a sequel to "The End of Entropy"

by Sheila Paulson

The only thing in the room was a draped body lying on a table. Soolin stopped just inside the entrance and stood there, conscious of the armed mutoids behind her and the cameras positioned around the room, watching her. She didn't want to cross the room and lift the sheet, knowing if she did she would most likely see the corpse of one of her companions from the Scorpio, but she couldn't retreat into the mutoids' guns. Not even she was quick enough to snatch a weapon from one of them and shoot them both before the other could mow her down. As long as she was alive, there was a chance, however slight. Death gave no second chances.

"Go ahead and look." The voice was filtered, coming from a speaker overhead, but Soolin recognized it anyway. Servalan--Sleer--whatever name she used these days. No point whatever in calling her Servalan aloud; the Commissioner would have controlled the scenario. No one who might endanger her would hear the words. "You deserve to see this. You deserve to see betrayal, to know the truth."

"And you just love the concept of justice," Soolin said dryly. "I'm quite impressed." Nevertheless, she stalked over, grasped the edge of the sheet and whipped it back to study the dead face, bracing herself against the pain of seeing one of her former comrades. Though she had resisted considering them anything but people she'd worked with, she had not been able to maintain anything but the illusion of separation for a long time. Even Avon--of course she understood Avon more than the others did; they were alike, too badly hurt to risk trust. Soolin had lost her entire family and had systematically taken revenge. She was not sure exactly what Avon had lost except the woman he had loved, who later turned out to be an enemy, and Cally, whom no one would ever talk about except, occasionally one of them, alone with her, apart from Avon, when they were very tired or very depressed. Yet Soolin knew there had been more. If it proved to be Avon lying here, she would grieve for him in her own way, which would entail a form of revenge. Like Dayna, she would make people pay for what they had taken, what had been hers.

After more than a year of solitary captivity, Soolin had believed her companions all dead, and perhaps they were dead because as the sheet fell away, the face that stared sightlessly up at her was not one of her comrades. It was her own.

Stunned, Soolin looked at the replica of herself, at a loss to understand. A clone? Someone Servalan had used against the others in her place? She felt her body tighten in outrage, then the sheet slipped a little further and she saw the entry port in the middle of the chest and knew that, clone or not, this body was a mutoid.

"Surely you recognize her, Soolin." Servalan's voice was a smooth purr, the voice of one who holds all the cards, controls the game and knows there is nothing she could lose, no matter how the divertissement is played out.

"A mutoid clone of myself," Soolin replied. Of all the options, that one was best, though such a tool in the wrong hands could be disastrous.

"I thought you were the frank one, the one who faced the odds head on," Servalan said as if she were shaking her head in mild amusement at a minor gaffe of etiquette. "But perhaps it is not surprising. You have not seen her for a long time, have you? Not since childhood, when the two of you played together, inseparable. You thought her dead, and dead she is, but not when you believed it."

Soolin flinched, unable to mask the reaction. No. It had to be a clone; it had to be. True, she had never seen the body of Tiamin, her twin sister, after her family was butchered, but she had always believed her sister dead with her parents, and her revenge in hunting down and killing the butchers had been for her sister too. Yet here was an adult female who looked much as Soolin did, except for slight variations. The hair was fractionally darker, one of the few differences between them, and there was the mole near the belly button that Soolin remembered envying fiercely when she had been four years old, the mole that no one but she could have known about. No records were complete enough to allow for that.

And there was the gaping wound in her chest, just below the port for mutoid sustenance, a port so well established it looked as if it belonged there, as if it had always been. If Tia hadn't been killed, if she'd been made a mutoid-- A colossal new anger burned through Soolin's veins. All this time her sister had been alive, if changed, and she had never known, never been able to hunt for her and attempt to free her. Orac might have known a way, though everyone said once a person had been modified, the old person no longer existed.

It was academic, however, because Tia, if this were indeed Tia, was dead, utterly and finally. Her flesh was very cold under the hand Soolin put out to touch her cheek, cold enough to indicate she had been frozen to preserve the body--for this moment? To use against Soolin?

But why? Why show her the body except to convince her that any resistance was futile? After all this time, her companions were dead; at least she had been so told. Yet she had always doubted, because if they were all dead, what point in keeping her alive? She had assumed at least one of them lived and perhaps she was being used against him or her. Now it seemed there might well be another purpose.

She yanked her hand away from Tia's icy face and looked up at one of the cameras. "All right, Servalan," she said coldly. "What do you want of me?"

"Why, to free you, Soolin. You were never that important in the overall scheme of things, and now I think you would serve me better free. I will not even program you."

"You could have done that already without me being the wiser," Soolin said stonily, her eyes drifting back to the body. Carefully she pulled the sheet up, covering all but the dead face. "I know you, Servalan. I know enough to believe you have a plan."

Servalan gave an affected little laugh. "Naturally I have a plan. I plan constantly, for the good of the Federation. You and your 'friends' consider me no more than an enemy to be cast aside, but in this I am your friend, Soolin."

"Make no such claims of me. No matter what I am, I will never be that."

"No, not wittingly, perhaps. But we share a common enemy, as you shall see. I know your past, know your thirst for vengeance. You might go out and destroy mutoid modification plants, but that seems an unsatisfactory vengeance at best. Do it, I shall not care. But as for me, I prefer my vengeance to be personified, and I think, so do you. Therefore I have prepared a small film for your edification. I am sorry I cannot offer refreshment, but for you to eat in the presence of the dead would be tasteless, in more ways than one." She laughed again. "Your sister was my personal mutoid of late. I was, as far as such is possible, fond of her. She was loyal and efficient and I never had to have her blanked. She had more spirit than the ordinary mutoid, perhaps that is why."

Soolin knew that was a complete fabrication. Servalan was fond of only herself and if she had ever been fond of anyone else, unless it was Don Keller, Soolin doubted it. Certainly she felt no more fondness for a mutoid than she would feel for her own toothbrush; both were useful tools, no more. As for the description of spirit, that was clearly a lie, meant to encourage Soolin to believe the transformation had not been complete. Servalan would never for an instant have tolerated a mutoid who was not completely subservient. Still, the words stung, as if she might indeed have rescued Tia, had such an opportunity arisen.

The lights dimmed and the wall opposite the door came to life with a two dimensional image, the kind that comes from simple hand projectors. Soolin had seen enough such secret tapes to know they were usually made without the others present at the time being aware of them. From the way this one moved, it had evidently been implanted in the eye of a mutoid; the gun visible at the lower edge of the screen was a Federation hand blaster, and the uniform sleeves black. It wasn't her sister either, because there was Tia in her mutoid attire, her face cool, professional, expressionless. For an instant Soolin feasted her eyes upon her, then the pain grew too strong and she forced herself to concentrate on the film itself. There was Servalan, too, clad in plain brown fatigues but still instantly recognizable in spite of longer hair, and accompanied by a Federation trooper--no, accompanied by Del Tarrant in a Federation uniform. Soolin began to simmer with fresh rage. Had Tarrant betrayed them all, forced Avon to shoot Blake deliberately with his talk of Blake's betrayal?

No, she would not jump to conclusions. That was what Servalan wanted of her. She would allow the charade to play itself out and then see.

The mutoid must have turned because there were Avon and Vila, clearly free, at liberty, slightly aged from the last time she had seen them, wearing clothing she had never seen. Accompanying them was Roj Blake, but a Blake even more drastically altered than they, his hair grey or white; it wasn't possible to tell which from the grainy image. He was still scarred, and in the film he walked with a slight limp. Avon watched him constantly out of the corner of his eye, a look of suspicion and the edge of some warmer emotion warring in his face. The suspicion was winning, but it was a hard-fought battle. Vila moved with the most assurance Soolin had ever seen though she had long known Vila was a chameleon, taking his protective coloration from each new situation. This Vila wasn't bothering, though, as if he no longer felt the need to hide his personal reality from Avon or from anyone.

Tarrant brought up his gun and aimed it at his former comrades. So he was a traitor. Vila argued with him--the old Vila would never have done that. True he backed up, but a moment later he approached again, with deliberation, edging a hand toward his weapon. Vila was no longer a coward, it seemed, if indeed he had ever actually been one.

The mutoids approached then, parting to let Servalan pass them. She at once spoke to Avon, who responded, his face very hard, as if he could incinerate her where she stood with the heat of his gaze. Though Soolin's view of Servalan was from slightly behind and to one side, she could tell the former President had adopted a somewhat coquettish tone toward Avon, tilting her head. Soolin could imagine the smile on her face. She gestured at Tarrant and both of them glanced at him for a moment. Tarrant's face was as bland as a mutoid's but there was a strange flicker at the back of his eyes. Had he been modified, too?

Avon's body radiated threat, and Servalan jerked her hand, causing both mutoids to raise their guns. Without hesitation, Avon shot them, Tia first then the other. Soolin flinched as if the charge had struck her own stomach, her eyes fastened to the screen where the camera had recorded a distorted angle. She couldn't see Tia any longer but the other mutoid must have fallen across her, and lay half sitting up because Soolin could see Vila lunge at Tarrant as if to go for his gun, and Servalan spin to fire at the little thief. At that point, Avon shouted soundlessly and jumped for him surprisingly, knocking him out of the way and collapsing out of frame as he took the shot meant for Vila.

Tarrant flinched, jerked, and said, "Avon," in total astonishment. Soolin could read his lips for that one word. Then, to her surprise, he shook as if coming out of deep water, spun around and shot Servalan, whose look of ludicrous amazement was still on her face as she dropped from sight.

Vila, his eyes huge with distress, popped up long enough to catch his balance then dropped down again in the direction Avon had fallen, his head rising into frame long enough to summon Tarrant and Blake. They came slowly, as if lumbered about by stupidity--or programming. The view changed to a shot of the higher angles of the spaceport with the tops of the three men's heads popping into and out of view, then they picked up Avon and carried him away down the street. The image blanked out.

"You see." Servalan sounded cool and slightly amused. "That is how your sister met her death. Calmly, coldly, without a second thought. Avon killed her."

Soolin stood staring at the now-blank wall as the lights came up again. "How do I know any of that was real?" she demanded, her voice high and thin with anger.

"The proof lies before you. I think you know she is who you believe her to be. You recognized something? The mole? Avon killed her. And you know--what have you always done to your enemies?"

"Killed them, as I will kill you. A pity Tarrant's aim was not better."

"Ah, but he was breaking conditioning. I used your sister as a measure of its success. As long as he did not recognize her, I was safe; the programming held. Seeing Avon and Vila together was perhaps too much for it. Blake, now, he was drugged. I had hoped that conditioning would hold together long enough to kill Avon, but it has been six weeks since what you saw. Six weeks for me to arrange all this." Soolin could imagine her gesturing around the room. "Six weeks to plan. And last night the word came. Avon and Blake have been seen, together with Tarrant and Vila, on a remote world. Avon still lives, recovered, as I am, and once again Blake is at his side. The man who killed your sister so remorselessly is at liberty. The man who butchered her in cold blood without even bothering to look at her face, who denied her even a chance at restoration, if such is possible. Whether he knew what he did or not, I have no way of knowing. But you--you will find out for me, Soolin."

"I will do nothing for you," snapped the blonde gunfighter. She knew deep inside that Avon had only seen a mutoid, that he had killed mutoids before, as she had, and considered it work well done. She knew it was only the shell of Tia, that her sister had really died long ago, that only her body had breathed and moved and spoken. She also knew Servalan was manipulating her, planning to turn her into a weapon to strike at Avon and gain her revenge against him. She would not be Servalan's tool--but Avon had killed Tia.

In her whole live Soolin had rarely loved; before her family died she had been innocent and had loved them with the wholehearted affection of a child. Since then even mild affection had been too expensive and as for love? Did she perhaps love her Scorpio comrades? She shook her head. Dayna had become as a kind of sister, but love? Yes, affection, even for Vila, but she had not been capable of a stronger feeling. Maybe killing others without remorse also kills the ability to love. She didn't know. All she knew was that the old feelings, the ones she thought long buried, well scabbed over, were suddenly as fresh as if they had only just happened, and her blood was hot. It wasn't rational, it wasn't logical, it wasn't even fair, but Avon had killed Tia. Killed her. Killed her. Soolin's hands clenched tightly into fists, nails digging into her palms until they drew blood.

She would not be Servalan's weapon. She would be her own.

"Free her," Servalan said to the mutoids. "Give her unremarkable clothing and credits, and turn her loose. And Soolin? Avon and his friends were seen on Marduk VI." The sound switched off.

Soolin stood there, hating Servalan, hating Avon, hating herself. She knew, rationally she knew she might well be programmed, but the body was Tia. She knew that, too, something inside her knew it completely and irrevocably. Avon would pay for Tia's death. And then Soolin would come looking for Servalan!

*****

"The Falcon," Tarrant offered, looking around the room expectantly. The four men were gathered in the main recreation area on the Aristo base over the remains of their dinner. Vila, whose job it was to program the food replicator, had outdone himself and Tarrant was pleasantly full. He was feeling good, finally free of Servalan's conditioning, but glad of the byproduct of it. He'd needed a link when coming out of the programming, something to fasten his reality to, and he had chosen these three men as his reality, being all he had. Now here they were, Avon, Vila, Blake and Tarrant, unexpectedly a team, and Tarrant rather liked it. Though both Avon and Blake irritated him with regularity, he found he actually enjoyed their company, and even Vila's.

Blake himself had changed drastically. Servalan had drugged him into a near-mindless state and abandoned him in the port city of Lustus, where he had made his living as a drunk, battening on other customers of the various bars. One of the local bartenders had been Servalan's contact, and she'd left Blake there as a lure, knowing Avon would find him eventually and then she could have him. She'd always had Tarrant, from the time of Gauda Prime, but Avon and Vila had been freed by a defecting Federation trooper and made their way to Aristo, which they'd turned into a functioning base. Now that Avon was recovered from his shooting on Lustus and Blake had finally purged all traces of the drugs from his system, the team was at full, fighting strength. Though Blake's hair had whitened and he had the remnants of a limp from the shooting on Gauda Prime, he was physically fit again, able to hold his own in battle and against Avon, who constantly challenged him. At first, Tarrant had been a little surprised to see the challenge. Avon had always sought Blake with near-maniacal determination, but now he had found him, he and Blake were often at loggerheads. Tarrant was at first surprised, then he learned to look past the surface friction and see something stronger growing beneath. Avon relished the challenge of Blake and Blake thrived on warring with Avon.

As for Vila, he'd finally found the backbone Tarrant had long since suspected he had and blossomed into a remarkably self-possessed man. He still trotted out the old Vila for the fun of it, but these days Tarrant found himself respecting Vila and liking him, though because of old habits, he didn't go around saying so.

As for himself, he supposed he was as changed as the others, though it was harder to tell on himself. A part of him could acknowledge now that these three men were important to his own well-being; he would back them against the devil himself and mean it, not just because they were his shipmates and that's what a space captain did, but because they were his friends. Though they were all different, different enough for the occasional friction in their byplay, he wouldn't choose to be anywhere else.

It had been two months since Servalan had shot Avon, two months spent settling in at the Aristo base, working on the photonic drive of their ship, a vessel once named Entropy. Tarrant had decided he didn't want to pilot a ship of that name, but no real effort had been made to change it, not until now when all but the final touches were completed on the new drive. Though they'd been out several times for parts and supplies, Tarrant knew that when the ship was finally completed to their joint satisfaction, the change of name had to be a part of it.

"The Falcon," he repeated.

"What's a falcon?" asked Vila, though from the look in the thief's eyes, he probably knew. He knew a lot of unexpected things, did Vila. Maybe his claim to have bought Delta status had some merit, though more likely Vila had simply acquired knowledge the way he'd acquired other people's property, helping himself to anything that wasn't welded down or on fire.

"Predatory bird," Avon put in. "It eats dead things. Is that the image we want, Blake?" Quirking an eyebrow at the rebel leader he waited, amusement held in check, though all of them could tell it was there.

"You're thinking of vultures, Avon. They eat dead things. Or is it buzzards?" wondered Tarrant. "Falcons eat, what, Blake? Field mice?"

"Ah yes, the perfect image, guaranteed to strike terror into the crew of every Federation vessel from here to Star One," Avon remarked blandly, sipping the last of his coffee. "The famed rebel ship, the Mouse Killer!"

"Well, you think of something then," Tarrant replied. "We all decided not to call the ship Entropy any more, but I don't want to keep flying a ship called simply 'ship'. It's as bad as being Ship 12 in Flotilla 4."

"At least it had meaning," Avon replied. That he was persisting because he was enjoying himself was self-evident.

"Meaning indeed," Blake challenged, responding to Avon's tone with some relish. He and Avon seemed to thrive on disagreement. "You meant to replace the Federation with nothing at all."

"Precisely what it deserves," Avon replied promptly and automatically. He, too, seemed to prosper under debate with Blake, as if he relished it. "Your great starving masses don't know how to govern, Blake. What do you think would have happened if the Federation had fallen at your hand? The few pitiful Rebel groups didn't have the know-how between them to run a small moon, let alone a galactic empire. You were campaigning madly to replace tyranny with anarchy, Blake."

Blake opened his mouth to argue, then shut it again, his face thoughtful. "You're irritating when you're right," he said.

"I do try." Avon struggled to keep the corners of his mouth from turning up, succeeding with considerable effort.

"The rebels weren't entirely badly organized, Avon," Tarrant put in. "When I was running around brainwashed, Servalan spent a lot of her time trying to hunt them down. I found mention of rebel strongholds in a great many places."

"Rebel strongholds Servalan knows about?" Blake demanded in alarm, erupting up from his chair, sleeves flapping. He'd taken to dressing in shirts with elaborately flowing sleeves, something Avon and Vila seemed to find comforting but Tarrant considered impractical. How could he keep them from dragging in his food?

"Yes, but don't panic, Blake," Vila put in reassuringly, his hand sneaking out toward the last roll, snatching it triumphantly. "Because when Tarrant was fighting off the programming, he told me about it, and we set Orac to work, notifying every rebel outpost he could remember and urging them to warn others. You were fighting off your own addiction then so maybe you don't remember very well, Blake," he concluded around a mouthful of roll. Avon grimaced.

"I remember you used Orac a lot and Avon got huffy about it when he finally came out of the medical unit," said Blake. He settled down again, and sure enough, his sleeve did brush across his plate. Blake pulled back and tried to pretend it hadn't happened, surreptitiously brushing away crumbs. Avon and Vila ignored the episode as if with long practice.

"I? Huffy?" Avon asked as if he'd been offered a dire insult.

"Or a reasonable facsimile," Blake replied, bestowing upon Avon an openly affectionate smile. That he felt the affection didn't stop him using the smiles as a means of getting at Avon, who was generally somewhat flustered or irritated by them, at least on the surface.

"Too much use of Orac might well be noticed by the Federation," Avon retorted somewhat stiffly. "I did not want to lead the Federation home to Aristo."

"A likely story," muttered Tarrant just loudly enough to win himself dirty looks from both Blake and Avon. He let his grin expand and added quickly, "You're just possessive of Orac. Nobody else is allowed to play with your toys." He rushed on before a fuming Avon could speak, turning to Blake. "I assume some effort is now called for to start uniting all those rebel organizations? Isolated attacks are all very well, but terrorist activity, even for a good cause, won't bring down the Federation."

"That's why I told Blake we had to find a way to start uniting them," Vila said with relish as if he'd been waiting patiently to make this claim for days. He puffed out his chest and tried hard to look important. These days it was easier for him than it ever had been before.

"You told Blake?" Avon's look of pretend astonishment made Vila stick out his tongue at him. Avon didn't deign to acknowledge the gesture but Tarrant thought he saw a quiver of amusement in the back of the tech's eyes.

"Someone had to. You were still spending half your time in bed, Tarrant was out running ten kilometer a day to work off all that excess frustration of breaking programming by taking potshots at unlucky Phibians and Blake was going through those endless deprogramming tests with Orac. I was still in charge. So, naturally, being brilliant and gifted--"

A chorus of groans of disgust from the others interrupted at that point.

Vila waved his fork for emphasis and raised his voice. "So, being brilliant and gifted, I thought, Vila, I thought, we need a plan. So I talked to Blake about it and he was impressed with me. Weren't you, Blake?"

"Astonished, more likely," Avon murmured under his breath. For a long time, teasing Vila had been the only sign of humanity Tarrant could find in Avon. He was glad to see it had endured, even in a slightly more mellow Avon who could openly admit valuing Vila.

"Pleased, in any case," said Blake in a pacific manner. "Vila was right. We need organization. I had Orac track down Avalon, and arranged for us to link up with her organization. We'd had contact with her before the Andromedan war but a lot of people went to cover about then."

"The Federation at its all-time weakest moment and what does the resistance do?" Avon asked, an edge of scorn in his voice. "Capitalize on their good fortune? Of course not. People are comfortable with what they know, Blake, even when what they know is plainly uncomfortable. Your rabble proves that daily. You think the drugged masses will rise up and create a democracy if you tear the Federation down?"

"Not without help, Avon. I do realize that now," Blake returned. "But the more people claim it won't work the less likely it is to do so. I only know I have to try."

Avon heaved a faint, put-upon sigh. "I have come to accept that. The rest of us may not share your ardor, but we are here."

"That means he's in," Vila told Blake in an undertone.

"Thank you, Vila, I realize it, too," Blake said. "He's always been 'in', however. He simply never admitted it before."

"He had an odd way of showing it," Tarrant observed.

"No, because I needed a devil's advocate desperately," Blake replied. "And Avon was always that, the voice of reason even when I was incapable of listening."

"Someone must be," Avon said. "Because here we sit, finishing up the photonic drive of 'ship 12 of Flotilla whatever-it-was', and soon we'll do more than go out hunting for equipment and supplies. We'll be out hunting for fights to pick. Don't think we look forward to your rebellion, Blake." Yet he seemed to look forward to being with Blake, Vila, and Tarrant. Although his well-ingrained sense of isolation occasionally prompted him to spend a solitary day working on the innards of one of the base computers simply to get away from his friends, he always surfaced at the end of the day and spent his evenings in their presence, even when he did no more than toss disparaging remarks at them. Tarrant realized in a kind of surprise that Avon had spent a lot of his time on Liberator and even on the Xenon base and Scorpio, in the presence of the others when he didn't have to, as if a deeply buried part of him had always craved companionship, even when he fought the urges with withering scorn and careful isolation.

"But you'll come," Blake said positively. He was full of spirit and drive these days, and Tarrant could feel the power of the man and understand why even an Avon had tracked him across the galaxy. "We go to meet Avalon in three days, remember?"

"We'll all come," Vila replied.

"Joined at the hip," Avon said wryly,

"In a nameless ship," Vila added, grinning at the unintentional rhyme. "We better give it a name before Tarrant has to go out and run twenty kilometers in frustration."

"What would you choose, Vila?" Avon asked pointedly, folding his arms across his chest as if preparing to be amused.

"Hmm, let's see." The thief grinned in sheer delight. "Vilaship? No, doesn't sound quite right."

"You astonish me," Avon responded, entertained but concealing it with a wry expression.

"Restal's Raider!" Vila crowed triumphantly, waving his fork above his head. "That's it! Restal's Raider! I love it."

"But I do not," Avon replied pointedly.

"No, you'd probably choose something like Avon's Avenger," the thief replied.

"At least it's more aesthetical pleasing than Restal's Ranger."

"Well, it's alliterative," Vila shot back.

Avon's eyebrow shot up. "Alliterative? Vila, I'm astounded."

"That's because I'm an astounding man."

Blake grinned at Tarrant. "The children are bickering again," he observed.

"What can a person do with them?" Tarrant replied in world-weary tones.

At once Avon and Vila joined forces, turning twin affronted looks on the two curly-haired men. "Very well, Blake," Avon said haughtily. "You have been remarkably less than forthcoming in the name lottery. What would you call the ship? Blake's Basher? Something completely unimaginative such as Liberator II?"

Tarrant didn't like the latter choice at all. He still thought of the Liberator with great regret; he'd loved the ship in a way no one who was not a pilot could understand, more than any other ship he'd ever piloted, and the loss of Zen still hurt. Zen had been the personification of the ship to him, as if the dream of flying could come alive. Tarrant had never expressed his feelings about the Liberator to anyone, but he couldn't hold back a slight wince. He thought all of them noticed it but only Blake allowed his reaction to show. He shook his head quickly. "No, not that." His eyes slid sideways toward the younger man and Tarrant realized that in a different way he shared the pilot's feeling. Liberator had meant something different to Blake than it had to Tarrant and Blake had chosen to give up Liberator rather than having it dissolve around him, but he would be no more comfortable with the name than Tarrant would.

"What about 'Freedom', Avon?" Blake offered.

"Predictable," replied the computer tech. "Though somewhat better than 'Mouse Killer'."

"I haven't heard you offer anything, if it comes to that, Avon," Blake retorted. "You are our self-proclaimed intellectual superior. Suppose you choose a name for the ship. You named it the first time around. It might be as well for you to change it."

Vila grinned and nudged Avon in the side, winning from him a look of haughty disdain that didn't remotely abash the thief. "I rather like calling it the Carte Blanche," Avon remarked in the tones he used when he didn't, entirely, wish to be taken seriously.

Tarrant rather liked the name, though he doubted Blake would. He waited for Vila to demand an explanation of the term, but Vila's eyes were twinkling with mischief. He evidently understood it, further proof that there had always been more to Vila than met the eye.

"How about Four-in-Hand," the thief put in surprisingly. When the others turned to stare at him in some doubt, he added instructively, "It was an old-time name for a carriage drawn by a team of four horses--horses were big animals that pulled carriages before they had engines. I read about it in one of Ensor's books." He and Tarrant had descended on the collection of bound books with relish and had spent long evenings reading while Blake planned his campaign and Avon updated the base computers, relishing the thought of improving on Ensor's work, even if he needed Orac's assistance to do so.

"We know what horses are, Vila," Avon replied. "They had them on Sarran, as I recall."

"That's where the old-fashioned term 'horsepower' comes from," Tarrant realized with fascination. "A vehicle moving with the power of so many horses. Interesting."

Vila saw the conversation moving away from him and held up his fork again. "Because there are four of us, we're a team," he insisted. "More than we ever were before, I mean." Clearly he liked it that way, and even Avon didn't dispute the fact though he did mutter something under his breath about sentiment.

"Isn't sentiment to say we're a team, and why not name the ship after that? That way when we go somewhere and have to give the name, we won't be automatically advertising we're rebels and all that. Safer."

Blake, who would probably have liked to paint a rebel flag on the side of the ship and come in proclaiming the cause of freedom, knew Vila might be right. "I have no objection," he said quickly before Avon could make any more criticisms about Mouse Killers and gung ho rebel names. Very well, Vila, unless something better comes along, the ship will be named the Four-in-Hand."

"Better? I thought of it. How could anything be better?" Vila argued, but Avon was already rising.

"I have work to do if we're to leave in the morning," he said and started for the doorway. Halfway there he paused, looked back. "Blake? I could use a hand, and as I seem to remember, you occasionally show moments of competence as an engineer."

Blake rose instantly, clearly delighted at the offer. Though it had been made in an offhand way there had been a tentative quality about it. Sometimes Avon did that and the others realized at times he still remembered shooting Blake. That Blake had completely come to terms with the incident and that it had not been entirely Avon's fault, more of a group screw-up that had placed Avon's finger on the trigger, didn't entirely reassure the tech. Though he was hardly diffident by nature, he must still feel he owed Blake for the incident. Time was taking care of the crisis, though on the rare occasions when Avon encountered Blake shirtless and saw the scars he still wore, the tech had been known to flinch. Yet he could argue with Blake and enjoy himself hugely. Vila had told Tarrant he was sure it would be all right; they'd only been together two months and it took time. He'd sounded very knowing, as if his own experiences with Avon had taken even longer. Yet in spite of the Malodaar shuttle incident, Avon and Vila were completely at ease in each other's company. They'd become a family in their early exile on Aristo, while securing the base and preparing the ship, and more of one in their six months' search for Servalan that had led them to find Blake on the planet Lustus.

Finally rejecting the drugging that had programmed him, Blake had pulled no punches with Avon, insisting he wanted--even needed--Avon's friendship. Avon didn't really have it in him to be humble, but a part of him had been grateful. Blake had seen that, and, as Avon had struggled to provoke Blake into becoming himself again as he fought off his programming, Blake had quickly learned to provoke Avon into his normal self. That this 'normal self' was more willing to accept the others as a necessary part of his life was one of the few pleasant byproducts of the last few years. Sometimes, looking around the base and the other three men Tarrant couldn't believe his good fortune. He missed Dayna and Soolin, all of them did, and Cally, too. But for now they were comfortable with each other. As he watched Blake fall into step with Avon, their steps matching effortlessly, and Vila's eyes followed them, a huge smile on his face, Tarrant realized he hadn't felt so good in years.

*****

Avalon had established a centralized rebel base on the Outer World Flumaria. It had never been under Federation rule, and it was only on the edge of Federation space lanes, actually almost too remote from which to launch a massive attack upon the Federation, but a good place to consolidate other groups, to plan, far enough from Earth that the odds of being attacked were less than if they'd set up a group like the old Freedom Party right on Earth. Blake had explained there was in fact a group on Earth, an active, if very secret one, and it was presently led by Veron, Kasabi's daughter, who had once told Blake she had a debt to be paid on Earth. Evidently she was paying it with quiet efficiency and grim determination at no small risk to herself. Very young to be leading a rebel movement, she did it without assuming airs and reported with regularity to Avalon, who had given up her high profile task of traveling from planet to planet to unite people and who now assumed the task of pulling together the various threads. That situations changed constantly on the various worlds made her job that much more difficult. She had been delighted to hear from Blake, especially since the word out of Gauda Prime had been to report his death, and the deaths of all the rebels there.

Avon knew he was very lucky. His identity as the man who had shot Roj Blake had never been commonly known. There had been rumors to that effect, but for the most part they were discounted by the various rebel bands. Of the few who escaped Gauda Prime alive, only Avon himself appeared prepared to admit the shooting, but when he'd said as much to Blake, Vila and Tarrant, they had quickly shouted him down.

"You can't do it, Avon," Blake had insisted. "For one thing, I don't want to damage the growing movement, and any kind of conflict between the two of us might do that. When Avalon's people see us working together in complete harmony, they will be reassured."

"I think 'complete' harmony is expecting a lot, Blake," Tarrant had muttered.

"What, you don't believe Avon and Blake can get along?" Vila asked, pretending huge surprise. They'd had a gigantic quarrel only that morning over the elements of risk Blake was prepared to take.

"I do believe it," Tarrant had replied. "All of us can. But I can't see any of us working in 'complete' harmony. It's not our natures."

"Nor that of anyone else," Avon replied.

"The other reason I want to avoid the shooting is that, not only is it behind us, and actually probably somewhat fortuitous in retrospect, but I don't want Avon to pay for something over and done, and forgotten." He wasn't being noble, he was simply stating a fact. Blake had resolved the issue within himself and considered it over, forgiven, forgotten.

Avon couldn't forget so easily. Though it was a fact he deplored, it was indubitably a fact that it is far easier to forgive someone who has injured you than to forgive yourself for injuring someone else. The moment of Blake's collapse at the base was indelibly etched into his memory. He had stared at Blake in disbelief. "Fortuitous?"

Blake had gestured around the room. "We're here. We're together. We're a team. Would you have considered such a thing possible before you came to Gauda Prime?"

Avon had stared at Blake in wide-eyed disbelief. "You expand my concept of the possible, Blake."

"Perhaps, Avon, but you are my friend. I won't put you through the scrutiny of the rebels over Gauda Prime. It would help none of us. When Avalon and the others see us working together, any rumors will fade. The cause is important, Avon, but even if it had nothing to do with the cause, I refuse to pillory you for something that grew beyond our control."

"It wasn't entirely your fault, either, Avon," Tarrant put in. "Blake and I had our share of it."

Avon and Blake turned to stare at him, and Avon said coolly, "And what, precisely, did you do, Tarrant?"

"I told you Blake had sold us."

Vila shook his head. "You believed he did. You had to get through to us, to Avon. There was nothing else you could have done."

"I should have instantly warned my people when Tarrant broke away," Blake replied. "I was so pleased he'd passed the test, I was too slow. I took it as proof that you were still mine, Avon, still willing to back me, even if you did it with a display of reluctance. I thought I only had to walk in there and everything would be normal again. We've been all over this."

"I know," Avon agreed with some difficulty. "But I don't like..."

"Don't like what? Covering up what happened? It's between us, Avon. Those people I lost there were lost because of the Federation, not because of anything we did. Even if we'd fallen into one another's arms at the sight of each other, the Federation would still have broken through and killed everyone. We might even be dead ourselves. Instead you and I, Vila and Tarrant, we survived, because we were already down when the Federation arrived. I plan to go with the flow with Avalon. I won't jeopardize either you or the rebellion for something that's been resolved to the people who matter, the four of us."

"He's right, Avon," Vila acknowledged. "Besides, they'd have to come through me to get to you."

"Surely an incentive," Avon had replied, finding a wry smile for the thief. He turned back to Blake. "Don't let that great bleeding heart protect everyone but yourself, Blake," he advised and ended the conversation. Now, as they came into orbit around Flumaria, he remembered it and realized he was tense and wary. Not that it was bad to be so. On Aristo he could relax, as much as it was a part of his nature to relax at all, but out here, out in the rest of the universe, the old habits quickly reasserted themselves. Blake was about to make a target of himself, and even Vila would throw himself into the fray. Tarrant had bounced back from the effects of breaking programming and could no doubt look after himself, though Avon realized the circle of protection Vila had always considered himself a part of now extended to Blake and Tarrant, too. And always had. He had threatened to leave them all at one time or another, but they were here, and they trusted him. Once he would have thought them fools for doing so, but this time he realized their trust was not completely misplaced. Betraying any of them was impossible, at least as long as he had control of a situation. As a result, he would have to become more suspicious than usual in his dealings with the rest of the galaxy.

They checked their weapons before preparing to teleport to the surface. Orac would maintain the ship and operate the teleport for them, under protest as usual. Some things, it seemed, would never change. "I must protest," Orac snipped huffily. "My circuits are presently engaged..."

"Live with it," Tarrant told the little computer. "You've had a nice, long vacation on Aristo. But now we're going into action again and it's time you started earning your keep."

"Well, really!"

Avon leaned over the computer, smiling a predatory smile. "Do it, Orac. May I remind you that all my time with Ensor's research materials has enabled me to program a self-destruct device to plant within your circuitry that is beyond your capability to remove or deactivate. It has long been maintained that you are too useful to destroy; now, however, I find it within my powers to create an Orac Mark II. Bear that in mind."

"Circuits ready to receive instruction," Orac said in tones of near humility. Vila grinned broadly. "You've done it, Avon. Listen to him, Orac. I always said you'd be nice as an empty space."

"You will teleport us down to the assigned coordinates, Orac," Blake instructed. "You will remain on standby, maintaining a constant link with our bracelets. You will also monitor all channels for any evidence of Federation activity. At the first sign of Federation activity, you will notify us immediately, and will operate the teleport as instructed."

"Oh, very well," Orac complained and retreated into silence, humming away. Avon looked up and around and grinned at them all with an edge of triumph.

They materialized in the outer office of Avalon's headquarters in front of a startled young man who sat at a comm panel. Blake at once introduced himself. "I'm here to meet with Avalon."

"I'll inform her you're here." He pushed buttons and moments later a door opened to admit the rebel woman. She had aged a little in the past few years, but not enough to detract from her good looks. Remembering the Federation's cleverly designed robot of the woman, Avon drew a device from his pocket and activated it unobtrusively. It reported she was flesh and blood.

"Testing me, Avon?" Avalon said to him by way of greeting.

"Precisely. We were forced to leave the robot in Federation hands; they have had plenty of time to modify and improve upon it."

"The thought does alarm me from time to time," she said. "However, as far as I can tell the robot has not been used. There have been no unexplained sightings of me, nothing I can attribute to the robot. Perhaps your attempt to program it to a few simple functions destroyed its usefulness."

"Or perhaps they still have it and are waiting for the right moment," Vila said with some degree of alarm. "Hullo, Avalon."

"Vila. And this must be Del Tarrant." She looked at him with interest. "I knew your brother briefly before he was the First Champion of Teal. A fine man." She shook hands with a surprised Tarrant, then swept them all into her office.

The meeting included rebel leaders from no fewer than seventeen different planets, and Avon saw at once that Blake was going to thrive in such an atmosphere. After explaining that he'd been able to do little in the past eighteen months due to injuries sustained on Gauda Prime and programming by Servalan, he fielded questions about the programming and described his rescue by Avon and Vila and the subsequent purging of his system of drugs. "That was two months ago," he said. "Orac has pronounced me fit and free of conditioning. We have spent the intervening time readying our ship, and are now at the disposal of the resistance."

The questions began immediately, including requests by two of the leaders for Blake to allow their personal doctors to examine him and determine if Orac's assessment of his condition was accurate. Blake agreed immediately.

"Perhaps we should let Orac determine the loyalty of the doctors," Avon said smoothly in an undertone.

"We are all on one side here," Avalon reminded him. "I am satisfied to the loyalty of these people. I have worked with many of them since before the Andromedan War."

"And we have been out of touch, Avon," Blake reminded him. "I came expecting to prove our loyalty. For all these people know, every one of us could be programmed. We have been in the hands of the Federation, after all. I'm quite prepared for tests, and so are the rest of us."

That was like Blake, high handed and never hesitating to let his beliefs ride roughshod over other people, but now he looked at Avon apologetically. "I'm sorry, Avon, but if we want to work with these people, we do need mutual guarantees."

"I appreciate the word 'mutual', Blake," Avon responded.

"He means he agrees," put in Vila quickly. Avon favored him with a sour glance.

"Perhaps we should bring the ship down and fetch Orac," offered Tarrant. "It would expedite all your tests, surely."

"An excellent solution," agreed Blake with relief. "Teleport up, Tarrant, and bring the ship down. No, two of us should go up. I don't want any one of us coming through the streets alone. Avon?"

Looking around the room, Avon decided it might be just as well. He rose and moved to stand next to Tarrant. "Orac," he said into his bracelet. "Two to teleport."

Seconds later he and Tarrant materialized on the teleport deck of the Four-in-Hand to an uncanny sense of deja vu. As the flight deck came into being, so did the form of a black-clad figure aiming a Federation para-handgun at his chest.

*****

It had taken Soolin two weeks to make her way to Flumaria, starting on Marduk VI, the site of the last known sighting of Avon and the others. Once there, she'd managed to tie in with local rebels, one of whom had recognized her from her Scorpio days. Being a part of Avon's group, and, by extension, Blake's, had given her an 'in' she wouldn't have had otherwise. No one knew where Avon had gone to ground, but the word was he and Blake were together again and the local rebel movement on Marduk was elated. Avon and the others had been there to purchase supplies for their ship, attempting to create a photonic drive like the one Dr. Plaxton had installed on Scorpio, and the shipyards on Marduk were extensive for such a remote location.

Explaining her recent escape from prison, Soolin had found the rebels ready to do anything to help her, including transporting her to the base of the legendary Avalon, who might, if anyone did, know the current location of Avon and his companions. Soolin, whose rage had turned cold but no less deadly, agreed and found herself on Flumaria the very day Avon and Blake arrived. What was more, the local contact admitted it to the ship's captain, who, on a tight schedule, couldn't stay for the planned meeting. Soolin at once volunteered to attend, but she had no plans of confronting Avon in front of the resistance members. She had other plans.

The mutoids had followed Servalan's instructions to the letter, and Soolin found herself free with her own original clothing and her Scorpio teleport bracelet. Expecting it to be useless, she kept it nevertheless. On the way to Marduk, she acquired new clothing but continued to wear the bracelet. She was wearing it when she left the ship on Flumaria, concealed under her sleeve. The meeting was for ten o'clock, local time. At five minutes before ten, she slipped into an alley, pushed the button on her bracelet and said, "Orac?"

The following silence lasted so long she was afraid the computer was not aboard the ship, then a familiar and huffy voice replied, "My records indicate that is the voice of Soolin, however my information indicates Soolin is dead. Explain this discrepancy."

Soolin hesitated. "Someone was mistaken. I am told my sister survived as a mutoid..." Masking the cold rage she felt at the memory of Tia's lifeless body, she waited. Orac was very quick. It would sort out her answer.

The response was quicker than the first one. "This is interesting. You are in possession of your teleport bracelet?"

"Yes. Bring me up, Orac."

"Hmm. The new teleport system has slight variations. Wait whilst I configure the system to allow for them."

She took out her gun, pleased to remember that Orac had been programmed to obey her long ago, a command no one had thought to remove. Computers were much more literal than people, who would waste time in speculation. Instead, Orac took her at face value and teleported her to the ship. She found herself in an unfamiliar teleport bay, with Orac perched on the console.

"Welcome, Soolin."

Never sentimental, the sight of Orac brought back a flood of memories she could best have done without. She had gone to the Scorpio as a hired gun, selling her skills rather than giving her loyalty, but somewhere along the way she had changed, uniting herself with her crewmates of necessity. She had cared enough to help Tarrant in the Zeeona situation, to fight at the side of all of them. She and Dayna had spent long hours in conversation; for the first time in her life, she had a friend. Standing in this unfamiliar chamber, she could feel none of that, but the sight of Orac evoked memories of another ship, familiar people, and she felt bitterness at the way her loyalties had been torn. Avon had fought at her side--but he had killed Tia without hesitation and without remorse. For that, he would die at her hands. If she killed him, as she must, that meant losing Tarrant and Vila, who were undoubtedly his, although they were the closest thing to family she had in a hostile galaxy. Making friends, trusting people, always led to this, and she stood there a second, hands clenching into fists. Then she controlled herself. She had no choice. Taking up her gun again, she said, "Hello, Orac. Is the ship empty?"

"Yes. The others are attending a meeting. They will return presently."

"Have you notified them of my presence?"

"Negative. Their instructions were to notify them of Federation activity." Orac considered that. "Have you proof you have no current Federation ties?"

"I recently was released from a Federation prison," she replied. "At least from a prison controlled by Servalan. I heard rumors on the way here that Sleer was identified as Servalan and that she is a wanted fugitive, so perhaps I was held prisoner in a personal vendetta. Monitor my voice and determine its accuracy. I have no loyalty to nor love for the Federation and I am not acting upon their behalf."

Orac hesitated. "Repeat that statement whilst touching my console," it instructed.

Soolin did. Orac hummed away, lights blinking. "Subject has made a true statement," it confirmed. "However, programming may be present."

"That's why I've come," she said, lifting her hand away. "I hoped you would be able to tell that. I will not act at the instruction of Servalan."

"Then perhaps it might be wise for you to relinquish your weapon," Orac pointed out.

"I shall, when the others arrive," Soolin replied. "Until such time, it might be best if you gave me no strategic information about this ship, its home base or any other such information." Such statements might reassure Orac in as much as a computer could be reassured. Sometimes Soolin had suspected Orac was more than a computer, and so Ensor had claimed, though Avon insisted Orac's abilities were simply a product of the skill of the programmer.

"I would like to know about the others," she said. "Are they well?"

"The others? Be more precise. To which others do you refer?"

"Vila. Tarrant. Avon."

"Much better. Our conversation will proceed far more satisfactorily if you will employ precision in your speech."

"Still as maddening as ever, Orac?"

"Is that a question?"

She frowned. "No. Tell me about the others."

"They, and Roj Blake, are well. Avon has recovered from his injuries. Blake and Tarrant are free of programming."

"And now they're here to meet with Avalon?" she asked.

"That is a strategic question. Do you wish to rephrase your orders at this time?"

"No. Ignore the question." She looked around. This ship was not her home, could never be her home. When she killed Avon she would forfeit all right to it. But a part of her look was possessive. She could not steal the ship; she would not do that to the others. Still a portion of her wanted to stay. All that time alone in her cell had given her far too much time to rethink some of her values. She could remember the only time in her adult life she had even approached contentment, and that had been with the people who were now the crew of this ship. She had not been happy; there had been little to be happy about. But there had been a quiet reassurance, that, for once, she had belonged. Gauda Prime had shattered her sense of belonging and the job she had come here to do would end, completely and finally, any chance of regaining it. But it must be done. Just as Dayna had always known she must kill Servalan or die, Soolin knew she had to do this for Tia's sake. Ignoring the small rational portion of her brain that insisted Tia had deserved better than to live as a mutoid and that Avon had, perhaps, done her a favor, and that he had certainly done no more than Soolin herself had done more than once, she contemplated the death of Avon, imagining the satisfaction she would feel when she finally ended the life of the last of her family's slayers.

"Orac," said Avon's filtered voice over the comm channel. "Two to teleport."

"Confirmed," replied Orac immediately and activated the teleport.

Springing into position, Soolin leveled her gun at the place where Avon would arrive and braced herself to kill him.

*****

Tarrant saw the gunwoman at the same moment Avon did, and at first he only registered the gun. Questions raced through his mind; how had she managed to come aboard, was she Federation, and if so, why had Orac failed to warn them of her presence? That was when he saw her face and felt a surge of astonishment and disbelief pump through his veins. Shocked and shaken he was back aboard Servalan's ship, his memory blurred, the mutoid Soolin going about her duties. Had she, perhaps, survived the shooting, as Servalan had? Was she here now in an attempt to pass herself off as their old comrade? And why was she pointing her gun at Avon? Mutoids never wore expressions of such hatred. Had she never been a mutoid; had she simply been programmed, as he had, in order to deceive him, to test his conditioning?

"Soolin," Avon breathed. He looked as if he'd been kicked in the stomach; Tarrant remembered his reaction to overhearing that the mutoid he'd just killed had been an old friend, how he had tried to rid himself of Blake and Tarrant in fear he might, one day, kill them, too. That was when Blake had exploded to life and forced Avon to reconsider, made him realize he needed his friends around him, and they needed him. Avon had accepted Blake's words slowly, afraid to take the risk, but in the past two months he had made real progress. Now Avon stood facing Soolin, his mouth a little ajar, his eyes huge and stunned, completely at a loss for words. The new Avon created in the forge at Gauda Prime and polished into being since had lost an element of hardness in the process of accepting the others. Perhaps he was not yet entirely capable of facing his ghosts. He shifted position ever so slightly, half a step closer to Tarrant, his whole body wary, and the pilot realized whatever Avon might do, he would not fire at Soolin to defend himself. It was not that he would choose to die, but believing he had killed her once already he might be incapable of doing it a second time, even to save his life.

"You didn't expect to see me, did you?" It was her voice, Soolin's voice, unchanged by the time apart, familiar anywhere, but full of fierce hatred of the man beside Tarrant. When had she learned to hate Avon--and why? She must realize he hadn't tried to kill her, not personally.

"We believed you were dead," Tarrant told her quickly, balancing himself on the balls of his feet, preparing to act if he had to, knowing any action he took might be that one split second too late.

"And not without cause." Her eyes were hard, nuggets of ice in a frozen face. "Did you ever regret it, Avon? Butchering me without a thought?"

"I...shot a mutoid," Avon said, for once completely at a loss to solve the problem. "I did not see her face, did not even know, not until afterwards, days afterwards, that she had been you. Regret it? Yes, I regretted it, but what else could I have done?" It was not an excuse; Avon didn't make excuses, not that way. Instead he accepted blows when he believed himself wrong. This time, after everything had happened, he was torn between the need he had felt at the time to act exactly as he had and the shock he'd felt afterwards when he had learned the result of an action that had been correct, moreover, one he could not have avoided. "I am...glad I was unsuccessful."

"The way you were unsuccessful with Blake?" She flung the words like bombs and they impacted with as much force. Almost, Avon staggered under them even though he and Blake had been round and round about Gauda Prime, and Blake had forgiven him. It was harder for Avon to forgive himself--and Blake--for what had happened there, no matter how much Blake mattered to him and how glad he was to be reunited with Blake once more. This would be as hard, for Avon never took the easy way in his problems involving personal relationships.

"Blake..." he began.

"Blake understands," Tarrant said quickly, meaning to inform Soolin and reassure Avon at the same time. "Avon didn't kill him, and Blake and I had our share in what happened, driving Avon to it, though it was Avon who fired the shots. We know he was driven to it, though. Blake loves him, Soolin. He doesn't blame him. Blake's not the issue here. I--probably would have shot you myself on Lustus, and so would Vila. I didn't know it was you, on Servalan's ship. I--I was programmed, I thought you a mutoid, I didn't even look past that until later, when I could finally remember."

"So you condone it?" If possible, her face hardened still further. She looked at Avon again, the gun rock-steady in her hand. Soolin had always been the best of them with a gun. There would be no chance of jumping her. They had to play this out with words, and Avon looked as if the only words he could offer would be no help. Avon had been forced to shoot friends too many times in his life, and only lately had he begun to learn to live with it. Soolin's presence should have been a gift, but gifts for Avon were often booby traps, such as the astonishing survival of Anna Grant. Avon had bled for her internally for years, and she had never been worth it. But now here stood Soolin, frozen in her rage, her finger firm against the trigger, and it would take no more than a ghost motion to make her blow him away. Tarrant couldn't permit that, but how to stop her without killing her? How to save her without losing Avon in the process?

"Condone it? I understand it. Avon was in a no-win situation. Servalan had ordered him killed. You may have been unconscious by then but the next thing Avon did was push Vila out of danger of Servalan's shot and take the charge meant for him, himself. He almost died of it. Self-defense and then self-sacrifice, those are Avon's crimes. If you were not a mutoid, then you are the betrayer, and you have no right here, no claim. And if you had stood at our side you would have done exactly as we did."

"Oh, but I am not the betrayer," Soolin purred, her voice smooth and steady, even as it pulsed with hate, ignoring Tarrant's attempt to make her see reason. "I am the betrayed. But I was not shot."

"I saw you," Tarrant objected, shooting one quick, questioning look at Avon, whose eyes had not moved from Soolin since the first moment he saw her. His body was rigid, braced against the shock of the blonde's resurrection. He knew such resurrections were not all joy. Even Blake, when he returned from the dead, had gone for Avon's throat. It was a wonder Avon had allowed himself to trust ever again, to relax, to be happy on Aristo.

"You saw a mutoid," Soolin snapped, the words forced out through tight lips. "She looked like me, because she was my sister. My sister, the only surviving member of my family, and you killed her, Avon. Do you remember what I did to the men who butchered my family? I killed them, all. Every one of them, even though I had to sell myself to do it. I thought Tia had died with them."

Tarrant sucked in his breath as he realized what kind of a tragedy had driven Soolin to stand here, gun leveled at Avon. In her own way, Soolin was as driven, as obsessed with the wounds of the past as Avon was. More than any of them she had been able to understand Avon, for she had lived through a past that had left her with as many invisible scars as Avon's own. She had sold herself for revenge, thrown away the person she might have been, and in the end had nothing left when she had found herself on Xenon with Dorian. On the Scorpio she had found purpose again, only to lose it, and now she had discovered fate was not finished with her yet.

"How did you know what happened?" he asked, realizing that was important. "If you were not there..."

"After Gauda Prime, I was Servalan's prisoner," Soolin replied automatically. Maybe she felt Tarrant deserved answers, though she never took her eyes from Avon. "I only learned last week that she was an outlaw herself, on the run. I was imprisoned on an obscure base. After she recovered from your shot, Tarrant, she showed me a tape. The--the other mutoid had a camera implant in one eye. I saw what happened. Servalan had preserved the body for me to see. It was Tia. I am completely satisfied of that. I know it was really my sister, not a clone, not a look-alike."

"How long had she been modified?" Tarrant asked, letting an element of gentleness creep into his voice. He didn't challenge her certainty. He didn't know if he could talk her out of her revenge, but she was still talking; she hadn't fired immediately. Maybe he could get through to her. Of course then the problem would be getting through to Avon, who was hovering on the edge of turning into the Avon who had nearly refused to allow Blake and Tarrant back into his life.

"I don't know. I'm not even sure children can be modified. I've never seen a child mutoid."

"Anyone can be modified." Avon's voice was harsh. "Child mutoids don't generally live to grow up, however. Something about puberty generally kills them." His face held a kind of pallor; had he known someone that had been done to? Tarrant shuddered inwardly at the idea but knew better than to question Avon's knowledge, now or ever. Some knowledge would only make matters worse.

"Perhaps Tia was modified as an adult; perhaps she had been a prisoner for years," Soolin said as if discussing the weather. She had sealed the feeling part of herself away; what little of it had begun to venture out with Avon and the others had vanished as if it had never been. This Soolin was harder than the one who had insisted she did not give loyalty but only sold her skills. Because she was a professional, Tarrant had a pretty good idea how she would react to an attempt to jump her, and he knew that, even rusty with imprisonment, Soolin could get off a shot unless he could distract her long enough to knock away the gun. And she was so tightly focused any distraction would have to be world-class.

"Don't you have anything to say, Avon?" Soolin demanded. "No excuses? No claims you are innocent."

"Well now," Avon said, his voice as cold as hers, but not through malice. He sounded as if he'd been killed by a harsh frost. "What is there to say? She is dead. I killed her. It is not my way to offer excuses."

"No, Avon," Tarrant said quickly. "You didn't kill Tia. You took a mutoid's life, but it was a life Tia would never have chosen. The real Tia, the one you loved, Soolin, died a long time ago." He put out his hand, slowly and warily, not quick enough or close enough to make her panic, but the way he would reach out to a wounded animal. "I lost my brother--worse, I was...in his head when he died; I felt him die, I felt his awareness fade away to nothing. I know the pain you feel. But there was no awareness of Tia when she died. That was gone, long ago. Think. Servalan gave you your information. Do you honestly believe she dealt with you in good faith?"

"You confirm the mutoid was my exact image," Soolin replied. "Servalan may have wished me to kill Avon, to disrupt the rest of you, but this is my choice. She showed me reality, or you would have not been so shocked to see me, you would not have admitted it."

"I shot two mutoids," Avon replied. "One of them, evidently, used to be your sister--unless she was a clone, created for the very purpose we now face. Whatever you would have done had you learned of the incident elsewhere, you are here now at Servalan's manipulation."

Soolin didn't like that, but it didn't make her gun hand waver. Her mouth was still taut and she waited, listening but far from softening.

"If you kill Avon, you give Servalan a victory," Tarrant insisted. "Soolin. Think. Tell me honestly that had you been confronted with two armed mutoids aiming guns at you, that you would have stopped to look closely at their faces and then pulled your shot when your friends' lives and your own life were at stake."

"She was my sister," Soolin hissed.

"And she meant to kill me and my friends," Avon replied. From somewhere inside himself he had pulled together strength. He had straightened to his full height and now he looked at her levelly, right down the barrel of the weapon. Tarrant edged another half step toward him and curled his fingers around Avon's wrist to restrain him, half afraid he'd trigger the shot intentionally. The Avon who had insisted Vila put Blake and Tarrant down on a neutral world so he would kill no more of his friends might well have done that, walked into the charge as the easiest solution to a world that contained nothing but pain. Surely Avon had grown beyond that man. He had given every sign of it over the past two months.

"Soolin!" Tarrant spoke abruptly. "You saw what happened at the time. Did you see Avon push Vila aside and be shot in his place?"

"Yes." Was she wavering, or just perplexed?

"Avon fired to protect Vila, to protect Blake. What happened proved a tragedy, but Vila and Blake survived, and we saved Avon. You should have seen Vila, bullying Blake and me into helping treat his wound. We were both half out of it, but Vila took charge, for Avon's sake. Avon has changed. We all have. He didn't do what he did to hurt you."

"That, of course, makes all the difference."

"And if you had found Tia yourself?" Tarrant persisted urgently. "Found her as a mutoid, realized what made her Tia was gone forever and would never come back? I loved my brother, and when he died I was torn apart the way you are. But if I had found Deeta as a mutoid, I think I would have shot him myself rather than face the shell that had once been someone I loved."

Soolin flinched as if she had been struck. Before Tarrant could jump her, the gun steadied again. "I know that," she insisted. "I know all that. I know Avon did what he had to do, I know he had no choice. I know I would have shot Tia if I'd found her. But he killed her, Tarrant. If--if I don't kill him, everything I've done in my entire life will be a lie." Desperation had crept into her voice as if seeking absolution for something she meant to do though a part of her didn't want to.

"Will it?" Tarrant persevered. Avon couldn't reason with her in this, even assuming he was capable of finding the right words to exonerate himself, something he'd never been particularly good at in the past. Soolin couldn't back down; she'd forced herself into a corner and the only escape was to come out shooting. She didn't even want to shoot Avon, not now she'd seen him, seen the all-too-vivid pain etched in his dark eyes. But she believed she had no choice. Maybe she was programmed to believe that. "You're a human being, Soolin. You're not a programmed robot like Vinni, the one who killed my brother. You have a choice. You can put the gun down and prove you learned something from the things you did in your life. Or you can shoot and prove you haven't learned a thing or grown as a person since you picked up your first gun." Another half step. Close enough yet?

Her hand started to shake, and she grasped her wrist with her other hand to steady it. "I must," she breathed. "I must. I must. I must." The words ran together so fast they blurred. Her eyes glistened with tears, the ice melting, and her breathing rasped in and out. Tarrant recognized the signs. Servalan hadn't simply turned her loose primed for vengeance. She'd added a subtle level of programming to reinforce Soolin's natural reaction, the kind of programming that works best because it follows a instinctive inclination or a habitual act. She had killed before, for her revenge. She wanted it now, for losing something she didn't know she'd still had. How easy it must have been for Servalan to plant a trigger; the sight of Avon was probably all it took.

"You don't want to do this," Tarrant soothed. This kind of programming was so easy to activate it didn't take a deep suggestion; it was also the easiest to break. Soolin had a strong will. If he could trigger that, force her to confront the logic, the reality, maybe he could push her hard enough to see the contradiction. That's what it took to shatter this kind of programming, and he thought she was nearly there. Of course at this stage, she was so fragile the wrong word might set her off. He had to be very careful. His fingers were still curled around Avon's wrist. Would it be enough?

"I have to," she breathed. "I have to."

"No," said Avon as if he could draw strength through Tarrant's touch. "You are not a puppet, Soolin. You are not a mutoid. You are a human being who can make a reasoned choice. In all the time I have known you, you were better at that than anyone. Make a reasoned choice now. If you feel I must die for something that, in my situation, and even in your own, you would have done yourself, then here I am. Shoot me." He slid free of Tarrant's grip and stood facing her, his arms slightly outstretched as if it would make him an easier target.

"Avon, no," Tarrant gasped. "You can't..."

"If you have a better suggestion, this would be an excellent time to offer it," Avon responded and in his voice Tarrant heard a hint of the man he'd begun to know in the last two months, the new Avon, the one who was a still stranger to Soolin. It threw her a little off track. Her hand shook harder and tears ran down her face. They weren't tears of grief; she was not capable of shedding easy tears; but maybe they were the remnants of a grief that had been born when she was still innocent and capable of feeling it. Her mouth twisted as if it was out of step with the pain in her eyes.

"I have to," she breathed again. Then she tried to wrench up the gun. "No! She made me. She made me do it!"

The comm panel beeped. "Avon?" It was Blake's voice. "Blake here. Report. Is there a problem?"

The unexpected voice startled her, distracting the side of her that fought the programming. Tarrant saw cold resolve in her eyes, knew it wasn't what the inner person wanted. The gun moved but Tarrant moved faster, hitting Avon hard and knocking him to one side, hoping his momentum was enough to save them both. She fired and he felt a burst of heat sear his back, forcing him down into a deep, echoing well of pain.

"No!" he heard her scream, then a clatter as if she had flung the gun away. He found he could still see and he twisted his head to look for her. The gun was gone, her hands were pressed against her face as great shudders racked her body. He knew the signs. She was coming out of Servalan's programming and doing it from the shock of actually firing the gun.

Avon struggled to free himself then drew in breath sharply. "Tarrant?" His voice held a note of urgency that wouldn't have been there in the old days. Dazed and hurting, Tarrant blinked up at him and saw Avon's face harden as he looked up at the trembling woman.

"She...couldn't help it, Avon," he managed to say. "She was programmed, too. What else could she do?" He felt Avon's hands plucking the fabric of his tunic away from his back and sucked breath between his teeth at the pain, but it was a surface pain, not a deep inside one. His arms and legs worked. He wouldn't die of this, though the next day or so would not be especially enjoyable.

"Evidently it affected her shot," Avon said, his voice tight. "It's superficial, Tarrant. Either you moved with more than your usual grace or she pulled her shot. Knowing you, I'm sure you prefer to believe the latter, though I suspect it was a combination of both."

"I...tried." Soolin's voice was hoarse. "Tarrant, I..."

"I want to hear one thing from you," he managed to say. "That you understand what happened on Lustus and don't hold it against him."

"I...under..." the words weren't quite ready to come. Instead she flew to the comm panel and pushed the button. "Blake, this is Soolin. We've never met but I'm going to instruct Orac to bring you and Vila up."

"It's all right, Blake," Avon said, raising his voice a little so it would carry to the transmitter. He had settled Tarrant as comfortably as possible against his knees to examine the wound more fully. "Tarrant and I are here and, relatively, safe. Operate the teleport as specified, Orac," he concluded. Tarrant heaved a shaky sigh.

"Must you poke about with your great, clumsy fingers," he made himself say, knowing Avon would find the complaint more reassuring than anything else he could have said.

Avon relaxed at the tone. "As you should be aware, my fingers are not clumsy, they are as skilled, in their own way, as Vila's. Soolin, behind you on the shelf there is a medical kit. Fetch it down here."

She obeyed, passing it to him as Blake and Vila materialized in the teleport bay, both of them holding their weapons in hand.

"It is Soolin," Vila blurted, gazing at her in open-mouthed astonishment. Then he saw the tableau on the floor and his eyes went wide, color draining from his face. "Del! What happened?"

"An...accident," Tarrant said hastily to reassure both men he was conscious and alert.

"The remnants of programming," Avon corrected. "When we've treated this, which is, by the way, a superficial surface burn, though no doubt painful, we will take both of them to the medical unit and see about removing the remnants of it.

"But--you were shot?" Vila asked, gazing at Soolin in disbelief. "Tarrant says you were a mutoid..." He shot a carefully questioning look at Avon, who stared up at him, his face wary but not altogether cold and remote the way it had been when he had ordered Blake and Tarrant from the ship when it was still the Entropy.

"It was...my sister," Soolin said, still quivering, though her voice fought for steadiness. "I...thought she was dead long ago...but..."

"Servalan produced the body for her," Tarrant said, looking up at Soolin. "And triggered a program to make her kill Avon in revenge. I decided not to permit it. I've been programmed myself, and one of the worst things is the sense of not being strong enough to fight it. I didn't want her to do something she would be unable to live with afterwards."

"I understand," Blake said quietly. He went to Soolin and put his hands on her shoulders, then he enveloped her in a huge, full-sleeved hug. Remembering how hard it had been for him to come out, the utter isolation and need for people he had felt at the time, Tarrant wasn't surprised when Soolin let him do it and leaned into the comfort of his embrace though he was a stranger to her and the old Soolin would never have displayed such vulnerability.

"What did you do, push him out of the way?" Vila asked, dropping a hand on Tarrant's shoulder.

"He did," Avon confirmed. From the tone of his voice a part of him thought it was foolish but another part remembered that he had once done the same for Vila so he had no argument to use against it. "He was ever a gung ho hero type."

"Dare I say it takes one to know one?" Blake asked, smiling down at them all. "Soolin? I'm sorry for what you had to face, but we'll see it's ended here."

She struggled a little in his encompassing hold. "I... you'll want me gone," she said after a moment, and Tarrant tried to boost himself up at the shaken note in her voice. She needed people around her too much to send her away, in spite of what she'd tried to do. If they could take in Blake, who'd tried to kill Avon, and Tarrant himself, who had been made to forget who his friends were, surely they wouldn't send Soolin away either.

"Help me up," he insisted.

"You're a fool to move," Vila said. "It'll hurt. I don't like pain, especially when it's my own, but I don't like other people's either. Easy to imagine it. Nasty." But he offered his hand, and he and Avon guided Tarrant to his feet. His knees had a rather nasty tendency to buckle but Avon and Vila didn't let go. Instead they supported him over to Soolin, who had finally wiggled free of Blake's grip and stood there looking perplexed as if she didn't know what was expected of her.

"Soolin?"

She faced him and Avon, bringing her chin up in stubborn resistance. She could barely maintain it, though she wasn't quite as traumatized at freeing herself from conditioning as Tarrant had been; hers had not been as intense and all-encompassing as his. Still, she was shaken and wary. Her eyes went not to Tarrant but to Avon. "I want to hate you," she said. "I still want it. That isn't programming. It's not logical but it's there. It will take time for me to get past that."

"I have been hated before," Avon replied. "Even, for a time, by Blake. If I can...live with that, perhaps I can endure your hatred, given no better options."

She shook her head. "But...I don't; it isn't a real hatred. In a way, I'm grateful. Tia...the child I remember; she wasn't like me. She was a dreamer. She liked to run free and dream under the sky. She would have hated being a mutoid. They took away everything from her but existence. That isn't life. You didn't kill my sister, whoever modified her did. And I'm glad you...let her rest. Just...give me time to...feel that as well as believe it in my mind."

Avon bowed his head in agreement.

"We're all scarred," Blake said suddenly, and Tarrant knew he wasn't speaking of his own obvious surface wounds, the eye scar, the marks on his stomach. "Any harm we did we were driven to, and we're still paying for it. At times I think we're walking wounded, Soolin, but the four of us have been healing, these past months. We have a base that even Avon calls home. You and I never met at Gauda Prime, but these three know you. Our base is big enough for another of us."

Her head came up and she stared at Blake in disbelief. "You would take me in, after what I did to Tarrant and tried to do to Avon?"

"You didn't mean to do anything to me," Tarrant said. "Without the distraction of the comm I could have talked you out of it."

"He might very well be right," Avon confirmed. "Though he was quite wordy and occasionally rather over the top, he did seem to be making some headway."

"Over the top? At least I didn't stand there as if a target was painted on my chest. What did you think you were doing, trying to shock her into giving you the gun or wallowing in misplaced guilt?"

"Probably the guilt," Vila said knowingly. "I've seen him do it before. Not often because mostly he likes to blame us, but once in awhile...."

"Assuming you knew what you were talking about, someone might listen to you, Vila," Avon responded.

Vila grinned at him then he turned to Soolin. "Avon's all right. Tarrant will be. We're used to getting battered, though we don't like it. I think you should come back home with us, Soolin. These three, they're all very well, but I have to say none of them is pretty, and not one of them has great legs. I think we need the female touch."

"If that means you'll come creeping around to my door with adrenalin and soma and trying to get me drunk so you can share my bed, Vila, the way you tried on Xenon..." she responded, sounding much more normal.

"How ever did you guess?" the thief demanded.

"Because we know you, Vila," Avon informed him pointedly. He gestured them to start for the medical unit, still supporting Tarrant, whose back throbbed steadily in time with the beating of his heart.

Scooping up Orac Blake let Vila take Soolin by the arm, a process to which she responded with a natural wariness, then the rebel leader fell in beside Avon. "Are you all right?" he asked in quiet tones.

"As opposed to ready to discard the rest of you all over again?" Avon replied, proving he understood what Blake was getting at. "I was...shocked to see Soolin, Blake. It isn't often fate offers a second chance. It did with you, with all of you. Now Soolin..."

"You wouldn't have fought her," Blake said positively.

"I am not suicidal, Blake. I was shocked, but Tarrant actually dealt with the situation adequately."

"Adequately?" Tarrant blurted, casting a haughty look at Avon. "Brilliantly."

"So you claim." Avon took a deep breath as if realizing he was alive, no one was badly hurt and the situation might well improve still further. "Servalan does live, Blake, as we knew. She has the facilities to perform programming, and mutoids at her beck and call. The threat of her has not gone away, and I think it is a threat that is aimed specifically at us."

"She is a wanted fugitive, Avon, who doesn't have the Federation to back her any longer."

"She is also a clever strategist, a military genius, a woman with a gift for long-range planning, and a person who hates all of us and wants to take revenge against us. She is too dangerous to remain at liberty. There is, also, the question of Dayna Mellanby to consider. For a long time Vila and I believed ourselves the only survivors of the Gauda Prime debacle. Then you appeared, next Tarrant, finally Soolin. The next attack against us may well come from Dayna, assuming she, too, lives, has been in Servalan's hands, and has also been programmed. The rest of you were made tools. Why not Dayna as well?"

"She died on Gauda Prime," Tarrant put in, then he shook his head. "No, that was what Servalan wanted me to think. I saw her body, but then I saw Vila's body, too, and Soolin's, and both of you are here. I believed her--and I didn't even think about it later. Dayna might be alive."

Avon didn't look as if he particularly wanted to allow himself the luxury of hope, but he didn't object when Vila spoke eagerly.

"We've got to rescue her," blurted the thief, spinning around to look at them in eager anticipation.

"Can this be Vila Restal, volunteering for a dangerous mission?" Avon asked. Having confronted Soolin, he was beginning to relax again.

"I'm brave now," Vila reminded him complacently. "Aren't I, Tarrant? Aren't I, Blake?"

"I hope you are, Vila," Blake replied. "Because once Avalon has convinced herself of our loyalty and freedom from programming, she will have work for us, possibly dangerous work. We can make the investigation of the fate of Dayna our first priority."

"I'd like to help with that, Blake," Soolin offered, "once you make certain I'm not programmed any longer." She was still shaking slightly, but there was returning strength in her voice.

"If we get her back, there will be seven of us once more," Blake replied as if the idea pleased him greatly, "counting Orac."

"Must we?" Avon said.

"Really, Kerr Avon," sniffed Orac. "Without my presence, the rest of you would be in even greater jeopardy than you are already. Had Tarrant left matters to me, I would have neutralized Soolin with a tranquilizer gas and summoned Blake."

"Well, why didn't you do it, then?" Vila queried.

"Because my way was better," Tarrant said. His back felt as if it were on fire and his knees threatened to buckle with each step but that didn't matter because Avon's grip on his arm was firm enough to keep him going.

"For once, I believe he may be correct," Avon replied.

"Remember that," Vila called over his shoulder to Tarrant. "Avon doesn't praise often, even if he does say I'm a particularly gifted thief." He smiled at Soolin. "So are you going to join us, pretty lady?"

Soolin glanced back at them, hesitated. "Yes," she said. "You have need of my skills. It was far too easy for me to board this ship. You've become quite slipshod, all of you. You have need of me before you fall apart."

Tarrant realized she had to find a way to join in which she wouldn't be taken in out of pity or sympathy, and he was willing to grant it to her. From the look on Avon's face he understood it, too, for he didn't object to her claim. He caught Blake's eye and nodded.

"You'll be our security officer," Blake informed Soolin. "Avon, I'm going to take the Four-in-Hand down to the surface so we can resume our meeting with Avalon. They need to know the threat Servalan poses as soon as possible. Vila, you go with Avon and set up the deprogramming test equipment and see about Tarrant's back."

Vila nodded, then abruptly he groaned. "Oh, no."

"What is it now, Vila?" Avon asked him warily. "Afraid you might be required to do more than your fair share of work?"

"It isn't that," Vila responded immediately. "It's just that we worked hard to find a new name for our ship, and now we've got Soolin. Five of us. You know what that means, don't you? We're going to have to find another name for this ship as soon as possible."

The End

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