The thug puddled into a messy black heap in front of him, and Jarriere, standing at the door, sighed. "Aaah, you shouldna have pushed like that."

"He -" Avon could only stare blankly at the man, who held a - Liberator handgun. "How the hell -?"

"I found your little computer." Jarriere pulled something out of his pocket and threw it to him - Orac's key. Avon caught it unthinkingly, still staring at the gun in Jarriere's hand. "Och, don't worry, Klegg's men canna use them, they're too hot."

"Yes, that's an automatic defence. Which I had disabled. How the hell -?"

"Orac - umm, how d'ye put it - re-enabled it." Jarriere nodded, pleased with himself. "Not a bad little soul, he is."

"No soul," Avon corrected. "But that doesn't - how the HELL -?"

"Klegg and the rest know nothin' about Orac, Mister Avon, but I saw you try to kick him - it - him -"

"It."

"- Under cover in the teleport room, so I went back and had a chat with him. He's on our side."

"Our side? Since when was there an - our side?"

"Ah, y'see, there has been ever since you arrived. Or even before... I don' intend for this ship to be going back to the President, whichever President. It wouldna be wise for me to go back either - here -" Jarriere tossed him the handgun and pulled out a tiny, almost dainty, and harmless looking little stiletto, "- seein' as how the Commander, as she was, had her men try and kill me three days ago. Ye know after that business your people were involved with, she had Freedom City razed to the - well, there wasna a ground to be razed to, but ye get the idea. Anyone who knew about that fiasco's been hunted down. She doesna like being seen as a fool."

He saw the look on Avon's face, and his forehead wrinkled in confusion. "Wha'? Surely ye all knew that every time Blake makes a fool of the Commander, ever'one who knows of it disappears? So I chose to disappear before she could - have me disappear her way."

"But you are still on her staff?"

"Och, no, but I didna think telling that to Klegg would help, ye understand?"

Avon shook his head to clear it. There would be time to sort this out - and work out this man's angle - later. Firstly, he had to find out about...

"Blake."

"Dyin'. Klegg's got him on the flight deck, and ye don't want to think about what he's doin' to the man now, time for that later."

"Blake won't break."

"I worked that out, Mister Avon, but Klegg, he hasna thought of it. Come on," the little man turned and headed for the corridor, "we're -"

"And Dayna?"

"Dayna -? Ah yes, the little lass ye called your wife, though I don' recall seeing her on the records of Blake's crew."

"She is not part of the crew. But she will be. Do you know where she is?"

"Ah." Jarriere stopped, and blinked at Avon innocently. "Aye, I do. She's in one of your other cabins, the one with what looked like a still."

Vila's secret still, but Avon didn't bother explaining.

"I'm afraid I had to burn the lock shut to keep her in and them out. Not ver' happy, she wasna, but I had no time to explain things, no' with Harmon here -" he jerked his head back to the cabin, "- lookin' for you an' all."

Avon shook his head again, and decided that the details could wait, and followed the other man down towards the flight deck. "So you killed Klegg's men."

"Well yes... not nice, but we really need them off the ship, don't we?'

"Yes, we do. Where are the bodies?"

"Hmmm?"

"The bodies, Jarriere," Avon hissed.

"Och, well you were wrong about Harmon, you know. I gave him those jewels you'll find on him, I found them in your junk room, where I'm storin' the dead. Just for the moment, ye understand."

"We don't have a junk room."

"O' course you do, on the main floor, tha' big cluttered cabin -"

"You mean the Treasure - you do realise that the 'junk' is worth a President's ransom."

"Or even a Supreme Commander's?"

"Probably."

"Ahh..." Jarriere shook his head. "No, canna see it, Avon. I canna really believe that even the Supreme Commander herself would want six five-foot gold-crusted megawargs wi' Interplanetary time calculators in each of their five tummies..."

Avon sighed. "Those were a gift."

It was Jarriere's turn to blink. "Someone gave them to you?"

"No, someone gave them to Blake."

"Och, he really suffers for his cause, more than I thought."

Avon merely gave him an icy look and strode ahead, wondering as he did if he was going to be shot in the back. He had no choice - it was trust this odd little ex-Supreme-Commander's-minion, or nothing - but he didn't have to like it. "How many of them are left?"

"Three, I think."

"And Dayna's safe, but they have Blake."

"Or what's left o' him after Klegg -"

"Shut up." Avon didn't mean to snarl like that - the ice in the words a thin shadow of that which Jarriere's seemingly blithe statement had created in his mind. Blake would survive. Blake would survive as he always did, and continue his insane crusade, whether here or on Earth.

Blake had to survive, because anything else was unthinkable.

"The enemies are in the teleport section," Zen droned. "As instructed, no persons will be brought aboard until approved by you or Blake."

"But Avon," Jarriere said mildly, "if your crewmates are in danger -"

"That would be neither abnormal nor uncommon for this crew, and at this minute, our task is to secure the ship."

"And its owner?"

Avon turned, so swiftly that Jarriere fell back a step. "This," he snapped, "is my ship!"

Jarriere's forehead wrinkled in confusion. "That's no' what the galaxy thinks, are ye sure?"

Avon opened his mouth to snarl... then closed it. This was getting them nowhere. "Mine or Blake's, I want Klegg and his off the ship, preferably dead."

"That would be a good plan, a ver' good plan. Couldna the ship finish them for us?"

"If it could -"

"Wi'out killin' Blake, aye."

"- It would have disposed of you all and saved me the trouble."

"Now that isna kind, Mister Avon. So," looking up with round, sparkling eyes, "what now?"

Avon looked at him for a long moment. He hated doing this - trusting his own and the others' safety to someone whose background was so - so - treacherously untrustworthy.

Servalan's aide-de-camp, of all things. What could possibly be worse?

He shook his head. All these years at Blake's side had taught at least him all about the dubious merits of doing things he hated. "I think I should surrender," he said finally.

Jarriere's absurd brown eyes rounded even further. "Ahh... och, are ye sure ye want to do that, Mister Avon?"

"No, I can think of few martyrdoms I'd like less," Avon snapped. "But it seems I have no choice. As you said... they have Blake."

~oOo~