~oOo~

"Section Leader!" He heard the thin, nasal voice of the fugfaced one. "Relfe's vanished, just like the rest."

"Och." And that was the idiot aide-de-camp. "As I told ye, the ship kills people."

"Right." That was Klegg, and by the sound of things had reached a dangerous pitch of viciousness. "Even if a spaceship could kill - and it's a machine, Kroy, it can't - why didn't it kill them? They're fuckin' criminals, after all."

"It's said to be a de'il ship, and everyone says he's the De'il returned." Jarriere seemed to be almost enjoying his morbid little tales. "Could be the ship - likes him. Which -" there was a silence, and the thick thud of something hitting flesh, "- would be a pity, seein' as how we're slowly killin' him."

"Wha- what do you mean?"

"Sub-Commander, I think you should -"

"Och, it's just rumour, Section Leader." The man's vacuous cheer was making Avon's clenched teeth hurt; he could only imagine what it was doing to Klegg. "When ever'one on a ship dies horribly, there's always rumours. Dinna concern yeself, Kroy."

"I'm not -"

"After all, dyin' for the Federation and the President is what we do - isna it?" Jarriere said. "However slowly, messily, painfully, agonisin'ly, 'tis the duty an' the honour of the Supreme Commander's loyal troops to suffer horribly, endure whatever tortures are our part, lose whatever limbs, bear whatever mutilation and murrrrder..." He drew the last word out almost lovingly. "After all, torture an' mutilation an' murder canna be unknown to you, Kroy, don't ye deal with it every Terran week as part of your duties?" There was no answer to that. Jarriere paused, seemingly confused. "Och, pardon, I mean deal it out. Na difference."

There was another silence; clearly the men agreed with Avon's thought that there was all the difference in the galaxy, but weren't about to say it to the new President's personal staff.

Avon sighed. They'd been arguing for fifteen minutes now; concealed in the shadows outside the flight deck, he could almost feel his gritted teeth ready to crack as the warg-faced idiot started up again. He could only wait so long; Blake, Vila - wherever he was, whatever his peril was - and Avon's own temper might not last much longer.

"S'bc'mnder, Sec'on L'der -!" The thick, breathless voice from the other doorway made him tense. "F'foun' somethin', part of somethin'..."

"Part of what?" Klegg bellowed.

"I think - think it's part of Relfe -!"

"WHAT!"

"Or Moules - or both -!"

There was a babble of yells, and a confused rush of heavy boots towards the entrance.

Avon waited, counted the ten types of fool he unquestionably was... then counted them again. Deciding the coast had to be clear, he entered the flight deck silently, crossing to look down at the shattered body of his lea- former leader. Former, he reminded himself savagely. But not yet dead.

Not yet, and not going to be.

Blake lay crumpled on his side, head fallen forward so that Avon could not see his face. His arms were bound behind him; the bandage that had still been there when he'd left the ship was now gone, along with his shirt, and Avon could see bloody welts on his back. Klegg's work.

As Avon knelt and carefully turned him over, his head fell back; his face was ashen, lips grey, black rings under his eyes. The Lazeron wound had re-opened, a blackened mess all bruise and ulcer and blood-red blistering.

Uninjured, Blake? Why lie? He shook his head; he knew the answer to that. So that Zen would go for the others first. Your great big bleeding heart was supposed to get us all killed, Blake. Not save us at your expense. He touched the cold throat, mind a blank for a moment before he found the sluggish pulse. His fingers came away wet.

"Status report, Zen," he heard his own voice, mild and detached.

He listened with one half of his mind - Jenna, safe on a neutral carrier; Cally - no report; Vila - injured and 'in grave peril', as Zen reported. Repairs complete. With the other half, he tried to find a way to get Blake away from the flight deck, and found none.

"Orac?"

"The one called Orac reports it is not at present in the hands of the intruders."

"Then where the hell is he?" Orac has discovered how to move itself. Or I have gone insane rather earlier than I thought I would.

"The one called Orac reports it was in the hands of an intruder. That situation has now been resolved."

Or Orac has gone over to the side of the slightly bigger battalions - bigger than myself, a girl, and a half-dead idealist, that is - and is lying.

"The one called Orac is not assisting your foes," Zen droned, as if the computer could read his mind.

"Perhaps." And perhaps not, but he'd deal with that when he had to. "Zen, you are not to bring any of the others on board until Blake or I authorise it." If Vila is next, they'll kill Blake to make him talk.

Blake's eyes opened, blind and hurt. He stared at Avon for a minute.

"Make contact with Orac, Zen, and monitor what it does." Avon went on calmly. "And if any of the intruders are separated and you can eliminate them without danger to myself, Dayna Mellanby or Blake, do so."

"Confirmed."

Blake's lips moved, a single, soundless word. Go...

Avon knew; they both knew. He had to stay free, had to leave Blake here for Klegg and the others to come back to. He nodded sharply, turned on his heel, and left, ignoring the chill that must have come from Zen's recovering life-support.

~oOo~

He went back to collect Dayna - whatever her faults, she could fight - but the cabin he'd left her in was empty. She was gone.

Damn it! He should have known she'd not be content to stay behind. Given that he'd heard no explosions or pitched battles, she'd probably stumbled into trouble, and that was something they couldn't afford, not with Bl- with others of this hapless crew, he corrected himself angrily, also probably in trouble or definitely there.

Dayna already showed signs of being hard to handle. Which, he reflected grimly, would make her a perfect addition to this motley crew of Blake's - of his - oh hell, his if he couldn't get rid of them when Blake left. That was assuming any of them lived that long, of course, that Dayna was still alive now and that anyone except Avon himself and Blake - because Blake had to be - was still alive.

The message from Vila had said 'grave peril' but that could have meant anything from a broken toe in a rainstorm, to imminent capture and dismemberment by whatever locals were on the planet in question. About Jenna and Cally, he didn't know. And it was way past time to finish this, though how...

He turned - and looked straight into a gun being pointed at his head.

"Thought so." It was the one called - he groped for the name - Hammond? no, Harmon, aiming one of the heavy, ugly Federation guns at him and gloating greasily. "That stupid Space Command fuck didn' know what he was talkin' about, did he? You're one of them."

Avon lifted an eyebrow, seeing little point in answering.

"Against the wall - now!" When Avon hesitated, the man fired, a wobbly, stressed shot that was too close and too hot. Avon backed up, but didn't turn away; if he had to die, he would rather face it.

And it looked like he had to.

Damn it, Blake...

"You thought you could fool us f'long?" Harmon spat. "Knew it wasn't that garbage about a deathship. Now we'll get to watch Klegg kill you slowly and -"

"Not if he wants to get off this ship alive." Avon saw the flash of fear in the small muddy eyes. "He's a fool if he thinks Blake will give in."

"Then you can watch him pay for his crimes, before we make you give in instead. We've got lots of ways to make it last, scum, and murder of Federation soldiers is punishable by slow death."

"Like the one the Liberator is inflicting on you and yours -?" Definitely, there was a darker flash, fear mixed with hatred, a dangerous combination. "If they're dead."

"You know they are, you killed them."

"Actually... no. If they are dead, and they probably are... I didn't kill them." Avon allowed himself a thin smile. "I wish I could say that I'm sorry... no, in truth I don't. But you know full well I didn't, don't you?"

"You lying -"

"Because you murdered them."

The hatred turned feral; he'd either hit a nerve or missed the point completely. Either way, he was going to pay. "They were my friends," Harmon spat. "Not that scum like you would know what that means."

And something like you would. Avon was well aware of the next step - the dreary process of subject him to the extreme pain and suffering that they'd already tried on Blake - and could see no way out of it.

"I saw you coming out of the lower corridor," he went on doggedly. "You were nervous, uneasy."

"Being hunted by murdering criminals can do that. Now get moving. Klegg's waiting."

Too late. He'd worked it out too late.

Sorry, Blake.

"You found the Treasure Room." Avon stared into the cold, flat, greedy eyes of a man without a soul. "You found the currency, the rare metal, the precious stones. How much are you hiding now, and how stupid are you to think you will be allowed to steal it from the ship? One that the Subcommander -"

Stupid, stupid! But he couldn't unsay the words that would kill him.

"You think the Subcommander will care?" Harmon smiled suddenly, a thin, greasy smile of triumph. "No chance, rebel scum, he won't care. But I guess the Section Leader will have to make do with Blake and the girl, because you aren't going to live to tell anyone else." He lifted the gun, aimed straight between Avon's eyes, and tightened his finger on the trigger.

So stupid. He waited for the blast, except -

- Except that didn't sound like a Federation blaster.