Power Cut (Blakes 7 - gen, 10,110 words) - part 1
This story has been a long time in the making... which is ironic, given that The Plot From a Better (well, Way More Justifiably Famous, At Least) Writer I Unblushingly Stole.
It's that AU of Powerplay that some of you will recall, with apologies to Terry Nation and everyone who liked S3 just fine the way it was. I just thought a couple of tiny, teeny, so-minor-they're-hardly-different cast changes would have made all the difference, but then everyone knows I'm biased :)
So decide for yourselves....
Power Cut
Home... to the Liberator. Kerr Avon's home for the last two years, and now - or soon - his by right of possession.
As the grey-white sands of Sarran - and the enraged face of the new President of the Terran Federation - faded and dissolved, Avon took a deep breath, unwilling yet to relax, unable not to.
He had survived the battle over Star One, and the lesser battles with Servalan; now, in the ruin of Blake's political plans, he was less sure of what that survival meant. Everything was still too much of a mess, though he'd managed to get back to the Liberator, and could now concentrate on what mattered. Finding Blake. Finding the others. Sorting out where they all stood, in the wake of the Andromedan War.
"When Star One is gone, it is finished, Blake. And I want it finished. I want it over and done with."
He put Orac down, and turned to the bereaved girl he'd had to bring with him, speaking with strained kindness. "Are you all right?"
"Yes," she said dully. Well, he was never very good at consoling - Blake could deal with the hideous emotional fallout left by Hal Mellanby's death, or Cally would, once they were safely back. First, though, he had to get them safely back.
"I want to be free of him."
He put an awkward hand to her shoulder; it felt out of place, as it nearly always did. "When we first met," he said, "you said there was no pleasure without danger. Do you still feel that way?"
Dayna shook her head, looking around with big dark eyes, seeing again her father's body in the underground home that was now his tomb. "I think I can do without excitement for a little while."
"Good." Somewhat relieved, he turned to business. "Let's get to the flight deck. I have to locate the others and pick them up."
Have to locate them, he thought, him - before anyone else does. Return him to Earth alive, or my ship will never be quite mine.
He flinched at the memory, the image, of quite literally forcing Blake into the lifepod. Blake hadn't wanted to go, God and Blake only knew why - some nonsense about the danger of leaving the ship drifting and empty.
"As it was when we found it," he could hear Blake's voice, thinned and shaking with pain and weakness. "Avon, it will be too long. Someone has to stay as long as possible - and I'm the most - most expendable..."
"Quite possibly," his own, harsh with fatigue. "But of no importance. We are leaving, now. And you at least are going to survive this fiasco whether willingly or not."
"Avon, listen -"
"No!" And he had pushed Blake into the pod, and slammed the door before he could weaken; before Blake's damnable gift for overriding his reason took hold.
He didn't regret it, not at all; it had been the only thing to do. Letting Blake commit suicide - in whatever way, for whatever reason - had been unacceptable for too long now to overthrow what was admittedly a bad habit. But he had to find Blake as fast as possible - alive and safe - and deliver whatever part of his promise was still viable.
"I will take you back to Earth and then the Liberator is mine."
He was unwilling to think about that, about what taking Blake to Earth would actually mean in this turned-inside-out universe, and pulled away from the thought, and from Dayna. When Blake was back, she could become his problem; given her father's murder, would probably be glad to. As long as she didn't remain his problem, Avon didn't care. "Come on."
Dayna stopped, eyes widening. "Wait!"
Avon turned back, and stared blankly at the man who had just come in; curly-haired, dressed in Federation black, and pointing a large and impressively ugly weapon at them. A man he had never seen before.
"The penalty for boarding a Federation craft without authority," the man said calmly, his bright gaze fixed on Avon, "is rather unpleasant. Now what would you be doing on my ship?"
"Your ship?"
"Well," he gave a wide smile that couldn't possibly be as guileless as it looked, "for the moment, it seems." He turned his head as several more troopers - the type all too easily recognisable as Federation space-cannon fodder - clattered in. "Section Leader, your men searched the ship, and did not find these two?"
A grim, fleshy man with a heavy brow and small, thin-lipped mouth came forward, far too close to Avon, who stared back at him calmly. "We did. Where were you hiding?"
"We weren't hiding!" Dayna spoke up, a touch too quickly. "We've -"
Avon cut in before she said something unwise. "We've only just realized there was anyone else on board. We were -" oh damn, what and where were we? "- in a civilian ship that got caught up in the battle. We managed to dock our life capsule alongside this ship and come aboard." Wonderful. Even an idiot like Vila wouldn't swallow that. Let alone...
"That makes sense," the first man said in that lilting, oddly accented voice.
Klegg shot him a filthy look, and turned back to Avon. "Just the two of you?"
Let's trying pushing our few atoms of luck a little farther. "We were exhausted and settled into a cabin. We've been sleeping for hours."
"Section Leader, you'd best have another search made," the first man, clearly if somewhat incomprehensibly in charge, said. "I'm no' blaming the men," this in a tone of total sincerity that Blake couldn't have bettered, "it's a very large ship, and we all know how people die on it -"
We do?? That startled Avon, as did the shifting, not-quite-scared unease that swept the room.
"- But there could be some of the crew still here," the little man went on blithely, gazed back at the others, as motley and ugly a lot as graced any Stormtrooper reunion bash, and a slight, bewildered frown creased his forehead. "And isna someone missing? Section Leader?"
"Two of the men aren't answering, sir." One of the men - dark-haired, rather grubby-looking - offered sourly.
"Not good, it's not safe running round an alien ship on their own. Ye'd best find them."
"Harmon," Klegg snarled, "you heard the officer." The man nodded curtly and led the cannon-fodder away.
"And now, sir... your name?" The officer turned back to Avon, eyes bright, smile blindingly open and sincere, and weapon aimed squarely and steadily at Avon's midriff.
"My name is Chevron, and this is my wife," reaching out and taking her hand, "Dayna."
"You have identification?" Klegg snapped, clearly suspicious.
"We lost everything when our ship was hit."
"We were lucky to get out with our lives," Dayna chipped in, giving the little man in charge a look of bright innocence rather more believable than Avon's. He frowned a little, as if confused, his gnome-like face wrinkling.
"Yes, well, we've all been lucky," Klegg said. "Maybe."
She turned that ingenuous gaze on him.
"Section Leader Klegg," he identified himself after a pause, sourly.
"And I am Subcommander Odo Jarriere," the little man said rather more brightly. "Aide-de-camp to Supreme Commander, now Madam President, Servalan."
Avon choked a little, staring at the man. "Aide-de -" he swallowed. "Most impressive. We are honoured."
Damn. Unless he's as stupid as he looks... we're dead, Blake.
***
The flight deck was empty, warm with the glow of Zen's glittering fascia, all signs of damage from the battle gone. Avon - very aware of the guns pointed at his spine - was careful to look around as if he'd never seen it before.
Jarriere was burbling away about computers, voicelocks and needing one of the original crew to get control of the ship. Avon was only listening enough to be irritated by that strangely archaic accent, waiting for the man to recognise him. Surely someone on Servalan's staff - even if only for a short time - would have seen...
Jarriere met his gaze with a brilliantly candid, insufferably sweet smile.
"If Blake or one of the others has survived," he went on, "they'll try to communicate with the ship. The computer will identify the voice then direct the ship to within teleport range. At least we hope so, we really do hope so."
"Why?" Dayna asked.
"You need one of the original crew back on board to put the ship under your control," Avon offered, flicking a glance at her. Zen will ignore her, but if they force me to...
Klegg came too close again, lips thinning in what was not a smile. "That's exactly right," he said with heavy meaning.
"Have you heard any transmission yet?"
"Of course," Jarriere shrugged. "Thousands. Even one that claimed to be the S- the President herself, though I couldna' follow the story. Very confusin', something about being stranded on a hospital ship and demanding to be picked up." He sighed gustily. "We couldna' follow it, mainly because the ship wouldna' follow it."
"Subcommander -" Klegg gritted.
"Yes, yes, Section Leader. You see, Chevron, there is one, one special one it seems, keeps coming in every hour or so. Every time we hear it the computer registers a power surge as if it was reacting to the voice."
One of the others. Damn. "And if your -" Avon paused, "- the Section Leader's man's theory is correct, it could be a member of the crew."
"It does make sense. We think." Jarriere's forehead wrinkled in one of his expressive frowns. "Well, more sense than anything else we could think of."
You surprise me.
"In any case, the ship's gone into direct line flight now, maybe homing in on the signal."
"But just before it settled on this flight path," Klegg said, "the ship went through some very precise manoeuvres which took it close to a planet."
Avon shrugged. The little man might be stupid, Klegg was probably not. "A navigational check, presumably."
"Yes, maybe," the Section Leader's voice dripped disbelief. "But shortly after that you two appeared."
Avon turned a cold stare to him, met an ugly, violent glare in return. "And you suspect us of -what?" he said finally.
"Section Leader Klegg is a very doubting man, Chevron," Jarriere said placidly. "He didn't even believe me at first."
"Can't be faulted for that," Klegg said, a peculiar note of bitter defensiveness in his voice. "I've accepted your authority, Subcommander Jarriere, as long as the reports show that my men and I boarded this ship before you."
"O' course, you've seen the report I've prepared for the President herself, haven't you?" He glanced at Avon, who had stiffened slightly at the words but kept his face impassive. "As soon as we have the ship under control, we'll be sending that report, and there's no doubt that the men who actually took it will be rewarded."
"And that is my squad."
"An' that it is."
Klegg calmed down; Avon wondered briefly at the man's defensiveness. "Thank you, sir," he said gruffly. "Now in the meantime and with your permission I suggest we confirm that neither of these two are members of Blake's crew."
"I don't think they are, Section Leader. I'm sure I'd recognise them, though I have to say Blake himself is the only one of any importance to Space Command." Jarriere beamed at Avon as he spoke; Avon wondered savagely if the man could be as honestly stupid as he seemed. "The others really don't count, do they? Chevron here hasn't even heard of Kerr Avon -" a pause? Surely not, "- or the others."
"Important or not, they've got a very worthwhile price on their heads, dead or alive. With your permission...?" Or without, Klegg's tone seemed to say.
"Oh, for sure."
Klegg waved them towards Zen's fascia with his gun, and spoke harshly. "You will each speak a line into the computer's audio command circuit. If the computer does not recognise the voice it will not respond."
"You don' mind, of course," Jarriere added beamingly.
"As a matter of fact," Avon snarled, unwilling to give in quite so flagrantly, "I do. I am getting a little tired -" Something ice-cold touched his neck, and he froze. Jarriere was suddenly beside him, the muzzle of his gun brushing Avon's skin. The little man was fast...
"I'm sorry, Chevron," he said, apparently sincere, as he lightly ran the gun around Avon's throat. "I'm sure you'll understand when the President explains it. She does explain things so well, you know."
"I'm afraid I wouldn't know," Avon said, voice a little strained, as he raised a hand to the muzzle.
"Oh, I'm sure she'll be willing to see you herself, to explain. But obey the Section Leader, please. He'll apologise later, won't you, Section Leader?"
Klegg's lips stretched again, and waved them forward again with the gun. "Over here. You will say "Indicate if my voice pattern is registered in the memory banks and confirm identity." He looked at Dayna. "You say it."
She sighed very pointedly and obeyed.
"You're clear." He turned to Avon, standing very still with Jarriere's gun still at his throat. "Now you."
A sound like a mechanical cough cut him off - he turned sharply as the communicator chimed. "What the -?" There was a harsh, scratching noise, startlingly loud, and Avon could feel the subliminal force of the ship's power surge. "That's not the same signal as before..."
Avon stared at the panel, vaguely surprised to feel breathless. Whoever it is, they can't be brought - and then the voice, a bare, ragged whisper but he knew it at once. "Zen... Zen, please respond... I can't..." and it fell away in a choked cry of pain.
Without thinking, he started forward - and damned himself in the second before the weapon at his throat dug in. He stumbled a little, trying to twist away - then something slammed into his jaw, and darkness crashed in.
"No!" As Avon fell, Dayna jumped forward - and found herself staring straight into the muzzle of the little man's gun.
"What the hell -?" Klegg snarled at the same moment.
Jarriere spoke to Klegg with improbable mildness, without taking his eyes from Dayna. "I'm not sure what happened, Section Leader, but I rather think I hit him."
"You've hurt him!" Dayna tried to judge her chances of taking them both - looked at the guns - discarded the idea. "Let me -"
"No, don't move. Section Leader, that voice."
"What about it? We still got to check this one's voice print."
Jarriere tilted his head, reminding Dayna of a rather comical little blackbird, as he looked down at Avon. "Maybe, when he wakes. Maybe not."
From the communicator, another high-pitched scratching sound, then that voice again. "Zen... where - is Avon -"
"I know that voice," Jarriere nodded happily. "All of Space Command knows that voice. Most of Space Command's waking nightmares have that voice, though I've never quite understood why... that's Roj Blake."
***
Go to Part 2