betrayed them and precipitating a firefight that killed nearly everyone.
But why stop there? Tarrant thought back through the countless times he'd challenged the older man's authority on his own ship—his own ship! Avon had a lot more experience surviving much more serious attempts to destroy him than Tarrant had experienced in his short career as a petty smuggler. He thought of the time he'd tried to bully Avon by threatening to kill him. Avon had laughed.
If he hadn't worked so hard at convincing Avon he was a nitwit, Avon might—just might—have agreed to the one or two genuinely useful suggestions he'd had. They might not have lost the Liberator, they might not have lost the Scorpio, they might not have lost Cally and Soolin. Tarrant might not have lost his arm, and Avon might not have lost his mind. And to think he'd once called Avon a loser—what hubris!
This favourite line of thought was interrupted by the announce button and Doctor Naylor's voice. Reluctantly he got up to let her in.
"Come to check up on me, Doctor?" Tarrant said it with more than a touch of sarcasm. "Don't worry, I haven't undone all your hard work by committing suicide."
Naylor stepped into his quarters saying, "Good. I hate to waste my time."
"Do you? Please, go talk to someone who needs it, with my blessings." He turned away from her and sat on the edge of his bed, placing a bookscreen on his lap and punching the buttons savagely. It almost slid off, and he caught it awkwardly, cursing under his breath.
"Doctor Tabor says you're regaining your balance very well, that you're not bumping into door frames as much. But you're a talented pilot, so I'm told. You would have superior balance, wouldn't you?"
"Oh, yes, Doctor, you should have seen me in action just this morning," he said, briefly rubbing at the latest bruise. Impatiently he shoved the bookscreen off his lap. "I wouldn't even be able to 'pilot' a groundcar like this," he gestured towards his empty sleeve. "How do you want me to act?" he asked viciously.
Naylor leaned back against the minuscule table desk affixed to the wall. "I don't want you to act in any particular way. I just came to tell you that Jenna Stannis will be here in two days, and she says she'll take you up and let you see what you can do."
He looked at her with exasperation. "Like this? Even if I get a prosthesis, how good a pilot can I be? You have to feel the ship, Doctor, with both arms, with all of your body. Besides, the controls are made for two arms. I think you'll find that fairly standard," he said acidly.
"Nevertheless, you can try it if you think you're really such a hotshot pilot." Then she softened her tone a little. "I'm not your enemy, Tarrant."
"Everything in life is my enemy, Doctor."
"Even Avon?" she asked quietly.
Startled, he looked directly at her for the first time. "What do you mean?" he asked. "Avon's not my enemy, not anymore, not if he ever was."
"Then why haven't you been to see him?" He looked away. She continued, "Either Dayna or Vila is with him all the time. He needs his friends, Tarrant. He's been very ill, and I'm talking about something other than his physical injuries. He's been ill for a long time. You know that, Tarrant."
Tarrant looked uncomfortable then. After a time he said, "I know, Doctor, but I don't see how I can be of much help to him. We always seemed at odds anyhow. I don't expect he much cares to see me. He's never counted me among his friends, if he's ever counted anyone as a friend."
They both grew silent. Faint sounds filtered into the room: voices, machinery, the ever present creaks and groans of a new building settling into life—the sounds of life itself, going on around them, but somehow leaving them alone.
"He woke up again," Naylor said. "This time he knew who Vila and Dayna were. He seemed to have a grip on reality." She waited until Tarrant met her eyes. "He asked about you. Doesn't that mean something?"
Uncomfortable again, he couldn't answer.
Naylor straightened. "Well, that's really what I came to tell you. I thought you might consider going to see him. It would probably do him some good."
When he didn't answer, she turned and left.
Avalon had been at her desk early. She'd been at her desk late the night before too. It seemed like she never left anymore. She'd been reviewing reports—reports on food supplies, reports on accommodations, reports on the growing numbers of independent merchants setting up outside the base, reports on fuel supplies, reports on . . . ah, a report from General Wrell. Not a report really, more a request, a lot of requests. He wanted immediate access to new weapons shipments—not possible; they were still being tested. He wanted another ship—where in the galaxy would she get that? He wanted better food for his personnel—they could eat what everyone else ate; there wasn't anything else available. He wanted—a draft? Did he think he was still in the Federation? She sighed and began composing carefully worded responses. She'd have to deliver them personally; he required a lot of humouring and stroking. He wanted, he wanted . . . Well, so did she.
Right now what she really wanted was Kerr Avon's expertise. He was the foremost computer genius in the Known Worlds, and she had him right there on her base. If she handled him with kid gloves, she'd have a resource the Federation couldn't match—if he came out of his self-imposed mental exile. If he didn't, she'd have to find somewhere safe to dump him. With Vila Restal. He wasn't any use to her except to take care of Avon. Dayna had been helpful in the armoury, and Tarrant might be useful as a pilot if he could fly again. She'd have to try to find a prosthetic arm and cybersurgeon too. That would be expensive, maybe too expensive. All right, she'd withhold judgement on Tarrant for a while. If she could find the resources, she'd keep him.
Avalon's source in the medical unit had reported Avon had awakened again. This time he'd recognised his friends and seemed to understand his situation. She was mildly annoyed at the doctors for not letting her know immediately, so she'd asked them to come to her office for a conference. And they should have been there already, according to her chronometer.
She was reaching for the intercom button when it clicked, "Avalon, Doctors Naylor and Tabor are here."
"Thank you, Riece. Send them in." She stood to greet them. "Anda, Jorn, thank you for coming. Sit, please. I understand Avon may be back with us?"
"Yes," they answered together and looked an apology at each other.
"You first then, Jorn. What's his medical situation?" Avalon prompted.
"His arm can come out of the splint tomorrow, and he can start using it again. I've assigned Task to give him therapy. I've still got his back immobilized and deadened, but I'm going to remove some of the pain patches and see how he deals with any discomfort. It would be difficult for him to tolerate solid food with those drugs in his system. The sooner he starts eating normally, the faster the damage will heal. I want the paralytic patches to remain another week or so."
"That long?" Avalon asked. "Is that usual?"
"No," he answered, "it's not, but he was in a depleted condition before his injuries, so that has slowed the healing. If removing some of the patches isn't too much of a problem, I'm going to start getting him into a mobile chair for longer and longer periods of time. Giving him back some control over his life should be helpful, shouldn't it, Anda?"
"Yes. I can't speak about his mental condition in any detail because I haven't been able to talk with him, other than when he was in a confused state. I really only know what the others have told me about him. He understands where he is and what's happened to him.
"I'm looking forward to talking with him. Dayna and Vila describe him as 'difficult,' and then proceed to list his finer qualities." She laughed. "No, that's not quite accurate. Vila calls him 'arrogant bastard' and then fiercely defends him."
Avalon smiled. "I remember him from when I was on the Liberator briefly. When do you think I could talk to him? We badly need his skills—if he's willing." She looked at Tabor.
"Medically speaking, there's no reason you can't see him—provided his 'guardian' agrees. Anda and I have been talking about it," Tabor answered.
Naylor took up the thread, "We believe he will recover more quickly if he perceives he's needed and is given something useful to do. If Vila allows it, talk to him anytime. He doesn't know about Blake yet, and I'm leaving that up to Vila for now. He knows Avon better than any of us, and he'll be the best judge of when to tell him. It'll be a difficult concept for Avon whenever Vila tells him. Apparently Blake was very important to him. The betrayals will seem very personal."
Avalon agreed. "Blake was very important to the Rebellion. It was difficult for me to accept the extent of his treachery. Thank you, Anda. Now on to Tarrant. What can we expect there? He's a talented pilot, and we could certainly use him too," Avalon prompted.
Tabor answered, "His chief problem now is probably the bitterness. Anda can speak about that. Medically he's healed well and doesn't seem to be in any pain. There's no reason not to go ahead and fit him with a prosthesis. But Anda wants to wait, and I agree."
Naylor explained, "In order for him to adapt to a prosthesis, he'll have to want that prosthesis. Right now he just wants to brood, and I think it's something to do with Avon. I'm not clear why that is because he's not forthcoming in our visits. Anger? Guilt? That may take some time. Jorn and I think it would be best if he can get interested in piloting again. Jenna Stannis has offered to take him on as copilot until he's ready to take a ship of his own. Perhaps once he's back in a preferred environment, he'll be more willing to let go of his bitterness."
Avalon asked, "Blake?"
Naylor answered, "I don't think he knows about Blake; he doesn't leave his room much, and he doesn't talk with other people. It might not mean much to him, if anything at all. He never knew Blake even though he willingly went along with Avon's efforts to find him. I think Blake's only importance to Tarrant is through Avon."
"Dayna?" Avalon looked at Tabor.
"Fortunately she was only stunned once at Gauda Prime. You knew that their companion, a local woman named Soolin, died there from excessive stun bolts? But Dayna is fine. She sits with Avon or helps out in the armoury."
Naylor began without prompting, "As for Blake, like Tarrant, she didn't know him. His importance to her was only through Avon. Avon will always be her chief focus. Did you know about her father and sister?" she asked.
"No, I wasn't aware she had any family."
"Her sister and father died during the Andromedan War, though not as a result of the fighting. The sister was apparently murdered by the local primitives on their home planet. The father was murdered by Servalan," she paused for Avalon's response.
"Servalan again. The sooner we are rid of her, the better for the whole galaxy," Avalon replied—as Naylor expected.
Naylor continued, "It was at that time that she met Avon. Dayna found herself very young, very alone, and with no resources. Avon took her with him on the Liberator and assumed responsibility for her. He replaced her father. Not surprisingly she's fiercely loyal to him—and fiercely protective."
"Vila?" Avalon asked.
"His hand is healing well, and he should regain full use of it again," Tabor said. "He probably won't need any formal therapy; I think he'll provide his own." He smiled.
Naylor laughed. "He's been lamenting how difficult it is to pick locks with one hand. He's dealing with everything that has happened amazingly well. Vila's a very resilient person and adapts to nearly any situation better than most people. I can't even consider his being a thief an aberration—it's his talent. That's why the Federation couldn't 'condition' him."
Avalon smiled. "We'll all have to check our pockets when we're around him. Oh, since Carnell thinks he's getting a pretty good handle on Blake's activities, direct any of Avon's group to him if they ask. The more they can tell him, the better Carnell will be able to determine which betrayals were Blake's and which were by undiscovered Federation agents." She stood up, indicating that the meeting was over. "Thank you, Doctors. Let me know if you need anything. All of these people could be valuable to us if they're willing."
Vila was with Avon when he asked, "Vila, why do you come and sit with me?"
Startled because it reminded him of the time Avon asked him why he stayed with Blake, he lightly answered the same: "Because I've got nowhere else to go."
"Yes, you do. You're free of . . ." He almost said 'Blake' and started over, "You're free of me, and you're surrounded by people who'll protect you." He studied his hand plucking at the blanket, trying to hide his unease.
"Here, let me do that." Vila pulled the blanket higher to hide his own discomfort.
"Why, Vila? After what I did to you at Malodar, why?" He wouldn't look at Vila.
Vila was puzzled. "You didn't do anything to me at Malodar. What do you mean?"
Avon looked at him, perplexed. "In the shuttle, Vila. When I tried . . ." He watched his hand plucking at the blanket again. "I was going to kill you. I was going to push you out of the airlock before I found what was weighing down the shuttle. Why do you care now?" Looking up, he searched Vila's eyes.
Vila was staring at him as though he hadn't heard properly. "What are you talking about, Avon? You didn't try to push me out the airlock."
"I was going to. That's why I was searching for you—to kill you. I had a gun. If you hadn't hidden, I would have done it."
"Hidden? There was no place left to hide on that shuttle. We'd already spaced all the hatch covers. You never had a gun. You weren't searching for me, Avon. You didn't do anything. You just froze up when that idiot computer said we were still too heavy to achieve orbit. I don't know why he couldn't have said what was causing it, worthless pile of plastic," he said disgustedly. "That's why I kept looking for something—anything—to throw out."
"What?"
"That's when I found that little cube holding the speck of neutron star material. And it was pretty difficult to jettison too. Fifty kilos by myself, I ask you. Nearly threw my back out. I called for you to help me, but you just sat there, staring. Orac explained to me later what the thing was, as if I was the idiot instead of him. I'm not sorry to be rid of that box of faulty circuits. I always said he was thick."
For long moments, Avon just stared at him.
Worried, Vila said, "Here, you're not going to do that again, are you? Just stare while you go somewhere else? Avon?"
"I didn't try to kill you? I didn't try to push you out of the airlock?"
"No! Why would you? Avon, you don't remember the way it really happened, do you?"
Avon looked away, distress distorting his face. "Who did you say that psychologist is?"
"Doctor Naylor."
"I think I need to see her. Would you ask her, please?"
