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“Hey, look at that!”
Blake and Avon suppressed identical groans as Vila bounded across the spaceport with an enthusiasm usually reserved for children on their birthdays. The crew had stopped at this backwater planet so that Blake could sell some of the Liberator’s riches for cold hard credits, and Cally and Jenna could use their contacts to swap them for resources. Guns and food, mostly, though Jenna wanted to make a stop and see what spare spacecraft parts she could find. Not that they were too familiar with the Liberator’s inner workings, but it was better to have spares just in case.
The spaceport itself wasn’t anything new – the usual neutral world hustle and bustle, people openly selling cheap knockoff products, and covertly selling contraband to anyone who knew what to ask for. The walls were made of cheap, rusting metal, the floors much the same, and the people mostly long-haul pilots, low-grade mercenaries, smugglers, and bounty hunters, with a few of the Federation’s less privileged citizens in the mix. The shops were less organised spaces and more rough booths partitioned by old curtains, with the odd automatic credits dispenser or vending machine scattered between them.
Avon and Jenna had insisted on accompanying Blake to oversee his transactions and make sure they got the best deal, and Vila and Gan had insisted on being given a few hours in the port to relax and (in Vila’s case) hunt down some ‘entertainment’, which left Cally to man the teleport. So far, both parties had been successful in their missions, Blake carrying a data-stick full of credits in an inside pocket, and Gan and Vila carrying bags full of bottles and data-pads. They had just met up again when Vila, his eyes shining, went charging off to something the other side of the spaceport.
By the time the rest of them caught up, Vila was standing in a corner of the spaceport, in an alcove next to the bathrooms. In front of him was a rusted grey machine that looked like it’d been there since before the dawn of time. It didn’t even have a screen, just a small slot in the side, a hand-sized hole in the front, and a cube-shaped slot on top for a data-stick. The sign above it read, in a stark black script, ‘THE MACHINE OF DEATH, 16 CREDITS’.
“What is it now, Vila?” Blake asked, letting his exhaustion creep into his tone. He had spent nearly an hour haggling, and was looking forward to teleporting back to the Liberator for some time off.
“It’s a Death Machine!” Vila’s voice was boyishly exuberant. “They used to have them all over the Delta levels when I was a kid, but I never had the spare change for it. They’re great, they take a blood sample, then tell you how you’re gonna die.”
“Sounds scientific.” Jenna’s tone was teasing as she shared a look with Avon.
Vila chuckled. “Yeah, it’s probably just nonsense, but everyone back home used to swear by ‘em. You hear all kinds of stories. My mate Jas told me that she met a guy who’d got EATEN BY MUTANTS. Honestly! I always wanted a go.” As he spoke, he was already paying the machine, and sticking his hand in the slot at the front. There was a whirring noise, and he jerked his hand back with a hiss as a needle punctured his finger. Another whirr, and a small slip of paper appeared out of the side. Vila grabbed it, eyes bright, then made a face.
“SHOT? Aw, come on.” He turned the paper around, showing the others. Sure enough, the paper only contained the one word, typed in uniform black letters. “I coulda told you that.”
Gan was frowning at the machine. “How does it work, then?”
“Beats me,” said Vila.
“Some pseudo-scientific nonsense, no doubt,” Avon scoffed. “There’s one opposite us that tells you your soulmate, Vila, if you want to waste more credits on this mysticism.”
“Mysticism, says the man who travels with a psychic alien,” Vila smirked. “Come on then, mister scientist, let’s see yours. I’ll pay, if you’re worried about wasting money.”
Avon shook his head. “Don’t we have better things to do?” He looked to Blake, as if for confirmation, but Blake was too busy looking around at the spaceport behind him, eyes scanning for Federation boots concealed under cloaks. Avon scowled, folding his arms.
Behind them, Gan had already grabbed his reading from the machine. “Hmm,” he said, showing it to Vila.
“CRUSHED UNDER RUBBLE? Nasty.”
“I would have preferred OLD AGE.”
“And I woulda preferred BETWEEN TWO BEAUTIFUL-”
“Anyway,” said Avon. “I trust the two of you are finished?”
Vila looked up from Gan’s result, flashing Avon a wide and entirely insincere grin. “Aw, come on, Avon. It’s only a bit of fun. What do you reckon, Jenna? Blake?”
Jenna had just opened her mouth to answer when Blake turned his attention back to them. For a second, his expression was drawn, cautious, before he forced a smile and nodded at Vila. “Alright. If you’re paying.”
Vila, clearly surprised, raised an eyebrow, and theatrically motioned Blake towards the machine. A drop of blood and a whir later, Blake had his own result in his hands. He read it silently, his expression not betraying any emotion, before tucking it away in his pocket.
“Go on,” Vila said, breaking the silence. “What’s it say?”
Blake smiled. “Shot, Vila, just like you. No prizes for guessing how that happens.” Vila started to say something, but Blake held up a hand. “Now, if you’ll all excuse me, I need to get our ill-gotten gains back to the ship.” Glancing behind him, he ducked into the corridor to the bathrooms, and after a second, they heard him ask Cally to beam him up.
Vila grinned at Jenna. “Three down, two to go!”
She sighed. “Isn’t this whole thing rather morbid for you, Vila?”
“Nah, ‘s just fun to see what people get. I bet the machines were made by some bored programmer looking to make a quick credit. Good racket, if you have the skills for it.”
Avon’s voice was cutting. “Or perhaps it’s some ingenious Federation plan to collect biological data from backwater rubes like you.”
Vila’s smile vanished. “Didn’t think of that.”
Shaking her head at both of them, Jenna stepped forward and placed her hand into the machine. She read her prediction with a frown. “It says SHIP DESTRUCTION.”
An uneasy tension descended over the four of them. Avon raised an eyebrow, clearly about to make another comment decrying their collective intelligence, when Jenna spoke again. “Well. That’s clearly not going to happen.”
“How can you be sure?” asked Gan.
“I’m the best pilot out here,” she said, matter-of-fact, with a small smile.
Just then, Cally rounded the corner where Blake had disappeared, stopping when she saw the rest of the crew. Vila filled her in on what was happening. “Want a try, Cally? Avon’s being a robot again, so he won’t do it.”
Cally shrugged. “Is it even programmed to accept alien blood?”
“Can’t hurt to give it a shot, can it?”
“Alright.” Cally put her hand into the slot, and took her reading. Her eyes darted up to meet Jenna’s, the two women sharing a confused look, before Cally turned the paper round. EXPLOSION.
“You don’t think-“ Jenna began, before shaking her head. “No. Whoever made this thing must have put those two together as a joke.” Cally nodded silently, but her forehead was still furrowed, her eyes distant.
Jenna took her by the arm. “Come on,” she said, her voice light. “We have business to do.” Bidding the others farewell, the two women went back into the spaceport proper, leaving Vila, Gan, and Avon behind.
“Well?” said Vila, after a moment. “Don’t be the only one left out.”
Avon rolled his eyes. “If you insist. Though I refuse to see the merit of these random assignations.” When the machine printed his own slip, he tore it off before the others could see it. Reading the single word written there, he smiled, his eyes glittering. “Of course.”
Before Vila could even ask, Avon had stowed it away in a pocket, and raised his bracelet to his mouth. “One to beam up, Blake,” he said, and just like that, he was gone.
Vila turned to Gan. “Well, that’s just typical.” He grinned. “Want to try the soulmate one?”
-
Time passed, as time does, and the strange machine that dispensed death was forgotten – until one slow afternoon. The Liberator was enroute to Earth Sector, fresh from the destruction of the Liberator’s sister ship. Jenna was at the helm, watching out for Federation ships. Gan was bringing food through from the kitchens, basic meals balanced on a plastic tray. Blake was talking to Zen, trying to get up to date star charts for the Sector. Avon and Cally sat with Orac, idly bickering over nothing important, and Vila was perched near to them, being uncharacteristically quiet.
Nobody noticed when Vila stood and activated Orac, sitting across from it with his fingers steepled, apparently deep in thought. Not until Orac spoke.
“Am I being activated for a reason, or are you content just to stare?”
Everyone’s heads whipped around – everyone but Vila, who still stared deep into the flashing lights beneath Orac’s translucent chassis. “Orac,” he said. “You can predict the future, right?”
Orac’s synthesised voice was irritated. “An oversimplification of my capabilities. You have already experienced an example of it.”
Vila grunted. Behind him, Avon narrowed his eyes, watching intently. “Could you,” Vila asked, his voice hesitant. “Predict, say, how someone is going to die? Based on your data.”
A new silence spread through the flight deck. Everyone’s eyes were on Orac now; even Blake had looked away from his star charts. Every mind was cast back to that day in the spaceport, and the little strips of paper with their results.
“I am not a Machine of Death,” Orac said. “Such predictions are beneath me.”
Avon spoke, his expression inscrutable. “But you are familiar with those machines, correct?” His tone was contemptuous, but there was a note of something else underneath it, something uncertain.
“Certainly. The machines were an early project by my creator, to develop the predictive algorithms that I utilise.”
Cally leaned forward. “So they’re based on the same code as you?”
“A primitive version, but that is correct. I-”
Whatever Orac was going to say next was interrupted as Gan, who had been steadily making his way across the flight deck, took Orac’s key away, deactivating him.
Vila leapt to his feet. “What did you do that for? We might’ve got something useful out of him!”
Gan’s voice was level as his gaze, his dark eyes meeting Vila’s. “I’d rather not know if mine’s accurate, thank you very much.” It sounded like an accusation.
There was another silence, before Avon spoke. “Even if the results are accurate, we have no guarantee that they are literal. As we have seen with the Liberator’s supposed destruction.” There was still a strange undercurrent to his voice, though it was measured and analytical as ever. His impassive expression gave nothing away, though as he spoke, he glanced a few times over at Blake, who had resumed his perusal of the star charts.
“That’s true,” Vila piped up. “I knew a guy – well, knew a guy who had this mate, anyway – who got a CANCER result from the Machine. So, of course, he keeps going on more and more dangerous jobs. He’s gonna die of cancer, not get shot or arrested or anything.”
“Is there a point to this, Vila?” Avon cut in.
Vila just grinned. “See, this guy was way too out there, made a lot of enemies. And one of those enemies, who thought the Machine thing was all rubbish, hired an assassin to go get him.”
“Ah.” Realisation dawned in Avon’s eyes, and he smirked. “Clever.”
“What?” Cally was staring at him blankly.
“An assassin,” Avon said. “By the name of Cancer, of course.”
Vila held up a finger. “Exactly! The prediction came true – just not the way everyone thought it would.”
Jenna looked back from her place at the helm. “Be careful, Vila. You might want to lay off the soma.”
“Eh?”
She was grinning. “SHOT, remember.”
Vila’s face fell. “Oh, yeah.” Wrinkling his nose, he leaned against a nearby console, exaggeratedly casual. “’S all a load of rubbish, really.”
Avon, unable to resist the jibe, smirked in Vila’s direction. “Glad to see even the prospect of your own impending death can’t stop your abuse of alcohol.”
“Did yours say KINDNESS, Avon, is that why you’re so grouchy?”
Laughter rang throughout the bridge and, for a moment, all were content, returning to their separate tasks, the conversation banished to the back of their minds. And there it stayed, for some time.
-
When the first death came, it was all too fast.
A bomb, thrown by Travis – Gan holding open the door for them, struggling against its weight. The ceiling coming down around them, smoke filling the air. He was distantly aware of Jenna shouting Blake’s name from down the corridor. Then it was on top of him, pinning him to the floor. Pain shot up his legs, and Blake was trying to pull him free. He shrugged him off, weakly tried to push him towards the others.
“Go!” he insisted, through the smoke and dust that rasped in his throat. “I’m not worth dying for!” More chunks of the ceiling were cascading down around them, thick rock thudding on the hard stone floor. Gan took another choking breath, made a vain attempt to crawl forwards. The air was so thick with debris that he could barely see Blake. He tried once again to reach for him – hopeless, he knew, the attempt to ward him away without sight. But this was where his time ran out. It didn’t have to be Blake’s death too.
CRUSHED UNDER RUBBLE. It wouldn’t be long before the ceiling gave way entirely. What was Blake doing, trying to save him? He knew as well as Gan did that this was how it had to be. This was destiny. No point in fighting it now. No point in wishing he had more time. At least the others were clear. At least they would live on, fight on. At least-
His thoughts were broken by another crashing sound from above, and pain coursing, too briefly, through his body. Darkness loomed before his eyes, and swallowed him.
-
They were in Freedom City when Vila next set his eyes on a Machine of Death. There it was, sitting innocuously in amongst the arcade machines and various other means by which to gamble your life away. He wasn’t even sure why it was there – surely, in a place like this, a machine that predicts your death isn’t going to be a big money-sink. It was cheaper than the ones he was used to, at a mere ten credits. Bargain, for the morbid.
Avon had said to keep a low profile, just in case they ran into Blake – or any Federation goons who knew their faces. Not that it was hard to be subtle when you’re surrounded by men painted silver and women in dresses bigger than a space shuttle. Still, while the night was young they had found themselves in a corner, watching the action as the bets flew with a drink each, and that was when Vila spotted it.
He nudged Avon, pointed it out. “Look.”
Avon just rolled his eyes. “You’re still talking about that Delta superstition?”
His tone was contemptuous, and Vila bristled at the scorn. “Came true for Gan, didn’t it?” he muttered, downing his drink. He wasn’t drunk enough yet to have that conversation. “’Sides, you brought Orac to fix the bets for us, right? You sayin’ you don’t trust his predictive software?” Okay, maybe he was a little drunker than he intended. Still, if he could get out ‘predictive software’ without tripping over his words, he couldn’t be that bad.
Scowling, Avon turned away from him. “Say it louder, I don’t think the officials heard you,” he hissed. “Besides, Orac can interface with the computer that runs the Big Wheel. That is why he’s here. Nothing to do with seeing the future.”
“So you won’t mind a quick retest, then?” Vila’s hand hovered dangerously over the Machine’s needle. “You know, just to prove it’s all rubbish.”
“I don’t see why I should submit myself to that. Not that it matters, I can’t remember what mine said.” He scowled at Vila’s raised eyebrow. “Can you focus? I thought we were here to make money, not spend it.”
Vila considered this for a second. “I’ll bet you twenty credits mine’s the same result.” Without waiting for a response, he inserted the credits into the Machine and pricked his finger on the needle, wincing as it drew blood. The Machine whirred for a second, before a slip of paper shot from its side. Vila took it and turned it over. Once again, the result was SHOT.
“I bet you say that to all the fellas,” he laughed. “Come on, Avon. You owe me.”
“I didn’t agree to that,” Avon said, curtly. “Come on. We’re wasting time. There’s a slot open at the Big Wheel. Get in position.”
“Alright, alright, keep your hair on, I’m going.” With that, Vila wandered over to the table. Typical Avon. For all his claims at scientific genius, he never could see what was right in front of his eyes. He didn’t want to think about it too long, but the drink he’d already had was dulling the part of his mind that kept these thoughts in check. Gan’s prediction was right. What did that mean for the rest of them? Vila always knew he’d probably end his life at the barrel of a gun, ever since he first started nicking stuff as a kid. Still, it was one thing to guess it, and another to be told it. Frowning, he accepted another free drink from an attendant, sending it down to chase the one already swilling round his system. A familiar dog descended over his thoughts. That was better.
He didn’t turn around, but if he did, he might have seen Avon sliding payment into the Machine, casually pricking his finger on the needle. When he got his result, he stared at the paper for a moment. If he felt anything, his face didn’t betray it. Pocketing the paper, he turned his attention back to Vila, and the game that was just beginning.
-
Roj Blake sat alone in his cabin, deep in thought.
It was the night-cycle aboard the Liberator. Night and day mean very little when one is in space, but like most standard vessels, the Liberator had a standard day/night cycle based on Earth hours. Quite why it was that way, they didn’t know. Avon muttered darkly every time the question was broached, the lack of understanding over this alien vessel still a sore point to him. Blake believed Jenna’s theory, however – that the ship, or more likely Zen, had read from their minds the patterns of day and night, and had adjusted its cycles to their rhythm. To make them comfortable. It was almost sweet. Almost. Blake had to admit some trepidation about the computer’s true motives. It came of spending too much time with Avon, he supposed.
Sighing, Blake stood from where he sat on the edge of his bed, pacing the cabin back and forth. He was dressed in his loose white shirt and dark trousers, feet bare, hair all wild curls. It was his time to sleep, he knew that. They had arranged a rota. One to stay awake in the night-cycle, on the bridge with a communicator so that the others could be summoned in an emergency. It was Vila’s turn tonight. Blake wanted to check on him, make sure he wasn’t drunk or sleeping – but something stopped him from walking out that cabin door.
Blake hadn’t been sleeping much, of late.
Death weighed heavy on his mind – it always did, but of late it had grown more and more difficult to ignore. No matter where they went, they left bodies in their wake. Blake wanted to be resolute. To mourn the dead, as was right and proper, but look to the future. All those sacrifices would be worth it, if they meant the end of the Federation. He had to be uncompromising. He had to do whatever it took, to rid the universe of their evil.
And yet. When Blake dreamed (which was not often, these days) he dreamed of a white, empty room. Of a man buried under the weight of a ceiling collapsing. Of Gan’s dust-coated face, eyes open and bulging as his accusing finger pointed at Blake. His crushed throat gasped a single word – “Murderer.” Blake knew he wanted to say more. To remind his leader what he had died for. An empty room, Servalan at their heels. No victory. No freedom.
The others knew it. Blake was leading them to destruction. There would be no glorious revolt, no storming of Earth to take the planet back for the people. He could see it in their eyes, in the hush every time he walked into the room, in the reproving space where Gan should have been.
And in Avon’s voice. The man had never been subtle about his disapproval of everything Blake stood for. But before, he could be drowned out by Vila, by Jenna, by Cally. Now his remarks were met by silence, and Blake’s plans brooked no discussion, not while Blake was present. They weren’t a team. Not any more.
Blake closed his eyes, and drew from his pocket a yellowed scrap of paper. Often, his thoughts drifted to how he was going to die. Before, he had no doubt. Best option was a phaser shot in the back, in the heat of a firefight. Something quick. Worst was that he was caught by the Federation, and disappeared into the kind of prison that could keep you alive for months on end, only to be dragged out and executed on a live feed. A martyr’s death, to be sure. But not a dignified one.
But now…once again, he turned to the single word printed on the slip. The word burned into his mind, the one he had contemplated over and over and over until he saw it glowing on the back of his eyes. A self-fulfilling prophecy. A portent of doom. A reason to keep his eyes on Avon.
PARANOIA.
-
When the time came, it all happened too fast. They were bundled into their escape pods, awaiting the Liberator’s destruction, awaiting some cataclysm that was sure to come. Jenna had her eyes shut, not wanting to focus on the coffinlike box in which she was entombed. Alone. Hurtling through space, from unknown devastation to an uncertain fate.
SHIP DESTRUCTION. Was this it? Was this how she was going to die? She had never believed the prediction of that Death Machine, not really, but right here it seemed all too real. The blood was rushing through her veins, pounding in her head – she didn’t want to think, but so many thoughts were crashing together at once. Would anyone survive? Her? Her friends? Blake? The entire system? She swore she could hear Cally, deep within her mind, screaming into the abyss as they hurtled to the ground. Screaming is good. Screaming is alive.
If this was her end, she would meet it with grace. But Jenna Stannis wasn’t dead yet. And as long as the breath rasped from her lungs, she knew that she would fight.
-
“Come on, Del!”
Space Captain Del Tarrant (trainee) flashed his fellow trainees a dazzling grin as he flicked his curly hair out of his face. “Aren’t we too old for this?”
San Reltis and Ito Ferna were typical Federation officer trainees – young, privileged, and without two brain cells to rub together. San stood at six foot two of solid muscle, which Del thought explained his lack of brains quite nicely. Ito was the other type, small and wiry, friends with everyone and willing to stab them in the back at a moment’s notice. Tarrant trusted neither of them as far as he could throw them, which made them excellent friends. It didn’t do to be forging genuine relationships, not when you could be called upon tomorrow to denounce them to your superiors.
The three of them has a day’s leave and, without anywhere really to go on the out-of-the-way planet the Federation used to train young hopefuls, had taken to wandering the streets of the citizen’s area, specifically the Delta quarters. Lowlives and thieves they may be, but one could always trust a Delta to get their hands on some entertainment, of the type that would earn the trio an official reprimand (at least, if Command ever found out about it).
They were just on their way in when San spotted something on the outskirts – a Machine of Death, from the printed sign. Twenty credits, and it’d tell you how you were to die. Morbidity as entertainment. Tarrant wasn’t sure if he was impressed or disturbed.
Ito had already taken a small slip of paper from the machine and was brandishing it about for all to see – BLASTER ACCIDENT, it read, and San was already trying to trace the hypothetical future where that occurred. Current estimations were questionable, but certainly creative. San’s had just read HEART ATTACK, deemed by both to be boring.
Tarrant leaned back, listening to their prattle. It wouldn’t be long, by his reckoning, before he qualified as a Space Captain, and then he could leave these idiots behind for good. Then, so many doors would be open to him, and not necessarily just the legal ones.
He was jolted out of his imaginings by San, who had taken his hand in his meaty grip. “Just get it over with, Del,” he laughed, sticking Tarrant’s hand in the machine before he could react. The little grey box beeped and whirred for a second, before another slip of paper was printed from its side.
Del took it, and the trio stared at the two words printed upon it in silence.
THE FEDERATION.
Three days later, Space Captain Del Tarrant (trainee) went absent without leave from the training grounds.
-
Dayna Mellanby lay on her back, bored. She was meant to be practicing archery today, but the atmosphere outside was too poor – torrential rain, the clouds casting the world in shades of grey and black. She could still meet her marks, she was sure of it. But her father wanted her to stay inside, and so instead she was lying there, sharpening a knife and not thinking of anything at all.
They had received a box of supplies from off-world a few days ago. Well, that wasn’t quite accurate. Space debris sometimes fell onto their world from the atmosphere, and it just so happened that many Federation goods were in specially-made boxes that could survive re-entry into the atmosphere, and not be pulverised when they hit the ground. Her father had taken anything useful – food, gadgets, information – leaving behind a box full of junk for Dayna and her sister to peruse or throw out.
There was one thing in there that had vaguely captured Dayna’s attention. A little grey box, with the label MACHINE OF DEATH. It wasn’t working when they got it, but with a little jury-rigging Dayna had managed to get it running. At least, hypothetically. They hadn’t trusted it. Dayna’s father said that sticking their fingers in to get pricked by an undoubtedly rusty needle would leave them open to all sorts of diseases, at the very least.
Still. Dayna gripped the knife by the handle, and wandered over to the machine. It couldn’t hurt, could it? The machine said it would tell you how you were going to die. It was clearly nonsense, some pseudo-scientific toy set to print out a nonsense prediction and steal a few credits from the gullible. But she’d bypassed the part that checked if you paid. And it would only take a moment.
Heeding her father’s warning, Dayna carefully made an incision on the tip of her finger, a cut barely a centimetre in length. A bead of blood formed over the wound, and she placed her finger just above the Machine’s needle, letting it drip onto the needle. The machine whirred, wheels and cogs grinding, and for a second Dayna thought that it wasn’t going to work after all. But after a moment of buzzing and creaking, a small slip of paper ticked out of a slot in the side. Dayna only paused a second before taking it, turning it over in her hand.
There was a single word printed on the slip, five uncompromising black letters. HASTE.
Dayna snorted. “I could have told you that.”
-
Cally lay inside the bunker on Terminal, her breathing shallow. Servalan had booby-trapped it. Of course. They should have expected that – had expected it, but the bombs had gone off before they could make their frantic scramble for the surface.
Above, she could hear the sound of feet scuffling. Plaster dust trickled through the cracked ceiling. She was lying amongst the rubble, grey from head to foot, trying not to move. Her legs were pinned beneath rock. She couldn’t feel them, not any more. Before, the pain had been intense – she was trying not to think about what that meant.
It had just been her, Tarrant, and Vila in the bunker when the explosion shot through it. They had all realised in an instant that Servalan wouldn’t want to leave them alive, and Cally had been furthest from the exit. When the floor crumbled beneath her, she fell through into a basement, followed by chunks of the ceiling. It had knocked her cold for a moment; now, lying here, Cally found herself strangely calm through her groggy perception of the world.
This wasn’t the first time she had faced death. That first day, when she met Blake and the others, she had been fully ready to die. But they – he? – had given her a new life. Cally the rebel became Cally, Blake’s follower. Possibly the only one who saw the man he could have been. Not Avon, with his cynic’s eyes, not Vila, hiding behind a fool’s mask, nor even Jenna, Blake’s right hand. Cally, the alien rebel. He had given her that beautiful gift, something to live for again. A purpose.
It had never felt right, without him.
Cally lifted her head up slightly. Swirls of dust clogged the air, blocking even the thin shafts of sunlight that filtered through the ruined floor. She could hear Vila above her now, muttering to himself, and the sound of something being dragged. Tarrant, she presumed. Her chest rose, and fell. She thought, deliriously, of that death prediction from so long ago. EXPLOSION. But the bombs had gone off, and she was still alive. Hurt, yes, bleeding, but not dead yet.
A low rumble from beneath her. She tried to call out to Vila, her throat clogged with dust. Of course. A second bomb. A trap within a trap. No survivors. She wanted to laugh, but a hacking cough was all that escaped her lips. Servalan was nothing if not efficient. She closed her eyes, letting her head fall gently back to the rubble.
As the second blast rocked through the bunker, Cally’s last thought was of Blake, before her world went white.
-
Dorian might have been something of a recluse, but Xenon Base needed supplies every so often. That was the only reason that Soolin was on this out-of-the-way space station – he insisted on importing a very specific liquor that you couldn’t get anywhere, even through legal channels. But he wouldn’t be deterred, and eventually the two of them found a dealer who had a small stock, for a price of course.
While they were waiting for the man to return, Dorian had spotted the machine behind some other equipment, declared it to be an intriguing novelty, and let it take a little blood from him. It buzzed and whirred for a few minutes, before dispensing a slip of paper that said GUNSHOT. He made a face as Soolin rolled her eyes.
“Do you want something to take your horoscope, too?”
“Come on, Soolin,” he urged her. “It’s just a bit of fun.”
“Fine, if it’ll shut you up,” she said, and placed a finger in the slot. When the machine gave her reading, she stared at the result, frozen in place. Her face paled, and a strange expression crept into her features.
“What?” said Dorian. He snatched the paper from her, frowning at it. “What’s got you so upset? I can’t see anything wrong with learning you’ll die AT HOME.”
-
Kerr Avon sat alone in the base, head in his hands, thinking.
He was the leader. In charge of Blake’s merry band of rebels, a task that sounded like a literal nightmare on paper and, in practice, was far worse. Every day, he thought of leaving, of walking out before everything got worse and he became the figurehead for heroic martyrs. But day after day, he stayed, despite it all. Cally dead, Jenna and Blake dead, Dayna moody, Vila unhelpful, and Tarrant ready to stab him in the back if the mere idea of an opportunity arose. He could trust none of them, of course.
What was that thing Cally kept saying? ‘A man who trusts can never be betrayed, only mistaken’. It was a lesson he’d rejected far before he’d even met her, or any of them. A man who trusts is a fool. Everyone will betray you, in the end. Everyone has a price. No matter how noble they think they are, no matter how heroic, no matter how much they claim to love you. There’s always something that will make them turn.
Or maybe they were enemies from the start. That was something he’d paid for in blood. How long had he spent as a prisoner of the Federation, enduring the unendurable to get revenge for her? Only to find that she was alive and well, and the reason for all his misfortunes. Had Avon never learned the name of Anna Grant, he would be a much happier person. But happiness and Avon rarely go together.
Keep surviving. That was his mantra. The price on his head grew and grew by the day. It was only a matter of time before the bounty hunters came, hard men who would claim their prize no matter what, who would overpower Avon in a moment and bring him to justice. Or what passed for it in the Federation. Torture, definitely. Execution, probably. A forced public confession? A staged and televised Federation victory? His head on a spike, his rotting body on public display as a warning for what happens to traitors?
Avon had always been the one to float the idea of saving his own skin over the wellbeing of others. It was a maxim he stuck to, even now. But those words would so easily come back to bite him. Tarrant wished to take his place – and he had contacts in the Federation, contacts that could restore Tarrant to his former glory in return for Avon’s head. Dayna wanted to kill Servalan for herself – did that mean she would sacrifice Avon for a chance to get close to her? He saw the way that Vila stared at him sometimes – was the thief in contact with someone from the Federation, offering a pardon if Avon was delivered alive?
No. Avon could trust none of them. Unconsciously, his thumb worried a yellowed and dogeared scrap of paper, something he kept close despite his words to Vila. Avon had never doubted the way he was going to die. Not since he saw that single word printed on his paper. It aligned so neatly with his own predictions. But Kerr Avon was, above all, a survivor. And he was going to make sure that fate was far, far away.
-
A space shuttle, orbiting Malodar. Onboard, two men worked furiously. If it was to make escape velocity, they had to eject everything weighing it down. And Avon and Vila were running out of time.
Twelve minutes, that’s how long they had. Twelve minutes before the ship crashed back onto Malodar. Avon had shut down, his breathing fast and shallow as his mind worked at lightning speed, trying to save their lives. But Vila wasn’t afraid. His hand went to his pocket, fished out a worn scrap of paper, on which the word SHOT could still be read.
“Come on, Avon,” he urged. “Think! This isn’t how we die. Or not how I die, anyway. We’re going to get out of here, but how?”
Avon just glared at him – was this the time for that nonsense? – and activated Orac. “How much more, Orac? How much more weight must we lose?”
Orac’s answer was tinged with smugness. “Seventy kilos, Avon.”
“Right,” said Vila. “I’m gonna see what else I can get rid of. Insulation, maybe, or something.” He paused for a second, but Avon didn’t respond, so, with the clock ticking down, he raced from the room.
Behind him, he could hear Avon’s voice, mumbling almost to himself. “Seventy kilos. What weighs seventy kilos?”
Orac was clear as day. “Vila weighs seventy three kilos!”
Through the crack in the closing door, Vila saw Avon reach for his pistol, and started to run.
-
The Federation ships were all around. They surrounded her little speeder on all sides – no room to run, not even for the best pilot in neutral space. Jenna Stannis stared at her viewscreen and considered her options.
Trying to fight would be suicidal, they’d blow her out of the sky. Trying to run would be the same. Which left her with exactly one course of action she had a hope in hell of surviving, and taking some of the bastards down with her.
Jenna’s mind flew back to that day in the spaceport, to a small scrap of paper with SHIP DESTRUCTION stamped on it. They never worked out if that was her destiny.
She flexed her hands, made a decision. Set a course, straight for the centre of the Federation ships. One fist slammed over the self-destruct button. Then she was up and running, away from the flight deck, to the single battered escape pod this speeder held. Maybe they’d be too busy trying to stop her ship that they missed her evacuating. Maybe not. Maybe she wouldn’t reach it in time.
But screw the paper. Screw destiny. If she was going to go down fighting, so be it. But that didn’t mean it had to be today.
Jenna Stannis ran, as fast as she could, towards her fate.
-
Avon paced the deck of the Scorpio, uneasy with the time the voyage was taking. Vila sat in a corner, nursing a bottle of something pungent and green. Tarrant and Dayna were at the helm, guiding the ship to Gauda Prime. And Soolin was sitting on the floor, white as a sheet.
There was one thing in Avon’s mind. Find Blake. Do that, and you get answers. Do that, and the universe makes sense again. Do that, and finally, finally, he could understand what he was meant to be doing. Understand everything. Solve the mystery. Blake wasn’t dead, he couldn’t be dead. Avon wasn’t so lucky. Blake would survive past the deaths of a thousand worlds. So Servalan was lying. Blake was all Avon needed. And he was going to find him, no matter what it took.
In his pocket, his thumb glanced over a tattered slip of paper. Avon swallowed, turned once more, barked an order at Tarrant. It wouldn’t be too long until they made planetfall. And one way or another, this would all, finally end.
-
Report from Trooper team Red Six regarding cleanup of the rebel base on Gauda Prime, by commanding officer Vard Harket.
Base was swept for insurgents, with minimal casualties to our troops. Any rebels who fought were executed in-situ, any who surrendered were captured and are currently being detained for questioning, pending trial.
Confirmed kills include wanted criminals Roj Blake, Kerr Avon, Vila Restal, Del Tarrant, and Dayna Mellanby, who were found with one unknown female matching descriptions of a rebel known to associate with Avon’s crew. Identity matches are still being run on the unknown deceased rebels, with a hope of identification within the next cycle. Officer Arlen was also found deceased, presumably killed by the rebels before they were subdued.
Addendum, for the eyes of Commissioner Sleer alone:
I understand that you requested a report on anything unusual found in this operation, specifically relating to the rebels. Among the personal possessions taken from the rebels, one item stood out as something of interest. A full report from the investigation team is forthcoming, but I can report that in the pocket of Kerr Avon was a small, bloodstained strip of paper, on which a single word was typewritten. The trooper that found it suspected it to be some kind of rebel communication, although one professed a theoretical link to those Death Machines clogging up the Delta quarters on every planet. Regardless, I thought it noteworthy enough to report directly to you, Commissioner.
The single word is as follows.
BETRAYAL.