by Tony Attwood
Over ten million people watched the dramatic final episode or the BLAKE’S 7 TV series. And not one could ever forget — or fathom — the final catastrophic shootout on Gauda Prime.
Did Blake’s death really mean the end of the fight against the evil forces of the Federation? Was the vulnerable thief Vila killed — or just wounded? What happened to the computer Orac? Would the scheming Servalan regain her old power-base? And what of Avon himself, the unbeatable, unpredictable paranoid who had ended it all? AFTERLIFE is Tony Attwood’s brilliant continuation of the Blake’s 7 story.
Also available
THE BLAKE’S 7 PROGRAMME GUIDE
Terry Nation’s
BLAKE’S 7:
AFTERLIFE
‘Comissioner...’ the Captain pushed on. ‘For some time the planet had been used by enemies of our Federation. We have had them under close surveillance and had infiltrated their command structure. Our enemies were planning a rebellion and were trying to attract other dissident elements to their base. All of the rebels were to be rounded up.’
‘Rebels.’ Servalan sneered at the word. ‘Who were these great outlaws that senior officers of the Federation had to rush half way across the Galaxy in order to have them arrested?’
‘One was the rebel leader Blake, Commissioner.’
The sneer froze on Servalan’s face. ‘Did you see Blake?’
‘Yes, Commissioner. I supervised the identification of his body. He was dead...’
Terry Nation’s
Blake’s 7
Afterlife
Tony Attwood
A TARGET BOOK
published by
the Paperback Division of
W. H. Allen & Co. PLC
A Target Book
Published in 1984
By the Paperback Division of
W. H. Allen & Co. PLC
44 Hill Street, London W1X 8LB
Text copyright © Tony Attwood 1984
Format and characters © Terry Nation 1975
Text developed from an idea by Chris Boucher in episodes ‘Star One’ copyright © 1979 and ‘Blake’ copyright © 1981
Printed and bound in Great Britain by
Hunt Barnard Printing Ltd., Aylesbury, Bucks.
ISBN 0 426 19924 3
Author’s Note
The author would like to acknowledge Chris Boucher’s work on the Blake’s 7 television series and to thank him for his kind cooperation in the publication of this book.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Glossary
Prologue
In the beginning there were six men and women. Outlaws, criminals, they took on the grandest task of their time – to destroy a Galaxy-wide Empire, known simply as the Federation.
Deported to a penal colony, fate smiled on the prisoners for one brief moment as, led by Roj Blake, they captured an alien space vessel and found themselves in possession of the Liberator – the fastest fighting ship known in the Galaxy. Aided by the seventh member of their team, an on-board master computer known as Zen, they began their impossible mission.
For a while their luck held as they stumbled by chance on Orac. Invented by Ensor, it was the most powerful computer ever designed, able to intercept messages from every other computer in the Federation. But then their problems began. Gan, one of the original team, was killed as Blake tried to attack the Federation’s computer centre. Then Blake himself was seriously injured as the Liberator’s crew formed an unlikely alliance with the Federation to combat an invasion from Andromeda. Another crew member, Jenna, was also lost, and although more rebels were found to replace the depleted forces, eventually even the Liberator itself was destroyed.
By now only two of the original crew survived. One was Avon, probably the greatest computer genius the Galaxy had ever seen. Sentenced to the penal colony for attempting to steal five hundred million credits from the Federation banking cartel, he never fully lost interest in the idea. The other was Vila, a brilliant thief, but lacking the bravery that should have accompanied the role that history had created for him.
With a new ship and a different crew, Avon and Vila continued to fight the Federation until their hiding place was discovered. Then they once more travelled the Galaxy to find Gauda Prime, the reputed refuge of their original leader, Roj Blake.
Despite the destruction of their ship Blake was found, but at that very moment the Federation attacked. As the shooting broke out Avon, seeing a trap, killed Blake. With his ship gone, his crew dead, Avon, it seemed, had finally lost the ultimate battle...
1
Korell looked down at the prisoner on the bunk. She smiled languidly, resting her shapely frame against the side of the door, which remained wide open. Beyond, the prisoner could catch a glimpse of the corridor painted grey with white, red and green lines indicating routes to unseen destinations. No one moved along the walkways. No guards stood at the door. The room was in standard Federation prison format, painted grey with a single bunk, no chairs, no windows and just enough room for the average man to walk up and down, six paces at a time. The door was solid steel, doubly reinforced, grey like the rest of the room. When it closed it moved easily along automatically oiled runners. It would continue to open and close noiselessly for two hundred years, if anyone bothered to use it.
‘You never try to escape,’ Korell stated. Her voice was calm and gentle, with a hint of deep knowledge.
The prisoner continued lying on his back, staring impassively at the ceiling. Every four or five seconds his eyelids flickered; otherwise there was no perceptible movement beyond his slow regular breathing.
The silence was complete. The air in the room was fresh, refurbished from the outside through tiny filters built into the walls. It was all standard prison issue; all except Korell. She seemed prepared to wait all day for a reaction.
Eventually she was rewarded. The prisoner spoke. ‘The trap is too obvious,’ he said. ‘To run you need somewhere to go. I don’t seem to have that possibility at the moment.’ He paused. When Korell didn’t reply he added, ‘You have all the cards. You make the move.’
Korell retained her smile, indeed it was a continuous part of her make-up. But her eyes never moved from her prisoner. The man, she knew, had spent most of his time like this for the past five months. Twice a day Korell disturbed him with food followed by some rapid exercise up and down the corridor, then back into the cell for whatever conversation the prisoner would make. The routine had never varied. Most prisoners would have cracked long ago; the loneliness, the contradictions of a prison with only one warder, a door left unlocked during visits, the lack of knowledge... But something was keeping this man going. This prisoner was different.
To the prisoner Korell had been an unexpected and unknown visitor. Totally relaxed and self confident, she seemed so sure of what she was doing that she always had the air of someone who could afford to wait for ever. She had as long as the prisoner would take to give her Orac.
‘Let’s talk about you,’ announced Korell after another
long pause. The prisoner levered himself up and sat on the side of his bunk, but said nothing.
‘You’ve had no thoughts of escape for five months because for only the second time in your life you are looking inwards.’ It was a diagnosis not a question. Korell grinned; a grin imposed on top of a smile. She paused again, watching her prisoner intently. She sensed rather than saw a movement, a suggestion that this was the right track. Encouraged, she continued.
‘For years you have been living on a knife edge, just avoiding death. The pressure has been constant. You could have stood all that if it hadn’t been for some memories. They keep flooding back.
‘You live with the memory of the people you trusted. The only people you trusted in your entire life. They betrayed you.’
The meanings were harsh, but the words seemed soft.
The prisoner looked up. ‘People?’ he asked mildly. Korell’s speech was having an effect.
‘You loved the girl. You nearly died for her. And she was an agent of Servalan.’ Another pause. The prisoner lay back down. Vitality seemed to drain from his face minute by minute.
‘And the man, Blake. You pretended to despise him, but you admired his purpose.’
‘Blake was a fool.’
‘But you thought you knew him. You thought you could predict him. In the end you couldn’t be sure. Did Blake betray you?’ It seemed like a real question.
The prisoner allowed himself a brief smile. ‘It’s a good story,’ he told Korell.
‘And true?’ For once Korell’s response seemed a little too fast.
‘More or less. What do you want?’
‘There’s no hurry,’ Korell announced. ‘We’ll talk tomorrow.’
‘I’d like to tell you now,’ replied the prisoner. His voice was fragile.
‘Tomorrow,’ Korell repeated and turned her back on her captive.
The gentle hiss indicated that the door was locked. The prisoner lay on his bunk, a faint smile still on his face. Months before he had checked and double checked the room for watching devices, but there were none. Prisoners on Gauda Prime had obviously been run of the mill murderers, who didn’t need watching. His face would not be seen.
He knew he now had little time left to wait. His move must come with Korell’s next visit, when his jailer thought him to be at his weakest. Until her return he could do nothing but wait. That was no problem: he’d had a lot of practice recently.
He closed his eyes and re-thought his campaign.
One hour later his reverie was broken by a sound outside. A flash of annoyance crossed the prisoner’s face. He had misjudged Korell. He had been sure that his jailer would insist on waiting until the morning to make him finally submit. An early start meant that Korell was less confident than he had supposed. In time-honoured tradition the prisoner pressed himself against the wall next to the sliding door and waited.
As the door opened he allowed his surprise to register for just a split second before hitting not Korell but a Federation guard. In that brief moment he diverted his blow to the kidneys rather than the side of the neck as he had planned, merely bringing the guard to the floor rather than rendering him unconscious. Guards, although not bright, did tend to know if there were others like themselves around.
With a vicious twist he brought his arm under the guard’s neck and pushed a fist into his back. To the guard it could have been any one of a variety of weapons.
‘The wrong type of movement on your part could lead to serious consequences,’ the prisoner announced quietly. ‘Just take your helmet off slowly; it would be helpful if we could have a talk.’
As he spoke he dragged the guard away from the door and touched the plate to its side to close it. The guard certainly didn’t seem to want to offend the prisoner with any rapid movements at all. He was quivering in his all-black uniform, which upon closer inspection appeared to be completely the wrong size. Gently the helmet was removed and the prisoner found himself looking at the back of a head that he knew rather well.
‘Vila,’ he announced simply.
Vila didn’t turn for the simple reason that he was petrified. He would know the voice of Avon anywhere. During their last few months together Avon had tried to sacrifice Vila in order to save his own skin, and towards the end Vila had gained the distinct impression that Avon was investigating the possibilities of rapidly ridding himself of the whole of his crew. If Avon had turned into a homicidal maniac Vila didn’t particularly want to get in his way.
Recognising Vila’s problem Avon let go his grip and allowed the thief to fall to the floor. Vila crawled a few feet and turned to look up in dismay. The short cropped hair had grown longer and the weak chin revealed a few days growth of beard, but otherwise Vila looked much the same.
‘I think you ought to try to be a bit nicer to someone who has just rescued you from prison,’ he said.
‘It was rather hard to tell who you were inside that uniform,’ Avon replied. ‘Although I should have realised it was you – you don’t quite have that aggressive authority which is the hallmark of the average Federation thug. However, there are a number of locks you could open between here and the outside world, and I rather suspect the average guard wouldn’t be able to open them quite as quickly as you.’
Vila looked annoyed. ‘"Quite as quickly?"’ he demanded. ‘What do you mean "quite as quickly"? I can open locks in seconds which take the manufacturers four weeks, and that’s when they have the key.’
But Avon had already tired of the thief’s bravado. ‘I don’t want a race,’ he said, ‘just escape.’
Vila got up and turned to Avon with a flash of professional pride. ‘No problem – it’s all done. You can walk straight out of here into the outside world, which I might tell you is saturated since this is the rainy season. And rainy season means rain. Non-stop, endless...’
‘Thank you for the weather report. Now can we get out?’
‘... without bumping into a single Federation Guard – in fact without bumping into anyone.’
‘You aren’t going to tell me you killed them all?’ demanded Avon, warily stepping to the lock mechanism and opening it once more.
‘No, not exactly...’
‘Good, because your abilities as a liar are far below those you possess as a thief.’
‘But I did open the main hatch. The place is deserted. Not one single regular space ship has taken off or landed during the past four months and only a couple of flyers have come and gone in all the time since you invoked universal mayhem. And now there’s not a single guard on the base. What did you do to them Avon? Threaten to give a lecture to the assembled multitudes on the subject of your ego?’
Looking out from his cell, in order to check on the thief’s claims Avon ignored the jibes. The corridor led away left and right ending both ways in simple T-junctions with no indication of what lay beyond. Sadly for Avon these initial attempts at exploration failed to stop Vila’s boasting. ‘I thought it was about time I came in and saw what was going on,’ he said nonchalantly, ‘and of course I was looking for a way of rescuing the others...’
‘But you didn’t find them.’
‘Er – no...’
‘Not surprising after five months. What were you doing out there Vila, counting the trees?’
With that Avon slowly led the way out of the cell and along the passageway. He chose the left corridor, turning left at the junction and left again twenty yards further on. He could have asked Vila for directions but he preferred to trust more to his own judgement and analysis. The Control Room would be at the centre of the base – these manoeuvres ought to get them there. If the route was different from Vila’s so much the better, for anyone relying on Vila and Avon’s return by the same route would be disappointed.
Still desperate to prove his worth and rapidly realising that Avon had become the first viable way of getting off Gauda Prime that had offered itself in the past five months, Vila tagged along behind trying hard to make the most of history. ‘You didn’t e
xpect me to rush straight in did you? I had to get a good picture of the area – watch out for troop cover – that’s why I took the uniform...’
The story wasn’t impressing Avon. It was also clear from the way he was holding his hands Avon was feeling the lack of a weapon, and in that respect Vila was unable to help. He knew of Avon’s good nose for danger and his caution made Vila feel more nervous than he really wanted to feel. Walking through the short corridors he began to wonder if the near starvation he had endured outside the settlement dome these last five months had been worth it. Maybe he should have stayed in the rain. Another week and he’d have had no more worries.
Suddenly the corridors ended; the main Control Room appeared ahead of them. It was circular and spacious, the control desks and panels ringed by a raised walkway. Functional pillars supported the roof. Chairs were set behind the desks. The blood and the bodies had gone. Otherwise it was as Avon remembered it. ‘Avon,’ said Vila gloomily casting his eyes around the all too familiar scene, ‘What happened?’
Avon looked around with an annoyed expression. ‘Vila, I am grateful to you for unlocking the cell door for me, but my gratitude does not extend to standing around in wide open spaces waiting for someone to attack while you question me at the top of your voice.’ He moved off quickly looking down each of the three corridors in turn that fed into the room.
Vila started to follow, realised what Avon was doing and then stood resolutely in the centre of the circle refusing to be appeased. ‘Relax,’ he said, trying to sound more confident than he felt. ‘There’s nobody here; I know because I’ve been out and about while you’ve been sitting in your cell playing patience.’
‘Correction,’ said Avon tersely. ‘I have been held prisoner, whilst you, I suspect, have been drinking every drop of adrenalin and soma within twenty miles.’
Avon decided to move off down a passageway opposite to that from which they entered. Seeing that this was more than just another tactical investigation Vila ran to catch Avon up but still reached the main door a little behind. Its green frame slanting inwards to match the curvature of the dome had been slid to one side and rain was splashing in. Avon looked cautiously out into the downpour.
