B7 ficlet - Fair Trade Agreement
Having been browbeaten mercilessly by the evil kerravonsen, I hereby fail utterly at my Herculean effort not to commit fic during 2008. I don't think it hits any of her particular favorite buttons, but it's what I got. Alas, earwax. And so, forthwith:
Blake's 7, Avon-Vila pre-series friendship, no canon knowledge required. Fluffy as a kitten, 866 words, rated G.
Fair Trade Agreement
by Mistral Amara
The computer in Dr. Bexler's outer office used an antiquated keyboard interface, but Avon had mastered keyboarding by age five. Now that he was seven and a half, he could type as well as any adult. His fingers flew over the keys without making a single mistake. At least, they did until his elbow was jostled by Vila's attempts to climb up the side of his chair to watch. "Stop it, Vila," Avon hissed.
"Avon, let's get out of here. Bexler will catch us any minute."
"No, he won't. He calls his wife every day at lunch. He talks at least ten minutes, and this will only take five, if you don't knock us both over. Now, get off."
"Won't." Vila clutched the side of the chair tighter.
"Don't be a baby. Go and listen at the door, if you're scared."
"I'm not scared. But I don't see why we have to do this."
"I'm not making a deal without a contract. That's how the grownups do it."
Vila made a face. "Alpha grownups, maybe. Besides," he said, peering at the screen, "what's that even mean? 'Party of the first part,' 'party of the second part,' 'indem-- inden--'"
"Indemnify." Avon wriggled into a position where Vila wouldn't interfere with his typing. “It's special contract language, called legal ease.”
"What's easy about it?"
Avon didn't know, but he couldn't admit that to Vila. As the elder by fifteen months, it was his job to know what Vila did not. He tried to remember what he'd learned eavesdropping on his uncle's business deals. "It's not that hard. 'The party of the first part' --that's you-- 'agrees to indemnify and hold blameless the party of the second part' --that's me-- 'against the interests of all third parties.' It means that if the teachers find out and we get in trouble, you won't blame me. And you won't say I made you do it. All right?"
"I already promised," Vila complained. "Besides, why should we get in trouble? Unless they catch us here. Let's go!"
"Just a minute." Avon finished typing the last sentence, then grabbed Vila's thumb and shoved it against the ID pad, then added his own thumbprint. Then he routed the file to his home computer, and summoned a cleaner program to destroy the local copy. "Now we go."
They climbed carefully down from the chair, grabbed their schoolbags from the floor, and sneaked out the office door. Then they ducked into a deserted service corridor and headed for their favorite lunchtime hideout.
The hideout was just a bit of disused air duct that stank of mildew, but once they pulled the vent closed behind them, it was safer than taking the risk of being spotted by the bigger boys in the courtyard. The bullies were bad enough, but even the teachers would be cross if they saw Avon and Vila together. "I still don't know why they care," Vila said.
"Because you're a Delta and I'm an Alpha."
"Why should that matter?"
"Don't be stupid. It matters," said Avon, who didn't know why, either. "You'll understand when you're older."
"You're barely an Alpha."
"Yes." Avon dusted off a bit of the duct floor before he sat down. "Here," he said, rummaging in his bag and coming up with a slightly smashed sandwich in food-wrap. "Orange marmalade, as requested. And you have something for me?"
"Mmm," said Vila, eyeing the sandwich with anticipation. "Shake on it, first." He stuck out his hand.
"What?"
"You got your contract, I want a handshake. That's how Deltas do it."
"Oh, all right." Avon allowed his hand to be pumped up and down a couple of times. "Now, take your sandwich."
Vila pulled the wrapper off the sandwich and took an enthusiastic bite. "Ooh. I don't see how you can give this up," he said reproachfully. "It's got real fruit in it!"
Avon shuddered. "Fruit peel."
"And juice. Oh, wait." He dug in his pocket and fished out a dilapidated food packet. "For you, Nana Restal's spice biscuits. I'll need the packet back. Do you want your food-wrap?"
"No, you keep it," Avon replied. He watched as Vila folded the wrap carefully and put it away. Things must be worse than he thought at the Restals', if they were reusing recyclable food-wrap. He noticed for the first time the way Vila's clothes hung on his scrawny limbs. Perhaps tomorrow Avon would ask his mother for two sandwiches.
Vila watched him anxiously as he opened the packet of biscuits. "Do you really like those? They aren't even very sweet."
Avon inhaled the strong, spicy scent. Pepper, licorice, and a hint of whatever Deltas substituted for ground ginger. Vila was right; Nana's biscuits weren't very sweet, but they were better than the loathed marmalade. And orange marmalade was Vila's favorite; this way, they both came out ahead. Why should they care what anyone else thought? He bit savagely into a biscuit. "Sweetness is overrated. You'll understand that, when you're older."
Vila shook his head at Avon, then smiled down at his sandwich. "I hope not," he said, and took another bite.
Perhaps, perhaps not, thought Avon. But tomorrow, two sandwiches.
--End--