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It was Vila of course who had always suspected. His life so far had been a succession of ducking and diving and living by his wits, and how else can you survive a life like that, apart from having a pretty good idea of what makes people tick? Admittedly these two weren't the easiest to fathom. Blake's certainty of purpose and social competence gave him a charisma which was difficult to resist. But he gave very little away and Vila began to suspect that Blake had manufactured this certainty for himself to counterbalance the fear and confusion caused by his memory wipe and conditioning. Avon was easier: he postured and talked logic and self-interest, but only, Vila reckoned, as a way of overriding his natural instincts, which he'd observed tended more to protective impulsiveness.
So it wasn't much of a stretch of the imagination to think that there was perhaps more to it than the constant disagreements and points scoring......but, well, knowing for sure, that was another matter. Confirmation, when it did arrive, came from the most unlikely source.
After he had returned to Lindor, Sarkoff had tried his best to make up for his past few years of activity, and had sent Blake a beautifully handwritten and annotated list of possible allies. Blake was dutifully working his way through the suggestions, however unlikely some of them seemed. As it was, they'd had been in stationary orbit for several days around a planet of red rock and dust, five thousand spacials or so outside Federation Space. Blake and Cally had teleported down to try and convince the elders of the ancient and surprisingly complex civilisation that it would be in the interests of both parties to join forces in opposing the Federation. After a day or two they found Sarkoff's assessment - a principled, powerful people with an impressive tradition of abstract art and somewhat discordant music - to be largely correct, though they could both have added a few choice comments of their own: poker-faced - to an infuriating extent, stubbornly reluctant to be drawn in as allies and seemingly susceptible to neither Blake nor Cally's brand of persuasive charm.
Vila had been quite happy to remain on board avoiding the dust, high temperatures and protracted talks. He was behind the teleport desk, leaning back in his chair and resting his eyes, when a message came through from Blake. "Vila? Are you there?" Weariness and frustration were evident in Blake's voice. "Could you send Avon down? We're not getting anywhere. I hate to admit it, but I've a feeling that his brand of acerbic logic might be what these humourless automatons need."
Vila scouted about and found Avon ensconced behind a panel in an attempt to find the source of an intermittent fault with the Liberator’s hand gun system. “Blake needs you down there,” said Vila, noting that, although Avon rolled his eyes and made several choice comments about Blake's lack of competence, he quickly tidied up his tools and made his way to the teleport area with a curious expression on his face. Somewhere between resigned martyrdom and smug anticipation, Vila reckoned.
Perhaps Avon’s acerbic logic had done the trick, because some time later Vila took another call from a much more optimistic sounding Blake, "Vila! Could you spare Jenna? And I’d like you to show a couple of important guests around the Liberator. Tell them anything they want to know, but keep them out of trouble."
A little while later Vila had begun to think that he might just be able to achieve that. The first half of the tour of the ship had gone rather well. The planet's ambassador and her husband seemed knowledgeable and polite, and were fascinated by Liberator’s technology. What’s more, Vila had an inkling that Blake's initial assessment of their lack of humour had been wrong. He had behaved impeccably and managed to rein in his usual inane prattle, but Vila didn’t go in for airs and graces and couldn’t resist throwing in a joke or two at his own expense. Though he couldn't have said exactly why, he was pretty sure that he had a receptive audience.
It was when they reached the gun locker that the tour took a turn for the worse. Vila drew out a gun and handed it to the Ambassador, explaining, in very vague terms, the technology and its capabilities. He was only a few sentences into his explanation when, to his horror, he realised that she was moving to draw another out from the stand. Liberator’s technology only allowed one gun per person: anyone attempting to take out a second weapon would find the handle red hot to the touch and capable of inflicting a severe burn.
"No, no, no" he yelled, abandoning all diplomatic protocols and lunging for the second gun, "It's a s...." He was too late. The Ambassador already had her hand curled round the handle of the second weapon, but she raised a cool eyebrow at him, and passed this second gun to her husband, with no apparent ill-effects.
"A single function isomorphic response?" she suggested. "Yes. We have come across that before. But we're a bonded pair and an isomorphic response in a ship with telepathic capabilities like yours would generally recognise the trust between us and adjust the response accordingly."
"Thank goodness for that." Vila sighed, giddy with relief, "For a moment there, Your Excellencies, I thought I was going to be giving you a special emergency tour of Liberator's medical facilities."
This time he found himself staring at two sets of elegantly raised eyebrows. He grinned: they were all right, these people, he decided.
A couple of weeks had passed and the rebels' tentative alliance with the planet’s inhabitants was almost complete. Blake was still on the surface talking tactics and hammering out the finer details. The rest of the crew were back on board, and, based on past experience, were unconvinced that the alliance had a useful future. Avon had resumed tinkering with the wiring behind the gun locker, and was inside a service duct when Vila strolled by. "Eh, Avon! Did I tell you what our distinguished guests said about that single function iso..." Vila stuttered to a halt, his mouth wide open.
"Isomorphic response," Avon’s voice echoed down the ducting, "I see that you’re having your usual trouble with polysyllables, Vila."
“Forget Polly Bloody Syllables, whoever she is,” said Vila pulling himself together somewhat and, even when preoccupied, unable to ignore the obvious set-up. He stuck his head inside the duct. "Just remind me...what exactly happened when the handguns malfunctioned, Avon?"
"I’m sure that I’ve already told you. The problem was just that - the isomorphic response. It allowed Blake to pass me a gun when he already had one in his hand, back at Trig 25 and later when we had to teleport down to that pointless debacle at Oisis. In both cases it proved to be an advantage, but it wouldn’t do any harm to get to the bottom of the malfunction." He frowned at a particularly tricky circuit.
Vila meanwhile had staggered to the wall and was slowly sinking down to the floor.
"Well, I'll be….," he broke off, running completely out of words with poly or indeed any number of syllables. Avon poked his head out of the duct and looked at him questioningly. He got no response, but as it wasn’t particularly unusual for Vila to lose his thread mid-sentence, loll against the wall or stare confusedly into space, Avon returned to his work.
Vila sat there unmoving and in silence. Bloody hell! Wondering was one thing. Having his suspicions confirmed by the Liberator, of all things was another. And just what was being confirmed? “Trust,” she had said, and “a bonded pair”. Well, Blake and Avon certainly couldn’t be a bonded pair, like…err….penguins or Auron anteaters, could they? His instincts may have been partly right, but he had no idea what to make of it all yet. Half the time he wasn’t sure whether Blake and Avon, with their complicated tangle of insecurities and motivations, were circling each other like a pair of wary jackals or were dancing a heartfelt and jaw-dropping tango. To be honest, he didn’t think that they had any more of a clue than he did.
Despite his confusion, he felt a curious feeling working through him. Whatever it was, it was more potent than a double dose of adrenalin and soma, but rather more unsettling. After a few minutes, during which he thought back to what he had eaten the night before, he identified it as a sense of relief and optimism. Maybe, just maybe, this meant that he could finally stop worrying that either Blake or Avon would leave? Maybe these new allies - eyebrows and all - would come up with the goods, unlike the rest of the suggestions on Sarkoff’s stupid copperplate list? Maybe the huge frightening mess of their lives would sort itself out? And maybe he wasn’t a complete fool for allowing himself to be feeling a smidgen of hope? “Just go with the flow, Vila,” he thought, “Go with the flow.”
He eventually pulled himself to his feet. "I wouldn’t worry your precious head too much about that gun rack, Avon," he said offhandedly. Avon peered round the end of the panel, but Vila was already disappearing around the corner. If he didn’t know better he’d have said that Vila had an unaccustomed spring in his step. Avon shook that precious head of his and turned his full attention back to the wiring circuit.