~oOo~

"We have your Blake," Klegg's thick voice was gloating, "and it won't take much more before he's nothing more than dead bounty. Do you hear me?"

Avon sighed, wondering why all Federation fodder had to talk in clichés. "I can hardly avoid it," he snapped.

"We know who you are, Vila Restal."

Now that is insulting.

"Come in, unarmed, or we finish Blake off."

"How do I know he isn't," and the words were cold ashes in his mouth, "already dead?"

"You don't - but do you want to take the chance? You'll hear him die, I swear."

Avon sighed again, nodded to the shadow figure by the doorway, and obeyed. Klegg and the last of his men - Fugface - were there, Fugface straddling Blake and holding a gun straight at his face. Blake looked unconscious, though Avon couldn't be sure... but he was dying, surely but not slowly enough.

"Told them," Klegg gloated. "Told them the fuckin' ship didn't kill anyone. That was stupid of you, Vila - he's going to die anyway. But you can save both of you a lot more pain -"

"For a short time," Avon murmured.

"Shut -"

"Klegg?"

Jarriere could have been attending his mistress at Court, so serenely innocent was his voice and smile. "Och, he fooled us then." The blindingly bright gaze switched to Avon, who stared back coldly. "Ye did well to last this long, but it's na good tryin' to fool the Federation's hand-picked, ye know."

"We took them both, Sub-Commander," Klegg growled. "My men and I did. You note that in your damned report to the President."

"O' course, o' course, as I said all along." Jarriere stared at them with happy vacuity, one hand running through his hair, across one ear... and the single remaining faux-pearl earring was gone. "The Supreme Commander - the President - will be mos' pleased, Section Leader, they'll be great changes in store for you and your men," he stopped, mentally counting, "man."

"And this scum will pay for murdering the others."

"Among other crimes, aye. I'm sure there'll be plenty to find." Jarriere nodded. "But first, control o' the ship before it vaporises - or fries - or eats - any more o' us -"

"The ship didn't kill them, did it?" Kroy droned. "He did."

Jarriere opened his mouth to answer - stopped - sighed - shook his head and smiled. "Could be, could be."

"But we don't need this good-as-dead rebel, then," Klegg growled. "And my men are on his head - we've the right by law to execute for murder. Kroy, kill him."

No! Avon wasn't even aware that he'd moved - that there was a thin, high-pitched whine over his head - that he'd grabbed Fugface's gun, jerked it back and pulled the man's finger across the trigger, blowing the ugly throat clean away. Death by Federation weapon were was not as clean as the Liberator's... but still bloodless and horribly, unsatisfyingly neat.

Jarriere bent over the now dead Section Leader, and delicately pulled the earring from the back of his neck. "Of course it's a weapon, Avon," he said with that same, impossible, aggravating placidity that had annoyed Avon from the first moment in this same room. "I didna spend six years in Servalan's personal employ wi'out learnin' to have a use for everythin' I carry."

"Six years... I'm surprised you're still alive."

"So were other folk." Jarriere took the Federation weapon from one lax, lifeless hand. And then..." he said placidly, "there was none."

"One," came a thick snarl behind him - then the whine of Klegg's gun in Avon's hands, and a choked sound, and a thud.

"None." Jarriere repeated, turning to look.

"You need to learn to count, Subcommander," Avon snapped, keeping the weapon level on the intruder till it was clear that he wasn't getting up in this lifetime. "You'll need to help me with Blake. Orac, get Zen to have a gurney from the medical unit sent here."

"It is hardly a task for -"

"One of the computerised ones, Orac. Blake can't walk, and we can't carry him. Now, Orac!" Pushing the dead trooper away, he knelt and placed a cold finger against Blake's lips. After all this, it would be - galling - if the damned man died at the last minute.

That was it.

Galling. Maddening. Frustrating.

As he felt faint breath under his fingers, whatever unruly emotions he'd indulged in since Sarran were forcibly banished.

Irritating. Merely... irritating.

"Will he live?" Jarriere asked, his lilting voice surprisingly soft and almost sober.

"This time. Yes, he'll live."

"Avon...?" More like a sigh than a word, but he heard it.

Avon sighed, and "He's... with me."

Jarriere beamed at them both. "Did I tell ye I'm a pilot o' sorts?" he asked chattily, helping to lift Blake onto the buzzing gurney as he did. "Well... close. I was the Supreme Commander's personal chauffeur."

"Chauffeur?" Avon stopped; only rigid control stopped him from dropping the injured man and the gun in shock. And he'd thought aide-de-camp bad... "You were Servalan's chauffeur?"

Jarriere gazed at him with that same ingenuous look that he'd had at the start. "Well, o' course. Even a megalomaniac needs someone to fly her personal ships."

"And that makes you think you can fly the Liberator?"

"Ahh..." A frown wrinkled the gnomish forehead. "Don't ye have a pilot?"

"Until we locate her, no."

"None of ye are pilots?"

"Not as such, no."

"Then for sure I can fly the Liberator," Jarriere said happily.

There was a silence. Avon could see Blake trying not to kill himself with shuddering laughter; he himself was just trying to find a reason not kill Jarriere.

At some stage, though not now.

"Orac, arrange for urgent and immediate action to rescue Vila and find the others. Jarriere..." He bared his teeth in what might, in a trooper's nightmare, have passed for a smile. "You can make yourself useful and release Dayna from wherever you locked her."

"Wha -?" The dismay that swept across the furrowed little face was almost worth it. "Ahh, I don' see that bein' a good idea, Avon, she willna be too fond -"

"Use your charm."

"An' if she hits first and doesna ask questions at all -?"

Avon sighed again, and surrendered. He had a nasty feeling that with both Jarriere and Vila on board, things were likely to become even less tolerable than before.

Vila. Cally. Jenna.

He'd stop on the way to find Dayna and check on the computer's rescue plans. She couldn't get any more angry, and he might have someone else - maybe their idiot thief - to deflect the lash of her tongue.

"Very well, stay with Blake." He knew that, with that, he'd acknowledged a measure of trust in the man and briefly cursed himself for it... and Jarriere's wide smile, just as guileless as it had been in the teleport that first minute, only made him curse himself even more. After all, what use could an aide-de-camp be in Blake's battle... or his?

~oOo~