Deep space, on the Federation border
This time Avon awoke without the stimulus of the AutoMed. "Progress," someone said, sounding pleased.
"That," Avon said, "depends. I still feel beaten-up."
A tall blond man was regarding him, dressed in a casual style reminiscent of Albian, but he could immediately see the clothes were both practical and functional - and of a high quality. Some Federation officers wore such clothing. Though casual, it was definitely a uniform.
"So," Avon murmured, "to whom do I owe my life, and far more importantly: why?"
"Ever the cynic, Avon," the man chuckled wryly. "In your universe, no-one does anything without first asking 'what's in it for me?'. You have heard of altruism, I trust?"
"It is merely a word in the standard Federation Lexicon," Avon retorted cynically. "My universe is the real one. Thus my question stands."
"That's why you never trusted Blake, isn't it? You could never bring yourself to believe in his vision."
"His vision was, at best, rose-tinted and blinkered," Avon shook his head. "There was nothing of substance in which to believe."
"Such as a free society?" the man queried. "A society in which men could think, say and do what they liked, so long as such thoughts, words and actions hurt no-one else? Surely such a society would be better than the one we've got?"
"I will concede that point," Avon allowed. "A society in which a man is free in his own mind is, I will grant you, an attractive concept. Unfortunately, in this day and age it is more of an ideal for which to strive than a practicable, achievable reality."
"What if I told you," the man answered quietly, "that it did exist once, and that democracy wasn't the failure the history books tell us it was? Suppose I told you an archive dating back to before the Federation had recently been discovered, and that it tells us about the world as it really was all those centuries ago?"
"I would be immediately suspicious of its authenticity," replied Avon immediately. "I would require proof that it wasn't a cleverly-aged fake."
The man nodded, conceding the point. "True. It has happened before. But we'll get back to that; your questions are far more pertinent to your situation. First: my name is Delmon. For a while I worked for the Federation, under various names and in a variety of roles."
"In which case, you have healed me in order to deliver me to Servalan," Avon nodded, not entirely surprised, "alive and well, the better to withstand prolonged 'interrogation', the ever-useful euphemism for torture. It would be typical of the Federation - the modern equivalent of the condemned man's hearty meal."
"Except that your vaunted powers of observation seem to have failed you," Delmon grinned. "Didn't you notice the tense in which I phrased that statement?"
"Ah - the past tense," Avon noted, wondering how he could have missed that. "Perhaps my faculties are not fully restored." He smiled cynically at the thought that his statement could be construed as an excuse. "So for whom do you work now?"
"Myself," Delmon told him quietly. "I worked for the Federation for one reason only: to find a way to sabotage it from within. I've committed various subversive acts to that end; although they don't know about me, I've been a very bad boy by their lights. For instance, did Blake ever tell you about the Domosa Uprising?"
"He did," Avon nodded. "Twenty of his followers died when the Federation troops bombed the rebel base."
"Or so everyone believed, even Blake. In fact only two died, and only because they volunteered - someone had to cover the retreat through the tunnels. The rest escaped and later got passage offworld to an independent system. I arranged that, as well as leaving enough of their DNA in the base to convince Travis and his men that all twenty were in there when the bombs exploded. I was wearing my Platoon Leader's hat at the time."
Avon's eyebrows rose. "Indeed? The obvious question, assuming the truth of this revelation, is 'why?'."
"It was one of several things I've done," Delmon said, apparently evading the question. "I realised early on that I probably couldn't do everything I wanted to, so I settled for doing what little I could."
"One man can only do so much," Avon concurred.
"But then I made friends with a genius who'd developed a way of miniaturising the equipment for mental implantation. You recall what the Administration did to Blake - planting false memories of abuse into children's minds so as to frame him?"
"So Blake claimed," Avon recalled. "In fact, I believed him. Such perpetrators are social deviants whose aberration would have become apparent long before it progressed to the stage of actually carrying out such crimes, and Blake was an Alpha grade. Such crimes are unknown among the Alpha class." He smiled cynically. "An Alpha would never need to turn to children to satisfy a perverse craving, not when there are so many Deltas who would cater to such for a reasonable price...and not feel abused in the least. Your point is?"
"If you can implant memories, you can also implant experience. You can, for example, learn how to fly a spacecraft, by copying the experiential memories of a qualified pilot. Or you can become a scientist, or a politician - or, indeed, pretty much anything."
"And you used this capability to bolster your credentials," Avon understood, "so as to facilitate slipping from one role to another. Doubtless you also acquired hacking skills in the same manner," he added, "to create false work profiles, or hijack real ones?"
"Correct," Delmon acknowledged. "Oh, it takes a little practice once you've infused the knowledge - it's one thing to know how to do a thing, but quite another to actually do it - but it's nowhere near as hard as learning the skills from scratch in the first place."
"You still have not told me why," Avon pointed out acerbically.
"I'd prefer to leave that until I can explain to all three of you," Delmon said. "You've still not finished healing yet, and the med units are still working on your friends." A wry look crossed his face. "In fact, AutoMed 17-A wasn't all that happy about me waking you to explain even this much, and I've got to put you back under soon before it throws the computational equivalent of a hissy fit. You're a practical man, Avon; surely it can wait?"
"I suppose so," Avon conceded, realising he had a migraine and ached all over. Delmon was correct; he was definitely not up to par, whatever that ancient saying meant. Oh, he had deduced its meaning from context when he first heard it, but its etymology was long since lost to history; an ancient relative had employed it once and Avon, then aged five, had noted it. "Your uniform is that of a Section Chief," Avon observed. "You presumably infiltrated the Federation troop contingent on Gauda Prime. I imagine you commandeered a squad and detailed them to remove my 'corpse'."
"Not only yours, Avon," Delmon told him, "but Vila's and Dayna's, too." He opened a door to reveal Dayna and Vila lying in medical pods, as Avon had been earlier - the one in which he'd been cocooned was on the left of Vila's. "They're no deader than you were, although Tarrant and Soolin, I'm afraid, are. My task on Gauda Prime was, quite simply, to get you all out.
"I commanded a squad who'd been issued special guns that were designed to injure rather than kill, though for the sake of verisimilitude the wounds they produced were serious enough to be convincing, and the guns also delivered a heavy neural shock to induce deep, profound coma." He looked pained. "Sorry about that, but there was no other way, despite the obvious risk to your lives. You had to appear to be dead, in case any of the troopers examined you."
"So," Avon inquired sourly, "what went wrong? Why are Soolin and Tarrant dead?"
Delmon sighed sadly. "It was nothing more than sheer bad luck, Avon. There was another Section Chief already stationed on Gauda Prime; he received the order to move in at the same time my squad did. But his squad, of course, was armed with standard V-911 para-handguns, not the gimmicked ones I'd issued to my troops."
"Bad planning and/or timing," Avon observed.
"Hurried, more like," Delmon protested.
"I see."
Delmon shook his head. "Both squads arrived in the control centre at the same time. You and Vila were shot by my troops; Tarrant and Soolin were shot by his." He sighed again. "I'm sorry. I had no authority to order him to pull back; it would've looked suspicious if I'd even tried, especially when we were advised that Blake was there." His expression was pained - and, as far as Avon could tell, genuine. "I tried, Avon. I did my best."
Avon tried to be cynical, but for once did not succeed; Delmon's story rang true. He too sighed. "I believe you. The fact that you pulled us out of there and secured medical attention for us is indicative of your veracity. Very well; I shall trust you, for now." He looked grim. "Do not doubt the consequences of betrayal, however; my trust generally has a short half-life and limited utility at best." He crossed slowly, mindful of his aching limbs, to the medical pod holding Dayna. "How is she?"
"It'll be touch and go, according to the medi-scanner," Delmon reported after reading the display. "Arlen's weapon was on full power, of course - what a little bitch," he cursed. "I hope she's dead."
Avon touched Dayna's brow, the gesture stopping just short of a caress. "She is a fighter through and through," he noted quietly. "I am confident she will survive."
She did, though it was another three weeks before she regained consciousness; Avon himself was healed after a little more than a week.
Vila was the subject of unmerciful ribbing for a while, as his injuries were nowhere near as severe and yet he took a week longer to awaken than Dayna did. Avon's only contribution to the ribbing was a clipped: "Typical."
"At least he's alive," Dayna pointed out pragmatically. She winced; though her chest wound was healed, some residual pain remained (her AutoMed had, it admitted, had to apply treatments to shock her stem cells into overdrive for rapid healing - and pain was the best stimulus. Dayna had said weakly, "Nothing's for free. Dad taught me that. Do it."). "Arlen was a good shot, I have to admit. I wouldn't have placed any bets on my survival - if I hadn't been given drastic surgery nearly straight away." She looked to Delmon and added warmly, "Thank you. I owe you one."
The man grinned. "Sexism aside, there's something to be said for having a beautiful young woman owe you a life debt."
"Don't push it," she warned with her typical fire. "My body's a temple and I'm very particular about who's granted entry. Though I grant you it's been a while," she admitted ruefully.
Avon's eyebrow rose. "Given your isolation on Sarran, I didn't think you'd have had any opportunity."
She laughed. "Avon, I might be young but I'm no virgin! Remember Teal? I had an...encounter with a native. Well," she said defensively, "we were there to relax, and sex is very relaxing at its best. Nice kid, treated me right, just the way Dad taught me I should be treated. Oh," she laughed harder at his expression, "my life on Sarran was quite an education, Dad made sure of that!"
Teasing slightly, Avon ventured, "Surely you didn't -"
Dayna swatted him. "Even in the Federation, incest is illegal, Avon - and that's a damn good idea, Dad taught me about inbreeding!"
"Just checking," Avon smirked, and Dayna realised she was on the receiving end of one of his rare teases. She chuckled.
Delmon sat at what appeared to be a spaceship's primary flight console and adjusted controls. "Right," he pronounced, "now you're all okay, we're on our way - I didn't do it before because I didn't want to risk it for a bunch of corpses. Going to be a long trip, I'm afraid, even at Standard by Eight. Can't do more," he apologised, "this is an old ship, but the best I could get at short notice."
"And where are we going?" Dayna asked keenly.
Their pilot smiled gently. "Somewhere well outside Federation borders. I'm taking a slightly roundabout route for safety - we don't stand a chance if we run into a Federation Pursuit Ship. Our force wall is more for meteors than plasma bolts. But on this route we should be safe. Feel free to use the cabins," he invited, and grinned at the sight of Vila sleeping. "We should leave Vila where he is."
"And how he is," Avon said dryly. "He is far more amenable when asleep or unconscious."
The blond laughed.
"I notice you retrieved Orac," Dayna said pointedly, seeing a box on the flight console.
"None of the Federation troops queried it when I claimed it," Delmon nodded. "Obviously they didn't recognise it."
"Is it functional?" Avon asked sharply.
"Should be," Delmon nodded, opening the box and applying the key Avon handed him. Sure enough Orac was as testy as ever.
What is it now? Orac immediately asked, peeved.
"Just checking you still work," Delmon replied.
Of course I 'work'! My systems are self-repairing and thus require no more than occasional, minimum maintenance!
"In which case," Avon instructed, "you can put your capabilities to work and increase the maximum speed of this vessel."
It is virtually obsolete, Orac chided, and thus any modifications will be minimal at best.
But Avon only smiled cynically. "Every little helps."
It should be possible to reconfigure the drive core, Orac conceded, remarkably cooperative for once, and thus increase our velocity to Standard by Nine - Ten in short bursts. I recommend not more than twelve seconds at a time. To increase the velocity further, while theoretically possible, would be to risk compromising the integrity of the superstructure. Its tone turned dry. There is little I can do about that.
"Then that will have to suffice. Do it," Avon nodded.
Soon Delmon also nodded. "Standard by Nine achieved. That should cut about ten hours off our travel time."
Sixteen point three, Orac corrected, if boosted periodically as I suggested.
"Mmm. Relieve me in about four hours, Avon," Delmon requested.
"Assuming we are not apprehended by then," Avon agreed.
"Oh, assuming that, of course," Delmon grinned.
The probability is extremely low, Orac pronounced, even lower when I complete modifications to the sensors.
"Four hours, then," Avon decided, and he and Dayna left the bridge.
Delmon's ship
Sometime later
Dayna, stretching out onto the bed, yawned and asked, "Well, Avon?"
He gave a slight, cynical smile. "Well what?"
"What do you think about Delmon?"
"In other words: can he be trusted?" Avon inferred, correctly.
Dayna shrugged. "Forgive my paranoia."
But Avon shook his head. "It is not paranoia, but hard and often bitter experience. Given the circumstances it is a natural and perhaps even expected question. However, for once we appear to have been fortunate. Delmon would never have done what he has were he working for or with Servalan. His story rings true, similar as it is to that of Gan. It would be typical of the Federation to deal with a potential subversive the way Olivia was dealt with. His desire for revenge is..." he remembered Anna, "...understandable."
"So you trust him?" she persisted.
Again the cynical smile. "I have no reason not to. In the unlikely event this is an elaborate trap, I imagine we shall have warning." He looked bleak. "And at the very least, if we are about to fall, we shall have company."
Dayna nodded, satisfied, though all her instincts said Delmon was okay. "I wonder where we're going?"
Avon shrugged. "Doubtless it will be to obtain a tactical advantage of some sort. A logical plan."
"A better ship, maybe?" She looked around. "They say beggars can't be choosers, but this ship has definitely seen better days, Avon. Certainly it's no match for a Mark - what mark is the Federation up to?"
"At least XI, if not XII," Avon replied. "It is true that at present we are at a tactical disadvantage. Hopefully that will change in the near future. We shall see."
Soon, they did.
When Avon ran across Dayna again, she was trying to get a drinks dispenser to cooperate. Old and stubborn as it was, the dispenser wasn't having it.
"Can't even do coffee," she cursed. "I miss the Ljberator and her auto-repair."
"Mmm," Avon reflected, remembering...
Liberator
Passing Alpha Libri, en route to Centero, shortly before encountering the Web
Blake met Avon in a corridor close to the Flight Deck. The latter was carrying a case of diagnostic probes and looked deep in thought. "Avon," he greeted him, "how's your research going? Anything new?"
He should have known better; Avon didn't quite sigh. "Blake, this vessel is the product of a technology and culture of which at present we know precisely nothing. Thus everything is new."
Blake only chuckled, unoffended. "Sorry, I should have just stuck with the first part."
Avon's reply was flat: "Obviously."
"My question's still valid, though."
"Fair enough," Avon conceded. "There are, as one might expect, many remarkable examples of technology aboard this ship, some of which I barely comprehend as yet. These, however, cannot be studied in isolation, as all vessel functions are integrated to a degree a less credulous person might find astonishing. My progress, therefore, could be categorised as slow but steady; the vessel must be studied as a whole, a somewhat daunting task...even for me." He paused. "One function in particular, however, is especially interesting."
"Really?"
"Yes, but we shall need to adjourn to the Flight Deck for me to demonstrate."
"I was heading there anyway," Blake remarked, "I thought we should maintain a regular watch. It sounds intriguing, Avon. Fill me in."
"In recent years," Avon began, as they turned a corner, "the Federation has developed auto-repair technology. You may recall we witnessed a primitive example of this in action on the London."
"The sealant gel; yes, I remember," Blake acknowledged, trying not to think of what it had meant for poor, brave Nova. Only after the abortive mutiny had been quelled did he learn from Raiker, who wasn't making much of an effort not to gloat about it, what had happened. Seeing that sadistic bastard explode in the vacuum when Liberator detached from the London was a very satisfying experience; it was justice for Nova and the prisoners Raiker had callously murdered to force Blake into surrender.
"Later, a limited form of circuit regeneration was introduced -"
"Yes, I recall working on that project, too," remarked Blake.
Avon gave him an old-fashioned look. "As, in fact, did I. Do not construe this to mean we have anything in common," he added dryly. "With such large and ongoing research projects, coincidences are inevitable and meaningless for the most part."
"Wouldn't dream of it," Blake quipped. "Go on."
"I have discovered that Liberator possesses a similar, though considerably more advanced and sophisticated, auto-repair capability."
"Oh?" Blake's eyebrow rose appreciatively. "How did you do that? Every time we try to ask Zen something about Liberator, he just ignores or refuses the request. 'Involvement is not permitted', whatever that may mean. Seems we're expected to learn as we go," he finished ruefully.
"I was experimenting," Avon admitted, "cross-connecting various systems in order to obtain and monitor feedback, a technique I have often found useful."
"Risky, though, surely," Blake observed; he was no slouch himself when it came to technical matters, albeit hardly in Avon's class, and hence he immediately saw the potential dangers of such practice.
But Avon only shrugged; he had of course been very careful to safeguard himself during his experimentation. "Occasionally one can learn more about an unfamiliar piece of equipment during its malfunction than during normal operation."
"That's very true," Blake chuckled on recalling a memory of his life as an Alpha grade. "There was a communal food processor in my district; we learned a lot about its operation...since most of the time it wasn't operating and we had to repair it ourselves as there never seemed to be a service tech available. Very temperamental piece of equipment, as I recall," he concluded, still chuckling.
"Indeed," Avon returned dryly. "One of the systems I was studying was a high-voltage apparatus; I'm afraid I caused a minor amount of damage. The auto-repair system is apparently very methodical, but any sudden systems disruption like that registers immediately. I made no repairs; it wasn't necessary, as you shall see."
As they reached the Flight Deck, Avon crossed to the flight console. "I am going to set up a feedback loop," he explained. "When I activate the forward detector array, the feedback will cause a non-critical sensory component - here -" he indicated, "to overload and burn out."
He adjusted various controls and pressed a key; there was a small shower of sparks from the console. "I think I may have overdone that somewhat," Avon noted wryly. "Nonetheless...observe."
Before Blake's astonished eyes, the burnt-out component faded from view...to be replaced by a pristine, entirely undamaged counterpart. In less than ten seconds, there was no trace whatsoever of damage. Even the burn marks around the component faded away as if they had never been.
"Zen," Avon rapped, "systems status."
All systems are functioning normally.
"As expected," Avon noted dourly.
Zen's next words somehow managed to sound reproving. Minor damage to forward sensor module deliberately inflicted by Flight Crew is now repaired.
"That's amazing," Blake breathed, and then laughed softly. "And I think you were just told off."
"Indeed," Avon growled, glaring at the curved fascia. "For all its determination not to involve itself in our affairs, that thing appears to have ideas above its station."
Blake ran his fingers over the sensory component, wonder in his face and voice. For some reason he couldn't quite define, he was half expecting it to feel warm, but it wasn't. But it didn't feel like metal, either; it was...something else. "If I hadn't seen it with my own eyes..."
"It is in keeping with the organic..." Avon shrugged, "'feel', if we may use such an emotive, imprecise word, of this technology. In many ways, the ship does appear to function in similar fashion to a living organism, rather than that of a mere machine." He smirked. "I stress the word 'appear'; I for one do not subscribe to such primitive superstitions as animism."
"So it doesn't repair itself so much as it...heals," Blake suggested.
"A crude and somewhat fanciful analogy, perhaps, but accurate nonetheless," Avon conceded thoughtfully. "In any case, I believe this capability suggests a possible explanation as to why the crew, whoever they were, apparently abandoned a fully functional vessel."
"And that is?"
"It wasn't fully functional at the time," Avon declared simply, "far from it, in fact."
Blake recalled Leylan's terse description of the unknown craft the London was paralleling, and his theory as to what had happened: "Of course! Leylan mentioned a space battle, presumably one in which the owners of this ship were involved!"
"That does seem obvious."
"Now, if the ship were damaged in the battle, perhaps critically -"
"Precisely," Avon concurred, "presumably the damage was severe enough to compromise life support, but not so serious that the auto-repair systems could not cope. They could, however, operate more efficiently in the absence of the crew -"
"- because then the ship wouldn't need to maintain life support," Blake understood, nodding. "Those resources could instead be diverted to auto-repair, thus speeding up the task - very logical. Hmm, we'll have to remember that in case we ever need to do it," he reflected.
"The crew therefore elected to abandon ship, knowing it would repair itself in their absence, after which they could return and reclaim it." A sardonic smile almost reached his eyes. "They could not, of course, have counted upon our arrival, still less that we would defeat the highly effective security measures they left in place."
"I'm still wondering who they were, and where they came from," Blake mused. "Liberator is totally unlike anything I've ever seen or even heard of. I'd say she's way beyond even our most advanced theories."
"I concur," Avon noted. "But the technology is in fact not merely advanced on what we know - rather, it is conceptually different, starting from a totally alien basis, making far more use of organic principles than we ever have, or could. Whoever they are, I would speculate they are similar to us only in terms of external physiognomy - probably, in fact, the only thing our two species have in common.
"I do not doubt that wherever their home system is, it is a very long way outside Federation territory, which is why we have never encountered them before. Given their obvious technological - and, for all we know, cultural - superiority, perhaps that is just as well," he couldn't resist jibing.
"Could they be extragalactic, perhaps?" Blake speculated in wonder.
"I doubt it," Avon shook his head slightly after briefly considering the notion, "though I suppose it is not beyond the bounds of possibility. Speculation can wait for another day, however; today, we have business to conduct...apparently," he smirked.
"We do indeed. Zen: ETA to Centero?"
Three hours, seventeen minutes at present speed.
"I do not subscribe to the concept of animism," Avon said now. "However, there is one remedy for most malfunctions in Earth-based equipment, which I believe it is. Yes," he nodded on checking, "a Merrox Five, built on Earth...probably by Blake."
"What's that?"
"Hit it," Avon answered simply.
Dayna shrugged, said, "Worth a try," and did just that.
The dispenser warbled as if in complaint and produced a perfect cup of coffee. Avon smiled cynically. "Seemed to work."
She sipped and glared at the dispenser. "Look at it. Just sitting there as if nothing was wrong. Like it's spreading its metaphorical hands and saying 'what?', dammit." She sipped again. "Almost looks smug. Good coffee, though," she smiled.
"A common approach for recalcitrant Earth equipment," Avon noted, "but it's surprising how often it can be effective."
If it weren't out of character, Dayna thought, I'd be sure he was joking with me.
