~oOo~
Epilogue:
"...And if ye'd be kind enough to send it..."
"Jarriere."
Two pairs of brown eyes - one cold and edged with frustration, the other bright and as lively as ever - met over Orac's twinkling cover.
"It's a machine, Jarriere," Avon spoke wearily, wondering again why he bothered. "You don't have to thank it."
"Manners cost naught, Mister Avon -"
"Just Avon, Jarriere."
The brown eyes sparkled, and Avon had to wonder again that the man could act as ingenuously stupid as he had proven - quite conclusively - he wasn't.
Vila - having been rescued, with Cally, just before being turned into unwilling organ donations for the rich - slouched in his seat and raised a glass of soma in lethargic toast. He'd had to parry several biting asides from Avon about spare parts and was still mildly affronted that they hadn't rushed to his rescue, even though both Orac and Zen had been firmly forbidden to mention that little business of "not bringing anyone aboard", and Jarriere had shown unexpected tact in saying a great deal, but not about that.
Cally, hovering beside Blake and watching the seeming unequal battle of wits, merely smiled serenely at Avon's just-this-side-of-a-plea look. She wasn't getting involved.
A new, slightly strident voice cut into his thoughts. "What are you sending?"
Ah, Avon thought. Dayna. Peevish, and she wanted everyone to know it. He half-turned his head to watch her come onto the flight deck, glaring at the little man standing over Orac.
She had yet to forgive Jarriere - if indeed she ever would - for locking her up. She had yet to forgive Blake - if she ever would - for backing Jarriere up in the decision to lock her up, or to forgive Avon for not letting her shoot both of them.
"Ahh, that'd be the message to Sturdevant of the Third Fleet."
"The Third - Avon, you're letting him do this?" She turned on him, ignoring the others completely and quite deliberately. Avon lifted an eyebrow, waving a negligent hand towards Blake. "I thought you said this was your -"
"Dayna." It was quick, sharp, deliberately cutting her off; from the corner of his eye he saw the twisted half-smile on Blake's pale face, and went on forbiddingly. "The message was from Supreme Commander -"
"President -" Blake murmured.
"And self-proclaimed President Servalan to her loyal Fleet Commander, offering him the position she has recently vacated, on the tragic and heroic death in battle of Commander Miah Micassah of the First Fleet."
"Whom Sturdevant has hated and competed with for years." Jarriere nodded happily. "Such a politically astute gesture, it is."
Dayna's soft face scrunched into a frown as she tried to decipher. "So why are we sending on that woman's messages? And helping her?"
"We're not."
"But you just said -"
"Servalan had nothing to do with the message, Micassah isn't dead yet, and the message to Sturdevant will be - accidentally - rerouted to the First Fleet."
Dayna looked at the three men blankly.
"We've also sent an order to the Head of Terran Security, from his new President, to arrest and dispose of the entire new High Council and their families," Blake said gently. "A pity it will stray into the hands of Councillor Joban's brother at Space Command..."
"I don't under-"
"And Orac is working on accidentally 'alerting' all Federation allies that if the Fleets are allowed to dock there," Avon went on, "they have orders to liquidate the entire ruling class, loyal or not, as - pre-emptive security. In Servalan's name, of course."
Jarriere beamed, and patted the little plastic box. "A pity that - wi' all the troubles she's had, the coup and the invasion and the war an' all - the Supreme Commander didna think to have access to her private codes cancelled. Your clever little calculator -" he paused at the distinct electronic hiss under his hands, "o' course, I mean your brilliant cyberbrain here - has dug so deep in Space Command's systems, they'll never lock him -"
"It," Avon murmured.
"- him out again. I doubt any o' the Fleets will have much time for Servalan's schemes and commands now, even if she survives. At least she'll ha' plenty to occupy hersel' with, no time for the likes of us."
"And while the killer cats are fighting amongst themselves..." Blake said.
"The rebellious mice have a slightly less pathetic chance of success."
There was a silence, broken by Vila from his flight position.
"All rather confusing, if you ask me."
"We didn't," Avon snapped. "That chance is still pathetically small, Blake. You can't win."
"You said you would take me to Earth, Avon," Blake said softly, wearily. Cally, by his side, looked mildly reproachful, and Vila, from his console, looked pained - neither of which helped.
"And I shall. When it is safe to do so." I have not just saved you again to let you... he clamped down on the thought. "At least... when it is not suicidal to do so."
"As I agreed, Avon."
Their eyes locked; it was Avon who looked away. "Don't, however, expect me to stay and watch while you commit suicide for the Great and Glorious Revolution."
"As - you wish."
"What I wish..." He could almost feel the old adage about being careful what you wished for crashing down around him. This was not - at all - what he had bargained for, what he had planned for, what he had thought he wanted.
I want...
"I want to be free of him."
Perhaps I was the fool for thinking I could be - yet. He banished adages and wishes and what-could-be, took a deep breath and finally allowed himself to relax. There were worse fates than having to wait for that freedom while being tied - yet again - to Roj Blake.
He caught Cally's eye, gazed around, at Vila's indolent cheer, Dayna's smouldering glare, Orac's incessant, almost arrogant sparkle, and Jarriere... Jarriere. Ah hell, Jarriere. And he fought down a snarl at Fate.
Oh yes... far far worse.
-the end-