She unlatched her helmet and killed the seal. With a hiss, the helmet came away and she breathed in the reconstituted, recycled oxygen of the airlock. It made her dizzy for a few seconds until she closed her eyes and concentrated. You’ve got a job to do, Zola. Orders.
She felt in the large side pocket on the right thigh of the spacesuit. Took out the pistol Travis had given her.
‘Compact autoblaster,’ he had told her. His voice had been brisk and authoritative. ‘Disengage the safety before you pull the trigger. Don’t try for headshots or wounding – that’s for amateurs. Aim anywhere on the torso. One shot in the chest area from that will stop anyone.’
She had never held a gun before. This one was heavy and powerful. The pistol Norton had waved around in the flight cabin looked small and ineffectual in comparison. This gun was military, and meant business. It made her sweat just holding it.
Thinking about Norton was a mistake. She had a fleeting memory of his bloodied corpse being dragged away into the darkness, and then Garran being pulled down and savaged by the mad mutoid. She had warned Travis of what to expect in the York’s flight cabin, but he had dismissed the idea of a rogue mutoid and simply signalled the mutoid to investigate. Then he had told Zola to gain access to the rear pod and secure the prisoners.
And now here she was. Zola took a couple of deep breaths, clicked off the safety on the blaster, and opened the interior airlock.
*
‘I’m sorry,’ said Vila. ‘Sorry, sorry, sorry…’
He walked onto the Liberator flight deck in his least favourite position – with his hands in the air and a gun in his back.
Jenna just stared at him, open-mouthed in a very beautiful way, and then promptly closed her mouth again when she saw Melson.
‘Don’t do anything stupid,’ he told Jenna. ‘Or Vila gains an interesting new hole in his back.’
‘I’m quite happy with the holes I have already, thanks,’ Vila assured them both. ‘I don’t need any more.’
‘Would one of you explain what exactly is going on,’ Jenna said, ‘besides the obvious?’
‘He’s a Federation agent with a gun and I’m a gullible fool,’ answered Vila.
‘I said besides the obvious.’
‘I’m Captain Jon Melson, I’m a Federation officer and I am claiming this ship in the name of Supreme Commander Servalan.’
Jenna stared. ‘What have you done with Cally?’
‘She’s unconscious,’ Vila said, as if that was good news.
‘And you’re about to join her,’ said Melson, firing the neural stunner again. Jenna crumpled instantly, collapsing onto the flight controls before sliding to the floor.
‘Spark out,’ said Melson, satisfied.
‘Why haven’t you used that thing on me?’ Vila asked.
‘No need. I use the stunner on anything that constitutes a threat – and you don’t qualify.’
Vila considered that. He became acutely aware that he was still standing with his hands in the air, completely helpless.
‘Besides, I’m going to need someone to interface with the ship’s computer.’ Melson kept the gun trained on Vila as he glanced around the spacious flight deck. ‘This is a beautiful ship. Quite the prize for a gang of lowlife rebels like you.’
‘You played Gan and me for fools,’ Vila said bitterly. ‘Pretending to help us. Getting those bracelets. No wonder you knew the locking code for that airlock.’
‘Don’t take it too hard. You were desperate for a way out. You grabbed every chance I gave you, even when you didn’t realise it.’
‘Blake and Avon could be dead for all I know. You’ve left Gan with those crimos and mutoids. I feel sick. Can I sit down?’
‘Be my guest – but keep your hands up.’
Vila sank carefully into one of the seats at the front of the deck. ‘I’m getting pins and needles in my arms.’
‘My heart bleeds. But if you lower your hands, it’ll be your heart doing the bleeding. Clear?’
‘Crystal.’ Vila twisted awkwardly to watch Melson as he moved slowly around the flight deck, inspecting each control station. The Federation agent paused by Jenna’s body and prodded her with his toe.
‘How long will she be out?’ asked Vila.
‘Long enough.’
‘Long enough for what?’
‘For me to take control. Now – where’s the ship’s computer?’ Melson quickly scanned the room until he saw the large amber screen on one side. Lights pulsed gently within. ‘I’m guessing that’s it?’
‘That’s the drinks cabinet.’
‘It’s the computer. How do I address it? What’s it called?’
‘None of your business.’
Melson smiled and looked at the computer. ‘Computer! What is your designation?’
‘Don’t tell him, Zen!’ cried Vila.
‘Really,’ Melson sighed. ‘You’re making this too easy, Vila.’
*
The airlock cycled open and Kiera dropped down into the York’s flight cabin. She landed, catlike and with her blaster ready, scanning the cockpit area for hostiles. She had already removed her space helmet in the airlock because the visor restricted vision.
The senior officer and pilot, Garran, lay dead on the floor in a mess of congealing blood. The sight of it caused a brief tremor of hunger deep in Kiera’s gut but she was trained to ignore it. Her need for plasma had caused her to fail in her duty once before, it would not happen again.
The cabin was quiet, silent but for the low click and bleep of the dormant instruments.
Travis lowered himself from the airlock hatch and dropped lightly to the deck. He too had removed his helmet. He had his left hand out, fingers straight like the tip of a spear, ready to activate the deadly weapon inside at a moment’s notice.
‘Clear?’ he asked, surveying the carnage on the floor.
Kiera was about to reply when the mutoid attacked. It leapt from behind the rear navigation computer bank, talons outstretched and mouth full of dried blood. Kiera reacted instantly, turning and slashing with her free arm to deflect the worst of the assault, although the gun was knocked out of her grasp as she was forced back into Travis. He hit the bulkhead wall as Kiera and the mutoid crashed to the floor in a frenzy of scratching and biting.
Travis couldn’t get a clear shot. The two mutoids rolled across the deck, locked in a death struggle, Kiera trying to keep the rogue at bay as it snapped for the small amount of throat visible over the thick collar of her spacesuit.
Kiera got a hand onto the mutoid’s face and dug in with her fingers, augmented sinews straining. The mutoid gnashed her teeth but Kiera got her thumb into the right position and pushed hard into the exposed eye socket. The mutoid only squealed with pain and redoubled her efforts.
The creature grabbed Kiera’s head and wrenched it from side to side, as if she was trying to tear off the moulded black headpiece that protected the machinery beneath. She had Kiera rolled onto her back, and, despite Kiera’s thumb being buried in her eye socket, started to smash the other’s head against the deck plates.
And then, suddenly, it was over. Kiera got a hand under the rogue’s chin and then twisted her head hard until the neck vertebrae parted with an audible crunch.
Kiera heaved the body away and dumped it on the deck. Travis was watching her with a look of amusement. ‘Finished?’ he asked.
THIRTY-ONE
Zola stepped through the airlock door as it hissed open, aiming the blaster with both hands.
She held the position for a good few seconds, blinking away the sweat in her eyes.
Pod Three was empty.
A large, dimly lit space was all there was to see. Central gangway, mesh metal, container spaces either side for the prisoners. Rows of empty plastic benches. There was blood on the floor and on some of the walls.
‘You’ve missed them,’ said a voice from behind.
She started to whirl around, choking with shock, but stopped suddenly as the barrel
of a gun touched her cheek. A hand reached across and tugged the pistol out of her limp fingers.
‘That’s better,’ said the man, circling around her to stand in front. He was wearing civilian clothes – not prison fatigues. His eyes were careful, intelligent. The mouth had a hint of cruelty about it, and Zola was reminded – just for a second – of Travis.
‘I’m Avon,’ said the man. His voice was cold and stony. ‘You are...?’
‘Zola.’
‘Well now, Zola,’ he said in a low, steady monotone. ‘Been out for a walk?’
Zola felt uncomfortable and clumsy in her spacesuit. She realised she should have removed her gloves as well as her helmet, perhaps then she could have kept hold of her gun. The man called Avon held it loosely in his left hand. In his right was a strange kind of weapon: cylindrical, with a crystal rod coming out of a black handguard.
‘Who the hell are you?’ she asked.
‘I thought we’d already covered that.’
‘I mean, what are you doing here?’
‘That was going to be my next question to you. And as I’m the one holding the gun and you are now unarmed, I suggest you answer.’
There was no mistaking the steel in his voice, nor the unwavering attention of the crystal gun. Zola was confused all over again. She seemed to have been confused since the very start of this trip and she was exhausted.
‘I’m junior navigation officer on this ship. There was a rogue mutoid in the flight cabin – the captain and co-pilot are both dead – and I couldn’t get through the interior airlock. I had to spacewalk. And then the rear pod was discharged and now the whole ship’s diving towards the planetary ring system. We’ve got about half an hour before we hit.’ She stopped and took a deep, shuddering breath. ‘I don’t mind telling you, I’m having one hell of a day and I really wish you weren’t pointing that thing at me!’
‘All right,’ said Avon, and he raised his gun, holding it upright but ready.
Zola noticed that he was keeping far enough away from her so that she couldn’t lash out with her hand or foot and connect. She guessed if she made any sudden moves he would shoot, and he looked like the kind of man who would shoot to kill.
‘Listen to me, Zola: you may be a Federation officer but the people through there,’ Avon pointed at the airlock to the next pod, ‘aren’t impressed by the Federation. They are all convicts on their way to a prison planet and they won’t take kindly to one of the people responsible. In addition there are mutoids – and these mutoids are perfectly sane and very capable killers. Stick with me and do exactly as I say and you might survive. Clear?’
‘Not really, no. What the hell is going on here? And who the hell are you?’ Zola felt a mounting anger inside her. ‘You’re not a prisoner and you’re not one of the crew – where have you come from? Oh, wait. The mass anomaly…’ A sudden, desperately wild thought struck her. ‘Did you – did you teleport in here? Are you one of them – one of Blake’s crew?’
‘Unfortunately yes. I was part of a raid that went wrong. There’s some sort of criminal psychopath calling himself Kilus Kroe running things now. I was knocked unconscious when he came out of solitary confinement and started killing everyone. When I woke, I was able to crawl away. I’ve been in the lower storage ducts ever since.’
Zola arched an eyebrow. ‘Hiding like a rat, you mean?’
Avon smiled coldly.
‘So what happened to the rest of your raiding party?’
‘I’ve no idea: captured, injured or dead it doesn’t matter. I can’t help them and they can’t help me.’
‘So what are you going to do?’
‘Call in reinforcements.’ He raised his arm and Zola saw a chunky communicator bracelet on his wrist. ‘Liberator, this is Avon. Come in, Liberator…’
There was no reply.
‘Liberator? This is Avon. Are you receiving me?’
*
‘This is Avon. Are you receiving me?’
Avon’s voice echoed around the teleport chamber.
Cally blinked.
She waited a little while and then blinked again. It was hard work. Perhaps if she rested for a bit longer and then tried again…
But something was nagging at her, a feeling that she should be doing something more than just blinking.
And then, suddenly, she felt the need to suck in a huge lungful of air. She became aware of a number of things all at once: a terrible, blinding headache, eyes that were sore no matter how much she blinked, and the cold, hard flat surface beneath her cheek.
She was lying face down on the floor.
As soon as she realised this she tried to get up, but none of her limbs were responding properly. No matter what she tried, her arms and legs just flapped around uselessly. The pain in her head was all-consuming. She licked her dry lips and waited for the pain to settle down into a steady, echoing series of hammer blows to the top of her skull.
Neural stunner, she told herself. You know the effect they have. You’ve used them yourself. Had one as part of your kit on Saurian Major, a million years ago. Stunners were dreadful things, misnamed really, because the effect could sometimes be fatal. The one single advantage of being on the receiving end of a neural stunner was that you might actually survive.
Cally forced herself to sit up – slowly, using the teleport console for support. She felt dizzy and sick. She wanted to groan out loud but somehow she had the presence of mind to stay silent. There was an intruder on the Liberator – Melson – brought aboard by Vila. The idiot.
She took a deep breath and gathered her wits. She started to remember hearing Avon’s voice. Was he here? No, he couldn’t be. No-one to operate the teleport for one thing, and anyway, he wouldn’t have left her lying on the floor if he’d seen her there. Would he?
*
‘Time to begin,’ announced Kilus Kroe with a clap of hands.
Blake braced himself. He knew it was pointless. This was the end. ‘Wait,’ he said, surprised by how scared he sounded.
‘What for?’ Kroe picked up the jar of biovores.
‘You don’t want to kill me,’ Blake said. ‘You really don’t.’
Kroe looked confused. ‘Why not?’
‘You’re working for Servalan. You said you were acting on her personal orders. She won’t want me dead. She’ll want to see me. She’ll want to gloat. She’ll want the Liberator.’
Kroe paused. ‘Hmm. Well, I think you underestimate the Supreme Commander. Or overestimate, I’m not sure which. She’s quite a character, I admit. Egotistical. Power-mad. Highly intelligent. Beautiful. But she’s not so precious that she feels the need to see you dead, Blake. My word will be sufficient.’
‘The Liberator, then. Without me –’
‘We’ve been through this,’ Kroe sighed. He started to unseal the lid on the biovore jar. ‘The Liberator’s already mine.’ He turned to the mutoid guard behind him. ‘Alpha, open a comms channel to Melson.’
The mutoid turned to the control panel on the bulkhead wall and hit a sequence of switches. The communicator squawked and then bleeped.
‘Melson here,’ said a voice Blake recognised. ‘I’m on board the Liberator. All resistance subdued or eliminated.’
‘Good man,’ said Kroe, smiling.
Blake closed his eyes. ‘Melson?’
‘Deep cover. Working alongside me. One of my most trusted agents.’
‘What’s happened to Jenna?’
Kroe laughed and turned the lid on the jar again. ‘You’re not really in a position to be concerned about anyone but yourself, Blake.’
Blake’s eyes blazed. ‘I’m not concerned about myself! Open your jar of bloody worms if you want. But let my crew go.’
Kroe’s hands stopped moving. The creatures seethed inside. ‘Or what?’ he asked.
Blake thought furiously. What could he give this man? What could he promise him that might save his life? Or the lives of his friends? What could at least give him more time? Blake’s mind raced like a hy
perdrive. Think, dammit! What did he have to offer? His own life meant nothing, obviously. The Liberator was lost. His friends were dead or meaningless to Kroe.
But Kroe had paused.
The jar was still unopened.
He was waiting. He was waiting to see what Blake had to offer. Which meant that he wanted something – something only Blake would have, that only Blake could give him, that he would only give up when all else was lost.
Blake racked his brains for secrets. A part of him was revolted. Was he really so low and cowardly that he would bargain for his life with any last nugget of information he could offer? Was that right? Was that honourable? Did that even matter? Was it death he feared – or just the biovores? The thought of them on him, chewing their way inside, gutting him while he still lived… what would he do to avoid that?
‘I can give you names,’ he blurted. ‘Rebels. Resistance leaders on a dozen planets. I have contacts. That’s what you want, isn’t it? Servalan wants to destroy every last trace of resistance across the galaxy and she thinks I’m the key! Is that it? Is that what you want?’
Kroe thought for a long time. Or at least it felt like a long time to Blake. He could feel the sweat running down his face.
‘No,’ said Kroe eventually. ‘I know all those already. I’ve interrogated and tortured my way through more rebels and resistance fighters than you could imagine. I’ve already got every name, every planet, every star system. All stored away in here.’ He tapped his head. ‘It’s a kind of insurance, I suppose. Because as much as I admire Supreme Commander Servalan, I have to admit – just between you and me – that I don’t entirely trust her.’
Blake glared up at Kroe through the sweat in his eyes, utterly speechless.
And then Kroe opened up the jar of biovores.
THIRTY-TWO
Cally moved slowly and silently. There were very few places to hide on the Liberator, particularly in the hexagonal passageways.
She approached the flight deck with extreme caution. She could hear voices.
‘You’re working with Kilus Kroe?’ Vila asked. He sounded genuinely affronted.
Blake's 7: Criminal Intent Page 15
