Blake's 7

by Gillian F. Taylor

  The village nestled on the lower slopes of a sheer mountain face and underneath a huge, tooth-shaped shadow.

  Guided only by starlight and the light that leaked from tiny windows in the clustered wooden lodgings, Blake and Vila followed Iveri into one of the houses.

  Vila said, ‘Is this Khurdia’s house?’

  ‘It’s my house,’ Iveri replied. ‘My wife, Gedia, made dinner. Mr Khurdia will be joining us.’

  Blake nodded, gratefully. ‘Please thank Gedia. We’re very glad to have your hospitality.’

  A slender, dusky woman stepped into the large hall. She was attractive, Vila noted, and despite her slim figure, not without curvaceous charms. He was careful not to look too hard, with Iveri standing right next to him. But he looked long enough to notice that Iveri’s wife had been crying.

  ‘Koba is dead,’ she blurted.

  Iveri seemed to reel. ‘Koba?’

  ‘They tortured him. They made us listen, Iveri. While they sliced him open and burned his guts in front of him.’

  There was a blunt, horrified silence.

  ‘Maybe it was faked?’ Vila suggested timidly. It sounded too incredible to be true. Punishments like that on a former Federation world?

  ‘You think I don’t know my brother’s voice?’ said Iveri’s wife, suddenly vicious.

  ‘My friend is just trying to be hopeful,’ Blake said. He spoke gently. ‘I’m so sorry for your loss. Could you tell us why he died?’

  Iveri was still adjusting to the paralysing news. ‘Koba is – was – one of our best agents,’ Iveri mumbled. He held both arms out to his wife, but she wiped her eyes, made a dismissive gesture and turned back towards the kitchen. ‘Koba infiltrated Shevard’s camp. He was one of his closest guards.’ Iveri seemed to retreat into dazed contemplation of the news.

  Vila glanced from Blake to Iveri. ‘Khurdia had a mole inside Shevard’s lot?’

  Gedia returned. She seemed calmer. She ushered them into a room where a large dining table had been set with five places. As they took their seats, she started bringing in large pots of steaming food. It smelled delicious. Vila found himself reaching for the cutlery.

  Iveri’s wife sat next to her husband, opposite Blake. ‘Before he died, Koba sent us a visual recording – an incident at one of the polling stations.’

  Blake nodded, very attentive. Vila could see the anxiety in his face.

  ‘Your friends,’ Gedia murmured, ‘are in terrible danger.’

  TWELVE

  Democracy, it seemed to Cally, involved a fair amount of standing around in the cold. People queued patiently for hours outside the only three polling stations in the city. Together with the other election monitors, they were driven around all three stations and spent time in each one, back and forth from Shevard’s campaign headquarters, watching the ‘exemplary’ process by which citizens who looked pale and drained, cast their votes.

  There were few police in evidence but Cally noticed a sizeable contingent of sour-faced young men in shabby clothes, their hands thrust deep into their pockets as they loitered around the polling booths. She noticed how people looked at them with expressions of loathing and even something resembling fear. As the day progressed, a palpable tension seeped into the freezing air.

  Late in the afternoon, one of the voters spat at one of these young men. He turned to the party officials, shaking a fist. ‘Apparatchiks! Nomenklatura!‘ he shouted, before a small crowd of the dishevelled young men surrounded him. They dragged him away, still protesting.

  Cally turned to Takha. ‘What does he mean?’

  ‘It is nothing. He is a cousin of Zviad Khurdia, he hates Shevard. Probably drunk, too. They will give him a shaking down and send him on his way.’

  Avon and Cally exchanged glances, something that did not escape the attention of Takha, who gave them a long, thoughtful look. It was around this time that an elderly woman wearing the distinctive armband of the election officials came to them. Smiling, she asked, ‘Are you ready to vote?’

  There could be no doubt she was addressing Avon and Cally.

  ‘We aren’t citizens,’ Cally told her, perplexed.

  Takha brushed the woman aside. ‘All the world wants to vote for Mr Shevard. This old mother is simply carried away by her enthusiasm.’

  Cally began to watch the proceedings more closely. Few of the voters appeared to carry any identification. After a while she became certain that she’d seen several of the people previously, either earlier in the day or else at another station. From the corner of her eye, Cally could see that they were attracting the discreet attention of Takha and his older colleague. She slid her arms around Avon’s waist and pressed herself to him, noticing that Takha immediately glanced away.

  Don’t be alarmed.

  ‘Alarm… would never be my reaction to this,’ Avon murmured.

  Avon, what shall we do about the election?

  One of Avon’s hands dropped to her waist, held her at the hip. With the other, he stroked Cally’s hair. It was her turn to be surprised. Fleetingly, Cally wondered if she’d made a mistake with her chosen method of distraction. It seemed to have worked – Takha had stopped looking at them. But Avon might be getting the wrong idea. If only he was easier to read.

  Against her ear, Avon whispered, ‘It is rather obvious to a close observer that the election has been rigged. The same people appear wherever you look. The system of registration that they told us about seems to be non-existent. And these thugs are clearly around to intimidate the voters. We’ll report it.’

  ‘And what of Shevard’s promises to us?’

  As Avon started to answer, a loud fanfare on the radio silenced everyone in the station. The silence lasted just long enough for the announcer to shout something, after which the majority of the assembled crowd as well as the officials, police and even the usually dour companion of Takha, burst into cheers and applause.

  Avon and Cally released each other immediately.

  ‘Would you care to let us in on the good news?’ Avon asked Takha, who gave Cally a gentle smile.

  ‘It is over, my friends. Mr Shevard has been elected.’

  Cally said nothing. They were still in the process of stuffing the ballot box in their station. The election monitors had been instructed that not a single station was supposed to declare before all were closed. But before they had time to comment to each other, Takha gripped hold of Cally’s elbow.

  ‘And now, my friends, time for your report. Let us go and make a vidcast.’

  Takha and three other armed men seized Avon and Cally. Blasters pressed into their backs, they were marched to another car. They were escorted to a low-rise building on the outskirts of the city and hurried into a small, well-lit studio. Takha played with cameras for a few moments. He turned to face them.

  ‘Ready Cally?’ he asked, expectantly.

  He didn’t wait for her answer. Instead, he thrust his boot swiftly into her ribs. It wasn’t a very hard kick, she’d had harder. Yet it was totally unexpected. Cally had misread his body language completely – he’d concealed his intention rather well. She’d left herself open to being completely winded. She leaned against the wall, trying to recover her breath. Takha stood beside her, supporting her, encouraging her to put her head between her knees. Avon was kept to one side, restrained by two hefty-looking men.

  Takha stared into Cally’s eyes. ‘Ready for another?’

  The second kick was substantially more forceful. Cally staggered backwards in pain.

  Avon pushed forward. ‘Leave her,’ he growled.

  Without taking his eyes off Cally, Takha whipped Avon across the jaw with the barrel of his blaster. With Takha blocking her view, Cally couldn’t see Avon’s face. But she heard his sharp gasps of pain. Still Takha gazed at Cally, in a way that had begun to unnerve her.

  ‘We haven’t too much time, Cally,’ he said. ‘We need the reports from all the election monitors within the next three hours. First Minister Shevard is expecting a meetin
g of the neighbouring non-Federation worlds. They are going to want to see the reports before they endorse him as the leader of their local league of non-aligned worlds. So you see, we need your co-operation we need it now.’

  He grabbed her roughly by the collar, threw her violently against the wall. This time she couldn’t stop herself from crying out. Without warning, he brought his elbow up above her waist and slammed it hard into her belly. Cally managed to partly block him, but the blow still winded her. For a couple of seconds, she struggled for breath. She could just see Avon watching, his eyes dark with anger.

  ‘Why did you bother to try to persuade us?’ Avon asked, abruptly, the fury in his voice under tight control. ‘Why didn’t you just do this when we arrived and then let us get on our way?’

  ‘If Khurdia’s people hadn’t got to you, you would have been none the wiser. Blame him, if you like, when you hear your woman scream.’

  ‘I’m not his woman,’ Cally spat. ‘And he’s given his word to tell the truth about this election. He’s no good to either of us. Put the camera on me, I don’t care what I say about your planet.’

  ‘Maybe so, but who the hell are you, woman?’ Takha replied. ‘Some renegade guerrilla from a pathetic, irrelevant world? He’s the famous one. Not as good as having Blake, of course. At least Kerr Avon is known as Blake’s right-hand man. You’re just another wanted rebel. If the thought of a little rough-housing scares you then I suggest you start begging – to him.’

  He slapped her face, hard. He grabbed both Cally’s hands, pinned them above her head until both wrists were in the grip of one of his hands.

  ‘Take your hands off her. I’ll make the report you want.’

  Takha continued to leer at Cally. She stood, rigid, forcing herself not to shudder. He asked Avon, ‘Are you sure it’s worth breaking your word for? I’m going to be so disappointed.’

  Cally’s lips were trembling, her teeth clenched. ‘Release me.’

  ‘The report.’ Avon’s voice was like a cold, steel blade. ‘Now!’

  THIRTEEN

  There was no longer any need for Shevard to keep up the pretence of being a good host. Avon was mildly surprised therefore when, after recording and re-recording a statement to Takha’s satisfaction, he and Cally were taken with little more than a firm-handed escort to another hotel suite. The door was locked, two armed guards stationed outside. Nevertheless, Avon and Cally made a careful check of the room for any potential escape route. There was nothing obvious.

  ‘Are you badly hurt?’ Avon’s eyes were on Cally, searching as discreetly as he could for any sign of trauma.

  She shook her head but a hand went to her ribs where she’d sustained a painful blow. Avon could feel his own face bruising. When she reached out tentatively to touch his jaw with her fingertips, he flinched. Their eyes met for a moment, before he had to look away. She’d be worse hurt than he was, but her bruises were hidden.

  ‘I’m all right,’ he said, so quietly it was almost a whisper.

  Cally took a step back. ‘I’d have done the same thing,’ she said. ‘If it was you they’d threatened. Any of us would.’

  ‘It was a mistake to trust Shevard.’

  ‘Blake’s mistake.’

  A smile crept into his voice. ‘That goes without saying.’

  ‘You’re awfully hard on Blake.’

  ‘Someone needs to be. Or we’ll all end up dead.’

  ‘Do you really believe that?’

  He paused for a moment, reflecting. To his surprise, he realised that he absolutely did. It could only be a matter of time. Amazing that they’d survived this long, with an ideological maniac as their leader.

  ‘No,’ he lied. There was something hopeful, perversely so, about the light in Cally’s eyes. Despite himself, Avon didn’t want to see that light dimmed. ‘I think we’re in a great deal of danger, most of the time. But at least Blake understands that.’

  ‘We did what they wanted. They should be willing to let us go.’

  ‘I’d feel more confident about that if Shevard would return our teleport bracelets.’

  ‘He’s taking no chances.’

  ‘So what do we do?’

  Avon glanced around the room. A bottle of vodka stood with two glasses on a round wooden table, with two deep, upholstered chairs nearby. There was a plasma screen hanging opposite the bed, which he supposed could be used to access news and possibly entertainment. A single shelf held three books. On closer inspection he saw that all three were based on the ancient religion practised on Kartvel.

  ‘You should put some ice on your bruises. Get some rest. Take the bed.’

  ‘You should rest, too.’

  Avon nodded, absently. ‘And try a drink. It’ll help with the pain.’

  Half an hour later, Cally was asleep. Avon dropped into the chair facing away from the bed, put his boots up on the second chair and poured himself a generous measure of vodka. When he tasted the spirit, he winced. Rough and acrid, with an oily residue, it wasn’t anything like as good as the bottle that Khurdia had left for them in the mountain lodge. If the people of Kartvel could be judged by the true quality of their hospitality, it was clear to Avon which of their hosts had been the more sincere.

  He’d allowed himself to be used as a pawn in Shevard’s scheme. Avon thought of the drawn faces of all those Kartveli people who’d turned out to vote. They should have been enough to tell him that the election was a farce. Avon had never seen a world gain its liberty, but he imagined that such a population would celebrate with genuine enthusiasm.

  Would Shevard even honour the promise to return them to the Liberator? Avon could well imagine what was being said to Blake. Khurdia would be blamed. The ‘warlord’ was the obvious scapegoat. Just how much ill-will did Shevard plan to stir up against his rival?

  Avon grew colder as he realised that no amount would be enough. If Khurdia was the genuine people’s choice, well on his way to becoming First Minister of Kartvel even before Shevard had ‘escaped’ from the Federation, then he was an enemy that had to be defeated in the media before anything else. The bigger his defeat, the more likely Khurdia was to remain alive.

  The death of Avon and Cally under mysterious circumstances, probably while they were leaving the planet, could easily be used to orchestrate propaganda against Khurdia.

  Avon stopped drinking. He rolled the glass in his right hand.

  It would happen on the way back to the Liberator. It wouldn’t happen anywhere that might risk a connection to the custody or responsibility of Shevard.

  Being Blake’s so-called right-hand man was going to put him in situations like this, all the time. If he lived through this, Avon thought grimly, he would have to reconsider the logic of their alliance.

  FOURTEEN

  Khurdia arrived with a single bodyguard, who remained outside the lodge. Watching Iveri and his wife, he leaned for a moment at the threshold of the dining room. They were struggling to engage in conversation, pushing lumps of meat around their plates. Iveri couldn’t look his wife in the eye.

  Blake didn’t much feel like talking either, after he’d seen the secret recording of Cally’s beating. In Cally’s case, Blake doubted the attack would alter her stance – she was an experienced guerrilla, after all. Such manner of violence as a tool of oppression was doubtless well known to her. Avon’s stunned reaction was another matter. It looked like a watershed moment for him, one that Blake had quietly known was inevitable. Perhaps Avon’s eyes hadn’t yet been properly open to the price insurrection might exact. Now, they had to be. Avon was such an unknown quantity. Sometimes Blake wondered if he would ever adapt to the life Blake was carving out for the crew of the Liberator.

  Zviad Khurdia seemed much older than in images Blake had seen. One eyelid and part of the left side of his face drooped slightly, an old injury, perhaps, or a current neurological affliction. It gave him a worn appearance, grey and fading. Hard to believe that the term ‘warlord’ had been applied to such a man – until B
lake saw how Iveri and Koba’s sister, Gedia responded to their leader. Any grief they might have been experiencing was swept aside as they stood and welcomed him with a mixture of relief and respect. Iveri himself served Khurdia with generous portions of thick, dark stew and soft, doughy dumplings. He poured him a large glass of pale green vodka.

  ‘What can I do for you, Blake?’

  ‘My friends. Shevard is holding them.’

  ‘Yes, now that he has their statement of support, Shevard is about to give them up to the Federation for the reward. In fact, I have it on good authority that they’re on a transport shuttle as we speak. Regrettable. Especially given their acquiescence.’

  ‘He didn’t give them much choice.’

  Khurdia gazed at him from beneath heavy eyelids. ‘It’s a good thing you have the Liberator,’ he said, eventually. ‘Only such a stupendous technological advantage would allow you to operate any kind of resistance with such an easily discouraged team.’ He hesitated, one eye on Iveri. ‘You know, Iveri told us that Koba endured several broken fingers without talking. He only gave in once they pulled his guts out and started roasting them.’

  Vila gasped, but Blake said nothing.

  ‘It’s not your fight,’ Khurdia sighed. ‘This much I understand. But I wonder if you – or your people – understand this: as you see Kartvel, so will you see all the Federation worlds. Where independence or secession threatens, even the Federation’s own regulations will be subverted. Freedom, even for an outlying colony such as ours, will become impossible.’

  ‘Surely Kartvel is a special case? Your nationalism, your religion…’

  ‘Edu Shevard comes from a mould,’ Khurdia growled. ‘There will be others like him. Federation on the inside, but with a palatable coating.’

  ‘What can we do?’

  “I asked your friends to help me, to ensure the polls were fair – they didn’t.’

  ‘I am sure they tried. Maybe you should have warned them what was likely to happen to them.’

  Khurdia paused, catching the edge in Blake’s voice. ‘Maybe.’